#f1 reader

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Chapter 10: Brackley

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025

Ana hadn’t expected anything.

When the delivery came that morning — a matte black box with a gold-stamped envelope, no branding, just her initials on the lid — she almost didn’t open it.

The return label just said Ludwig Krüger.

 Which meant one thing: her father.

Ana stared at it for a long moment.

Toto hadn’t said anything. Not after that day in Vienna. No updates. No messages. No “your suit’s ready” or “you’re going to love this.” Just silence. Just space.

Typical Wolff diplomacy: Push hard when it matters, then get out of the way.

She sat on the floor of her living room and opened the box with clinical precision.

Inside:

One blazer in deep graphite gray, lined, seams finished in invisible thread.

A pair of matching trousers with no waistband tags, the inside label embroidered in soft thread with A. Wolff in small, discreet lettering.

A simple black blouse — cotton-silk blend, sleeveless, clean lines, soft enough to forget it existed.

A note.

She unfolded the card.

Told you he was the best.

That was it. No long message. No explanation. Just a signature that meant: I’m paying attention.

She took the trousers first, cautiously. 

She’d worn enough “high fashion” in her life to know what betrayal felt like in fabric form — the micro-itch of synthetic lining, the pinch of a waistband stitched a centimeter too tight, the betrayal of something that looked good and felt like a slow chemical burn.

But when she slid them on—

Nothing.

No friction. No pulling. No seams brushing too hard in the wrong place. They sat against her like they’d grown from her own skin. Familiar. Forgiving.

The blouse followed. Cool. Weightless. No inner tags. No neckline shift. She could breathe.

Then the blazer.

Her fingers shook as she slid her arms into the sleeves. She waited for that catch — the one under her shoulders that always made her twist and pull and want to scream.

It didn’t come.

It fit.

Not just the way it looked — which was sharp, modern, devastatingly clean — but in the way it sat on her. Like it wasn’t asking anything from her in return.

For once, the clothing didn’t win.

It didn’t challenge her.

It didn’t hurt.

Ana looked at herself in the mirror, expression unreadable.

This was what people meant when they said something was made for you.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was adapting to survive the day.

The world had, for once, adjusted to her.

Not because she begged.

Not because she made herself smaller.

But because someone had simply listened.

She reached for her phone.

Typed two words to her father.

Ana: Thank you.

No emoji. No follow-up. Just that.

But she knew he’d understand.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025

Toto had planned to grab Anastasia before she left for the meeting. Nothing formal. 

A quiet five minutes. A check-in. The kind of fatherly “you’ve got this” he rarely let himself indulge in.

A quiet are you ready? before she sat down in front of Raymond Vermeulen and whatever layers of strategic subtext he planned to deliver on Max Verstappen’s behalf.

But Ana’s office was empty when he arrived. The lights still hummed. Her screens were glowing—maps, models, code flowing like water across four synchronized monitors.

And then he saw the folder.

A familiar one. Not Mercedes. Not team stationery.

Portfolio Overview – Wolff Holdings (Private)

He frowned.

It wasn’t the name that caught him off guard—Ana was meticulous about keeping personal finances separate—but the neat set of statements inside. Graphs. Return percentages. Asset allocations.

He scanned the first page. And stopped.

Seven figures.

Not Toto’s-money seven figures.

Ana’s-money seven figures.

He flipped to the next page. Growth charts spanning five years. Clean, deliberate investments. Commodities, tech start-ups, a handful of early green energy ventures that had ballooned quietly in the last eighteen months.

This wasn’t dabbling. This wasn’t a trust fund kid letting a bank manage her accounts.

This was strategy. Diversified portfolios. High-yield bonds. Tech stocks he knew were still in pre-IPO stages.

He flipped to the next page. Real estate holdings. Private equity in three start-ups. One of which he knew had just been valued at over half a billion dollars.

He sat down in her chair without meaning to.

“Was zur Hölle…”

The door clicked open.

Ana stepped inside. Coffee in hand. Dressed for the Vermeulen meeting in a charcoal-grey suit that made Toto momentarily forget how to blink.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t even particularly formal. But it was hers—tailored like second skin, sharp lines cut in soft fabric that moved when she did. Structured but never restrictive.

It fit like it was made for her. Because it was. 

Ana paused. “Why are you sitting at my desk?”

“Why,” Toto said slowly, holding up the folder like evidence, “do you have an investment portfolio that looks like you’re about to buy half of Switzerland?”

Ana blinked. Then rolled her eyes. “Don’t go through my things.”

“Don’t go through your things? Did you… turn your trust fund into a private equity machine while I wasn’t looking?” he asked, still holding up the file. Toto flipped back to the first page just to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the zeros. 

She blinked. “Oh. That.”

“That?”

Ana stepped inside, unbothered, and set her mug down. “I got bored.”

Toto stared. Toto opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You turned your trust fund into a private equity engine because you were bored?”

Ana tilted her head. “Would you rather I’d bought a yacht?”

“Nein! I—Anastasia!” 

She took the folder out of his hand with infuriating calm, and set it back on the desk. “Numbers are numbers. Engines or equities. Same patterns, different output. Besides, you weren’t letting me work on anything real until I finished my doctorate. So I started investing instead. It was either that or develop a new hybrid model for my dishwasher.”

Toto pressed his fingers to his temple. “You could’ve told me.”

“You would’ve told me to focus on my thesis.”

“Of course, I would have!”

“And yet, I did both,” she said. “And made enough to buy my own wind tunnel if you ever piss me off.”

Toto was silent for a beat. Then: “…Please don’t do that.”

“No promises.” She shrugged, twisting a pen between her fingers. “My trust fund was just sitting there, depreciating in a low-yield account. It felt inefficient. I started reading market analytics for fun during uni. It snowballed.”

“Snowballed? Anastasia, this is millions.”

“Mm,” she said, entirely too casual. “Compounding interest is fun when you know what you’re doing.”

Toto just stared. “How much is it?”

Ana tilted her head. “Before or after Q2?”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gott im Himmel. Does Susie know about this?”

“Susie knows I get bored easily.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Ana didn’t answer. Just gave him the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Relax, Papa,” she said, “You told me once to be responsible with money.”

“I didn’t mean build a small empire on the side because you were bored.”

Ana arched a brow. “Well. Now you know what happens when you underestimate my boredom.”

“Sehr gut.” Toto pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did you invest in?”

“Mostly clean energy start-ups. Some advanced manufacturing tech. Oh, and a little bit of aerospace—small satellite companies are undervalued right now. Easy to get in early if you know which ones to pick.”

Toto stared. “Aerospace.”

She shrugged. “Space doesn’t depreciate, Papa.”

Toto ran a hand down his face. “You turned a trust fund into eight figures because you were bored.”

Ana tilted her head. “Technically seven. Markets dipped last quarter.”

He just stared at her.

Finally, he managed, “Do you have any idea what most people do when they’re bored?”

“Play video games?”

“Exactly.” He pointed at her, somewhere between exasperated and impressed. “Normal people play video games. You apparently play the stock market and win.”

Ana smirked faintly. “You always told me to be efficient.”

Toto let out a low, incredulous laugh. “Anastasia, you might be the only person alive who can make turning millions sound like a side hobby.”

She turned back to her monitor, already half-dismissing him. “That’s because it is.”

“Anastasia,” he said, still staring at the report.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t ever tell Jack this,” Toto said. “He’ll expect the same return on his allowance.”

Ana didn’t even look up. “Don’t worry. I already moved some of his into index funds.”

Toto blinked. “You what?”

She sipped her coffee. “Relax. He’s eight. He thinks the stock market is where you buy more Lego.”

Toto dragged a hand down his face. “You are unbelievable.”

“True.” She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. “But very efficient.”

He looked at her for another long moment. At the calm in her face. The confidence in how she carried herself in that not-just-tailored suit.

He followed her out of the office ten minutes later, the folder still burned into his thoughts, the cut of the suit still etched into his mind.

Raymond Vermeulen wanted to “evaluate” her in this meeting.

God help him. He had no idea what he was walking into.

****

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff

Toto: Anastasia has been quietly running a private equity operation out of her trust fund. Millions. Millions, Susie.

Susie: Yes.

Toto: Yes? That’s all you have to say?

Susie: I’ve known for three years.

Toto: YOU WHAT.

Susie: She came to me for a second opinion on a clean energy fund. It was a good pick.

Toto: Susie. She’s turned it into eight figures.

Susie: Technically seven. Markets dipped last quarter.

Toto: Not you too.

Susie: Darling, did you really think she was just reading market analytics “for fun”?

Toto: YES. BECAUSE SHE SAID IT WAS FOR FUN.

Susie: And it was. It just also happened to make her millions.

Toto: She said she started because she was bored.

Susie:Would you rather she spent it on handbags?

Toto: Nein.Honestly? At this point? Maybe! She said she could buy her own wind tunnel now.

Susie: Smart girl.

Toto: SUSIE.

Susie: Relax. She gets it from you. You just built your empire out of race cars instead of clean energy startups.

Toto: … Gott im Himmel.

Susie: Be proud of her, Toto. Boredom that productive? That’s a Wolff trait.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025

The sim team was quiet when he stepped in. Not unusual—people tended to go silent when the Team Principal appeared unannounced—but this was a particular kind of still.

George was mid-run, eyes narrowed behind the visor, jaw working like he was chewing on data. On the screens, the car flickered through virtual Spa, telemetry scrolling across the monitors in neat lines of green and blue.

Toto leaned over the lead sim engineer. “How’s it running?”

“Baseline’s fine,” came the careful reply.

Toto’s gaze slid to the monitor in the corner. Project Altair sat idle in the system, a neat little file name glowing like a secret.

He made the decision before he thought about it too hard. “Load Altair.”

The engineer blinked. “Sir?”

“Run Project Altair for George.”

There was a beat of hesitation. “…You’re sure? That package was tailored to Kimi’s inputs. Extremely tailored.”

Toto’s tone left no room for doubt. “Yes. Let’s see what happens. If it makes the car faster for one driver, it can’t hurt to see how it reacts for the other. Run it.”

It had seemed like a reasonable test.

They didn’t tell George. They didn’t have to. The second the package loaded, the car changed under him.

And it went badly.

Not dramatically at first—just a fraction of throttle hesitation out of Turn 3, a twitch in the rear through Turn 4. But the deeper he went, the worse it got.

By the second lap, it was clear this was not going well.

George’s voice crackled through the comms, tight and sharp: “Rear’s completely unstable—feels like the car’s guessing what I’m doing before I do it!”

One of the engineers muttered under his breath, “That’s… the point.”

Toto folded his arms. “Keep running. Let the data speak.”

By lap three, the feedback loop was a disaster. The torque mapping that had sung for Kimi Antonelli now screamed under George Russell. The diff settings fought him. The car understeered into Turn 6 like it wanted to bite.

Throttle application was spiking all over the graph. George’s usual smooth trace looked like someone had thrown it down a flight of stairs.

“Mate, this is undriveable. Turn-in’s fighting me, mid-corner balance is all over the place!”

Kimi’s baseline overlay on the adjacent screen was a perfect curve. George’s looked like it was actively at war with itself.

George’s steering trace looked like a seismograph in an earthquake. Throttle modulation all over the place. Brake bias warnings flashed red in the corner. The simulated W16 was fishtailing like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious.

“What the hell am I driving?” George’s voice cracked over the comms, a mix of outrage and panic.

“Just… relax into it,” one of the engineers said weakly.

“Relax into what? It’s like the car knows what I’m going to do and then does the opposite! It’s fighting me in every corner!”

By lap five, the inevitable happened.

Virtual gravel.

Reset.

On the monitors, the data made it even worse still: throttle traces out of sync, steering corrections spiking, brake modulation flatlining. The car wasn’t just fighting him—it was rejecting him.

Toto exhaled slowly, arms folded, watching the wreckage unfold in real time.

George ripped off his headset, hair plastered to his forehead, expression somewhere between offended and traumatized.

“Whatever package that was? Scrap it. Feels like someone built the car to do the opposite of what I want.” he said, voice tight, 

Toto cleared his throat. “It’s… a specialized package. Project Altair. We were testing compatibility.”

George blinked. “Specialized for who, exactly?”

There was a long, telling silence.

George’s eyes narrowed. “…Antonelli.”

No one said anything.

George jabbed a finger toward the control room. “That car hated me. I’ve never felt a setup actively hate me before.”

In the back of the room, one of the junior engineers muttered under their breath, “It wasn’t built to like you.”

Toto shot them a warning look but didn’t correct it.

Project Altair: Perfect for Kimi Antonelli. Catastrophic for George Russell.

His daughter’s precision had never been louder.

Toto’s curiosity finally won in the end.

“Is Valtteri still in the building?” Toto asked one of the engineers 20 minutes later.

A confused nod. “He’s in the debrief room.”

Toto leaned in. “Get him. I want him to run a package.”

Ten minutes later, Valtteri Bottas stepped into the sim rig with his usual calm, unbothered expression. “You want me to shake something down?”

“Project Altair,” Toto said.

One of the techs blinked. “Altair? For him?”

“Yes,” Toto said. “Humor me.”

The first lap was smooth. Not Kimi-smooth, but the car didn’t fight Valterri. By lap three, he’d found a rhythm. The exits were cleaner than George’s had been, the mid-corner balance less unsettled. 

Valtteri had the mechanical sympathy and experience to feel what the car wanted.

“Feedback?” Toto asked into the comm.

Valtteri exhaled. “This isn’t a normal baseline.”

“Correct.”

“It’s… alive. It wants you to drive a certain way. You fight it, it fights back. You let it breathe, it sings.”

Toto’s mouth twitched. “You know who we built it around?”

There was a pause. Then Valtteri laughed softly. “Has to be Kimi.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” he said through the comms. “Diff’s a bit aggressive on turn-in, but the exits are clean. Torque response is… sharper than usual.”

By lap five, he was adapting. Not perfectly—Altair wasn’t written for him—but with enough finesse that the car wasn’t fighting him like it had George.

“Rear balance is alive,” Valtteri murmured, adjusting mid-corner. “Not nervous. Just… alive. Whoever this was built for, they drive with their instincts first and logic second.”

Toto’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Go on.”

 “Feels like it’s anticipating inputs. Not reacting. Like someone built it around muscle memory instead of numbers.”

Toto’s brow ticked upward. “And how does that work for you?”

“Better than it should,” Valtteri admitted. “It’s not mine, though. I can feel that. It’s… close. You know who this would be perfect for?”

“Who?” Toto asked, even though something in his gut already knew.

“Max Verstappen,” Valtteri said without hesitation. 

The room went dead quiet.

The sim engineer froze mid-keystroke.

“It’s aggressive without being unstable. It expects you to trust it immediately and commit. The way it rotates mid-corner… that’s a Verstappen car. No question.”

The bay went quiet.

Valtteri’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. “This isn’t just a fast car. It’s a car that wants someone who drives on instinct. Someone who trusts the edge without overthinking it.  This thing is built for someone who drives on instinct at 110%. That’s not George. That’s not me. It’s Kimi. And Max.”

Toto folded his arms, staring at the data. Torque curves. Brake modulation. The same fingerprints he’d seen Kimi sync to perfectly… and now Valtteri, with his years of reading cars like language, saying exactly what he hadn’t wanted to hear.

“Interesting,” Toto said at last, voice carefully neutral.

Valtteri eased the car through Eau Rouge, smooth as ever. “Who built this?”

There was a pause.

“Anastasia,” Toto said.

Valtteri actually laughed. “Figures. Feels like her work. Clean, sharp, doesn’t care about your feelings.”

Toto didn’t respond. He was too busy thinking about a name he hadn’t said out loud.

Max Verstappen.

And the fact that Ana’s code had built something perfectly tuned for him without ever meaning to.

Valtteri rolled to a stop at the end of the run, unstrapped calmly, and glanced toward Toto. “If you ever give him this, the rest of the grid’s dead.”

Toto said nothing for a long beat.

Then, softly: “Noted.”

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members. 

nicola.sim: soooooo did anyone else just witness a category 5 george russell meltdown or was that just me

ellie.electronics: Define meltdown.

nicola.sim: you know how normally he does the “tight smile, stiff upper lip” thing? yeah no. today was “throw headset, leave the bay without eye contact” tier.

lucy.comms: oh god what did you guys load in there

nicola.sim: Altair.

leo.mechanic: …for GEORGE?

maddie.sim: toto told us to. you gonna tell him no?

sima.calibration: hahahahaha holy shit that package hates calculation. it’s literally designed to reward instinct.

jess.hr: How bad.

nicola.sim: bad. like. “i think the car is possessed and out to get me” bad. lap 5: virtual gravel. telemetry looked like modern art.

liam.eng-lead: how’s kimi’s overlay look next to it?

nicola.sim: like a symphony next to a cat walking on a piano.

maddie.sim: did you see his FACE when he ripped the headset off?? i thought we were about to have our first sim bay homicide.

benjy.data: i’ve seen steering traces in crashes that looked cleaner than that run.

nicola.sim: he told toto the car hated him. direct quote.

zahra.aero: …he’s not entirely wrong.

benjy.data:

“the car hated me” — yes george. she has taste.

maddie.sim:

it’s almost like loading a package built for someone who isn’t you might have consequences?? who would’ve guessed?? 🙃

sam.transmission: KIMI’S OVERLAY WAS RIGHT THERE. the car clearly picked a favorite and it wasn’t george.

maddie.sim: kinda hilarious that ana built a package so tailored it actively rejects drivers who aren’t “her guy.”

zahra.aero: do NOT let Ana hear you call Kimi “her guy” she will end you in binary.

kayleigh.powerunit: george stormed out like a kid whose little brother just beat his high score.

tom.sim:

he stormed out of the sim bay like someone canceled his pilates class

nicola.sim: speaking of valtteri casually coming in, running 8 laps, and going “huh. this would be perfect for max verstappen” was…

maddie.sim: …the moment i aged 10 years.

maddie.sim: did you SEE toto’s face??

benjy.data he did the thing. the “very calm austrian” thing.

kayleigh.powerunit: aka the thing that means someone’s getting fired or we just discovered a new weapon.

nicola.sim: so anyway, consensus is: Altair = Kimi’s baby Altair = Max Verstappen bait Altair = george’s new sleep paralysis demon

tom.sim: …does anyone else feel like we accidentally watched lightning get bottled today?

megan.sim: yep. and then we handed it to the wrong guy and wondered why the lab caught fire.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025

Raymond Vermeulen had met many brilliant people in his career.

Aerodynamicists with egos the size of wind tunnels.

Engineers who lived in spreadsheets.

Drivers who could recite throttle maps in their sleep.

He had not, until today, sat across from someone who made all of them feel like they were operating two frames behind.

Dr. Anastasia Wolff did not shake his hand when she entered. She nodded once, precisely, then sat down across from him, flipping open a tablet with the same energy as someone preparing to dissect an opponent rather than speak to one.

She had none of her father’s intimidating height, none of his dark hair. But as she met Raymond’s eyes, he realised that these eyes…they were all Wolff. 

She wore a charcoal grey pantsuit, a black blouse underneath it, white blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her jewellery was minimal. No trace of expensive designer labels, no trace of anything other woman her age with a father rich enough to double as the GDP of a small country would wear. 

Andreas Stein sat beside her, equal parts host and referee. There was something in his posture that felt like he knew Raymond wasn’t ready for this.

“Thank you for making time,” Raymond said, trying to keep the opening cordial.

Ana nodded once. “You asked to speak to someone familiar with our 2026 integration systems. That’s me.”

Not warm. Not hostile. Just neutral — like someone handling a clinical procedure.

Raymond cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve led the systems architecture team since late 2022?”

“Correct.” She flicked her finger across her tablet and mirrored a projection onto the wall. “We began base simulations with a conservative energy mapping strategy. By Q2 2023, we’d restructured the model entirely. What you’re looking at is the current fourth-generation deployment algorithm. 97.2% thermal efficiency under the new regs. Conservative estimates put us eight months ahead of most other manufacturers.”

Raymond blinked. “Including Red Bull Powertrains?”

Ana tilted her head. “Especially Red Bull Powertrains.”

Andreas didn’t even smile. He just folded his hands.

Raymond leaned forward slightly. “Can you walk me through what makes your deployment system unique?”

He was proud of how level he kept his tone — until Ana clicked to the next slide and said, “How familiar are you with torque vectoring at 1000+ RPM energy bleed rates?”

He wasn’t. Not enough to keep up.

She knew it. Didn’t gloat. Just kept going.

When she paused for breath, Andreas spoke. “Our aim is to make the power unit do more than perform. We want it to communicate — constantly. Ana’s designed a system that self-corrects in real time. It learns.”

Raymond looked at her.

“Was that your concept?”

Ana nodded. “The original model was part of my doctoral work. This version’s grown teeth.”

It was a quiet flex, but Raymond felt it like a gut punch.

Raymond cleared his throat. “Impressive.”

“I don’t believe in selling something unless it is,” Ana replied.

Right. Okay.

Professional. Sharp. Fine.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was simply fact.

Raymond studied her. Cool. Unshakable. Like an iceberg with WiFi and a doctorate.

She didn’t flirt. She didn’t defend. She didn’t defer.

She dominated.

And every time he tried to shift the topic toward Max — just to see if she’d flinch — she pivoted so cleanly it felt like he was being politely outmaneuvered at 300kph.

He tried once more, deliberately vague. “So… if Max came to Mercedes, you’d be comfortable leading his energy systems?”

Ana finally met his eyes. Calm. Direct.

“If Max Verstappen wants to win another championship, he’ll need the best hardware available. I don’t care who drives the car. My job is to make sure it’s fast enough to beat anyone.”

“Would he influence your design decisions?”

A flicker — not of emotion, but of amusement.

“No,” she said. “ I don’t design for drivers. But I’ll always adapt around the ones worth adapting for.”

Raymond tried not to flinch.

“That said,” Ana continued, “my work is team-directed. Not driver-dependent. If he comes, great. If he doesn’t, the system will still win races.”

It wasn’t arrogance. It was truth.

Raymond leaned back in his chair, suddenly aware that he’d brought a knife to a laser fight.

He’d come here expecting to read her. Probe for weakness. See if she was part of the reason Max was wobbling.

But Ana Wolff had no tells.

No nerves.

And absolutely no interest in discussing anything outside the confines of engineering

Raymond sat back.

“Any other questions?” she asked.

Raymond opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You’ve… clarified a lot.”

And she smiled. Slightly. Just a flicker at the corners.

“Good,” she said. “I’m not in the business of ambiguity.”

“No,” he said. “That was… very informative.”

Ana stood. “Good. I have a battery mapping session in five minutes.”

She nodded to both men, turned on her heel, and left the room — not like someone exiting a meeting, but like someone who had won it.

Raymond sat in stunned silence.

Andreas leaned back, looking pleased.

“Well,” he said, “you wanted to meet Ana.”

Raymond rubbed a hand over his face. “I think I need a drink.”

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen

Raymond: Just finished the meeting.

Jos: And?

Raymond: He’s in love with a goddamn technical nuke.

Jos: Oh Jesus.

Raymond: She didn’t even blink, Jos. I tried to steer the conversation six different ways. She controlled every single one.

Jos: That bad?

Raymond: She explained torque vectoring like she was giving a TED talk to a bunch of tired engineers and still made me feel like I forgot how electricity works.

Jos: So it’s worse than I thought.

Raymond: Much worse. She’s not emotional. She’s efficient. And calm. And terrifying. She runs that room like it’s a neural net in human form.

Jos: Sounds like Toto built himself a war machine and didn’t tell anyone.

Raymond: Exactly. Max isn’t just thinking about Mercedes because the car might be good. He’s thinking about it because she’s building it.

Jos: Well. We lost him.

Raymond: She’s going to hand him the next great car and then walk away like it’s a chess game she won ten moves ago. I can’t even be mad. I’m scared.

Jos: We’re going to have to deal with her, aren’t we?

Raymond: We already are.

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Jos: Could you maybe try and talk some sense into your son? He’s thinking about changing teams. Because of a girl.

Sophie: … To Mercedes?

Jos: Yes.

Sophie: There are worse career decisions. Have you seen their power unit projections? Every engineer in the paddock is whispering that they’ll be ahead next year.

Jos: Sophie. He is literally uprooting his entire career because of some woman.

Sophie: He’s not stupid. If he’s thinking about leaving Red Bull, it’s because the numbers make sense. Max doesn’t risk a championship window for a fling. Who even is she?

Jos: Anastasia Wolff.

Sophie: … Toto’s daughter?

Jos: Yes.

Sophie: There are worse career decisions. If he’s going to switch, at least it’s to the team with the best hardware.

Jos: That’s not the point! He’s thinking with his heart, not his head.

Sophie: Relax. If it’s Mercedes and if it’s Dr. Anastasia Wolff, he’s probably making the smartest emotional and professional decision of his life. You should be happy.

Jos: You are impossible.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: So. How long have you and Dr. Anastasia Wolff been together?

Max: … It’s complicated.

Sophie: That’s not a timeline, Max. That’s a category on Facebook.

Max: It’s not… official. We’ve never really defined it. Not publicly. Not privately either, really. It’s just… always been there.

Sophie: So “years,” then.

Max: Yeah. Since 2016, if you want to be technical about it.

Sophie: MAX EMILIAN.

Max: I SAID it’s complicated!!

Sophie: You think? Nine years and now you’re signing to Mercedes because of her?

Max: No. I’m signing to Mercedes because it’s the right car. She’s just… Part of the reason it feels like the right place to be.

Sophie: … Do you love her?

Max: … Yeah. But it’s complicated.

Sophie: You’ve been in love with the same woman for nine years and you call that complicated?

Max: You haven’t met Ana. Trust me. Complicated is the right word.

Sophie: You’re impossible.

Max: Runs in the family.

Sophie: And you’re only telling me now?

Max: We weren’t exactly telling anyone. It’s been… private. Quiet. Ours.

Sophie: Does she make you happy?

Max: Yes.

Sophie: About time you chose something for you. And not just for racing.Go win her properly then. And maybe a championship while you’re at it.

Max: Working on both.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025

Ana was mid-way through annotating an error log when she heard the knock.

Not urgent. Not tentative. Just deliberate—like most things her father did.

She didn’t look up right away. Just saved her file, closed two windows, and finished her thought in the margin before saying, “Come in.”

The door opened. Toto stepped inside with a kind of tight control that immediately pinged her internal radar.

“Altair or Vermeulen?” she asked, not bothering with small talk.

Toto gave a dry huff that could’ve been a laugh. “Both.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Which one first?”

“Altair.” He walked over to the side of her desk, arms crossed, like he was still deciding whether to praise her or pace. “You wrote it for Kimi,” Toto said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And you wrote it so well,” he continued, “that when we put George in it, the simulation nearly staged a mutiny.”

“Not surprising.” She didn’t sound smug. Just honest. “Altair was written around Kimi’s muscle memory. George drives like he’s explaining it to a camera mid-corner. Altair doesn’t like that.”

“It was a disaster,” Toto admitted at last. “He said the car felt like it hated him. Spun twice in seven laps. The telemetry looked like a heart monitor in cardiac arrest.”

Ana didn’t blink. “Good to know the mapping’s sensitive.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“Valtteri handled it better,” Toto said after a beat. “Not perfect, but clean. Adaptive.”

Ana nodded, unsurprised. “Valtteri listens to the car. Most drivers try to argue with it.”

Toto leaned on the edge of her desk. “Valtteri said something interesting. He said Altair isn’t just a fast setup. He said it’s a setup that needs instinct more than logic. That it’s alive in a way that demands trust. And then he told me exactly who else it would be perfect for.”

Ana arched a brow. “Who?”

“Max Verstappen.”

Ana’s fingers stilled on the edge of her keyboard for half a second before she spoke.

“He’s not wrong,” she said finally, voice even.

Toto studied her for a long moment. She didn’t flinch under it.

“Was that on purpose?” he asked.

Ana shook her head. “I don’t design for drivers,” Ana said evenly. “But instincts leave patterns. If Kimi and Verstappen happen to share some… that’s not my doing.”

Toto studied her for a beat longer. Then: “You really think Altair would suit Max?”

“If he let it.”

Toto hummed. “Interesting overlap.”

Ana turned back to her screen. “Patterns repeat, Papa. Whether you like them or not.”

There was a silence, but it wasn’t tense. It was the quiet that always settled between them when the thinking got serious.

Finally, Toto asked, “And Vermeulen?”

Ana leaned forward, tapping her pen against the edge of her tablet. “Predictable. Well-briefed. Looking for leverage.”

“Did he get any?”

“Only what I let him.”

Toto smirked. “And what did you let him get?”

“Enough to know the hardware’s championship-worthy. Not enough to understand how.”

“Ah.”

“He tried to pivot toward Verstappen. Regularly.”

Toto’s mouth twitched. “Did he regret it?”

“I didn’t give him room to enjoy it,” she said simply.

Toto’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You made an impression.”

“I explained the integration system.”

“You terrified him,” Toto corrected. “He told Andreas afterward he needed a drink.”

Ana allowed herself the faintest hint of a smirk. “Efficient.”

Toto studied her again, the weight of a father and a team principal behind the look. “He was vetting you. Not the car. Not the power unit. You.”

Ana didn’t look away from her screen. “I know.”

“You handled it.”

“I always do.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and for once, Toto Wolff didn’t look like a man in control of the room.

He looked like a father, very aware of the force he’d helped raise.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, almost quietly.

Ana blinked, caught off guard.

Then recovered. “Good. I built something worth being proud of.”

Toto nodded once, slow and certain.

“You built something dangerous.”

Ana didn’t smile. Not really. Just a glint of approval in her eyes, sharp and metallic.

“That’s the point.”

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025

He was halfway through peeling the wrapper off a protein bar when he heard it:

“Hey.”

Sharp. Too sharp to be casual.

Kimi didn’t look up right away. He knew that tone. The kind that pretended to be friendly but already had tension curled underneath.

When he finally raised his eyes, George Russell was standing across from him, arms folded, expression tight.

“Kimi,” he said again, a shade too forcefully.

Kimi raised a brow. “George.”

“You’ve been running that Altair setup for a while now.”

Kimi didn’t answer. He took a bite instead. Chewed slowly.

George stepped closer. “Toto had me run it yesterday.”

Kimi blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” George smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Felt like wrestling a snake on ice. The thing practically threw itself into the gravel.”

Kimi nodded once. “Sounds like you had fun.”

“What the hell is that thing?” George demanded.

“It’s… a package,” Kimi said carefully.

“I know it’s a package,” George snapped. “What I don’t know is why it drove like the car was actively trying to kill me.”

Kimi shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “It’s… different.”

“Different?” George leaned forward, voice low. “Different doesn’t spin you out of Turn 6 because it decided it hates your entire driving style.”

Kimi hesitated, weighing his words. Don’t say Ana. Don’t say Ana.

“It’s designed around… instinct,” Kimi said finally. “It doesn’t want you to think about it too much. You have to let it come to you.”

George stared at him. “Let it come to me? Antonelli, I’ve been driving F1 cars for years. I know how to feel out a setup. That—” He jabbed a finger toward the sim bay. “—wasn’t a setup. That was a trap.”

Kimi kept his expression as neutral as possible. “Worked fine for me.”

That earned him a sharp look. “Yeah. I saw the data overlay. It loved you. It hated me. You want to explain why?”

Kimi shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of how small the room felt. “It’s… tailored.”

“Tailored to what?”

“To… how I drive,” Kimi said, carefully non-committal. “That’s all I know.”

George stared at him for a long beat. “Tailored to you. Right.” He let out a sharp breath, straightening. “Well, whoever designed it, tell them congratulations. They built a car that loves a teenager and loathes a race winner.”

Kimi bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper. Don’t say Ana. Don’t say Ana.

George gave him one last look, something tight and unreadable in his expression. Then he turned on his heel and left.

Kimi exhaled only when the door clicked shut again.

He picked up his pen, hands steady even though his pulse wasn’t.

He wasn’t going to say it. He wasn’t going to be the one to tell George that Altair wasn’t just a package. 

It was Ana. 

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025

Bono found Kimi leaning against a desk, still nursing the same bottle of water he’d been holding for ten minutes.

“You look like someone just told you you’ve got a penalty before quali,” Bono said, stopping beside him.

Kimi huffed. “George cornered me.”

Bono raised a brow. “About?”

“Altair,” Kimi muttered. “He wanted to know why the car hated him.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a dry, unimpressed: “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Kimi glanced sideways. “You’re not surprised.”

“Lad,” Bono said, tone flat, “I’ve been in this sport long enough to know when someone’s ego takes a bruising. You ran a package better than he did. Now he wants someone to blame.”

Kimi paused. “You think he’s threatened?”

Bono snorted. “Of course he is. Altair didn’t fail him because it was flawed. It failed him because it wanted commitment, and he brought a checklist. That setup wants your instincts. Your gut. It wants honesty. That’s why it loves you.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Kimi said quickly. “Just that it’s tailored to me. That’s all.”

Bono crossed his arms, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Good. Because if he drags Ana into this, I’ll personally put him on factory testing for the rest of the season.”

Kimi blinked. “You’re that serious?”

Bono turned fully to face him now, voice calm but sharp. “Kimi, listen to me. What Ana did with Altair? That’s not just a setup tweak. That’s art. You don’t question art by throwing a tantrum because it didn’t flatter you.”

Kimi stared down at his shoes. “He was… angry. Like properly. Said the car felt like it hated him.”

Bono let out a humorless laugh. “The car didn’t hate him. The car just didn’t bend to him. There’s a difference. Some drivers can’t tell the two apart.”

Kimi hesitated, then risked: “He said whoever built it must’ve designed it to love a teenager and loathe a race winner.”

Bono’s jaw tightened. “Brilliant. So now he’s sulking because the sim didn’t kiss his hand and call him king.”

“He’s not… wrong about the teenager part,” Kimi muttered.

Bono sighed and patted his shoulder. “Ignore him. Keep doing what you’re doing. And if he corners you again, you tell him to take it up with me. 

***

Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman

Kimi: I think George wants me dead.

Oliver: good morning to you too???

Kimi: I’m serious. He cornered me in the garage about Altair.

Oliver: and?

Kimi: And he asked why the car hated him. Direct quote.

Oliver: 😂 okay that’s actually hilarious did you tell him it loves you more?

Kimi: I told him it was tailored to me. He looked like he wanted to strangle me.

Oliver: bro that’s not “wants me dead,” that’s “hurt pride” there’s a difference

Kimi: You didn’t see his face. It was like I’d personally insulted his family.

Oliver: he’s dramatic. you’re dramatic. it’s a perfect storm.

Kimi: He said the car was built to love a teenager and loathe a race winner.

Oliver: 💀💀💀💀💀 oh he’s SALTY salty

Kimi: You think I’m exaggerating. I’m telling you, next sim run I’m checking under my seat for explosives.

Oliver: kimi. you are 18. he is not going to murder you over a set up change

Kimi: …yet.

Oliver: 😭 stop you’re fine worst case scenario he passive-aggressively overexplains brake bias to you until your ears fall off

Kimi: …that actually sounds worse.

Oliver: then drive faster and stay alive. problem solved.

***

Text Messages: Peter “Bono” Bonnington & Valterri Bottas

Bono: You’ll be pleased to know George is having a full ego collapse over Altair.

Valtteri: Didn’t take long

Bono: Cornered Kimi. Demanded to know “why the car hated him.”

Valtteri: 🤣 Did Kimi say Ana built it?

Bono: No. Smart kid. Just said it was tailored to him. Didn’t even flinch. George, on the other hand, is convinced the sim personally insulted his résumé. Said “whoever built this must’ve designed it to love a teenager and loathe a race winner.”

Valtteri: Jesus. Not everything in the world is about him. 

Every car hates you until you figure out how to listen.

Bono: That’s the problem. Altair doesn’t want you to figure it out. It wants you to trust it. George brought a checklist. The car wanted instinct. It was carnage.

Valtteri: Yeah, I felt that when I ran it. You can’t force it. …Let me guess, he’s blaming the package instead of himself?

Bono:

Winner, winner, ego dinner.

Valtteri: Ouch. He’s going to hate knowing I handled it better than him.

Bono: I’m not telling him that. I like my blood pressure.

Valtteri: 😂 Fair. How’s Kimi?

Bono: Holding it together. Kid’s polite to a fault. Didn’t even drop Ana’s name.

Bono: Anyway. Just a heads-up. If George tries to corner you next, feel free to pretend your headset’s broken.

Valtteri: Already planning on speaking only in Finnish.

Bono: God bless.

Bono: He’s not wrong about one thing. Altair does love the kid.

Valtteri: It should. That thing is built on instinct and honesty. Kimi drives like that. George doesn’t.Pray George cools off before he says something really stupid.

Bono: You think he will?

Valtteri:Yes.

Bono: …Fantastic.

Valtteri: Let him sulk. Some lessons you can’t teach with a debrief. The car already told him everything he needed to know.

Valtteri: Every driver who’s ever thought the car should bend to them learns the same thing eventually: Sometimes the car just doesn’t want you.

Bono: …God, that’s brutal.Valtteri: Welcome to Formula 1.

[lvrspiastri]

Can i request an isack hadjar fic where reader is isacks best friend. She’s quite inexperienced and is interested in this other guy so she asks isack to teach her how to kiss and other spicy stuff.

She’s secretly harboured a crush for isack since before they were friends but she didn’t think he liked her back so doing this teaching thing is blurring the lines between how she feels for him and she starts to realise maybe she’s not that interested in the guy she liked. At a party one in one of the drivers hotel rooms she sees another girl flirting with isack and it makes her jealous and she realises she does in fact like him. She excuses herself from the party and he notices and follows her to her hotel room and he asks her what’s wrong. And she confesses she was jealous and he laughs saying you don’t think i was jealous when you were talking to the guy he though she has a crush on and they have sex and he’s being super possessive.

i cant even justify my disappearance. i should be back. (hopefully) i had a birthday yaay!

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

jealousy, jealousy ᶦʰ⁶

✧. ┊     PAIRING: isack hadjar x fem!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 2.7k words

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, jealousy, oral sex, coarse language, virgin

Isack had a horrible habit of leaving his room messy. The impressive thing was that it didn’t even take him time to make a perfect hotel room look like it’d been burned to the ground. And for me, who was a bit more of a perfectionist, this was utter hell. Utter hell when I have to share a hotel room with my best friend purely for his races. You’d think one would get used to it after 17 years.

Time doesn’t make the sight any less painful.

So I fold the lazy ass’s laundry while he sits on the bed with his shoes on (filthy), scrolling on his phone and occasionally giggling at the mind-numbing Italian brain rot his fellow rookies had sent him. I get down to the last shirt when i hear the familiar lock sound of his phone. There’s silence for a beat. Two. A soft chuckle from him.

“You do not have to treat me like a kid, you know,” he takes the shirt from my hands and begins folding it himself.

“Oh please. If i stop all this, you’d be living in a pigsty.”

“What is ‘pigsty?’”

“Like…a dirty room. Ones pigs may live in.”

“Ah.”

A few moments of comfortable, familiar silence.

Until my phone dings.

And he can tell by the smile gracing my face that it's him. Ollie.

Ollie had been a natural part of our lives. Growing up in the same junior racing environment, he and I had become good friends. When Isack had been occupied with hours in the sim, or cautious night outs with girls who he was "just friends" with, it was Ollie who kept me company. And it would be foolish to claim that I don't feel anything for him.

Isack doesn’t say anything at first, but I catch the way his hands falter slightly on the fold. He smooths the shirt out twice, unnecessarily, then sets it down with a little more force than needed.

I glance up, still smiling, still caught in that light, floaty feeling that always follows a text from Ollie.

"So I'll see you tonight then?"

Yes. Of course he would. I'd been aching to hear that sweet Brit accent of his.

“You’re texting him again?” Isack says. Light. Airy. The kind of tone that tries a little too hard not to sound like it means something.

“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate.

He nods. Stands up and walks to his suitcase, fiddling with the zipper like he’s looking for something. Probably nothing. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Just…didn’t know you guys were that close.”

“We weren’t.” I pause. “We are now.”

Isack hums. That kind of passive sound that people make when they’re trying to hold back an opinion. He doesn’t look at me, and it’s weird. He always looks at me. Especially when he’s trying to prove a point.

I stare at the heart that pops up when Ollie likes my text.

So it's settled. I'm seeing him tonight.

In his room.

Which would mean....

Fuck.

Supporting Isack's career meant a lot of travel.

And a lack of travel meant the lack of stable relationships.

And lack of stable relationships meant lack of...experience.

I'd kissed a boy, of course.

But only once.

And it was at a party, the kind where everyone’s too drunk to remember who they kissed and too proud to admit they cared. His name was Luca or Logan or something with an L, and it had tasted like vodka and sour lollies. It didn’t count. Not really.

I swallow hard. The little heart on my phone screen pulses, pink and harmless, but it might as well be a siren.

Isack shifts beside me, still not looking. He’s scrolling through something on his phone with his thumb moving slower than usual—deliberate. Controlled.

“You okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Automatic.

“Yeah.” His voice is clipped. That kind of "yeah" that means no. That means you know I’m not, so why’d you ask?

I look away from him. Back to my phone. Back to that text:

"You sure you're okay with this?"

Ollie had sent it just after I told him I’d come over.

I'd replied too quickly.

"Of course. Can’t wait."

Isack finally puts his phone down, and I feel him watching me now. It burns at the edge of my vision.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.” His voice is lower now. Quiet, like he’s afraid of breaking something between us.

“I know.” I tap the side of my phone with my thumbnail. “I want to.”

It’s not a lie. Not really.

But it’s not the truth, either.

He nods, slow and unreadable. Then, softer, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

I blink. “What, go to a guy’s room?”

He doesn’t smile. Just shakes his head once. “You know what I mean.”

Silence stretches. Not awkward—just tense. Like the pause before a question you’re scared to ask.

“No,” I say finally. “I haven’t.”

He nods again, and something in his face softens. He turns his eyes away like that makes it easier to say, “Then don’t let it be with someone who makes you feel like you have to prove anything.”

My chest tightens.

The room feels too full of things unsaid.

It's stupid and a lost cause, what I'm about to say.

"You have experience."

His body stills, irises darting across my face. But he does not breathe too loud, like he's afraid he'll say what he wants to. Like he'll let his inner thoughts slip.

"I do."

Short. Sweet. Simple. Not letting on too much.

I shift closer, voice dropping in volume, tone becoming velvety. "Will you teach me?"

His lips part. Just slightly. Barely. But enough.

Enough for me to see the exact moment his composure falters.

He blinks once, slow and heavy, like he’s rebooting. Like the question short-circuited something in him.

"Don’t say things like that," he says. His voice isn’t harsh, but there’s a rawness to it, something frayed at the edges. “Not if you don’t mean them.”

I tilt my head. “Who said I didn’t?”

A breath hitches in his throat. That’s all the answer I need.

The silence between us tightens—elastic and dangerous. He looks at me then, really looks, the kind of look that leaves nowhere to hide.

"I’m not a game," he murmurs. “Not some trial run before you go to him.”

I don’t flinch. But my heart does. Loud and fast, betraying every illusion of calm.

"Neither am I," I whisper. "But you’re the only person I’d trust with this."

His jaw tenses. He swallows, eyes falling to my lips and then flicking back up like it burned him to look too long.

"This is a bad idea," he says, more to himself than to me.

“Maybe,” I say, inching closer, “but it’s still an idea.”

A beat. Another.

Then, quietly, he says: “Say it again.”

I blink. “What?”

His voice is almost a breath, but there’s heat coiled underneath.

“Ask me again.”

So I do.

“Will you teach me?”

This time, he doesn’t look away.

A nod. A hitch in his breath.

And then he moves.

Not with urgency, but with intention. His hand hovers just above my knee, fingers curled slightly, hesitating like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

"You don’t get to take this back," he says. His voice is quiet, steadier than I expected. Not a warning to scare me off, more like a reminder that this means something. To him. Maybe more than I realised.

"I know," I say. My voice is softer than his. But certain. "I won’t."

His hand settles on me then, warm and grounding. Not possessive. Just real.

There’s a moment where he just looks at me, like he’s memorising something he doesn’t want to forget. And then...

"Come here."

It’s barely more than a breath. But I go.

And when he touches my face, it’s with a kind of gentleness I didn’t know I needed. His thumb grazes the skin under my eye, featherlight, like he’s checking if I’ll vanish.

My chest tightens. But not with fear. Not with nerves.

With something else.

He leans in slowly, giving me time, giving me space. I don’t pull back. I don’t blink. I just close the distance.

And when his lips touch mine, it’s nothing like that party kiss I’d tried so hard to convince myself was enough.

This isn’t messy or thoughtless or something we’ll pretend didn’t happen.

This is patient. Intentional. Earned.

It’s a lesson, yes, but not the kind I expected.

He isn’t just teaching me how to be kissed.

He’s teaching me what it feels like to be chosen.

His palm cups my cheek, and the kiss deepens. Slowly, carefully, like he’s still asking, still listening to every breath I take, every shift of my body against his.

His thumb brushes along my skin, anchoring me, grounding me, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. The pressure of his mouth grows more certain, not rushed but purposeful, like he’s giving me space to lean in or pull away. Like every part of him is waiting on me.

And I do lean in.

Because I want more. Not just of the kiss, but of him, this version of him I don’t get when he’s driving, or teasing, or pretending he doesn’t feel things as deeply as he does. This version, the quiet one, the one who touches like a promise and kisses like he means it.

His fingers slip into my hair, the kiss deepening again, warmer now, more open. He still doesn’t push. He still doesn’t rush. But there’s heat beneath the patience, like he’s been holding back longer than he’ll ever admit.

And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m behind. Like I’m lacking or learning too late.

I just feel wanted. Completely. As I am.

I don't feel that way with Ollie. Not when I kiss him.

Maybe I did it wrong?

I go back to Isack's room after the night. I intended to stay over, yes. But my disappointment with how the night turned out just pushed me towards something more comforting. Familiar. Isack.

It's the last race of the year. Abu Dhabi. Glitz and glamour. Bittersweet endings. Fireworks for the championship winner. Champagne for the ones with trophies. A driver's party for Isack and I. I haven't spoken to Ollie since. I don't think I have the privilege to, anyway.

It starts off as any regular party. No one on the dance floor, everyone causing a stampede near the bar. Men and women flirting with each other, eyeing each other, hoping that the alcohol entering their system will grant them the courage. Usual shitty party routine. I don't expect seeing Isack partake in it.

She's a pretty blonde across the club. The one who you'd typically see swinging off of Leclerc's and every other lower Formula driver. I didn't, however, expect my best friend to be into them.

He doesn't look at me when he dances with me. His head is always turned away, eyes roaming her long legs and bare waist.

It fucking hurts.

After a drink or two, I've lost all sight of him. I meet Ollie's eyes a few times in the club but all I can fucking think about is where he is. And then I catch sight of him

Her hand on his shoulder, her lips in an overly sweet smile. That annoying giggle ringing through the air that's bound to make a guy's pants tight. A lean in and peck on the cheek.

And my body burns. Not from the alcohol. From the jealousy that engulfs me like a wildfire. From the tears in my eyes that threaten to fall. From the ache of my heart that beats for him.

I can't stop the tear from falling. And it's suffocating.

Out. Now. I grab my bag and head straight for the door. Liam must've noticed me, for he heads over to Isack and nudges him to me. I don't see what happens after. My vision is too blurry and my head too foggy to care.

I go where my feet carry me. They know the way. My hands autonomously swiping the room key and heading inside the room. The door doesn't even get a chance to shut before he bolts in, holding me as I fall to the floor.

Still struggling to figure out whether it's alcohol or feelings.

"What's wrong?" His voice is a soothing whisper, cutting through the turmoil in me. "Talk to me, my love, what is wrong?"

"That girl...she..." I manage to croak. It's silent and it's broken and it's incoherent but he knows.

"She's no one, nobody, I do not even know her name..."

"How could you? In front of me, too." God, it sounds so pathetic, so selfish. I couldn't care less.

"Oh, mon coeur," he lets out a soft chuckle. Not mocking, not ill-intended. Disbelieving. "How do you think I have felt all this time you've wanted Ollie?"

"That's the think, Isack, I don't." My voice shudders. "He doesn't make me feel like you do."

"Yeah?" he leans in, voice raspy. "And what do I make you feel?"

I can't say it, the word, the feeling too forbidden.

He unbuttons his shirt slightly, whispering. "Give me your consent. And I'll teach you what it's like to love."

One gaze into his caramel eyes and I nod. He hooks his arms around my thighs and practically throws me on the bed.

"Fuck, don't have protection." He curses, taking off the belt holding his pants up.

"Well, pull out in time, then." He smirks, amused by my insistence. I won't pretend this hasn't been on my mind for a while. Going all my life without sex drove me insane.

He takes his time with me, teasingly stripping me, his thumbs brushing against my bare skin like I'm something to be treasured. An experience to last. He's seen me naked before but not in this light. Not when I'm all his. Not when we both know what's yet to come.

He lays on his stomach, putting my legs on his shoulders, his hands shimmying the fabric of my panties off my legs. He kisses every new bit of skin revealed, tongue flicking at anything but the clit. I get desperate enough to let out a pathetic whine. A chuckle, a murmur in French and then a tender kiss to my core. It's better than I'd envisioned. Better than my own fingers could ever do. Better than wet dreams. Better than makeshift sex toys. He eats me like I'm a fine dish. Something served at a high-end restaurant, something to take your time with. His tongue swirls, his lips nibble, his hands squeeze the flesh of my thighs. It's no secret he's skilled. I don't want to know where he got the practice from.

"You're so beautiful. My little girl." Smacks of lips against wet flesh, fingers teasingly brushing my pulsating core. I immediately grab a hold of his hair, fighting the need to scream. His mouth keeps working, a diversion from the fingertips that dive in to me. And it is too much to contain. "Shh, shh. Don't want your dearest Bearman finding out."

"Oh, I have a feeling he knows- FUCK!" He curls his fingers, hitting a spot inside me that makes my lungs tighten and eyes wet.

"Your legs are shaking. Wow." He keeps up his newfound movement, curling and curling and hitting and hitting until I squirt, the golden liquid wetting his shirt, letting the fabric cling to his abs. I pant, the feeling similar to after an intense workout, which this was. I lie there, dazed, blissful, in love.

"Shh, you're okay." He makes a move to lie beside me, letting me into his arms. My first time, and the feeling was too intense for me to comprehend. "That's enough, yeah, you're good. We don't have to do anything else, just relax." A soft kiss to the top of my head. And the words I've waited to hear my whole life.

"I love you."

[checkeredflagggs]

To Paint a Picture: Pentimenti

Pairing: max verstappen x webber vettel!reader

summary: y/n webber vettel swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

a/n: I’ve had this piece rumbling about in my mind since like November so I’m really excited to actually start posting it!

a/n2: yeah this consumed my thoughts and demanded that I write it next

a/n3: art is by anastasia trusova

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Private Messages, the Uncles

Private Messages, Hanna and yn

Private Messages, Sebastian and yn

Private Messages, Max and Victoria and Sophie

Private Messages, Mick and yn

not_yn🔒

liked by mick, gina, lance, and 19 others

not_yn: I shouldn’t find this charming…don’t tell the parental figures

view all comments

gina: ok but those are so pretty?

↳not_yn: they are — and he’s handwritten some poetry in each one

↳gina: oh he’s so down bad for you already…

↳gina: which poems?

↳not_yn: “I realized I was thinking of you, and I began to wonder how long you’d been on my mind. Then it occurred to me: Since I met you, you’ve never left” was the latest

↳gina: so cute! He’s been thinking of you since he met you?? I call maid of honor at the wedding

↳not_yn: not happening! No weddings 🙅🏼‍♀️

↳gina: 😂😂

mick: well at least he’s moved on from bad pick up lines

↳not_yn: that is a positive…

↳mick: admit it — you love it

↳not_yn: I’ll admit nothing of the sort

↳mick: so we’re resting in denial…

lance: You’re dating someone? Why am I the last to know?

↳not_yn: I’m not dating anyone Lance — I wouldn’t keep that info from you

↳mick: max is completely down bad for her

↳lance: verstappen?? You’re dating Verstappen??

↳not_yn: I’m NOT dating anyone

↳lance: a Vettel/Verstappen relationship…we’re all doomed liked by mick

↳not_yn: Lance…

Bluesky

user1: I feel…confused?

↳user2: didn’t he once say that he’s only read 2 books before?

↳user3: well now it’s 3?

user4: I didn’t know that was something he knew how to do…

user5: he’s reading…an art book?

↳user6: what kind of art book?

↳user5: I think it’s art history?

↳user6: …that’s kinda cool actually

user7: I bet it’s because of a girl

↳user8: it’s always because of a girl

↳user9: what kind of a girl is enough to get his attention from racing to…Art history?

↳user8: the kind you keep

↳user7: the forever kind

yn_vettel🔒

liked by seb5priv, lewis44, nando, jenson_priv, and 291 others

yn_vettel: some new inspiration and cat toys

view all comments

seb5priv: blümchen tell me you didn’t get 2 massive cat trees?

↳yn_vettel: ok

↳seb5priv: blümchen…

↳yn_vettel: you told me not to tell you!

nando: pequeña?

↳yn_vettel: ¡Estoy esperando el informe semanal! I’m waiting for the weekly debrief!

↳seb5priv: so there is something!

danric: those are looking good!

↳yn_vettel: thanks Dan! Got a piece ready for you!

↳danric: yes!

lewis44: is the lavender one available?

↳yn_vettel: how much are you offering?

↳lewis44: what?

↳yn_vettel: I’m an actual artist now — I’ve even got some commissions.

↳yn_vettel: so how much are you offering?

↳jenson_priv: I’ll pay double whatever he offers

↳nico_r: triple it!

↳nando: too late

↳lewis44: this is terrorism

↳yn_vettel: I think it’s capitalism actually

↳lewis44: 😑😑

↳seb5priv: I think you both need to go back to school…

Private Messages, the Uncles

not_yn🔒

liked by gina, mick, and 16 others

not_yn: my studio has been taken over by flowers and poems…

view all comments

gina: and you’re…complaining?

↳not_yn: I’m not saying anything

↳gina: so you’re absolutely loving this!

↳not_yn: stop talking

mick: he’s winning you over isn’t he?

↳not_yn: go away!

↳mick: so when do I get to say I told you so?

↳not_yn: never!

Private Messages, Max and yn

Private Messages, Nando and yn

Taglist

If you want to join my taglist, interact with my taglist post. I won’t be adding anyone else

@daniskywalkersolo @thenerdysimp @quinquinquincy @lecfosimaxbull @gr3yhues @armystay89 @simplylovelysworld @mimisweetz @angelluv16 @hamiltonforwdc @alexxavicry @suns3treading @ymrereads @monzipan @stuffyownswrld @kuolonsyoja @ky14-1 @devilacot @justheretoreadthxxs @minrayven @albonoracers @hc-dutch @somerandomf1fan @purplephantomwolf @shadowreader07 @spilled-coffee-cup @galaxygurlll @anamiad00msday @freyathehuntress @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @ihaveitprinteddout @deena-beena-weena @lilyofthevalley-09 @nightrose-18 @kodeelyn @star73807-blog @avengers-assemble123456 @howling-wolf97 @boke-hinata-boke @hannahmotors10 @mountainshuman @daisydaze111 @evie-119 @shadowreader07 @r0nnsblog @1800-love-me @edgyficuselastica

[leclerking]

😄👋🏼 and ✌🏼☺️ through the child labour

[flowergirl1243]

in her lane - grid mum

SUMMARY: After a tough quali, Kimi finds comfort, and a “grid mum”, over dinner with George and his wife.

PAIRING: george russell x reader, kimi antonelli x platonic!reader

NOTE: I would be very prepared to make this into a whole series, but we'll see how it goes!!

MASTERLIST ✩~✩ REQUESTS

You spot him behind the paddock hospitality tents, crouched beside a row of crates and keeping very, very still.

The rest of the world is buzzing. It’s the first qualifying of the season. George has just locked out the second row in P4. There’s energy and adrenaline and cameras and chaos, but here, behind the noise, there’s just one rookie in a fireproof suit, head down and chest heaving like the weight of the world has just crushed him.

You glance back once to make sure no one is following you, then quietly step closer.

“Kimi?”

He startles, jerks his head up like a deer caught in headlights, and quickly wipes at his face.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean—” His voice cracks, and he stands too fast. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” you say gently. “Not to me.”

He stares at the asphalt, jaw tight, fists clenched like he’s still in the car.

“P16,” he mutters. “I’m supposed to be...better.”

Your heart aches.

You’ve heard it a hundred times since he was announced. The heir to Lewis. The prodigy. The pressure. Kimi Antonelli, barely eighteen, shouldering an entire legacy, and already, the headlines will eat him alive by morning.

“I don’t think anyone expects you to be perfect,” you say softly.

He looks up, doubtful.

“Well, maybe the press does,” you add with a small smile. “But they don’t know what it’s like in the car. What it’s like to be you.”

Kimi swallows hard.

“I’ve seen a lot of rookies, Kimi,” you say, stepping close enough to lower your voice. “And you know what sets the good ones apart? The ones who last?”

He waits, eyes red but focused.

“They get back up. Even when everyone’s already decided who they are.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then, very quietly: “That’s hard.”

“I know.” You reach into your pocket, pull out a packet of tissues and hand it to him. “But you’re not doing it alone, okay? You’ve got your team, and now—”

He raises a brow as you hesitate.

“Now you’ve got me,” you finish.

Kimi blinks. “You?”

“Of course,” you say, smiling.

He gives a soft, watery laugh and presses the tissue to his face. “George knows you’re adopting strays?”

You grin. “He’s used to it. We've adopted three cats and a dog already.”

It starts the way it always does: one open bottle of wine on the counter, the scent of rosemary chicken hanging in the air, and the soft, familiar clink of George’s wedding band tapping the rim of his wine glass.

You’re halfway through plating dinner in the hotel, still in your paddock pass and socks, when there’s a knock on the door.

George, freshly showered and already curled up on the couch in a black tee and grey trackies, cranes his neck and calls out, “You expecting someone?”

You glance toward the door with a frown. “No.”

But when you open it, Kimi’s standing there.

He looks…better. Still hesitant, a little wary around the eyes. But his curls are damp like he’s made the effort, his sneakers are clean, and he’s holding a crinkled bouquet of grocery-store flowers in one hand and a lukewarm bottle of Coke Zero in the other, like he’s showing up for dinner at a friend’s mum’s place and doesn’t quite know the rules.

“Hi,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You, uh. Said I had you.”

You smile, soft and certain. “Come on in.”

He’s quieter than you expected, eating slowly, carefully, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be on his best behaviour or if this is some kind of test he hasn’t studied for. His eyes keep flicking between you and George, flickering with something cautious, like he’s still trying to figure out if this is actually real, if this warmth, this ease, this invitation is meant for him.

But you don’t push. You let the silence stretch comfortably, let the clinking of cutlery and the hum of the hospitality unit fill the space. You ask about his siblings, how many, how old, if they miss him when he’s away. His answers are a bit shy, but he softens when he talks about his youngest sister. Then he turns the conversation around, asks about your accent and where you’re from and how you ended up married to a Brit who complains about Australian heat while living in lycra.

George tosses in the occasional dry, perfectly timed comment, something sarcastic about Kimi’s hair, or your cooking skills, or how he was definitely the one who found the bakery, thank you very much. And every time, it draws a soft laugh from Kimi, a breathy little snort into his plate like he’s trying to stifle it and failing.

By dessert, George’s favourite caramel slice from that little corner bakery you stumbled across Thursday morning, Kimi’s sitting deeper in his chair, legs stretched out, plate cleaned, his posture relaxed for the first time all day. There’s the beginnings of a smile on his face, the kind that might stick around if you don’t scare it off.

You’re gathering plates and scraping leftovers into a bin when his voice cuts across the quiet.

“You know,” he says, glancing between the two of you, tentative but thoughtful. “You’re kind of like…well, like a paddock mum.”

George chokes mid-sip on his water, spluttering into his napkin.

You whip around, half-laughing, half-offended. “Paddock what?”

Kimi’s already shrugging, wide-eyed and sheepish, but not exactly sorry. “I mean, you found me when I was, like, losing my mind after quali. And then you fed me. And gave me tissues. That feels like a mum move.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, arms crossed. “Are you saying I give off mum vibes? Because I don’t know how I feel about that.”

He grins now, small and a little cheeky, the tension gone from his shoulders. “No offense. Cool mum. Like the ones who swear and make good snacks and don’t care if you put your feet on the couch.”

George’s laugh explodes through the kitchen, head thrown back, chest shaking. “You’ve nailed her, honestly.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Thanks, Kimi. I feel very young and hot now.”

But Kimi just shrugs again, like he knows exactly what he’s doing this time. “Grid mum,” he says, testing it out like a nickname. “Has a nice ring to it.”

P4.

Kimi Antonelli finishes his first ever Formula One race in fourth place.

You’re already out of your seat in the Mercedes garage before the cooldown lap is halfway done. George finishes in P3, but even he’s looking across the paddock toward the black and white of Kimi’s car, grinning like a proud big brother.

You catch him as he’s leaving parc fermé.

He’s breathless, sweating, wide-eyed and beaming, and when he spots you, he practically launches himself forward and hugs you so hard you lift off the ground for a second.

“I did it,” he gasps into your shoulder. “I fucking did it.”

“You did, baby,” you say, heart swelling. “You did so good.”

He pulls back, eyes shining. “Grid mum’s magic.”

George sidles up beside you, now changed into his podium kit. “You’re already giving her a big head.”

Kimi grins, still hugging you one-armed. “She earned it.”

You glance up at George. “He’s invited to dinner again.”

George smirks. “I figured.”

And when you look around and see Kimi, still in his suit, flushed with adrenaline, laughing with your husband and beaming at you like he’s finally home, you realise:

This season? It’s going to be a lot more crowded at the dinner table.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love the grid mum concept so much, whoever made this up, kisses forever! Anyway, I decided to do a George one because he is my favourite driver (which you would not believe but I promise I am). Anyway, as always, let me know if you have any requests or additions to this series!

[moonlight-records]

IOU | OP81

pairing: ghostface!oscar x ghostface!reader

summary: reader & oscar are best friends but reader would love to get a shot with ghostface. what they don’t know is that their chances are closer than they think…

warnings: [DARK THEMES USED & SMUT] slightly descriptive murder, mention of stalking stalking, mention of blood, breath play, public sex, oral sex (m receiving), dry humping, dom!oscar, sub!reader, degradation, hair pulling (if you squint??), face fucking, deep throating

a/n: once again, dark themes used! please read the warnings above!!! i answered a asked on my main here and decided to make a oneshot of it (yes i quote J's ask cause it was too good). tbh didn't even plan for a plot but here we are! I know my answer and this are vastly different...i don't wanna talk about it. also ghostface!oscar series belongs to @piastrification so homie this one is for YOU!! Also happy belated Valentines day omg. Hope you enjoy 🫶🏽

word count: 4.5K

This week has started out to be one of the worst weeks you’ve had in a very long time. Monday started off with your car breaking down on the way to campus and you completely missed your first class. When you got to campus an irritated Oscar was waiting asking why the hell you didn’t call him. “Even though I was in class, I would’ve left and gotten you,” he told you. You weren’t in the mood to argue so you just apologized and told him you’d call him next time which seemed to ease his irritation slightly. Seemed he also had a pretty shitty Monday.

Tuesday brought your shitty manager everyone hates at your job to end a relatively quiet day. It was the typical bullshit but still didn’t mean you had to enjoy it. You spent the whole drive home on the phone with Oscar screaming your head off about all the things your manager had done. The micro-managing of your work, the snarky remarks, the extra work so he can just fuck off in the back, god you could not stand this manager at all. Oscar listened like he always did. “You don’t deserve that,” you could hear the frown in his voice, “honestly he shouldn’t even be a manager. I could take care of him for you.” You laughed. You thanked Oscar for the offer but you had already decided that your manager would be your next victim. It would be tricky considering everyone in the store knew how much you two despised each other but it would get done.

You ended up with a stomach bug on Wednesday. You woke up around four in the morning with a jump and just made it to the bathroom before you got sick. You stayed in there for a good hour before there was nothing left in your system and you dragged yourself back to bed. You somehow coherently managed to message your professors you’d be missing class due to illness and texted Oscar that you’d be out sick today before promptly falling asleep. You woke to a knock on your front door and dragged yourself out of bed. You made a face seeing Oscar standing outside with a bag. “What are you doing?” You ask.

“Taking care of you. Can I come in?”

“What if you catch it? What about classes?”

You watch Oscar simply pull a KN95 mask out of his pocket. You narrowed your eyes as he slipped it on. You didn’t need to see his face to see the cheeky smile he was giving. His eyes twinkled slightly with humor as he gently turned you around and guided you back inside your place as he listed the things he brought over and how he can afford missing one day to make sure you eat and rest, a habit you tend to struggle with. He really was a good best friend.

Thursday is really when you hit your limit. Arriving on campus you and Oscar head to class though neither of you really paid attention. You two spent most of the time texting each other even though you guys were sitting right next to each other. When class ended the two of you headed to the closest campus cafeteria before parting ways. You got on the line to grab the food while Oscar secured you two seats since it was roughly lunch time and everyone would be out and about.

Carrying the two to-go containers after paying you make your way to the back left corner. It’s usually where you and Oscar sat and enjoyed just people watching and gossiping about other students but you slowed your walking. Oscar was looking up at someone. Fucking Brittany. One of the sororities girls. Sorority president actually. Brittany was in a nice blouse, a skirt, some fucking heeled boots. Her blonde hair was thrown up into a messy bun and she was leaning forward slightly while smiling wide at Oscar.

Jealousy hit you like a truck. You grip the to-go containers tighter while standing frozen in your spot watching them. You wanted to march over and tell her to fuck off. Grab your stupid bun and slam her head into the table until she’s bleeding out. Or maybe take the plastic forks that rested on top of the to-go containers and gauge her eyes out for having the audacity to even look at Oscar. Alas, you refrained from it all. Instead you just tilted your chin up and made your way over with a tight smile. “I’m back!” You announce to Oscar. The both turn to face you and Oscar visibly relaxes slightly but Brittany is giving you a once over clearly unimpressed. You turn and blink, feigning surprise. “Oh! Brittany. Hi,” you keep your tone light and friendly, “what brings you here?”

“Oh, I was just talking to Oscar,” Brittany smiles, “we’re partners for our history project.” You could give two shits less what it was as you spy Brittany’s hand moving to Oscar’s upper arm and resting there with ease. Something so subtle but could come off as flirty and you wanted to cut her hand off. How dare she think she can touch Oscar like that? “…and wanted to see if he wanted to come to the frat party Saturday night,” she concludes.

“Oh, isn’t that sweet of you. Can he bring a plus one?” You ask putting the containers down, sliding one over to Oscar.

“If he wants…” Brittany glances at Oscar with a smile then back at you, “but we need to know to make sure they’re on the list. Even then…it depends on the mood if everyone gets in.”

“Then it seems kinda stupid for a list, don’t you think so?” Oscar asks finally. Brittany laughs. It wasn’t even that funny. You realize now that she’s flirting with Oscar. Well. This just won’t do. Not like you care anyway. Oscar is your best friend. Sure you love him but it’s platonic -or so you tell yourself- so it shouldn’t bother you but it does. It does bother you because Brittany was the queen heartbreaker. She used guys until she got bored. Until they got attached and couldn’t offer anything else after giving her everything. You were not about to have Oscar be a pawn in her fucking game. You had missed the remark Brittany gave as you sat down, your heart pounding in your ears.

“…let me know!” Brittany calls out as she’s already walking away.

“Ugh. As if,” Oscar murmurs and turns his attention to you. “Hey,” he starts softly. Bring your gaze to him and you blink, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” you manage a smile, “I’m fine. Did you see the shoes she was wearing?” You ask to divert the subject as now you might have something fun to do this weekend.

* * *

Personally, you never understood the hype of sororities and managed to curb every single one who tried to recruit you. It was just a bunch of girls with money and tried to make it sound like it wasn’t a cult but it most certainly was if you got in. Moving into the house, what they expected you to wear, how to act in public, who can and cannot date, for fuck sakes they monitored your social media post and if they didn’t approve of something you posted they would either make you take it down or probably kick you out. You much preferred your freedom over dealing with that bullshit.

Luck had shined down on you when you heard some of the girls mention Brittany couldn’t go to the bar tonight because she was under the weather and just ‘had to get better for tomorrow in case her special guest came’. It was a miracle that you didn’t march over here and slaughter Brittany right then and there but you bide your time. You had to be careful.

Now, slipping the mask on, you give it a five minutes after everyone else leaves before slipping through the back door. Standing quietly, you listen to the water running and slowly making your way through the house. Climbing the stairs you follow the noise until you’re outside the bathroom. You hear Brittany singing and you silently open the door. Steam hits your face and it takes everything not to cough from the sudden heat. Stepping in you watch Brittany’s silhouette run her fingers through her hair. Gripping the hilt of your knife, you inch forward. When Brittany turns you stab the knife through the shower curtain and straight in her heart. Twisting, you step forward until Brittany is pinned against the wall as she weakly has a hold of your wrist trying to pull the knife out her screams being drowned out by the shower and her choking on her own blood. You pull out before stabbing again to ensure that there was no chance she would be able to survive. When her attempts falter, you pull the knife out. Cleaning the knife off, you slip out of the house the way you came smirking knowing the rest of them wouldn’t have hot water for a long time.

Carefully you pack everything into your backpack you left in the woods by the house before securely zipping it. Slinging a strap over your shoulder, you start to head back to your apartment. You emerge from the treeline right into an alleyway and into town which is bustling with college kids. Perks of living in a college town. You just turn left and make your way back to your apartment which is a bit further uptown and you notice as the people start to thin out.

You feel eyes burning into the back of your skull. Turning your head over your shoulder, you stop. At the end of the block you see a figure in all black and an identical mask standing there. Normal people would do anything but stare. Call out to the figure, turn away and walk, call the police, something except just stand there silently and face off with this killer. Copycat killer that is. You suppose you’d have fans, sick and twisted probably, but you didn’t expect you’d end up creating a copycat killer. Not that you minded, actually the gesture touched you actually. People had been too stupid to realize it was a copycat but not you.

After all, their first kill happened to be one of your best friends you recently dropped.

You can’t even remember why but you arrived to apologize and found her body on the floor, throat cut. It was a bit messy. The cut wasn’t as clean as you would’ve expected and there was blood everywhere. Even on the poor bitch’s hands. Then you realize that there’s a few stab wounds. Seemed she put up a fight before whoever did it got the kill. Then someone clears their throat and you raise your gaze.

There you saw him.

An identical ghostface mask, black long sleeve shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Personally you preferred boots but to each their own. As much as some little sane part in your head told you to stop judging this person’s choice in shoes and run, you stood there staring because god he was so *distracting*. Honestly, the tight fit long sleeve should be illegal for killers to wear. It clung to him defining each curve of his muscle and you couldn’t help but get turned on because well–they’re a well fit masked killer.

“Did you do this?”

The killer nodded. Silence fell upon the two of you before you finally asked, “why?”

“...Why?” The voice asked. A shiver ran down your spine hearing the low murmur. A voice modulator just like you. Smart and well fit? Shit, “that’s all you can ask? Why? Aren’t you supposed to be running and screaming?”

“Well I find that a bit stupid,” you retort, “you’re right here. Masked or not, you're taller. You have length compared to my short legs. I might have you in agility and you’re a bit messy with your killing. Shaky in the hands.” You tilt your head to the masked figure with a small smirk. You watch the figure tighten his grip on the hilt of the knife before he’s in front of you in about four steps. You gasp as your head is yanked back by your hair, knife against your throat.

“Are you asking to be killed right now?”

“I mean you gonna fuck me before you kill me?”

Ghostface reels their head back slightly. Stupidly, they loosen their grip from the shock. Taking your chance, you grab the first with the knife and twist it away from you. They shout out in pain as you get your hair free and release their wrist before kicking the figure harshly in the stomach. You step on the figure’s chest a bit harshly. Smirking down at him, “expect the unexpected sweetheart. But you never answered me. Why?”

You can hear something faintly. You cannot believe this guy is mumbling. Leaning down slightly, you turn your ear, “I can’t hear you,” you tease.

“I did it for you.”

Now you’re stunned. You lean back slightly, hand over your heart. You don’t dare move though. You expect it to be some sick joke but the laughter never came. You bite your bottom lip having half the mind to suck him off right then and there. You stay strong though. Instead, you move to stand over the figure and bend down and hook a finger under his mask. His hand flies to your wrist and you laugh.

“I’m not gonna take your mask off,” you explain, “Trust me. Right now I am getting extremely horny and I don’t think I can handle you being ugly under the mask. Would just completely kill the mood.” You laugh hearing the figure let out an offended noise, “but aren’t you sweet,” you tilt your finger up and the figure follows, lifting his chin, “don’t be a stranger, yeah? Now, you should get off so I can feign the heartbroken emotional ex- best friend.”

Ghostface is in front of you now. He’s got your chin between his thumb and finger staring down at you and you blink as you come out of your memory. He’s close and you can hear his soft breathing which forces your own breath to hitch. You curl and uncurl your fingers and you hear a small huff behind the mask accompanied by a smirk you assume. “My,” he murmurs softly, “what do we have here. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night like this little one. You never know what lurks in the dark.”

You take a deep breath to keep your voice even. Pressing your thighs together you try so hard to stop the heat that’s starting to spread through your body. You should not be getting this turned on but how could you not? You had a copycat killer who kept killing people that you had issues with somehow and someway. “I–” You start, biting your bottom lip trying to find the words but you’re cut off with a chuckle.

“You’re so worked up for me. I can see it in the clench of your legs, the flush on your cheeks, the way your pupils dilate and the way you bite your lip for me. You don’t even know who I am. I could be a total stranger, who followed you home one night and just never stopped, but I could also be your best friend, that you’ve known for years, who you think you know like the back of your hand. You don’t even know. But I know one thing for certain though- I’m sure your panties, if you’re even fucking wearing any, are already soaked.”

You hate the fact he’s right. Your breathing slightly heavy as your eyes widen as you listen. Shifting, you clench your thighs even tighter as one of your hands slips between your thighs slightly. You can’t see his eyes but you can feel his stare bruning into yours and you actually look away. This hasn’t happened before.

“Look. At. Me.”

Your eyes snap back and your mouth hangs open slightly. You can feel how wet you are every time you shift and by god do you need something here. “What do you want, love?”

“I would very much like to take you up on that offer and suck you off,” you nod your head in the direction of the alleyway.

“Excited, aren’t we?”

“We’ve been at this for months of fucking course I’m excited.”

He grips your jaw tightly, “I’d watch that tone if I were you. I can happily just walk away and leave you here alone.” Your eyes travel downwards and spy his half hard bulge against his jeans and then back up, “I can handle myself and sleep much more satisfied than you probably would with your fingers,” leaning close to your ear, “but I’d be a fool to leave you so desperate without giving you a taste.” Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head but he lets go of your jaw and spins you around, smacking your ass. You startled with a yelp before quickly scurrying to the alleyway.

Any sane person, seeing the alleyway lead to the woods, probably would have taken the chance to run but not you. You were so desperate to finally fuck this copy cat that you spun around as he rounded the corner. You gasped as your back slams against the brick wall feeling pain through your shoulder for only a brief moment as your hands fly to Ghostface’s wrist as he holds you there by your throat. Oddly enough your calm even though he could easily choke you as your breathing becomes a bit more jaded. Lifting his mask slightly you stare at the slightly chapped but pink lips as you drop your bag. They look so familiar, why?

You can’t really think longer on it as he moves his hand up to your jaw tightly and his lips are on your neck as you gasp for air. He wedges his knee between your legs and immediately you roll your hips whining loudly. You let your eyes drift close as the figure litters your neck in kisses along with marks. You let the figure tilt your head so he can litter the otherside in matching marks. Your nails dig into his wrist earning a hiss against your neck. When he pulls back your eyes stare at his lips and you’re so tempted for a taste. You find yourself starting to lean in before he’s pushing you onto your knees. Blinking, you're now eye level with his obvious bulge and glance up at him fixing his mask.

Dropping your gaze, your hands get straight to work. Undoing his jeans you pull the zipper down before pulling his pants down just enough. You hold your breath seeing the outline of his cock because oh it looks so much bigger than you’ve had which…was very few. There was only one way to really find the truth. You let your fingers dance across the waistband of his boxers before you tug, cock basically popping free. You lean back with wide eyes because it is bigger than you’ve had. It’s actually the biggest you’ve ever had. The length was maybe just an inch or two over average which was impressive enough but it was the girth that really made your mouth water and the precum leaking out just makes you drool.

Gently wrapping a hand around his cock, the figure’s breath hitches as he bucks his hip. You give a few experimental tugs not really for a reaction but more so to get a feel of him in your hand. Big. Girthy. Heavy. God, how pent up was he? You feel fingers through your head as you continue to cautiously jerk him off before licking the tip. The reaction pulled out of the figure was a low satisfied groan and it encourages you to take the tip of his cock into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip before sucking, alternating between the two before you finally you’re ready.

If you had known how big he was you would’ve been a bit more…prepared. You weren’t naive enough to think you could take all of him down your throat. God no. Maybe with some training and patience later if the figure would let you but you didn’t have either of those things or really time on your side. Still, you had to make sure to keep the figures interested in you- even if he’s killed for you already. Better safe than sorry, right?

Hollowing your cheeks out and flattening your tongue on the underside of his cock, you start to suck him off. Bobbing your head you can’t help but feel a bit of a rush go to your head as the figure above lets out another loud ground. You glance up to see the figure’s neck as his head is tilted back. You're absolutely drenched watching him and find yourself slipping a hand into your own pants and moan around him as you rub your clit. That catches his attention as his head snaps down to look at you.

“Naughty girl. You’re so turned on from sucking me off that you have to touch yourself?” It earns a strangled whine, “such a pathetic slut.”

You can’t help but moan at that. “Wow. You are so fucking pathetic it’s adorable.” The figure coos and grips your hair to stop you. Shifting, he puts one foot in front of you and smirks, “here why don’t you just hump my leg while you’re at it.” He taunts.

Funny enough you’ll take him up on that. The moment he frees your head you go back to bobbing your head on his cock humming in delight as you hug his leg, settling on his foot and grind your hips down. If your lips weren’t so occupied at the moment you would smirk at the shocked reaction you pull from the figure but you’re lost in your own world. The stretch of your jaw combined with the already dull ache lulls you into a peaceful trance. You completely ignore the spit that’s starting to wet your chin.

You feel the figure’s other hand gently grab your jaw trapping you in place suddenly. You stared up with doe eyes as the figure fucked your face before you felt him hit the back of your throat. You gagged and your hands flew to his thighs for some stability as he repeated the action. “So fucking good. Taking my cock,” the figure grunts out and tears prick your eyes when he stops moving and you gag because he’s so far down your throat. He pulls off just enough for you to gasp and get some air before he’s back in your mouth and fucking your face again. You’re prepared for it this time as you relax your throat and gag less.

Having lulled yourself into such a peaceful you nearly let your eyes slip close. Sliding your hands down, you wrap your arms around Ghostface’s leg as you continue to fuck yourself against his foot while he fucked your mouth. You ended up tuning everything else out except him and listening to him ramble was going to get you off alone. ‘Such a gorgeous cock drunk whore’, ‘you look so pathetic humping my leg while you let me fuck your mouth it should be illegal’, and ‘you’d look so beautiful being my personal cock drunk slut’. It’s the one you made out between all the groans and moans and curses. You felt his tug at your hair as a warning and you finally opened your eyes.

“Fuck–shit–I’m gonna–” He groaned but doesn’t stop his thrusting. He does the opposite as he picks the pace up. That’s all the encouragement you needed. You find your hips onto his foot even harder and faster as you. You feel the familiar coil in your abdomen and you’re trying so hard to reach it. He snaps his hips forward and forces himself down your throat. Your eyes go wide and you gag, choking on his cock as he spills into your throat. You hit his thighs and try to focus on breathing through your nose but even still the rough face fucking before forced deep throating was enough to send you over the edge. You groan and whine as you continue to hump his foot before he pulls you off his cock and slips his foot out from under you.

Sitting there, you gasp for air as your chest heaves. You look up at Ghostface and lick your lips slowly as you debate if you wanna turn over and let him fuck you right now. He would. For sure…probably and he taste good to. But that would be giving too much. You were the original after all. Finding your footing, you stand up and slide your pants down. There’s a choked sound from Ghostface and you glance over at the figure looking away.

“Seriously?” You raise a brow and giggle, “you just fucked my face but you get all bashful about seeing me in my panties.”

“I–well. I mean. No–” This one sucked at lying. Rolling your eyes, you look away as you take your pants off before sliding your panties off. “What are…” Ghostface’s voice trails off as you stuff your soiled panties into his front jeans pocket. “Consider it an IOU,” you say as you hurriedly put your pants back on. You’re grabbing your bag before the figure gets a chance, “this was fun but I have to run. My friend is coming over for a movie night and he’ll be pissed if I’m not there,” you sigh dreamily at the end of the alleyway, “he’s so caring like that. Anyway, bye!” You say before you’re slinging your back over as you take off. You get home and quickly change into some pajama panties (with new panties) and a sweatshirt before finding yourself settled on the couch while flipping through for a movie.

Hearing keys jingle you look up, you smile at your best friend walking in. You two are so close that he has his own copy. Oscar’s in a baggy grey hoodie with some black jeans on as he takes his shoes off before making his way to the back of the couch. He smiles slightly at you and offers dinner but you decline. As he turns for the kitchen, you spy something hanging out of Oscar’s pocket. It looks like a fabric of some sorts. Watching him in the kitchen, you decide to get some water. Quietly getting off the couch you stand in the doorway. Oscar continues to cook himself dinner and you wait until he’s focused on whatever is in the pan to strike. Passing behind him, your eyes drop down and your breathing stops. Black lacy panties with red roses on them. You look up at Oscar who’s glancing at you over his shoulder. His gaze follows yours and he smirks.

“Can I cash that IOU now, darling?”

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 33

The Spanish sun had barely risen, yet the paddock buzzed like a nest poked by a stick. The Madrid GP hadn't even begun, and already it felt like the race had been overshadowed by something heavier — something human.

The statement had gone live that morning. A joint message from Lewis Hamilton's PR team and the legal firm Algava, confirming the speculation that had hung over the paddock like thick fog for weeks: Lewis Hamilton and (Y/N) Hamilton were in the process of divorce.

It was short, cold, and careful — a line about mutual respect, irreconcilable differences, and a plea for privacy. But no PR statement could soften the blow. The press devoured it, and within minutes, headlines were everywhere.

“F1 Power Couple Splits After Months of Rumors” “Lewis Hamilton Confirms Divorce with Director Executive Wife Amidst Controversy” “(Y/N) Hamilton Missing From Paddock Following Emotional Breakup”

Inside the Mercedes and Ferrari motorhomes, tension stretched skin-thin. Engineers avoided eye contact. Interns whispered behind screens. Drivers glanced at Lewis with a mix of sympathy and confusion. The man who had always carried himself with calm assurance now walked through the paddock like a ghost — present, but dimmed.

At the media pen, Lewis stood with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, the Ferrari logo stitched in red against his chest. His jaw was locked, voice measured. Reporters crowded like vultures, but he gave them only a few drops of blood.

“I’m not going to drag my personal life through the paddock. (Y/N) and I have decided to separate. It’s something between us, and I’d like to leave it at that. This weekend, I’m here to race. That’s all.”

He moved on before they could ask more. But the damage was done. His silence only gave them more to write.

You weren’t in Madrid. You were in London, tucked away in the small, sunlit living room of the flat you’d grown to call your retreat. The TV was off. Your phone was on do not disturb. The joint statement had been approved days ago, but seeing it live — seeing your name in those headlines — still felt like a needle threading through your chest.

Divorce.

The word looked too big in those articles. Too final. But wasn’t that what you wanted? What you’d chosen?

Roscoe laid his head in your lap, sensing something you couldn’t speak out loud. And the small black kitten, Anubis, stretched lazily on the windowsill, oblivious to the chaos you were drowning in.

You hadn’t spoken to Lewis since Italy.

You had sent a final draft of the statement to his manager and gone radio silent. You hadn’t answered Max either, even though his last message just said:

“Let me know if you want company this weekend. I’ll be in Madrid but… I’d rather be with you.”

But you didn’t want to be with anyone right now. Not even yourself.

.

Back in Madrid, Lewis sat alone in the Ferrari garage between practice rounds. Helmet off, sweat still glistening on his brow. He scrolled through his phone, hovering over your contact name. His thumb hesitated. He wanted to text. To call. To explain again — even though he didn’t know what words would fix anything anymore.

His mind replayed Italy. The sundress. The sunglasses. The shaking voice when you said "I want a divorce." You hadn’t looked back. And now, the world knew.

He rubbed his eyes. For the first time in years, Lewis Hamilton didn’t feel like a seven-time world champion. He just felt like a man who had broken something too precious to fix.

Meanwhile, the press continued their feeding frenzy. Speculation swirled:

That you had been seen with Max in London.

That Mercedes had pushed you out to protect they image.

That you had “won the career” but lost the love.

But in hidden corners of the internet — on threads, tweets, TikToks — there was quiet fury:

“It’s always the woman they go after. She built herself from the ground up.”“She was humiliated publicly and still kept quiet. That’s strength.”“This man cheated with her friend and somehow she’s the villain? No.”

The war for the narrative had begun. And you hadn’t even said a word.

But the silence wouldn’t last forever.

Madrid had only just begun. And the race was no longer the biggest thing happening on track.

.

The sky above London hung gray and low, a blanket of clouds so thick it muted even the sounds of the city. You stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the rain trickle gently down the glass. It had been an uneventful morning until the knock came at the door.

They arrived just past noon — Anthony, Nicolas, and two of Lewis’s close friends. Familiar faces. Familiar footsteps. Strangely, it didn’t feel like strangers entering your home; it felt like the closing credits of a long-running film you weren’t quite ready to leave behind.

You had packed everything already.

Each of Lewis’s jackets was folded neatly. His sneakers arranged by color, just like he liked. The record player he swore he would use more often, now carefully wrapped. You had labeled every box. You hadn’t wanted it to be awkward. You hadn’t wanted them to feel uncomfortable.

And most of all — you hadn’t wanted to see him.

Anthony walked in first. His usual calm demeanor laced with a quiet sadness. Nicolas followed behind, nodding gently, avoiding your eyes at first. It was hard for everyone.

"Hey," Anthony said softly, walking toward you.

"Hi." Your voice felt like it came from someone else.

He pulled you into a hug — solid, warm, the kind that reminded you of everything good you’d ever thought about family.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, though your throat tightened. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay.”

Nicolas hugged you next. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

You managed a soft smile. “I know.”

They moved quietly around the apartment, taking what they came for — the painting of Lewis in Brazil, the spare PlayStation, Roscoe’s bed, his leash, his toy basket. Every object they took left a space behind. One you hadn’t realized was so full until it was empty.

Roscoe stayed close to you the entire time, as if he sensed what was happening. When Anthony called him over, the dog looked up at you instead, confused.

You knelt beside him, running your hand over his soft fur. “It’s okay, baby… you’ll be with your dad now.”

He licked your hand once, slow, then walked to Anthony without complaint — but his tail didn’t wag.

The ache in your chest grew heavier.

Before leaving, Anthony sat on the edge of the couch. “Kaiden and Willow asked about you yesterday. They were a little sad, but Lewis… he explained things. Said sometimes love changes, but it doesn’t disappear.”

You swallowed hard. “How are they?”

“Curious. But they understood. Kids are better at handling things than we think.”

You nodded. “Tell them I said hi, and… I miss them.”

“I will,” he promised, standing.

You followed them to the door, watching as they carried the last box out. The apartment was painfully quiet now. Every sound echoed differently. It felt like your heart had stepped into an empty cathedral, where every beat came back to you twice as loud.

Anthony turned one last time, Roscoe's leash in hand. “We love you, you know.”

Your eyes stung. “I love you too.”

He gave a small smile, and then they were gone.

The door closed with a quiet click.

And just like that — the final pieces of Lewis Hamilton vanished from your home.

Not your heart. Not yet. But your home.

You stood in the hallway, letting the silence fall like ash. And in that stillness, you finally let yourself cry.

You collapsed to the floor with a weight that felt ancient—like years of silent sorrow finally caught up with you. The tears came uninvited, hot and bitter, carving paths down your face as sobs wracked your chest.

Maybe it was finally sinking in.

That you had lost the man you loved with every part of yourself. That the only family you had built for yourself—him, the dog, the shared routines, the quiet mornings—was gone. And now all that remained was a luxurious apartment that felt more like a museum than a home. Sterile. Quiet. Almost mocking in its emptiness.

You didn’t know when the pain had started. Maybe it had always been there—dormant, patient, waiting for the final straw to break your composure.

Anubis padded softly into the room, tail high, his golden eyes blinking slowly as if sensing the storm inside you. He meowed once, and that simple sound broke you all over again.

You scooped the little kitten into your arms and held him tightly against your chest, burying your face into his tiny frame as he purred and purred. His warmth was the only thing that reminded you you were still here—that your heart was still beating.

And as you held him, your mind dragged you back—years back—to the porch of your grandmother’s house, where your parents had dropped you off without much of a word. You could still see the car pulling away, taillights fading into the distance. They didn’t even look back.

What kind of child wasn’t worth a second glance?

What kind of woman wasn’t worth staying for?

You cried like that same little girl again—confused, abandoned, trying so hard to be strong for people who never stayed.

Anubis nestled deeper into your arms, soft and small. The only sound in the apartment was his quiet purr, steady and grounding, like a heartbeat beside your broken one.

And through the tears, one truth clawed its way to the surface: You were tired of being the one left behind.

.

The evening sun over Madrid was golden and warm, painting the Ferrari motorhome in amber light. Lewis sat alone in one of the lounges, still in his post-race gear, fingers running absently along the rim of a coffee cup he hadn’t touched. His phone vibrated on the table.

Nicolas H. Incoming call.

He picked up immediately.

“Hey,” Lewis said, voice low.

“It’s done,” Nicolas replied on the other end. The background noise suggested he was in the car, engine humming softly. “We picked up everything. Clothes, speakers, Roscoe’s toys… she had it all packed and ready.”

Lewis exhaled through his nose, then leaned back in the seat, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“She didn’t cry in front of us,” Nicolas continued after a beat. “But you could see it. She was holding back the whole time, just to be polite. Didn’t want to make Dad uncomfortable.”

Lewis swallowed hard. “She didn’t say anything else?”

“She asked about Kaiden and Willow. Said to tell them she misses them.”

Lewis closed his eyes. Of course she did.

“And Roscoe?” he asked, already bracing himself.

“He didn’t want to leave her. He stayed glued to her side until Dad called him. But… he came quietly. No barking. No tail wagging either.”

Lewis didn’t respond right away.

“It’ll be weird,” Nicolas added, his voice softer now. “Not seeing her anymore. She’s been part of the family for four years. Almost doesn’t feel real.”

“Yeah,” Lewis murmured, staring out the window at the fading horizon. “It doesn’t.”

There was silence between them for a moment — heavy, full of unsaid things.

“She’s really going through with it, huh?” Lewis asked, already knowing the answer.

“She is. And honestly?” Nicolas sighed. “I don’t think she’s doing it to punish you. I think she’s doing it to survive.”

That hit like a body blow. Lewis leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the weight of the truth settling in.

“Thanks for going,” he said after a pause. “And for… being gentle.”

“She deserved that much.”

More silence.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Nicolas said.

“Yeah,” Lewis replied. “Later.”

The call ended.

But the ache stayed. Roscoe wouldn’t be waiting at the door tonight at the home he’d built — the love he’d fumbled — was gone.

Piece by piece, she was leaving. And this time, she wasn’t coming back.

I can't explain how much I cried writing this, why I do this things? My apologizes

TAG LIST: @virtualperfectioncat , @starrgir1 , @the-secret-formulaone, @anunstablefangirl, @tillyt04, @dakotapaigelove, @loadedwafflefries, @forensicheart, @lorena-mv33, @d0llyh3rtz, @teenagetoadghostwobbler, @mizelophsun11, @herdetectivetheorist

[merchelsea]

just maybe - lewis hamilton

pairing: ex!lewis hamilton x fem!reader

summary: lewis misses what you used to be, and what a better way to show it than showing up, drunk, at your house?

author’s note: felt like writing lewis today because not enough people do!

word count: 1,1k

you lay on your couch, your phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling through your Instagram feed for what felt like the thousandth time that day. you knew there wouldn't be anything new, but you couldn't help yourself. you had been in the same position all day, unable to shake off the melancholy that had settled over you.

it had all started because you wanted to watch a romantic movie, a harmless way to pass the time. but as the movie played on, you found yourself crying, wishing desperately for a happy ending like the one onscreen. you and lewis used to have those moments, those beautiful moments that now only existed in your memories.

every scene in the movie triggered a bittersweet memory. they weren't sad memories, per se, but the fact that they were over made them so. you decided it was time to stop torturing yourself, to stop watching movies that made you cry over your ex, and to simply wait for something to happen. but, of course, nothing did.

that is, until you heard a series of knocks on your door. you rushed to answer it, expecting it to be a friend or maybe your sister. but when you laid eyes on the familiar brown ones you had been crying over just hours ago, shock coursed through you.

"heeeeey," lewis slurred, clearly intoxicated. fate seemed to be playing a cruel prank on you.

you stared at him for a few moments before finally finding your voice. "what the heck are you doing here?" you asked, blocking his path from entering your home.

lewis smirked knowingly. "oh, didn't seb warn you?" he said, referring to his friend vettel, who must have sent you a message the moment he knew lewis was drunk and thinking about you.

because that's what happened when he got drunk. he'd think back to your relationship and regret every detail that had gone wrong. vettel always thought lewis would try to contact you, but he never had the courage to do it—until today.

lewis had qualified third in a race after a series of unfortunate events, finally giving him a shot at victory. but, unpredictably, he had to retire from the race on the first lap.

"I missed you." lewis confessed, leaning against your doorframe as if aware of how powerful those words were.

"you don't know what you're saying, lewis," you sighed. you had spent the last seven months dreaming of hearing those words from him, but this was not how you imagined it.

"oh, I know exactly what I'm saying. believe me," he insisted.

"you're drunk!" you retorted.

"and? that doesn't change the fact that I think about you all the time. about us. about what we used to be," he said, refusing to give up.

you stood there silently, thinking he would back off if you didn't give him a hint of what you were feeling. but of course he had other plans. you sighed and stepped back from the door, allowing lewis to enter. he leaned against the closed door, and you couldn't tear your eyes away from his.

"I miss you when I'm at the simulator, and you're not there to beat my ass. I miss you when I go to lunch and forget to eat because I'm distracted by your smile. I miss you when toto speaks german, and we don't make jokes about it. I miss you when I'm walking, and our legs aren't in sync. I miss you when I wear my hats, and you're not there to steal them. I miss you when I see a cat on the streets, and you don't try to convince me to adopt it. I miss you when Max wins, and you're not there to congratulate him."

you were rendered speechless. every word he uttered, as he gazed deeply into your eyes, pierced your heart. you couldn't look away, but you feared that if you continued to stare, you wouldn't be able to let him go.

"I know I seem drunk, but this is the most truthful thing I've said in, like, forever. it's been almost eight months, and I still miss you in everything I do," he finally stood up and, somehow, managed to get closer to you. "tell me you don't miss me, and I'll never bother you again."

you took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. it was clear he had been drinking, but not enough to make him drunk. his little play could fool everyone, but it would never fool you.

you knew you missed him with every fiber of your being, but you weren't sure if it was the right thing to say. maybe, just maybe, he needed to move on, to find someone else who fit into his life.

but then, a voice inside your head reminded you that if he hadn't moved on after seven months without any contact, he probably wouldn't after eight. you couldn't lie to him when he had been missing you relentlessly for seven months.

"I miss you when I'm doing laundry, and I don't find your shirt in the wrong basket. I miss you when I'm taking a shower and don't hear the pre-qualifying comments. I miss you when I see a Mercedes on the road. I miss you when I play uno with my friends, and you don't win. I miss you when you're racing, and I'm at home, but not because I have things to do. I miss you when I'm not missing you because of racing."

you also took a step closer to him. "then let me make you miss me the right way again, please."

as you stood there, locked in a moment of intense longing and emotion, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was the moment you had been waiting for. lewis had come back, admitting his feelings, and you couldn't deny your own.

with tears welling up in your eyes, you took another step closer to him. in that moment, you both understood that some things were too strong to be denied or forgotten, no matter how much time had passed.

you whispered softly, "lewis, I'll miss you no matter what, so please make me miss you the right way."

lewis' eyes lit up with hope and joy, and he gently pulled you into his arms. as you embraced, you both knew that this was a chance to have a fresh start, to rebuild what you once had. it wouldn't be easy, and there were still obstacles to overcome, but you were both willing to try.

in that moment, as you held each other tightly, you realized that sometimes, fate had a way of bringing people back together, even when it seemed impossible. and maybe, just maybe, this was the happy ending you had been longing for all along.

[charlesf1leclerc]

Summary: Christmas morning and surprises in the Leclerc family. 

Warnings : suggestive content but no smut 

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY. Hope you all have a wonderful day with your family or whoever’s you are celebrating with. I wish you all the happiness and hope that this fic serves as a little gift from me to you. Xx

It was all quite to begin with. But that would never last long especially on Christmas morning. You and Charles were close to each other in bed Charles had his arm around your waist. You were both sound asleep. Until..

The sound of footsteps came from down the hallway then your door opened and the there was the shaking and the sound of voices.

“ wake up , he came he came” 

Your groaned and rolled back in your pillow you knew Christmas was exciting and you weren’t annoyed at your babies but sometimes you liked your sleep. 

Charles arm slipped from around your waist as he rolled over to look at the three kids standing on his side of the bed.

“ who came? “ he asked obviously teasing them.

“ SANTA papa “ Sicily screeched 

“ presents!” Remy yelled

“ ok ok shall we go downstairs and see what he brought” Charles said moving to get up

“Yes!” All the kids ran downstairs.

“ Darling “ Charles shook you and you rolled over to face him as you obviously hadn’t gone back to sleep.

“Come on let’s go downstairs I’ll make you some coffee” he laughed

You groaned but got up out of bed as you wanted to spend this morning with your children. He then wrapped his arms around and gave you a kiss on the head as you both went downstairs. 

By the time you had all gotten downstairs and you and Charles were settled on the couch your three children were ripping into their piles of presents. With many different new toys coming out from the wrapping paper. With the occasion shrieks of joy and the show and tell to you and Charles. As well as the numerous demands of “open it papa” only for the toy to be unboxed then left behind to unwrap more presents.

“ Santa really spoiled you guys this year” you smiled as you watched Remy play with his new dinosaur toy on the ground, Indy inspecting her new roller skates , and Sicily with some slime that was in her stocking. 

“ what about you mama and papa what did Santa bring you” Sicily asked.

“ Santa dosent come to adults “ Indy said in a obvious way

“ that’s right but it’s ok because mama and papa got each other presents “ Charles smiled.

You had been nervous about one of Charles presents for the late couple of days as you had been feeling off for awhile so you decided to take a test, a pregnancy test. It came back positive. Of course nothing was planned but you were sure Charles would be just as happy and supportive as all the other times.

“ merry Christmas my love” Charles handed you a pile of gifts and leant over to kiss you on the lips

“ ewww “ Indy and Sicily groaned , as Charles replied by sticking his tongue out at them. 

The first gift was a refill of the perfume you wear every day and could never get enough of. The next gift was a beautiful silver bracket with a love heart and engraved in the heart was a I, S , R and C. And then the final box made him smirk and you were immediately suspicious of what was in there. When you opened it you immediately put the items back in the box closing the lid and giving Charles a death glare.

“ in-front of the kids Charles” 

“ something special for you and me “ he smirked proud of the silk set within the box

“You are such a teenage horny boy”

“ ok my turn” you sang as you passed him his pile of gifts

You were getting more excited at sharing the news with him. 

He opened the two first gifts revealing some clothes as he was in need of some more suitable day wear they wasn’t carry blue and white tye dye jeans, next was new AirPods and a new travel set of mini suitcases for race weekend. Then he finally came to the final box, the box which contained the next chapter of your lives. He slowly opened it and revealed the stick from under the tissue paper.

“ what’s this mon amour” you just continued to stare at him. 

He picked it up examining it closer. Then his eyes grew wide

“No” he looked at you

You just nodded your head smiling  

“ your pregnant!” 

“ yeah”

“Cherie” he smiled leaning over to kiss your lips and hug you. Then leaning to put his hand on your stomach.

“ this is amazing , the best Christmas gift”

“Surprising this is your fault for not being able to keep your hands off me” you laughed as his hand was still on your stomach

“ you’re just irresistible Cherie” he kissed you again.

“ 4 kids we are really outnumbered now”

“ we’ll be okay” and you believed him you would be ok

“ what did you get papa” Sicily asked as now the two youngest kids were standing in-front of him

“ well mama is pregnant there’s gonna be another baby” he smiled

“ yay! A new girl” Sicily shriek alerted the youngest who didn’t quite understand the idea of a new baby

“ well we don’t know if it’s a girl baby” you laughed 

“ well I know it is “ she smiled going back to her toys

Charles looked at Remy picking  him up , placing him on his lap then snuggling further into you basking in the fact that it was Christmas and the fact a new baby was on the way. It was all ok though for now you would bask in the comfort of your family of 5 before next year the family would grow and Christmas will become even more special.

[imnameimswrld]

ㅤㅤⵌ ׄ ۪ 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 ⁰⁰ ׄ ⑅ CEW ‌˖ ֺ ᰮ

— DESCRIPTION ੭ in which they learn about the woman mr cha eunwoo bagged... and she's far more than just the owner of south korea's hottest club.

— PAIRING ੭ cha eunwoo x fem!aston!driver.

— FILE ੭ social media au.

— SERIES ੭ "WAIT...THEY MAKE SENSE !?"

— WARNINGS ੭ language.

— FACE CLAIM ੭ lisa of BLACKPINK.

❪ main masterlist | kpop masterlist | f1 masterlist ❫

━━━━━━━━━━❪ 🖤 ❫━━━━━━━━━━

eunwoo.o_c

📍 Club Seoular, Seoul, South Korea

liked by ddana_yoon, mj_7.7.7, and 1 232 222 others

eunwoo.o_c 🕺.

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mj_7.7.7 no one ask me anything.

↳ user LMAO BRO HAS BEEN SWORN TO SECRECY

user AYO...HUH

user lee dongmin, a damn explanation would be nice 😭... what happened to hello, how are you ?

user I ain't no sheldon genius kid but, I am a y/n l/n stan, and THAT people, looks like my girlie.

↳ user dude...Y/N AND EUNWOO !?!? like, like, like, Y/N L/N AND CHA EUNWOO !?

↳ user lol who tf is this girl ?

↳ user who- "WHO" !? daaawwggg, u got me lmao in public rn

↳ user you're telling me there are people who don't know who Y/N L/N IS !?!? nah das crazy.

↳ user guys, we can't just assume that's y/n just because it's her club, u literally can't see shit on the picture 😭

ddana_yoon where's my pic creds ???

ddana_yoon no ? okay.

ddana_yoon ynusername, tell eunwoo hyung to give me creds or I'll expose ur relationship.

ddana_yoon oh- oopsies 🤭

↳ ynusername i don't even have the words...

↳ eunwoo.o_c i- you- I'm coming for you.

↳ user OKAY NAH SANA U WRONG FOR THAT (thank u pookie) !!!

ynusername added to their story ! • 1hr

seen by eunwoo.o_c, fernandoalo_official, and 1 222 242 others

user replied to your story !

OH U TELL 'EM QUEEN

user replied to your story !

EUNYN RAAARRRRR !!!!!

oh okay 😭

MOTHER !?

astonmartinf1

liked by ynusername, eunwoo.o_c, and 1 924 332 others

astonmartinf1 and that's p1 in miami !!! all hail the aston princess, because she's done it again 💚👑 (btw, have u checked out ClubSeoular_official yet ???)

#Y/nL/n #MiamiGP #F1 #AstonMartinF1

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ynusername let's gooooo !!! 💚

user l/n has literally scored p1 for five years IN A ROW in Miami, that track is her bitch and no one can convince me otherwise ✋[ liked by ynusername ]

eunwoo.o_c 😍😍😍

user WAIT DID YA'LL SEE EUNWOO AT THE RACE 😭

↳ user giiiirrlll, not only did he look HELLA (he's he's much taller in person holy shit), he was literally attached to y/n's side whenever he could be it was so cute 😭

↳ user omg yes and this was ALL week too !

↳ user ALL WEEK !?!? you mean to tell me he was there for sprints AND quali and I NEVER NOTICED 😀😃

ynusername added to their story ! • 1hr

seen by p_rocky, ast_jinjin, and 2 024 923 others

eunwoo.o_c

liked by fernandoalo_official, ynusername, and 1 989 232 others

eunwoo.o_c so incredibly proud of you my love, i always am 💚

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user excuse me while I go cry in that cold and dark corner for a sec

ynusername my whole support system, I love you so much chacha 💋

↳ eunwoo.o_c I love you more princess 🥰

↳ user chacha ??? nah that's actually really cute 😭

user they're literally both the most randomest, and adorable couple of the century.

comments have been limited under this post

𔘓. 𔘓. 𔘓.

taglist: @minkyungseokie @dreamyzhou @treehouse-mouse

[cressidagrey]

Bottles, Baby Naps, and Sector Times

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  London. 2021. Oscar’s most important job is being a dad. 

Warnings and Notes: Inspired by this question. Mention of Bee's dramatic birth. Congrats, you finally get to meet Malcolm and Ian. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

The flat was still quiet when Oscar slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Felicity or the small bundle curled into her side. It was a trick he’d perfected over the last seven months: extract himself without disturbing either of his girls, tiptoe to the kitchen, start the day.

Their flat was small — technically two bedroom, but they were both quite sure that the second bedroom had probably once been a closet because it didn’t even have a window,  a galley kitchen with a window that faced a brick wall, and a tiny living room that doubled as Oscar’s remote sim setup and Felicity’s revision station, decorated with a stack of F3 trophies on the shelf next to Bee’s first ultrasound picture. 

He loved the mismatched mugs in the cupboard and the fact that the fridge was always crammed with pump bags and leftover soup. He loved that every surface had something of Bee’s on it — a pacifier, a sock, a half-chewed giraffe toy named Benedict.

None of his teammates were doing this. They were all at training camps, posting gym selfies, living the kind of single-minded life you were supposed to have before F1.

But Oscar… he really loved mornings like this, when the world was quiet and still, and he could pretend — just for a moment — that this life was the only thing that mattered.

By the time the kettle clicked on, he heard it—the soft rustle of blankets, a muffled sigh, and then a tiny, insistent noise that meant Bee was up and hungry.

He smiled, leaning into the doorway just in time to see Felicity sit up against the headboard, hair a mess, their daughter wriggling in her arms.

“Morning,” he said softly.

Felicity gave him a bleary smile. “Morning.”

Bee blinked at him, wide-eyed and already reaching one chubby hand in his direction. He leaned down and kissed her curls. “You’re impatient today, huh?”

Felicity chuckled, adjusting her as Bee started to feed. “She knows when you’re about to make tea. She’s got your timing down.”

Oscar busied himself in the kitchen, moving on instinct: mugs, Felicity’s toast with just enough butter, scrambled eggs because she always forgot to eat enough protein on mornings with lectures. 

It was their routine now: Felicity fed Bee while he made breakfast, simple and quiet. And then he’d make sure she had tea, a proper meal, and all the parts of the breast pump washed before she dashed out the door to catch the Tube to Imperial.

“Scrambled or fried?” he called softly over the sound of Bee’s soft swallowing. 

Eggs and Toast were the extent of his culinary prowess, but at least he was allowed in the kitchen by now. Even though it was mostly supervised…and only for breakfast. 

“Scrambled,” Felicity replied, voice low so as not to disturb their daughter.

Oscar plated the eggs with toast and avocado and set her tea beside Felicity on her bedside table. He’d learned, quickly, that keeping her fed and hydrated made breastfeeding easier.

Felicity looked up when he brought the plate over, tired but smiling. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You’re keeping our daughter alive,” he said simply. “Breakfast’s the least I can do.”

She laughed softly, leaning over Bee’s downy head to kiss his jaw.

When Felicity padded into the kitchen twenty minutes later, Bee tucked against her shoulder and half-asleep again, he was packing the cooler bag she would take with her, filled with the parts of her breast pump. 

“You’re a saint,” she murmured, kissing his cheek before settling at the table.

“Practical,” he corrected, already reaching for the breast pump parts she’d left soaking. “You’ve got class in an hour. No way you’d have time to wash these before running to the tube.”

She gave him a look, equal parts tired and grateful. “Saint.”

He grinned, rinsing the parts carefully. He’d gotten good at it—knew exactly which seals had to be checked twice, how to line everything up on the rack so it dried faster. It wasn’t glamorous, but it made her life a little easier, and right now, that felt like the most important job in the world.

By 7:30, Felicity was dressed and packing her bag, Bee in Oscar’s arms making happy little squeaks as she tried to chew on his hoodie string.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Felicity asked for the tenth time.

Oscar grinned. “We’re going running, aren’t we, Bumblebee? Training starts early.”

Bee responded by blowing a very wet raspberry.

“I think that’s a yes,” Oscar said solemnly.

Felicity laughed, kissed them both, and was gone in a flurry of scarf and wool coat.

The flat went quiet again. Oscar looked down at Bee, who was gnawing on her fist and staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

“Just us, huh?” he said softly.

She gurgled.

***

Before 8 am rolled around, Oscar had Bee strapped into the jogging stroller, pulling on his running shoes, and stepped out into the cold London air.

The park was still half asleep when Oscar jogged through the gates, Bee bundled up in her fleece-lined romper with the little ears on the hood, strapped snug in the jogging stroller. The air was sharp with February cold, the grass glittering with frost.

Bee’s eyes were wide, taking in everything as she usually did on their runs.

“Alright, Bumblebee,” he said, adjusting his pace as they hit the path. “Today’s course: two laps around the pond, no chasing pigeons, and we wave at at least five dogs. You think you can handle that?”

Bee responded with a delighted “BA!” and kicked her tiny feet.

“That’s what I thought.”

He always talked to her like this. Like she understood every word. Maybe she didn’t — but the way her little face lit up when he narrated their runs made him think some part of her did.

“Okay, corner coming up. Lean into it. There we go. Future F1 champion right here.” He tapped the stroller lightly, grinning. “You hear that, Bee? Papa’s training you early. Your kart’s gonna have glitter on it, isn’t it?”

Bee squealed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Oscar laughed, slowing slightly as they hit a small incline. “You’re gonna tell everyone your dad ran you around Hyde Park in the cold when you were seven months old. Builds character, right?”

His phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He slowed to a walk and fished it out, pushing the stroller with one hand. Mark Webber.

He swiped to answer. “Hey, Mark—”

“You sound like you’re running a marathon,” Mark said, amused. “Did I catch you mid-session?”

“Uh. Sort of. Park run.”

There was a pause. “Park run?”

Oscar glanced at Bee, who chose that exact moment to blow a spit bubble. “With Bee.”

“Right. Of course you are.” He could hear the fond exasperation in Mark’s voice. “We were meant to go over some F2 prep, but—”

“—you can talk,” Oscar said quickly, starting to jog again. “She’s good with the stroller; I can listen.”

There was a rustle on the line. Then Mark’s voice, a little softer: “Hang on.”

Oscar frowned. “Hang on to wh—”

The screen shifted as the call flipped to FaceTime.

“Oh, for—Mark—”

“Shut up,” Mark said cheerfully. “Let me see her.”

Oscar angled the phone down toward the stroller. Bee blinked up at the camera, then let out a delighted squeal and slapped her mittened hands against her sides.

Mark’s face softened instantly. “Look at you. Hey, little kangaroo.”

Bee squealed again like she knew exactly who it was.

Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “This is supposed to be an F2 strategy call.”

“It is,” Mark said, still watching Bee. “Strategy: you keep doing whatever you’re doing. She looks happy. You look happy. That’s half the work done.”

Oscar’s chest tightened a little at that. He glanced down at Bee, who had moved on to trying to grab the edge of her blanket with serious concentration.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we are.”

Mark smiled faintly on the screen. “Alright, mate. Run now, talk later. Tell Felicity I said hi. And tell Bee she’s still my favorite Piastri.”

Bee shrieked like she agreed.

Oscar laughed, jogging forward again. “She heard you.”

“Good,” Mark said. “Keep running, Dad of the Year.”

The call ended, and Oscar tucked the phone away, shaking his head.

“Alright, Bumblebee,” he said, adjusting his grip on the stroller as the cold air bit his cheeks. “Let’s finish this lap and earn that duck pond visit. Uncle Mark says we’re doing great.”

Bee kicked her feet in response, and Oscar grinned.

Yeah. They really were.

***

By the time Oscar got back to the flat, his legs were pleasantly sore and his fingers were half-frozen from the February air. Bee, on the other hand, was absolutely buzzing, her cheeks pink, her bear-ear hood slightly askew.

“Alright, Bumblebee,” he murmured as he carried her up the stairs, “training session complete. Ten out of ten. Except for the bit where you threw your mitten at the pigeon. We’ll talk about sportsmanship later. Time for a bottle.”

She made a soft “mmm” noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement and patted his face as he carried her into the kitchen. The flat was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the distant noise of a bus passing outside.

He moved through the routine on autopilot — warming the bottle to the perfect temperature, peeling back her layers of wool like an onion until she was just Bee again — tiny and warm and soft.

Feeding her had gotten easier over time. After everything they’d been through in those first months — the surgeries, the NICU tubes, the weight checks, — giving her a bottle now felt almost peaceful.

He settled her in the crook of his arm, the lights dim, the flat quiet except for the soft rhythm of Bee’s breathing as she latched onto the bottle like it owed her rent.

Oscar hummed something under his breath — Let it Be, from the Beatles, because for some godforsaken reason that was all Bee settled down for. Bee’s eyes fluttered. Her tiny fingers curled around the edge of his hoodie.

By the time she finished, she was practically asleep in his arms.

“Fought hard,” he whispered, brushing her curls back. “Didn’t even cry during your cooldown lap.”

He burped her gently, pressing a kiss into her hair, then  held her for a few more minutes — because how could he not?  

Then Oscar eased her into the moses basket, they had wedged into one corner of their living room — Bee’s “day bed” — and laid her down. 

She sighed in her sleep, one hand fisting into her sleepsack, cheeks flushed and peaceful.

The moment she was down, Oscar turned into Driver Piastri, Simulation Goblin.

He moved quietly — just enough time to grab the shaker bottle from the fridge, check on Bee twice, and slide into the sim seat they had squeezed into the living room between the bookshelves and the radiator.

He strapped in, booted the program, and dropped into the zone. The circuit loaded. The headset clicked into place.

His hands steadied on the wheel, breathing falling into rhythm.

Sector 1. Lift. Throttle.

He was gone.

For two hours, he was just Oscar-the-driver again — carving lines, testing setups, shaving milliseconds — while, two metres away, Oscar-the-dad listened to his daughter’s soft sleeping breaths.

It wasn’t glamorous.

This wasn’t the morning routine of any of his teammates. None of them paused between stints to check if their kid had rolled onto her side. None of them calculated lap deltas with burp cloths on their desk.

And yet, as the car roared virtually down the straight and Bee’s soft breathing beside him, Oscar couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

***

Bee was bundled into her carrier, cuddled against Oscar’s chest, her cheeks flushed pink against the February chill as Oscar carried her down the narrow side street lined with old brick buildings. The familiar smell of oil and warm metal reached him before he even saw the sign above the garage.

JONES & JONES RESTORATIONS.

Oscar pushed the door open carefully. The smell hit him first: warm oil, old leather, and a faint tang of metal shavings. Malcolm’s garage always smelled like history in the making — or maybe history being lovingly put back together.

Malcolm looked up from the workbench, grease smudged on his jaw like war paint. “Well, if it isn’t my second-favorite Piastris.”

Bee let out a delighted squeal, stretching her arms toward him. Oscar laughed, “Careful, mate. She’ll trade me in for you in a heartbeat.”

“Smart girl,” Malcolm said, wiping his hands on a rag before holding them out. Oscar opened the carrier to give Bee over to Malcolm. She immediately grabbed for his glasses with toddler accuracy.

“Oi, none of that,” Malcolm scolded, though his voice softened in a way that always caught Oscar off guard. He nodded toward the back of the garage. “She’s under the Jaguar.”

Bee let out a delighted squeal.

Oscar glanced over to see Felicity’s legs sticking out from beneath the chassis of a ’68 E-Type, her voice muffled, “What are you two doing here?” she asked

“Surprise pickup,” Oscar said. “Figured you might want someone to walk you home.”

A clang, a muttered curse, and then she slid out, hair escaping her bun and smudge of grease across her cheek. She looked tired but happy, the way she always did here.

“Hey,” she said softly, sitting up and looking for Bee. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Bee squealed, still in Malcolm’s arms. 

Oscar bent to kiss Felicity’s temple, leaning to pull her up. “You look good under a Jag.”

“You always say that,” she teased, leaning into his hand for a second before standing.

Ian appeared from the back room, wiping his own hands on a tea towel. “Ah, my favorite shift change.”

“Hi, Ian,” Oscar said warmly.

Ian smiled at Bee, who immediately reached for him too. “And hello to you, Little Mechanic. Helping your mum with carburetors yet?”

“She mostly tries to lick the socket set,” Felicity said dryly, and Ian chuckled.

“Every genius starts somewhere,” he replied, before handing her back to Felicity, who greeted her daughter with a kiss pressed to her forehead. 

They left just as the sky turned dusky purple, Felicity slipping her hand into Oscar’s while Bee was curled in the carrier against his chest again, already drowsy from the warmth and noise.

“She loves it there,” Oscar murmured, watching the little garage shrink in the distance.

Felicity smiled softly. “So do I.”

***

Oscar had always thought of race weekends as the most intense thing in his life.

The pressure. The focus. The margins.

But evenings like this?

They required a different kind of precision.

Felicity was nursing Bee on the couch, her hair loose and half-damp from a quick shower, Bee tucked against her like she was still part of her body. The only light came from the lamp in the corner and the kitchen under-cabinet LEDs that buzzed slightly. It cast everything in honey.

Oscar moved quietly through the kitchenette, assembling the chaos from the day’s pumping sessions into a neat system of bags, labels, and containers. The pumping parts were already cleaned, drying on a rack beside Bee’s spare pacifiers.

He could do it in his sleep by now — the measurements, the labeling, the transfer to freezer or fridge. Felicity did everything else. The least he could do was handle the logistics of a damn breast pump.

Behind him, Bee let out a drowsy sigh.

“All done,” Felicity whispered. “You want to put her down?”

“Always.”

He took Bee carefully, heart full in a way he never quite got used to. Her weight had shifted again — heavier than last week, her body longer, curls thicker. He kissed her head, warm from Felicity’s skin, and carried her to the bedroom.

He laid her down gently in her cot, and watched her settle, thumb drifting to her mouth.

By the time he came back out, Felicity had changed into her favorite of his old hoodies and was barefoot in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan that smelled like garlic and thyme.

“You didn’t have to cook,” he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“I wanted to.” She leaned into him briefly. “I needed to do something. I spent half the day under that Jag.”

“And what a lucky Jag.”

She snorted. “Set the table, Piastri.”

Dinner was simple — pasta with roasted vegetables and the last of the cheese they’d been pretending wasn’t expensive. They ate sitting side-by-side, Bee’s monitor hummed on the windowsill.

They didn’t talk much. Just passed each other water glasses and shared bites. It wasn’t quiet because they were tired — it was quiet because this was the good part.

Afterward, Felicity retreated to the couch with her notebook and engineering textbook, highlighter cap between her teeth.

Oscar pulled his laptop into his lap on the armchair and started flipping through onboard footage and team notes.

The room filled with the soft hum of life — keys clicking, pages turning, a sharp sigh from Felicity when she realized she’d highlighted the wrong equation.

“Need help?” he asked without looking up.

“From you? On fluid dynamics?”

“Unbelievable disrespect.”

She laughed. “Make it up to me by getting me the biscuits.”

He did. They shared them wordlessly, one at a time, until the study session faded into fatigue and the race notes all started to blur.

When they finally climbed into bed, it was with that bone-deep exhaustion that didn’t need to be explained.

Oscar curled around Felicity, one arm slung across her waist, her back warm against his chest.

“You know,” he murmured, half-asleep, “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am right now.”

Exhausted.

Happy.

Completely, utterly home.

[uygrgydywh]

love will find it’s way. part one

december 2023

isabella stood in the balcony of her monaco apartment after the girls had their dinner and were sleeping soundly. the night sky was her favourite to stare at, it humbled her to realise that they were too many beautiful stars in sky which made sure that everyone’s world had a tinge of sparkle. even if that sparkle didn’t reach anyone.

“glaring at the sky?” even though caught offguard by the sudden question but she knew that voice well.

it was her neighbour, her brother’s teammate. charles leclerc.

charles stood in his own balcony gripping the railing and staring at her. it was rather rare for him to be at his apartment, he was mostly away on weekends, only present during mid season breaks but even then, she didn’t see him much. their interactions were mostly a ‘good morning’ or a smile when they passed by each other.

“at times i forget that you are my neighbour” she said without turning to look at him and he laughed at her words. “the irony, isabella”

“to answer your query. not glaring but thinking how beautiful night is compared to day” isabella replied to his question , turning her face to stare at him. she kept her voice soft, to make sure only he can hear it not others.

“i would agree. i prefer sunrise at nine because i love to sleep” charles said, his voice playful and she chuckled at his words.

a comfortable silence fell between them, as she continued gazing at the night sky while charles’s gaze at times flicked to her.

“you love night” charles asked breaking the silence, it was meant to be a question but sounded like a statement. she smiled genuinely at his question and said “yes. you?”

he shrugged his shoulders lightly and said “never thought of it, but now that you have asked. maybe i do slightly. what do you love about night so much”

she opened her mouth to speak, than closed it and opened it again and said “hmm, i think because it is the only time when i could stare at the sky without sunglasses and sun glaring at me or because i find peace by staring at the stars, by watching these infinite small objects called stars which makes even the darkest sky look beautiful because of them.”

she turned her hazel eyes towards him, charles was staring at her there was something in his eyes which screamed confusion, understanding and something else. isabella looked away flustered and said “i don’t think i made any sense”

charles just shook his head and said “no you absolutely did. watching it through your words maybe have made me appreciate night a bit more than before”

“ how are you” he asked instinctively, his question was genuine.

“fine, the girls are asleep and thriving in monaco, which is a surprise to me. so yes, i am fine” she said, tracing patterns on the railing.

“i asked how are you, isabella? i know the girls are thriving but i am asking about you” charles said, his gaze fixed on her. She wondered what was going on in his mind currently. what was he thinking? that how stupid she was, she couldn’t even an answer a simple question.

“me? i am fine. i am doing good” she knew what he meant. of course,he knew about her painful separation, divorce and being a single mother. why wouldn’t he know? after all, he was friends/teammates with her brother.

“if you ever need someone to talk to, i can always lend an ear”

isabella laughed a little and said “well, that goes for you as well”

charles asked, playfully “both or only one?” she didn’t answered but shook her head and smiled at him which made his heart skip a beat. it was really just like he remembered it when they meet for the first time back in 2019.

“well, one ear for you and the other for my little princesses” she said and tucked a strand of air which escaped out of her braid. he chuckled at her words.

“how are the girls? are they adjusting well?”

“hmm, yes. they are too young to comprehend the meaning and problems of a divorce. at times, i think their innocence is protecting them from the fallout of divorce because they don’t understand or remember much” she replied, her gaze drifted to the door of her room where her two daughters were asleep.

“i can’t even imagine what it must be like for them” charles said, he rubbed his palms together and his gaze drifted to the starry sky.

“even i can’t. i grew up thinking my love and marriage will be like my parents unconditional and pure but here i am now” isabella said, her gaze drifted to the mediterranean sea. a look of melancholy in her eyes.

in an attempt to reduce the sudden somber atmosphere, he said “are you inspired by van gogh’s starry sky to appreciate sky even more” he said and her eyes turned towards him. she looked at him amused and confused by what he said “what?”

“you must love starry sky by van gogh”

“that’s called starry night, charles” they both laughed a little before she spoke “for your answer maybe i do, i have rarely associated myself with paintings in ways my likes and dislikes are impacted by them”

“you are home today, i didn’t really expected to see you”she said and he nodded understanding considering the most they had ever crossed paths was in the lobby that too rarely.

“just some work in Maranello for next season preparation and had nothing to do tonight ”

“hmm, how did it go?” isabella asked, she wanted to continue the conversation maybe because this is the first time she had such a long conversation with someone who was not her family, someone just wanted to talk to her.

“it went fine” he answered a bit resigned and tired, the red bull domination was too much for not just him but maybe for all drivers and the strategy of ferrari still failing, but he was optimistic for the next season.

“fine or just fine?” she asked mischievously, he smiled at her question knowing well, she caught the resignation in his voice and replied “just fine”

her gaze then drifted to a couple walking on the street hand in hand with two children, it reminded her of easier times last year when it was her, edurado and their elder daughter, Estrella while they were expecting their second daughter, Esmeralda were walking hand in hand through streets of madrid, only if it was everlasting.

“how was your day, isabella” he asked, bringing her out of her thoughts. he had noticed her gaze on the walking couple and knew what she thinking and maybe to bring her out of her thoughts.

“it was pretty good, somehow convinced trella, she can’t paint ollie with a purple sketch pen. got some time for myself when lando and carlos visited”

“purple? that’s a victory for you. congratulations!!” he made the action of raising a toast to her without a glass in his hand. she lightly chuckled at his reaction.

“christmas is approaching” isabella stated, observing her surroundings realising she has to buy gifts and go home.

“what are your plans?”

“with my family in madrid for me, for the girls they will spend it with their father. yours?”

“at home in Monaco with my family” a silence stretched between them, the only sounds was of distant echoes of cars passing by. before charles could utter something else, a child’s voice broke through the silence “mama, bad dream” it was estrella, rubbing her eyes heavy from sleep.

“oh, baby.” isabella picked up her two and half year old daughter in her arms and the girl snuggled up to her. charles smiled warmly at the sight, it looked domestic, happy, cute and peaceful.

“i guess this the end of our midnight conversation” isabella said, looking into charles’s green eyes and he nodded.

he smiled warmly at the mother-daughter duo gesturing towards estrella “well, there are more pressing matters for you to deal with” and she nodded

“i meant what i said, isabella if you ever need someone to talk to i am always there” she nodded gratefully at his words and said “thank you, charles and it goes for you as well”

“good night, charles”

“good night, isabella and estrella”

with that they both disappeared into their respective apartments, clicking the door to the balcony shut.

[housepartyprotocol]

Romeo and Juliet - Teaser

Lando Norris x Ferarri Driver ! Reader

new fic coming soon - current plans to be a one-shot or two

join taglist / other works

[leclerking]

When the whole damn crew don't know a thing 😭

[reqxxyt]

I have a million drafts but these are half completed so you decide what I complete :)