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potter-lover15 · 1 day ago

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Ahhh this was so cute

a flat white and a sharp tongue

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: he's a reserved F1 driver seeking peace. She's the lively heart of a bustling café. When their worlds collide, Oscar's carefully constructed routine is challenged by Elaine's infectious energy, leading to a connection that has the potential to change everything.

Word count: 14k (i am sorry i am so sorry but it is worth it)

Warnings: slow burn, teasing, banter, mild language

A/N: I've loved writing this. I've put a little bit of myself into Elaine—the sense of humor, the passion for history… I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you so much for your support, it makes me so happy! Kisses <3

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

Oscar had discovered the café by accident. Or rather, he had discovered it thanks to a friend who had insisted endlessly that he had to try it.

He hadn’t regretted it.

It was a hidden refuge nestled among steep alleyways, far from the bustling port and the constant rush of Monaco. A small café with a vintage aesthetic, renovated just enough to be cozy without losing its old-world charm. Exposed brick walls, shelves full of mismatched cups, polished wooden tables marked by time. And, most importantly, peace.

From the first time he had visited, he had known the place belonged to him. It had become an unbreakable routine: every time he returned from a race, he would take the stairs down from his apartment—the café was right below—and sit at the same table by the window. He ordered the same thing, read, reviewed data, or simply watched people pass by.

And then, there was the cat.

A large, speckled feline with the air of an undisputed king of the place. It would appear out of nowhere, climbing onto his lap or table uninvited. At first, Oscar had tried to ignore it. It hadn’t worked. The cat had adopted him without asking permission, and he, resigned, had eventually accepted it.

Everything had been perfect.

Until the calm had been shattered.

First, the door swung open abruptly, making the bell jingle with an overly enthusiastic chime. Then, the sound of hurried paws against the wooden floor.

The cat bolted from his lap.

Oscar blinked, surprised by the sudden abandonment, and then he heard her.

"Bon matin, mes amis! You missed me, didn’t you?"

Her voice filled the café—clear and energetic—as if it belonged as much to the place as the brick walls.

Oscar didn’t need to look up to know that everyone in the café knew her. He heard the sound of her scarf sliding off her neck, the tapping of her boots as she crossed the room without hesitation. She greeted the customers one by one, as naturally as if she had done it all her life.

"Marcel, are you still losing at dominoes, or did they finally let you win?"

"Today, I’m winning, chérie, I swear!"

"Liar." She laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder before moving on. "André, that beret is new. Very stylish."

"My daughter gave it to me, but don’t think I’m going to buy you breakfast just for the compliment."

"So stingy."

Oscar heard more laughter. It was obvious that everyone knew her, that they welcomed her with familiarity, as if she were part of the café’s furniture.

The cat—the same one that ignored everyone except him—was now in her arms, purring like a satisfied engine.

"Finally! Someone greets me with enthusiasm!" she exclaimed, rubbing her nose against the cat’s head before gently setting it down.

By this point, Oscar had already returned his focus to his book. Or at least, he was trying to.

"I’ll have a hot chocolate," she said when she reached the counter, leaning over it shamelessly.

The barista—her brother, Oscar deduced from the patience in his expression—sighed.

"Aren’t you tired of so much sugar?"

"I never get tired of the good stuff."

He scoffed but started preparing the drink.

Oscar turned the page. Hopefully, the café would regain its usual silence.

Then, he felt it.

The imperceptible shift in the air when someone was staring at him.

Instinctively, he knew what was coming.

Footsteps approached.

"I haven’t seen you here before."

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back a sigh.

"Hmm."

"That’s all you’re going to say?"

"I’m busy."

She let out a small laugh.

"Of course, you are."

And with that, she plopped down in the chair across from him.

Oscar shut his book with a snap.

She smiled.

"Now you’re looking at me."

She didn’t say it as a question but as a fact, as if she knew exactly what to do to pull someone out of their bubble.

Oscar looked at her for the first time, assessing. She was young, cheerful, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She recognized him, sure, but there was no typical astonishment, no urge to mention it.

"Do you always insert yourself where you’re not wanted?" he asked, hoping she’d take the hint.

"Are you always this grumpy?" she shot back, unfazed.

Oscar felt a headache forming.

Something told him his peace had just ended.

He blinked, analyzing her tone, her expression. There was no mockery in her gaze, only amusement, as if finding him there was an entertaining discovery, but not particularly extraordinary.

"I recognize you, obviously," she said with a shrug. "But don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for a photo or an autograph. I’m sure your ego doesn’t need more inflating."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out whether that was an insult or just an observation.

He had no response.

She, on the other hand, laughed, as if his silence was the best part of the conversation. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with an irritatingly carefree attitude, then glanced down at the book still in his hands.

"Are you seriously reading this?"

Oscar looked at the cover. It was a dense historical biography, written with an almost obsessive level of detail.

"What’s wrong with it?" he asked, his tone dry.

She tilted her head, as if evaluating him.

"Nothing, I guess. If you like books that feel like punishments."

Oscar snapped the book shut, again, a little harder than necessary.

She laughed again.

"You don’t have a comeback for that, do you?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

He hated her. No, he hated her boldness, her persistence, the way she pulled him out of his bubble without permission.

And he hated even more that he didn’t know how to shut her down.

"Stop bothering the customers."

Her brother’s voice came from behind the counter, exasperated, like he had seen this scene too many times before.

She turned her head, pouting exaggeratedly.

"I’m not bothering him. We’re just having a conversation, right?"

Oscar stared at her, unblinking.

"No."

She let out a delighted laugh.

"See? He adores me."

Her brother sighed and nodded toward the counter.

"Your hot chocolate is ready. Leave him alone."

"Tss, such a killjoy," she muttered, standing up with obvious reluctance.

The cat, as if perfectly in sync with her, jumped off the table and trotted after her, sticking close to her heels. She scratched its head fondly, as if she didn’t even notice how naturally the feline followed her.

Just before walking away completely, she turned to look at Oscar one last time.

"By the way," she said, tilting her head slightly. "My name’s Elaine."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She simply smiled, spun on her heel, and left, leaving behind a trail of lighthearted energy that didn’t fit at all with the café’s usual tranquility.

Oscar watched her go for a moment, his book still closed on the table, the echo of her laughter ringing in his ears.

He exhaled slowly.

His peace was definitely over.

And yet, Oscar couldn’t stop coming to the café.

The drinks were too good, the atmosphere was perfect, and most of the time, he could focus without anyone bothering him.

Except on the days when he had the dubious pleasure of running into Elaine.

She appeared without warning, like a storm no one had predicted in the forecast.

And somehow, she always found a way to get under his skin.

Sometimes, she simply stopped by to chat with the regulars, exchanging jokes with the old men playing dominoes or greeting lost tourists as if they were old friends. Other times, she slipped behind the counter to help her brother, though it was obvious she did it more to annoy him than out of any real necessity. She also played with the cat, which followed her with unwavering devotion, or settled at the table closest to Oscar’s, surrounded by a mess of books and scattered notes.

He had no idea what she was studying, but if he had to guess, he would have said something chaotic. Something that matched her boundless energy and her ability to talk passionately about just about anything. It wasn’t until much later that he found out she was studying History.

And, of course, there were days when it seemed like her sole mission in life was to get on his nerves.

She sat at his table without asking, drummed her fingers against the surface just to see how long it would take for him to look at her, made offhanded comments about how serious he was or how he needed to learn to socialize.

Oscar tried to ignore her. He really did.

But Elaine wasn’t someone who could be ignored.

One day, she simply sat across from him uninvited and asked, “Do you have friends?”

Oscar blinked, his eyes still on his laptop screen. “What?”

“I mean, besides your teammates and the people you work with. Because you’re always alone.”

He huffed, trying to ignore her. “That’s none of your business.”

“So, that’s a no.”

Elaine grinned, satisfied with her own conclusion, and rested her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Have you realized you have the charisma of a rock?”

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back the response he actually wanted to give her.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah, yeah, reviewing data, looking at numbers… how thrilling.” She yawned dramatically. “It must be so much fun being you.”

By the time he finally looked up, she was already laughing, standing up to return to her brother.

Oscar let out a heavy sigh and turned back to his screen, but just when he thought the torment was over, he felt an extra weight on his jacket.

The cat.

The little traitor had sprawled out on it, curling up comfortably.

Great.

And then, another day.

Oscar was analyzing replays of his last race on his laptop when a shadow fell over the screen.

“Do you like watching yourself drive?”

He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“It’s not about liking it. I’m analyzing my performance.”

“Oh, of course. A deep analysis of ‘oh, look how fast I am’ and ‘oh, look how well I take that turn.’”

This time, he did look up, fixing her with a flat stare.

“Do you really have nothing better to do?”

Elaine smiled, clearly entertained. “Annoying you is more fun.”

And as if summoned, the cat appeared out of nowhere and flopped onto his laptop keyboard. The screen instantly went black as one of its paws landed squarely on the power button.

Elaine propped her chin on her hand. “Even he thinks you need a break.”

Oscar exhaled slowly.

This was becoming a damn habit.

Different day, same problem.

Oscar had spent the afternoon working, completely absorbed in his own bubble of concentration. But when he finally closed his laptop and reached for his jacket, he found a now-familiar obstacle: the cat, sleeping soundly on top of it.

He tried nudging it gently. Nothing. The stubborn little thing didn’t even stir.

From behind the counter, Elaine watched him with her arms crossed.

“You’re not going to win.”

“It’s a cat.”

“A cat with a lot of character.”

Oscar sighed, resigned, and dropped back into his chair. Ten minutes later, the cat was still snoring on his jacket, and he no longer felt in any rush to leave.

When Elaine returned with a steaming mug, she set it in front of him without a word.

Oscar glanced at her sideways. “I didn’t order another coffee.”

Elaine simply shrugged. “It’s my compensation for the hostage situation. Sir Reginald Fluffington III tends to take captives…”

At the absurd name, Oscar frowned. “Why ‘the third’?”

With complete nonchalance, Elaine gestured toward the framed photos behind the counter. They were black-and-white portraits of other cats, each with a small plaque beneath them: Sir Reginald Fluffington I and Sir Reginald Fluffington II.

“Line of succession,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “When one leaves, the next takes the throne.”

Oscar blinked. “Is this a café or a feline monarchy?”

Elaine shrugged. “House rules.”

Meanwhile, Sir Reginald Fluffington III kept snoring atop his jacket, as if it were his throne.

One evening, Elaine did something completely unexpected.

She sat down at his table—nothing new there—but instead of launching straight into her usual teasing, she rested her chin on her hand and asked,

“So, tell me about the car.”

Oscar barely looked up. “What?”

“The car. The one you drive. How does it actually work?”

That caught him off guard. Normally, if she mentioned Formula 1 at all, it was to make some sarcastic remark about how it was “just guys driving in circles really fast.” But now she was looking at him, genuinely curious, like she actually wanted to know.

He hesitated, wary of a potential joke at his expense, but when she didn’t say anything else, he found himself answering before he could stop himself.

“Well, it’s an open-wheel, single-seater with a hybrid turbocharged engine,” he started, setting his coffee aside. “It runs on a combination of internal combustion and electrical energy, and we have an ERS system that recovers energy under braking and redeploys it for extra power.”

Elaine nodded as if she understood, but then tilted her head. “And that energy recovery thing—how does that actually help you while driving?”

Oscar blinked. Most people didn’t ask that. They just nodded and moved on. But she was still looking at him, genuinely waiting for an answer.

So he gave her one.

Somewhere along the way, he found himself leaning forward, gesturing as he explained how ERS deployment could make the difference in overtakes, how managing tire degradation was crucial, how the aerodynamics of the car could dictate whether a driver fought for pole or got stuck in the midfield.

Elaine listened. Really listened.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t crack a joke. Just asked question after question, and every time she did, Oscar answered without thinking, because it wasn’t often that someone outside his world wanted to understand, to actually hear him talk about the thing he had dedicated his life to.

At some point, he realized he had been talking for nearly twenty minutes straight.

He sat back abruptly, fingers tightening around his cup.

Elaine didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease him for going on and on like he expected her to.

Instead, she simply smiled, stirring her hot chocolate absentmindedly.

“You really love it, don’t you?” she mused.

Oscar hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

Elaine exhaled through her nose, a soft laugh under her breath. “It’s nice, hearing you actually talk.”

He should have rolled his eyes. Should have given some dry remark about how she talks more than enough for both of them.

But instead, he just hummed, taking another sip of his coffee.

For once, Elaine let the silence linger. And, for once, Oscar didn’t mind.

Elaine didn’t change after that conversation.

She still sat at his table without asking. Still poked at his patience with teasing remarks. Still found a way to make herself present in his otherwise quiet café routine.

But something shifted in Oscar.

Before, he had dismissed her as just another overly social, overly energetic person who didn’t know how to leave people alone. But now… he noticed things.

Like how she greeted every regular in the café by name, asking about their families or their work as if she had known them for years (which, considering her family owned the place, she probably had). Or how she always made sure to slide an extra plate of biscuits toward the old men playing dominos in the corner, even though her brother claimed they ate too much and never actually ordered anything.

How her fingers were constantly moving—tapping, fidgeting, stirring her drink absentmindedly as if her body didn’t know how to stay still.

How she always, always smelled faintly of cinnamon and coffee beans.

And, somehow, how he started looking forward to the moments when she would wander over to his table, even if it was just to make some smart remark about his eternally serious expression.

One day, she leaned against his table, watching as he scrolled through data on his laptop. “Do you ever smile, or would that compromise your entire personality?”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. “Depends on the day.”

Elaine squinted at him suspiciously. “Was that a joke?”

He merely shrugged, clicking through his data sheets.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but she was grinning.

Another day, he caught himself staring—not at her, but at the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while reading, the way her brows furrowed slightly when she was deep in thought.

He shook his head, taking a long sip of his coffee, as if the bitterness could pull him back into reality.

But reality had started to change.

The café didn’t feel the same anymore. It was no longer just a place to escape the noise of the world. It had a heartbeat now, a pulse that thumped along to the rhythm of Elaine’s laughter, to the lazy stretch of Sir Reginald Fluffington III as he curled up in the sun, to the quiet conversations and clinking of porcelain.

And Oscar found himself sinking into it, letting it wrap around him like a warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.

Elaine was still a menace. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so bad after all.

Oscar entered the café at his usual time, the familiar chime of the doorbell ringing through the quiet space. He had his routine down to a science—order his coffee, sit at his table, ignore whatever nonsense Elaine threw at him, and get some actual work done.

Except today, he was the one throwing things off course.

He walked straight up to her table, where she was lazily flipping through a book, and without preamble, said, “Why history?”

Elaine blinked up at him, looking uncharacteristically confused. “What?”

“Why do you study history?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if her brain needed a second to reboot. Then, slowly, her expression shifted into something downright suspicious. She squinted at him, tapping her fingers against the table.

“Okay. Who are you, and what have you done with Oscar Piastri?”

Behind the counter, her brother snorted, shaking his head as he wiped down some cups.

Oscar exhaled sharply, already regretting this. “You asked me about Formula 1 the other day. I figured—” He gestured vaguely. “Returning the favor.”

Elaine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You want me to believe that you—Mr. ‘I’d Rather Sit in Silence Than Engage with Human Beings’—are voluntarily making conversation?”

Oscar’s eye twitched.

“I’m rescinding the question.”

“No, no,” she said quickly, straightening up with a wide grin. “I’m just shocked. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sir Reginald Fluffington III chose that moment to make his grand entrance, leaping onto Elaine’s chair and then promptly squeezing himself between them like a self-appointed mediator. Elaine, as always, started scratching behind his ears without thinking.

Oscar tried not to acknowledge the cat but failed when a furry head nudged insistently against his arm. With a sigh, he gave in, resting a hand on its back.

From the counter, Elaine’s brother watched the exchange with a smirk. He stacked the last cup, shaking his head.

Huh. So that’s how it starts.

Elaine tilted her head, studying Oscar like he was some sort of rare specimen that had just done something completely out of character. Which, to be fair, he had.

“Alright,” she said finally, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the table. “I’ll bite.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You were going to answer anyway.”

“True,” she admitted, flashing him a grin. “But I like pretending I have a choice.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand while the other continued idly scratching Sir Reginald Fluffington III behind the ears. The cat stretched lazily, his purring a soft vibration against the wooden surface of the table.

“History is just one big, messy story,” she began, her voice lighter now, as if she hadn’t just been caught off guard by the question. “And I like stories. But more than that, I like knowing why things happen. Why people make the choices they do, why entire civilizations rise and fall, why the world is the way it is.”

Oscar watched as her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her coffee cup, the light catching on the silver ring she always wore on her thumb. Her expression shifted as she spoke, as if she were seeing the past play out in real time, as if the weight of a thousand untold stories lived just behind her eyes.

She shrugged. “It’s like a puzzle, but all the pieces are scattered across centuries, and half of them are missing, and some historian a hundred years ago probably put the wrong ones together and convinced everyone they were right.”

Oscar found himself listening more intently than he expected, more than he ever did when people rambled about things he didn’t particularly care about.

Elaine smirked, noticing. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

“You’re actually answering seriously,” he pointed out.

“Because it’s important,” she said simply. “People always act like history is just a bunch of dates and names, but it’s not. It’s people. People being brilliant, and terrible, and reckless. And the best part?” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “We never learn. We keep making the same mistakes over and over again. It’s both hilarious and deeply depressing.”

Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

Elaine’s grin widened. “There it is. A real reaction.”

He rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.

Sir Reginald, sensing the moment, shifted just enough to nudge Oscar’s arm again. Without thinking, he started absentmindedly running his fingers through the cat’s fur, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. The café smelled like roasted coffee beans and vanilla, the warm scent wrapping around them like a quiet invitation to stay just a little longer.

At some point, Elaine’s brother must have come over because there were two fresh drinks sitting in front of them—his usual coffee and what looked like hot chocolate for Elaine. Oscar hadn’t even noticed when they arrived, too caught up in the conversation, too distracted by the way Elaine’s voice lilted with enthusiasm when she spoke about something she loved.

Elaine, oblivious or simply choosing to ignore her brother’s knowing expression from behind the counter, continued. “Anyway, history is fun. And frustrating. And completely ridiculous at times. But mostly, it’s fascinating.”

Oscar considered that. Considered her, for that matter.

She had a way of making everything sound interesting, even when she was being insufferable.

And somehow, without him realizing it, she was starting to feel less like a nuisance.

And more like a habit.

That day, the café felt… different.

Oscar couldn’t quite put his finger on it at first. He sat at his usual table, opened his laptop, and took a sip of his coffee. Everything was the same—same warm lighting, same familiar hum of conversation, same Sir Reginald Fluffington III eyeing his jacket like prime real estate for a nap.

And yet…

He realized it after about fifteen minutes of actual focus. No one had interrupted him. No one had made a single offhand comment about his posture or his facial expressions or his apparent lack of joy in life. No one had sat down uninvited, poked at his patience, or asked if he had friends.

Elaine wasn’t there.

Oscar exhaled, shaking off the thought. Good. That meant he could get work done without—

"You're frowning."

Oscar glanced up. Elaine’s brother stood behind the counter, drying a cup with a knowing smirk.

"I'm not frowning."

"You are. You look about two seconds away from being deeply annoyed by something," he said, setting the cup down. "Let me guess. The coffee’s not good today?"

Oscar rolled his eyes and took another sip. Perfect as always.

Casually—completely, totally casually—he asked, “Where’s Elaine?”

Her brother raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Oscar huffed. “Just wondering. It’s… quieter.”

“She’s in class. Probably annoying one of her professors instead.”

Oscar nodded, taking another drink to mask the way his jaw tightened. He told himself it wasn’t disappointment—he was just surprised. That’s all.

Her brother, however, had clearly caught something in his expression, because he grinned.

“I’ve got to say it, mate,” he mused, leaning against the counter. “For someone who complains about her so much, you sure seem bothered when she’s not around.”

Oscar’s eye twitched. “I’m not—”

“Fastidious,” he interrupted, eyes alight with amusement. “That’s the word you’re looking for, right? Bothered. Irritated. Peeved. Just… missing one specific source of those emotions.”

Oscar scowled, but it had no effect. Elaine’s brother just chuckled, shaking his head.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he said, turning away. “Other than Elaine’s presence, of course.”

Oscar refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, he set his jaw, returned to his laptop, and pretended he wasn’t glancing toward the door every now and then.

Not because he wanted her to walk in. Obviously.

Just… if she did, he’d have a few words for her about being a menace. That was all.

Oscar was busy.

Too busy to think about insignificant things.

Training, meetings, simulator sessions—his schedule had been packed, every moment accounted for. He barely had time to breathe, let alone sit in a café waiting for some loud, insufferable presence to barge into his day.

And yet, the past couple of weeks had felt… off.

He hadn’t been at the café much, too caught up in work to indulge in his usual routine. On the rare occasions he did stop by, it was always a quick in-and-out, barely enough time to finish a coffee before he had to rush off. He didn’t even have the time to be annoyed by Elaine.

Not that he’d noticed her absence.

Not at all.

So when he caught sight of her at the local market on a rare free afternoon, it was almost too much—too jarring, too unexpected.

She was standing at one of the stalls, inspecting a bundle of fresh herbs with the same level of scrutiny he reserved for race telemetry. Her brows were furrowed, lips pursed in thought, and she hadn’t noticed him yet.

Which meant Oscar could—should—walk away.

Instead, his feet remained stubbornly in place.

It wasn’t just seeing her that got to him. It was the fact that, somehow, he’d felt her first. The way the market’s usual noise—vendors calling out deals, the chatter of locals—had blurred into the background the second he spotted her. The way a part of his brain had instantly clicked into place, like something missing had been restored.

That realization alone was enough to irritate him.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a step closer.

Elaine still hadn’t noticed him, too focused on haggling with the vendor.

"Come on, Monsieur Bernard," she cajoled, resting an elbow on the stall. "I’m practically family. Don’t you have a special discount for charming regulars?"

The older man behind the stall gave her an unimpressed look. "You tried this same trick last time."

"Yes, but I was less charming then."

Oscar let out a sharp exhale—not a laugh, definitely not—and that’s when she turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

For a moment, she just stared, as if confirming he was real. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, turning fully to face him. "If it isn’t Mr. ‘I Have No Time for Social Interaction’ himself. Fancy meeting you here."

Oscar crossed his arms. "Fancy that."

She tilted her head, assessing him. "You look…" A pause, and then, teasingly, "…unmoored. Have you been lost without my constant interruptions?"

"Not remotely," he deadpanned.

Elaine gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Lies. You missed me."

Oscar gave her a flat look. "I was busy."

She waved a dismissive hand. "So was I. Exams."

That caught his attention. "Oh."

She raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? Just ‘oh’?"

"Did you pass?"

Elaine scoffed. "Of course I passed. I’m a genius."

Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

A beat passed, and then—

"So," Elaine said, leaning in slightly. "Are you going to admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"That you missed me."

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he plucked the bundle of herbs straight out of her hand, examining them with faux interest.

"Hmm. Unremarkable. Much like your presence."

Elaine gaped at him. "You—you absolute—"

Behind the stall, Monsieur Bernard sighed, muttering something about young people before handing Elaine another bundle.

Oscar smirked. Maybe he had missed this. Just a little.

Without thinking about it, they started walking together.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, Oscar was fairly certain it wasn’t. He had no reason to follow Elaine anywhere. And yet, when she moved toward the next stall, he found himself falling into step beside her.

She didn’t comment on it, just gave him a brief, knowing glance before turning her attention to the produce in front of her.

“Tomatoes,” she muttered to herself, picking up a ripe one and turning it over in her hand. “Do I need tomatoes?”

Oscar arched an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what you’re buying?”

Elaine shrugged. “I improvise.”

He exhaled sharply, grabbing a small bag and tossing a few into it with actual purpose. Elaine mimicked his actions—except she kept adding more and more until Oscar gave her a flat look.

“You’re not feeding an army.”

“You don’t know that,” she said airily. “Maybe I’m part of a secret underground resistance.”

Oscar bit back a smirk, shaking his head as he handed his own bag to the vendor. Elaine did the same, and once they had their purchases, they moved on.

To another stall.

And another.

At some point, Elaine started following him—when he paused at a bakery stand, her interest was suddenly piqued.

“Buying bread?” she asked, peering at the selection.

He gave her a sideways glance. “What does it look like?”

“Huh.” She grabbed a small loaf for herself, then eyed the pastries. “You’re not getting anything sweet?”

“No.”

Elaine hummed. “Boring.”

Still, she grabbed two pain au chocolat instead of one.

When Oscar gave her a questioning look, she just waggled her eyebrows. “You never know.”

He didn’t respond, but later—when she wordlessly handed him the second pastry while they were walking—he took it.

It kept happening. A few more stalls, a few more purchases. Some things they needed, some they didn’t. They talked more than they probably should have, walked longer than they intended.

It wasn’t until Elaine tried shifting her bags to one arm—struggling slightly—that she finally paused and frowned.

“Hold on.” She glanced down. “Why do I have so much stuff?”

Oscar blinked at his own bags, as if only now realizing how full they were.

They stared at each other for a beat.

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “Did you just trick me into running errands with you?”

Oscar scoffed. “You tricked me.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Lies! This is sabotage!”

Oscar just shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he adjusted the bags in his hands.

And they parted ways—or at least, they tried to.

Elaine turned left. Oscar turned left.

Neither of them noticed at first, too occupied with adjusting their bags. But as they kept walking, side by side, it became… noticeable.

Elaine slowed her pace slightly, giving him a sidelong glance.

Oscar did the same.

They walked a few more meters in silence.

Then Elaine stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, brows furrowing in suspicion. “Are you following me?”

Oscar, who had also stopped, gave her a blank stare. “You’re the one going my way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Or you’re going mine.”

Oscar sighed, adjusting the weight of his bags. “I live nearby.”

Elaine huffed. “I live nearby.”

They eyed each other for a moment, a realization beginning to dawn.

Then, with an unspoken agreement, they resumed walking.

Turned a corner.

Kept going.

Another turn.

When they both reached the café’s entrance, Elaine halted once again.

“Wait.” Her voice was laced with dawning horror. “You live here?”

Oscar blinked. “You live above the café?”

Elaine opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “You’re kidding.”

He exhaled sharply, barely suppressing a smirk at her distress. “Why would I joke about this?”

Elaine let out something between a groan and a laugh, running a hand down her face. “You mean to tell me… we’ve been neighbors this whole time?”

Oscar simply shrugged. “Apparently.”

Elaine groaned again, then gave him a long look—one that was probably meant to be annoyed, but somehow, she just looked amused.

Oscar didn’t know why, but he felt it too—something light, something ridiculous.

And before he could stop himself, before he even knew what he was doing—

He smirked.

Just a little.

Elaine’s eyes widened, like she had just seen a unicorn.

Then, with unrestrained glee, she pointed at him.

“A-ha!”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You almost smiled!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Elaine practically vibrated with excitement. “This is it. This is a breakthrough. I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere in there.”

Oscar huffed, stepping past her toward the stairs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ohhh, but I do.” Elaine grinned, falling into step behind him as they both climbed toward their apartments. “I’ll get a full smile out of you someday. Just you wait.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

But somehow… somehow, the thought didn’t sound so bad.

Either way, as they stepped onto the landing, an odd silence settled between them.

Elaine adjusted her grip on the paper bag in her arms, rocking back slightly on her heels. Oscar wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He should just say goodbye, unlock his door, and go about his evening. But he hesitated.

Which was weird.

Even weirder was the fact that Elaine was hesitating, too.

She glanced at his bag, then up at him, eyes squinting slightly in thought.

“Tell me you’re planning to have a healthy and balanced dinner, and not just some bread and cheese.”

Oscar frowned. “It’s efficient.”

Elaine let out a sharp laugh, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

“You’re hopeless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She sighed, then tilted her head toward her door. “Look, I accidentally bought enough food for an entire army, and you clearly need a proper meal. So… you in?”

Oscar hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. That was the problem. He wanted to.

His routine was simple, predictable. There was comfort in that. And yet, here was Elaine, throwing a wrench into everything—like she always did. But instead of annoying him, it felt… different this time.

It felt warm.

Elaine watched him, waiting. A little too smug, as if she already knew his answer.

“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, like she hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. Then she grinned, turning to unlock her door.

“Hope you like chaos.”

Oscar stepped inside without thinking twice. And for the first time in a long time, breaking his routine didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

Elaine’s apartment was exactly what Oscar had expected—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt intentional, full of books stacked in odd places and little trinkets on the shelves. There were post-it notes stuck to the fridge, reminders scrawled in messy handwriting, and an open notebook on the small dining table with half-finished notes scribbled in the margins.

It was the complete opposite of his own place, which was neat, sparsely decorated, and painfully impersonal.

She kicked the door shut behind them, dumping her groceries onto the counter before stretching her arms overhead. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.”

Oscar set his own bag beside hers and leaned against the counter, watching as she started unpacking.

“You actually cook?” he asked, skeptical.

Elaine shot him a look over her shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just don’t seem like the type.”

She gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse me, but I’ll have you know I make an excellent—�� She paused, staring at the items in front of her. Then, slowly, she deflated. “Okay, I may have gone overboard.”

Oscar peered over at the spread of vegetables, cheese, pasta, some kind of fresh herbs, and an absurd amount of tomatoes.

“You had a plan when you bought all this, right?”

Elaine waved a hand dismissively. “Cooking isn’t about rigid planning. It’s about intuition, improvisation, going with the flow—”

Oscar picked up a tomato and raised an eyebrow. “So, no plan.”

She snatched the tomato from his hand and placed it back down, scowling. “Fine, Mr. Meal Prep, what would you have bought?”

He shrugged. “Something simple. Something that makes sense together.”

Elaine scoffed. “Boring.”

“You say that, but you still invited me to eat whatever mess you come up with.”

“Because I am a generous and forgiving person.”

Oscar let out a breath of amusement, shaking his head.

Despite her apparent lack of a plan, Elaine moved around the kitchen with ease, pulling out a cutting board, a pan, and a few spices. Oscar found himself watching, noting the way she hummed under her breath, how she scrunched her nose slightly when she was thinking, how she talked through each step even though she didn’t need to.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help?” she asked without looking up.

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “Help?”

“Yes, you know, participate in the process?” She pointed a knife at him. “Or do you only operate a steering wheel?”

He rolled his eyes but stepped closer, taking the knife from her. “Alright. Just don’t blame me if this goes wrong.”

“Oh, I fully intend to.”

She grinned as he started slicing, and for a while, they just… cooked.

It was strangely easy. They fell into a rhythm—Elaine throwing in too much of something, Oscar fixing it with something else, her laughing every time he muttered something under his breath about efficiency and proper ratios.

At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III appeared, hopping onto a chair and watching them like a tiny, judgmental supervisor. She then explained that when the café was closed, she took the cat upstairs with her, everyday.

Elaine, while talking and without thinking, reached down to scratch behind his ears. And Oscar, without thinking, did the same.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled warm and rich, and Oscar had to begrudgingly admit—it actually looked good.

Elaine beamed, sliding into her chair as she set down their plates. “See? Cooking with intuition.”

Oscar sat across from her, eyeing the dish. “This could still be a disaster.”

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then grinned. “Nope. It’s amazing.”

Hesitant, Oscar finally tried his own. And—damn it. It was.

He kept his expression neutral, but Elaine saw right through him.

“You like it.”

“It’s edible.”

“You love it.”

Oscar sighed. “I tolerate it.”

Elaine laughed, kicking him lightly under the table.

And as they ate, talked, and bickered over who had done most of the work, Oscar realized something.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about the races ahead, the pressure, the expectations.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

As the meal stretched on, the conversation drifted, weaving in and out of topics with an ease that Oscar wasn’t used to. Elaine had a way of making silence feel optional, of filling the space with whatever thought popped into her head—sometimes ridiculous, sometimes insightful, always entertaining.

She talked about the weirdest things: a documentary she’d watched about medieval bread laws, an argument she’d overheard on the bus about the best way to peel an orange, the time she accidentally joined a book club just for the free snacks and ended up stuck in it for six months.

Oscar, against all odds, found himself enjoying it.

It was so different from the world he was used to—where everything was structured, precise, driven by logic and efficiency. Elaine, on the other hand, lived in tangents, in spontaneous decisions, in a constant state of curiosity.

And somehow, he wasn’t annoyed by it.

If anything, he was listening. Actually listening.

At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III jumped onto the table, eyeing their plates with a level of entitlement only a cat could muster.

Elaine absentmindedly scratched his chin. “Don’t even think about it, Reg.”

The cat meowed, offended by the accusation.

Elaine smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Oscar watched as she continued to pet him without really looking, fingers moving automatically through his fur. It was such a small, unconscious thing, but something about it made his chest feel… warm.

He cleared his throat, shaking the thought away.

Elaine, oblivious, leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Alright, I’ll admit it. You were actually useful in the kitchen.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

“You should feel honored.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

She grinned. “Good. Because next time, I’m making dessert, and I expect you to assist.”

Next time.

Oscar didn’t know why those words stood out to him, why they lodged themselves in his brain like something solid and undeniable.

It wasn’t a question, wasn’t a suggestion.

It was just a fact.

As if this—whatever this was—wasn’t a one-time thing.

As Elaine stretched lazily in her chair, she watched Oscar stand and, to her utter shock, start gathering the plates. She blinked, then narrowed her eyes.

“Wait. Are you actually—”

“Helping,” he said flatly, carrying the dishes to the sink.

She let out a slow, exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God. You’re one of them.”

Oscar frowned. “One of what?”

“A man written by a woman.”

He gave her a blank stare. “What?”

“You know, like in books or movies. The kind of guy who—” She gestured at him, as if that explained everything. “Quiet but secretly sweet. Competent but unassuming. Willing to do the dishes without being asked. It’s rare.”

Oscar let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he turned on the tap. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

But he was smiling. And then, suddenly—he was laughing.

Not just a scoff, not a quiet huff of amusement, but actual, genuine laughter.

Elaine had never seen that before.

She went completely still, watching him as he stood there in her tiny kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands in soapy water, head tilted slightly downward as he chuckled to himself.

And for the first time since she met him, she didn’t have anything to say.

Because, somehow, watching Oscar Piastri laugh—really laugh—was enough to leave her speechless.

It happened gradually, in a way neither of them fully acknowledged at first. One day, Elaine casually mentioned she was watching a documentary that Oscar "absolutely had to see," and before he knew it, he was sitting on her couch with a bowl of popcorn, being force-fed historical facts he never asked for.

“You’re not even watching,” Elaine accused, nudging his arm when she noticed his eyes drifting to his phone.

“I am,” Oscar protested, but she shot him a look.

“Fine. Pop quiz. What year did this take place?”

“…The past.”

Elaine gasped, scandalized, and smacked his shoulder. “Disrespectful.”

The next time, it was Oscar’s turn. “If I had to watch your documentaries, you have to watch this.”

Elaine frowned at his laptop screen as a highlight reel from the 2011 Formula 1 season played. “Let me guess,” she said flatly. “Someone overtakes someone else. And then someone else overtakes that someone. And then—oh, look—another overtake.”

Oscar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have the attention span of a squirrel.”

“And you have the hobbies of a dad.”

He turned to her, unimpressed. “It’s literally my job.”

Elaine hummed, clearly unbothered, as she stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. “Then I’m just keeping you humble.”

Outside of their self-imposed cultural exchange nights, they started seeing each other more in ways that felt unplanned, unintentional—except that it kept happening. Oscar would be heading to the store for something quick, only to find Elaine standing in the same aisle, studying a jar of pasta sauce like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Oh, great,” he deadpanned. “You again.”

Elaine smirked. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

And yet, somehow, they always ended up walking back home together.

Then there were the times he went out for a run along the coast, only to spot a familiar figure cruising past on a bike, feet lazily pedaling as she enjoyed the sea breeze. She never failed to call out to him, sometimes ringing a ridiculous little bike bell just to be annoying.

“Move it, slowpoke!”

Oscar, ever the competitive one, picked up his pace. “Race me, then!”

“Against a literal athlete?” she scoffed. “Pass.”

Yet, moments later, she’d kick off, trying to pass him, laughing breathlessly when he shot her an unimpressed look. She never won—he made sure of that—but that never seemed to bother her.

Sometimes, they just walked together. No reason, no plan. Just two people who somehow kept ending up in the same place, at the same time, as if the universe was nudging them closer. It wasn’t something either of them talked about, but they both felt it—the gradual shift from tolerating each other to seeking each other out.

And Oscar, despite himself, started to wonder when exactly that had happened.

When Oscar pushed open the door to the café that morning, he wasn’t alone.

Lando followed beside him, stretching his arms over his head as they stepped inside. “Mate, I’m telling you, I need real coffee,” he groaned. “Not that lukewarm excuse they serve at some places here.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “You literally live in Monaco.”

“Yeah, but you know Monaco.” Lando shot him a look. “I trust your judgment.”

That was how, without much thought, Oscar had ended up bringing Lando here—his café.

It wasn’t his café, obviously. It just… happened to be the place he always went to. The place that had somehow worked itself into his routine. The place where—

Elaine.

She was behind the counter, laughing at something her brother was saying as she wiped down the espresso machine. She hadn’t seen them yet, but when she did, Oscar caught the flicker of surprise in her expression. It was brief—quickly replaced by her usual smirk—but he still noticed it.

And for some reason, that did something weird to his chest.

“Well, well,” she drawled, placing her hands on her hips. “Didn’t know you were the ‘bring a date to your favorite spot’ type, Piastri.”

Oscar sighed. “Don’t start.”

Lando, clearly intrigued, leaned on the counter with an easy grin. “Oh, I like you.”

Elaine grinned back. “Flatterer.”

Oscar shot him a look. “Lando.”

“What?” Lando glanced between them, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve been hiding this place—and her—from me. I feel betrayed.”

Oscar groaned. “I am never bringing you anywhere again.”

Elaine just chuckled, tapping her fingers against the counter as she looked at Oscar. “Usual for you?”

He nodded, and she got to work, moving with the practiced ease of someone who knew her way around a coffee machine.

Lando watched for a moment before nudging Oscar. “So,” he said under his breath. “Who is she?”

Oscar frowned. “Elaine.”

“Yes, I got that,” Lando muttered. “But, like. Who is she?”

Oscar took a slow breath. “She works here.”

Lando raised a brow. “And you two just happen to know each other well enough that she openly mocks you the second we walk in?”

Oscar didn’t answer.

Lando’s grin widened. “You like her.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhmm.”

Before Oscar could tell him to shut up, Sir Reginald Fluffington III leaped onto the counter, settling himself between them like a self-appointed judge of character.

Lando’s eyes lit up. “Oh, hell yeah, a cat!”

He reached out to pet him, only for Sir Reginald to give him a slow, unimpressed blink before immediately turning toward Oscar instead, rubbing his face against his arm.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even do anything.”

Elaine grinned. “Congratulations, you’ve been deemed unworthy.”

Oscar, meanwhile, absently scratched behind the cat’s ears, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking.

Lando squinted at him. “Alright, you know what? Maybe you do belong here.”

Elaine slid their drinks onto the counter. “Alright, boys, let’s see if this place lives up to your ridiculous standards.”

Lando took a sip, then paused, eyes widening slightly. “Damn. Okay, I see why you come here.”

Elaine leaned on the counter, looking pleased. “Told you I take it seriously.”

Lando shot a pointed look at Oscar. “You didn’t tell me she was a coffee genius.”

Oscar took his own cup, murmuring a quiet, “It’s why I come here.”

Elaine blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She recovered quickly, but Oscar saw it—that tiny pause, the brief flicker of something softer in her expression before she smirked again.

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing more of you, Norris.”

Lando grinned. “If it means more coffee like this? Absolutely.”

Oscar just shook his head, already regretting the chaos he had unleashed. But beneath all of that, there was something else—a barely-there flicker of something unnamed, something strange, something he wasn’t quite ready to think about.

Because Lando had flirted with Elaine just to get a reaction. And Oscar had reacted.

And, somehow, what started with just Lando, turned into all of them.

At first, it was just the occasional visit—Lando tagging along whenever he felt like it, grinning at Elaine over the counter like he was in on some great secret. But then Max showed up one day, apparently intrigued after Lando wouldn’t shut up about the place. And when Max came, Charles wasn’t far behind. And then George, who they bumped into on the way and who figured, why not?

Before Oscar really processed how it happened, the café had become a regular spot for them.

Elaine handled it well, effortlessly juggling orders while throwing in her usual snark, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes whenever she met Oscar’s gaze—like she knew exactly what had happened, exactly how this little invasion had come to be.

He ignored it.

Some days, it was just him and Lando. Others, it was half the grid, sprawled across tables, talking about races, cars, travel schedules—just a mess of conversations overlapping.

Elaine saw Oscar from a distance sometimes, laughing at something Max had said, or gesturing animatedly as he explained some technical nuance to Charles. It was… different, seeing him like that. More open, more relaxed.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t just Oscar, the guy who put up with her nonsense. He was Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 driver, future world champion if the world made any sense.

And yet, when he got up to grab another round of drinks, weaving his way to the counter, none of that seemed to matter.

Elaine smirked as he approached. “Back for more?”

“Apparently,” Oscar sighed, leaning on the counter.

“Is this your way of keeping me too busy to bother you?”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Across the room, Lando nudged Charles. “Look at that.”

Charles followed his gaze, watching as Oscar—Oscar, who barely tolerated human interaction—stood at the counter, casually talking to Elaine, something close to amusement flickering in his expression.

“Mon dieu,” Charles murmured. “He has a favorite barista.”

Lando grinned. “And he doesn’t even deny it.”

Max snorted. “Poor guy doesn’t even realize.”

Back at the counter, Oscar rolled his eyes as Elaine flicked a sugar packet at him. “For energy,” she said, looking innocent.

Oscar shook his head, taking the drinks without further comment. But as he turned back toward the table, he caught the way his friends were looking at him.

And for some reason, it made something twist in his chest.

And the it started as a joke. At least, Elaine thought it was a joke.

They had all been lounging at the café, their usual spot now, when Lando—because of course it was Lando—offhandedly mentioned something about bringing Elaine to a Grand Prix.

“You should come to Zandvoort,” he said, stirring his coffee.

Elaine, standing nearby, scoffed. “Oh, sure. Let me just hop on a plane with the entire Formula 1 circus. That sounds completely normal.”

Charles, ever the agent of chaos, grinned. “Why not? Oscar can take you.”

Oscar, who had been mid-sip, nearly choked. He shot Charles a look, but before he could protest, Max—who had been scrolling through his phone, unbothered—added, “Yeah, good race to start with. Orange everywhere. Chaos. You’d like it.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “You guys just want to see me suffer, don’t you?”

Lando smirked. “A little.”

She snorted. “Very funny.”

The conversation moved on.

But apparently, Oscar hadn’t.

Because the next day, when Elaine opened her apartment door, she found him standing there, a familiar expression of mild exasperation on his face, a small envelope in his hand.

Elaine wasn’t a morning person.

It took her brain a few extra seconds to register things before she could properly function—something Oscar had learned through unfortunate trial and error at the café.

So, when she opened her door that morning, her hair still a mess from sleep, wearing a hoodie that looked two sizes too big for her, she needed a solid moment to process what was happening.

Oscar. Standing there. On her doorstep. Holding an envelope. Looking as impassive as ever, but with a certain stiffness in his posture that meant he wasn’t here for something casual.

She blinked, still groggy. “Uh. Morning?”

“Morning,” he said, then immediately shoved the envelope into her hands like he wanted to be done with it.

Elaine squinted down at it. The paper was thick, expensive, like the kind you got for serious events. The kind of envelope that felt important. And Oscar was just standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching her expectantly.

She glanced up at him. “You’re not serving me legal papers, are you?”

Oscar sighed. “Just open it.”

So she did.

At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Plane tickets. A familiar three-letter airport code. And—

Her eyes landed on the brightly colored paddock passes, printed with the words Formula 1 Heineken Dutch Grand Prix 2025.

Elaine blinked. Then blinked again.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to Oscar, still not fully awake, still not fully grasping what was happening. “Did you—” Her mouth opened, then closed. She shook the envelope a little, as if that would change its contents. “Oscar. What the hell is this?”

“Tickets,” he said, like it was obvious.

“For Zandvoort.”

“Yep.”

She held them up, waving them slightly. “You actually did it?”

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “You barely put effort into text messages. And yet you—” She stopped mid-sentence, rifling through the envelope, and then something else caught her eye.

Separate from the paddock passes were additional tickets. Printed reservations. Museum entries.

Elaine pulled them out, scanning the names. The Rijksmuseum. The Van Gogh Museum. Anne Frank House.

She looked back at Oscar, expression stunned.

He exhaled, shifting his weight slightly. “If you’re making me sit through an entire weekend of you mocking my job, I figured I should get something out of it.”

Elaine just… stared at him.

Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face.

“Did you just bribe me with museums?”

Oscar’s lips twitched, but he fought the smile. “Is it working?”

Elaine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him—really studied him. The way he was standing there, a little too stiff, like he wasn’t sure if she was going to say yes. The way he had clearly thought about this, planned it out, even included things she would enjoy.

Her chest felt strangely warm.

“You know,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in, “I was going to take it easy on you in Zandvoort.”

Oscar stepped inside, glancing at her skeptically. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Elaine’s grin turned mischievous as she shut the door behind him. “Oh, I definitely won’t now. You’re doomed, Piastri.”

Oscar had never walked so much in his life.

He was used to long training sessions, hours in the gym, and races that pushed his endurance to the limit—but this? This was a different kind of exhaustion. The kind that came from spending an entire day trailing after Elaine as she took him through what she called "a proper introduction to Amsterdam."

It had started with the museums. First the Rijksmuseum, where she dragged him from painting to painting, rattling off facts with a kind of enthusiasm that almost made him interested. Almost.

“I get that these are masterpieces,” he admitted at one point, hands shoved into his pockets as he stared at The Night Watch, “but you’d think someone would’ve told them to use better lighting.”

Elaine gasped. “Blasphemy.”

“I’m just saying. Look at it.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s so dark. Maybe that’s why everyone’s standing around—it’s taking them a while to figure out what they’re looking at.”

She groaned, rubbing her temples. “I am this close to abandoning you in this museum.”

But she didn’t. Instead, she spent another three hours leading him through hallways lined with art, maps, and relics. She talked. He listened. And, to his own quiet surprise, he actually retained some of it.

Then came the canal walk.

Elaine insisted it was the only way to properly take in the city. Oscar wasn’t convinced, but he followed her anyway, hands in his pockets as she strolled beside him, pointing out historical buildings, telling him stories about Amsterdam’s past.

For a while, he just listened.

And then, after a particularly dramatic tale about the city’s trading history, he smirked.

“You know,” he mused, “I think I finally understand why you like history so much.”

Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You like drama.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dare you.”

Oscar chuckled, the sound low and warm, and bumped his shoulder against hers. “You do. All these betrayals, wars, political schemes—you eat it up.”

Elaine pouted. “I was going to say something profound about how history connects us to the past and helps us understand the present, but sure. Let’s go with ‘Elaine likes drama.’”

“Hey, I get it,” he said with a smirk. “It’s like racing. Strategy, risks, the occasional backstabbing—same thing, different century.”

She shot him a look. “Remind me never to let you explain history to children.”

Oscar grinned.

They continued walking, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows along the canals. The air smelled of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, mingling with the crispness of the water. A couple of cyclists zipped past, bells ringing, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician played something soft and familiar.

Elaine sighed, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “Alright, I dragged you through museums all day. What do you want to do now?”

Oscar considered. Then—“Dinner.”

Elaine blinked. “That’s it? No ‘let’s find the nearest simulator’ or ‘let’s analyze tire degradation charts over drinks’?”

He rolled his eyes. “I do normal things too, you know.”

“Debatable,” she muttered.

He nudged her with his elbow. “Come on, historian. You picked everything today. I get to pick dinner.”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “Fine. But if you choose some sad hotel restaurant, I’m revoking your privileges.”

Oscar smirked. “Relax. I know a place.”

And so they walked. Through the streets of Amsterdam, through the easy conversation and quiet moments in between, through the slow, unspoken shift in the space between them.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Neither of them needed to.

Dinner had been good. Simple, but good.

Oscar had picked a restaurant close to the hotel, one that wasn’t too fancy but had just enough of a warm, cozy atmosphere that Elaine immediately launched into a monologue about how Dutch cafés were vastly superior to anywhere else in Europe.

Oscar had listened, half-distracted by his food, half-focused on her usual theatrics.

She talked about the charm of old Dutch architecture, the history behind certain dishes, and—somehow—ended up explaining how the country’s trade routes influenced the spread of different spices across Europe.

Oscar had tuned out a little by that point, but it wasn’t like he minded.

She liked to talk. He liked to listen.

It worked.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, Elaine was still going, her words slowing down only slightly as the day caught up with her.

“Did you know,” she began as they stepped out of the elevator, “that the Dutch—”

“Elaine,” Oscar said, dryly. “That’s the tenth time you’ve started a sentence like that today.”

She ignored him, pushing ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. “—had such a monopoly on certain trades that entire economies were built around their influence?”

Oscar hummed noncommittally as he swiped his keycard, opening his door.

It was supposed to be the end of the conversation. They both had separate rooms—he had made sure of that. The plan was simple: go to sleep, wake up, and start fresh the next day.

Instead, Elaine just… walked in after him.

He blinked. “What—?”

“Anyway,” she continued, dropping onto his bed like it was hers, “what was I saying?”

Oscar sighed, rubbing his temples. “Dutch monopoly. Trade. Some economic thing.”

Elaine snapped her fingers. “Right! So—”

And that was how he found himself standing in his own hotel room, watching her lie back against the pillows, one arm flung behind her head, completely at home in his space.

He considered kicking her out.

Then he considered how much energy that would take.

Then he considered that nothing short of physically dragging her out would probably work.

So, with a resigned sigh, he grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom.

By the time he came back, freshly showered and in his usual sleepwear, Elaine had somehow fully settled in.

Not only was she still sprawled across his bed, but she had also stolen his hoodie at some point, pulling it on over her t-shirt like she belonged in it.

She was still talking—something about Dutch colonialism now—but her words were starting to slur slightly, her eyelids drooping as sleep crept in.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. “Elaine, you have your own room.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, eyes half-closed.

“You should go.”

Silence.

Then: the softest sound of her breathing, slow and even.

Oscar let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair.

Right.

Well.

That settled that, then.

Shaking his head, he grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, draped it over her, and shut off the main light.

Then, instead of trying to wrestle for space, he took the armchair by the window, grabbed his phone, and settled in for the night.

It wasn’t the most comfortable setup. But somehow, he didn’t really mind.

That is, until Oscar woke up to the sound of someone shifting around. A second later, a hand lightly smacked his leg.

“What the hell are you doing?” Elaine’s voice was groggy, thick with sleep but still laced with amusement.

Oscar blinked, trying to reorient himself. The dim glow of the city lights seeped in through the curtains, casting the hotel room in soft shadows. His neck ached. His back felt horrible. His arm—folded awkwardly beneath him—was completely numb.

Right. The armchair.

Elaine smacked his leg again, gentler this time. “You look like a pretzel.”

Oscar let out a low grunt. “You’re in my bed.”

“And?” She propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at him through the darkness. “I would literally rather be arrested than sleep in one of those horrible hotel pull-out couches.”

“It’s not a pull-out couch.”

“Whatever, it looks uncomfortable.”

Oscar exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. He was too tired to argue.

Elaine, apparently, was not.

“I’m not gonna call the cops if you get in bed, you know,” she added, her voice teasing. “I could, just to be dramatic, but I won’t.”

Oscar dragged a hand down his face. “Generous.”

“I am,” she agreed. Then, after a moment, her voice softened—less playful, more… genuine. “Seriously, though. Stop being weird. Just get in.”

Oscar hesitated.

Then, because the dull ache in his spine was getting unbearable, he finally gave in.

Wordlessly, he pushed himself up from the chair, stretched his arms over his head, and shuffled toward the bed.

Elaine scooted over without needing to be asked, making space for him. The bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that they didn’t have to be in each other’s space.

Still, as he settled under the covers, he felt the warmth of her presence beside him, her steady breathing filling the silence.

Elaine let out a satisfied hum. “See? Way better than suffering in that stupid chair.”

Oscar didn’t answer, already too close to sleep to form a proper response.

Elaine chuckled under her breath. “Goodnight, roomie.”

Oscar barely had the energy to sigh. “Go to sleep, Elaine.”

For a moment, Oscar thought he would be able to sleep.

The bed was undeniably more comfortable than the chair, and exhaustion pulled at him in waves. But the problem—the real problem—was that he was suddenly too aware of Elaine.

He could feel the warmth of her body beside him, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. Every time she shifted, the blankets moved, the mattress dipped, and his entire body went rigid with hyper-awareness.

It was ridiculous. She wasn’t even touching him. There was a good few inches of space between them, and yet, Oscar still felt like she was everywhere.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe if he just stayed perfectly still—

Elaine shifted again, turning onto her side to face him. He could feel her gaze on him before she even spoke.

“Oscar,” she murmured.

He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

“I know you’re awake.”

Damn it.

Oscar sighed, cracking one eye open. “What?”

“You’re so tense it’s making me nervous.”

“I’m fine.”

Elaine huffed. “You’re about as ‘fine’ as a cat stuck in a bathtub.”

Oscar pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to acknowledge how stiff his body felt, how tightly wound he was just from lying here.

Elaine, ever perceptive, saw straight through him.

“Okay,” she murmured, shifting again. “Hang on.”

He barely had time to process her movements before she reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm.

Oscar froze.

Her touch was gentle, barely there, the pads of her fingers tracing slow, soothing lines against his skin.

“Relax,” she mumbled, voice already thick with sleep. “It’s just me.”

That’s the problem, Oscar wanted to say.

His pulse jumped, his entire body locking up. His instinct was to pull away, to escape the unfamiliarity of it—but before he could, Elaine’s touch changed.

She wasn’t teasing him this time.

Her fingertips glided over his forearm in slow, repetitive motions, tracing thoughtless patterns, featherlight and warm. The kind of touch that required no thought, no effort.

Oscar swallowed.

It was nice.

That was the worst part.

Slowly, hesitantly, he let himself breathe.

His shoulders loosened, his body sinking slightly into the mattress.

Elaine didn’t say anything else. She just kept drawing soft, absentminded shapes against his skin, like it was second nature.

Eventually, her movements slowed.

Then, they stilled entirely.

Her breathing evened out, deep and steady, as she finally drifted off.

Oscar exhaled, staring up at the ceiling again.

He was still wide awake.

The next day felt… different.

Not outwardly, not in any way that would be obvious to an outsider. Oscar and Elaine still bickered, still teased, still moved through the city with their usual dynamic—him rolling his eyes at her dramatic historical retellings, her making increasingly absurd claims just to get a reaction out of him.

But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the way Elaine’s hand brushed his when she passed him a museum ticket—fingers grazing against his palm just a second too long.

Maybe it was the way she stood closer than usual, their arms occasionally bumping as they walked.

Maybe it was the way she leaned into him—actually leaned into him—when she pointed out some obscure detail in a centuries-old painting, her shoulder pressing into his, her voice low near his ear.

Or maybe—maybe—it was the way they both noticed all of it.

Because for the first time, Oscar wasn’t just aware of Elaine’s presence—he was hyperaware. Of every glance, every touch, every moment that felt like it should be nothing but wasn’t.

Like now.

They were sitting on the steps of a canal bridge, finishing off the last of their coffees. The city moved around them—bikes whizzing past, boats drifting lazily through the water—but all Oscar could focus on was the fact that Elaine had kicked off her shoes, stretching her legs out beside his.

And that, at some point, her knee had come to rest against his.

It wasn’t intentional. Probably.

She didn’t seem to notice, at least not at first.

But then, a few minutes later, she shifted slightly, adjusting the way she sat—and didn’t move away.

Oscar didn’t either.

He should have. It would’ve been easy—just a small shift to the side, just an inch of space.

But neither of them moved.

The warmth of her knee against his felt… casual. Natural. Like it belonged there.

And Oscar should not be thinking about it this much.

Elaine turned to him, eyes bright. “Okay,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “What’s next on the itinerary, tour guide?”

Oscar forced his brain to catch up, to focus on something other than the warmth of her skin against his.

He cleared his throat. “There’s still the Anne Frank House,” he said, glancing at her. “Unless you’d rather find a café and keep giving me unsolicited history lessons.”

Elaine grinned. “Bold of you to assume I need another coffee for that.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but when he stood, he instinctively reached down to offer her a hand.

And when she took it—her fingers slipping easily into his, her grip warm and steady—Oscar realized two things.

One: he liked the way her hand fit in his.

And two: he was completely, utterly screwed.

And when night came, Elaine was doing it again.

Following him to his room like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged there.

Except tonight, she wasn’t talking.

The television played quietly in the background, some Dutch news channel filling the room with a low hum of voices neither of them paid attention to. Oscar moved around, going through his usual nighttime routine—checking his phone, answering a quick call from a McLaren team member, confirming a schedule for media duties on Thursday.

Elaine sat cross-legged on the bed, absentmindedly flipping through a travel guide she’d picked up earlier. She wasn’t reading it, though. Not really.

Oscar didn’t say anything about it.

He grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, disappearing into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he emerged, towel drying his hair, Elaine was still there.

Still silent.

Still watching.

Something about the way her eyes followed him felt… different.

He ignored it, tossing the towel aside as he started organizing a few things in his suitcase. He folded a shirt, straightened out a pair of socks. He was fully aware of how unnecessary it was—he didn’t need to be tidying up right now—but keeping his hands busy felt safer than acknowledging the weight of Elaine’s gaze.

She was looking at him like she was seeing something new.

Something she hadn’t noticed before.

Something she liked.

And that was dangerous.

Oscar cleared his throat, not looking at her. “So,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Are you just going to stay here again until you fall asleep mid-sentence?”

Elaine smirked, but it was softer than usual. “Tempting,” she admitted, stretching her legs out. “But I think I’ll actually leave before I make myself too comfortable this time.”

Oscar snorted. “Unlikely.”

But then she stood, padding toward the door in her socks.

For a second, he almost thought she’d just leave.

But she paused.

Turned back.

And before he could react, she reached out, running her fingers through his damp hair—just a quick, slow drag of her hand, like she was testing the texture.

Her touch sent something electric down his spine.

“You should do your hair like this more often,” she murmured, like it was just a passing comment.

But it wasn’t just a comment.

Not when her fingers lingered for a second too long. Not when her voice had that particular softness to it.

Not when Oscar was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was.

His throat felt dry. “Yeah?”

Elaine’s lips twitched, her hand dropping back to her side. “Yeah.”

And then, just like that, she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving Oscar standing there, heart beating a little too fast, hair still wet, and very much aware that something had just shifted between them.

Elaine had seen bits of it on TV before, the sleek garages, the bustling pit lane, the media swarming around like bees. But experiencing it in person? That was something else entirely.

She had no idea where to go, who to talk to, or what to do with herself. She barely even recognized anyone—except for the handful of drivers who had started frequenting the café. Everyone else? Just a blur of branded team uniforms and important-looking people rushing past like they had somewhere critical to be.

And so, naturally, she stuck to Oscar like a lost puppy.

At first, she tried to play it cool—walking beside him at a respectable distance, pretending to know exactly where she was going. But then they entered the McLaren hospitality suite, where engineers, media personnel, and team executives moved with swift efficiency, talking strategy, making notes, exchanging glances that said we have five million things to do before the weekend even starts.

Elaine hesitated. Paused mid-step. And before she knew it, she was trailing behind Oscar, practically stepping on his heels.

Oscar, of course, noticed immediately.

He glanced back at her, amused. “What are you doing?”

Elaine huffed. “I don’t know where to go.”

“You have a paddock pass.”

“Yes, but what does that mean?” she said dramatically. “Do I just… exist? Lurk in corners? Am I supposed to talk to people? Do I get free food?”

Oscar smirked, handing his bag off to a team member before crossing his arms. “I mean, I assume you can talk to people, but you don’t have to.*”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“You know Lando.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because you brought him to my café, not because I have a subscription to the ‘Who’s Who in F1’ club.” She looked around, frowning. “Where is he, anyway?”

Oscar checked his watch. “Media duties.”

“Ah. And you’re not doing that because?”

“Because I actually have things to do.”

“Rude.”

He smirked again, already turning towards the garage. Elaine made the mistake of hesitating, and suddenly he was ahead of her, navigating the chaos with practiced ease while she scrambled to keep up.

For the next twenty minutes, she followed him like a shadow—through the garage, past engineers, down the paddock lane. It didn’t go unnoticed. More than once, someone glanced at her, curious.

She felt ridiculous.

“I look like a stray dog,” she muttered under her breath.

Oscar snorted.

Elaine groaned, rubbing her temples. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do?”

Oscar finally stopped walking, turned to her, and let out a laugh. A real laugh. “You look so uncomfortable.”

“Because I am uncomfortable!” she whispered harshly. “I’m a history nerd at a motorsport event, Oscar! This is like throwing a fish into the desert!”

Oscar tilted his head. “That’s dramatic.”

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “You invited me. Fix it.”

He hummed, pretending to think. Then, with an infuriatingly casual shrug, he said, “Figure it out,” and kept walking.

Elaine groaned, dragging a hand down her face before jogging after him. Maybe being a stray dog wasn’t that bad.

She was learning.

By the time Friday’s practice sessions rolled around, she had figured out a few things:

Free food? Absolutely a thing. (Oscar had neglected to mention this, the menace.)

No one actually cared what she was doing as long as she wasn’t in the way.

Every time Oscar put his helmet on and got into the car, something in her stomach twisted—just a little.

That last part was not ideal.

She had spent the first free practice watching from the McLaren garage, trying not to look completely out of place as engineers muttered things about tire degradation and setup tweaks. Oscar had barely spared her a glance, too focused on whatever pre-session routine he had, and once he was in the car, she had expected him to be gone, mentally checked out.

Except��he had looked for her.

Just once. A brief flick of his eyes in her direction before the visor came down and he drove off.

And Elaine? She had no idea why her heart stuttered at that.

She spent the rest of the session in the garage, wearing a headset she barely understood, and when Oscar’s voice crackled through the radio—calm, measured, completely in his element—she felt something. Pride? Fascination? She wasn’t sure.

She distracted herself by making unnecessary notes in a small pocket journal she had brought, sketching out the circuit layout and writing down completely useless historical facts about the Netherlands. (Zandvoort was originally a fishing village. In 1955, the track had to be modified to reduce wind sensitivity.)

Oscar later found her curled up in the corner of the hospitality suite, scribbling away like an academic lost in a war zone.

He squinted at her notebook. “Are you taking—actual notes?”

Elaine didn’t look up. “Your tires suck.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Not my fault.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she teased.

He sighed, stealing a bite of whatever snack she had in front of her.

And just like that, the weekend blurred forward—brief exchanges, subtle touches, and something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

By the time Saturday passed by, Elaine realized just how fast Oscar was.

She hadn’t fully understood how much until she watched qualifying from the McLaren pit wall. Seeing the cars live, watching him weave through corners with pinpoint precision—it was different from seeing it on a screen.

And then came that moment.

When Oscar set a lap quick enough to push into Q3, the McLaren garage erupted. Cheers, high-fives, engineers nodding in approval. Elaine, caught up in the energy, grinned and turned—just as Oscar walked in, removing his helmet, shaking out his damp hair.

Their eyes met.

Elaine barely registered that she had started moving until she was right there, standing closer than she had any reason to be.

His breath was still heavy from exertion, his racing suit clinging to his frame. There was sweat at his temple, and for some stupid reason, her gaze flickered to his lips before snapping back up.

Oscar smirked.

She immediately took a step back.

“Good job,” she muttered, arms crossing.

“Thanks.” His voice was lower, rougher.

Something flickered between them—charged, weighty. Elaine hated it. (She didn’t hate it at all.)

Before she could dig herself into a deeper hole, Lando appeared, clapping Oscar on the back and breaking the spell.

Elaine exhaled. Crisis averted.

That night, a group naturally formed at the hotel bar. It wasn’t planned—just a product of circumstance, of familiar faces gravitating toward one another after a long day.

Lando was there, of course, along with a few other drivers—Verstappen, Russell, Leclerc. A couple of engineers. A few partners who had tagged along for the weekend. It was casual, low-key, everyone nursing drinks and unwinding.

Elaine had somehow ended up next to Oscar, which wasn’t surprising. It was instinct at this point.

What was surprising was how everyone else seemed to notice.

It wasn’t like they were doing anything out of the ordinary. They weren’t even touching. But their dynamic was so them—full of quiet familiarity, an ease that stood out amidst the rest of the group.

Oscar would grab his drink, and without thinking, Elaine would shift his phone closer so he wouldn’t knock it over.

Elaine would huff about something Lando said, and Oscar would shoot her a subtle, knowing smirk, like he already knew the exact way she’d react before she even did.

At one point, Elaine reached for something on the table—a stray napkin, a drink menu, something unimportant—and Oscar, mid-conversation, simply handed it to her without missing a beat.

The others noticed.

They didn’t say anything. But glances were exchanged, smirks barely hidden behind glasses.

Russell leaned back, watching with an amused tilt of his head. Max, swirling his drink lazily, flicked his gaze between them before raising a brow at Lando. Charles, seated across from Oscar, let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head to himself.

Then, as if to cement whatever silent conclusion they had all reached, Elaine accidentally knocked her phone off the table.

With a sigh, she slipped off her stool to grab it before it slid further away. As she ducked under the table, Oscar—without even looking—simply reached out and covered the sharp edge of the table with his hand, shielding it.

Elaine, entirely unaware, grabbed her phone and straightened, sliding back into her seat. She had no idea she had just avoided smacking her temple against the corner of the table.

But the others had definitely seen. Lando, Max, George, Charles. God, even the waiter passing by.

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. George took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with silent amusement. Max pressed his lips together, barely suppressing a knowing smirk. Charles let out a quiet chuckle, exchanging a look with Lando.

And no one said anything.

No teasing remark, no pointed comment. They didn’t need to.

Oscar, still half-listening to a conversation on his other side, finally turned his head, sensing the shift in the air.

His gaze swept over the group, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

Silence.

George took another sip of his drink, looking far too entertained. Lando just pressed his lips together, like he was physically holding back a laugh. Max and Charles shared a look, one that said no need to state the obvious.

Elaine, oblivious to the silent exchange happening around her, just frowned. "God, you’re all weird," she muttered, settling back into her seat.

Oscar, still confused but unbothered, just shook his head and turned back to his drink.

And yet, despite everything, the glances, the smirks, the knowing, didn’t fade.

Still, no one said anything.

No need.

It was only a matter of time.

Everything was a blur.

The moment Oscar crossed the finish line, the world erupted around him. The radio crackled with overlapping voices—his engineer shouting, Zak laughing, Lando’s excitement cutting through the chaos. The garage exploded on the broadcast screens, a wave of orange jumping and cheering, arms flung around shoulders. Champagne had already been cracked open before he had even stepped out of the car.

P2. A podium.

He should have been overwhelmed—the sheer scale of the moment, the deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of it pressing against his chest. But beneath the rush of adrenaline, something steadier, something quieter, was pulling at him.

Elaine.

Somewhere in that sea of orange, gripping the team radio headset like her own personal lifeline. Somewhere on the pit wall, tracking his every move. Watching him.

And for some inexplicable reason, that meant more than anything else.

The podium ceremony passed in a haze of flashing cameras and sticky-sweet champagne. His fireproofs clung to his skin, his pulse still thrummed from the race. Standing there on the second step, trophy in hand, he should have been drinking in the moment. He should have been lost in it.

But all he could think about was getting down. Getting to her.

The second he was free from the cameras, his feet carried him forward before his mind had even fully caught up. Through the paddock, past the endless congratulations, through the crowd of McLaren mechanics still celebrating.

And then—

There she was.

Standing just inside the garage, shifting on her feet, eyes flickering across the room like she was searching for something. Searching for him.

His legs carried him faster. The next thing he knew, his arms were around her, pulling her in, holding her tightly against him.

She let out a startled yelp, hands pressing against his chest. “Oh my god, you’re drenched.” Her voice was half-groan, half-laugh, warm against his shoulder. “Oscar, this is disgusting.”

He only held her tighter, grinning against her hair. “Don’t care.”

She made a dramatic noise of protest but didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled slightly in the damp fabric of his fireproofs, and slowly—almost reluctantly—she melted into him.

He could feel her breath, quick and light, against his collarbone. The warmth of her body pressed into his, grounding him in a way nothing else could. For a moment, he forgot about the crowd, the noise, the cameras. There was only her—her voice, her laugh, her heartbeat against his ribs.

Her hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin, gentle and unhurried. “You were incredible,” she murmured, so quietly that he barely caught it over the noise.

His chest tightened.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, expression raw with something too big to name. The way she was looking at him—it made his pulse stutter, made everything else feel small.

Her gaze flickered downward, just for a second.

Then she leaned in, tilting her head, clearly aiming for his cheek—

Someone called his name. Without thinking, he turned.

Their lips brushed.

The world stilled.

Elaine barely had time to react.

Her breath hitched, eyes widening as the realization of what had just happened crashed over her. Their lips had touched. It had been brief, accidental, nothing more than a brush—but the warmth of it lingered, tingling, refusing to fade.

She pulled back an inch, blinking fast. “Oh—shit, I—”

She never got to finish.

Oscar’s hand moved before he could think, fingers sliding up to cup the back of her neck, his grip firm but careful, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on. His thumb brushed against her skin, just below her ear, and Elaine’s breath hitched again—just for a second—before he closed the distance.

This time, it wasn’t an accident.

The moment their lips met again, the rest of the world melted away.

Elaine let out a soft, surprised noise against his mouth, but she didn’t hesitate. Her hands found his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as she pulled him closer—like he wasn’t already pressed against her, like there was still space left between them that needed to be closed.

Oscar responded in kind. His other arm tightened around her back, his grip firm, almost desperate, as if he could somehow hold onto the moment forever. She was warm against him, grounding in a way nothing else was, her lips soft and sure against his own. And when she sighed quietly into the kiss, something in his chest turned over, twisting in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Then—

The garage erupted.

The cheers hit all at once, loud and gleeful, laughter and whistles and the unmistakable sound of someone slapping the nearest hard surface in excitement.

Elaine barely had time to process it before—

“FUCKING FINALLY!” Lando’s voice, unmistakable, rang out over the noise, dripping with exasperated glee. Someone else whooped. Someone else actually clapped.

Elaine broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, face burning, eyes wide.

Oscar barely pulled away—just enough to look at her, to take in the stunned expression, the way her breath came uneven, the way her fingers were still tangled in his hair like she had no intention of letting go.

He huffed a laugh, breathless, forehead still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of it.

Elaine swallowed. “So, uh… does this mean you like me?”

His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her just a little closer, even though there was no space left between them to begin with.

“Jesus, Elaine.”

She grinned, dazed but teasing, her voice lighter than air. “I mean, you could’ve just told me. Would’ve saved us months of slow-burning bullshit.”

Oscar groaned, dropping his head slightly, and she could feel the soft huff of his laugh against her skin.

“Shut up.”

Then she smirked. “Make me.”

So he did.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

If you want to get added to my permanent taglist, just let me know!

ALSO IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR, TALK TO ME. I DON'T HAVE FRIENDS WHO LIKE F1 AND I FEEL LONELY. THIS IS A SERIOUS CALL FOR HELP.

#f1 fanfic #f1 x oc #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x oc

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faithshouseofchaos · 2 days ago

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Liam Mason Stroll master list

Taglist open

Summary — y/n l/n is a single mom due to a one night stand her son Liam love’s everything there was to do with cars who knew it was because his dad was an f1 driver.

Previous parts will be uploaded at a later date

#formula one x reader #lance stroll x oc #lance stroll imagine #lance stroll #lance stroll x reader #lance stroll x you #lance stroll x y/n #lance stroll fanfic #Lance stroll series #f1 x oc #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #f1 x you #f1 x reader #faiths master lists #faiths oc’s

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chilling-seavey · 3 days ago

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Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —THIRTEEN

↳ A/N A little lunch and learning some more George lore ;)

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 5.5k

↳ Chapter Warnings: None

The weather was warmer than it had been all year that particular Saturday. Rosaline was comfortable in her skirt and blouse, her jacket folded over her arm, as she lingered in the well-kept grounds of Blenheim Palace, awaiting the arrival of her company. Despite her love for history, she had never had the chance to visit Britain’s historic treasure; an impressive 18th-century castle nestled in the countryside just a quarter-hour drive north-west of Oxford. She hadn’t even stepped foot in the Palace yet and she already had her breath taken by the impressive architecture, rendering it in her mind as the Versailles of England.

Birdsong accompanied her waiting as she meandered down winding pathways lined with shrubbery and pristine gardens of blossoming flowers, gravel crunching under her feet with every step. Other visitors walked past her, sharing polite head-nods or ‘good morning’s, each dressed just as nicely for a morning stroll at such a location. Slacks, collared shirts, spring dresses—Rosaline felt right at home.

The buzz of her phone in her hand pulled her from her wandering mind and she peeked at the screen to reveal a text from George.

G: You look beautiful today

Rosaline smiled at the message and then looked up from her phone and scanned the gardens to see if she could see him. Her free hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun as she turned towards the palace. There, George’s familiar figure stood atop the slight embankment along the side of the Water Terraces Garden where she had been exploring. When she spotted him, he grinned and raised his hand up for a modest wave. She waved right back.

George waited for her as she headed to join him and she tried not to rush as she climbed the few steps up to the main walkway. She couldn’t help but notice his striped collared shirt tucked into slacks—not an unlikely outfit to see him wear—but the addition of the white cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders and tied pristinely over his chest added an air of casual outside of his usual lecturing suits. For a moment, Rosaline thought he looked younger like that; but perhaps it was the combination of the light coloured fabric and the bright spring sun.

“Good morning,” he greeted her with a handsome smile. He set his hand on her arm and leaned in to press a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Good morning,” Rosaline echoed, trying not to let her words falter from the pleasant surprise of his kiss.

His hand lingered on her arm even as he stepped back, his thumb caressing the soft skin of her bicep just under the sleeve of her blouse. In a gentle voice, he apologized, “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long, I forgot how far the parking lot is.”

Rosaline waved her hand as if to brush aside his concern, “No, you’re fine. It was nice to wander the gardens anyway.”

“I would have picked you up at your dorm but…you know how it is.”

The reminder of their risky relationship didn’t go unnoticed by Rosaline, but she shrugged with a casual smile, “It’s okay. I don’t mind the bus anyway.”

George’s eyebrows raised, “Oh, I don’t think anyone has ever said that before.”

They shared faint laughter for a fleeting moment.

Then, he gestured towards the palace, “Shall we, then?”

She smiled at him, nudging her glasses up her nose with the back of her index finger, and agreed with a sweet, “We shall.”

The entirety of Blenheim Palace was a historic relic and most of the rooms could be explored either with a tour guide or individually and, since George was arguably a walking encyclopedia, they chose to explore on their own. With tickets purchased in the main hall, George then led the way into the first collection of ornately decorated rooms lined with expensive portraits and custom furniture pieces from centuries ago.

It was quiet in the palace; other tour groups speaking in hushed tones and walking in slow, gentle steps to respect the delicateness of the space. Floorboards creaked here or there and the lofty ceilings carried even the slightest of whispers across the elaborately decorated rooms and the heaviness of a space weighed down by years of history lingered all around them.

Meandering side by side through one of the rooms, George and Rosaline took in the grandeur of the gold trimmed furnishings in peaceful silence. She peered up at the intricate carvings on the crown moulding around the perimeter of the room, admiring every detail.

“For the grandeur of this place, it was built for relatively cheap,” George explained quietly. When Rosaline looked over at him, as if wanting to know more, he continued, “It only cost a total of roughly £300,000 back in the 18th century.”

Rosaline’s eyes widened in surprise and she gestured her hand around, “For all this?”

“It’s been renovated on and off since but, yes, the integrity of the palace and a majority of its design and architecture is the same.” George answered without hesitation, “It’s a World Historic Site too.”

“I didn’t know you knew history just as well as you knew literature.” Rosaline teased lightheartedly as they walked through to the next room.

George shrugged modestly, his hands held behind his back as they took in the sights of the space around them, “Somewhat. History and classic literature often go hand in hand anyway.”

“Can’t know one without the other, really.” Rosaline added.

He glanced at her with a genuine smile, as if in awe of her, “Exactly.”

There was a momentary pause as they took in the new room they found themselves in.

Then, George added, “I also just really love Blenheim. It’s not far from Oxford so it’s worth the drive up to sit in the gardens and read or grade papers.”

“You’re like a love interest in one of those lovely literary classics, you know?” Rosaline complemented as they wandered aimlessly through the rooms of the palace, “Well dressed, well read, likes to sit in palace gardens…”

George’s lips turned up into a bashful smile and he glanced at her, “That’s some high praise, Miss Kent.”

“Just the truth,” Rosaline shrugged and followed it up with a playful, “You know I’m the best literary analyst in the class.”

George chuckled, the sound low and warm and it made her heart skip a beat. She smiled at him shamelessly as if making him laugh was the pride of her existence, admiring the sight of his well crafted profile amongst the backdrop of golds and velvets.

He nodded, humouring her with a light, “Yes, that is true.”

Rosaline stopped in the middle of the grand hall they had stepped foot in, surrounded by intricately carved stone columns that stretched up to the impressively high ceiling, supporting thick crown moulding around the trim of the arched ceiling. The emptiness of the vast space had their steps sounding like popping firecrackers over the marble floors, echoing upwards and to every corner of the hall.

Directly above them, the domed ceiling donned a Renaissance style painting depicting flushing figures in well-preserved colours against a romantic backdrop. It was trimmed and circled in intricate gold, the ceiling arching upwards towards its frame to draw the eye to the composition. Rosaline found herself getting a slight ache in her neck from how long she stood there, staring at the ceiling and all the minute details of the grand hall.

After a moment of appreciation, she followed George over to one section of the space where, along the wall, hung a collection of gold framed portraits, each depicting generations of the family that once resided in the palace walls. The two of them lingered in front of the small gallery, admiring the artistry of each brushstroke, side by side, silent. Rosaline’s attention was drawn to the nameplates, the name ‘Churchill’ standing out to her.

“Is this the Churchill family?” she inquired in a whisper so as to not disrupt other visitors.

George, without taking his eyes away from the paintings, replied, “Yes, Sir Winston Churchill was born here in 1874; and back in the 18th century, it was gifted to his ancestors as a celebration of the Victory won over France in the Spanish Succession.”

Rosaline looked at him again, once again privy to the way his expression was relaxed in the presence of subjects he was passionate about, of things that brought his heart and mind satisfaction. His ease of recall in remembering all these facts had a smile pricking at her lips and she looked back at the paintings. She calmly replied, “I wish you could teach me every class. You make everything feel so interesting.”

“I think you’re a tad biased,” George glanced at her with a playful smirk.

Rosaline scoffed and met his gaze, “Certainly not.”

“Well, I doubt I could make maths interesting.” he argued lightheartedly, “I reckon I’d put even myself to sleep with that one.”

“Oh, no,” Rosaline shook her head matter-of-factly as she looked back at the paintings like she was declaring nothing more than the evening news, “No one can make maths interesting. That would take a miracle worker.”

“I wouldn’t risk trying,” George replied.

When they naturally moved on from the Churchill family portraits, he set his hand on the small of her back to let her lead the way. Rosaline bit back her fond smile and kept her hands tucked under her light jacket she carried as if physically trying to stop herself from reaching out and touching him. Sure, they were safely away from Oxford but she still felt quite exposed exploring a museum with her professor on a Saturday. Forget that just earlier that week he had eaten her out to completion and then came all over her stomach.

Rosaline’s instinctive clear of her throat to rid those thoughts from her head echoed through the grand hall.

It was a given that George and Rosaline would inevitably find themselves in the library. Taking up almost a full length of the palace, the library stood just as grand as the rest of the interior, painted a nice calming yellow and accented with elaborate marble columns and trim. The ornate bookshelves were built out from the wall and stocked full of historic texts with gorgeous spines nestled behind dainty metallic mesh. At the far end of the library, all three walls were covered in bookshelves and a narrow ladder led to the mezzanine where another level of bookshelves lined the high walls.

Rosaline and George stood in awe, peering up at the millions of words that surrounded them, bathed in the noonday sunshine streaking in through the arched windows at the top of the lofty space. The ornately painted and carved ceiling details towered above them, cocooning the centuries of books within those well preserved walls.

They wandered closer to one of the shelves, knowing better than to touch the artifacts but desperately wanting to get a glimpse at any of the titles the library housed. As they peered through the thin metal mesh that protected the books, they both nearly held their breaths, side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

Rosaline was so entranced that she didn’t notice the way George was staring at her more than the books. It wasn’t until his fingers brushed her hand that she was pulled back to reality with a hitch of her breath at his unexpected touch. She kept her focus on the books as if to play it off coolly that she wasn’t fazed by his sudden display of affection, even if she truly couldn’t focus on anything but.

She relaxed her hand to welcome his into hers and she could feel the slight hesitation in his movements as he timidly intertwined his fingers with hers. Neither of them moved for a few long seconds as if what they were doing was horribly immoral and they would be stricken down at any moment. They kept their eyes forward, staring stupidly at the stocked bookshelves, hand in hand. Rosaline nibbled at her bottom lip.

Then, George spoke, casually, “You know, this library holds more than ten-thousand books.”

Rosaline glanced at him when he spoke, his words cutting through their momentary uncertain tension. The familiarity of his fun facts had a relaxed smile pricking at the corner of her lips. Her hand eased into the comfort of his.

“I wonder how many we’ve read.”

Rosaline didn’t realize how clammy your palms could get after holding hands for so long. By the time they reached the Orangery Restaurant and the host showed them to their table, they had already finished an entire tour of the palace without separating their hands once. When they sat down across from each other, they separated, and Rosaline discreetly wiped her palm on her skirt under the table.

George was peering out of the white trimmed windows overlooking the gardens as they settled at their table. The mid-day sun streaked in prettily through the glass and across the marble floors of the renovated orangery, the rays of light making George’s hair look almost blonde. Rosaline felt like she was dreaming.

He had said this wasn’t necessarily a date but she figured it wouldn’t hurt anyone for her to silently pretend it was. Besides, he was a damn good option for her first ever date.

A brief silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Rosaline took the opportunity to actually look at him, at the way the sunlight softened the usual sharpness of his features. He looked relaxed, like he was entirely at home. And so, so pretty. She captured her bottom lip between her teeth as she shamelessly admired him and his profile in the midday sunshine.

After a moment, he turned his attention away from the gardens and back to her, “I still can’t believe you’ve never been here before. You’re the writer. I’d have thought a place like this would’ve called to you, especially with it being so close to Oxford.”

Rosaline picked up the menu in front of her but barely glanced at it, “I didn’t even know it existed. Clearly I need to get out of those dorms more.”

George smiled over at her, his own menu in hand, amusement flickering in his eyes, “I think we can work on that.”

“Mm,” Rosaline scrunched up her nose in playful doubt, replying with a sarcastic teasing, “I dunno, my Classic Literature professor is a real stickler with the assignments.”

George let out a breathy chuckle, “Oh, wow, he sounds like a right arse.”

“He’s okay,” she smiled back at him.

Their gazes lingered for a moment before they both looked down at their menus. Rosaline found herself rereading every item, unable to process what anything was saying; it was as if she was running so strongly on adrenaline and infatuation that her logical part of her brain was lagging behind. She reached for her water glass and took a sip to try and calm down for a moment.

“See anything you fancy?” George asked her after a moment.

“Mm, it all looks great,” she answered as if any of the words actually processed in her brain. She nudged her glasses up her nose with the back of her index finger and turned it back on him, “What are you having?”

“Always the same thing,” said George with a smile, “Their fish and chips are the best I’ve had. And that’s saying something since I’ve sworn by the chip shop in my hometown for decades.”

Rosaline set her menu down, “I’ll have the same then.”

“A beautiful woman who has good taste; what a catch,” George praised.

She folded her arms on top of her menu, leaning towards him with playfully narrowed eyes, “Was that a fish pun?”

George genuinely tossed his head back with a laugh, hand over his chest and everything, “Oh my gosh, not an intentional one.”

Laughter lingered between them, soft and easy, just as the waiter arrived to take their orders. When they were alone again and the menus were gone from in front of them and their drink orders had been quickly delivered, a momentary silence fell once again. George’s eyes drifted back out to the gardens, his arms folded calmly on the edge of the table. Rosaline lifted her glass of soda from the table and took a sip.

“So this chip shop in your hometown,” Rosaline started, swirling her straw around her glass absentmindedly, “Is it one of those mom-and-pop shops?”

As if thrilled by the chance to talk about his hometown, George turned back to her with a grin, “Yeah! Yeah, it is. My family got quite close with the owners over the years—this older couple with no kids of their own—and I frequented it often during secondary school. They always gave me a good discount. Saw me like a son, really.”

Rosaline smiled and set her glass back down to give him her undivided attention, “That’s sweet.”

George’s expression faltered for just a moment, his tone falling quieter, “I attended the husband’s funeral in the winter.”

“Oh,” Rosaline’s shoulders sank, “that’s heartbreaking.”

“Yeah, the wife sold the shop because she couldn’t keep it going on her own and she’s getting up there in age too. The new owners changed so much, it’s really not the same. But it will always exist in my memory; the crispy breading, thick-cut chips, the smell of grease on every surface.”

“The melancholy of growing older and being forced to accept that things are no longer what they used to be.”

George cocked his brow at her playfully to lighten the mood, “What do you know about getting older?”

“Plenty,” she laughed lightly.

“At the ripe age of, what, twenty-two?”

Rosaline folded her hands together under her chin, elbows on the table as she stared back at him, “Yes. I have my own life experiences.”

George just stared at her for a moment with a melancholy upturn to his lips and he spoke to her with a kindness that came with his twelve added years of experience, “You’ll have hundreds more and, someday, you’ll look back at yourself in this very moment and think about the million things you should have done differently.”

“No,” she insisted, “not this.”

He let out a soft breath as his face melted into a bit more of a smile. He unfolded his arms and reached across the table for two to take her hand from under her chin before guiding it by her fingers towards his mouth. Rosaline’s heart flipped in her chest as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles, his eyelashes closed gently atop his cheeks.

When he looked at her again, he held her hand in both of his, thumbs gently rubbing over her skin. He didn’t offer a verbal reply, but she could see the honesty in his steadfast gaze.

In that moment, Rosaline didn’t want to think of the possibility of a future without George in it. In all honesty, she had been so caught up in the ‘here and now’ of their agreement that she had forgotten to think ahead and what it would look like in the future…after graduation. She swallowed back those thoughts and kept staring back into his eyes, earning her another few gentle kisses to her knuckles by his soft lips.

They separated by the time the waiter returned with their plates of crispy golden fish atop a heap of french fries and they passed the salt between them and took their time beginning to eat. Rosaline had to agree that it was arguably the best fish and chips she had in a while.

She balanced eating with admiring her company, taking in every little detail down to the way he held his fork and knife and how he didn’t eat his chips with his fingers like almost everyone did. As he raised his fork with a spiered french fry on the end to his mouth, the sun caught the wristwatch peeking out from under his sleeve. He was always so put together, the perfect idealized man in her eyes. It made her wonder why he was still a bachelor in his mid-thirties.

They ate in silence for a little while, Rosaline toying with whether or not it would be appropriate to ask such a question before, finally, she spoke, “Can I ask you something?”

George looked over at her as he lifted his glass from the table, “Of course.”

He kept his eyes on her as he took a sip.

“You don’t have to answer,” she assured.

“Try me,” he pressed.

Rosaline dropped her hands to the side of her plate, willing herself to speak, “Do you…you’re single, right?”

She internally cringed at how awkward it came out. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip to hide her grimace.

George’s face bent into an amused smile and he set his glass back down on the table with a dull clunk, “Yes, I’m very much single. I would not be taking you out to my favourite sights or partaking in our agreement if I wasn’t.”

“Okay,” Rosaline nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Did you think I wasn’t single?” George questioned, cutting another piece of fish casually.

Rosaline shrugged, “Just…hard to believe that you are.”

He glanced over at her again, “Why’s that?”

Rosaline huffed a nervous laugh at his obvious pressing for her confession and she shifted in her chair, “You’re just so…wonderful so it’s strange to think that no one has laid claim on you yet.”

George visibly melted at her soft words and he set his fork down to give the conversation his full attention, “You’re sweet, Rose.”

“It’s true,” she insisted, “I keep waiting for something to happen…some twist to reveal to me that all is not as I’ve been led to believe.”

“Well, I can promise I am single. I have been for about a year now.” he told her, genuinely, “And anything you want to know, I will tell you. I’m an open book to you.”

Rosaline shifted in place for a moment, weighing the options of things she could ask now that he had given her the okay. She nudged her glasses up her nose and crossed her legs under the table and started with the first question that lingered at the forefront of her mind, “Why did the last relationship end?”

George settled back into his chair as his gaze dropped to the tabletop, “Starting with the deep questions now, are you?”

Rosaline flushed, “Sorry, I—”

He politely waved his hand between them as if to brush aside her apology before he answered her question, “We were engaged, actually, for about a year, but I was so focused on my career, my research, my publications, giving everything in me to Oxford, that it got between us. I couldn’t give her the kind of work-life balance she expected of me.

“My career is something I’ve poured everything into, something I’ve worked tirelessly for. I just can’t imagine giving any of it up—not now, not ever. And if a partner can’t understand that, then that’s not the person for me.” George explained so eloquently, so calmly, the truth heavy in his words.

“I’m sorry,” Rosaline exhaled softly. “It must hurt when someone you love doesn’t understand your priorities.”

“It’s fine—it was a mutual agreement,” George shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

A brief silence lingered.

Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, George added, “But she never read poetry.”

Rosaline smiled in dramatic shock, “Never? Maybe you dodged a bullet then.”

George laughed, “Perhaps so.”

He shared some more with her about his past, from his first little girlfriend in primary school to his awkward first kiss behind the aforementioned chip shop in his hometown. Although Rosaline enjoyed hearing his stories and learning about him, the evil glint of jealousy in knowing he had been with plenty of women in his past tugged at her heart.

So, once their plates were empty and cleared and they each dug their forks into the piece of pie to share, Rosaline turned the conversation to something lighter with a simple, “When’s your birthday?”

“My birthday?” George’s eyebrows raised in amused surprise at her question, his forkful of pie held in midair, “February 15th.”

“Oh, so it’s already passed.”

George smiled and took his bite of pie, “There will be another.”

After lunch, George insisted on paying, despite Rosaline’s protests to split the bill. She felt a twinge of discomfort, her desire to contribute stemming from her forced independence that she had grown accustomed to through her life, but his quiet insistence left no room for argument. The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering through the gardens of Blenheim Palace, hand in hand, discussing literature, their lives, and everything in between. It felt effortless, like something they’d been doing forever. Rosaline tried not to let herself get ahead of the moment.

They climbed into the front seat of George’s Mercedes together in anticipation to head back to Oxford. Rosaline glanced around the interior of the car with her hands folded on her lap, taking note of how pristine it all was, not even a speck of dust on the dashboard. It was something she hadn’t noticed before the last time he had driven her home, but perhaps, after the day they had just shared, she was starting to see more of who he was underneath his handsome exterior.

As he turned the key in the ignition, George asked, “Should I drop you off at the dorms then?”

“Um,” Rosaline tucked her hair behind her ear as she tore her gaze away from admiring the car to look over at him. In reality, the concept of saying goodbye felt absolutely dreadful to her. She decided to try her luck, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

George’s eyes widened as if that was the last thing he had expected her to say. He blinked at her, processing, and she could almost see his brain hurriedly debating the pros and cons of such a situation. She opened her mouth to take it back, but he spoke first.

“Alright, if you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” she exhaled with a smile she tried to bite back to avoid looking absolutely psycho, “if that’s okay with you.”

“Should be,” George nodded as he buckled his seatbelt, “Just…no getting any ideas, okay? That’s not what I wanted out of today.”

“Fine with me,” Rosaline agreed. She’d give anything just to spend as much time with him as possible.

They drove through the countryside back to Oxford to the soft sounds of radio. They didn’t talk—having done enough of that during their time at the Palace—but the calmness of the drive was relaxing. Rosaline kept stealing glances over at George as he drove, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the centre console. He looked so effortlessly handsome and suddenly the idea that she was going to be staying the night at his house had butterflies filling her stomach.

It helped that she had been to his house before, almost a sense of familiarity easing the slight nervousness inside her as he pulled into the narrow driveway and parked. She peered through the windshield up at the modest white paneled townhouse as they unbuckled and she followed him up the front steps to the jingling of his keys in hand.

He apologized for the mess, not having expected to have company, but in reality, there didn’t look to be much mess at all. It simply looked homely, lived in, with items on the coffee table and mail stacked on the foyer console.

She followed him into the kitchen and he offered her something to drink like a good host and, with her glass of water in hand, she stood with him as he made something simple for dinner. Their conversation flowed naturally, laughter filling the room with warmth and their voices carrying through the main floor when the topic got more exciting.

Once the pan was in the oven, Rosaline found her way in front of him, trapping him against the counter as her hands helped themselves around his waist. He didn’t push her away—he never did—and, instead, his fingers stroked through the ends of her soft hair as he stared into her eyes. They shared a few slow, lingering kisses in the privacy of his kitchen after a long day of going without.

His hands felt so good on her body, even in all the innocent places he touched over her hips and her back, and Rosaline’s arms draped around his shoulders until they were chest to chest. It was sweet and languid and yet it still had her heart absolutely racing with every small sound of their lips meeting and parting. She swore she could have kissed him forever. The timer on the oven broke them out of their reverie with a startle.

They sat at the kitchen table and each had a serving of the shepherd’s pie he made; a family recipe that his mum used to always make when he was a kid. It was a little dry but Rosaline didn’t offer a single complaint, it was still overall quite tasty. Besides, she was his guest and it wasn’t like it was realistic for him to be good at everything.

After eating, they shared the responsibility of washing the dishes (even if George insisted that she didn’t have to help) and then cuddled up together on the couch in the living room to watch a movie. Rosaline was impressed with herself at her ability to act normal and not let her hands go wandering. In fact, she was enjoying herself so much just being with him that there wasn’t even much of a need for anything more.

When the film was over and the night was coming to a close, Rosaline followed him up to the second floor and he showed her where the bathroom was, right at the top of the stairs, and then the small guest room and, finally, his bedroom. Situated at the front of the house, his bedroom was painted a deep royal blue with matching trim to that of the main floor, housing gold framed paintings here and there along the walls. Dark furniture and an antique paisley rug filled the modest space with a matching masculine bedspread tucked neatly over the sizable queen size bed and topped with two throw pillows. Warm, elegant, homey, him.

“It’s up to you if you want to stay in the guest room or in here with me,” George told her from the doorway, “No pressure.”

Rosaline turned to face him from the centre of his room, her cheeks dusted pink with the unfamiliar concept of sharing a bed with a man despite how much her heart yearned for it, “Can I stay in here?”

George smiled softly, “If you wish. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He let her borrow some of his clothes for bed: sweats and a t-shirt that were only slightly too big on her. She changed in the bathroom and he, of course, didn’t bat an eye. Once they were both washed up, George took the responsibility of taking off the two decorative pillows from the bed and then moved to close the curtains.

As he did so, Rosaline helped herself under the sheets and took off her glasses, folding them and setting them on the bedside table, and then snuggled down, pulling the covers up to her chin. After months of sleeping on a lumpy dorm mattress apart from the odd weekend at home, the feeling of a real bed was heavenly. She sighed dreamily, “Your bed is so cozy.”

George chuckled and pulled back the covers to join her on the other side of the bed, teasing lightly, “I’ve heard it’s even better with two people in it.”

She giggled, “Not that I’d know.”

George settled and turned his head to look at her with a smile, “Now you do.”

She met his gaze, illuminated only by the warm light of the bedside sconces and shadowed in some places. After a moment, she whispered, “Thank you for today. I loved it.”

George smiled genuinely, his eyes crinkling slightly in the corners, “My pleasure.”

Then, as if driven by instinct, Rosaline moved her body closer, the sheets rustling around them, and he lifted them up to welcome her against him. His arm settled around her waist and he let out a peaceful exhale against her head.

“Are you a cuddler?” she asked with a small giggle.

“Very much so,” he replied lightly.

“Mm,” she shifted under his arm again, “show me how.”

George’s breathy chuckle fell against her temple, “Alright, face away from me. Hope you like being the little spoon.”

As Rosaline rolled over as per his instruction, she couldn’t help the leap of her heart at his words and the way he pulled her body back against his chest to mould to the shape of him. Once they settled, she replied with a simple yet cheeky,

“Guess we’ll see.”

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 days ago

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Hadley Mae Sargeant master list

Summary — now that Logan isn’t racing full time anymore he can spend more time with his daughter and wife.

Taglist open

Requests open

Previous parts from my old blog coming soon!

#logan sargeant x oc #logan sargent fluff #logan sargeant one shot #logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant #logan sargent x reader #logan sargeant x you #logan sargeant x reader #f1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x yn #f1 x oc #faiths master lists #faiths ocs

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neferaskingdom · 4 months ago

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♡ Vegas Baby | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: After winning his fourth world championship, Max Verstappen stuns the world with a live radio proposal.

A/N: This was inspired by this post by @altxanna idea so good it made me get over my writer's block and write this 4.2k monstrosity.

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Max Verstappen crossed the finish line in fifth place, but that didn’t matter. The entire world was fixated on the fact that he had just won his fourth World Championship.

“AND MAX VERSTAPPEN DOES IT AGAIN! FOUR WORLD TITLES!” David Croft shouted, his voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. The Las Vegas skyline lit up like a fireworks display on overdrive, the crowd roaring in approval.

“Forget where he finished—he’s a four-time world champion!” Martin Brundle yelled, equally excited. “This is history!”

Max, however, barely seemed to notice he’d crossed the line in fifth. He was just… Max. Calm. Collected. His voice came through the radio, steady as always, but with a hint of amusement.

“Thanks, guys. It’s been an incredible season. I’m so proud of the team. Huge thanks to GP, Christian, everyone.”

“You’ve done it, Max! Four-time champion, man!” GP screamed, clearly unable to keep the excitement in. “This is massive, mate! You’ve earned this!”

“Yeah, I know,” Max said, his voice deadpan. “But listen, there’s one more thing.”

The radio went quiet for a second.

“Uh… What’s that, Max?” GP asked, his tone suddenly cautious.

Max didn’t respond right away. Then, he casually dropped the bomb.

“Y/n, a bet’s a bet. We’re getting married tonight.”

“WHAT?!” GP exploded. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Max’s tone didn’t change. “We’re getting married. Vegas chapel. Tonight.”

The entire Red Bull garage froze. Even the other engineers looked around in total confusion.

Max continued, his voice as if he were discussing the weather. “It’s been planned. I won the fourth title, she agreed to the bet, so… wedding time.”

GP sputtered. “Max, you—WHAT? No, no, no. You can’t just say that on the radio! You can’t just—”

“I’m doing it,” Max said, already tired of the conversation. “It’s happening. Vegas. Tonight.”

The radio was dead silent for a long moment, then GP finally spoke, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and dread. “Max, I—What in the world did I just hear? Are you seriously making your wedding announcement over the team radio?”

“Of course, I’m serious,” Max replied. “She said if I won my fourth title in Vegas, I could pick the wedding date. So, I picked tonight.”

“Max, you can’t—you—what the hell is wrong with you?!” GP spluttered.

Back in the commentary booth, David Croft could barely hold it together. “Did Max Verstappen just announce his wedding on live radio after winning his fourth world championship? Is that what I just heard?!”

“I think that’s exactly what you heard, Crofty,” Martin Brundle said, voice dripping with astonishment. “This is pure, unfiltered Verstappen.”

David Crofty just stared at the screen, blinking in disbelief. “Honestly, I can’t even process this. We’ve seen some wild moments in F1, but this... this might just take the cake.”

“Yeah,” Brundle said with a chuckle. “You can’t script this stuff. Not even in Vegas.”

Meanwhile, in Red Bull’s hospitality area, Y/n was standing stock-still, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. The radio call still blaring in her ears.

“Did—did he just announce our wedding? Like… right now?!” she hissed, her hand gripping the counter in disbelief.

A Red Bull mechanic standing nearby looked just as stunned. “Uh, I think he did, yeah.”

“He’s lost it,” one engineer muttered under his breath, his face pale.

“I don’t even know what’s happening anymore,” another whispered.

The others weren’t any better off, most of them looking like they might faint. A PR rep came over, trying to maintain professionalism but clearly in shock. “Y/n, um… Max just… did he just announce your wedding?”

“Don’t look at me,” Y/n groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t even… He’s the worst.”

“Vegas, baby!” another joked, only to get smacked in the arm by Y/n as she stormed past.

Back on the track, Max, utterly relaxed, parked his car in parc fermé and stepped out, throwing his helmet in the air before catching it like it was no big deal.

“So, yeah,” Max said, grinning at the cameras. “Got my fourth title, and now I get to marry my girl. Vegas chapel, let’s go!”

The reporters and photographers surrounding him stared at him in utter confusion.

“Wait, what? You’re—what?!” one reporter stammered.

Max smirked. “Yep, Vegas. I won, she lost, and now we’re getting married.”

He tossed a thumbs-up to the camera as if it were a completely normal thing to say.

“Max,” one reporter finally managed, “you’re serious about this, right? You’re really getting married in Vegas?”

Max’s grin widened. “I’m serious. A bet’s a bet. No turning back.”

Back in the Red Bull garage, chaos had officially set in. Christian Horner, who had been pacing for the last five minutes, finally stopped and glared at a nearby mechanic. “What am I supposed to do with this now?!”

“I don’t know, Christian,” the mechanic said, holding up his hands in defeat. “Maybe we start picking out flowers?”

“Someone get me a drink,” Christian muttered, walking off, leaving a sea of confusion behind him.

Y/n stormed through the paddock like a woman possessed, her face a mix of disbelief, panic, and barely contained rage.

She spotted Max leaning casually against a barrier in parc fermé, looking like he had no care in the world—despite having just announced their impending Vegas wedding to the entire world. He was surrounded by Lewis, Fernando, George, and Carlos, who were all still there congratulating him and clearly trying to comprehend what had just happened.

“MAX!” Y/n screeched as she closed the distance.

Max turned, his smug grin stretching even wider. “Oh, there she is! The future Mrs. Verstappen. Took you long enough.”

Y/n planted herself directly in front of him, glaring. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Max blinked, his expression far too innocent. “What? I kept my promise.”

“Your promise?” Y/n echoed, incredulous. “You hijacked the championship celebration to announce a fake wedding! On LIVE TELEVISION!”

“It’s not fake,” Max said matter-of-factly. “A bet is a bet.”

Carlos, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, wait, wait. You bet your wedding on the championship?”

“Of course,” Max said with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m a man of my word.”

George choked on air. “You’re a menace.”

“Exactly,” Y/n said, throwing her hands in the air. “Max, this is insane! You can’t just—”

“Relax, schatje,” Max interrupted, his tone annoyingly casual. “It’s Vegas. This is what people do here.”

“Not normal people!” Y/n snapped.

Lewis, still dabbing at his face with a towel, gave a bewildered laugh. “I’m sorry, are we actually talking about a real wedding right now?”

“Yes,” Max said confidently. “Tonight.”

“No,” Y/n shot back.

“Yes.”

“MAX!”

“Yes, Y/n,” Max said, leaning forward slightly. “We are getting married tonight, and that’s final.”

“Final?!” she spluttered. “How is this final? There’s no plan, no venue, no—”

“Vegas has plenty of chapels,” Max interrupted smoothly.

“I don’t have a dress!”

“You’ll look great in anything,” Max countered.

Y/n groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even have someone to walk me down the aisle!”

Max tilted his head, clearly unbothered. “Oh, that’s easy.” He turned to his left, where Lewis stood mid-sip from his water bottle. “Lewis! Can you walk Y/n down the aisle tonight?”

Lewis froze, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Can you walk her down the aisle?” Max repeated, as if this were a completely reasonable request.

“I—” Lewis blinked, looking between Max and Y/n. “Uh… sure?”

“What?! No!” Y/n shouted.

“Why me?” Lewis asked, baffled.

Max shrugged. “You’re a world champion. She deserves someone of high status.”

Before Y/n could combust, Fernando Alonso stepped forward, a sly grin on his face. “Hold on,” he said, raising a hand. “If anyone is walking her down the aisle, it should be me. I’m the most appropriate for the role.”

Lewis turned to him, visibly confused. “How do you figure that?”

Fernando gave a dramatic shrug. “Experience. I’m wiser, more distinguished. A father figure, if you will.”

Y/n groaned, “Oh my God, Fernando—”

Lewis snorted. “Father figure? Please. More like grandfather figure.”

The group exploded into laughter. George doubled over, wheezing, while Carlos clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his own cackles.

“You wound me, Hamilton,” Fernando said, his tone mock-offended.

“Yeah, but I’m not wrong,” Lewis quipped, smirking.

“This is not happening,” Y/n muttered, covering her face with her hands.

Max leaned closer to her, his grin pure mischief. “See? Problem solved. You have two excellent candidates to walk you down the aisle.”

“This is NOT solved!” Y/n screeched.

George finally spoke up, still chuckling. “You know, for the record, this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen”

“Agreed,” Carlos said, shaking his head with a grin. “But I can’t look away.”

Max clapped his hands together. “Alright, then. We’re all set! Lewis or Fernando—it’s Y/n’s choice.”

“I CHOOSE NEITHER!” she yelled, clearly on the verge of a breakdown.

Max leaned back, entirely unfazed. “Suit yourself. But one way or another, schatje, we’re getting married tonight.”

Y/n turned to the other drivers, her eyes pleading. “Can someone PLEASE talk some sense into him?”

Lewis shrugged. “I don’t know, Y/n. He seems pretty set on it. You might just have to roll with it.”

Fernando smirked. “And let me know when you decide. I’ll be practicing my ‘giving away the bride’ speech.”

George buried his face in his hands again, mumbling, “This is a fever dream.”

Y/n, meanwhile, was contemplating her life choices as Max grinned at her, utterly pleased with himself. This was going to be a nightmare—and she was the star attraction.

Suddenly, Lando came sprinting out of nowhere, practically skidding to a stop in front of Max. His curls were a chaotic mess, and his face was split into an ear-to-ear grin that made him look like an overexcited puppy.

“MAX!” Lando yelled, throwing his arms up. “FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION! YOU LEGEND! Also mate, what the hell?! Are you really getting married?!”

Max turned, his ever-present grin widening. “Obviously.”

“I thought it was just a rumor!” Lando said, flinging his helmet onto a nearby table. “I mean, come on, you say insane stuff on the radio all the time! I figured this was one of those things.”

“Nope.” Max popped the “p” for emphasis. “It’s happening. Tonight.”

Y/n, who had been pacing nearby in a futile attempt to process her life choices, groaned audibly. “I hate all of you. All of you.”

Lando glanced at her, then back at Max. “Wait, so this is real? Like… actually real?”

“As real as it gets,” Max replied, clapping Lando on the shoulder. “And since you’re here…”

Lando squinted. “Since I’m here, what?”

Max’s grin turned sly, his hand still on Lando’s shoulder. “How do you feel about being my best man tonight?”

Lando froze, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Max said, still looking far too pleased with himself.

“Me?!” Lando gestured wildly at himself, his voice rising an octave. “Why me?!”

“Why not you?” Max countered smoothly.

“I don’t know!” Lando threw up his hands. “You could ask your trainer, your engineer—anyone! We’ve been rivals this entire year!”

Max tilted his head, his expression softening slightly. “Exactly. We’ve had a lot of ups and downs this year, yeah? Fighting for the championship and everything. But at the end of the day…” He paused, his grin shifting to something more genuine. “You’re a good friend, Lando. One of the best. And I’d like us to bury the hatchet. Tonight.”

The sudden sincerity hit Lando like a truck. His eyes widened, his lip quivering just a little as he stared at Max. “Max…”

The group went quiet—well, as quiet as it could be with the chaos of the paddock swirling around them. Even Y/n stopped pacing to stare, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You really mean that?” Lando asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“Of course,” Max said, giving Lando a firm pat on the back. “You’ve been there through all of it, mate. Who else would I want standing next to me tonight?”

Lando’s hand flew to his face, his bottom lip wobbling. “Oh my God. I think I’m gonna cry.”

“Don’t cry,” George mumbled, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “This is ridiculous enough already.”

“Shut up, George!” Lando snapped, though it lacked any real venom. He sniffled, blinking rapidly. “Max, you big idiot. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Max smirked. “Well, don’t get used to it.”

Y/n, watching this entire exchange with her arms crossed, muttered under her breath, “I cannot believe this is my life right now.”

Carlos, standing nearby, leaned over to George and whispered, “Do you think Lando will actually cry at the altar?”

“Oh, 100%,” George replied without hesitation.

“I’M NOT CRYING!” Lando shouted, wiping furiously at his eyes.

“Sure, mate,” Carlos said, grinning.

“Shut up!” Lando whirled back to Max, pointing a slightly wobbly finger at him. “Fine! I’ll do it. I’ll be your best man. But only because that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good.” Max nodded approvingly. “We’re gonna have a great time. Bring tissues, though. You’ll need them.”

Lando groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re emotional,” Max teased, clapping him on the back again.

“Can I leave now?” Y/n interjected, looking thoroughly exasperated.

“Nope,” Max said cheerfully. “We’ve still got wedding planning to do. And Lando needs to rehearse his speech.”

“Speech?!” Lando exclaimed, his face paling. “No one said anything about a speech!”

“Oh, come on,” Carlos said, grinning. “Just wing it.”

“This is a nightmare,” Y/n muttered.

“See, schatje?” Max said, turning to her with a mischievous smile. “Everything’s settled”

“Kill me now,” she groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

“Not before the wedding,” Max quipped. “I need my bride alive, schatje.”

Carlos, grinning, nudged George. “Do you think she’ll kill him before they even make it to the altar?”

“I actually might” Y/n snapped, making everyone laugh—except her.

Max clapped his hands together, cutting through the lingering laughter. “Alright, boys, fun’s over. See you after the podium, yeah?”

Carlos snorted, throwing an arm around George. “Come on, hombre. Let’s get out of here before they decide to do something crazier.”

Max turned to Carlos, his grin turning devious. “Speaking of you, Carlos, I need another groomsman. What do you say?”

Carlos blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Me? Really?”

“Obviously,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “You’re good at standing around looking pretty. Perfect for the job.”

“I’m honored,” Carlos said, puffing out his chest dramatically.

Y/n, standing a few feet away, raised her hand. “Dibs on George for my side, then.”

George’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what?”

“I called dibs,” Y/n said firmly, crossing her arms.

“That’s not how this works!” Max exclaimed, glaring at her.

“It is now,” she shot back, grinning.

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You are impossible.”

“You’re marrying me,” she said sweetly. “This is your problem now.”

Before Max could argue further, he grabbed her hand, tugging her away from the group. “We need to pick more people. Properly.”

As they walked through the paddock, Max started listing names under his breath. “Alright, I want Charles on my side.”

“No way,” Y/n said immediately.

Max frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I’m picking him,” Y/n declared, speeding up her pace as soon as she spotted Charles standing by his car.

Max groaned. “You can’t just steal all the good ones!”

“Watch me.”

By the time they reached Charles, Y/n was already stepping in front of Max, her grin wicked. “Charles! You’re going to be my maid of honor.”

Charles looked up, his face blank with confusion. “Wait, what?”

Max shoved Y/n aside, scowling. “Ignore her, Charles. You’re going to be one of my groomsmen.”

“No, he’s not!” Y/n snapped, stepping back in front of Max.

“Yes, he is!” Max shot back, sidestepping her.

Charles blinked between them, his brows furrowing. “What is happening right now?”

“You’re gonna help me with my wedding,” Y/n said, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. “It’s happening tonight.”

Charles just stared at her, still not sure if he was in a dream or being pranked. “Uh… are you serious?”

“Charles, listen to me,” Y/n said, grabbing his hands dramatically. “I need you on my side. You’re the only one who understands how insane Max is.”

Max pulled her back by the shoulder. “He does not understand that! He’s my friend, not yours.”

Charles raised a hand. “Guys, what—”

“Do you really want to stand next to Max?” Y/n asked, cutting him off.

Max glared at her. “Do you really want to be stuck with her?”

“I feel like I don’t want to be stuck with either of you,” Charles said cautiously, his confusion growing.

“Charles,” Y/n pleaded, gripping his arm. “Please. You’ll get to wear something cool”

Charles blinked, still completely befuddled. “I… I don’t know what’s happening. Am I even invited to this wedding? Because you’re asking me to do a lot without any context.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Max interjected, gesturing wildly. “You’ll have more fun on my side. I’ll let you hold the rings.”

“No we’re letting Yuki hold the rings!” Y/n shouted.

Charles blinked again, looking between them like they’d both lost their minds. “Are you two seriously fighting over me right now?”

“Yes!” they yelled in unison.

Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Say yes to me, Charles,” Y/n said, batting her eyelashes.

“No, say yes to me,” Max countered, practically growling.

Charles threw his hands up. “Fine! I’ll be on Y/n’s side. But only because she asked first.”

Y/n cheered, sticking her tongue out at Max. “Suck it!”

“I feel like I should be insulted,” Max muttered as Charles smirked at him.

The wedding was somehow happening. In the span of a few hours—thanks to an intense series of last-minute phone calls, frantic text messages, and a team of Red Bull employees being worked to the bone—the ceremony was set to begin. And despite the fact that no one really knew how they’d gotten here, the whole thing had turned into the weirdest Formula 1 event in history.

Y/n stood in the back, adjusting her dress, eyeing the people around her in disbelief. Max had somehow managed to throw together an entire wedding in record time, which was somehow both impressive and terrifying. She was walking down the aisle with Lewis and Fernando—two of the most iconic figures in F1. She couldn’t decide between them, so she’d invited both to walk her down the aisle. Because, why not?

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Lewis asked, smoothing out his jacket. His suit was impeccable, of course. He was an icon of style, so a last-minute wedding wasn’t going to stop him from looking good.

“I’m just trying to survive this,” Y/n muttered

“We’re in Vegas. Anything goes,” Fernando quipped, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. “At least the wedding's got personality."

“You both know I’ll never live this down, right?” Y/n said, shaking her head. "This whole thing is so Max, I feel like I should apologize to everyone for being part of it."

“You’ll be fine,” Fernando added with a smile, adjusting his cufflinks. “It’s Max. You know he doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. He’s probably already planned the honeymoon.”

Y/n laughed nervously. “I’m pretty sure he has. You’ve both seen what happens when Max gets an idea in his head. And somehow... this is actually happening.”

“You’ve got this,” Lewis said. “We’re here for you.”

Before Y/n could respond, the doors swung open, signaling that it was time. The aisle was a bit too short for a proper procession, and the whole thing had a sense of hurried chaos as they started walking down toward the altar.

At the front, Max stood there waiting, looking like he was about to burst with excitement. His best man, Lando, had been fighting tears all night and was now sniffling into a tissue. "I swear this is the happiest day of my life," Lando muttered to Carlos, wiping his eyes.

Carlos, looking slightly concerned, just shook his head. “It’s their wedding Lando, not even your own. stop bawling.”

“Yeah, but it’s their wedding,” Lando said, eyes still damp. “There’s too much love in the air.”

Max had his hands tucked in his pockets, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. When he spotted Y/n, he gave her an exaggerated wink, as if to say, “We made it.”

“You good?” Fernando asked, glancing at Y/n as they reached the front.

“I’m questioning every life choice I’ve made,” Y/n muttered under her breath, feeling the full weight of the absurdity of the situation.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Max said, grinning.

At the back of the room, Oscar and Franco stood with baskets of flowers, both looking thoroughly confused in their roles as flower boys. Oscar had been dragged into this because of his unwillingness to protest. Franco, on the other hand, was too amused to care about the situation and just went along with it.

“Oscar, why are we doing this again?” Franco whispered, furrowing his brows as he sprinkled petals on the floor.

“Because Yuki said we had to. And I’m not arguing with him,” Oscar muttered, holding his basket as if it were a grenade about to go off.

“Who cares? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Attending Max Vertsappen’s wedding?,” Franco said with stars in his eyes, “I’ll tell my grandkids about this.”

Yuki, holding the rings, couldn’t contain his excitement as he gave them instructions. “Guys, you’re doing great. Just, uh, try not to look confused. I need this to look professional. Oscar throw the petals properly! more passion! more energy! more footwork!”

“I’m already questioning my entire existence,” Oscar said, looking at Franco for solidarity. Franco just smiled and threw a handful of petals into the air.

The Elvis officiating the wedding was already in full swing, not entirely sure of the gravity of the moment but having a blast nonetheless.

"Y’all ready to get hitched?" Elvis said, his voice more vibrant than Y/n could’ve imagined.

Max, barely containing his excitement, looked over at Y/n. “Ready for this, love?” he asked, his voice low, though it carried a hint of playfulness.

Y/n smiled, glancing at him for a moment. “More than ever.”

Then, in front of everyone, they exchanged their vows.

Max spoke first, his voice unwavering, but there was an undeniable tenderness in his words. “Y/n, you’ve turned my world upside down. You’ve made every race, every moment, better just by being there. I promise to keep being the person you’ve decided to stand at an altar with, the person you love—even when I’m an absolute nightmare. I’ll always fight for us, for this. I love you.”

Y/n could feel her heart in her throat as she spoke. “Max, you’ve always been… Max. But you’ve shown me that you are a person with the biggest heart. You’ve made me laugh, cry, and love harder than I thought I could. You’re my best friend, and I can’t wait for the next chapter of this crazy life with you. I love you.”

There were no grand gestures or over-the-top theatrics; instead, it was just them—raw, honest, and completely present in this moment.

Max smiled at her, the kind of smile that made everything feel right, before turning to the officiant.

“Elvis, hit me with that ‘you may kiss the bride’ line,” Max said, giving a wink.

And so, amidst the madness, they kissed, sealing their vows with a moment that felt right in all its simplicity. The crowd cheered, some clapping and others, like Lando, wiping away happy tears. It wasn’t the wedding anyone had expected, but it was exactly what Max and Y/n had needed.

As they pulled away, Y/n’s gaze met Max’s, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of them, everything else fading away.

As the ceremony ended and the newlyweds turned to leave, the crowd of friends and teammates erupted into applause, some of them still trying to process what had just happened.

Lando was grinning, wiping his eyes. “This is so perfect. I’m still not sure how we managed to get here in two hours, but it’s amazing.”

Charles was smiling too, giving Y/n a thumbs up. “Congrats, both of you. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Max is married now.”

Lewis patted Max on the back. “She’s got you now. Good luck with that.”

Y/n smiled at him, a little breathless. “So, are you planning to annoy me for the rest of our lives?”

Max grinned back, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely. You’ve signed up for it, so no turning back now.”

Everyone laughed, but there was a deep sincerity in the air. This was their moment—imperfect and hurried, but beautiful in its own way.

4K notes · View notes

redwinelew · 2 months ago

Note

can I request a smau for lewis hamilton where he's secretly dating his new teammate leclerc's sister and a mistake of instagram story tells everyone they're not just flirting on socials but are actually a couple?

thanks<3

BABY, I LIKE FLIRTING!

type social media au

pairing lewis hamilton x twin sister leclerc!reader

summary as requested!

face claim daisy edgar-jones

song after midnight by chappell roan

warnings age gap (28 x 40), a bit suggestive on some parts

author's note figured now would be a good time to post this. also i made reader charles' twin since daisy is close to his age i hope that's alright with u anon. sorry this is shorter than what i usually write i hope u like this 33

english is not my first language. all pictures taken from pinterest, instagram and twitter. credit to owners.

masterlist | request info | requests are OPEN!

ynleclerc just made a post!

♬ Naked In Manhattan • Chappell Roan

liked by lewishamilton, carmenmmundt and 6,727 others

ynleclerc random 2024 photo dump 💋

tagged charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, f1, danielricciardo, yukitsunoda0511

view all 190 comments

user who do i need to fight to date charles sister

charles_leclerc user Me obviously

user charles_leclerc my bad bruh 😭🫡

user user LMFAO

user still can't believe vcarb sponsored y/n to come to a race instead of her brother's own team 😭😭

ynleclerc user well does ferrari have danny ric?? and yuki?? no i don't think so

user ynleclerc y/n leclerc aka #1 daniel ricciardo and yuki tsunoda stan

ynleclerc user exactly exactly

user the leclerc genes are insane bro

user user face cards never decline fr

user the best siblings duo ever i don't make the rules

user CHAPPELL ROAN???? you are so real for this

ynleclerc user 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

user she is who i want to be when i grow up

user the coolest girl ever

lewishamilton That skirt looks gorgeous on you

ynleclerc lewishamilton what's underneath is ever better

user ynleclerc WOAH??????

user ynleclerc EXCUSE ME

lewishamilton ynleclerc I know

user lewishamilton AYO??

user lewishamilton SIR??????

user lewishamilton "I know" EHAT DOES THAT MEAN

user lewishamilton grandpa still got some game damn

user lewishamilton something's in the air in maranello fr ain't no way lewis is flirting with charles sister PUBLICLY

messages (y/n's pov)

ynleclerc just added to their stories!

lewishamilton just added to their stories!

twitter!

messages (y/n's pov)

ynleclerc just made a post!

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, doechii and 16,044 others

ynleclerc well since the secret is out...... here's some pics from the archives

ps lewis is still alive dw charles is not gonna kill ferrari's only hope at wcc this year

tagged lewishamilton

view all 712 comments

user I KNEW ITTTT

user i guess now we know why y/n kept hanging out at merc garage last year 😭😭

user user she was also in vcarb's garage??

user user i mean yeah but that was sponsored. during other gps she's always seen hanging out in merc garage but ppl thought it's only bcs she's friends with carmen

user the last pic...... i would do the same tbh

ynleclerc user alex took the pic 😚😚 i just couldn't resist

user and the crowd is in shock????

alexandrasaintmleux it's been so hard keeping this a secret haha so happy for you two ❤️❤️

charles_leclerc alexandrasaintmleux I still can't believe that you knew first before I do

ynleclerc charles_leclerc she's my favorite so i love her more

charles_leclerc ynleclerc WE SHARED A WOMB!!!!!

ynleclerc charles_leclerc and i'm pretty sure you almost ate me so consider this a payback

lewishamilton just made a post!

liked by zhouguanyu24, calliewilson_ and 4,728,948 others.

lewishamilton Mi amor ❤️

tagged ynleclerc

view all 44,630 comments

ynleclerc baby that's spanish 😭😭 mon amour is french

charles_leclerc ynleclerc He doesn't even know the difference? This is the man you claimed to love?

ynleclerc charles_leclerc he's trying ok give him a break 😭😭

charles_leclerc If you break her heart I will sabotage your car. Mark my words, Lewis

ynleclerc charles_leclerc ARE YOU INSANE 😭😭

user charles_leclerc we love a protective brother

user user i can't take the threat seriously i'm afraid lmfao 😭😭

lewishamilton charles_leclerc I deserve it

scuderiaferrari charles_leclerc Please don't

francolapinto congratulations!

user can't believe all of this started bcs of some instagram stories

user user how long do u figure they would keep this a secret if that accident didn't happen 😭😭

user user they're gonna have to be public eventually. can't hide from charles forever

user i wonder how family dinners will be from now on

user user chaotic most definitely

user user thinking about charles giving lewis the talk has me dying

user oh to be charles leclerc's sister and date lewis hamilton

user user living the dream fr

user when i said i want 1644 dramas in 2025 this is NOT what i meant 😭😭

2K notes · View notes

cherry-leclerc · 1 month ago

Text

reckless driver ☆ mv1

genre: photographer!reader, angst, moody!max, yearning, jos hate club

word count: 9.9k

Switching to be Max’s personal photographer wasn’t a planned note on your agenda. Neither was him opening up. A lot of things weren’t, therefore, making his growing crush on you catch him completely off guard.

inspired by reckless driving, lizzy mcalpine !

cherry here!...would it be a regular cherry fic if it didn’t hurt ya just a little bit?

All he knew was how to be perfect.

It has nothing to do with his looks, doesn’t even mean this in a condescending way. The perfect shade of watercolor eyes. The perfect mix of dirty blond hair. The perfect color of pink that taints his lips. The perfect curve of his nose. This had nothing to do with that.

For fucks sakes, Max! Jos grits his teeth tightly, marching closer and closer. The accelerator is there for a reason!

From a very early age, Max’s vocabulary grew an excessive amount, but again, it mainly had to do with how many curse words he could count based on angry verses his dad would often spit at him. By the time he was five, he knew them all, and he knew them by heart. Something inside of him became almost immune to all of that. The hurtful comments, the hatred behind his eyes, the annoyance of not being the best. There was nothing he couldn't handle. And if he remembers well enough, then he can still vividly hear the conversation between his parents.

Just one more, Sophie. Maybe then, if we’re lucky, we’ll have another boy. One that actually has potential.

He swore to be the greatest in that very moment. No matter how much he wanted to give up, he never would. Not when he was constantly put down by his own father, or when the nerves ate him alive, making his skin crawl—no. He wouldn’t give into being a failure. Wouldn’t satisfy them ever.

So, he prayed. He prayed every single night for the new baby on the way to be anything but another boy. Let it be a girl, let it be an alien, let it be anything but a boy. Because even though he was just a kid, he knew that if there was another opportunity for Jos to train another son of his, he’d take it, and Max would be left as some unfinished project.

And lo and behold—it was a girl.

He never really knew true happiness until that very moment. He cried a whole lot when he first held Victoria and everyone thought it was adorable, but no one knew just how much this meant to Max. He would continue to be his father’s main focus, and that’s all that mattered. He would craft himself to be the winner he knew he needed to be in order to get a solid smile from him, even just once. Either way, a few years later his parents wound up getting a divorce, so all was good.

Now, at this very moment—he had finally done it.

Being a World Champion felt the way he knew it would: unreal.

Yes, the fireworks and the cheers were a part of that, but the warm hug from Jos was what really made it all worth it. All the snarky comments, all the panic attacks, all the isolation growing up—it was all worth it.

That’s a good boy! Jos yelled, rustling his sweaty hair before grinning widely. That’s how you do it!

He wishes to remember this moment until the day he dies, and hopefully, if he's lucky enough, a bit after that. Whatever the case might be, he’s content, but now there’s something new.

Higher expectations.

You were born to be the greatest, Max. You were destined to outbeat those who are stupid enough to think they have a chance against you. They don't. No they fucking don’t because you, Max Verstappen, are one hell of a lion. Jos takes a sip of champagne, swallowing harshly and not at all quietly. And you wouldn’t want to fuck that up, now would you?

The answer is no. No way in hell would he let his father’s affection slip away. Not when he’s been dreaming of it for so long. He’s worked—and he’s worked hard—for this. There’s nothing, nor anyone, who would matter as much as Jos Verstappen and being the best driver there could ever be.

But then—just then.

You came along.

You should have said no. Looking back at it now, you really should have said no.

And yet. You couldn’t have possibly known that from the very beginning.

Funny enough, you started off as Checo’s photographer. You loved it. He was easy to work with. Not only was he nice to you, but so was his family. The work environment was healthy and fun. Your dream job, really, there was nothing to complain about.

But one by one, from a nearby corner—always a nearby corner—you watched as Max’s photographers rapidly lost their minds and quit. It’d start off with a scowl from him and end with a huff from them, dropping their expensive cameras and leaving without sparing a second glance.

It isn’t until photographer number eight where things really do take an unexpected turn.

For you.

“What do you say?” Christian’s voice booms with need.

You blink hazily. “I-I’m not too sure. I mean, Checo and I work so well together…”

“No, I know what—and trust me, I feel bad for doing this—but we’re really counting on you. You get along with everyone. Everyone loves you! Who’s to say Max won’t?”

“And what if he doesn’t?” you fight back. “Then what? I quit too?”

“First of all, he will. And second of all, that won’t be necessary because he’ll love you.”

“You’re that confident?”

“I am.”

You sigh, rolling your tired neck before looking back at him. “Well, I’m not. I need to think this through.”

The Red Bull principal nods. “Of course! You need time, of course. But please—you’d be helping us all. Especially Max.”

You’d be a liar if you were to say that his words hadn’t stuck with you. What did he mean by ‘especially Max’? Was it to get the wheels spinning? If it was, then it was definitely working.

Adjusting your camera strap that hangs around your neck, you stare off into the distance as if you might find the answer somewhere in between the clouds. And maybe you did find it. The answer, you mean. You were one hundred percent certain now that you wanted to stay with Checo, you just didn’t know how to break the news to Christian who has done so much for you ever since you started working at Red Bull.

“I heard about the offer,” a deep voice rumbles next to you, making you jump with fear, clutching your camera towards your chest like some sort of secret weapon. The Dutchman remains unbothered, taking in the same sunset as you once were. “Christian tends to do that. Put people on the spot. I hate that about him.”

In a way, you’re sort of surprised by him even speaking to you or that he even knows about your existence. Over the past few years, you’ve only interacted with him a couple of times. Once, when he won his first championship. Twice, when he won his second. And thrice, when he won his, well…third. And they were all due to the awkward congratulatory hug you felt yourself forced to give since everyone around you was doing the same.

Other than that, you had no reason to cross paths with him despite working for the same team. You two always stayed on opposite sides of the paddock, but it was never intentional, it was just the way things played out. Until now.

“You really shouldn’t say you hate the man who's making your dreams come true,” you whisper, struggling to find your own voice.

Max hums. “All I said was that I hate that about him, not that I hate him as a person.” A beat. “And for your information, he isn’t the one making my dreams come true—I am.”

“He gave you a chance—”

“A chance he knew someone else would have taken if it weren’t him.” That shuts you right up, silence lingering. Seeing as you both were standing on the terrace overlooking the paddock, you two watched as Christian and Checo converse with one another, hands on their hips like some kind of businessmen. “I worked hard to get to where I am, so please, don’t give him all the credit when we both know that's not true.”

More silence. “Listen, I think I’m going to—”

“Turn him down and continue working with Checo?”

Your voice catches. “W-what?”

The Dutchman clicks his tongue, like he’s got you all figured out. Three conversations over the past three years and he thinks he has you all figured out?

“I can’t say I blame you. You don’t think we’ll work well together, and quite frankly, I would agree. We wouldn’t. You’re too…nice.”

You have to laugh. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth,” he’s ricochets.

Turning towards his tall frame, you huff, hair washing over your face before faking a tight smile. “And you’re too…complicated.” Something about the way his gaze darkens at your words makes you want to back down like some shivering dog, but miraculously, you remain still. “And that’s not a compliment.”

“Didn’t sound like one.”

“Well because it’s not.”

He’s not too far from you, and honest to God, that made you shake more than you intended. There was something about him—there always was. Even though you never really worked close to him, you knew there was something there, hiding between the crease of his brows, and now, standing this close to him, you can see it all in a new perspective.

Max releases a breath, bored and unexplainable. Runs a hand through his hair, turns his face for a second before connecting his gaze back to yours. “Look, you appear to be a sweet girl, but…I think you should turn down Christian’s offer.”

“Why?” He’s taken aback. You catch it the moment his lips twitch in the slightest. You tilt your head, urging him to answer. “You must have a reason, so what is it?”

“You’d hate working with me.”

“And you get to decide that?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Have you enjoyed this conversation so far?”

“No.”

“Then you probably wouldn’t enjoy our time either. And I’d just rather not waste my time on you finding out. No offense.”

“No, no, none taken,” you respond sarcastically. By now, Christian and Checo have spotted you both, secretly hoping there was some sort of friendship forming. They wave cheerfully and you mimic their movements.

“I hope we get along—I really do,” you say with a smile as you wave enthusiastically over at Christian who lets out a whistle and sends you an excited thumbs up.

His jaw clenches.

“If not, you’re really going to hate having me around.”

By now, you’ve completely understood why every other person has quit on him.

Your blood boils deep inside your veins for the millionth time in the past hour. His large hand covers his face as he continues speaking with his engineers. They all look back at you, half-amused, half-pitiful. They grimace when you try once again to get a picture of him, only to get shut down by him spinning around to make you face his back.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter beneath your hot breath, glaring harshly to the point you feel a migraine growing, pounding the sides of your head. Marching off, you cross over to Checo’s side of the garage, watching as he discusses his strategies with a couple of his crew members. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he responds, flashing a bright smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Pleading for you to take me back?” He laughs, eyes crinkling, freckled nose scrunching with humor. “It feels like I’ve signed my life away.”

“Ah. Come on. It can’t be that bad. Give him some time.”

“It’s been a month!” you exclaim. “What more does he need?”

The Mexican driver’s eyes soften, feeling bad for the swap neither of you wanted, but knew was necessary. Checo knows how patient you can be, how sweet and caring you tend to act towards those you truly care about. And right now? He worries you won’t ever reach that point with Max.

A heavy sigh. “Max isn’t much of a talker, you know that. But maybe—in order for him to get comfortable around you, he needs you to do something that the other photographers didn’t bother doing.”

Your stomach churns. “Like what?”

He smiles warmly. “Getting to know him.”

Maybe Checo was right. Maybe all Max needed was a friend—someone to talk to.

Sliding back to your side of the garage, you sheepishly walk over to the grumpy Dutchman. Currently, he’s sitting down on the floor, back pressed against the wall, scrolling through his phone. “C-c-can I talk to you?” you ask, nervous fingers lacing through the hoop of your jeans.

He doesn’t bother raising his gaze. “Can you even talk to begin with?”

“S-sorry?”

This time, he does look up, looking past his lashes. “Your stutter.”

Lamely, your mouth opens, only for you to find it drier than the Sahara Desert. The crack of your voice is a clear indication over your weak attempt to speak and that just makes you a blushing mess. Fuck him. You took several speech therapy classes to try and get rid of it, but him pointing out a stutter you thought has gotten better over time makes you want to be photographer number nine.

You glare—hard. You mentally go over your dialogue and that itself makes you feel small. Embarrassed. So, instead…you don’t say anything at all.

There’s a reason no one likes to work with him.

And you think you just found out.

Some days are easier than others. Some days are harder.

Today?

Today was awful.

“Jesus Christ, Max! What the fuck was that?” Jos yells, nearly pressing his face against the Red Bull driver who stands close by, watching him flinch in the slightest before regaining composure. You’ve heard rumors—plenty of them. Between mechanics, between Checo and a few other bystanders, you heard them all. How Jos’ behavior was unbearable to deal with, especially when it came to him and Max. You just never thought you’d witness it firsthand.

“My brakes weren’t working,” he replies, holding eye contact that would have left you in a coma. “It was never my intention to crash.”

“See, you say that, and yet everytime I come and visit, you always seem to be messing up one way or another,” Jos hisses, face beet red, and a splash of saliva spraying over Max as he grits his teeth, taking a step back. “I’m confused—do you want to lose the Championship this year or what?”

“No,” the Red Bull driver fires back, firm and quick. Blue eyes translate to a darker shade as they look to where his dad wears a mocking smile. “I’m winning that title, don’t worry.”

Running a hand against his stubble, Jos rolls his eyes before releasing a tired breath. As if he’s the one working endless hours. As if he’s the one who just crashed against the wall at a terrifying speed he couldn’t decrease even if he tried. As if he’s the one with the bruised temple.

Everything was just always about him.

“Don’t bother resting until you figure out how to fix all the shit you’ve caused.” Sharp eyes narrow. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Max whispers, watching as he storms off without even saying goodbye to anyone else that wasn’t Christian himself. So much for having him around. Frustrated, he angrily yanks his gloves off, throwing them against the wall and walking the opposite direction.

Something tells you to leave him alone—let him be. You get why he’s upset, but you checking up on him probably wouldn't help. Also, you're supposed to be mad at him, right?

And yet.

“Wait up!” you gasp, out of breath.

Clenching his jaw, he stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with accusing eyes. “Why are you following me?”

“I just…” Coming to a stop as well, you wince at your sudden side stitch. “He shouldn’t have yelled at you that way,” you finish, analyzing the way his body stiffens. “Especially in front of everyone.”

Blue orbs flicker past your figure for a second, then he lets out a lopsided smile. “I bet you enjoyed it, though. You know? Because I’ve sort of been acting like a dick towards you…” The small smile disappears, replaced with a thin line.

“I didn’t,” you find yourself admitting. His brows raise up with surprise, and even you’re surprised to be telling the truth. You should feel good about this moment—someone finally told him off, someone finally put him in his place. But you felt none of that satisfaction. If anything, you felt bad. Swiping your tongue against your lips, you purse them awkwardly. “And you haven’t been a dick. He has.”

And for the first time—he laughs.

You blink, bewildered at the sound, but he doesn’t seem to notice that. “Like father, like son, right?” he jokes, making you feel like this was all some sort of fever dream. He continues, squatting down against the wall until he sits down completely against the cold pavement. “Your perspective about me has suddenly changed, or what?”

Hesitant, you choose to sit across from him, tucking your legs beneath your butt. His eyes close, smiling softly. Though I doubt it, he mumbles. “I just think I had you all wrong, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” he encourages. “Why?”

You swallow. “Well…because—now it all makes sense. Why you’re so cold towards everyone, I mean. You do get it from your dad, but it’s also not your fault.”

“My dads not the problem,” he hums. “I am.” Your legs are slowly becoming numb, buzzing like a thousand ants are crawling on them, but you don’t dare move an inch, scared of ruining the moment of him being so honest despite being allergic to it. “I let him down constantly and he’s just being…candid.” His eyes open, focused like he’s known you’ve been here all along, sitting across from him. “The issue here is that no one seems to get that. And that’s fine, but I do.”

“C-c-can I…” you cringe at the sound of your stutter, biting harshly down against your sore tongue. You expect him to laugh—make fun of you in any way possible—hold it over your head…but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits patiently for you to feel comfortable enough to continue your question. Your chest loosens up, along with your anxiety. You never thought he’d help with that. “C-can I ask you a q-q-que—”

“A question?” he finishes your sentence, you feeling immensely grateful. You nod. “Sure,” he answers.

Repeating the question over a couple of times, you find yourself feeling more and more comfortable around him and it’s only been a couple of minutes. “Why do you belittle me?”

There’s no way of hiding his shame now as his head hangs low, dirty blond hair hugging the sides of his face with a thin layer of sweat, a purple bruise forming due to his crash of high impact. A tsk. “I want you to know that I don’t hate you. Regardless of what you might think.”

You nod, paying close attention.

He shrugs. “But I just don’t think we’ll work well together.”

“That’s it?” you ponder, genuinely lost. “You haven’t-t-t even given me a chance to prove myself. Maybe we can?” A beat. “Or maybe you’re not telling the w-whole truth.”

A playful scoff erupts from this throat, ignoring your comment. “You’re right. I haven’t given this a fair shot.” A calm look paints his normally stoic features. “And it doesn’t seem like you’ll be quitting anytime soon.” Reaching out to swat his race boot, you smile, eyes crinkling. The Dutchman chuckles. “So maybe we should start getting along, no?”

“I agree,” you comment, straightening your shoulders and extending your legs, instantly feeling a wave of relief from the pressure. “I-I-I’d like t-that.” Pause. Your smile stretches. “I’d like that very much.”

What you know now is obviously something you didn’t know back then.

So realistically, you fell into a friendship that ended like most.

Complete, utter disaster.

As time went on, Max started to change for the better. His glares turned into soft smiles, his monotone voice turned into something that was more untroubled. He was starting to become someone you consider a friend, and you couldn't help but wish he felt the same way too.

“Come out and have a drink with us,” you say, carefully cleaning your lens with the back of your shirt. He looks up from where he packs his things into a small duffel bag. You nod enthusiastically. “Come on, it’s my birthday and I want you there. Celebrate my birth, celebrate your win—it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t like to party,” he confesses, scrunching his nose like the thought alone makes him want to puke. “Never have, never will. Happy birthday, though.”

“You’re no fun,” you mumble, placing your camera back into your own bag. “I wish you’d be more fun.” A beat. “Wait. What do you do for fun?”

“I don’t have any. I just…live a quiet, peaceful life whenever I’m able to.” He throws his bag over his broad shoulder. “I like it better that way, anyways.” With that, he walks out of his driver's room.

Gathering the rest of your things quickly, you chase after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “It’s okay to have a quiet life if that’s something you want, but, I don’t know…” You turn the corner, soft hair whiplashing. “Aren’t you able to…well, put that aside for special occasions?”

“Like what? Your birthday?”

You blush heavily. “Well—no. But maybe yours? I know it’s coming up. What are you gonna do then? Stay home working on a crossword puzzle?”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps I’ll read a book, who knows.” Still walking towards his car, he momentarily turns back to look at you, watching as your cheeks glow bright pink. He smiles before turning back. “I’ll make sure to let you know.” Unlocking his car, he raises a brow. “You coming?”

“Can’t,” you pant softly. “Promised Checo that I’d help him find a gift for Carlota.”

“His daughter or his wife?”

Seeing as they share the same name, you can’t help but giggle. “I’m actually not sure.” Flashing one last smile, you wave sweetly. “I’ll make sure to let you know!”

He keeps his eyes on you, watching as you jog towards Checo who laughs as you trip over a nearby rock, nearly falling. Max laughs to himself, feeling an unfamiliar burst of happiness. But that all flies right out the window as soon as his phone buzzes deep inside his pocket, making him groan.

“Hey, Dad.”

He ends up texting for your birthday and you end up doing the same. You end up going out to party and he ends up staying home. Point is, you do exactly what you two said you were going to do, so when a last minute texts comes through at midnight, you’re low key appalled.

Max, 12:00pm

Are you home?

He knows where you live because you once told him. You’re just surprised he remembers.

Yeah? Where are you?

Max, 12:04pm

Come outside. Bring a sweater.

The ocean roars loudly as you two make your way closer towards the shore. The breeze is ice cold, but you aren’t complaining. He is, though.

“Shit. It’s freezing.”

A giggle. “Need a jacket, princess?”

Sending a deadpan expression, he shrugs you off, choosing to sit close enough to see the waves, but far enough to not get wet. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of this, but…I got you something.”

“Max,” you coo, admiring the film camera he hands you as if it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing because when it comes to him it means everything. “This must’ve cost you a fortune,” you whisper, fingers tracing the rim of the black camera that shines against the moonlight. “You shouldn’t have.”

“And you shouldn’t have stuck around. But you did. So…thank you.” The tides grow louder, making him do the same. “I never really said it, but I’m grateful for having you as a friend.”

You freeze and he seems to notice what he said, too.

“Co-worker?” he tries, cringing.

You relax. “F-f-friend sounds better.”

And there it is again, that warmness that only seems to appear whenever you’re around. It should be alarming, but at this point it's not. If anything, it’s normal.

“Now I feel like shit,” you speak up, bumping your leg against his. He hums. “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday. And if you know anything about friendships, then you’d know that presents are a vital thing.”

“Don’t fret. I don’t need anything else other than…” he trails off. “How was your birthday, anyways?”

You don’t notice his sudden shift. Or maybe you did. Either way, he doesn’t know. You snort. “Got shit-faced, what else do you expect? Though, I faintly remember Abby kissing the bartender, so that was cool.” When he fails to recognize the name, you roll your eyes as if you’re dealing with a third grader. “Checo’s photographer? She’s awesome. Has her own car.”

It’s his turn to laugh now. “And you don’t?”

“Nope. But God, I wish. Maybe one day.” You dig your feet deeper into the sand, twisting your lips before smacking them as if that might help hydrate them. You squint an eye. “I’m barely home, so there’s really no need for one yet. I can sense you wondering.”

“I was,” he admits. Swallowing, he mimes your movements. “I’m barely home, either.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Do you?” he returns with no response.

You ponder. “I know I miss my parents. My sister. But other than that, no—maybe not.”

“I don’t either.”

“But I thought you were a homebody?” you accuse.

“Well, I am, but…I miss my home. The place I paid for with my own money.”

“What home don’t you miss, then?”

“The one my parents tried to convince me and my sister that it was. We had all the family portraits and the typical white picket fence, but it just never felt like home to me. And I don’t miss that.”

“Oh.” Just oh.

“Yeah,” he follows with a raspy voice. “Oh.”

Tugging the jacket closer to your chest, you shiver. Surely your nose is burning bright pink and your lips are chapped, but nothing felt better than this moment for some reason. “I don’t like your dad,” you mumble beneath your breath, hoping the wind would hide your confession, but if it didn’t, you wouldn’t care.

It didn’t.

Scoffing, Max nods. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“I don’t like the way he speaks to you. It’s not—normal.” A beat. “Do you think it is?”

“I do,” he hums, blinking slowly as he watches the way a bird gets caught in the wind, trying to lurch forward but only getting sent back. “You get used to it.”

“You shouldn't have to,” you whisper, brows pinched up with concern. “I know I said you were a complicated person, but you’re not. And—and I just don’t want you to think that it’s true.”

He’s the first to disconnect his eyes from yours, feeling a burning sensation forming in the depths of his throat. It’s not completely unknown, he’s felt it many times when he was a kid. The only difference was that he used to feel it behind his eyes as well. Which is why it catches him off guard this time around—years later.

“You’re not like him, Max,” you say with reassurance. Blue eyes soften up, feeling a rush of emotions. This is something he didn’t even know he needed. Tilting his head, he opens his mouth lamely, words getting stuck like a boy and not a man. You smile tenderly. “And I hope you know that.”

He drives you back home that night despite saying you’d be fine walking back. You fall asleep for the next thirty-minutes, and he overthinks through all of it. Fingers tap against the steering wheel, taking occasional glances to where you breath softly.

“I told you to bring a sweater,” Max groans once you enter his car. “You’re going to freeze to death.”

You wave him off. “I think I’ll survive.”

As soon as you arrive at the beach, you’re quick to rub your hands against your skin, wishing to have some sort of blanket. With a knowing look, the Dutchman rolls his eyes, slipping off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Thanks,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek, suppressing a smile.

Hearing his teeth chatter, he blows his cheeks out, squinting his eyes when a particular gust of wind slaps him across the face. “Shit. It’s freezing.”

“Need a jacket, princess?” you tease, enjoying the way his lips form a snarl.

You giggle.

It’s his favorite jacket, the one you’re wearing.

It’s his favorite because of that.

“I’m fucked,” he whisphers to himself, grinding his teeth until he feels them squeak. He tries to focus on the road, but that seems to be the most difficult task in the world when he has you right besides him. And he isn’t thinking anything sinisterly dirty—he’s not—but instead, he’s dreaming.

I can be different, he thinks to himself, repeating the same words over and over. I can be someone she likes. If I try hard enough, I can do that. Planning ahead was always something he hated, but just thinking about it now makes his veins rush with excitement. As if the possibility of you might exist somewhere down the line.

You said some things he never thought he’d hear, because to be quite honest, he never thought someone would understand him the way you have. For the longest time, he thought a fucked up person like him could only get with an equally fucked up person or simply he’d have to live by himself for the rest of his life.

And here you came, proving him wrong.

He doesn’t realize how fast he’s going, how he’s pressing hard on the gas. Not until you groan. “Fuck. Are you alright?” he asks with concern as soon as he hears your head thud against the window from his jerky turn at the roundabout.

“Yeah.” A beat, then a giggle. You rub your head. “This is gonna bruise.” He winces, taking a glance. Keep your eyes on the road, you laugh, but he can’t. Not when your eyes crinkle the way they do. Like your eyes have a dimple of their own. He’s never seen that on anyone else. “We’ll be twins,” you state as some sort of lame joke. And it does the job because he’s quick to let out a chuckle.

“Sorry,” he apologizes.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Pulling up to your house, you go in to unbuckle yourself before slipping the jacket off. He shakes his head. “Keep it.”

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” you try. “I’m already home, I’ll be fine. Put it on.”

“Well I’m not cold anymore,” he pushes back. “It’s fine, really. I have plenty—what’s one missing?”

“It's freakishly soft,” you debate, furrowing your brows with concentration. “Okay. Thanks, Max.” Grabbing your film camera, you let out a shy smile. “For this too. Just—for these past few hours. I had fun.”

“Yeah,” he hums gingerly, running his hand along the steering wheel. “So did I.”

This grabs your attention, ears perking up like some German Shepard. “Am I dreaming? Did Max Verstappen just say he had fun? With me?” you interrogate, eyes shining.

He groaned, tossing his head against his seat. “I take it back—”

“You can’t do that—”

“I take it back,” he repeats firmly, but the amusement poured into his accent tells you otherwise. “Now get out of my car.”

You poke your tongue out at him before raising your hands up defensively. “Drive safe,” you shout over your shoulder as you walk towards your house, backward. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask!” Rushing to his side of the car, you signal for him to roll his window. He does, quirking a brow. You grin. “Let me take you out.”

His heart thuds. Pulses. Skyrockets.

It’s a scary feeling.

You beam. “Yes! As your birthday present! Let me take you out. Just you and I.”

“You and I?” he repeats robotically, blinking with round eyes.

A nod. “Yeah. Just like today. You took me out and gave me an amazing gift. Let me do the same for you.” Pause. “Please?”

It dawns on him that this is the first time a girl has asked him to hang out. Whether it’s romantic or not, it doesn’t matter, and the way you bat your cartoon eyes makes him spiral, feeling his breath hitch. “Y-y-yeah,” he finds himself saying. “Sure. Why not?”

“You only turn twenty-seven once,” you hum. Like that might seal the deal besides the fact that he’s already accepted.

The Dutchman chuckles nervously, fighting the urge to just…God.

“You only turn twenty-seven once,” he agrees, sharing a tight smile, hands gripping the leather wheel.

Your plans end up getting pushed back due to your guys’ tight agenda. The season is tough on not just him, but the entire team. McLaren is thriving, sometimes more than Red Bull, and that has everyone feeling on edge.

Chewing your nails, you watch as Lando crosses the finish line, nearly a minute ahead from the Dutchman. You know he’s not going to want to talk about it, but he will. He has to.

Because Jos is here.

“You’re getting quite comfortable on that second step,” Jos says tauntingly. He’s not yelling—not like the other times—and somehow, that just makes him scarier.

“I’m not,” Max defends as he rubs a sweaty hand against his face. His hair is longer than usual, so that doesn’t help the awkwardness he feels when he has to push it back. “We still did good—”

“Good is not good enough,” he hisses, pressing a finger against his son's suit, making him take a step back before he regains composure. “Unless it is. For you, I mean.” Silence. “So what? Is it?”

“No,” Max mumbles, fighting the urge to push him back. He’s thought about it—many times. And maybe he’s reached his limit, and maybe he can do it…

But he’d never dare to in front of you.

Blue eyes quietly plead for you to leave. And yes. That would be the wisest thing to do right about now, but your feet betray you. They’re super glued, you begin to suspect. Why else would you not be able to move?

“You used to be so good,” Jos points out, eyes only getting sharper. “What happened? What’s distracting you? Who’s distracting you?”

Max’s eyes flicker for a second—just a fucking second—to where you stand, paralyzed, and he prays he doesn’t notice it. But he does.

Turning to face your small figure, Jos lets out a shallow laugh, a confused expression mapping his wrinkled face. “Are you serious?”

“I—” Max tries, but is waved off by his massive hand.

“A crush isn’t going to get you anywhere, Max, come on, you know this.” Jos rubs his eyes, aging quickly. “Especially with a girl like her.”

“I-I-I,” you stutter, feeling your face grow red. Swiftly, this makes you feel as dumb as when you first met Max, but somehow worse.

A million times worse.

“Y-y-you what?” Jos mocks your stutter, walking closer to where you stand. “You what?”

“H-h-he doesn't like me. So, there’s no need to…w-w-w—”

“Worry,” Max fills in, marching to stand in between you two, and you immediately feel your shoulders relax, but your breath continues to struggle to find its way out of your system. “There’s no need to worry. I just had a bad race, it happens. It’s no one’s fault.”

“Except it is!” Jos finally screams, spraying his saliva with every punctuation, something you’ve come to realize happens when he gets fired up, which nearly occurs every time he's here. The only difference is that this time, you’re caught in between the argument. Jos breathes heavily, chest puffing. “It's someone's fault, and I’ll lay it out for you since you can’t seem to take responsibility—it’s your fault.”

“No, it’s not,” you protest from behind Max, feeling courage quickly expand through your ribs because you knew that wasn’t true. “It’s no one’s fault.”

But someone like you is invisible to someone like Jos Verstappen.

Ignoring you, he gets rid of that last step that separates Max from himself, faces inches apart from one another. And it’s terrifying how similar they are. Their eyes, their nose, their lips. The only thing separating them from being twins was Max’ kindness.

“Say it’s your fault,” Jos orders with a solid and demanding tone. “Say the crash was your fault and that you fucked up.”

You’re breath catches once again, frantic eyes darting to where Max clenches his fists before letting them relax.

“The crash was my fault—”

“It's all your fault,” Jos adds.

The Red Bull drivers lips twitch. “The crash was all my fault…” A beat. “And I fucked up.”

“Max,” you whisper, gingerly grabbing his hand. He flinches at your touch and pulls away as soon as his dads eyes linger down to where you two connect. You wither.

“Get your act together,” Jos threatens with fury before walking out, slamming the door behind him.

You jump at the unexpected sound. No one speaks, no one moves, no one dares to acknowledge what just happened.

Max Verstappen lands second on this week's podium, Crofty announces, pulling you away from the daze you were stuck in. Max’s gaze switches over to the T.V. as he stiffens. Say, what are the chances he wins this year's Championship against Lando Norris who seems to be having the time of his life in that McLaren?

“You did good out there—”

“No. I didn’t.” He looks away. “But that won’t matter because that Championship is mine.”

Mine.

You notice he’s reverted back to his old habits the moment he gets snappy. The moment he starts blocking everyone out, including you. You sort of saw it coming, but still—it hurt. And it took you a moment to realize, realize why it burned so much.

You loved Max Verstappen.

He’d always been unapproachable. Spine-chilling, even. But ever since you two started talking to each other as more than strangers, you realize he was none of that. He had once been kind, once been sweet, but this was all Jos’ fault. Weeks went by—months, even—and all you ever really did was snap pictures of him on the stimulator. That’s it.

It’s as if your friendship never even existed.

It came as no surprise when he failed to pick up your phone calls and texts. He was awfully good at doing that. By the time you were a month away from the Championship, you had stopped trying.

Max can feel the awkward tension he had created. It sat there between you two every time you followed after him like a dog on a leash, timidly taking his picture, afraid of getting the wrong reaction out of him. It had happened a couple of times in the past, when you first started working for him, so it seemed you were trying to prevent history from repeating itself. The slight sting in his chest took a jab at him every time without fail.

Vegas was typically a good time for both the drivers and people like you. You’d be the first to admit how easy it is to get lost in the gist of it all.

Except this time around, it was hard to live through it.

Hey. You home?

Max groans, rubbing his eyes until they’re wide awake, picking up his phone.

Max, 12:00pm

Are you okay?

A minute scrolls by.

I have your present.

The first thing he notices is his jacket. His initials are sewn onto the sleeve. He didn’t even know that was a thing, but the sight of it made his stomach flip. “Looks good on you,” he compliments as soon as he enters your car. You chuckle.

It’s a nice jacket. The best one I own.

He notes how smooth you drive, like a grandma. You’re precise with your turns, ahead with your signals—extremely observant.

“See how I steer the wheel,” you speak up, wiggling a neat brow. “Unlike you.”

“I said I was sorry,” he laughs, getting a reminder of the last time you two were together. “How’s the bruise?”

“Nearly gone.” A beat. “How’s yours?”

He smiles, remembering about his own. “Nearly gone.”

“Told you we’d be twins.”

You take him to a nearby park. It’s lame, I know, you apologize, wincing shyly. I’m not good at this, but I hope your present makes up for it.

“This is great,” he eases your nerves, seeing how they scribble across your face. “This is my first time at a playground, actually.”

Your eyes widen as soon as you sit down on the yellow swing. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Huh.”

He takes a seat on a nearby swing, following your soft kicks against the sand. “My dad preferred to have me on the race track than waste my time on anything else.”

This gets an eye roll out of you, soft wind fanning your face as you kick back and forth. “That explains it all.” He shuts his eyes momentarily, enjoying the silence. Far enough away, he can hear the city—but that’s the least of his worries.

You’re the first and only one to give me a childhood so late in life. Round eyes flicker towards him where he digs his shoes into the sand, not worried about the uncomfort it'll cause. If it weren’t for you, I probably would’ve gone my whole life without knowing what a playground is like.

The thought alone is saddening. Your mind makes up an image of young Max, looking into the distance at every other kid who runs towards slides and monkey bars as he straps his helmet and slips on his gloves, longing to know what it’s like to have a normal youth.

“Don’t feel bad.”

Your lip wobbles. “Don’t make me feel things, then. Why would you say that?”

“I thought we could open up to one another,” he jokes, but you can hear his seriousness in it. That’s all he’s needed, after all—someone to talk to. “Should I shut up from here on out?”

“No,” you reply rapidly, gripping your hand around the metal chain. “Don’t you ever shut up.”

His smile relaxes, eyes opening as he tilts his head, then looks up ahead at the moon. And it’s one of those nights where it’s scarily white—almost too much. One might think it’s a flashlight, by the way it shines, but there’s a clarity to it that makes it easy to admire. “I don’t think I love my dad.”

You try not to let out a reaction. “You don’t mean that.”

“No…” He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I think I do.” A shrug. “I respect him. A tiny bit, but I do. But love?” A bitter scoff. “God, I don’t even think he loves me.”

“Sure he does—”

“He loves my success,” he cuts you off. “And it’s embarrassing how everybody knows it.”

Neither of you are swinging anymore. Gathering your thoughts, you look down at your lap, inspecting your dirty shoes. “If it helps, I love you, Max.” In a heartbeat, his blue eyes dart towards you, seeing the way you breathe evenly. “Is that surprising to you?” He doesn’t answer. He couldn't answer. And boy did he want to. Smiling tenderly, you nod. “It’s not that hard, really.” You begin to swing again, as if you didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on him that left his heart in his throat, beating at an abnormal speed. “Not when you’re so patient with me.”

The chain squeaks, making him snap out of his daze, blinking harshly. “I hate my stutter. I’ve had it tugging at my leg since I was eight. Don’t know what caused it, but it’s been there, trust me. So, when you made fun of it a while back, I thought to myself: this guy is a real douchebag.”

Shame pours within him as he recalls that interaction. Checo had told him about his photographer's stutter and how hard it was to hold a conversation with her at first, but the longer they worked together, the more he found it endearing. And that’s exactly what Max felt the moment you became his photographer at a stage in his life where he still didn’t know you all that well other than the fact that you carried your camera like a newborn baby.

“I’m so—”

“Don’t be,” you cut him off. “I don’t hold grudges. Plus, you’re quite helpful now that you’re used to my stammering, don’t you think?”

Guilt fuels him as he apologizes with his eyes. “I shouldn’t have mocked you. Ever.”

“Probably.” A hum. “But the way you read my mind makes up for it.”

He’s been doing a lot of that, without even realizing it. He concludes your sentences without batting an eye about the words you’re trying to get out, trying to express. And in all fairness, you hadn’t noticed it either, not until Checo pointed it out.

That’s how normal it had become.

“My stutter was my number one insecurity growing up.” Connecting your gaze back to where he’s already looking, you draw your eyebrows in with gentleness. “And you made it go away.”

Before he can think his words through, he opens his mouth. “I love your stutter.”

You blink, bewildered at the comment. Then—you laugh.

“Thanks?” Your volume increases. “Never heard that one before.”

Screwing his eyes shut, he shakes his head, grimacing at the sound of his voice replaying inside his crowded mind.

“What I’m trying to say is that I love you,” he rambles, much faster and correctly this time, making you stop your laughter, eyes going wide once again. “Is that surprising to you?” he whispers, awaiting a response with anxiety dripping from his fingertips that clench around the chain that loops around the swing, giving it security.

“You mean as friends, right?” you ask carefully, making his stomach drop.

“I don’t think friends think about each other the way I think about you,” he confesses, out of breath by the sudden shift he’s caused. “I see you differently.”

As soon as your lips part to say something, he pleads silently as if saying: please, just hear me out. And that’s exactly what you do.

He’s standing right in front of you now, pacing back and forth like some football coach as you watch him like a clueless cheerleader who sits on the sidelines. He clears his throat after a lengthy minute.

“I noticed you first when you walked into your interview four years ago.”

Your mind races back to a moment in time where your camera was significantly cheaper and your dreams were larger than life.

He nods, watching as you recollect the memories that were tucked in the far back of your brain, like it didn’t matter for the longest time, which to be fair, it hadn’t.

“You were supposed to be my photographer.”

Your brows furrow, completely lost by his words. “What?”

His large hands run through his shaggy hair from his slumber that you had ripped him away from. “From the very beginning, it was supposed to be you and me. But…”

Neat brows narrow down harder. “But what?”

Max stops his pace, killing his tracks that lands him right in front of you looking up at him with innocent eyes. He sighs. “I said I didn’t want you working with me.”

“Oh.” A beat. “It’s always been this way, then? You not wanting me near you?”

“For a while,” he says quickly before cringing. “But now that we’ve worked together, I realize the mistake I made. How many years it could’ve been us…”

“What’s the real reason?”

Flinching, he squirms under your focus. “What?”

You nod, encouraging him. “You always said it was because you didn’t think we would work well together, and look at us now—we have.” Leaves rustle from the dozen of trees that wrap around the park. “What was the actual reason?”

He’s known the answer to this question from the moment you joined the team, more specifically, Checo’s. He knew the answer to the question the moment he crossed that finish line, claiming his first Championship like the greedy man he was carved out to be by his own father.

He’s just not sure how you’d take it. Coughing awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, he avoids eye contact. “I knew you’d distract me.”

Your stomach twists like a licorice. “Oh God—have I?”

“No!” he yelps, but the defense he guards up like a soldier lets you know that that’s nowhere close to being true. You shrink, increasing the distance between you two. His palms begin to sweat. “You haven’t—”

“Your dad was right,” you whisper. “I have been a distraction to you. That’s why you’ve been having such a weird season compared to the previous ones…”

“No,” he presses firmly. “The car has changed, that’s why I’ve been driving differently, it has nothing to do with you.”

But you don’t seem to engage with his words, instead, you shake your head like an angry child who never gets their way at the candy store. “How can you love me when I’m the reason your dad puts you down every chance he gets?”

It’s like you forced your fingers in at an open wound, one he tends to forget is there when he’s with you, but when you mention it's existence, he remembers why he dreads it so much.

“He talks to me like that because he’s a shitty dad, not because of you,” he says, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “I liked you the second year I won my Championship. The first time you said my name.”

“Congrats, Max,” you say with an awkward smile after you pull away from an even more awkward hug. “You did good.”

“I was infatuated by you the third year I won my Championship.”

“You can’t keep firing your photographers,” Christian lectured him with a tired voice, making his accent sound ten times stronger. “Especially when we don’t even have their replacement.”

“I haven’t found one I like,” he says as he watches you walk by, heading towards Checo with a bright smile, bragging about a recent setting that puts your old photos to shame. He looks away when you turn towards his garage, as if you felt his eyes on you. “It’s not my fault.”

“No, young man, it is,” the team principal presses, letting out a tired sigh. “You need to mature with the idea of having one, if not—”

“If not what?”

“If not…uh…we’ll…” Christian looks around for a while before turning back to the Dutchman. “We’ll have to take a different approach.”

“Yeah?” Max questions with amusement. “Which is?”

Christian shrugs. “Swapping Checo’s photographer with yours.”

This makes the Dutch physically recoil. “I’ve told you a thousand times already—it would never work out. She’s too…happy all the time.”

“And maybe that’s exactly what you need.”

Max lets out a shaky breath, watching your chest rise and fall as if you find it harder to breathe with every passing second.

“And I haven’t won my fourth,” he begins with a light smile and an even lighter tone. “But I already know that I love you.”

This is it. The last smile of his. Of that soft dimple of his that caught you by surprise the first time you saw it. It's the last time because you know that whatever happens after is going to ruin it all.

“I love you—”

“I don’t.”

His lips run dry, forcing a small chuckle like he didn’t hear you right. “I’m—I’m.” He smiles hesitantly. “B-but you said…” No more wind circles around you. “You said it.”

“I know.” You wince, brushing your hair back, annoyed with it by now. “I know I did, but…Max. I didn’t mean it in that way.”

The blue eyed Dutch takes a step backward, noting the uncomfortableness the sand is causing his feet to feel now that the adrenaline is gone. “What do you mean?” he murmurs with embarrassment. “What do you mean?”

Licking your lips, you focus on a tree that stands behind him, how fucked up looking it was. As if someone stabbed it over and over again until it bled wood chips.

“I do love you—but as a friend.”

“Why, though?”

“Friendships last longer,” you respond, like you’ve had the answer sitting on the tip of your tongue for the longest time now. “Relationships don’t.”

“Ours could,” he tries, feeling pathetic. “I’m good at everything. I bet I’ll be good at a relationship, too.”

“A relationship is not a game, Max,” you argue, your voice slightly raising, making him clench his jaw. “And I’m sure you think it is because you're such a perfectionist, but it’s not that easy. There’s a lot of dedication that goes into it.”

“Then I’ll be dedicated to you,” he says. “Heart, body, and soul. I swear. Just—give me a chance.”

“I can’t…”

“But why not?”

“Because all I see is a friend!” you shout, regretting it instantly. His skin loses its natural color, switching to a ghostlike state. His pink lips snap shut like a bear trap. And his furrowed brows revert back to their usual place. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you massage your temples that suddenly feel painful.

“We’re so different from one another, Max. Your life is written down, from birth to death. And you know you’ll live a good one. And mine—mine is constantly changing. I mean, look at it. A few months ago I was working with your teammate and now…”

He remains silent, patiently watching your lips move with every word that pinches his feelings like the biggest bully. “The love I hold for you is there…but not the same way yours is there for me. Your life moves fast, and I’m barely even able to keep up with a conversation with this fucking stutter that appears most times with others, but very few with you.”

Still nothing. Just his eyes focused on this jacket now, like he's already reclaiming it. “And I really do thank you for that, I do. But I thank you the most for letting me get to know you for who you really are. Not who you pretend to be or what others say you are—and I wish I could reciprocate, but…I just… don’t.”

An eternity passes by, it feels like. He doesn’t even know how long you two have been standing here now, but the sunrise is a clear indication that it’s been forever. And he doesn’t feel tired, nor does he feel upset…

He just feels dumb.

“I get it,” he finally speaks up. “We view each other differently and that’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It's not your fault,” he repeats, wearing a warm smile, hoping you'd believe his lie. That and he doesn’t think he can handle much more. All he wants to do is go back home. “I’m just glad I had someone to talk to for a while. And, well—I’m sorry. I must have gotten confused by the situation. Maybe I don’t love you, who knows. I probably just got excited, you know? Went my whole life without having an interaction like ours, maybe I’m convincing myself to believe in something that was never there to begin with. For either of us, that is.”

I just got excited, is all.

He did end up winning his fourth Championship the way he said he would. You did end up taking that perfect picture as he stood on that podium, shining as bright as his golden trophy. Jos was happy, Christian was happy, the entire team was happy, but you and Max?

Blue eyes lock with yours, feeling the differenceness between it all. He still loves you, he realizes. He wasn’t confused after all. But neither were you.

All you saw was your best friend, and now you’re not even sure you have one anymore. You two no longer hang out, you barely even speak to one another despite spending most of your days together. He still smiles at you from time to time, but it’s not the same. Nothing could ever be.

And it was a soul crushing thing to realize.

“Congratulations,” you muffle against his race suit as you hug him without your arms fully wrapping around him and his hardly wrapping around you. “This is your moment, Max.” A beat. “No one else’s.”

You’re talking about his dad. He knows that.

Chuckling, he nods. Like he’s sure of that now. That all his success is his, and his alone. That you have finally managed to matter the most in his life—not his trophies, not his father’s respect.

You.

Pulling away, he still feels your invisible hug linger on him in a way he can’t explain and neither could you. You dig into your pocket, pulling out a silver bracelet.

“Your birthday gift.”

Right. You never got the chance to give it to him after the last real conversation you two ever had. After that, both of you ignored the fact it ever even happened, and in a way, he was grateful for that, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. Looking down at it, he reads the engravement, feeling his heart take a last lap.

To my favorite open book. With love.

He laughs, clutching his fist around it. “I’m nowhere close to being an open book, but…thanks. I love it.”

You giggle, eyes crinkling with tears as you brush them away. “Not at first, but—eventually. It takes time.”

The cheers rise, but neither of you acknowledge them. Not even when they chant his name, over and over.

“You’ve peeled me,” he admits, nearly whispering. “Completely.” Your breath hitches, sucking in that breath that cost to take in. Max shrugs with a gentle grin. “You’ve peeled the lemon,” he jokes with a shaky breath of his own, blue eyes switching to a darker shade that makes your limbs go weak. “So—do your fingers burn?”

You force a laugh. The kind that makes your head tilt just a bit before tippy toeing to give him a proper kiss on the cheek. He goes still.

“I wish they did. That’d make my decision much easier to go through.”

With that, you step away, the Dutch immediately being over taken by journalists, photographers, the FIA, the drivers—everyone except the only person he really wants there celebrating with him.

His mind is racing faster than his Championship winning car. What decision? What could you possibly mean by that—

Christian embraces him, ruffling his sweaty hair as he pours a bottle of champagne over his head, laughing with glory. Max shakes his head, leaning down to ask the only question that ever made his heart break before he ever even got a response.

“Did she quit?”

Christian knows exactly who she is, but what catches him by surprise is how agitated he appeared to suddenly get. The team principal shrugs. “We’ll find you a new one!”

“No,” Max whispers in disbelief as he tries to find you from a distance, but all he sees are flashing lights that begin to cut his patience thin. “No.”

I wanted her.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious@notkaryna

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 1 day ago

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WAG Bootcamp: Part 2

Part 1

Word count: 593

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: On her first-ever race day, Y/n experiences the chaos, stress, and excitement of Formula 1 as the WAGs teach her how to survive the emotional rollercoaster.

________________________________________________________

Y/n thought she had survived the worst of the initiation. She had learned the pre-race rituals, mastered (or at least attempted) the mysterious “paddock girlfriend face,” and even accepted that she now had to irrationally hate any driver who so much as looked at Lando the wrong way.

But nothing could have prepared her for race day.

The paddock was buzzing with energy—fans screaming, engines roaring, and mechanics in a frenzy. Y/n had barely taken a sip of her coffee when Kika grabbed her arm.

“Alright, rookie. Time for the next lesson.”

“What now?” Y/n asked warily.

“How to survive a Grand Prix,” Lily said, tossing her a pair of noise-canceling headphones. “Trust me, you’ll need these.”

Lesson Four: The Race-Day Survival Guide

Y/n followed the WAGs to the McLaren hospitality area, where they had their usual spots. The screens showed the cars lining up on the grid, and she could already feel her heart pounding.

“Step one,” Alex said, crossing her arms. “No matter what happens, you do not freak out on camera. If Lando crashes, you hold it together until you’re inside.”

“Wait—crashes?” Y/n swallowed. “We’re talking about, like, little crashes, right?”

Silence.

“Right?”

Susie patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine, dear.”

Not comforting.

“Step two,” Rebecca added, “learn the art of selective hearing. The commentators will say stupid things, the fans will tweet even dumber things, and some guy named David Croft will mispronounce names. Ignore it.”

“Step three,” Carmen leaned in, lowering her voice. “If Lando is leading, do not say out loud that he’s going to win. You will jinx it.”

Y/n blinked. “You guys actually believe in jinxes?”

Kelly, who had remained quiet until now, turned to her with a dead-serious expression. “Max retired from Monaco 2021 because I said, ‘This is going well.’”

Y/n gasped. “Oh my God.”

“We don’t talk about it,” Kika muttered.

The lights went out, and the race began.

Lesson Five: How to Emotionally Handle a Race (Spoiler: You Don’t)

It started fine. Lando had a clean start, holding position. Y/n sat on the edge of her seat, gripping her hands together, trying not to scream every time someone got too close to him.

Then, lap 12 happened.

A driver—who Y/n immediately decided to despise for eternity—dove down the inside, nearly taking Lando out.

Y/n shot to her feet. “WHAT THE—”

Lily yanked her back down. “Cameras!” she hissed.

“That was reckless!” Y/n whisper-yelled, furious.

“Congratulations,” Alex smirked. “You just experienced your first ‘what the hell was that’ moment. There will be many more.”

For the next thirty laps, Y/n experienced every emotion possible. Joy when Lando made an overtake. Panic when the pit stop took too long. Rage when another driver squeezed him off track. She nearly passed out when he was fighting for a podium.

And then—P2.

“He did it!” Y/n gasped as Lando crossed the line.

The WAGs cheered, clapping and hugging.

Y/n exhaled, feeling like she had just run a marathon. “I don’t know if I can do this every weekend.”

“You will,” Kelly said, sipping her drink. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”

Lesson Six: The Post-Race Debrief

After a chaotic cooldown period, Y/n finally found Lando, still in his race suit, hair messy from his helmet, grinning as he pulled her into a hug.

“How was your first race?” he asked, slightly breathless.

Y/n looked at him, remembering everything—the stress, the screaming, the insane group of women who had taken her in.

She smiled.

“Terrifying. But I think I love it.”

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futurewdclandonorris · 1 year ago

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you look good on camera, baby, let's go make a film | Lando Norris⁴

“Can you leave your camera alone for five minutes? You play with that thing too much lately.” "Would you rather I play with you instead?"

Pairings: Lando Norris x fem!reader

Warnings: smut

Word count: 9356

Songs that really inspired me: Under The Influence, I Luv This Shit (Remix), Or Nah, Zayn - Sweat

With your feet in Lando's lap, you were laying on his couch watching television, his hand mindlessly massaging your foot. The sun was beginning to set, washing the living room in a golden light, the tv buzzing in the background and your occasional laughter interrupting the silence.

Lando’s touch was soothing, his fingers expertly finding all the right pressure points on your foot, but you didn’t mind that at all. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to spend lazy evenings like this at each other’s place, comfortable in each other's presence without the need for constant conversation.

“Are you seeing this?” you giggled, not tearing your eyes from the screen. Lando didn’t react.

That wasn’t the first time that evening that you said something and he completely ignored you. You shifted slightly, feeling a nudge of irritation prickling at your skin. Lando’s continued silence started grating on your nerves, the one-sided conversation gnawing at the edges of your patience.

“Are you even listening to me?” you nudged him with your foot, turning to face him.

“Hmm?” he hummed, giving your ankle a gentle squeeze and raising his eyebrows in your direction to let you know that he registered you this time.

You scoffed, seeing what was occupying his attention. “Can you leave your camera alone for five minutes? It’s like your third eye, I swear.”

Lando chuckled, but kept scrolling through the pictures. “Sorry. Just reviewing what we took today.”

Rolling your eyes, you propped yourself on your elbows. “You play with that thing too much lately.”

“Would you rather I play with you instead?” he raised his eyes, mischievous gleam in them, and smirked.

His fingers traveled up your calf, a heat rushing through you at his suggestive tone and touch causing a familiar swirl of butterflies in your belly. You cleared your throat and sat up properly, moving his hand away.

“Show me what you captured today,” you said, trying to steer the conversation back to normalcy. You knew that lingering in those moments would only complicate an already delicate dance happening between the two of you.

Lando's smirk widened at your reaction, his eyes shining with amusement, but leaned closer so you could see the screen better. The photographs flashed across the display – picturesque landscapes, candid shots of people in the streets, and close-ups of intricate details that caught Lando’s keen eye. You felt a sense of awe at the way he could turn the mundane into something breathtaking through his lens.

In one particular photo, a vibrant sunset painted the sky in an array of pinks and oranges, casting a warm glow over a quiet beach. The colors were so vivid, it felt like you could almost hear the waves crashing and feel the salty breeze on your skin.

Lost in the beauty of the photographs, you almost didn't notice Lando's hand inching back toward your leg, his touch light and teasing. You shot him a playful look, trying to maintain some semblance of composure despite the flutter of excitement building in your chest.

"Just focus on the pictures, Lando," you said with a laugh, swatting his hand away playfully. But he only grinned, his gaze flicking between the screen and you, a silent challenge in his eyes.

The next photo caught you both by surprise. More you than him. It was an explicit photo of Lando, wearing nothing but a mischievous smile, his eyes daring and playful. You gasped, turning away in shock at the unexpected image. Lando let out a hearty laugh at your reaction, clearly finding amusement in your flustered state.

“Oh, come on, y/n, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” he teased, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he looked at you expectantly.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment and confusion, unsure of how to respond to the intimate photograph that had appeared out of nowhere.

“Well, yeah, but that was… private,” you managed to choke out, looking anywhere except at him or the screen.

Lando's laughter filled the room, a deep rumble that made your heart race even faster. He shifted closer, his hand resting on your knee as he tried to catch your gaze.

"Don't be shy, y/n. I’m sure you have taken a few risqué photos yourself,” he whispered, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Want to see them?” you side eyed him.

“I mean, if you’re offering—”

“I was joking, you muppet!” you turned to smack him across the chest, but Lando caught your hand before it made contact. His fingers intertwined with yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that sent a jolt of electricity through you, the playful banter fading into something more charged and raw between you.

“Maybe I do have some photos,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But they're not for everyone to see.”

“What about a sex tape? Would you ever consider making one of those?” he asked, his voice low and eyes darkening. “I mean, since we're on the subject…” he cleared his throat.

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken implications. Your heart pounded in your chest as you struggled to process his words, the boundary between friendship and something more blurring with each passing second.

Lando's gaze bore into yours, searching for any hint of your true feelings. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in a silent caress, his touch igniting a fire in your veins. You could feel the pull of attraction drawing you closer to him, tempting you to cross that line.

But as much as you wanted to explore this newfound tension, you pulled your hand out of his grasp. “I’m not sure, I don’t think I would want that.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and a bit of disappointment. “Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time we explored our boundaries.”

You paused, biting your lip as you considered his words. The thought of sharing something so intimate with him was both thrilling and terrifying. “I just don’t think I would look good, you know…”

“Are you kidding? You know you are the most beautiful person I have ever laid my eyes on.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the sincerity in his gaze stirring emotions you had long tried to suppress. The air crackled with anticipation, the weight of unspoken desires hanging between you like a heavy fog.

“I’ve taken pictures of you countless times and in each you look like a work of art,” he continued, his voice gentle caress that seeped into every pore.

“Yeah, but that was different… We were having fun… It wasn’t meant to be serious…”

“Why can’t it be serious?” Lando’s voice was soft, his eyes locked on yours with a vulnerability you had never seen before. The air in the room felt charged with emotions as he reached out to cup your cheek gently. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, awakening a longing you had buried deep within your heart.

You searched his eyes for any sign of hesitation or doubt, but all you found was unwavering sincerity and a hint of nervousness. In that moment, you realized that perhaps the unstated tension between you was mutual, a silent dance that had been playing out beneath the surface for longer than you had dared to admit.

“I… I never thought about it that way,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering close at the intimacy.

Lando’s thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch sending sparks through you as he drew closer, his gaze flicking back and forth between your eyes and lips. The room seemed to shrink around the two of you, the world outside fading into insignificance as you were lost in each other's gaze. You felt your resistance fading with each pass, as if their attraction was slowly but surely pulling you under.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “You know, y/n, I’ve always imagined watching you in a moment like this,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, “capturing your beauty on film in a way that only I can see.”

You shivered as his breath ghosted over your skin, the intensity of the moment leaving you reeling. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Lando’s eyes locked with yours, his tone growing more earnest. “Taking pictures of you, ones that only I get to see, ones that no one else gets to touch or look at without your permission.”

You gulped, your heart pounding with equal parts fear and excitement. This was a line you had never dared to cross before, and yet, Lando's words had a way of making anything seem possible.

Lando smiled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Pictures that capture the essence of you, the real you," he said quietly. "The sides of you that you show only to me."

You bit your lip, feeling a flutter in your chest. This was an intimate proposition, one that made you feel both vulnerable and empowered. "And what would be the point of that?" you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

Lando's gaze held yours, his expression serious yet filled with desire. "The point would be to immortalize you, to capture the essence of who you are in a way that words can never fully express. I want to show you how beautiful you are through my eyes, how every smile, every glance, every moment we share is a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled. And I want a collection of memories that belong only to me, ones that I can look back on and remember the moments that you shared with me."

Your heart raced as you considered his proposal. The idea of Lando capturing your nature in a way that only he could see was both enticing and terrifying. But the thought of being the sole muse for his art, the one person he would hold close in his heart, was a powerful draw.

"I'm not sure I can do that," you replied hesitantly, "but I can try."

Lando's eyes lit up with exhilaration, his smile growing wider. "We'll start with the simplest things, the little quirks that make you unique. Then we'll move on to more intimate moments. I promise to never push you too far or make you uncomfortable. We'll do this together."

You nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. This was a new adventure and you were unsure of what lay ahead. But you were ready to take that leap with Lando by your side.

"Alright, deal," you said with a shy smile. "But promise me that you won't share these photos with anyone. They're for your eyes only."

Lando's eyes softened, his expression turning sincere. "I promise, y/n. We'll do this together, at your pace, and I'll make sure to always respect your boundaries."

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. This was a bold move, but you trusted Lando. You knew that he would never do anything to hurt you.

"Alright," you said, feeling a sense of determination. "Let's do this."

Lando leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was soft and sweet, his lips like clouds. The world around you faded away as you melted into him, leaving only the two of you wrapped up in each other’s arms, lost in a moment that felt like it would never end.

Lando pulled back and his eyes locked with yours. His fingers curled around the hem of your shirt and with a silent permission he pulled it over your head, revealing the vulnerable beauty beneath. Your skin tingled as his gaze traced every inch of you, his camera forgotten as he captured each moment with his eyes. The room seemed to hum with a quiet intensity as he leaned in to press kisses along your collarbone, his touch igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume everything in its path.

You felt the weight of his wishes pressing against you, a silent plea for more as he whispered words of adoration against your skin. Your doubts and fears melted away in the heat of the moment, leaving only raw passion and longing behind.

As Lando's hands roamed over your body, every touch electric and searing, you realized that this was where you were meant to be. In his arms, exposed and vulnerable yet safe and cherished in a way you had never known before.

The room was filled with the sound of the camera shutter, immortalizing the intimate moments between you, and you surrendered yourself completely to the unknown, knowing Lando is there to guide you. You felt naked under his gaze, as if his lens had stripped away every layer of your clothing and left you uncovered to his unbridled desire.

Your breath caught in your throat as Lando's hand grazed your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The light from the camera flickered across your face, casting shadows and highlighting the contours of your features. It was surreal, to feel like you were being transformed into a work of art, a masterpiece crafted with love and longing.

He kissed your chest and you reached for his shirt, unfurling the fabric to reveal the body that had been hiding beneath. Lando's muscles rippled as he stretched, hinting at a strength that belied his gentle demeanor. The sight stole your breath, your heart beating faster with each passing moment.

The air grew thick with anticipation, the scent of his skin mingling with the heady emotions that filled the room. You felt yourself being pulled into a world where art and desire intertwined, and knew that the line between reality and fantasy had blurred.

With a deep breath, you met Lando's eyes, trusting him as you had never trusted anyone before. He smiled softly, his gaze filled with warmth and understanding. He held a side of your face, kissing your lips gently, his touch feather-light and tender. You felt a wave of affection wash over you, and you knew that this moment was more than just a passing fancy. This was for real, and you were ready to embrace it.

"I'm ready," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, your eyes locked with his as you gave him permission to continue.

Lando's lips found their way to your neck, his tongue tracing the delicate curve of your collarbone, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You felt a shiver of desire course through your body, and you knew that this was what you had been waiting for.

"You're mine, you know that?" he murmured, his voice low and throaty, his breath hot against your skin. "You're my muse, my inspiration…”

He guided you to lay on the couch as he spoke, your bare skin glistening in the soft light that filtered through the curtains. Lando's eyes never left your face as he positioned you, adjusting the pillows behind your back to make you comfortable.

He moved to the other side of the room, the camera in his hands. You could see the longing in his eyes, the want to capture every inch of you in his lens. He looked at you again, his gaze lingering on your lips, your eyes, the curve of your neck.

Taking a deep breath, he began to capture you. The first shot was of your face, your eyes wide with anticipation, your lips parted in a gentle smile. The second was of your neck, the delicate arc of your throat revealed, your skin glowing in the orange light. The third was of your chest, your breasts rising and falling with each breath, your skin flushed with craving.

“Perfect,” he whispered and lowered the camera.

He was on top of you now, straddling you, but careful not to put all his weight on you. He used his body to block out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of you in this intimate moment. He leaned down, kissing your lips softly, his tongue brushing against your bottom lip, coaxing it open. You opened your mouth, allowing his tongue to enter, exploring the depths of yours, tasting you. His hands were on your waist, his fingers tracing the curves of your hips, your waist, your sides, discovering your body, learning its contours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered in between kisses, his voice breathless.

His eyes lingered on you in a way that made you feel exposed, yet safe. He dipped his head and bit the spot where your neck and shoulder connected. You gasped, a mixture of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. Lando's lips were warm against your skin, his breath sending tremors through your body.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted this," he murmured against your shoulder, taking off the strap of your bra. "You have no idea how much..."

He trailed off, his words stolen by the kiss he pressed against your lips. His hand slid up your side, his fingertips brushing the edge of your bra. You could feel your nipples hardening under the fabric, aching for his touch.

"Lando..." you called, your voice barely audible.

Lando's hand moved to your throat, his fingers gently caressing your skin as he looked up at you. "I want to see you," he said softly, "let me see you."

You nodded, unable to speak as you reached up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He continued to bite and kiss the sensitive skin of your neck as he reached behind your back to unclasp your bra. You could feel the need building in him, the need to possess you, to claim you as his own.

Lando's fingers finally released the clasp, and your bra slipped off, leaving you exposed to his gaze. His eyes widened at the sight of your breasts, the hardened nipples standing at attention, begging for his. You could see the want in his eyes, the hunger to devour every inch of you.

He reached for his camera on the table and straightened on his knees above you. He adjusted the focus, making sure to catch every detail of your skin's smoothness, your aroused nipples, and the flush of aspiration on your cheeks.

With the camera in one hand and his free hand on your chest, he leaned in to take a close-up of your nipples, his lips brushing against your skin as he did so. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine.

As the camera shutter clicked, he moved his hand down your body, trailing his fingers over your stomach, your hips, and down to your thighs. He spread your legs slightly, giving himself a better view of you, a better angle for his camera. He took another photograph, capturing your legs spread, your hips slightly arched, inviting him in.

Then he handed the camera to you. You took it hesitantly, unsure what to do with it. Lando smiled reassuringly at you and placed his hand over yours, guiding your fingers to the shutter button.

“Would you film while I suck on your tits?”

His words made you shiver, making you both nervous and excited. You nodded, taking a deep breath and pressing the button, starting to film the moment you had been waiting for.

His hands traced the valley of your breasts, his fingers lightly brushing over your nipples, sending shivers of pleasure racing across your skin. You arched into his touch, your hips rising to meet his, your body crying out for more.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your skin, and caught one nipple in his mouth. You moaned softly, your hips bucking forward as he sucked and licked, your body arching towards him. His other hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing your hip, your thigh, your knee.

He alternated between sucking and biting, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud. You felt your body respond, your nipples hardening even more under his attention. You moaned, your hand reaching down to grip his hair, pulling him closer.

As he moved to your other nipple, his teeth grazed your skin, leaving a faint mark. You gasped, the sensation sending waves of pleasure-pain coursing through you, your core clenching in response.

His hands moved to your waist, his fingers gently digging into your skin, gripping you tightly. You could feel his passion, his need for you, the way he wanted to devour you in every way possible.

"Do you like that?" he whispered, his breath hot against your skin.

You moaned softly, your hips bucking forward, your body begging for more. "Yes," you breathed out.

Lando smiled, his eyes gleaming with hunger. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, his tongue darting out to lick some more.

You moaned quietly, your body quivering with each touch, each lick, each suck, each bite. He moved lower, his hands sliding down your body, his lips tracing the line of your stomach, your hips, your thighs. You could feel his breath against your skin, the anticipation building with each move.

He sat back on his knees, hands hooking on the waistband of your shorts and sliding them down your legs. He raised your left leg up and rested it on his shoulder, kissing the inside of your ankle and making his way up. Your skin was soft and warm under his touch, his lips trailing up your ankle, your calf, your knee.

You were nervous but also aroused by his touch, feeling your yearning building with each kiss and caress, each soft word whispered in your ear. You could feel his arousal, the hardness of his erection pressing against your thigh, and it sent a jolt of excitement through your body.

He gently kissed your inner thigh, his tongue dipping into the soft flesh, causing you to gasp. He pulled back once more, doing the same to your other leg. His attention was now solely on you, and the expectation was almost unbearable. You could hardly breathe as he continued to kiss and caress your legs, building the tension between you. Finally, he reached the apex of your desire, the junction where your legs met, and he dipped his head to his prize.

"Open up for me," he said softly, his eyes locked on your now damp panties.

You hesitated for a moment, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but then you nodded, spreading your legs wider for him. You could feel his breath on your skin, the warmth of his body against yours, and the prediction of what was to come.

His hands gently cupped your hips, guiding his head closer to your arousal. "I want to taste you," he said, almost reverently.

You closed your eyes and shivered, feeling his hot breath against your sensitive skin. He teased you, blowing softly, causing your hips to thrust upward, seeking his touch. He laughed softly and backed away once more.

“Not here. Come,” he said, standing up and extending a hand to help you up.

You took his hand, feeling weak in the chest from the intensity of the moment. You both walked towards the table, the camera still in your hands, documenting every step.

“Lean on the edge,” he instructed, constructing the scene and sank to his knees.

You did as he asked, your hand gripping the edge as he positioned himself between your legs. You could feel his hot breath on your thighs, making you breathe heavily.

"Move your panties to the side," he directed, his voice low and seductive. You obeyed, sliding the damp fabric aside, exposing yourself to him.

Then his tongue darted out, teasing you, licking the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You moaned softly, your hips bucking forward, seeking more of his touch. He laughed softly, his hands gripping your thighs as he continued to tease you, his tongue tracing patterns on your skin. You felt your need building, the anticipation making you wetter, your juices trickling down the inside of your thighs.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice deep.

You nodded, unable to speak. Your entire body was screaming for his touch, for his lips, for his tongue. He leaned in, his tongue dipping into your folds, swirling around your delicate skin and licking up and down with the skill of an expert. You moaned, your body arching into his face, your hips bucking against his mouth.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned against your skin, his tongue plunging inside you.

You were lost in the moment, your body trembling with need as he tested your boundaries, exploring every inch of you. With your free hand, you reached down to grip his shoulder, pulling him closer, needing him more than ever before. His hands gripped your hips tightly, steadying you.

"You taste so good. So sweet, so wet," you could feel the heat of his breath against your pussy, the soft rustle of his hair against your thighs.

His tongue continued its tour, flicking against your sensitive flesh, his fingers gently caressing your hips. You could feel the tension building within you, the desire for him to take you over the edge.

But Lando was not in a hurry. He wanted to savor every moment, every touch, every taste. He moved his fingers to your clit, gently stroking it with the tip of his finger, causing you to arch into his touch.

“You like that?” he whispered, his voice hot.

“Y-yes,” you moaned back.

“I’m going to make you cum,”

You gasped, one hand gripping his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more, and the other holding the camera, recording every moment.

He moaned, the taste of you driving him wild. He licked and sucked gently, exploring every inch of your folds, his tongue probing deeper, his fingers gently parting you, giving himself better access to your most sensitive spots.

You moaned loudly, your hips bucking forward, your body responding to his touch, your mind lost in the pleasure of his seductive advances. You could feel your arousal building, the tension between your legs growing stronger with each touch, each lick, each suck.

He slid a finger inside you, his thumb rubbing your clit in a slow, steady rhythm. You cried out, your body arching towards him, your hips bucking as he stroked you deeper, his fingers inspecting your inner depths. Your mind was consumed with the sensations, the pleasure building to a crescendo within you.

"Yes, yes, yes," you whimpered, your fingers digging into his hair, urging him on.

He smiled around your wet folds, raising his eyes and locking them with yours and not with the camera lens. He added another finger, stretching you just enough to send you over the edge.

You cried out, your body tensing and shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, your hips bucking wildly, your legs shaking uncontrollably. You felt like you were flying and floating and everything was blurry and burning and perfect.

He continued to lick and suck, milking every last drop of pleasure from you, his fingers moving in sync with his mouth, driving you higher and higher with each stroke.

Your orgasm subsided, leaving you panting and breathless, your body trembling with aftershocks and your hands shaking. He continued to hold you, his hand gently caressing your hip. You could feel the moisture seeping from between your legs, staining his fingers.

He pulled back, his face dripping with your juices, and looked up at you with craving in his eyes. You could see the wild animal in him, the hunger for you, the need to have you. You could hardly believe what had just happened. You had never felt such desire, such want, such pleasure before. You felt alive, you felt wild, and you felt so, so loved.

He stood up and guided your hand to the bulge in his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. He thrust forward, his pulse beating wildly against your palm. You could feel the heat of his erection through the material of his sweatpants, and the pulse between your legs again.

"Are you ready for the next part?" he asked, cupping your face and kissing you deeply.

You nodded, gasping for air as his kisses became more fervent. He helped you to stand, your legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm, but you couldn't deny the excitement coursing through your veins.

“Get on your knees,” he instructed, taking the camera from you.

“No,” you said, making him raise an eyebrow.

Instead, you took him by the shoulders and swapped places with him so that he was now leaning on the edge of the table. Neither of you could take your eyes off each other as you inched closer, his erection straining against the fabric of his sweatpants.

“I want to give you a good time too,” you murmured, kissing the side of his neck, your hand trailing down his chest until you took a palmful of his cock.

His breath hitched, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and head thrown back, eyes closed. You peppered the line of his neck with kisses, dragging your tongue down the curve of his shoulders, before reaching his collarbones. Your fingers teased him, lightly stroking his length and feeling it twitch under your touch.

“Please, baby,” he growled, clutching at the edge of the table and arching his hips towards your hand. “Need you to touch me.”

You couldn’t resist his plea, your hand gripping his erection more firmly, stroking him slowly and watching as his eyes fluttered open, dark and needy. Your other hand traced the outline of his hip, skimming over the waistband of his sweats and glorying in the feel of his hardness beneath your fingers.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he breathed, eyes locked on your fingers as they moved.

You leaned closer, brushing your lips against his ear. “Do you want me to take it off?”

"Uh huh," he nodded, his breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

"Words, Lando. I need you to use words," you were demanding, but gentle.

He gulped before responding, sounding breathless. “Yes, please."

You smirked against his chest and began pathing your way down with kisses. You settled on your knees, your fingers dug into the waistband of his sweats.

"Turn the camera on, you will not want to miss a moment of this,” you told him.

You pulled them down slowly, almost irritatingly so just to tease him some more. The whole time you were keeping eye contact, licking your lips and watching him squirm and take deep breaths.

Next were his boxers. You latched your teeth on the edge of the waistband and slowly, ever so slowly, pulled them down. His cock sprang out, hard and throbbing, the head glistening with pre-cum.

“Fuck, that was so hot,” he muttered, holding the camera with both hands to steady it as he watched you.

You licked your lips again, staring at his erection and the dark, pulsing head. You reached out and wrapped your fingers around it, pumping it slowly, watching as his hips bucked involuntarily.

“Was that good?” you asked, your voice low and sultry.

He groaned, his eyes never leaving your hand. “God, yes.”

"You're so hard for me," you whispered, kissing the head gently as you watched him squirm. And you knew exactly what to do to make him even harder.

You took him in your hand, your palm wrapping around his length, your fingers stroking him from base to tip. You watched as a drop of pre-cum glistened at the tip, and you used your thumb to smear it around, slicking him up. Lando moaned loudly, his head dropping back as you continued to stroke him, your hand matching the rhythm of his breaths. You reached into your mouth and began to lick and flick your tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock, his length twitching in response.

"Mmm, so sweet," you moaned around his shaft, the taste making your saliva flow. You took him deeper into your mouth, sucking him down until the tip hit the back of your throat. He groaned, his hand grabbing your hair and pulling you closer, driving his cock deeper into your mouth.

You pulled back, your teeth scraping over his sensitive head, earning you another growl from him. You teased him with your tongue, swirling it around the delicate tip while pumping his shaft with your hand. His hips bucked, and hand tightened in your hair.

You moaned around him, feeling the power that this simple act of pleasure held over him. He groaned, thrusting his hips forward as you put him back into your mouth, taking him deep until your nose was pressed against his pubic hair, his hand gripping the back of your head, wanting you even deeper. You pulled back, sucking him off with a pop, the sound echoing in the room. His cock twitched, getting harder, more sensitive with every stroke.

“God, you look so pretty sucking my cock,” he growled, his eyes locked on your face as you continued to stroke him and hollow out his thoughts.

You didn't miss a beat, your hand moving in sync with your mouth as you suckled his length, feeling his cock pulse in your hand. You could feel his desire building, feel him reaching for that point of no return. And you wanted to be there when he crossed that line.

“Look at me, baby, look at the camera with your pretty eyes while my cock’s in your mouth,” he commanded, his voice raw and needy.

You lifted your eyes to meet the camera lens, your gaze unwavering as you continued to suck on his cock, your other hand still pumping him rhythmically. You could feel his thighs trembling, his hips bucking, and his grip on your hair stronger.

“That’s it, take my whole cock,” he growled, his voice a mixture of pleasure and dominance. “Look at you, sucking me off like a pro. Such a good girl.”

You took him in deeper, praise giving you a new surge of confidence, your throat stretching to accommodate his girth, and your eyes watering from the sensation. You could feel the veins throbbing under your lips, and the taste of his precum glistening on your tongue.

“Don’t be shy, lick my balls too,” he said, taking his cock out of your mouth.

You eagerly complied, lowering your head towards his balls, kissing, licking and nibbling gently. He moaned loudly, his hands gripping your hair tighter as you took his balls into your mouth, sucking and releasing, creating a soft slurping sound as you did so.

"Oh fuck, yes," he groaned, his hips rocking back and forth in time with your mouth. "Suck on them harder, baby."

You obliged, taking his balls in your mouth and sucking on them deeply while his cock throbbed above you. You could feel him getting closer, his body stiffening and his breathing quickening.

“Mmm... fuck, you’re so good at this,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “I’m gonna cum soon. Are you ready for it?”

You knew what he needed, so you went back to work, taking his cock into your mouth once more. You sucked and licked, and your hand stroked him vigorously. Your saliva mixed with his precum, making your mouth slick and warm.

“Oh fuck, right there, that’s it, baby,” he panted, his body shuddering. “You’re going to make me cum so hard.”

You increased your pace, your mouth swallowing him down.

“Are you going to cum on my tits?” You asked, raising your eyes from the camera lens to look into his.

He smirked, "No, I want to see you take it down your throat."

You swallowed hard, nodding as you removed your mouth from his cock and backed away slightly. His cock, glistening with a mix of saliva and pre-cum, stood at attention, twitching softly.

You took it in your hand and rubbed the sensitive head between your fingers, watching your spit glisten on the tip. He moaned softly, his hips bucking as you slowly brought it to your lips. You ran your tongue over the tip, savoring the taste of his pre-cum, before taking him into your mouth. You slowly slid down his length, taking him deeper with each swallow.

He let out a low groan, his hand fisting in your hair as you took him further and further. When your nose was pressed against his pubic hair, he let out a strangled cry and thrust his hips forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat. His cum erupted from him, a torrent of hot, salty jets that coated your tongue and filled your throat. You choked back a reflexive gag, your eyes watering with the sensation, but held on, swallowing the thick, ropy liquid until he was spent.

You pulled away, your lips plump and glistening with his cum, and hooked a finger under your chin to wipe away the excess. For a moment, you just looked at him, your eyes locked with his, your chests heaving as you both caught your breaths.

He reached down and wiped away the remaining cum from your cheek, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a moment of stillness, a sense of completion and satisfaction in the air.

"Fuck, that was amazing," he panted, his hand still in your hair.

You smiled, your eyes glinting with mischief. "Not done yet," you whispered, reaching up to kiss his lips, the taste of cum still on your tongue.

The two of you shared a long, lingering kiss, sucking on each other’s tongues as passion still simmered between you. His hand moved down to your chest, brushing over your breast, his fingers playing with your nipple.

You broke the kiss, your eyes still locked with his. "Come with me," you purred, a smirk playing on your lips.

You led him to the bed, your movements confident and sultry. He followed you, his eyes never leaving your body, his hunger for you palpable.

“I want to sit on your face, and I want to film it.” you announced, your voice low and seductive. Not even you knew from where this newfound confidence came from, but you let it wash over you, feeling empowered and desirable. And you wanted to explore this side of you further.

He looked at you with a mixture of surprise and excitement, clearly not expecting this sudden turn of events.

"Are you sure?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Absolutely," you replied, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "I want to see your face when you're pleasuring me.”

“Wow, look at you. I thought you were camera shy, but here you are directing me around,” he teased, a playful smile spreading across his face.

"Get on the bed, on your back," you instructed, taking off your panties, your voice now firm and commanding. He did as you instructed, spreading out on the bed with a cheeky grin on his face.

You climbed onto the bed, straddling him and positioning yourself above his face. Your hips swayed as you watched him watch you, his eyes never leaving your face. You held the camera in front of you, making sure it was centered on his face and capturing every detail of his expression. You could feel his breath against your most intimate parts, a gentle reminder of what was to come.

“Ready, set…”

Instantly his mouth met your cunt, his tongue darting out to tease your clit before delving inside, tasting your sweetness. You moaned softly, your hips bucking in time with his mouth. He sucked and licked, his hands stroking your thighs, his eyes never leaving the lens. It was like a dance, your movements in sync with his, each touch and stroke building the momentum.

The camera captured it all - your gasping, your moaning, and the way your body arched as his tongue dug deeper. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked on your clit and your legs shook, your whole body trembling as pleasure coursed through you. You could feel him growing more confident with every passing second, his tongue moving in a rhythm that drove you wild.

“Harder,” you demanded, your voice strained with lust. “Fuck me with that tongue.”

He complied, his tongue thrusting in and out of you, his lips sucking and pulling right where you needed the most. Each touch sent shivers through your body, the tension building and the release just around the corner.

“I’m so close, baby,” you whispered, your eyes locking with his.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, the sensation overwhelming. He didn’t, his tongue flicking and probing, his hand going up your waist, now reaching to cup your breasts, his fingers twirling and pinching your nipples.

You gripped at his hair, giving yourself some more balance as you started grinding on his face. He moaned against your pussy, sending vibrations throughout your body.

“Mm, that’s right, baby. Ride my face.” he muffled, one hand falling to your hip and the other slapping your ass, encouraging you further.

You looked at him, breath catching in your throat at the sight. His green eyes filled with such lust and wildness that you wanted to take a picture and carry it in your wallet if it were any appropriate. And that was just enough to send you overboard.

He held your hips firmly as you spasmed over his face, his mouth continuing to devour you. Your moans turned to screams, and he licked and sucked at your sensitive spots, not letting any drop of pleasure from you go to waste. His hands roamed your body until you finally collapsed on top of him, breathless and drained.

You lay there for a moment, camera dropped on the mattress, your cheeks flushed and heart pounding. You looked down at him, his face glistening with your juices and smiled. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with satisfaction and gave you a smirk. Slowly, you climbed off him and he sat up, and you kissed him, savoring the taste of yourself on his lips, his rough beard stubble scraping against your skin.

“I’m ready. I want you now,” you murmured against his mouth.

He smiled, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Get on your hands and knees then,”

You complied way too eagerly, positioning yourself just as he wanted, ass up in the air and back arched. He crawled behind you, his cock hard and ready again. He slapped your ass, the sting of his hand sending a new wave of drive coursing through you.

“Are you dripping for me?” he leaned to whisper in your ear, his breath making you shudder. You moaned in response, the desire too intense.

“Oh yes, you are,” he said for you, running his fingers through your folds.

He slid his cock into you from behind, filling you up in a single, powerful thrust. Your moan turned to a growl as he began to move, his hand gripping your hips tightly. You could feel his cock hitting your sweet spot with each thrust, and the pleasure was almost too much to bear.

“Harder!” you urged, your body begging for me.

Obliging, his thrust became rougher, your skin slapping against his. He filmed as he pounded you, the camera capturing every movement, every expression on your face as you turned to look at him over your shoulder, every bead of sweat that dripped down your skin. His thrusts grew harder and faster, animalistic in their intensity. Your breath was coming in short, sharp gasps as he hit you deeper, your body quivering.

“Lando, I’m going to cum,” you panted.

He grunted and took a handful of your hair, and yanked you towards him, making you yelp. Throwing the camera away, he wrapped his now free hand around your throat as he continued to drill into you. You could hear his heavy breaths, feel his heart racing against your back. Your mind was on fire, adrenaline coursing through your veins. With another deep and forceful thrust, he suddenly pushed you off his cock. Then, he laid on the bed.

“Get on top of me,” he ordered.

You wasted no time climbing on top of him, your body trembling with satisfaction, but aching for more. You straddled his hips, both of you watching as you lowered yourself on his thick cock. He groaned as you impaled yourself on him, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer to him. The sensation of being filled again was both intense and pleasurable and you couldn’t help but moan as your body began to move in sync with his.

Your hips undulated, your tits bouncing and jiggling with every thrust. You could feel his eyes on you, the camera back in his hands and the hunger and desire never waning. He let you take control, and you began to move faster, your excitement building with each second. Your body was aching for release, but you held on, savoring the moment. You could hear his breath hitching, his body straining to keep up with you.

Your movements became more erratic, your pace quickening as you neared the edge. The thrusts became deep and hard, your ass slapping against his thighs with each impact. You held onto his shoulders for support, the sensation of his hand gripping your flesh only fueling you more. But in all that ecstasy, you lost your balance and collapsed onto his chest, your hips never ceasing to grind on him.

He wrapped his arm around you, holding you close as you shuddered and trembled in his embrace. “Easy, babe,” he whispered, a smirk evident in his voice.

You moaned into his neck and straightened up again. You began slowly rocking your hips back and forth, sitting fully on his cock.

“That’s right, baby, ride me for a bit,” he whispered, running his hand down your spine.

You smirked and leaned down, placing a kiss on his lips before grinding your hips against him in a slow and sensual rhythm. Your breasts jiggled with each movement, and he followed every sway through the lens.

“Look at you. Aren’t you a goddess, huh?” he said, his green eyes never leaving your body as his fingers continued to roam your skin. Your movements became hypnotic, each gentle rock increased the pressure on his cock, making him groan with pleasure.

“A goddess sitting on her throne.” he propped himself up, trailing kisses down your neck, his fingers digging into your hip. You could feel his cock pulsating against your sensitive spots, reminding you of how much more he wanted.

“Time to show me what you got,” he whispered and laid back on the pillows.

You leaned back on your hands, angling yourself perfectly over him, both of you gazing into each other’s eyes. You gave him a full display of your cunt and slowly started going up and down on his cock, his hand pulling you closer each time you descended onto him. You increased your movements, your tits bouncing wildly with each bump. He matched your energy, propping his hips up to meet yours.

You moaned and grunted, your body trembling with each thrust. His eyes were intently focused on your body, capturing every detail for the camera. He reached up and pinched your sensitive nipples, making you cry out in pleasure.

Lowering his hand, he started rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb. Your body buckled under his touch, your moans growing louder and your movements becoming erratic. He could feel your walls pulsating around him and he knew that this wasn’t going to last much longer. Throwing the camera away, he wrapped both of his arms around you, pulling you onto his chest. You fell without resistance and he took control, fucking into you from below.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said, his voice ragged.

“Uh huh,” you gasped, your voice caught in your throat.

“Not yet, baby,” and in one swift motion, he flipped you over onto your back. Your legs fell apart and he thrust into you with a deep groan. He leaned down, kissing you hard, his tongue darting into your mouth, tasting you, consuming you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pushing him deeper, not letting him stop, feeling his cock sliding in and out of you with a slick, wet sound.

His hands wandered over your body, his mouth attached to your breast and fingers teasing your clit. You cried out with every move, your body trembling, your desire reaching its peak. He could feel your juices flowing, slicking his cock, coating your bodies. He thrust into you harder, faster, his eyes locked on yours.

He was dominating you, he was possessing you and you loved every second of it. You loved the way he made you feel, the power he exuded and above all, you loved the pleasure and satisfaction he was giving you.

“Are you going to cum?” he asked, eyes blazing.

“I’m so close, Lan,” you moaned and whined, your whole body tightening as you neared your end.

“Hold it,” he groaned, his hips still pistoning into you with a fierce determination.

“I don’t know how much longer I can—”

“I’m going to give you a countdown,” he growled, his breath becoming ragged and hot against your neck.

“Ten,” he whispered, thrusting deeper into your pulsating pussy. Your breath hitched as you waited with bated breath.

“Nine,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hip and pulling you closer.

“Eight,” he growled, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back his own release. You felt the tension building within you, the lust and desire coursing through your veins, making you moan and buck your hips.

“Seven,” he hissed, his mouth closing over yours in a searing kiss as his hips pressed against you. You groaned into his mouth, your hips bucking temporarily out of control as the sensation of his tongue dueling with yours sent shivers down your spine.

“Six,” he moaned, finding your hips again and slamming into you, his rough moans echoing in your ears as he fought to hold back his own climax. You could feel the tension in his body, the desperation that threatened to consume him.

“Five,” he panted, his eyes locked on yours, his hands gripping your ass and pulling you even closer.

“Four,” he breathed, his hips bucking wildly, his cock slamming into you with a fierce intensity.

“Three,” he growled, his passion and desire coursing through his veins, his body shaking with the need to release.

“Two,” he hissed, the muscles in his arms and legs tensing as he held himself back from cumming.

“Almost there,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

“Not yet,” he groaned, his hips never faltering in their rhythm. “One more.”

“One more,” you agreed, your body trembling, your pussy pulsating around his cock.

“One. Now, baby. Cum around me,” and then, just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he began to thrust harder, faster, his eyes locked with yours as he pushed you right to the edge.

You threw your head back, your eyes rolling up in sheer bliss of the orgasm taking over. Your muscles tightened around him, milking for every ounce of pleasure he could give. He grew more aggressive, thrusting into you with abandon, your orgasm triggering his own.

“I’m going to cum,” he grunted, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

You reached for the camera, ready to capture the moment forever, but he got a hold of your wrist and pinned it down.

“Leave it,” he gasped, his eyes glazed over.

“I thought you wanted to record this?” you panted, struggling to keep up with his intense pace.

He shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. His hand slid into yours and interlocked your fingers together. “I want to remember this through my eyes. I want it to stay only in my mind, forever.”

And with that, he pulled out and spilled all over your stomach. You laid there, panting and spent, his cum drying on your skin and you found yourself in awe of the experience that just happened between the two of you. A rush of adrenaline and pleasure coursed through your veins, making you feel alive and invigorated.

Lando laid beside you, his eyes still glazed over from his intense orgasm. He reached down and wiped the cum off of your stomach, then slowly started stroking your thigh. “Was everything okay?”

You gazed into his eyes and traced your fingers along his jawline. “It was incredible, Lando. I’ve never felt so alive.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” His voice was a gentle purr, and he leaned in to nibble on your earlobe. “Maybe next time we’ll try something different. You know, switch it up and keep things interesting.”

“Next time?” you playfully raised your eyebrow. “Who said there’s going to be a next time?”

Lando chuckled, his hand drifting down to your firm ass, squeezing it lightly. "Oh, there will definitely be a next time. You can't resist me, sweetheart."

You smiled coyly, playing along. “In your dreams, Norris.”

He chuckled at your playful banter, his hand still firmly on your ass. “We’ll see about that, babe.” He leaned in closer, his lips brush against your neck, making you shiver. “But for now, I think it’s time for a little aftercare.”

He rolled off of you, his arms still wrapped around your waist. You sat up, your body still pulsating from the intense sex, and looked at him. He was still panting, his eyes locked onto your body, his arousal still prominent. He pulled you into his embrace, his hands gently caressing your back, his breath warm on your neck.

“I can’t believe we did that,” you whispered, still in awe of the intensity of the experience.

“Do you want to review the footage?” Lando asked, breaking the sweet moment.

“Yeah, we could do that,”

He nodded, breaking the embrace and reaching for the camera. He scrolled through the footage, stopping at the part where you were on top of him.

“Look at that,” he said, a proud smile on his face. “You were incredible.”

He kept scrolling, stopping at the part where he took you from behind. He played it back, and you couldn’t help but watch in amazement.

“Who knew you were so kinky?” you teased, laughing at the sight of your own flexibility.

He grinned, still looking at the footage. “I think I knew all along. But it's nice to see you let loose.”

You glanced at the screen, your cheeks flushing a little at the sight of your body, your moans, and the way you surrendered to him. You felt a wave of pride and satisfaction wash over you, knowing that you had given him a performance that you both could remember forever.

“I had a lot of fun,” you admitted, still laughing.

He handed you the camera, and you scrolled through the footage. You stopped at the part where he was on top of you, his eyes locked onto yours, and you felt the rush of adrenaline all over again.

“I never knew I could feel this way,” you whispered, a tear escaping from the corner of your eye. “With you.”

He leaned over, wiping away your tear with his thumb, his eyes filled with tenderness and love.

“You can feel any way you want to,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. “As long as it’s with me.”

He pulled you into a deep, passionate kiss, his hands roaming over your body once again, reminding you of the intense pleasure and connection you had just shared. And he was right - you could feel anything you wanted to, as long as it was with him.

5K notes · View notes

martygraciesversion381 · 4 months ago

Note

Smau where max and reader grew up together and have been together since they were like early teens and they are married and everyone makes fun of max because he has been down bad for reader since day 1. So simp max? And the fans love her and max fights them in the comments lol

LOVER (MV1)

a/n: i hoped that's what you asked for and that you like it<3 (sorry it took me long to write it)

warnings: non just fluff, max being down bad for reader, smau

maxverstappen1

liked by y/nverstappen, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and others

maxverstappen1: so glad to have you here today love of my life💕 i guess they were right when they talked about soulmates and good luck charms cause you defenitely are both for me💕

154637 comments

y/nverstappen: love u sooo much maxie💕

↳ maxverstappen1: ik hou van je liefje💕

↳ user1: the heart emoji....i can't

↳ user2: mom and dad

user3: @/y/nverstappen marry me pleaseeee

↳ maxverstappen1: nu-hu she's already taken

↳ user4: lol he's so down bad

user5: i love simp max

↳ user6: he's been like this since day 1

maxverstappen1

liked by y/nverstappen, iamrebeccad, lilymhe and others

maxverstappen1: best holiday ever❤️

1524637 comments

y/nverstappen: love you babe❤️

↳ maxverstappen1: love you more❤️

↳ landonorris: staawwwppp you guys are so cute🥹

lilymhe: marry me pls❤️ i have much more to offer than him

↳ y/nverstappen: omg hi wife!!!

↳ maxverstappen1: sorry @/y/nverstappen but i believe you are MY wife

iamrebeccad: prettiest girl ever please let's ditch the boys and escape together!

↳ y/nverstappen: omw!!!

↳ maxverstappen1: STOP STEALING HER SHES MINE!!

comments have been restricted for this post

maxverstappen1

liked by y/nverstappen, iamrebeccad, lilymhe and others

maxverstappen1: three years since that amazing day where i first got to call you mine❤️ you are the best thing that happened to me and marrying you was the best decision i've ever made❤️ ik hou van je liefje❤️

109289 comments

y/nverstappen: ik hou van je max❤️ (look! i wrote in dutch!)

↳ maxverstappen1: i love you y/n (look! i wrote in english!)

↳ landonorris: you guys are so cute and insufferable

lilymhe: most beautiful bride ever❤️

↳ y/nverstappen: most beautiful bridesmade ever❤️

charles_leclerc: i still have pics of max crying!

↳ y/nverstappen: SEND THEM TO ME!!!

↳ maxverstappen1: god why did you have to say that

y/nverstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe, charles_leclerc and others

y/nverstappen: my life in one post❤️ a quote + mother + dream guy❤️ love you to the moon and to saturn maxie❤️

maxverstappen1: love you too❤️ (liked by creator)

lilymhe: why am i not there as your dream girl?

↳ iamrebeccad: i could ask the same question

↳ y/nverstappen: calm down girls you know i like you more❤️

↳ maxverstappen1: @/alexalbon @/carlossainz55 come get your girld before they steal mine

user1: MOTHER IS A SWIFTIE?!

↳ y/nverstappen: of course i am! who doesn't love taylor?

↳ user1: i died dead

tags: (if you don't want to be tagged on all of my posts tell me!) @motorsportbarbie13 @g00d--vibes @gorgeusreputation16 @paulinegba @f1addict3

#max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 x oc

1K notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 5 months ago

Text

FORGOTTEN BIRTHDAY | OP81

an: happy birthday @iimplicitt everyone go and wish her a happy birthday! this is a little piece for you that will make you sadder that you're not in a relationship with oscar but it's a gift from me to you, ily <3

wc: 3.5k

The morning sunlight seeped through the thin, linen curtains, casting soft patterns on the wall, and she stirred, blinking her eyes open as she felt the familiar warmth against her back. Oscar’s arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, his steady breathing a gentle rhythm against her neck. She could feel his lips brushing soft, lazy kisses along her shoulder, the way he always did when he thought she was still asleep.

For a moment, she simply lay there, soaking in the quiet closeness of it all. The fresh scent of Oscar’s cologne and the warmth of his body made her feel safe, cherished. She allowed herself to close her eyes again, smile lingering on her lips as he tightened his hold just slightly, burying his face into her hair, his fingers gently tracing patterns along her arm.

It was her birthday.

She’d woken up with a flutter of excitement, the way she always had since she was a little girl. There was something magical, something undeniably special about the feeling of a day that was just yours. And now, waking up like this, wrapped up in the warmth and the love of someone who’d stolen her heart—that feeling should’ve been even stronger.

But as the minutes ticked by and he continued to kiss her in that quiet, thoughtful way he did each morning, not a single word was said.

Maybe he’s just distracted, she thought, feeling the slight tug of disappointment. After all, the season was coming to an end, and she knew how focused he got, especially in the days before a race. Formula 1 demanded so much of him, and she respected that. He’d been there for her in ways she hadn’t even dared to hope for, bringing more joy and care into her life than she could have ever asked for.

But... not even a whisper of "happy birthday"? Not a hint, not a knowing look in his eyes?

She felt him shift behind her, his hand slipping up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb tracing her jawline with that same tender familiarity. His lips pressed gently against her neck, a sleepy hum in his throat. He felt so close, so utterly devoted, and yet...

He’s just busy, she told herself, letting out a soft sigh. It’s probably the last thing on his mind.

She sighed softly, stretching in his arms, and he pulled her a little closer, his lips brushing her forehead in that sleepy, casual way of his. His eyes were still half-closed, hair tousled, but there was a lazy smile on his face as he woke up with her.

“Morning,” Oscar murmured, voice rough with sleep, his thumb tracing slow circles along her hip.

“Morning,” she whispered back, trying to keep her tone as normal as possible. She didn’t want him to sense that she’d been holding her breath, waiting for him to say… well, something. A small “Happy Birthday, love,” maybe, or even just a knowing smile, some hint that he remembered. But he hadn’t. And it was clear now that he wouldn’t.

“So,” he yawned, shifting his legs under the blankets, “today’s kinda busy. Lando and I have this thing at the sponsor’s studio. Some shoot for a promo video, I think. They’re calling it an ‘inside look’ at race prep or something, but really it’s just us standing around talking, I’m pretty sure.” He chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “They’ve got us doing all this media stuff lately.”

“Oh, yeah?” she replied, forcing herself to smile. “You’ll be a natural.” She reached up to run her fingers through his hair, hoping he’d look at her, maybe even catch her eye and give her a hint that he hadn’t forgotten after all.

But Oscar only nodded, giving her a sleepy grin as he leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. “And you? Got a day at the office, right?” he asked casually, as though it was any other day of the year. “What’s on your agenda?”

She took a breath, trying to keep her voice light. “Yep, just the usual. A couple meetings, and I’ll probably have to cover for someone at the desk. I’ll be out by five.”

He nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Sounds like a good day. We’ll both be back around the same time, then.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling faintly. “Guess so.”

She got out of bed, pulling her robe around herself and heading to the bathroom, where she stared at her reflection, trying to shove away the hollow feeling that was starting to settle in her chest. She should’ve been used to this by now, she told herself. Oscar’s schedule was demanding; he barely had time to stop and breathe some days, let alone keep track of something like a birthday. Besides, she knew he cared for her deeply—his warmth in the mornings, his texts at odd hours when he thought of her, all the small ways he showed her mattered so much more than one day of the year.

But as she brushed her teeth, tied her hair back, and headed into the wardrobe to pick out her work clothes, she couldn’t quite shake the disappointment. She wanted to laugh at herself for caring so much. It was just a birthday.

Yet the more she tried to pretend she was fine, the more her heart kept slipping. She threw on her blouse and slacks, fixing her makeup with hands that were just a little less steady than usual, and made her way back into the bedroom, where he was now scrolling through his phone, probably checking the texts from his manager.

“Have a good day, okay?” Oscar said as she slipped on her shoes. He gave her a small, warm smile as he leaned over, pressing one last kiss to her cheek, his hand resting on her shoulder as if to linger with her a moment longer.

“Yeah. You too,” she murmured, giving him a faint smile as she grabbed her bag, willing herself not to linger, not to let herself feel anything other than grateful for the morning they’d shared. She gave him one last glance, catching his gaze as he looked at her, that usual warmth in his eyes. And then she turned, heading out the door, whispering to herself that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t important.

The office was buzzing when she walked in. As soon as she stepped through the door, her coworkers greeted her with bright smiles, some even standing up from their desks to call out, "Happy birthday!" There was a small pile of gifts on her desk, wrapped in cheerful paper and bows, and a few balloons taped to her chair. She felt herself smiling genuinely for the first time that morning, warmth flooding her chest as she set her bag down.

“Oh my gosh, you guys,” she laughed, cheeks flushing as she picked up a card signed by everyone. “This is too much.”

“Nonsense!” her friend and desk-mate chimed in, appearing at her side with a cupcake topped with a single, brightly coloured candle. “You deserve all of this and more. We all know you make this place actually run.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth and kindness radiating from the team. As she took in their gifts—a handmade scarf from the coworker who crocheted on her lunch breaks, a small box of her favourite teas, a lovely journal for her ever-growing stack of notes—she felt touched, genuinely happy. Her coworkers hadn’t forgotten; in fact, they’d gone out of their way to make her feel special.

But there was still that empty space in her chest. A quiet, lingering ache as she glanced at her phone, hoping to see a message pop up on her screen. Maybe Oscar would text her between shoots, or send her a voice message—just a quick “Happy birthday” or even a simple smiley face. Something that would tell her he’d thought of her.

Yet as the hours passed, her phone stayed stubbornly silent, aside from the usual work notifications and a few birthday messages from friends. She knew that he didn’t text much during the day, that his shoots and meetings usually stretched longer than he liked to admit. But part of her had hoped that, just today, he might make an exception.

At lunch, her friends surprised her with a small cake in the break room. They sang to her, a little off-key but with a lot of heart, and she found herself laughing along, feeling incredibly lucky to be surrounded by such warmth and care. She tried to push aside her thoughts of him, to keep her mind off the absence of his message. He’s busy, she told herself, taking a bite of cake as her friends chatted around her. It’s not a big deal.

Still, every time she felt her phone buzz in her bag, her heart leapt, just for a moment, and each time, she couldn’t help but feel the sting of disappointment as she realised it wasn’t Oscar. It was as if her heart was doing a balancing act, teetering between gratitude for the people around her and that quiet ache that her mind kept insisting wasn’t fair to feel.

As she stepped out of the office and into the cool evening air, she felt the weight of the day pressing down on her. She’d kept a brave face, laughed at all the right moments, and soaked up every bit of love her friends and coworkers had poured into her. But now, alone with her thoughts, she felt the ache returning, stronger than before. She wanted nothing more than to go home, slip into a hot bath, and just let herself feel it all—the disappointment, the loneliness, the hurt she’d been pretending wasn’t there.

As she walked up to her building, she noticed his car wasn’t parked out front. Somehow, that felt like a small blessing. She was grateful for a few quiet moments to herself, to feel everything she’d been holding back all day.

The apartment was dark and quiet when she stepped inside, the air still. She kicked off her shoes, leaving them haphazardly by the door, and shrugged her bag off her shoulder, not bothering to turn on any lights as she made her way down the hallway. She was so drained, and all she wanted was the familiar comfort of their room, a place where she could let her guard down completely.

When she pushed open the door to the bedroom, though, she stopped short.

There, spread across the bed, was a beautiful assortment of gifts wrapped in elegant, colourful paper, with a cluster of balloons tied to the foot of the bed. She blinked, her eyes taking in the soft glow of fairy lights that had been draped over the headboard. Each balloon had a photograph attached—moments from their time together, candid shots from races, vacations, cosy evenings at home. Her heart clenched at the sight, an overwhelming mix of disbelief and relief filling her chest.

And then, as if on cue, Oscar stepped out from the closet, a tiny cupcake in his hand, a single candle flickering on top. His face was lit by the candle’s glow, a quiet, tender smile on his lips as he looked at her, his eyes warm and full of a love that nearly undid her.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered, voice soft but full of so much feeling that it made her knees weak.

She stared at him, her eyes filling with tears as she let out a shaky laugh, feeling a rush of emotions she could barely contain. “I thought… I thought you forgot,” she managed, her voice breaking as she took a step toward him, her hands trembling. “I thought you were too busy, that… that you didn’t remember.”

Oscar’s face softened, and he closed the distance between them, setting the cupcake on the nightstand as he reached out to pull her into his arms. “Forget?” he murmured, holding her close, one hand coming up to stroke her hair as she let out a small, choked sob into his shoulder. “How could I ever forget your birthday? I’ve been planning this for weeks.”

She clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as she finally let the tears fall, letting herself feel everything she’d been holding back. He held her tightly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back, letting her release every ounce of doubt and hurt she’d felt throughout the day.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered between soft sobs. “I just… I thought maybe with everything going on, it slipped your mind. I didn’t want to feel that way, but I… I couldn’t help it.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing away a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his gaze filled with understanding. “I get it,” he said gently. “I wanted it to be a surprise, to make it perfect. But if I’d known it would make you feel like this��” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as he held her close. “I would’ve done it differently.”

She shook her head, a tearful laugh escaping her. “No, this is perfect. It’s… it’s everything. I just didn’t expect it, and I guess I didn’t realise how much I wanted it.”

He smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve to feel special today. Every day, really. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.”

She smiled up at him, feeling the weight on her chest finally lifting as she took in the warmth in his eyes, the quiet thoughtfulness of every detail around them. Oscar reached over, picked up the cupcake, and held it between them, nodding toward the candle.

“Make a wish,” he murmured.

She looked at him, her heart swelling as she realised that her wish had already come true. But still, she closed her eyes, letting herself make a small, quiet wish before blowing out the candle.

When she opened her eyes, he was still looking at her, his own gaze soft and full of a promise she could feel without words.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing over the colourful wrapping paper, feeling almost shy with him watching her so intently. It was like every small, careful detail had been planned with her in mind, each gift waiting patiently for her to unwrap it.

The first package she reached for was a familiar shape—a shoebox. She unwrapped it slowly, her heart catching in her throat as she lifted the lid to reveal a pristine pair of black Dr. Martens. She laughed, a soft, delighted sound, running her fingers over the leather. “You remembered,” she murmured, looking up at him with a grateful smile. “I was saying just last week that mine were about ready to fall apart.”

“I know,” Oscar grinned, hands in his pockets as he watched her. “I was pretty sure you’d been trying to ignore the hole in the sole. Figured it was about time for an upgrade.”

She smiled, warmth spreading through her chest as she slipped the boots aside, reaching for the next gift. It was a neatly wrapped package, smaller and heavier, with an unmistakable shape. She tore away the paper, her breath catching when she saw the cover—the first book in her favourite series, one she’d read so many times that the copy on her shelf was practically falling apart. But as she opened the book, her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, her fingers tracing over the author’s signature scrawled inside the cover, a small message addressed just to her. She flipped through the rest of the books in the series, each one signed with a personal note. “How… how did you manage this?”

Oscar sat down beside her, looking a little smug but mostly just pleased with her reaction. “You’ve talked about those books more times than I can count,” he said with a small shrug. “I figured I’d reach out to the author’s team, see if I could make it happen. Took a little convincing, but… worth it, I think.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining with gratitude and awe, feeling like her heart might just burst. “It’s… it’s perfect,” she said softly, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

He smiled, brushing a thumb over her hand as she picked up the final box, smaller and elegantly wrapped in deep blue paper. She carefully peeled it open, lifting the lid to find a delicate necklace nestled inside. It was simple and beautiful—a silver pendant with both of their initials engraved on it, entwined together in a tiny, subtle script. Her heart swelled as she held it up, running her fingers over the cool metal.

As she admired it, he reached up and pulled something out from under his shirt—a matching necklace, with the same delicate initials. The pendant hung just over his heart, a quiet, constant reminder of her that he must have been wearing all day.

Her chest tightened, and she felt a tear slip down her cheek as she took it all in, the thoughtfulness, the care he’d put into every detail. She reached over, cupping his face with trembling hands as her voice broke.

“You wore it all day,” she whispered, her heart so full she could barely speak.

Oscar smiled, reaching up to cover her hand with his. “Of course I did. You’re with me everywhere I go,” he murmured, his voice soft. “No matter how crazy the schedule, or how many days I’m away… I wanted you to know that you’re always with me.”

She melted, letting herself fall into his embrace, her head tucked under his chin as he held her close. She felt like everything she’d worried about, every bit of doubt that had crept in throughout the day, had simply vanished, replaced by a love so real and constant she didn’t know how she could have ever doubted it.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

He kissed the top of her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair. “I love you, too,” he said, holding her tightly, as if he’d never let her go. “Happy birthday, love.”

She pulled back from his embrace just enough to look up at him, her eyes shining with warmth and gratitude. Oscar met her gaze, his hand lifting to brush a stray tear from her cheek, his fingers lingering softly on her skin. And then, without a word, he leaned in, closing the distance between them as his lips met hers in a slow, tender kiss.

It was soft at first, a gentle, lingering touch filled with all the emotion of the night. But then his hand slid up to the back of her neck, pulling her just a little closer, and the kiss deepened, becoming something more—a quiet, passionate promise that said everything words couldn’t. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as she poured every bit of her love and gratitude into that moment, feeling his warmth surround her, grounding her in a way that only he could.

When they finally pulled back, breathless but smiling, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, pressing one last soft kiss to her forehead. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Let me run you a bath. You’ve had a long day, and you deserve to relax.”

But she shook her head, her hand slipping into his as she gave him a gentle smile. “No, not now,” she whispered, and he paused, a look of confusion crossing his face.

“Are you sure?” he asked, tilting his head, his thumb brushing the back of her hand.

She smiled softly, tugging him gently toward the bed. “I just want to cuddle,” she said, her voice a quiet, warm confession.

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and his expression softened as he nodded, his lips curving into a smile. Oscar climbed into bed with her, pulling the covers over them both as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She snuggled into his chest, her head resting just over his heart, listening to its steady, comforting rhythm as his hands traced soft patterns along her back.

They lay together in the quiet, wrapped up in each other, their legs tangled and their breaths in sync. He held her with a gentle strength, his fingers weaving through her hair as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was perfect, this quiet intimacy, as they sank deeper into each other’s warmth, finding solace in the simple, tender closeness.

“I don’t need anything else,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest. “Just this.”

Oscar tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing her temple. “Then this is exactly what we’ll do,” he whispered.

the end.