#wait this reminds me of this one interview he did

[hanzajesthanza]

i like how sapkowski needed some more ways to make geralt’s life miserable and the worst thing he could come up with (asides from all the other things) was “what if cats hated you and you couldn’t pet them”

[goldensakuma]

『可愛い目してるね〜 ♡』

+bonus giggly Raul bc he's just too adorable!! (≧◡≦)🤍🧡

[charlotteking27]

The pretty interviewer

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are Max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you.

PT2: Pursuing the journalist

Three Races Earlier…

You stand off to the side of the paddock, fiddling with your Sky Sports F1 microphone. As the newest member of the broadcasting team, you typically handle the less significant interviews, while the veteran reporters get to speak with drivers like Max Verstappen. Today, you're set to interview one of the midfield teams.

The buzz in the paddock suddenly grows as Max comes out of the Red Bull garage after his stunning pole position. A crowd of reporters quickly surrounds him, microphones pushed forward, voices overlapping with "Max! Max, a moment, please!"

You watch from your quiet spot while he walks past them, his expression neutral and barely acknowledging them. This scene is familiar. Max is known for being choosy with the media and often speaks only to a select few senior reporters.

That’s why your heart skips a beat when his eyes suddenly turn to you. His face brightens with a smile, and before you realize it, he changes direction and walks confidently toward your corner.

"Sorry," he tells the stunned reporters behind him, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm giving my first interview to her."

You hear your producer’s voice in your earpiece: "Wait, what's happening?"

Max stops right in front of you, that familiar half-smile on his lips. "Hi," he says casually, as if he hasn’t just brushed off every major broadcaster in the paddock.

"I… um…" You struggle to collect your thoughts, acutely aware of the jealous stares from the other reporters. "Hi?"

He laughs softly at your surprise. "You're new, right? I've seen you around. You ask good questions – technical ones. Not just the usual PR stuff."

"I… yes, I started this weekend," you manage to reply, still in shock. "But shouldn't you be talking to—"

"I'm talking to exactly who I want to talk to," he cuts in, his Dutch accent somehow stronger when he speaks softly. "So, would you like to hear about that qualifying lap?"

𐙚

That first interview changed everything. Since then, Max has asked to give you his post-session interviews. Each one became more flirtatious than the last. This brings you to today.

The Red Bull garage looms ahead as you adjust your Sky Sports F1 microphone for the thousandth time. Post-qualifying interviews are routine by now, but nothing about interviewing Max Verstappen has ever felt normal. Especially not since he started doing whatever this is.

"Three minutes," your producer says through your earpiece. You try to focus on your questions, but all you can think of is last week's interview. Max had deliberately held your gaze so long that you forgot the second half of your question.

He emerges from the garage, race suit tied at his waist as usual. Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, wearing that annoying half-smile that makes you forget basic English.

"Max, congratulations on another pole position," you begin professionally.

"Thanks," he interrupts, eyes shining. "I was hoping it would be you interviewing me today."

You feel warmth creeping up your neck. Stay professional, you remind yourself. "That last lap was incredible. How did you find the grip through—"

"The grip was good," he says, leaning slightly closer than necessary. "But you seem a bit nervous today. Everything okay?"

Your producer chuckles in your ear. Traitor.

"I'm perfectly fine," you manage, though your voice comes out higher than you wanted. "About turn three—"

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says quietly, just low enough that the microphone won't catch it. The smirk on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

You almost drop your notebook. "I'm trying to conduct an interview here," you whisper back, fighting a smile.

"And I'm trying to ask you out," he counters smoothly before raising his voice back to interview level. "But yes, turn three was tricky today. The crosswind made it challenging."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You're painfully aware of the camera rolling, capturing what must be the most unprofessional blush in F1 broadcasting history.

"Speaking of challenges," Max continues, clearly enjoying himself, "there's this great restaurant in Monaco that's almost impossible to get into. I have a reservation for two tomorrow night if you're interested in discussing race strategy, of course."

You hear your producer choking back laughter. "The interview, Max," you remind him, trying to sound stern despite your racing heart.

"Right, right. The interview." He grins. "But about dinner…"

"Maybe we should finish talking about your qualifying lap first?" You're fighting a losing battle against your smile now.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, then winks. "But just so you know, I'm going to keep flirting with you until you say yes."

Your producer is practically cackling now. "Best. Interview. Ever," she whispers in your ear.

"The qualifying lap, Max," you insist, but you’re grinning too.

"The qualifying lap," he agrees, finally sitting up straight and attempting to look serious. "But I should warn you, I'm very persistent. Almost as persistent as I am on track."

You shake your head, trying to remember your questions through the butterfly storm in your stomach. One thing's for sure—this interview is definitely going viral on F1 Twitter.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes to that dinner in Monaco.

𐙚

You barely remember how you finished that interview. Your mind is still spinning from Max's dinner invitation. But the real chaos is just starting.

Your notifications have not stopped buzzing since that interview aired. #MaxAndTheReporter is trending on Twitter, and F1 TikTok is having a field day with edited clips of every moment you and Max shared during the past three races.

"OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER," says one viral tweet, featuring a slow-motion clip of Max's eyes softening when he sees you in the paddock.

"Remember when Max used to HATE interviews? Now he’s literally running to them. #MaxAndTheReporter." This tweet includes a side-by-side comparison of his usual stern media face and his smile when he approaches you.

Your producer sends you a link to a fan-made compilation video titled "Every time Max Verstappen has flirted with the Sky Sports reporter (so far)." It has already gathered 2 million views.

Not everyone is convinced. "She's just another reporter," one skeptic tweets. "Max is probably just being nice."

That theory gets blown away during the next race weekend. You're interviewing Carlos Sainz when Max casually walks by. He does such an obvious double-take that Carlos starts laughing mid-answer.

"I think someone wants to interrupt this interview," Carlos teases, watching Max hover nearby with barely hidden impatience.

"He can wait his turn," you respond professionally, though your cheeks warm when you hear Max chuckle behind you.

"Can I?" Max calls out. "Because I'm pretty sure my dinner reservation is in an hour, and someone still hasn't given me an answer."

Carlos raises his eyebrows and grins. "Ah, so the rumors are true?"

Your producer's voice crackles through your earpiece: "The social media is going absolutely crazy right now. This is better than Drive to Survive!"

Later that evening, a photo appears of you and Max at a hard-to-get-into restaurant in Monaco. He is looking at you instead of the camera, with that soft smile on his face that F1 Twitter has named the "reporter smile." Fan theories start to explode:

"HE REALLY TOOK HER TO DINNER, I'M SCREAMING." "The way he only smiles like that for her.❤️" "Remember when we thought Max would never date someone in the F1 media? This man really said 'Watch me."

Your phone buzzes with a text from Max: "Have you seen we’re trending again?"

You reply with an eye roll, trying to ignore the butterflies that haven't settled since that first interview.

"Good," he responds. "Maybe now everyone knows why I only want interviews with you."

Your producer sends you a message: "Just wait until they see tomorrow's pre-race interview. The internet might actually break."

You smile, thinking about how a simple paddock interview three races ago changed everything. From a reluctant interviewee to whatever this is becoming, Max Verstappen has definitely kept his promise about being persistent.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

[a-casxandra]

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞.❞

Actor Rafayel x you (non-mc) as his non-showbizz girlfriend. angst.

𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗸. Especially if you’re not part of that dazzling, cutthroat world.

You never thought it’d be this hard. You told yourself love was love, and that behind the flashing cameras and glimmering premieres, he was just Rafayel—your Rafayel. Not the actor the world worshipped. Not the onscreen heartthrob. Just him. Just yours.

But lately, it doesn’t feel like he is.

You sat in the softly lit penthouse you both called home. Candles flickered on top of a small cake you picked up that morning, the wax slowly pooling as the minutes turned to hours. Your anniversary. Two years.

Your fingers trembled as you typed, “Rafayel, where are you? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

It took him ten minutes to reply.

> “I’m with MC. We just finished shooting and the production team invited us to eat outside. So you don’t need to wait for me.”

You stared at the message. Read it. Reread it. It didn’t hurt because of what he said—it hurt because he didn’t even apologize. Like he’d forgotten. Like it didn’t matter.

You didn’t text back.

MC.

You knew her name before you ever met her. She was his first love—a part of his life from long before you arrived. He never hid that from you. He told you, once, that their story ended long ago. That what they had was over.

But now?

Now they were cast in the same drama. And the world, blind to you, started shipping them. Every interview. Every tweet. Every video edit, every comment and Rafayel never said a thing to deny it.

One week after your forgotten anniversary, you snapped.

You dressed simply. Jeans. Hoodie. Cap. And you went to the set. You knew where they were filming—of course you did. You’d helped him memorize lines, listened to him stress about this scene or that shot. And yet, he never once offered for you to visit. Never once asked if you’d come.

You stood behind the crowd near the monitors. Nobody noticed you. Just another fan in the sea of them. That was all you ever were, wasn’t it?

Then you saw him.

Rafayel stood across from her—MC—laughing softly. A sound you hadn’t heard from him in weeks. His hand rested on her back, gently. His eyes sparkled when he looked at her. You felt like a stranger, intruding on something real.

Then the scene started.

It was a confession. He looked at her with so much longing, you forgot it was acting. The way his voice broke on her name, the way his hands reached for hers. And when he kissed her… the world spun.

But you reminded yourself—it was a job. Just a script. Just a role.

Until the director yelled, "Cut!"

And Rafayel didn't pull away.

Their lips still touched. They were laughing. Flushed. Embarrassed by the cheers of the staff, by the teasing, but neither of them denied it. She tucked her hair behind her ear, he covered his smile—and you realized:

You never made him smile like that.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your legs took a step back. Then another. The voices faded. Your heart didn’t shatter all at once—it cracked, slowly. Silently.

You stood alone, surrounded by people who adored him. But none of them knew him. Not like you did. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

“Why is it her and not me?” Your voice trembled. “I’m his girlfriend… I stayed by his side longer than her… I supported him in his dreams… but I guess I’ll always remain a fan. Someone who cheers him on from the shadows… but never gets to stand beside him.”

You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t scream or cry. You just… left. The penthouse felt too big that night. You packed slowly. No drama. No chaos. Just… an end. Quiet and unseen, like you always were.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮. 𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩…

…𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜.

[whatsverstappeningnow]

you inspire me

‏max vertstappen x author!reader

★ smau ★ after years of hard work, author!reader's third novel is finally released and fans can't help but notice the similarities between the book's main love interest and the authors real life boyfriend...

yourusername

liked by max.verstappen, booklover2 and more

after years of writing, years of meetings, years of plot ideas written on the back of restaurant napkins and promptly forgotten at the bottom of my handbag, 'This Time, Gently' is one week away from being yours. this book is my love letter to how beautiful my life has become, and i owe it all to you guys. thank you for your patience, your constant love and support and, most of all, your time. signed (with love), y/n.

comments

bookishwithbri crying in the club over a caption 😭 can’t wait to hold this book in my hands

coolgirlhq youre my MUSE

romanceismyreligion “this time, gently” sounds like it's going to hurt in the softest, most beautiful way

userlibrary “my love letter to how beautiful my life has become” OKAY WELL NOW I’M SOBBING

max.verstappen proud of you always ❤️

-> yourusername your support is the spine of every story i’ve ever told. thank you, always.

-> user4 omg my emotional support celeb couple

-> formulafiction name a cuter couple than them. i'll wait.

writtenbymoonlight i’ll be clearing my schedule for this. just me, tea, tissues, and your words ����

softf1edits t minus 7 days till release. i just know we arent ready for this.

redbullracing This book is going straight on the shelf next to Max’s trophies

-> yourusername i'll give you a signed copy <3

lilymunihe i'm sat. i'm so incredibly sat. i'm already waiting outside a bookstore for it to be released. so ready for all the feels.

-> yourusername 💌🤍

max.verstappen chapter 11 is my favourite 😀

-> yourusername MAX SHHHHH 🤫

-> softf1edits ok what does he know that we dont

-> user8 babes what DOESN'T he know. he's probably read it three times already

-> softf1edits simp max is my favourite

-> yourusername same <3

comment liked by max.verstappen

yourusername has posted to her story

replies

max.verstappen admit it, you love race days too

-> yourusername only because i get to kiss you good luck

-> max.verstappen you don't have to wait until race day for that

-> yourusername noted... completely unrelated but are you still sim racing right now?

-> max.verstappen i'll turn off the camera, come kiss me.

yourusername

liked by max.verstappen, coolgirlhp and more

and finally, she's yours too. please love her (gently) signed (with love), y/n.

comments

thequietreader y/n calling her book 'her' like an old friend is actually se deeply important to me. we will love her gently.

racerreads I've only read the dedication and im already locked in

-> racerreads "for max, who taught me love was more than a fairytale, and everyone who's still waiting for their soulmate" DO I CRY????

-> writtenbymoonlight omg NO WAY thats the dedication, my girl is so in love im so jealous

comment liked by yourusername

max.verstappen The wait was worth it. Can’t wait to see everyone fall in love with her, just like I did.

-> yourusername 🥺🤍 my biggest supporter always

verstappenfan just a reminder: reading gently includes crying quietly in the corner. thank you for this gift, y/n.

booklover99 max's comment omllll "fall in love we her" LIKE BRO WE KNOW YOU MEAN Y/N *AND* THE BOOK. WE KNOW.

-> literary_soul when any other driver rocks up at the 'best boyfriend' party but max is already there... 🧍‍♂️

-> george.russell ouch

-> alex.albon ouch

-> oscar.piastri ouch

-> charles.leclerc ouch

-> lando.norris ouch (but fair)

-> booklover99 LANDO. HA.

fastreader I’m going to need everyone to lock in and read this book QUICK cause I have something to say about the inspiration for the love interest and I’m only 2 chapters in…

post-quali interview...

yourusername

liked by max.verstappen, booklover2 and more

my muse <3 you love me plenty signed (with love), y/n.

comments have been restricted for this post

max.verstappen yours ❤️

had this idea in my head for a while, just a short (and my first ever) smau <3... requests open!

[skzficdump]

The Night I Let You Go (And Couldn't Breathe After)

paring: bangchan x fem!reader

gender: angst, fluff, a fight before tour puts distance between you, and bangchan can’t stop thinking about you

word count: 1.5k (1507)

warnings: nun

You knew something was wrong. Even before he walked through the door that night, you could feel it.

Bang Chan had been drowning in work for weeks — rehearsals, late-night studio sessions, choreography clean-ups, last-minute meetings with the tour team. He barely texted. He barely ate. And when he did come home, his energy was like a ghost of him — tired eyes, slumped shoulders, and a quietness that didn’t suit the man you loved.

You weren’t mad at him. You were worried. But when people are overwhelmed, they push away the ones they love — and that’s exactly what Chan was doing to you.

That night, when he finally came home close to midnight, you were waiting on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and muttered a barely audible, “I’m home,” not even meeting your eyes.

You tried to keep your voice steady, calm. “Chan… can we talk?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was stressed. “Y/N, not now. I’m exhausted.”

“I know you are,” you said gently, “but I can’t keep acting like everything’s okay when it’s not. You’re not okay. And we’re not okay either.”

That’s when his eyes finally met yours — tired, but slightly defensive.

“I’m doing everything I can. What else do you want from me?”

Ouch. That stung more than you thought it would.

“I’m not asking for more. I’m asking to be part of your life right now, even when it’s messy. You keep shutting me out, Chan.”

His jaw clenched, and he looked away. “I just… don’t have time for this. For drama.”

There it was — the word that made your chest ache. Drama. He didn’t mean it. You knew he didn’t. But it still hurt.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just stood up and said, “Good luck on tour,” before walking toward your room.

You didn’t think that night would end like that. No one ever plans a goodbye to feel like a fracture. But somehow, you and Chan had broken in the worst possible way — quietly.

It wasn’t a screaming match, it wasn’t tears on the floor. It was exhaustion. Distance. The sharpness of silence when love wants to speak but pride gets in the way.

And he left the next morning without even looking back. No kiss. No message. Just… gone.

You didn’t know how much it would haunt him.

And just like that, the fight happened. Short, quiet, but sharp. And he left for the airport the next morning without saying goodbye.

He hated himself for it. The second his plane took off, he knew he messed up. He had a full tour schedule ahead of him, but his heart was stuck back in Seoul — in that quiet living room, with the look on your face when you closed the door behind you.

For the first few days of the North American tour, Chan went into “leader mode.” He buried himself in rehearsals. He kept smiling during interviews. He helped the younger members get through their jet lag and stage nerves.

But the second the lights went down and the crowd disappeared… it hit him.

You weren’t there.

You weren’t texting him "good luck" before the show. You weren’t calling him to remind him to eat. You weren’t there when he walked back into his hotel room, cold and empty and echoing too loud in the quiet.

And worst of all… He left when you were hurt. He left when he should’ve stayed. He left without fixing anything.

The first night, he told himself you both needed space. That once the tour settled, things would fall into place.

The second night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at his phone for hours, typing messages he never sent:

I’m sorry. I messed up. Are you okay?

But he deleted all of them. Every time.

Because he didn’t know if you wanted to hear from him. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

Felix noticed first. The way Chan barely ate. How he stayed in the studio even after everyone else left. How he’d sit by the hotel window at 3 a.m., staring at nothing.

“Hyung,” Felix said gently one night, “you need to talk to her.”

Chan didn’t even look up. “She probably hates me.”

Felix shook his head. “She doesn’t. She’s hurt. That’s different.”

But Chan didn’t believe it. Not when your voice haunted him every time he tried to sleep.

“I just want to be part of your life… even when it’s messy.” “You keep shutting me out.”

You were right. You’d always been right. And now he was thousands of miles away from the one person who grounded him — who made all the chaos worth it.

He started seeing you everywhere.

Every time a fan gave him a plushie that reminded him of you. Every time he passed a street musician playing a song you loved. Every time he looked in the mirror and barely recognized the man looking back.

During the third show, when the lights dimmed before their final encore, he had a full second of panic.

You weren’t in the crowd.

You always tried to be, even when it was just as a little silhouette backstage or watching through a livestream. And now?

Gone. Because of him.

He finally broke down to Felix two nights later in the hotel room.

“I feel like there’s a hole in my chest,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I miss her so much it physically hurts.”

Felix handed him his phone.

“Then fix it. Before it’s too late.”

Chan stared at the screen… then shook his head.

“She deserves better. She deserves someone who doesn’t drag her through my storms.”

Felix smiled sadly. “She never asked for perfect skies. She asked to be there with you.”

What you didn’t know was that Chan had already started preparing a small surprise for you. Even before the fight. Just a little corner of his hotel room he wanted to decorate with your photo, your favorite snacks, and a note he planned to leave on your pillow for when you visited later in the tour.

But now the gifts stayed untouched, hidden in his suitcase. It was like they stared at him every night, reminding him of what he lost.

And you? You tried to go on with your days like normal, but everything felt off. Every time you saw a picture of him at the airport, or heard someone talking about the tour, your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t until Felix texted you two nights later that something shifted.

"Hey, Y/N. I know things are weird. But he’s not okay without you. Neither of you are. Please… come to LA. I’ll help you."

You didn’t even have to think twice. The next thing you knew, you were on a plane with your heart racing faster than the jet engines. Felix met you at the airport in a hoodie and mask, like some undercover angel, and helped sneak you into the hotel where the boys were staying.

Your hands were shaking when you reached Chan’s room.

“Don’t knock,” Felix whispered. “He’s expecting me.”

He slid the keycard into the door, opened it slightly, and gave you one last nod before disappearing down the hallway.

Inside, the lights were low — warm, soft. A candle was burning on the nightstand. And there he was. Sitting at the edge of the bed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

When he turned and saw you… Everything cracked.

“Y/N…?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just ran into his arms. And he held you like he’d been drowning for days and you were the only breath he had left.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over into your shoulder. “I was stupid. I was stressed and scared and I pushed you away, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

He pulled back, eyes glassy. “I left without fixing it. I left when we were broken. I thought about you every second on that flight. Every second here. I was going to fly you out myself if Felix didn’t beat me to it.”

You both laughed a little through the tears.

Then he stood up and led you to the corner of the room where a tiny surprise was waiting: a little photo of you both framed on the table, next to your favorite snacks and a hand-written note.

“I miss home. And home is you.”

That night, you didn’t talk much more. You didn’t have to. You just lay curled up in bed together, his arms around you, his lips pressed to your hair as he finally — finally — slept like someone at peace.

And maybe things weren’t perfect. Maybe they never would be. But that night, in a quiet hotel room in a city far from home, you both found your way back to each other.

And that? That was everything.

[satellite-evans]

all I need

Pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary: Lando gets furiuos when you get fined for swearing after your crash.

Word count: 2.9k+

Warnings: fluff, swearing, injuries, angry lando

Request : Hi could I please request a lando x reader fic where the reader is a driver and she gets in a big crash and the team radio is like asking if she is okay and shes like answers after a bit and is in pain because she just CRASHED and then she accidentally swears on radio and she gets fined and the media is going crazy and like lando is just being a good protective boyfriend and is defending her in interviews and stuff? Thanks!! xoxo - anon 🍟

A/N:

Hi love, thank you so much for sending in a request and trusting me enough to write your idea!! I hope I did it justice xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

One moment, everything is fine—you’re fighting for position, pushing the car to its absolute limit, heart pounding with adrenaline as you navigate the treacherous corners. The next, it all goes horribly wrong.

The rear tires lose grip. A sharp twitch, then a full spin. Time slows, but your mind races. Your hands react on instinct, desperately trying to correct, but it’s too late. The world outside the cockpit blurs in a sickening whirl of colors—track, barriers, sky. Then nothing but gut-wrenching weightlessness as the car lifts off the ground.

The impact is catastrophic. Metal shrieks against metal, carbon fiber shatters like glass. The force slams through your body, rattling bones, squeezing air from your lungs. Pain flares—sharp, immediate—radiating from your ribs, your shoulders, your skull as the cockpit jolts to a brutal stop. Static crackles in your helmet.

For a moment, everything is eerily still. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the stunned gasps from the crowd, the commentary scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Your breath is ragged, shallow. The world tilts nauseatingly around you.

Then, the radio buzzes to life.

"Y/N, Y/N, are you okay?!" David's voice is urgent, bordering on frantic. There’s a tightness to it you’ve never heard before, and that alone terrifies you more than the crash itself.

You try to respond, but pain flares when you shift. A groan escapes before you can stop it. Your fingers fumble for the radio button, and when you finally manage to press it, your voice comes out weak, breathless.

"Fuck—yeah, I think so." A cough, a wince. "That hurt."

Across the track, in his car, Lando watches it all unfold in real-time. His stomach drops, breath catching as he sees your car crumple against the barriers. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The images flash across the big screens, slow-motion replays dissecting the crash from every angle. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Is she okay? Is she responding?!" His voice is laced with panic, the desperation evident.

His race engineer hesitates. "We're waiting on confirmation, Lando. Focus on the race."

But how the hell is he supposed to do that? The car, the track, the championship—all of it fades. Right now, none of it matters except you.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Please—can you keep me updated? I need to know if she's okay." His voice wavers just slightly, the emotion threatening to spill over.

A pause. Then, softer, "We will, Lando. Just focus for now."

He exhales sharply, forcing himself to keep driving, but his eyes keep flicking to the screens around the circuit, searching for any sign of movement from you. His heart pounds as he waits—praying to hear your voice again.

A beat of silence stretches after your message. Then, Race Control’s voice cuts through.

"Y/N, reminder that all radio transmissions are broadcasted live. Watch the language."

Despite everything, a strained, breathy laugh escapes you. "Yeah, yeah, noted. Ow."

The medical car is already pulling up, orange lights flashing, marshals swarming the wreckage. You can hear them shouting, their voices urgent but professional. Someone taps on the side of your cockpit, checking for a response. Your fingers twitch, slow and uncoordinated, but you give them a thumbs-up.

The crowd, stunned into silence, exhales as one. The commentators try to fill the dead air with reassurances, but the tension is thick. On social media, the crash is already going viral—clips looping endlessly, speculation running rampant.

The straps of your harness dig into your bruised shoulders as the adrenaline begins to wear off, replaced by a dull, spreading ache that makes every breath feel like a struggle. The world around you is a cacophony of noise—sirens wailing, the frantic chatter of the marshals, the dull roar of the crowd beyond the barriers—but it all feels distant, muffled by the ringing in your ears.

"Try not to move too much," one of the medical staff instructs gently, his gloved hands already working to unbuckle you from the mangled remains of your car. "Can you feel everything?"

You give a small, shaky nod. "Yeah," you breathe, wincing as you shift slightly. "Just sore. Really sore."

The relief on his face is immediate, but the tension in the air remains. They move carefully, extracting you from the cockpit as gingerly as possible. As soon as you're free, your knees threaten to buckle, but strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

"You’re alright, we’ve got you," another voice reassures, steadying you as they guide you toward the waiting medical car. The flash of cameras in the distance, the low hum of anxious murmurs from the pit lane—it all feels surreal.

The moment the checkered flag waves, Lando doesn’t care about anything else. Not the debrief, not the podium celebrations—none of it matters. His car screeches to a halt in parc fermé, barely lined up properly, but he’s already halfway out before the engine even fully shuts down. His hands rip off his steering wheel, then his helmet, tossing it aside as he breaks into a full sprint toward the medical center.

His lungs burn, but he doesn’t slow down. The only thing driving him forward is the sheer panic gripping his chest. His mind replays the crash on an agonizing loop—the way your car crumpled, how long it took for you to respond, the thought of losing you was eating him alive. He pushes past team personnel, ignoring their calls, shoving the medical center doors open with enough force to make them slam against the walls.

"Where is she?" His voice is sharp, almost desperate.

A nurse barely has time to react before he spots you. Sitting on the edge of the examination bed, bruised and battered, your race suit scuffed with streaks of dirt and dried blood. Your arm is wrapped around your ribs, and there’s a gash just below your glove, crimson seeping through the fabric. Your right knee is swollen, and every inhale looks like it stings.

But you’re alive.

Lando exhales a shuddering breath, his entire body sagging with relief. He crosses the room in seconds, reaching you like you might disappear if he doesn’t move fast enough. Without hesitation, he takes your hand, gripping it tightly like an anchor. His fingers ghost over your bruised knuckles, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Jesus, Y/N…" His voice is hoarse, cracking under the weight of the fear still clinging to him.

You manage a small, tired smile despite the pain. "I’m fine. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks."

His jaw clenches, eyes scanning you like he doesn’t quite believe you. "Not as bad as it looks? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again. Ever."

The intensity of his words makes your chest tighten—not just from the bruises, but from the raw emotion behind them. You squeeze his hand, grounding him.

Later, after the doctors clear you—bruised ribs, mild concussion, but nothing broken—you limp out of the medical center, Lando’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Every step sends a dull ache through your body, but at least you’re standing.

David intercepts you, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "So, uh… don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re getting a fine for the team radio."

You blink. "You’re kidding, right?"

Before David can even answer, Lando scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. "She just survived a high-speed crash, and they’re fining her for swearing? Seriously?"

David sighs, handing over the paperwork with an apologetic shrug. "Yeah… FIA wasn’t too happy. Regulations and all."

You stare at the notice for a beat before letting out a tired, incredulous laugh. "Yeah, okay. Next time I crash at 200 mph, I’ll be sure to say ‘gosh darn it’ instead."

Lando shakes his head, jaw tight with frustration. "Unbelievable."

But instead of dwelling on it, he just pulls you in closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of his embrace eases some of the lingering tension in your body. "Don’t worry about it, love. If they want to fine you for being human, let them. You’re still the toughest person I know."

You smile, leaning into him, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Because at the end of the day, a fine means nothing when you still have Lando by your side.

And, as expected, the media goes absolutely wild.

"Formula 1 Driver Y/N Y/L/N Fined After Shocking Radio Message Post-Crash!"

"Did Y/N Deserve Her FIA Penalty? Fans Debate Over Radio Outburst!"

"Y/N’s Crash Sparks Controversy: Was the Fine Justified?"

The headlines flood every social platform within minutes. Slow-motion replays of the crash loop endlessly on TV screens, side-by-side with grainy images of you wincing as you climbed out of the wreckage. Every angle is analyzed, every expression dissected.

Your post-race hospital visit is barely over when reporters start circling like vultures, bombarding you with questions before you even have the strength to face them, but Lando was having none of it.

Seated in front of the media, still in his race suit, Lando’s jaw is tight, hands clenched on the table as microphones are shoved toward him.

"Lando, there's been a lot of discussion about Y/N’s penalty for language over the team radio. Do you think the FIA was justified in issuing the fine?"

He scoffs, jaw tightening. "Are we seriously focusing on a fine when she just survived a massive crash?" His voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. "She was in pain. She was shaken up. And she swore—who wouldn’t? It's ridiculous."

The journalists shift uncomfortably, but another one presses on. "Rules are rules, though. FIA has strict guidelines about profanity on public transmissions. Do you think it sets a bad precedent if they don’t enforce them?"

Lando lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Mate, if your first thought after seeing a crash like that is to talk about a penalty, maybe rethink your priorities."

Another journalist jumps in. "But don’t you think it’s important to maintain professionalism on the radio? A lot of young fans look up to drivers."

Lando rolls his eyes. "Right, because what’s really damaging to young fans isn’t the fact that someone just had a life-threatening accident, but the fact that she said ‘fuck’ while trying to breathe properly again." He leans forward, voice lower but no less cutting. "If we’re talking role models, maybe start by making sure the sport actually supports its drivers instead of fining them for reacting like a human being."

His words are already making waves, clips spreading across social media.

And while you’re still exhausted, still aching from the crash, there’s something about seeing him so openly, fiercely in your corner that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Even after the official interviews, the media frenzy doesn’t stop. Paparazzi crowd outside the paddock, desperate for a statement. Team members act as buffers, but there’s only so much they can do.

As you slowly make your way out of the motorhome, Lando’s arm firmly around your waist, cameras flash, voices overlapping as reporters shout over each other.

"Y/N, do you think the FIA’s decision was fair?"

"Do you regret your words on the radio?"

"Lando, how did it feel watching the crash happen live?"

He tenses beside you. "How do you think it felt?" His voice is sharp, protective. "I watched someone I love crash at full speed. So no, I don’t really give a damn about some radio penalty right now."

You squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. He doesn’t have to be this involved, but he is. Always.

Another journalist turns to you, voice softer but no less intrusive. "Y/N, how are you feeling after the accident?"

You exhale, trying to keep your expression neutral despite the lingering pain. "Sore, obviously. But I’m okay."

"Will you be racing in the next Grand Prix?"

Lando answers before you can. "She’s focusing on recovery first. That’s the priority."

It’s not a direct confirmation, but it’s enough to hold off the speculation—at least for now.

The chaos of the day finally starts to feel like a distant memory as you curl up on the couch in Lando’s apartment. An ice pack rests gently on your ribs, offering some comfort against the bruising, but it’s Lando’s presence that truly calms you. His arm drapes protectively around you, pulling you in close like he never wants to let go, his warmth surrounding you in a way that makes you feel safe. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles on your arm, the rhythm gentle and steady.

It’s such a contrast to the frantic energy of the day—the flashing cameras, the endless questions, the tension in the air—but now, in this moment, all of that feels like it belongs to another world. This is where you’re grounded.

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder, letting the quietness of the room wrap around you like a soft blanket. But there’s something still heavy in the pit of your stomach, a lingering feeling that something was unsettled. You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes tracing the faint lines of worry still etched across his face, the tension that’s only now starting to ease from his features.

"You didn’t have to go that hard for me," you murmur, your voice soft, though you know the words don’t quite do justice to what you’re feeling. You had been overwhelmed by everything that happened, but he—he had been beside you every step of the way, his every move showing how deeply he cared.

He scoffs, shaking his head slowly like the idea is completely foreign to him. "Of course I did. It’s bullshit," he mutters, his voice laced with frustration that hasn’t quite gone away. "You should be getting support, not fined for a stupid word." The words come out with a little more heat than he intends, but it’s the underlying softness in his voice, the way he’s speaking to you like he wants to protect you from the world’s unfairness, that makes your heart flutter.

You chuckle softly, a tired sound that makes his grip on you tighten just a fraction, like he’s afraid you might slip away. "Guess I owe you, huh?" you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Lando’s response is immediate—he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. His hands shift, cradling you with a tenderness that almost feels too gentle, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. "Just don’t scare me like that again," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, as though the thought of you being hurt again is more than he can bear. "And we’ll call it even."

You smile up at him, heart full of warmth for this man who always seems to put your well-being before his own. But you can’t promise him that. You know how the sport works, how unpredictable it is. You’ll never be able to give him that guarantee.

But there’s something you can promise him, something more important. You squeeze his hand, the simple act grounding you both in this moment. Your voice is steady as you look up into his eyes, locking your gaze with his. "No matter what happens," you say, the words firm but soft, a promise from the deepest part of you, "you’ll always have me. I’ll always have you."

His expression softens in a way that makes you think he’s heard every unspoken word in your statement, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels full—full of shared understanding, full of the love you have for each other, full of the promise that no matter the challenges, no matter the risks, you’ll face it all side by side.

For a long moment, Lando is quiet, his thumb still brushing over your skin in slow, absentminded strokes. But then his breath catches slightly, and when you glance up, you see it—the way his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. His jaw tenses as if he’s trying to hold it all back, but the emotion is too heavy, too raw.

"I thought I lost you," he admits, his voice breaking just enough to reveal the fear he’s been holding in. "When everything was happening, and I couldn’t reach you..." He trails off, shaking his head as if trying to push the memory away, but his grip on you tightens like he never wants to let go again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—"

"Hey," you interrupt softly, your hand moving to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the dampness on his cheek. "I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m not going anywhere."

That seems to break whatever wall he was trying to hold up. Lando lets out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against yours as he closes his eyes. "I just... I can’t lose you," he confesses, the words raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Not you."

You press a soft kiss to his lips, hoping it conveys everything words can’t. "You won’t," you promise against his mouth, your voice unwavering. "I’m right here."

He nods slightly, like he’s trying to believe it, and when he pulls you into his arms again, it’s with a desperation that speaks to how close he felt to losing you. But in this moment, with his heart laid bare and your arms wrapped tightly around each other, there’s nothing else that matters.

Lando kisses you gently on the forehead, his lips lingering there for just a second longer. "That’s all I need," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. Then, his arms pull you even closer, his warmth radiating through your bones.

[ferrstappen]

I’m going home, to my little daughter l dad! Max Verstappen imagine

A/n: a little late, but a little Father’s Day piece for Max 💘 it’s a bit all over the place but I really wanted to write something.

summary: Max doesn’t know what’s waiting for him back home.

The race had just ended, and the sound of cheers still echoed through the television speakers. Max’s Red Bull had crossed the line in second place. Montreal had been tough, with strategy and pit stops, but he’d done what he always did: fought until the end.

You adjusted Lia in your arms, her soft baby breaths tickling your collarbone as her chubby hand clung to your shirt. She was getting heavy, but you didn’t dare move her. She’d only just fallen asleep after the cooldown lap.

The twins had brought home their Father’s Day projects from school. Happy Father’s Day, Papa! was scribbled in Mila’s careful handwriting, while Luca’s contribution was mostly cars, stars, and a scribbled heart that somehow resembled a tire. Mila complained that the teacher made them work together since, well obviously, had the same dad, limiting her “creative freedom”, that was exactly what she told her teacher.

You were sitting on the couch now, warm with the baby’s weight, your phone already open to FaceTime. The race broadcast switched to post-race interviews, and you turned the volume down. Your heart was already somewhere else, 5,000 kilometers away, with Max. You missed being there waiting for him, leaving a kiss on his helmet for good luck, but your daydream was interrupted when the call connected after a couple of rings.

“Hey,” Max’s voice came through, slightly crackly from the paddock noise but unmistakably soft.

You smiled. “Hi, daddy.”

He was still in his race suit, blond hair a mess under the cap, a bit of sweat clinging to his brow, but his eyes? They lit up the second he saw you and the bundle of blankets resting against you.

“Is she asleep?”

“She fought it,” you whispered, brushing Lia’s soft hair, “but yeah, went out like a light after Lando’s crash.”

He laughed. “My girl’s got taste.”

“She only fussed once, when you got overtaken.”

“Smart baby. I’ll have a talk with the car, she can’t be bothered by that.” Max joked, his blue eyes twinkling with that side of him reserved for his family.

You both smiled, the kind that lives in the quiet space between exhaustion and love. Max looked at you for a moment longer, his expression tender and achingly proud.

“I’ve missed her, I’ve missed all of you.” he said softly.

“I know,” you said, equally soft. “But she watched you. We all did.”

Just then, Mila and Luca ran into frame, holding their signs again, breathless with excitement.

“PAPA!”

“You were SO fast!”

“We cheered for you the entire race!”

“Happy Father’s Day!”

Max laughed, his head tilting back as he took them in, and you watched the way his face changed, tired but glowing.

“Thank you. The signs… are amazing.” Max said shaking his head slightly with a smile.

“We’re saving the cake for when you’re back!” Mila added.

“Only one slice,” Luca warned. “Mama said no sugar after bedtime.”

Max winked. “Rules are different on race weekends. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

You watched them chatter back and forth until a voice called for Max off-camera, someone from media, reminding him about interviews and the press pen.

“I gotta go,” he said, and then looked at you one last time. “Give them all kiss for me?”

You nodded. “Always.”

And then he was gone from your phone screen.

You tucked the phone beside you and kissed your daughter’s cheek, whispering, “Papa loves you,” just as her fist opened briefly in sleep.

The broadcast shifted again, now showing Max being asked about his plans for the F1 movie premiere in New York, making you sit up slightly, curious, not remembering Max mentioning a premiere.

He paused at the question. Then, without missing a beat, gave the same smile you’d just seen minutes ago.

“I’m going home,” he said, voice calm, warm. “To my little daughter.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter if he’d won or lost; he’d already won everything that mattered, his perfect family, and that was the only thing on his mind while flying back to Monaco.

Max always loved returning home. Even after the wins. Even after the podiums, the cheers, the champagne, nothing ever came close to the click of his front door in Monaco and the silence that greeted him. The silence of home. It wasn’t really quiet, not in the way the outside world would define it, but to Max, the laughter in the hallway, the shuffle of small feet, even the hum of the dishwasher was peace. His quiet.

He rolled the suitcase in slowly, careful not to wake anyone. It was past ten, and he figured the twins would be asleep by now, maybe you’d stayed up for him, maybe not. You had Lia, and four-month-olds didn’t really believe in full nights of sleep. Max wouldn’t blame you if you’d already collapsed into bed or right next to her crib.

The hallway was dim, the soft yellow of the entryway light casting a gentle glow, until something burst above him, a soft explosion followed by a cascade of blue and silver balloons falling from the high ceiling of the penthouse.

Max froze, startled. Then came the roar of footsteps, the unmistakable sound of Mila’s high-pitched squeal and Luca’s fuzzy socks rapidly approaching.

“PAPA!” The twins yelled at the same time.

Max barely had time to drop his bag before they slammed into him from both sides, their small arms wrapping around his middle, asking to be lifted.

“You thought we forgot!” Mila declared triumphantly, clapping her hands.

“Did we surprise you? Did it work?” Luca asked, slightly out of breath, eyes glowing hoping Max was surprised.

Max blinked, then laughed. “I’m… definitely surprised.”

You appeared a second later, barefoot, hair tied up in the way that always made his heart flutter. Lia was in your arms, blinking blearily at the light, clearly pulled from her nap but too calm to make a fuss.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you said, voice soft but warm.

Max reached out, resting his hand on Lia’s back, pulling you gently in so all five of you Verstappen were pressed together in the entryway.

“You really didn’t have to…” he started, but you interrupted him.

“Shh,” you whispered, eyes crinkling. “You say that every year, and every year we ignore you.”

The living room was filled with decorations. Handmade banners, more balloons, a giant card the twins had drawn together. One side read WE LOVE PAPA and the other had a drawing of Max with what he assumed was supposed to be a steering wheel, there was a plate with beef carpaccio and tomato soup, and a photo of the five of you framed on the mantle, from Lia’s first month, all of you lying on the couch in a sleepy pile not paying attention to Victoria who managed to take the picture.

Max let out a slow breath, soaking it all in.

“I really thought Father’s Day was over,” he admitted. “Being away, missing most of the day. I just figured…” He trailed off.

“You figured wrong,” you said, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “We waited for you, the real celebration starts now. We Verstappens make our own rules, you know?”

Mila tugged his sleeve. “We saved the cake, and Luca didn’t even lick it.”

“I didn’t!” Luca added proudly.

Max grinned and crouched, pulling both twins close. “Best team in the world.”

You handed him Lia, who immediately nuzzled into his chest, her sleepy weight melting into him like she belonged there, like this was her favorite place on Earth.

“Hey, meisje,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Papa’s home.”

The kids dragged him to the couch, demanding a story from the race, a bite of cake, and answers to why he didn’t win in Canada. You curled up beside him, legs folded under you, one hand resting on his thigh as Lia dozed between you both.

And somewhere between Luca’s proud explanation of tire degradation and Mila feeding him cake with too much frosting, Max looked around and felt something tighten in his chest, the good kind, the kind that reminded him he was living exactly the life he’d dreamed of.

He didn’t need a trophy to tell him he’d already won everything there was to win, especially as the Verstappen household became quiet.

Well, maybe not quite, not entirely; there was the low hum of the monitor on your nightstand, the one that occasionally crackled with Lia’s soft breathing. Mila had whispered “Happy Father’s Day again” while half-asleep when Max tucked her in. Luca made him promise to make pancakes in the morning.

The hallway still smelled faintly like chocolate cake and baby powder. A strange but familiar combination these days.

Max exhaled deeply as he sank into bed beside you, fresh out of the shower. His hair was damp and his skin warm. He smelled like your favorite body wash, the one he pretended not to use, but always reached for when he missed home a little more than usual.

He didn’t say anything at first, just allowed you to settle on the bed with him.

You were lying on your side facing him, head propped on your hand, eyes already soft.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said, voice low, hoarse from the long day.

You hummed. “I know.”

“But you did.”

You reached out and touched his chest lightly, fingers brushing over the fabric of the old Red Bull t-shirt he’d pulled on. It was faded, soft from years of wear. One of the first ones he ever gave you, back when you used to steal them from his apartment.

“You always make the day special for me,” you whispered. “I just wanted you to have something, even if it’s a bit delayed. It’s our thing, you know?”

Max’s hand found your waist under the covers, and he slid closer, forehead brushing against yours.

“I don’t need the decorations or the cake,” he murmured. “It’s this. It’s coming home to you. It’s knowing they waited,” his voice dipped as he closed his eyes briefly, “that Lia is here. That Mila and Luca still want to tackle me the second I walk through the door.”

You smiled against his mouth as he kissed you, slowly and familiar, the kind of kiss that said thank you, I missed you, you’re my home, I love you, all at once.

“I saw the clip,” you said after a moment. “The movie premiere thing. That quote.”

He groaned lightly into your shoulder. “You did?”

You nodded, grinning. “I replayed it five times.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that. They caught me off guard. I just thought of her. Thought of all of you.”

“It was perfect. I was ready to give you another baby right when you arrived.” You giggled.

Max raised his eyebrows suggestively before laughing with you, rolling onto his back and pulled you with him until you were half on his chest, your hand splayed over his heart. You listened to it beat, steady and strong beneath your palm.

“I used to think I’d want to be everywhere,” he said quietly. “All the races, all the events. All the noise, but now?”

“Now?”

“I just want to get through the weekend… and come back to this. To you, the kids, the cats… and yeah, the dog.”

You blinked slowly, your heart swelling as you pressed your lips to his collarbone. “You have it,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your back. “Yeah, I really do.”

The baby monitor gave a soft sigh of static. Lia stirred once, then settled.

Max closed his eyes, letting the silence wrap around him, letting the weight of you against him pull him deeper into the stillness of home.

It wasn’t loud, but it was real.

And it was everything he ever dreamed of.

[povlnfour]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ CRASH LANDING (LN4)

pairing: lando norris x f!reader

summary: lando accidentally hits a stranger with his car — the internet can’t stop referring to it as a meet cute. (un)fortunately for lando, mclaren agree.

genre: comedy, fluffy

authors note: a continuation of the ending to beached! you don’t need to have read that to understand this, however it will give some insight to the mclaren matchmaker jokes <3 also in light of that, this is set a few races in the future! *oscarsgf user refers to the character in beached!

*faceclaim: keeahwah on ig (but please imagine her as you see fit!)

landonorris posted a tweet ੈ✩‧₊˚

tmz posted a tweet ੈ✩‧₊˚

landonorris posted tweets ੈ✩‧₊˚

lando’s texts with y/n ੈ✩‧₊˚

landonorris just posted ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by carlossainz55 and 203,488 others

landonorris practicing safe driving

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user you are so unserious sir

user SOOOO IS THAT THE GIRL HE HIT BC

user no clue but she’s CUTE

oscarpiastri @/fia look here

landonorris i will literally remind your girlfriend of your murder attempts when you first met

user it’s giving meet cute

user i’d read a fic on it

yourusername you literally drove off BEFORE I WAS EVEN IN THE CAR

landonorris IT WAS AN ACCIDENT I WAS DISTRACTED

user ASSUMING THIS IS HER???

user @/user CLICKING ON HER ACCOUNT IT DEFINITELY IS

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by bestfriend, landonorris and 3,907 others

yourusername monaco recap🇲🇨 successfully didn’t get hit by too many cars!

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user AS IF LANDO HIT THE HOTTEST PERSON IVE EVER SEEN

user nah this is actually a full meet cute i’m sorry this is the shit you see in romcoms

bestfriend still can’t believe you didn’t take compensation but accepted a lunch date instead

yourusername can you blame me

user @/yourusername oh girl no one can you are so real for that

friend1 wait till everyone finds out you’re only there for another 4 days

user WHAT. i can’t have them separated already😶

user parasocial relationship with lando ended y/n is my new idol now

twitter reacts ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted stories ੈ✩‧₊˚

[captions:

photo 1: lando paid for me to get my nails done !!!

photo 2: :D

photo 3: ur all romanticizing my life rn but this is my view in a fancy ass restaurant]

texts with your best friend ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by landonorris and 11,276 others

yourusername final days in heaven. i’ll miss so much about this place

👤 tagged bestfriend, landonorris

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user wait she doesn’t live in monaco?? she’s leaving??? just after i’ve gotten attached to her and lando???

bestfriend please come back to visit asap i cannot go too long without my y/n cuddles

landonorris seconded

user um lando sir,,, seconded the whole thing? cuddles included?

user this cannot be the end of the meet cute i refuse to

landonorris just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by oscarpiastri and 286,425 others

landonorris safe to say i’ve had a pretty good break between races

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user a whole post dedicated to her with THAT caption? oh yep they’re whipped

user please tell me y’all are going to stay in contact?

user my heart is shattering already

mclaren 🧡

user MCLAREN PLEASE YOU’VE DONE IT ONCE BEFORE

texts with lando ੈ✩‧₊˚

mclaren interview ੈ✩‧₊˚

[transcript:

o: safe to say you’ve had a pretty interesting break before this race

l: hey let me remind you what happened for you over winter break!

o: okay but i didn’t literally hit my girlfriend with my car!

l: oh so you finally asked her out officially?

o: stop deflecting!

l: okay okay! yeah safe to say i had a nice time. always need a bit of a change in life!

o: so how are things going now?

l: (awkwardly) well you know how it’s… yeah

o: ah i get it. quite literally been there done that got the t shirt. but hey you did say all that when i got my big moment about mclaren—

l: no no no don’t give them any ideas! they’re listening!]

mclaren just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by 203,467 people

mclaren the boys are back! don’t forget to check out the new interview on our channel where lando and oscar talk all things hopes for the second half of the season, workouts and… girls?

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user mclaren. mclaren look at me. you know what you have to do

mclaren 👀

user when oscar asked him about y/n… i wanted to cry he looked so sad are things over between them?

oscarsgf @/oscarpiastri you’re such a gossip

oscarpiastri you love me for it

oscarsgf @/oscarpiastri you know what i’m thinking?

oscarpiastri @/oscarsgf plotting?

oscarsgf @/oscarpiastri plotting!

user what on earth is going on…

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by oscarsgf and 29,481 others

yourusername lately :)

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user you are so ! gorgeous !

user i can see why lando is obsessed

user speaking of… where is our favorite brit in the likes☹️

oscarsgf pretty girl!!!

yourusername oh?!? thank u cutie!!!

user ^ oh their plotting is in progress???

mclaren you’d look good in orange👀🧡

landonorris posted a tweet ੈ✩‧₊˚

an email from mclaren ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted stories ੈ✩‧₊˚

mclaren just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by 287,456 people

mclaren it’s race day🫡

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user WHO IS THE GIRL

user IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS

user PLEASE TELL ME THATS Y/N

user LOOK AT HER STORIES ITS DEFINITELY HER

user SOMEONE WHO IS THERE KEEP US UPDATED PLEASE

user just posted a thread ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 106,544 others

yourusername i don’t know guys, do you think he’s cute?

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user OH MY GOD FINALLY

landonorris i will hit you with my car again

yourusername is that a challenge mr. norris?

landonorris @/yourusername oh you better run fast

yourusername @/landonorris well duh cause you don’t know how to do the speed limit

user i love them. i love them so much.

oscarsgf omg can we force the boys to do mclaren double dates

landonorris leave this comment section now

yourusername @/landonorris too late we’re already texting

landonorris just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 300,091 others

landonorris we are successful victims of mclarens matchmaking services

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user THEYVE DONE IT AGAINNN

user new fav couple fr

oscarpiastri oh how quickly you all forget me

user @/oscarpiastri WE COULD NEVER

user clearly i need to work for mclaren to get a cute gf

oscarpiastri @/oscarsgf is the second photo giving you flashbacks as well

oscarsgf they’re stealing our thing

yourusername thank you for posting the nice park date photo of me

landonorris well in all the others you’re mid cartwheel

mclaren glad to be of service🧡 anyone else? @/patriciooward how are you doing?

landonorris i’m gonna stop you right there

———————

a/n: WELL. hello friends. i said i wasn’t gonna post a one shot for a while, then this happened. i just hope its up to standard! i’m a little rusty in my writing considering everything!

in regards to new works, gonna be working on getting my wips out soon, and maybe popping some new smaus out at the same time as they’re easy and quick-ish for me to work on considering everything going on! do forgive me if i do some random family orientated stuff — pregnancy hormones are giving me baby fever for everything (is it still baby fever if you’re having a baby?)

let me know your thoughts in the comments/reblogs/asks — i’ve missed talking to you all sm! i have anon emojis available if people wanna chat too🤍

for the first time in a very long time,,, love, giselle xx

taglist (found here): @idkiwantchocolatee @vellicora @alessioayla @bborra @crimeshowjunkie @minkyungseokie @paolexsstuff @celestialpato @champagnelovers101 @loxbbg @hobiismyhopeu @tsukishitm-a @moonypixel @champagneproblems17 @ironmaiden1313 @lqvesoph @sunflower-golden-vol6 @six-call @skatingiswalkingincursive @peqch-pie @m0cha-bunny @woozarts @he6rtshaker @iluvvmeeee @goldenalbon @izzy-marvel @lucyysthings @lichterfee @tallrock35 @treehouse-house @iloveyou3000morgan @scopeiguess @amaranthineghost @gwginnyweasley @hetfieldd @sweetbabygirlsworld @wittywhispers @dark-night-sky-99 @namgification @casperlikej @marshmummy @geniusalpaca

tags for this post: @the-untamed-soul @itsprashimusic @purplephantomwolf @jasminesacademia

[no-144444]

When are we getting more sky interviewer x oscar? ahhh that cliffhanger!! I can’t wait for more!

reconcile -o.piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! Skyf1interviewer! reader

summary: you're reminded of a promise you made...

part six masterlist

All things considered, you were kind of happy to be leaving F1. Somehow, the last half of this season had you burning bridges, ones you didn’t even want to burn. Your comments filled with various driver ships, various hate messages, but everyday, the same damn message popped up in your instagram comments. 

Omg FIA awards are soon! You and Oscar are going to be so cute! 

Can’t wait for the hard launch at the FIA awards 

Oscar and Y/n forever fr 

The way he looks at her! OMG they’re too cute

You hadn’t spoken to Oscar since that night in your hotel room. You ignored his messages . You got Crofty and the others to do his interviews. Abu Dhabi hadn’t been great for you so far, nothing really had. No one seemed to grasp the concept that moving to Indycar wasn’t your choice, but something you had to do for your job. People ignored you. People shunned you. Oscar kept his eyes on you all weekend, and you wanted the Earth to swallow you up. It was awkward. It was the soft glances he used to give you, there was something behind his eyes, a hunger. A fire. Something that made you walk the other way. But Lando grabbed you before you could flee the scene.

“Y/n!” Lando pulled you in for a hug. “How are you?” he asked. Oscar crossed his arms beside him, his body tensing. He watched as Lando hugged you, jealousy flooding his chest. Why was it that you were close with literally everyone but him? Oh yeah, he ruined his chances in that stupid hotel room. 

“I’m good thanks,” you nodded, pulling back and looking at the two of them. “How are you two?” you asked, taking a step back. 

Lando waited for Oscar to respond, but he didn’t. Lando cleared his throat and smiled. “We’re good, thanks. Ready for this race to be over.” 

“Same, I’m so excited to go home after this-”

“We have the FIA awards,” Oscar interjected, hsi tone curt. He knew he was being rude and he knew it was shitty to hold you to a dumb promise, but what else did he have of you to hold onto? You were with an Indycar driver. You were leaving F1. He wouldn’t see you anymore, and he wanted one night where he could pretend he had a chance with you. “Like you promised.”

You swallowed, then nodded. One last night with Oscar, you could do that right?  “Course. What colour is your suit?”

“Black,” he was a man of few words, you could give him that. “White shirt. Black bowtie.”

“Thanks for the direction,” you mumbled under your breath. “Text me about it, yeah?” “Will you actually respond?” he questioned, and even he saw the way you flinched at that. He was being mean, but he felt so fucking uncontrollable with you, he didn’t know what to do with himself. “I’m sorry I’m being a-”

“Yeah, you are,” you nodded, your eyes down. “But I guess it wasn’t super mature of me to not respond to your other messages,” you nodded, awkward tension between the two of you as Lando watched the exchange. “Sorry.”

“I just wanted to apologise for what I said back in-”

“What did you say?” Lando gasped. Oscar seemed to forget that you’d been Lando’s friend longer than he had, and Lando would most-likely take your side. Oscar’s mouth opened, then closed again. Lando frowned and turned to you, but you held a hand up to stop him talking. 

“It’s between us,” you answered diplomatically. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I am worried about it,” he shot back. “What did he fucking say?”

You sent him one of your looks and he backed down. “The hotel is forgotten,” you turned back to Oscar. “Let’s just all enjoy the awards as a last hurrah, and we’ll go from there, yeah?” 

Oscar nodded, feeling a bit better about the way he treated you, and simultaneously worse about the fact that you were leaving.

“So you’re going with him?” Lewis asked. You sat beside him, sighing and leaning your head on his shoulder. He chuckled. You hid in the Ferrari garage a lot and Lewis always seemed to have the best advice, maybe it was something to do with his various failed relationships. “You’re being dramatic. He’s not that bad.” 

You huffed again. “He’s nice to literally anyone but me. I swear to god, Carlos got better treatment than me.”

He chuckled. “You’re being extra dramatic today then.” 

“Maybe you’re not being dramatic enough,” you shot him a dirty look. You enjoyed this. Moments like this. Moments where your life didn’t not feel yours. You’d always struggled with imposter syndrome, but you’d carved yourself out a nice spot in F1. People liked you, people listened to you, and you knew people. Indaycar was new. Your confusing feelings for Oscar were new. You cuddled closer to Lewis, trying to stay in the line of the aircon.

“You could just fake sick,” he shrugged. You’d already thought about that, but you felt it was rude to Oscar (even if he definitely deserved it). “Or you could just go and tell the Indycar boy to fuck off and run into the sun with Oscar-”

“Lewis!” you hissed. “Shut up!”

He laughed, nudging you. “Just tell him you like him!”

“I don’t!” you stressed, rolling your eyes. “And anyway, he deserves someone who actually can be here for him, not on an entirely different schedule, working insane hours, plus he doesn’t like me anyway!”

He gave you an unimpressed look. “Y/n, don’t play with me,” he scoffed. “That boy is in love with you.” “That boy doesn’t know me!” you argued. “And if he did, I think he’d have a very good reason to walk away.”

Lewis frowned, his voice lowering. “What does that mean?”

You sighed. “I mean… I don’t think we’d work out. He’s a fucking F1 driver for god’s sake. This is insane-”

“You’re one of the most beautiful women in the world,” he shrugged. “You’re so smart. You’re kind. He’d be more than lucky to have you.”

You sighed against his shoulder, mulling it over in your head. Maybe Lewis was right. Maybe you should give it a shot with Oscar. 

“So go to the awards with him. See how you feel. You don’t have to make a decision now.”

Maybe he was right. Enjoy the awards with Oscar and go public with Pato the next day...

Great idea.

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

taglist:

@anotherapollokid @chelseyyouraverageluigi @suns3treading @patis643 @trees-are-books @stressed-cherry @revrse @awenthealchemist @imdyinghelpplease @successfulgarlic81 @finn-dot-com @vhkdncu2ei8997 @lazybot @mayax2o07 @perfectmenarefictional @anunstablefangirl @martygraciesversion381 @abrabadabrasimsalagrim @athena63005

[writersdrug]

OOOH bartender Simon when one of the regulars starts making comments about reader at the bar

Yes

Slight nsfw, someone makes derogatory marks about reader

Simon didn't understand why the man chose to be a regular at his bar. He never spoke much to the lad, Mitch, other than the occasional grunt and "'nother round?" Still, the bloke had been coming to his pub every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night like it was his religion - it very well might've been - spilling his guts over neat whiskey about his failing marriage, his estranged children, and his shitty job. Simon was surprised he managed to keep one, with how much he was drinking on a Sunday night.

"Don't ever get a wife, Simon." Mitch says, fidgeting his empty whiskey glass in his fingers. He'd already come in with a sour expression and droopy eyes - Simon wondered what the topic would be for tonight, but as usual, it steered towards his divorce waiting to happen.

"Already got one." He says, jerking his head to the liquor shelf. "Woodford."

Mitch laughs, letting Ghost take his empty glass and dunk it in the wash basin. "You got anyone waitin' for you after work?"

Ghost clicks his tongue, wiping the condensation off the bar top. "Rather not talk about my personal life 'ere."

"Bah - you need something young n' fresh." Mitch sighs, tapping his fingers against the wood. "Guy like you can't have something too committed, or else your work ethic will suffer."

Ghost grunts as his response. He reminds himself that Mitch was a customer, like everyone else, and he only has to tolerate his yapping for tonight - until next Friday.

Mitch turns his head to look at you, and Simon follows with his eyes: you're standing at a table, bantering with the couple seated there as you take their orders. Hair pulled back into that weird claw clip thingy Simon likes so much, posture relaxed as you leaned on one hip, a soft smile on your face as the couple takes their time placing their orders. He remembers how unfamiliar you were with it all in the beginning, and now it looks like you've been working here for the past ten years. Like you belong in his pub.

"How's she handling the job?" Mitch asks.

Simon shrugs. "Seems t' be managing just fine. Gets away with more shit than I should be allowin' 'er."

Mitch chuckles, looking back at you. "They always do when they look that good." He comments, making Ghost pause. "Price knew what he was doin' hiring her."

He feels his muscles tense subconsciously. "I hired 'er."

Mitch looks back at him, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Simon, you ol' dog..." he begins, leaning his forearms onto the bartop. "Gotta keep the customers comin' somehow, eh?"

Ghost blinks. "I don't follow." He does; but he's giving Mitch a chance to redeem himself after his insinuation.

"C'mon, was it her face? What she wore to the interview? Did Johhny-boy see her and beg you to hire her?" He leans in towards Simon, who obliges and meets him halfway, just to hear what else the prick will say, so he knows how much damage he can justify.

"I'm telling you - the only reason she probably took the job was, well.." he raises and eyebrow.

Simon waits. "Hmm?"

"You know - three big guys like you lot - not to mention that old brewmaster assistant, Garrick, I know he frequents here... well, any desperate thing like her would be throwing themselves at the opportunity."

He's livid. "Wha' opportunity?"

"Gettin hit from all sides, if you catch my drift."

Ghost nods slowly, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He wants to punch a hole through Mitch's chest, but two patrons roughhoused in one week would make Price get on his case. He turns to the bar and grabs a whiskey glass.

"Aww, don't be like that..." Mitch says when he senses Ghost's anger. "I'm sorry. Listen - if you don't want to show her a good time, me and my buddy will. I'll leave my number and you'll give it to her for me?"

"Drink this, sober up, and go home Mitch." Ghost says, slapping the glass of clear liquid in front of the man. Mitch eyes him with a huff as he returns to washing the glasses in the bar sink.

"Fuckin' loser..." he mumbles, grabbing the glass and downing a large gulp - he immediately sputters, the drink spilling all over his front as he coughs and hacks violently. The entire floor looks over at the commotion, you included, standing by the POS and watching with a furrowed brow.

"Fuck- was that goddamn Everclear?!" He rasps.

"I think it's time y' head out, Mitch." Ghost says, leaning both of his hands against the bar. "Call your wife and kids. Stop comin' 'ere every week." He then leans in close, right in front of Mitch's face. "Cuz if I see you back at my bar again, I'm draggin' you out the back myself."

His eyes crinkle with a smile as he claps Mitch on the arm, making him jump from the impact. He quickly gets up off his seat and stumbles towards the front door, sparing one last bitter glance between you and Ghost, before he angrily shoves his way out.

Ghost sighs, putting the Everclear back on the shelf; you walk over right on cue. "What was that about? He ok?"

Simon shrugs, closing Mitch's tab on his POS and assigning an auto-gratuity. "Dunno. Maybe my advice finally got t' the bastard."

[satorulovebot]

so scarlet it was, maroon | chapter one

✧₊⁺ pairing — satoru gojou x journalist!reader

✧₊⁺ chapter summary — you get the chance to meet the infamous gojou satoru while working on your journalism project at suzuka circuit. what could you possibly want from him?

✧₊⁺ word count — 6.3k

✧₊⁺ warnings — nsfw (minors dni), age gap, alcohol use, mature themes, mentions of cheating, substance abuse, themes of marriage and divorce

✧₊⁺ notes — hello everyone! i asked you awhile ago on a poll which series you would like to see after cursed seas and f1 gojo won the poll and then i posted the masterlist and everyone wants it so you get it now. so here it is. and NO its not happy NEVER expect happiness from me because im allergic to it. also the reader being nosy af is inspired by me and my parents telling me i should be a journalist with how nosy i am.

series masterlist // pinterest moodboard // general masterlist

next chap. the husband and his wife

You moved to Tokyo with your family when you were younger.

You grew up in a rural part of the country, surrounded by farmers and people either ready to retire or nearing the end of their lives. Your parents hated living there, and so did you—for one, there were hardly any kids to play with, and two, as your father would say, "too many old fuckers lying around."

When you moved to Tokyo, your family decided to celebrate by taking you to a Formula 1 race. Your dad thought it would be perfect for the two of you since fixing up old cars had always been your daddy-daughter activity.

You didn’t like the idea of racing at first—the noise was too loud, and the idea of people speeding toward a black-and-white checkered line seemed ridiculous. But the moment you heard the roar of the engines and watched the lights go from red to green, you were captivated, a fascination that would stay with you for years.

When you got your first computer, you began looking up videos of F1 drivers. One day, you stumbled across a video titled “The Biggest F1 Scandals in History,” and that was when you decided you wanted to go into journalism.

You were nosy, to say the least. So, it was no surprise to your parents when you announced to them that you wanted to pursue journalism as a career. Your father reminded you how you’d always been curious, listening in on others’ conversations and keeping up with the latest school drama.

When you applied for journalism school, you were accepted into one of the top programs in the world—Sophia University. Your parents were proud that you’d made it into such a highly ranked school for journalism in Japan.

You were now in your fourth and final year at Sophia, and enjoying your journalism class. Recently, your professor assigned a project: write a story about a major pop culture figure of your choice, and for extra credit, get an interview with them. Your professor knew it was damn near impossible, but he was always optimistic that one day, someone would get that interview and he could retire in peace.

That project led you here: Suzuka Circuit, Japan's main Formula 1 track. Your chosen figure was none other than Gojou Satoru—F1's biggest driver in recent years. He was your father's favorite among the new-generation drivers, known for his string of controversies since he started on top of the persistent rumors of his heavy drug use before races.

You had managed to snag a media passs from your professor when you mentioned doing an F1 driver for your project. He was able to pull some strings to get you into the media booth, getting you a closer look at Gojou Satoru in person.

You watched the pre-race preparations closely from the media booth, your fingers hovered above your notepad as you waited for the race to start. You were determined to get a good grade on this project, and that meant adding every single detail to your report about this race.

It was about time for the drivers to gather in their garages, each wearing headsets and ready for the pre-race briefing. The briefing typically covers the race start, various pit stop scenarios, and a detailed weather report. Before each race weekend, they usually spend time in a simulator of the track they'll be racing on, preparing them for the upcoming race.

After about thirty-minutes the racers came out of their garages in their respective cars. They each line up based on the results of a quaifying session that takes place before the race, slowest qualifier in the back, fastest in the front. Gojou Satoru was at the front of the grid, which meant he was one of the qualifiers who had the fastest time.

You waited around for a little while longer turning your attention to what was happening around you. Eventually, you made your way back to the front of the media booth as the race started, ready to report.

The engines revved as each driver began preparing for the start of the race, each car vibrating on the starting grid like a beast straining at its chains. Gojou sat at the front of the lineup, his hands loose on the wheel, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm as he waited for the lights to turn green.

The roar from the grandstands faded, becoming a blur of sound as the lights ticked down: red, red, red, red… green.

He slammed the throttle, feeling the raw force of the car’s engine kick him back into his seat as he tore down the straight. Other cars jostled for position behind him, all fighting to claim the inside line into the first turn.

Through his earpiece, he heard the voice of his race engineer, Shokou, calm as ever. “Clear on turn two, you’ve got five-tenths on Hayashi. Stay tight.”

But Gojou barley heard her. The car was an extension of him, responding to his every thought, every split-second decision. He pushed down the straights, his right foot heavy on the accelerator, taking corners at speeds most drivers wouldn’t dare attempt. The sound of his tires skidding against the asphalt, the blur of the track side barriers, the lights of Tokyo reflecting off his mirrors—it all blended into a single, perfect rush.

Gojou could see the next turn ahead, a tight chicane that could send the best drivers into the barriers if they weren't careful. He braked hard, turning the wheel with perfect precision to angle the car through. He could feel the back end wobbling, but he didn't flinch, drifting perfectly as he swung back onto the racing line, gaining another second on the pack.

He could almost hear the collective gasp of the crowd in his head as he slipped through the chicane. This was his playground. Every race was a chance to remind the world why he was the best.

“Coming up on a DRS zone,” Shoko’s voice crackled in his ear, grounding him, though he was already on it

He waited for the perfect moment, watching the rear-view mirror to see the faint outline of Hayashi's car. He pressed the DRS, and his car shot forward, the drag reduction giving him a temporary speed boost that had him pulling away, putting him in the lead.

The track opened up ahead, the second sector full of wide, sweeping turns. Here was where raw speed mattered more than anything. Gojou pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring in response. He leaned forward, watching the track fly by, the white lines blurring as he focused entirely on the road ahead.

For a second, the sound in his earpiece went dead, the faint sound of static filling his ears. Then Shokou was back. “You’ve got Yoshida closing in on your tail. He’s pushing hard.”

Gojou glanced up at the mirrors, his eyes catching the bright blue and orange of Yoshida's car looming larger. The familiar thrill sparked in him. So, Yoshida thought he had a chance, did he? Well, he’d show him otherwise.

“Copy,” he muttered into his mic, eyes narrowing as he took the next corner, barley touching the brakes. He felt the tires skid but he managed to control the drift, knowing any slip would open the door for Yoshida to slip past.

He whipped into another straight, his hands steady on the wheel as he hit a top speed.

His foot didn’t so much as twitch as the engine’s roar morphed into a high-pitched scream as the car closed the distance.

The curve ahead was brutal—a tight 90-degree bend that demanded precise timing.

In a split-second decision, he did something no one expected. He braked late, his heart pounding as he cut the turn at a speed that sent the back end skidding. The tires gripped just in time, allowing him to pull out of the corner without losing traction. He could almost feel the shock reverberating as he regained control, his lead still intact.

As the laps wore on, his body moved on instinct, every gear shift, every turn becoming a single, fluid motion. One lap. Two. Three, with two pit stops between. He counted them off one by one, his mind buzzing with the pure rush of speed and the heat inside the car, barely noticing the time passing. The crowd faded into nothing, the world shrinking down to the track and his car.

The final lap. This was it.

“Box this lap if you’re in trouble,” Shokou’s voice crackled again. “Tire degradation is high.”

But Gojou’s grip on the steering wheel only tightened. His front tires were holding out—barely. It would be tight, but he could make it. He’d run this last lap on sheer determination alone if he had to.

“Negative, Shokou. I’m taking it,” he replied, and then turned off the earpiece, tuning out everything except the track and the car in front of him.

He launched into the final lap, throwing caution to the wind. Yoshida was right on his tail now, close enough that he could see the gleam of his headlights in the mirrors. But Gojou didn’t back down. He took each turn aggressively, blocking Yoshida's attempts to pass, forcing him to fall back every time.

The last chicane loomed ahead, his final obstacle before the finish line. He tightened his grip, the wheel trembling under his hands. He took the chicane fast, too fast, almost feeling the wheels lift off the ground as he flew out of the turn. The car rocked, but he held steady, pushing the pedal to the floor.

The finish line was in sight, a faint white line at the end of the straight, and with one last push, he crossed it, the checkered flag waving in his periphery as he tore past.

It was only after he’d crossed over the line that the realization hit him—he’d won.

The cheers erupted in the stands, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as he slowed down, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He could hear Shoko’s voice crackling back in as she shouted, “You pulled it off, you insane bastard.”

Gojou grinned, leaning back in his seat, still buzzing. He’d done it again, just as he always did.

The moment he climbed out of the cockpit, Gojou was surrounded by his team. Shokou was the first to reach him, her usually composed face split by a wide grin. She grabbed his helmet and thumped him on the shoulder hard enough so he actually felt it though the layers of his suit.

“You reckless son of a—”

“Language, Shokou,” Gojou interrupted, grinning as he yanked off his gloves, waving to the rest of the Tokyo Jujutsu Racing team that swarmed him.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch you pull stunts like that? I’m gonna need a raise after today’s heart attack,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on, Shokou. That was just a little fun.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my confetti?”

“Coming right up, your royal highness." Someone handed him a bottle of champagne, still cold and slick, and he twisted the cap, spraying a wild arc of foam that showered his team and nearby fans.

His PR manager, Nanami, clapped him on the back. “You’re insufferable."

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, lifting the champagne bottle in a mock toast, flashing him a grin. The media’s cameras clicked and flashed, capturing every moment as his crew continued their congratulations.

The crowd pressed close against the barriers, shouting his name, waving homemade banners with scribbled slogans and his number embellished with the colors red and black. He walked closer, one arm raised, acknowledging the fans, letting their cheers fill him up, louder and louder with every step.

But as he continued walking, his gaze caught on something—or rather, someone—just beyond the crowd.

At first it was just a hint curiosity, the way your gaze was fixed on him. A bit removed from the chaos, you leaned against one of the barriers with a media pass hanging around your neck, arms folded as you watched from a distance.

Gojou slightly narrowed his eyes, holding your gaze longer than he'd held any fan's tonight, as if he was daring you to look away first.

“What the hell is that about?” he muttered under his breath, gaze moving back to Shokou for half a second.

“Hm?” Shokou followed his gaze, but her eyes slid right past you, uninterested. “Press. You’ll get used to it. Come on, they’re all waiting.”

He forced himself to break the stare, clearing his throat as Shokou ushered him toward the media pen, where a lineup of journalists waited, all armed with recorders, microphones, and notebooks.

He fielded the usual questions—how did it feel to win, what was his mindset, what was he thinking on that last turn? His answers were always the same practiced ones, words sliding out like clockwork.

“Well, Mr. Gojou, what would you say to those who believe your racing style is a little… aggressive?” one journalist asked, a little smirk on her face as if she thought she was catching him off guard.

He snorted. “They can call it what they want. I call it winning.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out here to play it safe.”

A few reporters laughed at his remark, clearly interested in what else he had to say as a fresh wave of questions started.

Somewhere behind the flashing lights, he saw you again, lingering a few feet behind the crowd of reporters with that calm gaze fixed on him. You didn’t raise a recorder or a camera, didn’t even make an effort to push closer for a question. You just… watched.

It was disconcerting.

“Gojou!” Another journalist waved a microphone his face, snapping his attention back to the current situation. “What’s the next step for you this season?”

He forced a smile, eyes briefly looking back to you before he focused on the question. “The same as always,” he said. “Push harder, get faster, and give everyone something to talk about.”

The crowd laughed again, though, he barely heard them, too focused on the strange woman staring right into his soul. The two of you locked eyes and you have him a small nod, as if acknowledging that you were in fact staring into his soul.

“Well, I think that’s enough,” Shokou said suddenly at his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts. “They’ll have plenty of time to hound you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, though he let her guide him away. Still, he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of you.

But you were already gone.

Gojou slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the bustling garage and dodging the congratulatory slaps on his back, the endless rounds of handshakes, and the celebratory shouts. He ducked past a few journalists, ignoring the barrage of questions still hurled his way, his smile slipping as he finally found the door to the bathroom.

Inside, the cool, sterile silence was jarring compared to the noise outside, but he let out a sigh of relief, his heart hammering in his chest. He clicked the lock and leaned against the sink, running his hands over his face, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

The victory high had worn off, leaving behind a familiar pressure he could not cope with. It settled on his shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend.

He hadn't realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders, how deeply it would itself into him when he was alone. The race had been perfect, his win flawless, but he could feel the exhaustion radiating off of him, a pulsing throb being his eyes. He clenched his jaw, glaring at himself in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

But his words fell flat, swallowed up by the silence. In the mirror, his own eyes stared back at him, tired, almost hollow.

He reached into the pocket of his racing suit, fingers brushing over the small, familiar packet hidden in the inner lining. It was a stupid habit, a reckless one really, but it was one he hadn't been able to shake, no matter how many times he tried to quit. He could practically feel the temporary relief in the palm of his hand.

He closed his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of the packet before pulling it out, setting it on the counter next to the sink. He ripped it open tapping a small line onto the smooth counter top. It was like his fingers had a mind of their own, as if it was part of his routine of suiting up or gripping the wheel.

The powder glinted under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights, almost mocking him with its simplicity. Just a quick escape, just enough to take the edge off. That’s all he needed.

He leaned down, closing one nostril and inhaling sharply, feeling the sting as the powder hit his nose. He straightened his back, blinking hard, the world around him sharpening as his mind cleared. A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips.

He leaned back against the sink, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat slow, the tension in his muscles fading away.

But it didn’t take long for the guilt to creep back in, that hollow feeling settling in his chest, a reminder that this wasn't the answer. He knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to himself, how he was destroying his body from the inside out, how it could all come crashing down. And yet… here he was.

“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice echoing against the tiles.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting him back to reality.

“Gojou? You in there?” It was Shokou. “They’re waiting for you out here.”

He stuffed the empty packet back into his pocket, brushed the last of the substance off of the sink, and glanced in the mirror one last time to check his reflection, making sure there was no trace left of his momentary escape.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, forced a smirk, and unlocked the door.

Shokou was standing there, arms crossed, her gaze scrutinizing as he stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but her judgmental eye lingered over him for a split second too long.

“You good?”

“Never better."

“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but she dropped it, gesturing for him to follow her.

As the celebrations continued, Gojou weaved his way through fans and team-members alike who were still wrapped up in their post-race celebrations. He scanned the crowd, hoping to find the strange woman from earlier who he noticed had a press pass, thinking you would be here.

And then he saw you, leaning against a stack of crates near the garages, observing the current scene with the same judgmental eyes that Shokou had. The media badge hung from your neck, swaying slightly as you shifted your weight, pulling out a notebook and flipping through it, seemingly absorbed in what you were currently doing.

He cleared his throat as he approached, the echo of his footsteps giving his presence away.

You looked up, your brow raised as he came closer, a hint of intrigue flashing in your eyes.

“Looking for something?” you asked, not moving as he stopped in front of you.

“You could say that,” he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze darted to the notebook in your hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you earlier, off in the shadows. Didn’t feel like joining the crowd?”

“Not my style.” You shrugged. “I’m not here to cheer. I’m here to report.”

“Journalist, huh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “What’s your angle?”

“The truth,” you said, a little smile pulling at your lips as you studied him. “Not everyone’s a fan of that, I know.”

“Depends on what you call the truth. But I’ve got a feeling you’ve already got your version.”

"How perceptive. I’m doing a piece on your racing career, your achievements, but… the public wants a fuller picture, don’t you think?

“Not sure I follow. Everyone knows what they need to know.”

“Not quite,” you replied, flipping through your notebook. “There’s more than just racing stats when it comes to Gojou Satoru, isn’t there?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“People say you’re… unraveling. Your recent ‘questionable decisions’ are starting to paint a different picture, don’t you think?” you said, tapping your pen against your notebook. “The accidents, the fines, the constant change in pit crews—”

“Is this some kind of witch hunt?” he interrupted. “Because I’d hate to disappoint you, princess, but I’ve heard it all.”

“Maybe so.” You leaned in a bit, meeting his stare. “But what about the whispers that aren’t out yet? The suspicions about you cheating the drug tests, your team shielding you—” You paused. “There’s a lot of money on your success, Mr. Gojou.”

“Money and racing have always gone hand-in-hand, don’t you think? You’d have a hard time finding someone out here who hasn’t bent a rule or two.”

“True enough.” You titled your head slightly. “But even the most golden careers have a way of losing their shine.”

"Tell me—do you enjoy tearing people down for a living?”

“Only if it’s warranted,” you replied unfazed. “People aren’t interested in perfect stories. They want the flaws, the dirt. It makes it all more real. At least that's what my professor believes."

“You’ve got a wicked mind, I’ll give you that. But I hope you realize you’re not the first to come sniffing around for the ‘real story’.”

A pregnant pause settles between you before you asked, “And what about her?”

A beat passed before he answered. “Who?”

“Your wife. She’s been… noticeably absent from the press circuits. And rumor has it things aren’t exactly picture-perfect between you two.”

“Rumor has it,” he repeated. “Guess you know how it is in this business. There’s always some rumor or another.”

“So it’s just a rumor, then? All the time apart, the missed events, her name suddenly missing from every headline. You’re saying there’s nothing to it?”

“People are eager to make stories out of nothing. My private life is just that—private.”

“That’s interesting,” you murmured, not looking away. “Because the most recent stories about you and her—they’re awfully detailed. People are noticing, wondering why she’s suddenly… disappeared from the scene.”

“Let them wonder. Like I said, people will talk. And it seems like you’re more interested in gossip than journalism.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Journalism is about uncovering the truth,” you countered. “But it seems like you’re more comfortable brushing things under the rug than addressing them.”

His smile returned, his carefully crafted facade sliding back into place as he straightened up, glancing away from you, clearly bored of the conversation. "Maybe someday you'll get the truth you're so desperate for, but it's not going to be today."

Before he walked away completely, he gave you one last look, his tone playful but laced with a hint of warning. “Be careful what you dig up, princess. Sometimes the truth’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

And with that, he turned his back to you, disappearing into the crowd.

Gojou returned home after the long night of celebrations had died down, the adrenaline from the race long gone, now replaced by a gnawing emptiness that felt like it might hollow him out. His penthouse was in the hear of Tokyo—a sleek, modern apartment with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the neon-drenched skyline.

As he opened the door, the soft him of the city below was drowned out by the sound of footsteps, His wife, Hana, appeared from the hallway, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed. She was dressed in a sleek black outfit, her dark hair pulled back, a looking a frustration etched onto her face.

“You’re late."

“Didn’t realize I was on a curfew,” he replied, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“Don’t act like that.” Her eyes flashed as she followed him into the living room. “You missed the dinner with my parents again. They’ve been asking about you, wondering why you’re never around.”

“Hana, I just won a race,” he replied, exasperated. “Sorry if I wasn’t in the mood to play the doting son-in-law tonight.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms tighter. “Of course, it’s always about the race with you. Everything is about that damn career, isn’t it?”

“You knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“Maybe I didn’t know it would mean you disappearing for days, weeks sometimes, chasing whatever thrill you think you need to feel alive.”

“What’s your point, Hana? We’ve had this argument a hundred times.”

“The point is, Satoru,” she said, voice trembling with anger, “that you seem to care more about everything else than this marriage. I’m just a fixture in your life, something you come back to whenever you need to check a box or show face. But you’re never really here.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the bitter sound filling the apartment. "Here we go again. Hana, it’s not like you’ve been some shining example of commitment either. You’ve known what this is for months.”

“What this is?” Her voice rose, cracking slightly as she repeated his words. “What exactly is ‘this,’ Satoru? A sham? A partnership for appearances? I thought you loved me…"

“I can’t keep doing this,” she continued softly, her voice breaking. “The lying, the pretending. It’s exhausting.”

“So what do you want me to say, Hana? That I’m some perfect husband?” He gestured to himself, shaking his head with a smirk that looked almost pained. “We’re both guilty here. Let’s not act like this hasn’t been a slow-motion train wreck.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“What do you want from me, Hana?” he asked quietly, the fight suddenly draining out of him. “You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

“I want… I wanted the man I married. The one who cared, who had dreams."

“Then maybe,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, “it’s time to stop pretending.”

As Gojou stood there running a hand through his hair. Hana paused, her expression shifting from something resigned to something wounded.

“And there’s one more thing."

He looked at her, brow furrowing. “Fucking Christ Hana, what now?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Satoru?” she asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I know what’s out there. The rumors. The whispers about who you’re with when you’re not here. Or maybe you think I don’t hear them.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hana, they’re just rumors. You know how the press is—they’ll twist anything for a story.”

“Twist what, exactly? Why do they have something to twist in the first place?”

“They don’t have anything. It’s just the media looking for something to make people read. Speculation sells.”

“Right. Speculation. But funny how it’s always about you, always linked to another woman.”

“That’s because I’m under a microscope. People love to create scandals, especially with someone like me. And you know that better than anyone.”

“It’s not just them, Satoru. People talk, and it’s not just baseless gossip. I’m not naive. I hear things from people close to you, people who actually know you.”

“You really believe them? You think I’m out there, risking everything for some—” He stopped himself, biting his tongue.

“Do I? I don’t even know my own husband anymore. Maybe I should ask them. Or maybe I should ask you directly, Satoru. Are you seeing someone?”

“Why are we even doing this?”

“Because I want the truth. Just once. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

“Believe what you want, Hana. I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Then maybe that’s all I need to know.”

Gojou stormed out of his apartment, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to shake off his frustration. He'd had enough for one night. His heart was pounding and the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to get out, to drown the anger with something that could at least help him forget.

The bar he found was tucked away down a dim side street in Shibuya. It wasn't anything fancy–a dark cry from the glitzy nightlife he was used to–but it was dark and quiet which was exactly what he needed. He slid onto a bar stool and motioned for a drink, not bothering to pay attention to what the bartender poured.

He sipped his drink in silence, trying to tune out the night and all the noise in his head. The alcohol burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction that numbed his anger and frustration. He was almost on his third drink when he noticed someone sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over a notebook, tapping her pen against her cheek in thought.

She's cute, he thought to himself. He squinted trying to get a better look at the young woman, and he immediately recognized, it was you.

Of all the places he'd expect to see you, this shitty bar wasn't one of them. You looked so absorbed in your work, like you were piecing together something for a story. Satoru's curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up carrying his drink as he made his way over to where you were sitting.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the back of the chair across from you. “Didn’t peg you for a bar rat, but maybe I was wrong.”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Gojou Satoru. What a surprise.”

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already taking the seat.

“Didn’t think someone like you would end up in a place like this. Celebrating?”

He gave a dry laugh, swirling the glass in his hand. “Something like that.”

“So, what are you doing here, really? Figured you’d be at a fancy cafe, writing about some important news story.”

“Maybe I am. Research is research, even if it’s in a bar. Maybe it’s you I’m writing about.”

“So I’m your new project, huh?”

“Maybe. It’s part of this little journalism course I’m doing. We’re supposed to pick a public figure and write a profile. Someone who’s got a… colorful public image.”

“Colorful, huh?” He smirked. “Guess I’m your lucky target. Hope I make an interesting subject."

“Interesting is one word for it,” you replied, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “What’s got you so quiet tonight? I thought you’d be surrounded by fans somewhere.”

He shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. “Not in the mood for fans tonight.”

“Tough race?”

He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Not the race. Just… life, I guess.”

“So,” he said, leaning in. “tell me about this little journalism course. You planning to make a career out of stalking poor drivers like me?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. We’re learning how to ‘uncover the truth’—or at least, that’s what they say. So far, it’s been a lot of digging through archives and learning to ask the right questions.”

“Right questions, huh?” He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hear one. What would you ask me, if I were your ‘colorful public figure’?”

“Alright, Gojou. How does someone at the top of their game manage to keep it all together? All the races, the publicity, the pressure… don’t you ever feel like it’s too much?”

“Honestly?” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not as easy as it looks, being the guy everyone thinks has it all together. But people don’t care about that part. They just want the show.”

“So you put on the show.”

“Guess that’s what it comes down to.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “People don’t want to see a guy crack under pressure. They want the image.”

“But what do you want?”

No one ever asked him that, as if what he wanted didn’t matter.

“What do I want?” he repeated, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he tried to dodge the question. “Maybe another drink.”

I’m serious. Behind all of that… what’s left?”

“Honestly? Sometimes I don’t even know anymore. It’s like I’ve been going so fast for so long, I can’t remember what it was I was chasing in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what you need to figure out, then.”

He looked at you, and the faintest trace of a genuine smile broke through. “Maybe.”

The two of you sat in silence, and he found himself grateful for it. You didn't press or pry at him and he thought that he could just be himself, even if it was just for a little while.

“Alright,” he said finally, nudging your notebook with his finger. “So, future journalist, you really gonna write all this down? Make me sound like some tortured artist?”

You smirked. “I’ll try to be kind. Maybe I’ll even leave out the part where you go to bars alone and pretend to be mysterious.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, holding up his drink in mock surrender. “Noted. But I expect a copy when it’s published. Autographed, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you replied, laughing as you clinked your glass against his. “But don’t expect it to be flattering.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the conversation continued, Gojou found himself leaning in closer. You both let the drinks keep coming, though it was less about how much alcohol you were consuming and more about the way the words spilled more easily between you two.

“So,” you asked, taking another sip of your drink, “what’s it actually like out there? Everyone sees the fame, the money, the cars, but… what’s it really like?”

He exhaled, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass. “Honestly? It’s… intense. There’s this high to it, this adrenaline. Nothing like it. You’re pushing yourself and everyone around you to the edge," he tilted his head. “But sometimes, it feels like the line between winning and crashing out isn’t as thick as people think. You cross it once, and that’s it—you’re done.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“A little. But I’m more afraid of what happens if I stop. It’s like… I don’t know what I’d be without it. Guess that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t. I get it. When something’s all you know… giving it up is like giving up a part of yourself. Scary as hell.”

“Exactly. Guess we all have our addictions, huh?”

Shit. Did he say too much?

You didn’t push, just gave him a quiet nod. “So, what’s Tokyo Jujutsu like? It's one of the toughest team on the grid, right?”

“You know it. They’re tough as hell, no room for error. And they sure as hell won’t give you a second chance if you mess up.”

“Sounds brutal."

“Yeah, maybe. I guess I like the challenge. Or maybe I just like proving people wrong.”

“Enough about me," he continued. What about you? What’s the deal with this journalism project? Are you trying to make a name for yourself by exposing all my secrets?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, my goal in life isn’t to ruin yours. I actually think it’s fascinating, learning what drives people, what keeps them going, even when things get messy.”

“Messy? What makes you think my life is messy?”

“Oh, please. Gojou Satoru’s life is one headline after another. You’re practically the poster boy for drama.”

He feigned a hurt expression, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’m just a guy trying to make a living, you know?”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just a guy who happens to have a dozen scandals and an equal number of speeding tickets.”

“Hey,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a professional, okay? That’s all part of the job.”

The two of you continued to chat into the night. Gojou found himself relaxing, caught up in the rare comfort of talking with someone who didn’t expect him to play a part. He could just… be.

At some point, the bartender announced last call, and Gojou glanced at you, smirking. “Guess that’s our cue.”

You stretched, gathering your notebook and tucking it under your arm. “Thanks for the, uh, ‘research material.’ It was… enlightening.”

He laughed, standing and grabbing his coat. “Anytime. But don’t go making me look like a complete asshole in your little project, alright?”

“No promises."

Outside, the air was crisp as he faint hum of city traffic the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slid his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

Outside, the air was crisp as the faint him of the city being the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slide his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again."

“Only if you’re brave enough to handle more questions.”

“Oh, I’m plenty brave. But we’ll see if you’re as good at digging as you think.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you turned to leave, throwing him a casual wave. “Goodnight, Mr. Gojou.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching as you disappeared down the empty street.

In that moment he realized, he never did catch your name.

© satorulovebot 2024 please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[allisonrw96]

Saw 8x17 and my hand slipped. Obviously there are spoilers here for Don't Drink the Water. Once I sleep and reread it, I'll decide if it should go on AO3 or not and add a link if needed.

Refined and posted to AO3! You can read the rough version below or click the title link to see it as it should be.

Heartbreak Like an Earthquake

The four of them play cards together after the dishes are done. It's a game that Buck only half knows how to play and the other three rib him about it before they play a face up hand so he can learn the rules and how to win. He doesn't win. But he knows how now. For next time.

He never bought a bed for Christopher's room because taking ownership of that part of the house felt different than taking ownership of the rest of it, but he still has the air mattress he hauled from house to house and the duct tape patch he put on the side seems like it's holding strong. Christopher puts himself to bed, reminding Eddie and Buck that he knows where it is still, but he doesn't snark at Eddie when he finds him waiting in the hallway to give him a hug after he brushes his teeth and he goes unprompted to the living room to give Buck one last hug too.

After that it's just Buck and Eddie, sitting at opposite ends of the couch that squeaks under their weight and that they slide on every time they try to lean back.

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?" Buck asks, handing Eddie the mug that Eddie doesn't need to know he stole on Eddie's moving day.

Eddie sips the tea to test it and exhales a too hot breath before answering, "Not really."

"Good," Buck replies.

They share a sidelong glance and then they both laugh, fussing with the strings of their tea bags and trying to get comfortable.

It feels like that's all Buck's been doing for a month now. Trying to get comfortable. Or at least, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt, doesn't take his breath away, doesn't make him want to sit down and never get up again. He doesn't quite manage it now either, but he feels... He's not hiding it. His grief is a beanbag chair that he's nestled into with no intention of getting up any time soon and there's relief in the surrender.

"I'm sorry that I didn't call you that night," Buck says to his mug but not missing the way that Eddie stiffens beside him. "And I'm sorry that I didn't call you any of the days after. Or answer when you did."

"You texted. I know you were busy."

Giving interviews to government officials. Endless interviews and statements that ranged from accusatory to perfunctory and that Buck can't remember at all now. He thinks he cried in at least one. He knows he cried with Hen at her hospital bed and with Maddie outside Chimney's. He knows that Ravi came over with a pizza and that Buck threw it all up later and the days passed, the days passed, the days passed. And then someone told him it was time to get back to work.

"I didn't- I couldn't say it. And I couldn't talk about anything else either. Those first couple days. I couldn't say anything. But I should have tried."

When Eddie answers, his voice is tight. "I should have been there. On the call, at the hospital, here with- I should have been here."

"Why weren't you?"

All their texts. One drunken voicemail that was just Buck's name and then a ragged, wet breath before the call ended. For weeks, Buck expected the next message to include flight details. None of them did. After Athena announced the date, Buck researched the flights himself, sending the cheapest and the fastest options to Eddie, half angry and half afraid that if he didn't do it, Eddie might not.

"I was going to be here for the funeral. Christopher agreed to stay with my parents and they agreed to take him and I packed a bag and waited for the call. As soon as I knew which days everything was happening I was going to head to the airport.

"And I kept waiting. Radio silence from you. Radio silence from Chimney and Ravi. I started thinking you were gonna have the funeral without me. Started thinking I deserved it. It was my fault I wasn't there anyway. By the time I starting getting pissed enough to realize I didn't need an invitation to get on the plane, you sent me the flights."

"You're here now."

For now. Buck thinks but stops himself from saying. It would be mean for the sake of seeing Eddie flinch and once he reaches past all the parts of himself that do mean it, he can get to the core that doesn't. It was never Eddie's fault that he had to leave. And he has every reason to already be gone now. But Buck sent him a list of one way flights and Eddie booked one and he stayed. He still hasn't booked another even though he has his offer and he knows what day he's expected to report. It's a hope that he's so angry to feel because it's going to hurt so much worse when it gets ripped away, but it's one that Buck can't help but cling to.

"For all the good it's done," Eddie says, sipping his tea like he wishes it was something stronger.

"Hey. You being here is doing us good. It's doing me good."

"Getting screamed at by a raging asshole in your own kitchen over who's the most sad is part of your grieving process?"

"No." Turning to face Eddie, Buck takes in the shadow cast over his body, the way the bitterness of his last words is still lingering in his expression. He looks and he remembers other shadows that he had to help Eddie fight back and he waits for Eddie to look over at him. It takes a while.

Slowly, Buck says, "'Getting to be there for my best friend when he finally tells me how he's really feeling after having to watching him walk around for weeks like he didn't just have his heart ripped out' is what's part of the process. I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"I don't remember getting to that part."

"Well I had to get through the "Wanting to punch you in the face for spitting in mine" part out of the way first. I was going to try the talking part again this morning, but..."

Eddie winces and Buck finds he doesn't feel as guilty about that as he would have thought.

"But the asshole had to get one more shot in. Buck, I'm-"

"I know you are," Buck says. He doesn't know where Eddie got the money for another plane ticket and he doesn't know how he knew how badly Buck needed to feel something other than the feeling of bobbing in an open ocean beside a sinking ship, trying desperately to reach people who keep floating further and further away. But he supposes that Eddie's always been his anchor and maybe he shouldn't be surprised at all. "I forgive you."

In the dark, Buck can't see Eddie's jaw twitch like he wants to refuse the forgiveness like he usually does, but he knows it's there by the sound of the strong exhale that takes the place of whatever he wants to say and the way he looks back down at the tea.

"Did I really spit on you?" he asks, looking back at Buck with his eyebrows knitted together.

A laugh pops from Buck's mouth like double bubble bursting and he says, "Uh, you shouted like six inches from my face so yeah. I was in the splash zone. I kind of regret encouraging you to drink more water."

"Jesus," Eddie says, rubbing his hand over his face.

Still laughing, Buck plucks his teabag out of his mug and Eddie slides over a coaster to catch it, leaving his own to steep just a little bit longer. It's not everything that there is to say, but Buck can feel a part of himself snapping back into place. They're going to be okay. They're always going to be okay.

A memory bubbles up, one that he's surprised to even remember. He and Eddie had gotten into it on a shift one day. Buck can't even remember what the problem was but he knows he prayed they would catch a fire just so he could turn the hose on Eddie and blow him down the block. It had made Ravi nervous--he was still so green back then--enough that he worked up the courage to ask Bobby if he was going to do anything about it.

"If it interferes with the job, I'll separate them," Bobby promised. "But I won't have to. They'll be back in each other's pockets before we leave tomorrow morning."

"Before dinner," Hen had countered, holding up a ten for Bobby to call or raise, and Buck had been so furious that the stairs rattled under his feet as he stormed off. This wasn't like that. This was serious.

And he still thought maybe it had been. He and Eddie still went out to breakfast the next morning anyway, unspoken apologies passing between them like the keys between their hands as they walked out the door.

It's not a bad memory, but it hurts all the same. Bobby knew all of them so well. Sometimes it seemed like he knew everything. But he can't have seen this coming. He can't have known what his death would do to all of them or he never would have trusted Buck to-

He draws in a shaky breath that gets Eddie's concerned attention immediately. He sets his cup down before he shifts closer to Buck, making sure both of his hands are free when he asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Buck answers, the same way he's been answering for weeks. But this time Eddie doesn't look away from him and Buck lets the second half of the sentence finally escape. "I'm just thinking about Bobby. I can't seem to stop."

"You don't have to stop. I think about him too."

In his eyes, Buck can see the part that Eddie isn't saying. He thinks about him the same way that Buck just did, the same way they all do, but he also thinks about what he would have done if he was there. What he might have said. What Bobby would have said. Worrying and worrying and worrying over the void that will always exist in place of a goodbye. Now that Buck knows, a little, what Eddie's gone through, he can't imagine how he's bearing up under it.

If Buck was the one with an empty place where a memory should be, he thinks it might kill him. They'd given him oxygen that night. A sedative. But having to hear it later, he thinks... Yeah. He might not have made it. It might be worse than the burden he's carrying now: a promise that's too heavy for his shoulders and one that he's closer and closer to dropping every day.

"He told me-" Buck starts and then stops. Is he making this moment about him? Should he be asking Eddie more questions instead? But he is who he is and Buck can feel the words slipping out of his mouth without any hope of stopping them. "I wasn't being a martyr by picking up paper towels and eggs," he says with more of an edge to the words than he intends.

"Buck-" Eddie sighs. "I know you weren't."

"I forgot," he shrugs. "I forgot you said you'd pick up the groceries and so I went and did it because that's what I always do when I have a Thursday off and because if I don't have something to do every second of every day I think I might go out of my mind. I stand in the middle of a room and I don't know how to move or where to go if I did. And I don't want to have to figure out what to do. I don't want to do anything at all. I want to lay down on the floor and stay there and I can't.

"So I did your laundry. And I could tell you were mad about it, but I swear I didn't give a shit about your socks on the table and I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty for making me clean up after you; I just had to do something or I..."

"Hey. Hey. Look at me." Buck hadn't realized he'd stopped, but when he raises his gaze he finds Eddie's warm brown eyes and more worry than he knows what to do with. "I never should have said that. I was mad and I-"

"I know. It's okay."

"No, it's not." Eddie lets out another sharp breath and moves closer still until their knees are touching and his hand slides off the back of the couch and onto Buck's shoulder.

"We've been worried about you. All of us. You think you're hiding how you're feeling but you are shit at it. Everyone can see that you are two steps away from exploding only you won't talk about it. You're too busy making the rest of us talk, giving out grief assessments like you're the department trauma counselor and we're not making it through the stages of grieving fast enough for you.

"So we've all been tiptoeing around you because no one wants to be the one to set you off and, yeah, I got pissed. Because you were the first person I wanted to tell about the gig in El Paso." Eddie gestures between the two of them with his free hand and Buck's face flushes hot with shame. "You and me, we're supposed to be able to talk about things, but since Bobby died, we haven't talked about anything. I know what it's like to be the one stuck in the middle of that room and I know you'd never leave me there alone. So why are you locking us out and pretending that's what we're doing to you?"

He's close again, breathing heavy again, one hand hot on Buck's shoulder and other finger burning where it taps against his chest with the last words of Eddie's sentence. This time instead of the urge to hit back, Buck only wants to crumple.

"I was there with him. When he died. Did someone tell you that?" Eddie nods and Buck says, "He made me leave. But before he did he told me- He said that I would be okay. And he said that the team would need me."

Tears prick at his eyes again and Eddie's grip gets tighter and before he can say something, Buck plows ahead and says, "But he was wrong. I don't know if he- he thought I was stronger or smarter than I am or if he was just lying so I'd have a reason to..." His throat catches and Buck ducks his head to cough, clearing the river of snot that will be unleashed as soon as he actually starts crying.

"I've been trying to be there for everyone, trying to make sure everyone is okay, but no one is and I don't know how to fix it. There was an earthquake and I thought Bobby would give me an answer but he's still just gone and I'm trying to hold everyone together, but they keep moving away or pushing me away and if I-I-I can't-" his voices hitches and Buck's shoulders shake with stuttered breath- "It's the only thing he asked me to do, but he didn't tell me how and I'm letting him down. I'm letting everyone-"

"No, you're not. You're not."

Buck's head his still bowed to his chest when Eddie takes the mug from his hand and then drags him into the fiercest hug he's ever received. It's too tight to be comforting and the angle is wrong and their chins and elbows and hands are all too rough and too sharp. The hug hurts and Buck twists his fingers in Eddie's shirt to keep him from pulling away.

"You're not letting anyone down," he says to the side of Buck's head. "Not Bobby, not any one of us. We all need you. Okay? Christopher needs you. I need you. I'm always going to need you."

Eddie's hands are fists at Buck's back and his knuckles slide over Buck's shoulders, a steady, soothing, grounding pressure that keeps Buck from drifting away as he lets himself cry for the first time since the funeral.

The whole time, he's aware of a gentle murmuring nearby. It never evolves into more reassurances or even any words at all, but the sound is one of safety. It's the kind of noise you'd make at an infant--the kind Buck sang to Jee-Yun when she was too small for words and the world beyond her parents was nothing more than a wide, often-terrifying confusion. Eddie hums like that to him now, rocking him back and forth, and Buck feels the comfort in the part of him that's still too small and terrified for words.

Once he makes it back to himself, Buck sniffs without pulling away and says, "I'm sorry."

"I know. It's okay."

"No, I was supposed to be there for you and I wasn't. I quizzed you, Eddie. Who does that?"

Laughter rumbles against his cheek and Buck sits up again, surprised to find Eddie's eyes wet and ringed with red.

"Did you ever think that maybe when Cap said we were going to need you that he meant the real you? Not superhero you, not expert you, not captain you, but just you?"

Buck doesn't answer. He doesn't think Eddie needs him to.

"You know when I saw your Jeep at the airport I think it was the first time in weeks I felt like I could actually breathe?"

Eddie's smile when he'd seen him had the same effect on Buck. A relief so sweet that it almost ached. When he'd gotten out of the car to help Eddie with the bags he definitely did not need help with, Eddie had pulled him into a hug and Buck had finally felt something other than numb. It was where he'd found the strength to start being the Buck he thought Bobby would want.

"And then after the funeral I saw you slip Athena a bottle of water. Heard you ask Ravi to keep any eye on Tommy. Watched you take the kids outside to give them a break from everything."

"None of that was a big deal," Buck says, squirming. "I was just-"

"Being you?" Eddie replies raising his eyebrows in that softly challenging way that wins Buck to his side every time. "I know. And I bet that's what Bobby was counting on."

Eddie holds Buck's gaze for a beat longer before pulling them slightly apart and reaching for Buck's mug on the table. Buck accepts it, but doesn't drink, curling his hand around the still warm cup and thinking that he never told anyone about the worst parts of his coma. There was a moment then where he thought Bobby's death might kill him too, but it hadn't. And it had been Bobby, even the Bobby who was a hurt, broken stranger, who had helped Buck look inside himself and find what he needed to live.

"Is that enough?"

Buck still isn't sure. But he figures he owes it to Bobby to keep trying until he is.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah, Buck."

"Bobby asked about you all the time. He kept calling Ravi "Eddie" for like the first month that you were gone. It was an accident at first, but after that I think he just wanted to rile Ravi up. He wanted me to convince you those caffeine drinks were going to kill you. He sent me articles." As he speaks, Buck watches Eddie go still, then watches grief fill his eyes even as he manages a wet laugh at Bobby's hatred of energy drinks.

"He tried to tell me it counted as driving under the influence."

"Yeah, I think that was one of the articles," Buck laughs. Licking his lips before speaking again, he says, "He loved you, Eddie. And he was so proud of you. Not- not just for going to get Christopher, but for everything. And I think. If you had been there. He would have wished you weren't. He would have wanted you to be safe. He would have wanted you to keep living.

"There wasn't anything you could have done."

Sitting back, Eddie sniffs back his emotion and wipes harshly at his eyes before turning to Buck and saying, "I know."

"I know you weren't there and I can't imagine what it would be like not knowing, but I promise-"

"I do know," Eddie croaks, his eyes wide and heartbroken and as honest as Buck has seen them since he's been home. "If there was anything that anyone could do, you guys would have done it. And so would he."

This time when they embrace, they fall into it together. Eddie's arms are tight around Buck and Buck's face is buried in the crook of Eddie's neck. Feeling Eddie exhale and his body soften and relax under Buck's touch, Buck feels something in himself unwinding too. And there, just for a moment, it feels like Bobby is in the room with him, looking in from the doorway, and smiling.

[onlyangel4]

change my view. aa23. smau.

sunshine!alex albon x grumpy!reader

synopsis: you’ve built your world around one small, sleepy-eyed human who calls you “mama.” after her father walked out without a second thought, you promised yourself no more mess, no more chaos, and absolutely no more men who think affection is temporary. now you're a sharp-tongued f1 reporter, known in the paddock for your cold takes, unimpressed looks, and strict professionalism. you keep your head down, your heart locked up, and your daughter your only priority. enter alex albon. golden-retriever energy in human form. constantly smiling, endlessly patient, and annoyingly persistent. he’s determined to make you laugh, learn your coffee order, and prove that not every man walks away. but you're not looking for fairy tales. so you roll your eyes, cross your arms, and remind him (daily) that charm isn’t currency here. still, there’s something in the way he talks to your daughter like she’s the whole world. something in the way he treats you like you’re not broken, just guarded. and maybe love doesn’t have to hurt this time.

faceclaim: riley keough

f1updates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 129,938 others

f1updates: analysts, commentators and reporters have arrived in australia ahead of the first race of the season. it all feels real now, racing is so back

view all 6,393 comments

user1: y/n has chloe maybe that means she will be happier

user2: alex is still on the grid so i doubt that

user3: can't wait for y/n alex content, my fav enemies

user4: despite alex not knowing that they are enemies

user5: this season is so unpredictable i can't wait

y/ninsta posted a story

written: first press day of the season.

f1fan posted a story

written: i just met alex and asked him where he is heading and his answer was, "i'm looking for y/n i need chloe time". that poor woman is going to break something

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you spotted him before he spotted you. well, he was trying to spot you. that much was clear from the way he kept turning in half-circles near the williams motorhome, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun like he’d just stepped into a movie montage and hadn’t realized he was the main character.

"reporter on the run", you muttered to yourself, adjusting the strap of your crossbody bag and trying to duck behind a merch stand.

too slow.

"y/n!"

you winced. there was only one person who could say your name like a question, an exclamation, and a plea all in one breath.

you turned, slowly.

alex stood there, grinning like the sun had personally complimented him this morning. he was holding a small paper cup two, actually. one was undoubtedly for you.

you crossed your arms. "are you stalking me?"

he gasped dramatically, the exact way chloe did when you told her she couldn’t have ice cream before lunch.

"i prefer strategically appearing."

you blinked. "at my exact coffee break?"

alex smiled and held out the second cup. "i figured you'd try to escape around now. routine reporter life and all. besides"

you took the coffee. of course it was the right order. damn him.

"besides?", you asked flatly.

he scratched the back of his neck, looking suddenly shy. "i was hoping to see chloe. If that’s okay. i brought stickers."

you stared at him.

"stickers?"

"frozen-themed. don't ask how i know the characters' names now, it's already too late for me."

your lip twitched before you could stop it.

alex saw it. of course he did. His entire face lit up like he'd won a qualifying lap. "was that almost a smile? i think it was. i think i'm making progress."

you rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. "she’s with my mum right now. i’m interviewing pierre in twenty."

alex didn’t flinch. "cool. i’ll wait."

"you’ll wait…?"

"for you. for chloe", he added quickly, eyes wide with innocence. "mostly chloe."

you looked at him for a long moment. he didn’t fidget under your gaze. he just sipped his drink and looked back at you, patient and bright and utterly infuriating.

"she’s two, albon. she’ll forget about you in, like, a week."

he shrugged. "i'll keep showing up anyway. you know she asks about me now?"

your chest squeezed. unwelcome, warm, dangerous.

"she says, ‘lex go zoo today?’ i don’t even know where the zoo thing came from, but i'm prepared to commit to it."

you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "you’re so annoyingly good at this."

"good at what?"

"getting under my skin but being good for chloe"

alex just smiled, quiet this time. not smug. not pushy.

"i'm not trying to be pushy. i just know you have walls up he said softly. "i’m just hoping you’ll open a door eventually."

you hated how that stuck with you the rest of the day. even more, you hated how you were starting to check your phone, not just for emails, but for photos your mum might’ve sent of chloe with her sparkly new frozen stickers.

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it was too early for this much noise. too early for the heat rising off the tarmac, the buzz of engines, the snap of camera shutters every time someone half-famous stepped into frame.

chloe tugged at your hand as you walked, her tiny steps out of rhythm with yours, her attention darting between every flash of color and sound. you held her backpack in one hand and her in the other, two-year-olds had the energy of a rock concert and the unpredictability of live television.

she was already pointing.

"look, mama! big tire!"

"yep, very big," you said, adjusting her bucket hat. "don't touch it."

"touch tire?"

"no."

"maybe touch-"

"no, chloe."

a dramatic sigh. she got that from you.

you were halfway between the alpine and williams garages when it happened. one second chloe was beside you, the next she was launching forward with a tiny, high-pitched shriek.

"LEX!!!"

you didn’t even have time to react. she was gone, barreling forward like a determined little meteorite in glittery sneakers.

your heart jumped into your throat. "chloe!"

but she already had her target.

alex turned just in time to catch her, literally, scooping her up into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. her tiny hands were gripping his cheeks like she hadn’t seen him in a year. he looked startled for half a second, then he smiled, bright and wide and full of something dangerously soft.

"there she is!" he laughed, spinning her once. "you’re fast today!"

"you said zoo!"

"i did say zoo. i also said hi to elsa on your behalf. she says hi back."

chloe giggled, head thrown back, curls bouncing under her hat.

you finally caught up, a little breathless and a lot annoyed. "chloe, we do not run off like that."

alex turned, still holding her on his hip. "sorry. she ambushed me."

"she escaped", you muttered, hands on your hips. "i should leash her."

chloe looked completely unbothered, patting alex’s cheeks like she owned him now.

"she missed you", you said before you could stop yourself. then, quieter: "clearly."

alex’s expression softened as he looked at you over her shoulder. "i missed her too."

there was a beat of silence. not awkward. just heavy.

you looked away first.

"she’s not usually like this with people."

"really?"

you nodded. "she’s shy. reserved."

alex glanced back at the toddler currently babbling about monkeys and juice boxes. "doesn’t seem like it."

"she’s selective."

he looked at you again.

"then i guess i should feel lucky", he said, voice gentle.

your chest twisted. not in a bad way. just in the way that made you feel like you were leaning over the edge of something you hadn’t meant to climb in the first place.

"she chose you."

alex didn’t say anything for a moment. he just kissed chloe’s temple, held her a little closer.

and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running.

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paddockupdates posted a story

alex smiling like an idiot because chloe, y/n y/ln's daughter, ran up to him

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y/ninsta posted a story

written: the japanese gp without my little shadow

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the paddock felt different without chloe. quieter. less chaotic. less sparkly.

you should’ve been grateful. no spilled juice, no chasing toddler limbs between photographers’ knees, no judgmental glances when she had a meltdown near the mclaren garage. but you weren’t grateful. you just felt off.

you were finishing notes from a pre-qualifying interview when you felt someone slide into the seat across from you. you didn’t have to look up.

"you’re brooding", alex said.

"i’m working."

"tomato, tomahto."

you glanced up from your tablet. "shouldn’t you be in briefing?"

he shrugged. "had ten minutes. heard there was a journalist in the media centre scaring everyone with her death stare"

you snorted despite yourself. "it’s not a death stare. it’s just my face."

"exactly."

you rolled your eyes and focused back on your screen. but you could feel him watching you, quietly, without pressure, just there.

after a moment, he said softly, "where’s chloe?"

"with my mum. i didn’t want to bring her this weekend. flights are a mess, and she’s been fussy. she misses her routines."

alex nodded, something unreadable passing over his face. "i miss her"

you blinked, caught off guard by the honesty of it.

"she loves you", you said, more quietly than intended.

he smiled. "i love her too."

your chest ached. stupid, warm ache. it made your throat tight.

after a beat, he tilted his head at you. "you’re different when she’s not here."

"how?"

"sadder. sharper. like you’ve got armour on again."

you didn’t answer. not right away.

he leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. "i’ve always wondered. why the cold front? why the black cat vibes? i mean, you’re quick, you’re sharp, but there’s always this wall."

you stared at him.

and maybe it was the jet lag. maybe it was the quiet. maybe it was the fact that chloe wasn’t clinging to your leg, and you were tired of pretending you didn’t feel things around him.

so you said it.

"you don’t get to be soft when you’re left behind."

alex didn’t speak, but his expression shifted, gone was the teasing edge, replaced with something heavy. careful.

"he left before she turned one", you continued. "didn’t want the responsibility. said he wasn’t ready to be a dad. just left. blocked me. no warning. one day we were shopping for baby shoes and the next day I was googling custody laws."

alex’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to speak, but didn’t.

"i was so in love with him. i thought it would be enough to make him stay."

there was a pause. and then: "it wasn’t your job to make him stay."

you looked down at your hands.

"i know that now. but back then, i kept thinking, what’s wrong with me? why am i not enough for someone to choose?”

alex’s chair scraped softly as he stood. he walked around the table, slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him. you didn’t.

he crouched beside you, one hand resting gently on your knee.

"you are enough", he said, eyes on yours. "you are so much more than enough. and anyone who can’t see that, didn’t deserve you in the first place."

you stared at him, swallowing hard.

"and i know you're not asking for anything right now", he added, voice gentler, “but i just need you to know, i'm not him. i’m not going anywhere. not from you, and definitely not from chloe."

you blinked fast. too fast.

"i hate crying in paddocks", you muttered.

he smiled. "then don’t cry. just let yourself breathe."

you didn’t answer, but for the first time in a long time, you did.

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alexalbon posted a story

written: missed this

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alex had always liked monaco. the glamour didn’t impress him much, but the energy, the tight corners, the danger, the way the city felt like it was leaning in to watch. it made him feel alive.

but this morning, he wasn’t thinking about lap times or tire strategy.

he was thinking about the tiny human currently sitting on the floor of the hospitality suite, cross-legged, methodically peeling the backing off a dinosaur sticker like it held the secrets of the universe.

chloe.

"need help?" he asked, crouching down beside her.

"no", she said, serious. "i do it."

of course.

he watched as she stuck the brontosaurus to the back of his sneaker. "perfect placement", he whispered.

she beamed, clearly proud of her work, before plopping back down and grabbing another.

"is mummy busy?", he asked gently.

chloe nodded. "she say ‘no run off today,’ so i ‘tay here."

he smiled. "good listening."

"i a big girl."

"you really are."

they were quiet for a moment. then, out of nowhere, chloe spoke, soft, almost like she was testing if it was okay to say it.

"lex?"

"yeah, bug?"

"where’s your daddy?"

alex blinked. not what he was expecting.

"he lives in thailand", he said after a pause. "i don’t see him a lot, but i love him."

chloe nodded slowly, like she was filing that away in her little mental cabinet.

"my daddy don’t live with me", she said next, voice even smaller. "he didn’t want me and mummy. but it okay. mummy says we happy now."

alex’s chest went tight. not in a bad way, just in that full, aching way love sometimes feels.

"i’m really sorry he made you and your mum feel that way", he said softly. "but your mummy’s right. you are happy now."

chloe looked up at him. "she’s happy ‘cause of you."

he froze. "what?"

"mummy smiles when you there. she don’t do that for people. she says you got silly hair and talk too much, but i think she likes you."

alex let out a breath of a laugh, completely undone. "she says that, huh?"

chloe nodded, poking another sticker onto his knee. "she pretends she grumpy. but she not. she scared."

that hit harder than anything else. alex looked at her, at this tiny, intuitive little girl with wide eyes and a gummy grin, and wondered how she could read people better than most adults.

"she told you that?"

"nope. but i know. i smart." she leaned in, cupping her hand to his ear like a secret: "she likes you more than coffee."

alex clutched his heart, mock-staggering. "that’s the highest honor, you know."

chloe giggled. "you gonna marry her?"

he choked on air. "whoa, what—"

"you gots to ask me first", she said, suddenly very serious. "i’m the boss of her."

alex gave her a look of solemn respect. "noted, boss."

she nodded, satisfied, and went back to her sticker collection like she hadn’t just flipped his entire emotional world upside down.

alex sat there for a moment, watching her. then he glanced toward the paddock entrance.

and sure enough, you were there. Walking toward them, brows furrowed, eyes already searching for your daughter. until they landed on him.

and just like that, chloe was right.

You smiled.

not the polite one. not the press one. the real one. the one that reached your eyes.

alex felt it like sunlight through glass.

yeah. he was in deep.

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it was too quiet.

you were sitting on the little hotel balcony in montreal, legs curled under you, cup of now-cold tea in hand. chloe was asleep in the travel cot inside, snoring softly, tangled in her tiny bunny blanket. for once, your phone was face down.

and yet your mind wouldn’t shut up.

the problem with letting someone in, even a little is that you notice the silence when they’re not around. you notice how much brighter everything had been the past few weeks. how much lighter you felt when someone else helped carry the weight.

and now?

you missed him.

you missed alex.

a quiet knock pulled you out of your spiral.

you turned, heartbeat quickening, already knowing. only one person knocked like that, gentle, unsure, like he never assumed he was welcome, but always hoped.

you opened the door slowly.

he was standing there in a hoodie, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small cup of strawberry yogurt.

"she told me it was her favourite", he said softly.

your chest squeezed. "she’s asleep."

"i figured." a pause. "can i still come in?"

you nodded.

he stepped inside, careful not to make noise, and placed the yogurt in the mini fridge before turning back to you.

"i heard what chloe said in monaco" you said quietly.

his smile was crooked. "the marriage proposal, or the part where she declared herself boss of your heart?"

you tried to smirk, but it faltered halfway. "the part where she said i'm scared."

he didn’t tease then. he just nodded, like he knew this moment wasn’t meant for jokes.

"were you mad?"

"no" you said. "she was right."

you crossed your arms over your chest, more out of habit than need. the armour never fully came off, even around him. but it had cracks now. deep ones.

"you scare me, alex."

he blinked, confused.

"not because of who you are. but because of how you make me feel." you looked away. "you’ve been kind. constant. patient. you didn’t run. you didn’t flinch when you saw all the mess i come with. you stayed."

his voice was soft. "that’s what people do when they care."

you looked back at him, eyes stinging.

"i think i stopped believing people could care like that."

alex stepped closer, like he was afraid too sudden a move would make you retreat. "i'm not asking you to promise me forever right now. I’m just asking you to let me be part of your now."

you exhaled shakily.

"i’m tired, alex."

"i know."

"i don’t want to be scared anymore."

he reached out, slow, careful and touched your hand.

"you don’t have to be."

there was a long silence. then you took a step forward and leaned into him, letting your head rest against his chest. he held you gently, arms wrapping around your shoulders, like you were something breakable but not broken.

"this is the part where you stay" you murmured.

he kissed your hair.

"i’m not going anywhere."

and just like that, something shifted. it wasn’t fireworks or grand declarations. it was quieter than that. steadier.

it was the start of something real.

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y/ninsta

liked by alexalbon, lando, oscarpiastri and 433,911 others

tagged: alexalbon

y/ninsta: start this season just the two of us, ended this season just the three of us

view all 9,292 comments

alexalbon: my girls

y/ninsta: thank you for breaking down my walls

lando: when can i visit i miss chloe

y/ninsta: you can come over if you promise to stop teaching her curse words

user6: i am so obsessed with this couple

user7: alex finally got y/n to fall in love with him

[bonbonly]

bon's thoughts (18+)

charles' second mistake was breaking up with his girlfriend. out of a due sense of morality, he wanted to tell his girlfriend the whole truth. he was cheating on her with someone that worked on sky sports tv. the initial shock subsided into screaming that he deserved very much. he stood there with a clenched jaw, hands behind his back as he waited for her to calm down. yet, the entire time his thoughts were occupied with the woman who caused the mess he was in.

charles' first mistake was meeting you. the charismatic, enchanting woman whose laugh flooded the paddock and brought a tinge of crimson on his cheeks when he did an interview or walked by. his eyes only trained on your movements, the way you'd tilt your head back and bring a hand to cover your mouth as you burst into giggles at a comment your coworker whispered into your ear. the way you'd push past charles, bringing a hand to his chest before stalking over to carlos with a wide grin and pulling the spaniard into a hug. charles was lucky enough a couple times to see carlos and you sneaking out the garage and into his drivers' room for a quick fuck, your lips swallowing his as he hurriedly pressed your back against the door. you'd disappear from sight, but charles still remembered your noises, the sound of honey dripping right into his ears.

curiosity did kill the cat, however. a lesson he learned the very hard way because as he hovered on top of you, your legs wrapped around his waist with his thick cock stretching out your pretty little cunt, all he could think about was how carlos would be leaving at the end of the season. how you'd follow him to the wililams' garage and he would no longer have any excuse to linger besides you whenever the opportunity came. he wouldn't hear your giggles, wouldn't hear your eloquent words with the microphone leaning towards him during those small interviews. he wouldn't hear your soft gasps when he first pressed you up against the wall in his room, cupping your face as he pulled you into a tight kiss, not wanting to waste his breathe on anyone else other than you. wouldn't hear your whines when he'd tap the tip of his cock against your puffy clit, watching you squirm and beg for him to fill you up and he'd merely tut his tongue and chuckle at how desperate you were for him. and he certainly wouldn't hear the words "i love you" falling from your lips when you'd shatter in his arms.

because you never did say those words to him. that was only reserved for carlos, and he knew he shouldn't feel this way, but all he ever wanted since the day he laid eyes on you was to make you his. to make you understand that carlos didn't deserve you. and the one time he accidentally let the words slip when he shot ropes of his cum inside you, he remembered the way you stilled immediately. your brows furrowing as you instantly sat up and pushed him away.

it took him weeks to get you to talk to him again, he was so desperate for any morsel of attention from you. he'd follow you and carlos around the paddock, hoping that you'd at least glance at his way just for a second. it wasn't until he was on his knees, crying and pleading for forgiveness and that he wouldn't say dumb stuff like that anymore did you let him in. he remembered the way you rolled your eyes and sat on the edge of the bed with an indifferent expression as he crawled over to you and rested his head on your lap. your scent, your warmth, your touch as your hands glided through his hair. he shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around your legs, whispering apologies again and again until his voice was hoarse and dry.

"hey," you snap him out of his trance, your hand shooting out to grab him by the jaw and tilt him to face you, "focus on me, yeah? we only get a few more weeks of this. make use of it."

charles' heart clenches at the reminder of his time with you, and he nods his head. he leans forward to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hips snapping against yours at a faster pace. your wanton moans flood his ears as he shuts his eyes and pretends that things can change, that you'll be waiting for him when he opens his apartment door with a grin on your lips and some dog treats for leo. that you'll be there to remind him that he overcooked his pasta, the both of you giggling in the kitchen.

and when you lay on top of him, completely spent and stuffed with his cum, all he can do is press a kiss to your head with tears in his eyes, wishing that every weekend you'd be rooting for him and not the teammate that would be taking everything away from him once he left. he sighs, tracing circles on your back and whispering small praises into your ear.

but as the seconds tick by on the clock, it's almost insufferable how you'll never say what he wants to hear, yet he'll always come back to you.

[cherryxbooo]

You’re my ideal type

Summary: A video from a year ago of Oscar talking about his ideal type went viral, making his fans wonder why he chose his girlfriend. This leaves y/n with a lot of questions herself.

Note: First time writing for Oscar! I kinda went with the flow. Let me know what you think! 😌

Reader x Oscar Piastri

Genre: fluff/angst

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Monaco. I was out with two of my friends, enjoying brunch together and soaking up the good vibes.

We spent hours talking, laughing, and joking around, overall it was a fantastic time.

Afterward, we decided to go for a stroll. That’s when we stumbled upon a gorgeous spot with an incredible view. For girls, that can only mean one thing: a photo session. And, of course, we took full advantage.

We snapped countless pictures of each other—exactly what I needed. I’d been wanting to update my Instagram feed, and I knew Oscar would appreciate a few of these too. A win-win situation if you ask me.

Hours later, we decided to head home. Parting ways was bittersweet, but we all had things to do.

When I finally arrived at the place Oscar and I shared, I immediately went inside, feeling my social battery completely drained.

I glanced at the clock and sighed. There were still a few hours to go before Oscar would be home. Feeling a little bored, I decided to tackle some household chores to pass the time.

Eventually, I finished everything and switched to full-on "bed rotting" mode. As I scrolled mindlessly on my phone, I remembered the stunning photos we’d taken earlier.

Sitting up, I started going through them, carefully picking out the best ones to upload to Instagram.

yourusername posted on Instagram!

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yourusername Days like these ☀️💐

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oscarpiastri Prettiest girl ❤️ by author

alexandrasaintmleux Gorgeous ❣️

yourusername Says you 💋

f1_dailylvr81 She's so girly coded love it 💅

fashionistaformula I can't be the only one thinking about that one interview of Oscar?

paistryln481 You're not alone, every time I see her I keep thinking about it

foryoutt16 Wait what? I'm lost, what happened?

cocosainzyy55 @foryoutt16 An old interview of Oscar when he was still in F2 resurfaced and he was talking about his ideal type and the description he gave matches nothing to his current girlfriend. People are suddenly bringing this up again, wondering why he didn't choose his ideal type.

foryoutt16 Oh damn that's rough...

The comments and likes flooded in, as they always did. Sometimes, I forgot that I was dating an F1 driver. It came with its own kind of spotlight.

But as I scrolled through the comments under my post, a few things caught my attention.

One comment in particular stood out: something about an old interview of Oscar.

Confused and curious, I decided to look it up. Little did I know, I was about to regret it...

My stomach twisted into knots as I watched the video, realization sinking in. Oscar described his ideal woman, and her characteristics were unlike ones I possessed. I felt a wave of insecurities and doubts wash over me, each word a reminder of how I didn't fit the bill for his ideal partner.

My heart sank with every word he spoke, describing his ideal woman's qualities, and every one felt like another reminder of how far off the mark I was.

I couldn't help but wonder, "Why did he choose me?" His words stung, and I questioned whether he settled for less than his ideal because he didn't have better options.

On cue, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke, Oscar returned home and called out my name. His voice echoed through the hallway, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside me. I hesitated, a mix of fear and confusion gripping me, as I debated whether to face him with this newfound knowledge.

He entered the room with a warm smile, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. He greeted me with a gentle kiss on the forehead before starting to speak in sweet words.

"Hey babe, how was your day?" he asked, completely unaware of the recent discovery I made.

I forced a smile, trying to hide the turmoil inside as I replied, "It was fine," my voice trying to mask the disappointment and insecurity that bubbled up.

The words left my lips, sounding hollow compared to the usual warmth in my tone.

Oscar sensed the hint of falsity in my fake smile. His observant nature picked up on the subtle cues of my distress, and he recognized that something was off. Yet, instead of immediately asking about it, he chose to hold off, observing to see if I would bring it up.

Oscar wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. He kissed my temple gently, his touch providing a temporary sense of comfort.

He knew something was bothering me and chose not to press, offering a moment of respite instead. "Do you want takeout?" he asked, his voice filled with tenderness.

I replied softly, trying to match his tenderness, "Sounds good." Despite my conflicting emotions, I didn't want to dampen the mood by revealing my insecurities.

"Takeout sounds great," I said, attempting to sound cheerful.

Oscar reluctantly let go of me, reaching for the phone to place the takeout order. In his absence, I seized the opportunity to sneak a look in the mirror, as well as to search for pictures of Oscar's ideal type.

I scoured the internet, comparing every aspect of my appearance to the images of his ideal woman. The comparison fueled my insecurities, amplifying the feeling of not measuring up.

My tears threatened to spill as I stood there, comparing myself to Oscar's ideal, but before they could, I heard Oscar's voice calling out.

"Y/n baby, the food will be here in twenty minutes," he informed me. I swiftly wiped away the tears before responding, attempting to hide the vulnerability in my voice, "Okay, thanks for letting me know."

Splashing my face with water to compose myself, hoping to hide any traces of my tears and distress. With determination, I dried my face and returned to the room where Oscar was, trying to mask my vulnerability.

After the food came, we ate together. I was quiet, it was mainly Oscar talking which was odd because normally it was always me talking and he would listen. We were currently cuddled up together after eating

Despite our cozy cuddle on the couch, my mind was preoccupied with worries. Thoughts like "What if he leaves me?" and "What if I'm not good enough?" consumed me.

Oscar noticed my distraction and asked if I was alright, concern in his voice. I replied, "Just tired," and although he didn't fully believe it, he decided not to push further.

Oscar spoke up once more, his voice soft and reassuring. "Y/n?" he began, his eyes searching mine.

"You know I love you, right? If there's anything bothering you, you know you can tell me," he emphasized, his tone filled with patience and support.

I nodded, attempting to hide the depth of my worries and insecurities. "Yeah, I know. I love you too," I responded, trying to sound reassuring.

The words felt heavy, knowing the weight of my unspoken fears.

A few weeks had passed since that moment of insecurity, and I had been avoiding Oscar, even though we lived together. I had made excuses to skip every Grand Prix, claiming I was too busy with work.

Yet, here I was, facing the mirror on the morning of a home race, feeling utterly unprepared. The interview weighed heavily on my mind, and I wasn't in the right state to face it.

Standing in front of my reflection, I looked at myself, thoughts of my inadequacy resurfacing.

Oscar entered the room, his gaze settling on me. He positioned himself behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head.

His presence brought both comfort and nerves as I stood in front of the mirror, still grappling with my insecurities.

He spoke softly, his compliment genuine and sweet. "I didn't know it was possible to be this pretty. You look amazing love," he murmured, his voice filled with affection.

I stepped away from him, the compliment not offering the comfort it usually would. My actions were distant, as if I was subconsciously putting up a barrier.

"Thanks," I responded distantly, my tone devoid of the warmth that usually accompanied my words.

The fear of his departure and my sense of inadequacy still lingered in my heart, casting a shadow over the moment.

Oscar seemed puzzled by my distant behavior, his confusion evident. Seeing right through my attempt to avoid him, he asked gently,

"Baby, did I do something wrong? Why are you avoiding me?"

His voice was tinged with concern, his eyes filled with hurt at my distance.

I quickly responded, trying to change the subject. "No, you did nothing wrong. Uhm, shouldn't you leave for the race?"

Oscar looked at me, his gaze lingering on me before reluctantly letting it go.

"Wait, weren't you coming with me?" he questioned, his tone hinting at his confusion.

I responded with a slightly busted attitude, "Oh, uhm, I'm not done getting ready yet. I'll come later, though."

It was a lie, and Oscar seemed to sense that something was off.

Despite the passing time, he decided to focus on his own preparations while stealing a moment to kiss my forehead before leaving.

I took a moment to muster my courage, realizing that Oscar didn't deserve being pushed away because of my insecurities.

With a deep breath, I prepared myself to face the day and attend the race, pushing through the weight of my doubts.

As the hours flew by, I found myself standing in the garage, watching from afar, torn between my worries and the desire to support him.

After awhile I decided to go to the restroom since I still had some time before the race started.

As I was walking, I heard voices behind me, and my name being mentioned caught my attention.

I stopped to listen, not that I meant to eavesdrop, but hearing my name made it impossible not to.

From what I could tell, these girls were likely McLaren fangirls. Well duh after all, they were dressed in papaya colors.

Girl 1: "It's crazy that Oscar is still dating y/n. She doesn't even fit his ideal type."

Girl 2: "I know, right? Like, she's not even close."

Girl 3: "Yeah, he must be leading her on or something."

Girl 4: "Or maybe she's in it for the fame and money."

Girl 5: "Oh, definitely. There's no other reason she would be with him."

The girls' laughter echoed in my ears, each comment like a punch to my heart.

Girl 2: "Seriously, you'd think he could do better than her."

Girl 1: "Yeah, she's not even that attractive compared to the other girls he's dated before."

Girl 3: "I bet he'll realize soon that he could get someone way better."

Girl 4: "Well, if the fame and money aren't enough, then he's definitely settling."

I couldn't bear to listen any longer, my tears streaming as I fled to the restroom, seeking solace to hide my distress.

Time slipped away as I stayed there, isolated, wrestling with my tormenting thoughts and self-doubts.

Meanwhile, the McLaren garage buzzed with pre-race energy, but Oscar couldn’t focus. His eyes darted around the paddock, scanning for any sign of you.

Anxiety churned in his gut as he spotted his teammate leaning casually against a workbench.

“Lando!” Oscar called, walking over briskly.

Lando glanced up, eyebrows raised. “What’s up, mate?”

Oscar hesitated before blurting out, “Have you seen Y/N anywhere?”

Lando frowned, clearly puzzled. “No, mate, haven’t seen her. Matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen her around for the last few races. Is everything okay?”

Oscar sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, mate. She’s been so distant lately, and I have no idea what I’ve done to upset her.”

Lando’s expression softened, a mix of pity and thoughtfulness. “Could it maybe have to do with that video that went viral again?”

Oscar blinked, confused. “What video? That old F2 interview of mine? That was years ago! I was just joking in most of it anyway.”

Lando shrugged, giving him a pointed look. “Mate, you might want to check the comments under her recent Instagram post. I think that’s your answer.”

With a sympathetic pat on the back, Lando turned and walked off, leaving Oscar alone with his thoughts.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers quickly navigating to your profile. The comments under your latest post hit him like a brick.

“Oh no,” Oscar muttered, his stomach sinking. “No wonder she’s been distant…”

He mentally kicked himself, remembering that dumb interview where he’d been too cocky for his own good.

“I didn’t even mean half the stuff I said,” he whispered to himself, cringing at the memory.

Before he could search for you and explain himself, a crew member called his name, dragging him toward the car for pre-race preparations.

“Great timing,” he muttered under his breath. But he made a promise to himself: as soon as this race was over, he’d find you and make things right.

Meanwhile, back to you, the restroom break had taken longer than expected. The initial plan to kill time before the race started had backfired; now, a dull ache was forming in my head, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease creeping up on me.

I leaned against the sink for a moment, taking a deep breath. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, but the discomfort wasn’t going away.

Deciding it was best not to push myself, I pulled out my phone and quickly typed a message to Oscar:

Not feeling great. Heading back home. Don’t worry about me.

I hesitated before hitting send. He’d probably be confused or even concerned, but the last thing I wanted was to worry him.

With a sigh, I hit send and slipped my phone back into my bag.

As I stepped out of the restroom and headed for the exit, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

On the way, I also let Oscar's manager know I left, just in case he didn't check his phone.

I knew Oscar would notice my absence, but today, it felt easier to retreat than to stay and face everything swirling in my mind.

Little did I know, Oscar was already worrying.

The race had ended, with Oscar clinching a solid P4, just behind Lando. Though pleased with his result, his mind was elsewhere.

He wanted nothing more than to see you, to feel your arms around him, and hear you tell him how proud you were, just like old times.

But as he scanned the crowd, his hope began to waver. You weren’t there.

His manager noticed Oscar’s distracted gaze and approached him. “Looking for Y/N?” the manager asked gently.

“She left you a message. Said she wasn’t feeling well and headed home.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, his heart sinking. You hadn’t told him the truth.

A mix of frustration and hurt bubbled to the surface. Without a word, he decided to skip the team celebrations and headed straight home.

When Oscar arrived, he didn’t waste a second. Dropping his bag by the door, he called out loudly. His voice sharper than usual.

“Y/N!”

You were downstairs in no time, a soft smile on your face.

“Oh, hey, Osc! You’re back early. How was the race?” I asked sweetly, trying to act normal.

But Oscar wasn’t having it. His expression was hard as he stared at you.

“You would’ve known if you didn’t leave,” he said, his voice laced with frustration.

Guilt washed over me, and you stammered, “I’m sorry, Osc. I wasn’t feeling well-”

“Cut the crap, Y/N!” he interrupted, startling you. His voice was raised, something he rarely did.

“When are you going to finally admit the real reason you’ve been like this? Tell me! I’m sick of it!”

I flinched but couldn’t blame him. He deserved an explanation. At the same time, I’d had enough, too. My emotions spilled out, my voice breaking.

“How would you feel if people kept telling you that your partner is too good for you? That you’re not good enough, that you’re too ugly, not their type, only with them for the money?!”

Tears streamed down my face as you continued.

“And yes, it’s about that stupid interview of yours! I can’t help it, okay? Call me dumb, call me a crybaby, but this is too much!”

By now, I was full-on sobbing, unable to meet his gaze. But before I could crumble further, I felt his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.

His voice was soft now, gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me, baby? I could’ve helped. We’re a team, remember?”

I sniffled, my voice trembling as I replied, “Those were your words, Oscar. I can’t take them back or change them.”

He sighed, his hand running soothingly up and down your back. “Babe, that interview was years ago. I was joking around the entire time. If you’d watched the whole thing, you’d see that.”

I shook my head, unsure, but he leaned back just enough to look at me.

“Since when is my favorite color pink?” he teased, a small laugh escaping him.

Despite yourself, you let out a small laugh, too.

“That's better,” he said, smiling.

“Listen to me. Everything I said in that interview wasn’t true. I was 18, tired, and didn’t even want to be there. I was just trolling to get it over with.”

I laughed again at his confession, finally meeting his eyes.

“There’s that pretty smile,” he said, his tone softer now. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, but next time, talk to me, okay?”

I nodded, wiping your tears. “I will. I’m sorry for doubting you… for pushing you away.”

He smiled warmly, leaning in to peck your lips a few times.

“It’s okay, love. I get why you did it. But don’t you ever doubt yourself again, yeah? You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. If anyone doesn’t deserve someone, it’s me. How did I get so lucky, huh?”

He cupped your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek before pulling you into a long, passionate kiss. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Don’t you ever doubt yourself,” he whispered. “You’re my ideal type. Always.”

I laughed softly. “Alright, alright, I get it.”

Suddenly, Oscar scooped me up into his arms, bridal style, making me squeal.

“Osc! What the hell are you doing? Put me down!”

He grinned, shaking his head as he headed toward the bedroom.

“Nope. Let me show my gorgeous girl how much I love her.”

And let’s just say, the night ended perfectly. From that moment on, I never doubted his love for me ever again.

oscarpiastri posted on Instagram!

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oscarpiastri An amazing race to finish off the week. A big thank you to the entire team and the fans. Also a big thank you to my beautiful girlfriend for being the best support.

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yourusername So so proud of you Osc!!! Love you! 🩷

oscarpiastri Love you too pretty!

landonorris Well done mate 🙌 extra support is always great!

oscarpiastri Thanks man! You're right especially if she's just my type 😉

yourusername 🤭 ❤️ by author

lalalandnorris4you Oscar really gagged all of you haters purr 💅

frvrformulaonestan1 This is the cutest thing ever brb I'm going to cry 🥹

notyourfan481 Bro Oscar you don't have to lie we all know this ain't you

osclvy/n Girl stfu he isn't going to notice you ffs 🙄

lovelypeachlan4 You thought you did sum? Get out 👉🚪

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yourusername A little recap of last week 🤍

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yourbffuser Looking like a snack 😋😍🥵

yourusername Love ya 💋🫦

oscarpiastri Gorgeous 😍

yourusername Love youu Osc 🥰

alexandrasaintmleux So so so pretty 😘

yourusername Says you beautiful 😉💕

lv4motorsports81 She's so pretty omd

manyyynorriz She's gorgeous, don't know what people were on about 🤨

banananorrispiastry81 🤢

nothingthelessnorris4 And you did this for what ☠️

piastrybakerlvr Move on he isn't going to notice you 🥱

lvlynorrisss4 Yet your comment didn't make any change to this world... Grow up 🤦‍♀️

The end