libraryrana030

[libraryrana030]

Cherries and Wine - CL16

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Lazy summer afternoon sex on a yacht with Charles.*

Warnings: 18+ content, PWP, oral (f receiving only #feminist), p in v, breeding kink if u squint?, completely disgustingly in love couple..., barely proofread.

Word Count: 2.7k

Note: *My dream date. Cute. Anon requested some Charles smut and this is where my heart took me!! I feel like he's a romantic guy. Anyways, I hope you enjoy! have been really enjoying the love on my last two fics :)

You’re starting to get a little bit spoiled, you finally admit to yourself, as you take another sip of your ice-cold glass of rosé.

You’re sprawled out across a sofa, tiny bikini on, sunglasses perched at the end of your nose, lapping up the sun, watching your boyfriend—Charles Leclerc—swim in circles around his yacht.

Which is obviously a ridiculous sentence.

On your bare stomach rests a bowl of cherries, pitted and delivered to you by Charles right before he dove into the water.

You laugh a little, biting into a sweet cherry, but you don’t take your eyes off him. No, not even for a second. Not when the golden sunlight is kissing his back muscles so deliciously.

You love it when it’s just the two of you, like this. Yacht docked up in some secluded cove, no concerns playing in your mind about cameras, or politeness. Just Charles, with his toned, tanned body completely on display, and you, watching him like you’ll die if you drag your eyes away.

You swirl your wine glass lazily, letting the cool condensation drip down your knuckles, and pop another cherry in your mouth. This one is sweeter than the last.

The way he moves through the water reminds you of the way he drives. His movements are polished and practiced. He’s so in control of his body you’re sure if you overlayed a video of each lap they’d sync up perfectly.

The sun catches on the tiny water droplets clinging to his skin, breaking into shards of light that trace the curve of his shoulders. When he lifts his head for air, the muscles in his neck shift and tighten in a way that is oh so familiar, and you feel it deep in your stomach.

You shift a little in your seat, and the scratchy waterproof material beneath you squeaks. One of the small prices to pay when enjoying your time on a yacht.

You bite into the cherry, its dark juice staining your lips, and imagine the taste of salt water on his skin. His hips twist as he turns, and your body warms at the image of them moving against you.

He looks so at ease here, so unguarded, that you want to keep watching just to let the image burn into your mind.

When he returns to the boat and begins to climb the ladder to join you, you’re almost disappointed to see the show end. Almost. That thought dissolves quickly, when he steps onto the deck, dripping wet, water droplets sliding across his chest and down his stomach.

He grabs a towel from the floor, rubbing his hair with it until it falls into that perfectly dishevelled post-race look you always love.  It makes him look softer, and more romantic.

He walks over to you in a few steps, blocking the sun so you’re forced to look up at him. You force a frown, but can’t hold it for long when cold water hits your chest, and you let out a giggle.

“You’re making a mess,” he murmurs, voice softened by the start of a smile. He cups your chin in his warm, damp hand, and lets his thumb swipe across your lips, smudging juice from the cherries. He lingers there just long enough to make you blush, before bringing his thumb to his own mouth and sucking it clean, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

He lifts your legs gently, settling himself beneath them before placing them back across his lap, his palms warm against your skin. He stretches his own legs out in front of him like he owns the place—which he does—before reaching over to steal a cherry from your bowl. He rolls it between his fingers, inspecting it, then pops it in his mouth.

He nods towards the book lying closed on the table next to you, bookmark in the same place it was when you brought it out onto the deck with you, long forgotten about.

“You weren’t enjoying it?” he asks, genuine care in his voice. You’d been talking for weeks about how excited you were to finally have time to read it on the yacht.

“I was.” You reply, dropping your eyes to the water droplets still clinging to his chest, tracking the path of one that slides down between his ribs. “But I found something a little more exciting.”

He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Yeah?”

Your lips curve upwards, but you don’t reply. The silence tells him everything he needs to know though. He studies your eyes, and it clicks. “Oh,” he says. Then his grin spreads, boyish and delighted, and exactly the kind of grin that made you fall in love with him in the first place.

You smile into your wine glass before you take another sip, and he watches you, grin unfaltering, as you do.

He reaches for another cherry, but this time, he doesn’t eat it. Instead, he leans towards you, his hand steady, bringing it close enough that you catch the faint scent of cherries mixed with the salt of his skin.

You part your lips slightly, ready to take it, but he pauses, letting it rest against your mouth, teasing.

Juice beads on your tongue, and dribbles down your chin. Instead of wiping it away, like he did before, Charles leans in, his lips catching the trail before it falls. It’s soft at first, just a light press of his lips against your skin. Then, he tilts your face forward and kisses you properly.  

The taste of cherry makes the kiss so sweet, and you sink into it, free hand pressing against the back of his neck, pulling him into you even further. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until your legs slip from his lap and you’re sat up against him. You grind your hips against him, the low sound he makes sending shivers through you.

You feel yourself shifting slightly, as you deepen the kiss, so needy for more of him, not caring if you fall off the chair entirely, as long as Charles ends up wherever you do. The gentleman he is, though, he breaks from the kiss to let you adjust yourself, so you’re sat properly next to him. He takes this opportunity to move the cherries out of the way too, setting the bowl down on the table as you squirm.

You expect him to lean back in for a kiss, but his hand falls to your bikini bottoms, the flimsy material doing nothing to hide your arousal, and lets his it sit there, mind numbingly still. He takes your wine glass from you and sips it, as if he’s not in the process of driving you absolutely insane. Like you’re not shivering beneath his touch, holding yourself back from crying out.

He shifts his hand slightly, and the whisper of friction actually makes you whimper.

“Oh, darling,” he says, abandoning the wine glass on the table. He locks his eyes against yours, thumb twitching again. “Is this what you wanted?”

You nod helplessly, and he pushes you back so you’re lying flat on the sofa, then lets his head fall to your knees. He peppers kisses along the inside of your leg, working his way up to your thighs. When he gets there, he slows his movement to almost a full stop. It feels like hours pass, as he moves closer to your pussy—soft, wet, and aching for his touch.

When he reaches it, he places a whisper of a kiss against your clit, eyes shooting up to meet yours as you gasp at the contact. With barely the tip of his tongue, he flicks a tiny circle, then another. You exhale, breath already shaking at the feather-light touch, and tangle your free hand through his still-damp hair.

He continues his movements, so soft they’re barely there, but enough that you’re squirming against him, bucking your hips up with each circle.

“We are in no rush,” he hums, as he reaches for the bowl of cherries on the table. He rolls one against your tongue, and as you bite down, he finally flattens his tongue hard against your clit, and you let out a groan, half muffled by the cherry still in your mouth.

He kisses down, wet and open mouthed against your folds, tongue suctioning against you for just a moment longer before he finds your entrance, then he’s inside you, and you’re gasping for air at the sensation.

Your thighs clench around his head as he curls his tongue up inside you, chasing your orgasm, spurred on by the way your body reacts to his touch, studying each tremble of your thighs and each curl of your toes, chasing the high of another desperate plea falling from your lips.

The tip of his nose just slightly nudges your clit as he fucks his tongue in and out of you, speeding his pace as your words become less coherent, until all you can do is moan his name.

Your breath is ragged, whole body pulsing with pleasure as you edge closer to release, vision blurring at the edges, and Charles, still so deliciously sweet, presses his tongue into you like he’s made for it.

All it takes is his thumb joining his mouth, pressing hard against that desperately overstimulated bundle of nerves, to finally make you snap. White-hot, blinding pleasure takes over your body, and you squeeze your eyes shut, riding the high as Charles’ movements slow and he lets you breathe. He groans into you, and you feel it everywhere, the way it burns through every muscle in your body.

“Sweeter than the cherries, mon amour,” he mutters, breath excruciatingly soft against your now-sensitive core.

Then he sits up, steadying his hands on either side of your waist, and leans over you. He kisses you again, tongue devastatingly soft against yours—the same tongue that had you seeing stars and crying out his name no more than a minute ago.

 The combination of tart cherries on your tongue, and you on his tongue, is so erotic you can barely compose yourself, a desperate, needy mess underneath him. You run your hands down his chest, tracing the hard outlines of his abs, then slowing as you reach the deep V line that disappears under his swim shorts.

Slowly, you untie the bow holding them up and slip them down. You try to tease him, like he teased you, but his cock is firm against his chest, red and straining, and the sight of it makes you a little dizzy.

You run a finger across its tip, swirling a drop of precum across it, then bringing your finger to your lips and sucking it off. He buries his head in your neck in response, completely beyond words.

You return your hand to his cock, then find that perfect vein on the underside, and run your finger up it, delighted by the sharp hiss it draws from Charles.

He brings one hand to your chin, tilting it up to look at him once more, then mutters, “Just want to feel you, my love.”

That’s the thing about Charles. He always makes you come first. Always. Eats your pussy for hours like it’s the only thing he’s made for. Drives himself mad listening to you tell him how good he’s making you feel. And he knows how much you love the feeling of wrapping your lips around his dick—you’ve told him how you get off on the sight of him dropping back his head, running his hands through your hair, coming close to losing control but always hanging onto some dangling thread of restraint, never getting rough with you. And he loves it too.

But he doesn't need it.

Not the way he needs the feeling of your walls clenching around him, so tight it feels like you were moulded in the shape of him. The sight of you underneath him, digging your fingernails into his chest as he fucks you so well. The sound of you telling him just how much you love this—how much you love him.

That’s what he needs.

And today, he knows if he lets you get your mouth on him, he’s not going to last. Not when you smell like cherries and sex and you’ve been watching him all day. So, when you wrap your hand around him, you feel his whole body shudder against you, as he chokes out one simple, “Please.”

It nearly undoes you completely. You plant a kiss against his cheek, wet and messy, and nod as he presses the weight of his whole body against you. Everything about him is rock solid—his chest, arms, thighs, and yet on top of you right now, he’s turning into complete mush.

You line him up at your entrance, and he thrusts into you, hard. Your gasps tangle into one, and you both take deep, shuddering breaths. You, full, desperately trying to adjust to the dull aching stretch of him, and him, feeling you clench around him, soft and wet and so perfect, trying to hold onto whatever shred of composure he has left.

Slowly, he rocks his hips back, then sinks into you once more.

He lets his hands trail down your body, grabbing lazily at your tits, before he reaches your waist again and digs his fingers in, hard, pace increasing.

“I love you like this,” he breathes, slamming into you, “Fuck—love you always, but—”

You nod up at him, understanding him more than words can explain, wishing he could see himself through your eyes, so drunk on love and summer and this moment.

“So perfect,” he continues. “Mine. I love it.”

“Yours,” you answer, breathy.

The next sound that comes out of him is barely words, barely a moan—it’s ragged and pleading, as he tries to bury himself deeper in you, needing the connection more than he needs to breathe.

He pulls out of you completely, letting his tip rub against your clit in a rough circle before he pushes in, and your eyes roll back, nails digging into his back. You wrap your legs around his back, pulling him in so deep you both cry out, the sensation almost too much to handle.

Charles sees you twitching, wound so tight you feel like you’re about to explode, and drops his hand back down to your throbbing clit. He lets his fingers rub messy, rough circles against you, and the combined, unrelenting pressure of his cock, hitting exactly that spot that ties knots in your stomach, and his skilled fingers working you just right sends you over the edge, a babbling mess as he bucks his hips into you again and again. Your vision goes spotty, a puddle of pleasure underneath him as you smile, giddy.

And as you come down from your high, now you’re desperate for his release, biting his neck, grabbing at his arms, clenching around him as he repeats your name over and over like a prayer.

“Can I?” he asks, as his thrusts become messy and faster, and it makes you feel warm inside again because he asks for permission every time he comes inside you, even though you say yes every time. And you’d never say no, because you love the feeling of milking his cock until you’re so full of him you can barely breathe.

And then he does, and it’s perfect, the way a string of French curses falls from his mouth, and he drops his lips to yours, drawing you into one final kiss as that final, deep thrust ruins both of you.

He lets himself fall onto your chest, the only person he’s ever this vulnerable for. You draw lazy circles on his back as he pants against you, completely spent. And the two of you fall asleep like that, him still inside you, both sweaty and covered in each other, salt air cool against your burning skin.

Charles wraps his arms around you as he sleeps, like he’d die if he ever had to let you go. And maybe he would.

[libraryrana030]

Hey can i please request something with Charles Leclerc x singer!reader x Alexandra Saint Mleux, where the reader's new song is part of the f1 movie and all three of them attended the premiere making their red carpet debut as a throuple

just keep watching

pairing: poly!charles leclerc x reader x alexandra saint mleux

summary: in which you hard launch at the f1 movie premiere

warnings: swearing, use of y/n, a teensy bit suggestive in some parts

fc: kendell jenner

a/n: tysm for requesting!! i hope you like this, love <3

yourusername posted

yourusername just keep watching out now!

tagged f1themovie, f1

liked by charles_leclerc, f1, y/nlover and others

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alexandrasaintmleux obsessed.

yourusername ma chériee 💋💋 user1 i ADORE their friendship

user2 mother is mothering

lilymhe i think you may have dropped this 👑

yourusername stawpp you make me blush 🤭

user4 WHATS 4 + 4

lando ATEEEEE

charles_leclerc 👀

yourbestfriend ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS

yourusername i love you 🤧

user5 OH WE'RE SO BACK

user6 "eyes on me, archin' my back." WHO ALLOWED THIS

you’re lying between alexandra and charles, sheets tangled lightly around your legs, the city lights spilling soft and golden through the curtains. charles’s arm curves around your waist — steady, grounding, familiar — while alexandra’s fingertips trace slow, featherlight patterns up your arm, tender and teasing.

it’s quiet here, but not empty — the kind of quiet that hums with the warmth of skin against skin, breath mingling, hearts beating steady and slow.

charles’s voice breaks the silence, low and smooth like velvet. “what if we stop holding back? just... launch it. right there. red carpet, full on.”

you turn your head, eyes meeting his, surprised by how calm and certain he sounds. alexandra’s gaze finds yours, soft and open, inviting you into the thought.

“hard launch?” you whisper, tasting the words, feeling the flutter of nerves and something sweeter — relief, maybe.

“yeah,” charles says, lips curving into a slow smile. “no more hints, no more guessing games. people are already buzzing. might as well give them the whole truth.”

alexandra squeezes your hand, voice gentle but sure. “it’s time.”

you glance between them, heart swelling, a smile teasing your lips. “imagine the headlines... they won’t see it coming.”

charles chuckles quietly, breath warm against your skin as his fingers curl just a little tighter around your waist. “‘f1’s hottest trio drops the ultimate bombshell.’ that’ll break the internet for sure.”

you laugh softly, the tension easing but the thrill still humming through your veins. “yeah, but the cameras... monaco flashbacks.”

alexandra’s fingers pause, then trail slowly, lovingly, back up your arm. “we’ll be there. all of us. front and center.”

charles pulls you just a little closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “no more hiding. full throttle. from now on.”

you close your eyes, breathing in their warmth, the quiet certainty of being exactly where you belong. “feels right. like finally coming home.”

alexandra leans in, her lips soft as a whisper as she presses a kiss to your temple. “then it’s settled. this season. red carpet. loud. proud. us.”

charles’s voice drops, steady and sure, like a promise only for you. “let’s make them watch.”

you stay tangled there, wrapped in warmth and quiet anticipation, the city breathing around you but this moment yours alone.

“do you really think they’re ready?” you ask, voice low and tender.

alexandra shrugs with a smile that’s all mischief and sweetness. “they’ll have to be.”

charles laughs softly, brushing your hair back, his fingers warm and reassuring. “we’re giving them no choice.”

you smile back, heart full and steady, knowing that no matter what comes next — you’re not facing it alone.

f1wags posted

f1wags posted f1’s hottest secret trio goes public: alexandra saint mleux, charles leclerc, and y/n l/n make red carpet debut with unforgettable kiss

tagged yourusername, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc

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user1 omg that kiss was everything i didn’t know i needed

user2 WHATTTT

user3 OMG THIS IS INSANE

user4 lando’s reaction was priceless lol

user5 omg they're the hottest throuple ever

user6 how on earth did charles pull them?!

user7 obsessed!!

you step onto the red carpet, the buzz of cameras and chatter wrapping around you like a wave. your heart is steady but alive, a little rush that’s more excitement than nerves. alexandra’s hand slides into yours, warm and grounding. charles’s arm wraps around your waist, easy and familiar.

it’s wild to think how long you’ve kept this quiet — just you three, and only kika and pierre in on the secret. now, here you are, ready to show the world what’s been right in front of them all along.

the crowd shifts as you move forward. you catch rebecca’s eye, standing close to carlos, and you see the surprise there — a quick glance exchanged between them. the whispers start quietly but spread fast. lando and george glance your way, eyebrows raised, the question clear on their faces: did we miss something?

charles leans down, voice low but sure. “you good with this?”

you nod without hesitation. “yeah. let’s do it.”

alexandra squeezes your hand, her smile soft but certain. “time to stop hiding.”

then, almost before you realize it, alexandra leans in and kisses you — gentle, full of everything you’ve both held back. charles pulls both of you close, his arms a protective circle.

the cameras go wild — flashes like fireworks — and the crowd reacts too. rebecca covers her mouth in surprise but smiles, carlos’s eyes light up with something like pride. pierre and kika share a quick look, their quiet support grounding you.

someone shouts from the sidelines, “wow, didn’t see that coming!”

a reporter pushes forward, excitement in her voice. “how does it feel to finally go public like this?”

alexandra’s voice is calm and clear. “honest. freeing. like a weight’s been lifted.”

charles nods, “it’s more than just us now. it’s about being real.”

you squeeze their hands, your voice soft but steady. “it’s exactly where we should be.”

later, in the green room, rebecca catches up to you. “oh my god! that was amazing!”

carlos claps charles on the back, grinning. “seriously, you pulled it off.”

lando laughs, “you three just changed the game. mad respect.”

george gives you a thumbs-up and a wink. “glad you’re out here being you.”

alexandra leans in, whispering, “we did it.”

you laugh, the tension finally melting away. it feels good. really good.

that night, lying between charles and alexandra, the city lights casting soft shadows on the ceiling, you feel something settle inside. the secret’s out, but more than that — you’re home.

and nothing’s ever going to be the same.

yourusername posted

yourusername life lately 💋🥂

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user1 can i borrow her and never give her back? charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux

charles_leclerc non <3

user2 so pretty <33

user3 how tf did charles pull alex AND y/n??

user4 leo content when??

iamrebeccad gorgeous girls ❤️... and charles

yourusername luv you becca <33 charles_leclerc HEY! iamrebeccad carlossainz55 its okay charles, im here 😘 charles_leclerc carlos, baby 😍

user5 THE THIRD PHOTO?? HELLO??

sabrinacarpenter you gorgeous, gorgeous girl

yourusername luv you bby 💕

oliviarodrigo obsessed with the roses!!

yourusername obsessed with youu <3

the room pulses. low lights. heavy bass. that breath-before-the-drop kind of anticipation.

you're already on stage. the mic is warm in your hand. your body hums like it knows they’re here. like it always knows when they’re watching.

alexandra is near the front, pressed into the rail, mouth slightly parted, lips glossy under the glow. charles is behind her, one arm draped around her waist, the other in his pocket, eyes on you like he’s studying something dangerous.

you don’t look at them yet. not fully. you want them to wait.

the beat kicks in.

oh, i wanna let my hair down…

your voice rolls out smooth, sweet, deliberate. each word is a finger dragged down a spine.

you dip your hips slightly with the beat, the lights catching on the sweat at your collarbone, the curve of your mouth, the line of your jaw.

wanna go ’til lights out... take you right back to my place...

your gaze lifts then. first to alexandra.

she’s still. focused. the kind of stillness that comes before something breaks.

your eyes hold hers as you croon the next line. slow. drawn-out. dripping with intention.

you out your mind... if you don’t know what this is.

she knows. you can see it in the subtle lift of her brow. the way her fingers clutch the edge of the barrier a little tighter.

and charles—god. he’s watching like you’re the only thing that exists. his lips are slightly parted, eyes low-lidded, heat written all over him.

you smile. just for him. and lean into the mic.

twist my wrist... goes like this...

your hand lifts. a slow, lazy flick of your wrist, timed perfectly to the music.

start with the track eyes on me arching my back...

you turn. just slightly. enough to tease the movement. just enough for their eyes to follow.

you hear the crowd but you don’t feel them. not like you feel them. not like you feel alexandra’s stare crawling down your thighs or charles’ desire like static under your skin.

just like this... here for the night... you ain’t buying in? just keep watching.

your voice drops there. lower. smoother. you let the last words roll off your tongue like a promise.

they feel it.

charles shifts behind alexandra, jaw clenched. her eyes haven’t moved from your mouth.

i wanna make my mind up... 'cause I know where this might go

you breathe the line like it’s a secret. soft. teasing. meant for them and no one else.

you’re not performing anymore.

you’re remembering the way alexandra kissed down your chest last night slow and quiet, taking her time like she had all night to ruin you. the way charles held your wrists above your head and watched you fall apart.

you’re remembering and they know it.

we’ll tell ’em one by one show ’em one by one...

you lift your hand again. one finger. then two. pointing. subtle. undeniable.

them. only them.

goes like this (yeah), move from the back (yeah)

you turn fully this time. let your hips roll with the beat. let them imagine how that would feel. how it did feel. how it will again.

you ain’t buying in? just keep watching.

alexandra’s breath catches. you see it. feel it.

charles leans in close to her ear. says something. she bites her lip.

and you know it’s about you.

you sing the last chorus with your eyes half-closed, head tilted, mouth soft around every syllable.

you don’t have to try. they’re already undone.

you don’t even finish the last note before you’re walking off stage.

the hallway is dim behind the curtain. your heart is still racing when you feel it— charles’ hand, wrapping around your waist from behind, pulling you into his chest.

“you meant every word of that,” he murmurs against your neck.

you hum. “every single one.”

alexandra appears beside you, slow and composed, though her eyes are anything but. “you were showing off.”

you turn to her, grinning. “you were watching.”

she steps close. her fingers trail up your arm, featherlight. “we always do.”

charles leans in, his lips brushing your jaw. “but tonight?” his voice drops. “we’re not just watching.”

charles_leclerc posted

charles_leclerc what a night!

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alexandrasaintmleux posted

alexandrasaintmleux date night 💋🥂

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yourusername je t'aime bébé ❤️

alexandrasaintmleux je t'aime plus chouchou ❤️

pascaleleclerc mes jolies filles ❤️

charles_leclerc maman????

charles_leclerc mes amours <3

alexandrasaintmleux je t'aime mon cœur <3 yourusername je t'aime charlieee <3

user1 i love them your honour

user2 they're the cutest

user3 can charles fight?

user4 tbh idk which one i want to be

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @freyathehuntress, @dakotapaigelove,@beathreat,@dessashippr lmk if you want to be added or removed!

[libraryrana030]

Do you think I'm cool, too? Or am I too into you?

drew starkey x yn!actress - social media au

fc : bella hadid

─── masterlist !

note — ( manips made by me ) let me know what you think!! reblog's and comments are appreciated ❤

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enews Y/n L/n and Drew Starkey set to start shooting 'Speed' next week.

Set in 1993 a deranged bomb expert, Howard Payne (Dennis Hopper), rigs a city bus with a bomb that will explode if it drops below 50 mph. It's up to officer Jack Traven (Drew Starkey) and passenger Annie Porter (Y/n L/n) to work together to keep the bus moving and save everyone on board.

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user1 set in the 90s???? it's gonna eattt

user2 hope we get a little bit of romance in the movie 🤞

->user3 forced proximity and stressful situation... we are 100% getting at least some sexual tension

user4 y/n in an action movie is all i've ever wanted

user5 if they don't kiss im not watching jk

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yourinstagram jack and annie will soon meet!!!!

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user1 the only movie i can't wait to see

devonleecarlson im so ready I CANT WAITTT liked by yourinstagram !

user2 my mannnn

user3 need your closet diva

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enews Y/n L/n and Drew Starkey praise each other after a month of shooting 'Speed'.

The movie is set to take 2 and a half more months to film.

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user1 im genuinely so excited!!!

user2 what episode do they fall in love

user3 they're gonna bring back falling in love on set

user4 dude robert pattinson said similar things after they did a chem read and ended up dating for like 2 years... sooooo the relationship in imminent 😭

->user5 omg i forgot about that, he was IN LOVE with her ->user6 yeah... he still hypes up her work too it's so cute

user7 saying 'we were meant to meet' is so romantic omg

user8 by the end of filming if they aren't dating i'd be shocked

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enews Ex's Y/n L/n and Robert Pattinson spotted out at dinner in Los Angeles.

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user1 i thought she and drew were together

user2 their fans lowkey manifested this by posting about them on twitter

user3 wait what...

user4 i think daily about how she was going to be catwomen in batman but backed out due to scheduling

->user5 yeah they did a chemistry read but she went with 'uptown girls' (literally one of my fav movies) ->user4 rob talked about how excited he was to film with her too.... ->user6 i had no clue they were dating lol ->user5 during filming batman they were seen together multiple times over like a year but it's been like 3 months since they actually were seen together

user7 spotted out with your ex while rumored to be with Drew is crazyyyy

user8 i mean they do look great together

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Liked by drewstarkey, damsonidris and 5,510,944 others

yourinstagram that's a wrap on 'Speed' can't wait for everyone to have at least half as much fun watching it as i had on set ❤

view all comments

user1 IM SO READY!!!!

user2 taking a pic with y/n and her stepmom.... i can't prove it but they're dating

devonleecarlson love you two!! liked by yourinstagram !

->user3 two? so they are a pair 😏

user4 him not wearing his black suit is criminal

user5 stepmom and sister at the wrap party that's so cuteee

user6 incredible amounts of serving 😫

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Liked by drewstarkey, damsonidris and 4,510,944 others

yourinstagram another little dinner to celebrate finishing filming 'Speed' i couldn't have asked for a better scene partner, love ya ❤

ALSO 'Speed' out June 10th hope you all enjoy!!!!!!!!

view all comments

user1 the blonde 😍

user2 love ya ? 😏

user3 PRETTIEST GIRL EVERRR

user4 is the 'love ya' to drew or...?

user5 your smile in the picture with drew 🤭

user6 the dress and the hair 10s!!!!

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Liked by yourinstagram, robertpattinson and 6,510,944 others

drewstarkey Wrapped 'Speed' with this pretty girl, thanks to this movie for helping us meet. Speed out June 10th!

view all comments

user1 if you could see my face dude

yourinstagram ❤ liked by drewstarkey !

user2 the conformation we needed THANKS DREWWW

devonleecarlson i've never been happier for two people ❤

user3 THE SOLO PIC OF Y/N MY HEARTTT 😭

user4 im actually so happy for you two you're adorable!!!

user5 NOT ROBERT PATTINSON IN THE LIKES????

->user6 lol i think he's just genuine about wanting her to be happy

user7 "pretty girl" y'all hear me crying??

user8 these face cardsss

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[libraryrana030]

“Kiss, marry, kill. Go.” SPENCER REID

Pairing shy (Spencer Reid + flirty!fem!reader + Profile BAU + slow burn + banter + blushes+ blurb + one shot + fluff + short and sweet Wc: 600 )

Summary = You enjoyed getting Spencer all worked up and flustered you love seeing him squirm, but the tables turn when you are in the hot seat.

Sitting around the conference table, you were across from Spencer and JJ. Derek was next to you, chair leaned back just enough to be annoying, smirking like he knew something. Of course he did. He always did.

Your legs were crossed, skirt hugging your thighs, lip gloss fresh from your purse—vanilla shimmer. Spencer hadn’t looked up from his file in six minutes, but you could tell he was distracted. His fingers had stopped flipping pages and he’d read the same paragraph three times. You could smell your own perfume, that sweet Hollister vanilla-sugar scent you always wore. He could, too. You knew it got to him.

“Alright.” JJ said, grinning like she was about to cause problems. “Kiss, marry, kill. Go.”

You gasped dramatically. “Right now? We’re doing this here? In front of the innocent?” You gestured to Spencer with your pen like you were shielding his delicate eyes.

“I’m not—innocent—” he started, face flushing instantly.

“You’re a literal angel, Spencer. Please.” You winked, just to see what shade of red he’d turn.

He ducked his head and cleared his throat. “Statistically, it’s a very unbalanced game, anyway. You’re forced to make one negative decision no matter what—” Okay angel,” Derek cut in, nudging your shoulder. “Your turn.”

You tapped your glossed lips with your pen, dramatically thoughtful. “Hmm. Okay. Kiss… Penelope.”

“Obviously,” Penelope called from the whiteboard , Turing around “I’d make it sparkly.”

“Marry…” you trailed off, eyes drifting to Spencer just long enough to catch how fast he looked down. You smirked.

“…Spencer.”

His head snapped up.

You smiled sweetly. “What? You’d make a great husband.”

He blinked. “You—you would kill Derek?”

Derek laughed so hard he slapped the table. “Wow. You’d kill me?”

You shrugged, sipping your iced coffee like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “You’d survive.”

Spencer was red from the ears down. He didn’t say anything, just tugged at the cuff of his sweater and fiddled with the pen in his hand like it was the most interesting object in the universe.

You leaned forward slightly, just enough that he could smell your perfume stronger again. “Spencer?”

He looked up slowly.

You batted your lashes. “Would you marry me back?”

JJ covered her mouth.

“I—I don’t—” he stuttered, panicked, adorable.

Derek coughed, clearly hiding a laugh. Penelope squealed.

You sat back with a satisfied grin, legs still crossed, still pretty in pink. You weren’t trying to break him—you just liked watching how soft he got around you. How every compliment made him trip over his words. How your perfume lingered in his head long after you were gone.

The thing was, you weren’t all talk. Not really. You meant it.

You’d marry him.

Just then, Aaron, Rossi, and Emily walked in.

“Shall we get started?” Aaron’s voice was calm but had that subtle let’s focus weight to it. “Please,” Spencer muttered, barely above a whisper, still staring at his notes like they might save him.

Derek leaned in close to you, his grin wicked. “Don’t act all innocent,” he murmured. “You love to give Spence a hard time when you get a chance. You widened your eyes, mouth parting like you were offended. “Me? Derek, I’m a saint.”

He laughed quietly. “Sure, halo and all.”

You smirked into your coffee, letting your leg cross over the other slow enough to make Spencer glance up for half a second—then immediately back down, face flushed.

Hotch walked to the front of the room, setting his file on the podium. His eyes flicked to you for just a heartbeat—sharp, assessing. Like he’d caught Derek’s comment and already knew exactly what it meant.

You straightened in your seat, that practiced sweet smile on your lips, as if you hadn’t been the cause of half the tension in the room. Spencer scribbled something on his notepad that definitely wasn’t case-related. Derek just shook his head, smirking.

Hotch cleared his throat. “Let’s begin.”

Author notes , thank you for taking the time to read this , I miss shy awkward soft sweet Spencer Reid . Baby Spencer Reid … I wanna write more shy soft baby Spencer Reid so if you got any requests please feel free to send them my way I would appreciate it . I did my best I hope you enjoyed this . New layout

[libraryrana030]

𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆

𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒂 1/𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x girlfriend!reader Trope: A secret engagement Warnings: English is not my first language Trigger: heartwarming Genre: fluff Summary: After weeks of savoring their secret engagement, a couple prepares to reveal their joyous news to his wonderfully chaotic French family, bursting their private bubble into a heartwarming celebration of new beginnings.

━━━━━━━━

For weeks, maybe even a month or two, you and Charles had been living in a bubble of your own making. An engagement, proposed on a quiet evening overlooking the very same sea, a diamond nestled in a velvet box under a sky full of stars. You wanted to savour it, just the two of you. No public scrutiny, no immediate family pressure, just the quiet thrill of knowing your lives were forever intertwined. But today, that bubble was about to burst, in the most wonderful way possible.

Your palms were damp, despite the comfortable coolness of Charles’s hand in yours. He caught your eye across the bustling lunch table, his own smile a reassuring balm against the butterflies in your stomach. His mother, Pascale, was regaling Arthur and Lorenzo with some anecdote from their childhood, her laughter bubbling like the rosé in their glasses. The usual cacophony of a Sunday déjeuner at the Leclercs.

"Ready?" Charles murmured, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.

You took a deep breath, scanning the faces she had grown to love so dearly. Pascale, whose fierce love knew no bounds. Arthur, the mischievous younger brother, always ready with a quip. Lorenzo, the thoughtful, steady presence. This was family. This was home.

"As I’ll ever be," you whispered back, and squeezed his handbut this time feeling sure and content.

Charles cleared his throat, a sound that, for once, cut through the joyous din. All eyes turned to him, curious. He rarely interrupted the flow of family conversation unless it was something truly important.

"Maman, mes amours," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, though you felt a tremor run through his hand. "We have something to tell you."

Pascale’s eyes, so like his own, went wide with curiosity, then apprehension. Arthur and Lorenzo exchanged a glance, a spark of sibling intuition passing between them.

You felt Charles take another deep breath, his gaze locking with yours for one last shared secret moment. Then, he looked at his family, his smile broadening, radiating pure happiness.

"We’re engaged," he announced, simply, profoundly.

For a split second, there was silence. A stunned, pregnant pause where the only sound was the distant murmur of the sea.

Then, Pascale let out a small gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes welled up instantly, shining with an emotion so raw and pure it brought tears to my own. "Oh, mes enfants!" she cried, pushing back her chair.

Arthur, usually the joker, was the first to react physically. He sprang up, bypassing Charles completely to engulf you in a bear hug that made you squeal as he nearly lifted you off your feet.

"No way! Seriously? You guys kept this quiet!" he exclaimed, a wide grin splitting his face. "Finally! Welcome to the madhouse, officially!"

Lorenzo was next, a warm, genuine smile gracing his lips as he hugged Charles, then you. "Félicitations, both of you. This is wonderful news." His sincerity was a comforting anchor.

Pascale was already at your side, pulling you into a fierce embrace, her tears warm against your cheek. "Ma fille," she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion.

"My future daughter-in-law. I’m so, so happy." She pulled back, her hands cupping your face, her gaze falling to your left hand, where the diamond now gleamed openly, proudly, catching the golden light.

"It’s beautiful," she whispered, a tear tracing a path down her cheek.

The questions came in a rapid-fire volley: "When?" "How did he ask?" "Why did you wait so long to tell us?"

Charles, laughing, began to recount the story, embellishing details here and there, while you added your own touches, the joy of sharing our secret washing over you like a warm wave.

Champagne bottles were popped, glasses clinked, and the initial shock melted into effervescent joy. The conversation shifted, filled with wedding talk, future plans, playful jests from Arthur about Charles finally being 'tied down'. The ease with which they embraced the news, the genuine happiness dancing in their eyes, filled you with an overwhelming sense of belonging.

Later, as the afternoon sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and rose, you found yourself leaning against Charles on the terrace, a contented sigh escaping your lips. The family was still buzzing inside, but this quiet moment felt like an exhale.

"See?" Charles murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Nothing to be nervous about. They love you."

You smiled, heart full. "I know. It just… it feels real now. Really, truly real."

You looked up at him, your fiancé. "No more secrets."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with happiness. "Just a lifetime of adventures, mon amour. A lifetime of adventures, together."

And as he tightened his arm around you, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your soul, that this was just the beginning.

"Madhouse, huh?" you repeated Arthur's words with a chuckle, resting your head against Charles’s shoulder.

He hummed, a low, pleased sound in his chest. "You wouldn't have it any other way, would you?"

You turned your head slightly to look at him, catching his gaze. "Definitely not. It's… perfect. Chaotic, but perfect."

The lingering scent of champagne and Pascale's signature roasted chicken hung in the air, a comforting perfume of home. Inside, the muffled sounds of laughter and the clinking of dishes continued, a testament to the joyous upheaval of the afternoon.

"Welcome to the official chaos," Charles teased, nuzzling your hair. "And this is just the beginning."

[libraryrana030]

all i know | alex albon

pairing: ex!reader x alex albon

summary: three months after your breakup with alex you see him for the first time at a club, and your heart hasn’t forgot a single thing about loving him

word count: 1.4k

warnings: yearning (!!!!!!), jealousy, told in first and third person

a/n: my best work so far if i do say so myself

Seeing him again was like a bucket full of freezing water falling over me. The breeze of people walking around me, pushing, the colored lights hitting my face for a moment and then disappearing to a different corner, I couldn’t feel any of it. Everything was numbed by the overall feeling of seeing him for the first time after three months —the paralyzing, overall feeling.

“Y/n.” I heard Grayson called my name and suddenly I was back at the club. Feeling the breeze, the pushing, the colored lights. “You’re in the middle of the corridor, someone’s gonna bump into you.” He said, much more aware of the looks I was getting for standing at the worst possible place to stand in a club. He pushed me lightly to our table.

Back at the table, my best friend Lana grabbed my hand. “I know.” she whispered right next to my ear. “I saw him too.” So I wasn’t crazy, and he was in fact here, and I couldn’t escape or hide without all of my friends knowing what was going on, so I just stood there, squeezing her hand once.

I felt this carnal urge to see him again, a glimpse of his face, even the back of his head would do, so I did and I turned my head towards him. My heart dropped fifty floors. A girl was standing right next to him, talking in his ear, touching his face. Touching him the same way I had a thousand times before, but she couldn’t possibly because no one could touch him the way I did, so she was just touching his face and I wanted to die. I was dying, actually, that’s what it felt like. I turned again, squeezed Lana’s hand a second time for good measure.

Alex had noticed her. How could he not, when every time she walked into a room she was the only person he could focus on, the only person he could see. So he saw her, before she saw him, and his heart beat three times faster than usual, and his hands started sweating, and he had to stop looking at her because she would notice him if he didn’t and if their eyes meet he would be lost for good, so he turned back to his friends, immediately wanting to look back at her again.

No amount of alcohol, or music, or people could distract him from knowing that she was there, barely twenty meters away from him, so he did the next best thing; talk to this girl, this friend of Carmen (or was she a friend of George? No clue) that he had met just before they all went to the club. He was taller than her so he had to keep leaning over to talk to her, to listen, the music was too loud also, so she had to get close to him —closer than anybody else— to speak right into his ear, touching his face as leverage so she wouldn’t fall from standing taller in her heels.

But Alex wasn’t really listening to her, she was just a distraction, the next best thing. What he actually wanted to do was walk those twenty meters towards Y/n and all her friends, friends that he knew perfectly well; Grayson, Lana, Eve, Mattheo, Harry. He allowed himself one more look, just a glance. Her back was turned so he could only see the length of her hair, falling into all the right places. Her friends, just like he remembered, all of them, expect for one. One guy he didn’t know. The one guy that was touching her back while whispering in her ear, laughing with her.

The blood on his veins turned cold and he went back to the present, this girl, this friend group of his that he would’ve abandoned in a second to go talk to her, now all he had.

“All good, mate?” Lando’s voice, a raised brow.

“All good.” He answered, taking a sip of his beer.

This guy was new. A friend of Theo, he met him at golfing, so naturally we welcomed him with open arms out of the goodness of our hearts. Lana and Harry think Theo likes him, I think he’s straight.

“Remind me your name again.” I ask him politely, pretending not to notice that he’s flirting with me.

“Michael.” He answers, a boyish smile on his face that would surely make anyone melt.

“I like it.” I say in return.

He keeps talking, I don’t listen. My mind is elsewhere, twenty meters away from me, talking with a girl that may or may not be prettier than me and may or may not have been touching his face and grazing her lips over his ear. I don’t wanna see it, but I do, because I want to see him, and if I have to see her to see him then I will.

The slightest, most delicate turn of my head gave me a perfect view of him, of his body, his hands that I love, his arms, his neck, his hair, his face that I completely, absolutely, love. His eyes, the most perfect shade of brown, were already on me.

For the first time in three months, I was looking right into his eyes. My favorite pair ever. The girl I didn’t know was still standing next to him and I know he was looking at the guy he didn’t know standing next to me. I felt my chair moving closer to him, to Michael. He moved it so he could still talk to me without yelling and I could still not listen to him. But he saw it. Alex. His body stiffened in this specific way it did when he saw something he didn’t like, when someone was flirting with me and he got jealous, it was all in his eyes, really. So he moved closer to the girl and I saw it because I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

Don’t do it.

He was gonna do it. I knew it deep in my bones. He couldn’t be mature for two seconds, the boy I love.

So I saw him take a piece of hair that was falling into the girls face and placing it behind her ear, laughing at a joke she probably made, taking a sip from his beer while looking straight into her eyes, killing me with the same jealousy he had felt just seconds ago. The same one he was still feeling.

So I turned, back to Michael.

I knew this dance like the back of my hand, I’ve done it before, but it also felt completely new because I’ve never done it with him. A smile here, a joke there. I let Michael complement me endlessly, buying me just one more drink. I knew he was seeing it. I knew it because he couldn’t keep his eyes off from me for too long, just like I couldn’t keep mine off from him.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” I heard him ask.

I wish you were someone else. I wanted to say, but that would be rude, so I didn’t. I simply shook my head. He mumbled something under his breath I couldn’t be bothered to hear and walked towards Theo.

Alex saw him leaving her side and suddenly the game was not fun anymore. It never was, really. The second he took that girls hair into his fingers he regretted it, he regretted it even more after seeing Y/n’s hurt in her eyes, the one look she couldn’t ever hide. One that was reserved for him. There was something about making Y/n sad that made him feel like he was betraying his country. He took a step back from the girl in front of him. This friend of Carmen or George or Lando he didn’t really wanna talk to.

“I’m sorry, I need to go for a second.” The girl looked at him confused, but she didn’t stop him.

He made his way to the person he had wanted to talk to all night. The one he couldn’t take his eyes off from more than five seconds. The only one he sees in a crowded room. His favorite face in the world, now alone.

“Hey.” His voice trembled, but his confidence didn’t.

She turned around. The accent she hasn’t heard in months so close to her now, so familiar. He could see her better now. Her hair was longer, her makeup a bit different than the way she usually did it, but still the same face he saw every morning when his first thought when he woke up was of her. The roundness of her eyes captivating him like they always did, the tiniest smirk in her lips that he was always thinking about.

“Hey.” She said.

[libraryrana030]

best friend's friend || cs55

summary: lily muni he's best friend and olympic gymnast, y/n y/l/n, gets set up with a certain williams driver

pairing: carlos sainz x gymnast!reader

warnings & fc: none & suni lee

requested: yes!!! thank you xoxox

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

lilymhe has made a post

liked by alex_albon, ynuser, carlossainz55, alexandrasaintmleux, lilyzneimer, williamsracingf1, and 534,124 others

lilymhe: summer is always better with friends ☀️🌊💙

[tagged: alex_albon, ynuser, yourbff, carlossainz55]

view all comments

user1: cutieeessssssss

ynuser: heck yes it is!!

lilymhe: i missed you so much bbygirl

user2: ok clocking carlos and alex spending part of summer break together???

alex_albon: everythings better with you

lilymhe: stoppppp i love you 🤍

ynuser: ew!

alex_albon: did you hear me complaining when you were being touchy with my coworker? [comment has been deleted]

user2: HUH??? ALEX I SAW THAT

user3: i wanna be your friend so bad

carlossainz55: thanks for letting me tag along 😌

lilymhe: you are always welcome carlitos

user4: my favorite athletic besties back at it again!

ynuser has posted to their story

view all story replies

user3: no man deserves this

lilymhe: the most gorgeous girl ive ever seen 🤤

ynuser: have you looked in a mirror

lilymhe: HAVE YOU 🤨

user4: carlos sainz?????? hold on a second

yourbff: i am not worthy 😔🤍

ynuser: stopppppp!!! also thank you for the dress my dear

yourbff: anything for you!! how was the DATE you wore it too tho?!

ynuser: heheh so so so good. lily was so right about us being good for each other and he may or may not have asked me out on another date

yourbff: YESSSS LETS GOOOO

user11: oh so my favorite gymnast is somehow friendly enough with my favorite f1 driver that hes taking pictures of her???

carlossainz55: that dress was MADE for you 😍

ynuser: pink certainly was made for me 🤭

carlossainz55: hell yea it was

user12: aboutta start barking

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, user8, user9, and 12,322 others

f1gossip: carlos sainz has been spotted getting rather comfortable with olympic gymnast, y/n y/l/n, on a group trip to the maldives with alex albon, lily muni he and a few other friends. could carlos and y/n be the newest grid couple?

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user1: carlos would make the perfect wag 🥹

user11: choosing to believe they did this for me

user4: real

user2: unexpected but obsessed

user3: lily playing matchmaker i seeeeeeeee

user2: everyone say thank you queen lily!

user4: nah y/n is so gorgeous it aint fair

user5: im sorry but can carlos even handle all that? 🤨

user55: pleaseeeeee my man has some game give him some credit😭😭😭😭

user8: i LOVE when pretty people date

ynuser has made a post

liked by lilymunihe, alexandrasaintmluex, ilonamaher, yourbff, carlossainz55, lando, badbunnypr, and 765,345 others

ynuser: thinking blue may be for me 🤭

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user1: yeah i agree ! it is!

lilymhe: ummm middle slide??? hello????

ynuser: hi 🥹🤨

user4: this is taking an unexpected turn

carlossainz55: gymnastics looks really cool

ynuser: f1 looks really cool

lando: coulda done better than this comment carlos

user11: a williams jersey???? guys look williamsracingf1

williamsracingf1: nice shirt ynuser! maybe you can come wear it in the paddock in zandvoort?

ynuser: i'd be happy to 🤭

user11: OMG MOTHER

ilonamaher: god youre perfect

ynuser: miss you bby

user8: i cant wait for the olympics to come back so i can cheer you on

carlossainz55 has added to his story

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user55: oh you taking this boyfriend thing seriously

alex_albon: still waiting on that thank you 🫩

carlossainz55: gracias cabron!

alex_albon: you are WELCOME!

carlossainz55: not sure what you did though it was all lily

alex_albon: no no no. i helped! i was the one who thought you and y/n would make a good match in the first place!

carlossainz55: hhaha well thank you my friend. i think we do make for a very good match

user1: you really said no i'm not going to soft launch im going straight for the real thing

teamusa: hope we can see you at the qualifiers 😏

carlossainz55: oh don't worry! i will be there to cheer on my girl

user7: if someone had to take you off the market im lowkey ok with it being her

ynuser: you take shockingly good pictures.... any chance you want to stop driving and be my full time photographer?

carlossainz55: hahahaha i would love to travel with you full time but unfortunately i have to keep driving my car ;)

ynuser: UGH just say you hate me 😭😭😭

carlossainz55: mi vida :(

ynuser: kidding carlosss 🤍🤍🤍🤍

carlossainz55: good!! you know i don’t hate you pretty girl

user44: clicked through this so quick i thought this was y/n's account not yours

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, user8, user9, and 11,422 others

f1gossip: looks like carlos sainz and y/n y/l/n are spending time with the sainz family in mallorca... seems like this may be slightly more than a summer break fling!

view all comments

user4: oh its real now huh

user5: yeeeessssss y/n part of sainz mafia now lets goooo

user3: wait lando there too? carlando forever fr

user6: happy for them (i’m gonna throw up)

user7: lilymhe great work

lilymhe: thanks 😉

user8: ynlos for the win

ynuser has posted to their story

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user1: i wanna go on a double date with you guys too 😭

lilymhe: im so excited that you're here in zandvoort!!!!! having a bestie in the garage with me is literally a dream come true 🥰

ynuser: i'm so excited to be here!! it all feels so surreal

lilymhe: hopefully in a good way?

ynuser: yes! it's just such new experience but i am excited nonetheless. also admittedly... a little nervous 😔

lilymhe: nervous!! how come?!!?!?!

ynuser: i'm just worried about him .. what if something happens?

lilymhe: ugh no i get that but he is a professional and will be ok! i promise!!

user4: oh so youre about to attend your first gp

carlossainz55: i could get used to this

ynuser: hehhe me too! traveling with you is quickly becoming one of my favorite things

carlossainz55: i'm glad to hear it mi amor because i was hoping you would maybe want to finish out the season with me before you have to start your training?

ynuser: like travel with you till abu dhabi?

carlossainz55: i mean yeah! only if you want to though. no pressure of course!!

ynuser: i would... absolutely love that carlos

carlossainz55: i'm glad to hear it

user8: submitting my application to be your new dog

ilonamaher: any chance lily wants to set me up with an f1 driver too

ynuser: omg yes i'm certain of it. lemme work my magic baby girl

user10: you are goals fr

ynuser has made a post

liked by alexandrasaintmluex, williamsracingf1, alex_albon, lando, yourbff, teamusa, lilymhe, and 543,234 others

ynuser: f1 is pretty cool i guess. thank you williamsracingf1 for having me and for proving to me that alex_albon actually has a job. oh and carlossainz55, good job out there baby 🥹❤️‍🔥

[tagged: yourbff, carlossainz55, lilymhe, alex_albon]

view all comments

user3: ive never seen alex actually drive myself so he might not have a job

lilymhe: olympic royalty has entered the vila 😍🤸🏻‍♀️

ynuser: glad to be alongside golf royalty ⛳️😍😮

user4: thank YOU for gracing the f1 paddock y/n

carlossainz55: thank you gorgeous girl. i think you may be my lucky charm 😘

ynuser: i sure hope i am 🥹💙

user8: never thought id get y/n/n wag content but im actually so here for it

williamsracingf1: you are welcome any time!!! and i hear we are going to be seeing you more often 😏

ynuser: oh yes you will admin 😍

user11: my niche interests coming together. good day for me

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: thanks for reading!! likes and reblogs appreciated!! two posts in two days??? who am i

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[libraryrana030]

BET ON IT | Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader {ft. the grid}

SUMMARY: When exactly is their anniversary? Can a couple have more than one? Or does Charles Leclerc just really like celebrating every milestone with the love of his life? One thing’s for sure—whatever the answer is, the grid is in way too deep to back out now.

Warnings: None. Just fluff and chaos.

Formula One drivers are some of the highest-paid athletes in the world. And for good reason. When you imagine them speeding down a track at over 300 kilometers an hour while fighting G-forces and making split-second decisions, while also being surrounded by other carbon fiber death traps, then the eight-figure paycheck starts to feel pretty justified.

Naturally, they have a lot of disposable income. And trust that they find a lot of creative ways to spend it. Grand gifts for their partners. Dream vacations. Post-race parties that start at night and end the next afternoon. Capital for side businesses that either make sense for them or…really don’t.  

These are the well-known, widely accepted expenses in a Formula One driver’s life.

But the lesser-known ones? Definitely more interesting.

They have betting pools. Small, definitely unofficial, and tragically unserious—the kind of thing you’d expect from a group of overgrown man-children with too much adrenaline in their veins and not enough sleep to balance it out. The wins are never about money (though a few hundred here or there never hurts), they’re about bragging rights and distractions from the highly competitive nature of their job.

There’s the baby gender pool that revives itself whenever a new babe is on their way to the paddock. George always bets on a girl and Alex bets on a boy just to annoy him.

Then there’s the baby name pool where whatever weird name you’re imagining has already been said out loud, usually by Charles, and written down, usually by Pierre, who takes the minutes like it’s an actual board meeting.

There’s the newest pool to bet on what kind of flashy or practical vehicle the newest grid members will buy first. The vets tend to project their own past choices, sometimes wisely, sometimes…often times…delusionally.

And then, of course, there’s the Fernando retirement pool. It’s been running so long no one even remembers who started it. And it has its own subcategories too: Exit years. Exit teams. Exit interviews. Lando has significant money riding on “He won’t go until the FIA physically pries the steering wheel from his hands.” 

These bets aren’t official. There’s no bookie, no spreadsheet—well, except maybe the one Pierre has and takes way too seriously. But everyone knows they exist. Everyone plays. 

And they usually start the same way.

A driver makes an offhand observation. Another disagrees. Then someone says the magic words: “Wanna bet on it?” And just like that, what started as a casual conversation snowballs into a full-on grid-wide debate.

Case in point: today.

“I thought Charles’ and Y/N’s anniversary was in March?” Isack asks, squinting at Charles, who’s fiddling with his phone with far too much concentration for someone not ordering something meaningful.

“No, it’s in December,” Yuki replies, leaning over the counter to get a better look. “I remember because I gave him restaurant recommendations last year. He said it was for a special day.”

“Actually, it’s February,” Max says, appearing out of nowhere like he always does when things get mildly chaotic. He plucks a grape off the table like he’s earned it. “On the second, I think. I told him where I buy flowers for Kelly—special occasion type of thing.”

“No, no, that can’t be,” Yuki shakes his head firmly. “I swear it was December. We were in Dubai, and he was making a whole thing about it.”

“Might’ve just been Christmas,” Max shrugs. “He’s sentimental like that.”

“But then what about February?” Isack counters. “Wouldn’t that just be Valentine’s? I swear I heard Y/N say their anniversary was coming up last March.”

The conversation quickly devolves into overlapping theories, hazy memories, and wildly confident statements based on very little actual fact.

No one really knows the answer. But no one’s backing down either.

Carlos happens to be walking past, an innocent man caught in the crossfire.

“Carlos!” Max calls out, waving him over with the enthusiasm of someone about to prove a point. “Do you know when Charles’ and Y/N’s anniversary is?”

Carlos blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, wow… um…” He pauses like he’s trying to remember his blood type under pressure. “Pretty sure it was February the second? I asked him to do a sim session that day and he said he couldn’t.”

Max slaps the table and pumps his fist. “See?”

Yuki groans. “No way. That still doesn’t explain the December dinner.”

“Maybe he just really likes dinners?” Isack offers half-heartedly.

At that, Lando—who had been pretending not to listen from the couch nearby—finally chimes in.

“I’m just saying,” he says with a smirk, “We can always just bet on it.”

By the time Charles walks in, the tally is written on a whiteboard someone borrowed from a who knows where. Half the grid has picked a month, and someone (Pierre) is already collecting money in an envelope.

“You’re not fucking with us, right?” Max asks, narrowing his eyes at Charles, who wears a small, knowing smirk—just enough to be smug, not enough to be helpful. “You do have an anniversary, right?”

Around him, the rest of the grid is in full investigative mode. Phones are out, thumbs are scrolling furiously. Some are trawling through Instagram feeds—both private and public—scrolling down to the far past for any suspiciously heartfelt posts and telltale captions. Someone’s trying to dig up photo metadata from the unofficial group chat archive. Others are animatedly rattling off hazy memories from seasons past and listing them on the board like they’re building a case in court.

Fernando fires off a quick message to Y/N about the answer and gets a single 👎 back. Lewis tries his luck too and receives a teasing: “Ask Charles :3”

“How many anniversaries can a couple even have?” Pierre demands, looking genuinely wounded. “The limit is one. There should only be one.”

“Exactly,” Yuki nods, arms crossed like a judge in a courtroom. “And because we know Charles is a romantic, we also know they only have one.”

“I don’t know, mate…” Carlos says, shaking his head slowly. “He likes to celebrate.”

“And cause chaos…” Max mutters, his tone grim with experience. “They might even celebrate every milestone.”

“We don’t celebrate every milestone,” Charles says, at last—calm, cool, and just vague enough to drive everyone mad. His tone is casual, but it’s laced with just enough implication to send the group spiraling again.

“So there’s definitely only one, yeah?” Lando asks, not even looking up from his phone, still scrolling through what’s clearly a deep dive into the archives.

“Definitely,” Oscar nods, too quickly. “That was an admission right there.”

But Charles just chuckles, low and amused, his gaze drifting as his thoughts pull away from the noise around him—back to a series of quiet moments, scattered across countries and seasons. The ones that never made it to social media. The ones that mattered.

February 2, 2021

You and Charles sit on a picnic blanket, pastries and fruit laid out between you, the fading Monaco sun casting everything in gold. The kind of golden that makes you think time might actually be slowing down, just to give you more of this.

It’s not exactly behavior fit for two people who claimed to be just friends, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when he was sitting this close. Not when the label meant less to you than the fact that Charles was in your life at all.

And if your fingers were just barely brushing against each other on the edge of the blanket—soft, tentative, electric—you didn’t mention it. Neither did he.

He talks, like he always does when he’s comfortable, his voice warm and unhurried. He tells you about growing up around here, about the streets he knows like the back of his hand, about the places he’s travelled for work, about the people who’ve shaped his life. You hang onto every word like it’s a lifeline—anchoring, steadying, safe.

“Obviously, you’re part of that too.” He clears his throat after the words slip out. “The people who make me…me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, though you school your features into something lighter. Playful. Something that won’t make it harder to keep pretending not to read between the lines.

“I mean, yeah,” you say with a small laugh, “We’re friends.”

“And you’re fine with…just that?”

You pause. The air stills for a moment. You take a breath deep enough to steady yourself. “Why would I ask for more when you’re already in my life?”

“Because you know there could be something more.”

“Charles, I—”

“You feel it too. I know you do.”

“Yes, but—”

“So be with me.”

The words fall between you, quiet but weighty. The breeze rolls gently through the trees. The sky blazes orange and pink behind him, but your world narrows to his eyes—focused, vulnerable, asking.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you say softly. “I like what we have now.”

“But it could be better,” he says, leaning just slightly closer. “You won’t lose me.”

Your brows knit, torn between caution and everything else in your chest that doesn’t feel so cautious.

“One date,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “Just one. So I can prove to you that you can trust me. That you can trust us.”

“Okay.” You smile, gentle and a little breathless, chuckling as you throw your hands up in mock defeat. “One date.”

He grins—wide and boyish and so, so handsome. The kind of smile that makes it feel like you just agreed to marry him instead of grabbing dinner next week.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“No takebacks.”

“I know.” You smile again, softer this time. Like you’re finally letting yourself have this.

His hand brushes yours again, this time deliberately. And you don’t move away.

March 18, 2021

One date turns into two, then into six, and before you even realize what’s happening, you’re dating Charles Leclerc.

There’s no Instagram post or grand declaration—not when there’s no label aside from exclusivity. Just the quiet comfort of knowing that you’re his and he’s yours.

There’s familiarity in the way he always makes sure you’re walking on the safe side of the road, in how he memorizes your coffee order and learns to make it exactly the way you like. In the way he sends a good morning text without fail, and another right before bed.

And the way he looks at you—treats you—is almost reverent. Like a prayer whispered daily, like he’s worshipping the ground you walk on and hoping this little life you’ve built together still has more to give.

It feels easy. Steady. Real.

Before long, his apartment becomes the place you’re in more than your own. Your toothbrush sits next to his in the bathroom. Your sweaters end up tangled in his laundry. His pantry somehow always has your favorite snacks—without you ever asking.

And there’s something about the way he always reaches for your hand—instinctively, subconsciously—like it’s something he’s done his whole life, something he can’t bear to live without.

Tonight, you’re curled up on the couch together, a movie playing quietly in the background, though neither of you are really watching. His head leans back against the cushions, fingers lazily tracing soft circles along your arm.

Then he turns to look at you, his eyes soft. Thoughtful.

“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly, voice almost hesitant.

“Of course.” You smile, shifting slightly so you’re facing him more fully.

“You know how we’ve been going out for a while now?”

You nod.

“What would you call us?”

A pause.

Oh.

It was going to be that conversation.

“I think I’d say we were dating,” you reply slowly, cautiously—like you’re feeling out the words, testing how they sit between you. “But I think… we could be a little more.” You take a breath. “If you want.”

“Really?” he says, smiling in that quiet, boyish way like he still can’t believe this is real. Like part of him is afraid you might disappear.

“Charles…” You lean in closer. “I’d like to be your girlfriend. Officially.” A beat. “If you’ll have me.”

He lifts a hand to your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheek like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Oh, mon ange,” he says with a smile so tender it almost breaks you, “I’ll always want you.”

You don’t say anything at first—just smile, wide and full of something warm that settles deep in your chest. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed for a beat, like you’re letting the moment sink in.

And when he kisses you—slow and certain and entirely yours—it doesn’t feel like a beginning or an ending. It feels like coming home. Like you were finally where you were meant to be.

Somewhere behind you, the movie keeps playing. The city hums quietly outside the window. But here, in the space between his hand and your heartbeat, time stretches a little longer.

Like the universe is giving you both a second to simply exist—together, officially, finally.

And for once, you let yourself believe that this could be the kind of love that stays.

December 19, 2024

During the season, Charles belongs to Ferrari—their ever loyal, ever patient driver who stays even when the team lets him down again and again. But when the races end and the world quiets, he’s all yours. Always eager to come home to your arms, where the only thing he has to chase is your laugh.

This off-season, he’s taken you to the mountains. No snow—he says he’s had enough of that for a few winters now—but the air is crisp, cool enough to nip at your cheeks without making you shiver. The cabin he’s rented is small, secluded, and perfect.

Just the two of you.

Most days are spent tangled in the sheets, passing time with lazy kisses and warm skin. You cook together. Nap often. Wake slowly. It feels like the kind of peace that people spend their whole lives chasing—the kind that you’ve always wished would be yours one day.

Today, though, you’ve decided to venture outside. The sun is soft overhead as you walk through the open fields nearby, your steps light, your voice filled with awe as you fawn over wildflowers and tall grass and the way the wind plays with the trees. You stop every few steps to take photos, snapping shots of petals, sunlight, and Charles—who, of course, always loves being the subject of your attention.

Then, just ahead of the winding path, you catch sight of something. A structure—simple, white, and elegant. It blends into the scenery like it was always meant to be there, decorated with the same flowers you’ve been admiring all morning.

Your eyes widen, excitement blooming in your chest. “Come on!” you say, grabbing Charles’s hand and tugging him forward. “I need photos right there.”

He laughs, letting you lead the way, his fingers laced through yours. His grip tightens slightly as you get closer, but you don’t think much of it. You’re too focused on the way the light hits the archway, how the white glows against the green.

You step inside, twirling once, breathless with delight. “Charlie, it’s beautiful!”

When he doesn’t answer, you turn around—ready to pull him in for a selfie or make him pose again—but freeze the second you see him.

He’s not where you left him. He’s a few steps behind now.

And he’s on one knee.

No words yet. No question. Just his eyes on you, steady and full of something deeper than you’ve ever seen.

Your breath catches. The wind stills.

And suddenly, you understand why he let you drag him here. Why he’s been holding your hand so tightly all morning. Why he’s been smiling like he’s carrying a secret.

Because he was.

You gasp, hands flying to your mouth as your eyes well with tears.

Charles looks up at you with that same steady gaze—the one that always made you feel like the center of his universe.

“When I first asked you for a chance,” he begins, voice low but sure, “I always hoped we’d end up here.”

Your breath catches.

“Since then, you’ve stayed through everything. The good. The bad. Even the ugly moments—especially the ones where I thought for sure you’d had enough.” He smiles, eyes glinting with something soft. “But you stayed.”

He swallows, and his hand trembles just slightly where it holds the ring box.

“I don’t have a long speech or anything rehearsed. I just know that I love you. I love how you turned a plain apartment into a home I always want to come back to. I love the life we’ve built—shared pantry, shared closet…a dog.” He chuckles, and the sound makes your chest ache. “I want all of it. Forever. If you’ll have me.”

The tears spill freely now, warm and unstoppable.

And then, as if he hadn’t already shattered you in the best way possible, he gives you the smile—the one he saves just for you—and asks the question.

“Will you marry me?”

There’s no hesitation. No doubt. No fear.

“Yes.” You nod through the tears, laughing through the ache in your throat. “One hundred percent, yes.”

And in that quiet, sunlit clearing, the world narrows down to the two of you—just love, and a promise, and the beginning of the rest of your lives.

Present Day

You walk into the room, Leo tucked securely in your arms, the other WAGs following close behind.

“I heard you boys were having a very interesting conversation,” you say, handing Leo off to Charles—who, naturally, is all too happy to take his son (dog) into his arms like he’s just been reunited with royalty.

“Yeah, actually,” Pierre pipes up, waving a money-filled envelope in the air like a flag of war. “Your anniversary. When is it?” He gestures dramatically at the whiteboard now covered in scribbled dates and half-baked theories.

You walk over to examine it. Some of the dates make sense—February 2nd, March 18, December 19—and others are...ambitious guesses, at best. One even says “The Monaco Miracle” with a question mark.

You turn back to the group, all of them watching you like students awaiting the final exam key.

“We have more than one anniversary.”

Chaos erupts instantly.

“What do you mean more than one?!” “That’s illegal!” “There should be a limit—one per couple!” “Are you telling me I’ve been defending March 18 for nothing?” “Absolutely not, I demand a change in ruling!”

You can’t help but laugh as you walk back over to Charles, who presses a kiss to your cheek without missing a beat.

“I think we should let them keep this up for a bit,” you say, amused. “What do you think?”

He glances at the growing storm of debate—George and Max now standing shoulder to shoulder like war generals defending February 2nd as if they haven’t been at each other’s throats all season. Meanwhile Pierre is demanding a tribunal over “all this emotional damage.”

Charles grins. “It’s good team building.”

“We’ll give you two more hours before we get the cash!” you call out over the noise, grinning as the drivers descend into even louder arguments.

Charles gives you a smirk, that familiar knowing look that says you’re up to something, and I love it.

“The envelope is packed,” you say with a shrug, eyes twinkling. “The time limit makes them bet even more.”

You gesture toward the increasingly chaotic scene, where someone is trying to create a new subcategory for “first photo post-launch.”

“Then,” you add with a smile, “We can get Leo more toys.”

Charles laughs, shifting Leo in his arms as the dog rests his head against his chest like a prince surveying his kingdom.

“You spoil him.”

“What can I say?” you say, crossing your arms smugly. “Our son should get the best. And I know how to handle bets.”

And judging by the state of the board and the envelope nearly bursting with bills, no one could argue otherwise.

[libraryrana030]

let me at em' | oscar piastri social media au

pairing: oscar piastri x fem albon reader

alex’s sister goes on love island and has a horrible time… good thing there’s someone waiting who knows how to treat her

MASTERLIST | OSCAR PIASTRI MASTERLIST

loveisland

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loveisland: meet another one of the new islanders! y/n albon is a fashion designer from london… and yes she is the baby sister of formula one driver alex albon!

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user1: finally some good fucking casting for love island

user2: i mean she looks good but like is she going to be good tv?

user3: i’ve just deepdived on her tiktok and it seems like she makes her brother’s life hell when he’s with her

user4: f1 fans know she’s an icon and a menace

alexalbon: take care of my baby sister itv or else

alexalbon: i’d threaten you with lawyers but i’m the broke f1 driver

maxverstappen1: you can have mine!

alexalbon: thank you max

alexalbon: let any crusty man fuck with my sister and you’ll have max verstappen’s lawyers to deal with

user5: can the f1 fans like fill us in on her personality and stuff!!!!

user6: she’s very much like alex in that she’s very playful but also very sarcastic - she’s close to a lot of the grid, having known a lot of them for a very very long time!

user7: oh she’s such a lovergirl it’s insane

user8: her last relationship was so cute on her side, like she’s very much a gift giving person and puts everything into the relationship - you can tell because she was destroyed by the breakup

user9: ^^ this makes me a little scared because love island do not have a good track record with men who treat women right

user10: i am not looking forward to them fumbling her - especially when they find out who she’s connected to

user11: i hope she keeps her brother to herself so none of the boys try and take advantage

alexalbon: can yall stop you’re freaking me THE FUCK OUT

alexalbon

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alexalbon: me watching crusty, dusty and musty men treat my sister like trash

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user16: we need a PROPER gentleman bombshell in there right fucking now

user17: i feel so bad watching her cry… i can’t imagine how it feels with her being your actual family

user18: production need to be doing WAY more in my opinion

georgerussell63: it’s nearly over alex, don’t worry

alexalbon: IT SHOULD BE OVER NOW

alexalbon: she should legally be allowed to beat their asses

alexalbon: if i see one of them laughing about her while she’s crying again i WILL lose my shit

georgerussell63: let’s go back to the dart board buddy

user19: the … DARTS BOARD?

georgerussell63: he’s got a darts board set up with print outs of the the boys fucking with y/n and he’s been throwing darts at their faces for hours

user20: anyone else think this is a bit too far?

alexalbon: they deserve worse for what they’ve done to y/n

lando: slay

oscarpiastri: speak on it

lando: why are you in family business?

oscarpiastri: can i not be angry on y/n’s behalf?

lando: angry for y/n or angry at the boys for having a chance with her?

oscarpiastri: ERM?

lando: shut up we all know you’ve got a big fat crush on her

oscarpiastri: LANDO THIS IS NOT ALEX’S PRIVATE ACCOUNT???

lando: i know!

alexalbon: honestly can mclaren lend you to itv???

oscarpiastri: kinda have a world championship to win?

alexalbon: oh so you don’t want a chance with y/n?

oscarpiastri: i’ll let her make her decision

user21: too much happened in this comment section

user22: and yet i need even more

loveislandnews

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tagged: yourusername & loveisland

loveislandnews: there were over 48,000 complaints to ofcom last night over the treatment of y/n albon in the love island villa. since arriving in the villa, y/n has been verbally picked at by all of the male contestants, has been manipulated in a love triangle and has been isolated from nearly all of the girls and in the last couple of episodes has only been shown crying and being alone.

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user25: the producers have really let her down this season

user26: all the fuss about them being better since the past and they’ve let this bullying go all season

user27: kinda crazy since y/n brought such a big audience this season

user28: i say we let ALL of the albon pets in for family day so they can BITE THEIR ANKLES

albon_pets: don’t give us an idea

user29: i think it’s fair game after the boys laughed at the names of you guys

user30: we should’ve known they were bad news at the first old cat lady joke

user31: i mean is it really that deep because a load of f1 drivers make that joke about her all the time and she gladly laughs then

user32: baby girl it’s all about intention - they love her love for her cats, these boys genuinely couldn’t give a fuck

this comment was liked by oscarpiastri

user33: i’m sorry why is oscar piastri lurking in love island news instagram comments

lando: he’s checking in on his boo thang

oscarpiastri: she’s not my boo thang?!

user34: but if you hadn’t have been a pussy she would’ve been and NONE OF THIS NONSENSE WOULDVE HAPPENED

alexalbon: they make a compelling point oscar

alexalbon: that’s it you’re being added to the darts board

oscarpiastri: ???? WHY ???

oscarpiastri: you guys are all saying this like it was a done deal she doesn’t even like me hence why she WENT ON LOVE ISLAND

user35: tbf even i know that’s bullshit because that girl LIGHTS up when she talks about oscar - even on love island

alexalbon: see !!!!

oscarpiastri: i am really not comfortable with you guys all speaking for y/n - it’s her place to reject me not you guys

oscarpiastri: now can we all please delete these comments PR are blowing up my phone

user36: how can we do the tweet challenge just with this whole exchange

user37: i know ian stirling has the NASTIEST joke lined up for this situation

user38: don’t let this tomfoolery distract you from the fact that these men have absolutely destroyed this girl - i don’t think we’ve seen her smile in episodes

oscarpiastri: they need to die

user39: i thought PR was on your ass

oscarpiastri: but this needed to be said

oscarpiastri: they can’t silence the TRUTH

f1

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f1: a hot new bombshell has hit the paddock

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user41: oh look how she’s GLOWING already

user42: it really was them and NOT her

user43: we been known

user44: the way oscar was in the likes before me… does he just have a sixth sense for y/n content

alexalbon: idk does he ? @ oscar piastri

oscarpiastri: woah it was bad enough baiting me out when she had no access to her phone but i know she’s back to at least 14 hours of screentime

yourusername: is it allowed when most of the hours were on facetime to you?

alexalbon: exsqueeze me

yourusername: we had to catch up on the hot gossip

lando: they were shit talking me real loud

oscarpiastri: no ?

yourusername: and fucking what

lando: nothing!

yourusername: exactlyyyyyyy

user45: she’s making fun of lando again she’s got her spark back

user46: she looked very, very happy to be by the mclaren garage

alexalbon: she’s such a loser omg

user47: so how is this any different to what the boys in the villa said?

yourusername: that’s my brother bozo not a random electrician with a hair transplant and misogyny problems

maxverstappen1: i’m bored and the car is shit so like oscar can you make a move i wanna watch something 🍿

oscarpiastri: MAX?

maxverstappen1: bro that girl is just as pathetic as you

maxverstappen1: she basically went on a dating show just to get your attention

yourusername: THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED?

maxverstappen1: but you were pining once you were in there and you realised that 99% of the male population are not as good as oscar piastri

oscarpiastri: i am right here!

yourusername: you guys are both meant to be getting ready to get in the car???

maxverstappen1: you can’t avoid this forever….

user48: why am i in the same trenches as max rn

alexalbon: they’re freakishly bonded… they’ve got a 700 day streak on duolingo and she treats their text thread like a diary

yourusername

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yourusername: i heard that i had an admirer on the outside

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user49: OMG THEY’RE SO CUTE

user50: why did i have to suffer through her being tortured on love fucking island if we knew the whole time these idiots liked each other

alexalbon: THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING

yourusername: have you guys considered i needed to kiss a couple frogs to get my prince

alexalbon: gross

oscarpiastri: my patience payed off - i’ve got myself a queen :3

loveislandboy: rude?

oscarpiastri: i actually think you should cease to exist

loveislandboy: excuse me?

yourusername: gosh that’s so hot

maxverstappen1: i am so happy for you guys… they grow up so fast

georgerussell63: idk who you think you are max but as her other brother i am HAPPIER for her

oscarpiastri: and not me?

georgerussell63: be quiet oscar, max and i are arguing here

maxverstappen1: put your duolingo streak on the table bozo

georgerussell63: well only one of us were asked to go in for the family and friends episode

maxverstappen1: oh he doesn’t know…

yourusername: max don’t !!!!!!!

georgerussell63: what?

maxverstappen1: there never was an invite

georgerussell63: i can literally show you the email rn

alexalbon: max….

maxverstappen1: it’s not real LOL

maxverstappen1: alex, oscar and i got asked and we didn’t want you to get your feelings hurt

georgerussell63: BLASPHEMY

user52: i’m crying - y/n was going through psychological torture but they had to fabricate an email to placate george

alexalbon: let’s just say both i and itv were glad when y/n tapped out before the episode

oscarpiastri: anyway…

oscarpiastri: i do admire you… a lot… too much

oscarpiastri: actually i don’t think i can admire you TOO much

yourusername: you’re the cutest ever omg

yourusername: i admire you too

yourusername: if my ramblings weren’t making me obvious enough

oscarpiastri: dinner after the race…?

yourusername: only if i get dessert afterwards

alexalbon: GRIM.

oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri: get your ‘i told you so’s out now i’ve got a date with a girl who’s just my type on paper

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user53: bro getting all big for his boots now he got gentle-parent-ed to asking out a girl

user54: he’s such a virgin loser

yourusername: gOOD

yourusername: i don’t want anyone else to have touched him

oscarpiastri: yes ma’am

user55: oh so he really as pathetic as they said

yourusername: i didn’t lie when i said my type was pathetic on love island

lando: you gonna take that bro?

oscarpiastri: yes? highest compliment in my opinion

alexalbon: i think i’m allowed to say i told you so for the rest of my life

alexalbon: even during a best man speech…

logansargeant: woah … stealing my car that one time wasn’t enough for you? you gotta steal being best man too?

oscarpiastri: we’re talking weddings already?

yourusername: you don’t want to marry me?

oscarpiastri: I DO !!!!!!!

yourusername: say the words baby

alexalbon: gosh you guys are gross

yourusername: bruv i saw the pics of you crying over how i was treated in the villa… i know you’re happy really

alexalbon: i am!!! but like surely me and lily aren’t this annoying …

yourusername: whatever you wanna hear babe

lando: bro my culture is not your costume

yourusername: i knew you got a hair transplant

lando: no ???

oscarpiastri: so that’s why you’re always ‘exploring a connection’

lando: why has he started talking back to me?

oscarpiastri: i fought the love island demons - i can fight you too

yourusername: let me be your ring girl xxxx

user56: so they’ve just always been like this? and they kept it from us?

yourusername: it’s called we were both horribly pining and didn’t want to embarrass ourselves… so i went on love island and embarrassed myself

oscarpiastri: no - you’re the purest of heart and they didn’t deserve you - thank god

yourusername: UGH I LOVE YOU

oscarpiastri: i love you too :3

user56: way to flex on me thanks guys

fin.

note: it be like that... i'm celebrating summer break :((((

[libraryrana030]

hiii for doriane i was thinking that reader is like an actress or singer or something and she always goes to races/becomes friends with some of the drivers, so people start speculating she's dating one of them (prob lewis or lando, i swear those two always have rumors😭). meanwhile, she's like hardcore pining after dori and has no idea what to do lol (i love slow burn🫡) also bonus if lewis is fully treating reader as his grid kid

stuck on you — doriane pin

smau + written blurbs

doriane pin x !popstar reader

you weren’t supposed to fall for doriane pin. you were supposed to show up to a few races, look effortlessly cool in the paddock, laugh with lewis, dodge dating rumors, and go back to your world of flashing lights and sold out arenas.

but then she looked at you—really looked at you—and suddenly none of it mattered.

now the whole world thinks you’re in love with a driver.

and maybe you are.

just not the one they think.

fc : sabrina carpenter

—

yourusername

liked by lando, lewishamilton, dorianepin and 3,740,000 others.

yourusername : sold out two nights at the o2 then went to see my besties at silverstone:) forever in love with you, england 🫶🏻💋🤧

tagged : lewishamilton, lando & dorianepin

—

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lando : glad i made the cut but deeply offended u caught me in my entrepreneur era 💀

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : i respect the hustle king

liked by lando

↳ username77 : omg these two. i ship it so hard

↳ username15 : me too but i feel like she is w lewis

lewishamilton : You absolutely crushed it. Silverstone loves you, but not as much as we do ❤️🏁

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : miss you already lew:)

liked by lewishamilton

↳ username57 : hmmmmm 🐟🐟

georgerussell63 : Wait… I was at Silverstone too. Hello? (I am also British)

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : don’t act like I didn’t have tea with you each morning 🙄

liked by georgerussell63

dorianepin : You somehow managed to make England look so good. 🤍

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : so happy to see you again, dori<33

liked by dorianepin

↳ username0000 : dori???? what the actual fuck. slice me open why don’t you

charles_leclerc : I’m in none of the photos but I was there. Noted.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : not your home race charles🥴

liked by charles_leclerc

↳ georgerussell63 : it’s not doriane’s either…HEY. who said that? damn wind.

liked by charles_leclerc, dorianepin, lando, lewishamilton and yourusername

↳ yourusername : what can i say? she’s just a beauty.

liked by dorianepin and lewishamilton

lilymhe : alex and i were fangirling the entire time, could you tell???

liked by yourusername and alex_albon

↳ yourusername : only noticed alex bc he kept stuttering and asked if i always look this sparkly ✨

liked by lilymhe and alex_albon

↳ alex_albon : ITS A VALID QUESTION. she left a trail of rhinestones

liked by lilymhe and yourusername

—

flashback

miami gp after party ; 12:32 am

You don’t remember much about the party itself—just heat, lights, and the kind of overproduced glamour that sticks to your skin like sweat.

Someone handed you a drink. Lewis kissed your cheek hello. You laughed at something Lando said that wasn’t even that funny.

And then—

Then she walked in.

Doriane Pin. Cool, impossibly calm in a sea of noise and neon. You recognized her immediately. Of course you did. She was all precision and poise, wrapped in black linen and quiet confidence.

You weren’t planning on speaking to her. You’re great with cameras, with crowds, with fake smiles—but she made your knees feel like paper.

Still, somehow, fate (and Lewis, probably) dropped her right in front of you.

“YN,” she said, voice soft but firm. A nod. A small smile. “I like your music.”

That’s all it took.

A four-second interaction, max. Maybe five if you count the way she held your gaze just a little too long before walking away.

You didn’t breathe until she was across the room again. And when she glanced back—just once—you knew you were done for.

No one else noticed. You were surrounded by cameras, laughter, champagne flutes. But all you could think about for the rest of the night was her voice in your ear and the impossible stillness of her presence.

She liked your music.

You’ve replayed it a hundred times since. A thousand. And each time, you wonder if it meant more than it sounded like. If it meant anything at all.

You haven’t spoken since.

But every race you’ve attended after that?

You went hoping she’d be there, too.

—

present day!

silverstone

The sun is non existent, the crowd is insane, and somehow you’ve ended up standing in a trailer next to Lando Norris—who is genuinely out here selling his own merch like it’s a farmer’s market.

He’s sweating through a neon bucket hat and shouting, “Two shirts for fifty! I’ll sign them, I swear I’m famous!” like a lunatic, and you’re laughing so hard you almost drop a cap someone just handed you to sign. It’s not even your cap.

“I don’t work here,” you murmur as you scribble a little heart next to your name anyway.

“You do now,” Lando grins, handing you a bright yellow tote bag. “You’re the only reason people are actually stopping. I should be paying you.”

“You should be paying me,” you shoot back. “You have a whole team for this.”

“And yet none of them are international popstars with a Grammy and 80 million followers,” he says sweetly, batting his lashes.

You roll your eyes and swat at his shoulder just as someone nearby snaps a photo. Great. Another round of rumors coming up.

After fifteen more minutes of pure chaos (and Lando sneakily Venmo-ing you a suspicious £23 with the note “brand ambassador duties”), you wave him off and make your way toward the paddock. You’ve got about thirty minutes before the next session starts, and Lewis said he’d be in the Ferrari hospitality area.

You’re hoping for AC. Maybe fruit. Possibly shade. But what you don’t expect—what absolutely ruins your brain—is the sight of Doriane Pin sitting on the outdoor sofa next to him, legs crossed, sunglasses perched atop her head, hair in a braid, sipping from a bottle of water like she belongs there.

Because apparently… she does.

“There she is,” Lewis says when he sees you, standing to pull you into a warm, familiar hug. “The busiest woman in England. Congrats on the shows, by the way. Absolutely smashed it.”

You smile, trying not to melt. “Thanks, Lew. I could hear you screaming during the second chorus of Feather, by the way.”

He laughs, shameless. “Guilty.”

And then—finally—his attention shifts.

“Oh, have you two actually met?” he asks, turning toward the couch. “YN, this is Doriane. She’s one of my mentees this season. Brightest mind in the paddock, don’t let the cool face fool you.”

“I—uh—yeah,” you manage. “We’ve… met.”

Doriane stands. She’s in a simple Mercedes polo and dark jeans but somehow looks like she could model for a luxury yacht brand. Her eyes meet yours, steady as ever.

“Hi again,” she says. A small smile, a little tilt of her head. “I heard about the shows. You were incredible.”

Your heart does something violent in your chest.

You nod, trying not to beam. “Thanks. I—uh, I saw your last race. You were brilliant.”

She shrugs, but you catch the faintest blush under her cheekbones.

“I had a good setup,” she says, modest.

Lewis, very clearly sensing something, sips his smoothie and looks between you two like a proud dad watching a high school rom-com play out.

“Doriane’s been helping out this weekend,” he adds casually. “Really sharp instincts. You two should talk.”

“I’d like that,” she says.

You don’t even hear yourself agree. You’re too busy watching the way she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, the way her eyes flick to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting away.

Lewis coughs loudly. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it. I have… tires to look at.”

He disappears before you can thank him, and now it’s just you and Doriane, standing in a sliver of shade with the crowd murmuring in the distance and your heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your ribcage.

“So…” you say, voice a little too high.

“So,” she echoes, smiling a little more now. “Someone said you were out front selling merch.”

You groan. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m being rebranded as a paddock intern.”

“I saw the photos,” she says. “You looked… happy.”

You glance at her. “I am. Right now, especially.”

There’s a beat. Then another. And for a second, it feels like she might say something else—but someone calls her name over the radio, and she glances back with an apologetic look.

“I should go,” she says. “But… will you still be around after quali?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

“Good.” She hesitates, then leans in—just a little. Close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. “Save me a seat if you find a good view?”

You smile. “Always.”

And then she’s gone, and you’re left standing there like an idiot, heart full, head spinning, trying not to scream into the nearest Ferrari-branded pillow.

—

The mood is buzzing inside the Mercedes garage—data being analyzed, quiet chatter filling the air, the subtle clink of water bottles and laptops being set down. Everyone’s cautiously optimistic. You’re just here for the vibes.

You pop in wearing sunglasses, a team pass around your neck, and one of those oversized team jackets they give you when they like you just enough. You’re definitely not technically supposed to be in the garage—but George had texted you a simple “Come find me. I need emotional validation.”

As soon as you enter, George’s head perks up like a Labrador.

“There she is,” he grins, stepping around a workbench to pull you into a hug. “Popstar. Paddock royalty. Merch girl. Is there anything you don’t do?”

“Drive,” you reply, mock-serious. “I leave that to the overly dramatic men in fireproof suits.”

You both laugh, and you think that’s the highlight of the moment—until you turn your head and see her.

Doriane is standing near the back of the garage, hair still tied back, hands in her pockets, half-listening to an engineer. She’s wearing the Mercedes black like she was born in it. You don’t even realize you’ve drifted away from George until you’re suddenly standing in front of her, trying to play it cool despite the actual heartquake happening in your chest.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” she replies, smile slow and soft like molasses. “Back again.”

“I’m consistent,” you say, voice light. “Like rain in London. Or Lando blowing the start.”

Doriane snorts—a proper laugh this time—and god, it feels like winning something.

“I thought you were Ferrari’s favorite now,” she says, teasing. “Spotted with Lewis. Hanging in the garage. Wearing red…”

“Yeah, well…” you smile. “Red looks good on me. But I think I make anything work.”

Her eyebrows lift just slightly. “That’s true.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“I’ve seen the photos,” she says. “You could wear a trash bag and the internet would call it fashion-forward.”

You laugh, cheeks burning now. “You spend a lot of time reading internet commentary?”

“Only when it’s about you.”

Oh.

OH.

You’re caught—properly caught off guard—and for a second, all you can do is smile like an idiot. Doriane looks pleased with herself. Which would be annoying if she didn’t look so good doing it.

And that’s when you hear it:

A very poorly stifled snort.

You glance past her shoulder—and there they are.

George and Lewis. Crouched behind a literal tire stack, heads poking out like nosy toddlers playing hide-and-seek, trying very hard to pretend they’re not absolutely eavesdropping on your soft little flirt fest.

“Are you kidding me?” you deadpan, pointing.

Doriane turns around slowly. When she spots them, she just smiles—cool, unbothered, a little smug.

Lewis stands up like a guilty teenager, hands raised. “What? We were… checking tire temps.”

“With your ears?” you ask.

George grins, totally shameless. “This is better than Drive to Survive. Carry on.”

Doriane turns back to you, that quiet little smile returning. “We should go somewhere with fewer… fans.”

You nod, laughing now. “Yeah. Before they start live-tweeting us.”

As the two of you slip out of the garage, George calls out behind you:

“Text me if you kiss!”

“GEORGE,” Lewis scolds.

But neither of you turn back. You’re too busy walking shoulder to shoulder with Doriane, hearts racing, stupid smiles tugging at your lips.

—

You don’t remember agreeing to it. Not officially, anyway.

She’d said, “You should come by after the race. There’s a place I want to try.”

And you—stupid, heart-eyed, and entirely helpless—had nodded like you weren’t already rearranging your entire day to make that happen.

So now you’re here, standing in front of a tiny café tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop on a sleepy cobblestone side street just outside of the circuit. No paparazzi. No fans. Just a little handwritten chalkboard that reads Fresh Tea & Toasted Things and a bell above the door that chimes when you push it open.

The place is warm and small and smells like cinnamon. There’s only five tables and no one looks up when you walk in.

Except her.

Doriane’s in the corner, tucked into the seat of a booth like she’s been there all her life. She’s wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap—not team gear for once—but she still looks exactly like herself: composed, unreadable, magnetic.

And then she smiles. Soft. Real. Just for you.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says as you slide into the seat across from her.

“I didn’t think you’d invite me,” you reply.

She shrugs like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal for two people who barely speak to meet up alone in a hidden café for an unspoken not-date. But the way her eyes soften tells you otherwise. You talk. That’s all. You talk about nothing and everything.

She asks what the O2 shows felt like—if you get stage fright, if you can even see the audience from the lights. You ask what her first race was like—if she actually breathes during stints, if she’s ever scared.

She listens so intently it makes you nervous. And when she does speak, it’s thoughtful. Quiet. There’s a calm to her that settles into your chest like warmth, like honey, like safety.

“I liked your song,” she says after a while, lifting her tea to her lips. “The one with the line about... what was it? ‘fell in love with your silence and smile'?’”

You freeze. Blink.

“You listened to that one?”

She nods, completely unfazed. “I’ve listened to most of them.”

You’re pretty sure your soul just left your body.

“I wrote that when I couldn’t stop thinking about this girl,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“Oh?” Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are laser-sharp.

“Yeah,” you nod, swirling the spoon in your tea. “She was quiet. Stoic. A little terrifying. Very fast. Kind of ruined my life, if I’m honest.”

There’s a pause. Then Doriane sets down her cup. Her hand brushes yours across the table—lightly, intentionally—and she says, “You’ll have to introduce me sometime.”

You laugh. “Might be awkward.”

“Why?”

“She’s sitting across from me.”

That gets her. A blink, a breath, then a smile that knocks the wind out of you.

“Good. I was hoping it was me.”

You end up staying for hours. Long after the tea’s gone cold and your toast is just crumbs on mismatched plates. You talk about how weird it is to live in front of people. You talk about your favorite books. She tells you she hates strawberries but loves strawberry jam. You tell her you wrote a song once about someone’s hands and now you can’t remember whose they were about.

She says: “Maybe they were about mine.”

And you don’t correct her. You don’t want to. Eventually, the café starts to close. The barista wipes down the counter and dims the lights, and still you both linger, reluctant to leave the bubble you’ve built. Doriane walks you out, and the air is cooler now, soft with the promise of rain. She doesn’t say goodbye immediately. Instead, she looks at you like she’s trying to memorize something.

“Thank you,” she says. “For coming.”

“I’d come anywhere if you asked,” you admit quietly.

Her expression falters—just slightly. Then she leans in and kisses your cheek. Slow. Warm. Deliberate. It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does.

She pulls back and murmurs, “Next time, maybe something more official.”

You nod, already breathless. “Please.”

She smirks. “I’ll wear Ferrari red. Just to make George mad.”

You laugh as she walks away down the street, hoodie pulled up, hands in her pockets, like she didn’t just knock the world off its axis with one look. And you’re left there in front of the café, smiling like an idiot, texting Lewis three words:

You were right.

—

several weeks later...

yourusername

liked by lewishamilton, georgerussell63, dorianepin and 5,700,000 others.

yourusername : dump from these last few beautiful weeks...<3

tagged : dorianepin and lewishamilton

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georgerussell63 : excuse me i need to go scream into a pillow

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susie_wolff : I am very nosey and need both of you to answer my texts.

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lewishamilton : i better get writing credits when this album comes out

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dorianepin : pretty girl

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oscarpiastri : even my mum asked if you and doriane are dating. please clarify before she starts a stan account

liked by yourusername and dorianepin

—

You were seated cross legged on the studio couch, a spiral notebook resting open on your lap, your pen hovering over half finished lyrics. Across the room, Lewis adjusted the sliders on the soundboard, headphones around his neck and a mug of tea in one hand. The speakers played back the last take—your voice, a little breathy, talking-singing through a love song that wasn’t quite ready to be called one yet.

Lewis turned down the volume, glancing over his shoulder at you with a little smirk.

“You’re stalling.”

You groaned, flopping backward dramatically against the cushions. “I’m thinking, not stalling.”

“You’ve rewritten that one line like four times,” he said gently, walking over and sitting beside you. “Either you’re unsure about the lyrics, or you’re unsure about the girl.”

You blinked up at him. He just sipped his tea, like he hadn’t just read you like a book.

“…Am I that obvious?”

Lewis chuckled. “I’ve been around you long enough to know when something’s messing with your heart. You’ve been humming sad songs all week.”

You sat up, the notebook slipping off your lap as you rubbed your hands over your face. “It’s Doriane,” you admitted, voice a little shy around the edges. “It’s been her for a while now. I’m just… really deep in it, and I don’t know how to say it out loud.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “You songs are more obvious than you know. I think you’ve said plenty out loud.”

You laughed—too loud, too sharp—and then it faded, softening into something more vulnerable. “She left me a letter the other day. Signed it… ‘your girl.’”

Lewis froze mid-sip. “Sorry—she signed it your girl?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just left it folded on my windowsill after we went to that lake. Said it felt like a perfect day. She wrote about the way the light hit the water. How peaceful it felt. And then at the end it just said, ‘Until next time. Your girl.’” You swallowed. “I haven’t known how to act since.”

Lewis leaned back, quiet for a moment. He looked thoughtful, like he was flipping through possibilities in his head.

“Okay,” he finally said. “You love her. That’s clear. But you’re scared she didn’t mean it how you read it?”

“I mean… she’s Doriane Pin. She’s cool and composed and the grid’s next legend. And I’m just the walking chaos pop girl who wears glitter eyeliner to the paddock and has everyone convinced I’m dating you or Lando.”

Lewis smiled softly. “You’re not ‘just’ anything, YN. You’re magic. And Doriane’s not blind. You think I haven’t seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching?”

You looked over at him, startled. “You have?”

He nodded. “She gets quiet when you’re around. Watches you with this kind of awe. Like she’s trying not to give herself away. Reminds me a little of how I used to be… back when I thought love was something you had to keep quiet.”

Your expression softened. “So what do I do?”

He shrugged, smiling. “You do what you always do. You write. You feel everything out loud. You be brave. And if she’s ‘your girl,’ she’ll meet you there.”

You blinked a few times, overwhelmed.

Then you leaned against him, head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Lewis.”

“Always, kid,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Now let’s turn that letter into a bridge that makes millions sob.”

You both laughed, and somehow, your heart felt a little less heavy.

—

flashback

It was the kind of afternoon that only seemed to exist in coming-of-age movies. The sun was low enough to make everything gold, the air thick with pine and lavender, and the still water of the lake shimmered like a mirror. You had your sunglasses pushed up into your hair and your legs stretched out on the blanket, trying to look relaxed despite your heart doing somersaults.

Doriane stood at the edge of the lake, arms crossed loosely as she watched a pair of ducks drift by. She was wearing that pink skirt. It clung to the breeze and caught the light, like it was always meant to be seen here, by you.

Her braid had started to come undone. A few soft strands clung to the side of her cheek, and you had to look away before you did something insane like brush them back.

She turned her head slightly over her shoulder. “You’re quiet.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m just… taking it in.”

She walked back to where you were sitting, her sandals swinging from her fingers. “The lake or the moment?”

You didn’t answer right away. It felt like a trick question — like if you said the moment, you’d be saying too much. But if you said the lake, she’d know you were lying.

So instead, you glanced up at her and said, “Both.”

Doriane didn’t tease. She didn’t press. She just nodded once and sat beside you, close but not touching. You watched a ladybug crawl up her knee and wondered what it would feel like to fall asleep beside her, limbs tangled, secrets shared.

“I’m glad we did this,” she murmured eventually.

You swallowed the knot in your throat. “Me too.”

The playlist kept running quietly in the background — some old French song you couldn’t name but suddenly wanted to learn every word of. The sound of water lapping against the shore was rhythmic and lulling. Time moved gently.

She passed you a strawberry from the picnic basket, and your fingers brushed. You both looked at each other for a second too long. You thought maybe she was going to say something — or that you should — but neither of you did.

Instead, she pulled a pen from your tote bag and scribbled something on the back of a crumpled napkin. She folded it twice and slipped it into your hoodie pocket like it was a secret to be saved for later.

No explanation. No smirk. Just a soft smile and a look you couldn’t quite decode.

You didn’t read it until she dropped you off later that night — after she hugged you for a beat longer than necessary, after she drove away with the windows down and her hair dancing in the wind.

Under the porchlight, you unfolded it.

This was my favorite kind of quiet. Let’s not let it be the last. – *your girl*

Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart thudding in your ears. She hadn’t kissed you. She hadn’t said anything outright. But something was happening. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

—

present day

You don’t know she’s there. Not at first.

The stadium is mostly empty, just a few crew members scattered in the shadows, the soft click of cameras and the low murmur of comms in your in-ear monitor. You keep your eyes closed as the first few notes swell into the air. You always sing this one with your eyes closed.

Because it’s not just a song. It’s her.

Tell me what’s on your mind For you, I’d die a thousand times, find you in every life…

You grip the mic a little tighter. The words pour from you like prayer — quiet but heavy, like a secret you've carried too long. You don’t think about the stage, or the lights, or the way your voice might crack a little near the chorus. You just think about Doriane.

“For you, I’d dive into your tears and swim the deepest sea My baby, ain’t nothing in this world that means more to me…”

The letter you left her still haunts you. Folded, worn at the corners, signed your girl — no expectations, just truth. You hadn’t seen her since. Not really. Not until now. You open your eyes at the end of the second chorus and your breath catches. She’s standing there.

Backlit by the sun slanting through the side of the stadium, hoodie up, arms crossed like she’s trying to protect herself from how much this is — and still, her eyes are locked on yours. Wide, soft, a little stunned. She doesn’t move. You don’t either.

The music fades out.

You pull the mic from the stand and step down slowly. It’s only then that you see it—her eyes are glassy. Pink at the edges. Like maybe the song landed right where you hoped it would.

“…Did you like it?” you ask, voice hoarse with something unspoken.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts her head, gaze still fixed on you like she’s seeing through every version of you you’ve ever tried to hide behind.

“I think I’ve never heard anything more beautiful,” she says finally.

The world softens around the edges. You exhale, trembling. “It’s about someone.”

“I know.” Her voice is steady. “I hoped it was about me.”

You blink, stunned. Her expression doesn’t change. She means it.

“Of course it is,” you say, almost laughing in disbelief. “It’s always been you.”

She steps closer. Not much, but enough that you can see the faint shimmer at her waterline.

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asks.

You shrug, helpless. “Because I was scared. Because you’re… you. Focused, quiet, strong. And I’m messy. Loud. Always performing.”

“I never cared about that,” she says. “I only ever cared about you.”

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t ache. It glows. It buzzes with something real. You look at her — really look — and realize you’ve never seen her like this. Open. Vulnerable. Waiting for you to step into the space between you and name what’s been there all along.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

She does. “I care about you.”

Your heart stutters.

Then she adds, more certain: “I think I’m in love with you.”

And that’s it. The dam breaks. The tension that’s lived in your chest since Monaco, since the lake day, since before you even realized how much you needed her — it all dissolves into warmth.

“I’ve been in love with you,” you confess, your voice breaking right at the end. “And if you’re still my girl…”

She doesn’t even hesitate.

“I’ve always been your girl.”

You reach for her hand. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just your fingers brushing. Her thumb grazing yours. The softest kind of promise. The loudest kind of love. And for the first time in forever, you feel safe. You feel chosen. You feel like everything you’ve ever written finally makes sense.

—

dorianepin

liked by lewishamilton, yourusername, susie_wolff and 2,100,000 others.

dorianepin : she lied. the lord did not forget her gay awakening. she just had to meet me:) love you forever and always mon cœur

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georgerussell63 : finally. 😌 the slowest burn i’ve ever had to silently witness. proud of you both ❤️

liked by yourusername and dorianepin

lewishamilton : about time. love you both!

liked by yourusername and dorianepin

lando : okay this caption got me kicking my feet a bit

liked by yourusername and dorianepin

mercedesamgf1 : best thing to happen to motorsport tbh

liked by yourusername and dorianepin

—

bonus 1/2 : telling dad lewis and uncle george

The hospitality lounge was quieter than usual — a rare lull between the media chaos and packing up for the next round. You sat curled up on one of the sofas, Doriane beside you, both of you stealing a rare moment of peace. Her knee brushed against yours, soft and deliberate, and her fingers played with the hem of your sleeve like a secret only the two of you shared. You glanced up at the sound of a familiar laugh — of course. Lewis and George, entering together with matching grins and suspicious energy.

“You two look like trouble,” you said flatly, narrowing your eyes.

George gave a theatrical gasp. “Us? Never.”

Lewis just smirked. “Funny. I was going to say the same about you two.”

Doriane tried to hide her smile by sipping her water. You nudged her lightly with your shoulder.

George flopped onto the armchair opposite you. “So. You’ve been spending a lot of time together lately.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow as he took the seat beside him. “Lake days. Studio nights. Mysterious posts on close friends stories.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re on my close friends?”

Lewis shrugged. “You forgot I’m Gen Z adjacent.”

Doriane coughed to cover her laugh. You sighed, dramatically.

“Okay, okay, fine. We were going to tell you.”

George’s jaw dropped. “YOU’RE DATING?!”

“George!” you scolded. “Could you not sound so surprised?”

“No, I’m not surprised,” he said quickly, blinking. “I’m just—okay maybe I am. But in a good way. Like, a hell yeah, girlbosses unite kind of way.”

Lewis leaned back, his expression warm. “I already knew. Just wanted to hear you say it.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“You think I didn’t recognize that face when Doriane watched you sing at soundcheck?” he asked, giving the younger girl a teasing look. “Come on, that was classic. You looked like a rom-com extra who just realized she’s in love.”

Doriane flushed but grinned. “I did.”

George clutched his heart. “You two are so sickeningly cute, I might vomit.”

“Please don’t,” you muttered. “We like this couch.”

Lewis stood, walking over to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, then did the same to Doriane. “I’m proud of you both. Seriously.”

George nodded. “You’re like...the hot power couple of the paddock now.”

“I thought that was you and Carmen,” you teased.

He beamed. “Yeah, but we’ll share the title.”

Lewis looked between you. “Are you going to do some big hard launch? Or keep soft launching each other like cowards?”

You and Doriane exchanged a glance, then smirked in sync.

“We’ll see,” she said coyly.

Lewis threw his head back with a laugh. “God help the internet.”

—

bonus 2/2 : telling papa toto and susie!

You were trying not to psych yourself out, sitting beside Doriane in the Mercedes kitchen area, stirring your coffee a little too vigorously while she watched with an amused smile.

“You’re going to spill it,” you murmured, nudging your thigh with hers.

“I’ve seen Toto go dead silent for three minutes because someone used Comic Sans in a presentation. What if he short circuits when we tell him we’re dating?”

You grinned. “Then Susie will fix him. Like she always does.”

You looked up just in time to see them entering together. Toto, crisp as ever in black, looked like he was halfway through listing out next year’s goals. Susie, in jeans and a blouse, had a kind twinkle in her eyes — she spotted you both immediately.

“There they are,” she said, beaming, and came to sit across from you. "Doriane, you were great this weekend."

Toto nodded. “Great discipline, great composure. Especially the way you handled the data confusion in FP2.”

You both smiled and exchanged a quick glance. This was it.

“Thank you,” she said. “Actually, we…wanted to talk to you. Both of you.”

Toto’s brow lifted slightly — just enough to clock that something was up — but he gestured for you to continue. “Go on.”

You took a deep breath, but before you could say anything, Doriane reached over and laced her fingers through yours, calmly and proudly.

“We’re together,” she said softly, squeezing your hand.

There was a beat of silence.

Susie gasped first — not dramatically, but sweetly — before her entire face lit up like sunshine. “Oh, thank god. I was hoping this was where that was going.”

Toto’s eyebrows did something rare: they shot up, stayed there, then slowly settled into an unreadable arch as he looked between the two of you.

“You’re…dating?”

“Yes,” you said, heart racing slightly. “We have been. We wanted to tell you properly.”

There was another pause. You held your breath.

Toto blinked once. “Well,” he said, very flatly. “That explains the smile on her face during simulator days.”

Susie laughed — laughed. “Toto!”

He turned to her with mock-seriousness. “What? I thought she was just finally enjoying telemetry.”

You and Doriane burst out laughing. Your grip on her hand loosened only because she was shaking with quiet giggles.

Toto gave a slight smile — small, but very real. “You’re both adults. You’re both excellent at what you do. And more importantly…” He looked at you, then Doriane. “You make each other better. Happier. That is enough for me.”

Susie leaned across the table, eyes bright. “I love this. My favorite girls in the world falling in love? Come on.”

Toto added, “Just no kissing in the garage.”

You and Doriane groaned in unison. “We weren’t—”

“No PDA,” he added dryly. “But private dinners, days off, and winning as a couple? I can get behind that.”

Susie wiped a fake tear. “You’re so romantic, Toto.”

“I am being practical.”

Doriane laughed softly and leaned her head on your shoulder. “This went better than expected.”

You nodded, smiling at the quiet joy humming in your chest. “We should’ve done this sooner.”

—

[libraryrana030]

glass — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you visit your fiancé in prison. content warnings: s12 arc but no spoilers for any specifics, established relationship, some tears, spencer has bruises, sort of shy reader ? a/n: i loved writing this. i hope you enjoy this <3

You bit your lip, as you waited for the heavy doors to unlock.

The buzz finally echoed through the corridor, signaling that visiting hours had begun. You found a seat quickly, choosing one near the center. Your fingers tapped anxiously on the table before you, then drifted to the ring on your finger. You twisted it, up and down, again and again. Minutes passed like hours.

Then, finally, Spencer appeared. The grey-blue jumpsuit was something you'd sadly grown used to, but the bruises were new.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t stand. There was no point, you couldn’t hug him. He hadn’t expected you. You could tell by the flicker of surprise in his eyes as they met yours. For a second, he even looked disappointed, not in you, but in the fact that you were the one who came first. He’d hoped someone else might visit first. Someone he could ask to delay you. To protect you from seeing him like this.But not all wishes can be granted.

You blinked quickly, willing your tears not to fall. You hadn’t come here to cry. Whatever had happened to him, it was already done. Your tears wouldn’t heal his wounds. They wouldn’t take away the pain. Still, you wished someone, anyone, had warned you.

"Hi," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Spencer offered you a soft smile. "Hi."

His brows pinched together gently when you didn’t meet his eyes, when your gaze drifted past him, focusing somewhere on the wall instead of his face.

"I missed you," he added after a beat, his voice slower this time, almost coaxing. He was trying to draw your eyes back to him.

"I missed you too," you replied, but your voice cracked on the last word.

He waited a few seconds before asking, gently, carefully, "Can you look at me, please?" He needed to see your eyes, his favorite part about you, truth be told. Maybe it was because they always held so much love in them. No matter what the world threw at him.

And when you finally did look, your eyes filled with tears. You saw the bruises. The one on his temple especially, yellow and green, the colors of fading pain, but pain nonetheless. That wasn't fresh. That had been there a while. Long enough to heal, but still there. Still visible. You felt sick.

"Spence, I don't—" Your eyes locked on the bruise, and your words caught in your throat. "I don’t want to cry." You looked away again, fast. Like if you didn’t see it, it wouldn’t be real. Spencer bit his bottom lip. His fingers curled slightly in his lap on the other side of the glass, aching with the need to reach out. You shook your head and corrected yourself quietly. "I don’t want you to see me cry." You tried to smile, brushing your tears away with the back of your sleeve.

"That’s okay," Spencer whispered, his voice so gentle it felt like a hand against your cheek. "I don’t mind." God, how he wished he could wipe those tears away himself. And he knew why you were trying so hard to stay composed. Not for yourself, but for him. Because you refused to add to his guilt. Because if he saw you cry, he’d blame himself more than he already did. "Suppressing emotions isn’t healthy anyway," he said softly.

You gave a watery laugh through your tears, the corners of your mouth twitching up. “Funny, coming from you.”

That made him chuckle. You looked up again, catching the soft curve of his lips as they turned into a small smile and your own expression softened in return. Spencer caught the change in you instantly, his heart lifting. It meant the world to him, seeing love in your eyes instead of just the shine of fresh tears. Even though the tears were still there, clinging to your cheeks, this was the kind of look that made him feel human again.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” Spencer said softly, nodding toward the oversized brown one hanging loosely on your frame.

You glanced down. “Yeah,” you said with a small smile, wiping at your cheeks with the edge of your sleeve. “I missed you,” you added, your voice steadier this time, though your hands clutched the sweater a little tighter. It was strange how he could be sitting right in front of you, but feel galaxies away. And yet this piece of clothing made you feel closer than the glass ever would.

Spencer looked down at his hands, twisted slightly in his lap, still bruised, before raising his eyes back to you. He remembered that sweater. How could he not?

It was the one he’d worn the first time you ever stayed over. The way you’d turned over halfway through the night, murmuring something incoherent before pressing yourself into his chest. He hadn’t slept a second. Not because he wasn’t tired, but because he was so nervous. So in awe. You were there, next to him. He remembered how you’d mumbled. “Go to sleep, you night owl,” without even opening your eyes. “You’re warm. I like this sweater,” you’d yawned before going completely still. He’d smiled so wide in that moment, it had almost hurt. He'd never felt anything like it.

Now, as your eyes met through the glass, both of you clearly remembering the same thing, you both smiled.

“How was your week?” Spencer asked.

He’d told you during your very first visit how much he loved hearing about your days, every mundane detail, every moment that reminded him of normal life. Of you. It gave him something to hold onto when the nights were long and the prison too loud. It gave him something nice to imagine when he was laying in bed alone.

You glanced down, fingers automatically toying with the ring on your hand. “I went dress fitting with Penelope,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Spencer’s eyes widened instantly. “You found something?”

You nodded, eyes glistening again. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I found a wedding dress.”

You reached up and touched your ring lightly, letting your fingers rest over your heart. Spencer’s eyes followed the movement and caught on the way your sweater shifted,just enough to reveal the chain around your neck. You gently pulled it free. His ring hanging onto the silver chain. Where it had stayed since the day they took him away.

“Your ring is safe with me,” you said, holding it up for him to see.

Spencer’s chest tightened. His throat burned. But he smiled. “Did you have fun dress shopping?” he asked, eyes never leaving the necklace.

You nodded, but didn’t add anything more. What you didn’t say was how you’d spent half of that appointment crying in the dressing room, trying to smile through the pain in your chest. Trying to imagine Spencer standing at the end of the aisle when he wasn’t even allowed to stand beside you now.

Spencer knew. He didn’t have to ask. He could see it in the way your shoulders held just a bit of weight, in the way you smiled weakly despite the happiness at finding your dress.

You giggled softly. “Do you think you’ll cry when I walk down the aisle?” You already knew the answer. So did he.

“I could cry right now,” he mumbled, shaking his head with a helpless little laugh. Spencer stared at you like you were the only good thing left in the world. “I can't wait to marry you.”

“And I can’t wait to marry you,” you said softly, twisting the ring on your finger once more.

Spencer watched you for a long momen. Then he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, “I miss kissing you.”

You immediately sat up straighter, flustered, your eyes widening as the heat bloomed across your cheeks. Spencer caught your reaction instantly and chuckled. He tilted his head playfully. “No reply?” he teased, grinning. “Do you not miss kissing me?” He gave a dramatic little shake of his head. “Wow. That hurts.”

“Spence, stop,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. But your voice was muffled when you mumbled through your fingers, “Yes, I miss kissing you.”

Spencer’s smile softened, stretching across his face. He loved that after all this time, even after getting engaged, you still got flustered over something so simple. “Our first kiss anniversary is coming up,” he said.

You looked up at him and shook your head with a disbelieving smile. “I can’t believe you remember things like this.”

“You’re telling me you don’t remember our first kiss?” he asked, raising an eyebrow knowingly.

You hesitated, but only to be stubborn. “No, I remember,” you admitted, fingers toying with your ring again. “Hard to forget.”

Spencer’s smile widened. “You squealed.”

“I did not!” you countered, eyes narrowing.

He laughed, shaking his head. “You did. A little.”

It had been a warm afternoon. Spencer had been so excited to show you a hidden little library he loved. You had followed him in, trailing your fingers over old spines and gasping excitedly every time you found a book you loved.

Then, there was the moment. You’d both been standing between two dusty shelves. He’d looked at you and for a second, it was like the world stopped. Spencer didn’t lean in right away. He waited, asking you the question without saying a word. And you’d nodded. So he leaned in and kissed you, just a quick, shy peck. Barely a second long. When he pulled back, you just stared at him Spencer had frozen, immediately panicking inside. God, was it bad? Was he bad at kissing? Was that not okay? But then, slowly, you had raised your fingers to your lips. “Oh my God,” you'd whispered, stunned.

Spencer’s eyes had widened with concern. He was about to apologize, until you'd surged forward and pulled him into another kiss. A longer one. Which, of course, only lasted a few seconds, because you broke away giggling, hiding your face in his sweater.

Back in the visiting room now, the two of you caught each other’s eyes again, grinning.

“I definitely didn’t squeal,” you insisted.

Spencer smirked. “No, you definitely did.” You laughed, and even the glass between you couldn’t dull how warm it sounded. Spencer closed his eyes for a second, soaking it in. He could survive a lot, if he just got to keep hearing that laugh. And if someday soon, that glass disappeared for good.

Then came the sound you’d been dreading, the security guards calling time. A stern voice echoed across the room, signaling that the visit was over. That it was time for the prisoners to return to their cells.

You didn’t move at first. You just stared at Spencer. He smiled softly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite the sadness in his eyes. He was always so good at that, smiling just enough to make you feel like things might still be okay.

“Be careful, Spence. Please,” you said, your voice tight. You hadn’t asked about the bruises. But now, with him about to walk away, you couldn’t hold it back. You had to say something.

He nodded gently, the look in his eyes telling you he understood exactly what you meant. “I will,” he promised. “I love you,” he said as he slowly got to his feet, every movement reluctant, like he was trying to make time stretch just a little longer. As the other prisoners began filing out, one by one, Spencer lingered, not moving yet. He just stood there, watching you.

He wanted to memorize you. The way your sweater bunched at your sleeves. The way a loose piece of hair fell across your forehead. The way your fingers unconsciously touched his ring around your neck. He locked all of it away in his mind, like he always did, so he could hold onto you in the dark. So he could see you again in dreams.

“I love you too,” you whispered. Quiet, but loud enough for him to hear.

Spencer smiled again. “I won’t miss anything else,” he said quietly. “I promise.” You knew what he meant. He wasn’t just talking about anniversaries. He was talking about everything, about all the little and big things he’d missed since being taken from you.

The next milestone would have been the anniversary of when you moved in together. And you both knew what was supposed to follow: booking the honeymoon, finalizing the wedding guest list, cake tastings, writing invitations, choosing a hotel. A life you were building piece by piece.

You nodded silently, not trusting your voice. Just watching him as he finally began to walk away. He looked back once. Then again. And one last time, mouthing the words, I love you, just before he disappeared behind the door.And then he was gone.

You slouched into your seat, your hands resting over your stomach,

Spencer had made a promise. And he meant it with every piece of him. But what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was that he’d already missed something.

He had already missed the first month of your pregnancy.

[libraryrana030]

Unheard - reader x leah x elle

Summary: A sweet day off during the Euros turns ugly when you have a fight with your girlfriends. You try to be miss independent, but you need them more than you think.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: mentions of endometriosis and r being in pain

A/n: I've been obsessively writing this since I woke up, and I might be late for my dentist.

Switzerland was kind, gentle, and beautiful. It was a small country, but filled with pretty landscapes and delicious food.

You and Leah didn't have much time to go out and appreciate the scenery, since you two were always training or doing interviews or having meetings.

Elle, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. She visited all the tourist places, tried all the food, and attended every game you and Leah have played so far.

You were honestly having a good time at the Euros (ignoring the fact that the Lionesses had lost the first game), although you were feeling weird.

You were more lightheaded than usual, more snappy and more tired. You blamed it on the stress that came with the semi-final approaching.

But it seemed like you were the only one feeling that way; none of your teammates (or girlfriends) looked like they were struggling.

So you kept it to yourself. Trying not to ruin everybody's mood.

You and Leah got a day off, and you decided that there was nothing better to do than spend time with Elle.

Elle came with friends to Switzerland because she knew you and Leah wouldn't be able to give her much attention, but it didn't change the fact that you and Leah were feeling a bit guilty for not spending time with her.

So that's why the three of you decided to visit a little village in Switzerland's countryside on your day off.

The village was small and old, with only locals living in it. The houses were beautiful, vintage, just like the movie 'Heidi' that you used to watch when you were a kid.

The village wasn't really touristy, but there were a lot of cafés and restaurants, as well as a petting zoo for the cows.

Leah and Elle were completely in love with the cows, petting them and saying it was the cutest thing they had ever seen.

You, on the other hand, were more focused on tasting the hot chocolate from one of the little cafés you saw earlier.

You looked at the sky. It had that sweet orange and pink colour, indicating it was the end of the afternoon. You pressed your lips tight, looking at Leah and Elle, who were in front of you, moving to pet yet another cow.

You looked at your watch: 5:46 pm.

The café was going to close soon. You wanted that hot chocolate so badly. You felt like it was the only thing that was going to make your day better.

Of course, spending time with your girlfriend was amazing, but you just weren't feeling your best today. Your body hurt, and it didn't seem like it was from training either.

You had told them before leaving the hotel that you wanted to do something more chill, but Leah had insisted on walking around, getting to know Switzerland.

Elle was looking between you two, not quite sure who she agreed with. In the end, you gave in and said that you would do whatever they wanted to do.

"Girls," you said. "Can we please go to that coffee shop I wanted?"

You waited a few seconds, but neither of them looked at you, too engrossed in the... cow in front of them.

You rolled your eyes, saying a bit louder this time. "Leah, Elle. Let's go? It's getting late."

"She's so fluffy," Elle said, looking at Leah with a big smile. "How can a cow be fluffy?"

"I've never seen this breed before," Leah answered, rubbing the cow's snout. "Cutie!"

You rolled your eyes again.

They couldn't honestly just be ignoring you right now. You breathed once, then twice, then took three steps toward where they were.

When you got closer, they finally looked at you, clearly happy.

"Hey, baby, touch her head, I swear it's—" Elle began saying, but you interrupted.

"Can we go now? Please?" you said, showing them your phone screen. "That coffee shop I told you about is almost closing."

Leah looked between the cow and you. You couldn't help but narrow your eyes.

"What if we stay just five minutes?" Leah asked, giving you one of her side smiles that would (normally) make you melt, but not right now.

"If we stay five minutes, we're going to have to run to get to the café in time," you argued, a pout on your face.

Elle chuckled and kissed your lips sweetly. "Just five more minutes and we'll go, alright? We want to see the other cow breeds."

"But—"

"Five, we swear," Leah said, kissing your lips the same way Elle did.

Leah took the other girl's hand and moved through the grass to see the cow that was standing near the fence a few meters away.

You didn't follow them.

You searched for a bench to sit on and stayed there, watching the two of them having the time of their lives.

You kept watching your phone screen, noticing how the shadows made by the trees changed position as the sun set down between the Swiss Alps.

You wanted hot chocolate. So. Fucking. Much.

You considered leaving, leaving Elle and Leah behind, since it looked like they were having way more fun without you.

You sighed, feeling something hard pressing on your chest. You didn't like it. You were sad, very sad.

You were stressed with the tournament, and there was definitely something wrong with your lower abdomen. Your head was pounding, and the only thing you had told your girlfriends you wanted to do on your day off was to get hot chocolate.

But they clearly didn't care.

You were sitting right in front of one of the cows. She mooed at you, and you considered that an offence.

You rolled your eyes at her, holding yourself back from giving the middle finger to a literal animal.

It was 6:12 now, less than half an hour until the coffee shop closed. If you were sad before, now you were angry.

You watched Leah and Elle; they were patting the last cow. Maybe now you would be able to really do something you enjoyed.

"Can we go now?" you yelled at them, trying to be heard from a distance.

They looked at you confused, so you put your hands on your wrist, as if touching a watch.

They exchanged a few words and then smiled, making their way to you while holding hands.

You stood up from your bench and waited for them.

When they got closer, Elle wrapped one arm around you, and you kept walking.

She kissed your cheek. "Let's go, Miss Impatient."

"I'm not impatient," you told her, crossing your arms as you heard Leah chuckle. "I just want to—"

"Drink hot chocolate," Leah finished for you. "We get it, grumpy."

You rolled your eyes and didn't say anything as you made your way back to the old town square.

Although you started to get restless as you saw a street clock saying it was 6:26, you had exactly four minutes to reach the coffee shop.

You began pulling at them, making Leah and Elle walk faster. "Come on, it's closing soon."

"Oi, mate," Leah said, "calm down, we're going."

"But it's closing soon!"

"Baby, stop!" Elle protested, and then gasped. "Oh fuck, my ankle!"

You and Leah stopped in your tracks.

Elle was holding herself to your shoulder with one hand, while the other hand went to her ankle.

It didn't look bad, it wasn't swollen or red (yet), but judging by her face, it hurt.

"Oh, Elle, baby! I'm sorry," you said guiltily, "I didn't mean to pull you so hard and—"

Leah practically put herself in front of you, holding Elle by her elbows, letting her sit on the bench.

"Come here, baby, don't worry, let's sit for a moment."

You looked at the clock one last time before sighing and following them.

The two of you sat on the bench. You placed a comforting hand on Elle's thigh as Leah knelt in front of her, examining her ankle.

"I think you just twisted it slightly. I don't think it'll hurt for long," Leah said, then she looked at you accusingly. "You shouldn't have pulled her."

"I didn't mean to pull her," you tried to defend yourself, " I just wanted to go faster."

"Maybe we should have just walked like normal human beings instead of running."

"If you two hadn't spent the last three hours patting cows, I wouldn't have had to run."

"If you could be patient, then—"

"Enough!" Elle said, looking at you and Leah with a stern expression on her face, the one she always pulled when you and Leah were arguing.

Both you and Leah loved each other a lot, but you wouldn't deny that you two were a little too alike. A little too grumpy, a little too angry at times.

"Fighting won't get us anywhere," she continued. "Leah, we weren't very considerate of what she wanted to do, so can we please just walk to the café, trying to end the day without any arguments?"

Leah lifted her chin like a petulant child, while you rolled your eyes.

Elle sighed, but got up from the bench on her two feet. She tested her ankle, and it didn't seem like it was bothering her so much anymore.

"Let's go," she said determinedly.

The three of you walked. You were a few steps ahead of them, eager to get to the café.

You heard Leah murmuring something to Elle, but the American shut her down with one of her looks.

You had just one minute to get to the coffee shop, so you started to walk faster, leaving Elle and Leah bit by bit behind.

You turned a corner, and Leah and Elle lost sight of you.

As soon as you got to the coffee shop, you were face to face with your worst fear.

The lights were turned off. No one was inside. You tried to force the door open (just because), but it wouldn't budge.

You felt your eyes filling with tears.

"Oh," you heard Leah say behind you after a few minutes, and you turned to her.

You weren't one to cry in front of your girlfriends. You didn't like it, most times you kept big feelings to yourself, but this time, you couldn't help yourself from letting the tears fall.

Elle was looking at you sadly, completely guilty. Leah had the same expression on her face.

"Baby, I'm so—" Leah began saying, reaching a hand to touch your face, but you took a step back.

"Let's go back to the hotel," you said, turning around and walking before the two of them could say anything.

"Love, hey," Elle said behind you, trying to hold your forearm, but you were stronger than her and pulled away. "We're sorry."

You were silent.

The two of them kept talking in your ear the whole way back to the train station.

You kept ignoring them.

As soon as you stepped onto the train, you wanted to be petty and sit alone, let the two of them stay together (since it clearly was what they preferred), but you decided against it.

Well, you didn't really decide.

Leah was guiding both you and Elle with a firm hand on the bottom of both your backs as you walked through the aisle. She turned her body slightly to one of the cabins, and you had no other choice but to follow her.

You sat near the window, looking as the landscape passed by.

You couldn't see much (it was dark already), but you could see the fucking cows. You hated them now.

Leah and Elle were sitting in front of you. They clearly didn't know what to say, and your not very inviting face wasn't helping them either.

You continued to cry, but it was an angry cry.

You weren't sobbing, you weren't making any noise really. Just silent tears leaving your eyes as your cheeks got redder and redder.

After what felt like fifteen minutes in completely uncomfortable silence, Leah reached for your hand. You slapped it away without even looking at her.

"My love. Please," Leah said, using her soft voice, one she didn't use much. " We're sorry. We didn't mean to stop you from having your hot chocolate."

Your head snapped at her. It seemed like Leah was waiting for you to continue ignoring her, because she looked at you, surprised.

"If you two didn't mean it," you began saying, looking at Leah's blue eyes and Elle's green ones, "then you would have done something about it."

Elle opened her mouth, but then she closed it.

"I told you that the only fucking thing I wanted to do today was to drink that hot chocolate," you said.

"It was the only thing I wanted. Twenty minutes max - that's all it would've taken. But nooo, because you two had other plans. Plans that were going to happen regardless of my opinion"

"We can go on our next off day, baby," Leah said carefully.

"Yeah?" you said sarcastically. "The off day that will be in Zurich? The off day that we've already agreed to spend with your family, Leah?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about—"

"You two seem to be forgetting everything that doesn't involve what you want." You responded dryly.

You knew it had hurt them.

You saw how Leah held Elle's hand a bit too strongly, that Elle bit her lower lip in that way that told you she was upset, but it didn't matter.

You were hurt, and honestly, you wanted everyone to feel a bit of it, too.

The rest of the train ride was in silence. You had stopped crying, but your breathing still felt uneven.

You were still angry. You knew that some part of it was irrational. It was just hot chocolate. You bet the fucking stadium sold hot chocolate, you could also order one from the hotel's kitchen.

But you wanted the experience of tasting hot chocolate in the countryside.

You were feeling sad and upset since you woke up, and just wanted to do something for you, something that you were sure was going to light up your mood.

It was hard to be in a relationship with more than one person. The feeling of being left out was present some days, and you had to fight it.

Today was one of those days.

It was like they didn't hear you, or worse, they heard you but just didn't care. It was your off day, too, but you had spent the whole day doing what they wanted.

You just wanted twenty minutes to do what you wanted.

When the three of you left the elevator, you quickly turned right while Elle and Leah turned left. You didn't say goodbye, you didn't say anything.

You were ready to take your key card from your pocket when they showed up behind you. Leah held your forearm and turned you around.

"Hey," Leah said, confused. "Where are you going?"

"To my room," you said drily, trying to set yourself free, but Leah held you with a bit more force, so you stopped trying to squirm.

"Why?" Elle asked. "You barely slept in your room since the Euros started. Come stay with us like the other nights, baby."

"No," you said decidedly. "Let me go, Leah."

Your face was cold enough that Leah let go without a word. You shut the door behind you, catching a glimpse of them wearing the guiltiest puppy-dog expressions.

You closed the door on their faces and sighed, turning around and looking at your room.

This Euros, every player had their own room, but just like Elle said, you barely used yours. You had been sleeping with Elle and Leah every night. You were sure half of your suitcase wasn't even here.

Your bed was beautifully made, as if no one had slept in it in days. Which was true.

You let yourself fall face-first on the mattress. You didn't want to cry now. You really didn't, but you were feeling hurt.

So you allowed yourself.

You stayed in the hotel room.

You didn't get up when Elle knocked on the door and spoke in her sweet voice, telling you how much she missed you.

You didn't get up when Leah knocked and told you (less gently than Elle), that she wanted to stay with you and wished you would open the door.

You stayed still when Lotte's voice came through the door, telling you two could talk if you wanted.

You ignored the hundreds of messages Elle and Leah had been sending you.

You also ignored the room service that was sent by either Elle or Leah, because you clearly hadn't asked for dinner, although you were hungry.

You had completely dissociated.

So much that you didn't realise you had fallen asleep.

You didn't expect to wake up in a pool of blood at 4 am.

You didn't expect to wake up with the worst pain you had felt in your life, a pain that was as excruciating as it was familiar.

You turned around on the mattress, feeling too weak to move, both from the pain but also from the lack of food.

The last thing you had eaten was at yesterday's lunch.

You had completely forgotten about your period. Your cycle was completely irregular; some months you got your period twice, other times you went months without seeing blood.

You had become accustomed to it by now, of not expecting it, to always being surprised.

But this time, you cursed yourself.

All the signs were there: how snappier and more sensitive you were, how your belly was aching, how, when Leah had cupped your breasts a few days ago, you wanted to scream at her about how swollen they were.

You opened the nightstand, searching for one of the protein bars Elle had given you, telling you that you always forgot to eat proper snacks.

You found one and ate it, swallowing it down with some water from a water bottle left on the floor a few days ago.

You closed your eyes hard enough, trying to gather strength from... you weren't even sure. You let out a sigh and got up from the bed.

It was worse than you imagined… there was blood everywhere. You didn't dare to look at your pants.

You quickly took off the bloody sheets and left them on the side of the door, so you could take them to the hotel's laundry room.. then you knelt near your suitcase, the only one that was in the room.

You were searching for pads, tampons, menstrual cups, anything, but you found nothing. The suitcase with your period products was probably in Leah and Elle's room.

You groaned, fighting back tears.

You could barely walk, and now you were going to have to find a way to go to Leah and Elle's room, even though you really didn't want to see them.

You took a change of clothing from the suitcase and went to the bathroom. You took a quick shower (it hurt standing for so long), added a lot of toilet paper to your underwear, trying to create a makeshift pad.

You walked to your hotel room door and made your way to Elle and Leah's room. You were hating yourself for it.

You were hurt, you didn't want to see them. But you were in pain, on your fucking period, and your endometriosis was so bad you felt like throwing up soon.

Leah had suffered from the same thing as you. You and Elle always tried to help her through it.

You knew they wouldn't think anything less of you. You had been dating for two years now, and they had seen you at your worst, but you still didn't like to be so vulnerable.

You shyly knocked on their bedroom door. You heard noise on the inside; there was a shadow under the door.

You waited a few more minutes, and Leah appeared. She had just woken up. She was rubbing her eyes, and her hair was a mess. She was wearing an old Arsenal shirt with some shorts. She looked very cosy.

Leah's eyes widened and she smiled when she saw you, but then her smile turned to sadness. "Hey, what's wrong, baby?"

You didn't answer; you walked right past her. Elle was sleeping on the bed, and you hated how red her nose was, as if she had been crying.

You searched for your suitcase around the room, until you found it. You knelt in front of it, but before you could open it, Leah was kneeling at your side, her hand on top of yours.

"Hey, talk to me," she said seriously. "What's wrong? You don't look good."

You mumbled an answer, looking down, but Leah didn't hear it.

"What?" She held your chin, so you were looking at her. "What happened?"

"I got my period," you said, this time louder. "Just need some tampons, I left them all here."

"Is it bad?" Leah asked, taking her hand from you and placing them on your back, letting you search for what you needed.

"No."

"Don't lie."

You froze, and Leah noticed it.

"How bad?"

You finally found a pack of tampons. You got on your two feet, and Leah mirrored you.

"Bad." That was the only thing you said before turning around, ready to leave again.

Leah held your forearm again. "You aren't leaving," Leah said. "Stay here with us, I'll get you tea and medicine."

"I don't need any of that." You hated how dry you sounded, but you honestly just wanted to sleep, to make the pain go away.

Leah surprised you when she held your jaw in place - it was firm, but soft at the same time.

"I understand you are upset with me and Elle, and you have every right to be; we were idiots, but don't punish your own body because of it."

"I'm going to the hotel's kitchen to get some tea for you," she continued, leaving no room for argument. "When I get back, I want you in bed. Do you understand me?"

You were ready to be difficult, to give Leah a hard time, to show her that you could deal with your condition on your own, but a large wave of pain shot through you, making you curl.

Leah's stern demeanour changed in a matter of seconds.

"Shh," she said, wrapping one hand around your hips and bringing you closer as the other one settled on your lower abdomen, massaging it. "I'm sorry, I'm gonna make it better, I swear."

Leah helped you to the bathroom and left the room, promising to come back with what you needed. When you emerged from the bathroom, Elle was already awake.

It seemed like, while you were sorting yourself out, Leah had woken her up and explained everything.

Elle opened her arms, smiling at you sadly. "Come here, baby," she said, and you absolutely melted.

Your tough attitude was long gone.

You crawled to bed, letting yourself be pulled by Elle. Your head resting on her shoulder as she kissed your forehead.

"It hurts, Elle," you said, letting yourself cry against her warm body.

"I know it does," she said tenderly. "It'll be better soon, just close your eyes now."

"I'm sorry," you said after a few moments in silence. "I ruined our day off yesterday by getting mad and—and—"

"No," Elle said, "You don't apologise for anything. Leah and I were selfish; it was your day off, too, you deserved to do something you enjoyed as well."

"But I could have been more kind about it," you said. "I hurt your ankle."

"I think we all could have handled it better," Elle murmured. "And my ankle is fine, don't worry about me. I want you to worry about yourself."

You were about to say something else when Leah came back through the door, carrying a tray with steaming tea and what looked like every medicine she could find in the hotel.

"How are we doing?" she asked softly, setting the tray on the nightstand before climbing into bed on your other side.

"Better," you mumbled against Elle's shoulder, though another cramp made you wince in pain.

Leah's hand found your back, rubbing gentle circles.

"I brought chamomile tea and some painkillers, and..." she paused, looking almost shy. "I may have asked the kitchen staff about hot chocolate."

You lifted your head to look at her, confused.

"There's a café two blocks away," Leah continued. "I thought... maybe tomorrow morning, before training, when you're feeling better, we could go together? Just the three of us, no cows involved."

Your eyes filled with tears again, but this time for a completely different reason. "You don't have to—"

"We want to," Elle said firmly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "We should have listened yesterday. Your hot chocolate is important because you're important."

Leah nodded, reaching over to brush a tear from your cheek.

"Plus, I looked it up and apparently, they do this thing with heavy whipped cream and salt? I don't know if it's good, but it seems very Swiss."

You couldn't help but smile (the first real smile you had had since yesterday afternoon). "That sounds perfect, thank you."

"Good," Leah said, settling down beside you properly. "Now drink your tea and let us make up for yesterday."

Your period still hurt like hell, and you were still exhausted, but now wrapped up in their arms, you felt heard. You felt seen.

"I love you," you whispered.

"Love you too, grumpy," Leah murmured against your hair.

"No grumpy," you mumbled

"Just a little grumpy," Elle added, smiling.

You were almost asleep when you felt Leah's lips against your ear. "Tomorrow, we're getting you the best hot chocolate in Switzerland. I promise."

A/n: pls let me know if you guys liked it <3 it would mean a lot

Tag list: @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee @miaereen

[libraryrana030]

muse — alexandra saint mleux

written blurbs

alexandra saint mleux x !art gallery owner reader

(a/n) : this is for my lulu. also wrote this whole thing listening to girl in red. so do with that as you will.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

The gallery is quiet this afternoon — your favorite kind of day. Monaco buzzes outside with its usual sharp glamour, but in here, it’s all warmth and hush. The filtered light through the tall windows paints the marble floors in soft gold, and the silence between frames feels like breath held.

You're not often seen in your own gallery. You like the anonymity — floating through the space in tailored slacks and a cashmere blouse, blending in with the quiet elegance of the place you've built. Sometimes people assume you're a curator, or just a woman with too much time and taste. You don’t correct them. You just listen.

That’s what you’re doing when she walks in.

You notice her immediately — not just because of her beauty, which is, frankly, distracting in that effortless angelic way — but because of the way she moves. Curious. Measured. Like she’s been here before in another life.

You recognize her, of course. Alexandra Saint Mleux. Her face has been all over the internet and tabloids, usually paired with Charles Leclerc’s. But the version of her in front of you feels softer than the headlines. She’s in loose cream trousers, a tucked-in black t-shirt, hair slightly messy like she’s run her fingers through it one too many times. No entourage. No cameras. Just her.

She doesn’t notice you at first. She drifts through the space with a certain grace, pausing in front of The Burned Garden, one of your newer acquisitions. You watch as she leans in ever so slightly, head tilting, arms crossing over her chest. There’s a furrow in her brow — the kind of reaction you love. That instinctual, unscripted response to beauty.

You find yourself moving closer without meaning to.

“That one unsettles most people,” you say softly, from a few feet behind her.

She turns slightly, blinking like she’s been shaken from a dream. Then she offers you a small smile — thoughtful, slow. “I like that it does.”

You step beside her, both of you facing the same piece now — a riot of rust-colored strokes and delicate ash-gray figures. “Most people want to feel comforted by art. This one makes you ache a little.”

Alexandra hums. “The good pieces always do.” She pauses, then glances at you fully for the first time. Her gaze lingers, flickering across your features in a way that makes your skin prickle — curious, unassuming, a little too aware.

“You work here?” she asks.

You smile. “Something like that.”

She returns it, arching a brow. “Mysterious. I like that.”

You let out a soft laugh. “And what about you? You clearly know what you’re looking at.”

“I’m an art history student,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I… curate small private collections sometimes. Mostly modern pieces. Human stories.” Her eyes flick back to The Burned Garden. “I’m a bit obsessive about emotion in artwork. I think aesthetics are fine, but honesty — that’s what sticks.”

You nod slowly, impressed. “You should meet the owner. She’d like you.”

She tilts her head, a playful spark in her expression. “Should I? You think she’d listen to me critique a few of her choices?”

“I think she’d be smart to,” you reply, lips curving. “Any pieces you’d replace?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. She walks a few steps ahead, pointing out a photograph in the back corner. “That one. It’s technically stunning, but sterile. Feels like it was curated for a dinner party in Dubai.”

You laugh — full and unrestrained this time — and she grins like she’s proud of pulling it from you.

Then she spins slightly on her heel, looking back at you with something almost challenging. “You’d let me redo a wall?”

You tuck your hands into your pockets. “If the suggestions are good.”

She moves closer, slow, like this is a dance she’s practiced. “You have a lovely smile, by the way.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in temperature between you.

“That’s not about art,” you murmur, unable to stop the way your heart flutters.

“No,” she says softly, eyes gleaming. “But I still think it deserves to be said.”

You watch her for a long moment, wondering what kind of girl walks into a gallery and makes the world tilt on a quiet Tuesday. She seems to exist somewhere between tragic poetry and mischief — and suddenly you’re desperate to know what she sees when she looks at you.

She finally looks away, back toward the art. “I should go. But I’ll be back. If you see the owner… tell her the space could use more stories.”

You nod. “I’ll let her know.”

She walks out without looking back — and you stand there for a moment, heart oddly unsteady, already thinking about which pieces she might like next. She doesn’t know it yet, but you’re going to hang her suggestions by the end of the week. And next time, you’ll be waiting.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

You don’t stop thinking about her.

Alexandra Saint Mleux — all silk restraint and quiet fire — drifting through your gallery like she belonged there. The way she spoke about art, unafraid to cut through pretension. The way her smile curled at the edge like she knew more than she let on. The way she looked at you like she saw something.

It stays with you longer than it should.

So, when the gallery closes that evening, you don’t go home. You slip off your heels and walk barefoot through the rooms, revisiting the corners she paused at. You sit where she stood, study the light at those angles. You whisper notes to yourself, fingers skimming the edges of frames. That photograph she called “sterile” — she’s right. You’ve never liked it either.

By midnight, you’ve already drafted a list.

The next morning, your team receives a precise set of instructions: reorder the space. Clear the fourth wall. Pull from the French postmodern catalog in storage. Reach out to that emerging Italian painter she’d referenced — the one with the trembling, unapologetic brushwork. Bring emotion back into the curation. Don’t ask questions.

They’re used to your moods, but this one feels different. There’s something haunted and urgent about the way you move now. Like you’re chasing a ghost and calling it inspiration.

But really, it’s just her.

You don’t tell anyone, of course. Not that the changes are for her. Not that she’s all you think about when you walk between frames now. You just say, “The gallery needs to breathe differently.”

But late at night, standing in the dim glow of the rearranged exhibition room, it feels like more than that. It feels like you’re quietly building a love letter she doesn’t know she inspired. And hoping she’ll come back to read it.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

It’s late in the afternoon when you see her again. The light has changed — softer now, golden and low, brushing through the windows like a whisper. You’re seated behind the half-parted curtain of the office mezzanine, reviewing a few press layouts, when the soft chime of the gallery door pulls your attention.

You look up. And there she is. Alexandra. But not quite the same as before.

She’s wearing black — an oversized trench that nearly swallows her frame, sunglasses still on despite the shade indoors. She doesn’t move like the girl who once danced between canvases with quiet command. There’s no playful tilt to her head, no gleam in her eyes. Just exhaustion, expertly hidden and leaking through the seams.

You don’t move. You watch. She doesn’t notice you — not yet. She’s already walking through the space, slower than last time. Her fingers trail the air beside certain frames, her shoulders rounded inward like she’s protecting something fragile and invisible.

Then she stops. Right in front of that wall.

The one she’d critiqued so easily. The one you’d completely changed. It’s hers now — a mosaic of sorrow and softness, paintings and photographs pulled straight from the list you’d built in your head after her visit. The light hits it just so, and for a moment, it feels like the entire gallery is holding its breath with her.

She stands there frozen. And then, slowly, she removes her sunglasses. Her eyes are red. You come down the stairs quietly, your footsteps soft on the polished floors. She doesn’t notice you until you’re only a few feet behind her.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice almost a rasp. “God… it’s…”

She turns, startled to find you there. For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, like she’s not sure if she’s imagining things.

“You changed it,” she finally says, eyes searching yours.

You nod. “I did.”

A long pause passes between you.

“I didn’t think—” she starts, then cuts herself off, laughing softly in disbelief. “I didn’t think anyone actually listened.”

“I did,” you say simply.

She swallows, looking away like your words are too much. You step beside her, both of you facing her wall now.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” she says after a moment. “I was just going to walk through, maybe clear my head.”

“Did it help?”

She breathes out a shaky laugh. “Maybe too much.”

You don’t ask what happened. You don’t mention Charles. But the silence is heavy with what she doesn’t say.

“They ended things yesterday,” she whispers, so quiet you almost miss it. “Or I did. I think I did. I don’t know anymore. I think I was already mourning it long before we admitted it.”

You stay still, letting the words hang between the art.

“I used to love being in his world,” she continues, voice fraying. “But lately I didn’t even recognize myself in it. It felt like I was performing a version of me I no longer knew. And he… he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to say it out loud.”

She wipes her cheek quickly, almost angrily. “Sorry. This isn’t your problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” you say, your voice low, warm. “And I’m glad you came.”

She looks at you then — really looks. And her expression shifts. Softens.

“You did all this,” she says, gesturing to the exhibit, “because of what I said?”

You shrug lightly, fighting a smile. “Some people pass through galleries. Others leave echoes. You’re the second kind.”

Her breath catches — just for a second — and she lowers her gaze like your words have touched something she isn’t ready to examine.

“I thought about you,” she says. “After I left. I kept wondering if you were the owner.”

You smile. “And if I had said yes?”

“I would’ve pretended to be surprised,” she replies, the corner of her mouth twitching up.

The silence that follows is charged now. Different. There’s something raw between you — newly cracked open. No longer strangers playing at flirtation, but women tethered by something softer, deeper.

“I like it here,” she says. “Even when it hurts.”

You nod, voice quiet. “That’s what it’s for.”

She hesitates. Then, gently: “Would it be alright if I stayed a little longer?”

You meet her eyes. “As long as you want.”

And so she stays. She takes her coat off slowly, as though shedding a layer of grief with it. She moves through the gallery with a different rhythm this time — slower, more deliberate. You trail behind her at first, but eventually, you’re side by side, letting the art speak for you. No labels. No headlines. No pretending. Just you. And her. And everything unspoken filling the space between.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

It starts with a question. Not bold. Not grand. Just a soft murmur as Alexandra lingers in the gallery doorway, fingers grazing the edge of the frame like she’s still not quite ready to leave.

“Do you ever… go out for coffee?” she asks, her voice hesitant. “Or are you always hidden behind marble and oil paint?”

You blink at her, surprised — not by the question itself, but by how much you want to say yes.

“I do,” you say, the words coming out softer than expected. “But rarely with anyone else.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips. “Well. Lucky me.”

You end up at a tucked-away café just off Rue Grimaldi, a quiet place you know won’t recognize her face or whisper about yours. The kind of place where the espresso is strong, the chairs are mismatched, and the waiter calls you “chérie” without knowing your net worth.

You sit across from her at a small iron table on the patio. The sea glimmers faintly in the distance, and you both pretend not to notice the heat clinging to your skin, or the way your knees nearly touch beneath the table.

Alexandra wraps her hands around her cup like she needs something to hold onto.

“I used to come here with my grandmother,” she says, eyes wandering the faded blue awning above. “Before the whole… circus began.”

You smile gently. “You mean the circus of being Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend?”

She snorts. “Exactly that.” Then, quieter: “It’s strange how easily people forget you have a life before the headlines. That you still like coffee. Still miss your grandmother.”

You sip your drink, watching her over the rim. “I never forgot.”

She looks up, startled by the honesty. And then her eyes soften.

“Of course you didn’t,” she says. “You listen too closely for that.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable. Charged. You talk more than you thought you would. About art. About childhood. About how Alexandra once wanted to become a ballet dancer, until she realized she hated the discipline of it more than the pain. You tell her about your mother’s garden in Florence, about the first piece of art that ever made you cry — a charcoal sketch of two women in an embrace, displayed in a corner of a dusty Rome bookstore.

“I wanted to crawl inside it,” you admit. “Like the drawing had room for me.”

She hums, smiling. “I think I know that feeling.”

When the sun begins to dip and the shadows grow long, you stand slowly, not wanting to disrupt whatever fragile, glowing thing has formed between you. She rises too, brushing her fingers against yours — not holding, just a touch. Testing. You walk her home.

Monaco is quieter at twilight, and the streets near her flat are almost hushed. You pause outside the ivy-covered entrance, and she turns to face you in the fading light.

“Thank you,” she says. “For the coffee. And the art. And the way you look at me like I’m not just someone’s ex-girlfriend.”

“You’re not,” you whisper.

She watches you for a long, stretched moment. And then — soft, tentative — she leans forward. Her cheek brushes yours. A kiss that doesn’t quite happen, but almost does. Close enough to feel her breath. Close enough to make your heart ache. Then she pulls back, eyes still on you.

“Next time,” she murmurs.

And with that, she slips inside. You walk home with the taste of possibility on your lips.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

It’s after hours when she knocks. You’re still in the gallery — always in the gallery — barefoot again, cardigan draped loosely over your shoulders, the air tinged with lavender and varnish. The lights are low, just enough to let the shadows breathe. You’re reviewing next month’s exhibit plan when the sound pulls you to the front.

And there she is. Alexandra. Hair swept into a loose bun, soft linen shirt slightly wrinkled, a satchel slung over one shoulder like she wasn’t sure whether she meant to come by or was pulled here by something she couldn’t name.

“I know it’s late,” she says quickly, almost sheepish. “I just… I was walking, and I passed by, and the lights were on…”

You step aside to let her in, already smiling. “You don’t need a reason.”

She steps inside carefully, like she’s entering a dream — her shoulders loosening the moment the door shuts behind her. You lock it quietly, turning the sign back to FERMÉ, and follow her deeper into the gallery.

There’s something different in the air tonight. Quieter. More electric.

“You look like you belong here,” you say softly, watching the way she moves through the space now — no longer a guest, but something more like a presence. A ghost you’ve been waiting to invite closer.

She turns to you with a small, amused smile. “I feel like I do.”

You hesitate — then gesture. “Come. I want to show you something.”

She raises a brow but follows without question, trailing you down the corridor to the private viewing room. It’s where you keep the unrevealed pieces, commissions, and the art that’s too personal for the general public. You don’t bring many people here. But she’s not just anyone.

The room is dim, lit only by a few carefully placed spotlights. You stop in front of a covered canvas, large, standing alone on its easel like it’s been waiting for her.

She tilts her head. “What is this?”

You hesitate, heart suddenly racing in a way that surprises even you. “I had something commissioned. Weeks ago.”

She glances at you, something flickering behind her eyes. “For a client?”

“For me,” you say.

And then, without another word, you pull the cloth off. She doesn’t speak at first. It’s her.

Rendered in rich charcoal and soft watercolor — all softness and shadow and the kind of stillness that holds its breath. She’s not looking directly out at the viewer. Instead, her gaze is turned slightly to the side, as if she’s mid-thought, half-lost in a memory. Her hands are clasped loosely in her lap, one thumb tracing invisible circles on the other. Her hair is undone. Her expression unreadable. And yet somehow—undeniably her. It’s not a portrait of the public Alexandra. Not the curated one. This one is raw. Thoughtful. Entirely human. She stares at it, lips parted, blinking slowly. You wait.

“I… don’t understand,” she says finally, voice fragile. “When was this done?”

“The artist met you once,” you say. “During your first visit. I took a few discreet photos after you left and sent her the mood, the lighting, what I saw when I looked at you.”

She turns toward you, but doesn’t speak.

You continue, quieter now. “It wasn’t just the way you looked. It was… how you carried something with you. Like a secret. Like longing.”

Alexandra looks back at the painting. “It feels like it knows me.”

“It does,” you say.

And then she��s crying.

Silently, without warning — tears sliding down her cheeks in a way that feels too sacred to touch. You move slowly, stepping closer, but not crowding her.

She turns into you anyway, burying her face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and you hold her like you’ve done it a hundred times. Her breath is warm against your skin. Her fingers curl into the back of your cardigan.

“I’ve never seen myself like that,” she whispers. “Not even in mirrors. Not even when I’ve tried.”

You pull back just enough to look at her — your hands framing her face, your thumbs brushing away the tears.

“You deserve to be seen,” you murmur. “Truly seen.”

She searches your eyes, something blooming slow and inevitable between you. And then she kisses you. Soft. Careful. Like she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to — until you kiss her back.

It deepens quickly, a sigh between parted lips, her hands sliding around your waist as yours find her jaw, her collarbone, the space between her shoulder blades where she’s always held her tension. Her body melts against yours, warm and wanting, but not rushed. This isn’t about urgency. This is about reverence.

She pulls away only to breathe, forehead resting against yours, her eyes fluttering closed.

“You make me feel like I could start over,” she whispers.

You press a kiss to her temple. “You already are.”

That night, she doesn’t go home. You don’t sleep in your bed, either. You fall asleep on the velvet daybed in the upstairs lounge, limbs tangled, the portrait flickering behind your eyelids.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

The first thing you feel is warmth. Not sunlight. Not blankets. Her.

Alexandra is curled into your side, face pressed gently into the slope of your shoulder, her breath warm and steady against your neck. One arm is draped across your waist, hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips barely brushing skin. It’s a touch so light, so tender, you almost wonder if she’s still dreaming.

Your body aches, but not from discomfort — from stillness. From holding something precious all night and not daring to shift, in case it disappeared.

You let your eyes open slowly.

The day has already begun to rise around you. Pale light spills through the high gallery windows, casting soft lines across the velvet cushions of the daybed and the half-empty teacups left forgotten on the low table beside you. Somewhere in the distance, a gull calls out from the harbor.

And still, she sleeps. Her face looks different in the morning — not unrecognizable, but unguarded. Lips slightly parted, lashes fluttering just a little, like her dreams are still dancing behind her eyes. You can’t help but trace her features with your gaze — the gentle curve of her nose, the faint blush beneath her cheekbones, the constellation of freckles across her collarbone you hadn’t noticed last night in the low light.

You wonder, absently, how many people have ever really seen her like this. And how you got so lucky to be one of them. You press a soft kiss to the crown of her head, and that’s what wakes her. She stirs against you, breath catching, arm tightening around your waist for a moment before she blinks up at you — eyes still heavy with sleep, but unmistakably hers.

“Good morning,” you whisper.

She smiles. It’s small. Sleepy. But real. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

You brush her hair gently out of her face. “I didn’t either. But I’m glad you did.”

She nestles closer for a moment before slowly sitting up, stretching her arms overhead. The soft cotton of her shirt rides up just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin and the faint marks from where your fingers had lingered the night before. You rise with her, moving in slow tandem, bodies aching in the same rhythm.

“I feel like I’ve stepped outside of time,” she says, voice rough with morning. “Like nothing outside those doors matters anymore.”

You glance toward the windows. “It doesn’t. Not in here.”

She looks at you then — long and quiet. Something heavy in her chest, like she’s realizing just how much she wants this.

You cross the space between you and take her hand.

“Breakfast?” you ask, voice light but hopeful.

She nods, fingers intertwining with yours easily. “Only if you make it.”

You snort. “That’s bold of you to assume I can cook.”

“Oh, I know you can’t cook,” she teases, following you into the small staff kitchen tucked in the back of the gallery. “I just want to watch you try.”

You burn the toast. Twice. She laughs the entire time, seated on the marble counter in an oversized gallery sweatshirt you lend her, sleeves swallowed around her wrists. Her legs swing slightly, bare and golden in the morning sun. Her hair’s a mess, and she’s never looked more like art.

Eventually, you both settle for croissants from yesterday and black coffee, sitting on the floor beside the front window, legs touching, shoulders pressed close.

She turns to you between bites and says, “This feels like the beginning of something.”

You meet her gaze. “It is.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because the world I come from… it makes things hard. Complicated.”

You reach over, gently take her hand, and thread your fingers through hers.

“Then let’s make something soft,” you say. “Something only we understand.”

She smiles — slow, full, a little in love. And you know then — without ceremony, without grand declarations — that this is the start of something you won’t walk away from. Not now. Not ever.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

You don’t tell anyone you’re leaving. There’s no press release. No carefully worded captions. Not even a stray paparazzi photo to analyze.

Just a two-night bag, her sketchbook, your vintage Leica camera, and a car that winds you both out of Monaco before anyone thinks to ask where you’ve gone.

You drive with the top down, the warm Riviera air tangling in her hair as the sun paints everything gold. Alexandra’s bare feet rest on the dashboard, and she’s wearing your sunglasses — too big for her face, but she insists they make her feel “like an heiress in an old French film.”

You catch her looking at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention — eyes soft, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sundress. She looks undone in the most beautiful way. Free.

You take the coastal road, stopping for fruit in a sleepy seaside village and eating it on the stone steps of an abandoned chapel, where she laughs when juice drips down her wrist and you lean over to lick it away. You end up in Èze.

A little villa you own tucked into the cliffs, hidden beneath vines and weathered shutters, with a terrace overlooking the sea. She gasps when she sees it, hands pressed to her chest like she’s afraid it might disappear.

“This is unreal,” she whispers.

You smile, unlocking the door. “It’s all yours.”

She turns to you. “No one’s ever said that to me like that.”

You don’t know what she means by like that, but you understand. Because when you say it’s yours, you don’t just mean the villa. You mean the key. The quiet. You.

That night, you cook barefoot in the kitchen while she sketches you from across the room, her notebook resting on her knees as she sits curled up on a worn velvet chair. Every time you turn to look at her, she’s already watching.

“You’re going to make me blush,” you tease.

“You’re already blushing,” she says, smiling behind the pencil between her lips.

Later, you eat on the terrace. There are candles, and wine, and sea air that smells like salt and thyme. You play old French records on the crackling radio inside, and when La Vie en Rose comes on, she stands and pulls you up by the hands.

“Dance with me,” she murmurs, close enough that you can feel the shape of her smile in the dark.

You sway together in the open air, pressed chest to chest, cheek to cheek, the world reduced to the rhythm of your hearts.

She whispers in your ear, “You make me feel like the universe isn’t so cruel after all.”

You whisper back, “You make me feel like I haven’t missed my chance.”

The bedroom is all windows and linen and shadows. She falls asleep with her head on your chest, one leg draped across your body, your fingers tracing lazy shapes across her spine. You stay awake longer than you should, just to memorize the way she breathes when she’s safe. In the middle of the night, she stirs.

“I had a dream,” she mumbles, still half-asleep.

“What about?”

“You painted me into a landscape,” she says. “But I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a soft blue blur in the corner of the sky.”

You smile, kissing her temple. “You’re the whole sky to me.”

She presses her face into your neck and hums. “Say that again.”

You do. Three more times. The next morning, you make coffee together in silence. She’s wearing your shirt and nothing else, and she hums as she leans against the counter, brushing her knee against yours. You don’t speak — not because there’s nothing to say, but because sometimes love is quiet. You take your mugs out to the terrace and sit side by side on the old daybed, her head on your shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back,” she murmurs.

You lace your fingers through hers. “Then let’s stay.”

“You mean that?”

You kiss her hand. “I mean everything with you.”

And in that moment — sun on your skin, her thumb stroking your knuckles, the whole world down below and the sky stretching endless above — you realize something: You’re not just falling in love. You already have.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

You pretend it’s just an ordinary evening. She returns from a walk through the old village square — cheeks flushed from the sea breeze, hair tousled from the wind, a fig in one hand, her sandals swinging in the other. She looks happy. At ease. Sun-drenched and effortless in the fading light.

You meet her at the door, pressing a kiss to her cheek like you haven’t been pacing for the past hour, nervous in a way you never are. She senses it — tilts her head, a soft smile playing on her lips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, feigning innocence.

She leans closer. “Like you’re about to give me a monologue. Or… ruin me.”

“Maybe both.”

You guide her inside. The villa is warm and softly lit, the scent of lavender and citrus hanging in the air. On the table, there’s a box. Small. Black. Tied with a silk ribbon.

She notices it immediately. “What’s that?”

You nod toward it. “Open it.”

She hesitates. “Did I forget my birthday?”

“No. But I didn’t.”

Her brow furrows in confusion — then she carefully pulls the ribbon loose and opens the box. Her breath catches. She goes still. Inside: a rare vintage Cartier pendant from the 1920s. Pale gold, delicate as breath, with a sapphire centerpiece that glimmers in the candlelight. You found it through a quiet private sale in Paris, where the seller spoke of it as a forgotten heirloom. You thought of Alexandra the moment you saw it — the strength in softness, the way she carries beauty like it's a second skin.

“YN…” she whispers. “How did you…?”

“You once told me — late one night, in bed — that your mother had a book about this collection. That she always said it was the most romantic thing Cartier ever made.”

Alexandra’s fingers tremble as she picks it up, cradling it like a relic.

“I remember that,” she murmurs. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I always listen when it’s you.”

Her eyes shine as she looks at you. “It’s too much.”

“No,” you say gently. “It’s never too much for you.”

And then — before she can speak again — you reach for the second envelope on the table. Thick, ivory paper. Hand-inked. She watches as you place it beside the jewelry box.

“What’s this now?” she asks, voice catching with a smile that’s part laughter, part disbelief.

You gesture for her to open it.

Inside: an official gallery notice, written in the same font you use for solo exhibitions. At the top is her name. Below it, the words: ALEXANDRA SAINT MLEUX: THE CURATOR’S EYE — A PERSONAL RETROSPECTIVE.

She stares at it in silence. You wait, heart thudding.

“I want to give you your own exhibition,” you say quietly. “A collection of pieces you’ve chosen. Works you love. Visions only you would see. I’ll fund the acquisitions if needed, but the gallery will be yours — for one month. No one else. Just your voice.”

Her hands cover her mouth.

“You can’t be serious,” she chokes out.

“I’ve never been more serious. You’ve spent so long curating for other people. For institutions. For trends and egos and men who never saw you as anything more than tasteful decoration. I see you, Alexandra. I see your instincts. Your brilliance. You deserve a space that reflects you. A gallery that bends to your eye.”

She’s crying now — not heavily, just quiet tears slipping down flushed cheeks. You move toward her, cupping her face gently.

“I wanted to give you something real,” you whisper. “Something no one’s ever given you before.”

She leans into your touch. “You’re giving me everything.”

“No,” you say. “I’m just making room for everything you already are.”

She kisses you then — hard and trembling and grateful — and it’s a kiss that tastes like trust. Like the beginning of something sacred. Her hands slip around your waist, the necklace still clutched in one fist, and you feel her fall into you like she’s never fallen before. When she finally pulls back, her eyes are glowing.

“I love you,” she says softly.

You smile, forehead pressed to hers.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

The gallery has never looked more beautiful. Soft golden light bathes the stone floors, delicate floral arrangements frame the entrance, and a ribbon of murmuring voices rises like champagne bubbles from the main hall. The crowd is well-dressed, slow-moving, and expectant. Patrons sip from crystal glasses and tilt their heads toward the art — her art, her curation — eyes widening at the subtle genius in the flow of it all.

But she’s not out there. She’s in your office. Pacing. You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her try not to unravel in her heels.

“This was a bad idea,” Alexandra mutters. “It’s too much. It’s ridiculous. Why did I even—”

“You’re brilliant,” you cut in gently.

“No,” she huffs. “I’m terrified.”

You walk to her slowly. She’s in a tailored black suit, the jacket barely buttoned, sleeves slightly pushed up in that effortless way she does. The Cartier necklace rests just above the opening of her blouse, sapphire glinting like it was born there on her skin. Her hair is pinned softly, her lips a little smudged from chewing nervously. She looks achingly beautiful.

“You’ve had to be behind the scenes for so long,” you murmur. “No one taught you how to hold space like this for yourself. But tonight is yours. And I promise you — everyone in that gallery already feels it.”

Alexandra breathes in shakily. “I don’t know if I can go out there.”

You tilt her chin up. “Let me show you what it looks like to be loved exactly for who you are.”

You offer your hand. She takes it. You guide her into the main hall slowly, fingers laced with hers, staying half a step behind so the moment can belong to her. The room hushes gently at the sight of her — no announcement, no need. Alexandra Saint Mleux is the statement. She walks with the grace of someone born into beauty, but with eyes that have only just begun to realize they deserve to own it.

A few collectors approach — she smiles, nods, accepts their praise with quiet elegance. You watch her glow from a distance as guests point at placards and ask questions, enthralled by the tenderness and intuition of her curation. A collection titled “the stillness between things.” Her theme. Her words. Her.

And then, as the room shifts again, you notice him. Charles. He slips in quietly, alone, no fanfare or entourage. He wears a sharp navy suit, expression unreadable as his gaze sweeps across the room and lands — inevitably — on her. On you. Your eyes meet for just a second. He nods once. You nod back. Then he moves toward Alexandra, not rushing, not hesitating.

She sees him a moment before he reaches her — her spine straightens, but her shoulders don’t tense. You can see her take a breath, grounding herself in everything she’s built. Everything she’s become.

“Bonsoir,” Charles says gently.

“Charles,” she says, surprised but not unkind. “You came.”

He glances around the room, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I would’ve been an idiot not to.”

There’s a beat of silence. He looks down — then lifts his eyes again.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “You’ve always had the best eye.”

Her lips curve. “Thank you.”

He hesitates just a moment longer — eyes dropping to the sapphire pendant — and then he reaches forward, gently squeezing her hand.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” he says.

It isn’t a question. But it’s permission.

She doesn’t look away from him. “I am.”

Then his gaze flicks back toward you — standing patiently by the display of Modigliani sketches, pretending not to eavesdrop. He meets your eyes again, and this time his smile is more knowing. No words exchanged. Just an understanding. He turns and slips back into the crowd.

Alexandra exhales like she’s finally let go of something that’s been quietly clinging to her ribs. You return to her side, hand finding the small of her back.

“You alright?” you whisper.

She leans into you, cheek brushing your shoulder.

“I think I finally am.”

The rest of the evening glows like a dream. The press clamor for quotes. Influencers beg for photos. Patrons corner her with questions, and she answers them all — eloquent, insightful, effortlessly charming. You watch her move through it like light through glass, somehow more radiant with each hour.

At one point, she turns and finds you across the room. Her eyes soften instantly. She crosses the floor without hesitation, wraps her arms around your waist, and rests her forehead to yours in the middle of the gallery.

“I still can’t believe this is mine,” she whispers.

“It always was,” you murmur back. “You just didn’t have anyone to say yes to you yet.”

She kisses you gently — not for show, not for drama, just because it’s the only thing that makes sense in this exact moment. People glance over. A few smile. No one gawks.

You’ve made sure of that. This space is safe. It’s hers.

And as the night winds down, champagne dwindling, heels kicked off, laughter echoing between canvases — she slips her fingers into yours and says, “You gave me my voice back.”

You press your lips to her temple and say, “No. I just turned up the volume.”

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

[libraryrana030]

hi bby so im back :) and i have a request!!

charlando x reader (why are there not more fics about these two??)

bc this pic is too fine not to write about and ily and ik that you will EAT with this

hehee ilyyy gorgeousss <3333

💋💋

that's our girl — cl16 + ln4

smau + written blurbs

charles leclerc x !actress reader x lando norris

you weren’t just a young actress. you were the young actress. oscar-nominated at 21. cover of vogue before 20. the internet’s darling, directors’ favorite, and the face of three fashion houses by 23.

but the one thing you kept fiercely private — the only thing you never let the world touch — was them. charles leclerc and lando norris.

it started quietly. a few late night texts. a shared hotel suite after a grand prix. a summer that felt like a dream. then suddenly, you were in love with two of the fastest men on the planet — and they were in love with you. for almost a year, it was just yours. safe. secret. sacred.

until the night of your movie premiere. until they stepped onto the red carpet beside you. until the world finally saw what had always belonged only to you.

and saw that you were their girl.

fc : anya taylor-joy

(a/n) : hi baby love!!!! i missed you:) charlando is soooo underrated in my opinion and i took direct inspo from this pic. (i think i drooled a little bit the first time i saw) love you to the moon and back!!!!!! hope you enjoy

—

voguemagazine

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, lando and 4,440,000 others.

voguemagazine : the face of a generation returns to our cover. for her fifth time gracing vogue’s front page, @/yourusername opens up about the role that changed everything, navigating fame in the age of obsession, and why some secrets are worth keeping — especially when the world is watching. inside the issue: exclusive photos from set, notes from her director, and a few words (just a few) about the rumors swirling around her love life...on stands august 1st.

tagged : yourusername

—

view 300,000 other comments.

yourusername : just a little film, a little fashion, and maybe a little fun. who’s to say 🖤 love you vogueeeeee

liked by voguemagazine, lando and charles_leclerc

username000 : charles and lando in the likes after all these rumors BFFR RN VOGUE

liked by voguemagazine

↳ voguemagazine : we know nothing 🤫

lando : great photos. very cool story. would love to meet her someday 🙃

liked by voguemagazine, charles_leclerc and yourusername

↳ username005 : we have literally seen paparazzi pictures of you two together. you cheeky fucker

username001 : vogue being messy again and i love it here

liked by voguemagazine

username77 : can’t wait to hear her say absolutely nothing about her love life in the most elegant way possible

liked by voguemagazine and yourusername

↳ yourusername : yes queeeeeeen. give us nothing!

liked by voguemagazine and username77

username55 : "some secrets are worth keeping" yeah ok but i’m nosy

liked by voguemagazine

charles_leclerc : beautiful cover. she always makes everything look effortless.

liked by voguemagazine, yourusername and lando

↳ username75 : charles just drop it and admit you are in LOVE.

—

You don’t hear them come in. The studio is buzzing—lights humming, cameras clicking, stylists whispering and bustling around you as you hold a pose in an impossibly structured gown. The sleeves are too long, the heels too high, and your neck is stiff from holding your head just right. You’re exhausted, your muscles screaming for a break, but the shoot must go on.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of something familiar—a flash of unruly curls, a pair of too white trainers stepping carefully around cables, the unmistakable glint of sunglasses on a face you know too well.

You pause, blinking. A small, tired smile creeps onto your lips despite the chaos around you.

“Hey,” Lando’s voice breaks through the noise, light and teasing. He waves enthusiastically, completely unbothered by the formality of the setting.

Charles stands just behind him, arms crossed, trying to look composed, but you see the slight upward curl at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t say much, but his eyes say it all—they sparkle with pride and quiet affection.

“You’re staring,” Lando grins, stepping closer.

“I’m not,” you tease, even though you are. “I’m just... appreciating the art.”

Charles chuckles softly and crosses the room, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Art can be exhausting, but you make it look effortless.”

Lando tosses you a snack—your favorite—grinning like a kid caught in the act. “Thought you might need a break. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

You laugh, and he uses the back of his hand to swipe a bit of whipped cream from your lip, smirking. “Careful,” you warn. “I might start expecting this kind of treatment all day.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he replies with a wink.

Your stylist clears her throat, offering a pointed glance. “Remember, no eating on set,” she says, though her voice is softer than usual.

Charles kneels down to zip up your boots, careful not to wrinkle the fabric of your gown. “We’re breaking all the rules today,” he murmurs, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve.

You rest your head against his shoulder for a moment, feeling the steady warmth there. “You both shouldn’t be here,” you say softly. “You have meetings.”

Charles shrugs, still smiling. “Meetings can wait. You’re the priority.”

Lando nods in agreement. “Yeah, we’re your unofficial support team.”

They linger nearby during the makeup touch-ups, sharing quiet jokes with the crew and keeping you company in the madness. The photographer catches a few candid shots—your bare feet tucked under the chair, Lando feeding you bites of cake, Charles speaking softly to your stylist about lighting. None of it will make the magazine. None of it needs to. It’s your little secret.

Later, as the shoot winds down, Lando pulls you aside. “Promise me you’ll take a break after this.”

“I will,” you say, leaning into him.

Charles wraps an arm around both of you. “We’re coming with you. No exceptions.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of their presence—your steady constants amid the frenzy of your life. And for once, you don’t feel tired at all.

—

The shoot wrapped late, but none of you were in any rush to go out. No afterparty, no fancy dinner, no red carpet chaos. Just the three of you — hair undone, makeup half wiped off, glitter still clinging to your collarbones — back in your apartment, where things felt quiet. Easy. Yours.

You’re curled up on the couch in the softest pair of Charles’ joggers and one of Lando’s old McLaren hoodies, a throw blanket draped lazily over the both of you. The lights are dim, the windows cracked open to let in the cool night air, and something low hums from the speakers. Your feet are in Lando’s lap. His hands are wrapped gently around your ankles, thumbs moving in small, lazy circles against your skin.

Charles is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed as he stirs something in a pan. Every so often, he hums under his breath. He moves with quiet purpose — barefoot on the tile, focused and calm, like he always is when he’s doing something for you.

“What’s he making again?” Lando murmurs, half asleep already.

You smile, not bothering to open your eyes. “He said pasta. But fancy. With wine he won’t let me touch yet.”

“Typical.” Lando nudges your leg with his elbow. “We’re out here starving while he builds a five-star menu from scratch.”

“He offered to teach you,” you remind him, grinning.

“He offered to boss me around in the kitchen,” Lando counters. “Different things.”

You laugh, and Charles calls out from the kitchen without turning around, “I can hear both of you, you know.”

“You were supposed to!” Lando shouts back. “It’s part of the charm.”

Charles walks over a moment later, drying his hands on a towel and tilting his head at the sight of you two — one completely melted into the couch cushions, the other practically draped across them like a very spoiled cat.

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to Lando’s temple. “Fifteen more minutes.”

“Feels like twenty,” Lando mumbles.

“Feels like heaven,” you say softly, reaching out to grab Charles’ hand as he turns to go. He lets you hold it for a beat, thumb brushing over yours. A silent little thank-you, wrapped in touch.

By the time dinner is ready, Lando’s fast asleep, his head resting on your thigh, breathing slow and peaceful. You thread your fingers through his curls gently, trying not to wake him, but Charles smiles as he sets two plates down on the coffee table.

“He’ll eat in ten minutes. Watch.”

Sure enough, the second the scent hits the air, Lando stirs.

“Is that… garlic?” he mutters, still mostly asleep.

Charles chuckles. “Told you.”

The three of you eat cross-legged on the floor with your plates in your laps, sharing bites and clinking glasses. Charles insists on pouring the wine. Lando insists on playing music you all hate but know by heart. You insist on dessert — which turns out to be ice cream eaten straight from the tub with mismatched spoons.

Later, you end up on Charles’ chest, your cheek resting over his heart. Lando’s sprawled out beside you, arm slung over your waist, humming tunelessly against your shoulder. The TV is still playing, but none of you are watching. You’re full, warm, and tired in the best way.

“You know what?” Charles says softly, running a hand through your hair.

“What?” you murmur.

“This,” he says, gesturing lazily to the pile of limbs and blankets, “is my favorite kind of night.”

Lando yawns, tightening his arm around you. “Don’t get used to it. I’m picking the movie next time.”

You smile into Charles’ shirt. “That’s fine. As long as you keep your cold feet to yourself.”

“No promises,” Lando says sleepily, already drifting again.

And just like that, the room settles. Three heartbeats, steady and overlapping. The quiet comfort of people who love you, not for the cameras or the headlines — just for being here. Just for being theirs.

—

You slip out quietly in the morning, just after sunrise.

The apartment is still, bathed in soft golden light. Charles is sound asleep, one hand beneath the pillow, the other stretched across your side of the bed. Lando’s curled up on the couch where he’d passed out halfway through a movie rerun, his curls messy and one sock hanging halfway off his foot.

You hesitate by the door for just a second, watching them in their peaceful, quiet state. And then you leave a note — just a little “shooting early today, love you both. forever.” — and disappear into the morning mist with your script in hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

The set is already awake by the time you arrive. Costumes. Hair. Makeup. People bustling around in purposeful silence. It’s your favorite kind of work — period drama, grounded in pain and ambition, like The Queen’s Gambit if it were a little darker, a little more fractured. You lose yourself in it easily.

By the time you’re seated across from your scene partner, lights set and cameras ready, you’ve forgotten the outside world completely. You don’t even notice them sneak in.

They meant to stay for only a few minutes. They had flights to catch, debriefs to attend, an entire race weekend ahead. But the moment they saw you — fully in character, back straight, gaze sharp, playing this complicated, brilliant woman with all her fire and grace — they froze in place.

And neither of them moved again.

From the side of the set, Charles stands with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, not saying a word. Lando's next to him, hoodie pulled up, biting the tip of his thumb like he does when he’s nervous or overwhelmed.

"She’s insane," Lando whispers, mostly to himself. "Like—how does she do that?”

“She becomes someone else entirely,” Charles murmurs, eyes never leaving you. “And still… she’s always her.”

You're in the middle of a quiet, devastating monologue when you finally notice them. It’s just a flicker — movement behind the lights. You keep your expression steady, but your heart flips in your chest. You hadn’t expected them. You definitely hadn’t expected them before their flight.

After the scene cuts, you walk off set still in costume — a structured 1960s dress, hair pinned perfectly, makeup heavy — and raise an eyebrow at them both.

“You’re supposed to be halfway to Hungary,” you say, but your smile gives you away.

Charles steps forward first, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been counting the minutes. “We had time.”

“Barely,” Lando adds, before pulling you into a messy, one-armed hug. “You were brilliant, by the way. Like… ridiculously brilliant. Kind of unfair, actually.”

You bury your face into Charles’ chest for a moment, breathing him in. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Charles kisses your hair. “We couldn’t not.”

“You looked like a goddess out there,” Lando says, grinning. “And terrifying. I think I’m a little scared of you now.”

You laugh softly. “Good. My character would be pleased.”

“You make it look easy,” Charles murmurs, his hand brushing against yours. “But it’s not. I know it’s not. And yet every time I watch you… I fall in love all over again.”

You glance between the two of them, hearts on their sleeves and eyes only for you, and your chest aches with the weight of it all. The love. The support. The way they never let you carry any of it alone.

Lando holds out a paper bag. “We brought breakfast. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s yours.”

You blink, touched. “You brought me food?”

Charles shrugs. “We weren’t sure if you’d eaten.”

“Or slept,” Lando adds. “Or remembered you’re a person.”

You take the bag with a soft laugh. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love,” Charles says simply.

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “That was so corny.”

Lando points at Charles. “That was all him.”

They stay until your next call time. Charles stands behind the camera monitor, arms crossed, jaw set — protective, proud. Lando leans against a pillar, hands in his pockets, watching you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. And when you glance over mid-take, something in their expressions softens you. Reminds you who you are. What you have. Not just a career. Not just a role. But love. Constant. Quiet. Steady. Yours.

—

You’re in costume when they find you again, back in that high-necked vintage dress, gloves slipping past your wrists, your hair pinned up so tight it aches. The studio is quieter now — a late scene being set up, lighting being adjusted, the buzz simmering to a hum. You’ve been working for hours, but your chest is tight for a different reason.

They're standing near the monitors, Charles with his arms folded, Lando shifting from foot to foot like he wants to say something and can’t quite find the words.

Their driver is waiting outside. The plane is on the runway.

It’s time.

“Can we…” Lando starts, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway, “Can we have a minute?”

You nod without hesitation, slipping out of the studio and into the cooler, quieter corridor with them. The second the door swings shut, Charles reaches for your hand.

You squeeze it tight.

“We hate leaving you like this,” he says softly, searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “Especially now. The shoot. The interviews. Everything.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper, and it’s not a lie — not really. You just leave out the part where you’ll be fine because you’ll see them again very, very soon.

“You’re always fine,” Lando murmurs, resting his forehead gently against yours for a moment. “That’s the problem. You don’t let us take care of you.”

“You took care of me last night,” you smile, eyes stinging. “And this morning. And right now.”

Charles kisses your knuckles slowly. “We’ll call after FP1. Text us when you wrap.”

You nod again, biting your cheek to keep from cracking. “I love you.”

Lando hugs you first — tight, warm, lingering. “Love you more.”

Then Charles folds you into his arms, one hand on the back of your head, one around your waist, holding you like it’s the last time. “See you soon,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I promise you will.”

You watch them walk down the hallway, hand-in-hand, glancing back at you with soft, reluctant smiles. When they disappear around the corner, you wait exactly thirty seconds before pulling your phone from your coat pocket. Your driver is already outside. Your bags are already packed. The jet is fueled, waiting on standby.

You text your assistant one word: ready.

She sends back a string of fire emojis and a thumbs up.

The second your last scene wraps, you’re out of the dress, out of the hair, into sweats and sneakers with a baseball cap pulled low. Your driver sneaks you through the back exit, past the trailers, out into the fading light. You don’t stop smiling the entire way to the hangar.

They think they’ve said goodbye. They think you’re still wrapped up in a long night of reshoots. But in eight hours, maybe less, you’ll be in their paddock. Wearing their colors. Holding their hands again. And they won’t see it coming.

—

f1gossipgirls

1,400,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : actress yn ln was spotted in both the McLaren and Ferrari garages this weekend… 👀 sources say she arrived quietly Saturday morning and was seen chatting with Lando Norris before qualifying, then later slipped into Ferrari hospitality with Charles Leclerc after. a paddock pass and a love triangle?? we’re not saying anything… but we’re also not not saying anything.

—

yourusername

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, franciscagomes and 5,705,000 others.

yourusername : big big thank you to @/f1, @/mclaren and @/scuderiaferrarihp for hosting me this weekend. so so much fun!! ❤️🏁

tagged : lando and charles_leclerc

—

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scuderiaferrarihp : our favorite guest 🔥

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lilymhe : you’re actually unreal. i want to be you when i grow up.

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↳ yourusername : teach me to golf!! so lando will stop bullying meeeee

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↳ lilymhe : anytime my queen!

maxverstappen1 : pick a side coward (come to the red bull garage)

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charles_leclerc : was a very fun weekend ❤️

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username000 : her in lando’s car. HER IN LANDO’S CAR.

yukitsunoda0511 : are we just pretending this isn’t suspicious?

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lando : had the prettiest views this weekend...you, my trophy and leclerc <3

liked by yourusername and charles_leclerc

—

It’s hot. Too hot. The sun is relentless above the circuit, and neither Lando nor Charles is particularly in the mood for press, meetings, or anything other than crashing into their hotel beds and maybe sending you a “wish you were here” voice note.

Lando kicks at a pebble in the paddock walkway, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

“She could’ve at least texted,” he mutters.

Charles, walking beside him, lets out a soft laugh. “She’s busy. Movie star things, no?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando shrugs. “Still. Miss her.”

They turn the corner toward hospitality — and freeze. Because there you are.

Wearing oversized sunglasses, a team pass slung around your neck, and a grin you can’t hide even if you tried. You’re standing casually by the entrance, sipping a cold drink like you didn’t just jump through fifteen scheduling hoops to get here. Like you didn’t just spend hours on a private jet, reviewing lines on the flight over.

Lando’s mouth drops open.

Charles blinks. Once. Twice. “No… way.”

“Hi,” you say sweetly, like you haven’t just turned both their brains to absolute mush.

Lando reaches you first, practically barreling into you, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he lifts you slightly off the ground. He buries his face in your shoulder, murmuring, “You’re actually here. You’re here.”

Charles follows right behind, tugging you away from Lando just enough to press a kiss to your cheek and then your forehead, hands holding your face like he can’t believe it’s real. “This is the best surprise you’ve ever pulled,” he breathes, still a little stunned.

You giggle, brushing a thumb across Charles’ cheek before turning to Lando. “I missed you both so much. I wrapped early, hopped on the jet, and came straight here.”

“We’re never letting you go again,” Lando mumbles, arms wrapping around your waist from behind as Charles leans in to kiss your temple.

“You’ve just guaranteed the best weekend ever,” Charles grins, fingers lacing with yours. “Don’t even care how the race goes now.”

And in the middle of the noise and the chaos and the cameras flashing from afar, the three of you exist in your own little bubble — soft and warm and full of love. Just where you’re meant to be.

—

The cameras are gone. The champagne’s dried sticky on the podium. The crowd’s long dispersed and the sun is beginning to dip low on the horizon, casting everything in that golden-orange hue that makes the world feel like a dream.

And inside a quiet motorhome far from the chaos, Lando is still wearing his race suit, hair damp from the heat and champagne, eyes lit up with joy and disbelief.

He barely gets the door open before you throw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking the cap off his head.

“You did it,” you whisper, voice tight with emotion. “Pole and the win. You actually did it.”

“I did it,” he says back, almost in awe. “You saw?”

“I saw everything.”

You kiss him then, soft and full of pride, your hands cupping his face like you’re trying to ground him — or maybe yourself. He pulls you tighter, laughing into your mouth like the joy is too much to keep in. When you finally break apart, Charles is already stepping in, still wearing his fireproofs, still flushed from the race.

“Mon amour,” you breathe, reaching for him with one hand while still tucked against Lando with the other. “P2. You were incredible.”

Charles leans in to kiss your forehead, his palm cradling your cheek, eyes flicking to Lando over your shoulder.

“Couldn’t be mad about it,” he murmurs. “Not when it’s him.”

Lando chuckles, resting his chin on your shoulder as his hand finds Charles’. “Best podium ever.”

You guide them both to the small couch at the back of the room, Lando curled into your side and Charles lying with his head in your lap. Your fingers run gently through Charles’ hair as Lando draws shapes lazily on your thigh with his finger.

No words are needed. Just the rise and fall of breaths. The brush of knuckles. A kiss placed on your wrist. The weight of Charles’ arm draped over your lap. Lando’s nose nuzzling into your neck.

There’s something sacred in the silence — a kind of warmth that doesn’t ask for applause or attention. Just presence. Just love.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper eventually, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

Lando hums sleepily in response. Charles shifts to kiss your thigh through your jeans. It’s quiet. It’s perfect. And for a few moments, the world doesn’t exist beyond this small room and the three hearts tangled together inside it.

—

The race weekend is over, the interviews wrapped, the fans gone home, and for the first time in days, the three of you finally have a moment to breathe.

You’re tucked into the backseat of a sleek black car, Charles in the passenger seat fiddling with the playlist, and Lando driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually over on Charles' knee.

“You know we could’ve just ordered room service and stayed in bed,” you tease, leaning your head against the back of the seat.

“Room service doesn’t come with this view,” Lando says, nodding toward the winding coastal road. “And besides… I wanted to show you the little place I found last year.”

Charles hums in agreement. “He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course he hasn’t.”

But when you arrive, you understand the hype. It’s a tiny beachside restaurant tucked into a quiet cove — all string lights and weathered wood and the smell of salt in the air. The owner clearly knows them both, claps Charles on the back and teases Lando as you’re led to a table right on the sand.

The sunset is molten gold. The waves are soft. And the three of you are finally still.

Charles orders wine with practiced charm. Lando sneaks bites off your plate and pretends to pout when you slap his hand away. You end up feeding him anyway. Charles takes a candid photo of the two of you mid-laughter, then turns the camera to you and says, “Smile for me, mon amour.”

You lean in and kiss him instead. After dinner, you slip off your heels and walk down the shoreline, Charles’ arm around your waist and Lando’s fingers laced with yours. The ocean kisses your ankles and the moonlight dances in their eyes. At some point, you end up sitting in the sand, your head resting on Lando’s shoulder while Charles lies back with his hand over your stomach, tracing absent-minded circles.

“We should do this more often,” you say softly.

Lando hums. “We should win more often, you mean.”

You laugh. “That too.”

They don’t let you walk back alone — one on each side, pinkies linked, hands warm and solid and real. And even though the world will spin madly again tomorrow, tonight is just for the three of you. Quiet. Golden. Safe.

—

several weeks later...

gossiproomx

1,880,000 likes.

gossiproomx : red carpet royalty?? actress yn ln stepped out for her highly anticipated movie premiere last night — but it wasn’t just the film that had jaws on the floor. not one but two f1 superstars — charles leclerc and lando norris — were seen arriving with her, staying close by her side on the carpet, and looking suspiciously like doting boyfriends during her pre-screening speech. sources say they were spotted exchanging proud smiles, sneaking glances, and even applauding the loudest from the front row. 👀 just friends? supportive pals? or is this our favorite kind of triangle? 💌

—

You’d spent the entire week convincing yourself they wouldn’t make it — between media duties, simulator runs, travel, and the chaos of back-to-back races, it just wasn’t realistic. They had sent flowers, sent texts, sent sleepy late-night “you’re gonna kill it” voice notes. And that had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You’d just stepped out of your car, nerves humming beneath your skin as flashes began to pop around you, when the security team at the end of the carpet suddenly shifted. Then you heard it: the wave of reaction down the press line, the sudden spike in volume, the unmistakable roar of surprise and camera shutters.

And then you saw them.

Charles and Lando. Both in tailored suits that fit them far too well, ties matching the tones of your dress exactly — they’d planned it, of course they had. Lando’s grin was wide and boyish, his curls tamed just enough to pass red carpet standards. Charles looked a little breathless, like he’d just rushed from the airport, but his eyes never left yours.

“Hey, baby,” Charles murmured as they reached you.

“You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you?” Lando added, already pulling you in for a quick hug.

“Are you real?” you asked, blinking rapidly, trying not to smudge your makeup.

Charles laughed softly and kissed your cheek. “Very real. And very proud.”

The three of you walked the carpet together — them flanking you, looking devastatingly handsome and impossibly proud. You kept it professional for the cameras, smiling and posing, never too close, never too obvious. But behind the scenes? Every glance, every brush of their hands against your back, every whispered compliment told a different story.

“You’re glowing,” Lando whispered as you stepped aside for solo shots. “They’re not ready for you.”

When it was time for the speech before the screening, you stood on stage with the director, mic in hand, eyes scanning the crowd. And there they were — front row, right in the center. Charles with his chin rested lightly in his hand, watching you with soft, steady eyes. Lando with a lazy arm draped over the back of the seat beside him, grinning like he knew every word before you even said it.

You took a breath. “I want to thank the people who got me here. Who love me for who I really am. Who remind me every single day that it’s okay to take up space.”

They clapped the loudest. You couldn’t stop smiling.

—

lando

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername, carlossainz55 and 7,770,000 others.

lando : my boy and our girl :)

tagged : charles_leclerc and yourusername

—

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pierregasly : finally. i’ve been holding this secret in for MONTHS.

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carlossainz55 : obsessed with this. like actually.

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charles_leclerc : our girl 🥰 forever and always.

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georgerussell63 : congratulations on being the most photogenic trio ever

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oscarpiastri : just casually breaking the internet, huh?

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maxverstappen1 : this post cured my seasonal depression

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yourusername : i love this. and you. both of you.

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—

[libraryrana030]

hellooo my love <33

i saw that you were asking for poly requests, so i'm doing exactly that!! i would love if you could write a george x reader x carmen, where the reader is a romance writer, and has a writer's block, so she decides to travel a little, and ends up meeting george and carmen, who are determined to give her a lot of inspiration!!

thank you soooo much!! and i hope, as always, you have fun writing this 🤍🫶

inspire me— gr63 + carmen mundt!

smau + written blurbs

george russell x !author reader x carmen mundt

when the words stopped coming, you packed your bags and disappeared. you were supposed to be working on your next novel—another sweeping romance, another bestseller—but lately, the spark’s been gone. no plot. no prose. just a blank page and a mind that won’t quiet down. so you run away to a quiet coastal town, hoping the sea air might remind you how to feel something again.

you didn’t expect to meet george—all sunshine smiles and effortless charm. you definitely didn’t expect carmen—soft around the edges, sharp where it counts, with eyes that seem to read you faster than you can write. and you absolutely weren’t prepared for how easily they let you in. it was supposed to be a break from love.

instead, you find yourself living the kind of story you thought only existed your books.

fc : isabella mathers

(a/n) : HI BABYYYYYY. as soon as i saw your request, the gears in my brain started turning and i needed to write this!! hope you love it as much as i love you :)

—

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and 1,100,000 others.

yourusername : had to get away to find some inspiration for this new book...france, you have been so sweet to me. italy, i am here and ready to explore<3333

—

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username000 : france was the prologue, italy is the plot 😌

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username00 : this feels like the opening scene of a novel where she falls in love with a mysterious stranger in a vineyard 🫢

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↳ yourusername : we can only hope

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username0 : YOU’RE WRITING A NEW BOOK?? MOTHER IS FEEDING AGAIN

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↳ yourusername : trying my best angel, writer's block can be a bitch sometimes

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↳ username0 : i feel it, love. take your time and have fun!

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alexandrasaintmleux : your writing is incredible! cannot wait to read what you come out with next xx much love

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↳ yourusername : thank you pretty:)

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↳ username5 : omg omg alex reads her books??? my two queens

↳ alexandrasaintmleux : absolutely! been here since the first book! yn is so talented<3

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yourbff : can you please fall in love with a beautiful italian local and base your next book entirely on it. thank u (and then invite me to live in italy with you)

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↳ yourusername : i suppose i can try 🙄

liked by yourbff

—

The train rocks gently as it pulls into the station, golden light spilling through the windows, soft and slow like honey.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. France is behind you. Paris—glittering, grand, romantic Paris—was supposed to fix you. The cafés, the wine, the long walks along the Seine… everyone always says it’s the city of love. That if you go there broken, you’ll come back stitched together by croissants and poetry.

But all you found in Paris was quiet. Not the good kind. The kind that sits heavy in your chest. You wandered the boulevards alone, filled notebook pages with half-sentences and crossed-out dialogue. You smiled politely at strangers. You watched lovers kiss across café tables and tried to remember what it felt like to want something so badly.

You didn’t find your spark there. You didn’t fall in love. Not with anyone. Not with the city. Not even with your work. And yet—despite that—something in you isn’t ready to give up.

Italy might be different, you tell yourself as you step off the train. The air is warmer here. The sun touches your skin like it knows your name. You’re staying in a little coastal town this time. Fewer crowds. More space to think. To feel.

Maybe this place will be kinder to you. Maybe this is where the story begins. You sling your bag over your shoulder, tuck your notebook beneath your arm, and follow the winding stone path toward the village—no idea what you’re walking into. But for the first time in a while… you hope it’s something beautiful.

—

The villa looks like it was pulled straight from the pages of a romance novel. Terracotta roof, warm stone walls, ivy curling around old shutters, and the sea glittering just past the garden fence. It’s almost absurd how picturesque it is. You stand at the gate for a second, soaking it in, the weight of your travel day melting off your shoulders.

You fumble with the key you were sent, suitcase wheels rattling behind you as you push through the front door—and freeze. There are voices. Laughter.

Your brain, at first, jumps to the worst: squatters? Thieves? Murderers with excellent taste in real estate?

Then you hear footsteps, and before you can say anything, someone walks into view. Tall. Tan. Disheveled curls. Ridiculously blue eyes. He’s shirtless. Of course he is.

“Uh—hello?” he says, blinking at you like you’re the intruder.

You blink back. “Hi? I think I’m in the right place? I booked this villa for the week.”

He furrows his brows. “So did we.”

“We?”

A second voice drifts in, smooth and amused. “George, did you scare off the poor girl?”

Then she appears. All elegance and beautiful brown hair, wearing a linen dress and no shoes. She looks like a movie star on vacation. And suddenly, your exhaustion turns into full-blown embarrassment.

You check your email again, showing them the confirmation. “This has to be some kind of mistake. I swear—”

“Oh, no, I believe you,” the woman says, stepping forward kindly. “We booked through a friend of a friend. It wouldn’t be the first time they double-booked by accident.”

The man—George—scratches the back of his neck. “Well. This is awkward.”

“I can try to find a hotel—” you begin, already pulling out your phone.

“No, no.” Carmen—she introduces herself—reaches out gently to stop you. “Don’t be silly. This place is massive. You should stay.”

You blink. “Really?”

George grins, that easy, boyish kind of grin that makes you feel like you’ve known him longer than 30 seconds. “We already paid. No sense in wasting space. Unless, of course, you snore.”

“I don’t,” you deadpan.

He gives you a dramatic once-over. “You look like a non-snorer. Quiet. Mysterious. Possibly deadly.”

You laugh despite yourself.

Carmen smiles softly, eyes flickering over your notebook clutched in your hand. “You’re a writer?”

You nod.

She tilts her head. “Then I think we might be exactly what you need.”

You don’t know what she means by we, or why the sentence makes your pulse jump. But when she gestures for you to come inside, and George grabs your bag with a wink, you follow. Maybe Italy really is different.

—

You sit in the garden just after sunset, barefoot in the grass, your notebook abandoned on the lounge chair behind you.

Carmen had pulled out a bottle of red—"from a tiny vineyard the locals swear by"—and George had set up a small table with mismatched chairs and a flickering citronella candle. It’s quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the soft clinking of glasses. The three of you sit there, legs stretched out, lazily enjoying the kind of summer evening that only ever seems to exist in films.

George leans back in his chair, hair curling from the heat, one arm thrown over the back lazily. “So,” he says, lifting his glass in your direction. “Mysterious villa girl. What kind of writer are you, then?”

You smirk, taking a sip. “A failing one, currently.”

“Impossible,” Carmen hums, chin resting on her hand. “You’ve got the melancholy artist vibe down to a science.”

“I haven’t written anything decent in months,” you admit. “Thought a change of scenery might help.”

“Did France help?”

You shake your head. “Paris was… beautiful. But I still felt completely disconnected.”

Carmen watches you over the rim of her glass. “Disconnected from writing or from people?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. “Both, maybe.”

The moment lingers.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, a little bashful. “That was too forward.”

“No,” you say softly. “It was honest.”

George breaks the tension with a cheeky grin. “I’d offer to let you write about me for inspiration, but Carmen says I’m not complex enough.”

“I said you were emotionally straightforward,” Carmen says with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not the same thing.”

You laugh, feeling something inside you relax for the first time in weeks.

Then Carmen tilts her head. “Wait. What’s your full name again?”

You glance at her, puzzled. “Why?”

“Just humor me.”

You give it.

She stares for a beat… and then gasps. “No.”

George looks between you. “What just happened?”

Carmen’s eyes are wide now, lit up with delight. “You’re the one who wrote That Summer in Vienna?”

You blink. “You’ve read it?”

“I’ve read all of them,” she says, setting her glass down with reverence. “The Lighthouse Letters, Two Seats Between Us, Cherries in January—George, you know that one. I made you read it last summer and you got weirdly emotional about chapter fourteen.”

“Because he died!” George exclaims, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “You’re not supposed to kill off the dreamy violinist!”

Carmen turns back to you, still glowing. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your name straight away. Your stories always feel like... like slow dances. Like the kind of love you can live inside.”

You’re stunned. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my writing.”

She smiles, and it’s soft, a little shy now. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to fangirl. I just—your books got me through a really lonely time. And now you’re here. In our villa.”

“Our villa?” George teases.

Carmen rolls her eyes but doesn’t correct herself. You feel warmth rush to your cheeks. From the wine, maybe. Or from the fact that Carmen Mundt just admitted she’s been crying over your stories in bed for years.

George leans forward now, grinning. “So, what are you writing next? Or… trying to write?”

You swirl the wine in your glass. “Something different. More grown. More raw. I want it to feel like being in love for the first time all over again. Real and unexpected and a little terrifying.”

He raises a brow. “Sounds like you’re looking for inspiration in very specific places.”

You glance at them. Carmen is still looking at you like she knows something you don’t. George’s smile has softened into something unreadable.

You shrug. “I guess I’m hoping I stumble into a story worth writing.”

Carmen’s voice is quiet, but sure: “I think it’s already started.”

You hold her gaze for a moment too long. George watches you both, something curious and fond playing in his expression. The candle flickers. The cicadas hum louder.

—

You’re not sure how you ended up here—barefoot on the deck of a yacht, wind in your hair, sea spray on your skin, with George Russell steering like he’s done this his whole life and Carmen lounging like a siren in a linen set that should be illegal. However, they had both suggested a week of firsts to try and get you inspired again.

The day is bright. The kind of Mediterranean blue that feels almost fake. You squint behind your sunglasses, notebook wedged safely in your tote bag, and try not to overthink the fact that George and Carmen invited you out here just because.

You hadn’t even finished your coffee when George had grinned at you across the kitchen island and said, “How do you feel about sailing today?”

And Carmen, already halfway into a bottle of sunscreen, had added, “You can’t come to Italy and not experience the sea properly.”

You’d meant to write today. You really had. But now the sun is warm on your skin and Carmen is handing you a glass of something fizzy and cold, and George is singing off-key to a summer playlist over the speakers. And for once, you're not thinking about deadlines. Or pressure. Or the blank page waiting for you.

You’re just here.

“You look good out here,” George says suddenly, stepping closer with an easy, salt-warmed smile. “Like you belong on a boat.”

You snort. “Because I’m glowing or because I’m clinging to the rail for dear life?”

He raises a brow. “Bit of both. But mostly the glowing part.”

Your cheeks warm, and you look away, catching Carmen’s eyes over the rim of your glass. She’s watching you with that same gentle curiosity she always seems to carry—like she’s reading you in real time.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, softer than expected. “I think I’m actually… really happy right now.”

She smiles, then gets up and walks over, brushing her fingers against yours before plucking the drink from your hand. “Come sit up front with me.”

You follow her to the bow, both of you settling in with your legs stretched out and heads tilted toward the sun. George hums something under his breath at the helm. You close your eyes and let the wind rush through your hair.

“This is the first time I’ve gone sailing,” you admit.

Carmen looks over, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “First time sailing. First time traveling alone. First time… feeling like I’m not waiting for something bad to happen.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then reaches over and lightly hooks her pinky with yours.

“Well,” she says, “firsts are special. They make great chapters.”

You smile. “You’d know. You’ve read enough of mine.”

Carmen leans her head against your shoulder. “And now I get to live one with you.”

Your heart skips. The sea sparkles. George calls from the back, laughing, “Oi! No falling in love up there without me!”

You laugh, full and warm and sun-dazed. Carmen just smirks, not moving an inch from where she’s pressed against you. “We’d never.”

But something in her voice says maybe you already are.

—

The morning sunlight pours through the open windows of the rustic vineyard house as you wake to the scent of fresh bread and blooming jasmine. George and Carmen are already in the kitchen, tasting local honey straight from the jar, sharing quiet smiles that speak of an easy, deep bond.

You sip your coffee slowly, already feeling the promise of the day ahead.

The vineyard is a short drive away, a sprawling sea of green vines rolling over golden hills under a sapphire sky.

Carmen holds your hand as you step onto the tasting terrace, her fingers warm and steady. “This is one of my favorite places,” she says softly. “They make their wine like art.”

George grins, raising his glass. “Let’s see if you like their art as much as ours.”

You all laugh, swirling ruby-red liquid in your glasses as the sun warms your skin. With every sip, the world loosens. Conversations grow lighter, laughter comes easier. Later, the vineyard’s art studio awaits: canvases, paints, and brushes laid out under a shaded arbor.

“Time to see your artistic side,” George teases, dabbing paint onto his brush and deliberately smearing a splash of blue on Carmen’s cheek.

She gasps, then smirks, flicking a spot of crimson right onto George’s arm. You’re caught between amusement and delight, grabbing a brush and joining the playful battle.

“Careful,” you say with a smile. “I might be the real artist here.”

Carmen’s eyes sparkle. “We’ll be the judges.”

You paint side by side, the afternoon light dipping golden around you. The brushstrokes start messy but soon soften, the colors blending like the easy rhythm growing between you.

At one point, Carmen reaches over, brushing a stray hair from your face, her fingers lingering longer than necessary.

George catches the moment, grinning mischievously. “You two make a perfect canvas.”

Your cheeks flush as you glance between them — the laughter, the warmth, the slow ache of something new. As the sun sets behind the hills, you realize this day might be the beginning of more than just inspiration. It’s the start of a story you never expected to write… or live.

—

The vineyard’s golden glow fades behind you as night settles like a velvet blanket over the hillside. George, Carmen, and you leave the last of the wine tastings behind, laughter trailing softly in the warm evening air. It feels quiet when you return, but the three of you aren’t ready for the night to end—not yet.

George grins suddenly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you say we go for a swim? The sea’s still warm.”

You hesitate, toes curling in the soft grass. Swimming at night? It sounds reckless. Perfect.

Carmen squeezes your hand. “I’m in.”

Soon, you’re barefoot again, slipping quietly through the villa’s gate toward the shoreline. The moon casts a silver path across the calm water. The stars shimmer like a thousand tiny lanterns. Your heart pounds—half from the chill of anticipation, half from the thrill of doing something so wildly out of the ordinary.

George strips down to his swim shorts with easy confidence. Carmen peels off her linen dress, revealing a simple swimsuit underneath, and looks radiant in the moonlight.

You take a deep breath and step into the water. The cool embrace washes over you, shocking at first but quickly soothing.

George is beside you in an instant, his hand finding yours underwater.

Carmen swims close too, her fingers brushing your arm, sending a shiver you don’t try to hide.

You all swim further out, laughing as the water sparkles like liquid stars around you. When you finally float on your backs, staring up at the endless sky, everything feels impossibly still and perfect.

“Look at that,” Carmen murmurs, tracing constellations with her fingers.

George’s voice is low and soft. “Makes you believe in magic.”

You close your eyes, feeling their warmth next to you, the gentle rhythm of the waves lulling you. Later, wrapped in towels and barefoot on the terrace, Carmen pulls out a portable speaker.

A slow, melodic song begins to play, the notes drifting into the cool night. Without thinking, Carmen stands, holding out her hand to you. You take it. George joins, and soon the three of you are swaying, spinning, lost in the music and each other.

There’s no need for words—only laughter, soft touches, and the steady beat of hearts finding their rhythm.

At one point, George pulls you close, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re stunning.”

You blush, but the words make you believe it.

Carmen leans in too, her lips brushing your cheek. “You make everything feel new.”

As the night deepens, you realize this week of firsts is changing you—healing you—in ways you never imagined. With George and Carmen beside you, the future feels wide open, full of possibility and the kind of love that’s slow, fierce, and true.

—

yourusername

liked by carmenmmundt, georgerussell63, alexandrasaintmleux & 1,290,000 others.

yourusername : finding a lot of inspiration in italy<3

tagged : carmenmmundt and georgerussell63

—

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alexandrasaintmleux : you’re telling me that the next romance novel I read will be about george russell😭😭

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, lando and carmenmmundt

georgerussell63 : what is so wrong with me??? im quite charming 

liked by yourusername, carmenmmundt and lando

carmenmmundt : if it helps…it’s probably partially about me 😁

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username000 : the fact that your notebook is full again. i’m crying. we missed your words.

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alex_albon : “inspiration” huh 👀

liked by yourusername, carmenmmundt and georgerussell63

yourbff : the soft lighting… the cuddling on the beach… the notebook full again… yeah okay you’re in love.

liked by yourusername

lilymhe : the pic of you and carms…just ended world hunger and also healed my skin. wow.

liked by yourusername and carmenmmundt

carmenmmundt : i’d like to publicly say the pasta was life changing. and so was the company.

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georgerussell63 : where are my photo credits????

liked by yourusername and carmenmmundt

yourusername : maybe if you would’ve shared your pizza…

—

It is a quiet night. The kind of quiet that feels like something’s ending. The sea hums in the distance, the cicadas sing their dusk song, and your half packed suitcase waits silently at the foot of the bed. You’re trying not to think about it.

Instead, you step into the shower, hoping the hot water will soothe the ache in your chest. One week. That’s all it took to change everything. To change you. You told yourself this was just a writing retreat. A getaway. A reset.

But somewhere between sailing under a sun-drenched sky, wine-drenched kisses on cheeks, and late nights whispering under the stars — you fell. For both of them.

You towel off slowly, breathing deep, heart already racing because you know tonight you’ll have to say goodbye. You step out of the bathroom, wrapped in an old linen robe, and freeze.

They’re both in the kitchen. And your notebook — the one you left open on the counter without thinking — is in Carmen’s hands. Your stomach drops.

George looks up. His face is unreadable. Carmen meets your eyes like she’s seeing straight through your skin.

“I—” you start, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean for you to read that.”

Neither of them speak. Not at first.

You rush to the notebook, slamming it closed and hugging it to your chest. “It was just a scene. A thought. A—fictional thing. I didn’t mean it like—”

“It wasn’t fictional,” Carmen says quietly.

You stop breathing.

“It’s us,” George adds, stepping closer.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes burning. “Don’t make this worse. I know this was just a week. You have your lives, your rhythm, your… love. I was just—temporary.”

George frowns. “Is that what you think we saw you as?”

“I think you’ve both been kind. And sweet. And beautiful. But I’m not part of your world.”

“You are,” Carmen says, like it’s the simplest truth. “You have been since the moment you walked in with that confused little look and your heart scribbled all over your pages.”

You shake your head. “You don’t understand. I write things. I feel them too hard. It’s just how I am. It doesn’t mean you have to say it back.”

George’s hand finds yours. “But what if we do want to say it back?”

You look between them.

“I’m in love with you,” Carmen says, firm now. “Not just because you’re brilliant. Or because you write the most devastatingly romantic sentences I’ve ever read. But because you see people. You saw us. You didn’t even try to fit into our world—you just were part of it.”

George squeezes your hand, eyes gentler than you’ve ever seen. “I love you, too. You made us feel like something new. Something bigger. And neither of us are ready to let that go.”

You’re crying now, and Carmen steps in, cupping your cheek with a hand so warm, so steady, you finally let the weight fall from your shoulders.

“But what does this mean?” you whisper. “You’re leaving. You’re going back to races and press and real life—”

“Then come with us,” George says.

Your breath catches.

Carmen nods. “You have your notebook. Your heart. We’ll be in city after city. Hotel rooms, plane rides, empty moments filled with too much noise. You’d make it all feel like something worth writing down.”

You laugh through the tears. “Are you sure?”

George kisses your forehead. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And Carmen, still holding your face in her palms, smiles like she’s already known this ending all along.

“So?” she says softly. “One last first?”

You drop the notebook on the counter, fingers lacing through both of theirs.

“One last first,” you whisper. “And then a hundred more.”

—

They ask you just before sunset. You’re curled up in the villa garden, legs tucked beneath you, rereading the words you’d scribbled in your notebook days ago—the ones Carmen and George read. The ones that changed everything.

“Come get ready,” George calls from the kitchen, a boyish grin on his face. “We’ve got dinner reservations.”

You blink. “Wait. Real dinner? Like… fancy?”

Carmen appears in the doorway, already in a stunning silk dress the color of dusk. “We have one last first to cross off.”

You don’t ask what she means. You already know. You wear something simple. Elegant. Honest.

Not the version of you who came to Italy heartbroken and creatively drained—but the version that bloomed somewhere between a yacht, a vineyard, and two people who look at you like you’re made of stardust.

They don’t pick a crowded restaurant or anything loud. It’s a tiny place tucked into the cliffs, only six tables, all candlelit. The table George reserved overlooks the ocean, and the golden hour light paints everything in gold and rose.

“I wanted this to feel like something you could write about,” he says as you sit between them, his knee gently brushing yours.

“You already are,” you whisper.

Dinner is soft conversation and small touches—Carmen resting her hand on yours when you laugh, George tucking a piece of hair behind your ear when the wind picks up. No pressure. No big confessions. Just being.

You toast over dessert.

“To firsts,” George says.

“To the in-between moments,” Carmen adds, eyes on you.

You lift your glass last. “To choosing this. Even when it’s scary.”

They both smile at you like you just said the most romantic thing in the world. Later, you walk hand-in-hand back to the villa, the stars bold overhead, the sea singing below.

George kisses you first—slow and certain, like he’s been waiting to do it under starlight this whole time. Then Carmen presses her forehead to yours, smiling through her kiss like she already knows you’re hers.

And when you finally fall asleep between them, hearts steady and limbs tangled, you realize something beautiful: This is still only the beginning.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,750,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Spotted: Romance writer @/yourusername is officially no longer writing about love… she’s living it. 👀 Sources caught YN holding hands with Carmen Mundt (!!) in the Monza paddock earlier today — only for George Russell to be seen lifting her from a boat onto a dock later that same afternoon. 😳 And just when we thought it couldn’t get any more confusing, the three were seen together at dinner hours later, laughing, whispering, and looking very couple-y (throuple-y?) if you ask us. France gave her writer’s block. Italy gave her George. And Carmen.

—

The paddock is louder than you thought it would be. Not in noise — you’ve heard engines scream and fans chant before — but in energy. This time, you’re part of it.

It’s your first race weekend since meeting them. Since Italy. Since you stopped just writing about love and started actually living it.

George walks just ahead of you, tall and golden in his team gear, glancing back every few seconds to make sure you’re still there. Carmen holds your hand, her grip soft but grounding, as if she knows how much this moment means.

The three of you move as one — no hiding, no soft-launch secrecy. Just ease. Whispers trail behind you like perfume.

“Is that…?”

“Oh my god, they’re all three here?”

“She’s with them?”

“She wrote that book, right?! The heartbreak one??”

You’re trying to stay focused when you hear a voice yell, “THERE SHE IS!”

You barely have time to register it before Lily appears, wrapping you in a dramatic, almost tackle-level hug. “Hi. We need to talk about how real your characters are and also—do you have a minute for a casual breakdown over The Lighthouse Letters?”

Then comes Eli, sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand, looking like a Vogue cover. “You made me cry on a plane with Cherries in January. I nearly sobbed on the flight attendant.”

Kika slides in next, looping her arm through yours. “Do you do signed copies? I need five. And also—book club. We’re starting one. You don’t have a choice.”

Flavy just blinks at you. “Are you aware you write the sexiest slow burns alive?”

And finally, Alexandra, with that serene smile and soft voice: “You make love sound like something I could hold in my hands. Thank you for that.”

You glance over your shoulder — George is watching with amused pride, Carmen pretending to be scandalized.

“She’s gone five minutes,” George laughs, “and she’s already converted the entire grid to readers.”

Carmen smirks, leaning into your ear. “Told you you were magic.”

You smile, cheeks flushed, heart full.

And somewhere between Kika demanding everyone read a spicy chapter aloud and Flavy deciding what food to serve at the next book club, you realize. You didn’t just find love. You found a whole new chapter of your life.

—

The race is halfway through when you feel someone tap your shoulder.

You turn to find Lily, sunglasses on top of her head, holding two iced lattes and whispering. “Okay. Spill. Did you bring it?”

You raise a brow. “Bring what?”

She gives you a look.

You sigh… then reach into your oversized tote and pull out the carefully folded stack of printed pages. “Rough draft. No judgment. Please don’t read it out loud.”

“Oh my god.” Kika materializes from thin air. “Is that it??”

“Shhh!” you hiss. “If George hears you, he’ll try to steal a copy again.”

Too late.

Carmen, seated on the other side of you, sips from her water bottle, eyes twinkling. “To be fair, he is the muse.”

“Which part of this am I?” Eli asks, plucking a page. “Please say the mysterious heiress who seduces the writer on a boat.”

Alexandra leans over to peek. “I hope I’m the morally ambiguous art dealer.”

Flavy, chewing on sour candy like it’s serious business, lifts her sunglasses. “I just want to be the one who gets the last line.”

The seven of you are practically forming a fortress of lip gloss and secrets in the hospitality suite, hunched over pages between engine roars and pit stop replays.

“Wait,” Lily gasps, pointing to a paragraph. “Did she just say— ‘they tasted like summer and safety and secrets I’d die to keep’?”

You wince. “Too much?”

Carmen shakes her head, smile soft. “No. It’s perfect.”

“It’s us,” she says quietly. “It’s all of us.”

You go quiet for a moment, heart thudding.

Somewhere below, George’s car flies past the grandstand, and the crowd erupts.

You should be watching the race.

Instead, you’re watching your pages come to life in the hands of women who get it—who see you.

—

George crosses the line P1.

The garage erupts. Mechanics are shouting, radios are crackling, fans are screaming, and somewhere in the chaos, you drop your notebook entirely because your hands are shaking too hard to hold anything.

Carmen grabs your hand, breathless with joy. “He did it.”

And he did. Fastest lap. Flawless strategy. Ruthless precision. The whole thing felt like a symphony — and George conducted every note like he was born for it.

You and Carmen sprint toward parc fermé, ducking past photographers and PR staff, the world a blur of flashing cameras and champagne already spraying somewhere behind you.

And then he’s there.

Helmet off. Grinning like sin and sunlight. Sweaty, flushed, radiant.

He spots you both instantly — and his whole face lights up.

“George!” you cry, laughing as you reach him.

He doesn’t even wait.

He pulls you in first, gripping your waist, crashing his lips against yours like he needs you more than air. You kiss him back without thinking — cheers roaring behind you, but you only hear your heartbeat and the soft sound of Carmen laughing next to you.

Then George turns, arm still around your shoulders, and leans in to kiss Carmen too — gentler, just as sure, the kind of kiss that says thank you for believing in me. for being mine.

And when he pulls back, both of you wrapped against his chest, there’s a stunned silence for just a second.

Then the cameras explode.

Clickclickclick.

The internet is about to implode. The paddock is definitely imploding. But none of it matters.

Because George leans his forehead against yours, glancing between you and Carmen, and whispers, “I won for us.”

You smile so hard your cheeks hurt. “You always do.”

Carmen wipes sweat from his brow and kisses his temple. “Let’s go make history.”

And just like that — the three of you walk off , hand in hand, hearts full.

Unapologetic. Unmissable. Undeniable.

—

several weeks later…

You’ve carried the finished copy in your bag for three days. Every time George kissed your cheek or Carmen brushed her thumb across your wrist, your heart started hammering like a guilty secret. Like they’d feel it on your skin — the weight of it. What you’d written. What you’d finally, finally finished.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever get to this part. Not the book. Not the story. Not the two of them asleep beside you like a promise you don’t have to question anymore.

But tonight, after dinner — after George set the dishes aside with that sleepy post-race grin and Carmen slipped her hand into yours like she’d been holding it her whole life — you go quiet. And George notices.

“You okay, love?”

You swallow. “I have something. For both of you.”

Carmen tilts her head. “A surprise?”

“A confession,” you say softly.

They both straighten.

You reach into your bag and slowly, reverently, pull out the book. The real one. Bound, printed, yours.

The cover is soft matte. Deep red. The title in gold foil — a name only they know, a phrase Carmen once whispered into your neck one wine-drunk night on the yacht.

George stares. “You finished it.”

You nod. “I didn’t tell anyone yet. You’re the first people to see it.”

Carmen’s hand covers her mouth, eyes suddenly shining. “You wrote it. About us.”

You press the book into George’s hands, your voice shaking. “It started in the villa, but it didn’t stop there. It became more than I thought it would. More than I was.”

He opens to the dedication page, and you feel the moment it lands: For the ones who made love feel like a place I could stay.

Carmen leans into your shoulder, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. “I’m going to cry through every chapter.”

“I hope you do,” you whisper.

George traces the edges of the cover like he’s holding something sacred. “I’ve never had someone put me in a story before.”

You laugh, tears in eyes. “You weren’t just in the story, George. You were the reason I could finish it.”

There’s a pause. Then Carmen turns to you, gently taking your face in both hands. “You do realize we’re going to be absolutely unbearable about this.”

You blink. “Unbearable?”

“Oh, insufferable,” George confirms, already flipping pages. “Public readings. Annotated copies. Matching bookmarks.”

Carmen grins. “I’m getting it tattooed.”

You laugh through the tears this time, heart bursting. But then George pulls you in — arms tight around your waist — and Carmen’s arms wrap around the both of you, holding your back, your ribs, your heart.

And in that quiet tangle of limbs and love, George whispers, “I’d read you a thousand times over.”

And Carmen murmurs, “You’ll always be our favorite author.”

You breathe in their warmth, their weight, the silence between heartbeats. And for the first time in your life, the story feels finished. Not the love. Not the living. Just the story. The one you wrote for them. The one they helped you write for yourself.

—

georgerussell63

liked by yourusername, carmenmmundt, lando and 5,750,000 others.

georgerussell63 : OUR GIRL WROTE A BOOK ABOUT US!!!!!!!! & we will never ever shut up about it so good luck. go read it right now. OR ELSE. (also yes we’re in love and yes this is real and yes I sobbed at chapter 17 ok bye)

tagged : carmenmmundt and yourusername

—

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lando : congrats on the book! i read two chapters and then had to go stand in the shower in silence.

liked by yourusername, carmenmmundt and georgerussell63

lilymhe : she made me cry over your love story. how rude is that? I CRIED ABOUT GEORGE RUSSELL. and for once it wasn’t from fear he’d steal my man.

liked by yourusername, carmenmmundt, georgerussell63 and alex_albon

yourusername : honestly if he did you could just carmen and i

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lilymhe : BYE ALEX MWAH

liked by yourusername and carmenmmundt

charles_leclerc : you guys are so dramatic. also what page is the kiss scene. asking for a friend.

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carmenmmundt : can we get matching “chapter seventeen survivor” tattoos?

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georgerussell63 : booking the appt rn

oscarpiastri : never thought george russell would be the face of modern romance fiction but here we are.

liked by yourusername, georgerussell63 and carmenmmundt

—

your look into chapter seventeen !

The storm doesn’t ask permission when it arrives. It pours in with the wind, curling against the stone walls of the villa, pressing against the glass like it’s trying to crawl inside. But the real storm is already in the room.

She’s by the window. She hasn’t looked at either of them since she walked in soaked from the rain. Her dress clings to her skin. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself like armor. Her voice, when it comes, is steady—but barely.

“This was never supposed to mean anything.”

George flinches.

“You said it yourselves,” she continues. “Just a break. A summer thing. Something beautiful we could fold away when it was over. I believed you.”

She finally turns. Her eyes land on Carmen. They’ve always been drawn to each other first.

“I didn’t come here to fall in love with either of you,” she whispers. “But I did. And now I don’t know what to do with all of it.”

Carmen moves first. Slowly. She crosses the room like the silence is breaking beneath every step.

“I told myself I could love you both quietly,” she says, her voice like rain against warm tile. “That I didn’t need to say it out loud. That it would ruin the spell.”

George breathes like he’s drowning. “It wasn’t a spell. It was real. You were both… real.”

She laughs, but it’s not funny. “Then why does it feel like we were all waiting for it to end?”

The lightning flashes again, bright and cruel.

George steps closer, soaked to the bone. His shirt sticks to him. His eyes won’t leave hers.

“Because I was afraid,” he says. “Because I didn’t think love like this existed outside of pages you write. Because if I said it—really said it—I’d never be able to survive losing it.”

Silence. Then:

“I love you.”

He’s not looking at just one of them. He’s looking at both.

“I love you both. And I would spend a hundred lifetimes looking for this again and never find it. If you leave now, I’ll still be writing your names into every story I ever tell.”

Carmen reaches for her first, hand trembling. Then George, warm and certain. And she steps into them like stepping into a memory she never wants to forget.

Her voice breaks as she speaks. “I don’t want beautiful endings. I want messy beginnings. I want mistakes and mornings and everything. I want you.”

George kisses her temple. Carmen’s hand is still tangled with hers. And finally, there is no more pretending. No more bargaining. Just truth. Love, loud and alive and real.

annotated in carmen’s copy:

i reread this at least once a month and cry every time. it’s the heartbeat of the book. of us.

annotated in george’s copy:

this is when i knew you were mine forever. i still read it when i miss you, even if you’re just in the other room.

—

[libraryrana030]

alexandra x singer!reader who opens up for taylor on the eras tour?

i wanna be your girlfriend

pairing: alexandra saint mleux x reader

summary: in which you sing a song you wrote for alexandra during the eras tour

warnings: none!

a/n: i hope you like this, love <3

the stadium was buzzing, thousands of faces blurring into one giant wave of noise and light. you were backstage, heart thudding so loud it felt like it might burst. you were about to open for taylor swift on her eras tour — which was already insane — but what made tonight different was that alexandra was here.

in the vip section, glowing under the lights in a flowing white satin dress. her hair falling softly over her shoulders, her eyes catching yours like she was trying to hold onto every moment. she looked like a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

your fingers tightened around the mic as you stepped out onto the stage. the crowd roared and you swallowed down the nerves, the weight of the song sitting heavy in your chest.

you looked over at alexandra and took a breath.

“this next song,” you said, voice barely above a whisper but somehow carrying across the whole stadium, “it’s for someone who’s been making me feel things i didn’t know i could. someone who makes me want to be brave even when i’m scared.”

a hush fell over the crowd.

“alexandra, this is for you.”

you started playing, your voice shaking a little at first but growing stronger with every word.

i don’t wanna be your friend, i wanna kiss your lips i don’t wanna be your friend, i wanna be your bitch

the words felt electric coming from your lips. alexandra’s eyes widened just the slightest, like she finally understood.

and i wanna touch your face i wanna wear your clothes i wanna go to the beach and watch you while you smoke

her hand moved to her chest, fingers trembling a little as if she was trying to steady her heart.

the look in your eyes my hands between your thighs oh, this can't be real it's all just a dream

the crowd sang along but for you, the whole world shrunk down to just you and her. your voice caught on the last line — a little breathless, a little scared — but alexandra was smiling. that shy, soft smile you’d never seen on her before.

i don't wanna be your friend lose my breath (ooh-ooh-ooh) i don't wanna be your friend lose my breath

the last note lingered, and the applause thundered around you. but you only had eyes for her.

she mouthed two words, barely moving her lips.

“i love you.” and suddenly, everything felt so real.

—

the dressing room was quiet except for the buzz of the night still humming outside. you were pacing, nerves still tangled up inside, when the door opened and alexandra stepped in.

her dress caught the light as she moved closer, cheeks flushed, eyes full of something that made your chest ache.

she didn’t say anything at first. just wrapped her arms around you, holding you like she never wanted to let go.

“you wrote that for me,” she whispered.

“yeah,” you said, voice small. “i was scared you’d hate it.”

“hate it?” she laughed, soft and warm. “no. i loved it. i love it. and i love you.”

you melted into her, heart too full for words.

“so…” you breathed, “so, what now?”

“now,” she said, pulling your face close, “now i want to be your girlfriend.”

you laughed, part relief, part joy, and kissed her forehead.

“me too,” you said, voice cracking a little. “more than anything.”

she smiled against your skin and closed her eyes.

“then let’s make it forever.”

you sat tangled up on the couch, her dress brushing against your legs as you talked quietly, the world outside still bright but somehow smaller now.

you hummed the chorus softly and she rested her head on your shoulder.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @freyathehuntress, @dakotapaigelove lmk if you want to be added or removed!

[libraryrana030]

not the anon who rq for lap sitting with spencer but i think it would be soooo cute if he volunteers to be one of the mascots at henry's or jack's bday party and bau!reader is known for her art so she does spencer's face paint and the most convenient position is sitting on his lap sjshjshsksbsjwb bonus if spencer's all flustered and the other members are teasing him in the background hehehehe

face-painting — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader sits in spencer's lap, teasing from the team ( mostly morgan though ) a/n: haiiiii !!! love love this idea <3

“So… you’re being forced by a bunch of little kids to get your face painted?” you asked, biting back a laugh as you glanced up at Spencer from the patio couch.

His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, his shoulders slightly hunched with embarrassment. “They want me to match their face paint,” he muttered, cheeks pink, eyes shifting toward the garden where the group of children were still running around, giggling and showing off their newly painted faces.

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped you. The table in front of you was cluttered with little pots of paint. You’d been painting faces all afternoon: butterflies, pirate scars, superheroes, and rainbows. And apparently, Spencer’s magic tricks had been such a hit that the kids had decided he had to look the part too. Jack had practically dragged him over, already rattling off ideas—“A rocket! No, a dragon! Or stars, like a whole galaxy!”

And now here Spencer was, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the couch beside you, brushing invisible lint from his pants in a futile effort to distract himself from the fact that you were about to get very, very close to his face.

You smiled gently, sensing his nerves. He was always a little shy with you, which only made him more endearing. “How about I paint a couple stars and moons? A little night sky?” you suggested, glancing down at your palette to check the colors. Yeah, you had enough gold, silver, and a touch of glitter for good measure.

You looked back up at him, waiting. “Sound okay?”

Spencer nodded, his smile small. “Sounds good,” he said, voice a little tight with nerves.

You scooted a bit closer, grabbing one of the thinner brushes and dipping it into the dark blue paint. “This okay?” you asked softly, your fingers brushing under his chin to tilt his face toward the light.

He blinked at you, the contact sending a small shiver through him. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

You started painting the side of Spencer’s face. But the paint didn’t cooperate. The lines smeared slightly, too thick in one spot, too thin in another. You paused, pulling your hand back with a quiet sigh.

“Something wrong?” Spencer asked, eyes flickering to you. He was already struggling to keep his heart rate under control. But the moment you pulled away, he missed your warmth immediately.

You glanced at him, a little sheepish. “Can I… um, can I sit in your lap?”

“What?” he said, too loudly, staring at you with wide, startled eyes and parted lips. His entire body went rigid, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at his expression.

“I’m struggling a bit here,” you explained, pointing to the faint, imperfect line near his temple. “The curving’s all weird, and it’s bothering me. I need a better angle.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how bold the request might have sounded. “That okay with you?”

Spencer’s mind went completely blank. Sitting in his lap? You? He didn’t trust his voice not to crack or betray just how deeply he wanted that, so instead he gave a small nod. “Mhm.”

Your face lit up as you motioned with your hands for him to lean back against the patio couch. Spencer obeyed silently, straightening his spine and pressing his back against the cushions. You gathered the colors you needed, setting the tiny pots of paint carefully beside him on the couch. Hotch’s furniture did look suspiciously expensive, and you weren’t about to risk staining it with navy blue and glitter dust. Once everything was in place, you stood up, then slowly lowered yourself into Spencer’s lap, your knees bracketing his hips.

He went completely still beneath you. Spencer was desperately trying to focus on anything except the feeling of you in his lap. He began reciting the digits of pi in his head. Anything to keep his brain from short-circuiting.

You picked up the brush again. “Okay?” you asked gently, glancing down at him.

He nodded again. “Yeah,” he said softly, and you noticed the red creeping up his neck.

You dipped the brush into yellow and guided his face toward the light. As you started painting the little star onto his temple, you caught him awkwardly shifting his hands, unsure where to place them, what to do with them. Without thinking, you reached for one of his hands with your free one, guiding it gently to your waist. You felt his breath hitch as your fingers closed around his. Then, just as calmly, you took his other hand and placed it around your hip.

“There,” you said simply, giving him a reassuring smile before returning to your work. “That’s better.”

Spencer didn’t say anything. He just sat there, heart pounding and hands on your hips. He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky, how this strange, magical afternoon had brought you here, in his lap, painting stars on his skin.

You weren’t even halfway through painting the first yellow star when you heard Morgan’s voice from behind. “Well, would you look at that?” he drawled, loud enough for everyone on the patio to hear. He followed it with a whistle.

You didn’t bother turning around. Spencer, however, went beet red. His ears flushed a deep crimson as he stiffened slightly beneath you.

“Go away, Morgan,” you mumbled, leaning in closer to steady your brush. Your breath brushed against Spencer’s temple, and he closed his eyes instinctively, trying not to melt under the warmth of it. Your free hand rested gently on his cheekbone, thumb unconsciously stroking his skin.

Morgan chuckled, clearly enjoying himself a little too much. “Looking good, Van Gogh,” he said, nodding toward the star you’d just finished.

“Thank you,” you replied dryly, still not sparing him a glance. Your thumb moved over Spencer’s cheek again, softer this time, as if to silently say don’t mind him.

Behind you, Morgan’s footsteps retreated, only to be replaced by the Garcia chiming in with a dramatic gasp and a delighted, “Oh my God, they’re adorable.” The sound of giggles and gossip followed as the rest of the team began sneaking glances your way.

Spencer tensed slightly. “Don’t mind them,” you mumbled, as you dipped your brush into silver. “They’re just jealous because you’re the one getting stars and moons painted on your face.”

That got a laugh out of him. One that made your heart flip. “Yeah, sure. I can totally picture Rossi sitting down for face paint,” he muttered, eyes closed now, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You grinned, grateful he was loosening up. “Hey, you never know. I could do an Italian flag on his face. I bet he’d secretly love it.”

Spencer laughed quietly at that, and his hands, still resting on your hips, gave a gentle squeeze. One of his thumbs began rubbing small circles against your side, a subconscious gesture that made your breath catch just a little. You dipped your brush again, this time in pale gold, and began sketching the curve of a crescent moon on his temple. But you could tell that he was still just the tiniest bit nervous. His posture was a little too careful, like he didn’t quite know how to be in this moment, even though he clearly didn’t want to leave it.

“So,” you said gently, changing the subject to something you knew would light him up, “what magic tricks are you planning to show the kids? Or which ones have you already done?”

Just like that, Spencer’s whole expression changed. The tension in his shoulders melted. His eyes opened. “Oh,” he started, “I did the disappearing coin trick, and then a card prediction with Jack—he helped me with it—and I brought this little folding top hat that has a silk flower hidden in a compartment, and I’m thinking about doing the rope knot illusion next…”

He began to ramble, hands occasionally gesturing in the air as he spoke and you smiled to yourself. Every so often, you had to tell him, “Hold still, Spencer,” as the brush slipped from his constant movement.

“Sorry,” he said, each time, grinning sheepishly. But you didn’t mind. You wanted him to talk. The team’s snickering and commentary continued in the background, but you tuned them out completely.

When you finally finished the last detail, you leaned back slightly, studying your work with a tilt of your head. His lashes fluttered as you turned his face gently toward you.

“I think it looks good,” you murmured to yourself. The lines weren’t crooked anymore. The curves sat perfectly. And nothing looked out of place, not even the nervous, pink flush still warming Spencer’s cheeks.

You shifted in his lap to grab the small handheld mirror from the table behind you. The second you twisted your body, Spencer’s hands tightened instinctively on your hips, steadying you so you wouldn’t fall off.

You handed him the mirror, your hands resting lightly against his ribs as you waited for his reaction. He was glad for the thick sweater he was wearing. If you could feel the way his heart was racing or the goosebumps that had spread across his skin, he’d be mortified.

Spencer looked into the mirror, eyes scanning the stars and moon dotting his temple. He turned his face slightly. “I love it,” he said after a beat, voice full of admiration. “The moon looks amazing.”

You let out a small sigh of relief, your shoulders relaxing as your posture slouched slightly with a smile. You hadn’t realized how much you'd wanted him to like it.

And right on cue, Jack came running over. “Are you done?” he asked, bouncing on his feet. “We want to see more magic!”

You grinned, catching Spencer’s eye. “Your handsome magician is ready,” you told Jack, then turned Spencer’s face gently toward the boy with your fingers on his cheek. “Look!”

Spencer nearly imploded at the word handsome, his brain briefly short-circuiting as Jack leaned in to examine the artwork.

“Oh, cool!” Jack beamed, pointing at a little yellow star. “That one has a smiley face!”

You laughed. “That one’s my favorite too.”

“Can we start now?” Jack asked, turning his eyes toward Spencer.

Spencer managed to nod, still slightly stunned. “I’ll be right there,” he said, his voice a little hoarse from the emotional whiplash.

You both watched as Jack ran across the patio toward Hotch, clearly to announce that the show was back on and that Spencer had cool stars and a moon on his face now. Hotch just nodded, amusement tugging at his mouth.

You turned back to Spencer, who was already looking at you. Neither of you moved. Both of you knew. You knew that you didn’t really want this moment to end. But still, it had to.

“Thank you,” Spencer said softly.

“You’re welcome,” you said with a matching smile. Your hand rose once more, this time to pat his chest gently, right over where his heart was still hammering.

And reluctantly, you rose from his lap.

Spencer’s hands hovered for a moment before settling in his lap, fingers twitching as if they still wanted to hold onto you. He looked up at you a little dazed.

You offered him one last playful smile before nodding toward the garden.“Go wow them, starboy.” Spencer stood, brushing his hands nervously on his pants before glancing back at you with a smile.

With your stars and moons still shimmering on his skin, he stepped off to where the kids were waiting, and you sat back on the couch, heart warm and full.