merabposts

[merabposts]

It’s not lost on me how often we hear similar stories like this and it’s something I’ve also witnessed myself at other events. I even saw one fan TikTok that said she changed her favorite driver to him because of how he was to everyone that night. The sweetest 🧡

[merabposts]

— Miss America & Mr. Melbourne ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: not proof read, tooth rotting fluff, oscar's a huge softie pairing: oscar piastri x first daughter!reader a/n: from a request, idk not my best fic in my opinion

it starts with a mistake.

not the kind that causes chaos, or lands you on the front page of every newspaper in the country. just a soft, silly kind of mistake. the kind that might make the secret service frown, but won’t trigger a full lockdown.

it’s miami. it’s hot. it’s loud. it’s crowded in that way that makes your security team nervous, and you restless.

it’s also the first time in six months that you’ve managed to convince your father’s chief of staff that you don’t need a formal schedule for the weekend. technically, you’re attending the grand prix in an “informal diplomatic capacity,” which just means you’re allowed to smile for cameras but not say anything interesting.

so instead of sitting in a hospitality suite with senators and ceos, you wander.

in sneakers. in sunglasses. in a bucket hat you stole from one of the interns.

you ditch your detail for a little while — not recklessly. just enough to breathe. they know where you are, roughly. you’re not reckless. just tired of being watched.

somewhere around turn nine, you find a wall of orange — and duck behind it.

it’s just a canvas divider, separating the mclaren hospitality area from the paddock walkway. you’re not supposed to be here. no one says anything, but you know the rules.

still, it’s cooler in the shade. and quieter.

until someone steps around the corner.

he’s tall. not imposing. just… tall. clean lines. race suit unzipped and tied around his waist. dark hair damp from his helmet. and eyes — bright, amused, gold-flecked — that land on you like he already knows something you don’t.

he blinks. you blink.

"this is… definitely not the red bull lounge," you say, deadpan.

he huffs a laugh. “no, not quite.”

and that’s the moment it begins.

not with fireworks. not with recognition. just with a stranger behind a curtain, on a hot saturday in miami, looking at you like you’re not the president’s daughter — just a girl.

and for the first time in a long while, you feel like one.

he doesn’t ask who you are.

maybe he doesn’t know. or maybe he does, but decides not to make it weird. either way, you’re grateful.

you lean your shoulder against the canvas divider, squinting at the pit lane past his elbow.

“you’re oscar,” you say. not a question.

his lips twitch. “you’re not supposed to be here.”

“neither are you,” you counter, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“i drive here.”

“i walked.”

he raises a brow, like he knows that isn’t the full story, but doesn’t press. instead, he glances over his shoulder, makes sure no one’s listening, and lowers his voice just enough to feel like a secret.

“you’re supposed to be in the ferrari suite.”

“that obvious?”

he shrugs. “you’re wearing a mclaren hat.”

you blink. reach up. realize you grabbed the wrong one from the hospitality desk.

“shit.”

he laughs. it’s quiet, but genuine.

you’re not sure why you’re still standing there, tucked behind a canvas wall with him. you could leave. your phone is buzzing with unanswered texts from your detail. someone probably wants to escort you back to a Very Important Room with air conditioning and filtered water.

but you don’t move.

because he’s not asking for anything. he’s not telling you to smile. not pretending to be impressed. just standing there, easy in the heat, looking at you like you're not a headline or a talking point.

“want a drink?” he asks.

you hesitate. “are you offering because you’re polite, or because you actually want me to say yes?”

he tilts his head. “a little of both.”

you follow him without thinking.

the mclaren motorhome is busy, but not overwhelming. people nod as you pass. no one stops you. oscar slips a staff badge lanyard over your neck without comment.

you sit in a shaded lounge while he brings you two cold cans of something citrusy and sparkling.

“thank you,” you say.

“you’re welcome,” he says. “you looked like you needed a moment.”

you do. more than a moment, really.

you sip your drink, letting the coldness ground you. he sits beside you, not too close, elbows on his knees, looking out at the crowd beyond the glass.

it’s the first time in weeks you haven’t felt like you’re on display.

and somehow, it’s oscar piastri — quiet, sharp-eyed, soft-voiced oscar — who gives that to you.

you watch him from the corner of your eye.

he doesn’t fill the silence. doesn’t try to entertain you. just exists, calm and steady, like he doesn’t mind sharing this exact moment with you.

you think, maybe he’s like this on track too. focused. unshakable. maybe you want to stay a little longer.

you’re not sure how long you sit there with him.

five minutes. maybe twenty. long enough for the tension in your shoulders to dissolve, for your pulse to stop ticking like a countdown.

no one interrupts.

when you finally glance at your phone, there are a few texts. nothing urgent. nothing on fire.

he notices. not nosy, just observant.

“should i be worried the cia is about to drag you out of here?” he asks.

you huff a soft laugh. “wrong agency. but yes, probably.”

“do i have to pretend i didn’t see you?”

“only if i pretend i didn’t see you either.”

he smiles, and it’s boyish. not for show. not political. just… real.

you haven’t seen many real smiles lately.

outside, the sun shifts. the sky softens from harsh afternoon to gold-tinted early evening. track activity slows. the noise pulls back.

you let your head fall gently against the wall behind you, the cold can still sweating in your palm.

“do you like it?” you ask.

he looks over. “f1?”

you nod.

he considers it.

“i love it,” he says, simple and certain. “but i don’t always like it.”

you understand that.

it’s how you feel about politics. about the white house. about your title. a thing that shaped your life but doesn’t always feel like it belongs to you.

he doesn’t explain the difference. and you don’t ask. it’s enough that the words exist between you.

you watch his hand flex on the rim of his can. long fingers. calm rhythm. thoughtful, the way people are when they don’t speak just to fill the air.

you glance back at the track.

“can i ask you something?”

he nods.

“do you get scared? before races?”

he doesn’t flinch.

“sometimes,” he says. “but mostly i get quiet.”

“quiet?”

“yeah.” he leans back a little, turns his head toward you. “like everything goes still right before i go.”

you swallow. that feels familiar too.

“does it help?”

he shrugs. “it makes me honest. like i know what i want. and what matters.”

you look at him a second longer than you probably should.

you think he’s telling you something he doesn’t say often.

you think you’ll remember it later, when things feel too big.

he finishes his drink, tosses the empty can into a nearby bin, and stands slowly.

“i should go debrief,” he says. “and you… probably have to go be very important again.”

you nod, lips tugging up. “i guess i do.”

he reaches down, then pauses.

“is it okay if i—?”

you hand him the lanyard before he finishes the sentence.

he slips it off your neck gently. doesn’t brush your skin. doesn’t need to.

“thanks for not calling security,” you say lightly.

“thanks for hiding in the right curtain.”

you both linger.

then he says it — casually, like it doesn’t weigh anything:

“see you around?”

you say yes, even if you don’t know if you will.

but you hope you do.

you get escorted back to your suite twenty minutes later.

your detail doesn’t scold you. they’re used to your disappearing acts by now — quiet, timed, harmless escapes that never last longer than an hour. still, you can feel them tracking every step. the weight of duty presses in again like velvet ropes around your ribs.

you change. you debrief. you shake hands with people who pronounce your name like it’s a title instead of a person. one man tells you you’ll make an excellent diplomat someday. you smile. it doesn’t feel like a compliment.

your mind drifts back to the canvas curtain. to citrus sparkling water and the sound of his voice. to the way he didn’t try to impress you, and somehow impressed you more because of it.

the rest of the night moves on. more press. more photos. more smiles. you’re good at all of it. you always have been.

but every once in a while, you catch yourself turning toward the crowd, wondering if you’ll see a familiar face.

you don’t.

not that night.

the next time you see oscar, it’s accidental.

or maybe it isn’t.

you’re in monaco, two weeks later, at a glittering reception hosted by someone who owns three yachts and two national banks. you’re wearing pale silk and borrowed diamonds. your name is on the guest list twice — once as your father’s daughter, and once as an independent delegate for an international youth diplomacy council.

the latter sounds more impressive, but everyone here only cares about the former.

you’re standing by a high window, watching the lights skim across the harbor, when someone steps up beside you with a glass of something golden and fizzing.

he offers it to you without looking. you take it without hesitation.

“you clean up well,” you say.

he smiles at the reflection in the window. “so do you.”

his voice is just the same — low and unhurried, like nothing about this world startles him. it steadies something in you.

“do you do this often?” you ask. “stumble into galas like a romcom lead?”

“only when the girl behind the curtain might be there.”

your chest tightens. soft. stunned.

you look up at him fully now.

he’s in a tux. sharp black lapels. no tie. hair a little unruly, like he hasn’t been able to stop running his hand through it. he looks like every girl’s favorite daydream and none of it seems to reach his head.

“you remembered me,” you say, mostly to yourself.

he turns toward you slightly. “i haven’t forgotten anything.”

the room spins slowly. laughter clinks through crystal. cameras flash across the marble hall behind you. and somehow, it’s all quiet.

quiet like he said. quiet like the moments before the lights go out and the race begins.

you don’t know how long you stand there, just looking at each other, framed by crystal and gold and candlelight.

he watches you like he did in miami — calm, certain, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, beside you. and maybe it’s the champagne or the dress or the way the evening feels stretched like a ribbon between something old and something new, but you lean in.

not much.

just enough to ask the question without words.

he answers without hesitation.

his hand finds your waist. your palm finds his collar. his mouth finds yours, slow and warm and sure.

it starts soft.

curious. familiar in a way that surprises you both. the kind of kiss that makes your stomach drop and your lungs forget what they’re supposed to do. you breathe into it like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks — since miami, since the curtain, since that first stolen moment in the middle of a crowd.

and then it deepens.

his hand curls tighter against your side, pulling you closer. your fingers slide into his hair, tilting his face toward you like instinct. your lips part. he follows. and suddenly it’s a kiss that says i found you again. i remembered. i wanted to.

he tastes like champagne and adrenaline. like gold light and something just a little dangerous beneath the stillness.

it doesn’t feel careful. not anymore. it feels wanted.

his mouth moves against yours, slow but intent, and your back presses against the tall glass window behind you. you think you hear him exhale — shaky, barely-there — and it makes you want to pull him even closer.

he kisses like he’s been waiting.

you kiss like you finally let go.

your heart drums wild in your chest, but nothing about this feels uncertain. the world outside might be watching. people might be whispering. the press might have opinions and headlines already drafted.

but none of that reaches here.

not where his hand slips up, thumb brushing your jaw, not where his lips linger when the kiss breaks, just barely.

you stay close, foreheads pressed, breathing like you’ve both just crossed a finish line you didn’t know existed.

he’s the first to speak.

his voice is low. rougher than before.

“i think i’m in trouble.”

you smile, breathless. “me too.”

he’s still close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. the glittering lights of the gala blur behind his eyes, but the moment feels sharp, real, like you’re both finally breathing after holding it in for too long.

“so,” he says, voice a little rough, “how do we not mess this up?”

you laugh softly, a breathy sound that feels like relief. “i don’t think we have a choice but to try.”

he grins, that same boyish smile that makes the world seem less heavy for a minute.

you shift slightly, the silk of your dress whispering against the marble floor, and suddenly the noise of the party fades. there are conversations and music, but they feel distant — like they’re happening underwater, muffled and far away.

“you make it easy,” you say quietly.

“you make it worth it.”

there’s a pause, warm and full. his fingers trace the small of your back, steady and sure.

you want to believe him. want to believe this isn’t just a stolen moment but something that could stretch beyond the track and the spotlight and the expectations.

but there’s still the world waiting outside.

“we should probably get out of here before someone notices,” you whisper, not quite ready to pull away.

he nods, eyes darkening just a little. “yeah.”

you don’t move yet. you just let your fingers lace with his.

there’s a soft kind of promise in the way your hands fit together, and for once it’s not about duty or diplomacy. it’s just two people — no titles, no cameras, no racing or politics — just the quiet hope of what might come next.

you slip out of the gala through a side door, the warm mediterranean air wrapping around you like a blanket. the party’s hum fades behind you, replaced by the distant lapping of waves against the harbor.

oscar keeps his hand gently on your back as you navigate the narrow cobblestone streets. neither of you says much. words feel unnecessary. the night is full of quiet possibility, the kind that lives in stolen moments away from cameras and expectations.

you find a bench tucked under an olive tree. the scent of salt and jasmine hangs heavy in the air.

he sits close, close enough that you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. the kind of closeness that doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand — just is.

“what’s your favorite part of all this?” you ask.

“the quiet,” he says without hesitation. “the seconds when everything slows down. when it’s just me and the car and the track. no noise, no distractions.”

you nod, thinking about your own favorite quiet moments — the rare times you slip away from the spotlight, the press, your security detail. the rare seconds where you can breathe without performance.

“do you think we can find our quiet?” you whisper.

he turns to you, eyes softening. “i think we have to.”

the world might be loud. complicated. relentless.

but maybe here, now, it can be different.

you lean into him, the gentle press of your forehead against his the softest kind of promise.

for now, that’s enough.

the next days blur into a whirlwind of noise and schedules, but you carry that night with you like a secret warmth beneath your skin.

at the paddock, the world spins faster. flashes, interviews, racing strategy — all the things that pull at you in different directions.

oscar’s there, always present but never intrusive. a steady presence in a storm of chaos.

you find small ways to steal moments. a quick smile across the garage. a touch on the small of your back when no one’s looking. whispered jokes in hallways bustling with engineers and team principals.

there’s an unspoken understanding growing between you. one that doesn’t need words because it’s written in glances and quiet proximity.

during one race weekend, after a long day in the heat, you find yourself sitting beside him on the steps of the hospitality area, your legs stretched out, racing shoes dusty.

“you look tired,” he says softly.

“you don’t?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

he shrugs. “race day is always draining. but moments like this help.”

you close your eyes, savoring the rare stillness.

“promise me something?” you say after a while.

“anything.”

“that no matter what happens out there on track… or off it… we’ll keep this. this quiet space we’ve found.”

he smiles against your hair. “promise.”

and in that promise, you find a quiet kind of strength.

days fold into nights, and every quiet moment you share with oscar feels like a small rebellion against the chaos surrounding you.

one evening, after dinner, the paddock is already dark and humming with the distant noise of late-night team meetings.

you walk together toward the motorhome, the cool air brushing past you like a whisper.

oscar’s hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours gently. you don’t pull away.

“sometimes,” he says softly, “i wish this part wasn’t so complicated. that we could just be two people — no expectations, no headlines.”

you squeeze his hand, the same thought crossing your mind.

“me too,” you whisper.

he stops walking, turns to you, and the glow of the lights paints his face in soft gold.

“but maybe the best parts are the ones we fight for.”

you nod, leaning into him. it feels like home.

he kisses your temple, warm and steady, a silent promise that no matter what, you’re not alone.

and for a moment, the world outside fades to nothing but the two of you.

you stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a long moment, the weight of the world outside forgotten, if only for a little while.

“we’ll figure it out,” you say softly.

“together,” he agrees.

the paddock buzzes faintly around you, but inside this bubble, there’s nothing but steady heartbeats and slow breaths.

he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze gentle and sure.

“thank you for taking the risk. for sneaking behind the curtain.”

you smile. “thank you for letting me.”

there’s a promise in the silence between you — not just for now, but for everything that’s to come.

and as the night stretches on, you know this is just the beginning.

you never expected the quiet to feel so loud.

after the grand gala in monaco, after the nights spent walking narrow streets and stealing moments away from cameras, you find yourself craving the silence between the chaos more than anything else.

oscar is always there, steady and calm, like the eye of a storm you never want to leave.

today, you meet at a small café tucked away from the bustle of the paddock. the smell of fresh espresso and warm pastries fills the air.

you sit opposite each other, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes.

“you ever get tired of all this?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to the busy paddock around you.

he shrugs. “sometimes. but then i remember why i do it. why every race matters.”

you nod, understanding too well the weight of expectations.

“it’s hard,” you say softly. “to be yourself when everyone’s watching.”

he smiles, a little sad but honest. “you make it easier.”

you laugh quietly. “good. because i’m not going anywhere.”

he reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours.

“me neither.”

and in that simple touch, you find a world of promise.

the weekend races blur into a rhythm you almost get used to — the early mornings, the roar of engines, the intense focus before each qualifying lap.

oscar is always nearby. sometimes it’s just a glance, other times a quick squeeze of your hand. small gestures that say more than words ever could.

one afternoon, you find him alone by the pit wall, watching the sunset turn the sky a shade of burnt orange.

you sit beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask softly.

he shrugs. “how lucky i am to have found this — found you.”

you smile, heart fluttering.

“you’re the only thing that feels real.”

he turns to you, eyes shining.

“same here.”

the world feels quieter then, like it’s folding around you both.

and for once, the noise of the season can wait.

after the race, the paddock starts to empty, teams packing up equipment, engineers exchanging tired smiles.

you and oscar find a quiet corner near the garage. the air is cool now, touched with the faint scent of fuel and rubber.

he leans back against a tire stack, pulling you close by the waist.

“race days are intense,” he murmurs, voice low.

“but moments like this make it all worth it,” you reply, resting your head on his shoulder.

he kisses your hair softly, a silent thank you for being there, for understanding.

you both stay like that for a while, savoring the calm after the storm.

no words are needed. just shared breath and steady heartbeats.

and the quiet promise that this is only the beginning.

days stretch on, the pace relentless, but the little moments you share become your anchor.

one evening, after a long day of interviews and media appearances, oscar finds you alone on a balcony overlooking the circuit.

the sky is painted in soft pinks and purples.

he slips his hand into yours without asking.

“sometimes,” he says, “i forget how lucky i am.”

you squeeze his fingers gently. “me too.”

you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

the world fades away — no cameras, no schedules, just the two of you in the quiet.

he turns to kiss your temple, slow and sure, a reminder that no matter how loud life gets, you always have this.

you and oscar stand side by side as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and lavender.

he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“this,” he whispers, “is what i want to remember. not the races, not the pressure — just us.”

you smile, heart full.

“me too.”

the air hums softly around you, the world slowing down just enough to hold this moment.

you press your cheek to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

in the silence, there’s a promise — of more stolen moments, of soft laughter, of love growing quietly but fiercely.

and as the stars begin to twinkle overhead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms under the fading sky, everything feels quiet and right.

the chaos of the world — the cameras, the expectations, the endless noise — fades to a whisper.

in this moment, there is only you and oscar.

two people who found each other behind the curtains, in the quiet spaces, in the stolen moments.

and maybe that’s all you really need.

because love, soft and steady, is its own kind of victory.

[merabposts]

someone get those animals away from her

[merabposts]

frankie didn’t have a chance to post her goodbye message before she deactivate, so im doing it for her!

she’s been on this app since February 2024, she loved it here. it was her safe space where she could write things and makes friends, and then things went downhill.

not asking people to hate or anything but the environment around her has been built up of death and r*pe threats, incredibly harsh sexist language, wishing death on her unborn child, and worse, more unmentionable things.

she loved it here, she really did, and it’s a shame she’s had to go, but behind the account, there was a girl who could only take so much.

no matter what she did, the threats she got, no one would wish in anyone in real life.

she did enjoy writing, she used to, but it’s become like an unmentionable for her now, something she doesn’t wanna do ever again, and she won’t.

she’s not coming back, there is no possibility, she isn’t going to download this app again.

so, im posting this for her it’s her old tags so you can say your bye and she can see it from the people who did care, we’re all commenting a little red heart as our bye to her! :)

[merabposts]

[merabposts]

SAY IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT OSCAR PIASTRI

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎pairing oscar piastri x reader

SUMMARY you were sure you hated him. you hated the way he always looked unimpressed, the way he never laughed at your jokes, the way he made silence stretch until your frustration crept in. but the thing about oscar is that he never gave you anything halfway. word count 0.8k

contains fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, tension, soft ending

note requested by anon as a part of my 1k celebration <33 i'm sorry i haven't written for f1 drivers (or for my celebration) in sooo long, but i'm back 😇 not one of my best works but hope u guys enjoy !

OP81 MASTERLIST EVENT MASTERLIST

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎YOU DIDN'T LIKE Oscar Piastri, but that was clear from the beginning. You didn’t like the way he always looked like he was two steps ahead of every conversation, or how he never laughed when you said something funny, only blinked and tilted his head slightly. You didn’t like how composed he was, how he never reacted the way you expected—or needed—him to. You didn’t like the way his voice was so steady when yours wavered, or how he could turn and walk away in the middle of an argument, leaving you standing there with words still sour in your mouth.

And you especially didn’t like how you noticed him. Noticed the slope of his shoulders in the mornings when he was still sleepy and stretching his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to reveal the skin of his stomach. You didn’t like how you noticed the way his fingers tapped against his thigh when he was thinking, or the way he always reached for the smallest coffee cup available, like anything more was too much. You noticed everything, and you hated it. Hated how aware you’d become of his presence, even when he wasn’t speaking. Especially when he wasn’t speaking.

It didn’t help that you were always around each other. Lando was the glue, unknowingly binding you two to the same schedule, the same rooms, and the same inside jokes. He liked having you both close; liked the balance you brought, but all it did was make you feel like you were circling something you weren’t allowed to name.

Because, despite all your bickering, you liked him.

Or, worse, you didn’t just like him. You thought about him when you were alone. You thought about what it might feel like to be someone he smiled at without thinking, someone he let in. You thought about what it meant that he never really let you win an argument, but he always looked at you like he was hoping you’d fight him, like matching your fire was the only way he knew how to be close to you.

You mentioned it to Lando once, casually, like it wasn’t eating you alive. You said, “I think I might be going insane. I think I might have feelings for someone who actively makes me want to scream.” And Lando had just looked at you, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he muttered, “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

It wasn’t until later that you realized he hadn’t been talking about himself.

And then there was the rain delay in Austria.

Team managers muttered to engineers over rain-spattered clipboards, drivers wiped fog from their visors, and mechanics shuffled under umbrellas, all waiting for the storm to clear. You were stuck in the hospitality unit, wrapped in an oversized McLaren hoodie, staring out the window at the grey mist hanging low over the track. The air smelled like espresso and ozone, and everyone around you seemed to be speaking just a little too loudly. So you stepped outside onto the quiet balcony where the rain tapped softly against the railing, and you found him there.

Oscar.

He didn’t look at you right away, just gave you a small nod and turned his gaze back towards the sky, where clouds curled and unravelled like smoke. You stood beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him through the mist. And for once, you didn’t speak. Neither of you did.

Then, quietly, he said, “Lando told me.”

You blinked. “Told you what?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, slow and even, like he was buying time. Then, finally, he turned his head to meet your eyes and said, “That you think I hate you.”

Your stomach twisted. “He said that?”

He nodded. “And that you might feel something else.”

You laughed, trying to cover your embarrassment. “Well, he has a big mouth.”

Oscar didn’t smile. “I don’t hate you.”

He said so softly that it took you a moment to register it. And when you did, your breath caught. Because there was something in his face you hadn’t seen before; not indifference, not smugness, but something vulnerable.

“I know,” you said, barely audible. “I just didn’t want to admit that maybe I don’t hate you either.”

You both stood there for a long moment, the rain softening around you, the clouds beginning to thin. You watched him, and he watched you, and suddenly it felt ridiculous with how long you’d been pretending. How long had you been pushing when all you wanted was to be pulled in?

“I don’t think we’re very good at this,” you said.

Oscar’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “No. But I think I want to try.”

And just like that, the tension disappeared. It wasn’t dramatic like a firework, but like a tide rolling back. Like the first warmth of the sun after weeks of cold.

He reached for your hand.

And when you looked at him, it felt like you’d been searching for this exact moment your entire life without realizing it.

Maybe it had never been hate.

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎���‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎OP81 MASTERLIST ✷ EVENT MASTERLIST

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[merabposts]

✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company. 

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised. 

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute. 

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger. 

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.” 

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look,  “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment. 

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like  the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh. 

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[merabposts]

i miss him (lando's mullet)

[merabposts]

Lando with kids always endears me so much.

Source: fondationprincessecharlene on IG

[merabposts]

dame un grrr un qué?

un grrr un qué? un qué?

un grrr un qué?

un grrr un qué?

[merabposts]

has the Internet forgotten about block buttons? and oh! free will???????

gen confused guys

[merabposts]

@hamiltonforwdc tell ur new friend how u joked about 5 months old babies being raped!

[merabposts]

can u make a fic where low-key high-key he has a girlfriend who’s obsessed with mangoes and she’s pregnant and he gets her a basket with mango themed shit coz yk how people do like babies are the size of “this fruit/veg” but make it mangoes coz yes why not thanks broski 🥶

MANGO NECTAR

warnings: none! :)

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

The air was warm, a faint, almost undetectable breeze drifting through the bedroom, mixed with the sound of soft breathing, and the light tinkling of Y/n - Lando’s wife - in the bathroom.

He was lying in bed, the duvet draped lazily over his legs and stomach, his phone propped in one hand, the other slung behind his head. 

“Babe, you done yet?” he called, dragging his eyes from his phone screen for just a second, his finger hovering over it. 

“Just a sec,” she called back, placing her night cream back into the cupboard, and shutting it with a soft‘click’. 

Lando’s favourite time of day with his wife was night time, not for the obvious (and dirty) reason, but the comfort of it. 

The way her voice went all soft and dreamy, snuggled in her little night gowns with their wispy lace and whatnot. 

He loved it. He loved her. 

Lando hummed in response, moving his eyes from the soft yellow glow of the bathroom door, and back to his phone. 

A sigh fell from his lips, not for any particular reason, sliding his finger up the screen. 

‘Top ten reasons why you should buy-‘

He had enough things already.

‘The top 3 best McLarens to invest in-‘

He probably had them already. 

‘Why Lando Norris will never be a Formula One WDC-‘

Rude?

Lando rolled his eyes, dragging his finger across his screen once more, like an automatic switch.

‘My girlfriend is pregnant and-‘ 

Wait. He wasn’t 100% sure what made him not scroll, watching on as a man came onto screen, a woven basket with an assortment of perfumes, body scrubs, sweets and foods laid neatly inside. 

“At her current stage, her baby would be the size of an avocado,” the man in the video held up a real avocado, “and here’s what I’m doing for her,” 

He had to do it. 

Signing, he turned off his phone and placed it on the bedside table, before he rolled back onto his back, staring at the ceiling, 

Tomorrow, his plan would begin. 

“Hi baby,” 

Y/n’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she walked out of the bathroom, the faint yellow light almost giving her a goddess-like glow.

Her hair was wet, droplets splayed across his bare arms and shoulders, the rest of her body wrapped enticingly beneath her towel. 

Still, beneath the fluffy material, the faint bump was present, if you looked close enough. 

Lando thought it made Y/n look like the most beautiful girl in the world. He was right. 

His eyes followed the girl as she moved to her vanity, picking up her hair brush from the side, rakingg it through her hair softly. 

Lando sat up, resting his chin on his hand as he stared, watching how graceful she looked, like a renaissance painting, right there. 

Her eyes found Lando’e in the mirror, a faint brush creeping up to the apples of her cheeks, her teeth coming to sink into the cushion of her lower lip. 

He smiled back, moving the duvet off of his legs as he stood up, walking silently to her chair. 

No words were spoken as he laced his fingers with hers, taking the brush from her grasp, and leaning down to press a soft, chaste kiss to her cheek. 

Y/n’s lashes fluttered as her eyes closed, the feeling of his fingers running through her hair, brushing softly.

It felt like bliss. 

And tomorrow, Lando’s plan would begin. 

He woke up before Y/n, turning his head silently to look at her, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the baby bump hidden beneath one of his old t-shirts. 

Gorgeous.

He was careful not to wake her as he slipped out of bed, running his hands through his messy morning hair, and scribbling across a note. 

Had to pop out to grab some snacks, back later! Love you, gorgeous xxx

It was vague, but not too vague, and he really was going to the store anyways. 

He shut the front door as quietly as he could, sliding into the front seat of his car, a hoodie thrown over his body with some joggers. 

He had the hood pulled up too, the last thing he wanted was to attract attention. 

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel as he slowed at a red light, eyes scanning the round. This was oddly….exciting. 

“Ah- fuck,” he muttered, realising he’d forgotten one key thing - what fruit/vegetable size the baby was. 

Rolling his eyes at his own stupidity, he took out his phone, eyes flickering to the lights every few minutes as he typed into the search bar. 

19 weeks pregnant - a mango. 

Lando smiled, sliding the device back into his pocket - that was a coincidence. 

Y/n loved mangoes, she always raved on about mango smoothies, mango fruit bowls, mango this, mango that, and this was Lando’s perfect chance. 

He walked into the store, a basket in his hand, gaze low as he walked past some old ladies, no clear plan in his mind. 

“Face masks,” he muttered to himself, walking to the self-care aisle, looking through the various flavours. 

Avocado, blueberry, mixed berries, pineapple, aloe vera, ginger- wait, that was a thing?  

Lando put the little packet down, mentally scolding himself for getting distracted, before his gaze finally landed on it - the little yellow packet. Bingo. 

How many would she need, though? 

“Fuck it,” he muttered, grabbing four and thrusting it into his basket. 

His eyes scanned the countless aisles as he walked down, grabbing a big woven basket to place all his goodies in, that would be helpful. 

Lip balm - mango flavoured. 

Face masks - mango flavoured.

Gum - mango flavoured. 

Candies - mango flavoured. 

He had an assortment of things, ranging from candles, to jewellery even, all the same, gorgeous orangey-yellow shade that mangoes were. 

Finally, he carried the now very heavy basket to the counter, placing it on the side as the lady took it from him, scanning the first item. 

“I’m guessing your girlfriend likes mangoes,” the woman chuckled, staring at the assortment of various beauty products, they certainly weren’t for him. 

Lando chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Wife,” he corrected as the woman raised her brows, a smile on her face, “and yeah, she’s pregnant. Just getting…some stuff together for her,” 

“Well,” the woman smiled, “you’re a good one for doing all this for her,” she waved at the items, bagging it all up for him as he nodded. 

Lando didn’t know her, yet the compliment felt…oddly personal.

With a final nod, he took the bags, one in each hand, and walked back towards his car, placing them neatly in the boot.

He slipped his phone from his pocket as he walked to the drivers side, peering at the time. 11:36am. Y/n would be awake by now. 

That, and he had a message from her too, reading: hi baby, got your message! be back soon, love youuuuu x 

Lando smiled to himself, replying with a red heart, stuffing his phone back into his pocket - every word from Y/n was like a constant reminder of why he’d married her. 

The drive back home was calming, yet nervous. 

Getting his ‘loot’ past Y/n’s eagle eyes would be hard, but he had to do it. 

The car rolled into the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath the tyres as he pulls to a stop, turning the engine off. 

Without a word, Lando exited the car, taking the house keys out, and turning them into the lock, grabbing the two bags. 

And, as predicted, Y/n was on the scene immediately. 

“Hi baby,” he wrapped his arms round her, purposefully slinging the bags round her bag as he kissed her, a chaste kiss, gently pressing against her lips.

She hummed into the kiss, pulling away and resting her head onto his chest, his heart softly thumping beneath her ear. 

“What’d you get?” she mumbled as Lando transferred the bags to one hand, using the other to brush her hair softly from her face. 

“Snacks,” he mumbled, walking her backwards to the kitchen, keeping her gaze on him as he nudged the two bags behind the counter, and producing two packets of Kinder bars. 

They were his diversion to keep her from seeing what he’d actually gone out to bought, unwrapping one of the bars. 

“Got a date with some of the girls,” Y/n broke off a square of the chocolate, placing it onto her tongue with a content sigh. 

“Yeah? Leavin’ me just when I came back,” he clutched his chest in mock hurt, though mentally, he was over the moon. 

He had time to sort everything out, and make sure he had the basket ready for when she came back. 

Perfect. 

“Haven’t seen them for ages,” Y/n said, adjusting the old t-shirt she was still in as Lando sighed - again, fake.

“If you must,” he teased, handing her the last square and chucking the rest of the bars into the snack cupboard. 

“Quit annoying me!” Y/n giggled, looking at Lando through the mirror her vanity. 

He’d been pulling faces at her through the reflection as she did her make-up, her thick brush poised on her cheekbones, dusted in a light coating of pink powder.

“I’m not,” he gave her a wicked grin, idly playing with the bed sheets beside his legs, twisting and tugging gently.

The girl rolled her eyes, going back to fixing her make up, one hand running through her hair as she stared at herself, giving the full look a once over.

“How do I look?” she asked anxiously, turning to face her husband, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring.

“You look gorgeous baby,” Lando stood up, taking her in from where he stood.

She looked like a damn queen.

The dress she wore looked amazing, complimenting all her features whilst also keeping a summer-y type of look.

The dress was long, to her knees, with straps on her shoulder, a little ribbon on the back of her head to compliment it.

“So gorgeous…” he moved to stand behind her, his hands coming to her hair, gently guiding it all over one shoulder so he could press a kiss to her shoulder.

His hands were on her bare skin, moving the strap of her dress lower down her shoulder, lips trailing across her supple flesh.

“You’re gonna distract me,” she giggled, the sound sweet and melodic as Lando smiled into her neck, pressing another kiss to her pulse point.

“Could always cancel on them,” he whispered, hands coming to her waist, swaying with her softly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“No, silly!” she swatted his arm with another one of her sweet laughs.

“I can’t,” she said, “I promised them I’d come, and you can’t keep me here forever!”

“Mmm…don’t think you’ll be escaping me anytime soon,” he tightened his grip on her waist purposefully as she squealed, ducking down to wriggle free.

“Lando-! Stop, that tickles!”

“Cancel your plans, sweetie, gonna keep you here forever!”

“Lando!”

Finally, she broke free, wriggling free of her husband’s grasp, panting as she leaned against the bed.

“You almost ruined my outfit!” she complained, running a hand through her hair to check the bow was still there, and thankfully, it was.

“Oh shush,” Lando tugged on a strand of her hair playfully, before placing his hands on the edge of the cabinet and pulling his weight up to sit on the edge.

Even with her cheeks flushed red and hair only slightly messy, she gorgeous. 

And that bump…

Her little huff brought him back as he smiled, watching her adjust the bow (that wasn’t even lopsided). 

“I’m gonna go now,” she said, her frown melting as she moved between his legs, that sweet bashful smile returning to her face, 

Lando loved how she still went shy, even though they’d been married for 2 years, and had been dating long before. 

“Best get goin’ before I don’t let you leave,” he mumbled, pulling her into a kiss, a little deeper than the chaste ones he’d given her moments before. 

“Lando,” Y/n giggled, her voice half laughing, half laced with warning as she pulled back. 

“Alright, alright,” he said, reluctantly pulling away from her sweet embrace, “go on then,” he swatted her away. 

The girl rolled her eyes, taking her purse from the vanity and thrusting her phone in. 

“Call me when you’re close to home,” Lando said, giving her backside a quick tap as she squealed, cheeks red again, rushing forward. 

“Off with you then!”

“I’m going!” 

Lando releases a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding as the door shut with a ‘click’ behind his wife. 

Without a second to spare, he moved off of the cabinet, leaning towards the window to check she hadn’t come back for anything. 

She hadn’t. 

Good.

He rushed down the stairs, taking two at a time, as he came to the kitchen, thrusting the cabinet open, where all his loot lay, ready to be presented to her neatly. 

He found himself sat on the bed, the empty woven basket beside him as he watched the video for what felt like the hundredth time. 

Surely it was just a case of put everything in the basket, but no - Lando wanted perfection. 

And that, usually, was Y/n’s job. 

His tongue poked slightly from between his teeth as he attempted to balance a few face masks in a cup - only for them to collapse. 

In the end, he relented, forgetting the whole intricate details and focusing on it looking somewhat nice. 

And it did.

The little mug had the lip balm, some face masks, sweets, a few pens, a pencil and an eraser tucked neatly in it. 

It sat in front of a warm yellow cushion, mimicking the tropical colouring of mangoes, along with a little notebook, some more stationary. 

And finally, Lando took the little yellow card, matching rye setting already, and scribbled across it in his neatest handwriting, with the special pen he used for special people on his life. 

To my dearest, loveliest wife, 

I’m so proud you’re the one who’s carrying my child, I couldn’t wish for anyone else other than you. I love you more than you could ever know. You’re pretty, kind, gentle and sweet. Sweet as a mango? ;)

Your loving (and obsessed) husband, 

Lando xxxx

He held up the card to the light, the sun filling it in from the back, casting golden rays as it sat.

It was perfect. 

Perfect for his perfect girl.

Just as he took the matching satin ribbon into his handmade tying it around the basket with a gorgeous bow, he heard the all too familiar sound of Y/n’s laughter outside. 

She was back. 

Lando stood up from the bed, his door catching on the sheets, which he managed to save, taking the scissors and ribbon and stashing it into his drawer. 

The basket, he handled with much more care, sliding it under the bed, and standing up, as the front door crept open.

He was going to do it right now.

Lando held his breath as he heard Y/n’e tentative footsteps downstairs, creeping down the hallway, calling his name. 

“Baby?” 

He said nothing - she’d come upstairs soon enough. 

Looking down, he cursed himself for forgetting to put on something nice instead of his joggers and a hoodie, but he didn’t have time to change now. 

Her footsteps moved up the stairs, thumping softly on the carpeted wooden slabs.

How the hell did he make this look casual?

“Lando,” she walked into the room, using his name, a little frown creasing her perfect face, “I was calling for you,”

“Sorry baby,” he stood up, tugging on the end of his hoodie, swallowing a lump in his throat as he stood up, leaning in for a kiss.

She huffed, but relented, allowing the chaste kiss as he squeezed her waist.

“What were you doing?” she asked, a little suspicious at why his cheeks were bright red, hair a little messy from when he ran his hand through it when he was stressed.

“Nothin’,” Lando shrugged it off, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the girl onto his lap.

“Lando-,”

“Baby,” he silenced her with one of his looks, the kinda look she knew he used when he was being truthful.

His eyes never broke with hers as he held her on his lap, looking up at her, his lips coming to press a kiss to where her heart would be.

It was a sweet gesture, one they’d created as a special kind of meaning.

His lips hovered over her dress, pressing a gentle kiss softly.

It was like a silent promise, a silent ‘I love you’.

“I got you a gift,” Lando said, adjusting Y/n on his knee so she was now eye level with him.

“A gift?” she raised a brow, moving to lean back, “is it a special day? Did I forget-?”

Lando chuckled, silencing her playfully with his finger on her lip.

“Can a man not get his girl a gift?” he smiled, capturing her lips in yet another kiss as she smiled bashfully.

“Well…”

She’d always been a bit awkward about receiving gifts, it was in her personality, especially when she didn’t have anything to give back.

Lando loved that about her too.

She was always grateful.

With a deep breath, Lando lifted her onto the bed, seating her down so he could walk round, reaching under it, as she watched with curious eyes.

She was excited, he could tell.

He lifted the basket, a little heavy from the masses of gifts all piled in, gently walking it to her as her eyes widened, mouth falling open in a silent ‘o’.

“Lando…why?”

Her hands gently took it from him, setting it down in front of her, her eyes full of shock as she took in every little item he’d placed meticulously inside.

“Because,” he sat down, “I…saw a thing,” he mumbled, “this dude got his wife a bunch of stuff that relate to the size of her baby,”

“Oh Lando,” Y/n whispered, her gaze on him more than the gifts, “baby, that’s so sweet,”

Lando grinned.

“Did you go this morning?” she asked, looking through the assortment of mango products as he nodded bashfully.

“Baby this is amazing,” she mumbled, her hand finding his as she flicked through the face masks.

Her excited gaze landed on the sweets, looking to Lando almost for permission.

“Go on,” he beckoned her gently, “it’s your gifts,”

She grinned from ear to ear, opening the packet neatly, and handing Lando one first. Always well-mannered.

“I love you so much,” she mumbled through a mouthful of the candies, her head resting on his shoulder as Lando smiled.

“I love you too,” he spoke back quietly, “more than you could ever know…and the baby too,”

Y/n smiled.

In that moment, a new love blossomed between the two, somehow more in love than before - if that was even possible.

Y/n’s friends would never hear the end of it.

And for the next few weeks, Lando, Y/n and the whole entire house spelt of the sweet smell of mango nectar.

[merabposts]

seasons • b.r.

pairing: bob reynolds x f!reader

synopsis: three times you and bob are almost walked in on and the one time you are

content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, leg humping, oral (m receiving), handjob, early morning sex, unprotected piv, (some) plot

notes: uhhhhhhh really needed to write bob smut! this was supposed to be short lmaooo thank you for the support of my other works! xoxo

word count: 6.6k

this blog contains 18+ content, minors dni!

on the couch (winter)

it’s movie night and everyone is late. 

yelena had texted, telling you the group would be stuck in traffic and to not start until they got back. that was almost an hour ago. bucky had walked into the living room, found you and bob waiting a little too inconspicuously on the couches and turned on his heel, going back the way he came. 

you’d looked to bob then, grinning conspiratorially as you crawled down the length of the curved couch, right into his side. 

it’s innocent enough, at first. muffled by his shirt in your face when you tell him that it’s only because you’re cold, and he warms you up better than anything else could. 

he gives you a look—like he knows what you’re up to but can’t find a good enough reason to refuse himself the feel of you. makes something warm in his chest when he thinks about how you’re always looking for any reason to touch him, that you don’t shy away.

he likes it, because while your relationship isn’t exactly new, he still worries—doesn’t know if he could bring himself to initiate it even if he wanted to (he really, really does). 

but when you come to him, he welcomes it. revels in it, actually.

his arms lift, wrapping around your frame. immediately, you’re enveloped by the smell of his laundry detergent and the 2-in-1 shampoo he’s been trying to use up before opening the real shampoo and conditioner you’d bought him. 

his chin rests atop your head, breathing steady while your fingers aimlessly trace lines down his sleeve. 

“y’know…” you say, trailing off in the way he knows means you’ve got something to say that likely will get him in trouble. he holds his breath. 

“we’re the only ones here,” you continue, pulling your head back to look into his eyes, hoping those pretty blue eyes will take the hint. 

bob laughs softly, eyes flickering across the utterly empty room. the christmas decorations the team had spent an afternoon assembling, ending up a little lopsided and mismatched hanging above the mantel and from the ceiling. the string lights twinkle in your eyes. 

 “yeah,” he breathes, “i- i can see that.”

the look you give him is expectant, and he blinks owlishly in return. 

he watches your nose scrunch when you try to decipher whether he’s being clueless on purpose or if he genuinely can’t fathom what you’d want to do with him in an empty room on a couch much too big for two. 

the noise you let out is a cross between an exasperated groan and a teasing giggle. your cheeks burn a little when you tell him plainly, “i want to kiss you, bob. make out a little.”

his lips fall into a perfect little ‘o’ when he exhales the syllable. you grin up at him when his ears turn red. 

“i- i mean,” he stammers, darting between you, your lips and the elevator doors. you can almost tell when he makes up his mind, gaze catching on your lips and struggling to drag them back up to your eyes. licks his lips before he says, “okay.” 

he only catches a glimpse of the giddy look on your face before you’re pulling him down to you with a gentle hand on his cheek. 

he kisses a little unsure, a little messy—but god, does it send pleasant shivers down your spine when he’s the one to part your lips and glide his tongue against yours. 

you sigh contentedly into his waiting mouth when his grip on you tightens, and his hands start to roam—like the more he kisses you the less restrained he remembers to be. 

“w- we… we should-” he sighs against the side of your face when your head tilts to press your lips to his cheek, chest rising and falling hard. 

“we should probably move,” he manages to get out on the third try, voice raspy and deep. his blue eyes have gone dark, half-lidded as he rests his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

he’s probably right. the chances of you getting walked in on are rising by the minute—you can only imagine the shit you’ll get if the team finds you and bob, equally flustered and dazed. 

but bob makes no move to get up, to peel you off from where you cling to him, just to make that long, cold walk to somewhere more private. you hold your breath, mentally debating if it’s worth it. 

bob licks his kiss-swollen lips, and the choice is made for you. 

your arms tighten around his neck, pressing impossibly closer as you capture his lips between yours. a knee goes between his, and presses dangerously close to where he’s starting to stiffen in his plaid christmas bottoms. 

bob’s head jerks back, curls jostling as he gasps. his  hands flying to your hips to pin you down before you can do any further damage to his already-crumbling restraint. 

you know you shouldn’t tease. you’ve only seen bob at his most vulnerable a handful of times, all in the comfort and safety of your rooms, locked away from the world. 

but he’s just so pretty, and when he makes sounds like that just from your leg, you can’t stop yourself from doing it again, and again, until he’s whimpering and reaching a hand down to hold back your leg. a little pointless, considering how his hips buck in search of more. 

“they- they’re going to come back,” bob chokes, lashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open. white-knuckled fingers twitch against your thigh, “someone could see.”

and you’re about to argue otherwise, that they’re not about to just walk in the next second, but it’s like he’s summoned them with magic, or spoken it into existence. 

the elevator dings twice, announcing their imminent arrival. you have seconds before the team files into the room and finds bob borderline humping your thigh. 

bob yelps in alarm, his hold on you tightening in reflex as the ‘freeze’ part of his fight or flight instinct takes over. slapping at his hands, you climb out of his grip, launching yourself to the opposite end of the couch. 

when the team walks in, you’re on your phone scrolling haphazardly, glancing up in faux-annoyance when they mill about. you chew them out for being late, and bob is grateful for the distraction—nobody asks why his cheeks are so red, or why he’s more jittery than usual. 

by the time the lights are turned off and everyone is placated with snacks and a christmas movie, bob thinks he’s off the hook. but then you’re squeezing into the only seat left with an innocent smile—between him and bucky.

the super soldier side-eyes you when the movie ends and bob still has that damned pillow clutched over his lap. 

in the shower (spring) 

the water beating down against slick tiles does a halfway job of muffling the sounds coming from your bathroom. 

it hadn’t been your intention, when you’d agreed to help yelena train bob, to end up caged under him in the shower. 

you’d lingered in your doorway while yelena disappeared into hers, already wriggling out of her sweaty top. bob had come to a slow stop behind you, waiting for the telltale swoosh of the blonde’s door closing. 

there’s something about that post-exercise high, the rush of endorphins in bob’s system that makes him walk with his shoulders a little less curled and his gait steadier. his limbs are loose, and the slow blink he gives you while he leans against the doorframe makes you pause. 

it reminds you of when the sentry peeks through. makes you swallow, peering curiously at his eyes but no—only crystalline blue already staring back.  

his hair stuck to his forehead and a light sheen of sweat around along his throat—evidence of how much he’d pushed himself. thanks to the serum, it takes a lot for bob to work up a sweat these days. 

“’m gonna shower,” you say simply, and that was that. 

he’d followed you all the way into your room, set his things down next to yours and waited patiently until the water warmed to get his hands on you. 

he descends on you, big hands engulfing your cheeks, kissing you hard. it’s hungry, and your teeth bump a little, but when one hand trails down your slick skin to crook a thigh around his hip, you can’t help the breathless sigh into his mouth at the way he’s already hard and feverish against your inner thigh. 

“bob,” you cry out when he sucks at the spot behind your ear—the same time his hand on your thigh moves to cup your ass. his tongue swipes at your pulse point and your breath hitches on your words, “what’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“i- i don’t know,” he breathes against your skin, wet lips searing more than the hot water raining down on you. he manoeuvres your bodies out of the spray when he feels how hot your skin is getting. “just- just need to…” 

he trails off, mouth falling open on a low groan when your hips twitch, and the ruddy head of his cock brushes the junction of your thigh and pelvis. 

bob’s forehead presses to the cool tile beside you when you do it again, smearing precum against your thigh. 

“shit- need to feel you,” he pleads, hands finding purpose in kneading your tits. 

“how d’you want me?” you murmur, turning your head so the words fall on his parted lips. he watches in a daze as your hand slips between your heated bodies, fingers curling around the length of him. 

bob chokes on a breath, back caving in. he’s on the brink already—on edge from hours of sparring and watching you dance around him in your tight workout gear and a determined glint in your eyes. he sees the same one now, and he knows he won’t last long enough to be inside you. 

you squeeze, flicking a thumb over his slit to get his attention, and bob realises he’s been staring into space. 

bob may as well babble—incoherent as he tries to beg you to do literally anything to make the ache go away—anything you want. “- just want you.”

he seems to swell in your grasp when you coo at him, twisting your fist as you stroke him steadily. “oh, baby,” you give him a kiss he struggles to reciprocate, “wan’ me to take care of you?”

all the bravado from earlier washes down the drain. he’s whimpering low in his throat, nodding feverishly. “y- yes, please, oh- fuck.”

“okay, pretty boy, i’ll take care of you.”

he lets you push him, back to the wall. you’re slinking down his front, straight onto your knees. his cock rests under his belly, flushed all over and leaking like a faucet. 

“you did so well today,” you whisper and it’s almost drowned out by the water, “worked so hard.”

your lips press closed kisses up the side of him. when you take his tip into your warm mouth, bob has a flicker of genuine worry that he’ll pass out. he whimpers as you work more of him into your mouth, withdrawing only to pucker up and dribble down a glob of spit over his tip. 

“oh god,” he whines, head thrown back against the tile. wet hair clinging to his cheeks and neck, lashes clumped with water (or tears)—he looks so good and you make up your mind to make him cum in record time. 

he deserves it, you think. hadn’t protested once while you and yelena had demonstrated the 101 ways to throw a grown man down. (zero complaints when your thighs had clamped around his head and swung him down, legs locked at his throat.)

you can barely fit half of him in your mouth, so your hands come up to stroke in time with your hungry tongue. 

bob thinks he actually sees stars. there might be hearts floating above his head, because if he hadn’t known he was in love with you before, he definitely knows now, when you’re smiling up at him through your lashes. 

the warning heat in his belly ramps up to a boil when he feels your tongue swirling around his head. 

“honey, i’m- i think i’m gonna-” he manages to pant, chest heaving as his stomach tenses. a jolt of satisfaction courses through you, and you’re readying yourself for his end when there’s the world’s loudest knocking at your bathroom door. 

a drawn out call of your name. 

bob fights the desperate, pleading whine when your mouth pulls off of him at the last second. he stares down at you—deer in the headlights, when the urgent knocking continues. his hand flies to your hair, not pressing, but urging. 

his wide, panicked eyes find yours—the surprise is wearing off and now you’re just mildly annoyed. 

yelena’s on the other side, short blonde strands dripping onto the towel she clutches around her. 

“can i borrow some conditioner? i ran out!” she shouts to be heard over the water. 

your hand never leaves bob’s dick, wrapped loosely as you bite your lip in contemplation. “why can’t you use ava’s?” 

“yours smells better!” she reasons, fingernails tapping against the metal. 

your face scrunches, figuring it’ll be easier to just give her the damned thing than try to talk her out of coming in. 

so you look up at bob from between his legs, press your fingers to your lips even as his head shakes, mouthing a pitiful “please”. presses himself further into the wall like it’ll absorb him out of this utterly painful situation. 

“fine, but i’m in the shower,” you call out, hands fumbling for the offending bottle. you both hear it when the doorknob turns and her footsteps enter the steamy room. 

“don’t worry, i won’t look,” yelena mutters jokingly, approaching the shower curtain. to her credit, she does turn away before your hand pulls the curtain aside a little to pass her the conditioner. it’s good she did— would’ve caught a glimpse of dark hair and a muscled shoulder, otherwise. 

the whole time, bob is shaking with tension and throbbing in your palm. you want to put him out of his misery, but you also want to drag it out a little. so you give him a slow, firm stroke and he slaps a hand over his mouth. 

she thanks you for the conditioner, and you think that’s that, but her steps stop right before the door. 

“hey, bob’s been getting better, don’t you think?” yelena hums thoughtfully, “he’s a fast learner.”

you agree, muffling a giggle because she doesn’t know just how right she is. bob’s eyes narrow at your smirk, even worse when it spreads into a devilish grin. 

your fingers curl tighter around his cock, speeding up. his head shakes vehemently, squirming under you as quietly as he can. 

“he’s got good teachers,” you say, winking up at him when he gives up on trying to not thrust into your fist. he looks absolutely debauched like this, back arching off the wall as he chases your strokes. 

yelena cackles, “no kidding. should’ve seen his face when you did that widow move on him. i think he has a crush on you.”

you do laugh then, and you feel a little bad because bob’s breathing is getting faster and his hips more erratic. but you can’t help it when you ask, “really? what makes you say that?”

yelena hums like she knows something you don’t, ironically, and you can almost see her outline through the curtain as she waves a hand, “ah, we’ll open that can of worms another time. thanks again!” 

when the door clicks shut again, bob counts five seconds before he releases the neediest moan he’s ever heard himself make. it makes his cheeks go red because he’s a little embarrassed. 

but he’s peeking down at you and finds your eyes alight with arousal as you frantically tug at his swollen cock. “you did so good, baby. stayed so quiet,” you sigh, thumb gliding over his slit with every pass.

bob cries out, biting his lip at the coil in his tummy returning, sneaking up while he’d been so caught up in being quiet—being good, for you. 

“cum for me, sweet boy,” you tell him, lips brushing his tip as your head lowers, “wan’ it in my mouth.”

that’s it for him. his whimper pitches high, cracking in his throat. your mouth closes around him just as he twitches in your hand and then he’s spurting into your mouth in thick ropes that you swallow down with a soft moan. he can’t help the way his hips jerk, nudging his cock further into your mouth. you welcome it, even as your jaw aches.  

it takes over him, dragged out by your tongue and hollowed cheeks. he cums so much—a few drops leak down your chin from the corner of your lips.

bob watches in awe as you scoop up what you missed with your fingers, suck them clean with your mouth. it feels like a gut punch to watch. 

his hand flails, shutting the water off blindly. bob carries you out with ease, uncaring in the moment that he’s tracking water over your floor. 

he’ll apologise profusely later, but for now bob drops you onto the bed, and him onto his knees. your legs are thrown over his broad shoulders, and he proceeds to give you three more reasons for a real shower. 

when the ac breaks (summer)

it’s ridiculous, really. the notion that a place like the new avengers tower, worth billions, could suffer from the mundane struggle of a busted air conditioning system. 

smack in the middle of summer. 

the entire building had been given the day off, save for the poor souls residing on the residential floors. the seven of you, condemned to braving this heatwave in a bulletproof glass box. 

the one saving grace should have been the olympic sized pool on the training floors, but as luck would have it, it’s closed—scheduled to be cleaned sometime in the day. 

so you resolve to lying splayed out on bob’s floor, against the cool floor with the only mini hand-held fan oscillating between yours and bob’s sweaty bodies. 

you’d stripped down to your underwear, bob in his boxers. laying shoulder to shoulder, skin prickling from the heat. 

“how sure are we that we’re not in hell?” 

your head turns to the man next to you, reaching out to brush damp hair off his forehead. he laughs, and hopes you don’t notice when he makes sure the fan stays pointed at you longer. 

your eyes narrow when you do, nudging at his hand to turn it back to him, scolding him lightly because you don’t want him getting heat stroke. 

the heat makes everything feel hazy and your movements sluggish. 

you groan into the thick air, shifting on the ground in search of a cool spot. eyeing him suspiciously as he stays completely still—how other than the light sheen on his body and the flush in his cheeks, there aren’t any outward signs of suffering. “how are you so calm right now?”

bob shrugs, a lax hand arcs through the air. “i run warm. ‘m pretty used to it.”

you give him a pout that his eyes catch on. he wonders if he’d taste the salt on your skin if he kissed you now.

“no fair,” you mumble, head thrown back. the move exposes the line of your throat, the way it glistens with sweat. he licks his lips, tries so hard to stop himself from following the bead of sweat that tracks down your cleavage. 

bob distantly wonders how he’s still so affected, even after he had you writhing under him last night, just twelve hours ago. remembers how you’d dragged your nails down his back, raising welts between his shoulder blades as he had you pinned between him and the mattress. 

to answer your question, he thinks there is a chance he’s in hell. only because you’re inches away, in nothing but a bra and panties, skin shimmering in the afternoon light and he can’t do anything about it because it’s just so hot.

when you shift again, bob takes the risk and kisses you. makes sure to keep his torso hovering away from yours, only connected by your lips. 

you reciprocate, craning your neck up into him. his mouth is warm, but it’s a nice contrast to the stifling heat surrounding you. 

it’s muscle memory, reaching up to pull him closer. but your fingers slip against tacky skin, chests sticking together uncomfortably. bob retreats when he hears your low whine, squirming beneath him. 

“no no no- i want to keep going,” you say breathlessly, voice catching when the heat stings at the nape of your neck, “but ‘s too hot.”

bob can see when it gets overstimulating, your eyes watering with it. he scoots away, not too far but just enough to let the air flow easier around you. sets the mini fan next to you on the strongest setting and gathers your hair away from your neck. 

“hey, you’re okay,” he murmurs soothingly, “i know, it’s hot. d’you want me to get your water bottle?”

you shake your head, still pouting. you know you’re being a little melodramatic, but you can barely think straight, you’re bloated from drinking enough water to drown a dolphin and all you want is to cuddle with your boyfriend but you can’t. 

“what can i do, honey?” he hums, scooting closer to link your pinkies. he’s surprisingly level-headed about the whole thing, and it makes you wonder if this is really how he feels most of the time. then you feel bad for ever complaining about how cold he keeps his room. you’d much rather be huddling for warmth.

your voice is small, a little petulant—it’s embarrassing to be felled by a broken ac system. “can you… can you kiss me again?”

his heart skips at your shy question. so used to the tables being flipped that he feels a little zip down his spine at the opportunity to take care of you this time.

bob’s mind becomes one-tracked, the need to make all your troubles disappear and have you happy and sated taking over his thoughts. he tells himself he’ll make it all better (maybe even says it out loud.)

“lay back,” he tells you softly, nodding when you go down without a word. he dutifully adjusts the fan again, and then he’s appearing in your vision, blocking out the ceiling. 

bob hovers over you, in a push-up position so none of his body heat reaches you. he looks so big like this, his newfound strength apparent with how he holds himself in place without struggle. 

his hair curtains his face from this angle, and you reach up to tuck it behind his ear again. he has stars in his eyes when he peers down at you, still so pretty. 

“’s this better?” he asks, voice low and gentle.

when you nod, you’re smiling and looking like yourself again. who could’ve known all you needed was bob on top of you. 

he leans down, chest only just brushing yours this time as he kisses you deep. makes it a good one (he always does), but especially since you’d asked so sweetly. 

you forget why you were upset in the first place when his tongue slips over yours. it gets a little heated, ironically, but even then bob holds himself above you, never letting his hot skin touch you. 

you start to whimper for it, especially when you feel bob sporting a semi through his thin boxers, even from where he hovers. he’s about to bring himself to do something about it—ears burning a little when he thinks about maybe asking if you’d want him to take you from behind this time, reasoning that you’ll overheat less like that.

but then through the thick door, bob’s enhanced hearing picks up on heavy, thudding footsteps approaching. you don’t need crazy senses to hear walker calling bob’s name from down the hall. 

the pair of you freeze, your glassy eyes stuck on him. the breath catches in your chests when his voice grows louder. “bob! pool’s open—let’s go!”

he rolls off of you, barely sparing a second to adjust himself in his boxers before ushering you to the en-suite bathroom. 

“stay here,” he says, even when both of you know there’s nowhere else to go. “i’ll be right back.” 

bob steals one more kiss before he ducks out of the bathroom, shutting the door right behind him just as walker barrels into the bedroom. 

“wha- maybe knock next time?” bob runs a hand through his hair, standing on the opposite side of the room from the blonde super soldier who’s already got his trunks on. 

“what’s the point? not like you’re doing anything in here, anyway.” john reasons, shrugging with a hand on his hip. 

“right… pool’s open, you said?” bob tries changing the subject. 

“a few of us are heading down now. get changed, buddy, you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

bob purses his lips, and wonders briefly if you’re listening through the door. he hopes walker doesn’t ask why he’s standing so weird. 

“s-sure thing,” bob agrees, already turning around to look for the new pair of trunks he’d picked out with you the last time you’d gone out.

a high whistle rings out behind him, and the way it pierces the air makes bob freeze in his tracks. 

“damn, bob. you get in a fight?” 

bob’s confused, grasping for any idea of what john could mean when it hits him, and he whirls around before john gets more fuel for the teasing that awaits him now. 

his face is burning up, trunks clutched in his hands. he blinks rapidly, floundering as john watches with a smug grin. 

“good for you, man,” john says simply, and bob just knows he’s holding back for later, when he has everyone’s attention. 

“o- on second thought, i don’t- i don’t feel too good,” bob struggles, eyes frantically searching for a shirt, but the last time he had one on was hours ago. he can’t remember where he’d tossed it, because his brain turned to mush the second yours came off.

“oh, come on, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” john waves, cracking a little as a laugh bubbles in his chest. “wear it with pride! means you did a good job.”

bob wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he’s sure he’s in hell, when his door slides open and both yelena and ava step in, clad in swimsuits and towels slung over their shoulders. 

“guys, what is the holdup?” yelena demands, gesturing exasperatedly with her hands. 

“it’s like you want to get heat stroke.” ava snips, glaring at john, whose face is crimson from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

“bob’s been busy.”

the girls look at him questioningly, irate at being made to wait even longer as john waits for them to figure it out. 

bob squeaks, shaking his head when john declares to the room, “bob fucks!”

he is in hell, because the room falls silent as ava and yelena stare between the two men. bob scoots a little too far to the left and they catch a glimpse of his scratched up back in the full-body mirror behind him. 

their gasps fill the room, and yelena, at least, tries to cover it with a hand over her mouth. 

“go on, bob!” ava nods approvingly, breaking into a cackle as yelena nods her agreement, speechless. 

it makes bob cringe, mind darting through all the ideas of how to squirm out of this situation, because they’re all probably picturing him in their minds right now and it makes him want to curl up in a hall. 

“oh my god, who do you think it is?” ava gasps, slapping excitedly at john. he swats her hands away, but he’s wearing a shit-eating grin when he says your name, drawling, “obviously.”

ava’s jaw drops just as yelena elbows him hard enough to make walker wince. 

bob swallows back the protest in his throat, because he doesn’t trust his ability to lie right now. decides it might be easier to just let them think what they want. 

“whoever it is-“ yelena cuts off ava and john’s gabbing, “-is a very lucky person. clearly!”

they leave bob to change in peace, snickering the whole way to the elevator. when the bathroom door opens, you find his face in his hands, sighing in resignation. 

when his hands fall, there you are, trying to muffle a laugh, half-guilty but very amused. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” you coo, running your hands up his arms to his shoulders, “should’a told you to put on a shirt first.”

you enjoy yourself plenty, watching him stammer through the group’s interrogation by the pool while you act none-the-wiser. even sprinkling in a question or two. 

it’s not as funny later that night, when the ac is fixed and bob has you on your back before it can even kick in properly. 

it’s decidedly unfunny when you have to watch tutorials the next morning on how to cover up the purple-red splotches mapped down your throat, save for the one at your collar—bob asks you to leave that one bare. 

in the middle of it (autumn)

the team is onto you. 

it’s hard to miss the pointed looks exchanged over dinner when you and bob chat intently, in your own world, totally unbothered by their squabbling. 

or when the two of you coincidentally walk into the kitchen for breakfast together. sure, you bumped into him on your way down. 

it’s been almost a year with bob, and you’re still buried under the weight of pure love when he comes to you first about what’s bothering him, or when he wants you to cut his hair, or when he doesn’t even have to ask for your order when he gets takeout for just the two of you. 

sneaking around was fun at first, a harmless secret that protected the peace that only existed when you were together. every stolen kiss and lingering brush under the table sent shocks through your system. 

the longer it goes, the harder it is to leave him in the morning, slipping into your own room quietly on the off chance that someone might catch you tiptoeing out of his. 

when bob shuffles into the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair mussed from sleep, and you have to hold yourself back from peppering kisses all over his sleepy face—it makes you wonder why exactly you’re keeping it a secret. it’s not like the team would really give a shit, hell, they probably know. 

so you stop being careful. the mask starts to slip, and bob finds that he quite likes getting to hold your hand outside the confines of your rooms. 

the day it finally happens is one of those days, where you wake up in his arms, clutched to his chest like his personal teddy bear. his lips part on a soft snore, face smushed into the pillow.

you’re a little sweaty, trapped under the covers with the heat radiating off of your dead-asleep boyfriend, but you can’t bring yourself to peel away from him. 

it’s still early. the tower is silent—on the cusp of consciousness. 

as you try to recall what exactly woke you up, bob shifts behind you and—oh. bob moves again, still asleep, and this time there’s no mistaking what nudges at the back of your thigh. 

a hitch of a breath. you wait a beat, in time with your pulse, until you decide to push back experimentally. he’s still asleep, and you’re debating whether it’s worth waking him early. 

he’s thick in his pyjamas, insistent as he grinds into you again, notching between your ass cheeks. this time he lets out a low moan, the arm banded around your middle clamping down.

you’re entirely locked against him now, unable to move as bob’s hips continue their lazy rocking. you want so bad to let him sleep, but it’s getting uncomfortably hot and sticky between your legs. 

you think you could slip a hand down and take care of yourself quietly, but then your entire body jolts up the bed on one hard thrust. the mewl you’ve been biting back finally slips out. 

that’s what wakes him, in the end. when your hand flies to his forearm against your stomach, baby blue eyes flutter open and blink slowly in confusion. 

it hits him all at once—cock throbbing in his pants and your overheating body squirming in front of him and the little sounds escaping your mouth. his name. 

bob makes a puzzled sound, halfway to a moan when the fog clears. his arms loosen enough for you to turn around, facing him as his cock now pokes at your belly. 

“i’m sorry i woke you” you whisper through the clench in your core. bob shakes his head, still sleepy, dragging you into a slow kiss, the first of the day. 

“are you-” his hand slips between your bodies, resting at your navel until you nod. “fuck, you’re so wet already.”

he runs his long fingers through your folds, spreading the arousal he finds waiting for him there. brushes against your clit, and then you’re whining, tugging at his shoulders. 

“bob bob bob, please, i need you inside,” is all it takes for him to nod against your lips, wriggling out of his pants and lifting your thigh over his. 

he guides himself to your entrance, sliding in slow, like always. lets you adjust as he groans low at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. 

when you tell him to move, he wastes no time in drawing his hips back, pushing in steadily. each time he does, a breathless moan is punched out of you, gripping him like a vice and sucking him back in. 

“s- shit, honey, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he stutters, a soft laugh turning breathless when you seem to clench down on purpose. “s’that feel good, honey? t- talk to me.”

he needs it. with this angle, he reaches so much deeper, his coarse hairs rubbing at your clit with each push forwards. it sets your insides alight, but there’s nowhere to run in this position. his fingers clamp down on your hip, dragging you along his cock. 

“f- fuck, you feel so good,” you cry, burying your face in his firm chest, “so- so deep like this. can feel all of you.”

your praise goes straight to his cock, twitching inside you on a whimper. he moves with purpose, aims for that spot he knows is there—the one that makes you cry his name. 

he knows when he’s found it, because you’re keening, high and sharp into the room. the stillness of the morning is shattered, taken over by the steady slapping of skin on skin, the squelching where bob pushes his thick cock into your leaking hole. 

“you’re so- so fucking wet, sweetheart. ‘s all for me?” he pants, voice raspy and thick with sleep. it scratches at your brain just right, makes you arch into his touch. 

his tip batters at that spongey spot just right, and he thinks he might need to cover your mouth or something. while he’s sure the team wouldn’t be opposed to your relationship, he’s not too sure about how they’d feel waking up to your repeated chants of his name.  

he shushes you with this mouth on yours, swallowing down all your wanton moans. “you’re gonna wake everyone,” he says against your lips, a little teasing. just this side of cocky, now that he has you falling apart on his dick first thing in the morning. 

your head shakes vehemently as you cling to him. “don’t care,” you say, breath catching when he rolls your clit in slow circles. “want ‘em to know-” your hips buck with a yelp when his touch grows firm, “-want them to hear how good you fuck me.” 

bob’s eyes roll back into his head, a shiver running down his spine. “cum for me then, baby, c’mon.”

his thrusts grow harsh, and you know he’s almost there when he bites down on your shoulder to stop the pathetic moan at how your wet walls choke him. 

he keeps working at your clit, pumping in and out of you in a way that’s fucking devastating. the heat simmering in your belly bubbles over, and you’re creaming all over his cock with a wrecked whine, bucking your hips to meet his. 

“loveyouloveyouloveyou,” he hears you mumble as you wade through your high, and it does him in to hear that word. it’s not the first time, but it always feels like it. 

his fingers squeeze your hips so hard they’ll bruise for sure, marring your skin shades of blue and purple that he’ll kiss better later.

when he cums, it’s with a drawn out moan, barely muffled by your skin as he presses his face to your neck. you can feel him pulsing as he paints your insides, squeezing just to draw out his pleasure. you don’t want the feeling of him filling you up to stop. 

“i love you, oh, god- love you, baby.”

too bad the moment is fucking stomped on all over, becoming bob’s most ruined orgasm when his bedroom door flies open, revealing a blond super soldier, suited up at 7 in the morning. 

“hey, have you seen-” 

it takes a second to register but when it does, bob is tugging the covers up and shielding your body with his. 

“holy shit.” john freezes in his tracks like he’s been slapped, piecing together the flash of your mortified face and the curve of bob’s bare ass. 

“get the fuck out!” you shout from under bob, whose mind has gone completely blank. not only because he’s been walked in on, butt naked by the most annoying of all super soldiers, but also because he can feel where his cum is leaking out of you onto the sheets. he pulls the covers tighter around your bodies, blushing bright red. 

“i knew it. i fucking knew it!” 

“gold star to you, walker! now can you leave, please? the briefing doesn’t start for another hour, you psycho.”

“god forbid we get breakfast before a day-long mission! it’s only the most important meal of the day!”

your eyes roll hard, staring up at bob, both of you doused in annoyance at how john is still in the room when bob is still in you. 

“bob, i’d offer you to join but i assume you’ve already eaten-” he’s cut off by your indignant yell, easily dodging the metal water bottle hurled at him. 

“alright, alright,” john huffs, turning heel with a shudder. 

when the door slides shut, bob meets your eyes with a sigh. you look up at him, helpless to stop the unhinged giggle when you process what just happened. 

“cat’s out of the bag?” you offer, whimpering a little when bob pulls out slowly. he shakes his head, huffing a laugh with his head in the crook of your neck. 

bob cleans you up diligently, and so, so softly. within the hour, he’s zipping up your tactical suit and waiting at the door so he can walk you out to the elevator. 

“are you gonna be okay fending for yourself while i’m gone? they’re going to have questions,” you tease, raising on your tiptoes loop your arms around bob’s neck. 

he smile is small but it’s real and stays even after you kiss him goodbye. 

“i’ll manage. as long as you promise to push walker into the line of fire a little.”

[merabposts]

you are in love ᥫ᭡.

✄you’re not in love with Oscar Piastri, and you’re getting pretty sick of everyone thinking you are. come on, you’re just best friends (since like, forever) and yes you maybe used to be head over heels but you’re not now, seriously! and definitely the rumours and the photos you post and the way you’re sort of kind of living together isn’t confusing at all! just friends, really.

✄mcs: oscar piastri x fashiondesigner! reader

✄trope: childhood best friends to… something?

✄cw: fluff, yearning (?) you’re both idiots, landos annoying (as usual) smau! so posts/messages etc! NOT PROOF READ.

✄word count: 10k

✄notes from me??: hi everyone !! exams are finally over, everyone cheer now. so strange to work towards something like that and then it be done, though. anyway,! in all honesty? i hate this fic. i honestly don’t think it’s very good, or logical, or fluid, and i actually can barely bring myself to post this. i’d really appreciate any feedback or anything! and PLEASE, any ideas of fics im DESPERATE. like genuinely !! have no ideas but so much motivation to write! also, this smau kicked my ass like genuinely i was tweaking on getting the photos in place and then they all DELETED? horrifying. never (definitely will do it) again. i hope you like this a LITTLE more than i do! ‪‪❤︎‬

You don’t believe in soulmates, not like that, anyway. But sometimes, the way life works out, seems to test your obstinance. You’d met Oscar Piastri when you could only waddle around, and now here you are, sketching him in the corner of your sketchbook affectionately.

Although you’re a designer, you are still an avid doodler. You had pages upon pages of stupid comics and sketches, mainly centered around him, and Lissie, and Lando. Funny, that was the universe shouting at you again. Out of all three of you, Oscar was the one who had always dreamed of Formula One, and yet you’d all been pulled into its orbit. You, stitching together the outfits on the drivers’ backs, and Lissie, flouncing around Lando, finally becoming a publicist of sorts.

You and Lissie had always been so close, that you knew it hadn’t mattered when she’d left to go pursue a career on the other side of the world. But when Oscar had left, you hadn’t been so sure. You truly thought that was it, that he’d go off and drive and you’d be in that same town, watching your fingers bleed from pinpricks from needles.

You had been in love with him, obviously. Who could blame you? He was quiet, thoughtful, and caring, and you knew him. Truly. Inside and out.

But once he left, you let it go. Let him go. That night, tears welling in your eyes. His rueful smile and messy hair, arms extended. You’d hugged him so hard, certain that was it. And when you’d whispered those stupid three words, and he still got on the plane, you decided maybe it was better, that it was over. Childhood love wasn't real, anyway. Your brain hadn’t even finished developing yet.

But still, it was weird to be back with him. As adults, professional and different. You didn’t laugh as much now, but it was louder when you did. He looked the same, but just, sort of bigger? And he still looked at you, just as he had then. But actually, he laughed more. It was nice to see him happier. He’d been so focused, determined, when you were younger. Desperate. And he’d made it.

You finish your sketch, unsatisfied with the shape of his nose, before Lando comes crashing in.

“Good morning, mate.” he says cheerfully, trying not to trip on his undone shoelaces.

You raise an eyebrow at him hesitantly. “You seem cheerful. What’s up?”

He just beams back. “What, am I not allowed to be happy?” he replies, and you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s Clara, isn’t it?” you ask suspiciously, and he nods enthusiastically.

“She’s coming with me to the gala thing. And you know, I explained to her that it will be pretty public, and people will assume things, or make comments, and I understood if she didn't want that, but she said yes anyway. Like, seriously. Like she was willing to go through it, cause she’d rather be with me publicly than secretly, like being with me is the only option anyway.” he boasts proudly, evidently cheesing, and you can’t help but grin back supportively.

You were glad Clara was coming. You hadn’t met her yet, but he was gushing about her so often that you were desperate to make up your own mind about her. She sounded brilliant, but Lando had sometimes made questionable choices before.

“That’s great, Lando. Genuinely. Do you know what she’s wearing? I could like, incorporate it into your suit, if you wanted. That would be cute.” you say pensively, scrunching your nose at him, and he bursts into laughter.

“I forget that's literally all you think about.” he responds, and you mock being offended.

“Yeah, kind of my job. Anyway, stand straight.” you fire back, walking over to him and pulling your green measuring tape against his torso.

“So, I was going to go for a 1960’s theme for your suit, to celebrate when McLaren was established, sort of? It would be subtle, but that sort of style. Although, I want to try and add a 70’s kind of flare on the bottom, but I can’t tell if that’ll look shit. The sketch looked cool, but you know-” you ramble, scribbling down numbers as you instruct him to raise various limbs.

“Actually, I don't know. But for the record, I would’ve fired you by now as my designer if you weren't good at it, no matter how much Oscar would protest. Funny, you know I actually sent Lissie one of your designs first, so you wouldn’t have needed your boyfriend or your sister to get here.” he murmurs, trying to sound sarcastic.

“Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t have accepted the job if I only got it through them anyway. And for the record, you know he isn’t my boyfriend. You can stop joking about it now.” you reply firmly, and he throws his arms up in innocence, making you curse.

“Lando, stay STILL.” you sigh, exasperated, and you hear a familiar chuckle from your studio doorway.

“Yeah, Lando. Stay still.” comes Oscar’s gentle voice, and you smile instinctively.

“Morning, Osc.” waves Lando, and you catch Oscar wave back in the corner of your eye. You nod at Lando, withdrawing back to your desk, and swiftly close your open sketchbook.

Oscar makes his way towards you, placing down a drink by your arm.

“Careful, it’s hot.” he mutters, before turning back to face Lando. You smile at him absentmindedly, focused on comparing your measurements with the design you’d been working on. You hear them chatter, the sound muffled, until Lando shouts out.

“You guys smell the same.” he practically shrieks, and you look up at him incredulously.

“Um, what?” asks Oscar blankly, and you copy his expression.

“You smell the same. Like, your clothes. Well, you smell like her.” he accuses, like he just figured out some deep, ugly secret.

You inhale deeply. “Yep, my bad. I’m staying at his place at the moment, but I hate using any other laundry detergent, hence the smell of the clothes.” you state simply, surprised by his grin.

“Oh, finally! Lissie and I have been waiting for this for forever. Does she know?” he asks excitedly, pulling out his phone.

Oscar coughs awkwardly. “She’s just staying until she finishes the work here.” he explains, gesturing to the piles of boxes and wiring exposed around the room, and Lando sulks.

“Moving in together would be an insane thing to just, like, do, Lando. We’re not even together. You’re such an idiot.” you hiss awkwardly, trying not to think about a strangely domestic life with the Australian to your right.

He laughs quietly in agreement. “You are such an idiot. I’ve been saying this for a while.” he adds, wisely, and you look up at him gratefully.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. You’re still practically married, doing laundry together.” Lando mutters, dropping his voice to barely a whisper. But it’s still loud enough that you both hear it, even though neither of you even blink.

“Alright, Lando. I think we’re done for today. I’ll text you when to drop back round to try some stuff on, okay?” you mumble firmly, waving him away with a calculated flick of your wrist.

“Touched a nerve?” he jokes, but his eyes are uncomfortably serious. And he did touch a nerve. You grit your teeth and smile angrily at him, nodding your head to the door.

“Bye, mate.” chimes Oscar, raising an arm as Lando slowly ducks out the door.

There's an uncomfortable silence, but it's momentary, because you’re suddenly too concentrated on what Lando mentioned- he really does smell like you. He’s close now, his head peering over your hunched shoulder. And it shouldn’t matter, and you shouldn't even notice, but you do. And it's pretty simple why.

Textures, smells, sounds. Colours. The way patterns jumped at you. They made you part of who you were, part of how your mind worked. And you had your own specific smell, your own style, the colours you used in your work and the textures you liked best. And here he was, straying from his usual familiar scent, and into yours instead. And maybe it was weird, for you to obsess over it so much. But it was like a form of identification. It was how you’d found your jumper, when it was thrown among all the others at the school. Stupid, little things like that.

But the worst part was that it wasn’t offputting, like when something wasn't matching up to how you thought it should be. Instead, you didn’t mind it. And you knew full well, if it was anyone else, you would.

“Do you like it?” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence, and you watch him lean further, admiring the detailed design in front of you.

“Its so obviously, like, you. But also so obviously him. That's brilliant, really. It will look amazing, I’m sure.” he replies earnestly, but you huff a little.

“You can be honest. No one's ever honest with my designs, but I need it now. This is a big deal.” you mumble, stressing the importance of the outfit, and he smiles gently.

“I am being honest. It’s seriously impressive. I don’t know how you managed to come up with a suit so unique? He’ll be better dressed than me, that's for sure. I’ll try not to take it personally that you requested him instead of me, by the way.” he responds, and you wince.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t realise you found out about that. Frankly, I had this sort-of idea for a while, and like you said, it’s very him and…” you start, but you trail off slightly.

“... and he's more likely to have people talking about his outfit than me, right?” he chuckles, clearly unoffended, and you nod back quickly.

“You got it. Sorry though, seriously-”

“Will you be my date?” he bursts out, interrupting you mid sentence.

“Um, sorry?” you ask, startled, and he just blinks back at you.

“To the gala. Unless someone’s already asked you, like Lando, because that would make sense. You know, design and designer, good marketing. Or if you don’t want to go, that's fine. But if you do, and no one-” he explains, and you decide to return the favour and cut him off.

“That would be nice, yeah. I’d love to. And for the record, Lando asked Clara. I’m so excited to meet her, really. How is she?” you reply simply, and Oscar exhales, relieved.

“She’s brilliant. Truly, you’ll love her. You’re sort of alike, really. Bubbly. She reminded me of you, when I first met her.” he answers honestly, and you scowl at him.

“I’d rather not know that Lando's dating someone that reminded you of me. That’s gross. But hey, you think I’m bubbly?” you tease, and he looks away, trying to hide a grin.

“Not my finest adjective, I know. But don’t worry, she’s still very different from you. You’ll see what I mean.” he sighs, before asking a simple question.

“So, what are you going to wear?” he asks, and you freeze.

Shit. You’d agreed so quickly, forgetting that very very important factor.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Well, I can’t copy this, because I don't want to match with Lando. Wait, what are you wearing?” you fire back, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He quickly pulls out his phone, showing you a picture of his suit. It was fairly standard, but had some interesting shapes and creases you admired carefully.

“Okay, who are you wearing?” you rephrase, and he looks at you guiltily.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ll find out. I just got sent this photo by Anna this morning.” he explains quickly, and you nod sharply.

“I like the shape. Harsh where it should be soft, but it doesn't look uncomfortable. And the subtle blue is intriguing. I can work with that. I just need to find out who designed it, so I can ask about the fabric.” You ramble, unfocused on him, but he’s grinning.

“What, you’re going to match with me, instead?” he smiles, and you roll your eyes.

“Good marketing, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” he bemuses, and you shake your head, suppressing a laugh.

***

Other than Lando being a dickhead, the night went incredibly. Your designs had gone down insanely well. An endless stream of compliments flooded you, about Lando but also about your own attire. And as usual, Oscar was right. Clara was brilliant. You loved her, like, immediately. You’d both ran off, leaving the boys, and you’d spent most of the night flouncing around fancy guests and trying to act a lot more important than you were.

She was creative, funny, and absolutely bubbly. It was actually the perfect adjective.

You were leaning against the edge of the stairs, deep in conversation about your upcoming collection, when you felt a familiar hand rest on your shoulder.

“Hi, Osc.” you whispered, not even bothering to look up.

“How'd you know it was me? Could’ve been a different dashing young man, asking you to do something crazy like dance. To this song. Which he would somehow know you very much love.” he grins, and you turn to face him, pulling that reflexive scrunched face.

“I always know when it's you.” you mumble back, and it sounds way more serious than you’d intended. “But for the record, you know dancing is reserved for the kitchen only. Or if I feel like winning in Just Dance, like usual.” you respond, hoping your subtle rejection doesn't land too seriously. He rescinds his extended hand back into his pockets, shrugging casually.

“So, how long have you been together?” comes Clara’s gentle voice, watching you both carefully.

“Oh, no, we’re not-”

“Together? No, it’s-”

You quickly talk over each other, in a blatant panic, hands flapping, but Clara just laughs, sharp and clear.

“Wow, sorry. Must’ve severely misread Lando’s message, when he said I could finally meet his best friend's girlfriend tonight.” she giggles, and you want to laugh with her, but Lando’s stupid toothy grin gleams at you, emerging beside her.

“Must’ve been autocorrect. I meant best friend’s best friend. Or a friend that's a girl, you decide. Sorry for any confusion.” he smirks, sounding annoyingly sincere.

“It’s alright, Lando-we know you didn’t go to school. Grammar is hard.” you say calmly, smiling back at him. He flashes a scowl at you before taking Clara’s arm and whisking her away, much to your annoyance.

“She didn’t protest against dancing.” comes Oscar’s hurt voice, and you snap your neck up to face him, but he’s already laughing at you.

“I’m joking. Just came to check you’re alright. You disappeared.” he states matter of factly, and you just rest your head on his shoulder, giving yourself a moment of quiet.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m actually quite tired. And this dress is too tight.” you groan, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and uncomfortable.

“You made it.” he chuckles, and you whack him affectionately.

“Yeah, I know. Whatever.” you pause, listening to the music.

“So, imagine I’m a different bubbly, um, dashing, woman or whatever. Who happens to know that this is kind of the only song that isn’t house music that you listen to.” you beam, holding out your right hand, raising your eyebrows.

He laughs, and takes it, and you follow the pathway conveniently made from Lando and Clara towards the middle of the floor.

***

yourusername

yourusername too fancy for me lol, but the clothes seemed to suit it. (get it?)

oscarpiastri claranelson landonorris

View more comments

user8 blown me away, as usual

user12 so cute

user21 oscar has a gf?

↳ user42 you’re new here arent you

claranelson mclaren garage is going to get real sick of us soon

↳ landonorris didnt realise we were hard laucning in yourusernames comments

↳ claranelson oscar has this girl in the garage every weekend and they arent together so actually you just hard launched us

oscarpiastri you looked better than you danced

↳ yourusername well im a good dancer so thanks

↳ user36 please get a room, thanks guys!

user36 can we please talk about clara and lando for a sec??

↳ user59 lmfao wait are u the mf that dedicated a whole blog to proving they were together

↳ user36 i dont play about my niche pink haired influencers bro

↳ claranelson wait i remember this ahahh well done

You switch your phone off and flop onto your bed, sighing. It was so bizarre to you, staying here. Calling it your bed, like you owned it. Like it wasn’t in Oscar’s house. It had been generous of him to offer so quickly to let you stay, and he clearly didn’t care about how long your studio would take. Sure, you’d spent many hours in this house, but it felt so different now. Your mess, all over the carpet. Scraps of fabrics and sketches and clothes strewn around. You, bringing colour all over the plain walls. It was genuinely like you lived here. In this room, at least. You’d never even seen Oscar’s bedroom.

But he wasn’t here right now, probably training, and you’d always been curious.

Huffing, you trail to his door, pushing it open. It was pretty boring- as expected. He had an interesting simulator stuffed in a corner, but the room seemed so devoid of character. Almost like a hotel room. You’d been there for two weeks and you’d already made it seem lived in, while his was just so plain.

You scan the shelves for something interesting, and you pause when you see a long row of photos. Various frames and sizes jump out at you, the irregularity of it all making you uncomfortable. It’s cute though, an endless array of baby Oscar next to overly large karts, or his sisters grinning, or his mum and his dogs. Then you see yourself, face scrunched as usual, scowling at the camera. You were so tiny, pointing awkwardly at Oscar’s shirt, while he beamed. You remembered it well, that photo. It was the first garment you’d ever made, and you hated how obvious you thought the clumsy seams were, even though both him and his family had thought it was inspired. They’d always supported you, even when your own hadn’t. Hesitantly, you pick it up to study it, and you watch a large pile of polaroids fall out the back.

You inhale deeply, recognising them. Lissie and Hattie had been obsessed with polaroid cameras, constantly taking picture after picture. You’d kept a couple of Lissie’s, somewhere in a shoebox, but they were mainly of you and her, or relatives. Hattie had always been the one who took snapshots of you and Oscar.

There were so many. An endless stream of different poses. Back to back, in your embarrassingly shiny prom dress, and his slightly-too-small suit with a tie that matched your pink look. A couple more from that night, including some with Lissie and her boyfriend at the time. Then a cute one, of just you and your sister, grinning. Considering they’d been hidden behind the back of the picture frame, you figure he wouldn’t mind if you took that one. So you do. You stuff it silently into your pocket and continue wading through the polaroids, feeling that familiar sense of nostalgia.

They all blur, grins and scowls and arms over shoulders, and you try to not get too upset. It’s sickening, how sweetly you’re looking at him, in the more candid ones. How he didn’t know, you’ll always wonder. Sure, social cues are often wasted on him, but you were so obvious. The proof was in front of you.

You get to the last one, almost wishing you’d never picked them up in the first place. It was a bittersweet sensation, watching years flash by. Watching you grow up all over again.

But this one's the worst. Both of you, evidently no older than sixteen. Your left hand, gently holding his chin. A wide-eyed grin spread across his face. Your lips, barely pressed against his pink cheeks. It’s adorable and disgusting and you want to rip it up and frame it simultaneously. No context could save that, explain the look on your faces. No excuse could make that seem friendly, and you honestly think it's more intimate than if you’d actually properly kissed him. But you can't even remember the context. It must’ve been a joke, or something. Because you know full well the idea of that would’ve made you want to throw up- not from disgust but from pure panic.

And it’s making you feel a bit sick now, something you haven’t felt since he walked away, that brutal rejection. Well, it wasn’t truly a rejection. It was a conclusion, an understanding. But a painful one. It’s a sharp, clear memory.

“I love you.” you whispered, clinging onto his neck.

“I know. I love you too.” he whispered back, into your hair.

You paused. “You need to go, don’t you?”

“I do.” he replied quietly, but he didn’t pull away from the tight embrace.

And although your brain was screaming at you to rephrase, to tell him not to go, to say you were IN love with him, to not release your grip, you stepped back. You watched his resolve falter slightly, in time with your heartbeat, but you couldn’t leave it like this.

“Bye, Osc. Good luck, yeah?” you grinned, mustering up any joy you could find, like the world wasn't collapsing on you.

He laughed lightly, scanning your fake expression.

“Thank you. But this isn’t really bye, is it?” he murmured back, his tone wavering between genuinity and sarcasm. Back then, you’d thought he was just being nice, and he hadn’t meant it.

Now you realised he was right. And you’re so lost in thought, so unfocused, you don't notice you are still holding that photo. So unfocused, you don’t notice he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching, until he speaks.

“You’re not usually in here.” comments Oscar, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

You jump, and turn to face him, a somewhat guilty expression painting your face.

“Ah. Hi, Osc. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I was just-” you begin, but he chuckles at you, walking forwards.

“-Curious? Yeah, not unlike you. What did you find?” he asks, eyes crinkling.

“Um, I found these polaroids. Hattie’s, I assume?” you reply, shielding the one intertwined in your fingers.

“Uh-huh. I meant to give them to you, when I found them, but I forgot. You’re welcome to take any you want, obviously.”

“I already did. Took one, I mean. One of me and Lissie, you know?” you respond, breathing slowly. He’s not looking at you, instead he’s studying the array of photos beside you.

“I know the one. Are you planning on taking the one of us you’re trying to hide now, or what?” he jokes, still not looking up.

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m just holding it. Anyway, how did you know which one I’ve got?” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“It’s my favourite.” he says casually, and you almost explode.

You blink awkwardly, unsure on how to reply.

“Oh! Well, obviously you can keep it then, I was just looking at it. I don’t remember taking it.” you babble, handing it to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Funny, I barely remember any of these, but that one. But no, you can keep it. Put it somewhere more visible, maybe?” he jokes, but he doesn't seem to be that light-hearted. He’s sort of awkward, and vulnerable, and you don’t really know what to do.

So you nod, seriously, but don’t stuff it into your pocket. Instead, you pull off your phonecase and slip it inside, making sure it's central before clipping it back on.

“Alright?” you question, and he smiles at you.

“Perfect.”

***

Social media went wild at that simple gesture. Who knew a photo could cause so much speculation? Well, Lando did. Someone had caught a picture of Clara in his wallet a while back, and that's how his rumours had started. But he wasn’t being particularly sympathetic, and neither was Lissie.

“Frankly, this is entirely your fault. You’re just prancing around with Oscar, practically attached at the hip, attending all his races. And then, suddenly, you show up with a polaroid of you two kissing in the back of your phone. I'd even think you were together. Or like some of the theories, that you used to be and broke up, or something. If you really wanted to lay low, you wouldn’t be doing all this.”critiques Lissie, pausing only to sip from her obnoxiously sweet coffee, and Lando nods along approvingly.

“First off, we’re obviously children in that photo. Secondly, why should I have to pretend he’s not my best friend for the sake of the cameras?” you fire back, sulking, and Lando just laughs at you.

“You need to recheck what a child is. Also, calling him your best friend is such nonsense. It’s getting ridiculous now, truly. Look, it sucks. We all know it sucks. But if you keep going the way you’re going, it’s going to explode.” he preaches, trying to sound wise, but you just scowl at him.

“You know I rarely say this, but Lando’s right. Before, it was only the races that had events after. That you were dressing him for. Then it became every other one. Then he brought you TO these events, you’re at every single grand-prix, and you don’t even try to shut down anything anyone says.” adds Lissie, scrutiny painting her face.

“It’s not my place to do that. I’m allowed to be close to my best friend of like, twenty fucking years.” you reply obstinately, and they both sigh angrily at you.

“But are you really just friends?” comes a thoughtful whisper. And it’s not Lissie’s sharp voice, or Lando’s mocking tone. It’s gentler, lighter, and genuine. It’s got an apologetic melody.

“Morning, ‘Ra.” mumbles Lando, smiling widely as she presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Sorry to intrude, everyone.” grins Clara, sitting firmly down on a seat nearby, clearly unbothered if she actually is an intrusion.

“No, it’s all good. I’m trying to seek some moral support from these two, and they are hopeless. Too much unsolicited advice.” you explain, stuffing your hands aggressively into your pockets.

“If I may?” she asks, but she’s not really asking for permission. She’s asking for you to listen, so you do.

“Like I said, are you really just friends?”

You pause. Not long enough for it to be awkward, or for anyone to shout ‘I told you so’, but just long enough to wrap your head around how to phrase your answer.

“No, I wouldn’t say we’re just friends. He means more to me than that. But it’s the same sort of dependency I have on Lissie. He’s just like, part of my life. He’s part of me. But it’s not-” you begin, but she cuts in with another question.

“Do you love him?”

You don’t need to hesitate on this one. “Of course. I always have.”

Now Lissie decides to interject. “That’s a lie. You found him properly annoying, until about five. You despised him, truly. ‘We are only friends because we have to be.’ You said it, so loudly, so confidently, that we all believed you. He didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Walking to school was painful.”

You laugh quietly, remembering the reprimanding you had received for being so mean.

“Yeah, and then I drew him a card to say sorry, and we were fine after that.” you finish, and the whole table smiles at the story.

“I’ve got this one!” calls Lando, winking at Clara slowly. “Are you IN love with him?”

You knew this was coming. It was obvious. Obvious enough that even Lando knew what to ask. So you use the same prepared answer you have stored in the back of your mind.

“No. No, I’m not. And before you say anything, yeah, I used to be. A long time ago. But genuinely, I’m not anymore. Which is why it's so infuriating that I can’t just go to his races. Or hang out with him. Without being hounded with accusations and speculation. It makes me want to leave him alone, even though that's not his fault, and I can’t let them win. I can’t let them take him away.” ‘again,’ you add mentally. But you just watch the sullen expressions stretch across their faces.

Clara speaks first, which you didn't expect.

“Does he know? Like, did you ever tell him? Maybe you should. Just, I don’t know, mention it one time? Tell him that you’re over it now, but it’s hard, with the media and all. He’s understanding. Maybe you can work something out?” she says optimistically, and you just smile hopefully back at her.

Lissie beams at you both. “That’s a good idea. You seemed confident in that, ‘No.’ So, you should be fine. I’m glad you’ve figured it out. Anyway, I’m gonna head out.”

Lando pauses. “I’ll meet you in a minute Clara, kay? I have some, uh, fashion questions.” he mutters, and Clara dutifully leaves, trailing behind Lissie.

He turns to face you, a strange expression on his face.

“You’re lying. You are. I can see it.” he accuses, but you don’t even flinch.

“Norris, stay in your lane. I came for sympathy, and your girlfriend provided much better advice than you ever have. I told the truth.” you reply back calmly, but your words are aggressive.

“You can’t convince me this is like, fucking, casual? Do you see the way you look at each other? This is nonsense, seriously. So stop being a coward, and at least admit it to me that you’re still in love with him. Because you’re lying to us all, and we can’t help you.” he whispers bitterly, and you try not to blink.

“You can’t help me anyway. It pisses me off that we can’t just be friends. But I’d rather it be like this, and that’s how it ends, than I push him away because I can't handle some instagram posts.” you fire back, trying to tell him so much with so few words.

“For fucks sake!” he recoils, exasperated. “You’re both truly idiots. Why haven’t you just considered, asking him out? It’s not unrequited, come on. It’s obvious.”

You never had a short temper. You were cool, and calm, things that rubbed off from the Australian. He’d withered his way into your very own personality. But he wasn’t here now, even in your head. All you saw was some privileged prick, asking you questions you’d been asking yourself for over ten years.

“You’re the only fucking idiot here. I told you, I’m over it. It’s done. I don’t want that with him, not like that, not anymore. Look at what’s real, what’s here, not what you want to see. It’s not going to happen.” you whisper-scream, all too aware of the other people in the cafe.

“You won’t even try?” he asks, seriously now.

“I did. I told him. That last night. And he left anyway. Because it was never going to be enough. I can’t go back there, can’t think of it like, ‘oh, if he knew. Oh, if I told him.’ Because I did. And like I said, this works, now. And I’d rather we spend less time together, because of some idiots on the internet, than because me loving him wasn’t enough again. Because he has other commitments. Whatever, I don’t know.” you mumble, truly quiet now. Pensive. Painful.

You feel him touch your arm. It’s alien, and weird. And you’d rather he just jokingly punched you instead, like usual. ‘You’re such a sap, mate.’ But this weird attempt at comfort made it so much worse, and so much realer.

“I’m sorry.” he says genuinely, but something isn’t right. There’s a level of determination on his face, a drive for success in his eyes, and it's something you’ve only seen before sessions.

“Lando, please drop it. I don’t want-” you begin, but he just smirks at you gleefully, and you hate how visibly the cogs are turning in his head.

“Goodbye.” he sings, and you watch him excitedly sling his arm around Clara as soon as he makes it through the door, whispering something in her ear.

***

You throw yourself into your work for the next week. It’s relentless, and exhausting, but a good distraction. You spend as little time at Oscar’s as possible, even occasionally falling asleep amongst piles of fabric and scraps. On the nights you do huddle in his guest bed, trying not to think of him down the corridor, he seems to tread extra carefully around you. Like he recognises your change in behaviour, but doesn't want to talk about it.

You’re being absent because of Lando, because you think he’s up to something. That’s at least what you tell yourself.

It’s definitely not because you’re overthinking all of it.

Your phone blinds you slightly, as you check the time. 02:33. ‘Brilliant,’, you think, knowing the exhaustion will truly settle in soon. But you just can’t sleep. It’s hot, and your brain is whirring faster than those stupid cars that haunt your life.

Begrudgingly you get up, and blunder your way to his kitchenette, cursing as you accidentally slam a cupboard door way too loudly. He emerges instantaneously, and guilt floods your face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just thirsty.” you whisper, nodding to the glass in your hand. You can’t really see him, because the cooker hood’s light is so dim, but you hear him yawn.

“Don’t worry. I can’t sleep either, to be honest. I was just checking you’re okay.” he mumbles, and he steps towards you so you can see him.

He’s wearing odd socks and strange green shorts, which don’t go at all with the oversized top he’s wearing with an odd depiction of a croissant on it.

“Hi. Nice outfit.” you giggle, and he looks at himself, like he’d forgotten what he was wearing.

“You weren't meant to see me like this.” he groans dramatically. “Hi.”

You shrug, unsure of what else to do. “I’ve seen you a lot worse.”

That’s true, you have. You’d seen him with chickenpox, chasing you around on grassy fields as you ran for your life. You’d seen him with tear-strickened eyes after falling surprisingly hard off his bike. Mud, all over his face, as you tried to build a ‘bug hotel.’ When he’d got food poisoning at a sleepover one night, and you had to look after him. When he’d been the donkey in the school nativity. The list was somewhat endless.

He smiles at you, like he’s read your mind. “Very true.”

Silence hangs around you. You loved your silence- it was special. A silence that only worked in the peace you created together. The understanding, the thoughts you shared without saying a word. You always knew what he was thinking, and vice versa.

But this silence was different. You couldn’t hear him, hear him thinking. It was like a barrier had been put up, and you couldn’t see through it.

‘Can you hear me, Osc?’

‘Ask me, this time. Ask me what's wrong. Don’t assume it will work itself out.’

‘Ask me where I’ve been. Tell me what you think about me. Tell me what Lando did.’

“So, how’s the collection going?” he asks hesitantly, like you’re a colleague.

You purse your lips, and wonder what the actual fuck is going on.

“I’m almost done. Been working tirelessly, you know. That’s why I haven’t been around.” you reply honestly, chewing on your lip anxiously.

“Huh. Nice. I’m so proud of you, truly.” he responds awkwardly, like he has more to say, so you let him. You just stare expectantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired, you know? Like you are, I’m sure.” you mumble weakly, watching water fill your glass. You watch it reach the top, and then shimmy around the counter, back to your door.

“Goodnight, Oscar.” you whisper, slipping inside. But you linger, for a second, and that’s all he needs.

“Um, sorry, but like, can you come back?” he calls, and you turn around, placing down your glass and walking towards him.

He looks confused, and somewhat upset, and you want to laugh and joke and tell him to go to bed because it's fine, but you can’t. Because some indescribable emotion is drowning you, and you don’t know what to do. You feel suffocated, like you just want to hide from him, and also like you’re going to be sick. You’ve never wanted to run from him before, ever. You’ve only ever craved his tight hugs, and his soothing slow breaths.

“What is it, Piastri?” you whisper, your throat drying. He strides towards you, studying your paling face.

“Did I do something? What’s going on?” he asks firmly, searching your eyes for an answer but letting his gaze linger on your slightly shaky hands.

“No, you didn’t do anything.” you mutter, and you’re telling the truth. But you want to scream at him, shout until your throat burns. You want him to leave you alone, like before. You don’t want to see his stupid beautiful annoying mole-covered face ever again.

He exhales, relieved, and hugs you tightly, crushing you a bit.

“Good. I missed you.” he murmurs into your hair, and you shiver.

“It was a week.” you reply into his shoulder, but he just chuckles quietly.

“Yeah, but it's been a while since I haven’t seen you in a week. You’ve been so, like, constant recently. In the best way.” he stumbles over his words, but you get the point.

And you give yourself one more breath in his arms before you hurriedly pull away.

“Mhm. About that. I don’t think I can be around so much anymore. It’s just exhausting.” you stammer, and he looks bewildered.

“So I did do something. Come on, you can be honest.” he says, clearly exasperated at the back and forth.

“No,” you reply quickly. “It’s just, like the media side of it all. I make clothes. I’m not meant to be all on camera. And I want to be there for you, and spend as much time as possible with you, but I just can’t because of everything that comes with it. You can understand that, right?” you ask, and he nods.

“Of course I can. But, please don't push me away because of some instagram posts. Don’t disappear on me, we can make it work, yeah?” he responds, and you smile, although your heart is breaking a little bit.

Because that's exactly what you said to Lando, and here you are, letting it happen

And you know something Oscar doesn’t- you still meant what you said then. You weren’t pushing him away because of the media. You were pushing him away because if someone asked you now, if you were in love with him, that ‘no’ would be much shakier.

***

A month later

yourusername

yourusername hi everyone! Long time no see. Studio finally done, ive moved in and everything! Working on a lot recently, and im almost there. So excited to share my clothes with you guys- because im launching eightynine!! More info to come, love you

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user89 wait ive been waiting for this one hello

user12 oh my god. Oh my god oh my god

user8 so does this mean we can like, buy her designs?? Yay

user76 call me crazy but oscars number is 81 and her lucky number is 8…

↳ user36 wait ur onto something..

↳ user59 blind leading the blind

user42 why havent we seen you at a race in a while? Are you still friends with oscar?

↳ yourusername ofc, still friends with the mclaren boys, just busy

↳user21 oh my god ynosc divorce is confirmed im gonna sob

claranelson cannot wait to wear everything

↳ yourusername ur my top model

lissiematthews so proud of you, always. Love you

↳ yourusername best friend and sister we interlinked

landonorris can i model too

↳ yourusername umm maybe?? (not)

oscarpiastri well done.

↳ yourusername thank you,osc

↳ user42 user21, maybe theyre fine?

You smile slightly as you switch your phone off, and hate yourself for it. It had actually been quite nice, to get away from it all for a bit. You’d seen Lando for some more outfit stuff, but he hadn’t said anything about Oscar. Maybe it was because he realised you actually were keeping a distance. At first, it was awful. Horrific. Then slowly it got better, and you stopped seeing him every time you blinked.

And you realised it was indefinitely easier to have space, and breathing room, than to hide feelings and curse social media. There was nothing to question, nothing to confront. Just you, and drawings, and fabric. The true definition of home for you.

That’s when the door swings open, and you immediately become irritable.

“Hello, Lando. Unless Clara’s with you, why are you here?” you ask coldly, and he rolls his eyes.

“I knew you’d like her more than me!” he pouts, and you scowl.

“Not hard, is it?” you fire back, and he laughs sharply.

“Ouch. Anyway, glad you’re talking to Oscar again. He was getting mopey.” he coos, and you wave him away.

“Please don’t. You’ll give me a headache.” you bark, and he blinks, slightly surprised.

“Why’d you say yes if you don’t want to see him?” he asks, quietly. It’s serious, and you don’t like it.

“I do want to see him. I’ve been busy.” you reply back quickly.

“I’m sick of your bullshit. Look, Oscar means a lot to me. You’re messing with his head. And you're messing with mine. And clearly, your own. He came to me, fuckin’ like, distraught. Saying he felt so guilty, that you were so impacted by all the rumours and shit, and that you had to leave him alone. And I had to sit there and tell him you’d come around, and you’d work it out. That he should follow his gut. And he just looked like someone had died the whole time.” he explains quickly, and you pause awkwardly.

“Well, I did need space. It wasn’t his fault.” you respond, shrugging.

“What happens next time? When you get that close again, and then you get scared. Scared to admit you’re not over it? Scared of being rejected? Scared of finding out that maybe it’s fucking one sided? You’re both scared. You’re gonna keep hurting each other if you do this. So either cancel, or confess.” he stated loudly, his tone unnecessarily harsh.

“Lando, you keep overstepping. You need to get the fuck out of my business. I’m not a teenager anymore. I can deal with this. I did what I needed to do.”

“Here! Exactly that. Defensive shit. Because you love him just as much now as you did WHEN you were a teenager. Please, just say it.” he pleads, but you stare at him adamantly.

“You asked him, didn’t you? You asked him the same thing. And he said no, too. And you’re clinging to delusions and preying on vulnerability to make whatever the fuck you’ve got in your head a reality. We had our chance. We had our entire childhood. I told him, and maybe it was too late, but he left anyway. Why reopen that wound? It helps neither of us.” You respond aggressively, but he shakes his head.

“You said no, and you were lying. He’s doing the same.” rambled Lando, and you want him to just fall through a menacing crack in the floor.

“You’re a dickhead, you know that? He said no, ‘cause he doesn't love me. He never did. Not in the way I did. He said it back, in the same way he said it to his sisters. I heard it, I knew it. It was a rejection, and it was a kind one. And that’s all I needed- a rejection. I’m not going through that again for feelings I’m not even sure are there.” you admit, letting your words hang in the air.

Lando sighs. “He didn’t know.”

“What?”

“I asked him, if you two were ever together. A long time ago. He said no, that you’d never even entertained the notion. And once you told me about that night, at the airport, I asked about it. Like, in general. If he regretted anything. He said he would’ve liked to tell you something, but that he chickened out. He thought it would be best to leave it unspoken, leave it as a ‘what if?’” he explains.

“I don’t understa-”

“He thought you were letting him go. Saying goodbye. He didn’t know.”

***

Oscar was punctual. Not late, not early. On time. So as you accidentally arrive at your aforementioned dinner way earlier than you were meant to, you’re surprised to see Piastri sitting there already.

“You look nice.” you say thoughtfully, sitting down opposite him, and he smiles ruefully.

“Thanks.” he replies, scanning the menu.

“So, race weekend. Are you excited?” you ask awkwardly, like it’s not a stupid question. It’s like you’re on a pathetic first date, not someone you used to sit next to in Chemistry.

“Of course. Are you, coming, maybe?” he questions hopefully, and you purse your lips.

“Um, I don’t know. Probably not, with the launch soon. I’m sorry, if Lando was a dick to you, or something.” you mumble, and he grins appreciatively.

“No, he was fine. Just worried. I don’t think anyone other than Lissie has ever seen us argue- it’s not a common occurrence.” he jokes, but it’s sad.

“Hey, we didn't argue. I’m sorry, how abrupt I was. I was just overwhelmed.” you respond, but he just nods.

There’s silence again, and it's that offputting kind, that you’ve never really associated with him.

“This is so weird. What happened to us?” he asks quietly, and it’s so genuine and so full of hurt that you want to cry.

“We stopped being kids a while back, if that's what you mean.”

“You were living with me two months ago. And now we’re sitting here pretending we have things to talk about, like we don’t know everything about each other.” he mumbles, and you don’t know what to do, because he's right. And you feel like it's your fault.

“Nah, you don’t know everything.” you reply snarkily, and he looks up.

“I don’t? Everything from before I left, surely?” he suggests, but you shake your head.

“Nope, not quite. Do you remember my first ever sketchbook?” you mutter, trying to ignore the anxiousness in your chest.

“Yep, pink. Of course! You guarded that with your life.” he laughs, and you watch carefully as his cheeks flush.

“It was because you were in it. Sketches of you, of us, all over. Pages and pages of it. And when Lissie saw, she called me by your last name for weeks. So much, I used to scribble it down near the drawings, to see if I liked it. And she explained we’d have to be married, and I didn't understand that, so I just went with it.” you confess quietly, watching him try to suppress an evident smile.

“Well, what if I told you I had the exact same thing? Do you remember when my cousin came from Australia? The old one, with his girlfriend? He said he was going to marry her, and I asked him what that meant. And he said it was just making sure the person you loved the most was stuck with you, forever, basically. So I marched around declaring I’d marry you so we’d be friends forever.” he responds, his voice breaking slightly, and it's your turn to try not to laugh.

“Wow, we were hopeless.”

“We were.”

Then the silence is back, and it's warm, and familiar, and you feel that gravitational pull back into Oscar Piastri again. And for some reason, that emboldens you. Just enough to say something small. A few, insignificant words, that weren’t insignificant at all.

“You never said anything.”

“We were what, six? Of course I didn’t. I didn’t understand it.”

“Was that it, though? Did it really go away, just like that?”

“No. Did it go away for you?”

“No, but you knew that.”

You wait for another quick response, wait for him to prove Lando wrong. But his slow blinking, his confusion, makes your heart soar and your stomach churn.

“I didn’t know that. How was I meant to know that?”

“I told you, I said I love you. What else did you want me to say?” you ask, your heartbeat accelerating.

“Oh come on, that's not fair. You used to say, ‘thanks, love you’ practically every day. I bought you a croissant once, and you acted like I’d just proposed. I couldn’t ever tell what you felt about me, ever. I just assumed you said ‘I love you’, like because you did. Like family. We were that close.”

“Right, so shaky hands and tears in my eyes was no accurate indication. You’re an idiot.”

“Oh. Then. I am. That is fair, although, when I said it back, you just reminded me that I had to go.”

“Yeah, because YOU said it back so normally. I practically felt you shrug while you said it. I could hear the reflexiveness of the response, genuinely.” you mumble, and he laughs.

“That also makes you an idiot.”

***

Lando never leaves you on read. He always made an effort to not do that, because he hated being left on read himself. So watching him ignore a message he definitely should not have ignored is concerning.

You’re not concerned for very long though, because suddenly a cluster of limbs and pink hair crash into your studio, disturbing your calculated mess.

Lissie and Clara babble over eachother, flinging themselves at you, with a flurry of words that seem to be ‘congratulations’ and ‘condolences’ simultaneously.

“Guys, please relax. Me being in love with Oscar is not a new concept.” you joke, but you’re obviously overwhelmed. And it’s scary, admitting something you’ve been hiding for so long. Fighting for so long. But you were tired, and you were beat. And before you realised, you were crying. Just a little bit.

‘We were hopeless.’

You were. And you realised what you’d felt in that silence, every time. That warmth, that comfort, it was love. It was you both saying how much you loved eachother, because you couldn’t actually make a sound about it. And you really did feel like a fucking idiot. A true, silly, hopeless, idiot, teenager

But you didn’t have to be that again, did you?

You feel hugs and ‘it’s okay, let it out’ whispers, and you let yourself have this moment of vulnerability. You let yourself mourn what could’ve been, and you hoped he was doing the same.

“So, let’s talk about this, yeah? What do you want to do?” asks Lissie, and Clara nods enthusiastically. And you think about Lando and wonder how on earth he’s managed to make her fall in love with him. So you look at them both, and pause.

“What would you do?”

The question is heavy, and serious, and you watch them stiffen.

“I would go for it,” and “I’d let him go,” are their simultaneous answers, and you groan.

“Great, thanks. Super helpful.”

Lissie speaks first. “Look, I watched you go through this before. I know how deep this runs. It’s in your very nature. If you don’t do this, you’ll regret it. More than you already do.” she warns, and you know she’s right.

“You could get over it. For real this time, if you tried. It’s clearly taken so much from you already, and maybe if it was meant to be, it would’ve been by now. If you just left, focused on your clothes and stuff, idk. You’ll let yourself love someone else, and it will be okay,” advises Clara, and you pause at her words. Because somehow, she’s right too.

And you’re so torn, you don’t know what to do. Because you’re so disgustingly horribly obsessed with Oscar Piastri, and you have been for over a decade. You could conjure him perfectly in your mind, every freckle in place. Imagine his voice, his smell, immediately. Your heart almost explodes when you think too hard about him.

Your phone dings, a loud, ugly noise, and you sigh, assuming a range of messages from Lando.

You pack up your stuff, gesturing wildly to the girls beside you. “I’m going to see him, like now.” you reveal, biting your lip again.

“So, what are you going to do then? What are you going to tell him?” Clara asks carefully, and you smile. It’s small, and subtle, but it’s there. The only sign she needed to know you made the right choice, whatever that choice was.

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”

***

You arrive, slightly flushed, at his door, and he opens before you can knock.

“You came!” He announces, like he’s surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Obviously. What did you want to talk about?” You ask, even though you both know the answer.

“We made it a joke earlier, but is it? Is it a joke?” He replies sullenly, and you shake your head.

“No, it’s not a joke to me. I was like, head over heels, insanely in love with you. And I just don’t know how to cope with the idea of what we lost without even knowing we were losing it.” You admit honestly, and he sighs.

“You’re right. I feel the same way. And this might sound pathetic but I want to make up for it. I mean, it can’t feel much different to how we already are, sur-“ and you laugh. A horrible explosive outburst of giggles.

His face collapses, like you’ve just ripped out his heart and jumped on it.

“-I’m sorry, obviously that was back then. If you’re over it now, or whatever else, or the media and so on, that’s totally fine.” He mumbles sadly, clearly reeling from your cackles.

“Oh, Oscar, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, ridiculous. After all this. You’re not pathetic, not now. You were back then. So was I.”

“We were scared.”

“We didn’t have to be.” You mutter, and he smiles knowingly.

“No, we didn’t have to be. But we were.” He steps towards you, slowly, bringing his hands gently to your face.

He pauses, then says, “Look, you were my best friend. Still are.”

“I was scared to touch your face, in case you flinched.” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your eyes. “I could barely even hold eye contact sometimes. You’d look at me like I was saving you from drowning, when I was actually the one drowning. I used to forget how to breathe when you’d pull my blazer collar down. When our knees brushed in the car. When you’d press your arms against mine and scribble down numbers. I was so scared of you.”

You can feel him breathing on you now, as you study each other’s faces, daring the other person to find something new, something they haven’t seen before. But that’s an impossible task, because you know every mole, and he knows every smile line. You know exactly what his teeth look like, and he can imagine the small scar on your forehead even though he can’t see it.

And there it is again. That silence that screams words louder than your voice ever could. You can hear it in the silence. You are in love, it says. He is in love.

“Are you scared now?” You ask tentatively, and he grins.

“No.”

And that’s when it all comes crashing down, and you throw away any doubt you had about soulmates, because yours is right here. And he’s kissing you so gently, his lips so soft against yours, that you can’t help but sigh. It’s alien and familiar at the same time and you wrap your arms around him subconsciously, carefully playing with the back of his hair.

His cheeks are flushed when you both breathe, and you press your forehead against his.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Are you my girlfriend now?”

“That’s a rubbish way to ask. But yeah, I am.”

He beams, like he’s finally found something precious that he had spent eternity looking for.

“Okay. Nice. Cool. Okay.”

“Are you freaking out a bit right now, baby?” You tease, and he laughs.

“Yeah, a bit. Can you tell?”

“I can. Now, are you going to tell Lando or should I?”

***

yourusername

yourusername hi everyoneee! sorry, it’s been a while again. Anyway. Here’s some news! Took us a while to announce this, because we wanted some time to ourselves, but I’m sure this isn’t a massive surprise to anyone. oscarpiastri

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user46 DONT PLAY RN

user12 wowwow

user23 i KNEW IT

↳ user46 we all knew it??

landonorris lame Oscars post was better

↳ yourusername only saying that cause ur in it bruh

claranelson yay, so so happy for you

lissiematthews oscarpiastri adoptive brother to actual brother soon?

↳ yourusername bit early for that maybe

↳ oscarpiastri is it really too early?

You switch off your phone, and flip it over to admire the new Polaroid hidden in your phonecase. Identical to the other, truly, but older and newer at the same time. The love in your eyes is the same, but your face is matured, and the frame cleaner.

And you open your sketchbook and you doodle it, lingering on his features that you could draw blind.

[merabposts]

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆ keep it in your pants — 𝐋𝐍𝟒 𖤓

( 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗑 𝗉𝗂𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ）

（ 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒 ）𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

🝮

yn

liked by pierregasly and 1,571,302 others

yn i scream you scream we all scream 4 ice cream

lando you’re so pretty

⤷ yn omg stop or else i’ll have to kiss you 🙂‍↕️

⤷ lando WOW YOURE SO PRETTY OH MY GOSH YOU TOOK MY BREATH AWAY YOURE SO PRETTY BARK BARK BARK PLEASE TOUCH ME

⤷ yn uh…i have to ask my mom first 😥

⤷ yn she said i’m not allowed to kiss until i get married so…

⤷ nicolepiastri No I didn’t?

⤷ yn mommmmmuuuhhhhhhh

⤷ lando oh i’ll marry you 😈👅👅👅👅 come to my room and touch me pleath 🙏🏽

⤷ oscarpiastri Lando, please stop being gross to my little sister online please.

⤷ lando soz i just can’t help myself

kikagomes so hot 😘😍😍

alex_albon Still kinda surprised that you and Oscar are siblings

⤷ oscarpiastri Why?

⤷ alex_albon cause she’s so cool and pretty and funny and outgoing and your so…Oscar

⤷ oscarpiastri Wow am I blushing? 😐

charles_leclerc i think lando almost came in his pants watching you eat that ice cream

⤷ lando was it that obvious?

⤷ charles_leclerc mate there was a wet spot

⤷ yn guys…

lando you make me feel erotic

⤷ charles_leclerc you mean erratic dumbass?

⤷ lando no i mean erotic dip shit

⤷ charles_leclerc oh…

sharls_lerklerk ik mclarens pr team hates to see lando in her comment section 😭

⤷ mclaren You aren’t wrong…

🝮

yn

liked by maddieziegler and 1,790,125 others

yn life is so good i ate some cum guzzling pasta, lando gave me the prettiest flowers, and now i’m gonna go home and get my shit rocked 🤪🤪👌

lando Fuck yeah

georgerussell63 Honestly real

⤷ yn ???

alexandrasaintmleux Ate some what?? 😟

⤷ yn whoever made that pasta deserves the most jaw dropping toe clenching sloppiest head ever

⤷ alexandrasaintmleux 😨

⤷ lando i actually made the pasta sooo…

⤷ yn it wasn’t even that good fr

lando you look so yummy i can’t wait to slurp you up 🥰🥰😍😍😍😍😍🥰

lando ik our neighbors hate us but i can’t help it

⤷ charles_leclerc your whole apartment building probably hates you guys

landossluttywaist i like how she kinda just embraces landos freakiness, it’s very inspiring

⤷ yn yeah he still shocks me sometimes with the things he says but i’m pretty used to it now 🤙

lando you’re gonna be guzzling my cum tonight 😈👅👅👅

⤷ carlossainz55 It gets to a point…

🝮

lando

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and 1,783,202 others

lando new york, new york

yn hellooooo new york 🐮

oscarpiastri You better be keeping an eye on my sister

⤷ lando i am trust

⤷ charles_leclerc So we’re not gonna tell him that we lost her in time square?

⤷ lando you cunt it was your fault

⤷ charles_leclerc NO IT WASNT YOU LITERALLY WALKED AWAY WITHOUT US

⤷ lando I TOLD YOU I WAS GOING TO GET ALL OF US BOBA FAWK

⤷ oscarpiastri You lost my sister in New York?

⤷ lando well we also lost alex so she wasn’t completely alone yk?

⤷ oscarpiastri Lando…

⤷ lando we found them like 10 minutes later though so let’s look on the bright side 😊😊

⤷ oscarpiastri I’m to tired to deal with this right now

alex_albon The big apple 🍎

⤷ lando the city that never sleeps @yn 👅👅😈

⤷ yn blocked

⤷ lando WOWWW OKAY just gonna act like you didn’t eat krispy kreme donuts off it last night?????

⤷ lando SHE ACTUALLY BLOCKED ME WTF

⤷ charles_leclerc HAHAHAHAHA

⤷ lando from cream pie to no reply 😔

⤷ lando from swallowing to unfollowing 💔

⤷ lando from giving me head to leaving me on read 🥀

⤷ lando how does she so easily go from licking my balls to ignoring my calls 💔

⤷ oscarpiastri Mate 😔

⤷ lando she’s locked me out of the room now…

⤷ charles_leclerc HAHAHAHA

⤷ lando i’m coming to your room

⤷ charles_leclerc do not come to my room

🝮

yn

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yn i unblocked him 🙄

lando acting like i made you unblock me jeez

⤷ yn you literally grabbed my phone from my hands and ran into the elevator

⤷ lando a guys gotta do what a guys gotta do 🤷‍♂️

lando bod goals perioddddd now come grind on me baby

⤷ yn how about you grind on me

⤷ lando fuck yeah i’ll turn into a stripper for you

⤷ yn i was joking

⤷ lando i wasn’t come here let me give you a lap dance

⤷ yn no i’m not gonna let you rub your manhood in my face

⤷ lando you let me last night💀

⤷ yn he’s joking guys

⤷ lando i got video proof guys

⤷ charles_leclerc eewwww lando cmon man

⤷ oscarpiastri We know you guys do it but we don’t wanna wake up one day and see my little sister and best friends sex tape all over the internet

⤷ lando awww you consider me your best friend? 🥹🥹🥹

⤷ oscarpiastri Not the point Lando, keep your guys’ sex tape off of the internet. No one wants to see that.

⤷ francolapinto yeah guys…we definitely don’t want that…but if it were to be leaked i wouldn’t mind yk…

⤷ pierregasly Awhh happy pride month Franco!!! ALLY 4LYFE!!!! ❤️🧡💛💚💙🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

⤷ francolapinto Excuse me?

⤷ lando we all know you want a piece of this ass but it’s all for my baby love sorry

⤷ yn franco can have that ass dafuq just make sure to use protection okay?

⤷ francolapinto YIPEEE

⤷ lando did you just pimp me out?

⤷ yn yes i cannot go another round lando i’m gonna need an iv soon

⤷ lando noooo i’d rather you peg me than franco ☹️

⤷ yn okay come to bed 😛

⤷ lando IM COMING RN OMGOMGOMGOGMG

⤷ oscarpiastri GUYS PLEASE I CANNOT TAKE THIS ALL THIS FREAKINESS ANYMORE

⤷ yn i was just yanking your chain jeeezzzz i’m not actually gonna do that to lando

⤷ lando damn…guess i better cancel my fucking doordash order from spencers 😒 thanks a lot oscar

🝮

yn

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yn i love my freaky boy

francolapinto i love him too

⤷ yn not now franco 🙄

estiebestie we know she’s just as freaked out as he is she’s just better at hiding it 😭😭

⤷ hoeforsainzzz yeah let’s not forget about that screenshot of their messages lando accidentally posted on his story last year 😭💀

⤷ yn let’s not talk about that guys 😔 my mysterious look was broken that day

⤷ alex_albon Trust we know she’s just as freaky as he is her name in lando’s phone is “deep throat goat ❤️”

⤷ yn ALRIGHT CAN WE GO BACK TO TALKING ABOUT HOW FREAKY LANDO IS FAWK

lando oh you love me soo baddd wow lets go back to the room and show each other how much we love eachother ❤️

lando let’s explore each others bodies ❤️

⤷ yn i’ve explored your body plenty of times i’m good for right now

⤷ lando oh so i don’t pleasure you enough and you hate me and think i’m ugly and want me to jump off a bridge?

⤷ yn i mean if you’re offering

⤷ lando i was just joking baby love come back to the room and let me apologize 👅👅💐

⤷ kikagomes is he bothering you queen?

⤷ yn yes come rescue me 💋💋💋

⤷ lando i’m not above baby trapping you, i will if needed

⤷ osarpiastri When is that ever needed?

⤷ lando when someone else has my girls attention dafuq

⤷ olliebearmen oh lando don’t play about herrr

francolapinto why can’t we all just kiss? just for fun you know? so in a few years we can be like omg remember that time we all kissed hahaha

⤷ yn so there’s this river…

[merabposts]

Every time Oscar gets edited to lacy I grin and cry at the same time I need to write part two

Anyway this is so sad