adoristsposts

[adoristsposts]

for the record, luke had absolutely no intention of falling for his best friend. he’s a firm believer in the notion that two members of the opposite sex can, in fact, be friends without ulterior motives, thank you very much, jack, and he’ll be damned before he becomes another cliche.

and then, he notices the signs.

FIVE SIGNS THAT YOU’RE FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND !

I. You Listen To Their Every Word

II. You Search For Them In Every Room

III. You Can't Stop Talking About Them

IV. Your Heart Does That Thing

V. You Aren't The Only One Who Sees It

and, VI. You Confess.

back to the masterlist…

OR a best friend!luke series, because i am nothing if not a sucker for the friends to lovers trope, and it screams luke to me in ways you will never understand. he’s just such a loverboy and yearner to me i’m sorry! i’m super excited for this one, as it’s doing wonders to get me back in the swing of writing, and so i hope you love it just as much as i do !!

more than happy to indulge in any and all thoughts about this series - inbox is always open !

[adoristsposts]

You Belong With Me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

Author's Note: Buckle up for 8.6k of pining and angst.💔

8.6k words / Part 1 / Masterlist

He notices you before he knows your name.

It’s a week before the start of the season and he’s already annoyed, the press commitments are piling up, the weather’s unpredictable, and his entire apartment smells faintly like engine oil because someone thought it was a good idea to drop off a suit bag soaked in the stuff.

He doesn’t want to be at the party. He shows up out of obligation, because Red Bull asked and because saying no would mean a series of passive-aggressive texts and PR headaches he doesn't have the bandwidth for right now. It’s the usual kind of thing, sleek rooftop venue, too many influencers, too few genuine smiles. He’s already decided he’s going to stay for exactly one drink, nod at the right people, dodge any cameras, and ghost before someone tries to rope him into a TikTok.

But then he sees you.

Not across the room in some cinematic, slow-motion way. No, you’re closer than that. Just a few steps away, standing on the balcony with one arm resting along the railing, backlit by soft golden light, laughing at something someone said, your hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Your dress catches the breeze, and your hair’s a little messy in the most effortless kind of way. You look like summer feels, warm, untouchable, a little wild around the edges.

And Max stops walking.

Just… stops.

He doesn’t believe in that moment-freezing cliché. He’s not the poetic type. Never has been. But for a second the noise of the party dims, the chatter and music and clinking glasses fading into a kind of distant blur. It's not love at first sight, he doesn’t believe in that either but it is something. A shift. A pull in his chest that feels annoyingly real.

He finds himself staring before he even realises he’s doing it.

Not in a creepy way, at least he hopes not, but with the kind of confusion you get when you see something familiar in a stranger. He doesn’t know you. Hasn’t seen you before, but for some reason he wants to.

Really wants to.

Not because you're beautiful, though you are. It’s something else. He watches you lean in closer to your friend to whisper something, and your smile twists into something conspiratorial. Max swallows, blinking like he’s trying to reset himself.

He doesn’t approach you. Not yet, but for the first time that evening, he forgets about the press, the weather, the oil-stained suit. For the first time in a while he wants to stay.

Because you’re here. And somehow, that changes everything.

He finds himself back near the balcony ten minutes later and it’s definitely not accidental.

He’ll pretend it is if anyone asks. Pretend he just needed a breath of air, or a quieter place to check his messages, but the truth is his feet carried him here on their own. Something about you pulled him in like gravity.

You’re alone now, scrolling through your phone, glass nearly empty. He hesitates just a second, a rare pause for someone so decisive, then clears his throat gently.

“Didn’t think anyone actually came out here for the quiet.” he says, his voice smooth but a little dry, like he’s halfway between a joke and a real observation.

Your head turns at the sound of his voice. You meet his eyes, no flinch, no flicker of recognition, or maybe you do recognise him and you just don’t care.

“Just needed some air,” you reply, gesturing slightly toward the party behind you. “Those rooms start to hum after ten minutes. Felt like my brain was short-circuiting.”

He huffs a laugh and steps closer, just enough to lean on the railing beside you. He keeps his body language easy, casual. Like he’s not trying. Like he’s not thinking about this too much.

“Max,” he offers.

You glance over at him, amused. “Yeah, I know.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, more to himself than anything. “Right. Guess that was dumb.”

“I’m just messing with you,” you say, and God your smile is even better up close. “Nice to meet you Max.”

He watches you sip from your glass, eyes flicking over your features, your mouth, your fingers, the way you keep playing with your bracelet like you don’t even realise you’re doing it. You don’t seem like you’re trying to impress anyone and it’s driving him crazy in the best way.

“You here with someone?” he asks casually.

You nod, but you don’t elaborate.

There’s a beat of silence. You turn to him slightly, your eyes curious. “So... is this your thing? Lurking on balconies, trying to charm strangers?”

“Only the ones who look like they want to leave,” he shoots back, without missing a beat.

You laugh not a fake little chuckle, but a real one. It knocks something loose in his chest.

The rest of the night moves quickly after that.

You end up on a couch somewhere near the bar talking. You both bond over how awkward these events are, how no one ever really knows what to do with their hands during posed photos, how champagne always tastes better in theory than in reality. You both end up swapping stories about the worst flights you’ve taken. Your favourite drivers growing up (and no, he’s not offended he isn’t on your list).

He clutches his chest in mock betrayal. “I’m wounded.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, and you say it with that same sly smile that’s already starting to etch it’s way into his brain.

You like the same takeout spots in Monaco. You both hate olives. Neither of you remembers the last time you properly unpacked a suitcase

He hadn’t expected to laugh this much, you’re funny, sharp, witty, with that kind of dry sarcasm that’s hard to find. You tease him, and he gives it right back. Somehow the conversation twists to childhood stories, to family stuff, the weird in-between space of growing up too fast and never quite knowing if you got it right.

Then you lean in.

Not dramatically. Not flirtatiously. Just close enough to show him something on your phone a photo of your family dog, something stupid you promise will make him laugh. And it does. But he’s barely paying attention, because now he can smell you, that warm, sweet scent with a little bite underneath. He doesn’t know much about perfume, but it smells like you, and now he’s going to think about it every time he catches it again.

He doesn’t want the night to end. He doesn’t want to go back to the party. Or the press schedule. Or the hotel room that smells like engine oil. He just wants to stay in this sliver of time with you, where everything feels quiet and golden and just a little bit dangerous.

The reveal comes too late.

You’re saying goodbye. He doesn’t want to let you go yet, isn’t ready. Hasn’t even gotten your number. He’s halfway through trying to think of a not-too-obvious way to ask when someone steps in behind you, fitting into the space like they’ve always belonged there, an arm slips around your waist.

Max blinks.

Lando.

“Babe, ready to head out?”

The word babe hits harder than it should, loud and casual and completely unexpected. Max goes very still. The world doesn’t stop, but it blurs a little.

You smile up at Lando like you’ve done it a hundred times before, and Max forces something like a polite expression onto his face.

You glance back at him, there’s something like guilt in your expression, like maybe you’ve just remembered the conversation you had. “Sorry,” you say, almost wincing. “I should’ve mentioned. I bet it seems weird now that I didn’t…”

No, he thinks. You didn’t.

“Right,” Max says, forcing a nod. “Yeah. No worries.”

Lando, oblivious to the tension, gives him a quick grin. “Didn’t know you guys had met.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice neutral. “Yeah, just talked a bit on the balcony.” He pauses then adds, “How’d you two meet?”

Lando nods like that makes sense. “Over the break actually. My sister introduced us.”

Max glances at you then, just for a second, and catches the way your gaze flicks down, like you can’t quite look at him. Or maybe he’s imagining it. Hell, he hopes he’s imagining it.

“She’s great right?” Lando adds, nudging you playfully. “Honestly, don’t know how I pulled it off.”

You roll your eyes, murmuring something under your breath that Max doesn’t catch, but your fingers curl lightly around Lando’s jacket. It’s a small gesture. Familiar. Comfortable.

And suddenly Max feels like an idiot for reading into anything earlier. For thinking you’d smiled at him differently. Like it meant something.

But it felt like something.

Lando slides his hand from your waist to your back, casually possessive in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Anyway, we’re gonna head out before anyone get’s a chance to tell her any embarrassing stories. You good mate?”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost too fast. “All good.”

He smiles. It feels like glass in his mouth

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but there’s nothing you can say that wouldn’t make it worse. Lando says something Max doesn’t catch and then the two of you turn to go, weaving through the crowd like it’s just another night.

He tells himself it’s fine. Just a good conversation. One night. A pretty girl with a quick laugh and a sharp tongue who happens to be taken. Happens to be dating Lando of all people.

It’s not like it was going anywhere anyway.

So he lets it go, or at least, he tries to.

Pushes it down. Brushes it off. Chalks it up to timing, to circumstance, to a moment that wasn’t meant to stretch past a balcony and a glass of wine.

But forgetting you is harder than it should be, because before he can catch his breath, before the memory even has a chance to fade you’re just there.

Everywhere.

Race weekends. Hospitality lounges. Dinners. Media days, even the random downtime between sessions. Always by Lando’s side, but not just as a silent plus-one. You’re involved. Engaged. Bright. Everyone around you lights up when you laugh, and Max starts to notice that he’s seeking it out.

Not on purpose. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but he catches himself doing it, scanning the motorhome crowd, the paddock, the grid. He starts recognising your laugh before he sees you. Starts hearing your voice in the blur of post-session chaos. Starts catching your eyes sometimes across the garages. Just a flicker.

That same wind-in-your-hair kind of energy that first caught him is still there, and it’s impossible to ignore. And then he hates himself a little for it.

Because it shouldn't matter.

Because you’re with someone.

Because that someone is Lando.

And because the more Max tries to shove you out of his head, the more space you seem to take up.

It gets worse after Bahrain.

He’s just won, lights to flag, clean and clinical, the kind of performance that should leave him floating and for a while it does. The podium, the champagne, the roar of the anthem humming in his chest. The adrenaline, the sweat still drying on his skin, the weight of the trophy in his hands. But now walking through the corridors the high is already starting to fade, dulled around the edges like something’s missing.

He’s still got a towel slung around his neck, his race suit unzipped to the waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin. His heart is only just slowing down. He expects silence, maybe a few staff, instead he walks into the private lounge and sees you.

You’re perched at one of the small round tables, legs crossed effortlessly, sipping from a bright-red can of something fizzy. Your sunglasses are pushed up into your hair and you’re still wearing your paddock lanyard, twirling it around your fingers in absentminded loops. Lando is beside you, hands moving fast as he talks a mile a minute and your laughing softly under your breath.

Max stops for half a second in the doorway before forcing himself to keep walking.

You glance up when you hear him, and your entire face lights up. “Congrats.”

Two syllables. One smile. That’s all it takes.

His pulse spikes harder than it did on Lap 42.

He nods, playing it cool. “Thanks.”

Lando claps him on the back. “Man’s a machine right?”

Max shrugs, offering a quick grin. “It’s a team effort.”

“Still,” you say, standing now, brushing a strand of hair from your face, it’s a simple movement, nothing special and for some reason he wants to memorise it. “You make it look easy. It’s pretty incredible.”

He meets your eyes and for a second all the noise around him disappears like it’s come to do when you're around.

“Thanks,” he says again, quieter now.

Your eyes linger on him for a beat longer than necessary before Lando throws an arm around your shoulder. You lean into his side, casual, unthinking like it’s second nature. Max swallows the bitterness that rises in the back of his throat.

He tells himself to walk away. Go shower. Get food. Do anything other than stand here watching you like he’s forgotten how to move, but instead he stays planted, towel still around his neck, pretending it’s all fine.

Pretending he doesn’t already know this season is going to be a whole lot harder than expected, and not for any reason he could have ever seen coming.

You keep ending up alone together. Not by plan, never that, but by chance, the universe tugging invisible strings.

Like in Miami when Lando disappears during a media block, caught up in a last-minute interview, and somehow Max ends up next to you under an umbrella shade, both of you half-melting in the afternoon heat, hiding from the sun.

You talk, about nothing at first, harmless stuff. What you’d cook for your last meal. Which drivers have the worst music taste. How neither of you really understand the appeal of those dystopian Netflix dating shows, but you both keep watching them anyway.

It’s easy. The kind of conversation that doesn’t feel like it’s building to anything, but still feels like something. You don’t ask him about the race or the standings or how the car feels in Sector 2. You ask him what scares him more, flying or falling. You ask him what he was like at fifteen. If he still remembers the first thing he ever wanted to be.

The topics shift easily drifting from deep to dumb in seconds like you’ve both forgotten this is supposed to be a quick conversation.

“What’s your last meal? And don’t say pasta, because I will absolutely judge you.”

He raises a brow. “You’re judging me already.”

“I’m preemptively judging you,” you clarify, eyes dancing.

He plays along. “Fine. My mum’s tomato soup.”

You gasp and coo. “That’s too wholesome. I was expecting something rich and unhinged like a raw steak with gold leaf on it.”

He smirks. “Guess I’m boring.”

“You’re not boring, Max-a-million,” you say, and it slips out like it’s been said a hundred times before.

He groans, but it’s soft. Familiar. “No. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

“Too late,” you grin.

“Falling,” he says, without thinking. Then, “But not physically. Not like… off a building or something.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Emotionally?”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “Yeah. That kind.”

You nod, like you understand more than you should. “Same.”

“What were you like at fifteen?”

He makes a face. “Annoying. Too serious. Too fast.”

You smile. “Still fast.”

He huffs a breath. “Still serious.”

You lean your head back against the chair. “Did you always want this? Like… this this? F1?”

He glances at you, and your expression is so open, so easy, it knocks something loose in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I wanted to be a fighter pilot when I was little.”

Your mouth quirks. “You think you can pull off aviators?”

He laughs so hard he forgets where he is. He forgets about the track, the cameras, the points, the pressure.

Somewhere in the middle of a story you’re telling something about a terrible hostel and a street performer with a kazoo. He just listens. Watches your eyes light up.

You’re not just funny. You’re brilliant. Quick-witted. Curious. Passionate in a way that sneaks up on him.

He can feel himself falling. Inch by inch.

And he knows he’s utterly, completely fucked when you call him Max-a-million again while swatting a mosquito off your leg.

He rolls his eyes like he’s offended. “Please stop saying that.”

You grin. “Can’t. Trademarked.”

It’s a very stupid nickname, some dumb inside joke you now have and he rolls his eyes, pretends to hate it, but secretly? He wants to hear you say it again. Wants it stitched into his life like it’s always belonged there.

Wants you.

But he doesn’t know what to do with that, because you’re his friend now. Lando’s girlfriend. Off-limits in the clearest, cruelest way.

So he just keeps sitting there, letting himself fall, while pretending he’s not already at the bottom.

As the season rolls on, it sneaks up on him in pieces.

You’re just there more often now. Not in any deliberate way, but like gravity keeps pulling you into the same spaces. Hospitality lounges, press paddocks, bar balconies. Somehow, he always ends up next to you.

Every time you see each other it’s like you pick up where you left off a rhythm that neither of you ever have to work at. Like you’ve known each other longer than you actually have.

He notices everything.

The way you hand him a piece of gum before FP1, no words, just a slight smirk as he takes it from your palm. The way you laugh with your whole body, unfiltered and open, and how you always lean into him when you do. The way you say his name not with awe, not with flirtation, but with this low warmth that no one else ever quite uses. “Max,” you say, softer, rounder, and every time he hears it, something in his chest tightens.

And the handshake. That dumb little handshake you made up after Imola three taps, a pinky twist, and a snap. He tried to protest it at first. Called it stupid. But now he’s the one who holds his hand out for it when you part ways in the paddock. He never forgets.

It’s your thing. Yours and his.

A friendship. That’s all it is. That’s all he keeps telling himself it is.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t cross lines.

But he thinks about you more than he should. Too often. In the quiet in-between moments after qualifying, before flights, when he’s lying in a hotel room alone with nothing but static playing on the TV. He thinks about the way your eyes find his in a crowd. The way your voice sounds when you're tired. The stupid nickname you gave him and how no one else is allowed to use it now.

It makes him feel guilty. Even though he hasn’t done a thing.

Because you’re with Lando.

Good guy. Friendly. Easy to like. Max has known him long enough to know he always means well, even when he’s immature. He treats you well enough. Laughs with you. Shows you off. You seem happy. Most of the time.

But Max sees it, or maybe he’s imaging it, he’s not sure. The way you sometimes scan a room even when Lando’s right beside you. The way your smile falters when you think no one’s looking. The way your eyes drift past Lando, past the noise and land on him, and for one stupid, selfish second, Max lets himself wonder if maybe you’re searching for him.

If maybe you feel it too.

Lando’s away, off somewhere sunny and overexposed for sponsor dinners and promo shoots, his name attached to three different press stops in forty-eight hours. Max isn’t sure which city he's even in. Maybe Barcelona. Maybe Milan.

Max is at home, alone in Monaco, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the sim rig cooling down. He’s sprawled out on his couch, feet on the coffee table, half-watching Twitch with the volume low.

It starts with a text.

Late. Casual. Random.

You ever actually beat that stupid time trial record?

Max reads the message twice before smirking, thumb already tapping out a reply. He knows exactly what you’re talking about a conversation from a few week ago, back in the hospitality lounge in Japan, where you were complaining (loudly) about how the F1 game had it out for you.

He teased you mercilessly for it. Told you the game was easy. You’d rolled your eyes and promised to prove him wrong.

Nope. Still a tragedy. Wanna coach me through it? Or just sit there and judge?

Both. Obviously.

That’s all it takes.

You join his Discord call a few minutes later. No build-up. No big deal. Just one conversation flowing into another the same way it always does with you.

That night, you play for five hours.

The conversation flows like it always does quick, easy, effortless. You talk trash, accuse each other of cheating, devolve into dumb inside jokes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.

You dramatically narrate your own crashes like a race engineer on the verge of a breakdown. He tells you your racing line is criminal. Time melts away. The room around him blurs. He doesn’t even realise how late it’s gotten until the first threads of dawn start filtering through his apartment windows in Monaco.

You yawn and stretch somewhere on the other end of the line. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially ruined sleep for me.”

“That was the plan,” Max replies without missing a beat.

“I feel like we just set a world record,” you say. “For how long two people can talk shit while driving in circles.”

Max lets out a soft laugh, tired, but genuine. “I think that’s called Formula One.”

From there, it becomes a pattern. Not official. Not scheduled. Just something that happens when the time is right.

Post-race Mondays. Rainy midweeks. It’s all easy, effortless, one of you sends a link, the other joins without question. You game, you talk, you lose track of time. Every time, it’s hours. Every time, it feels like five minutes.

You tease him when he loses. Call him dramatic when he blames lag. Mimic his Dutch accent when he’s trying to explain strategy, and somehow, in between the laughing and the bickering and the long silences that aren’t awkward at all you say something that hits too close. That thing about how he hides stress behind sarcasm

Something shifts in his chest. He’s not sure what.

Just that you know him already.

Too well.

The friendship cements itself in those hours. In the in-between.

He starts sending you dumb pictures of his cat sleeping in weird positions stretched out like royalty across his sim chair, paw over its face like it’s had enough of Monaco life. You text each other blurry selfies from the track and half-eaten sandwiches you regret buying. You send him screenshots of your notes app full of nonsense, half-finished grocery lists, your favourite F1 radio quotes, he doesn’t know why he cares, but he reads them all.

You FaceTime from airport terminals and hotel rooms, makeup half-on, hair in a bun, wearing mismatched socks and ranting about a guy who coughed too loud during your workout. You’re real with him. Unfiltered. Messy. Honest in a way most people aren't allowed to be around Max.

You tease him relentlessly about his toddler-style strop whenever he gets worked up mid-game, the way he throws his headset off like it personally betrayed him, the muttered swearing in Dutch, the overly dramatic sighs that echos through the mic.

“You genuinely pout,” you tell him one night, biting back a laugh. “Like actual full-lip, crossed-arms sulking.”

“I do not pout,” he mutters, but he’s already laughing.

He retaliates by poking fun at your Spotify playlists. “There are seven different versions of the same sad acoustic song,” he says. “Do you just hit shuffle and cry?”

There’s a beat of quiet before you both start laughing the kind that builds slowly, peaks, and then rolls into silence again, warm and worn-in.

There’s a day where you speak only in impressions so bad they make you wheeze-laugh into your pillow.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It’s friendship. Simple. Safe.

But Max feels it, the shift. The pull.

This quiet, slow-burning want that sneaks up on him in quieter moments. The kind of ache that grows without asking for permission.

And then there are the harder days.

You call him when things feel heavy.

When your family’s being difficult. When your job is running you into the ground. When you’re sitting in a hotel hallway barefoot because you just need a minute. You don’t ask for advice. You just talk, and he listens steady, grounded, patient in ways he doesn’t always know how to be for himself.

And when Lando forgets a date not cruelly, just distractedly, a date buried under sponsor events and post-race press, you call Max. You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit on the line, voice small, and say, “It’s not even about the date. It’s the fact that I had to remind him.”

He doesn’t judge. Doesn’t rush. Just listens. Holds the silence. Lets you unravel, piece by piece, without trying to fix it. He tells you it’s okay to feel like you deserved more, because you do. He wants to tell you that if it were him, if it were ever him he’d never forget something that mattered to you.

He doesn’t offer the words he wants to, the ones caught behind his teeth. Instead he tells you it’s okay to feel hurt. That it’s not needy to want to be remembered.

He stays on the line long after you’ve stopped crying. Long after the silence settles.

He wants to be the person you can rely on. The one you reach for in the dark, because he’s your friend and he needs to be your friend. Even if it wrecks him a little more every day.

Even if every moment he’s the one you lean on, he’s reminded that he’ll never be the one you lean into.

Your friendship keeps growing. It builds in layers, steady, natural, like something that was always supposed to be there.

The more time you spend together, the more Max notices. Not just the way you make him laugh or the way your jokes land exactly the same way his brain works, but the little things. The quiet compatibilities. The instincts. How you always gravitate to the same seats, how you both hate long dinners, how your movie taste overlaps just enough to fight about it.

You get each other in a way he doesn’t get most people. But none of it changes the one thing he keeps trying not to think about.

You’re still with Lando.

You still sit in his garage, wearing one of his oversized hoodies like it’s second skin. You still wait for him after races, still kiss him behind the pits after any finish no matter what place, like you're proud… like you love him.

And Max just watches.

Always from the sidelines. Always quiet.

Pretending like it doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. Like it doesn’t twist something sharp in his gut. Like he doesn’t want to rip the seams of the universe apart just to be where Lando is.

Because he knows in that deep, frustrated, unshakeable way that he would do it differently.

He wouldn’t forget your coffee order. Wouldn’t cancel dinner because his ego was bruised. Wouldn’t scroll through his phone while you talked about your day, only half-listening, nodding at the wrong parts.

He’d see you.

All of it. The sharp, sarcastic comebacks, the stubbornness, the softness you try to hide when you're tired.

And he’d love it. He already does. But he doesn’t say any of this. He can’t.

So he drives. Focuses. Wins.

Because that’s the one thing he can control. The one part of his life that doesn’t feel completely out of reach.

And still, you’re there.

In his life. Constant conversations woven into the rhythm of his days before he even realises it.

Stupid inside jokes born from race weekends, post-session chaos, and shared hatred for overpriced hotel drinks. Quick updates, check-ins, little things like:

“Guess what I just heard in the hotel lobby? Lift jazz version of your crying-in-the-club song.”

“You looked exhausted earlier drink actual water today, not just energy drinks.”

“Have you eaten today? I have some sushi with your name on it.”

“You blinked seventeen times in that interview. Were you trying to Morse code me?”

“I always know it’s been a long day when your texts stop using punctuation.”

Then it becomes more.

Random questions that spiral. Conversations at 3 a.m. when neither of you can sleep.

Discussions about whether cereal counts as soup, or who you think would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse.

“You’d be dead in the first twenty-four hours,” he says, completely serious.

“Wow. Harsh.”

“You’d trip over a suitcase and get eaten.”

“Bold talk for someone who can’t even do his own laundry.”

“Laundry is not a survival skill.”

You send voice notes sometimes. Half-asleep ones, where your voice is soft and slower, a little hoarse from the day.

Max listens to them more than once.

His phone lights up with your name more than anyone else’s now. And he lets it. Wants it.

Texting doesn’t feel like cheating. Not really.

Even when he knows that it’s the part of his day he looks forward to most.

It starts to feel like a rhythm.

He wakes up thinking about you more often than he means to.

He trains with your voice in his ears, half-listening to a podcast you swore was brilliant, even though he swears he hates podcasts. He lets you explain some ridiculous true crime theory or read him an article in your worst newscaster voice.

He races. He wins. And if you’re not there at the track, not waiting in the garage or watching from the pit wall, he calls you after.

Not for celebration. Just because it feels wrong not to. Like gravity. Like breath.

You’re in the hospitality lobby one weekend, seated on a velvet chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, the lanyard around your neck swinging gently as you talk animatedly to someone on a voice note.

Max spots you instantly, and without thinking, without asking, he drops into the seat beside you.

No greeting. No fanfare. Just that easy kind of silence that only exists between people who don’t have to try.

He leans slightly over your shoulder, peeking at whatever video you’ve pulled up, and listens while you vent. He doesn’t catch all of it. Just the rhythm of your voice, the way it curls and softens when you realise he’s there.

Your foot ends up nudged against his thigh.

You don’t move it.

Neither does he.

It’s nothing. Really.

And it’s everything.

There are moments.

God, there are so many moments.

You watching his post-race interviews and mouthing along with him like you’ve anticipated what’s he going to say next. He catches you doing it once through the reflection of a motorhome window lips syncing in time with his words, eyes narrowed as if willing the reporters to get to the point. He smiles to himself and doesn’t say a word.

There’s the flight from Spa to Zandvoort. You’re all seated in his jet Lando across from you. You’re beside Max, curled up beneath a blanket, and somewhere over Belgium, your head tips gently against his shoulder.

Barely a touch. Barely a weight. Like you didn’t mean to. Like it just happened.

He doesn’t move.

Neither does Lando.

He just glances up once, registers it, and looks away again. And Max sits there, heart pounding, terrified to breathe too deeply in case you wake up and move.

He knows things about you now that no one else seems to remember.

Your favourite lip balm the one that smells like strawberry and always disappears from your bag.

The way you bite your thumbnail when you’re overthinking.

Which songs you skip halfway through, even though you swear they’re your favourites. How your mood shifts when the weather changes. How you always hum under your breath when you’re working on something.

He knows you.

All of you.

Better than anyone he thinks.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Because there’s nothing wrong with what’s happening.

You’re allowed to have friends outside of Lando. You’re allowed to laugh with Max. To sit beside him. To know his drink order and tell him when his hair’s a mess. Lando likes that you get along. He doesn’t question how close you and Max have become. Why would he?

It’s just friendship.

That’s what you keep telling yourselves.

Neither of you ever expected to find someone who fit you so well. Who laughed at the same things, who understood the same family pressures, who found the same stupid YouTube videos funny at 2 a.m.

The three of you hang out together all the time. It’s easy. It’s normal. It’s safe.

And Max, Max tells himself it’s just bad timing. That in another life, in another version of the world, maybe he would’ve met you first. Maybe things would’ve been different.

But that’s not the life they’re living.

You’re happy with Lando.

And Max?

He has to learn to be happy with your friendship.

To be your almost.

There’s a moment that nearly breaks him.

Barcelona.

You’re in his driver room between sessions. You’d followed him in after media, talking without really thinking, plopping down on the small sofa like you belonged there.

He’s at the edge of the treatment table, scrolling through race data on his tablet, only half-focused, because your voice is in the background and it’s oddly comforting.

You’re rambling. The heat’s gotten to you, you're talking in lazy circles, eyelids drooping, your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Then your words trail off mid-sentence, drifting into silence.

And just as your breathing starts to even out, just before you fully tip into sleep, you mumble so quietly he almost misses it.

“I like being around you. You feel safe.”

Max freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the floor like it might hold the answer to whatever this is, this thing that keeps happening between you when neither of you are brave enough to name it.

All he can think as his chest tightens and his hands curl against the edge of the table, like that one sentence didn’t just knock the air from his lungs, is how badly he wishes you meant that the way he does. Because to him, safe means home.

People start to notice.

It’s subtle side glances, raised eyebrows, the occasional lingering smirk from someone in the paddock who’s paid just enough attention.

Then it’s Fernando.

After a press conference in Silverstone while Max is sipping water and half-scrolling through his phone, Fernando nudges him with his elbow, eyes gleaming with something that isn’t quite judgment, just amusement.

“That girl of Lando’s,” he says, keeping his voice low but pointed, “the one always hanging around? She’s got you wrapped around her finger huh?”

Max doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer.

He just shrugs, the kind of shrug that’s supposed to mean whatever but feels more like don’t ask me that.

But even as he brushes it off, he can feel it on him. Like a bruise that someone’s pressed too hard. A soreness he forgot was there until someone pointed it out.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t even know what to call you.

You’re not his. Not just a friend either, not anymore, not with the way you fill the space around him even when you’re not there.

You’ve become the middle of everything.

The person he’s always half-replying to in his head during interviews, pretending to listen while mentally saving stories to tell you later.

The laugh he waits for. The one he leans toward instinctively when he hears it across the paddock.

The name he types and deletes in his notes app when something good, or stupid, or beautiful happens and he wants no, needs to tell you first.

You’re the part of his day he never wants to end.

He catches himself staring at his phone more than he should.

Waiting for the ping. That green bubble. That small, digital flicker of your attention the one that makes his pulse trip even though he tells himself to stay calm.

Sometimes it’s something simple:

You see this meme?

Other times, it's heavier. Quieter.

I missed talking to you today.

And that one stays with him.

Long after he’s read it. Long after he’s put the phone down. It echoes like a bell rung too close to his chest.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say back?

I miss you like an ache in my chest?

I miss you like a secret?

I miss you like a man in love with someone he can’t have?

Instead, he types something safe.

I’m always here.

And hopes you can read between the lines. Hopes you hear what he’s not saying.

Because he’s loving you in silence. In stillness. In the space between every message, every look, every moment that feels like more than it should.

He’s back home during another break in the season. The sun’s setting and the windows are open, the sea a distant hush below, but none of it helps. The city lights flicker across his apartment walls and his brain won’t stop spinning.

Not about the car. Not about tire degradation or lap delta or next year’s contract.

Just you.

You, like a song stuck on loop in the back of his mind. You, filling every inch of the quiet.

His phone buzzes just after ten. A photo.

Your dog, wearing sunglasses and a crooked little smirk. The caption just says:

He gets his attitude from me.

He replies without hesitation.

Snaps a quick selfie one of the rare ones. No expression, just that deadpan, disinterested look you once claimed made him look like he was pondering the end of the world.

Two minutes later, your response lands.

That’s your sexy face, huh?

His chest tightens.

Not in that fleeting, ego-boosted way most compliments land, this one hits lower. Deeper. Where he keeps the things he never says out loud.

His fingers move before his brain catches up.

You think I’m sexy?

Sent.

The second it delivers, his stomach twists.

Too much. Too obvious. Too fast.

He locks his phone and tosses it on the couch, stands up too quickly, starts pacing, heart pounding, blood hot, regret already blooming in the back of his throat.

You leave it on read.

For two hours.

He checks the time. Then again. Then again. He thinks about calling one of his friends just to scream into the void. Thinks about throwing his phone into the sea.

He doesn’t.

But he wants to.

It’s almost midnight when his screen finally lights up again.

One line.

Don’t do that.

That’s all you say.

No emoji. No follow-up. No explanation.

Max stares at the words like they might rearrange themselves if he waits long enough.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He types something deletes it. Types again. Backspaces. The silence stretches around him, and suddenly, the apartment feels too big. The lights too dim. The air too still.

Don’t do that.

He knows what you meant. He knows where the line is and how close he just got to crossing it.

But something about your words doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like a warning.

Like you feel it too.

Like you’re scared of it, just as much as he is.

He sits back down slowly, phone in hand, thumb still frozen over the screen. His heart thuds painfully behind his ribs. He doesn’t reply. Not yet.

But he doesn’t turn the phone off either.

Because for the first time, in all this silence, he wonders…

Maybe I’m not alone in this.

And that thought alone is enough to undo him.

Max doesn’t love going out during the season.

He hates the noise. The cameras. The press of people pretending not to stare, the unspoken pressure to smile, but tonight is different, because you’ll be there, that’s all it takes.

One look at your name on the guest list attached to Lando’s, of course and suddenly the noise doesn’t seem so bad. Suddenly, the chaos feels worth it if it means seeing you again. Laughing with you. Even if it’s only for a moment.

Even if it hurts.

Because Max will take whatever pieces of you he can get.

Even the ones that aren’t his to keep.

It’s a sponsor party, not wild, not chaotic. Just sleek. Polished. Expensive lighting and cold champagne.

He spends longer getting ready than he wants to admit. Wears the cologne you once said smelled good. Buttons up the deep navy shirt you teased him about months ago the one you said made his shoulders look strong. He catches himself adjusting his watch in the mirror. Then rolls his eyes at his own reflection.

He tells himself not to expect anything. Buries it beneath the surface where all the other unsaid things live.

But still, something in his chest is restless.

Maybe tonight.

Maybe you’ll look at him the way he looks at you, like you already know the ending and you’re afraid of it.

You walk in twenty minutes late, effortlessly stunning in a black dress that hugs you in all the right places, and Max forgets whatever he was just talking about.

Time doesn’t stop. But it stutters.

You spot him across the room and smile not politely, not vaguely, but with that spark you always give him. Like you’re glad he’s here. Like you’re looking for him, not just seeing him.

You make your way over with a glass of something pale and sparkling in your hand. Your earrings catch the light. Your heels click like punctuation on the marble floor.

“No Lando?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You glance over, “He’s running late.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice light. “Guess I got lucky.”

You don’t leave his side after that.

You drift with him through the room not clinging, but constant. Your hand brushes his arm when you lean in to speak. You laugh more easily tonight. Your shoulders are looser. You're drinking more than usual not messy, just a little free.

At one point, you tilt your head and look him up and down, eyes flicking to the open collar of his shirt.

“You clean up nice,” you say, voice dipped in something warm.

Max lifts his drink, smirking. “Not too bad yourself.”

It’s just you and him, suspended in the kind of unspoken tension that’s almost worse than anything you could say out loud.

You reach for his drink, take a sip without asking, then hand it back. Your fingers graze his barely there, but it’s enough to set something inside him alight.

They linger.

And Max, God help him, lets himself believe. Just for a second.

Maybe this is finally the start of something.

But then you disappear.

For half an hour, maybe more. Long enough for the champagne to go warm in his hand. Long enough for the hope to start dissolving at the edges.

He mingles. Nods along with sponsors. Forces a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Keeps scanning the room.

Then he sees you.

Your back is to him.

And Lando’s arms are wrapped around you.

You're standing just off the dance floor, the picture of easy affection. His mouth is at your ear and you’re laughing, head tilted, one hand curling around the edge of his jacket. It’s intimate in a way Max has no right to look at. Like you belong there. Like whatever flickered earlier was just a trick of the light.

Max freezes. Not the quiet ache he’s gotten used to. Not the slow burn of unspoken feelings. No, this is worse.

Because for one stupid, vulnerable moment, he really thought maybe.

And now?

Now he’s choking on it.

You pull back from Lando just slightly, smiling as you rest your hand on his chest. You don’t see Max across the room, but he sees everything.

And he turns away before you can.

Before you catch the way his jaw clenches so tight it hurts. Before you notice how his hand trembles as he downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, needing to dull the sharpness clawing at his ribs.

Wishing, not for something dramatic, not for a grand gesture, just for a door to close and a world where he doesn’t have to watch the person he loves choose someone else.

Later someone on his team finds him outside up on the rooftop balcony, the music’s faint up here. The noise muffled.

Max sits on the ledge, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the skyline like it might offer some kind of answer.

“What’s that face for?” They asks, voice cautious but not unkind.

He shrugs, eyes never leaving the horizon. “I don’t know. Thought I almost had something tonight.”

He doesn’t say it was you.

Doesn’t say that your laugh is still bouncing around in his skull like an echo he can’t get rid of. Doesn’t say that he saw the way you looked at him before Lando showed up.

He just stays quiet. Lets the night air settle over him. Lets the ache sit in his chest like a stone. And wonders, not for the first time, how it’s possible to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

He knows the truth now. He’s utterly, irrevocably, silently in love with you.

And it’s never going to matter. Not in the way he wants it to.

It comes to a head in Monza.

The sky is impossibly blue, the air heavy with sun and sound, the track a blur of heat haze and anticipation. And you… you're radiant.

Max notices it the second he sees you.

Light dress. Sun-kissed skin. Hair down and wild like an afterthought, sunglasses perched on your head like you forgot they were there. You look like summer distilled into a person, it reminds him of the first time he saw you.

And you’re his for the day not in any official, spoken way, but in the quiet, unspoken rhythm you’ve built between you. Lando’s doing PR, media rounds that keep him off-site, and somehow, like it always seems to happen, you end up with Max.

You spend most of the afternoon in the Red Bull garage.

You’re at his side during debriefs, leaning in close as he reviews sectors. You scroll through telemetry with an almost comically serious look on your face, brow furrowed in focus, asking questions that most people wouldn’t even think to ask. The kind that make Max grin. Because you get it.

You care.

And for the first time in weeks, something cracks open in his chest, something reckless and stupid and full of hope.

She wants to be here, he thinks.

She wants to be with me.

You’re both laughing over something stupid during lunch when Alex walks past, then slows. Double-takes.

He throws a look between the two of you, not cruel, just amused, and loud enough to cut through the bubble you’ve been living in.

“Didn’t realise you were on Red Bull’s payroll now,” he says to you with a raised brow, voice too casual to be casual.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugs, smirking. “I mean, you spend more time in their garage than McLaren’s. Pretty sure Lando’s starting to look around like he lost his girlfriend.”

Max freezes.

It hits like cold water. A slap. A warning.

You laugh, light, quick, deflective. “Okay, wow. Bit dramatic.”

But Max sees it. The flicker in your expression. The way your eyes dart away. That brief, faltering pause where you’re not quite sure what to do.

Alex walks off, leaving behind the silence.

The kind that buzzes.

Like something just cracked wide open.

Because until now, no one had said anything. Not even Lando. Not about the way you and Max orbit each other like gravity. Not about the way you light up when Max is near. Not about the way he looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the moment before it’s gone.

But now it’s been said. Out loud. Witnessed.

And Max feels it.

The beginning of the end.

You’re quieter the rest of the weekend.

Shorter texts. Delayed replies. No FaceTime, not even a “can’t talk, I’m tired.” Just silence.

The next morning, you’re not there before FP3. You don’t show up after quali. You don’t come by the garage all weekend.

It’s like being cut off from oxygen.

Max tells himself not to overthink it.

But when the second race weekend goes by and your messages keep coming in cold and clipped, he feels it in his bones.

You’ve pulled away.

He doesn’t need a conversation to know it. He can feel the distance like a phantom pain.

When you finally call, it’s early. Static-filled. Rushed.

“Hey,” you say, breath catching in your throat. “Sorry… Yeah… Just trying to be more present. With Lando. I think I’ve been too wrapped up in other things.”

Other things.

You don’t name it. But he knows. He knows.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at the floor, gripping his phone like it’s anchoring him to something that’s already slipping away.

You clear your throat. “You understand right?”

He lies.

“Yeah. Of course.”

You hang up after promising to “catch up soon.”

And Max is left alone, phone still warm in his hand, screen dark.

This is right. This is what should’ve happened months ago. It’s the mature thing. The loyal thing. You’re choosing your relationship. You’re choosing him.

But it feels like losing a limb. Like he has to relearn how to walk, talk, breathe without the constant pulse of you in his life.

The silence stretches. Days. Weeks.

You still text sometimes. Safe things. Surface things. Memes. Some media gossip.

But it’s different. There’s space between every message now. Hesitation in every word. You don’t send voice notes, you don’t call when you can’t sleep, and Max for all his stubbornness, for all his fight, doesn’t push.

He just waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Weeks later. Singapore. Hot. Noisy. Tense.

And Max is tired of pretending he’s fine. That night, Max opens your chat.

Types:

I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types again:

I wish things were different.

Deletes that too.

Stares at the blinking cursor until it fades, and closes the app without sending anything at all.

Just lies back in the dark, phone forgotten on his chest, eyes on the ceiling. Until long past midnight, just as he thinks he's finally stopped waiting

His phone lights up. Like you knew somehow that tonight was the night he needed it most. The ache he thought he was hiding so well, mirrored right back at him.

One message.

Three words.

Are you awake?

[adoristsposts]

oh. my. god.

[adoristsposts]

meow.

[adoristsposts]

Cry To Me | WillNE

You weren’t too sure how you’d ended up in a dingy pub on a Thursday evening, but the second Arthur Hill had figured out you had an upcoming long weekend, you were done for.

“Oh come on, Y/N! We’re going out for a few quiet pints.” He had said, sitting on your sofa a few days before.

“Who’s we, Arthur?” You had pried, eyebrow slightly quirked.

“Well me, obviously. Clarkey, TV, Chris, Becky, Chip and Sabina.” He rattled off friends, thinking out loud to see who had he forgotten. “Pretty sure that’s everyone… oh wait, Will! Will Lenney.”

Your cheeks flushed. Will didn’t often come out with the group, choosing to strategically avoid the filming of pub golf and platform roulette. Basically any event in which cameras could catch him being embarrassingly drunk. Arthur had asked him, only to be met with disappointment.

Out of all the YouTube crew, Will had always caught your eye. You both tended to sit back and enjoy the chaos of everyone hanging out together, opting for meaningful conversation where possible. You swiped up on each other’s stories, often texted songs through to each other and Will was a regular commenter on your Strava account. I heard you run faster if you listen to AC/DC.

“Oh that’s right, I forget you have a bit of a hard on for him.” Arthur teased, laughing as the red flush spread across your cheeks.

“Fuck off, Arthur!” You laughed. “You’ve come into my flat, drank all my coffee and now you’re taking the piss out of me.”

“Yeah, what are friends for?” Cheeky grin on his face, Arthur dodged the onslaught of cushions thrown at his face.

So, here you were.

Becky and Sabina had naturally gravitated towards you, occupying the end of the table. You were a few wines in when Sab had pulled out her phone, eager to share her camera roll.

“You would think that Josh and Freezy are engaged, the way they are glued to each other.” Sabina laughed, showing the two of you photos from The Fellas Podcast shoot earlier that week.

“Remember that TikTok trend? The best friend Steve one?” You asked in between giggles.

“Yes! The ‘it’s just me and you and your friend Steve’ one! These two idiots would be perfect for that!” Becky was in stitches, scrolling through Sab’s photo gallery.

“What are we laughing at, ladies?” You had heard him before you laid eyes on him. Turning your head, the tall Geordie man was stood behind you with a grin on his face.

“Will, you have to see this!” Sab turned her phone screen around for him to see.

She was met with a loud, hearty laugh. “That’s almost romantic, innit!”. Will politely made small talk with Sabina and Becky, his eyes barely leaving your face as you enthusiastically listened to your girlfriends.

“Would any of you like a top up? I’m headed up to get a drink?” He asked, met with polite declines. He placed a hand on your shoulder, meeting your gaze. “I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping you would be.” And with that, he had made his way up to the bar, hugging his friends as he went.

You lightly run your hand over your shoulder, a sudden warmth making its way up your neck and to your cheeks.

Becky caught the gesture, smirking at you. “Babe, come on. You better jump his bones soon.” You laughed her off. Don’t be silly, Becks. We’re just mates. Friends probably don’t stare at each other longingly.

—

About two hours and 3 rounds had passed when George had located the jukebox. He had excitedly run up to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you over to the machine.

“I know you love cute shit like this, Y/N. I thought I’d let you pick a song.” George passed you a coin.

The catalogue was mostly 60s and 70s singles, which made it impossible to pick just one song. Taking a quick glance through the selections, you settled for the Bee Gees ‘More Than A Woman’. A few moments after inserting the song, the sound of digital strings and synthetic bass filled the room. You stood at the jukebox with a massive grin adorning your face, swaying to the Bee Gees.

On the way back to the table, an elderly gentleman had stopped you in your tracks.

“Excuse me, miss. Is that a working jukebox?” He softly asked, his kind eyes meeting your own.

“Yes! Would you like me to show you?” You extended your arm out, helping him to his feet.

George looked to you. “Have you got this?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back to the table in a few minutes.” He nodded, returning to the group.

You reached the jukebox, looking through the selections with the man. “There are just too many good choices, aren’t there? I might have to go with Elvis or Solomon Burke next.”

He looked up from the catalogue, surprised look on his face. “I don’t meet too many young people who fancy Solomon Burke.”

“Really? I remember him from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.” You cracked a smile.

The elderly man extended his hand for you to shake. “I better introduce myself. My name is Thomas.”

“Y/N. Glad to meet you.” You shook his hand gently.

“The pleasure is mine,” Thomas had a kind smile. “That lovely lady over there is my wife Edith. She’s been a bit nervous to be out and about as she had a fall a few months ago.”

“Oh no, is she doing okay now?” Your face had dropped, ever the look of empathy covering it.

“Yes, she’s well again. I think just a bit cautious. I’d love to get her up for a dance.” Thomas picked a song, inserting a coin.

“Well, if Edith decides to turn you down - I’d love a dance.” The two of you walked back to his table, exchanging a smile as he bid you farewell.

Returning to your group of friends, Will gestured for you to fill the empty seat next to him.

“Making friends, are we?” Will teased, lightly running his hand over the top of your own.

“Yeah, that’s my new bestie Thomas. He’s wanting to have a dance but I think Edith is a little nervous. She’s not long had a bit of a fall.” You looked back at the couple, waving back when Edith had raised her hand.

“Why don’t we give them some encouragement? Maybe she just needs to see someone else absolutely tearing it up on the dance floor.” Will laughed, a soft laugh rumbling through his chest.

As ‘More Than A Woman’ reached its final notes, it was soon replaced by Solomon Burke’s ‘Cry To Me’.

Will rose to his feet, holding his hand out for you to grab. He walked right up to the couple, flashing a cheeky smile at Edith. “I was hoping you two could teach us to dance?”

Edith just couldn’t resist. Not that you could blame her. Who could say no to Will? Extending his hand out to her, Will helped Edith to her feet and got her acquainted on the makeshift dance floor. As you watched on, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Shall we?” Thomas offered an arm, positioning the two of you not too far from Edith and Will. As her smile grew, so did his. Will had Edith giggling, spinning her around without a care in the world.

“He seems like a good man.” Thomas had said to you, speaking as though it were matter of fact.

You smiled straight at him. “He is.” That answer must’ve sufficed, as Thomas tried his best to spin you around.

Across the pub, Becky sat fighting back tears.

“Are you alright Becks?” George had asked, struggling to figure out why the girl was suddenly upset.

“Does that not make you want to cry? Look at how cute they are dancing with that elderly couple.” Becky gestured toward Y/N and Will, dabbing underneath her eyes.

ArthurTV piped in, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. “I heard Y/N say the lady was afraid to dance because she’s just had a fall.”

With that, Becky’s first tear dropped. “And Will got her up dancing? That is so sweet!”.

A few moments of idle chat later, the song was nearly over and Will was handing Edith back off to her husband.

“Thomas, do you mind if I steal the young lady for a dance?” Will gently placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Of course you can. You better get in before her dance card is full.” Thomas joked, squeezing your hand before turning to Edith.

Edith caught your eye, pointing to Will. “He’s gorgeous!” She mouthed.

“You’re telling me!” You whispered back, letting the Geordie man lead you to the middle of the dance floor.

The song changed to Frankie Valli’s ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’.

“I thought you liked Frankie.” Will smiled down at you, one hand planted firmly on your waist and the other intertwined with your own. You ran your free hand along his arm, settling it just below his shoulder.

“I love Frankie Valli. I didn’t realise you did too?” You couldn’t remember Will ever mentioning him.

“Oh, I don’t really. You mentioned that you had a few of his albums on vinyl so I gave him a whirl. If you weren’t the one who recommended him, it probably wouldn’t be my vibe.” Will looked around the room, avoiding eye contact in case he’d given away too much. Shit Will, that sounds a bit feral.

“And given that I was the one that recommended it, what do you think?” You squeezed his hand, urging him to meet your eyes.

“Well, Y/N. I like pretty much whatever you like. I think it’s pretty special that you feel like sharing your favourite music with me.” He swallowed hard, stretching his arm out to spin her around in a circle.

As you completed the circle and found yourself back in his grip, you let it slip nonchalantly. “So you must like yourself then?”

“Oh, I go alright.” It took a moment for Will to register what you had said. “Wait. Did you just say what I think you said?”

Deciding to be brave, you stopped in your tracks, dropping your hands to rest on his forearms. “Yeah, I did.”

Will’s hands trailed alongside your sides, leaving a wake of tingles where he had touched you. He placed his hands on either side of your face, looking directly at you. “D’ya mean it?”.

“Oh yeah. I’ve got a big fat schoolgirl crush.” You laughed, breath hitching as Will lightly traced his thumb across your bottom lip. He moved closer.

“That is the best news I’ve heard all fucking week.” His lips ghosted yours, nervous to make the first move.

Edith yelled from across the pub, “oh just kiss her, you silly bastard!”.

That was all the encouragement Will needed, connecting your lips together. If it weren’t for the fact he were right across from you, you could’ve sworn there were actual sparks touching your lips. Your hands find themselves resting on his back, as he used one hand to gingerly hold your face and the other to takes its place in your hair. He lightly tugged on strands of hair, prompting a small gasp to leave your lips. He smiled into the kiss before pulling apart for just a moment.

“So, is it safe to say you like like me?” You winked up at him.

“Sweetheart, I fucking yearn for you,” he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping securely around you. He placed another quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s go home.”

…..

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

And the winner of the poll is….. WillNE!

Thanks so much for voting!

Would love to dedicate this cute little one shot to @octaneink 🫶

[adoristsposts]

all the seasons | quinn hughes

author's note; guys i fear i may be coming back with my first non-song-inspired quinn hughes fanfic... and it's loooong. anything can be a oneshot if you post it all at once, right? summary; when stumbling upon quinn hughes seems to become a year-round habit, it's hard to deny that maybe fate might be pushing the two of you together. word count; 4.7k warnings; a little bit of purple prose probably idk i've been writing this on and off. swearing + mentions of drinking

winter

There is a large chance, you realise, that Quinn Hughes will not like you as much as your best friend has been assuring you. Cole, of course, is beaming at you like he knows some shit is going to go down. The idiot. It had taken a lot of groveling for him to convince you to come - and a lot of whining about how all the other 'old farts' on the team would bore him to death with hockey talk and flaunt their hot girlfriends, making him miss his hot girlfriend who had flown home for Christmas. All of it had ended in the promise that you would get to talk puck with your favourite players and he would buy all your drinks at the bar the eldest Hughes brother had rented out. You had agreed reluctantly. Cole was hard to say no to. After you had spilled hot chocolate all over him his first year in Vancouver and begged him to send you the dry cleaning bill, you had become a bit of a lifeline to the boy. You became someone whose apartment he stayed in whenever he was called up to the Canucks, and someone to drive the long commute to his weekend games. The two of you had become inseparable. Well, separable only by the distance between Vancouver and Abbotsford that you refused to cross on workdays. Recently called up, and staying in the guest room next to yours, Cole had been invited to the Canucks' Christmas party. A party "usually organized by Millsy's wife, but she's like, sick or something" Cole had explained to you. Therefore the responsibility fell on Quinn Hughes. "What are you all stressed about?" Cole asked, looking up from his phone and settling his gaze on you. You had been lost in your thoughts, listening to the hum of the Uber's engine and the quiet radio the driver was playing. "Dude," You breathed out, "I'm going to puke." "You are not" He said, well aware of your dramatics, "going to puke. You will be fine, they'll love you." "In ten minutes I have to talk to the Vancouver Canucks. The captain of the Vancouver Canucks. I deal with enough talking to you." You hissed out, glancing at the Uber. Was this information safe to share? Should you be worried he was going to dox the Christmas party address? Oh, God save us all. Happy birthday, Jesus. Thanks a lot. Cole laughed at you "Would you chill out? I keep telling you Quinn will love you." "I'm chilling out, I promise," You breathed, "Just thinking about all those drinks you're going to buy me." "Alright, alright."

Ten minutes later the two of you were clambering out of the Uber. "Do I look okay?" You asked him, adjusting your dress. He just shrugged and let out a grunt that almost sounded like an 'I don't know.' You rolled your eyes at him but followed him as he led you towards an eerily quiet bar. It was obvious it had been booked for a private event, but the missing element of drunk people lining the streets outside of it made the whole thing feel a little out of place. A pub for Christmas? Cole opened the door for you, allowing you to step inside first and take the place in. Whoever Quinn had hired had done a great job - red tinsel was strewn about just about anywhere it could go. Christmas decorations lined the bar, as well as a handful of Menorahs and other Hannukah decorations. The whole place was alive already. You and Cole were fashionably late, you presumed. "Let's say hi to Quinn" Cole said, pressing a hand against your upper back to help lead you towards the Captain. You wouldn't have needed the help. For God knows whatever reason, Quinn basically shone in gold to you. His face was flushed and his hair slightly sweaty from the pure heat radiating throughout the place. There was a lopsided grin on his face as he smiled at whatever joke the man across from him was telling. The bar lights, slightly tinged red, fell over him like water that cascaded down his strong nose, off his shoulders, and over his body. It was a pull you had never felt before, one that made you forget about the fact Cole was literally pushing you towards the man. Quinn's gaze slid away from his conversation and across the room, obviously taking note of if everything was running well. For a moment it scanned over you before coming back. And for a second, it was like everything in the world fell into place. Almost as if he felt it too, his lips parted and his eyebrows furrowed. Or, perhaps, you realized, he was wondering 'Who the fuck is this girl at my party?' "Quinn!" Cole greeted happily, darting out from behind you and giving the man a hug. Over Cole's shoulder, Quinn held you in a quizzical stare. When he pulled away, he asked, "Who are you?" Cole laughed awkwardly at the blunt question. "This is my friend I was telling you about. The one from Vancouver?" Quinn's face showed no sign of recognising or remembering any mention of a 'friend from Vancouver.' Instead he just stared. It was stranger, probably, that you just stared back. "Okay..." Cole said, glancing between the two of you. "I'm going to go get a drink. You want anything?" "Whatever you think I'd like." You said, finally breaking your gaze to give Cole an appreciative smile. He gave you an odd look and then backed away before fully turning around and heading towards the bar. Just you and Quinn now. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name." Quinn said. His face still held a look of perplexity. He looked so intently at you that you felt like he was trying to figure out if he recognised you from somewhere. You gave it to him, lips curling up as he nodded at the information like it was some interesting fact. "I'm Quinn. I mean- Cole just said it but.. I'm Quinn." You laughed. It really wasn't that funny, but it bubbled out of you before you could stop it. "Hi Quinn."

A few drinks later and you and the captain of the Vancouver Canucks that you were so anxious to meet had been glued at the hip for hours, talking about anything and everything you two could think of. You had wandered out to the outdoor seating of the bar. It was entirely empty, thanks to the freezing conditions of a Vancouver winter that everyone inside was trying to escape from. But you had discovered throughout the night that the heat in your cheeks seemed forever present around Quinn, and the cold air was like a soothing kiss. "Are you cold?" He asked you. "No, are you?" You asked back, eyeing his red nose and bouncing leg. He smiled and shook his head. It was quiet out here. Conversation in the bar had gotten difficult the rowdier everyone had gotten. Cole had long left you two, pouty that you wouldn't save him from awkward conversations he couldn't relate to about marriage and kids with the older guys. Quinn's hand on the railing brushed against yours. "Listen, I don't really know how to approach the topic, but do you think I could get your-" "There you are!" If you could pick a time and place for a person to drop dead, you would pick right here, right now, and Cole McWard. "I've been looking for you everywhere. I am desperate to go home- No offense Quinn, the party's great." "Okay, okay," You said, "Right now?" "The Uber's outside. I've been frantically searching for you ever since I realized you and Huggy here had left your little corner." Shit. Okay. You turned to Quinn. Even at the sight of him, a stupid grin broke out on your face. There was something romantic about him that you couldn't quite place, like it was written all over his face that he should be the star in some cheesy movie about loving and loving hard. "See you around?" You said. "See you around."

"Did you get his number?" Cole asked in the Uber. "No," You sighed, "And fuck. 'Cause he's hot." "If it's meant to be, it'll be." He shrugged.

spring

April hit like a drug. After a few weeks of pining over Quinn Hughes (who had chased Cole down to ask if you were single and then gone radio silent), and then a few hours of remembering you were single and didn't have to care, the first few months of the year had flown by. Work had been hectic, and you loved it. You navigated the isles of the florist's shop, on call with Cole through your headphones. You made a beeline to the lilies, choosing the pink ones and complaining to Cole about some client of yours that had been beyond difficult. "Seems to me like you need to lock Hughesy down and retire so you take all this over-achiever energy and put into being the captain's wife." Cole snorted. You rolled your eyes even though he couldn't see you, "I told you, I'm over that." "You were like, in love with the man." "And he did nothing about it!" You exclaimed, walking up to the cashier and paying for them. You mouthed a quiet thank you and moved on. "He literally always asks me about you." "Yeah, on the rare occasion you get called up. I think that's just called small talk." You huffed. Cole sighed, "Listen, just... I don't know. You guys seemed good together. It'll happen." And then he ruined the moment by quoting Surf's Up "I can feel it in my nuggets." You snorted at him. "Whatever, it's whatever. I've got to get home, I'll call you later, okay?" "Okay, bye." He hung up quickly. No drawn out goodbyes for you two. With a start, you realized you had forgotten to ask him if he had remembered to set aside a ticket for you for his game Saturday. You quickly pulled up your messages, typing out the question for him. About to hit send you- A grunt and the feeling of the hard pavement on your ass stopped you before you could. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, that's totally my fault and- Quinn?" You were surprised by the blue eyes that stared at you as you pick yourself up. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then open, then shut, like a fish. You furrowed your eyebrows at him. "Are you alright?" He stuttered to life, like a machine rebooting. "Yes! Um, yeah, I'm all good. I haven't seen you since..." "Since the Christmas party." You finished for him. You wanted to press your lips into a thin line, tell him to have a good life, and move on. God, you wanted to. But something about Quinn made your brain muddled. You smiled at him. He smiled back. "Want to grab a coffee? I can buy you some flowers to make up for the ones I just crushed." True to his observations, the lilies you had just bought were bent out of shape from hitting the floor with you. "Yeah. That would be nice."

Quinn Hughes, you were beginning to realise, was easy to stare at. It was like every part of his face was designed with some gravitational pull that just beckoned you closer and closer until you were entirely enamoured with the way his mouth curled as he talked. You didn't realise the conversation went quiet until it did, too busy staring to clock that he had finished talking. He cleared his throat and you broke out of your trance. "Sorry." You said. "Listen.." Quinn trailed off. You were a little afraid he was going to call you out and tell you that you were making him uncomfortable. "That night. The Christmas party- God, I hope I don't come on too strong here but.. We were good, right? There was some crazy, cosmic connection. Please tell me I didn't make that up." It was like the air had been sucked out of the room and forced into your lungs. You wanted to call all your friends who had told you that 'delusional doesn't get anyone anywhere' and tell them that he had felt it too. The feeling that before you locked eyes the world hadn't moved, hadn't been set in motion until you knew the feeling of his gaze on you and yours on him. You wanted to cry out, 'Yes, you idiot', but instead you settled for a smile and "I felt it, trust me." "I was going to ask for your number, but Cole interrupted and I felt like maybe it was a sign that I wasn't ready for you yet. Like maybe the universe was telling me to wait for you. God I sound like such an idiot. And if I freak you out and you turn me down just know I will still replace those flowers," He was talking slowly, sure of himself, "But I would really like your number now. If you and the Universe want me to. Have your number, that is." You placed a hand over his, hoping that the sign of interest would get him to stop rambling. "Firstly, my lilies better be replaced. And secondly, you could've had my number at the party, universe be damned, but I'm just as happy to give it to you now"

summer

There was nothing that compared to the absolute defeat reflected in Quinn's face as he wrung his hands sitting on the couch. An injury for earlier in the season had flared up again, leaving him scratched from the second round of the playoffs- a round that the Canucks were struggling in without their Captain. It stressed you out to see him so stressed out. And you honestly had no clue what you were supposed to do. Since exchanging numbers, the two of you had done just about everything other than put a label on what you were. It was terrifying and exhilarating and you didn't know if you should turn the television off or not to spare Quinn from what was beginning to turn into a nasty loss. It killed him to not be able to fly out for the away game, to not be able to be there for his team. Having him play through his injury had left him sidelined for weeks, and not allowing that injury to fully heal before he picked up his stick again had bothered him until finally the medical team had to force him to rest. Even now you knew he'd be laced up and on the ice in seconds if he could be. "You alright?" You asked him, "Need any ice or heat or anything?" Your apartment had become his over the past few months. His gear had a permanent spot in your coat closet and his Yankees cap hung up next to your Abbotsford one. And now everything Quinn-care was stored around the place. He grunted in response, eyes still glued to the screen. "Quinn." "Jesus, what?" He snapped. At least he broke his gaze from the TV. Immediately, he softened. "Sorry. I'm alright, thank you. I'm sorry." You moved from your station behind the kitchen counter and sat next to him on the couch. "I know it sucks." You told him. "It's one more week. I want you healed, Quinn. You gotta help me here." "I know, I know." He pressed his lips into a thin smile, grabbing your hand and turning back to the game. He stroked circles onto the back of your hand. Even with the ups and downs of the game, they never lost their rhythm.

You fell asleep listening to the hum of the commentators and the sounds of skates and sticks on the ice. When you woke up, Quinn was texting furiously, the pads of his thumbs beating on his phone in an almost soothing dance. "Everything alright?" He didn't turn. "Yeah, babe." "How was the game?" "They lost. Sorry- give me a second, I'm texting the groupchat." You hummed in response, not bothering to talk. He was lost to the hockey he was replaying in his mind. Over and over on a loop until he felt he had identified what went wrong and how he could fix it. You unfurled yourself from your place amongst the pillows and rose, your bones cracking and groaning in pleasure from getting out of the position. You padded to the windows, closing them. They had been open to release some of the heat in your apartment, but now all you wanted to do was sleep without worrying about pesky insects getting in. When you turned back to the couch Quinn was still typing. "I'm going to bed, you coming?" You asked him. He turned and gave you his big stupid grin that hung lopsidedly on his face. "In a minute. Don't wait up, okay? I know you have work tomorrow." "'kay" You wandered into your bedroom, slipping yourself into your sheets. Over the past few months of seeing each other it had become near impossible for you to sleep without the white noise of Quinn's quiet snores next to you. Roadies were beginning to genuinely impact your functionality at work, with the lack of sleep and following overconsumption of caffeine messing with you. Quinn was the complete opposite of everything you had searched for. Being best friends with Cole, you knew what dating a hockey player was like. And you had been adamant you didn't want anything like it. His schedule made everything about dating difficult- not to mention the added privacy that was required in his situation. On top of it, he was entirely enamoured with hockey. When you caught him zoning out during movies or taking a little too long to reply in conversation, you knew he was just dreaming of it in the same way he had his whole life. It was what made him so undeniably talented on the ice. And as a fan of the sport yourself, you understood. And God help you, you forgave. Because you wanted nothing other than him. The boy had tainted you completely. If you ever had to date again, if the two of you never did label anything and just fizzled out, he would have ruined you for anyone else. There was no one else with his passion and dedication. His ability to take charge and make the best of difficult situations. And no one who made you feel so whole. He was far from what you were looking for, but he was what you needed. A man. One that was still texting his groupchat as you drifted closer to sleep without the heat of his body next to you. But twenty or so minutes later you felt the brush of a kiss at your temple and the familiar dip of the bed as Quinn slipped into his side. And you fully fell asleep to the smell of his cologne and the feeling of his chest against your back.

fall

"You're going to be my wife." Quinn cooed. You turned around from your seat in front of your vanity, narrowing your eyes at him. "Quinn, what?" You were shocked at the statement. Also shocked at the fact that you didn't quite hate the idea. The two of you had become official a month or so back, and the four weeks had felt exactly like the four weeks before it: calm and blissful. He was smirking at you from the bed. You studied his face. You had never been more obsessed with someone's face. You could probably close your eyes and still accurately point to where his beauty mark was, you were so obsessed. There was something so romantic about him. It opened a pit in your stomach and swallowed you whole. You were like a teenage girl with a crush. Quite literally weak in the knees at your big-girl age of 23. "You're going to be my wife." He repeated, rising from where he sat on the edge of your bed. You turned back to your vanity, allowing him to plant both hands on the back of your chair and lock eyes with you in the mirror. "My wife." He said. Third times the charm, you suppose, as the reality of how insane he sounded hit you. "Your wife?" You almost snorted, "Is this a proposal after one month, Hughes? You know you're yet to even meet my parents." "I've met them!" He defended, "Over the phone- that is so not the point." You rolled your eyes at him. "It's also not a proposal. I just know." At your unimpressed look, he said "The universe, baby." "Sure, Hughesy. Are you ready to go?" You and Quinn were heading out to your last dinner of the pre-season. Getting ramped back up had been difficult with off-season trades and signings and finding the chemistry in a practically new team had taken it's toll on Quinn. But the pressure would be tenfold once the season started. The players and fans were ravenous for a cup. Years of hard work were starting to pay off with better records and longer playoff runs, and you knew that when Quinn closed his eyes at night he was dreaming of that pretty piece of metal. One that, you had admitted to him while drawing patterns on his chest, you had always wanted to be able to kiss like all your hockey idols before you. "I'll get it for you" He had said like it was a shiny piece of jewelry. "You better" You had replied, sealing the promise with a kiss. "Yeah, I'm all ready, pretty lady."

winter

"Happy three years" Quinn smiled, tucking your hair behind your ear. You laughed at him, "What are you talking about? Put your shoes on." The two of you were on your way to the Canuck's annual Christmas party. This was your first year sharing the responsibility with JT Miller's wife. You still weren't quite ready to fully take on the role. Although the woman insisted you would have been fine on your own and seemed a little eager to officially pass the mantle of party-planner onto you. Quinn was still staring at you. "The uber is here, you goof" You tugged him by his shirt out of the door. "We're going to be late." "Happy three year," He repeated. "What? Our anniversary is in September" "We met three years ago. Happy three years, my love." You stopped in your tracks. "Oh my god, Quinn, I'm so sorry - I didn't even realise." He smiled at you. Three years in and that look still made you melt. His hair was freshly washed, and the wet strands fell across his forehead like they were styled to look perfectly messy. His ever-scruffy facial hair seemed custom made to frame his perfect smile. "If you don't stop looking at me like that, we're going to miss the Uber and the party. That I planned" You put an emphasis on the last part like it would deter him at all. You had left a couple 'you' planned parties because he wouldn't stop looking at you a certain way. Being in love had never been so entirely overwhelming for you before. You could remember when you met him like it was yesterday. The electricity that charged between you two. The feeling that your heart was trying to claw itself out of your body so it could get to his. It was nothing you had felt before and something you had felt every day since. He grabbed your waist with one of his hands. One of the many things Quinn brought up when he raved about fate and the universe was the fact that he claimed you fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. That it was his "God-given spot." The sap. You felt the same, secretly. "Happy three years," He said, still giving you that fucking smile. You tilted your head to look up at him. Lifting to your toes so you could reach him comfortably, you pressed your lips against his. He parted his lips quickly, a hand making it's way to your chin to angle you into the perfect position. The kiss got passionate fast, and your hands explored his chest, smoothing over his pecs. One wandered over his shoulder, pulling him into you, while the other grabbed a fistful of the flannel he had thrown on over his long-sleeve.

The buzzing of your phone interrupted you. He tried to chase your lips with his as you pulled away, but you gave him a playfully stern look and he gave up. "The uber is literally texting me, Quinn, we have to go." "I have the flu." "You do not." "I'm very truthfully ill. I don't think I should risk giving it to my teammates and their girlfriends. I think we should stay home." You quirked an eyebrow, "We? I can go without you." "If I'm sick, so are you." "You are not sick, Quinn." "Oh I am. Outrageously so. The Scarlett Fever, I think." "Quinn," You laughed. "The Bubonic Plague." "Come on." "Marry me." "We're- What?" Quinn hadn't faltered at all. "Let's miss the Uber. Marry me." "Quinn, what? Are you still joking?" His face paled a little at the question, "Why? Do you not want to?" You swatted his shoulder, "Obviously I want to. This is so not a funny joke." He looked into the hallway past you, like he was scanning for an aggravated Uber driver coming in to drag his customers into his car. "Wait here." You opened your mouth to protest that you really truly were going to be late now, but he was already thundering back towards your apartment. He rushed in, the door not even having enough time to click behind him before he raced back out. In his hand was a black velvet box. "I was waiting for a good opportunity. I thought maybe when I got you that Stanley Cup. Or at the lake, but I couldn't wait that long." "Quinn" You breathed out. "I love you. So much. And I know I've said a million times that I'm going to marry you, but this time I'm asking for real. Marry me? We can have a big wedding with everyone from the team and a crazy venue and my mom can fuss over your bridesmaids so you don't have to and Cole can even be your Man of Honour. Or we can have a tiny, courthouse wedding with just you and me- and maybe Jack and Luke. I don't care. Just marry me?" You had expected, your whole life, that the world would spin on its axel the day you got engaged. You had thought profusely about this exact moment, and how everything would change, and wondered if your husband-to-be would pick the perfect ring. But you didn't even care if Quinn ever opened the box. If it was the ugliest thing you'd ever seen in your life. And it didn't feel like the air had left your lungs, and it didn't feel like everything was changing. It felt like everything was slotting in where it was supposed to be - and this was your place. Maybe not in your dingy apartment that you loved too much to move out of for your boyfriend Quinn (a problem that would not arise for your fiancee Quinn, you realised as you began to dream of a gorgeous house and a few little Hughes running around that most certainly would not fit in your one-bedroom one-bathroom) but your place with him, however you could have him. You couldn't even get the words out, opting instead for a tearful nod. Quinn surged to you, wrapping his arms around you. Overcome with emotions, you practically collapsed. Quinn helped you lower yourself to the floor. You grabbed for him, taking a fistful of his shirt and using it to pull his lips to yours. "I love you," You murmured against them, "And we are totally missing this party." He laughed in response, pulling away and pressing his forehead to yours. "Absolutely. Now get this ring on and let's get off this gross floor, yeah?" Your face hurt from smiling, but your grin somehow got even wider. "Yeah."

[adoristsposts]

if you're always looking for free streaming sites I found a huge masterlist so you'll never run out of sources :)

[adoristsposts]

How many times can the same thing break your heart?

[adoristsposts]

Omg the scream I let out when I saw that you followed me . . . I love ur Justin fics sm ! 🤭

OH MY GOD the way this took me wayyyy too long to respond to i am so sorry i hide away from my notifications and inbox for fear of realizing how long it's been since i've last written (plus i BARELY know how to use this app) 😭 thank u sm i feel like this is a mutual fangirl moment rn

[adoristsposts]

I just read your “growing up is” fic with Quinn. Like that might have been some of the saddest shit I’ve read for a while on this app. 😭

THANK UUU ive lowkey not written a word in almost a year so 😭 good to know u guys still enjoy my old stuff

[adoristsposts]

i am so invested in this

i can do it with a broken heart [guilty as sin part three] | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x fem sainz!reader

life goes on after a bombshell but this silence isn't mysterious it's ominous

MASTERLIST | GUILTY AS SIN MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 1,304,509 others

yourusername: don't tell lies about me and i won't tell truths about you

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user164: oh holy moly this is so much worse than i thought

user165: i don't think i can ever look at those men the same ever again

user166: SEXUAL RELATIONSHIPS FOR FAVOURS?

user167: my mouth dropped open when i read that

user168: so like not to be insensitive but like who do we think it was

maxverstappen1: so like y/n obviously can't talk on this because she needs her silence but my big mouth will remain open they tried it on me that's why she mentions that she managed to make friends.

user169: what the fuck

maxverstappen1: they thought that i would be an easy target because i was so young but jokes on them i've always been taken advantage of so i saw that from a mile away (also y/n didn't want to so that obviously helped)

user170: that is actually insane like her and max are the same age so that would've made her so young i hope to god that they didn't try it with anyone older

maxverstappen1: they did but by the time they realised that it hadn't worked on me y/n had allies and fernando and seb were not about to let any of that happen

user171: thank the lord she had some friends when people control your money you'll do anything

fernandoalo_oficial: she became my daughter the moment that i saw them try and offer their family to some of the older men in the paddock

user172: i am actually in shock this was a "oh gosh this is so dramatic situation" but now it's just "holy shit i kinda need to see these guys in jail"

fernandoalo_oficial: me and you both

user173: i'm going to need ferrari to let charles out of the cage for this one

user174: kinda expected him to be in the comments supporting her i'm not going to lie

user175: he's in the likes?

user176: girl? his girlfriend is being sued by his own family and is confessing that she was offered round the paddock like a prize cow i feel like he should be actively voicing his support

oscarpiastri: you're loved and have the full support of the paddock

maxverstappen1: we're behind you 100% of the way

olliebearman: nothing but full support for you mum

pierregasly: we're all here for you no matter what we're allowed to say

fernandoalo_oficial: 🫶

sebastianvettel: it'll all work out in the end

user177: still no charles ???

user178: eh i feel like pierre is confirming charles' support in his place

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 835,923 others

tagged: yourusername & charles_leclerc

maxverstappen1: i'm missing my best friend has anyone seen her?

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user179: oh good i was just about to lose it from y/n and max withdrawals

user180: at least one of the trio of dumbasses is keeping us fed

yourusername: i miss you toooooooooo :( (reply fast my lawyer has gone to the bathroom)

maxverstappen1: hurry up and win your lawsuit so we can go back to kicking ass and drinking gin and tonics

yourusername: i'm trying 🤞

maxverstappen1: and if i said it's time to red wedding them?

yourusername: i think we would be swiftly arrested

maxverstappen1: they can't arrest us our face cards are too strong

yourusername: well one of us is currently in court so what does that say about my face card

charles_leclerc: THAT YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL REGARDLESS FUCK THEM

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user181: so is that like confirmation that charles is back in PR jail in maranello

user182: right i understand that he's literally employed by them but like he's also a grown ass man who can speak up

user183: like i know max isn't obviously at ferrari and isn't contractually obligated to be teammates with carlos but even he's out here slamming him

user184: and oscar who's only in his SECOND year in the sport

oscarpiastri: bold assumption that you're the best friend max

maxverstappen1: let's not get too rowdy piastri i can deal with you as the 'child' - you cannot be a bestie as well

oscarpiastri: i don't think that's the exact rules

maxverstappen1: you'll soon learn that I MAKE THE RULES AROUND HERE BUSTER

oscarpiastri: i can't wait for y/n to kick their asses so she can come back and KICK YOURS FOR ME

maxverstappen1: she would NEVER

oscarpiastri: okay maybe she wouldn't, but my dad on the other hand ...

liked by @charles_leclerc

user185: charles just PLEASE GET ON THE MIC

user186: i'm about to lose my patience i'm not going to lie

user187: guys we have to remember that this is a complicated situation with a lot of different moving parts, as long as charles is there for her in REAL LIFE it doesn't matter what we're seeing

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carlossainz55

liked by landonorris, user190 and 308,994 others

carlossainz55: what was it you said? all is fair in love and poetry.

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user191: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

user192: not the childhood dog too ???

user193: these are unbelievable levels of hating

user194: i'd be impressed if he wasn't such an asshole

maxverstappen1: get fucked

carlossainz55: she shouldn't dish it out if she can't take it

maxverstappen1: she fell in love ?? and you thought that was a good excuse to take everything she's ever had

carlossainz55: she cost me my dream

maxverstappen1: as far i can remember, she's not on the fucking FERRARI BOARD GENIUS

carlossainz55: it's her pussy-whipped boyfriend that's the problem and she deserved this as soon as she choose him over her blood

maxverstappen1: you're insane and history will always remember you as the biggest crybaby loser to ever grace this sport

user195: so this ^^ is definitely referring to y/n's poetry

user196: are we living through scooter braun volume two

user197: @taylorswift PLEASE HELP

charles_leclerc: EAT SHIT I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL MAKE YOUR LIFE A LIVING HELL

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charles_leclerc: you are the lowest of the low and you will get what is coming to you

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charles_leclerc: there's only so long i have to stay silent and the people will know just the type of person you are

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user198: so is like carlos deleting this comments or ferrari?

user199: i bet it's ferrari

user200: 1. can they stop being allergic to fun 2. i think this has gotten past the need to uphold image like these are your employees and this is serious actually

user201: also like silencing charles when its CARLOS BEING THE MESSY ONE HE IS ACTUALLY STILL YOUR EMPLOYEE

yourusername: old habits die screaming

carlossainz55: you can spout all the 'poetry' you want it'll all belong to me anyway

yourusername: i'd rather burn my whole life down than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning

user202: stealing poetry? now that's a new low

user203: i'm gonna need someone to take one for the team and put a cheeky front wing in his tyre

georgerussell63: well this sounds like a job for me

charles_leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 893,450 others

charles_leclerc: lets go racing.

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user206: is this even charles? where are the emojis? where is the excitement

user207: i think we might be witnessing a lil PR takeover after his deleted comments tirade under carlos' recent post

user208: you'd think they'd at least get his tone right like the rest of his account is RIGHT THERE

user209: charles leclerc's PR team we now have beef

liked by @yourusername

maxverstappen1: ugh you people are useless

oscarpiastri: i'm not going to lie i'm losing my patience

maxverstappen1: for real i'm gonna need this court case to finish up fast so we can get back to being a united front of haters

oscarpiastri: and then we can also wrestle charles' phone back by force

olliebearman: PLEASE KNOW THIS ISN'T ME I LOVE Y/N AND WE WILL LIVE TO KICK ASS AGAIN

user210: oh so they quite literally took his phone?

olliebearman: whoops

user210: ollie coming for kid of the year

olliebearman: i can't be told off for accidentally leaving my phone out while in the car and accidentally making my password something easy to remember and accidentally telling charles that his PR team had posted something - accident i swear

user211: @maxverstappen1 can you confirm they're still grossly in love?

maxverstappen1: i do have the letters to prove so but i think he's going insane with withdrawals

user212: that's it GET ME TO MARANELLO RIGHT THIS SECOND I HAVE A SCORE TO SETTLE

user213: yo i know we just got some confirmation from max but i can't help but think how lonely this must be for y/n

user214: for real if i was being sued by my family and had everything stolen from me i'd want more than some 'confirmation' through her bff in an instagram comment

carlossainz55: i hate to say i told you so @yourusername but that would be a lie i'm enjoying this so much

maxverstappen1: i want to fight you so bad but my therapist said that's bad

oscarpiastri: it's also illegal?

maxverstappen1: what's the point of being a rich white man oscar if i can't use to it to traverse the justice system and defend my bestie's honour

user215: @charles_leclerc get a backbone and do it like these two ^^

user216: i still have faith that he'll rain hell on that family when he's free

user217: well can he hurry the fuck up cause he's really shaping up to be the worst boyfriend of the year

user218: he has to get fucking loud HE CAN'T PROVE CARLOS RIGHT I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN THAT WORLD

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and 934,520 others

yourusername: i can do it with a broken heart

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user223: no no NO WE'RE NOT DOING ALL THIS GUESSING GAME SHIT WHAT WAS THE VERDICT?

user224: it's finished?

user225: that's what the spanish media are saying

user224: well in that case Y/N WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE YOUR POETRY BACK?

maxverstappen1: a wine evening without me? prison changed you

user225: SHE'S IN PRISON?

yourusername: STOP TELLING PEOPLE I'M IN JAIL

maxverstappen1: want me to put some money in the commissary so you can buy cigarettes?

yourusername: i don't even smoke and i'M NOT IN JAIL

maxverstappen1: now you've done time can you employ some stricter parenting on oscar and ollie, they've gotten unruly with both parents absent

yourusername: i'm not an absent mother :(

oscarpiastri: SHE'S VERY PRESENT SHE'S BEEN TO EVERY RECITAL SHE CAN IN HER CURRENT CIRCUMSTANCES

maxverstappen1: did you just refer to literal FORMULA ONE GRAND PRIXS AS RECITALS?

oscarpiastri: maybe i did

yourusername: he's allowed to call them what he wants

olliebearman: i feel sufficiently supported by you mum x

yourusername: i'm glad

olliebearman: family dinner when dad gets released from ferrari's top secret base jail?

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maxverstappen1: did he just get sniped by ferrari's PR?

user226: okay cool got the main kids update but WHAT ABOUT LEO?

user227: please tell me he's been been in good care

yourusername: he's been my rock 🤞

user228: not the dog being more present than charles - it would be funny if it wasn't so sad :(

user229: so are any of you going to address the literal caption of this post

user230: there's two options here she either lost the court case or her and charles have actually broken up

user231: the fact carlos is not in this comment section actively gloating makes me think she might have actually won?

user232: but i don't want it to be the other option... charles and y/n are end game :(

user233: but he's been so so silent and that BULLSHIT response in the press conference

user234: idk the delusion in me has this theory ... she won the case but like t swift, doesn't have access to her old work so maybe she's heartbroken over losing that and then it's just exacerbated by her boyfriend's useless bosses that are holding him captive in italy (also he was totally coached to say that shit in the presser it's written all over his strangely expressive face)

user235: at this point i might go to italy and just prison break him out of there this is ridiculous

fin.

note: DON'T HATE ME YALL i promise it'll get better we must have faith in the man (i know i hate to put my faith in men) xx

extra note from me here. first, i will fix this tag list at some point idk why it's not working rn. secondly, i have been made aware by multiple people that there is a series just like this one down to characters and the name of the series on here and i can't lie i'm bummed about it. as i said on the first part (?) this is an idea i've had since the release of TTPD (and people will back me up on this) so it bums me out that there are blatant copies coming out! i'm all for inspiration but sometimes there's a difference between taking inspo and copying especially when my masterlist was posted ages ago and my first part was posted on the 9th of may.... anyways that's all i have to say! enjoy xx

taglist: in comments!

[adoristsposts]

someone mentioned matt looking like a painting and now i can’t get over matt as baroque art

I’m sick this is gorgeous

[adoristsposts]

Hey girlll I love your blog so so so much! Congrats on the 4k bc you absolutely deserve it🫶🏼

I just had a little angsty request for Charles lando or Oscar (you can pick any you’re feeling more atm, I eat up anything ab my boys)

I saw this prompt maybe you could use - - "I can be there when you need me!" "But I did, and you weren't."

late night talking.

op x fem norris!reader

in which lando’s little sister has been sneaking around with his teammate, but it’s starting to have its challenges…

hiiiii thank u sm anon! love this request love you MWAH! so appreciative of this request and all of the others and that y’all trust me to bring your ideas to life!! i hope this hits the way you wanted it to! let me know what you think, big love 🤍

songs to set the mood: late night talking by harry styles, i love you by billie eilish, over my head by james marriott, if these walls could talk by 5sos

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, angst, fluff, a bit of hurt/comfort, secret relationship, brothers teammate trope (r is lando’s sister), fingering, morning sex, angsty needy sex, lando being an embarrassing little shit

4.1k words

sex and talking. sex and talking. sex and talking.

that’s what you do, oscar and you.

you watch him all weekend, eyes trailing his lean frame, the way his body moves under papaya fabric. then, when your brother finally leaves you alone, you sneak into oscar’s arms, room, bed, whatever’s closest.

you have your way with one another, nothing untouched, unexplored, and then you talk and talk until your lips hurt from stretched out grins and a satisfying ache sets into your spent limbs. you sneak out when the sun comes up the next day and join lando for breakfast in whatever hotel you’re in that weekend.

rinse, repeat.

you can remember the first time you saw him in real life, way back in early 2023, clear as day. you were in bahrain with your brother for testing, the sun in your eyes, and there he was. awkward, stocky, hands buried deep in his mclaren administered slacks. he was littered with moles, mousey brown hair catching the rays of light, chocolate eyes conveying cool confidence that didn’t at all match up with his uncomfortable stance. you could kiss over those moles like a game of dot to dot, tug on his strands that looked like smooth chocolate frosting, sink into his brown irises until you drowned.

lando had caught you staring, sending his elbow into your ribs, and when you turned to glare at him, cuss him out, you saw a look of warning. his eyes said: don’t you fucking dare.

and you didn’t dare, not for a while at least.

-

“o-osc.” you whine, panting through the waves of eye-watering pleasure.

he’s got you laid out across his massage table, two fingers scissoring into your sodden cunt as his thumb bumps your clit in messy circles.

it’s rare that you sneak away so brazenly like this during a race weekend.

“you gotta be quiet.” oscar shushes you, eyes flitting between your own watery pair and his fingers where they’re working you open.

“trying.” you breathe, slapping your own hand over your mouth when your belly tightens one last time. one wrong move and the entirety of the hospitality suite will know. lando will know. perhaps all of china will know. that’s how good he fucking feels.

you sob into your palm, bucking your hips wildly as you fall apart, spilling all around his relentless fingers. he fucks you through it, grinning coyly as your muffled cries subside.

“c’mere.” oscar lulls, pulling you back towards him. he kisses you deeply, smiling against your lips.

“i should go.” you mumble, pushing his hair back and raking your fingers through his hair.

oscar nods apathetically, reserved all of the sudden. you frown, stealing another quick kiss. you stumble to your feet fixing your underwear and your skirt, and grab your bag from the small sofa.

“we need to be more careful.” his words make your blood run cold.

“more careful?”

you sneak in and out of hotel rooms under the cover of night, you have his name disguised in your phone, you never speak to him in public.

“this was risky.” oscar shrugs. he looks antsy, his entire demeanour changing in a matter of minutes, the ecstasy of watching you writhe all for him worn off.

“this- i- you’re the one who dragged me in here, piastri.” you accuse. ‘piastri’ is reserved for when you’re pissed off, a cagey step back from the affection ‘osc’ that you usually called him. “whatever, i’ve got to go.”

“i’ll see you later?” he poses it as a question, uncertain that you’ll show. he has never been uncertain before, not with you, not with a lot of things. bile rises in your throat, and you scoff.

you can’t reply. the door slams behind you.

-

“where’ve you been?” lando ruffles your hair, a single eyebrow raised suspiciously.

“got bored with watching you look at data so i went for a walk.” you reply nonchalantly, pushing his hand away.

he hums in response, nodding slowly. it’s like he doesn’t quite believe you but he quickly moves on.

“you coming out with us after the race tomorrow?” lando asks.

“depends on who ‘us’ is.” you reply curtly. you don’t wanna look at oscar’s stupid, handsome face for a second longer than you have to. a familiar sadness sinks into your bones.

“couple of the drivers, alex, carlos, oh and oscar might even be swayed.” you grit your teeth, suddenly frustrated. “anyway, since when do you have beef with drivers? little miss sunshine fallen out with someone?” lando sounds confused, accusatory.

you stay silent, walking into the back of the garage, praying someone will come and steal your brother away.

“hey, you gonna tell me what the problem i-?”

“lando, we need you to look at this.” your brother gets cut off by a frantic engineer, your prayers answered, and is quickly lost to the chaos of the garage.

a pair of warm eyes burn into the side of your head. you turn to see oscar watching you, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s studying you. he’s fidgeting, playing with his fingers, something strange for the man as cool as a cucumber. you look away as quickly as you can, managing to tear your eyes away from him, a lump forming in your throat which you swallow down.

it’s painful, really. sex and talking, it’s not enough, never has been for even a second. oscar piastri, australian f1 driver, number 81, quickly became your oscar, somewhat against your will.

-

somewhere in hungary, about 8 months ago

“are we really doing this, piastri?” you giggle, throwing your head back as his lips work your neck.

“need you.” he groans into your skin, low and needy. you’ve never heard him sound so disheveled, so desperate, a far cry from his usual, monotonous self.

“want you, osc.” you pant when his lips find your sweet spot, the feeling of him so delicious on your body.

“have me.” he whispers, falling into bed with you in his lap.

you lay there basking in stunned silence afterwards, a layer of sweat coating your knackered body. your shoulder is pressed flush with oscar’s, not an inch of space between you while you both stare at the ceiling, sporting matching lazy grins.

“i can’t believe we did that.” oscar mutters, a layer of disbelief in his voice.

“i think we should do it again.” you tease, except you are deadly serious.

“agreed.” he breathes.

“this stays between us, right?” you whisper, shyly.

“always.”

-

always makes your skin crawl now. you’re sick of having him in the dark, of having to avoid him in public for fear of turning into a lovesick fool. it’s embarrassing, really, unrequited love.

you can barely follow qualifying, staring blankly at the empty space in the garage where oscar’s car resides. you manage to catch the radio message through the headset you have on, the one where oscar’s muttering about a stupid mistake that’s just knocked him out. he’s limping back to the pits, licking his wounds.

you feel a pang in your chest, sympathetic and disappointed for him. you wonder what his mistake was, where his mind was. you’ll wait for the right moment, swallow the ache in your heart and your pride, and you’ll comfort him. he gets led away by frustrated engineers immediately, studying lines of data with furrowed eyebrows. you watch from afar, but then your heart sinks to your feet when four words sound through your headphones.

“lando, are you okay?”

will sounds stressed, repeating the four words that make your world stop spinning on its axis. everyone in the garage is staring at the tv screen, breaths held, stomachs tight.

your brothers car sits in tatters, carbon fibre littering the track. you can see the fluorescents of his helmet burrowed in the cockpit, still. your mouth hangs open, one hand clutching your chest, the other covering your quivering lips. you’re numb.

that feeling returns, the one of eyes burning into your weathered features. your wide eyes flit to the australian boy watching you from across the garage, and you beg silently for him to just come to you, pull you close, tell you that lando is okay and that he loves you back.

and lando is okay, his winded voice reassuring you over the radio.

but you stand there alone.

just like always.

-

somewhere in brazil, about 5 months ago

“what’s your favourite colour?” oscar mumbles lazily, lips bumping your cheekbone.

you’re curled up on his lap watching the sunset from his balcony. he was well behind lando after qualifying, and he’d craved a moment alone with you all day.

the air was thick, humid, the hot orange sun sinking far off in the horizon. you turn to face him, his features illuminated by the hazy glow. the sunlight makes his chocolate eyes sparkle warmly, so pretty.

“brown.” you whisper, scanning his face.

he laughs lowly, his chest rumbling.

“brown?” he questions teasingly.

“yep.” you grin, pecking his lips softly.

“why?”

“go look at those pretty eyes of yours in the mirror.” you retort smoothly, threading your fingers through his shower-damp strands.

“you flirting with me?”

“you bet i am.”

you twist back around, facing the view once more, moulding into his body. he kisses over your shoulder, resting his chin. you stay there content until the sun is gone and the stars twinkle.

-

the air in the room is thick, awkwardly silent.

he stands leaning against the desk, opposite where you sit on your bed. the lights are low in your hotel room, the imprint of your body still fresh against the mattress. you’d been crying when he knocked, eyes rimmed red, skin flushed raw.

“you just stood there.” you croak.

“love, i-“

“don’t call me that. please.”

hurt flashes across his features, but like he knows it’s not fair of him to complain, he buries it immediately.

“i just… will you hear me out?” oscar pleads quietly.

you nod feebly.

“it’s impossible. this, us. i wanted to go to you but i- i couldn’t, i didn’t know how that would look and i didn’t want to jeopardise this.”

“but you did.” you whisper. his face shatters, falling fast.

“no, no, i can be there when you need me-“

“but you weren’t!” you cry, your body physically sinking, your shoulders drooping.

“i can fix this, i will.”

“i think we need to stop this, osc. it’s too painful for me. i’ve tried to move past the hurt but after today…” your voice shakes and you crumble, the first tear falling.

“i’m not trying to hurt you.” he crosses the space between you in two rushed steps, collapsing to his knees before you.

“that’s not good enough.” you bite back. “i’m not going to be some guys dirty little secret. i won’t do it anymore oscar.”

“i was trying to protect you… this.” he gestures between you desperately

“i know, oscar. i know! but i never asked you to do that. i can’t love you in a hotel room for the rest of my life.” the words slip from your tongue, abrasive and messy, before your brain can catch up.

you grimace, biting your tongue, but oscar’s reaction couldn’t be further from your own. his watery eyes widen, pink lips pulling into a boyish grin.

“i don’t want to love you in a hotel room for the rest of my life either.” oscar whispers, tentatively taking your hands. you stare down at your slowly intertwining fingers, a familiar warmth oozing through your body. “i wanna love you everywhere.”

“show me.” you murmur through shaky breath.

“i will.” he leans in, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “for as long as you let me, i will.”

“just come here.” your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him into a kiss, one born of frustration, and longing, and a year of late night talking about everything except how much you love each other.

oscar pushes you back onto the bed, crawling over you, starving. you pull him flush against you, leaving no room between your bodies. you crave the feel of his entire weight pressing you into the mattress and as he does, you feel at home. when you pull apart, catching your breaths, he says it properly, for the first time, and the world gets lighter.

“i love you.” oscar cups your jaw, those chocolate eyes boring into yours, the intensity of it knocking you for six. “always.” he adds.

the meaning of the word changes. always doesn’t mean a shameful, taboo secret anymore. life is breathed into the six lettered word; always means you and him, together, finally out of the shadows.

“i love you, osc.” you whisper.

he’s smiling when he kisses you again, unbuttoning your blouse like he’ll die if he doesn’t get the offending item off of your frame. you retaliate by shoving his t-shirt up his back, tugging greedily at it to strip him bare. the material comes off easily and as he sits up to throw it away, you shrug off your blouse and it meets his shirt on the floor. his hands smooth over your curves, brushing the pudge of your belly as he finds the zip of your skirt, ruining the fasten in his state of haste. you barely notice the way he’s ruined the item of clothing, urgently unbuttoning his jeans. your underwear is gone too, nothing separating you but your bra, restless hands on heated skin.

“we need to be quiet.” you breathe. “lando’s next door.” oscar giggles, tinged pink.

“get on top, love.” he drawls, flipping onto his back and taking you with him.

he sits up with you in his lap, nothing anchoring either of you in the middle of the bed. the imprint of your devastated form is gone, replaced by the shape of him. you can feel the head of his cock nudging through your folds, slicking him up so that he can slide nice and deep. he trails his fingers between your legs, thumbing at your clit in deft circles, just the way he knows you like it. you’re mewling in his lap, grinding down on the pad of his thumb; it’s so good but it’s not enough.

“please, osc.” you pant, urging him to let you sink down on his cock. you can see how red it is, feel the way it throbs for you, and the need to be full of him is almost paralysing.

“come on, pretty girl. fill yourself up.” oscar mutters against the shell of your ear.

he kisses down your throat as you slide down on him, dropping your hips firm against his.

“fuck.” you cry, your forehead falling against his shoulder.

“you okay, sweetheart? feel so good for me.” oscar coos, his fingertips digging hard into your hips.

“so good, baby.” your head rolls back, feeling him hit that spot tucked away within your walls.

your breaths mingle, your breasts flush against his chest, and as if he realises that he never stripped you of your pesky bra, he grunts, unclasping the black lace and flinging it somewhere far away. he gently mumbles an awestruck “fuck”, as if he hasn’t seen your tits a million and one times before, and latches onto your nipple. his tongue works in slow circles, matching the pace of your hips working languidly on his cock, and you keen further into his body.

“prettiest girl for me.” oscar grits out, his eyes squeezing shut when you clamp down on him, hard.

you’re both trying so hard to be quiet, overwhelmed by touch and taste, love. you’re growing tired, hurtling towards a desperate release, and oscar can sense it, the feel of your quivering thighs tightening around his hips spurring him on. he grinds up into you, maintaining your pace, but he’s fucking you harder now, the anticipation of your release sending shivers down his spine.

“you gonna cum for me?” oscar grunts, holding your hips down against him. you can’t move, his hold too tight and your body too tired, all you can do is wait for your orgasm to hit like a ton of bricks. you nod frantically.

“yes, oscar, please baby.” you beg for it, and like the true gentleman he is, the calloused pad of his pointer finger finds its home on your clit, sending you into an upwards spiral.

it’s as if you’re levitating when you let go, in a dreamlike state, your teeth sinking hard into his pale shoulder to muffle a surefire whine of his name. he’s rutting into you, prolonging the bliss.

“cum inside of me.” you urge, voice barely above a whisper. well, you’ve certainly never done this before.

oscar’s eyes roll into the back of his head, tears pricking his lash line. a guttural gasp of your name spills from his lips when he lets go, painting your insides warm and white. you stare at the tiny indents your teeth had left on his thick shoulder, his breath hitting the crook of your neck warm and wet as he comes down.

“‘m yours, and i’m here. i’m always gonna be here, i promise.” oscar speaks so quietly that you wonder if you’ve imagined it.

-

“when i made that mistake today, i was thinking about you.”

you’ve been laying there in silence for a while now, tucked under his arm when he speaks. you turn to look at him, perplexed.

“what?”

“i felt so awful about what i said after we, you know. you looked so upset with me, and i don’t blame you.” oscar sighs.

“i just don’t want to feel like a shameful secret, osc.” you tell him quietly, the words heavy on your tongue.

“you won’t, not anymore. ‘m so sorry, sweetheart.” he lulls, kissing over your hairline.

“how do we make this work? and how are we ever gonna explain this to-“

“lando.” oscar cuts you off, shifting uncomfortable. “he’s going to murder me and my entire bloodline.” he chuckles nervously.

“he won’t murder you. he might put you in a gravel trap, though.” you roll onto your side, smiling teasingly up at him and he rolls his eyes.

“i’ll take the heat. you’re worth it.”

-

“promise me.” you pant, his hips grinding into you. you’re curled into his chest, still spooning and barely awake. he’d woken up needy, and you were even needier, the faint glow of early morning sunshine washing over you through a crack in the beige curtains.

“anything.” oscar stutters, his breath warm against the back of your neck. his nose bumps your skin, teeth scraping the shell of your ear.

you stop meeting his thrusts. he whines low, wordlessly pleading for you to resume. he ruts his hips against your ass, chasing friction.

“tell me it’s all gonna be different now.”

“i already told you, i-“ oscar grunts.

“promise me.” you purposely clamp down on him, a hiss sounding from between his gritted teeth.

“promise, i promise, i love you.”

you giggle, rocking your hips again, fucking yourself onto him once more.

“i know.”

“you gonna let me off the hook?” oscar pants in your ear, tugging on your earlobe with his teeth.

“still gotta prove yourself, piastri.” you moan.

he feels deeper like this and he knows it, revelling in the way he’s filled you up so perfectly. he rolls into you slowly, sliding against each and every spot that makes you squirm. you drop your guard, going limp in his arms to let him finish you off.

“you nearly there, sweetheart? you gonna cum for me, love?” his accents thickens in the mornings, husky and intoxicating. you fall apart, then, and he stays buried inside of you, the only sounds in the room your matching heavy breathing.

“i need you to get dressed.” oscar kisses your cheek.

“kicking me out already?” you feign offence, looking at him over your shoulder.

his fingers come to cup your chin, his forehead resting against yours.

“there’s something we gotta do.”

-

you’re wearing your skirt from the day before, the waistband rolled over to make up for the oscar-destroyed zipper. his hoodie that you’ve stolen almost completely covers the short skirt, and your messy hair and poorly removed makeup don’t do much to convince anyone that you’d actually slept in your own room last night.

still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you don’t really comprehend where oscar is leading you, but when the elevator dings, signalling that you’ve reached the restaurant floor, you’re suddenly painfully awake. time seems to move in slow motion, your tummy twisting as you realise what’s about to happen.

ahead of you, tucked into the corner of the restaurant is your brother, jon, and ashley. lando is already draped in team kit, the papaya of his hoodie blaring obnoxiously for once, a warning sign.

“oscar, what-“

“i’m doing this.” he affirms, speeding up his stride.

oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god.

your heart speeds up, dropping to the pit in your belly when lando notices you, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes taking in the bewildering sight before him. his baby sister, disheveled and wide-eyed, and his teammate holding her hand, on a mission.

“what the fuck am i looking at?” lando doesn’t sound angry, per say, more perplexed than anything. there is an edge to his voice that you don’t particularly like, but he hasn’t started swinging yet, you suppose.

“i’m in love with your sister. like, for real. you deserve to know that.” oscar says confidently, somewhat monotonously.

lando opens his mouth, closes it. opens it again, closes it. he repeats the process a few more times, going through the motions of an emotional rollercoaster.

but then, he sighs deeply, a grin of disbelief stretching across his face. jon bangs on the table excitedly, and ash is shaking his head.

“you owe us so much money.” jon laughs, his head tipping back.

“pay up, boss.” ash sticks his hand out expectantly, smirking across the table.

“what… what?” you exclaim, narrowing your eyes in confusion.

“i didn’t wanna believe them.” lando shrugs.

“don’t blame you.” oscar chimes in, and you stare between the two mclaren drivers in bewilderment.

“are you okay with this?” you question, staring your brother in the eyes, still a bit disoriented by the entire situation. his face softens, a genuine smile lingering small on his lips.

“if you’re happy, i’ll make my peace with it.” lando’s eyes flit between you and oscar.

all of the sudden, a look of horror crosses his face, and his voice turns stern.

“but,” he inhales shakily. “if i ever, ever, hear again what i think i heard last night,” he glares at oscar, pointing one firm finger at the australian, who stands up a bit straighter. “you’re dead, piastri.”

jon and ash bite back giggles at the empty threat, and you take it upon yourself to put an end to the situation before it gets any more awkward.

“well, on that note!” you sing-song, dragging oscar away.

“and make sure you’re using protection!” lando calls out, panic stricken, big brother mode activated.

“oh my god.” you blush dark pink, speeding up, the elevator in your sights.

“that went well.” oscar quips sarcastically. he looks rather happy with himself.

you kiss him as soon as the metal doors shut.

-

you do go out after the race, but for once it’s not to drink away the memories of a weekend in oscar’s arms. this time, it’s to celebrate the fact that you can love him out loud, and he’ll do the same right back.

you’re dancing in his arms, bright lights in shades of blues and purples streaming over your bodies. oscar holds you close, keeps you wrapped in his arms, despite the shock on the faces of others at the sight of lando norris’s baby sister publicly besotted with his teammate.

when oscar kisses you deep, smiling against your lips that taste like cherry liquor, you know that this last year of your life wasn’t in vain.

you and oscar, you’re built to last.

-

“how did you not see it, mate?” charles beams, crinkles by his eyes from the wide smile he’s sporting. he’s clearly drunk, but lando is too.

it appears he’s clocked the brits sister and her australian suitor on the dance floor.

the monagasque has rocked up to the bar with alex and pierre in tow, the three of them slapping lando on the back as they arrive.

“i guess there were signs.” lando shrugs, dragging his finger over the rim of the crystal glass.

“signs? mate it was obvious.” pierre chuckles, pushing lando’s shoulder.

“wait, you all knew?” lando splutters.

yeah. duh. come on, man.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“it’s funnier.” charles… winks? it’s hard to tell with him.

lando finds you in the crowd, grinning up at oscar like he hung the stars in the sky. the younger mclaren driver returns your look, and it sparks warmth in lando’s chest.

you’re gonna be okay.

-

hehe

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne

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camera panning to it being a magpie is sooooo australian

a bird tried attacking vasseur while he was being interviewed 😆

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new fave bunting video just dropped

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THINKIN ABOUT YOU, charles leclerc

summary. in which, charles is in love with his childhood best-friend. [your name] is in love with her childhood best-friend. but everything is much more complicated. (2)

pairing. charles leclerc x arabic childhood best-friend!reader

warnings. self-consciousness, mentions of alcohol and heartbreaking thoughts/dialogues

side note. i listened to cameras/good ones go interlude while writing, don’t know if it’s the best music to read with lmao but anyway

previous ↺ next

“no! i can’t believe you!” your best-friend exclaims through your phone’s speaker. “after years of not seeing each other, he brings his girlfriend to your family dinner!” despite the situation, you can’t help but laugh a little when the girl resumes it. “what did you say?” she asks after a few seconds.

“what do you want me to say? i just smiled like a hmara and tried to make conversation with everyone except Charles and Alexandra. i’m not even gonna lie to you, i didn’t feel like i had a say. it’s been years, he’s got a right to move on” (dumb girl) it feels like my heart tightens painfully when those words come out of my mouth, but it’s just facts.

“what the fuck? of course you have a say! i’m sorry, but the last time you saw him the two of you were deeply in love, things didn’t go as planned and the boy didn’t even try to reach out. now that the two of you finally reunite, he brings his girlfriend without telling anyone. so, yes, you have a word to say—in my book anyway” she sternly says, making me rethink my last words.

“i don’t know” you mumble, readjusting your hair with the help of your bathroom’s mirror.

it’s been two days since the family dinner, or whatever-you-want-to-call-it, and it didn’t turned out the way you excepted. like, really not. first of all, you didn’t except the love of your life to be this beautiful—but you also didn’t except him to bring his girl too.

usually, you didn’t rethink the way God has made you, but when you saw the beautiful girl that definitely took your place, you couldn’t help yourself but become a little self-conscious during the totality of the dinner.

suddenly, the little frizz that your hair adorned were making you look ridiculous; your makeup wasn’t makeup-ing like hers, your pimples were disgusting in front of her clear skin and your thighs were way too big next to her thin and perfect legs.

this girl is everything a guy like Charles is looking for, a girl that really is the opposite of who you are. and it hurts when you excepted dimples to be the man of your life.

“girl, i know you’re overthinking right now” the voice of your friend stops your thoughts. “you know what? get ready, we’re going out tonight!” she declares, already decided.

“you know i can’t, i have way too much work” you explain, even though you know very well in the back of your mind that the girl doesn’t care.

“we’re going out. and if your work for monday is not done tomorrow, i’m helping you. so go get ready!” she says and you chuckle, taking this a sign to go out of your bathroom to find the perfect outfit for tonight, while the girl in your phone hangs up.

you have no idea of where you’re going to, but you play the game anyway, knowing that whatever your friend prepared must be good.

hours pass with the sound of your playlist—the songs loudly playing between the walls of your apartment, while you’re trying to hide your lack of sleep with makeup in front of your vanity’s mirror. quickly, you found yourself ready and about to exit your apartment; only your purse, phone and home keys in hands.

“oh my God, look at you!” your best-friend hypes you up, her hands firmly grabbing at the steering wheel of her car, and the girls in her backseats finally notice you—the three of them complimenting you. “ready to spend a good time?” she asks you when you’re seated next to her, starting the car.

“i hope so!” the four of them laugh, and suddenly it feels like everything’s gonna be alright.

the ride to the restaurant—where the music is apparently just as good as the food and service—goes smoothly, the five of you doing multiple karaokes and videos for each other’s memories. finally, your bestie parks and the next second, you and your girls are entering the restaurant.

putting a foot in this box of colourful lights and loud music makes you realise that you really don’t need much more than this to forget about dimples and his perfect relationship—at least that’s what you think.

“ooooh… i heard the waiters here are handsome” kiara, one of your girls, screams in your ear, trying to make you understand what she’s saying despite the noise. “might be your chance to end the night with a pretty boy!” she smirks, putting her arm around your waist.

you roll your eyes, amused.

one of kiara’s future victim shows you the table that your best-friend has reserved for tonight. a table, not far away from the bar and pretty close to the dance floor, where many people are already dancing. sitting down, your back facing all of the activities behind you—including the restaurant’s entrance.

topics are brought on the table and, soon, the five of you find yourselves laughing at ariana’s jokes and kiara’s weird ass story times.

“what do you girls want to eat and drink?” a waiter asks, his hands resting against the wood of luna’s chair.

shaking off the easiness of the man, since it doesn’t seem to bug luna, everyone orders and when the boy is about to quit your table, you and kiara catch him swiftly slipping something into luna’s hand.

the girl next to you look in your direction, hoping that she didn’t hallucinate this moment, and the little smirk that you send her way reassures her. at least, we know that someone’s night’s gonna be good.

in between two conversations, your orders are brought with your drink, who happens to be alcohol for the half of it, except yours and your best-friend, since she’s the one who’s driving.

in the middle of a bite, you feel a heal being shoved in your leg, making you loudly hiss and look up from your plate of pastas. you encounter your best-friend’s eyes, who silently ask you to grab your phone and to look a it.

you to bestie 🩷

what’s up????

bestie 🩷 to you

do not look

but

i think that charles and his gf just entered the restaurant w a group of friends???? ig

looking up, you swallow the best that you can your pastas—and the news—and pretend to not care by shoving your phone in your purse, hoping that it would suffice for your brain to forget the existence of dimples and his perfect little girlfriend that seems to be everywhere you are.

oh God, what does it have to be that hard?

“i want to dance!” eden says loudly, standing up and fixing her short dress. “who comes?” and suddenly, all of your girls are standing up, two of them grabbing your hands and bringing you with them to the dance floor.

at the beginning, you’re as stiff as a toothpick, the totality of your friends trying to hype you up the best they can. you can’t just brush off the fact that Charles is here, probably seeing you on the dance floor standing ridiculously straight.

but somehow, despite the sweating bodies that are around you and the circumstances, you finally start to let go—dancing with your friends and trying to keep up with their energy. the good musical taste of the dj helps you to relax and enjoy a little bit of your time, even though a certain someone with dimples and green eyes is in the back of your head.

but, you have to fake it till you make it. that’s what the tik-tok girlies say anyway.

“oh, [your name]! i didn’t see you there!” a high pitched voice makes you slow down and look over your shoulder. Alexandra. “how are you doing? i love the outfit!” she smiles, awkwardly wrapping her arms around your shoulders, not waiting for you to say anything about it.

“oh… hi, thank you” you smile, taking a look at her black dress before speaking up. “love your outfit too!” she giggles, apparently tipsy, and detaches herself from you while taking a sip of her glass. it’s been no longer than twenty minutes that she entered the restaurant, and she’s already out of her mind?

“do you want some? it’s piña colada, very good!” the brown haired woman tells you, shoving her glass in your chest—making the cocktail splash and stain your top with yellow. “oh my God! i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to!” she hurriedly says, her eyes widening.

“exactly what i needed” you mutter in between your teeth. “don’t worry, it might just go with water” you don’t even know why you trie to reassure her, when it’s your top that is ruin by her own fault, but you do it anyway.

exiting the dance floor with your eyes fixed on the yellow stains, you don’t look around you, too preoccupied by your silk white shirt to look. instinctively, you push the first door that is presented to you and, luckily, it happens to be the toilets.

grabbing papers and wetting them, you furiously rubs the stains, trying your best to make them disappear. you don’t know why or what makes you want to, but you feel like you’re about to cry in two seconds—and the timing seems to be fake because the tears are already on your cheeks. “oh purée, pourquoi…” (oh gosh, why) your fingers try to stop them, in sake of your expensive concealer, but nothing seems to work.

“tout va bien?” (everything’s alright) a voice speaks up, and you nearly have an attack.

“putain Charles!” (fuck Charles) the boy laughs, but you really don’t feel like laughing right now, so you resume to rubbing your silk top and stopping your tears by looking up to the ceiling.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you” he says once he notices that he is not on your good side. “oh gosh, who did that?” the brunette asks, taking a look at your chest full of stains.

“your girlfriend” the words come out way more stern than you excepted, but at this point you do not really care what the boy might think. the worse that he could imagine is that him moving on makes you want to throw up—which might be the reality, but he’ll never know.

“vraiment? désolé, elle est maladroite. fin, je crois” (really? sorry, she’s quite clumsy… i guess) the italian says, words getting stuck in his throat. “do you—”

“leave me the fuck alone” you loudly hiss, the anger that’s been boiling since the dinner slowly resurfacing.

taken aback, Charles can’t help but pause, really not expecting you to lash out. his green eyes widen a little, and his throat is accumulating way too much saliva for him to speak up.

“écoute, je sais que c’était pas du tout droit de ma part de—” (listen, i know that was not so straight of me to—) but he’s being cut by you again.

“shut up. i really don’t need to hear your excuses or whatever-the-fuck-this-is. you quickly moved on, and now you have a beautiful and perfect little girlfriend who seems to love you with all her heart—just like you do—while i’m still stuck in the time when you sweared to me that we’ll have a bright future together. that’s my fault, i put the blame on me, so don’t need to come apologising just for your good conscience” you spit out, tears running down your makeup and making their way in between your moving lips. “vas vivre ton conte de fées avec ta princesse et laisse-moi t’oublier en paix s’il-te-plaît” (go live your fairytale with your princess and let me forget you in peace, please) the papers in your hands are thrown in the bin and, not caring about your makeup anymore, you wipe your tears away.

not waiting for the boy to say anything, you begin to make your way out the bathroom.

but he still sticks to you, just like those fucking yellow stains that are sticking to your skin and bra.

his fingers are wrapped around your wrist and it feels like they’re not about to let go of you now. sighing, he tries to connect your stare to his. “je t’aime” (i love you) eyes deep in yours, he mutters those two words with such intensity and clarity that it makes you want to forget everything and go back to the time where you didn’t have to share him.

but those days are over.

taglist, @chanshintien @d3kstar & others that i can’t mention (????)

© eatingaburrito

[adoristsposts]

Alex during every race weekend 2/24: Jeddah