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chesapeakescove · 3 days ago

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Ice Breaker || Oscar Piastri Mini Series

Chapter Three: Progress is Progress

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x PR Consultant!Reader

Summary: You’re hired to media-train McLaren’s rising young talent — an Australian with a reputation for giving interviews like he's reading IKEA instructions. You expected a challenge to get him out of his shell. You didn’t expect him to be so ... likeable. But once that ice is broken, and you catch yourself day dreaming about the sky McLaren driver, there's no going back. Not if Lando Norris has anything to do with it.

Word Count: ~11.K estimate (multi-part series)

Warnings: Language, alcohol mention, mild sexual thoughts (Oscar POV), mutual pining, awkward flirting, soft burn, one (1) meddling Lando Norris.

Author’s Note: Back to the paddock we go!! Osc’s first real race weekend w/ you in the picture and wow the vibes are… tense. professional panic? check. awkward humor? check. subtle romantic tension you’re totally ignoring? also check. baby steps but hey, progress is progress (…maybe).<3

Tags: #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fic #f1 fanfiction #slow burn #friends to lovers #media trainer au #soft oscar #lando being a cupid

Taglist: @afreckledfairy, @marijas-stuff, @avengersgirllorianna, @cianrol, @lost-library-of-violets

Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules Ice Breaker - Mini Series Masterlist AO3 Works Next →

Christ, this is worse than Wembley Stadium.

I had to pull your tote closer to my body as throngs of people bustled by at the Red Bull Ring paddock entrance, team members rushing to garages, reporters angling for sound bites from principals or celebrities, fans craning for a glimpse of their favorite driver.

I'd been in team locker rooms before, behind stadium tunnels and in crowded press pens, but this was different — foreign in a way that made my chest tighten slightly with nerves. The paddock wasn’t just loud, it was swallowing me whole. Not in the way the engines roared on TV, but in a constant, layered hum. The metallic whine of distant machinery, the sharp click of camera shutters, the rise and fall of a dozen conversations all happening at once. It was alive. Dazzling, chaotic, and moving with a kind of purpose that made my pulse stumble.

Formula One was speed and spectacle and precision, all wrapped up in the glamour of the Met Gala, and I was there to make one of its rising stars finally look like he belonged.

And to prove that I did. That too.

“Do you get nervous in crowds or something?”

The flat Australian accent cut through my thoughts. I glanced sideways and found Oscar watching me from under his papaya colored hat, his expression caught somewhere between its usual blankness and a flicker of curiousity.

“No,” I said, a little surprised he’d noticed. “Just… the setup I’m used to in other sports is different." I waved my hands toward the clamoring fans, so close to where we walked. "This is a lot to take in.”

He nodded, but didn't reply. He glanced around at the crowd for a moment, hazel eyes darting back and forth like he was searching for something else to say. But his brows only furrowed, lips pressed together in a thin, frustrated line as if the words refused to come.

I felt a twinge of sympathy tug at me.

In the two weeks of working with him, I’d come to understand two things: that Oscar hated waking up early for their factory meetings, and that simple things like small talk didn’t come easy to the naturally reserved Aussie.

“You don’t have a microphone on you,” I offered gently. “You don’t have to force conversation with me if it doesn’t feel organic.”

He blinked, then looked away. “Right.” There was the faintest hint of embarrassment in his voice.

“I appreciate that you’re trying though,” I added, softening my tone. “I can tell you’ve put work into making an effort to be more conversational this weekend.”

That earned me a huff of a laugh. “Thanks.”

My phone buzzed with a call, and I sighed. “I’ve got to head to hospitality, but I’ll be around for your interviews after FP1.”

He nodded, giving me a less-stiff wave before walking off.

But it didn’t take long for the confidence I’d built in his progress to waver.

By the time FP1 had ended and the media circus had begun, I could see in real time when he started to crack. At first it was small — awkward pauses, shifting feet, misplaced laughs. But as the interviews stacked up, a troubling throughline emerged: Oscar struggled most when his interviewer was a woman, the discomfort tightening his answers and draining whatever ease he’d managed to build elsewhere. I was halfway through scribbling a note about it in my notebook when his flat voice came through the loudspeakers — an awkwardly emotionless answer to what was clearly meant as a lighthearted question for the crowd:

"Uh… I guess? I don't watch the stands too much when I'm racing."

I groaned internally, watching the moment drag. Before the tension could settle too heavily over the audience, Lando swooped in on the mic with a clever joke. "Don’t worry, mate, the stands are just full of people who love you — terrifying, I know." The crowd burst into laughter, the tension breaking instantly as the energy lifted again.

But the reprieve didn’t last. What followed was like watching a train wreck in slow motion — impossible to look away from. The interviewer, a woman, leaned closer and reached out to touch his arm playfully, and I saw him visibly squirm, his gaze skittering off like he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. His answers, already clipped, grew even shorter. Then came the worst of it: she patted him lightly on the back with a teasing, “It’s alright, Osc, we don’t bite, I swear!” and I watched him flinch once more and visibily grimace, irritation flickering briefly across his face.

Well, that’ll get clipped.

I glanced down at my phone cautiously; sure enough, social media was already ablaze. Tweets were coming in fast:

“Why did Piastri look like he’d rather be anywhere else than talking to her???” “Repulsed by a friendly pat?? Bro relax.” “Idk man, it’s giving ‘doesn’t like women in the paddock.’” “Why does he act so differently with male vs female interviewers??” “Someone needs to media-train this boy ASAP.” Each one felt like a tiny match striking, blowing the moment further out of proportion. “McLaren, get your driver under control, this is embarrassing.” “I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt but… yikes.” “Not a great look for a sport trying to promote inclusivity.” “He really said ‘please don’t talk to me’ with his whole body.” “This is why drivers need better PR teams.”

My chest tightened as I closed my phone, fingers gripping it like a lifeline. Guilt and frustration burned hot in my throat, the bitter taste of failure rising with it. I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, willing myself to stay composed.

Two weeks of work, and it felt like we’d barely scratched the surface. Worse — it felt like I’d failed him, letting him walk onstage unarmed for a firing squad. But then, like a bitter echo, a small, unwelcome thought crept in:

Maybe this was why he always seemed so distant in our meetings.

Maybe it wasn’t nerves or shyness, maybe he just didn’t like women in this space. Maybe he didn’t respect me, either. I kept my face carefully composed, but the thought festered, vindicating the angry scrawl of my pen as I stabbed out another note in my book.

May have a problem with female professionals in the paddock. Need to make him seem more egalitarian to the public, even if he dislikes working with women.

My pen hovered there, ink threatening to bleed through the page, before my phone lit up with an incoming call — McLaren’s marketing director. My stomach dropped. I drew in a breath through my nose, steeling myself, before swiping to answer.

By the time FP2 wrapped and we sat down in a spare media room, the exhaustion between us was palpable. Oscar looked wrung out — shoulders slumped, gaze distant, like he’d spent the day being chipped away one answer at a time. I wasn’t much better; the long hours and the sting of the morning’s interviews still clung to me.

I’d come in with an interactive, energizing plan, a session on redirecting questions with some role-playing exercises, but one glance at him told me it would bounce right off. Frustration bubbled up, and I tossed the plan aside, opting for something simple instead.

“Well, I might as well point out the elephant in the room ,” I said quietly, flipping to a blank page in my notebook. My voice sounded more defeated than I’d meant it to. “Today didn’t exactly go how we hoped, so let’s just work on the basics — answering the filler questions you hate. I know you think they’re meaningless, but we need to keep practicing them anyway. No technical questions. No buzzwords. Just… simple.”

He groaned, looking like he was about to retort that he never said that, but I shot him a look that clearly said don’t even try it. He folded his arms across his chest instead, leaning back in his chair with a small sigh. “Fine.”

“Alright,” I started, pen poised. “Favorite food when you’re traveling?”

“Pasta.”

“Favorite day?”

“Tuesday.”

“Why?”

“No races on Tuesdays.”

I arched a brow. “Riveting. Favorite vacation spot?”

“Home.”

It went on like that, his answers growing almost comically short, like he was trying to be difficult on purpose. Frustration continued to simmer, but to my own surprise, I found myself stifling a laugh at how absurdly unbothered he seemed by my questions.

Finally, I asked, “If you could switch careers with anyone for a day, who would it be?”

He paused, then delivered flatly: “One of the IT guys. They don’t do interviews, nobody gives a shit about their favorite vacation spot.”

The deadpan was so perfectly devoid of tact that I actually laughed. He looked surprised, clearly not seeing what was funny.

“Wow, Oscar,” I said sarcastically, though I couldn’t help the little smile tugging at my mouth after one particularly deadpan reply. “Don’t overwhelm me with too much personality all at once.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “I’m saving it for the cameras.”

Maybe that was his way of joking, I realized, shaking my head slightly. But it was something.

Small. But progress.

The banter grew easier after that, the rhythm shifting into something almost conversational. He started throwing questions back at me, his voice lighter than before.

“Favorite movie?” he asked.

I blinked. “That’s random.”

He smirked faintly. “So? Answer.”

I rolled my eyes. “Notting Hill.”

“Figures.”

I arched a brow. “Figures? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… figures.” He shrugged, a hint of teasing in his tone that felt new, almost playful.

I scoffed lightly. “What’s wrong with Notting Hill? It’s a classic. Smart, funny, endlessly re-watchable — and don’t even start on Hugh Grant.”

His smirk deepened like he was enjoying how defensive I’d gotten, drummed his fingers against his knee with gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

The his voice dropped just slightly, as though testing how it sounded on me. “What about a favorite music genre?”

I blinked. “This isn’t about me.”

“Humor me,” he countered with a tiny shrug, leaning a fraction closer. The fidgeting, the way his knee angled toward mine, read almost like an attempt at connection. For the first time, it felt like Oscar was making a real effort to engage with me beyond the script of our sessions.

And somewhere in the back-and-forth, he unspooled.

“Rock or indie,” I admitted finally.

He made a face, grinning faintly. “Terrible taste.”

I gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re just saying that because you probably have the taste of a child,” I scoffed.

He rolled his eyes again, leaning back. “Or maybe I’m just trying to keep a little mystery.”

“Mystery?” I laughed. “Please. You're about a mysterious as a piece of celery.”

He feigned offense, lips pursing in an exaggerated pout. “Wow. Brutal.”

“Just telling it like it is,” I said, grinning.

He shook his head, muttering, “Unbelievable,” but there was no bite in it, only the faint, playful edge of someone who was loosening up.

I tilted my head at him, smirking a little. “You know this is why people keep calling you boyish, right?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, and I could swear there was the faintest hint of a pout before he shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Mmhm,” I teased, jotting something in my notebook. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Something in his posture shifted then, a spark of pride maybe, and suddenly he leaned back in his chair like he owned it, shoulders loosening as if shedding the weight of the day. His legs spread casually, taking up space in a way that drew my reluctant attention, a subtle display of comfort that felt worlds away from the tightly wound rookie I’d first met in Woking.

His voice followed suit, less clipped now, words flowing with an ease that made him seem more present, more confident. He shot me a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Aren't you the same person who told me to be myself last week?”

It caught me off guard, the shift. I shouldn’t have been noticing the way his knee brushed mine when he leaned back, or how the casual sprawl of his frame looked so assured. But I did. And for a moment, it wasn’t just a driver and a PR consultant sitting in a room running media drills. It felt like a person opening up to me, letting me glimpse the version of himself that hid beneath the sponsor-approved shell.

I forced myself to focus on that change, on the progress, not on the tight fit of his shirt over his shoulders or the way my pulse had quickened.

“Alright, alright. Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck,” I asked suddenly, letting the question tumble out with an almost too-bright tone, eager to change the subject, “or a hundred duck-sized horses?”

That did it. He laughed, really laughed, an unguarded sound that transformed his usually flat face. It lingered too long. Warmer than the polite professionalism that usually sat between us.

“Definitely the duck,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still grinning. “One solid target.”

I watched him, chuckling at the stupidity of my own question, and realized I was enjoying this too much — the easy back-and-forth, the glimpse of someone softer beneath the calm, collected driver persona.

We need to wrap up before this veers too far off course.

“Alright,” I said, masking my thoughts with a professional tone, “I’ve got a couple of tiny notes for you to think about for the weekend.”

I leaned in to show him my notes, our shoulders brushing. Instinctively, I pulled back a fraction, worried the contact would set him off again like it had on stage— but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t bristle.

That’s odd.

I glanced back up to gauge his reaction, fully prepared for an another awkward exchange. But I froze when I saw him staring at one of the notes with an uncharacteristically tight, almost shocked expression.

Then my heart lurched. He was staring at a note I thought I’d tucked away:

May have a problem with female professionals in the paddock. Need to make him seem more egalitarian to the public, even if he dislikes working with women.

Heat flared in my cheeks so hot it made my ears ring. “That— that wasn’t for you to see,” I stammered, words tumbling over themselves as I snapped the notebook shut like it had burned me. “God, I’m sorry. I thought it was on another page. That was… incredibly unprofessional.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then: “It’s fine.”

We both busied ourselves awkwardly gathering our things, the room thick with the weight of what he’d read. My stomach twisted. An evening’s worth of progress, finally a laugh from him, had all been undone by one stupid note. I felt my face still hot as I stuffed my notebook into my tote, avoiding his gaze.

“Same time tomorrow, yeah?” he mumbled, his tone low and unreadable.

I nodded quickly, not trusting myself to say much without sounding defensive or embarrassed. But as he reached the door, he paused, hand on the frame, and turned back.

“It’s not true,” he said, voice steadier than before. "If it matters.”

I looked up, startled. His expression had softened, the first real flicker of emotion all day, a quiet vulnerability creeping in around the edges.

“I don't have any issue with woman. I mean, I grew up with three sisters,” he said after a beat, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the floor as if saying it to me directly was too much. “Spent a lot of time around women in karting too. I’m just… not very good at it.” His hands flexed at his sides, restless, before he added with a grimace, a wry twist to his mouth, “The talking to them bit, if they aren't related to me. I don’t really know how to without sounding like—well, a knob head.”

Relief washed through me first. At least it wasn’t because he disliked me, or women in general. But almost as immediately as it soured, something inside me quietly deflated.

Of course.

What I’d read as warmth earlier, as him opening up to me, was just him trying his best to carry a conversation because that’s what his job demanded. Not because of me. Not because of anything I'd achieved.

“Appearances don’t always match reality,” I said softly, giving him what I hoped was an encouraging smile, though the weight of the moment made it feel a little hollow. “Thanks for telling me that. And honestly, that story about your sisters? That would be great in an interview. It shows what you value.”

He nodded, slow and subdued, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Thanks.”

“We can work on ways for you to engage with female reporters , with less uh … flinching, and talk more about women in motorsport. It’ll help with perception.” I kept my tone professional, though I could feel the exhaustion pulling at my voice, the shared heaviness of the day settling like a fog between us as he nodded again.

Another nod. “Okay. Thanks for today.”

He gave me a quick, almost shy goodbye before leaving. “See you tomorrow.”

I stayed behind, staring at the empty stool. Proud of the progress. Proud of him for his honesty. And yet, somewhere beneath it, a faint, inexplicable disappointment that this, whatever that was, had nothing to do with me.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #mini series

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chesapeakescove · 3 days ago

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Omg "Ice Breaker" was so cute 💗

Glad you’re liking it 😊 more is on the way soon I promise , I have chapter 3 of Ice Breaker in the works and two requests in the pipeline (for the Britney and Hulk EEEKK) so it will be out in the next coming days!!

Sorry for the wait, but awkward flirty!Oscar is so hard to get right and he deserves perfection 😫

#f1 fanfiction #formula one #f1 fic #C8s thoughts #ask response

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chesapeakescove · 5 days ago

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Thank you for the amazing Jenson oneshot! So incredibly written; you are so talented. ❤️

Ofc!! I haven’t written for him before but I had a lot of fun with it, I can just imagine Nico being his usual sassy self ribbing Jenson for being so whipped too hahaha

Thanks for the kind words and for interacting ❤️💘

#C8s thoughts #ask response

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chesapeakescove · 5 days ago

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Hey do you write for Jenson Button?

If so could you write something (2nd person) where Jenson and reader work together at SkySports and he is WHIPPED for reader? Maybe something sweet and fluffy where reader is so focused that she doesn't even realize that Jenson is flirting with her all the time?

Thank you for hearing me out, and if you don't write for JB feel free to totally ignore this!! ❤️

Thank you so much for the request! This was such a fun one to work on — I took some liberty with how much she notices or chooses to ignore his flirting, but whipped!Jenson was a delight to write regardless. I loved balancing his playful side with something a little softer (and sassy!britney I MEAN NICO ofc.)

Hope you enjoy! 💕

Tea Runs || Jenson Button One-Shot

Pairing: Jenson Button x Colleague!Reader

Summary: You’ve been working as a technical commentator at Sky Sports for a while now, focused on proving you still belong in the sport after leaving Mercedes. Jenson Button, charming as ever, has been hovering around you all season — which you chalk up to pitying kindness. But when his antics get bolder and the truth comes out, you realize you’ve been oblivious to something much bigger: Jenson hasn’t been doting. He’s been flirting. Badly.

Word Count: ~3.5K

Warnings: mild language, brief mention of mental health struggles/burnout, lots of teasing/flirting, a little pining, and a soft-but-thrilling kiss at the end.

Tags: Jenson Button x Reader, second-person POV, coworkers-to-something-more, whipped!Jenson, oblivious!Reader, teasing, fluff with a touch of tension, post-race parking lot confession, happy ending.

Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules || One Shots, Requests, & Smuts Masterlist || AO3 Works

Hospitality Suite – Morning of FP1

It was always like this on race weekends—controlled chaos wrapped in the hum of generators, the distant shriek of an F1 engine on an installation lap, and the constant shuffle of people who seemed to know exactly where they were going while you double-checked every note in your binder for the tenth time.

You kept your head down in the Sky hospitality suite, highlighter in one hand and tea in the other, breaking down sector deltas for the commentary segment you’d be leading later. You’d worked in Formula One for years, but this—this was different. You weren’t an engineer anymore. You were in front of cameras now. You still felt like you had something to prove every time the red light blinked on.

When you’d first joined Brawn as a junior engineer back in '09, you’d seen Jenson Button in the paddock more than once. He’d been world champion Jenson Button then—impossibly polished, charming, part of that untouchable club of drivers you could only admire from afar. You’d nursed a quiet, almost embarrassing crush in those early days, same as half the women in the garages, daydreaming about brief conversations that never happened and replaying every smile he sent in your direction. He was dazzling then, larger than life, and you had been too young and too green not to be enchanted.

But that was a lifetime ago. These days, you were older, steadier, tempered by far more serious challenges than a silly crush. You’d long since filed those girlish daydreams away as youthful foolishness. Whatever Jenson was now—colleague, occasional co-commentator, serial tea-bringer—he was certainly not someone who’d look at you like that.

You sighed for a moment, leaning back and letting your gaze drift out over the paddock from the Sky suite. Below, your old team, Mercedes, swarmed around their garage like a well-oiled machine, silver uniforms flashing in the sun as engineers and mechanics moved in a rhythm you once knew by heart. The smell of fuel and the distant whine of engines carried faintly through the glass, and for a moment the ache of missing that world tugged at you. You missed the pre-dawn strategy meetings, huddled over laptops with coffee that tasted like burnt tar; the white-hot adrenaline of a perfect call landing exactly as planned; the quiet pride of watching your work ripple out onto the track, almost invisible to the viewers at home but monumental to you.

But then you remembered why you’d left—and the thought always disappeared. Mercedes had been… a lot. The decision to leave had been yours, but it hadn’t come without whispered rumors and sympathetic looks. No one asked for details, and you hadn’t offered them. Health reasons was all anyone got. That was safer. Easier than trying to explain how the constant pressure, the travel, the endless performance reviews had hollowed you out.

Now, at Sky, people were polite to a fault. They called it kindness, but you knew what it really was: walking on eggshells. Crofty never spoke over you on-air, Brundle never challenged your opinions too sharply, and the other women on the team simpered over you like you might break at any moment. No one wanted to push you too hard, upset you, give you any reason to bolt again.

“Tea’s gone cold.”

You jumped at the voice, glancing up to see Jenson himself setting a fresh cup beside you. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, forearms dusted with a faint tan, and his hair was slightly mussed in a way that made him look irritatingly effortless. You faintly registered the soft stubble along his jaw, a shade darker than his hair, before tearing your eyes away and back down to your notes.

“You really don’t have to keep doing that,” you said with a faint smile, already half-burying yourself back in your strategy commentart.

“Doing what?”

“Running around getting me tea. I’m not going to fall apart without it.”

He only grinned, leaning one hip against the table like he had nowhere else to be. “Maybe I like keeping you on your toes then. You look like you’d work yourself into the ground if left alone.”

You blinked up at him, more thrown by his tone than his words. He said it casually, like it wasn’t loaded, like it wasn’t one more person taking care not to push you too hard. Maybe he was always like this—Jenson Button, who’d always been charming, always throwing those easy smiles around for anyone within reach. Of course he’s like this, you thought. He acts like this with everyone. And with me? He’s only doting because he feels bad. Babying me because no one wants to be the one who tips me over the edge.

“Thanks,” you said finally, flatter than you meant to, waving him off as you refocused on your notes. “That’s… kind of you, but really unnecessary.”

Jenson paused, like he wanted to say something else, then only shrugged, pushing away from the table.

Over his shoulder, as he started to leave, he tossed out, “You’ll thank me when you’re not running on fumes later,” voice edged with a mild charm that you chose to ignore as you bent back over your binder.

Free Practice 1 – Commentator’s Box

The commentator’s box smelled faintly of coffee and electronics, humming with the low buzz of equipment as FP1 footage flickered across a wall of monitors. You’d tucked yourself into the corner of the desk with your laptop, headphones perched around your neck, reviewing split times for the upcoming broadcast. It was busy but oddly calming up there — a bird’s-eye view of the sport you used to live from the inside out.

Jenson, of course, had taken the seat right next to yours despite a row of others being empty. He angled his body toward you, knees pointed just so, like the rest of the room didn’t exist. When he leaned over to glance at your notes, the faint smell of his cologne, clean and a little woody, reached you, and you forced yourself to keep your eyes on the data instead of the way his shirt stretched across his shoulder.

“You’re working too hard again,” he said lightly, glancing from your screen to your face. “It’s practice, not the final race.”

You huffed a short laugh, still typing. “Old habits die hard.”

“Not all of them,” he said, voice lower, almost teasing, though you didn't seem to get the weight of it, chalking it up to his usual, easy-going charm.

"You two glued at the hip now?”

Nico Rosberg’s voice cut across the commentator’s box as he dropped into the seat opposite you. You felt a small, surprising flicker of relief at seeing him. You’d worked with Nico for years at Mercedes, and the familiarity was grounding. You’d always gotten on well with him, and he remained one of the few who still treated you like a normal, competent colleague rather than something fragile.

You rolled your eyes before glancing up from your laptop, making enough room for Nico to drop into the seat. “We work the same sessions,” you said, already turning back to your screen. “I could say the same about you and Danica.”

Nico scoffed softly, amused. “Right, that must be it.”

To your left, Jenson sat up straighter, shoulders squaring slightly as Nico settled in. Nico eyed him with a sly little smirk. “What’s with you? Can’t find shirts that fit anymore, or do you just wear them tight on purpose to hide the beer gut?”

Jenson threw him a look, half assumed, half flustered, before replying, “Don’t you have graphics of Lewis to review, Britney?”

The words were playful but carried a little bite, enough to make you glance between them.

You chalked it up to lingering competitiveness—two former drivers who’d once fought wheel-to-wheel, maybe still sparring in subtler ways off-track.

But you did notice Nico’s grin when he glanced at you, then back at Jenson. Nico chuckled and pulled on his headset. “Sure, sure. Don’t let me interrupt your… prep Jenson.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to your telemetry data. Men.

Qualifying — Grid Walk

The grid before quali was always a madhouse: celebrities posing for cameras, engineers making last-minute adjustments, media crews jostling for position. You’d learned to keep your elbows out and your head down since starting with SkySports, but it didn’t stop the occasional shoulder from knocking into you.

“Easy there.”

Jenson’s hand was suddenly on your waist, steadying you before you stumbled into a camera operator. He didn’t move his hand until you’d found your footing again, then subtly shifted his body to walk between you and the crowd.

“You really don’t have to babysit me,” you said, half exasperated.

“Who said I’m babysitting?” he replied lightly.

Then he was crouching slightly to adjust your headset so it sat more comfortably, his fingers brushing the side of your face as he worked. Years ago, that tiny gesture would’ve set off alarm bells in your younger, wide-eyed self—the one who used to blush just being in the same room as him. Now, you just assumed it was part of his ingrained habit of being gallant with women.

“There,” he said, giving the headset one last adjustment. “Can’t have you going live looking like the wires are strangling you.”

You gave him a flat, even frustrated look as you adjusted your shirt and glanced around at the bustling grid, suddenly embarrassed at the idea everyone thought you couldn’t handle yourself.

“You should worry about yourself for a change.”

Nico saddled up next to you with a microphone, smirking. “He does that plenty, don't worry.” he quipped, his mic lowered. “Jenson already spent an hour on his hair before we got here.”

The joke earned a tiny smile from you despite yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Jenson shoot Nico a small look before they got on air—maybe telling him to calm it down it with the ribbing. You felt his eyes on you a moment later, but you chalked it up to some ongoing feud between them you didn’t know about.

By the time the broadcast wrapped, you’d barely noticed how close Jenson had gotten to you, his arm brushing yours, until you were walking away and the space between you returned.

Post-Quali — Hospitality Suite

If Jenson wasn’t glued to your side, he was orbiting just close enough to step in whenever you needed something before you could ask. A refill on your water. A missing set of notes. Even offering his jacket when the wind picked up between segments.

Nico caught him handing you a granola bar before your live hit and shook his head with a quiet laugh, leaning against the table with the easy posture of someone who knew exactly how to get under Jenson’s skin.

“You do realize people are going to start thinking you’re her personal assistant, right?” he teased, his eyes flicking between the two of you before landing on Jenson.

You swiveled in your chair. “Don’t encourage him, Nico, or he'll follow me home next checking on my pantry stock.”

“Right,” Nico said again, still smirking over his coffee cup at Jenson in a way that made it obvious the jab wasn’t just for fun. “He'd never do that."

Jenson seemed to tense a tiny bit beside you, his jaw flexing as though biting back a retort before finally leaning back with a quippy, “Funny, I always assumed you were her footrest at Mercedes, since Lewis was too busy winning to need one.”

The comeback had a sharper edge than his usual banter, though Nico only laughed, unfazed.

“I’ll have a name tag made for you next race then,” Nico shot back smoothly, “so people don’t confuse you for a commentator.”

Jenson brushed it off with a shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

By the time the post-race debrief wrapped, most of the Sky crew had filtered out. You were still there, poring over data for next week’s race, when Jenson slid into the chair beside you with two cups of tea. There was a watchfulness to the way he settled in, like he was still puzzling something out.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “most people would’ve wrapped up hours ago."

"What do you want, Jenson." Your voice came out sharper than intended, head still bent over your notes.

“You waiting on someone? I saw Nico still lingering around earlier.” He asked it casually enough, but there was a probing edge beneath the words, like he was fishing for something. His eyes flicked toward you, curious, maybe even a little too curious.

You glanced up briefly, confused, the insinuation stinging. “No. Why would I do that?” You weren’t following Nico around like some lost kid, and the implication left a sour taste in your mouth. That you were incapable of doing anything on your own.

But Jenson shifted in his seat, sprawling a little as he leaned back, one knee angled toward you in an easy spread, arm draped lazily across his chest. His smirk deepened, gaze lingering with a boldness you weren’t used to, and it made you all too aware of how close he actually was—and how strong he still looked despite being retired.

“So you really just can’t be persuaded to take a break then, can you?” he chuckled, though there was a question under the words you didn’t quite catch.

You shifted uncomfortably, tearing your eyes back to your notes. It was odd, the way he’d gone from casual to openly… something. But you brushed it off. Jenson was just being Jenson—still babying you like everyone else.

“Not if I want to keep my job.”

“Come on.” He smirked. “If anyone’s job is safe here, it’s yours.”

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery won’t work on me.”

“Who said I’m flattering you?” He leaned back in his chair, arm draped over the backrest, looking at you like he had all the time in the world. Once upon a time, you might’ve let yourself imagine what it meant for Jenson Button to look at you like that. But that was years ago, and you’d long since outgrown those kinds of fantasies.

You laughed derisively and shook your head. “You really don’t have to do this, you know. All the hovering. The tea. The food runs. Everyone already treats me like I need to be coddled. I don't need everyone to try so hard to be on my good side.”

The joking edge dropped from his face, his brows knitting. “Coddled?”

You nodded without looking at him. “It’s fine. I know why people do it. I didn't exactly build the nicest reputation at Mercedes, and the way I left the team wasn’t really ... subtle.”

Your throat tightened as you said it, the words tasting like something sour. You didn’t like talking about Mercedes, about that ugly, messy exit. because it always left you feeling small and ashamed, like you’d failed at something you loved.

“Everyone feels bad for me. It’s—whatever. I’ve learned to live with it.”

Silence. Long enough that you looked up, and found him leaning forward, closer than you’d realized, his expression soft and serious.

“That’s… not why I do any of that,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, stripped of its teasing lilt.

You blinked. “What?”

“I don’t run around after you because I pity you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I do it because I like being around you. Honestly, I always did — even back at Brawn. You do know that, right?”

Your brain stuttered. You were taken aback, heat creeping up your neck as you processed his words — ashamed that you’d so easily assumed the worst, and flustered that he remembered you from back then at all.

“Oh. I just assumed.”

Jenson gave a crooked, almost disbelieving smile, the realization flickering across his face that you truly had no idea he’d been flirting with you this whole time. “Well, you know what they say,” he teased, voice light but with a glint of hidde enjoyment, “assuming makes an ass out of you and me. Well—mostly you.”

The words landed with heat that climbed up your neck, and you blushed, acutely aware of the way his eyes lingered on your cheeks, his grin spreading just a little wider as though savoring your reaction.

It felt unnervingly like being back at Brawn, blushing under his casual hellos, and you hated how easy it still was for him to pull that from you. Jenson seemed to think so too.

“Ah,” he said with a grin that turned knowing, “now that face brings back memories.”

The teasing only deepened the color in your cheeks. You shot out of your chair like it was on fire. “I—uh—I should get back to my hotel.”

“Let me walk you out then.”

The walk to the lot was quiet but charged, every step weighed down by the things unsaid. Jenson kept the pace slow, falling just close enough that his arm brushed yours occasionally, his quips light but needling—“Still blushing? Thought you’d have cooled off by now”—designed to keep you squirming.

By the time you reached your car, your fingers felt clumsy on the keys, fumbling as you tried to unlock the door. “You always this bad with keys, or just when I’m around?” Jenson teased, his tone light but pointed.

You snapped back a flustered, “Maybe I just don’t like being watched,” still refusing to look at him, your embarrassment bubbling over.

Jenson tilted his head, the smugness softening into curiosity. Then, without a word, he pushed off the hood and closed the space between you, his movement unhurried but deliberate. Before you could react, his fingers brushed yours as he gently pried the keys from your fumbling grip, his hand lingering on yours for a beat longer than necessary.

“Look,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his grin faltering into something softer. “If I’ve been coming off the wrong way, I’m sorry. Maybe I pushed it too far back there. I just—” he hesitated, glancing at you with an expression that for once looked almost sheepish, “it’s the first reaction I’ve gotten out of you all season. The rubbish flirting usually works for me, so…”

It all clicked. Every single moment. Every coffee run, every teasing comment, every time his hand had lingered just a beat too long — all of it slammed into you at once. You replayed the entire season in your head in fast-forward, cringing at how completely oblivious and stupid you’d been not to see it.

You felt your face go up in flames.

“You could’ve just said something,” you blurted, horrified at your own voice.

He chuckled, the sound soft. “I kind of did. Nico caught on. Pretty sure everyone else did, too.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “All those jokes—”

“All those jokes,” he echoed, stepping closer, clearly enjoying himself as his shoulder brushed yours. His grin had softened into something warmer, but his eyes flicked between your hands and your face, lingering on your flushed cheeks like he was cataloging every reaction. The teasing lilt in his voice was balanced with something intent, almost hungry for more of that flustered honesty from you.

When you finally looked up, he was watching you expectantly, leaning in just slightly, his grin soft but unrelenting.

“You should’ve been more straightforward,” you muttered, your voice smaller than you intended. “Instead of all the tea and… everything.”

His grin widened as if savoring the admission, a spark of triumph flickering in his expression. His voice stayed low, teasing but steady, and it made your pulse jump.

“Noted for next time.” As he said it, he closed the space between you slowly, deliberately, each step backing you up against your car until your shoulders met cool metal.

“Next time?”

“Dinner,” he said simply, now close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his breath. “To make up for how hopeless I’ve been at this.”

The nearness made your head swim. Your heart hammered as your senses sharpened—the faint cologne clinging to his shirt, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze kept dipping to your lips. You hesitated only a beat before nodding, dizzy from the closeness and the realization of how many ways you’d always found him attractive—the curve of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, that infuriatingly easy grin—all of it crashing into you at once.

“Okay. But on one condition.”

He tilted his head, still hovering close. “Go on.”

“You don’t tell Nico.”

That earned a delighted laugh. “Deal.”

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in, one hand braced lightly against the car beside your head as his mouth found yours. The kiss was deeper than you expected, still tender but carrying just enough playful pressure, that spark of Jenson’s familiar mischief laced with something far more deliberate. It was thrilling and dizzying all at once, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.

He wasn’t pushing you though, his hand lingering respectfully on your arm as if giving you the option to pull away.

You didn’t.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #jenson button #jenson button x you #jenson button fanfic #jenson button fluff #jenson button x reader #nico rosberg being himself #nico rosberg #i mean britney #danika patrick slander

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chesapeakescove · 5 days ago

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Jenson Button - One Shots and Requests

Legend: 🔥 = Smut; 🌸 = Fluff; 🥀 = Angst

Tea Runs 🌸

You’ve been working as a technical commentator at Sky Sports for a while now, focused on proving you still belong in the sport after leaving Mercedes. Jenson Button, charming as ever, has been hovering around you all season — which you chalk up to pitying kindness. But when his antics get bolder and the truth comes out, you realize you’ve been oblivious to something much bigger: Jenson hasn’t been doting. He’s been flirting. Badly.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 #jenson button #jenson button x reader #jenson button x you #jenson button smut #jenson button fluff #jenson button angst #jenson button fanfic #jb22

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chesapeakescove · 5 days ago

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Burn Out Bright

Book One - Light the Spark | Chapter Seven: You’ll Know, You Will

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)

Summary. In the high-octane world of Formula 1, Lizzie McKean is a force to be reckoned with. As the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in nearly two decades, Lizzie is determined to make history. Her dream is simple: win a formula one race, become the first female World Driver's Champion, and prove everyone who's ever doubted her wrong. Yet beneath her fierce exterior lies a heart shattered by grief and hungry for revenge. After losing her brother in 2016 after a tragic Formula One crash at Spa, Lizzie is forced to race once more against childhood rival Max Verstappen—the very man who caused that fatal crash and who once held her heart. As the 2019 championship season accelerates, their tumultuous rivalry reignites on track, forcing Lizzie to confront her unresolved feelings and the pain of the past.

Warnings. Slow burn that HURTS at times, but it's gonna get so juicy. This story will be updated hopefully on a regular cadence, usually once every week or so! Also: +18 content: sexual intercourse, sexual language, profanity, SMUT, depictions of violence, references to drinking and drug abuse, implied/referenced grooming, and D.V.

Notes. I don't even know where to begin with all this so it's better just let it stand for itself HAHAH. This is a slight deviation from the main plot, SORRY, but I promise it's going to become so much more important the further along this story moves. I've already got the next chapter in the chamber, it's going to be a Mav pov so DONT WORRY we will return to the enemies shortly. Anyways, in the meantime enjoy conflicted Lizzie and Seb being whatever the fuck this is :) Comments are always welcome, I love to hear feedback and your wild theories! Happy Reading <3

Tags. original female character, Max Verstappen X OC, Sebastian Vettel X OC, Enemies to Lovers, Competition, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Daddy Issues, References to Depression, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Burn Scars, Car Accidents, Explicit Sexual Content, Drunk confessions, Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings, Drinking to Cope, Implied/Referenced Grooming, Age Difference, Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole, Female Formula 1 Driver, Jealousy, Cheating, Secret Relationship, Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Drunk Sex, Identity Reveal, When Will These Two Morons Kiss?, The sexual tension between these two is crazy, Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink, Lizzie hating her scars, Protective Torger "Toto" Wolff, Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual, because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father, secondary romantic plots, But we all know where this is going, Hurt/Comfort, Gender and Power Dynamics, Feminist Themes, this one has character development! I hope.

Taglist. want to join or be removed from my taglist? send me an ask or comment below! - @littlewhiterose, @kevynnashley

Rules BoB Masterlist AO3 Work Next →

⋆♫⋆ Like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had ⋆♫⋆

Brazilian Grand Prix

November 9, 2018

FP1

- 𓅂 -

Sebastian led Lizzie through the chaos of the paddock with unyielding purpose, his grip firm around her arm—not rough, but insistent. Around them, the world roared. The McLaren crew shouted after her, voices sharp with confusion and irritation, their radio chatter crackling in her earpiece before she ripped it out. Reporters swarmed like vultures, microphones and cameras shoved into the fray, desperate to catch a sound bite, to twist her fury into a scandal. The high-pitched whine of an engine firing to life nearby rattled through her bones, and Lizzie's nearly lost herself within the crashing waves of moving people around her.

But Sebastian was relentless, cutting through the madness without hesitation, his long strides forcing Lizzie to keep up. Her feet stumbled against the uneven pavement, but she barely noticed. The noise, the bodies, the flashing lights—it all blurred into a meaningless haze, swallowed whole by the deafening echo of Max’s words.

You’d think after everything with Rob, you’d know by now.

They detonated in her skull, sharp and merciless, each syllable a blade carving through her ribs. Her breath hitched, throat burning, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug crescents into her palms. He had no right. No right to throw Rob in her face, to twist the knife like that, to act as if—

A snarl curled behind her teeth, white-hot fury ripping through her like a live wire. If she saw him again, she'd make him choke on those words. She’d carve them out of his throat with her own teeth, watch him bleed for every syllable...

Then, suddenly, the world fell away and the air around her was quiet. They turned a corner, slipping behind a row of towering sponsor banners, the din of the paddock dampening into something distant, muffled. The air was still heavy with the energy of the moment, adrenaline humming in her veins as she finally found her breath.

Sebastian let go of her as if her touch burned him, his shoulders rising and falling with barely contained frustration. His jaw clenched, his eyes dark as he turned to face her, the tension between them crackling like static electricity. Lizzie crossed her arms, fixing her gaze on the ground, bracing for the inevitable.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, his voice low but filled with disbelief.

She looked up, her expression guarded. “I didn’t do anything.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened in incredulity. “You didn’t do anything?” he repeated, his tone sharper now. “The only reason you didn’t is because I stopped you! Do you have any idea what could have happened back there?”

Lizzie shrugged, feigning indifference even though her pulse was still racing. “He deserved it.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a more urgent register. “That doesn’t matter! Do you think the FIA would care if you got banned for starting a fight? Or worse, what if you got hurt? What the hell were you thinking?”

Lizzie’s scowl deepened. “I was thinking that someone needed to put Max in his place.” she snapped.

Sebastian sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as though trying to compose himself. “You know what he’s like. He’s a sore loser on the best of days, and today’s not one of them. You don’t need to add fuel to the fire. What did you think would happen, riling him up like that?”

“He insulted Rob,” Lizzie said through gritted teeth. Her voice trembled slightly, but she pressed on, her anger refusing to let her back down. “I’m not going to let him get away with that.”

Sebastian’s shoulders sagged, but his eyes remained sharp and focused on her. “Lizzie,” he said, his tone quieter now, but no less intense. “You can’t let him get under your skin like that. You have to be smarter than this.”

Lizzie’s head snapped up, her gaze narrowing. “Smarter? Maybe if you actually understood how I felt, you wouldn’t be standing here lecturing me,” she shot back.

Sebastian’s expression hardened, and he took another step closer, his voice low but firm. “Don’t you dare say I don’t understand,” he said. “Rob was like a brother to me. We did everything together, he was one of the only real friends I had in this sport. Do you think his death didn’t affect me?”

Lizzie faltered, the fire in her eyes dimming slightly. “It’s not the same,” she muttered, looking away. “He is my brother.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It’s not the same. But that doesn’t mean you get to throw yourself into situations like this. Fighting your way through life won’t bring Rob back. It won’t fix anything.”

Lizzie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. Her anger was still simmering just beneath the surface, but Sebastian’s words were starting to seep through the cracks in her defenses. She hated how he always managed to do that—to cut straight to the heart of things and leave her feeling exposed.

Sebastian’s hand found her shoulder, grounding her even as her thoughts continued to spiral. “You’re better than this,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Rob would want you to be better than this.”

Lizzie’s throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She could feel the weight of Sebastian’s gaze on her, steady and unwavering, and it was almost too much to bear. Finally, she scoffed quietly, trying to deflect the conversation away from herself. “That’s rich coming from you,” she said, a bitterness tugging at her lips.

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and he took a slow, deliberate breath before speaking, his voice low. “That’s unfair.”

Lizzie froze, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them. "It is?" she dared to say.

She glanced away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze, but Sebastian wasn’t finished. His hand lifted and grazed her jaw, his touch feather-light but firm enough to guide her face back toward him. The calloused pad of his thumb brushed against her cheek, and his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

“Hey, don't do that,” he said softly, yet there was an unmistakable command in his tone. “Don’t twist that knife just to push me away.”

Lizzie’s breath hitched, her body stiffening as the weight of his words settled over her. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the crisp air, grounding her even as her mind reeled. Her pulse thundered in her ears, each beat amplified by the proximity of his hand, warm and steady against her skin.

She became acutely aware of everything—the rasp of his thumb against her cheek, the subtle tremor in her own breathing, the way the distant hum of the paddock seemed to fade into oblivion. His blue eyes were sharp and searching, filled with an intensity that left her feeling exposed and utterly vulnerable. Sebastian's touch had always drawn things out of her—things she didn't know how to process, things she wasn't sure she wanted to anymore. It was as if he had a way of reaching past her carefully built defenses with the simplest gestures, making her feel seen in a way that was both comforting and deeply unsettling.

It had all started that night in Italy, at a tucked-away bar in Maranello, in March before the 2017 season. It was the first time Sebastian had gotten close to her like that, close enough to strip away the bravado she so often wore to hide her pain.

Close enough to make her feel something again.

Lizzie had arrived with the rest of the PREMA team a little later than the rest of the group, her energy low after that grueling preseason press event. But despite the social exhaustion and her frayed nerves, she had found herself enjoying moments like those—moments where the pressures of racing melted away and she could simply exist, surrounded by people who shared her world.

Sebastian had been there, of course, and the moment he spotted Lizzie walk in, he had quickly ushered her into conversation with the others, as if to make her feel welcome and at ease. The proximity between PREMA and Ferrari had kept him a constant presence in her life, and Lizzie had come to rely on that more than she liked to admit in the months after the accident at Spa. She'd appreciated the gesture—she'd always been a bit awkward in large groups, preferring to listen rather than speak. Sebastian knew that, never pushing but always ensuring she felt included. He was her tether to the world her brother had once inhabited, a blend of mentor and friend with unspoken complexities they both carefully avoided.

The night had unfolded as they often did, with drinks flowing freely and conversations growing louder. By midnight, most of the crowd had thinned. Charles had left earlier, insisting on getting a good night’s sleep, though not before offering Lizzie a ride back to the hotel.

“You sure you don't want a ride back?" he’d asked, his concern evident despite her insistence that she’d be fine. "I'm pretty sure you’re staying at the same place as me.”

Before Lizzie could respond, Sebastian had waved him off. “I’ll make sure she gets back safely,” he’d said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Charles had hesitated, glancing between the two of them with a furrowed brow, before finally nodding and walking away. Lizzie had caught the sidelong look he’d shot them as he left, as if he were trying to puzzle something out.

She’d ignored it, too buzzed to care.

Now, the bar was nearly empty, the only sounds the low murmur of the bartender cleaning up and the occasional scrape of a chair being pushed back. Lizzie and Sebastian had sat at the end of the corner bar, the remnants of their drinks scattered before them. She was tipsy, maybe more than tipsy, but not so far gone that she couldn’t hold a conversation.

As she swirled the last of her gin, a young Italian man approached their table with an easy smile and a confident stride. “Ciao, bella,” he said, his eyes fixed on her. “Eh ... non ho potuto fare a meno di notarti da lontano. Posso offrirti un altro drink?” I couldn’t help but notice you from afar. Can I buy you another drink?

Lizzie'd blinked up at him, startled for a moment before shaking her head. “No, grazie. Sto bene così,” she'd said politely but firmly, her tone leaving little room for argument. No, thank you. I’m fine.

The man had hesitated, his easy smile faltering as he stepped a little closer. “Dai, solo uno,” he'd insisted, his fingers brushing against Lizzie’s arm in an attempt to coax her into accepting. Come on, just one.

She'd recoiled slightly at the touch, instinctively shifting to her left—toward Sebastian. Her shoulder had almost brushed his as if seeking a silent anchor as her pulse kicked up, discomfort threading through her expression. “No, davvero. Non voglio un altro drink,” she repeated, firmer this time. No, really. I don’t want another drink.

The man had opened his mouth to press further, but before he could, Sebastian had finally spoke, his voice cutting through the conversation like a blade. “I think she’s made herself clear.”

The Italian man turned toward Sebastian, recognition dawning in his eyes. His face went pale. “ M-Mi scusi,” he'd stammered, his confidence evaporating. His hands came up in a flurry of frantic gestures as he added, “Non sapevo che fosse il tuo ragazzo. Non volevo mancare di rispetto.” I didn't know he was your boyfriend. I meant no disrespect.

Lizzie, already flustered from the unexpected approach, had felt her cheeks warm as she scrambled to correct him. “No, no, non è il mio ragazzo,” she'd said quickly, her words rushed as if saying them faster would somehow make them feel less strange. “Va tutto bene.” No, no, he’s not my boyfriend. It’s all good.

Her stomach had twisted as the words left her lips, a nervous energy bubbling beneath her skin. She'd risked a glance at Sebastian, half-expecting a teasing remark or a flicker of irritation at the assumption. But instead, he'd remained quiet, watching the man with an expression she couldn't quite place. That should have made her feel relieved, but the way the tension in the air shifted made her chest tighten. Her cheeks had burned hotter, and she'd quickly looked away, hoping he hadn't noticed.

The man continued to looked nervous, his gaze darting between them, as though uncertain whether to believe her. “Chiedo scusa per l’interruzione,” he'd finally muttered hurriedly before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd. Apologies for the intrusion.

Lizzie had exhaled, running a hand over her face. She'd hesitated, waiting for Sebastian to say something. Instead, when she'd glanced up, she'd found him watching the man leave with an expression that made her stomach flip—a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips, as if he had been enjoying it.

Her brow furrowed. “What?” she'd finally asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Sebastian had leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink with an air of smug amusement. “Nothing,” he'd said casually, though his tone betrayed him.

Lizzie rolled her eyes, but she hadn't ignore the way her pulse fluttered in response. She'd lifted her glass to her lips, hoping he wouldn’t notice how flustered she suddenly felt. “Oh, please. You didn’t even understand most of what he said.”

Sebastian gaze had bore into her, his shoulders shrugging playfully, before taking a slow sip of his drink. “Didn’t have to.”

The memory of that night in Italy, the bar air cocooning her in warmth, seemed to cloud her mind as easily as the alcohol had. Even now, years later, the flush she'd felt under Sebastian's knowing stare could resurface instantly. Just like the heat of the Brazilian sun, that look had always felt too intense, too focused. Back then, it had been a playful challenge, a hint of something she couldn't quite define. Now, under the harsh light of their argument in Brazil, the same gaze felt like an accusation, a judgment that cut through her carefully constructed defenses. It was as if time had done nothing to dull the edge of his stare – if anything, it had sharpened, made it even more unnerving. She hated how easily he could still make her feel exposed, the echo of that flutter in her chest replaced now with a prickly defensiveness.

He does this on purpose, she thought begrudgingly, pulling her chin up a fraction, he always has. The shift from flustered to furious was as familiar as the line of his jaw or the slight curl of his lips when he was trying, and failing, not to show how annoyed he was.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "I'm not twisting any knife, Seb. I'm just point out the truth. You don't get to stand here and judge me for hashing things out with Max when you've done the exact same thing plenty of times before."

Sebastian's expression hardened, his fingers twitching slightly before he let go of her face. "At least I keep my arguments quiet," he shot back, his voice clipped.

Lizzie scoffed. "Oh, right. Because you've never lost your temper in front of the cameras?"

Sebastian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It isn't the same, Lizzie. Airing these grievances like this—out in the open—you’re only making things worse for yourself."

Lizzie straightened, meeting his gaze head-on. "I’m not—"

"You are," he cut her off, his tone dipping into something lower, sharper. His next words came laced with something that sent a chill through her. "You barely even try to hide it. I mean, you've barely tried to hide the fact that you're sleeping with Pierre. You don't think someone's going to catch on to that?"

Lizzie stiffened, a flash of heat crawling up her neck. The remark landed like a slap, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at him, searching his face for the reasoning behind such a low blow. I'm going to throttle him.

It wasn’t the first time Sebastian had criticized her choices in that area.

“So,” he'd said in that bar in Marinello, his tone light but with a hint of genuine curiosity, “why exactly don’t you have a boyfriend then? Besides your obvious aversion to Italian men.”

Lizzie had blinked, caught off guard by the question—and by the realization that Sebastian had, in fact, understood enough of the young man’s Italian. She'd raised an eyebrow, taking another slow sip of her drink as if to buy time. “What is this, an intervention?” she'd quipped, her tone light but with an edge of curiosity.

Sebastian had shrugged, the corner of his mouth curling into that infuriatingly knowing smile. “Just curious,” he'd said, his voice deceptively casual. “You’ve always got men coming up to you—like that guy just now—and yet...” He'd gestured vaguely, letting the sentence hang, his eyes studying her with unnerving precision. "No boyfriend."

Lizzie had rolled her eyes and set her glass down with a soft clink. “Maybe I’m just too focused on my racing career to bother with dating,” she'd replied, but the way her voice dipped, just slightly, betrayed the weight beneath her words.

Sebastian had leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his glass balanced loosely in one hand. “Or,” he's said with a knowing look, “maybe you just haven’t met anyone worth bothering with.”

She'd narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious of the direction this was heading. “You sound awfully sure of yourself,” she'd remarked, though her tone lacked bite.

Sebastian had leaned back, letting his smirk grow. “I wasn't always wrong, was I? Like that time in Scotland...” Lizzie’s cheeks had burned as Sebastian leaned back in his chair, that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. She could already see where this was going. “Don’t start,” she'd muttered, trying to wave him off, but the knowing glint in his eyes told her it was far too late.

“Oh, but it’s too good not to,” he'd teased, his face turned towards her on his chin and his expression infuriatingly smug. “2014, winter break, you climbing out of a window in the dead of night… Should I keep going?”

Lizzie had winced. The memory was embarrassing to say the least: the sharp bite of the winter air, the faint smell of the moors in the distance, and the absolute absurdity of what she had been doing. She’d been seventeen, full of rebellion and bad decisions, sneaking out of her family’s farm house in a cloud of cheap perfume, her lips painted in gloss and her top far too low-cut for her granny’s comfort—or for the weather.

“Do we really have to talk about this?” Lizzie had groaned, sinking lower in her chair.

He'd grinned, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “We do. Because it’s the perfect example of how bad you are at picking boyfriends. Who climbs out of a frozen window in converse and half a bottle of perfume just to go see a boy?”

Lizzie had huffed, crossing her arms defensively. “It was a party. I was dressed for the occasion.”

“Oh, sure,” Sebastian had said with a sarcastic laugh. “And the occasion was what? Risking your neck and almost falling off the roof for Finnan?”

Lizzie’s had face burned even hotter. Finnan. She could still picture him: tousled dark blonde hair, that easy, crooked grin, and the way he’d always managed to make her feel like the most important person in the room. Two years her senior, Finnan had been the golden boy of her early karting days—until his family’s financial troubles forced him out of the sport and into university in Scotland. Her family had never warmed to him within her social group, not with his father’s embezzlement scandal and his mother’s shameless social climbing. Rob had hated him even more, constantly warning Lizzie to stay away. But at seventeen, Finnan’s charm and forbidden allure had been irresistible. When he’d pulled up outside her house that night on his battered motorcycle, texting her to come out, she hadn’t thought twice.

“I didn’t fall, I slipped.” Lizzie had muttered, trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

Sebastian had snorted in response. “No, but you almost did. I heard you screaming before I even saw you hanging off the edge of the roof.” she'd groaned, burying her face in her hands. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh, it was worse,” He'd replied, his tone gleeful. “I came back from the kitchen to see you sliding down the tiles in that awful fuzzy coat you were living in all winter, wearing way too much makeup. Honestly, Lizzie, what were you thinking?”

She'd peeked at him through her fingers, glaring. “I was thinking that I wanted to go to a party, okay? Finnan was waiting for me, and I didn’t want anyone to know. You weren’t supposed to see me.”

Sebastian had leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. “Why? Because you knew your gran—and Rob—would’ve killed you if they found out you were sneaking out? Or because you knew deep down that Finnan wasn’t worth it?” Lizzie had flinched, the words striking a little too close to home.

“I—he wasn’t that bad,” she'd said weakly, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

Sebastian had shook his head. “He was reckless, irresponsible, and a party animal. And don’t even get me started on his family. You deserved better than him, Lizzie. You always did.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, leaving her momentarily speechless as laughter crept up her throat.

“I begged you not to tell anyone,” She'd said, her voice amused, almost laughing.

Sebastian’s smirk had softened, the teasing edge fading just slightly. “And I didn’t,” he said simply. “But only because I figured you’d come to your senses eventually.”

Lizzie had smiled. What she hadn’t realized at the time—too focused on her desperation to escape unnoticed—was that Sebastian, in his panic, had sprinted outside without even thinking. He’d stood below her, calling out to her to let go, assuring her he’d catch her before she slipped and fell for real.

“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep trying to climb down!” he had hissed to her, his breath visible in the freezing air. “Just let go, Lizzie. I’ve got you!”

She’d argued, of course, too scared to trust him, but eventually her icy fingers had slipped. She had fallen, gasping as the air rushed past her—only to land securely in Sebastian’s arms.

“You didn’t have to make such a big deal out of it,” Lizzie had muttered to him in the bar, trying to play it off.

Sebastian scoffed. “You were dangling off a roof! What was I supposed to do? Let you fall? And for Finnan, of all people?” She'd glared at him, her cheeks flaming. “I didn’t fall. You caught me.”

“Barely,” He'd shot back. “I’m pretty sure you were trying to give me a heart attack. Do you have any idea how close you were to hitting the ground?”

A huff had left her mouth as she crossed her arms. “It’s not like I asked for your help.” Sebastian had raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to. I wasn’t about to let you fall just because you were too stubborn to admit the whole thing was a horrible idea.”

Lizzie had bit her lip, unsure how to respond. “You sound just like Rob,” she'd said eventually, laughing a little. “He hated Finnan.”

“We all did,” Sebastian replied.

Lizzie had blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He'd shrugged, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “It's all Rob would talk about when he found out—that he didn't understand why you'd ever go out with Finnan, that he didn't like how he spoke to you, that he wasn’t good enough for you." He glanced up at her, his blue eyes flashing with something deeper than teasing then. "You’ve always been worth more, Lizzie. You just didn’t see it back then.”

Sebastian’s veiled criticisms, his concern masked in a gruff protectiveness, had once felt almost...validating. There had been a kernel of truth to his words, a little sting of recognition that she might, just might, not always be the best judge of character when it came to dating. She'd even found a faint comfort in his implication that others found her worthy, even if his delivery was laced with disapproval.

But His words now tasted like poison on her tongue. The flicker of hurt, that old unease his criticisms once stirred, was replaced with pure, unadulterated fury. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms in a desperate attempt to ground herself. The audacity of Sebastian—the way he always acted like he knew best, like he had the right to dictate how she should behave—it made her blood boil.

"Oh, so now you're concerned about my image?" she shot back, crossing her arms tightly. "Is that what this is about? Or are you just pissed off that you found out from someone else and not from me?"

He glowered before her, her comment clearly stinging. Sebastian scoffed, shaking his head. "I’m saying that people talk, Lizzie. And right now, they’re talking about you in ways you won’t like. You think the media isn’t going to catch on? You think the team principals aren’t going to have opinions?"

Lizzie narrowed her eyes. "If I cared about that, I wouldn't be here talking to you. I don’t need you trying to manage my PR."

Sebastian let out a short, humorless laugh. "Right. Because you always make such great decisions when left to your own devices."

Lizzie's nails dug into her palms, her patience fraying at the edges. "You’re fucking unbelievable," she muttered. "You’re acting like I’m some idiot who doesn’t understand consequences, but I do, Sebastian. I’ve spent my whole career dealing with them."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Then stop making it harder for yourself. Can't you see how dangerous that is for you two?"

He's such a hypocrite, Lizzie thought painfully. "It's fine, Seb. We're fine. So just drop it -"

"Everyone knows, Lizzie." he cut her off again, his voice lowering to something edged with something unreadable. "You ... weren’t like this before you started seeing him."

Lizzie's jaw clenched. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again."

Sebastian scoffed. "Don’t pretend like I’m making it up. You’ve been acting reckless ever since last winter. You think I don’t notice? He’s a bad influence, Lizzie. And deep down, you know it."

Lizzie’s breath caught in her throat. There it was again—that particular bite whenever it came to her and any man that wasn’t him. It was never about public image or professionalism, not really. He always found something wrong with whoever she was with, like no one would ever be good enough. Like he was the only one who could claim that place.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a strange mix of anger and something she refused to name curling in her stomach. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her chin lifting defiantly. "Whatever’s going on with me and Pierre is none of your concern."

Sebastian flinched. It was subtle, barely a flicker, but she caught it. And for the first time since this argument had started, he had nothing to say.

Sebastian's face had been just as still, flickered with something deep as he'd tilted his head slightly at her in the bar in Italy that night.

“You’re a master at deflecting, you know that?” he'd said, his voice low. “But you can’t fool me. I’ve known you too long.”

Lizzie had stiffened, her fingers fidgeting with the rim of her glass. “I’m not deflecting,” she'd muttered, though the words came out weaker than she'd intended. Sebastian had leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Then why haven’t you answered my question?” he'd asked, his gaze piercing but not unkind.

Lizzie swallowed hard, her pulse quickening under the weight of his attention. “What question?” she'd retorted, though they both knew the answer. Sebastian had raised an eyebrow, but didn’t fill the silence. He'd simply waited, his steady gaze urging her to speak.

“I ... Most men my age don’t exactly find women in motorsport attractive,” she'd admitted finally, her voice quieter now, almost resigned. “And even if they did, I don’t think I’d want to date any of them.”

Sebastian’s expression had softened, a rare moment of tenderness breaking through his playful exterior. He didn’t need to say what they were both thinking—that there was someone she had once wanted, someone whose attention she'd craved and whose affection she'd valued over everything ... whose name neither of them dared to speak aloud.

He'd leaned back instead, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a wry smile. “Most men your age are idiots anyway,” he's responded, raising his drink in a mock toast.

Lizzie had snorted, the tension easing as she lifted her glass. “I’ll drink to that,” she'd said, clinking hers against his again before finishing the last of her whiskey. Sebastian had watched her closely, the playfulness fading once more. “But that’s not really the reason, is it?” he'd asked quietly.

The emptiness of the bar, the low murmur of the bartender cleaning up, and the way Sebastian’s presence had anchored her made Lizzie’s usual defenses waver. There had been something about the quiet, about the absence of watchful eyes and the weight of expectations, that made her feel safe enough to let her guard down—just a little. She hadn't been sure if it was the whiskey or the exhaustion from keeping up walls that never seemed to crack, but suddenly, it didn’t feel so impossible to be honest with him.

Just this once.

“I guess…” she'd started, her voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I don’t really feel like I fit into that world. Dating, I mean. I’m not… soft or feminine or pretty. I spend my life in fireproof suits and grease-streaked garages, or sitting in sweatpants at the airport every week. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘girlfriend material,’ does it?”

Sebastian had tilted his head, his gaze steady but not overbearing. “You’ve spent your whole life proving you belong out there,” he'd said, pointing at the track in the distance with a calm but serious tone. “And now you’re saying you don’t think you’re enough for something as simple as dating?”

Lizzie's fingers had tightened around the glass in her hand. The weight of his words pressed against her, unraveling the layers she tried so hard to keep intact. The truth clawed its way to the surface—the scars she hid beneath her gloves, the ones that made her feel like she was permanently marked by the past. The heaviness of her emotional baggage, the weight of grief and anger she carried, always telling herself that it was easier to bear alone. She had never been soft, never been the kind of girl men fawned over, and the idea that anyone could truly want her—all of her—felt like a cruel fantasy. No one would want the damaged parts, the girl with two burned hands and a bruised heart. Not really.

Her insecurities, the ones she’d kept hidden, felt glaringly obvious now. She'd looked away from Sebastian, which only seemed to spur him on.

“I’m serious,” Sebastian had continued, his tone softening. “The girl who fights tooth and nail for everything she wants, who doesn’t care what anyone thinks when she’s on the track—that’s the real you. And if someone can’t see how amazing that is off track too, then screw them.”

Lizzie had let out a derisive laugh, but the lump in her throat refused to budge. “You’re just saying that because you feel sorry for me,” she'd muttered, her voice quieter now.

Sebastian had shook his head. “No,” he'd said firmly. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You’ve been so busy trying to fit into their world that you’ve forgotten it’s your world too. You don’t need to change for anyone, Lizzie.”

The sincerity in his voice had been impossible to ignore. Lizzie had looked up at him, meeting his gaze. He wasn’t teasing her anymore—this wasn’t some joke to lighten the mood. He meant every word.

“Thanks,” she'd murmured after a beat, her voice softer. "You're a better friend than I deserve."

Sebastian had leaned back in his chair, eye furrowed for the briefest second the faintest frown on his lips. “Don’t mention it,” he's responded, raising his glass.

Sebastian's concern had once been something she craved, a confirmation that there was someone who saw the real her. But that same concern felt like a suffocating accusation under the sweltering sun. His words, once comforting, were now just a trigger.

"Why are you so determined to shut me out?" Sebastian finally asked, his voice quieter now but no less intense. "Why do you insist on pushing me away when all I’ve ever tried to do is help you?"

Lizzie let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Help me?" she echoed, stepping closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You’ve done plenty besides help, Sebastian."

His expression fell, but before he could respond, she pushed forward, her voice dripping with something that sounded almost pained. "You don't know what's best for me. You haven't been around enough lately to know that."

Sebastian’s eyes flashed with something dark and unreadable. "And who's fault is that?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "I never asked for you to distance yourself these past months. You did that all on your own. Or you had help ... Charles? Is that who’s been whispering in your ear?"

Lizzie’s fingers twitched at her sides, the accusation sending a fresh wave of anger through her. "Don't start Seb—"

"What? am I wrong?" He scoffed, his tone sharp with skepticism. "Because it sure as hell seems like it. Every time I try to talk to you, Charles is always there, ready to step in. Like a little guard dog."

Lizzie’s jaw clenched. "Charles has nothing to do with this. He’s my friend. He’s been there when I needed him to be, that's it."

"Yeah? And what exactly has he been saying about me when he's there?" Sebastian’s voice dipped lower, his frustration barely masked beneath the sharp edge of his words. "That I’m a bad influence? That I can’t be trusted anymore?"

Lizzie shook her head, exhaling sharply. "This isn’t about Charles, Seb."

"Isn’t it?" he shot back. "Because you sure as hell trust his advice more than you ever trusted mine."

Lizzie’s breath caught, her stomach twisting at the weight behind his words. "That's not true. It's never been like that between us, and you know it."

Sebastian let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "Right. And I suppose it’s just coincidence that Charles is always there, always conveniently ready to step in whenever you need someone? Come on, Lizzie. You really think he’s just looking out for you? He’s always had a torch for you. And you—" he exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "You refuse to see it."

Lizzie scoffed. "You’ve been saying that for years, Seb. And it’s bullshit. Charles is my friend. That’s it. He doesn’t ask for anything in return. Unlike some people."

Sebastian face slackened. It was the same old argument, played on repeat like a broken record, and a familiar pang of weariness settled in her chest. She'd heard these accusations before, almost verbatim, and her mind drifted again back to the little bar in Maranello …

Sebastian’s gaze had lingered on her, something flickering in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or something more accusatory. He swirled his drink slowly before speaking. “What about Charles, why not him?” he'd asked, his tone casual, though there was an undercurrent of some bite Lizzie couldn’t quite place. “You two seem awfully close these days.”

Lizzie had nearly choked on her drink, a laugh bursting out as she set her glass down. “Charles? Are you serious?”

Sebastian had shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I heard all the female staff today saying he looked very pretty in the press shoot,” he'd joked, though there was a subtle shift in his tone, like he was testing the waters.

Shaking her head, Lizzie had shrugged. “He’s a good friend, but that’s all. I’ve never thought of him that way.”

He'd raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching as if holding back a wittier retort. “You sure? He follows you around like a lost puppy sometimes.”

Lizzie had rolled her eyes, her grin lingering. “That’s just Charles being Charles. He’s sweet, but he’s… immature. Too young for me, anyway.” She'd paused, her eyes lighting with mischief. “Why, are you trying to set me up with him or something?”

Sebastian’s expression had flickered, his usual playful facade slipping just enough for Lizzie to catch a glimpse of something else—something sharper, more prickly. His jaw had tightened ever so slightly, and his eyes darkened, the easy charm giving way to a brief but unmistakable intensity.

“No,” he'd said, his tone steady, but the words came a little too quickly, his calm veneer cracked just enough to hint at something deeper. “I was just curious.”

The moment passed in an instant, and Sebastian’s smirk returned, smooth and practiced, as though the slip hadn’t happened. But Lizzie noticed, her gaze lingering on him as she tried to parse the shift in his expression.

“You’re awfully interested in my love life tonight,” she'd said, tilting her head, her voice laced with mock suspicion. “Should I be worried?”

Sebastian’s lips had curved into another smirk, but the faint tension in his eyes betrayed him. He'd glanced away for a split second, swirling his drink before meeting her gaze again, his charm firmly back in place. “I’m just making conversation,” he'd replied casually, though Lizzie didn’t miss the undercurrent of something more.

“Sure, you are,” she'd teased, leaning back in her chair with a knowing grin. “Well, for the record, before you go playing matchmaker, Charles is like a brother to me. Sweet, but definitely not my type. So don't get any ideas.”

Sebastian seemed to relax at that, the edges of his smirk softening, though the grip on his glass had tightened momentarily before he set it down. Lizzie couldn’t help but notice the shift, brief but telling, as if the man who prided himself on being cool and collected had let her see just a little too much.

After a moment of silence, he'd leaned forward, his tone shifting back to something lighter. “I think you’ve been spending way too much time around the old men at Mercedes,” he'd teased, the familiar glint of amusement returning to his eyes. “You’re getting way too cheeky nowadays.”

Lizzie had snorted in response. “Toto and Niki are the only ones I spend time with,” she'd shot back with a playful smirk. “Besides, I think you’ve rubbed off on me more than they have. If anyone’s to blame, it’s you, you big geezer.”

Sebastian had raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a half-smile. “Hey, don't call me a geezer. You’ve crossed into this jaded territory all on your own,” he'd said, leaning in slightly. “You didn’t used to be like this, you know. There was a time when you were—oh what’s the word—adorably puzzled, enamored by everything.”

Lizzie had rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Adorably puzzled? Spare me.”

“Mm-hmm,” he'd replied, settling back with a smug grin. “Innocent. A little lost. It was very cute—you used to be quite nice to me.”

Lizzie had glared at him, but the faint flush on her cheeks betrayed her. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a confused little kid anymore,” she'd shot back, her tone sharp but amused. “Guess I’ve been spending too much time with you. You’re a bad influence.”

Sebastian had mock-gasped, placing a hand over his chest. “Me? A bad influence? I’m the only one in your circle who can offer actual decent advice.”

Lizzie had barked out a laugh, quick and genuine. “Oh, really? Because I distinctly remember you telling me to ‘just floor it and see what happens’ during a development test last month. That doesn’t sound like very decent advice to me.”

Sebastian had shrugged again, entirely unbothered. “To be fair, you did see what happened. And you learned from it. Little to the left next time, and you won’t shunt the car.”

Lizzie had shook her head, grinning. “Right. The best racing coach I could’ve asked for.”

“Exactly,” he'd replied with a wink, though his voice carried a subtle edge of seriousness now. “I’m filled with wisdom.”

Lizzie had raised an eyebrow this time, her smirk widening. “I thought you just said you didn’t want to be lumped in with the old men?”

Sebastian’s smirk had faltered for the briefest second, his humor slipping just enough to reveal something beneath—an edge of defensiveness, barely veiled. His jaw had tightened imperceptibly before he recovered. “I don’t,” he'd said smoothly, his tone light but his gaze flickered with something unspoken.

Lizzie had caught it and bit back a laugh, her smirk turning into something softer. “You really don’t like being called old, do you?”

“Not particularly,” he'd admitted, his tone dry but carrying a faint edge of truth. “Especially when it’s coming from someone who’s still practically glowing with youth.”

Lizzie had blushed faintly at the compliment, the redness creeping up her cheeks despite her best efforts. She'd laughed, though the sound came out a little forced. “Relax, Seb. I’m just joking. Besides, you’re the only one who spends any quality time with me outside of work.” She'd pursed her lips, feigning a crestfallen frown. “I can’t ever convince Toto to get drinks with us. He’s too serious.”

Sebastian’s smile had returned, sharper this time, though his eyes lingered on hers longer than usual. There was something thoughtful in his expression, something unreadable, as his gaze locked onto hers with a steady intensity. “Do you mind that, that I spend time with you?" he asked.

Lizzie had snorted, breaking the tension, but the brief shift in his gaze caught her off guard. It was keener now, more intent, and she suddenly felt as though his eyes saw too much. A faint flush crept up her neck, and she instinctively looked away, trying to shake the strange sense of exposure under his scrutiny. “Well, I only hang out with you for the free drinks and car talk. So clearly not.” she'd quipped, her voice laced with cheekiness, though it wavered just enough to give her away. He had smiled at her, rolling his eyes, but the thoughtful glint remained.

That glint, that hopeful, intent spark, was a lifetime away now. The heat beat down on Sebastian, the shadow of the motorhome doing little to mask the dull ache in his eyes as he stood before her. "I’m not that kind of person anymore," he said, his voice lower now, tinged with something dangerously close to hurt.

Lizzie stiffened, instinctively stepping back, but Sebastian reached out before she could fully pull away. His fingers brushed against her wrist—bare skin meeting bare skin where her glove had slipped slightly, grazing the jagged burns she always kept hidden. The touch should have been insignificant, fleeting even, but it sent a jolt through her, sharp and unwelcome, making her breath hitch. She hated that after all this time, after everything, he still had the ability to rattle her like this.

"Lizzie, please." he murmured, his voice almost pleading. "I only want what’s best for you. I don’t know how else to prove that to you."

His fingers lingered just a moment longer against her wrist before he pulled back, but the ghost of his touch remained, warm and insistent. Lizzie swallowed hard, her body betraying her as she swayed slightly toward him before catching herself. She hated that he still had this effect on her, that no matter how much she tried to push him away, something in her always betrayed her own resolve.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking onto hers with something softer now, something dangerous in its quiet intensity. "I'm not the enemy." he said, his voice low, controlled.

She scoffed, trying to summon the strength to look away, but his presence was too consuming. "You make it really hard to believe that sometimes."

His lips twitched, just slightly. "Do I? Or do you just letting everyone else imagine my intentions for you?"

Lizzie’s pulse thrummed in her ears. He had always known how to get under her skin, how to push just enough to unravel the layers she so carefully held in place. And now, standing this close, with his voice dipping into that impossibly steady calm that somehow always managed to shake her, she felt the tightrope she walked between anger and something else entirely begin to fray.

"You think you know everything, don’t you?" she murmured, forcing out a laugh, but even she could hear the unsteadiness in it.

Sebastian’s smirk softened, but his gaze never wavered. "Not everything. But I know you."

His words hit something deep inside her, something she wasn’t ready to face. There was something in the way he said it—something protective, something bordering on overbearing—that made her chest tighten. She had spent so long trying to shake the hold he had over her, trying to convince herself that she didn’t need him watching over her. The air between them crackled with unspoken history, and for the first time in a long time, Lizzie felt herself dangerously close to losing the upper hand. It was as if she had been pulled back in time, back to being that naive girl who had just wanted to feel seen, to feel cherished and listened to and respected.

Sebastian leaned in slightly, the shift almost imperceptible, but Lizzie felt it like a current in the air between them. His voice, lower now, held something unspoken, something thick with meaning. "You don't have to keep pushing me away," he murmured. "Not when I'm right here."

Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering in her throat. His proximity sent a familiar jolt through her—one she hated how easily her body still responded to. The space between them felt too small, too charged, and the way his gaze dipped, tracing the lines of her face, made her toes curl in her boots. She knew she should step back, knew she should say something sharp to break the moment, but she couldn’t. Not when Sebastian was looking at her like this, like she was something rare, something worth holding onto.

The version of her that had once hung onto his every word, who had looked for meaning in every glance he sent her way.

Sebastian had chuckled from his seat at that little bar, his smirk softening as he reached into his pocket for his wallet. Lizzie had still be a flustered mess, her eyes darting away from him and towards anything else. “Speaking of drinks, I should probably pay,” he'd said, motioning to the bartender for the check. “It’s getting late.”

Sebastian had leaned back in his chair, catching the bartender’s eye as he gestured for the check. When the bartender arrived, setting down a small black folder on the table, Sebastian had reached for it without hesitation. “Just one check, please,” he'd said smoothly, pulling his wallet from his pocket.

Lizzie’s eyes had widened as the words registered. “Wait—what? No, I can pay for myself,” she'd cut in, leaning forward and grabbing at the check before he could hand it over. “I was joking earlier. Seriously, Seb, I’ve got it.”

Sebastian’s response had been immediate, his expression unreadable as he gave her a small shake of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he'd said lightly, his voice carrying a hint of authority that made Lizzie pause.

She wasn’t ready to let it go. “Seb, I’m not joking. I can pay,” she'd insisted, her tone firm but slightly flustered.

Sebastian had exhaled softly, almost as if humoring her. “Ignore her,” he'd said to the bartender, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He'd handed over his card, his fingers brushing briefly against Lizzie’s wrist as she reached for the folder again. The touch had been light, barely there, yet it had sent an unexpected ripple of warmth through her skin, leaving behind a tingling awareness of his presence. When she'd leaned back in defeat, he'd placed his hand lightly on the small of her back, his fingers grazing the exposed skin where her top didn’t quite meet her jeans.

“Put it on my tab,” he'd said smoothly, the brush of his touch lingering just long enough to send a jolt through her. The heat of his palm had been a stark contrast to the cool air around them, and she was suddenly conscious of how close he sat, the faint scent of his cologne—woody with a hint of spice—enveloping her senses.

Lizzie had froze, her thoughts scattering as the fleeting, deliberate touch set her off balance. Her breathing hitched, the air between them seeming to grow heavier. It wasn’t the kind of casual, friendly contact she was used to from him. It felt… intentional, even as he'd played it off with his usual confidence. Her skin had buzzed where his fingers had been, and she couldn’t shake the faint impression of his warmth lingering there.

The bartender, watching the exchange with a professional calm, had smiled politely. “Certo, Signore Vettel,” he'd said, taking the card.

Lizzie had tried to focus, her mind scrambling to recover. The ambient chatter of the bar had seemed distant then, muffled beneath the thrum of her pulse. “Seb, I said I could pay. You didn’t have to do that,” she'd said, though her voice had lost its earlier sharpness.

Sebastian had turned to her, his smirk deepening as his gaze flicked to her faintly pink cheeks. His eyes, bright and sharp under the low bar lights, had studied her with a quiet amusement that made her stomach flip. “Relax,” he'd said lightly, his tone carrying a teasing edge. “A couple of euros won’t make a dent in my bank account, trust me. Besides, you don't need to worry about stuff like that. Not when you're with me.'

Lizzie had rolled her eyes at the mock chivalry, and desperately tried to brush off the sudden warmth pooling in her chest. But the imprint of his touch had lingered, stubbornly refusing to fade. She had felt his gaze lingering, too, settling on her flushed cheeks with an intensity that made her skin prickle. It wasn’t just amusement in his eyes—there was something else, something unsaid yet palpable. She'd shifted under the weight of his stare, her chest tightening with the realization that, for all her efforts to compose herself, Sebastian saw right through her.

The bar’s dim glow blurred at the edges as her mind pulled her back to the present. A faint breeze stirred the air around her, carrying with it the distant scent of fuel from the paddock. Somewhere nearby, the clatter of metal tools and muffled voices grounded her back in reality, pulling her away from the weight of old memories.

Lizzie’s pulse quickened, her senses snapping back as the weight of Sebastian’s stare pressed down on her. The murmur of voices from the paddock crept back into her awareness, the scent of rubber grounding her in the here and now. Yet, she still felt the ghost of his touch, the unspoken tension stretching between them like a live wire. The air between them felt impossibly close, charged with something she couldn’t quite name, something she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

She wanted to step back, to escape the weight of the moment, but her feet refused to move. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, her hands curling into fists at her sides as if bracing herself against a tide she couldn’t control. She felt the echo of that night in Italy pressing against her—the way he had looked at her then, so open and unguarded, and the undeniable truth she’d spent years trying to ignore. The present and the past seemed to blur together, leaving her feeling exposed and unmoored. Lizzie swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper as she finally spoke. "Seb, I…"

But Sebastian stepped back, his hand scrubbing through his wiry blond hair as he seemed to remember himself. “I have to go,” he said, his tone suddenly distant and laced with frustration. “Media calls." Lizzie nodded mutely, watching as he turned away. She wanted to say something, to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. The air between them felt impossibly heavy, thick with everything unsaid. Instead, she stood there, replaying the countless times Sebastian had been there for her when no one else was. At Rob’s funeral, when she could barely hold herself together—the way he had quietly stayed by her side, his presence grounding her in a way no one else could. During the toughest moments of her career, when the weight of expectations threatened to crush her, his quiet support had been the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely.

“Seb,” she said softly, the word barely more than a whisper that still managed to stop him in his tracks. He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable yet searching, and for a moment, she hesitated. Her throat tightened, the words sticking, but she forced them out. “I’m sorry… thank you. For keeping me from making a mistake.”

Sebastian’s features softened, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His gaze lingered on her, the sincerity in his eyes so stark it made Lizzie’s chest ache. “I’ll always watch out for you,” he said simply, his voice carrying a weight of certainty that left no room for doubt. “You know that.”

She didn’t respond, couldn’t. Instead, she nodded again, watching as he turned and walked away, his steps steady but his shoulders just a little slumped, as though he carried something heavier than the words they’d exchanged.

The sharp buzz of her phone in her pocket jolted her back to reality. Lizzie pulled it out, her heart sinking at the sight of Toto’s name. The message was short but scathing

Toto Wolff: Come to the trailer. Now.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she shoved the phone back into her pocket and started toward the Mercedes motorhome. She could already hear Toto’s voice in her head, sharp and unforgiving, ready to tear into her. Yet, as her feet carried her forward, her mind kept circling back to Sebastian. To the weight of his words, the lingering warmth of his touch, and the complicated history that tied them together in ways she couldn’t quite untangle.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen #f1 #mv33 #max vertsappen fic #toto wolff #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel #angst

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chesapeakescove · 5 days ago

Note

omg ok i’m absolutely LOVING the burn too bright fic, is there anyway i can be added to the taglist?

Yes ofc!!! I will be posting at a more regular cadence now that I have full chapters done and can schedule stuff, so you are on the tag list for future chapters!

it's been a labor of love and will definitely be very painful slow burn but trust me I have so much mapped out 💙🧡

#burnoutbright #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #C8s thoughts #ask response

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chesapeakescove · 7 days ago

Text

One of Your Mayfair Girls || George Russell Two Shot

Part II: Bad Idea

Pairing: George Russell x Childhood friend!Reader

Summary: George Russell has always been your safe space, the boy next door who never made you feel small even when the world did. But now he’s living in the glitz and glam of Formula 1, and you can’t help but feel left behind for prettier, wealthier options. What you don’t know? One messy, drunken night is about to prove how wrong you’ve been — and just how long George has been holding the same secret fantasy as you.

Word Count: ~10.K (two parts)

Warnings: Explicit smut, consensual drunken sex, oral (fem recieving), PIV, no protection, heavy drinking/intoxication, vocal!George, mutual pining, long-time friends-to-lovers, messy emotions, praise kink (mild), soft dom!George energy, creampie, comfort sex, very affectionate post-confession sex, drunk-but-consensual decision-making (both parties equally drunk), emotional vulnerability.

Author’s Note: Fuck George is so hot I can't, like it's actually not OK. This part nearly killed me to write because desperate George is a whole other levelHow does he go from “socially clueless but earnestly in love childhood friend” to “lust-drunk, possessive, confessional sex god” in 0.5 seconds??? anyway. this is 5k of pure smut -AKA messy feelings and George saying filthy things he’s definitely been thinking about since 2015.

Tags: #george russell x reader #george russell fic #f1 #friends to lovers #mutual pining but make it horny #smut #george pls ruin me #he really said “you could make a bin bag look sexy”?? #feral behavior #this is just ~5k of yearning and him ruining you #friends to “oh god we’re kissing” to "fuck that feels good" pipeline

Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules || One-shots, Requests & Smuts - Masterlist || AO3 Work || Next →

Fuck, he's such a good kisser.

You brain had gone to mush in a matter of seconds. One minute he'd been next to on the couch, eyes wide and sincere. The next, the weight of his hand on your thigh was anchoring you in place as he coaxed your mouth open, closing the little space between you. His breath was warm against you, lips fixed on yours with a hunger that made your pulse stutter.

He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years — a tentative brush at first, testing, tasting. But his lips kept moving against yours, hungrier, more certain, until the rest of the world slipped away and you were melting into him completely, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch and his mouth consumed you.

He pulled you onto his lap in one swift movement, your knees bracketing his hips as his mouth devoured yours. His hands fumbled beneath the hem of the oversized sweatshirt you wore, fingertips skating over the bare skin of your waist, and the kiss deepened until it felt like there was no space left between you. It was everything you’d ever wanted, messy, breathless, overwhelming, and you didn’t have time to care that you were drunk or that you might not remember every second of it tomorrow.

All you wanted was to keep feeling his body pressed against yours, to let yourself be consumed by him completely.

“This is a bad idea,” you mumbled.

“Probably,” he murmured against your skin, not missing a beat as his lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Don’t care.”

His voice was low, breath warm against your pulse as his stubble scraped lightly over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, he shifted suddenly, scooting forward on the couch and wrapping his arms under you, scooping you up with an effortless strength. You yelped, startled, stifling a laugh as he chuckled into your throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Neither of you stopped.

You stumbled into his bedroom upstairs still laughing, drunk and giddy, your back hitting the closed door as George shoved you against it with another deep kiss.

“Christ,” he muttered against your mouth, fumbling with waistband of her borowed boxers until it gave with a small rip, slipping dow her legs like paper. He pulled back just long enough to grin sheepishly.

“Guess it’s good I gave you old ones. Easier to get you out of them.”

You giggled breathlessly, swatting at his chest. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” he said, kissing you again as his hands roamed your sides, pushing the sweatshirt fabric off your shoulders. “But I’m your idiot.”

You flushed at that, too drunk to unpack it, just letting him ease the zipper down till the sweatshirt was off your body. His gaze raked over you, standing in your black bra and lace panties, like he’d been waiting years for this.

“I used to have wet dreams constantly thinking about this,” George admitted drunkenly as he kissed down your chest, his voice low and filthy as he unhooked your bra

“Wondering,” he continued, lips grazing your jaw, “what you looked like under all those baggy hoodies you wore to school…”

Your knees went weak. “And?”

He grinned against your throat as a hand palmed her ass. You gasped at the sudden contact, your body jolting as he tightened his grip, then let out a startled laugh that quickly dissolved into a moan when his teeth grazed your pulse point. Before you could recover, he swept you up effortlessly and threw you onto his bed, the soft mattress dipping under your weight as you bounced lightly, staring up at him with wide, breathless eyes.

You barely had any time to catch your breath, half-naked and still flushed, before George was a hovering mess above you—hair wild from your fingers, voice low and rough in your ear with years of restraint burning away.

“Better than I ever imagined.”

George kissed his way down your body, taking his time as he unclasped your bra—lingering at your collarbone, your breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth until you whimpered, arching against him.

“George—”

“Say that again,” he muttered, hand sliding up your thigh. "Say my name, please."

“George.”

His fingers brushed over your panties, teasing, and he groaned when he felt the damp spot already forming. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You moaned as he slid them aside, tracing lazy circles over your clit until you were trembling, clinging to his shoulders.

“You always this responsive,” he teased softly, “or just for me?”

You could barely form words. “Mmmm … you.”

That made him smirk. “Good.”

He kisses went low and lower, lingering at your swell of your hipbone.

“You know,” he slurred softly, “I used to think about this constantly.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He laughed, low and filthy, lips brushing your thigh with his knuckle. “Fucking you.”

Your breath caught.

“Back when we were sixteen, seventeen,” he continued, voice roughened by alcohol and honesty as a finger hooked under her panties. “I couldn’t sleep some nights thinking about it. Wondering if you’d let me kiss you down here. What you’d sound like if I made you cum.”

“George—”

He groaned, slipping them off in one movement and spreading your thighs wider. “Had this photo of us. That summer by the pool. You in that little wet red bikini next to me.”

Your stomach flipped. “You kept that?”

“Kept it?” he muttered, grinning against your plush thighs. “Had to hide it in my room so my Mum wouldn’t find it… was having a wank to it constantly.”

His fingers were still dancing lazily through you folds, and your breath grew more ragged by the minute

“Nothing compares to the real thing though.” He murmured, eyes drinking in the sight of her dripping cunt.

When he finally let his breath fan over your core, you let out a startled gasp.

“Ahhh!—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning up at you before pressing a kiss to your mound. “Been thinking about this for years. Let me enjoy it.”

And then his mouth was on you, hot and wet and devastating, his tongue teasing with slow, deliberate strokes that made your back arch. His stubble scraped lightly against the sensitive skin of your thighs as he worked his way around your core, and the faint hum of his groan vibrated against you, sparking fire in your veins.

You grabbed his hair with trembling fingers, a helpless moan spilling out as your hips jerked toward him, his tongue working you over—slow at first, achingly so, then firmer, more insistent, when he felt you twitch and heard your breath hitch.

“Fuck!” you whimpered, hips jerking when he groaned against you. "That's …. ahh that's so good."

His fingers joined his mouth, sliding slowly into you, curling just right as his tongue kept working in tandem, relentless and teasing until your toes curled.

“Always knew you’d taste like this,” he murmured against your cunt between licks, before sucking your clit in a way that made your vision blur, his fingers thrusting steadily until you felt yourself teetering on the edge.

Don’t stop,” you begged hoarsely, fingers tightening in his hair, "please, don't stop … oh, fuck fuck fuck—"

The pressure built and built until it finally snapped, your body falling apart embarrassingly fast with a near-scream, crying out his name as the finish crashed over you in violent, overwhelming waves. Your thighs clamped around his head while he coaxed you through every aftershock, licking you softly until you were shivering and spent.

George sat up after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking like the cat who’d caught the canary. “You sound like you haven't cum in ages.”

You groaned lifelessly. “You’re an idiot.”

"I'll take as a yes then," he laughed, leaning over you, pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth that tasted like your musk. "Don't act like you didn't love it.”

You did. God help you, you did.

He stripped quickly, tossing his shirt somewhere across the room. You barely had time to take in his lean frame, lean muscle stretching under pale skin, stronger now than the gangly boy you grew up with, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his cock hot and heavy against your thigh, making you shiver.

“Still think this is a bad idea?” he asked, teasing, but his voice was rough, aching, threaded with need.

His breath fanned over your cheek, and the heat of him was everywhere, consuming.

You kissed him instead of answering, desperate, threading your fingers into his messy hair and pulling him down until there was nothing between you but heat and want.

George groaned and slid into you in one slow, deliberate thrust, both of you gasping at the stretch, the sensation making your nails dig into his shoulders. You felt every inch of him, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot against your cheek as he stilled for a moment to let you adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, voice trembling. “Mmmm, that’s so good … so tight, baby.”

You whimpered softly, clinging to him like you’d float away without the anchor of his body. For a long moment, he didn’t move — just stayed there, buried deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours as you felt his ragged breaths fan across your lips. His hands roamed slowly, grounding you: one cupping the back of your neck, the other tracing soothing circles at your hip as if he needed to feel every inch of you. When he finally began to move, it was slow — steady strokes, deliberate and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt around him, like every drag of his cock through your walls was a secret he intended to savor forever.

“You feel…” he groaned, breaking off with a shudder as he pumped into her deeper, his voice rough. “Christ, you feel incredible.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tipping back as pleasure bloomed and spread, slow and encompassing. “George—”

“Ahhh, fuck that’s… is that good?” he gritted out, his voice breaking on the words, lips brushing your jaw.

“Yes, fuck yes,” you panted, every nerve alight, hips instinctively rolling to meet his. “Harder, please fuck me harder.”

The request seemed to snap something in him. His jaw tightened, and the controlled rhythm gave way to something rougher, hungrier.

“Whatever you want,” he promised, the word a low growl as he captured your mouth in a fierce kiss. His pace quickened, thrusts sharper and deeper, his grip on your hips tightening like he was afraid to let you go, like he wanted to lose himself in you completely.

One of his hands slid under your thigh, hitching your leg up to his waist, changing the angle so every thrust hit deeper, sharper, pulling a high pitched moan from your lips. Then he shifted fully above you, folding you into a desperate, intoxicating press that made him sink impossibly deeper. You gasped, a broken sound ripping from your throat as your eyes rolled back, the new angle hitting so perfectly you saw white.

“Ahhh,” George rasped, his voice ragged, thrusting hard and steady as he looked down at you with glassy, drunken awe. “You look so fucking pretty like this… eyes all crossed, taking me so well.”

Your body trembled beneath him, the words and the relentless pace shoving you closer and closer to the edge. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing deliberate circles in time with his thrusts. It was overwhelming — his cock, his fingers, his voice — all of it. You were sobbing now, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on unbearable.

“George—!”

“Let go for me,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss away your tears. “Come on. Give me another one.”

And you did — falling apart with a scream, clenching hard around him as your body shook.

George nearly choked on a moan, his head tipping back like he couldn’t handle it, a slack drunk smile forming on his jaw. Ohhh, fuck,” mouth slack and eyes glassy as he breathed through it. “Oh, fuck…” His voice cracked, wrecked and needy. “God, you’re—shit—squeezing me so good—” He bit off the rest with a strangled groan, hips jerking helplessly. “Feels unreal—Christ.”

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes glazed, breath hot and uneven as he babbled between shallow thrusts. “You’re gonna kill me like this. So good. So fucking good. Don’t stop—”

His hand slid up your side, steadying you as his breath came out in a shudder. “Can you keep going for me?” he coaxed, voice hushed and urgent. “Just a little more, yeah? Wanna feel you do that again.”

You nodded, barely able to form words, and he exhaled a shaky laugh.

You nodded, barely able to form words, and he exhaled a shaky laugh, the sound more like a groan.

“Good—fuck, good,” he husked, pulling back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, mouth slack like he couldn’t even keep himself together. “Always—always wanted you like this. On top. Wanna watch you—” his voice broke with a strangled moan as he shifted his hips into you, “—fall apart on me.”

Before you could respond, his arms hooked beneath you, and with a sudden, fluid shift, he dragged you with him until you straddled his lap, chest to chest, his hands already gripping your hips so tight it almost hurt. He helped you find a rhythm, rocking you back and forth over him, each drag of his cock making your breath hitch.

Another moan ripped out of you, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as your swollen core brushed against his pelvis again and again.

“Yeah—fuck, just like that,” George groaned, the words falling out of him like he wasn’t even thinking, his fingers digging hard into your skin. “Keep going—don’t stop.” His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut before he forced them open again, wanting, needing, to watch you.

His gaze was glassy, desperate, almost reverent. “You’re so fucking perfect. You have no idea—mmmm—you have no idea how long I’ve needed this.”

dragged another guttural sound out of him, each one filthier than the last. “You don’t know how many times I’ve—fuck—imagined this,” he babbled, raw and unfiltered, words spilling out between shaky breaths. “You on top of me, falling apart, riding me, been dreaming about it for years and now—fuck—you’re here, you’re real, taking me so well.”

His hips snapped up into you harder, need overtaking rhythm. His hands clamped even tighter at your waist, forcing you down to meet every upward thrust. “That’s it—yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, voice cracking, nearly whining as the pace grew frantic. “You’re so close—I can feel it—come on, love—cum for me again. I need it. Need to feel you fall apart on me.”

He fucked you like a man starved, drunk and delirious, every messy, hungry stroke pulling you closer to the edge until there was nothing left but him, you, and the heat burning between you.

"Right there!" you cried, the coil in your stomach winding tighter as his cock hit the perfect angle, climbing until you were nearly screaming, your words tumbling out between gasps, "please—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—ahhh George!"

our body seized as the pressure finally snapped, the orgasm tearing through you so violently you could barely breathe. You screamed his name, thighs locking around his hips, nails sinking deep into his shoulders as your whole body shook, every nerve alight.

George let out a broken, guttural sound, his rhythm falling apart the moment he felt you clamp around him. “Oh—fuck—fuck—” he gasped, words spilling out like he couldn’t contain them. His forehead crashed against yours, his mouth hanging open as his thrusts grew sloppy, desperate, driven by pure instinct. “Christ—so tight—milking me—don’t stop, don’t you stop—feels too fucking good—”

He was babbling now, incoherent between moans, kissing you like he needed to breathe you in just to survive. “You’re—God, you’re perfect—mine—all mine—please—please let me cum in you—can’t hold it—shit—!”

Another latent heat pulsed through your core at the sound of that, cunt throbbing from his pounding and his desperation, and you clenched hard around him.

That undid him completely.

George let out a strangled, wrecked moan—louder than you’d ever heard from him—as he buried himself deep, holding you flush against him like he could fuse you together. He pumped into you in ragged, uneven bursts, spilling himself inside you with a force that made you whimper at the warmth of it.

Oh my God—fuck—can’t—” he groaned, words spilling out between gasps, shuddering as another pulse of release overtook him, pushing deeper, grinding into you like he could carve the feeling into his bones. “That’s it, that’s it—take it, love—take all of me—fuck—fuck—”

Even as the peak ebbed, he didn’t stop right away, couldn’t, still rolling his hips lazily, riding out every last aftershock, filling you until it was leaking hot and messy between your thighs. His whole body trembled as he collapsed against you, breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts, his chest slick and heaving against yours.

For a long moment, the room was nothing but panting, your heartbeats slamming together in the quiet. You slumped against him, both of you boneless and trembling, your forehead pressed to his damp shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

“Christ,” George whispered, his voice so low it was almost a rasp, his lips brushing your hairline. “Can’t believe you’re here. Can’t believe I get to… fuck, that I get to feel you like this finally.”

His hand splayed wide across your back, big and steady but shaking faintly, like he needed to keep touching you to make sure you wouldn’t disappear. He pressed another kiss to your temple, softer this time, but just as desperate.

You were both trembling as he laid you both down in the covers, chests heaving against one another, your bodies tangled and slick with sweat and his cum. The sounds of your ragged breathing and the soft creak of the mattress were the only things left in the aftermath, his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if afraid you might vanish.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, softly, so quiet you almost missed it, George murmured against your hair, “Don’t leave.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Hm?”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his voice rough and hoarse. “Don’t go back to your mates place tonight. Just… stay. Please. I don’t want you to go.”

The vulnerability in his words made your throat ache. You nodded against his neck, too raw and spent to argue, letting yourself melt into the safety of his hold as his breathing finally began to steady.

Your head throbbed in dull waves when you woke, the faint glow of sunlight sneaking past George’s expensive blackout curtains stabbing at your eyes. You lay very still, trying not to jostle the aching mess of your body, but mostly trying to ignore the reel of memories unraveling behind your eyelids: his mouth on yours, the sound of your name spilling out of him like a prayer as he fucked you, his hands everywhere, anchoring you and undoing you all at once.

For a moment you wondered if it had been a dream—too soft, too messy, too much like the fantasies you’d buried for years. But no, your borrowed sweatshirt was crumpled at the foot of the bed, your thighs ached, and the scent of him clung to your skin.

Then came the other thought, the one that twisted in your gut:

What if he doesn’t remember? Or worse, what if he does and regrets every second?

You stared at the ceiling, frozen. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—not yet—not when the weight of what last night could mean pressed so heavily on your ribs.

But then you heard it: a quiet inhale.

You turned, cautiously, and found George already watching you. He was lying on his side, hair a chaotic halo against the pillow, blanket pooled at his waist. His face was open in a way you’d almost never seen before—unguarded, almost stricken—as if he’d been awake for a while, rehearsing words he couldn’t quite say.

“You’re awake,” you managed, your voice a rasp.

“So are you,” he said quietly, and there it was—the tremor beneath his tone, the thing he was too careful to ask.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile.

You swallowed hard, picking at a loose thread in the sheets just to keep your hands busy. “Do you… remember last night?”

His eyebrows ticked up slightly. “Yeah ... do you?”

It was almost absurd, the way you were both bracing for the same blow. The tension cracked with the tiniest of laughs, first from you, then from him, both of you letting out shaky little sounds that weren’t quite amusement, not quite relief.

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking away for a second before returning to you. “So…” he hesitated, chewing his lip, and for a moment you thought he might retreat. But then his voice dropped lower, tentative. “Was it just… that? For you? Or was it… more?”

The question hung between you like a live wire—hesitant, vulnerable, and so unlike the glossy, unshakable George the world got to see. He looked at you like the answer might undo him.

You froze, his words wrapping around you like a net. Was it just that for you? Or was it more?

You wanted to answer, to blurt out that it had always been more, that it had been more for years, but the words knotted in your throat. You couldn’t tell if he wanted you to say it—if this was just a casual, drunken slip for him that he was too polite to call a mistake.

“I…” you began, faltering, staring at the sheets like they might hand you an answer. The pause stretched until it felt unbearable. Then, with a breath so shaky it trembled, you forced yourself to look at him.

“It wasn’t just that. Not for me.”

George’s expression softened, all at once, the tension in his jaw unspooling as if you’d given him air. His hand found yours beneath the sheets, tentative at first, then firm, like he needed to ground himself. “Good,” he murmured, the word a low exhale as he tugged you closer until you were pressed to his chest. “Because I don’t want it to be just that for me either.”

Your heart thumped against his ribs as you tucked yourself into him, letting the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his arms dissolve the worst of the dread.

After a long, quiet moment, you tipped your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “So… you really kept that photo?” you asked, voice still a little raw but teasing now, needing to lighten the weight in the room.

George groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his face in mock agony.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, a faint smile curling at your lips. “You basically confessed to having a shrine to me in your teenage bedroom.”

He flushed crimson, laughing under his breath. “It wasn’t a shrine. Just… one very well-hidden photo.”

“That you were wanking off to every night.”

“Not every night.” He rolled his eyes, then sobered a little, chewing on his lip again before blurting out, “So… what now? I mean—what do you want us to be?”

Your chest tightened at the question, but his voice was so earnest, so unpolished and afraid, that the fear felt a little easier to bear. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “But I don’t want this to just… go back to how it was.”

His breath left him in something close to relief, his forehead resting against yours. “Good,” he said simply, like that settled it, like for now, being here in this bed with you was enough.

He stayed quiet after that, just holding you, his hand splayed across your back like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. The minutes stretched and blurred, a kind of stillness you’d never shared with him before settling over the room — no words, no tension, just warmth.

Before you could say something, his phone buzzed against the nightstand — a message lighting up the screen from someone you vaguely recognized from last night:

Alive?

George reached over, turned it facedown without reading more, and pulled the blanket back over both of you like a fortress. “They can wait,” he said simply, tucking you tighter against his chest.

“Do we… actually have to get up?” you mumbled eventually, your voice muffled against his chest.

George let out a soft huff of laughter, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your spine. “Not unless you’re desperate for cold cereal or a sad piece of toast.”

You tilted your head up, grinning despite yourself. “That’s your idea of breakfast?”

“I’m an athlete, I eat clean,” he said in mock offense, but his grin gave him away. “Besides, you’re the one who stormed into my flat without bringing croissants or something.”

“Next time I’ll bring a proper hangover spread,” you teased.

His eyebrows quirked. “Next time?”

You rolled your eyes and swatted weakly at his chest, which only made him chuckle, the sound rumbling beneath your ear.

He smirked against your hair, voice dropping playfully. “Though… next time could start right now if you wanted.”

The offhanded sex joke startled you, a flush creeping up your neck before you could stop it. Your body reacted embarrassingly fast to the thought, but you shook your head, burying your face into his chest. “Not now,” you mumbled.

He stilled, pulling back slightly to look at you. “Not feeling it?”

You hesitated before sheepishly admitting, “No, I am. I just… forgot my birth control last night.” The words tumbled out in a whisper, the memory of him finishing in you hitting all over again, making your face burn.

George blinked, then let out a bashful laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Well… that’s on me too, isn’t it?” He kissed your temple gently, still chuckling. “Alright. After we nap, I’ll go to the pharmacy and save your dignity. Plan B and croissants — the real hangover breakfast.”

You groaned into his chest, swatting at him half-heartedly, but the teasing warmth in his voice melted the knot of nerves in your stomach.

He let the quiet linger for a moment before his hand drifted lower, fingers ghosting along the inside of your thigh. “Or,” he murmured lowly, his breath hot against your ear, “I could do something else instead. That doesn't require more Plan B."

Your breath hitched as his fingers wandered higher on your thigh, grazing over sensitive skin, teasing without committing, every nerve in your body sparking back to life.

"If you insist," You replied breathlessly, burying your face into his neck, trying to stifle the soft sound that escaped you.

You could feel George smirking against your hair. "Oh, I do."

And for the first time, as the bliss rose again dizzying and real, it truly sank in:

last night hadn’t been a dream.

It had been real. And you loved it.

Weeks later, you found yourself tucked into another one of George’s hoodie again, your hair pulled into a haphazard bun, clinging to a paper cup of coffee that was almost too hot to hold. The late afternoon London air was brisk enough to sting your cheeks, but George’s hand at the small of your back kept you grounded as you walked side by side down a quiet Chelsea street. He looked unbothered by the passing glances — baseball cap low, sunglasses on — as if being out in public with you like this didn’t feel monumental.

It did to you.

You had still been replaying every moment from that night in the weeks after. Sometimes, it didn't feel real still, that he was yours now. That you were worth the two hour drive and the late night calls . But whenever the thoughts began to swim in your head, George would simply plant a kiss on her lips in the kitchen or push up your dress in the hallway till the doubts were gone and all that was left was him.

So when his phone buzzed, and he fished it out with his free hand, glancing at the screen with a self deprecating chuckle, you looked up.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

He turned it so you could see:

@deuxpaddockSpotted: George Russell grabbing coffee in Chelsea with a mystery girl. ☕️👀 Move over Lady Eleanor — looks like our Brackley boy likes them cozy and casual.

Photo: George in a hoodie and cap, holding two coffees. You at his side, his hand tucked protectively against your lower back. A blurry shot of him leaning down, kissing your cheek.

You winced at the headline, stomach sinking, bracing yourself for the inevitable comment section full of comparisons to someone like Chloe.

But George just smirked, passing the phone into your hands like it was nothing.

“See? Told you,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Not such a bad idea after all.”

You scrolled down hesitantly.

Comments:

@gridtea: WHO IS SHEEEE @f1gossip: private insta, no tags, no name… girl is a ghost 👀 @socialitelondon: can confirm: she’s not one of ours. Definitely not from London either. Interesting. @wiltonGR63: She looks… plain? Honestly surprising choice NGL. @paddockprincess: (replying to @wiltonGR63): Honestly what are you smoking she gorgeous??? I hope he knows how to fight @QueenC: (replying to @paddockorincess): All I’m saying is I heard from a mate’s cousin that she came off as bit of a social climber to some of his circle. Not really the “F1 girlfriend” type. 🤷‍♀️ @brackleygirl: (replying to @QueenC) wowww bitter much? She seems really genuine compared to the posh model types he’s been seen with lately, if you want to talk about social climbing. His “circle” just sounds jealous. @lilianhurst: EEEKKK. My flatmate's sister went to school with George, and apparently this is his childhood mate from his school days! Apparently they've know each other for ages but finally made the jump to bf/gf, I'm sobbing.😭 @gridtea:(replying to @lillianhurst) Stop thats adorable. NGL this is the most normal F1 couple we’ve gotten in ages @georgerussellnation: It's also the most like himself he’s looked in forever too, they look so happy, 10/10 support.

You stared at the mix of comments, most of them oddly warm, celebratory even and felt a lump form in your throat. It didn’t erase the sting of the insecurities floating in your head, but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as it would have yesterday.

George glanced down at you as you slipped your hand into his, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Let them talk,” he said softly, his voice so certain it made your chest ache. “I’ve got what I want.”

And the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #george russell smut #gr63 #george russell angst #george russell x reader #george russell #george russell fanfic

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

Text

One of Your Mayfair Girls || George Russell Two Shot

Part I: Just Mates

Pairing: George Russell x Childhood friend!Reader

Word Count: ~10.K (two parts)

Warnings: heavy drinking/intoxication, blurred emotional boundaries, jealousy, class insecurity, feelings of inadequacy, possessive!George, mutual pining, long-time friends-to-lovers, messy emotions, confessions, emotional vulnerability.

Author’s Note: This one… got away from me LOL. Was gonna be a one-shot but its two parts now sorry but it NEEDED IT so y'all are getting a nice smutty part 2 soon trusttt. Reader getting way too drunk, George saying way too much, and both of them finally shedding the years of idiotic “we’re just friends” repression via whiskey courage. George is still so socially clueless in this despite being such a social boy (sweet summer child thinking she’d “fit right in” Like sir… pick a lane.) But he makes up for it later ;)

Tags: #george russell x reader #george russell fic #f1 #fanfiction #angst #friends to lovers #heaving drinking #mutual pining #mutal stupidity #drunk fighting #confessions #mentions of sexual harrassment #george being obtuse #but also boyfriend to the rescue behavior #because how dare someone touch you #this is just 4.6k of yearning and bad decisions #posh boy vs rural girl dynamics my beloved

Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules || One-shots, Requests & Smuts - Masterlist || AO3 Work || Next →

Stupid polyester.

You huffed, tugging the hem of your clearance-rack dress aggressively as you shoved hair from your forehead. The fabric clung uncomfortably to your skin, still holding the heat from the humid summer air outside. Even the club’s faint air conditioning did nothing to help. Your reflection in the mirrored column near the bar looked foreign — a girl in cheap sequins and drugstore lipstick trying to pass as someone who belonged here.

You weren’t sure why you’d said yes to this in the first place.

When George had called and invited you out in London, you pictured a pub or maybe one of those low-lit lounges where you could still hear yourself think. Not… whatever this was.

Maybe it was George’s brilliant smile, that casual promise that it’d be fun, that you wouldn’t feel out of place. The truth was you never said no to him — hadn’t been able to since you were kids. He always had a way of making you feel like you mattered, like you fit in, even if it was just with a grin or a throwaway joke. And every time, you told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were just his old friend from home.

But that didn’t stop you from falling for it, for him, over and over again.

Maybe you just wanted to believe you could blend into his world now, even though your gut told you that you couldn’t. The club was all dim gold light and designer perfume, the air heavy with champagne and the low hum of London’s wealthiest gossiping over their glasses. The girls wore backless dresses that looked like they’d cost more than your car, their laughter sharp and polished, and the men in Rolexes lounged at the bar like they owned the city. Gilded mirrors reflected the warm glow of the chandeliers, and the bass from the DJ booth thumped through the soles of your shoes, shaking your already-uneasy stomach.

George, of course, fit right in — tall, sharp, effortless, his navy button up shirt perfectly tailored to his frame and his hair falling just-so in that infuriating way that probably took him no effort at all. He didn’t look like the boy you grew up with anymore. He looked like the man in the glossy Mercedes campaigns, the kind of man who belonged here.

You, on the other hand, felt and looked like a walking punchline.

It got worse when he'd brought you over to the group after you'd arrived with him. You clocked it immediately, the judging once-overs, the eyes snagging on your outfit with just enough disdain to make your skin crawl, the whispered exchanges just loud enough to hear, and the faintly polite curiosity that seemed to scream why on earth would George bring her?

They couldn’t fathom why he’d drag a girl like you, a childhood friend in an off-the-rack dress, into their polished Mayfair world.

Neither could you.

One girl in particular stood out as George made his rounds. She was impossibly tall, with a sheet of glossy blond hair and a full pout, her perfume a heady cloud of jasmine and expensive champagne that lingered as she glided toward him. The way she leaned in for a warm, too-familiar kiss on his cheek made your stomach tighten, her diamond bracelet glinting under the chandelier as if to remind you of the gulf between her world and yours.

"Chloe is a colleague of mine, we've done a few campaigns together with Tommy Hilfiger." George explained, motioning for you to come closer.

Her manicured fingers rested lightly on his arm as she smiled a porcelain grin, and you felt yourself simmer with quiet envy like a spectator intruding on something intimate.

George, oblivious to your discomfort, introduced you with an easy, careless charm that only made the moment sting more.

“This is a mate of mine from home,” he said warmly to her, like that explained everything.

Mate from home. The words rang in your ears like a dismissal, a reminder of exactly where you stood in his glittering new life, just a relic of a past he’d long outgrown.

The girl's, Chloe, gaze raked over you from head to toe like you were some rusted piece of dinnerware the staff had forgotten to polish on silver dat. She turned back to George with a simpering smile, her voice sugar-sweet but edged with something cutting.

“George, you really do keep the most… interesting company these days,” she cooed, her tone just polite enough to make the insult sting as she let her eyes flick over you again. "Every time I see you, you've got another little pet."

You picked up the insult immediately, your jaw tightening as you fought to keep your expression neutral.

George, of course, didn’t notice, didn’t see the way it landed. He just laughed lightly and slung an arm over your shoulder, saying with an easy grin, “We go way back. She’s been a mate since ... well forever, honestly. We lived down the street from one another. Speaking of, I want to introduce you to Andrew. Hang on—Andrew!"

And as soon as George turned to chat with another friend, her smile didn’t even pretend to reach her eyes.

“So, where do you live ... ?” Chloe asked vapidly, tilting her head as she clearly had forgotten your name already, her tone one of idle curiosity but with a sharp edge underneath.

“King’s Lynn, that's where we grew up,” you said, a little too honestly, already bracing for whatever comment came next.

She chuckled lightly, a sharp little sound that felt like a slap. “Oh. I thought George wasn’t going around there much anymore. You know, moving on to bigger and better things."

Your stomach flipped at the subtle insult, tugging at your deepest insecurity, that one day he’d leave you behind for good, trade you in for better drinks and better company.

You clenched your jaw and forced a tight smile, throat burning as you muttered something about needing a drink.

"Excuse me, I'm gonna go grab a drink..."

Chloe didn't so much as wait for a 'nice to meet you' before turning her back on you and towards George. A manicured hand slithered back up his bicep.

And as you slipped away, weaving through the crowd, heat prickling at your skin, the thought struck bitter and cold:

George probably won't even notice I'm gone.

You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time since then thinking of excuses to leave, swirling the straw in your empty glass as the bass thudded through the floor.

You’d already downed one drink too fast, then ordered another, letting the burn of the cheap vodka you'd ordered soothe the rawness in your chest. Stewing, you scrolled aimlessly until you found Chloe’s public Instagram. Of course she was a model, of course she had hundreds of thousands of followers, her grid a curated highlight reel of yachts, runway shoots, and champagne-soaked parties. Every glossy image made you feel smaller, like you couldn’t possibly compete with someone like her, someone an F1 driver would date in a heartbeat. You kept scrolling, swiping away from her profile with a bitter exhale, until your thumb accidentally landed on a gossip account.

And that’s when your stomach sank.

@deuxpaddock Spotted: George Russell out with a mystery brunette in Mayfair last week 👀 classy couple alert?

Comments:

@paddocktea: wonder which Westminster heiress this one is lol @georgerussellnation: not our boy George going full posh boy after her got that Mercedes drive 💀 @socialitelondon: pretty sure that’s an earl’s daughter…

@deuxpaddock F1 Star’s New Flame? George Russell seen getting cozy with Earl of Bedford's daughter Eleanor de Beaumont at a London charity gala. Are congratulations in order?

You closed the app with a sigh, staring at your reflection in the black mirror. The glossy screen doubled as a mirror, cruelly showing you the smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks of someone who didn’t belong here. Every carefully posed photo of Chloe burned in your mind, each one a reminder of what George’s world looked like now, and how far you were from it.

You weren’t an heiress. You didn’t know which fork to use at a dinner party. You still dropped your T’s and flattened your vowels, still said bath like it rhymed with math and butter more like bu’er, that soft Norfolk lilt clinging to your words no matter how carefully you tried to smooth them out. And here you were, drunk enough to feel both numb and raw, sinking into the sticky leather of the barstool as if it could swallow you whole.

You thought about Irish exiting, sneaking off to your other mate’s flat in town, then killing a tub of ice cream and sobbing yourself to sleep. Because what else could you do?

You already felt like a fraud before you’d even left your flat. Now, you just felt small, like you’d been stupid to come at all.

“You disappeared.”

You startled, nearly dropping your phone as you scrambled to lock the screen and hide it against your thigh, heart leaping to your throat.

A quick glance around confirmed it, George had slid up beside you, still in his sharp navy shirt and blazer, hair still perfectly tousled. He looked flushed from chatting, but there was a flicker of concern in his blue eyes as they met yours.

“Had to get a drink,” you said lightly, eyes fixed on the rim of your glass so you didn’t have to meet his.

He squinted, clearly not buying it. “You okay?” His voice softened, cautious, like he was trying to coax out the truth.

“Peachy.” The word came out too fast, too sharp, the kind of answer that begged not to be questioned.

George frowned, shifting his weight as if fighting the urge to press you. His gaze lingered, searching your face for cracks in your composure.

“I know they can seem a bit ... frosty at first. But they’ll warm up to you.”

The words hit squarely in your chest the moment you registered them. You couldn't tell if you were mad at him or just felt sorry for him, that he was either that naïve or willfully ignoring how poorly you stuck out among his new friends and this glossy Mayfair world.

You stared at your drink hotly. “I don’t think I’m their type of person, George.”

The words tasted bitter, your stomach twisting. Part of you wanted him to contradict you, but when he didn’t immediately, the silence stung.

George tilted his head, his voice softer than you expected. “Well, you’re my type of person.”

You blinked. “What?”

He hesitated, the earnestness in his eyes giving way to a flicker of self-consciousness. He coughed, straightening as if to collect himself, suddenly flustered. “I mean—you’re my best mate. And they will like you if you give them a chance.”

Before you could answer, he coaxed gently, his hand sliding across the small of your back as if to steer you, warm through the thin fabric. “Come on. Let’s go back.”

You nodded, but the words barely landed. You tried not to focus on how steadying and warm his long fingers felt resting there.

He's just tipsy, you reminded yourself.

It doesn't mean anything.

George had barely rejoined his group with you in tow when he steered you toward a tall young man with a rakish smile, his loosened tie and easy stance making him seem a bit more approachable than the others. “This is Mark, he's a friend of Chloe's.” George said casually, introducing you yet again as a childhood mate.

The word made your stomach twist, and you couldn’t help but notice how easily it rolled off his tongue as if it didn’t sting. You forced a polite nod, swallowing down the ache creeping up your throat. Mark gave you a once-over and then smirked at George.

“I thought I might see you around with one of those other girls Mercedes keeps saddling you with,” he drawled.

There was a laced joke in his tone, one you didn’t understand, but it landed like a stone in your gut. Because all you could hear was that George had plenty of girls he could’ve been with instead of you.

Prettier girls, richer girls, better girls.

George chuckled lightly at Mark’s remark, shaking his head awkwardly as if a bit perturbed by the comment. “Oh come off it. You know i prefer more normal company,” he said, his tone light.

Mark laughed with him, swirling his drink. Then, with a glance at you:

“Didn’t think you’d be bringing hometown people with you though." he added lowly. "No offense, of course, love. I love farmer's daughters just as much as the next bloke. Just gets a bit old with the accent."

You blinked, heat rushing up your neck.

George’s arm was around your shoulders in an instant, grip a bit tighter than she remembered. His fingers grazed over your shoulder casually, like the kind of friendly gesture he’d done a hundred times, but there was a weight to it that made your breath catch, soft and lingering, like he’d felt your discomfort and was grounding you without making a scene.

If only it were more than just a friendly gesture.

“Careful,” he said, his voice laced with some casual warning. “Us farmers take Norfolk accent slander very seriously."

The man chuckled like it was some jest made in good taste. “I'm only joking, no need to get the pitchforks.”

George seemed to linger on the comment, his eyes roving over Mark's face for a moment. But then he let out an easy laugh and, spotting someone walking by with a tray of shots, seized the opportunity to shift the mood.

“Right, everyone’s taking one of these,” he announced with mock authority, reaching out to snag two glasses and passing one to you. “Then we’re dancing — properly terribly, all of us. No excuses.”

The group erupted in laughter as shots were passed around. George kept his arm slung over your shoulder as he clinked his glass against yours with an affectionate grin. You tried desperately to mirror his brightness, seeing how earnest he was in wanting you to have a good time.

If nothing else, you decided, you could at least get rip-roaring drunk and let the night blur into something easier to bear.

Everyone shouted a raucous “Cheers!” as glasses clinked, and you tossed the shot back in one go, feeling the burn chase your sorrows to the pit of your stomach.

Then another, and then another after that.

Each one going down smoother and faster than the last, liquid courage blurring the sharp edges of the night. By the time the fourth shot was passed your way, the room was starting to hum pleasantly.

And it dawned on you, in the sluggish, sinking way of the very drunk as George tugged you towards the dance floor, that it had been a terrible idea.

At first, you danced numbly, letting the crowd swallow you, the press of too-warm bodies, the blinding strobe lights, the bass rattling your ribs, but none of it dulled the sinking weight of unworthiness still tugging at you. You felt like a ghost in George’s glittering world, floating aimlessly through a place you didn’t belong. Then Mark reappeared, grinning, another drink in hand, suddenly bolder than before. He pressed close, spinning you lazily, his cologne sharp and cloying as he murmured low in your ear.

“You know, you clean up nicely for a Norfolk girl in a cheap dress.”

You had half a mind to be offended, but you were too sad and drunk to care. Mark offered you his drink with an easy grin, and you took it without thinking, downing it in one go as the alcohol scorched its way down. The room tilted slightly, your words coming out slower and slurred as you spotted Chloe hovering near George with a predatory kind of ease.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you managed, the syllables thick on your tongue.

Mark just smiled smoothly, spinning you in a lazy half-turn before pulling you flush back against him so your backside swayed against his hips in time with the thudding bass. His hands lingered at your waist, guiding you as if you were some willing partner in his game.

“It can be whatever you want it to be, darling.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why don’t you come back to mine,” he murmured in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, “and I’ll show you. Unless you’re tired of being George’s little charity case for the night.”

The words took a moment to sink in, dawning on you with a mix of confusion and hurt as you turned in his arms to face him. But as you blinked, dizzy and slow to process, the shifting crowd parted just enough for George to come into view again.

Only this time he was storming toward you, his shoulders squared, face uncharacteristically dark with anger.

His cheeks were flushed from drink and dancing, but his jaw was set tight, eyes locked on Mark with a fire that made your stomach twist. He didn’t say a word before grabbing your arm, yanking you away from Mark with a possessive force that startled you.

“Back off, mate." George snapped.

Mark laughed, unfazed. “Touchy. We were just making conversation, that's all.”

George’s jaw tightened, eyes blazing. “Maybe stop having 'conversations' that involve reaching up people's dresses in the middle of a club then, yeah?”

His words made your stomach drop as you glanced down and saw the hem of your dress slightly askew. You flushed, mortified, embarrassment burning through the haze of alcohol.

You were so drunk you hadn’t even noticed.

Mark arched a brow, smirking. “Last I heard, your friend here is single. Didn’t know that also meant she was somehow also off-limits too. Funny how that works."

George’s expression darkened, a flicker of something almost protective there s his hand tightened on her wrist. “She is.”

You couldn't tell which question he'd answered.

But there was something unspoken passing between them again, some male posturing you couldn’t quite place, some history you weren’t privy to.

George finally barked, “We’re leaving.”

You were too drunk and confused to argue as he pulled you toward the exit, though you tugged on his arm uselessly, whining, “I don’t wanna leave yet, I wanna stay and keep drinking.”

George shot you a testing look over his shoulder, his tone clipped. “I’ve got plenty of liquor at my flat.”

But you planted your feet into the ground as he made it to the sidewalk outside the club, heels digging precariously into the concrete as you yanked on his arm, breath coming out in uneven bursts of vodka and anger.

“George, stop!”

He didn’t budge, his grip tightening as he turned back toward you, anger flaring in his eyes again. “Why do you even want to stay? So Mark can keep fondling you? So you can drink yourself sick in front of everyone?”

The words pierced through your drunken haze like a blade. Angry tears prickled at your eyes, because it felt like confirmation of everything you’d feared, everything Mark had sneered — that you were just a charity case to him, a pity guest in his glittering new life.

You rounded on him, heat rising to your face. “Oh because you care so much? You were having such a great time without me before that. Or was I just here to make you look good tonight in front of all you new friends?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, jaw working as if the truth were stuck somewhere in his throat. No answer came.

You scoffed bitterly, throwing your hands up as tears leaked down your cheeks. “Fine. I’ll just grab a taxi to my mate’s flat or something. You can go back inside with Chloe and play prince of Mayfair with your new friends.”

George stopped in his tracks, whipping around to face you with a flash of panic and desperation in his eyes.

“Wait, stop! I didn’t bring you out here just to watch you storm off. We haven't seen each other in months."

“I'm aware." you shot back, scathing, the words dripping with hurt you couldn’t hide. "I heard you've been passing lots of time with Eleanor or one of your other girls you prance around with."

The words landed like a slap in the night air. George blinked, taken aback, his mouth opening as if to reply, then snapping shut again as the weight of them settled between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of its earlier anger.

“Do you honestly think I’d rather be spending time with those silly fucking models Mercedes forces me to be seen with for contracts than with you?”

You went silent, blinking at him as you caught the raw hurt in his eyes. The lump in your throat made it hard to breathe. “I… I just assumed you were outgrowing our friendship,” you admitted meekly, words wobbling. “I never see you anymore. So I just thought you brought me here because ... you felt bad for me.”

George immediately tugged you closer, tucking you under his chin as his hold softened. “I invited you because I missed you,” he said quietly. “I wanted to spend more time with you tonight. But you looked so miserable I let you wander off, because I know you like your space sometimes.”

Your face pressed into his shirt as you mumbled softly, “I just felt cheap there. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

George’s arms wrapped around you tighter, protective and warm.

“You could never embarrass me,” he said firmly, tilting his chin to rest on your head. “So stop being so stubbornly drunk and just let me enjoy my night with you without other people trying to ruin it.”

That stopped your tears finally. You opened your mouth to protest again, to argue for the sake of it, but he cut you off with an earnestness that left no room for debate, his voice low and certain in a way that made your chest ache.

“Just … don’t go to your mate’s flat, please. Crash at mine instead. We can watch a movie or something and get breakfast in the morning."

You paused after a long, tense beat, telling yourself his words and his embrace meant nothing more than friendly tenderness. So you leaned your head back into his neck, arms snaking around his waist as you finally relented.

“Fine. Only if I can pick the movie.”

George’s flat was pristine as always when they arrived, all clean lines, muted grays and creams, and expensive furniture you were too scared to touch, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a magazine. You swayed a little in your heels, the room tilting just enough to remind you how drunk you still were.

George, oddly restless, busied himself with tidying, tossing away stray wrappers, straightening the coffee table, as if keeping his hands occupied could mask how nervous he seemed in the quiet of his own flat.

“Do you need water? Want a snack or something?” he called from the kitchen, his voice just a little too casual. The clinking of glasses and rustle of wrappers betrayed his nervous fidgeting as he busied himself with anything to keep his hands occupied.

You hiccuped, leaning against the wall for balance. “Forget snacks,” you slurred, motioning vaguely to your half-on dress and pinching heels. “You got a clean pair of boxers and a sweatshirt I can crash in?”

He froze for a beat, glancing at you, his eyes sweeping you up and down in a way that made your heart hammer, before muttering a rough “yeah” and disappearing into his room.

When he returned with the clothes, you promised to give them back.

“I’ll wash them and bring them back next time I'm,” you mumbled. George handed them over awkwardly, his eyes flicking away before settling back on you. “Don’t bother,” he muttered, voice low. “They’ll probably look better on you than they ever did on me.”

You blushed, staring at your feet as you padded off to the bathroom, heels clicking unevenly on the polished floor. Inside, you shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your eyeliner was smudged, your cheeks blotchy from drink, and the spinning room made it hard to focus. With clumsy fingers, you peeled yourself out of the dress and stepped into his clothes. The hoodie was oversized, soft and impossibly warm, the fabric enveloping you like a cocoon. It smelled like him — clean laundry and that faint, expensive cologne he always wore — so much so that you buried your face in the collar, inhaling greedily, letting the scent ground you even as your head swam.

You eventually ventured back out into the living room, tossing the dress and heels into a pile on the floor. George was already sprawled on the couch with a blanket, patting the seat beside him in invitation. You curled up next to him, letting the warmth of the blanket and his proximity settle your nerves, the movie flickering across the screen as you both sank into the cushions. But then George started doing things he normally didn’t do: draping an arm over the back of the couch so his fingers could graze your shoulder, pulling her cloer to him, tangling their feet together. It was casual enough to pass as nothing, but lingering just enough to make your skin buzz and your chest tighten.

You pulled your knees up, trying to make yourself smaller, trying not to overthink the shift in his touch.

“You look nice in those,” he said suddenly, his voice softer than the film’s hum, his hand lingering against the open edge of the sweatshirt like he couldn’t help himself, his gaze briefly dipping to the way his boxers hung loose on your hips.

You blinked, flustered, heat rising to your face under the weight of his eyes. You weren’t used to being inspected like this. “It’s just sweats.”

George paused, then shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You could make a bin bag look sexy.”

Your cheeks burned, and the words seemed to hang in the air between you, heavier than they should have.

His fingers still brushed idly along the edge of the sweatshirt, and you could feel the warmth of his thigh pressed against yours under the blanket. You were tucked so close together now that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest with every breath, the faint scent of his toothpaste enveloping you, and it made your heart race. You told yourself firmly he was just drunk, nothing more, but it didn’t stop the heat from climbing up your neck.

You were halfway through the movie's opening credits when you drunkenly blurted, “Don’t say stuff like that.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, like the words were clawing their way out of your chest.

George froze, his arm still draped along the back of the couch.

“Like what?”

“Stuff that makes me think…” You shook your head, staring down at your knees, twisting the hem of his sweatshirt in your fists. “That you… want us to be…” You couldn’t find the words, drunkness dulling your tongue, shame knotting them in your throat. “You’re… you now. And I’m still just me. You don’t have to make me feel better about that.”

George stared at you, drunkenly stunned, the flickering light of the TV catching the hurt flashing across his face. “Is that what you think?”

You shrugged helplessly, feeling small. “Guess so.”

He laughed weakly, running a hand through his hair like he couldn’t believe you. “Christ. You’re so thick sometimes.”

“Thick how?”

“Thick enough to not notice that you were my school crush for years.”

It felt like the room stilled, the soft hum of the movie and the quiet creak of the couch drowned out by the roaring in your ears.

“What?”

George rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly boyish, suddenly stripped of all that polished Mercedes sheen.

“I was awkward and gangly and you were… the girl next door. I didn’t stand a chance. And now—” He gestured vaguely at his flat, like the walls themselves were proof of how far he’d come. “I just wanted to show you my world. Make you proud of me, make you finally understand how I feel about you.”

You gaped at him, drunk and flushed, heart pounding, entirely unprepared for that confession, for the way it knocked the breath out of you.

“I don’t want some rich Westminster type,” he added, voice quieter now, threaded with something raw. “I want you.”

The words slammed into you, dizzying, shifting everything between you in an instant. Your heart hammered, a frantic drum against your ribs, as his other hand crept up your thigh under the blanket, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. The warmth of his touch made your breath hitch, your vision swimming from more than just the alcohol.

You were so flustered you could barely see straight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

George hesitated, fingers still resting on your thigh, his gaze darkening as the silence stretched. The warmth of his hand crept higher, slow and deliberate, until you could barely breathe, his closeness filling every inch of your awareness. Your pulse thrummed in your ears as long fingers came up, gently tilting your chin so your eyes met his.

“Because I want to kiss you,” he murmured, low and steady. You swallowed hard, the world blurring at the edges. “Then do it.”

George didn’t hesitate one bit.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #george russell smut #gr63 #george russell angst #george russell x reader #george russell #george russell fanfic #george russell x you #f1 smut

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

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Ice Breaker || Oscar Piastri Mini Series

Chapter Two: A Little Sunlight

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x PR Consultant!Reader

Word Count: ~11.K estimate (multi-part series)

Warnings: Language, alcohol mention, mild sexual thoughts (Oscar POV), mutual pining, awkward flirting, soft burn, one (1) meddling Lando Norris.

Author’s Note: Multi-part soft fluffy fic with alternating POVs. Oscar is awkward but earnest. Reader doesn’t realize he's flirting. He very much is. Sigh, Oscar's just a smol bean in this chapter. Fem!oc has been left ambigious in terms of appearance <3

Tags: #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fic #f1 fanfiction #slow burn #friends to lovers #media trainer au #soft oscar #lando being a cupid

Taglist: @afreckledfairy, @marijas-stuff, @avengersgirllorianna

Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules Ice Breaker - Mini Series Masterlist AO3 Works Next →

Why me?

Why does this shit always happen to me?

Oscar grumbled internally as he shifted uncomfortably in his plastic seat, looking down at his watch for the fifth time in the past thirty minutes as he rolled his eyes.

Every media obligation felt like a chore lately, being prodded and posed for the sake of some sponsor's branding or McLaren's team narrative. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand why it mattered; he did. Mark had made it clear to him from the beginning how he needed to get up to speed with the Papaya PR circus. He just didn’t think it was going to feel like he was pulling his nails off every time trying to perform.

So when Zak had jovially told him that they'd hired someone to help him 'come out of his shell a bit more' with this media olbigation, as if that was some great treat, he'd braced himself for more of the same bullshit. Another stern, dowdy middle-aged teacher type with a scolding tone and a clipboard full of ways to make him more friendly, palatable, normal.

But then she walked into the board room, a waft of fresh perfume preceding her, and Oscar had nearly tripped on his own shoelaces standing up to shake her hand.

She wasn’t stern-looking. Or dowdy.

Not even close.

She was much younger than he’d pictured, heels clicking softly against the floor as she crossed the room, her posture composed but her sparkling eyes cutting through the cool, unreadable mask of armor he was always wearing. There was warmth in her skin, a soft glow to her cheeks that seemed to halo her face like a little ray of gentle sunshine in an otherwise clinical room. She was… pretty, elegant even, effortlessly serene in a way that made his chest feel uncomfortably tight all of a sudden.

His gaze had wandered for a moment as she'd sat down in the chair opposite him, eyes snagging on the line of her thighs where her skirt hem rode up softly against the seat, before he caught himself and jerked his focus back up.

Heat crept uncomfortably at his collar as he blinked rapidly.

Brilliant, he scolded himself as he noticed her curious gaze.

Staring at her like an idiot isn’t doing you any favors, you moron.

Especially after he'd just cut her off when she tried to introduce herself. He forced his shoulders straighter, trying to salvage some semblance of composure and competence.

He just needed to get through these first few meetings without making a massive fool of himself. Get the tips he needed, impress Zak and marginally improve the amount of times he put his foot in his mouth during paddock interviews.

The sooner they finished that, the sooner he could get back to things he actually wanted to do.

Like not getting caught looking up the skirt of his PR consultant.

“Well, I'm assuming you know why I’m here,” she began calmlu. "based on what you just said."

Oscar resisted the urge to grimace at that too.

“Right, PR training,” he said flatly.

“Media training,” She corrected easily, though there was no hint of scolding in her tone. She smiled softly, passing him a booklet of things no doubt media related. “PR keeps you out of trouble, which judging from what Zak shared you don't seem to struggle with. Media training makes you interesting.”

The word snagged at him. Interesting.

A small, sharp sting of recognition. He liked being the dependable one, the consistent one, the easygoing one who stayed out of trouble. Pride himself on it. But he also knew what people whispered: that he was bland, unremarkable, boring. That Lando drew the headlines for McLaren, the sponsor money, and the adoration from fans while Oscar was just... there.

Hearing her phrase it that way, so flippantly, made his stomach twist. Like maybe that’s how she saw him too.

He kept his face neutral, but it felt like a small, personal slight all the same. “So, you want me to be Lando.”

She laughed openly at that, not the polite kind, but genuine, and something about the sound loosened a knot in his chest.

“God, no,” she added with an amused shake of her head, which surprised Oscar slightly until she followed up: “Your lack of personal drama right now is actually a huge strength, trust me.”

The sting from before softened slightly, and Oscar felt his brows raise a hair. She seemed to catch his expression, and smiled again.

“Makes my job easier,” she explained lightly, still smiling. “Your base brand is much cleaner to work with compared to some of my other clients.”

The casual joke landed like a small peace offering, and Oscar felt his stomach flip at the words, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

“Least I have one thing going for me then,” he said, almost dryly.

It was barely anything. But it was something.

“Alright, so” She said, opening the notebook in front of her. “My understanding from what Zak and the team shared is that interviews, especially when you’re put on the spot, seem to be where you struggle the most right now. Would you say that's accurate?"

Oscar let out a push of air, nodded his head to the side a bit.

"Yeah, that's pretty dead on." He replied.

"Not a big deal," She offered. "They don't exactly make the environment conducive to casual chatting, especially when you're in front of a million cameras after you've just spent two hours sweating your ass off."

Oscar caught himself cracking a small smile at that. She was surprisingly funny, and despite the nature of this meeting, he found her easy to speak to. Far easier than he'd expected.

"So let’s start simple. We're gonna try a mini mock interview. Very low-stakes. No cameras. No pressure.”

So much for easy.

“Oh. Okay.”

She tried a softball question first. “What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not racing?"

“Uh… hanging out at home, I guess.” He said it so flatly it almost sounded like a question too.

"Hanging. out. at. home." She jotted down pointedly. "Anything else?"

Oscar didn’t understand why she repeated his answer like it was wrong. It was the truth — short, direct, simple. That’s what these questions were for, right?

He didn’t see the point in dressing them up.

“Alright, let’s try something easy,” she said, glancing at her notes again as if they were already too sparse. “If you had to pick one, what’s your favorite track on the calendar and why? Maybe something about the atmosphere, the layout, the memories there?”

“Melbourne.”

Easy. Honest.

“Why?”

“Well, it’s home.”

She waited. He didn’t elaborate. Oscar's leg began to bounce a tiny bit. What was there to elaborate on?

What else does she expect me to add to that?

“That’s it?” she pressed gently.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” He retorted flatly.

“Okay,” she said slowly, pen tapping against her notebook. “Let’s try another one. Walk me through your pre-race rituals — anything you do to get in the zone? Music? A lucky item? Even a weird superstition?”

“None.”

“None at all?”

“No. I'm not superstitious.”

“Not even a lucky pair of socks? Playlist? Weird helmet ritual? Something you eat before every race?”

“Nope.”

They were perfectly reasonable answers. But as she stared at him, he felt something creeping in, a pinch of self-consciousness. Like he was failing some test he didn’t know he was taking.

She leaned back, suppressing a sigh. “Oscar, these are good answers, really. I can tell you're being honest.”

His gaze flicked to me, wary but curious. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No,” She said, softening her tone a bit. Oscar hated how childish it made him feel. "Your answers are just too surface-level. They don’t give people a sense of you. The point is to connect with people, to give fans a reason to root for you beyond lap times. They already know you’re fast, you've proven that much. They want to know who you are.”

Oscar tilted his head, struggling to understand how sharing a story about lucky socks could sway someone to his camp if his race craft couldn't.

“So overshare. Got it.”

“Not overshare,” She countered gently. “Just ... share smart.”

He nodded slowly, still lost.

“Alright,” She said, clearly switching tactics. “Let’s try something different. What’s something you do on race weekends that people don’t know about? Something small. It doesn’t have to be exciting.”

He was silent for a long moment.

Say something you fuckwit.

Finally, he got out: “Uh ... sleep?”

Oscar watched the hint of amused exasperation creep up in her eye, and his skin felt even hotter.

“I mean ... that's what I do.” He shrugged, growing more defensive. "Not like we're getting 10 hour naps during race weekends."

“Fair point,” she said, exhaling a laugh, clearly trying to not patronize him. “But no one’s making a TikTok compilation of Oscar Piastri: World REM Cycle Champion.”

Oscar huffed out a laugh of his own, though a more self-deprecating one.

“Come on,” She coaxed, leaning forward. “One thing you do. It doesn’t have to be a big secret. Just ... something a stranger off the street wouldn't know."

Oscar stared at the table, worrying the seam of his sleeve with his thumb as he tried to think of something. Then, more quietly: “Sometimes I walk the track at night. After everyone’s gone, if it's not a track I know well.”

That got her to pause. “Really?”

He nodded, still not meeting her eyes. “It’s quiet. Helps me think, get focused.”

“See?” she said softly. “I like that, it's endearing. That’s the kind of thing people might find interesting.”

Oscar felt his face heat up.

She thinks I'm endearing.

Something melted inside him, hearing that, the words echoed longer than they should have. He wasn’t used to people saying that, not about him, not in a sincere way at least. Not about the parts of him that weren’t calculated for a team press releases or a carefully managed Q&As.

Usually, media people wanted bigger answers. Louder answers.

Lando answers.

But she looked at him like his quiet wasn’t just acceptable. Like it might even be… good at it if he tried hard enough. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling blooming low in his stomach.

It was ridiculous that a simple comment could make him flush, but there it was, a faint pink creeping up his neck as he forced a casual shrug, hoping she wouldn’t notice how much the compliment landed.

So he stayed silent. Let her fill the space with gentle encouragements and notes in the margin of her deck as they continued to run through more questions. Let the warmth bloom quietly in his chest, unacknowledged.

And for the first time since he’d joined that season, he didn’t dread the next session.

He looked forward to it.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #op81 #op81 x reader

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

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George Russell - One Shots and Requests

Legend: 🔥 = Smut; 🌸 = Fluff; 🥀 = Angst

One of Your Mayfair Girls 🥀🔥

George Russell has always been your safe space, the boy next door who never made you feel small even when the world did. But now he’s living in the glitz and glam of Formula 1, and you can’t help but feel left behind for prettier, wealthier options. What you don’t know? One messy, drunken night is about to prove how wrong you’ve been — and just how long George has been holding the same secret fantasy as you.

Part I || Part II

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 #george russell #gr63 #george russel x reader #george russell smut #george russell fluff #george russell fanfic

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

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dancing I mean aura farming on your ex boss's professional grave is crazy work

😭😭😭!

#yes I know someone else made the edit #I dont care #but I know messy Alex was sat in his apartment with Lily creasing over the news #karma

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

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Ice Breaker || Oscar Piastri Mini Series

Chapter One: Ice Boy

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x PR Consultant!Reader

Word Count: ~11.K total (multi-part series)

Warnings: Language, alcohol mention, mild sexual thoughts (Oscar POV), mutual pining, awkward flirting, soft burn, one (1) meddling Lando Norris.

Author’s Note: Multi-part soft fluffy fic with alternating POVs. Oscar is awkward but earnest. Reader doesn’t realize he's flirting. He very much is.

Tags: #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fic #f1 fanfiction #slow burn #friends to lovers #media trainer au #soft oscar #lando being a cupid

Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules Ice Breaker -Mini Series Masterlist AO3 Work Next →

It smells so ...clean in here.

That was my first thought as I stepped into McLaren’s Woking headquarters, a place that seemed determined to prove its own sterility. Bright sunlight cut sharp lines across the glossy floor, glass panels and chrome fixtures framing corridors like display cases. And everywhere I looked, there were tributes to the team’s past: Senna’s fierce, half-smiling gaze immortalized on a wall-sized print, a McLaren MP4/4 frozen in perfect form behind velvet stanchions.

It was less an office and more a temple — one consecrated to speed, legacy, and relentless ambition.

And walking through it, I felt like an intruder.

My heels clicked too loudly on the marble as the marketing director led me down the corridor, rattling off names I wouldn’t remember until I’d met them twice. My blazer, chosen for its sharp silhouette, suddenly felt too stiff on my shoulders. My palms felt damp, though I kept my arms stiff at my sides, doing my best to project confidence.

I’d never worked with a Formula One driver befor. I'd done footballers, mainly, even a few professional tennis players and Olympians — but this was new territory. The sports PR world was relatively small when it came to media training, and I'd built my reputation as someone who could make even the most guarded athletes seem personable. But this was different. This wasn’t some middling striker or rugby protegè trying to sound interesting in a post match interview. This was McLaren, one of the most post profitable motorsports Formula One teams in history.

F1 races were watched by millions, fans flocked from all over the globe to see them battle it out on track, and in England people consumed F1-related content at a higher rate than almost any sport save the Premier League.

And they'd called me. I still hadn't quite wrapped my head around that part yet.

The marketing director walking beside me waved casually to someone passing by, before lowering his voice slightly as we walked.

“I'm not sure what Zak already mentioned, but Oscar’s a great kid.” he said, with the easy tone of someone balancing truth with politeness. “He's an incredible talent on track, we were lucky to pick him up off Alpine when we did. But since he didn’t come through our junior program, he wasn’t as well prepared for the amount of media attention he’s getting now. It's a lot to take in.”

He grimaced slightly at the thought. “And … well he’s not exactly charismatic either.”

Corporate speak for: We like him in the car. We don’t love him on camera.

Not that I needed him to tell me to tell me. I’d seen enough of the fan chatter to know already.

'Close enough, welcome back Kimi Raikonnen.' 'Ice boy alert' ‘Piastri interviews are giving hostage video.’ ‘This kid is so robotic I’m starting to think McLaren built him in a lab at this point.’

My personal favorite had been a poorly stitched clip of him blinking slowly mid-interview post race, captioned:

Loading Enthusiasm… please wait.

I’d laughed a tiny bit when I first saw them. But now, walking through these hallways toward him, the scale of it all pressed in on me. We passed another set of gigantic images, this time of Niki Lauda and James Hunt as we continued on our way. Legends of the sport seemed to line the hallways everywhere here, relics of titans whose larger-than-life presence still loomed over these walls: the rat, the professor, the flying Finn, Hunt-the-shunt, the rain-master, the ice-man.

Ice-boy didn't quite fit by comparison.

It lit itself like a slow moving, frightening fire instead of my veins as my heart pumped a bit faster, the unspoken expectation that Oscar wasn’t just supposed to drive fast, but to project a aura big enough to align with that legacy. And suddenly, I wondered if I was really cut out for this job. This wasn’t just about Oscar’s public image, it was about mine too.

Could I actually do this?

The marketing director stopped at a frosted-glass door. “He’s already inside,” he said brightly, as though she were announcing a patient to the doctor. "Best of luck."

Not encouraging.

I smoothed my hair, inhaled deeply, and told myself I was ready.

You’ve done this before. You can handle awkward.

I wished I believed it. I knocked once on the door to announce myself, my hype-up lasting all of two seconds before reality hit me square in the chest.

Ice-boy hadn’t been an exaggeration.

Oscar Piastri was waiting inside the conference room with a resting face completely devoid of emotion, as if he were about to go on trial or sit for a lie detector test. His posture was deceptively lazy, a folded-in discomfort radiating off him as he leaned against the back of his chair with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the ceiling like he might fall asleep if he stared hard enough. His mop of warm brown hair was clearly un-styled, the kind of hasty look that suggested he’d tried to run a brush through once or twice it before giving up.

But there was something the online ribbing hadn’t quite captured either. Because as he finally registered I was there and moved to stand up, I finally got a first good look at him up close.

An interested pang fluttered in my chest as his full face came into view.

He was actually quite ... handsome.

His frame was sharper than it looked on camera. Taller than I’d expected as well, maybe cleared me by a few inches. His dark hazel eyes, warm under the overhead lights, tracked my movements with a quiet intensity, and the fullness of his cheeks softened the severity of his otherwise straight, serious expression. Even the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, caught somewhere between discomfort and politeness as he smiled in greeting, held some soft quality to it.

Well, the boy part makes sense.

Because, in fairness, there was something boyishly good-looking about him. I could work with boyish, I noted to myself as a smiled back in greeting, boyish was relatable. It was understated, but noticeable enough that I thought, absurdly as my eye caught again on the pair of broad shoulders beneath his polo:

If he weren’t so awkward, girls would be making heartthrob edits of him nonstop on TikTok instead of meme-ing him.

But instead of posturing or flashing the flirtatious smile she'd grown used to dealing with on PR clean-ups, he looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“Oscar,” I said, professional expression firmly in place, extending my hand. "Nice to you meet. I'm—"

He shook it with neither firmness not limpness, then looked me dead in the eyes, his face giving nothing away. “The media trainer. Zak told me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Well I was going to say my name, actually. But yes, that too."

A pause. He at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed at his own clipped delivery, though the apology that followed was still a bit too brisk.

“Oh. Right, sorry.” He shifted his weight awkwardly, adding with a half-hearted attempt at formality as he offered another pained smile, “Um ... welcome to McLaren, then.”

Not exactly the warmest greeting.

But fine. I’d expected worse given what I'd already been warned about.

“Come on,” I said lightly, motioning back toward the chair he'd been sitting in. “Zak already warned me you’re straight to the point, so let’s not beat around the bush and get right to it.”

For a split second, I thought I saw the faintest flicker of something — fluster, maybe even a tiny flash of irritation — at being characterized that way, like he was tired of hearing it.

I decided not to comment on it, just carried on with sitting down and let it slide in the silence. But as I settled into my chair and glanced at him again, I couldn’t shake the sense that I had already had my work cut out for me.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #mini series

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

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One Shots, Requests & Smuts Masterlist

All Requests, One Shots and Smuts have been organized by driver below. Warnings will be included at the start of each fic! Read at your own discretion. MDNI <3

Current Drivers

Max Verstappen (coming soon)

George Russell

Lewis Hamilton

Lando Norris

Oscar Piastri

Carlos Sainz

Charles Leclerc

Pierre Gasly

Nico Hulkenberg

Liam Lawson

Fernando Alonso

Estaban Ocon

Alex Albon

Former Drivers

Jenson Button

Nico Rosberg (coming soon)

Sebastian Vettel (coming soon)

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 #requests are open #requests open #one shot #f1 x reader

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chesapeakescove · 8 days ago

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Mini Series Masterlist

*Legend: *🔥 = Smut; 🌸 = Fluff; 🥀 = Angst

Green💚s indicate finished series! (for now)

Ice Breaker - Oscar Piastri 🌸

You’re hired to media-train McLaren’s rising young talent — an Australian with a reputation for giving interviews like he's reading IKEA instructions. You expected a challenge to get him out of his shell. You didn’t expect him to be so ... likeable. But once that ice is broken, and you catch yourself day dreaming about the shy McLaren driver, there's no going back. Not if Lando Norris has anything to do with it.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 ||

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 #masterlist #mini series

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chesapeakescove · 9 days ago

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Burn Out Bright

Book One - Light the Spark | Chapter Six: Tick, Tick… BOOM

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)

Notes. BUCKLE UP PEOPLE!!! This shit escalates so quickly hahahaha Im sorry but it's a really great look into Lizzie's thoughts and feelings. But I hope this chapter helps to give more context (and a little foreshadowing) to other areas like what has been going on in Lizzie's life in the past as well as more recently it the story, ft. Charles being the sweet friend he is and some moody Seb moments. Let me know what you think of this, and as always I didn't proof read any of this to ignore any typos! Happy reading! <3

Taglist. want to join or be removed from my taglist? send me an ask or comment below!

Rules BoB Masterlist AO3 Work Next →

Brazilian Grand Prix

November 9, 2018

FP1

- 𓅂 -

Lizzie stormed down the pit lane, her pace brisk, her breath sharp, her heartbeat a relentless ticking against her ribs. She felt like a time bomb, wires pulled taut, seconds slipping away with every step she took. She needed to get away—now—before she detonated. Before the frustration boiling beneath her skin turned into something she couldn’t pull back from.

Tick ... Tick .. Tick ...

The McLaren garage was a suffocating pressure chamber, winding the clock tighter and tighter. The car was worse than she had ever imagined, a stubborn, unresponsive machine that fought her at every turn. When she needed speed, it dragged its feet; when she needed control, it slipped through her fingers. And worst of all, McLaren wouldn’t let her drive it the way she needed to. Every time she tried to force more out of it, to push beyond the brittle, fragile limits they had set for her, they reeled her in like she was something dangerous. Like she was a risk they had no idea how to contain.

Tick... Tick ... Tick ...

And Max. His name alone sent another shockwave through her, another tick on the countdown. His reckless, selfish maneuver had nearly sent her off the track—her, not him. It had ruined what could have been her moment to finally prove herself, to show McLaren that they were the ones holding her back, not the other way around. Instead, it had done the opposite, confirming every doubt they had about her, every reason they had to clip her wings. And Max had just walked away from it completely unbothered. No apology, no acknowledgment—just that infuriating, dismissive attitude, like she hadn’t even been a factor in his world at all.

The moment had cost her, and the numbers in her head kept ticking down, ticking toward something inevitable.

Fernando’s comment back in the garage had been simple, uncomplicated, but it had only twisted the wires inside her even tighter. They’ll never let you drive the way you want to. They’re too afraid to let you push. They will always see you as a liability.

She hated that he was right. She hated that the countdown kept going, winding down second by second, closer and closer to the moment she wouldn’t be able to hold it all in anymore.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Behind her, Zak Brown called her name, his voice sharp but hushed, careful not to draw too much attention from the cameras nearby. "Lizzie! Hold on a second."

She kept walking.

"Lizzie," he tried again, his tone forced into something almost calm, almost joking as he finally came up next to her, but the tension bled through. "Come back to the garage. Let's talk about what happened."He sighed, picking up his pace slightly to walk beside her as he fought the anger that Lizzie knew was rising in his voice. "We need to debrief. You can't just walk off like this..."

Lizzie let out a bitter laugh, her hands curling into fists as she spoke in a hushed tone. "What’s there to talk about? You said bring it in. Team's orders, right?"

Zak glowered, his voice lowering further. "Look, I saw what happened. We've notified the stewards, I am just trying to manage this situation so that you don't—"

"Don't what?" Lizzie snapped, stopping abruptly and turning to face him. She shouldn't say it, she knew she shouldn't say it, but the desire to wipe the scornful look of Zak's face was growing and growing.

Zak pressed his lips together, glancing around at the eyes already starting to linger in their direction as a tight smile formed on his face. "Lizzie, please. Let’s not do this here."

She clenched her jaw, forcing her steps to stay steady. She wanted to lash out, to tell him exactly what she thought—that the car was shit, that they were suffocating her, that she felt completely alone on this team. But Toto's voice echoed in her head, the quiet authority behind his belief in her. Show them that you're ready to earn your place. You belong here. She couldn’t disappoint him, not now. So instead, she swallowed the anger, forcing it down with a deep, shaky breath.

"I just need a moment ... please," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll come back when I've composed myself."

Zak sighed, his frustration clear, but he hesitated, scanning her face. She knew he was weighing his options—pressing her further would risk a public scene, something he couldn’t afford. Finally, he exhaled and nodded. "Fine. But don’t take too long. We need you back in the garage."

Lizzie barely acknowledged Zak as he stepped away, the tension in her chest refusing to ease. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her breath coming too shallow, too fast. She cast a glance around, desperate for somewhere—anywhere—to pull herself together, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape the eyes she could feel shifting toward her.

The paddock was a living, breathing entity, chaotic and relentless, pressing in on her from every direction. The hum of activity blurred into a suffocating wall of noise—the high-pitched whine of a drill in a neighboring garage, the deep rumble of an engine firing to life, the clipped, hurried conversations of engineers and mechanics dissecting lap data. It all blended together, a crushing force wrapping around her lungs, making her breathing feel too tight, too constrained.

Then came the voices—reporters murmuring into headsets, their practiced, polished tones slicing through the noise. A few feet away, a camera crew huddled around a live broadcast, and she caught the faintest fragments of their words—her name, McLaren, new struggles, tense debrief.

Her stomach lurched.

More eyes. More speculation. More people watching her every move, dissecting it, waiting for her to slip up.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Lizzie’s skin prickled, a crawling sensation along the back of her neck. The pit lane felt suddenly smaller, the garages hemming her in, the mass of bodies moving around her tightening the space, leaving her nowhere to go. She forced a swallow, but her throat felt thick, her pulse hammering too loud in her ears.

She needed to get out. Needed air.

Her breathing came in uneven bursts now, her ribs straining against the rising panic pressing down on her. She glanced toward the McLaren garage, but that wasn’t an option—going back now would mean cameras in her face, Zak waiting with his carefully measured disappointment, the engineers whispering about her behind their screens.

Her vision darted elsewhere—Mercedes, no. Ferrari, impossible. The press pen loomed just ahead, a barrier she couldn’t risk crossing. Everywhere she turned, there were people, more people, all moving with purpose while she stood frozen, trapped in the middle of it all.

The walls were closing in, the paddock swallowing her whole.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Then, a voice—one achingly familiar—cut through the noise.

"Lizzie?"

She froze. Her feet had seemingly carried her exactly where she needed to be—near the Alfa Romeo garage, away from the suffocating tension of McLaren, and to someone who felt like home.

Turning, she saw Charles stepping out, his fireproofs unzipped to his waist, his hair slightly damp from sweat. His practice session had just ended, he was clearly exhausted from the drive, and yet he looked at her with nothing but concern.

Without thinking, Lizzie closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t hesitate, embracing her tightly, the familiarity of it grounding her in a way nothing else had. She didn't care that there were cameras everywhere, that people might find it strange for her to embrace a competitor like that—none of it mattered. Charles presence was warm, comforting, and safe like it always was.

"I've been looking for you all day," she said against his cheek, the words small but genuine.

"Sorry about that, they've had me running in every direction." Charles murmured against her hair. "You okay?"

.Lizzie had heard that question before, from the same voice, under very different circumstances.

She remembered sitting across from Charles in a dimly lit café in Monaco over a year ago, the august rain smearing the windows, making the world outside look as unsteady as she felt. She had been staring at the untouched cappuccino in front of her, the foam long since melted into the espresso. She didn’t know why she had ordered it. She had barely been eating or sleeping back then, running on fumes and whatever was left of her.

Charles had been watching her carefully, his fingers curled around his own mug, warmth steaming up into the space between them. "You sure you’re okay?" he had asked, his voice quieter than it usually was.

Lizzie had forced a breath, gripping the edge of the table as if grounding herself in something solid. "Yeah," she had lied.

She had spent those past sixth months pretending she was fine, even as she unraveled in slow, aching increments. The worst part wasn’t the heartbreak, or even the anger. It was the emptiness. The way he had built his turmoil into something she had been expected to carry with him, like it was the price of being near him. The way he had made her feel like she owed him something—like she had been selfish for wanting to let go of the past, for wanting to move forward without him.

Charles’ expression had barely shifted, but the look in his blue green eyes had been enough—he hadn’t believed her then, just like he didn’t believe her now.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Lizzie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She met his eyes, forced a small smile. "Yeah," she repeated.

Charles, as if sensing her turmoil, released her and motioned for her to step away from the pit lane, away from the cameras and the curious eyes watching their every move. She hesitated for only a second before following him to a quieter alcove near the back of the Alfa Romeo garage, where the hum of the paddock softened. Once there, Charles placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder, his voice low and steady. "What happened?"

Lizzie hesitated for a second, glancing down at the asphalt. She didn’t know where to begin. Noticing her delay, Charles gave her a knowing look, his eyes soft with understanding. "It’s been that bad, huh?"

Lizzie exhaled, a shaky, tired breath. “It’s just… a lot. I’ll be fine. Just need to get adjusted."

He nodded, not pushing, just listening, his hand resting on her arm. “I saw your last lap. You were flying out there.”

Despite everything, a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “You think so?”

Charles grinned. “I know so. I didn't know the Mclaren could go that fast."

Lizzie chuckled, the sound dry but real. “Don’t let Fernando hear you say that.”

He laughed with her, eyes wide and flick of his eyebrows upward in that same surprised expression he often me “Oh no, I would never. I value my life, don’t worry.” They stood there for a moment, just outside the Alfa Romeo garage, the noise of the paddock humming around them but feeling distant. It was easy with Charles. It always had been.

“I’m glad I finally found you,” Lizzie admitted quietly.

His smile softened, and he squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

For the first time since she had stepped out of the car, she let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was crushing her. "I'll be glad when this weekend is over," she said with a slight sigh, a flicker of frustration and disappointment crept through.

Charles raised his eyebrows, and Lizzie adjusted her expression "Just need some time to recharge." She paused for a moment, then added with a smirk, "Away from all of this."

He tilted his head slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You do know you just got here, right?" he teased, his tone light.

Lizzie chuckled, but his words lingered in her mind. Her season for next year hadn’t even begun, yet the pressure was already starting to creep in.

Charles paused, noticing her furrowed brows and switched gears, his tone shifting. "So, when are you heading back to England?"

"After the race. I need to go visit my grandma in Edinburgh, she's been cleared by her doctor to have visitors again. After that, I'll head back to Milton Keynes I guess." She glanced away for a second at the rest of the pit, her voice dropping slightly.

She didn't need to finish the sentence for Charles to understand her meaning - she would go home, alone. There was no one left for her to see anyways when she returned from Edinburgh. No one to spend the holidays with, no warm family gathering to take any joy in.

Just an empty apartment and the quiet, still hum of solitude.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Charles's gaze softened, watching her carefully. "You should come to Monaco after, then." he suggested, nudging her arm with his. "Spend some of Christmas with my family. I know you’re not..." He trailed off, a slight hesitation in his words. "… well, if you don't have any other plans."

Her smile faltered, and she quickly looked down, her chest tightening at the mention of her parents. She still hadn't heard from them yet, her phone cold in her backpack. She swallowed, trying to mask it with a nod, though her voice was softer than usual. "That's sweet of you, Charles. Really. But… I’m not sure I’m ready for all that right now."

He paused, looking like he wanted to say more, but just nodded. "I get it."

“But I’ll think about it,” Lizzie said, forcing a smile back onto her face, though it felt a little too tight this time.

As she said it, an unsettling feeling coiled in her gut, sharp and instinctual. The air around her seemed to shift, a subtle but undeniable change that set her on edge. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as a presence approached—one she didn’t need to turn around to recognize.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

The sound of approaching footsteps barely registered before a jesting voice cut through the moment, lighthearted but laced with unmistakable sarcasm. “I thought you were going to fly off the track behind me, Häschen.” Sebastian said. "You came out of nowhere on that flying lap, startled me a bit. Haven’t seen a McLaren go that fast in a while."

Lizzie blinked as she turned her head, caught off guard by the comment. For a brief moment, she wished Sebastian hadn’t come up to her—not now, not here, not when she was with Charles. But as she studied his expression, she realized he was joking, maybe even trying to be friendly. It was unexpected, but she wasn’t going to let it show. She forced herself to act normal, offering a small smile. "Just doing what I can with what I've got," she said, shrugging lightly at the compliment. “It's still a work in progress.”

Her eyes flicked to Charles, sensing a shift. His posture was looser before, but now, standing beside her, he had gone still, his expression carefully unreadable. His easy laughter from just moments ago had faded, the teasing warmth between them replaced by something calculating, sharp-edged.

Sebastian stood with his arms crossed, mirroring Charles in a way that felt almost deliberate. The air between them stretched thin, coiled tight with something unspoken. It had always been there—the simmer of quiet rivalry, the silent measuring of power—but it had turned into something uglier in the past year, especially when Lizzie was involved.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

The behavior had started when Lizzie joined the PREMA team in 2017. She and Charles had been asked to attend a media day at one point with Ferrari, meant to showcase unity between the Ferrari Driver Academy’s rising star, Charles, and their current lead driver, Sebastian. Charles was clearly the star of the press day, the camera men taking a million photos of him and asking him a million questions. He had been laughing at something one of the stylists said, shifting slightly as they made him pose with his arms crossed, chin tilted up. He looked effortlessly at ease, flashing a bashful grin at the group of women hovering nearby, whispering and giggling.

Normally, Lizzie might have felt a pang of envy at how easily he commanded the spotlight, but with Charles, it was different. Their bond ran too deep for jealousy—she only found it amusing, how effortlessly bashful he was despite the attention.

Bur as Sebastian stood right next to her, close enough that Lizzie could feel the heat radiating from his presence, an unmistakable force at her side. The air around him was thick, almost suffocating, and she was acutely aware of the way his gaze flicked between her and Charles.

"Reminds you of someone, doesn’t he?" Sebastian had muttered then, voice barely above a breath.

Lizzie had turned to him, confused. "Who?"

His jaw clenched, but his tone stayed light, even. "I hear it all the time. ‘Charles reminds me of you so much, Seb.’ ‘He’s so talented, got that same spark.’" He let out a derisive laugh, eyes falling on her. "Guess I should feel flattered."

Lizzie didn’t say anything, but the way his fingers flexed at his sides told her enough. Lizzie didn't respond, didn't dare—until the photographer’s voice rang out. “Alright, let’s set up the close shots for the team composites. Ms. Mckean, can I have you come over?"

Lizzie stepped away from Sebastian, the space between them feeling heavier than it should. She moved toward Charles, yet the moment she faced the lens, a wave of discomfort settled over her, prickling at her skin. The bright flashes felt intrusive, the artificial poses stiff and unnatural. She had never enjoyed this part—the attention, the scrutiny—but with Sebastian standing so close, his presence a silent weight at her back, it felt even more suffocating.

"Charles, Lizzie, step in together. Closer, please.”

She hesitated slightly, but Charles had already turned, settling beside her, his hand brushing the small of her back as he guided her into place. "It's alright, I promise not to hog too much space." he said softly, bringing a small smile to her face. The moment stretched just long enough for the camera shutters to capture it—the perfect shot.

One of the photographers nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect, just like that." Another called out, "That's exactly what we need! Keep that expression, Lizzie."

It was always natural with Charles.

Easy.

Friendly.

But now, standing between him and Sebastian in the garage, the ease had been replaced by something else—something much colder.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Sebastian smirked at her, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. “You’ve got some serious pace. Had me looking over my shoulder, I thought you were going to take me out at one point.”

Charles let out a short, calculated laugh. “Good thing you didn’t go any faster, Lizzie.” His voice was playful, but Lizzie knew that tone. “You might’ve messed up Sebastian’s lap time if you’d pushed any closer.”

Sebastian’s expression tightened. Barely a flicker, but Lizzie saw it. She tried to smiled, to make things less severe, but it felt hollow.

“A little more. Come on, act like you actually like each other!”

Lizzie had swallowed a nervous sigh but had stepped closer to Charles in front of that camera. Charles had done the same, his hand firming on her back.

The next flash went off.

Then another.

Sebastian had been staring fully at the pair of them, his expression carefully neutral, but Lizzie felt it—felt the weight of his gaze pressing against her skin like a warning.

Charles had shifted beside her, and for the first time, she could feel his discomfort as well. He wasn’t usually fazed by things like this, but something about the way Sebastian had been watching them made the air feel tight. Lizzie could sense the tension crackling just beneath the surface, though no one else seemed to notice.

And she felt it now too as the harsh garage lamps seemed to draw beads of sweat on her neck. Sebastian had that same stare in his crackling blue eyes. The same tension from Charles remained. The same silent battle resuming once again.

Tick ... Tick .. Tick ...

Charles had every reason to dislike Sebastian, reasons that she couldn’t entirely ignore, though she still tried.

"Sebastian, Kimi, let’s get one with all four of you now."

Sebastian pushed off the wall, moving toward them with an easy, almost languid stride. But when he stepped in, Lizzie felt it—the subtle but undeniable shift in the air around her. Without a word, he positioned himself just slightly behind her, towering over her as she lowered herself onto the stool provided. The heat of his presence was unmistakable, radiating against her back, pressing in like a silent force. His hand found her shoulder almost immediately, a casual touch on the surface, but his grip was firm, grounding her in place. She felt his body language shift, subtly closing off the space between her and Charles, not quite aggressive, but undeniably territorial.

It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Lizzie knew better. She had seen him do the same thing before—with other drivers, with journalists, with anyone he saw as a threat. And now, Charles was no exception. Charles’ jaw twitched slightly. Lizzie knew him well enough to know that, despite the polite expression on his face, he had noticed it too.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Sebastian let out a tight laugh in the present. "I don’t mind the challenge, really. I’m just not used to McLarens being a threat on track. Don’t tell Fernando I said that, of course." His tone carried a knowing lilt, a quiet reference to the conversation he and Lizzie had shared with Fernando earlier.

It was an inside joke, a deliberate reminder of something only the two of them understood. He leaned in just slightly toward her, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Charles to see, enough to make Lizzie acutely aware of the space between them shrinking. Lizzie could feel the quiet competition bristling between them. The way Sebastian’s pride flared at the idea of anyone, of Charles, outshining him.

Charles raised an eyebrow, a cold smile curling on his lips. "Might have to start getting used to it, though. Who knows how fast the cars will be with new drivers."

Sebastian’s fingers twitched at his side. Lizzie forced out a nervous laugh, sensing the tension inching toward something too sharp, too obvious. “I’m sure both of you will survive.”

But neither of them laughed.

"You two have been spending a lot of time together lately." Sebastian had commented as she began packing up her things at he press shoot.

Lizzie had looked up at him, confused yet again, but the shift in his energy—the simmering frustration beneath his carefully measured words, left her a bit flustered under his gaze.

"Well I mean ... we do a lot of team stuff for PREMA together, obviously." She had motioned around them at the studio. "But I'm mainly just here for support." She let an awkward laugh out, fiddling her bag. "I don't think PREMA needs as many photos of me."

Sebastian had hummed, a glower settling into his face again as he looked over at Charles. "Of course, PREMA has to show off their budding little star."

Lizzie had frowned as she met his gaze again. Sebastian had never been the type to care about public perception, but this was different. It wasn’t just about Charles had rapidly been becoming Ferrari’s golden prodigé—it was about her.

The way she laughed at Charles’ jokes. The way she had stood next to him in the photos, completely at ease. The way she didn’t seem to mind being so close to him.

Sebastian had seen it. And it had bothered him.

Before Lizzie could say anything, Charles had turned toward them, his grin still lingering. “You two plotting something?”

Sebastian hadn't hesitated. He had stepped forward smoothly, just enough to close the space between them. “No, we were just admiring your little fashion show.”

Charles had tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Hope it lived up to expectations then.”

Sebastian had hummed again, offering a small, almost lazy smirk. “You do enjoy the attention, don’t you?”

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “Who wouldn’t?” He tossed the comment out with a lightness that refused to acknowledge any hidden meaning.

Lizzie felt the tension shift—subtle but noticeable. Sebastian had clearly expected a different reaction. He had wanted Charles to flinch, to stammer, to acknowledge the way Sebastian had subtly tried to remind him who had been here first.

But Charles didn’t. He met Sebastian’s gaze, unruffled, calm. And that was what had irritated Sebastian the most.

His smirk had faltered for a split second, but then he let out a short, quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, enjoy it while it lasts.”

Charles’ expression didn’t change, but there was something behind his eyes—something knowing. “I intend to.”

Lizzie had glanced between them, unease prickling at the back of her neck.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

And now, Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Charles again for a second longer before that same, quiet derision rose in his voice. "Anyway," he said, brushing off the moment with a forced grin, "Mattia wanted to speak to you before you head to the media pit, Charles."

It was a clear dismissal.

Charles held Sebastian’s gaze for half a second longer before nodding, slow and deliberate. But he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he turned to Lizzie, his expression shifting—not softer, but concerned. Like he wanted to say something.

“The invite’s open whenever you're up for it, Lizzie." he said, his tone steady but carrying an unmistakable familiarity. "My mom misses you—she's mad at me for not asking sooner.”

Lizzie barely had time to react before Sebastian stiffened beside her. His jaw tensed, his lips pressing together in a line that only she would notice. It wasn’t overt, but it was enough to make the air between them heavy. Lizzie forced a smile she didn’t quite feel. "Yeah, alright. I'll see you around."

She turned back to Sebastian, but his gaze wasn’t on her anymore. It was still on Charles. And Charles, like he always did, simply smiled, his gaze holding hers for a beat longer than necessary—a look warning almost, before he turned and walked off.

Lizzie watched him go, but the weight of Sebastian's gaze brought her focus back. She didn’t need to look to know he was upset, but she did anyway.The PR team called for her and Charles, and with one last glance at Lizzie, he gave her an easy smile before turning away. The moment he was gone, the silence between her and Sebastian felt different.

She turned to him, studying the way his jaw was still tight, the way his fingers twitched slightly like he was fighting the urge to clench them. She swallowed hard, trying to quell the swirl of emotions threatening to surface.

“Seb…” she had started back in the studio, unsure what she was even going to say.

But Sebastian had just exhaled then, shaking his head as he glanced after Charles. “I'll see you at dinner, Häschen." He had muttered. His voice was lower then, but not quite as sharp. Lizzie hesitated for half a second before nodding. She hadn't know why, but something about the way Sebastian was acting had made her stomach twist—just slightly.

She should have paid more attention to that feeling.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Forcing herself to break the tension as she stepped closer to the entrance to the garage, she cleared her throat. "Have you spoken to Daniel yet today?" she asked him, her tone light and casual. "I’m excited to see him again. I feel like it's been ages."

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she could see the flicker of irritation deepen. "Why?" he asked flatly.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow at him, heart hammering nervously. "Because I haven't seen him in a while, Seb. Why else?"

Sebastian’s lips pressed together for half a second, the slightest hesitation before he exhaled through his nose. "Not really. He’s been up to his neck with the Renault move—contracts, meetings, all that mess. Splitting from Red Bull isn’t simple, I would know." His tone was neutral, but there was something else there—something more guarded. He paused, glancing at her, studying her reaction as if weighing whether to say more. "We caught up briefly last week, but he’s juggling a lot right now. Don't take it personally."

Lizzie caught the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side, as if holding back something sharper, something he wouldn’t quite say. It wasn’t about Daniel. Not really. It was about her, about how easily she spoke about her other friends, about the casual warmth in her voice when she mentioned Charles or Daniel.

And she knew, without needing to ask, that it still bothered him in a way he would never fully admit.

Lizzie blinked in surprise, momentarily distracted. "Oh, right, I forgot about that," she murmured.

Sebastian let out a clipped breath. "Why don't you go ask him yourself?" he muttered, his tone pointed.

Lizzie followed his gaze down the pit wall, her stomach twisting slightly as she spotted Daniel walking toward them, his usual swagger in place, a bright smile on his face. That lift increased as she caught sight of Pierre beside him, the two laughing about something as they approached. He looked impossibly handsome in his Toro Rosso fireproofs after free practice, hair a bit ruffled and tan cheeks flushed. Both looked over and waved when they spotted her. Pierre flashed her a teasing smile—warm and bordering dangerously on flirtatious.

Sebastian’s reaction was predictable, but no less jarring. He had never liked Pierre, his displeasure was never exactly subtle —it never had been, even when she was a teenager—and now, watching Lizzie share a lingering glance with Pierre only seemed to stoke something colder in him.

"Pierre looked a bit slow out there in free practice today," he said, his tone light on the surface but sharp enough to draw blood. "How’s he been doing?"

Lizzie felt a flicker of something unpleasant at his derisive words—maybe shame, maybe frustration. She wasn’t sure, but it settled uncomfortably in her chest. Forcing a casual tone, she shrugged. "He’s fine," she replied curtly, though her voice lacked its usual edge. "And I don't see why you need to bring that up here, Seb... "

But before she could elaborate, her train of thought derailed as her eyes landed on Max.

Tick ... Tick ... Tikc ... Tick ....

He had stepped into line with the rest of the Red Bull team, standing tall among the mechanics and engineers. The sight of him sent a jolt through her, a heat crawling up her spine, reigniting the simmering anger from her free practice session. It coiled inside her chest like a tightening wire, every nerve in her body instantly on edge.

His expression was opaque, unreadable—until it wasn’t. A flicker of something—frustration, maybe irritation—pulled at the corner of his mouth as their gazes locked on each other. His stance was relaxed, too casual, as if he wasn’t bothered at all, but Lizzie could see it. The way his fingers twitched at his side, the way his jaw clenched just slightly.

She swallowed back the urge to react too soon, her breath measured, slow. He leaned slightly toward Daniil Kvyat to his left, his voice just audible enough as they walked nearer.

"...rookies, mate."

Lizzie felt her hands curl into fists at her sides, her pulse hammering. He wasn’t just dismissing her—he was belittling her. Like she wasn’t worth his concern, like she was just another name on the grid.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick ..

Her anger roiled beneath the surface, years of frustration culminating in this single, incendiary moment. The entire day had been a disaster—McLaren’s incompetence, the suffocating restraint they placed on her, the car itself a sluggish mess she could barely wrestle into submission. And then there was Charles and Sebastian, their constant, simmering tension forcing her into the center of their silent battle, a war she wanted no part of.

But Max—Max was the final straw.

Her jaw clenched, the embers of her fury stoked into something hotter, something dangerously volatile. He had cost her today, had nearly sent her off the track with his arrogance, and now he had the audacity to act like she was the problem?

She exhaled sharply through her nose, her vision narrowing as she squared her shoulders, every muscle in her body primed for a fight. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her entire body tense with the restraint it took not to lash out immediately.

Her hands curled tighter, fingernails biting into her palms. Fine, Max, she thought, fury spiking with every measured breath. If you want to pretend I don’t exist, I’ll make sure you remember me.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick ..

She finally finished her thought, voice cutting sharply through the air. "I don't know. But you’d think some of these people would have better spatial awareness on track to know not to lag during slow laps," she said, her words deliberately loud enough to carry across the paddock. "Or maybe Red Bull just hands out seats to anyone these days—especially when there's suddenly a vacancy to fill."

Her jaw tightened as she caught the flicker of movement in Max’s expression—the subtle narrowing of his eyes—and she knew without a doubt that her words had hit their mark. His expression darkened immediately, his stride quickening as he pushed through the throng of mechanics and engineers around him.

Lizzie knew exactly why this would sting. It wasn’t just a cheap insult—it was a wound she had been aching to press on, one that had never fully healed. She wasn’t the only one who knew that Max had been given his Red Bull seat only weeks after Rob’s accident, that the timing had never stopped following him like a shadow. It had been whispered about in the paddock, by fans, by journalists, by those who wondered if he would have even gotten the promotion so soon if it weren’t for the fact that Red Bull suddenly needed someone to fill the space Rob had left behind.

Lizzie wasn’t sure she even believed half of what people said about that moment—whether it was true that Red Bull had been planning to sack Rob for Max, whether it was fate or politics or just terrible, horrible timing . But she did know that Max hated when people brought it up. She knew it clung to him like an unshakable ghost, that every time someone mentioned his rise to Red Bull, there was always that unspoken if Rob hadn’t...

And now she had said it, loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough for him to hear.

The tension in his shoulders tightened visibly, his steps eating up the distance between them. And for the first time all day, Lizzie’s pulse kicked up in a hot rush of satisfaction.

She wanted this. Wanted the fight, the clash, the chance to finally unleash everything that had been building inside her all day—no, longer than that. The whole weekend had been a disaster, and she was done swallowing it down. The car, the team, the restrictions placed on her, Charles and Sebastian’s stupid posturing—it all faded into a single, blinding moment of clarity. Max deserved this.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick ..

She could feel the electricity crackling in the air as he bore down on her, could see the way heads turned, eyes darting between them. Lizzie braced herself, anticipation curling in her stomach like a coiled wire about to snap. The storm was coming, and she was more than happy to meet it head-on.

Let them watch. She thought, gleefully. Let them all see the temper tantrum Max was about to throw.

Sebastian’s demeanor shifted in an instant beside her. If he was mad at her before, it had evaporated, and a protectiveness began to radiate from him as soon as he saw Max storming toward them. His posture straightened, and he moved closer to Lizzie, reaching for her arm in a subtle attempt to guide her away.

“Come on, Lizzie.” he said under his breath, his voice low and urgent. “Let’s go.”

But Lizzie held her ground, refusing to budge. Her eyes stayed locked on Max, her pulse quickening as the Red Bull driver pushed past a group of reporter with determined strides, his frustration practically radiating off him. Daniel and Pierre immediately paused in their tracks, both drivers exchanging uneasy glances as they realized what was unfolding. Pierre’s brows furrowed in worry, but it was Daniel who stop and turned back towards them, his easygoing demeanor replaced with concern as he saw what was about to unfold.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick ..

Max stopped just a step away, his expression twisted in anger as Daniel came up hot on his tail.

“You want to say something to my face?” he snapped at Lizzie, his tone daring her to speak up.

“Max, come on, mate,” Daniel said, his voice calm but firm as he approached from behind. He glanced at Lizzie, his expression softening briefly before flicking back to Max. “We’re already late. Just let it go. This isn’t the time for this,”

“Oh, I do,” Lizzie shot back without missing a beat. Her chin tilted up defiantly. “Maybe don’t try to run people off the track unless you’re trying to crash on purpose. Or has that become a signature for you?”

Max’s jaw clenched, his frustration boiling over. “You almost hit me, and you’re blaming me?” he fired back, his voice rising. “You were the one driving like an asshole!”

Sebastian’s hand hovered near Lizzie’s arm again, tension thickening around them as a few others began to take notice. "Lizzie, let's go."

Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tck . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick ...

But Lizzie’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fury unchecked as she took another step toward Max, her glare unwavering. "I’m not going to back off you just because you're an arrogant prick who thinks the track revolves around you. If you don't want to get hit on a slow lap then get out of the fucking way."

Max’s eyes burned with fury, his voice cutting and laced with disdain as he laughed. "Revolves are me? I- I can't believe this shit. You’re out driving like you own the fucking track and you're calling me arrogant?" He shouted, taking a step closer, his glare unwavering. "Maybe you should’ve lifted when you had the chance."

Lizzie let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. "Right, because lifting is something you’d know all about, huh?"

Max’s expression darkened instantly, and Lizzie saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes—knew that she had hit a nerve before he even opened his mouth. He let out a short, disbelieving scoff, shaking his head slightly as his shouting grew. "You're fucking unbelievable! Honestly, you’d think after everything with Rob, you’d know by now—"

BOOM.

The mention of Rob hit like a thunderclap, and she exploded.

The grief she thought she had buried came roaring back, igniting a raging fire inside Lizzie that yearned to incinerate everything in its's path. And before Sebastian or Daniel could stop her, she lunged forward and grabbed Max by the collar of his race suit.

Panic erupted around them in an instant. Voices broke through the rising tension, frantic and sharp as staff from McLaren and nearby Mercedes scrambled to separate the two drivers. Lizzie barely heard the frantic shouts of her own team, too lost in the whirl of her thoughts, consumed by the vivid image of Rob's smiling face and his burnt flesh beneath her in that morgue. She curled her other scarred hand into a fist, reeling back, ready to unleash all the pain, the frustration, and the heartbreak that had been festering inside her for years.

Sebastian’s hand shot out with alarming speed, his grip strong and urgent around Lizzie’s wrist, halting her mid-swing. "Lizzie, stop!" he said, his words a plea more than an order. His eyes were wide with panic, and his grip tightened, desperately trying to pull her away.

But Max's hand found her arm as quickly as she had grabbed him, and pulled her back towards him, his nails digging painfully into her skin. The voices around her felt distant, muffled by the roar in her ears. But as her scarred hand tightened around Max’s fireproofs, staring into the eyes of the man staring before her defiantly, she did hear something—a shout, a voice unmistakable and furious, slicing through the chaos.

"Stop!" Toto shouted harshly and urgent in German. "Someone separate them, verdammt noch mal!"

Daniel was suddenly between them, his hands firm on Max’s chest, ripping Lizzie's hand from his collar and pushing her back with a raw force that surprised Lizzie. His usually easygoing demeanor was nowhere to be found. "Max, back off!" he snapped, his voice cold and commanding, the urgency in his words cutting through the madness. His eyes locked on Sebastian. "Get her out of here, Seb. Now."

Sebastian pulled Lizzie back towards him. Max stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, his face twisted with anger. Yet, Daniel’s sharp command and the sight of Sebastian, trying desperately to control Lizzie’s seething anger, forced a moment of hesitation. He clenched his fists, but Pierre, now nearby, stepped forward, grabbing Max by the arm and pulling him back.

"Let it go," Pierre said quietly, but there was no mistaking the tension in his voice. He looked at Lizzie, the strained plea directed towards her just as much

His words, the crowd’s panic, the chaos of the moment, all blended into a heavy, suffocating fog around Lizzie. She stood still, every muscle in her body screaming to break free, to let the anger spill over. But Sebastian didn’t hesitate, his hand firm on Lizzie’s arm ’s, his presence a familiar weight as he guided her away from the brewing chaos. Her heart was pounding, her breath shallow, her anger radiating off her in waves.

As they moved through the paddock, Lizzie caught sight of Charles in the crowd. His expression wasn’t one of anger, nor did it carry the smug satisfaction of someone who thought she deserved the fallout. It was disappointment, quiet and unspoken, but it hit harder than any insult Max had thrown at her. It was like a mirror reflecting back something she didn’t want to see, and the weight of it pressed heavily on her chest.

"Come on," Sebastian murmured.

Lizzie didn't fight him as they pressed on. She simply surrendered.

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