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jadore-f1 · 9 days ago

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somethin' stupid ⸻ isack hadjar x reader .

featuring isack hadjar , friends to lovers , university au , isack being a down bad simp , very rusty french and google translated italian <3 word count 9.5k author’s note literally no one asked for this but i’ve been obsessed with isack lately and this is the result ! loosely based off a poem i read a million years ago on this website called '8 ways to say i love you' . unfortunately you truly never escape what you thought was romantic at age 13 ! dedicating this one to @spiderbeam — eve , thank you for getting me into this man in the first place . i fear you have my heart and all my isack fics <3 as always let me know what you think , it helps me so much to get feedback from you all about what you like and don’t like ! title is from somethin’ stupid by frank sinatra .

one: spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot of whiskey you downed for courage. feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Isack is forgetting something. He has to be. Because even through a hangover that feels like a jackhammer pounding directly into his skull, there is still an awful tugging in the back of his mind, like his brain is trying to remind him about something vitally important.

He rolls over, squinting at the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds, to discover he never made it to bed. No, his face is pressed against the scratchy cushions of the living room couch, mouth dry and tasting vaguely like rum and regret.

Rum. He blinks hard, a memory swimming up through the haze in his head — Pepe returning from his first class of syllabus week last night with a brown paper bag in hand and a devilish smile on his face. He’d claimed one of his fellow comms majors had told him if you mixed Rum Chata with Fireball, it tasted exactly like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Isack didn’t even like sweet drinks, but that was your favorite cereal, so of course he had to try it, if only so he could tell you about it the next day.

He groans and pushes himself upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as the room spins around him. There’s a concerning stain on the worn carpet that wasn’t there the night before, and Ollie’s shoes are swinging lazily by their laces from the ceiling fan. The thought of you is stirring something in his brain, too. You hadn’t been there the night before — despite the fact that it was the first week of class, your thermodynamics professor had assigned you a particularly vicious problem set due at midnight — but you’d wormed your way into his drunken mind anyway. It happens more often than not, he supposes. Gabi’s put together a slideshow montage of all his intoxicated rambles declaring you the most perfect girl in the world that he’s started threatening to play for you if Isack doesn’t make a move before graduation.

He’s still thinking about you when his phone buzzes from somewhere below him. He has to dig through the couch cushions, shoving aside loose change and a half-eaten sleeve of Triscuits before his fingers close around it. The screen has a thin, jagged crack across it that wasn’t there the night before, but he can still make out the notification from you on his lockscreen:

daily grind at 10:15? senior year deserves an extra special treat, i’m buying :~)

That must be what he had forgotten. Your coffee tradition. Rain or shine, hungover or sober, you always met at the Daily Grind for complicated sugary drinks before your first class of the semester. It was one of the few things in your friendship that was undeniably sacred.

He glances up at the time. 10:13. Merde. He’s already dialing your number, rehearsing an apology in his head and a promise to be there as soon as he can, but the phone stops ringing and he gets your voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Obviously I don’t have my phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you! Or you can just text me like a normal person.”

Oh. Oh no. No no no no no.

Hearing your voicemail message — now that is familiar in the worst way. A sick wave rolls through his stomach, part hangover and part nauseous realization that drunk Isack might have done something really, really stupid. He winces, pulling up his call history, already half-knowing what he’ll find.

Sure enough, there’s one outgoing call to you at 1:54 AM, and the memory clicks into place like the final piece of last night’s twisted puzzle.

“Hiii,” he’d slurred into the phone, head lolling against the sofa. “C’est Isack. I — you know that, obviously. Your phone probably told you that! I’m — I’m drunk. And I wish you were here tonight. Wish you were here every night, en fait, but especially tonight. Pepe made Cinnamon Toast Crunch but, like, drinks. I know it’s your favorite and — you would have loved everything about it! As much as I love everything about you. I love your laugh, I love your face, I looooove you. Putain. I am going to regret this tomorrow.” With that he’d hung up the phone, immensely pleased with himself, and fallen asleep.

Well, drunk Isack had been right about one thing, at least. Sober Isack is definitely regretting it. He’s been trying to figure out how to tell you that he likes you basically since he met you, and now he’s gone and done it in the most ridiculous way possible.

His stomach twists, and it’s definitely not the hangover this time. It’s too late to cancel. You’re probably already there, sitting at your usual table by the window and ordering him something disgustingly sweet. He has no other option but to show up.

His mind fills with increasing dread as he gets ready. He considers faking his own death, but that seems like it might raise more questions than it answers. Plus, his friends would probably find a way to resurrect him just to kill him again for being such a total coward.

“You look like shit, Hadjar,” you say cheerfully as he stumbles into the seat across from you fifteen minutes after you’d agreed to meet. His hair is still damp from the world’s fastest shower, dark sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes.

He smiles shakily back at you as you slide a coffee that looks like diabetes waiting to happen across the table to him. You’re acting surprisingly normal for someone whose best friend crooned a love confession into their voicemail in the middle of the night. Maybe you hadn’t even listened to it. Maybe you thought it was a butt-dial and deleted the entire thing. “Blame Pepe. He got me hammered last night.”

“I’ll excuse the lateness just this once,” you reply, face breaking into the smile that’s been ruining his life since freshman year. “Was it worth it?”

“Jury’s still out,” he says, taking a cautious sip of his drink. As he predicted, it’s absolutely revolting, a sugar rush in a cup. “Mon dieu, this is disgusting,” he groans. “What the hell is it?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch latte,” you say, biting your lip, and Isack spits coffee all over the table between you.

He’s still spluttering when you start talking again, eyes fixed on the table between you. “Look, I know you were drunk when you left that message,” you say, twisting a strand of hair around your finger, “and I know drunk people say stupid things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, heart sinking into his stomach. He had meant it, he thinks, but he’ll let you draw the incorrect conclusion if it makes you happier. If it means he gets to keep being your friend, to keep you in his life in whatever way you’ll allow.

“So I’m not going to hold the whole ‘I love you’ thing against you. But if you really love my face, you should probably ask it out on a date, or something.”

His head snaps up, almost too afraid to believe he heard you right. “Vraiment?”

“Vraiment,” you confirm, flicking a gaze up at him. Your eyes are bright, hopeful. “Do you want to take my face out, or what?”

You take a sip of your coffee like you’re trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but you’re drumming your fingers against the cup the way you always do when you’re in your own head. You’re nervous, Isack realizes. You want this as much as he does.

“I really want to take your face out,” he says, voice hoarse, and you just smile.

You both finish your coffee, and afterwards he walks you to the engineering building for your class. Since it seems to be a good day for getting what he wants, he holds your hand as you go. He’s only hoping to brush against your palm, to feel the electric buzz of your skin against his, but instead you weave your fingers into his, squeeze his hand tight.

When he looks down at your hand, intertwined with his, he’s already thinking about how he can say it to you again without fucking it all up.

two: sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.

“Okay, seriously, if you laugh at me, I’m gonna break up with you,” you say, voice muffled behind the bathroom door, and the butterflies erupt in Isack’s chest all over again.

The first date had gone well. Better than well. It had gone kind of flawlessly, actually. So Isack took you on a second. Then a third. It’s wonderful — he keeps expecting you to say no, to say you’ve made a huge mistake and you’re better off as friends, but it’s been nearly two months now and you just keep matching his level of enthusiasm.

Your first Halloween together is no different. Halloweekend has always been a blur of mixers and parties spent side-by-side with you, so Isack wasn’t expecting anything new now that you were officially together. But you’d asked him one night a few weeks ago during a study session, ankle twisting around his under the kitchen table, what couples costume the two of you would be wearing this year. Isack had been so thrilled by the idea that you would publicly identify yourself as his girl that every single cheesy couples costume he’d ever seen over the years had flown out of his mind completely. He’d locked eyes with the vintage Mercedes poster he’d hung on their living room wall, and to his absolute horror, blurted “Brocedes,” which even to his lovesick mind sounded like the stupidest thing he’d ever said.

To his unending delight, however, you’d agreed without a second thought. Which is how he finds himself dressed as Lewis Hamilton in a Mercedes race suit and a Pirelli cap, waiting for his Nico to work up the courage to make her way out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to laugh,” he assures you, teal sneakers squeaking against the floor as he wipes his palms on the suit. “Come on, mon coeur. Let me see.”

The door creaks open hesitantly, and there you are, the fluorescent bathroom light framing you from behind. Your hair is slicked back, tousled just so. The white suit hugs your body, and you have it unzipped just low enough to show off the soft line of your collarbones and the swell of your chest.

Isack’s eyes drag down your body, unable to tear his gaze away from you. You’re unreal.

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s pretty much the only word he remembers at this point.

You lean against the door frame, glossed lips curling into a soft smile. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think we’re going to be late to this party,” Isack says, voice rough around the edges.

He crosses the room in two strides, pulling you into him by your hips. You loop your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, it feels like his world is exploding into a million pieces.

He still hasn’t figured out a better way to tell you how he feels about you. It’s strange, in a way; before you started dating, the situation felt wildly romantic in his head, like something straight out of those chick flicks you watch religiously and he pretends not to like. Two friends, madly in love with each other without having the nerve to admit it. Your relationship, though it was practically perfect in every other way, had complicated things. Isack wants to be the guy who sweeps you off your feet, not the creep who tells you he loves you after a month and a half.

But now, with his teeth scraping impatiently against your collarbone and you breathing his name into his ear like it’s a prayer, he can’t imagine not saying something. It escalates quickly, as it always does with the two of you: he’s hauled you up onto the edge of the sink, and your legs wrap around his waist as he drags his mouth back up your neck to meet your lips. You taste like your strawberry lip gloss, and when you slot your tongue into his mouth it makes his head spin.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth. It’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, just a sound you could mistake for pleasure if you weren’t listening closely. You don’t react, just kiss him again so deeply he feels he might drown in it. A small noise escapes the back of your throat, one he wants to make you replicate over and over again, and he’s sure then that you didn’t hear him.

It’s probably for the best. He wants to be sure that when he does work up the courage, you’ll know, and there will be nothing to keep you from believing him. Not alcohol, not desperation, not the heat of a perfect, stolen moment. So he presses the words into the column of your neck, murmurs them into the cut of your collarbone. He traces hard little hearts into your hips with his thumbs. Your suit begins to slip off your shoulders, exposing the teal strap of your bra, and Isack thinks he might have legitimately died and gone to heaven.

That is, until the door swings open behind him with a dramatic bang.

“Che schifo,” Kimi yelps, scandalized, covering his eyes with his hands. “Isack, your room is right there.”

You pull back from Isack, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you hike your costume back up your shoulder. Your gloss is smudged, cheeks flushed pink, and Isack thinks he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even if he does want to melt into the floor tiles right about now.

“Sorry, Kimi,” you chirp, not even having the decency to look flustered. “Isack got so turned on by the thought of Brocedes that he just had to have me.”

“I did not,” Isack protests, cheeks scarlet. “Kimi, we were just —”

“This is a communal bathroom, Isack,” his roommate interrupts, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I am happy you two finally figured it out, but… we wash our hands in that sink.”

“You’re a menace,” Isack hisses under his breath to you, and you giggle, smoothing your hair.

“We’re late anyway,” you grin, hopping off the sink. “Don’t worry, Kimi, won’t happen again.”

He lets you pull him out of the bathroom, watching as Kimi closes the door behind you. “We can pick that back up later somewhere with a little more privacy,” you whisper into his ear, and he stumbles over his own feet. It’s embarrassing the way he can tell his eyes are lighting up at your words. He sends a small thank you to the universe that the fabric of the costume is thick.

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he watches you walk to the door, hips swaying. “I’m definitely holding you to that.”

three: whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. maybe you were just sleep whispering.

The bed feels far too narrow to fit the both of you, the old-fashioned radiator in your room is clanking so loudly he’s worried it might explode, Isack’s arm is going numb where it’s trapped under your head, and there is absolutely no place he’d rather be.

He’d picked you up at the airport earlier that day — your flight was meant to land in the afternoon, but he’d shown up nearly forty minutes early, pacing excitedly around baggage claim until you descended down the escalator. You were wearing the hoodie you’d stolen from him before winter break and your biggest smile, and you’d jumped into his arms with such force that he’d dropped the homemade welcome sign he’d made, poster board fluttering to the floor.

Since then, he’s been pretending personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. Hand on your thigh in the car, an arm around your waist as he carries your suitcase into your apartment, fingers tracing through your hair as you lay in bed curled into his chest. He can’t keep his hands off you. It’s as if the two of you were separated for three years, not three weeks.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you observe, one leg thrown lazily over his waist as you scroll through TikTok.

“Just thinking,” he shrugs, flicking his eyes over your screen. You’re watching one of those kitchen restock videos you like, the light of your screen illuminating your face in the dark room.

“Dangerous activity for you,” you tease, eyes bright. He grabs your waist and pulls you in, blowing a raspberry into your neck and laughing as you squeal and squirm away from him. “What’s on your mind, Hadjar?”

What’s really on his mind is how warm and comfortable he feels with you, how the sharp, persistent ache in his chest that he’d been feeling since winter break started has finally subsided now that he’s back in your presence. “How I survived three weeks without you hogging all the blankets,” he says instead.

You gasp and narrow your eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “I do not hog the blankets,” you protest, pulling more of the comforter towards you.

“Sure,” he counters, pulling it back. “And I don’t have the shin bruises to prove that you’re also a sleep-kicker.”

“Those could be from anything,” you say primly. He gives you a look of pure disbelief, and you both dissolve into giggles, foreheads pressing against each other.

Before leaving for winter break, he’d thought that everything would feel the same way it did when you were just friends. Despite the different time zones, the two of you had managed to talk every day — texts about everything from the prize he won in a Christmas cracker to the dog at your New Year’s party wearing a sparkly hat to his mom’s endless questions about when his copine would visit Paris. It was nice. He was happy, but it wasn’t enough. Not like it used to be.

When you were friends, even in the years that he’d harbored his frankly all-encompassing crush on you, missing you had been manageable, a dull ache he could soothe with a voice memo or a quick call. But this had been different. Deeper. More essential to his being, somehow.

Every time he slid into his childhood bed, he’d glance over at the empty pillow and be struck with the visceral feeling that you should be there. He’d caught himself saving up stories to tell you, photographing random things because he knew they'd make you laugh, declining invitations from his lycée friends because he'd rather spend the evening talking to you than going out. You’d fallen asleep twice during your marathon daily FaceTimes, and both times Isack had stayed on the line just to listen to you breathe, feeling foolish and smitten and wondering when exactly you’d managed to make yourself feel like home to him.

Suddenly worried that he won’t be able to keep himself from saying exactly that, Isack breaks the laughter with a clearly fake, very loud snore.

“Baby,” you giggle, poking him in the side as the radiator clangs particularly violently. “Stop. I’m trying to sleep.”

There’s some level of truth to that; it’s nearly 2 AM, and the two of you have been curled up in your bed since the early evening. But clearly, neither of you have been trying very hard to actually rest, too excited to be with each other again to let your eyes close.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he huffs, pressing a kiss into your temple. “You’ve been talking for, like, hours.”

“Fine,” you reply haughtily, wrinkling your nose up at him. “Look at me, totally asleep.” With that, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, and go silent.

He listens to the slow rhythm of your breathing, feels the way your chest rises and falls against him. He wants to follow you into sleep, but it’s evading him. There’s something playing on his mind — the thought that with every day he spends with you, he’s falling deeper into something he only thought he understood before. He’d been so sure he loved you back then, but this is something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the darkness, or the feeling of you in his arms again, but he’s feeling bold. “Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair. And then you sigh, snuggling closer into his hoodie with a soft, instinctive movement.

Isack freezes, heart hammering against his ribs, and slams his eyes shut like he can pretend he’s sleep-whispering. Counts the seconds between your exhales until he’s convinced your movement was a coincidence, and he can bide his time some more.

When he says it for real, you’ll be so blown away by how suave and gorgeous and charming he is that you won’t hesitate to say it back.

four: buy her flowers. buy her chocolate. buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Isack has a plan. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. He made a reservation in advance at Maison de Lumière, the only restaurant near campus that required anything more than jeans and a sweatshirt. It had taken three calls and a small bribe to one of the hostesses, but he’d finally managed to secure a table. He didn’t have a suit, so he’d had to borrow Gabi’s. It’s miles too big and hangs loosely off his frame, making him look a little bit like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet. He bought flowers — not from the grocery store, but real long-stem red roses wrapped in pink tissue paper that cost more than his weekly laundry budget. He’d even picked up a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the campus bookstore, at the last minute throwing a little stuffed bear into his cart that he almost immediately regretted.

None of it is his vibe, really. He’s not used to grand romantic gestures. But you deserve everything he’s planned and more, even if it does make him feel a little ridiculous and out of place. And maybe, if everything goes absolutely perfectly, tonight can be the night that Isack finally tells you he loves you.

That is, until you get to the restaurant, and he realizes this is going to be a total disaster.

You look so beautiful that Isack trips over his feet multiple times trying to open the door for you. Then you’re seated at a table by the window, which should feel romantic but really feels like the two of you are on display. There are several sets of silverware on the table for some reason, and the glasses are heavy crystal that Isack is afraid to touch. The bear sits on the windowsill like a fuzzy chaperone, its glassy eyes staring at you.

The waiter drops off menus in thick leather folders, giving you a ten-minute explanation of the special holiday prix fixe menu. Isack orders the cheapest wine on the list, and the waiter scoffs but obliges. When he finally leaves the two of you alone, silence weighs on the table like an uncomfortably heavy blanket.

“So,” you say, drumming your fingers against the stem of your water glass.

“So,” he agrees, trailing off.

Then the two of you speak at the same time:

“This place is —”

“You look really —”

You laugh, but it’s not your laugh, the familiar sound that makes Isack’s heart flip. It’s stilted, forced. “Sorry, I was just going to say this place is… nice.”

“Thanks,” he says politely, straightening his tie for the fifteenth time, but he can’t keep the frown off his face. Nice. It’s careful. It’s a word designed to be meaningless, to hide how uncomfortable you are, and Isack can feel his perfectly planned night slipping through his fingers.

It’s torture. Actual, literal torture. In three years of friendship and seven months of dating, you’ve never run out of things to say to each other. You talk constantly about classes and professors and the weird guy in your freshman dorm who collected vintage lunch boxes and whether aliens existed and what you’d do if you won the lottery. You flirt ridiculously and tease each other relentlessly. You send each other stupid memes at 2 AM and argue about linear algebra with the kind of intensity that comes from finding your mental match in another person.

But tonight, surrounded by white linen and overpriced menu items and the soft classical music whispering from hidden speakers, Isack has nothing. He takes a sip of the wine, immediately wincing at the taste.

“Isack,” you say gently, touching his wrist across the table as he forces a swallow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… this sucks, right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“This,” you say, waving your hand through the air at the restaurant, the pristine tablecloth, the overly perfumed candle flickering between you. “All of this. We both hate this. This isn’t us.”

For the first time all night, Isack feels like he can actually breathe. “Yes. Mon dieu, yes. This is horrible. The wine is horrible. I thought I was the only one.”

“No,” you laugh, and it finally sounds real. “You’re definitely not the only one. The waiter keeps looking at me like I’m going to smuggle the silverware out in my purse.”

He snorts, pulling at his tie until it loosens around his neck. “I’m so sorry, mon coeur. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to give you the Valentine’s Day you deserve, something fancy and romantic and —”

“Awkward and uncomfortable and completely wrong for us?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

“I love that you wanted to do something special,” you say, and Isack’s brain short-circuits somewhere around hearing the second word of your sentence. “But I don’t deserve all this. I deserve you. The real you, not whatever tie-wearing, wine-drinking version of you that you think is going to impress me.”

You love that he wanted to do something special. Love. It’s the perfect opening. Three simple words that had been circling in his head for months, waiting for the right moment to be dropped.

He opens his mouth to speak, finally working up the courage to say exactly what the entire night is for, but you beat him to the punch. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

A half hour later, the two of you are pressed shoulder to shoulder on the hood of Isack’s beat-up Honda with a twenty piece nugget box and two Slurpees between you. Your dress is hiked up around your thighs, bare leg pressed against his, the stuffed bear sitting in your lap.

You lean your head against his shoulder, taking a long sip of your Slurpee. “Next year, maybe let’s skip the fancy restaurant.”

“No complaints on that,” he allows, taking a bite of a nugget. “That bottle of wine basically wiped out our date budget for the rest of the semester, by the way.”

You laugh as the cool February wind picks up, and without thinking Isack takes off Gabi’s jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile up at him, makeup smudged slightly at the corners of your eyes. “Now that’s romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

Isack sighs happily, wrapping his arm around you. He’d spent so long planning what he thought was the perfect night. The flowers, the chocolates, the overpriced dinner, the teddy bear, all because that’s what movies and romance novels and r/Relationship_Advice said you were supposed to do when you loved someone.

But now, with chicken nugget crumbs on his fingers and the taste of blue raspberry in his mouth and your laugh still echoing in the crisp air of the parking lot, he thinks maybe it’s this.

five: blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. when time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.

There aren’t many rules Isack has for your relationship. Why bother, when everything is perfect without them? It’s not like you need a set date night, since you hang out with each other all the time anyway. He likes PDA. He would rather die than tell you who you could or couldn’t talk to, and he thinks you’d probably laugh in his face if he tried. Your relationship has always been one guided by what feels right in the moment, and Isack feels awfully right pretty much every time you’re around him.

There is only one rule set in stone: the Infinite Playlist. A certain list of songs, subject to additions but never subtractions, that the two of you are forever required to dance to. It had started before you were dating, back when Isack would have taken any excuse to watch you smile, to have a private moment with you. Your relationship only solidified the tradition. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. The first few notes of a song would play, and the two of you would drop everything to dance to it.

“What Makes You Beautiful” comes on in the grocery store aisle? Ditch the cart, because the two of you are finding an area open enough to perform your fully choreographed routine. “Alors On Danse” plays at a frat party? Hopefully you aren’t talking to anyone important, because that conversation is coming to a swift end.

Normally, Isack loves the Infinite Playlist. Today, he wishes Lando had played anything else.

It’s a classic, unseasonably warm day, the first one of the spring semester. It feels like everyone on campus is outside, textbooks open to pages they won’t read and Frisbees cutting lazy arcs through the air. Your friends are sprawled on picnic blankets on the lawns, idly chatting. Maya and Chloe are passing around a thermos of jungle juice. Ollie has his laptop out, allegedly to work on his thesis, but he’s mostly just scrolling through his Spotify queue.

You’re sitting under a gnarled old oak tree, back stiff against the rough bark and knees pulled into your chest. Isack settles on the grass about ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with you, but you are very deliberately avoiding his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in your multivariable notes. The air between you is charged with all the things you’d said to each other three days ago, heavy with all the silence that had settled between you since.

The argument hadn’t been anyone’s fault, really — just a silly miscommunication, something that should have ended fast and early. But you almost never fought, and you weren’t used to it, both too stubborn to back down and admit it was stupid so you could move on. Halfway through the argument, Isack had said something careless, something that stung, and you’d stormed out of his house with flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Now, everything is tense and uncertain between the two of you, too quiet and too sharp.

You’re still pointedly ignoring him when Lando pushes Ollie away from the laptop, proclaiming loudly that he absolutely needs to hear a certain song before the sun sets. Seconds later, the telltale bassline of “Get Low” starts blasting through the speakers, and Isack’s stomach drops. You may have been in a fight, but unfortunately, the Infinite Playlist hadn’t gotten the memo.

His gaze snaps to you, instinct winning out over pride. When you slowly lift your eyes from the papers in your hands, he feels a little surge of hope in his chest. After a second of uncertainty, he stands, finding an empty strip of grass, and motions you over.

He wants to make you laugh. He wants to be over the top, or ridiculously bad, or anything that will break through the stoniness in your face.

Slowly, almost too slowly, you warm up. When he tries the Sprinkler, you barely look at him, just tapping your toe against the grass. He Dougies, and you move a little bit closer. By the time he resorts to the Shopping Cart, you’ve loosened up enough to give him a snort of laughter. He reaches his hand out, and you take it, letting him twirl you straight into his arms.

“Je suis désolé,” he mumbles into your ear, holding you against him.

There’s a pause, where you don’t say a word. “‘M sorry, too,” you sigh, and the relief that rolls through him is overwhelming. “That was so stupid.”

“So stupid,” he agrees, dipping you just because he can, because you’re talking to him and the world feels right again. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

You giggle as he drops you, pulls you up again. “Me neither. Let’s not do it again, yeah?”

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, as you grin like the last three days of cold shoulder could melt away just from the sheer force of your smile. “Deal.”

You rest your hands lazily on his shoulders, moving your body against his, and he presses a kiss to your neck. “Missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, hoping you know he doesn’t just mean the dancing.

“Missed you,” you retort, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the sun, eyes bright, and his chest feels very tight suddenly.

“I love you,” he blurts, and the relief he’s feeling shifts immediately to horror when you falter, feet slipping in the grass as you look up at him, something awestruck in your eyes. Before you have the chance to respond, he pulls you in by your hips, flush to his body. “—r sweet moves,” he finishes lamely, heart pounding in his chest. “I love them. Very classy, mon coeur.”

You laugh brightly, squirming against him. “Classier when you aren’t trying to grind on me, Hadjar.”

You don’t say that you love him, not then. The moment had passed. His cowardice had made sure of that. But he feels your eyes on him still, warm and hopeful, and he knows that another song, another moment will come soon enough.

six: write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival mr. darcy’s. debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? in her coat pocket? throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. let her wonder if you meant it.

By the third morning of spring break, Isack starts thinking about forever.

The beach rental is chaotic, to say the least — eight twenty-somethings in three bedrooms with one working bathroom, Maya and Gabi holding backflip contests off the porch into the deep end of the pool, an ever-growing pile of sandy towels that no one wants to take to the laundry.

It’s also kind of perfect, though, mostly because Isack gets to wake up every morning in a room with you. The sheets are mismatched and smell a little like the sea, and the bed is practically child-sized, barely big enough for the two of you to fit. But none of that matters as much as the fact that every time he wakes up, your legs are tangled into his, face mashed into his chest, hogging the entire comforter with your hand curled over his waist like you’d reached for him in the middle of the night and refused to let go.

It feels like playing house, at first. But then Isack starts letting himself imagine a world beyond the crappy Airbnb, a future where he never has to start his mornings any other way, and the domesticity of it all is doing something frankly dangerous to his heart.

So he writes.

It’s not supposed to be anything serious, at first. Just a way to get all the feelings out, scrawled into the back of his physics notebook and kept to himself. But the words keep coming, looping over themselves as he tries to put shape to the feeling in his chest.

Mon coeur,

We’ve been together for almost eight months now, and I keep thinking I should have said this already. I’ve been trying to find the perfect moment, the perfect words, practically since we started dating. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no perfect way to tell your girlfriend that she’s the most important thing in your life.

There’s this thing in physics I’ve been thinking about a lot called quantum entanglement. You probably know the concept, but in case you don’t, subatomic particles can get magically tied together, and when they do, each particle’s quantum state can’t ever be described again without the other. The particles’ fates get inextricably linked together, no matter how far away they are from each other.

I think I’m entangled with you, mon coeur, because I can’t see a future without you in it anymore. I want to wake up with you every morning, no matter how many times you kick me in the shins while you sleep. I want our toothbrushes to keep sitting next to each other on the counter. I want to keep dancing in the kitchen with you to the Infinite Playlist. I want to keep hearing you try to speak French to me. I want to keep making fun of your terrible French. I want to keep thinking about forever with you in a way that should scare me, but doesn’t at all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I love you. Je t’aime. In English, in French, in whatever language you want to hear it in.

He reads it over three times, stomach churning. It sounds pathetic, desperate, like something from a lovesick teenager and not a very mature twenty-year-old who really should have figured out how to express this to you by now.

But it’s also true. Every word of it.

“Baby, get down here!” your voice floats up the stairs, and Isack rips the paper out of the notebook and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts frantically, like somehow you’ll be able to see it from a floor below him. He heads downstairs, where chaos is already in full swing. Pepe is chopping up what feels like a thousand oranges for mimosas, and for some reason, there’s batter on the ceiling.

“Thank god, our resident Parisian is awake,” you say, reaching for him as soon as he enters the kitchen. “Do you know how to make French toast? Because Chloe’s vision is not translating into reality.”

The letter feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket all day. He keeps looking for the right moment — nearly gives it to you on the beach while you’re reading, before Kimi interrupts to show you the shells he’d collected. He thinks about sliding it over the dashboard as he watches you drive into the town center for groceries, singing along to Fleetwood Mac with the windows rolled down so you can smell the salt air. Maybe he can leave it somewhere you’d find it by accident, like a secret saved just for you.

On the other hand, the thought of you actually reading it kind of makes him want to throw up.

When he tries to get rid of it, though, he can’t quite do that either. It feels like he’s crumpling up your relationship, all the things he knows he loves about you. So in the end, he settles for leaving it in the kitchen trash, neatly folded on top of an empty twelve-pack box and stained popsicle sticks, content in the knowledge that he has more time to figure out how to say everything he feels.

You’re all on the porch outside when shit goes sideways. The sun is beating down, your legs draped lazily over Isack’s lap as you play Uno with the boys. Gabi’s just won, and he’s being unbearably annoying about the whole thing.

“Alright, I should take out the trash before we make dinner,” you say absentmindedly, putting down your cards and unfolding yourself out of your chair, sauntering inside.

Isack doesn’t quite register the danger at first. Then it hits him. The trash. His letter. Your name on the front, scrawled unmistakably in Isack’s handwriting. He jolts upright so fast his chair tips over behind him.

“Merde,” he mutters, already scrambling across the deck, splinters digging into his feet. He shoulders past Ollie in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears so loud in nearly drowns out the chorus of confused voices behind him.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon, you’ve already found it. You’re holding the letter gingerly between two fingers, like you’ve picked it off the top of the trash, and Isack is so unbelievably fucked.

“Did you mean to throw this away?” you say, voice unsteady.

“I —” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair roughly. “It’s, um, nothing. Just trash. Yeah.”

After he finishes stammering through the world’s worst explanation, you look at him for a long moment. Then at the letter. Then back at him.

“Okay,” you say quietly, and drop the letter in the trash without unfolding it. You tie the bag off, pulling it out of the can, and walk out the side door without a backward glance. Isack stands in the kitchen, listening to the door creak shut behind you with the sinking feeling he’s just made a big mistake.

Dinner, predictably, is loud, full of overlapping conversations and splinters off the old patio furniture. Isack barely hears any of it. You’re sitting beside him, laughing at the story Gabi is telling about the guy next door and his snorkel mask, but there’s a tightness to your smile that hasn’t gone away.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t act weird. You still steal bites of pizza off his plate and brush your fingers over his knee when you reach for your Coke bottle. But he’s known you long enough to know you’re still thinking about it, to know he hasn’t gotten off the hook just yet.

“Just tell me one thing,” you say later in bed, voice soft and a little hesitant, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Was it something bad? About me?”

Isack stiffens, rolling over to look at you with wide, panicked eyes. “No, mon coeur,” he says gently. “No, never. Je te le promets.”

You nod slowly, biting your lip. “Okay. I trust you, I just — sorry, I just keep thinking about it. What would you write and then throw away?”

You’re looking up at him like you know what the letter said, or maybe like you hope you know, and the air between you turns sharp with potential. He wants to tell you. The words are right there, crowding at the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.

He’s scared. Scared that if you don’t feel the same, it’ll all fall apart. Scared that if you do, it’ll make everything real.

“It was nothing important,” he lies, and pretends not to notice the way your face falls just a little.

seven: wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. tell her with your hands shaking.

“Latte for Isack?”

The Daily Grind churns with the desperate energy of finals week, the scent of stress nearly overpowering the espresso aroma, but Isack keeps pushing his way through the college-age customers hunched over their laptops with dark circles under their eyes. Your robotics exam started just about three hours ago, which means you’ll be stumbling out of the engineering building any minute now. With any luck, Isack will be there with a coffee for you, ready to hear all about it. He’s planning his Best Boyfriend Ever acceptance speech in his head already.

He picks up the cup from the barista, at the last minute buys one of those lavender honey scones you always stare at through the display counter but never purchase because “twelve dollars for a pastry is capitalism at its worst, Isack, even if it does taste like it’s made by a baby angel.” He doesn’t have the money for it, not really, but imagining the excitement on your face when you see the bag is enough to have him forking over his credit card. His bank account is crying, but some things are worth being broke for.

He’s just across the street from the engineering building when students begin streaming out like survivors escaping a shipwreck. He scans the crowd until he spots you, hair piled on top of your head messily and shoulders slumped. Still beautiful, even after an hours-long grueling exam. He holds up the bag, knowing you’ll see it before you see him, and your entire face lights up, exhaustion melting into relief.

“Baby, what are you doing here?” you laugh, hands cupped around your mouth so he can hear you across the street. You’re half-jogging towards him in your eagerness, entirely focused on him and the promise of comfort he represents. So focused, in fact, that Isack sees the cab before you do, the yellow blur cutting through the intersection headed directly for you.

Isack freezes. He tries to scream, to warn you, anything, but the sound dies in his throat. In the entire universe, the only thing that matters is the ear-achingly loud honk of the horn and the startled look on your face.

You, thankfully, don’t freeze like him. You jump back, cab just kissing the edge of your shin, backpack swinging through the air and clattering back against your side.

The car doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow down. The whole thing is over in a second. But to Isack, the second stretches forever, and in it he can see everything that could have happened, the way his life could have split open in a single, terrible instant.

You stare after the car, dazed, and Isack is moving before his brain can catch up with his body. Not to you, not at first — he’s running halfway up the street, screaming obscenities after the car’s receding tail lights in rapid French about the driver’s ugly mother, the size of his dick, and how terrible he is at pleasuring his partner.

“Hey. Hey, Isack, it’s okay.” You catch up to him, place a hand on his arm, gently, and all the rage inside of him snaps.

“Ce n’est pas bien!” His hands are trembling, something hot pricking at the back of his eyes. “He could have killed you.”

“It was my fault,” you say softly.

Isack pulls you into a tight, desperate hug. He can’t stop seeing it every time he blinks: the cab’s tires squealing on the street, your sneakers jumping back, the bumper brushing against your leg.

He buries a hand in your hair, no doubt filling it with snarls and tangles, and breathes in the familiar, warm scent of your shampoo. His cheeks feel wet, for some reason. “He should have been more careful. Il aurait pu te tuer. You could have died.”

“I didn’t die,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and soothingly stroking his shoulders. “I’m okay, Isack.”

“You could have died. I could have lost you,” he repeats, and the words come out horribly strangled thinking about the prospect of a world without you in it. No more forcing him to taste-test your seasonal lattes. No more watching stupid Netflix romcoms because they make you laugh. No more slow dancing in his kitchen, swallowing your laughter with kisses when he steps on your toes. It wouldn’t be a life worth having.

“I love you,” he sobs into your hair. “Je t’aime, et tu aurais pu mourir. I love you.”

You run your hands through his hair, holding him as tightly as he’s holding you. “Isack, babe, you have to breathe. It’s fine. I’m right here, mon coeur.” Your accent is as terrible as ever, but you’re solid and breathing and alive against him, and he lets out a rattling gasp. “See? I’m right here. I’m okay.”

“Right,” he croaks, voice hoarse as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you confirm. “Everything is okay. I know you’re panicking, but I’m fine. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he breathes after a moment, pulling back and slowly disentangling himself from you, even as every molecule in his body protests at the distance.

You wipe your thumb gently over his cheekbones, brushing away the tears, and he presses his face against your hand like a cat. Desperately seeking your affection, your touch, any reminder that you’re still here with him. You smile at him, wobbly but real. “What’s in the bag?”

“Scone,” he manages to choke out. He’d nearly forgotten he had the bag at all. It’s ridiculously crumpled, fuchsia paper crushed between white knuckles. His fingers ache when he unclenches them.

“Really?” you ask. “The one from Daily Grind? Baby, you didn’t. That’s so sweet! You know I love those. Can we go back to my room and split it?” Even though he can tell you’re rambling, trying to distract him, your smile is enough to make him forget a little bit. So he sniffles and lets you lead him across campus, rubbing soothing circles into his palm the entire way home.

It’s not until later in your room, watching Star Wars and eating his half of the scone as you comb your fingers through his hair, that Isack realizes you didn’t tell him you love him too. You assumed he was panicking, which was true, but it didn’t make the feelings any less real.

He loves you, and you don’t believe him.

eight: say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. do not adorn it with extra words like “i think” or “i might.” do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “i love you too.”

The air smells like champagne and summer. Graduation day is a blur — sweaty hugs on the lawn, too-bright flash photos where at least one of you is sure to be mid-blink, parents crying as they watch their kids grow up.

Isack cheers, stomping his feet wildly, as you cross the stage to receive your diploma, tassels blowing in the breeze and smiling into the crowd megawatt-bright. After the ceremony, Ollie pops a mini bottle of champagne and nearly takes out his macroeconomics professor with the cork. Kimi runs a lap around the quad, Doriane screaming bloody murder on his shoulders. Pepe cries twice, once because the dean mispronounced his name during the ceremony and again when Isack presents him with a photo of the two of them from freshman year move-in day, all gawky limbs and awkward smiles.

The party starts as soon as your caps hit the ground. Isack’s house is spilling over with friends who don’t want to say goodbye just yet, dancing barefoot on the patchy backyard grass with beers sweating in their hands. There’s music pulsing through an overamped speaker, loud laughter echoing between the trees. You sit on his lap on the leaning porch steps, sipping from a Solo cup and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek when Chloe takes a Polaroid of the two of you. It comes out a little blurry, but Isack slips it into his phone case anyway.

By the time afternoon bleeds into evening, the two of you slip away from the party, too full of sentimentality to be around anyone except each other. For once, Isack doesn’t have a plan in mind, too content with your hand in his as you walk one last slow loop around campus. The brick paths you’ve worn down over four long years. The benches you’d studied on outside the dining hall, trading smuggled cookies with your head in his lap. The hill you’d sledded down together freshman year, when Isack took one look at your flushed cheeks and pretty smile and realized what he was feeling wasn’t just friendship.

“Oh, the fountain!” you cry delightedly, tugging his hand hard towards the stately stone fixture as you near the main quad. It’s a campus tradition, passed down through generations of sleep-deprived undergrads. Legend has it if you jump into the fountain with your sweetheart, you’ll always find your way back to each other. “Isack, we have to do it, come on.”

You set off across the quad, barefoot and heels swinging from your fingertips, but Isack stays, because every single place on this campus is a memory that leads back to you, and he starts to have the feeling that this very moment is what it’s all been building to all along.

“Mon coeur?” he calls out from behind you, hands shaking in his pockets. When you turn back to look at him, the setting sun is painting your skin golden, the sleeves of your gown billowing in the wind, and it takes all the breath out of his body. Four years of friendship, nearly a year of dating, and you still have the ability to make time stop for him.

“Yeah?” you ask, tilting your head with a curious expression, and he knows.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t say it drunk, or panicking, or praying for you not to really hear it, or with the desperation of someone trying to stop the clock. He says it with the quiet certainty of someone who’s been waiting way too long.

“I know,” you say, eyes sparkling. He waits for you to continue, heart in his throat, but you just grin smugly at him.

“Non,” he shakes his head as he walks towards you, smiling despite himself. “Not fair. You cannot pull a Han Solo unless your life is at stake. Actually, you cannot pull a Han Solo at all —”

You swallow his outrage with a kiss, pulling him in by the tie and knocking his cap askew. “I love you too,” you say against his lips, as his hands come to rest on your hips. “Really.”

“I know,” Isack breathes out, dizzy with it, as he tugs you towards the fountain. “Really.”

The fountain isn’t deep, water only reaching to mid-calf. But it’s shockingly cold for a June day, the spray raising goosebumps on Isack’s arms. You shriek with laughter as you follow him in. “Oh god. Not one of my best ideas,” you gasp at the sudden chill, the hem of your gown trailing in the water around you.

“What do you mean?” he grins, pulling you so close he can see the water droplets on your lashes. “It was a perfect idea. Now we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pressing up on your toes and kissing the corner of his mouth. “That would imply I’m planning on losing you in the first place,” you say, and Isack is hit with a wave of affection so strong it nearly makes his knees buckle.

“I love you,” he breathes out again, spinning you in a slow circle. “I’ve been wanting to say it for so long.”

You crinkle your nose at him, grinning ridiculously. “I love you too. But why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to plan out the right moment,” he admits.

And then, almost shyly:

“Turns out any moment with you is the right one.”

#this was so cute i’m sobbing #isack hadjar

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jadore-f1 · 12 days ago

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hi. fuck ice. here is how you can help families affected by unlawful deportation

edit: and FUCK LAPD. here is how you can help bail out protestors who are in the trenches, facing mass arrests and putting their bodies on the line.

#important

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jadore-f1 · 13 days ago

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"are you normal about-" no I'm an insane pervert

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jadore-f1 · 13 days ago

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Don’t make me wait | IH6

Synopsis ♡ Your relationship with Isack is going extremely well and you're ready to take it to the next level. 4.5k words

A/N ♡ can’t believe that after 10 years in fandom culture, i'm posting my very own fanfic. The writing isn't great, the dialogue is eh and the smut is rushed but i WROTE this. I'm so proud of myself.

Warnings ♡ SMUT! 18+ mdni!!! Fem!reader, Strong language, google translated french, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, switch!Isack (sorta), he has a filthy mouth, p in v, protected sex (pls do this!), grammatical errors, this is barely proofread tbh, probably other things idk

You and Isack had been officially dating for just over a month now, though the two of you had been dancing around your feelings for much longer than that. It all started at the preseason “Meet the Grid” dinner. He was the promising new rookie and you, a wide-eyed media intern just trying to stay out of the way and do your job.

You didn’t even speak to him that night. Just watched from across the room, quietly taking in the way he seemed to slot in so easily with the senior drivers. He was charming, warm, and effortlessly magnetic. It was hard to look away. When he eventually caught you staring, his smile shifted, softening into something less media-trained and more… curious. You turned away quickly, heart pounding, trying to mask the flush crawling up your neck and ignore the flutter low in your stomach.

Yeah. You were immediately smitten.

It continued like that for a while, lingering looks across the paddock, stumbling through interview questions because he’d say something that could’ve been considered flirting if you thought about it long enough. (you didn’t though or at least tried not to, no way he would be flirting with you)

For a few weeks things never went any further than that. You figured he was too busy finding his footing as a rookie to even think about dating, and he was convinced you were either completely oblivious to his flirting or just too kind to turn him down outright.

When the Melbourne grand prix incident occured you felt your heart sink for him. You’d fought with yourself the entire day before finally just deciding to bite the bullet and reach out to him on instagram that night.

@youruser: Hi, I’m not sure if you know me but I work in the paddock

@isackhadjar: yes __ hi! we’ve met before, what’s up?

@youruser: I saw what happened today so i just wanted to check in, you know if you need a friend or a place to vent completely unbiased i’m available!

@youruser: …Not saying you don’t have people, just figured an outside perspective might help. Plus, I’m a pretty good listener

@isackhadjar: lol don’t worry i did not take it that way

@isackhadjar: how about coffee tomorrow morning?

@youruser: sure! Does 8:30 work for you?

@isasckhadjar: perfect, it's a date :)

And the rest was history. He'd asked you out officially somewhere in between the Bahrain and Saudi Arabia races and you’d been basically attached at the hip ever since.

Because the relationship is still so new, there are things you're both still discovering about each other. Little details, unspoken boundaries, milestones you haven't quite reached yet.

The most obvious one is the physical side of your relationship. So far, it's been limited to quick good luck kisses before quali or races, and soft, grounding hugs when the weekend doesn’t go his way. That’s it. And you’re okay with that. You're more than happy to follow his pace. You understand how complicated things can get when you're constantly under a microscope, with cameras everywhere and millions of fans analyzing your every move.

But still… as time goes on, it's hard not to want more.

You're willing to wait—of course you are. You’d wait as long as he needed. In the meantime, you make do with your imagination and the handful of photos tucked away in a private folder on your phone. No complaints. No pressure. Just quiet longing, and the hope that when he’s ready, you’ll be right there.

Then Monaco happens.

You’re waiting in his drivers room like you do after every race, drivers get a 10-15 minute break after each race before they have to enter the media pen so you and Isack use this time to catch up in private otherwise you’d have to wait until the end of the day just for a moment alone. He steps into the room and you’re on him the second the door closes.

“P6 Zack! P6 in Monaco! Baby I can't believe you pulled that off!” you say in between little pecks all over his face, he’s still sweaty but you don’t care at all, too hyped up on adrenaline and something else you don’t want to name yet.

“I know! I can hardly believe it either!” He laughs but he sounds exhausted, hell he looks exhausted, face flushed red and the imprint from his earbuds still visible on his cheeks yet the grin never leaves his face.

When you try to step back to give him breathing room he just makes a small sound of disapproval and pulls you closer, hands tightening around your waist until you're pressed fully against the warmth of him. He lays his forehead gently against your own and just takes a deep breath, like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. You stay like that for a minute reveling in the silence because you know any moment now you're going to have to leave and return to the chaotic world outside your bubble. Eventually you pull back a little just to look at him again.

“I'm so so proud of you Isack” you push his sweat slicked hair back from his eyes and hope he can tell how much you mean it. He leans into you again like he can't bear the small distance you've created.

“Merci mon ange” he whispers before pressing a searing kiss to your lips. It's hot, wet and nothing like any of the kisses you've had before.

One of his hands travels from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair while his thumb rests on the hinge of your jaw moving your head exactly where he wants it.

His tongue presses against the seam of your mouth and you open up immediately—there's no point in denying it, not when you've been dying to kiss him like this. It makes your brain all fuzzy around the edges.

Your hands move to explore as well, one immediately gripping onto his bicep bulging through that skin tight fireproof shirt that has definitely made a few appearances in your dreams. The other lightly scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to shiver and let out a breathy little noise. Fuck. you want to hear that again.

You pull away from his lips and theres a string of saliva still connecting you together, you wipe your thumb against his bottom lip to remove it and he presses a gentle kiss to the pad it, his hand coming to cover yours and he continues to press kisses up, up your arm until he reaches your neck. He nips and licks up and down your neck and until he finds the spot that makes you arch into him, then he bites down.

“Haah- is-isack no fair I can't do the same to you” you manage with a keen.

“Sure you can, just gotta be somewhere discrete bébé” you can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He sounds so smug you can't help but tease him a bit, moving your leg so it's in between his. you press upwards grazing him with just enough pressure.

“Oh putain” he hisses out, hands tightening on your hips, he thrusts forward seeking out the friction again but you remove your leg before he can get it.

“Ok! Baby i'm sorry just please do something please” he whines out, his hips thrust up again chasing any type of pleasure he can get. He looks so good like this, all desperate just from a bit of teasing.

“Oh poor Isack, you get this hard just from kissing?” you pout at him sarcastically. The power you feel right now is unfathomable, you could get used to this. If only he knew how soaked you are between your thighs.

“Since you did so well today I guess I can't be too mean, what do you want? My mouth or my hands?”

“Your mouth please i-” someone bangs on the door of the trailer and you both jump a mile in the air.

“Hadjar! You're late for post race interviews let's go!” his PR manager yells from outside.

You sigh empathetically. He sighs as well tilting his head back against the door like he can’t believe his luck.

“Can't believe I have to talk about my best race finish with blue balls.” he mutters, adjusting himself so it's not as noticeable. You can't help but giggle. He glares at you with a look that says ‘this isn't over’ and heads out the door.

“We’ll finish this later ok!” you yell after him with another laugh.

Later doesn't come that night (and neither do you) or the rest of that weekend for that matter.

That’s the thing about triple headers. It’s three weeks of non-stop chaos, travel, and work. Between back-to-back races and packed schedules, finding even a single quiet moment alone feels impossible.

The tension from Monaco still lingers though. Looks across the paddock are now charged with something heavy, good luck kisses are a little longer, deeper, hungrier. It feels like you’re a balloon seconds away from bursting.

Things finally settled down after the race in Spain. Isack scored points again, and it was amazing to watch. He was steady, focused, like he was really starting to find his rhythm.

To celebrate, the two of you went out for dinner at a cozy, authentic Spanish restaurant Carlos had personally recommended. The food was incredible, the atmosphere relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like you could both finally breathe.

Now, back in the quiet of your hotel room, you're winding down for the night, full, content, and maybe just a little bit tipsy on red wine and the heated glances shared over the candlelit table.

Technically it’s Isack’s hotel room, you have your own on another floor with the rest of the media team but what your supervisor doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

You’re freshly showered and in one of his shirts and some boy shorts just scrolling on social media waiting for him to finish up in the bathroom so you guys can cuddle and start a movie.

The bathroom door swings open, and without looking up from your phone you call out

“Zack, I swear if they don’t give you Rookie of the Year, I’m burning the FIA to the ground.”

He laughs, voice warm and easy. “Love the energy, bébé, but then we’d both be out of a job.”

You glance up to respond, but the words catch in your throat.

You’ve seen Isack shirtless before on the occasional social media post—but never like this. He’s standing by the dresser, back to you, rummaging for something, muscles shifting under damp skin. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to make your mind go blank. His curls are still wet from the shower, starting to dry into that soft, messy wave you adore.

And it hits you.

That’s your boyfriend.

This sweet, ridiculously good-looking, insanely talented man is yours.

How the hell did you get so lucky?

“You’re staring mon ange.” he says softly and you don’t even have it in you to pretend to be embarrassed because now he’s facing you while leaning against the dresser and you can see everything.

Your eyes zero in on the sweatpants again, they’re so low you can see his v-line and the trail of dark hairs leading down beneath the waistband.

You let your eyes trail upwards over the naked skin of his torso, still glistening from the shower practically begging you to lick the droplets of water up yourself.

But honestly it’s the chain around his neck that does you in. It’s shining against his skin and it makes you want to wrap your fingers around it and tug him closer to you like a leash, makes you want to watch it dangle in front of your face, makes want the feel the cool metal pressed against your own heated skin while he poun-

“Ehem” he raises his brows in amusement and your face does heat up this time.

“You just look really good right now” He preens under the compliment, standing straighter and flexing under your gaze.

“Oh? is that why you’re looking at me like you want to eat me?” he steps closer to the bed.

“Amongst other things.” you give a sly smile, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

When he reaches you, you stand up on your knees so you two are face to face. his hands find their place on your waist and yours around the back of his neck. You go to lean in for a kiss but before your lips meet you feel him, solid and warm against your leg.

It’s your turn to raise your brows in amusement now and he scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it, bébé—you’re in my shirt and barely anything else, telling me how much you want me.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, though the curve of your mouth betrays you. “I didn’t realize stating facts was such a crime.”

He steps closer, eyes flicking down for the briefest second before settling back on yours, smoldering. “It is when you say them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice is low, thick with the weight of restrained desire.

You bite your lip, a slow smile forming. “Maybe I do.”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, hands rubbing soft circles on the skin of your waist with maddening ease. “Then don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

“I’ve been ready since Monaco,” you murmur, fingernails lightly raking down his chest. “And I always finish what I start.”

He lets out a stuttered gasp—your turn to make him breathless.

You tilt your head up and your lips meet in a passionate kiss, all teeth, tongue and weeks of build up.

Isack kisses you like a drowning man gasping for his first breath of air. It's desperate, consuming. Like he’s trying to burrow his way into your very soul. And you’d let him. You’d let him claw through your ribcage and settle into the space you’ve always kept open just for him.

Your lips part ways and you fall back onto the bed, slowly scooting up toward the headboard. He follows without hesitation, crawling over you until he’s hovering above. For a moment, you both pause, eyes locked. There’s no awkwardness, no uncertainty you might expect from a first time, just a quiet heavy knowing that every heated moment before now has been leading to this.

“__ are you sure?” he asks softly. You want to tell him that you’ve never been more certain about anything in your life. That there's nowhere else you'd rather be than right here, taking in every detail of his face, the way the city lights cast golden shadows across his features. But the words catch in your throat, too full, too much.

So instead, you just nod and reach for that damn chain, pulling him back to you once more.

your lips meet the skin where his jaw and neck connect, nipping and sucking there lightly just enough to leave a faint mark.

“I still owe you from Monaco, yeah?” you breathe into his skin.

“No you don’t have too.” he denies but you just scoff playfully and switch your positions so he’s lying on his back and you're on top, legs straddling his hips.

“Gotta finish what I started.” you grin and peck his lips before making your descent down his body. you pause at his chest tugging one of his nipples between your teeth softly just to hear that pretty little whine again before kissing your way down to the edge of his sweats.

The imprint of him is hard to miss and you can’t help but run your hand over the bulge and squeeze. his body jolts like he’s been electrocuted.

“Oh mon Dieu bébé, s'il te plaît, ne me taquine pas!” you don't know exactly what he's saying but the impatience of his tone gives you a clue. Oh my God baby please don't tease me

“Relax baby, I'm gonna give you what you want.” your fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats and you pause there, looking up into his eyes again with a silent question. He nods supportingly, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and his hips raise towards you. His sweats and boxers come down together.

Holy shit.

He’s not overly large, very proportional to his body but the thickness of him takes you aback. He has the kind of width that you know you'll be feeling for the next couple days. The tip is flushed red dripping in precum, your fingers wrap around the base and start kitten licking at his leaking head.

“mph-oh fuck” he makes a sound like the air has been punched from his lungs and your thighs clench together in response. His head falls back into the pillows. He’s so sensitive it’s driving you insane. Normally giving head is your least favorite part of sex but his reactions have you retracting that mindset.

You open your mouth and fully take him in going as far as you can, using both hands to cover whatever you can’t reach. his hips twitch up subconsciously and you gag.

“Putain, je suis désolé mon ange, feels so good” he rasps out. you just moan in response and the vibrations pull another breathless whine from him. Fuck, i’m sorry angel

you pull off of him with a subtle pop, hands continuing to work him over while you catch your breath.

“Do you want to cum like this Zack?” you ask and receive no reply.

He’s too blissed out, eyes closed, thrusting up into your fists.

you stop moving your hands and he cries out pathetically. his upper body bows towards you and when you meet his glistening eyes you almost feel bad for ripping away his impending orgasm. almost.

“I asked you a question.” it takes him a moment to find his senses and respond.

“I want it to be inside.” His voice is several notches deeper and the darkness in his gaze sets fire to your veins. His hands slide up your thigh, under the edges of your (his) shirt.

“Take this off cherie.” tugging it up with his assistance, you're completely bare with the exception of your little sleep shorts.

“C’mere.” he mutters softly, pulling you up to him again. Your lips connect, softer than your previous kiss but just as passionate. Your upper body presses up against his and the coolness of his chain makes you shiver in delight, giving you goosebumps.

You sigh deeply, body sinking into him further in contentment. He groans in response, hands tightening around your hips as he uses his bodyweight to flip your positions so he's on top. He presses up onto his palms beside your head. His biceps are on display like this and you can't help but lean up and bite one of them.

“Eh? What was that for?” he asks with a shocked laugh. You shrug with absolutely no shame.

“I've always wanted to do that.” he laughs again while you just gaze at him lovingly. When he catches your stare he bites his lip and the soft moment heats up again.

“Can I feel you now, cherie?” he asks softly, you nod and he's tugging off your shorts immediately, tossing them somewhere behind him. When you're completely bare for him he sits back on his haunches with a look of awe. You try to close your legs together under his unwavering stare but his hands grasp your thighs firmly keeping them apart.

“Ange, tu es tellement mouillée que ça dégouline sur les draps.” he says, thumbs rubbing warm circles on the underside of your thighs, it's nice but if he doesn't touch you properly soon you might explode. Angel, you're so wet it’s dripping onto the sheets

“Please Isack don't tease” you whine out. He smirk’s fingers lightly grazing over your center.

“It's no fun being teased, is it bebe?” he grins cheekily, “You had such a mouth on you earlier. Use it and tell me what you want.”

“Fuc- I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” his thumb presses into that bundle of nerves rubbing light circles but you’re too worked up, it’s not enough.

“Ah Zack please!” you cry out grabbing his forearm in an attempt to drag his fingers where you really want them.

“Mmm ne pleure pas bébé, tu sais que je te donnerai toujours ce que tu veux.” his fingers slip into you and your vision whites out. Don’t cry baby, you know i’ll always give you what you want

“Oh shit- yes!” you moan, back arching off the bed, hands gripping the sheets. God his fingers are so nice, thick and callused from years of driving.

“Feels good baby? Putain, tu ne sais pas depuis combien de temps j'ai rêvé de ça.” Isack leans down on the arm not between your legs, brushing the sweaty hair from your eyes and laying his forehead against yours. Fuck, you don’t know how long i've dreamt of this

“Look at me, yeah? Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers.” you want to break away from his intense gaze but the hand grasping your hair keeps you right where he wants you. You’re practically drooling while his fingers abuse that sweet spot inside you.

When you feel yourself getting closer you try to warn him but all that comes out is “a-ah Zack i’m comi-ah!” before your eyes roll back and you claw your hands down his shoulders.

“Yeahhh fuck bébé that’s it.” he works you through your orgasm slowing his fingers down when you stop spasming around him. you feel him placing little kisses on your face and chest while you struggle to catch your breath.

You pull him in for a soft appreciative kiss and he melts into you. He slots himself in between your legs and you feel him warm and sticky against your inner thigh. You look down between your bodies and catch a glimpse of him, rock hard and tip fire engine red from lack of attention.

“You know, tonight was supposed to be about you.” you reach down to stroke him, he lets out a sharp hiss and grabs your hand to pin it beside your head.

“Continue comme ça et cette nuit se terminera tôt pour nous deux, making you feel good makes me feel good too don’t be silly.” he chastises you lightly. Keep it up and this night will end early for us both

Your legs raise higher up to his hips, opening yourself up to him more and he positions himself against your core, sliding between your folds covering his cock in your slickness before stopping at your entrance. He reaches over to the nightstand for his wallet for a condom, quickly tearing the wrapper and rolling it into himself.

“Can you give me one more?” you nod quickly and he grins “That’s my girl” The slow press of him into you has your breath catching in preparation of the thickness of him. He immediately clocks your hesitation and links his hand with yours, little pecks placed onto your lips in hopes of distraction.

“I got you mon ange, relax.” you do as he says letting out a deep sigh and he pushes in slow and steady until he bottoms out completely.

“You’re so pretty like this.” he nuzzles his nose against yours lovingly.

“Isack!” you groan out, hips grinding against his own with need “Oh God please move!”

“I know baby I know- just need a second.” he grits out, whole body shaking in barely contained restraint. He pulls his hips back until just the tip is there and then slides all the way in again. His pace speeds up and you’re losing your mind.

All you can focus on is Isack, the look of him all sweaty, lip between his teeth and his abs flexing as he pumps himself inside you again and again. You can’t even tell him how good he’s making you feel, the only thing coming out of your mouth is little ‘ah-ah-ahs!’ and broken intervals of his name.

Isack seems to be having the opposite effect though, his mouth won’t stop running.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long, since that fucking dinner party.” The hand not still linked in yours slides down onto your stomach and presses down just below your belly button and you scream.

“Fuuuck yeah bébé” he lifts one of your legs over your shoulder, cock reaching into you so impossibly deep.

“Wanted you so bad in Monaco too, would’ve told my manager to piss off just so I could bend you over that sofa in my drivers room.” he grunts out voice rough from exertion.

“And you’d let me too huh pretty girl, let m-oh fuck let me take you in that tiny room where everyone could hear how good I make you feel.” you clench around him hard at the thought. “mph-yes yes Zack please don’t stop!”

“Mon dieu look at you.” he’s babbling more to himself now, getting closer and closer to his peak. “Comment je suis censé penser à autre chose maintenant ? Je pourrais vivre dans ta chatte.” How am I supposed to think about anything else now? I could live in your pussy

His hips switch into a deep grind, pelvic bone brushing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars.

Your orgasm hits you so quickly you don’t even have time to think let alone warn him. Your cunt spasming around him pushes him to his climax soon after and he wails out hotly against your throat.

“Holy shit.” he whispers before collapsing on top of you, sweaty and spent. He rolls over to toss the condom in the bin before immediately pulling your back into his chest.

It’s silent for a while, you two just basking in the afterglow before he presses soft kisses onto the back of your shoulders and neck.

“That was worth the wait, no?” you have no idea how he can sound so smug so soon after but you can’t help but agree.

“Of course, just never make me wait that long again.” you joke, turning in his arms to face him. Hands tracing over those beauty marks you love so much.

“We can go again if you want.” he says, wriggling his brows with a cheeky smile.

“Isack!” you laugh pushing his head away.

Ending was shit but thank you sm for reading! hope you enjoyed! 🫶🏾

#isack hadjar #isack hadjar smut #isack hadjar x reader #ih6 #f1 x reader #f1 smut #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you #isack hadjar x you #ih6 smut

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jadore-f1 · 15 days ago

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you guys i did it! untitled Isack fic is complete! just gotta proofread it now 🥲 it should be up within the next 2 days 💗

#it’s 4k words incase anyone’s wondering #isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar #f1 x reader #ih6 #f1 smut #isack hadjar smut

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jadore-f1 · 17 days ago

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fic is currently at 2.5k words….. they still have yet to do the deed 😭

i’m writing that scene now but my goodness writing seggs scenes is so hard omg??? i have a newfound appreciation for all my nsfw writers out there fr 🫡🫡🫡

untitled Isack fic is already at 1.4k words don’t ask me how, i just hand the google doc over to my 🐱 and let her do the rest tbh

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jadore-f1 · 19 days ago

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untitled Isack fic is already at 1.4k words don’t ask me how, i just hand the google doc over to my 🐱 and let her do the rest tbh

#isack hadjar #isack hadjar x reader #ih6 #f1 x reader #f1 smut #isack hadjar smut

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jadore-f1 · 19 days ago

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Thank you for your repost girlie ❤️❤️❤️

of course lovely thank YOU for feeding the isack lovers! so excited for part 2💗💗💗

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jadore-f1 · 21 days ago

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I Dare You – IH6 (part one)

summary: A girl, a boy, a bunch of F1 drivers, too many parties and just enough tension to ruin your week

word count: 5.6k

isack hadjar x reader

note: hello my lovelies! this is the first fic I'm posting on tumblr and I hope you'll like it!!! This is part 1 so please comment and repost to give me any motivation to write part 2 otherwise this will end up in the bins of my projects along with my draft masters thesis lmao

Paris, April 2025

Your breath feels so loud it almost drowns out the music pulsing in the background. You recognise Niagara Falls by The Weeknd. The bass notes are shaking your bones but not as much as his eyes do.

Isack is looking at you, not moving an inch. His lips are slightly parted and all you want is to crash into them, hard, not sweet.

You stand two meters apart, fists clenched, while he is leaning against a cluttered table like you’re not melting in front of him.

“I dare you,” he smiles.

Something twists inside you and your veins ache. You take a step. Then another.

4 months ago - London, January 2025

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Everyone around you screams while you snort out a huge laugh watching your friend miserably fall out of a handstand.

“Victor freaking Martins. You have to stop doing things like this or else you cannot complain about all the compromising videos I have on my phone,” you say as you lend him a helping hand.

You two keep dancing for a while, the music pounding in the crowded London apartment you somehow ended up in with a mix of friends and a bunch of strangers too. The lights are low and the air is buzzing with perfume, sweat and cheap champagne. It’s loud and chaotic and a little too hot but the energy feels good.

A little later, breathless, you slip away to get a drink, weaving through the crowd. You find a quieter corner with a table full of bottles and pour yourself an iced tea. Near the table, two guys are talking in French. You don’t mean to listen but you catch the words anyway.

The tall one, standing next to you, points to a girl in the crowd and smirks.

“C’est déjà Halloween?.” (Is it already Halloween?)

You follow his gaze and freeze. That’s your friend Marla, the same one you hyped up a few hours ago when she was choosing her outfit: orange overalls and a sheer green mesh long sleeve shirt. Sure, she looks a bit like a fashionable vegetable, but who cares? She loves it.

That is when you notice the other guy, shorter, half-hidden behind his friend. He has a boyish grin on his face and bursts of laughter when the tall one adds “En tout cas, c’est exactement comme ça que j’imaginais une citrouille danser” just as Marla throws herself into some heartfelt moves. (Anyway, that’s exactly how I imagined a pumpkin would dance)

He leaves but the other one lingers. He turns, catches you watching him.

“Hi,” he says, completely oblivious to your death stare. “Having a good night?”

His accent is thick and unmistakably French. You blow out a breath, like a bull in a kid’s cartoon.

“You Frenchies really like talking about people in front of them thinking no one can understand, huh?”

He blinks, confused. His smile fades. Now that you see him clearly, you clock the details of his vaguely familiar face: dark curls, Roman nose with a beauty mark, eyes the color of hot chocolate. But none of that matters.

“You think nobody here understands French?” you’re almost yelling now over the music.

“You can understand French?” he asks.

“Je suis à moitié française, bien sur que je comprends. Et surtout ce que tu dis sur mes amis,” you snap while pointing at Marla. (I am half French, of course I understand. And especially what you say about my friends)

He has recovered his composure now, and frowns.

“Eh, j’ai rien dit, perso.” (Hey, I didn’t say anything myself)

“Ouais enfin t’as bien rigolé.” (Yeah, well you sure had a good laugh)

He shrugs.

“Bah ouais. C’était drôle.” (Well yeah. It was funny)

Your eyes narrow and you give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I think it is funnier that two guys standing stiff as planks in a corner are commenting on a girl who’s just dancing and having fun.”

“Woaw, relax,” he says, holding his hands up. “You’re scary.”

“And you’re an idiot,” you say before you can think.

He raises an eyebrow and the space between you snaps tight. You’re about to say something else but your words catch behind your teeth. Maybe you overreacted. It was just a dumb comment. Marla had said she was going for chaotic sexy vegetable vibe, so why were you so angry?

Because he had that smug, boyish grin that made your stomach slightly twist and you didn’t like how that felt. Feeling a bit stupid and not ready to admit it got to you, you put your drink on the table a little too hard, and head back to the dancefloor as he watches you go.

When you come back to your friends, Victor wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Why were you talking to Isack?”

“Who?”

He tilts your head toward the guy you just argued with.

“Him. He raced with me in F2, you don’t recognise him? Isack Hadjar. Really good, just made it to F1 with Racing Bulls.”

The rest of his words feel like they echo from underwater.

“You’re going to see him a lot this year actually, since you’re interning with McLaren.”

Your eyes lock with Isack’s across the room and for a second, you wonder if he is just as thrown off as you are.

March 2025, Melbourne GP - Wednesday evening

The restaurant is fancy in a subtle way but the wine still costs more than your rent. The McLaren team fills the space with warmth and noise: engineers and mechanics are trading jokes while Zak Brown at the head of the table is sitting like the godfather of the whole operation.

You are seated between Oscar Piastri and one of the data analysts who is obsessed with tire degradation. Someone raises a toast to the start of the season and you clink glasses even though you are still convinced someone will soon realise you are an imposter and revoke your badge.

You were not supposed to be here, not really. Not at a literal F1 team dinner. You were a final-year engineering student at MIT and your school had this partners program where the lucky nerd who topped the year in each discipline gets to do their final semester with a real-world placement. Most get stuck designing powertrains for scooters but somehow, you got McLaren. The email even said that Zak Brown himself, a fellow American, helped launch the programme years ago. You remember rereading the name like: wait, that Zak Brown?

When you called Victor after getting the internship, he hallucinated for ten whole seconds and then said something that sounded like:

“You made it to F1 before me. I hate you. I’m so proud. I still hate you.”

Despite growing up in the U.S., summers at your grandparents’ in France meant everything to you: the tiny village in Essonne just an hour from Paris, your grandma’s terrifying Peugeot and Victor Martins. You met him when you were kids, racing bikes down gravel alleys. He got into karting first, obviously. Then one day you tried it too, just for fun and… you were awful. But something still clicked in your brain, not on how to drive the damn thing but how it worked. This spark steered you early on, toward engineering and eventually one of the best schools in the world.

You smile at the memory while someone refills your glass.

Thursday evening

You are in the hotel gym which is small but well equipped. You usually prefer running outside, especially early in the morning when the city is quiet but today the heat is too brutal. The air conditioning of the gym is a relief. Cool and steady, it matches the rhythm of your breath as you run on the treadmill.

You like the treadmill for your interval sessions, the fact you can precisely control the speed. Your feet hit the belt in a steady pattern, sweat building on your skin. You are focused and in the zone when the door swings open.

Isack walks in with his trainer, chatting. Your heart skips a beat, not for him obviously, but out of surprise, and you pretend you didn’t notice him.

But of course, you notice. He is wearing a fitted black t-shirt and training shorts and as he moves through warmups, his sleeves ride up his biceps. Then he starts on the weights. You see him in the mirror, the way his arms flex naturally with each movement, controlled and easy. He is focused, jaw clenched and hair damp at the edges. Shit.

You catch yourself staring a little too long and suddenly your foot slips. A loud noise echoes as your shoe hits too hard and you try to regain your balance.

Isack’s eyes snap to you.

Your cheeks are heating and you feel mortified. He smirks, part amusement, part something you can’t quite place.

You return your eyes to the screen in front of you, pushing the speed up in some desperate attempt to outrun your embarrassment. The weight of his gaze lingers, itching the back of your neck. You focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Later

You are down at the hotel lobby vending machine at 1am because jet lag is eating you alive and there is nothing in your room but cool air and silence. You punch the button for crisps and the machine does nothing. Of course.

You are about to kick it when you hear a voice behind you.

“Maybe try saying please.”

You turn. Isack Hadjar, in sweatpants and a hoodie, with messy hair.

“Maybe try minding your business,” you mutter, not even looking at him.

He leans on the machine. You can feel him there like static electricity, right under your skin. He finally breaks the silence.

“You’re still mad about New Year’s?”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“No, I don’t care. Why would I be mad? I don’t even know you.”

“Fair enough” he smiles, then adds: “I wasn’t trying to be a dick to your friend, you know that, right?”

“Fine,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “Noted.”

You nod. He nods too. Not defensive, not smug, just… honest. There’s a beat. One too long. He looks exactly like the pictures you found online when you googled his name like a total idiot after that New Year’s argument. Same eyes. Same muscular silhouette. Same effortless charm that pisses you off just a little.

Except now he’s right in front of you. Real and warm and too close.

The crisps fall with a mechanical noise and break the spell. You snatch the bag and step back without another word, heart doing something stupid in your throat. You feel him looking at you the whole way to the elevator.

Race Day

You are in the McLaren garage, yawning. The first Grand Prix of the season is about to start but you are still half asleep, from jet lag and a few nights of tossing and turning in your bed. Friday practice and Saturday qualifying had gone well for the McLaren boys, which made you genuinely excited. Everyone knows it, this season, McLaren is onto something.

The crew slowly clears from the grid and the cars start their formation lap. You are looking at a detail on a spare piece of the car with one of the mechanics when a wave of noise breaks behind you. You turn toward the TV screen just in time to see the replay: Isack’s car is in the wall. Your stomach drops. How is that even possible?

“Shit, that’s embarrassing,” says an engineer in the background.

You follow his exit on the screens, and even though he does not take off his helmet, you can see he is devastated. On his way back to the garage, Anthony Hamilton stops him to give him some comfort. You lean back, fingers brushing your face. He must feel awful. You should feel something else, some sort of vengeful smugness, but you don’t. There is no satisfaction at all, just some uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

A few hours after the Grand Prix and celebrations at McLaren’s, you are walking in the paddock hallway. You don’t mean to run into him. Not really. You’re just cutting through the back hallway to bring data logs to your trackside lead when he is suddenly there, half leaning on a wall and phone in his hands.

Isack’s suit is rolled down to his waist. He looks pissed. He sees you before you can turn around. Too late. You force yourself toward him.

“How are you?” you ask.

He shrugs. You open your mouth but he cuts you before you can speak, looking exhausted.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for banter, honestly.”

“I don’t want to banter” you protest. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About the crash.”

He pushes himself off the wall like your words physically annoy him. He looks at you, trying to decide if you’re lying. You hold his gaze but he looks away first.

“C’est vraiment la honte putain. Je me suis affiché comme un con sur mon premier Grand Prix en F1,” he mutters as he kicks a rock with his shoe. (This is so fucking embarrassing. I made a fool of myself at my first F1 Grand Prix)

You look at him, surprised by the sudden confession.

“It was just a stupid mistake, you have plenty of time to prove everyone wrong. Actually, it’s a pretty cool redemption arc story, you know.”

Then you add, because you are apparently incapable of stopping and need to fill this unbearable silence:

“I’ve watched footage of your F2 races. You have talent.”

His head tilts and he shows his usual smirk.

“You’ve stalked me?”

You feel your entire face becoming red, realising your mistake.

“No, I mean, I watched Victor's. You just happened to be in them.”

“You said you looked at my races, though.”

“God, fuck off.”

He laughs and it settles somewhere low in your stomach. Someone calls his name from down the paddock so he gathers his gear and starts walking back.

You call out, trying to save face:

“I still think you’re an idiot! By the way.”

He glances over his shoulder, a wide smug grin on his face. You try to ignore the warm and irritatingly happy feeling that blooms through you.

China GP, March 2025

Sunday mornings in the paddock seem to always be a little chaotic but today it’s the good kind. You’re sitting on an overturned crate near the Red Bull hospitality area, sipping something over-caffeinated. Around you, a loose group of rookies and Lily, Alex Albon’s girlfriend, who somehow manages being surrounded by chaos and still look elegant.

Someone, probably Ollie, just sparked a heated debate about who would survive longest on a desert island.

“You’d be dead in two days,” Kimi says, pointing at him. “You got lost inside a shopping mall.”

“I was eleven!” Ollie squeaks.

Laughter breaks out. Liam is mid rant about survival tactics and the object he would bring with him “I’d hunt some fishes, with like, sticks. Or a sharp spoon”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Isack smirk. You don’t look at him, you’re careful not to.

“Since you guys are asking, I would bring Liam and eat him for protein,” says Ollie out of the blue.

Liam smiles. “Kinky.”

You choke on your drink and Lily mutters “Oh my God”.

“What about you?” she turns to you. “How long are you lasting out there?”

You shrug. “I know how to boil water, I can tie knots and I don’t complain. Also I have watched all seasons of Survivor religiously.”

Lily whistles. “Damn. Attagirl.”

You try not to glance at Isack but you fail. He feels you staring and tilts his head toward you but you turn back to Lily a little too quickly, gulping your drink.

Then, salvation: Alex Albon appears from around the corner. He heads straight for Lily.

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Come on, I’m saving you from this testosterone soup.”

Lily stands and kisses him on the cheek. “Please get me out.”

You hop off the crate too to follow them. Lily loops her arm through yours and you glance back, just briefly. Isack’s eyes are still on you, unreadable.

Sunday evening

Someone has the bright idea of heading up to the hotel rooftop. It’s one of those in-between evenings where the post-race buzz still lingers but there’s no party, just too much dopamine and nowhere to put it. Someone brings snacks, someone else pulls out their JBL and the music mixes with the honks of Shanghai in the distance.

The sky is dark but it’s a nice night. String lights are throwing a golden halo over everyone’s head. You pull a hoodie over your sundress and sit cross-legged on the ground, sipping a Coke zero.

Ollie points a finger at Kimi.

“Truth or dare.”

A wave of protests erupts until Ollie threatens to switch the music to his Bangers only playlist.

Kimi is challenged to serenade a picture of Toto Wolff with a Backstreet Boys song. He does, terribly, and Ollie discreetly films the moment for future blackmail. Liam makes Lily answer whether Alex has ever cried during sex. He hasn’t, but he has cried watching The Notebook, apparently. You don’t know who dared Arthur Leclerc to try pushups on the roof ledge, but you stopped watching after the second one.

Eventually, it lands on you.

“Truth or dare?” Isack asks through the laughter.

You hesitate. He is leaning back on his hands, casual, but he looks at you like he knows you won’t pick truth. And maybe it’s pride or the rush of your second Grand Prix, but you say:

“Dare.”

Isack sits up straighter. “Walk the ledge.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

He points to the low concrete ledge that lines the edge of the building, maybe half a meter wide.

“That’s so dumb,” you say. “What if I die?”

“I said walk, not fall. Are you scared?” he says and you catch the smile he is trying to hide. “Come on, I dare you.”

“Fine,” you concede, already standing. “Just to prove a point.”

Alex says your name like a warning but you wave him off. You climb onto the ledge, carefully, the night breeze making your sundress float up. Your feet balance quickly, muscle memory from years of martial arts and being stubborn. Halfway across, the wind picks up. You flinch. Your arms extend for balance but you wobble a bit.

And then he’s there. Quiet and sudden, next to the edge, reaching his hand out instinctively.

You don’t think. You grab it.

The second your palm touches his, a jolt goes through your fingers, sharp and electric. Like the spark of static from an old sweater. You let go immediately. He flinches too.

“What the hell was that?” you mutter.

“Static,” he says, staring at his hand like it betrayed him. But his voice is a little off.

You climb down fast, cheeks flushed. Lily grins at you like she knows exactly what just happened.

Somewhere in the English countryside, April 2025

You don’t really know whose house this is, only that Ollie found the party and wherever Ollie goes, Isack follows. Victor is here too, sipping a beer next to you. You are sitting in a pair of lounging chairs in the back garden with a small group. You’ve had maybe three beers. Four? You’ve stopped counting. Enough to feel loose and light, stretched out with your legs over Victor’s.

It’s been a strange few weeks. Japan feels like a blur and Bahrain is coming soon, but right now you’re in this bubble back in Europe with everyone. You miss Liam. He hasn’t been around much since the news, the fact that he got dropped hit him hard. You hope the memes you send relentlessly and the appreciation messages you text him are cheering him up a little.

But everything else is going surprisingly well. You are three Grands Prix in, and you’re not just surviving, you’re actually doing something. You have caught a few people off guard with how quickly you’ve picked things up. Your work is helping engineers tweak things, even small things. You’re useful. You’re wanted. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling for no reason at all, like you have finally found your place.

You suddenly tune back into the conversation the boys are having. Someone brought up MMA and some dramatic fight from last week, and now all the hormonal late teenagers around you are losing their minds.

“Wasn’t Adesanya the first one to come in with that insane striking record?” Ollie asks around.

You take a sip of your beer before responding.

“Nope. Germaine de Randamie was undefeated in 46 kickboxing fights before she got into MMA. Try again, sunshine.”

The group turns to stare at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Wait, you follow MMA?” Ollie says, clearly stunned.

Victor bursts out laughing.

“Of course she does. She did taekwondo for twelve years and boxing for five.”

Everyone laughs, quite impressed, before the conversation shifts. Amid the chatter and clinking bottles, Isack, who has barely looked at you all evening, tilts his beer slightly in your direction.

“You’ve been hiding this side of you.”

You reach for your beer, barely holding back a smug grin.

“You never asked.”

“Maybe we’ve been training in the same gym, do you know La frappe in Paris?”

“Sorry, I only train in tough cookie places,” you smile. Isack lets out a laugh.

“Putain,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You can be so cocky.”

You shrug, innocent.

“Just telling the truth.”

“What? You think you could take me?”

“I know I could take you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He lifts a brow, his mouth twitching.

“You sure? You’re all talk.”

You lean back in your seat. You did not notice, but the garden has gone quieter as most people have drifted back inside because of the cold. It’s just you, Isack and Victor now. The air feels different somehow. You're both a little too competitive, a little too tipsy and neither of you knows when to back down.

Victor gets up and glances between you and Isack.

“I’m going for a wee, I do not want to see what this turns into,” he says, pointing between you two. “And I swear to God, if I come back and find you rolling in the bushes, I’m calling your mums.” You flip him off as he leaves.

Silence. Then, Isack stands and offers you a hand.

“Come on, let’s settle this.”

You give him a look.

“You’re not serious.”

“I dare you.”

Before either of you can think any better, you are both on your feet, half-fighting, half-laughing. He’s quick, but you’re quicker, dodging a grab and slipping around him. You aim for his ribs, gentle but cocky and he screams with exaggerated offense.

At some point, you throw a lazy leg kick that he somehow catches. You both lose your balance and roll into the grass, breathless. You manage to pin him for half a second before he flips you with way too much ease. He ends up above you, hands wrapped around your wrists, pressed into the grass. You stop giggling. His curls are a mess and he's panting a little.

His eyes flick down to your mouth and you suddenly realise how close your faces are. Now all you can think about is how your lips are almost brushing his. How they looked like when he laughed two seconds ago. How they might feel.

You can hear your own heart in your ears. Your skin is burning, in the places where he touches you, where he doesn’t. What the hell am I thinking? You’re drunk. That’s all it is. Just the beers and the grass and the way he’s looking at you like you’re some kind of mystery he wants to solve with his mouth.

He breathes out, slowly and his lips almost touch yours when…

“OLLIE BROKE A TABLE!!” someone screams from inside.

You both get up within a second like you have been electrocuted, barely looking at each other.

“I.. I’m going to see what that was,” you mumble, already moving.

You don’t wait for him to respond and just run.

Essonne, France, April 2025

The sun is bright over your heads. You squint as you wipe sweat off your forehead with the bottom of your shirt. Victor misses his shot and groans.

“Sucker” you tease, snatching the ball.

“I’m not a sucker, I’m distracted,” he says, looking at you. “You’ve been in a mood all day. Spill the tea.”

You roll your eyes and dribble past him, taking a shot that bounces off the basketball rim. He takes the ball, still looking at you like he is not going to let this go.

“What’s going on with you and Isack?”

You freeze for a second too long.

“Nothing.”

“Oh come on. You were flirting with your eyes at that party like it was a full-time job.”

You try to dodge him, literally and figuratively but he runs into you lightly, grinning.

“I’m serious! You’ve been weird ever since. What happened?”

You press your lips together. Bounce the ball twice.

“Nothing happened, okay?”

Victor raises an eyebrow, smirking. You cave.

“Fine. We almost kissed.”

He blinks and his jaw drops.

“WHAT?”

“We were messing around on the grass. It got stupid. We were drunk. And then someone yelled about Ollie breaking something and I panicked and left. And I haven’t talked to him since.”

Victor makes a noise between disbelief and amusement.

“You ghosted him?”

“I didn’t ghost him.”

He just stares.

“I just… avoided him. For the rest of the party and at the Bahrain GP.”

He drops the ball and throws his hands up dramatically.

“You’re unbelievable!”

You throw your hands up as well.

“Hey, it’s not like it’s just my fault. He also hasn’t reached out.”

“But why don’t you reach out? You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

He squints at you again.

“You look at him like you want to fuck him and kill him at the same time.”

“Shut up!” you throw the basketball at his chest. He dodges, laughing.

“You do! You’ve got the murder eyes and the horny eyes!”

You chase him across the court, swearing in French under the spring sun.

Paris, April 2025 (back to the beginning)

You don’t really want to be here but Marla begged and honestly, there wasn’t much to do tonight anyway. You are only in Paris for the night, crashing at her place since your early train to visit your family and Victor leaves from the Austerlitz station.

The party you found yourselves in is hosted by a Red Bull crew member, a celebration after the triple header. The apartment is full of people. A mix of F1 people, friends of friends and party crashers. There is French rap humming in the background and wine glasses everywhere.

You are sitting on the kitchen counter in a short skirt and large sun-faded Carhartt t-shirt, both stolen from Marla’s wardrobe an hour ago. Your hair is loose and your legs swing lazily as you sip a very bad rosé.

Marla stands beside you, arms crossed, the neck of a beer bottle tucked between two fingers like a cigarette.

“I get she is lonely after the divorce, but she could literally find anyone else. I always have to be the one going, ‘Mom, that man brought a coupon to your birthday…’”

Your attention slips and your eyes drift toward the living room. Paris + Red Bull party equals Isack Hadjar, prince of the evening. He has been laughing for half an hour now with two guys you vaguely recognise from the Racing Bulls garage and a girl with a backless dress and perfectly blown out hair. You haven’t seen him since England apart from a glance at the media pen at the Saudi GP, but now he’s here, on home turf, like the party belongs to him. Of course he’s magnetic. Did a magnificent season debut. Everyone knows his name here. You wish you didn’t.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Marla complains.

“I am!”

Marla tilts her head.

“You’ve looked at him like six times in two minutes.”

“No I didn’t,” you say too quickly.

The girl next to Isack says something and touches his arm. He doesn’t pull away. You grit your teeth and gulp your glass of wine in one go before reaching to pour another one. Marla watches, unimpressed.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere, “please tell me more about your new step dad.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “He wears leather bracelets. Plural. And he plays the didgeridoo.”

Later in the evening, you are standing by a dying potted plant, pretending to check something on the wall. Your glass is still half full but your head is light from the wine.

You turn to head back to the kitchen and slam right into someone. Your wine nearly spills down your front. A hand reaches, steadying your arm.

“Careful,” he mutters.

You look up. Isack.

“Maybe look where you’re going,” he says, pulling his hand back like he regrets touching you.

“Are you mad at me?” you say abruptly, the wine talking through you.

His brow lifts, caught off-guard.

“What?”

“You’ve stayed a mile away from me all night, hovering around…” you glance at the girl with the backless dress across the room “... whoever,” you mumble.

He exhales.

“I’m being weird? You’re the one who’s been ignoring me for weeks. You barely hang out with the guys anymore. And you look right through me like I don’t exist.”

“I haven’t been…”

“Yes, you have,” he cuts in. “Just admit it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

He lets out a dry laugh.

“It is to me. You got scared,” he says like he’s daring you to deny it.

You cannot hold his gaze as you look away without replying.

“Then say it,” Isack says, calmer now. “Say there’s nothing between us. Say it and I’ll walk out that door. You’ll never have to deal with me again.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because you don’t know how to lie right now. The silence stretches and his expression doesn’t change.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he turns and walks away.

You stay frozen for a second. Maybe two or three. And then the air rushes back into your lungs. Heart pounding, you push through the crowd. You shove your wine glass into Marla’s startled hands on the way.

He is already halfway down the corridor when you catch him just as he slips into the pantry to get his hoodie, all the guest’s jackets being oddly packed next to the food shelves.

You follow him inside and the door clicks shut behind you.

He turns around, clearly irritated.

“What now?”

You take a shaky breath, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I don’t know what I feel, okay? And it’s so unfair of you to ask that because I cannot think when you’re around, and… and I feel like an idiot. Like I’m drowning in something I don’t understand, and you’re just standing there like it’s nothing.”

His expression softens.

“You didn’t say anything either, after England,” you say through your breath.

“Because you acted like it was a mistake,” he replies while running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I got scared,” you whisper.

He meets your gaze.

“So did I.”

You are way too aware of every detail right now, the cramped room, his eyes, the way his presence makes your chest tighten while he is in front of you, waiting for you to say something, anything.

Your breath feels so loud it almost drowns out the music pulsing in the background. You recognise Niagara Falls by The Weeknd. The bass notes are shaking your bones but not as much as his eyes do.

Isack is looking at you, not moving an inch. His lips are slightly parted and all you want is to crash into them, hard, not sweet.

You stand two meters apart, fists clenched, while he is leaning against a cluttered table like you’re not melting in front of him.

“I dare you,” he smiles.

Something twists inside you and your veins ache. You take a step. Then another.

You’re in front of him now. So close you can smell his cologne and feel his breath on your lips. His hand slides to your jaw, gentle but sure and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It’s worse. Rougher, hotter, messier. Your teeth bump. Your hands are in his hair. His fingers dig into your back like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

You grip the front of his shirt as Isack exhales into your mouth. There’s too much noise in your head and not enough space between you. He flips you around, lifts you onto the table and you pull him closer between your legs.

One of his hands slides up under your skirt and his fingers leave burning marks on your skin. He kisses you like he wants you to feel every inch of it, like he’s daring you to pull away. His lips trace the shape of your jawline before returning to your mouth. You let out a moan.

It’s not soft, it’s not perfect. But it’s just right.

#the TENSIONNN omg #giggling and twirling my hair #isack hadjar

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jadore-f1 · 21 days ago

Text

my first isack fic (first fic in general) is already at 1k words and he hasn’t even been introduced yet 😭😭😭 mind you i still don’t know where im going with this.

#professional yapper over here apparently #isack hadjar #f1 x reader #ih6 #send help

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jadore-f1 · 22 days ago

Text

IH6: debí tirar más fotos¹

EVE’S 2K CELEBRATION 🎤: your relationship with isack through the lens of your camera …… ft. dtmf by bad bunny & si no vas a volver by aitana

pairing: isack hadjar x photographer!reader

contents: exes to lovers, second chance romance, angst with a happy ending (not this part), swearing, there’s four people in a two-person relationship (ft. gabriel bortoleto and pepe martí), hate comments, 2024 f2 championship battle, gabriel haunts the narrative, requested by @tsunodaradio

word count: 875 + smau

a/n: i think this might be my longest smau ever? part 2 will be coming next weekend <3

NOVEMBER, 2023 : YAS MARINA.

liked by isackhadjar, redbullfrance and 231 others

yn.png aaand that’s a wrap on the f2 2023 season! 🎬 always an honor to get a lil sneak peek into the redbull garage ;)

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, hitechgp

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friend1 gorgeous gorgeous!! is that a new camera 👀 quality looks much better

yn.png ……..maybeee

yn.png you wanna guess who gave it to me for my birthday…..

isackhadjar :)

pepemartiofficial why do your pictures look so blurry

yn.png i was going for a something okay god forbid people take risks 🙄

isackhadjar Where is the one of us together :(

yn.png it’s my wallpaper ❣️

pepemartiofficial you two sicken me.

MARCH, 2024 : MELBOURNE.

liked by camposracing, pepemartiofficial and 1,379 others

yn.png watched my boyfriend get waterboarded today BUT ON A PODIUM BABY

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, camposracing

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isackhadjar I think i still have champagne up my nose ♥️ liked by author

isackhadjar You’re really making that new lens work 🥷🏽

yn.png i wanna kiss your face

redbulljuniorteam From a DNF to P1? Talk about a redemption arc 👏

pepemartiofficial why is this sepia

yn.png why is being my hater your part time job

pepemartiofficial because spraying champagne up your boyfriend’s nose doesn’t pay the bills 😔 racing is expensive

yn.png isackhadjar get your side piece out of my comment section

isackhadjar replied to your close friends story:

isackhadjar: WHY did you let me leave the hotel with shortsleeves

yourusername: ??? cause you look beautiful in them and you’re always running hot

isackhadjar: I didn’t even realize you bit my arm at the gym until my trainer pointed it out

isackhadjar: mon coeur I was warming up with a BITE MARK on my bicep FOR EVERYONE TO SEE

isackhadjar: I couldn’t focus on anything Warren was saying after that

yourusername: not my fault your arms are so bitable

isackhadjar: Maybe next time I should be the one biting you for a change

yourusername: i’d be into that

isackhadjar: What

yourusername: what

APRIL, 2024 : IMOLA.

liked by isackhadjar, pepemartiofficial and 81 others

yourusername a well-rounded weekend with my favorite boy and his side-chick. next time i will be insisting we get to do the tourist route, though >:(

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isackhadjar ♥️

friend1 a post that isn’t on your alt account??? someone call the president 😨

friend2 ……do i have to remind you that your family follows you on this acc and will read that caption

pepemartiofficial JAJAJAJA

friend3 why did your mum just text me asking if you’re in a throuple

liked by redbulljuniorteam, isackhadjar and 6,871

yn.png 9 points leading the championship i know that’s right 🏆

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, camposracing

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user1 wait why do these look better than the pictures posted by red bull 😭

user2 championship battle in f1 is so boring rn i’ve actually turned to watching f2

user3 is this an isack fanpage

camposracing VAMOS! 💪

user4 okay gunning for that social media job at redbull i see you 👀

user5 idk if this is an unpopular opinion but there’s no way isack wins unless he locks in. too many mistakes

pepemartiofficial these look……. marginally better

yn.png i thought i blocked you

pepemartiofficial you’re just jealous he was looking at me in that first picture 😍

pepemarti_unofficial ??? okay RUDE unblock me

user6 why is pepe commenting on a post by isack’s girlfriend but not isack……? 🤨

JULY, 2024 : SILVERSTONE.

you [ 3:18 PM ] : oh my god!!!!! oh my god ???

you [ 3:18 PM ] : i just saw the quali you were amazing isack 🤍 first pole position!!!!

you [ 3:19 PM ] : wish i could be there to celebrate with you <3

Sent 3:18 PM

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:47 PM ] : Merci chérie 😊

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:48 PM ] : I missed you too. But it gave me the chance to focus all my energy on the race

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:50 PM ] : Bortoleto is still not making any mistakes though. Kinda wish his car would also stall every once in a while 🙃

you [ 9:51 PM ] : bortoleto doesn’t have anything on you <3 you’re still leading the championship

you [ 9:51 PM ] : also wait pause. did you just call me distracting?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:52 PM ] : Absolument.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:52 PM ] : How am I supposed stand next to you at the garage and pretend like I don’t wanna kiss you every time you look at me

you [ 9:53 PM ] : JAIL JAIL JAIL you can’t SAY THAT when we’re like two timezones away

you [ 9:53 PM ] : now i wanna kiss you :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 10:03 PM ] : Sorry, the team is calling me. Still have to get a few things sorted out before the race.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 10:04 PM ] : Can I call you tomorrow?

you [ 10:04 PM ] : yeah!!! sleep well x

you [ 9:06 AM ] : good morning!! i forgot to mention it last night but we haven’t talked about our plans for the upcoming break?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 11:29 AM ] : I still have to work a few things with the team now that we’re leading the championship.

you [ 11:31 AM ] : ahh okay! lmk when you have it figured out so we can start looking at plane tickets x

JULY — AUGUST 2024 : SUMMER BREAK.

liked by pepemartiofficial, isackhadjar and 2,301 others

y/n.png girls trip🍷(on film)

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friend1 wait these look so cute

friend2 voulez-vous coucher avec moi 💘

y/n.png i told you that doesn’t mean what you think 😭

user1 cute! but i thought this was an f2 page…….

user2 are we finally getting a break from f2 pics?

pepemartiofficial “on film” and its just a filter you downloaded

y/n.png your parents don’t love you

pepemartiofficial WOWWWW

user3 where’s isack? 😕

you [ 4:56 PM ] : hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. how’s everything at the factory?

you [ 5:31 PM ] : are we okay?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 5:39 PM ] : Yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?

Read 5:39 PM

SEPTEMBER, 2024 : MONZA.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 8:58 PM ] : Did you watch the race?

you [ 8:59 PM ] : yeah. wish i could’ve been there :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:00 PM ] : What for? It was a disaster.

you [ 9:00 PM ] : i know it’s not what you want to hear but it’s one race. there will be others to make up for it.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:00 PM ] : Except maybe there won’t be. Bortoleto is first now.

you [ 9:01 PM ] : i saw

you [ 9:01 PM ] : do you wanna facetime?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:11 PM ] : I need a break.

you [ 9:12 PM ] : that’s okay, we can talk tomorrow if you want

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:12 PM ] : No I mean I need a break

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:12 PM ] : From us

Seen 9:12 PM

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:15 PM ] : Mon coeur I can see you read it

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i know.

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i’m giving you the chance to take it back and course correct

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:16 PM ] : That’s not how this works

you [ 9:16 PM ] : exactly. that’s not how this works. why would you think it’d be okay to break up with me over text??

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i mean this so genuinely but are you concussed

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:17 PM ] : I just need to have all my attention on the championship right now. I’m not in the right headspace to be in a relationship

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:17 PM ] : My trainer already told me I can’t afford any distraction if I want to make it to F1

you [ 9:17 PM ] : distraction?

you [ 9:18 PM ] : you’ve already called me that before

you [ 9:19 PM ] : isack how long have you been planning on breaking up with me?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:19 PM ] : It’s not a break up, it would just be a break.

you [ 9:20 PM ] : until when? until you’re number one again? until the end of the season?

you [ 9:20 PM ] : what happens after that?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:20 PM ] : I’m sorry

you [ 9:20 PM ] : clearly not if you’re breaking up with me like this. you could’ve at least had the decency to do it to my face

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:21 PM ] : Chérie it’s not a break up

you [ 9:22 PM ] : no, it is now. fuck you.

you have blocked this number

OCTOBER, 2024 : BAKU.

user1 replied to your story:

user1: no f2 pics this week? :(

user2 replied to your story:

user2: why didn’t you post any isack pictures? is it because he didn’t get any points 🫤

user3 replied to your story:

user3: lmao girl since when are you a pepe marti fan ☠️

pepemartiofficial replied to your story:

pepemartiofficial: hi. do you want me dead

pepemartiofficial: ????? like are you being held at knife point please don’t do this

yourusername: don’t do what

pepemartiofficial: don’t put me in the middle of you two???? i already have to deal with isack as is

pepemartiofficial: ohhh my god he’s gonna put me in the wall when he sees this delete it delete it delete it

yourusername: he won’t see it. i blocked him

pepemartiofficial: well that explains the sulking

yourusername: he’s the one that didn’t want distractions. i just made it easier for him

pepemartiofficial: does this mean you won’t be coming around for the last races?

Read 8:01 PM

DECEMBER, 2024 : YAS MARINA.

You’ve never been good at healing quickly. At outgrowing things, at leaving them in the past. Not that any of your friends could blame you—a three year relationship is not something you can just forget overnight. You did the right thing, the first step towards healing: blocking him in every platform you could think of. Instagram, Twitter, Whatsapp, TikTok—even Facebook. It was easy, quick, as long as you didn’t allow yourself to think twice about it.

The pictures weren’t as easy. You couldn’t find it in yourself to erase them. They’re three years worth of your life—three years worth of you quietly and steadily learning about framing, about lighting, about when to snap a picture and when to wait. Eventually, you convinced yourself it would be unfair to you if you deleted them. They’re your professional portfolio—even that one photo Isack took of the two of you when you fell asleep on his shoulder. Or the one you took with your camera in front of his bathroom mirror—where Isack stands behind you, head tucked against your neck, murmuring something you’ve long since forgotten.

It still makes your throat tighten, the thought of him. You always knew motorsport was his first love, that it was his goal. It had been long before you met him, when he was still round-cheeked, had a high-pitched voice and a heavy accent. Driving had existed in his life years before you. But it stung, knowing that you would always fall second to it. That the chance at a title was worth more than your love.

You feel pin pricks at the back of your eyes, making you blink them away. You’ve always been too good at pouring salt on the wound.

Today, though—today you made a promise to yourself. It’s been months. You’ve already broken your heart enough times with every item of his that seems to spawn in your apartment.

You place them all inside the cardboard box your microwave came in, folding them with far too much care. Shirts. Hoodies. A Redbull windbreaker with his name printed at the back. An MC Alger jersey he forgot when he came over to watch a game—the same one he saw you wearing a night he stayed over, whispering into your ear how it suited you much more than it did him. You stuff them all into the box and stare at it.

Broken pieces of your heart threaten to climb up your throat. Your eyes sting again.

You never return it to him. He never asks for any of it back, either.

By the time you’re done, you find out. Trending on Twitter, or posted by the Formula 2 Instagram account. The results of his last race of the season—the one that ends his championship run before the first lap. You scroll down the comments, searching between the congratulations for Gabriel Bortoleto on his title win. Technical issue. Isack’s car never started, leaving him at the starting line while Bortoleto’s papaya car took off along with his chances for a title.

You sit in your bedroom, empty, alone. He must be destroyed. And for all your anger, all your resentment, your frustration and your tears, he was your friend, before he ever was your boyfriend. You don’t want him to suffer, you never have.

You consider texting him, telling him you’re sorry. Telling him he deserved better.

You don’t.

Instead, you close the box with tape, shove it into the back of your closet. Onto better things.

FEBRUARY, 2025 : BAHRAIN

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y/n.png to new beginnings 📸

👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto

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a/n: do yourself a favor and listen to the songs that inspired this fic but ESPECIALLY si no vas a volver by aitana cause what a banger that is. let me know if you enjoyed! this took so long and it’s only part 1

also! huge HUGE shoutout to birdy @cinnamorussell for letting me borrow their gorgeous texting layout 💘 couldn’t have stayed under the image limit without you <3

#oh this eatssss #i hope he GROVELS in pt2 #isack hadjar #smau

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