kakorrhaphiphobia - Tumblr blog

kakorrhaphiphobia · 2 days ago

Text

Grimmauld: The House That Buried Its Children & The Ones Who Stay

brother!sirius black x fem!black!reader (centered) , james potter x fem!reader

synopsis: within the ancient and noble House of Black, where shadows cling like whispered memories, the story of its heirs unfolds — bound by blood, silence, and a past that never lets go. this is the quiet tragedy of a family built on legacy and expectation, the tale of three siblings — Sirius, Regulus, and you — whose lives were shaped by the name Black and forever haunted by the weight it bore.

cw: grief, trauma, loss of family, sibling conflict, secret romance, emotional and psychological distress, neglect, abuse, war, death, sacrifice, PTSD, intense emotional themes, bittersweet romance, legacy burdens, depression, death, very minor brief hints of suicide, forced marriages, and mourning. (timelines aren't canon compliant)

w/c: 13k (what can i say, the Black trauma is very detailed and long)

a/n: this is probably the best thing i’ve written — maybe the best i ever will — and i won’t apologize for the angst <3

masterlist

1978

It is raining the night Sirius leaves.

Not the kind of rain that arrives with spectacle and fury. Not the dramatic sort that rips through the clouds like a wound or makes the house tremble with thunder’s weight.

But a quieter sorrow. A gentle and ceaseless drizzle that feels older than memory, as if it began long before the sky turned grey and will linger long after the world forgets what it means to be dry, to be warm, to be whole.

Grimmauld Place breathes in that rain like it knows what’s coming, like it has always known, and the halls are colder than they’ve ever been. Not because the hearth has gone dark or the embers have died, but because something unseen is curling into ash in the walls. Something made of shared secrets and childhood echoes and the paper-thin thread of love that once bound a family, now fraying with every breath, every step, every silence.

There is no shouting now. Not anymore. Not since the voices collapsed into exhaustion, into finality.

And even though it might have been an hour ago or maybe two, or maybe longer than that, the house still hums with it, still remembers the shape of the words, the violence of the vowels, your mother’s voice cutting through the air like something sacred and profane all at once—a blade you’ve heard so many times your bones flinch on instinct, and your ears have begun to confuse cruelty with comfort, with home, with love.

You sit on the stairs, knees drawn up and head pressed to the banister, half-swallowed by shadows like the house is trying to hide you or keep you from breaking, and you listen even though it hurts. Listen because it’s the only way you know how to say goodbye without saying it, without naming it.

And down the corridor, your mother’s voice rises again, shrill and bitter and full of rot. But Sirius does not raise his voice in return. Not tonight. Not this time. And that silence is worse than any screaming. That silence is a goodbye carved in stone. It is a decision made in a place too deep for you to reach.

You do not know where Regulus is. Only that he is not here. Not in this moment that has changed everything. And maybe that’s his gift—to disappear when it matters most, to tuck himself into corners and shadows and silences so precisely that not even grief can find him.

Maybe he is in the library with the door shut and the curtains drawn, pretending that thunder doesn’t exist and neither does rain. Maybe he is curled so tightly into himself that to unfold him would be to shatter him completely.

But you are not Regulus. You never were. And silence does not fit in your mouth the way it fits in his—soft and seamless and sharp. You are not good at pretending you don’t feel the world falling apart around you. You are not good at swallowing the scream that’s lodged in your throat or the ache that is blooming beneath your ribs like something alive and vengeful and unspoken.

You are not good at pretending you don’t care.

And tonight, as the rain keeps falling and the house holds its breath and Sirius walks away without looking back, you feel something in you break in the exact shape of him.

You rise when you hear the trunk click shut. You move before you think, your bare feet slipping across the floor as if your body already knows it has to chase him before your mind catches up.

You don’t remember crossing the corridor, only the way your breath falters when you see him at the door—one hand on the handle, the other curled tight around the strap of his bag.

His hair is damp with sweat or maybe rain, eyes bright with something that is not joy, not quite sorrow either, more like finality, like he’s standing on the edge of something and has already decided to jump.

“Sirius,” you breathe, and the name comes out small and frightened, like it used to when you were six and couldn’t fall asleep without his hand wrapped around yours.

He turns, and for a moment you almost forget how to speak.

“Don’t,” you say, and your voice cracks halfway through. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” he says, gentle but firm, like he’s already rehearsed it, like he’s already said goodbye to you in his head.

“No you don’t,” you say, stepping closer, arms trembling now. “You don’t have to leave me, Sirius, please. You can stay. We can fix it, I’ll talk to her, I’ll try harder, I swear I’ll—”

“You can’t fix this,” he interrupts, and his voice is rough around the edges, like it’s been scraping against his own ribs. “You shouldn’t even be trying. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands are shaking now, reaching out without permission, fingers grasping for something to hold on to, something steady in a world that’s coming undone.

“But you’re my brother,” you whisper, and your voice breaks entirely, like it’s never learned how to carry this kind of goodbye. “You’re my favourite person in the world. You always were.”

“I know,” he says, and this time his voice shakes too. He drops his bag. Takes a step toward you. “You were mine too. You never had to earn that.”

You want to laugh, or fall to your knees. “So don’t go.”

“I have to,” he murmurs, but softer now, like he’s hoping you won’t shatter if he says it gently enough. “I’ve stayed for as long as I could. But staying... it’s not living anymore.”

“But I need you,” you say, almost like a child, almost like a prayer. “You’re the one who made it bearable. You’re the reason I could stay. If you go—Sirius, if you go, I don’t know who I’ll be without you.”

He’s closer now, so close you can see the shine in his eyes and the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

Then he’s kneeling in front of you, as if to make the leaving softer. As if to make sure you remember his face from this angle too.

“You’ll still be you,” he says, and his hands come up to cradle your face, as if he could hold all the years you’ve shared between his palms.

His thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, slow and reverent. “You’ll still have the stars in you. You’ll still sing in the morning when you think no one’s listening. You’ll still make Regulus eat when he forgets. You’ll still be light, even here.”

Your lip trembles. “I don’t want to be light. I just want you.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it sounds like it hurts. “I want you too. But I can’t stay. Not when staying is killing me.”

You press your forehead to his, tears dripping between you, breath shared like it used to be when the world was smaller and kinder.

Sirius’s breath hitches. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, just like he used to when you were children afraid of thunder.

For a moment, you are six again, hiding under blankets while he told you stories about stars and carved tiny moons into the wood of the headboard. For a moment, there is no family name, no blood purity, no war waiting at the doorstep. Only the brother you loved first.

“Take care of Regulus,” he whispers, voice like wind through a dying tree. “He’s going to need you. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. Even if he pretends he doesn’t want you near.”

“He hates me,” you say, and it stings because part of you believes it. “We don’t talk anymore. We’re twins but we’re strangers.”

“Then love him anyway,” Sirius says, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Because this house is going to eat him alive. And you’re the only one left who can remind him what a soul is.”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “No. You can stay. Please. I’ll—I’ll talk to Mother. I’ll make her stop. You don’t have to leave me, Sirius. Not you. Not you too.”

He shakes his head, and for a moment something in his eyes breaks, softens, just slightly, but then it’s gone again and his mouth sets into that line you’ve come to dread—the one that means he’s already decided.

“She’s never going to stop,” he says, voice low and bitter. “She doesn’t know how. This house will never stop. And you—you don’t understand, you think this is just noise, but it’s not, it’s poison, and it’s been inside us since the day we were born.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts a hand to brush your tears away, gentle like always, like you’re still little and he’s still the one who could fix things just by being there. “I want you to stay,” you whisper. “You’re my brother. You’re the one person I—”

Your voice breaks, and you fold forward, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like if you hold tight enough, he won’t go.

“You’re the one person I feel safe with.”

Sirius exhales sharply, and for a second you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to change his mind. That he’ll sit down, put the bag away, crawl back into the twin bed down the hall and wait for morning. But instead he presses a kiss to the top of your head, slow and lingering.

“You were my home long before I knew what that meant,” he says quietly. “But I can’t live in a place that only wants to break me.”

“I don’t care about the house,” you cry. “I just care about you.”

“I know,” he says, and his hands are trembling now too. “That’s why I have to go. Before I forget who I am. Before I become what they want.”

You look at him and realize this is the last time he’ll ever be your brother here. The last time he’ll be Sirius Black of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. After this, he’ll belong to somewhere else. To someone else.

And still—still—you whisper, “Don’t go.”

He closes his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just reaches for the trunk, fingers curling around the handle like it’s an anchor, like if he doesn’t hold on he might shatter entirely. And then he turns, and he walks. Like he’s already gone.

You stumble after him, barefoot and unraveling, your voice rising into something feral, something half-child, half-grief.

“Sirius, please—don’t do this. Don’t go. You can’t leave me here. Not with them. Not alone.” The words come out wrong, cracked and too loud, but you don’t care.

You’d burn yourself down to keep him in this hallway if it meant he’d stay. You reach for him — just his sleeve, his hand, anything — but the world shifts.

You don’t know if it’s the mist curling under the door or your own shaking limbs, but your feet slide out from under you. The marble rushes up and meets you with no softness at all.

Your knees hit first, a dull, ugly sound echoing through the corridor. Then your palms, scraping raw against the cold. A flare of pain licks up your legs and into your chest, sharp and immediate — but not worse than the ache already blooming beneath your ribs.

Blood beads along your skin, tiny red betrayals of how fragile you are. You cry out before you can stop it, a startled, broken sound. Not for the fall, but for what’s walking away.

That’s when he turns. When he finally looks.

His eyes find you — crumpled on the floor, bloodied and shaking, your face wet with tears you can’t seem to stop. For the space of a single breath, he doesn’t move. And you see it then — the boy he used to be. The boy who held your hand through thunderstorms. The boy who carved moons into your bedframe because you were scared of the dark. The boy who always came back for you.

For a moment, just one, he looks like he might come back again. Like he might run to you, drop everything, fall to his knees and pull you into his arms and promise you the world won’t win. That he won’t let it. That he won’t let them.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t run back. He doesn’t kneel beside you and press his forehead to yours. He doesn’t reach for your hands or wipe the blood from your knees. He only stands there, soaked in silence, the storm rising behind him like the breath of something ancient and cruel. His mouth opens, just barely, and the words come soft and weightless, as if he already knows they won’t be enough.

“I’m sorry.”

Then the door yawns wide and swallows him whole.

Rain pours in, cold and relentless. It soaks the marble, the hem of your nightclothes, the trembling shell of your body. You don’t rise. You don’t call his name again. You crawl. Fingertips dragging against the stone, knees splitting open with every inch, the sting lost beneath the throb of something deeper. You reach the threshold on hands and knees, soaked and shaking, and watch the place where he used to be.

You wait for him to turn back. To look over his shoulder. To see you the way he always used to, like you were the only part of this house worth saving. You wait for the sound of footsteps, for the thud of the trunk being dropped, for the whisper of his voice promising that he didn’t mean it.

That he’s still your brother. That he’ll stay.

But the silence is complete. And he is already gone.

You kneel there as the blood from your knees stains the rainwater pink, as the storm creeps into the house, into your lungs, into your bones.

You stay until the cold makes you numb and your arms are too tired to hold you upright. You stay because you do not know where else to go. Because nothing feels real anymore, except for the way your chest keeps breaking open in slow, quiet pieces.

You are thirteen years old, and you have never known this kind of silence. Not even in the dead of night. Not even in your mother’s shadow. You will remember this silence for the rest of your life. You will carry it like a second skin, like a wound that never quite closes.

That night, you will wash the blood from your knees in water gone lukewarm.

You will not cry again. Not then. Not in front of the mirror. Not where anyone can see. But the ache will settle into your spine, deep and wordless, and it will never let you go.

You will grow into silence like it’s the only thing that ever wanted you. You will wear it like a second skin, learn its contours, let it fill the spaces where love used to live.

You will master the art of stillness, of holding your breath when you want to scream, of smiling when your throat burns with grief. You will stop reaching for people who walk away. You will become so good at pretending you don’t need anyone that even you begin to believe it.

You will teach yourself to cry only behind locked doors. You will carry sorrow in your ribs like a splinter, sharp and invisible, a secret that hums when it rains. You will speak softly and laugh rarely and wonder, always, if you are too much or not enough.

You will look for Sirius in the curve of strangers’ hands, in the way someone tilts their head when they listen, in every boy who calls you brave without knowing why. But no one will ever be quite him. No one will ever hold your name like it’s sacred.

You never spoke to Sirius again.

Not after that night. Not after the front door of Grimmauld Place slammed like the end of the world. Not after your knees stopped bleeding and your voice forgot how to say his name without splintering.

Not after you wrote that letter two weeks later, alone in the dark, words trembling like a heartbeat you couldn’t hold still. You didn’t send it. You couldn’t. So you folded it and slipped it into the lining of your trunk, where it still waits.

1981

You are sixteen now.

You wear Slytherin green like silk-wrapped steel and walk the halls like the castle owes you something. Your mother calls you her softer one, the quiet twin, but there is nothing soft left in you. Not really.

Not after everything you’ve learned about silence and what it costs. You’ve mastered the art of holding your breath, of keeping your voice still, of curling your fingers into fists behind your back. Regulus watches you sometimes like he almost remembers who you used to be. But you don’t look back.

And yet here you are — beneath the Quidditch stands at midnight, with your tie crooked and your shirt coming undone, with James Potter’s hands at your waist and his mouth pressed to your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not with someone who makes the world feel brighter than you know how to bear. But your hands won’t listen. They tangle in his hair, slide over his jaw, trace the freckles across his shoulder where his sleeves are rolled, where his skin is warm and golden and too much.

“Someone will see us,” you whisper, the words barely formed, lost against the breath between you.

James just smiles, that crooked, reckless smile that should not feel like safety. “Let them.”

Your heart stutters. He always does this. Knocks the wind out of you with nothing but his grin and the impossible tenderness in his eyes.

“You Gryffindors are all the same,” you murmur, but the words are an echo, stripped of bite.

“And you Blacks are all trouble,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a promise. Like worship.

His fingers brush your hair behind your ear, soft, reverent, and you freeze for half a second. Not because you want to pull away. Because you don’t. Because when he touches you like that, something in you splinters. Something buried and locked.

You look at him, and he’s still there — real, impossibly real — and you don’t know how this happened. How someone like him ended up here, with someone like you. How he looks at you like you’re not something broken.

And still, you stay. Still, you let him touch you. Because no one else knows you like this. Because with him, you are not a name or a legacy or a weapon in the making.

James doesn’t ask why. He never asks. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back — because he touches you like you’re not broken, like you’re not a Black, like your blood isn’t dripping with secrets that could ruin everything it touches.

He doesn’t flinch when you go quiet. Doesn’t fill the silence with questions or pity. He just waits. Steady. Warm. Like he has all the time in the world to watch you come undone and still choose you after.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if your brother found out?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a wondering.

You scoff, sharp and breathless. “Which one?”

He looks at you then, really looks — the way he always does when you try to be cruel and fail. His eyes never waver. “Both.”

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is, you do think about it. You think about it more than you want to. You think about Sirius finding out and looking at you like you’ve become someone else, someone dangerous, someone he can’t save. You think about Regulus finding out and looking at James like he’s something to destroy. A danger. A betrayal. A boy who dared to love the wrong part of you.

Sometimes you think about dying before they ever find out. That would be easier. Cleaner. You could keep this — this secret softness, this impossible thing — untouched by consequence.

James shifts closer, and when he speaks again, it’s not words, not really. It’s warmth. It’s the space between heartbeats. “You’re not your family, you know.”

The sentence cracks something open. You swallow around it. The air tastes like smoke. Like ash.

“Yes, I am,” you say. Quiet. Final. “That’s the problem.”

But you kiss him anyway.

You kiss him like it’s a prayer with no god left to hear it, like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Because here, under the stands, in the dark, with his mouth on yours and his hands at your waist, you are not a name or a legacy or a shadow waiting to fall. You are not a sister, not a secret, not a danger.

You are a girl. Wanting. Wanted.

His fingers thread through your hair, and you let him. You let him touch you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like he doesn’t see the ruin clinging to your bones or the storm sitting in your chest waiting to tear everything down.

And that’s enough. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. It’s not forever.

You always know when he is near.

The air changes first — grows thin, almost reverent, like the world itself remembers. Like the stone corridors remember. Like the dust in the windowpanes and the cracks in the floor still carry his name beneath them.

The sound softens, dims around him. Laughter hushes. Footsteps falter. It’s the kind of silence that used to fall over you both when you stayed up too late, whispering stories by the fire, your shadows dancing on the walls like they had lives of their own.

There was a time when his presence meant warmth. Hearth-smoke and moth-eaten blankets. Winter pressed against the glass while you curled into each other like the last two embers in the world. He would talk about stars — draw them with his voice, sketch them in the dark with words that made you believe escape was possible, that the night sky could make you brave. You would fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing and wake to find his hand still wrapped around yours.

But all of that is gone now.

Now there is only stone beneath your feet and a bone-deep cold that doesn’t leave you. You are ruins, both of you. You are the silence after a song. You are what’s left when the fire goes out.

You see them just as you’re turning the corner out of the library, a book held tight to your chest like it can keep your ribs from cracking open. Defensive Magical Theory, something dense and forgettable, a shield made of ink and false comfort.

Your knuckles are white. Your fingers ache. Your robes are perfectly pressed, every pleat a performance. Because since he left, you have had to become flawless. You have had to become iron.

And there he is.

In the center of them like a flame, Sirius with his head tilted back in laughter. It is the same laugh that once made you believe the world could be beautiful. The same laugh that stitched broken hours into joy. And now it’s a blade.

Now it cuts. Because he laughs like nothing was lost. Like he didn’t tear himself out of your life and leave you to bleed in the quiet. Like he doesn’t remember the night you screamed his name until your throat gave out and your knees went red on the marble.

He laughs, and you want to tear the sound out of the air.

You remember it all too clearly — the way the front door slammed like a gunshot, the way you chased after him with shaking hands and a voice that couldn’t carry the weight of your grief. You begged him not to go. You begged like a child, raw and ragged and terrified. And he looked back, once, with something like pity.

Now you are ghosts in the same castle. Passing shadows. No nods. No glances. No names.

You walk past each other like graves being dug on opposite sides of the world. And you do not look back. And he does not turn around.

But your heart still breaks in your chest, quietly, every single time.

They round the corner and time thickens, slow as honey spilled on cold stone. His eyes find yours first—piercing through the crowd, through the clatter of footsteps and whispered names.

For a breath, the corridor dissolves. No James, no Remus, no ticking clocks or careless breezes—just you and him, two children once again, sharing a room heavy with secrets and the soft crackle of an old record player spinning lullabies.

But this time, he does not smile. He does not speak your name. He only looks at you as if trying to recall a face buried beneath years of silence, like the memory itself has fractured and turned to glass too sharp to hold.

Your heart clenches, a sudden, fierce knot, because you remember everything—the way his fingers braided tiny plaits into your hair when exhaustion pulled at your lids, the way your small hand reached for his in the dark before Regulus could even string words together, the way he whispered that you were his favorite, that he would never leave you behind.

But he did.

He burned the letters you wrote, one after another—long, trembling confessions stitched with apologies you never owed. Letters full of Regulus, school, a house growing colder and quieter, a mother retreating into silence, and a brother who refused to eat. You signed each with love, fierce and stubborn, because even after the cracks, even after the distance, you loved him still.

Regulus told you he saw the letters in the fire, unopened. Your handwriting curled into ash like a voice that never mattered. And you cried—not in front of Regulus, but later, submerged in the bathwater, where no one could hear.

You cried as if something sacred had been ripped from your chest, as if your brother had died and left only a hollow shell behind, wandering with someone else’s heart inside.

Now he passes you in the hall, silent and cold. Your fingers twitch, aching with memory, yearning for the ghost of his palm that once cradled your cheek—the night he left, trembling breath promising strength, begging you to protect Regulus when he could no longer do it himself.

You nodded through your sobs, because you were always the older twin by a single minute, and he said it meant something—that you were meant to keep him safe.

You have tried. But Regulus does not want your protection anymore.

You pass him in the corridors too—your twin, your mirror just slightly cracked, a shard drifting farther with every passing year. His eyes have grown colder, sharper, his mouth set like a blade forged from quiet bitterness.

Sometimes he speaks, brief and clipped, syllables sliced thin—news, reminders, fragments of a life you once shared but now only touch through echoes. There is no laughter, no whispered confessions in the dark, only the vast, cold distance measured in the space where hurt has settled deep and unmoving.

And still, you ache for the warmth you once knew. You ache when you see Sirius throw his arm around James like it costs him nothing, when he leans in close and laughs against his shoulder, calling him brother with a light that never shone for you.

You hate yourself for it, for the ugly bloom of envy rising in your chest, a bitter flower twisting through your ribs, because James gets to have him.

James gets to be near him every day, to tease him, to bicker with him, to follow him into trouble and hold a place beside him like it was always meant to be that way.

You used to be that person. You used to be the one Sirius reached for first.

Now you walk past them with your chin lifted, your stomach hollow, wondering if he ever thinks about that night.

Does he remember your hands clutching his sleeve? Your voice cracking as you called after him? Does he think of the blood staining your knees and how long you sat on the steps of Grimmauld Place, shivering long after he was gone?

He does not look back now.

But James does.

His eyes find yours and hold you there, a quiet tenderness breaking beneath the weight of unspoken things. He sees the ghosts too, the empty spaces where love was stolen. Maybe he even feels the ache when Sirius talks about his sister as if she never existed, or only existed in shadows and silence.

James tries to reach for your hand beneath the table, tries to make you laugh in the soft places where the world feels less heavy—but it is not the same. It will never be the same.

Because you are no longer the girl you were when Sirius left. You have spent too many nights wondering why love was not enough to make him stay.

And he is not the brother you remember.

The wind moves gently through the willow branches, like fingers combing through hair. The sunlight glimmers through the gaps in its leaves, casting thin golden lines across your cheek as you lie curled against James beneath the canopy of green.

You should not be here. You both know it. This is not the kind of softness your life has been shaped to allow. But here, in this sliver of stolen time, you forget the weight of your name and the way your chest has ached since you were old enough to know that in the Black family, love always came with locks and keys.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, and your head rests just below his chin. Your fingers are loosely entangled on the warm grass. His heartbeat is steady against your back, a rhythm you are slowly teaching yourself to trust.

You don't speak at first. Just listen—to the breeze, the rustle of willow limbs, the distant laughter from the Quidditch pitch.

And you try not to think about how long it’s been since you laughed like that with someone, without feeling like you were stealing it from a world that was never meant for you.

He shifts slightly, runs a hand through your hair, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head. There is something so gentle about him tonight, and it makes your ribs ache.

You know he is about to ask you something. You always know when James is thinking too much.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, hesitant and fragile, like he’s afraid the sound might shatter the space between you. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, your head heavy against his chest, eyes shut tight as if the darkness behind your lids might keep the world at bay. You already know what’s coming.

“Have you ever thought about talking to Sirius again?”

The words hit you like ice water spilled over skin. Your whole body stiffens, every nerve on fire, the warmth of his arms suddenly burning too bright, too close.

You sit up with a sharp movement, pulling away like his question has scorched you, like it’s a wound you thought had scabbed over but still bleeds when touched.

His brows knit together in confusion he reaches out, as if to catch you before you fall apart, but you shake your head fiercely, as if to say don’t. Don’t reach for me here.

Your voice comes out sharp, brittle, colder than you expected, words clawing their way from a place you’d hoped was buried deep beyond reach.

“Why would I do that?!”

James blinks slowly, the calm in his gaze unwavering, gentle but not naive.

“Because he’s your brother.”

You laugh then, a sound bitter and quiet, like broken glass scraping against old stone. It catches in your throat and leaves a raw ache in its wake. You stand abruptly, arms crossing over your chest as if to hold yourself together, and you turn away, facing the shimmering lake instead, the silver-blue water reflecting back a fractured version of your own haunted eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with all the things left unsaid. You feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back, soft but relentless.

And somewhere deep inside, the fight inside you trembles—part pain, part stubborn hope—that maybe if you don’t speak his name, you can keep the memory from unraveling completely.

But the truth is a jagged stone lodged in your throat. You’ve thought of him every day since he left—the brother who once braided your hair and whispered promises like a sacred lullaby. The brother who vanished like smoke, leaving only echoes and cold silence behind.

You want to believe that love could have held him here, that if you’d been enough, he wouldn’t have slipped away. But love in your world is never simple.

James sighs deeply, sitting up beside you with a careful softness that somehow feels like it might break under the weight of your silence. “I just think maybe it would help. You’re hurting, and he’s—”

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the air sharper than you meant it to, like glass breaking in a quiet room. Your voice trembles, but the edge is there, raw and fierce. “Don’t defend him. Don’t pretend you understand.”

James’s brow furrows, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes. “I’m not pretending. I just know Sirius. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He was hurting too. You know what that house did to him.”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a bitter crack, like a blade scraping bone. “Do I? Do I know what it did to him? Because last I checked—” Your voice catches, then steadies, voice sharp and jagged — “I was there too. I lived it. I breathed the same suffocating air. I walked those same cold hallways. I heard the same poisonous words about blood and duty and silence that built a prison around us all.”

You turn slightly, hands clutching the grass beneath you until your nails dig into dirt. “I watched those cursed portraits scream their curses night and day, felt the walls shrink closer, trapping my breath. I watched my brother—the only one who stayed—fade, twist into someone I barely recognized, someone swallowed by shadows and cold.”

You swallow hard, the memory like a stone lodged in your throat. “And yet, somehow, he’s the one who gets to hurt? The one you all rush to protect? The only one whose pain matters?”

James shifts uncomfortably, voice quiet but earnest. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

But you shake your head, bitter tears burning the edges of your eyes. “No, James. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Your voice cracks, ragged and breaking, revealing the wounds you’ve fought to hide. “You all look at him like he’s some kind of hero. Brave Sirius Black—the runaway, the rebel who escaped the nightmare of that cursed house. The one who got to find Gryffindor, friendship, love. The one who got to build a new life from the ashes.”

Your chest heaves with the weight of everything left unsaid. “And what did I get? What did Regulus get? We got left behind.”

Your hands ball into fists, digging deeper into the earth, grounding yourself to the pain you can still touch. “I begged him to stay. I cried until I had no tears left. I chased after him on bleeding knees, desperate and small, and he left anyway. Left like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

You swallow, voice raw, “He never looked back. Never answered a single letter. Never came home. Not for me. Not for Regulus. And I waited. I waited years, hoping maybe one day he would come back. And you want me to just… talk to him now?”

Your breath catches, broken by the shuddering ache in your chest. The world feels hollow, cruel, and empty around you, and the distance between you and Sirius stretches wider than any words could ever cross.

James’s voice drops, soft and cautious, like stepping on fragile glass. “He was just a kid. He was doing what he had to do.”

You laugh, bitter and broken, the sound splitting the silence like a wound. “And I wasn’t?” The words shatter on your cracked lips, voice cracking with the weight you’ve carried far too long. “I was a kid too. Barely thirteen. And I had to stay. Had to sit at that cursed table and swallow every poisonous word Mother spat about the purity of our name. Had to learn to bite my tongue until it bled, lower my eyes until they almost forgot how to look. Had to be perfect — or at least pretend.”

Your hands tremble as you clutch your knees, the ache raw and alive beneath your skin. “I had to watch Regulus vanish into silence, buried under pressure and cold that no one—not one soul—asked if I was okay. No one ever tried to save me.”

James’s hand reaches for you, slow and hesitant, but you recoil like his touch burns you.

You fall back against the tree, the rough bark pressing into your spine, your palms clutching your eyes as if the darkness can swallow the ache whole. The tears come harder now, hot and unrelenting.

“You think he hurts? You think he cries?” Your voice breaks, raw and ragged like a shattered song.

“Because I do. I do every time I see him walk the halls like nothing happened. Every time I watch you two laugh like you’ve known each other forever, and I wonder if he ever laughs like that for me. If he ever remembered me.”

You choke back a sob, voice barely more than a cracked whisper, “I sit in a common room full of snakes and secrets, keeping my head down, swallowing my pride and my pain, because I’m still there. I never left. I never got out.”

“You don’t get it,” you whisper, but the whisper breaks halfway, splintering like thin glass. You’re shaking now, fists curled into the grass as though it can hold you together. “You never will.”

James doesn’t speak. He watches you the way someone watches a dying star—helpless, reverent, a little afraid.

“You were always allowed to be human.” Your voice wavers, rough with disbelief and years of swallowed words. “You were allowed to get angry, to mess up, to fall apart and still be loved. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a house where love is a chain. Where affection only comes after obedience. Where silence is survival.”

You laugh, but it’s not really laughter—it’s the sound a wound might make if it could scream.

“You have people. People who would tear the world apart if you broke. You have a mother who kisses your cheek and a father who’s proud of your name. You have friends who call you home, James. You’re the sun, don’t you see that? You’re the sun and everyone else just gets to grow around you.”

You’re crying harder now, tears streaking down your cheeks in thick, aching lines. You try to wipe them away, but they keep coming.

“You got to love Sirius without bleeding for it! You got to become his brother in the safety of a dormitory, with warmth and laughter and stolen butterbeer. You didn’t have to earn it in that house. You didn’t have to survive it!”

Your voice rises now, shrill with grief. “You got the best parts of him. The jokes, the loyalty, the fire. I got the version who left. The one who didn’t even look back.”

You gasp for breath between sobs, pressing your palms against your eyes until you see stars.

“Do you know what it feels like to scream for someone as they walk away? I begged him. I begged him not to go. I ran after him barefoot in the cold, my voice going hoarse. And he left anyway. He left me there.”

You pull your knees to your chest, rocking slightly. “He chose to leave. And then he chose you. He chose you over me. Over Regulus. Over every piece of his old life. You’re his brother now. You’re his family. And I—”

You look up at James then, face soaked, lips trembling. “I’m just a ghost he doesn’t talk about.”

The words fall out of you like stones from your mouth, one by one, and each one seems to hurt more than the last.

“You sit around the fire with him and laugh about pranks and broomsticks and I sit alone in the dark, wondering if he remembers the sound of my voice. If he ever thinks about the way I cried that night. If he ever sees my handwriting and feels guilt. Or if it’s just... easier. Easier to forget I existed.”

James moves again, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. He doesn’t touch you this time. He just listens.

You curl tighter around yourself. “You want me to forgive him. You want me to reach out. But you don’t know what it costs to touch someone who let you rot. You don’t know what it’s like to scream for someone and never hear your name again.”

Your voice drops to a whisper—ruined, splintered, soft.

“He’s your brother now.”

And then, the softest, most broken truth:

“But he was mine first.”

You fold in on yourself completely, hands trembling, heart heaving with grief too old for your bones, and the only sound left in the world is your breath—shattered, uneven—echoing in the hush beneath the willow branches.

James looks at you then like he finally sees the wound beneath your skin. Not something angry. Something abandoned. Something small and bleeding and still waiting on the floor of a house that swallowed you whole.

The year slips through your fingers like water, and you try to hold it tight, but it’s already gone.

It’s strange how time moves differently when you’re pretending everything is fine, the days bleeding at the edges into one another with a quiet rhythm of routine that softens sharp edges but never heals the cracks beneath.

You go to class, you study, you sit beside James under the willow tree and pretend not to ache when Sirius walks by laughing with Remus, a sound that feels like a sun you cannot touch anymore.

You watch Regulus drift further away, his shoulders straighter, his eyes colder, his voice a careful blade you no longer recognize—once a warmth you could finish, now a silence you cannot breach.

You used to finish each other’s sentences; now he barely finishes his own. He doesn’t talk to you much anymore, not really. At the long, silent dinner table, he sits across from you, nodding when spoken to, answering questions like they’re lines from a script he’s been forced to memorize but doesn’t want to perform.

He disappears into his room, each time returning quieter, more distant, as if someone has reached inside him and hollowed him out with a spoon, leaving only a shell that reflects nothing back but shadows.

You want to scream at him, to shake him until he remembers how to breathe, to pull him back by the collar like Sirius did when you were children and Regulus was about to climb too high in the trees, but you don’t.

Because you don’t know if he would let you catch him, and you don’t know if you still have the strength to hold on to what’s already slipping through your fingers.

So you keep your head down, your voice soft, your secrets close, like fragile embers you cannot risk exposing to the wind. And still the year ends.

There’s something about the last few weeks of school that tastes like dread, like metal pressed cold against your tongue, like the low rumble of a storm you know is coming but cannot stop. You walk the corridors counting how many times Sirius glances your way and how many times Regulus doesn’t, memorizing James’s grin like it might be the last warmth you touch for months.

You stop sending letters home because there is no one waiting to read them.

Because summer means going back. Not home. Back.

Grimmauld Place isn’t a home. It is a mausoleum, a cold, echoing archive of all the things you never got to say, the silence between your words etched deep into the walls.

It smells of wax and dust and something darker, something ancient and unforgiving beneath the surface. The portraits still scream behind their frames. The silver still gleams with a sharpness that cuts through the gloom. The curtains block out the sun like heavy lids refusing to open.

Your room remains untouched, waiting in suspended breath for you to return and pretend you don’t hate it.

You dread the silence most. The way it wraps itself around the furniture like cobwebs spun from forgotten sorrow, the way the house watches you with a patient, waiting hunger, as if it expects you to fold back into its cold embrace and fall in line with the shadows that have claimed it.

Regulus is already there. He has been slipping for a while now. You have seen it in the way he avoids certain topics, in the sharp flinch when someone utters the word “Mudblood,” in the way his fists clench so tightly at insults to the Dark Lord that his knuckles whiten, before he tries to play it off as nothing.

His robes darken with every passing day. His smiles become rarer, like a flame too weak to chase away the night. His wand is never far from his grasp, a silent threat held close, as if waiting for the moment he must become someone else—someone you barely recognize anymore.

So you pack your trunk slowly, each movement deliberate as if by folding your robes with care you might fold yourself back into a place that no longer holds you. You close your books with trembling fingers, the pages whispering secrets you cannot bear to carry anymore.

You don’t say goodbye to Sirius because his eyes no longer meet yours, and you don’t say goodbye to James because you know the pain would only unravel tighter if words were spoken.

You watch as Sirius swings his arm around James’s shoulders, already grinning at the thought of staying with the Potters for the summer, and something inside you twists — not anger, not sadness, but a sharp, aching envy that claws at your ribs like a hungry bird.

Because he gets to escape.

He gets to walk into a house that smells like sugar and laughter and freedom, a sanctuary where love is worn openly like a second skin.

He gets to sleep in a room where nothing screams at him in the dark, where the walls cradle him instead of closing in. He gets to sit at a table where voices rise and fall like music, where people eat too much and ask about your day as if it matters, where family is not a story told in fragments but a living breath around you.

And you get the house.

The house with your name carved deeply into the bannister, a cold reminder of roots that bind you to shadows. The house where every unspoken word drips from the ceiling like damp, settling into the cracks until the silence itself weighs heavy and thick.

The house where your mother waits, her eyes colder than winter and expectations sharper than knives, where portraits hiss and leer from their frames like silent witnesses to your undoing. The house where Regulus drifts through the halls like a ghost caught between worlds, already halfway gone, already fading into something you cannot hold.

The house where no one speaks Sirius’s name aloud, where you are still the older twin, and yet each day you feel smaller, as if your own shadow is shrinking beneath the weight of everything unsaid.

You step off the train, and the air already feels colder, a thin frost settling on your skin even though the season has only just begun.

The night tastes bitter with regret, heavy and metallic on your tongue, and Grimmauld Place waits like a patient predator, breathing you in as though you never left, as though it has been holding its breath for your return. It closes the door behind you with the hush of finality, a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

The silence settles on your shoulders like dust, thick and suffocating, a reminder that you belong here — even if you wish with every trembling heartbeat that you did not.

You try not to flinch when the wards hum around you. When the doorknob bites your palm. When the portraits blink awake at the scent of your return. They watch you with knowing, disapproving eyes, oil-painted mouths already ready to spit something cruel.

This house was never a home, but once it breathed — not warmth, not safety, but noise, presence, life. It used to echo with slammed doors and uneven footsteps racing up the stairs, with Sirius shouting something reckless and defiant down the corridor just to make someone angry enough to shout back.

It used to be full of Regulus’s low hum when he thought no one could hear him, that quiet little song he’d hum while reading in corners, while brushing his hair, while stitching up the tear in your sleeve when you’d come back from a duel pretending you weren’t crying.

It used to be full of voices, arguing and demanding and laughing and hurting and always, always living.

Now it is quiet in the way that makes your chest ache, the kind of silence that feels like a punishment rather than a peace. The air tastes like dust, like something lost and forgotten and left to rot behind velvet curtains and locked doors. The carpets still muffle your steps, but there's no one left to hear them anyway.

This is the first summer without Regulus.

Not the shadow version that’s lingered these past few years, the one who walks too quietly and listens too carefully and parrots the words of your parents with a voice that isn’t his. Not the stranger in dark robes who stops humming and starts watching. Not the version who still existed in some half-form, drifting down corridors without speaking, but still there.

No, this is the first summer without him, without the boy who used to read beside you in the library, his knee bumping yours under the table. The one who used to steal sweets from the kitchen and then blame you with an innocent blink. The one who tied your shoelaces together under the table at family dinners and bit back a grin when you tripped on your way out.

That Regulus faded the way ink fades in water — slowly, gently, irreversibly. You didn’t notice at first, only that he laughed less, and then not at all. That his hands stopped reaching for yours. That his voice grew thinner and his silences heavier. You lost him the way you lose something to illness, slowly and with a thousand tiny betrayals of the body before the final breath.

But this time is different.

This time, he did not come back.

No warning, no owl, no quiet knock on your door, no hurried explanation in a whisper only you would understand. Just silence. Just your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line when you asked, and your father’s eyes skimming past you like your question was a speck on his glasses.

You sit in his empty room. It smells like dust and lavender and something that aches in your teeth. The bed is still made. The books are still in their careful order, spines aligned like soldiers. His desk is untouched. His quill still leans in the inkwell.

The window is cracked just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of air, like the room itself hasn’t quite decided if it should keep holding on. There’s dust on the windowsill now — and there never used to be — and that tells you more than anything else. That the room has been waiting. That no one has come back.

This time, he is truly gone.

And you are alone.

You try to shrink yourself into corners. You keep your footsteps light, your voice quieter still. You tie your hair the way your mother prefers it and fold your napkin just so and tuck your wand out of sight at the table.

You speak only when spoken to. You say nothing when the family says things that hurt. You keep your grief compact and clean and buried deep in your chest like a well-folded shirt, like something shameful.

You make yourself smaller every day, and still, somehow, it is never enough.

But this summer — it’s different. This summer, they hand you your fate like a gift wrapped in silver and blood, gleaming like something sacred, rotting like something buried.

You sit at the long dining table, the one with claw-footed legs and too much silence, and you hear the words spill from your mother’s mouth like prophecy. Your father folds his hands, watching you without warmth, without softness, only the calm expectation of obedience.

They tell you the name.

He is a man older than both of them, old enough to have stood beside your grandfather, old enough to know better, but still willing. He is loyal. He is powerful. He will honor the purity of your blood.

He will preserve the name of the House of Black.

You are seventeen. He is not young. You do not need to ask his age. You already feel it sinking into your skin like ice.

Your stomach coils, tight and bitter.

“No,” you say. Soft at first. Like a breath you’re trying to swallow.

Your mother doesn’t even blink. “You will.”

“No.” Again, louder this time. Sharper. The air around you stills.

She lifts her chin, unbothered. “You are a daughter of this house. This is your duty.”

“Duty?” The word tastes like ash in your mouth. “You want me to marry a man three times my age so you can keep the family name alive like it’s something holy. You want me quiet and obedient and grateful.” You’re trembling, but you don’t care.

“I am not a vessel for your legacy.”

Your father rises. His voice cuts across the room like steel. “You will not speak to your mother with such—”

“You don’t get to speak for me,” you snap, voice breaking at the edges. “You don’t get to decide who I am just because you raised me to be afraid of you!”

Silence floods the room, thick and bitter.

“You want to talk about duty?” you say, your voice low, shaking with fury. “Let’s talk about Sirius. You pushed him out like he was nothing. You wrote him off, erased him, like he never belonged to you in the first place. And Regulus—”

You choke, just for a second. But it’s enough to taste the grief under your rage.

“Regulus is gone. And you didn’t even flinch.”

Your mother’s gaze turns to ice. “Sirius was a disgrace,” she says. “Regulus was loyal. We will not lose the last child we have left.”

You laugh. It sounds wrong. Crooked. Cracked open.

“You already did.”

You stare at them — these people who gave you their name and called it love.

“I’m not your child,” you say, the words leaving your mouth like a final spell. “I’m what’s left. After the screaming. After the silence. After all the sons you burned through.”

You do not cry in front of them. You never cry in front of them.

The house taught you early that tears are weakness, that silence is survival, that emotion is something to be buried beneath polished shoes and perfect posture.

But the moment the door shuts behind you, the weight drops. You press your back to the cold wood and slide down until you are curled on the floor, your body folding into itself like it’s trying to vanish. And you cry. Not the gentle kind. Not the cinematic kind.

You cry until your throat burns and your face is damp and your chest feels like it’s being carved open from the inside. You cry the way the walls might, if they could. With all the grief they’ve soaked up over the years spilling out through the cracks.

You cry for every year you were quiet. For every word you never said. For every version of yourself you buried to stay alive in this house.

You feel seventeen and seven and seventy all at once. You feel like a ghost of your own girlhood, flickering between doorframes. You feel the house watching. Breathing. Remembering.

The floor beneath you is cold and unkind, and still you cling to it because it's the only thing solid left. You think of Sirius, and the way he used to laugh so loudly it shook the curtains. You think of him sleeping now in a house full of warmth and sugar and safety, a house where love isn't earned but given, where no one flinches when he reaches for joy.

You think of Regulus, not the boy they mourn in stiff silence, but the boy who once left crooked notes in your textbooks and stared out windows like he was already halfway elsewhere.

You think of the way he disappeared — not all at once, but slowly, like a tide pulling further and further out until you could no longer see where he ended and the darkness began.

And you think of James.

James with his easy smile and his steady hands, who never asks for more than you can give, who touches your shoulder like it means something, who holds your gaze when the room is too loud.

James, who looks at you like there is still something worth saving, like you are not the ruin this house has made of you, like you are more than a name etched into silver and expectation.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you now, curled like a child, broken open in the hallway like a spell gone wrong. You wonder if he would still look at you like you matter. If he would still believe you could be more than this.

But the truth is: you are not Sirius, brave enough to run and let it all burn behind him. You are not Regulus, quiet enough to disappear without a sound. You are not even James, bright enough to belong to a world that doesn’t hurt like this.

You are just you — the one who stayed.

The one who held her breath while the house tore itself apart. The one who learned how to fold pain into politeness, how to wear duty like perfume, how to live without taking up too much space.

You stayed because someone had to. Because someone had to carry the name. Because someone had to keep the silence from swallowing everything.

And now, you are the last one. A girl with no room left to run, with a dress being stitched by house-elves who won’t meet your eyes, with a fate wrapped in silver and blood and sealed with your mother’s satisfaction. A girl being handed over like an heirloom. A girl they call duty. A girl they call legacy. A girl they will call wife.

And you cry not because you are weak — but because you were strong for too long. Because this house eats daughters and calls it honor.

Because deep down, you are still waiting for someone to come back. Or take you away. Or give you a reason to leave. But no one comes. And so you cry.

So you give in. Not to the marriage — no, that would be too clean, too final — but to something slower, heavier, something like gravity or grief.

You give in to the house. To the quiet. To the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say aloud. You let it wrap around you like ivy, creeping in through the cracks in the walls and the bruises you keep hidden under your sleeves. It isn’t sudden. It isn’t cinematic. It’s the kind of surrender that looks like silence.

Each day becomes a ritual of forgetting. You wake late, eyes heavy with sleep you never earned. You push food around your plate until it cools and congeals and no one bothers to tell you to eat. You wander from room to room like a ghost, dragging your fingertips along the wallpaper as if it might remember you.

You reread the same book, the same page, five times, and the words never stick — they slide through your brain like oil through a sieve. You braid your hair tighter and tighter each morning until your scalp stings, until the ache becomes something solid you can carry. You stop speaking at meals.

You stop asking where Regulus went. You stop writing letters to Sirius, because no one writes back and ghosts don’t send owls.

And then one night, when the wind wails like a child outside your window and the rain lashes against the glass with the fury of everything you’ve swallowed, your feet carry you where your mind dares not go.

Up the stairs. Down the hallway. To the door you haven’t touched since he left. Sirius’s room.

You shouldn’t go in. The house groans like it’s warning you. But your hand is already on the handle.

The room is a battlefield.

The bed is splintered, cracked in the middle like a snapped spine. The posters are slashed, half-hanging like open wounds. The wallpaper is clawed down to the plaster. His name, once spelled in bold ink across the wall, is a black smear now — a wound too scorched to read. The air smells like old fire and bitter memory. You step inside.

You lower yourself to the floor with slow, trembling hands, and that’s when it breaks.

The scream tears from you before you can stop it — low and ragged and real.

You cry for Sirius, who ran and burned and somehow found something close to freedom. You cry for Regulus, who disappeared into silence and shadows and never looked back. You cry for James, whose laughter doesn’t belong in this house, whose kindness is a bruise you keep pressing. But mostly, you cry for yourself.

And when there are no more tears left to cry, your eyes catch something under the bed — a soft flicker of gray, tucked away like a shy secret waiting patiently.

Eventually, with trembling fingers, you take up your quill and smooth a sheet of parchment across your desk.

You’ve written to him a hundred times before—maybe more. None of them ever came back. None of them were ever answered.

And this one, you know, will be the last.

Dear Sirius, I do not know if this will ever reach you. I imagine it will not. And even if it did, I cannot picture you reading it. Perhaps you would glance at the ink, then turn away, pretending not to know the hand it came from. Perhaps you have already taught yourself to forget. Still, I write. I write because I do not know what else to do with my hands, now that they have nothing left to hold. Regulus is gone. They will not say how or where or why, only that he vanished, and everyone speaks of him now in the same tone they used when they stopped saying your name. He is gone, and I feel something in me beginning to follow. This summer has been long. There is sun in the air and dust in the curtains and no one speaks above a whisper. They say I am to be betrothed by autumn. He is pure of blood and proper of name and perfectly forgettable. I have already begun practicing how to look content beside him. Everyone tells me how lucky I am. No one asks if I am well. The house is colder than I remember. I think you were the last warm thing in it. Since you left, it has not once felt like home. The corridors are quieter now. The portraits turn their eyes away. Today I found your old toy — Buttons, the little grey dog with the floppy ear. He was under your bed, asleep in dust, but still whole. I pressed him to my face and thought I might fall apart from the scent of him. Smoke and summer and boyhood. I found Honeybell too. Her stitches are split and her eye is gone. But I held her anyway, the way you hold something that remembers what you cannot say aloud. Regulus’s was still in his room. Mister Wisp. The black raven. He was soaked through with rain. His wings sagged. His thread was fraying. He looked like something abandoned. He looked like someone who had waited too long. I placed them on your bedroom floor. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. The three of us, in our own way. I sat with them until the sun went down and the house forgot me again. I hope you are safe. I hope there is laughter where you are. I hope someone brushes the hair from your eyes with tenderness. I hope you never once feel as forgotten as we did when you vanished. I want to hate you, but I never could. This is the last letter. Not because I have stopped loving you. That would be easier. No, I am stopping because love should not be sent into silence forever. And I have been silent for too long.

Ta Sœur, Pour Toujours

You fold the letter and press it to your heart, feeling the weight of every word settle deep inside you.

You sit there in the broken room, cradling the worn plushes as the first pale light of morning spills through the cracked window, soft and hesitant, like forgiveness that always comes too late.

The summer stretches endlessly, longer than any before, a slow and quiet rot rather than rest—a soft unraveling that steals breath and hope alike. Time does not move but lingers, thick and suffocating, pressing down on your bones like a heavy secret.

Outside, the war no longer whispers but rumbles beyond the horizon. Names vanish like ghosts, smiles falter under the weight of dread, and the sun mourns openly, bleeding orange into clouds as if the sky itself knew the darkness to come.

Grimmauld Place waits in silence. Its walls have always been cold, but now they hold a quiet deeper than stillness, a silence like held breath, like a house on the edge of swallowing you whole.

And then Sirius returns.

He had never meant to come back, not truly.

But something pulls him through the shadows, not duty, not family in the way you understood it. Perhaps it was memory, haunting and relentless. Perhaps regret, bitter and sharp. Perhaps it was you—the echo of your voice that chased him through sleepless nights, the image of you at thirteen, trembling and begging him to stay, a scar etched deep across his ribs.

So he came back.

By the end of summer, Sirius Black stood before the house he had sworn never to return to, and this time he did not knock. This time he did not wait. The door groaned open as if it had been waiting for him all along. Dust hung heavy in the air, the stench of magic—old, burnt, and wrong—clinging like smoke caught deep in his lungs.

Something had happened here. Something violent. The house was not quiet. It was hollow. Empty. Ruined.

And that was when he found you.

Not sitting in the drawing room, not wrapped in a blanket with a book and tea, not curled in the window seat staring out at a life that had never been yours.

But lying on the marble floor, exactly where he had left you.

You did not die screaming. There was no flash of rage, no final incantation on your tongue, no defiant end befitting the fire that once lived inside you.

You were simply still. Folded into yourself, as if the world had leaned too hard on your ribs and you forgot how to fight it. Blood pooled around you like petals from a ruined bloom, soft and red and blooming in silence.

Your hair fanned around your face like something sacred — a fallen halo, a crown undone — and your limbs lay slack in a kind of surrender that spoke not of weakness but of exhaustion. Like the house had finally exhaled, and you let it take you with the breath.

Sirius dropped the moment he saw you. Not with ceremony, not with noise — just gravity doing what grief always does.

The way your knees once buckled when he walked away.

The way your voice had cracked, trying to stretch the word “stay” into something that could bind him.

The way your chest must have caved in, not from a curse, but from absence. He fell in the way people fall when something inside them has been waiting to shatter for years.

He reached for you. What else was there left to reach for, if not the girl who once braided red ribbons through his coat sleeves, who lined his pockets with honey drops and letters that smelled of ink and lavender, who sat beside him on staircases and said nothing, simply stayed.

He had run for so long — from this house, from this name, from everything that shaped him — but no one ever told him that ghosts have longer arms than memory. That your voice, the soft echo of it, would find him across every burning bridge.

And now you were here. Not thirteen anymore, not crying in the hallway where he left you. But also, not gone from that moment either.

You had never truly moved past the marble floor. He saw it in the way your fingers still curled inward, as if clinging to something invisible. In the tilt of your head, angled just like the night you begged him not to go.

He saw the years between then and now, every one of them, stretched like threads between your ribs — unravelled, fragile, frayed.

He saw the waiting. The tea that went cold on windowsills. The letters that never found their way past trembling hands. The summers that rotted slowly around you while everyone else grew up.

The stuffed animals lined like offerings beneath dust-heavy light. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. Childhood turned reliquary.

He saw it all and understood too late that grief does not knock — it carves its name into your skin and waits. It waited for him here.

He pressed his forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer never answered. He had lived, but not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You had stayed, but not whole. You had waited so long for someone who was always running, and now that he was still, you were gone.

The sun began to rise, golden and slow, creeping through the cracks like a forgiveness that had missed its hour. It lit the marble floor like a chapel.

But it could not touch you. It could only fall across your shoulder, warm and useless. The kind of light that arrives after the room has already emptied.

And Sirius stayed there. Not as the rebel or the Black heir or the boy who broke free. But as a brother.

A brother who came home too late. A brother who looked at the cost and could not look away.

Time passed for him. He found love. Friends. A family not built of blood, but of choice. He laughed again. He dreamed. He lived. The world opened for him, and he stepped through — a boy turned man, a soul scraped raw but mending, slowly, beautifully. There were hands that held him.

Voices that called him home. Places where the sky was wide enough to forget. And he let himself forget.

And you stayed.

You stayed in the house that swallowed your name like a secret. In halls that knew only how to echo orders and lock away softness. With a father who spoke in sharp edges. A mother who carved obedience into you like scripture.

A twin who disappeared — not all at once, but in whispers and footsteps and doors that no longer opened. You stayed among portraits that scowled at your breath. Among books that weighed more than comfort. Among silences that wrapped around your throat until you mistook them for lullabies.

You stayed. Right where he left you. And the world, as it always did, looked away.

Except this time, the blood wasn’t from scraped knees or childish scuffles.

It was from the war that bloomed like rot through every crack in your home. From the letters you weren’t allowed to send. From the screams you weren’t allowed to make. From the spells you learned not to cast. From the hope you were forced to smother before it ever took its first breath.

And Sirius wept.

Not the kind of weeping that shatters in public. Not the kind that can be soothed by arms or words or tea gone cold.

This was the kind of weeping that hollowed. That stripped him to the marrow. That made him reach for a version of you that no longer breathed.

He wept for the sister whose hands once clutched his in the dark, when the storms rattled the windows and the world felt too big.

He wept for the girl who tucked notes into his pocket when Mother screamed. He wept for the ghost of you still sitting on the staircase, waiting for a brother who never turned back.

He wept for the birthdays you spent alone. For the letters he never wrote. For the words he never said. For the child you were — bright-eyed and bruised and so full of belief.

For the woman you could have been — fierce and aching and free.

For the way you died in the exact place he left you.

And for the way he only came back when there was no breath left to forgive him.

Time seemed to pass, though slower now — not measured in calendars or seasons, but in aches. In absences. In the small betrayals of memory.

For Sirius, time lost its rhythm. It did not tick or toll. It bled. It staggered. It sighed through floorboards and doorways and walls that still remembered the sound of your footsteps.

Time became the color of mourning — the dull grey of ash, the deep bruise of regret, the cold white of hospital sheets that never warmed beneath your weight.

It moved in the dust he could not bear to sweep, in the scent of your perfume fading soft on a pillowcase, in the broken music box that no longer turned, in the echo of your laughter — not in reality, but in the cruel trick of dreams.

He searched for you in everything, in the corners of rooms, in the backs of crowds, in the shadowed silence of the old stairwell where you once sang lullabies to the dark.

And when he found the letter — the one you never sent, crumpled at the back of a drawer, ink smeared as though you’d tried to erase your own voice — he pressed it to his lips and sobbed like a boy again. Like the child who promised he’d take you with him. Who swore you’d never be left behind.

Three plushes laid neatly beside each other, like a shrine to what was once whole. Not toys anymore, but gravestones — soft and worn and sacred.

They should have meant nothing. Just fabric, stuffing, thread. But Sirius could barely look at them without his chest caving in.

His own — hadn’t moved in years. You must’ve thought he’d come back for it. That if you left it untouched, just as he left it, maybe it would bring him home.

Yours was different. It was torn down the middle, the seam split like a scar, like a scream frozen in time. The stuffing spilled out like spilled insides, like something wounded and left to rot. It looked like it had tried to hold itself together for too long, and finally failed.

And Regulus’ — pale blue-grey, delicate in a way only he had been — soaked through and warped from rain. It lay slumped over, waterlogged and forgotten, as if the storm outside had wept it into surrender. The window above had cracked open, and the sky had poured in for hours. Sirius liked to think the heavens had mourned with him that day. That even the sky had broken, just a little.

You never knew, but Sirius never let them go.

Not once.

Even when the world fell apart. Even when the Order returned and war carved new hollows into their lives.

Even when Azkaban loomed like a ghost at his shoulder. He kept them — hidden, at first, under floorboards and false bottoms of trunks. Then folded into boxes labeled with things like “storage” or “old keepsakes,” as if a name could make them matter less.

But they always came back out. Back to his bedside. Back into his hands on sleepless nights. Because they weren’t just toys. They were the last soft things left. The only parts of his childhood that hadn’t turned to ash.

They were what remained of the real family he had chosen — not the one etched into tapestries or carved into rings, but the one built in whispers and quiet dreams.

You, Regulus, and him. Three children clinging to hope like a secret. Three hearts hoping that if they held each other tightly enough, they could outrun their legacy. They could be something else. Someone else. Someone free.

But grief is not kind. It is greedy. It takes and takes and keeps on taking.

So it took Regulus, too.

No goodbye. No body. Just whispers in the dark — that he had gone beneath the water, chasing a kind of redemption Sirius hadn’t known his brother still believed in. That he had died trying to undo what he never had the power to fix. A boy with the name of a star, drowning in a sea too vast to name.

And Sirius had hated him, once — for his silence, for his compliance, for surviving the home that killed you. But when Regulus vanished, Sirius understood he’d been wrong. Regulus hadn’t survived. He’d only delayed the dying. Now it was just him, and the plushes — three relics, three ghosts, three pieces of a family no one ever thought to grieve.

Because what were children like them, if not warnings? What were Black children, if not cautionary tales?

1994

Years later, Sirius will stand before a boy with too-bright eyes and a scar that speaks of wars no child should remember. And in the boy’s grin — wide, reckless, full of sun — Sirius will see James, not as memory, but as marrow, as instinct.

But it's not James that makes him ache, not really.

It’s the quiet moments, the in-between ones — when the boy furrows his brow in thought, or stares too long at the stars, or speaks with a gentleness he doesn’t even know he carries.

That’s when Sirius sees Regulus, not in likeness but in the ache of being too young for so much weight.

And most of all, he sees you.

He sees you in the boy’s stubborn defiance, in the way he fights for others before himself, in the way he loves — fiercely, awkwardly, with every unguarded part of him. He sees you in the boy’s eyes when he reaches for Sirius without hesitation. He sees the child you once were, all scraped knees and wild dreams, asking impossible questions and believing in things too big to name.

And it undoes him. Every single time.

Because this boy, this Harry, carries all the pieces of the ones he lost — but he carries you most of all.

Sirius will not know how to name that kind of grace. Only that it feels like standing in the past and being forgiven by it.

And in that child, in the fragile miracle of his existence, Sirius will understand that love does not end. It threads itself into blood and bone and story. It survives. Even when nothing else does.

And that understanding — that impossible, aching recognition — will be the cruelest grace of all. Because by then, the war will have come and gone, carving its tally marks into the bones of everyone left standing.

He will have buried too many. James, Lily, and names he once spoke with laughter now spoken in silence, in dreams. The fire will have gone out, and Sirius will have learned to live in the smoke. A man half-built from memory, half-held together by loss. He will carry it all, quietly.

The old house on Grimmauld Place will still stand, but he will not return. Some ghosts are too sacred to disturb, and some rooms still remember how to bleed.

Yours will remain untouched — the air thick with dust and song, the bed still hiding three plush toys like relics of a time when the world had not yet shattered. The scent of childhood still clinging to the curtains, as if waiting for someone to come home.

And though the world will move forward without him — blooming and burning and beginning again — Sirius will remain quietly stitched into the edges of it, in every reckless laugh, every act of love carved in defiance, every child who believes that family is something you choose.

Because what he lost cannot be measured in names or battles or years. It is deeper than that. It is a wound shaped like a sister’s lullaby, a brother’s silence, a best friend’s grin. It is the kind of grief that builds a home inside your ribs and dares you to live with it.

And even when there is no one left to speak your name aloud, Sirius will. Not out of duty, but because somewhere within him, the boy who once held your hand still waits in the dark.

He still listens for the echo of your laughter through silent halls, still glances at the doorway like you might walk through, still dreams of a world where everything broken might find a way to mend.

There is a quiet place in him that never grew older than sixteen, still caught in the house where you stayed behind, still curled beside you in the dark, still whispering stories of escape to the ceiling.

That part of him hears your voice when the world forgets how to be kind.

It sees your eyes in every child who refuses to stop hoping, every child with bright eyes and a scar on their forehead — especially the one who looks at him like he is something good.

It believes, even now, that the love you gave was too bright to vanish, too true to ever fade.

Sirius Black remained — not because he survived, but because love, once given, does not know how to leave, and grief, once born, does not know how to die.

And then, years later, it was his cousin who ended him — blood of his blood, born of the same ruin, raised on the same silken lies, sipping from the same poisoned cup. Bellatrix did not strike like chance, but like prophecy, like the final breath of a story written long before they ever lived it.

It was not kindness that undid them, nor mercy. It was inheritance — a name carved too deep, a legacy that devoured its own.

In the end, nothing could tear down the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Except itself.

For those whose fate was never their own,

for the one who bore the weight alone,

for the one who stayed,

so ends the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

a/n: um..hi? is this too angsty? :(

817 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 2 days ago

Text

P1 in World History - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Historian!Reader

summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events

based on this request (by my favorite ever)

liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others

f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE

Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀

Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.

view all comments:

lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest

charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please

yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.

mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.

redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂‍↔️

fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed

alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭

user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?

user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…

user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something

user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀

user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩

user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue

user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭

user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay

user charles i expected more from you

user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet

user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.

> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost

> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch

Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story

"Great read 👍"

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others

SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:

“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”

View all comments:

user not me googling “how to become a historian”

user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor

user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭

user that household must be insufferable

user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast

user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak

user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??

user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?

user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too

user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is

user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.

lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?

> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar > yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors > lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME

alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep

> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint. > yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate. > user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film > user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn

georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.

danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀

> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable. > danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad

mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.

user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE

> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it > user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD >user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time

charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺

> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa > charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄

user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?

> user omg what would she even do there? > user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others

oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.

view all comments

lando i want her to quiz me

charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you

georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me

alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source

danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format

maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it

user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹

user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead

user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others

yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚💋

view all comments

oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe

georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way

> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE. > georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅

charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔

lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets

> oscarpiastri are you 2??

user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS

user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range

user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle

user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen

hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story

kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????

> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?

user is this a kink thing?

user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.

maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?

> yourusername sure thing!! > oscarpiastri NO

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others

mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚

view all comments

oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”

> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling” > oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble > user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME

lando does this mean i can’t cheat???

> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes > lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.

yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.

> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak

alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast

> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.

charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.

> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe > fernandoalo_oficial finally.

user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture

user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire

2K notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 2 days ago

Text

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - DR3 X Fem!OC

Summary: Fighting takes it's toll on everyone, and eventually Dan's just too tired to do it anymore. And that's ok.

Words: 7.9k

Warnings: Mental health discussion, Singapore 2024 (it deserves it's own warning we don't care), VCARB bullshit.

AN: Surprise? I think? But yeah. If you knew how long we've wrestled with this, how much we've tried and failed and... This was our white whale. This entire damn moment. And we hope it lives up to hype. Dan and Em's story isn't over yet if people want to hear more. See u soon.♥️

September 2024

In his heart and soul Dan always thought that Em would be the reason he decided to stop fighting for his seat. But he wasn't surprised that Lulu ended up being the straw that broke the camel's back. It wasn't the fact that Red Bull had all but told him he was getting thrown under the bus this weekend. It wasn't that he was fed up of the internal politics. It wasn't even that he didn't trust anyone anymore because they'd told him it was his seat and then ripped it away from him.

It was because his daughter needed her daddy. His family needed him, and on a hot and humid night in Singapore where his daughter just yelled for him it made him decide he wasn't fighting it. It wasn't worth fighting anymore. Luna was the happiest baby in the world, but teething and timezones was taking it out of her. It was putting Em through a toll he never wanted her to pay, exhaustion clear. Her idea of mostly parenting on her own was a good idea on paper, but it was hard. It wasn't just race weekends, it was the weeks before and a few days after too. Dan didn't want her to deal.

The last few weeks had been slow torture. Constant questions about his seat and his future and the lack of answers. He wanted to yell that he'd been promised he'd be in a different garage now, that it was all but confirmed. Instead he'd had that stupid ass meeting, Laurent and Peter genuinely sorry but their hands were tied. He knew they were. He'd seen it on his first merry-go-round in Faenza with Franz, this was the same.

He could take the jabs from the media, the constant "can he still drive?" questioning. He could ignore Jacques and his bullshit in Canada. He was used to it, his skin was thick by now. But it was hurting his wife and his daughter and that shouldn't happen. Emmy was back to being nervous and unsure. He could see the way his wife's confidence was eroding - slowly at first but it'd been faster and faster recently. Lu was unsettled in a way she'd never been before. When you added it all to the teething she was going through it was a mess.

Dan didn't blame his little girl who had no idea what was happening, who kept trying to grab onto him every day and he had to just kiss her head. He couldn't blame his poor wife who was exhausted dealing with Lu and life on the road and making sure Blake and Charlie were doing ok with their news. He blamed himself. He'd promised Lu when she was born that he'd be a present dad, that she'd come first, and he was breaking that promise.

He should be helping Em put Lulu to sleep, reading a story and crooning a lullaby to her against his chest. Instead he was in the comfy bed in their suite, Em and Lulu in the small attached living room. The second Lu had begun to stir with pain in her gums Emmy had gotten up, whisking Lu into the living room to try not disturb Dan. But he was too used to waking up to Lu's movements, to Em getting out of bed. Instead he lay there, part of his pillow over his ears, hating that he wasn't there helping. This time it was even worse, Lulu angrily yelling her favourite word.

"Papa! PAPA!" She yelled as Dan lay there with self loathing through his veins.

"I know you want him baby girl. I know you do, but Papa has to sleep, ok? He's gonna get in the car tomorrow. Just a couple of nights baby girl, I promise. You can have him in a little while, just have to take your medicine." He could barely make out Em's low voice through their daughter's sobs, but her crying never changed. "I know it bothers you baby, I know it does. I know you want Papa and not me, but Daddy needs to go fast tomorrow. We gotta let him get some sleep, baby. I've got you."

"PAAAAAAPPPPAAAAAA!"

Dan couldn't take it any longer. The third time he heard Luna yelling for him he got out of bed, opening the door to find Em standing in the middle of the room, rocking their baby against her chest. Lu's face was trained on the door and the moment she spotted him her tiny arm was out to grab onto him.

"I'm so sorry, babe. She just won't let me help. She doesn't want the painkillers and she won't let me put the gel on to calm her down. I'm trying, but it's a bad night." Em babbled her explanation, looking exhausted and sorry in every possible way. He knew his wife's makeup had been getting thicker and thicker to cover the dark circles that having a teething infant caused, but now her face was clean he could see it. Emmy was the most beautiful woman in the universe to him, but she was tired and he could see she was near breaking point. He didn't care about the deal they'd made, he was breaking it right then and there.

"I've got her, don't worry," Dan murmured as he grabbed under Lulu's arms to fully take her into his. "And don't be sorry, Wrinkles. This isn't your fault."

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Emmy, I'm fine. Go to bed, ok? I've got her. I'll be back when she's asleep."

It said everything to Dan that his wife didn't fight him on this. She was exhausted and worn out, kissing him quickly on the lips before putting another to Lu's forehead and whispering she loved them both before she went to bed. He watched her walk back inside and realisation was thick in his stomach that he was done. He wasn't fighting anymore.

Everyone said that the smallest Ricciardo was every inch her father, but it wasn't quite true. The biggest similarity she had to her mother was that when she was truly upset about something the only one who could calm her down was her dad. Lu was equally in love with both her parents, but the times when all she would do was cry? That was Dan's time to shine with her. It was one of those nights, finally taking the syringe into her mouth for the medication before Dan rubbed teething gel along her teeth. It took another ten minutes for the medication to take effect, her red cheeks lightening and Lu relaxing against his chest. It only took a cuddle and a very out of tune rendition of Pink Pony Club before his daughter was asleep peacefully and with that Dan's decision was made.

This was going to be his last race.

The meeting had been perfunctory. Him and Blake in the room. Emmy would have been too if she was still working with them, but she was being Supermum. Laurent and Peter apologising. That his "performance hadn't been where they wanted it". He knew the truth. Liam would get the two seats he'd been promised, and Optus wasn't as much money as they wanted. He got it, as much as he hated it.

And then getting sent out to the media where everyone fucking knew and he was stuck there laughing and joking. It wasn't even like Nat was there so he could have a friendly face. Of course it was one of the few races she didn't attend.

He'd broken his hand for this team. He'd given them everything. And now he was being sent away because they thought it was past it. It fucking sucked. He'd been a shit husband and an even shittier father for the last seven months for them, and instead he was getting turned out on his ass without so much as a by his leave.

But if this was it? If a humid ass Singapore was his final ever Formula 1 race? He was going to enjoy every moment of it and then get on a flight home to Perth with his wife and daughter. He hadn't told Em yet, hadn't known how to. Blake agreed to not say anything until he had. So he stood carefully from the couch holding the greatest achievement of his life in his arms before putting her back in her crib and getting back into bed.

Emmy was still awake, eyes half open as she looked across at him before Dan slid next to her and pressed his head to her collarbone.

"Lu asleep?"

"Fast asleep. She's had her meds and she's off to dreamland. Baby...I. Fuck. I need to tell you something." He could feel her stiffen, an arm wrapping around and holding him tightly as Dan tried to decide how to tell her, before deciding just to blurt it out. "Sunday's my last race."

"What?" The shock was clear and he looked up to see worry across her face.

"I can't keep fighting it. Got called into a meeting today and they said Sunday's my last one. I'm ready, Emmy. I'm just tired. I'm so tired of fighting and trying and being ignored. I just want you and Lu and to relax." A tear slid down his cheek before another joined it. Saying it out loud made it real. He was so fucking tired all the time. The summer break hadn't really been one because of stress. The only bright spot had been Blake and Charlie's wedding, watching their best friends get married and say their vows together was a joy. But now with Blake not able to travel as much because of Char and the baby it was too much. He didn't want to drive any longer. Driving and racing wasn't the most important thing for him, and that was fine.

"Want me to call everyone? Get your mum and dad out for a goodbye? It's a short flight, they can be on one in the morning."

"I can't." His voice cracked as he spoke, but he couldn't face disappointing his parents again. They'd been in Abu Dhabi for the shit weekend with McLaren and seen how he was. He just couldn't face his mum crying and his dad puffing out his chest and being proud when being fired was nothing to be proud of. None of it was worth it. He'd rather go home and see them. "The guys are here, they came out for the annual trip and to meet the potato princess properly. Having the lads who were there to say goodbye to me in the airport when I moved to Europe for this here at the end feels right, y'know?"

The only noise in the room was Lulu's breathing, Emmy holding him tightly and kissing the top of his head.

"You know if you want to keep going we can. We had a timeline and I'll support whatever decision you make. Don't do this just because of us, ok? I don't want you to regret it." Em's voice was low but Dan shook his head against her chest, feeling the tension drain from him.

"I don't want to. I remember when Seb told me he knew he was done. I'm done. I'm good."

"So we go home then? Try to be a normal family?"

"If that sounds good to you." He could hear the cautious optimism in Em's voice.

"We'll be as normal as a family can be with a go-kart and motocross track in the back garden. But it sounds good to me, Baby. I'm proud of you."

He didn't think he'd sleep that night but he did, feeling Em's arms around him while he slept. He woke up the opposite of refreshed, but ready for the weekend ahead. Keep a grin on his face, pretend it was fine, and then go home. He could do it.

The first job was to tell the guys. Blake got a text asking to come over with Charlie and Steve, and the lads got one to come over twenty minutes later. It felt impossible and tough but he had to do it. He had to tell them.

Watching his best mate and wife come into the suite with Steve right behind them just made it crystalise that it was the right decision. Charlie was showing, a little bump already visible that she kept a hand on at all times. He couldn't wait for them to have their baby, and he didn't want to make them travel with an infant. This he could fix at least.

"What's up? What's going on?" Charlie looked from him to Em and back again, red painted lips frowning. "I'm worried about you, is Lu ok?"

"Lulu's fine. She's asleep, I'm gonna get her up in a few minutes." Dan took Emmy's hand as she spoke, running his thumb along her knuckles. Taking a deep breath he just said it.

"Sunday is my last race. Laurent and Peter told me yesterday."

There was consternation, there were arguments, but Blake knew him too well and knew he was done. His best mate gave him a hug and promised that he was proud, Charlie following suit. Em kept a hold of his hand as he spoke, watching them all. It was really happening. He was retiring.

He'd never thought he'd be retired at 35. That sounded fucking insane, retired at 35 years old. His dad was twice his age and wasn't retired. But this was his chance to go enjoy being a dad and a husband. To finally give Emmy everything he'd promised her for their year off that she gave up.

Telling the guys was easier now he'd said it once. It was asking if he was sure and giving him and Em a hug. Lulu was awake by then and excited by everyone who was in the room, giggling and bubbly compared to how sore she was the night before. It felt like another sign of how this was right. He was making the right call.

On the way to the track he held Em's hand as he drove, Lu in her car seat in the back. He got this. It'd be fine.

---

Em watched her husband as he did what he always did, grinning and answering media questions as if their hearts weren't breaking. She kept to herself, only speaking to Pierre and the mechanics from the team. Peter had tried coming over to her, but one look made him stop, nod, and turn away. She wouldn't have held her tongue if he'd spoken to her.

At least Grace and Joe were on the way. Dan had said no, but she knew full well he'd want them there when he got out of the car. Blake had organised a charter to keep it hidden, Cal and Ryder getting on the plane too. They were due to land after FP2, meeting them in the hotel. Grace had promised that she was looking after Lulu even with the teething. Em couldn't be thankful enough for her parents in law who loved her with every fibre of their being.

She knew she'd lost weight. Her belts were pulled tighter, tshirts looser. It happened whenever she was stressed. She stopped eating and lost weight and she'd just hoped she could last until the end of the season. She was barely even breastfeeding Lu anymore, relying on formula and the purees and baby food her daughter had started eating so she didn't have to force herself to eat to feed their daughter. She knew the thoughts were bad and she should have said something, but she couldn't.

A horrible, bitter part of her was delighted that Dan wasn't racing after this weekend. She hated that piece of her so much. She truly wanted her husband to do what he loved and be happy but she couldn't deal with it any longer. Even a smaller series would be better. It wasn't not trusting Dan in the car - Em trusted every single inch of him - but it was the media. The world was invested in knowing everything about who she was and who their daughter was and she couldn't cope much longer with it. She was used to the media. Dan had inadvertently signed up for it. She sort of knew what she was getting into. Lulu didn't have a choice in any of this. She was born into it and that wasn't right.

All Emma wished for was that Dan had made the decision and it hadn't been forced on him.

Blake stood beside her for every session, Steve on the other side of her. Even when she'd sworn to never trust anyone the way she'd trusted Michael after how he'd hurt them, Steven had just wormed his way into her heart. She trusted him with all of her and her family and he understood how careful that was for her. So she stood for the final Friday with the blue earphones on her head as she listened to Dan and Pierre.

Keeping the secret from Dan that everyone was on their way felt impossible. Michelle and her family couldn't come but she'd promised Em they'd be at the airport to see them all home when they arrived in Perth. Instead Em focused on their daughter and making sure Lu took the baby painkillers which stopped her from sobbing as much.

When they arrived into the suite the lights were on, Joe and Grace sitting on the couch there. Em watched as Dan stopped still, staring at them for a moment.

"Mama? Dad?" He sounded like a child and it barely took a moment for him to reach out to clutch them. Em closed the door behind them and took Lu out of her carrier as Dan held his parents. A sob emerged from her husband and she watched as Grace somehow got him to the couch while Joe came over to take Lu.

"We'll head in the bedroom, yeah? Give them a minute." It was easy to follow her father in law into the other room and sit on the edge of the bed while he followed suit, waving at Lulu who smiled with a drooly grin. "She's teething?"

"Yeah. Had a meltdown last night with it. I don't even know how she's smiling with how she was."

"Cause she was probably picking up on Dan's tension. How are you doing with everything? It's a big change." Em sighed and twisted her wedding and engagement rings around on her finger.

"Part of me is happy? Just to be out of the circus. But he doesn't deserve this. They're not even giving him Austin, Joe. That kills me. We've the pop up ready to go and he won't be there." The unfairness of it all hurt. The Longhorns helmet ready to go for Austin, Dan already plotting his facial hair for it. Christian's smarmy looking after Dan. The as good as signed contract after Spa and the celebration. And then nothing. From getting the Red Bull seat to unemployed in three races. The idea of Max's reaction made her smile a little.

"Who knows?"

"The heads, Liam, Blake, Charlie, Steve, and the guys. Dan's telling his mechanics after the race. He doesn't want people to know it's his last race, he just wants to do it and we'll go home." Joe put a hand over Em's, stilling her anxious movements.

"Take a breath, Emmy. We've got you, Sweetheart. We've got you and Danny and Luna. I promise. You don't have to be the strong one here. Let us support you."

"I'm just so angry." Her anger dissolved into tears as she leaned against Joe and cried. Anger for their dreams. Anger for their plans. Anger that they didn't have the good grace to let him finish the year. Anger that they didn't just get rid of him in the summer. It hurt her heart in all the wrong places and she couldn't help but sob it out. Joe's arm went around her shoulders and rubbed her arm, and she could feel him whispering to her as she cried.

"It's my fault." The words were quiet as her sobs lessened, Em needing to get it out. "It's my fault the start of the season was so bad. How was he supposed to do a better job racing when he had a newborn daughter and a mess of a wife? I couldn't remember anything. I left our hotel keys behind us before. He had to fix all that, of course it made his work harder."

"Why didn't you tell us? We could have helped." The kind words made the guilt thicker in Em's throat, swallowing to get the words out.

"Cause I felt awful. I've always relied on my brain and it kept betraying me. It's better now, but when I was pregnant and after having Lu it was so so hard. I was a bad mum."

"Grace was like that after she had the kids. Especially Chelle. One day she called me from the neighbours in tears because she walked out without her keys while four month old Chelle was in her crib. It's not your fault Emmy. I promise. Everyone goes through it. It doesn't make you a bad mum, it makes you human. And if Danny didn't help you I'd kill him for not. I promise he doesn't blame you."

"I just want to go home, Dad." The guilt surged through her as she spoke. "I want to go home. I want to be at home on the farm and just be a mum and a wife and watch Lu there. I want her to grow up with family the way I never did."

"Then we're gonna go do that." Joe was soft, supporting Em as his words fixed in her mind. Going home. Home.

"What if Dan doesn't want to?" It was the biggest fear she had. Dan not wanting to go home, wanting to stay travelling the world.

"He wants you to be happy. We'll have the three of you back home, and Lu can have the time of her life with good parents and the family she's got. You're such a good mum to her, Emmy. She's so loved. And we're proud of you for it. I know how hard it's been and you're so good at it. Maybe we don't tell you enough."

"You do." Every phone call they said it. But her brain just hated the thought, didn't believe it often. She still struggled. "Just my ridiculous brain not believing you."

"You still in therapy?" Joe's voice was quiet as Lulu moved in her crib.

"Yeah. Twice a week on bad weeks." Mildred was truly a godsend for her.

"Still taking your medication?"

"Mmmhm." The tiny pills she took every morning with her multivitamin and the smoothie Dan made her. She hated them but they helped. It was worth it. "Psychiatrist every month. Plus blood tests every month too. We upped my dose last month. Plus he...he gave me a diagnosis. PTSD. I didn't think that happened to people who didn't deal with war."

"It happens to people who deal with hard things. You spent all that time trying to protect yourself, you didn't have anyone to help you. Now you do, kiddo. You're doing a good job, sweetheart. I promise. When we all head home how about you and Dan and Lu stay with us for a week? Let us look after you." The smile in his voice was clear and Em looked up at him, a watery smile spreading on her cheeks.

"I'd like that."

"Even parents need parents. C'mon and I'll tuck you in and send that husband of yours in. The two of you need sleep, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. I don't remember the last time someone looked after me like this." She hugged her father in law tightly before Joe pulled the covers back on the bed, helping her in and covering her up. It was a kiss to her forehead and Em could feel sleep overtaking her, the stress weighing on her finally starting to disappear.

She woke up too early the next day to her husband wrapped around her, a noise from the end of their bed startling her slightly as she went to get up.

"Just me, Emmy. I can hear my smallest grandbaby mumbling, getting her some fresh teething gel. Go back to sleep, baby." Grace's hand ran over her arm as Em lay back against Dan, letting sleep come over her again.

Their alarm went off too early, Em stretching against Dan and kissing him before slipping from bed. The anguish and despair from the night before had turned back to anger at Laurent and Peter for what they'd done. At Marko and his bullshit. At Horner and his lies. So instead of getting comfy, Em prepared for war.

A hot shower and putting on clothes that made her feel good, mixed with the pair of patent leather wedge heels that came around the world with her as a just in case pair of shoes. Every single thing she wore - from the lavender underwear to the navy blue jeans - were gifts from her husband. Her jewellery was classy, understated, and gifts from him too. The world thought of her as his wife, and she was going to play the part in this meeting. And take VCARB for what she could get.

She changed from this armoured woman to a melt in a blink, Lu reaching over for a cuddle from her mum. Em's lipstick left a pink sheen against her cheeks, Lu grinning at the unusual feeling and grasping dark brown strands before Em untangled her hair from her daughter.

Dan raised an eyebrow at the makeup she wore, fully aware why she was doing it. Two hours before practice was the meeting that all three of them would be in - her, Dan, and Blake. Just Blake was doing the final meeting with Red Bull, but they both wanted her in there for this one.

Sitting in the small office as the F1Academy cars trundled around on track, Em sat straight up. Laurent looked at them, but before he could speak she opened her mouth.

"I get the realities of this sport. I've been around here for long enough, and I'm not a stupid woman. I also know Horner won't show his face in this meeting. But promising Daniel that seat and taking it away? It's disgraceful. And now you're kicking him out because you're too afraid to upset a billionaire and you're dragging my husband's name through the mud." Her heart was thundering as she spoke, Dan's hand on her thigh.

"Emma-" Peter began to speak, a cajoling tone as he said her name but she wouldn't take it.

"No. Don't you dare 'Emma' me. You know very well what you're doing and the things you're saying. And you know what you promised him, and you promised me. Last year in Silverstone, Peter. You looked at me and you told me you wouldn't treat him like McLaren, but you ended up being even worse than them." The words hit where she wanted them to and she could see the shock on his face.

"We're no-"

"For all the bullshit with Zak, he never said he was happy with his performance. Never. You did."

"We were." Laurent tried to cut in but Em wouldn't let him.

"Stop lying. I highly doubt you have any right now, but if you have any dignity at all please stop lying. Not only to my face, but to my husband's face." She could feel the way Blake stiffened beside her but he didn't cut her off, letting her keep her nerve. She knew if she stopped she wouldn't speak again.

"Emma we were. There were circumstances be-"

"Circumstances like what? A cracked chassis? Red Bull being worse than Alpine at contracts? I know the situation, and you want to get out of here with some reputation intact. No fuss. No big show, no announcement. Retirement announced on Wednesday so we can be at home and away from the bullshit."

"We were planning a-"

"No." Her voice was firm. If they were firing her husband she wasn't letting them use him as a show pony again.

"But we thought-"

"No. You don't get to decide my husband's career. It's over. Dan is making an Instagram post on Wednesday. You can do whatever you want, but we don't want any fuss, no nothing. If you had the decency to let him finish out the year then this would be a very different conversation, but now I don't want to hear those plans. We're doing this our way." She took a slow breath as she tried to hide her anxiety. That stupid feeling of anger and fear filled her as she breathed it out. This was for Dan. His hand squeezing her thigh slowly was a reminder that she was doing the right thing.

"Daniel, are you not going to speak?" She could tell as Dan took a breath before he responded.

"Em is saying exactly what I'd say, except a hell of a lot nicer than I would. Why the fuck would I want to do donuts in Singapore when there's six races left. I'm getting the helmet I had ready for Abu Dhabi flown in so I can use it." The conversation was going nowhere and she was done. This was pointless. Before she could speak Blake did and she was so happy he knew her so well.

"Since you clearly have no power here I'm discussing the buyout with Red Bull. But things are happening the way Emma said. Dan's right, you're lucky she's the one speaking in this meeting because she's being way nicer than you cunts deserve right now."

"Blake, we can-"

"Anything else you want to say Em?"

She took a deep breath, looking at the two men. For the first time she could see guilt in their eyes, but she couldn't care anymore.

"You made us a promise. And I know in F1 that promises aren't always kept, but you didn't have to lie to us. We're all fucking adults here. We won't speak badly about the team as long as you all keep Daniel's name out of your mouths. Including Helmut. And before you say you can't do it, that's what's going to happen. If he starts criticising we can talk."

When she finished speaking she stood, her husband and brother walking back with her. They made it back to Dan's driver room and the three of them hid in it. Quiet for just a moment was what they needed before Blake spoke.

"Most of the contract is organised. No ambassador role, no sponsorship. Full payout for two years. It's me and Horner, and I've enough fucking dirt on him to bury him. We promised no lawyers in the room. Anything else you want?"

"Silverstone replica." Em's voice was low but she swallowed and said it again. "His ninth win. Silverstone. He did that in that car. Dan. Same way we got the Monza one?"

"Got it covered, Timmy. Promise."

The silence was still with them before Dan's sigh broke it. "I was in his fucking wedding. I hate this. I hate all of it. It just hurts."

She turned on the small sofa to face him, legs hooking over Dan's lap. "We do this. You get through practice and quali and then we go hug our baby girl and be loved by our friends and family, ok? You've got this. I promise you can do it."

It hurt to watch Blake walk out the door, and it hurt for Em to have to leave the room to let Dan and Steve get him ready for practice. But she did what she had to do, standing up and going down to the garage. Em knew the cameras would be on her, and she had to pretend nothing was happening. So she did.

Qualifying was painful. She held her head up high and watched as Dan was barely caught out, Pierre turning his head and mouthing his apologies to her. It wasn't Pierre's fault. She wouldn't blame him. He'd been nothing but supportive and friendly to them, making Lulu grin when he came over to wave at her and treat her like his own niece. She knew she could rely on him.

That evening as the paddock emptied out the three of them snuck into the garage. It was just them, a couple of lights on in the garage. One of the first photos they had was of Lu sitting on the car, and she wanted one of the three of them with it. This was real. Her husband had driven in over 250 Formula One Grands Prix. He'd scored points. He'd run the Mercedes domination close in a car that shouldn't have. They'd travelled the world with their infant daughter and she needed proof that it was real.

As Dan went to set up the small tripod he'd brought with him, a movement startled Em. Stepping out from one of the aisles was Pierre, a frown on his face as he took in the sight in front of him.

"It's true, then? I didn't want to believe the rumours. It isn't right." She could see the dismay on his face, barely nodding while trying to keep her composure. Dan stood and nodded, the engineer walking over and wrapping Dan in a hug. When they separated, he came over and kissed Em's cheek, placing one on Lulu's forehead too.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I'm so sorry." It was the first apology she'd received from anyone in the entire team that actually felt sincere.

"Thank you. Pierre, can you do us a favour? We wanted a photo of the three of us. Could you?" He smiled and nodded, taking Dan's Leica from his hands and getting them to stand and smile. The flash went off and it healed a piece of her battered heart. Even in the bullshit, here was someone who had loved her husband and cared about her. That was special.

They thought the hotel suite would be quiet when they got back, but instead everyone was there. There was a takeout feast spread out across the table, Dan's arm keeping Em upright as she saw all of their loved ones there. Dan's family, their friends, Blake and Charlie, Charlie's brother Cal and his boyfriend. All there to support Dan because he was their Dan too. It was a room filled with love and she was so happy to have them even under such awful circumstances.

When they'd all finally sat down Charlie held her arm out, pulling Em into a side hug and kissing her temple. They'd barely spent time together this weekend, Em's world revolving around finalities. But her best friend was still there, holding her and that meant everything.

"Love you Ems." Charlie whispered, before lowering her ear to Lu. "And you too, Miss Lulu. Come here and let your parents eat. I've got her."

"Morning sickness bad?" Em asked as she watched her daughter settle easily.

"All day sickness. It's ok. But I've been eating all day I can't face a proper meal. I'll eat later, Blake will make me." She grinned wickedly before picking at some chips on the table, making Em smile back. God she was lucky.

The atmosphere started forced, but it lightened as conversations began. Dan kept his hand on Em's thigh and she could feel the pressure lighten as he relaxed too, chatting with Cal and introducing him to the rest of their friends. It was what she needed, just to be calm and unwind and feel the love that surrounded them. Nearly everyone at the table knew them before they were Dan and Em. Knew Dan before he was Daniel Ricciardo. They had all of this to look forward to as some of the guys played peekaboo with Lulu, making her grin and wave at them.

As everyone left the room hugs were exchanged, Em watching as Cal and Ryder hugged Dan. She could barely hear the words exchanged, but they filled her heart to overflowing as she strained to hear.

"Why the fuck did you two cunts come all the way here?" Dan asked, cursing hiding the nerves.

"Because I wanted to support you." Cal's honesty was quick and easy. "I told you when we met. You made me love racing. And now I get to call you my friend too. I want to be here to support my friend and my hero, I get to do both at the same time."

Tears were shed as his words sank in, Dan clutching the younger men in a hug before letting them go. It was heartbreaking and hopeful. He'd really, really changed lives. He'd inspired kids. That...that meant something. It really did.

Em watched her husband get into bed first, holding his arms out for a half asleep Luna. Lu stirred slightly as she got comfortable, watching Dan with curious brown eyes. She was growing into her face, a Ricciardo more and more every day. Once Em put her stretched out Race Service shirt on she crawled in beside Dan, her book in her hand. His arm wrapped around her as she got comfy and began to read out loud to her babes.

"Chapter One. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole. And that meant comfort."

As she read her husband and daughter to sleep, even with the confusion around them, Em relaxed beside them. They were her comfort, and they'd get through it all.

If she was honest, Em barely remembered the race. She knew all of Dan's friends were around them, sandwiching her and holding her up when she just felt sick the entire time. She remembered the roars they let out when he had his pitstop, the confusion on that final lap stop and the realisation that it was to take fastest lap from Lando. Watching him do it to perfection, showing that even when he was down he wasn't out. And that final message the feed shared, Max saying he owed Dan a Christmas present.

It was done. Her husband's final Formula One race, coming last and hopefully helping Max win his fourth championship. He'd done it. Two hundred and fifty eight races. Nine race wins. Four pole positions. He'd won Monaco, Silverstone, and seven other tracks. She was forever proud of all he'd accomplished. She always would be. The way it was ending was undignified and heartbreaking, but he was her Danny. Her boy from the Perth suburbs had fought and had an eleven year career in the sport that chewed up and spat people out too easily. She couldn't be happier for him.

The walk back to hospitality was short, everyone there surrounding her and buoying her spirits. Em just let their words wash over her, delight in that even with what had happened, this was what mattered. That right here were people who loved her and Dan and their daughter. No matter what, they would always have that.

Seeing Charlie's brother made her want to cry, the younger man looking bittersweet. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling into a hug.

"I'm so glad you both made it. Seriously. It's wonderful." He smiled at her words, nodding and watching the scenes as people started packing up.

"You ok?"

"We will be." And it was the truth. Dan would come back after media, after having to deal with ridiculous tributes to a career that everyone knew was dead and buried but couldn't fully admit it yet. He'd arrive back and be loved by all of them, and they'd go back to the hotel. And in the morning they'd organised a plane for everyone to head back to Perth together. There'd be family waiting at the airport and then it was to Grace and Joe's for a few days to be looked after. Phones off, family time.

Finally back with everyone Grace handed her Luna, half awake and happy that her mama was there with her. Lulu just wanted a giant cuddle from her mother, held tightly and confused at being up so late, but loving all the new uncles she'd gotten to know. The guys had all talked about Lu meeting their kids, being part of the gang that now came to every formerly drunken barbecue that had kids toys and bottles of milk instead of vodka. It was a new life for them, but it'd be a good one. Em knew it would be.

"He's coming, c'mon!" It was Joe who nudged her out of her thoughts, pulling Em up with Lu in her arms as the group ran outside hospitality to welcome Dan back for the final time.

Em stood there cheering, Lulu against her not knowing what was going on but yelling just as loudly. The moment she realised it was for her dad she got extra excited, a kiss against their daughter's head the final thing Dan did before going inside. Instead of going in Em stood there in the Singapore heat, looking around. It was over. They were done.

"Pass her over to uncle Blake?" Em turned to where her affectionately nicknamed Tall Blake was, holding out his arms to take Lulu. She'd been passed around Dan's friends and their family all weekend, the men taking turns to tire her out. She didn't know what she'd have done without them there to help and make things easier.

"I think she's about ready for bed."

"Perfect. Charlie's tired too, so we were talking to her and Steve. The group of us are gonna leave with Lu and head back to the hotel. You and Dan and Blake stay here as long as you need, soak it in. He knows we're all so fucking proud of him, right?"

"He knows." Em blinked back her tears, grinning and kissing Lu's cheek. "We all know. Thanks for being here. We needed people."

"Any fucking time, you know that. We all adore him."

Em hugged everyone goodbye, waving to an already napping Lulu. They were so goddamn lucky that even on a day filled with sadness and awfulness that they were so loved. That somehow her little family was filled with all these people who adored them and took her in and let her just be. It meant the world.

It was a slow walk upstairs, nodding at Dan's mechanics. They and Pierre had always, always been on his side and she couldn't thank them enough. She couldn't be grateful enough that even with the bullshit they were there and supporting them. But she finally made it up, knocking on the door and going inside. The room felt empty, the photos on the wall gone. Just blank walls and Dan's backpack sitting on a table.

"Where's Lu?" Her husband's first words are as he reached out and pulled her into his lap.

"With Char and everyone. They've all gone back to the hotel, told me to tell you to soak everything in and they're proud of you. We love you."

"Love you too."

"It's over, Memy. It's actually over. I didn't think..." His voice trailed off and Em just leaned against him as she felt the tension leave Dan's body.

"Do I want to know how you feel?"

"Worn out. Won't sink in till the announcement I reckon. But I don't want to leave yet."

"Then we can stay."

She watched Dan get changed in near silence, his pink helmet from the race sitting on the small table. The little symbols that told their story - a lemon, water, the sun. A paper plane. A bow for Lu, a pair of glasses for Blake and Charlie's red lipstick immortalised. The tiniest pair of blue booties hidden in the design for their still cooking godson. There were so many tiny references in it that she loved as she'd watched Dan design it and get the references just right. He handed the still slightly damp one to her as she watched him pull the spare out, writing on the tearoff and turning it for her to see.

Pierre - what a damn run, eh? Sorry for breaking my hand and not getting a podium for us. Thank you for everything you've done for me and welcoming me, and merci for not punishing my awful French. Second best engineer I've ever had. Love - Daniel

The first tear fell as she read the message he'd left for Pierre, Em grinning through it. She wouldn't change it. Even with everything that had happened, even with the hardship and difficulty and pain and frustration. She couldn't change it because that would make it not what they'd lived. It'd make it fake.

It wasn't the only message she'd watched him write that weekend. One for Steve, one for Blake and Charlie. His race worn one was going on their helmet wall, the final piece of the design.

The door opened, Blake coming in with a smile on his face. It was the three of them together in the end. Standing in a tiny driver's room, looking at each other.

"Got it all. The Silverstone trophy's being delivered next week. All of it."

It was a hug for her big brother and a gasped thank you as Em forced all the love and thanks and grace she had left in her body to him, determined to make him feel it. He'd done it and gotten Dan what he deserved in the midst of a shit situation, and that was another silver lining. She could deal with all of this.

"Where is everything?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "The photos, Lu's stuff? all your stuff?"

"I got Char to do it during the race. It's all packed away neatly to unpack at home. I couldn't do it, Emmy. I couldn't watch you do it." She held his hand as Dan pulled her back to him, the three of them sitting on a too small couch as they waited for everyone to be ready to leave. The paddock was emptying, getting quieter and quieter as they listened.

"I think I'm ready." Dan broke the silence, his bag in his hand. This was it. The final walk.

So Emma Ricciardo took her husband's hand and walked out of the Singapore Grand Prix paddock beside him. Just before they stepped outside she took one final look back at the lights, at the nearly empty area now most of the staff had gone home.

"Any regrets?" Blake asked the two of them. She knew Dan's - not staying at Red Bull to fight. Not winning a championship. Being too loyal and not moving to Mercedes. But her? She wouldn't have changed it. She paid the highest possible price, but she'd gotten everything she'd dreamed of.

"I got my husband, my daughter, and my brother from this. It's worth the trade."

And with a final beep as she scanned her pass, Em left the paddock.

Taglist

@dr3lover @sabrinaselina55 @majx00 @tall-tanned-tattoo @lovingdennishauger @lauehr @msolbesg @f1medlife @idkwtfimdoing2 @leclercsbae @hiphopdancer101universe @mehrmonga @lewispool @saintandrea-droidsmuggler @coldheartedmar @sugarbabygirlofdaddy @nonsensical-nonce @a-distantdreamer @tita010 @leslizzle @javden @mloyer @saintandrea-droidsmuggler @magical-imagination-kgp @danarysstormborn @kakorrhaphiphobia @g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e @elizanav @neiich @luckyladycreator2 @scotlynaurora @belledawnidk

44 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 2 days ago

Note

oscar (if i’m remembering correctly he’s mango on your list!); SMAU (if you do them) with a dallas cowboys cheerleader reader (maybe they like met at COTA since the dcc perform there)!

CUPID PIASTRI

Oscar Piastri x Dallas Cowboys cheerleader!reader Summary: Hattie's fanatism leads to Oscar meeting the love of his life. Request!, fem! reader, SMAU! , face clain: Reece Weaver. Tried to make the story with them meeting at COTA but i saw in reece's insta that she went to the miami gp so i tought: "this is perfect, lets change it" im sorry tho. I love Hattie so I needed to use her for this, she's me and I'm her. It's my first ever smau so I tried my best, i think it's a bit short 🫠

masterlist

hattiepiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri and more

caption: last week of april done, americas sweethears is the only thing keeping me entertained right now...

user1 idkw but hattie watching the documentary about the Dallas cowboys' cheerleaders makes so much sense

user2 hattie i love you please say hi ❤️

user3 will you be going to the next gp??

oscarpiastri stop watching netflix you ipad kid

hattiepiastri NEVER

ynusername

liked by hattiepiastri and more

caption:

user4 hattie in the likes she must really like the netflix show

hattiepiastri she could step on my face and i wouldn't complain

user5 someone has a crush hattiepiastri oh im not the one with the crush

user6 yn is so goddamm beautiful she doesnt look real at all

user7 she's so talented and so beautiful i want to be her

oscarpiastri

liked by landonorris, mclaren and more

caption: Tidy few days. Ready for Miami!

mclaren what a race

user8 the man you are oscar

user9 this years world champion! 🏆

hattiepiastri promise to bring me to the next race 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

oscarpiastri no??? hattiepiastri the hell you mean no

ynusername

liked by hattiepiastri, oscarpiastri and more

caption: Pit stops and palm trees🌴🏁🩵

hattiepiastri finally met yn but my stupid brother got in the way

user10 so oscar did take you to the gp user11 wdym got in the way?

user12 OSCAR IN THE LIKES

user13 god forbid a man who's just being polite with the girl he just met user14 no girl, that is not just being polite he likes her user15 but he is not following her so everything is fine user16 tf???

user17 queen is at miami

marissaphillips_ you are trully the cutest! liked by author

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren, ynusername and more

caption: Good vibes in the 305

ynusername congrats!! liked by author

user17 GUYS THIS IS NOT A SIMULATION THE INTERACTION IS HAPPENING

user18 he dedicated the win to hattie 🥺

hattiepiastri you did decent, not enough to impress someone 🫤

user19 does that someone have a name? user20 love their sibling interactions

user21 the papaya boys winning in miami for two consecutive years 🧡🧡🧡

hattiepiastri

liked by oscarpiastri and more

caption: they call me cupid

oscarpiastri no one calls you that

hattiepiastri YOU should user22 guys what is happening user23 hattie im waiting for a storytime tiktok user24 is this about oscar and yn??

two months after

five months after

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and more

caption: what a week

user25 guys GUYS THAT. IS. OSCAR.

user26 no he isn't user27 girl u blind?? user28 they don't even follow each other

user29 i have no idea of football but i could watch the cheerleaders' performances over and over again without getting bored

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, hattiepiastry and more

oscarpiastri has tagged ynusername

caption: sorry, forgot about the follow button

ynusername ily osc 💞 liked by author

user30 oh, to be loved by oscar piastri user31 to be loved by yn wdym

hattiepiastri you're welcome

user32 idk if i want to be her or i want to be with her

user33 its giving pr relationship

user34 stfu 🤗

user34 this man loves his woman

user35 may this love attack me.

user36 the hardlaunch????

1K notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 2 days ago

Text

He Loves You Like I Do

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

It was subtle at first.

Little signs that your son, barely past his first birthday, had already chosen you as his favorite person in the entire universe.

Not that Charles minded. Okay, maybe he did. A little.

Because this morning, for the fourth time in a row, your baby reached for you and only you — refusing his papa’s open arms with a frown and a pitiful whimper that said How dare you not be holding me, Mama?

Charles stood there in his Ferrari hoodie, hair messy from sleep, watching his mini-me bury his face in your neck like he’d been gone from you for years — when you’d literally just gone to the bathroom.

You looked up and gave Charles a knowing look, whispering behind the baby’s ear, “He missed me.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “He saw you three minutes ago, amour.”

“I know,” you smiled, running a gentle hand over your son’s curls. “But that’s like… a decade in baby time.”

Your son turned to glance at Charles, wide green eyes blinking, cheeks squished against your shoulder.

“Papa,” Charles said softly, trying again, holding out his arms. “Come here, mon petit. Papa missed you.”

The baby didn’t even move.

He looked back at Charles. Considered it. Then shook his head with all the sass of a toddler who knew his power.

Charles pressed a hand to his heart. “Oof. That one hurt.”

You were laughing now, rocking your son side to side. “Maybe he just needs some mama time.”

“You said that yesterday,” Charles mumbled, though his eyes were full of love as he stepped closer, brushing his fingers along your arm. “And the day before.”

“I think he’s a mama’s boy,” you whispered proudly, kissing the top of your son's head.

Charles leaned down and kissed you.

“I don’t blame him,” he said, voice low. “I fell for you the same way.”

Your son giggled — a real belly laugh — and Charles’ eyes softened. He could be jealous all he wanted, but nothing, nothing, beat the sound of his family like this.

Charles wrapped an arm around both of you, whispering in mock seriousness, “I’ll win him back. I’ll bribe him with chocolate when you’re not looking.”

“You’ll be the reason he needs a dentist by two.”

“Then I’ll pay for the dentist.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, but your son suddenly reached one chubby hand toward Charles’ face, patting his cheek softly — the smallest of apologies. Then, with no warning, he leaned out of your arms… and into Charles’.

Charles caught him mid-air, stunned but thrilled, holding him tightly.

“Well,” he grinned, looking at you. “That only took a week of rejection.”

Your son snuggled into his chest this time, blinking up at him, one tiny thumb in his mouth.

And Charles, swaying both of you gently, whispered like a secret:

“He loves you just like I do.”

This was Requested.🫶🏼

2K notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 3 days ago

Text

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

2K notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 3 days ago

Text

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆ Bambi ⊹₊ ⋆｡˚

dad!bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff and humour, established relationship (marriage), parenthood, girl dad bucky, the new avengers (post thunderbolts*), auntie yelena, alexei shenanigans… and bob is an ipad kid.

summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!

word count: 2275

A/N: kinda inspired by this fic written by @buckysleftbicep (absolutely loved it) so everyone go check it out right now!! Posting fluff in celebration of reaching 1k followers!

The moment you step into Avengers Tower, your daughter’s tiny hand wrapped in yours and her beloved deer plush tucked under her arm, you brace yourself.

Not for an attack. Not for a mission.

But for them.

Yelena’s the first to spot you from across the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her boots on the coffee table, casually eating pickles out of the jar like it’s an Olympic sport. Her eyes light up instantly.

“You brought the gremlin,” she says, hopping over the back of the couch like it owes her money. “Finally.”

Your daughter perks up at the voice and lets go of your hand, wobble-running straight into Yelena’s legs. “Lena!”

Yelena scoops her up with practiced ease, already spinning her like a pizza. “You’re taller than last time. What are they feeding you, huh? Dinosaur nuggets? Uncrustables?”

You smile, brushing hair from your face. “Babysitter called in sick. Bucky’s off running recon with Ava and John. It was either bring her with me or let Alpine babysit.”

Yelena shrugs. “Cat would’ve done a decent job.”

But before you can respond, a voice bellows from across the room like thunder cracking through a storm.

“OH MY GOD.”

You freeze.

“THERE IS A CHILD.”

Alexei appears like a bear-sized ghost from around the corner, eyes wide, beard fluffed, hands halfway to the sky in pure dramatics.

“She is real! You made her!” he gasps, pointing between you and your daughter like he’s just discovered human biology. “You and Barnes! You spawned!”

Your daughter clutches tighter to Yelena’s neck, blinking slowly. “…Who’s that?”

“That’s Uncle Alexei, baby,” Yelena mutters, clearly second-guessing every life choice.

“Uncle?” Alexei gasps, one hand pressed to his heart. “She called me uncle? Did you hear that? She has taste.”

“She didn’t call you anything, actually,” you say dryly.

He ignores you, kneeling down like he’s approaching a skittish woodland creature. “Little one. What is your name?”

Your daughter snuggles further into Yelena’s shoulder, unsure.

Yelena whispers it to him.

Alexei lights up. “Beautiful. Like tiny ballerina-slash-assassin.”

Then he spots the plushie.

His jaw drops. “Is that… a deer?!”

She nods.

He gasps. “A baby deer,” he glances directly at you. “You brought Bambi to the Tower. Look at this! I will call her Bambi forever now. This is perfect.”

You groan. “Her name is not Bambi.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexei says with utter seriousness. “Her superhero name is Bambi now.” He looks at the plush deer again, as if he needs confirmation. “This is Bambi. Your child… she is Bambi.”

“Why are you like this?”

The elevator dings softly behind you. Bob steps out, hugging a datapad to his chest, eyes flicking up—and stopping cold at the sight of a tiny human standing in the middle of the room surrounded by chaos.

He freezes like he just walked into the wrong universe.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Alexei scoops your daughter’s plush out of her hands (gently, somehow) and holds it up like a prize. “The deer has arrived.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny, distressed “Nooo!” and Yelena sighs, prying it back and handing it to her. She immediately clutches it to her chest, pouting.

Alexei melts. “She loves it. Look at the loyalty. I respect it. She will be a warrior.”

“She’s three,” you say.

“And already wiser than John,” Bob mutters, sliding onto the couch and giving your daughter a gentle wave. “Hi… I’m Bob.”

Bob offers a cautious smile from his corner of the couch, clearly doing mental math on how to interact with a three-year-old while holding a fragile datapad full of intel. “Is that your deer?” he asks gently.

Your daughter nods, eyes wide but curious.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates, glances at you, then whispers, “Bambi.”

You sigh. Yelena smirks. Alexei fist-pumps like his soul just ascended.

“Haha! See?! Bambi!”

“She only said that because you pressured her!” you argue.

Alexei ignores you completely, now crouching beside Bob like they’re co-conspirators. “This changes everything. We must get her a cape.”

Bob blinks. “Wait, for the deer or…?”

“Yes.”

Before you can intervene, your daughter climbs out of Yelena’s lap and toddles unsteadily across the rug, her tiny socks making her slide a little on the hardwood. She waddles straight up to Bob and shyly offers him the plush deer for inspection.

Bob stares, caught completely off-guard. Slowly, reverently, he reaches out and pokes it once, like he’s been offered something sacred.

“She trusts you,” Yelena says with a smirk. “You’ve been chosen.”

Alexei claps him on the back. “Welcome to the Uncle Club.”

Bob pales. “I—I didn’t sign up for that—”

“Too late,” Yelena and Alexei say in unison.

You step in before your daughter hands over her entire soul to the team. “Alright, Bambi’s gotta go with me to the debriefing room for a bit. She’s quiet during meetings, I swear.”

“Wait, she’s sitting in?” Bob asks, blinking.

“She can’t stay here,” you whisper. “He’s already planning her costume reveal.” You point at Alexei as you roll your eyes.

Alexei winks. “Tiny leather jacket. I know a guy.”

You hoist your daughter up, her head instantly finding your shoulder, deer tucked between you. She’s calm now, observing the chaos like she’s already used to it—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Yelena holds the elevator door open for you. “Want me to come with?”

You smile gratefully. “Please.”

Bob waves. “Bye, Bambi.”

Alexei bows. “We will train in the art of war when you return.”

Your daughter yawns.

“Yeah,” Yelena mutters, smirking. “She’s terrified.”

As the elevator doors slide shut, you glance down at the sleepy toddler in your arms and murmur, “She kind of is ruling the tower right now.”

Yelena chuckles beside you, hands in her pockets. “Please. Alexei is probably already imagining her leading The New New Avengers.”

———

The common room is unusually quiet.

Which, considering who lives here, means there are only three simultaneous conversations instead of seven, and no one’s actively throwing knives at the wall.

You’re curled up on the far couch with a warm mug of coffee tucked in your hands, your legs folded under you, eyes tracking the scene in front of you with the kind of resigned affection that only comes from parenting amidst chaos.

Your daughter is sitting cross-legged on the rug, her beloved deer plush nestled in her lap, while Bob sits beside her like he’s attending a high-stakes diplomatic summit. His tablet is open, and he’s very seriously showing her a game where she gets to decorate cupcakes.

“Okay,” Bob says, voice calm and precise, “this one has rainbow sprinkles. That means it’s the most powerful one.”

Your daughter giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one’s Bucky’s!”

Bob raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Excellent choice. Very dangerous cupcake.”

Across the room, Alexei is sitting backward in an armchair—knees up, arms draped over the backrest like a golden retriever in a human body—just watching the entire interaction with rapt fascination.

“Look at her. Tactical decisions. Cupcake strategy. She is genius,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “You see this? She will rule us all.”

“Alexei, she decorates cupcakes,” you say tiredly.

“Exactly!” he says, like you’ve proved his point. “That is unpredictable. That is art.”

Bob glances up, sheepish but undeniably soft. “She’s really good at this. Like… scary good. She beat my high score.”

“She’s three,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Exactly,” Bob echoes, completely serious.

Your daughter turns and beams at you, holding the tablet up in victory. “I made a cat cupcake!”

“You’re a creative genius, sweetheart,” you say with a smile, setting your mug down. “Now let Bob breathe before he has a full-blown cupcake identity crisis.”

“She beat me twice,” Bob mutters, looking at the screen with quiet betrayal.

Alexei grins. “You have been defeated. Welcome to the Bambi Era.”

That makes your daughter puff up with pride, hugging her deer closer. “I’m Bambi.”

You blink at her.

“Okay, okay. You’re Bambi.” you murmur, already accepting defeat.

Alexei makes a dramatic gasp and holds his hand to his heart. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”

And that’s when the elevator dings. The doors slide open with a mechanical hum, and your husband, Bucky steps out—followed closely by Ava, already pulling off her gloves, and John, still mid-complaint about something Ava definitely tuned out five floors ago.

All three look a little winded, mission dust still clinging to them, that sharp post-field energy still buzzing in their shoulders.

Bucky’s the first to clock you.

Then—his eyes land on the small deer-plush-carrying toddler sitting in the middle of the Avengers’ common room rug like she owns the place.

He stops cold.

“What is she doing here?” he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion.

Your daughter hears his voice—and immediately bolts to her feet, deer plush bouncing from her arms as she runs.

“Daddy!”

And just like that—everything about Bucky shifts.

The steel in his posture melts in real time. That hard edge in his jaw softens. His arms open like it’s instinct, like they were made just for this exact moment.

He drops his bag without looking. Drops everything.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, catching her in a sweeping hug and lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. “Hi, my girl. Did you miss me?”

She nods furiously, burying her face in his neck. “You were so gone.”

Bucky presses a kiss to her hair, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like the entire day fades away the second she touches him. “I’m here now, baby. I’m here.”

There’s a stunned silence behind him.

John looks like someone just hit him with a frying pan. Ava raises an eyebrow and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “holy shit.”

Yelena grins, arms crossed. “Aww. The Winter Soldier has emotions. Someone write that down.”

Alexei is squinting, hand raised like he’s observing wildlife through binoculars.

“She called him Daddy and he went from Terminator to teddy bear in 0.2 seconds,” Bob whispers, genuinely fascinated.

You’re already walking over, arms crossed and smile threatening the edges of your mouth. “Glad to see she’s got you wrapped around her finger, too.”

“She owns me,” Bucky says simply, pressing one more kiss to her cheek. “You should know that by now.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, the rest of the team just found out.”

Bucky turns slightly, finally looking over at the stunned group of adult superheroes who just watched him transform into Dad of the Year.

“She get into any trouble while I was gone?”

“She beat me at tablet games and claimed her superhero name is Bambi,” Bob says numbly.

“She made Alexei cry,” Yelena adds.

“I did not cry,” Alexei huffs, wiping suspicious moisture from his eye. “I was emotionally impacted.”

Your daughter leans back in Bucky’s arms and holds up her deer plush proudly.

“Did you bring me a snack?”

“Your priorities are incredible,” Bucky mutters fondly, already walking toward the kitchen with her still on his hip. “Let’s go find you something good, huh, Bambi?”

She gasps. “You called me Bambi!”

You sigh.

———

Later that evening, the common room has finally quieted. Most of the team has dispersed, save for the ones still floating nearby with post-mission snacks or paperwork. The lights are dimmed, your coffee’s been reheated twice, and you’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, finally off your feet.

Across the room, Bucky is sitting on the couch with your daughter perched on his lap, her deer plush tucked snugly under one arm, the other animatedly waving in the air as she recounts—in painstaking detail—every single moment of her day.

“And then Lena spun me so fast, and Uncle Lexi said I was a ballerina, and Bob showed me a cupcake game but I BEAT HIM, and there were pickles but I didn’t want any ’cause they smell bad—Daddy, are you listening?”

Bucky, absolutely smitten, nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Of course I’m listening, Bambi. Pickles smell bad. Got it.”

She nods proudly. “And the couch is really squishy but not as squishy as ours. But this place has better snacks. And Lena let me jump on the beanbag on purpose. Can I come here always? Please?”

Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll talk to Mama about it. Maybe not always. But often? I think we can arrange that.”

She beams. “Okay. Also I drew a picture of Bob. He looks like a jellybean.”

You stifle a laugh into your mug.

Yelena slides into the chair beside yours with a quiet flop, arms crossed and an amused glint in her eye as she watches your daughter still rattling off to Bucky like it’s a press conference.

“She is so her father’s daughter,” Yelena says.

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yup.”

“Talks like him. Bossy like him. Stubborn as hell.”

You raise your mug. “And weirdly good at knives for a toddler. We’re doomed.”

Yelena snorts. “And you love it.”

You look over at Bucky again—his eyes soft, his fingers gently braiding a bit of your daughter’s hair as she chatters on about Alexei’s beard and how “Lena said I could have a jet one day.”

Your chest swells with something warm and weightless. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really, really do.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list)

2K notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Text

premiere - cs55 smau

summary: yn is paul mescal's sister. her and carlos meet at a premiere

faceclaim: madison cline

a/n: i had this in the drafts for too long

masterlist

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal my twin brother is in a movie or whatever

tagged: bigbreadpedlar

♡liked by yourbestfriend and others

view all comments

yourbestfriend my wife💍

user14 she mugged him so bad

user9 he's so hot i need him😩

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal posted a story

→last night i met the most GORGEOUS and funny man we talked for a while but I don't know his name!! someone pls help me find him

→this is him if you know him ask him to slide into those dms thank you

replies

↪ yourbestfriend ON MAIN that's crazy

↪ yourbestfriend also that's f1 driver carlos sainz

ynmescal thanks babe

ynmescal brb searching his ig

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal don't mind me, just casually posting more pictures from last night

♡liked by gracieabrams and others

view all comments

ynmescal and now we wait ...

user3 mother i love you

user2 the last slide kskdkd

user11 posting this after sharing his picture on stories and following him iconic behavior

user17 tbh i too would do this if i had a chance with a f1 driver

carlossainz55 hola again 👋🏼

ynmescal hola😊

user7 it CANT be that simple

user18 ig it is when you are pretty😔

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal posted a story

→guess who has a date tonight

replies

↪ yourbestfriend NOW you use close friends

ynmescal it worked, didn't it?

ynmescal posted a story

જ ♡ જ

sainzupdates carlos leaving the paddock today

view all comments

user8 who is she?

user81 i think ynmescal, she was at the paddock with her brother paul. carlos commented her picture about a month ago

user35 this is such a pr relationship🙄🙄

જ ♡ જ

carlossainz55 good company today

♡liked by charlesleclerc and others

view all comments

user89 paul, carlos and charles together this is a big day for annoying people (me)

user55 tag her! we know who the good company is, you are not smooth

user52 the casual post oh to be young, rich and in love ...

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal this f1 thing is fun

♡liked by lando and others

view all comments

user29 pretty girl

yourbestfriend i bet it is🙄

yn ☺️

user37 is by any chance your boyfriend single?

ynmescal luckily no!

user37 and your brother? i'm not picky!

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal only bought this dress so you could take it off

bigbreadpedlar is this post necessary?

yn at least I don't have one night stands and run away from them at the park👊

gracieabrams IJBOL

carlossainz55 what's ijbol?

yn i just burst out laughing

bigbreadpedlar i'm too old for this shit

carlossainz55 same

gracieabrams look, millennials everyone point and laugh🫵

user19 are they really selling as a love story how she took a photo of him without permission and posted it?? stalker behavior she was so desperate to be a wag

user61 get a life

જ ♡ જ

carlossainz55 haters can choke

tagged: ynmescal

user he never posts his girlfriends omg this is serious

lando pic credits?

carlossainz55 no

ynmescal ❤️

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal quality time with my favorite people

tagged: gracieabrams, carlossainz55, bigbreadpedlar

user82 i love everything about this crossover

user68 carlos and paul are so boyfriend coded

yn i swear sometimes it feels like they are the ones dating, they have bike dates every day

gracieabrams ily

ynmescal i love you moreeee

carlossainz55 if only they knew why we were so tired in the last pic...

ynmescal CARLOS

bigbreadpedlar THAT'S MY SISTER

carlossainz55 i meant cycling!

ynmescal no u didn't

carlossainz55 no i didn't🤭

જ ♡ જ

Taglist: @justaf1girl @anamiad00msday @formoola1fan @2bormaybenot @searecs @rana030 @multifantasic70 @yourmommyagone22 @primadonaprincess55 @hoeforlifee @literallysza @nichmeddar @in-the-marina-trench @ahgase99 @gigigreens @danielricroll @harrysdimple05

645 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Note

Lando + 35 ( from the domestic prompt list ) please! It would fit him so well 🌟🩷🥹

35. endless giggles — lando norris

EVERYONE KNOWS LANDO NORRIS IS HOPELESS AT STAYING SERIOUS.

You call that Norrising between the two of you. Nothing to do with the explosive rush of panic that courses through his veins when his tires screech at the very first turn, the one that has him cursing at himself behind the visor as Verstappen barrels past. Nothing to do with the red-hot adrenaline that earns him all his detested monickers. No, Norrising is endearing, it's inconsequential, and above all it's fun. It's Lando ranting loudly about an annoying journalist and having them materialize right behind him—their presence betrayed by the half-amused terror in Oscar's widening eyes. It's Lando knocking over the empty champagne flutes at some fancy reception, the noise drowned out by all the animated conversations around—his only witness your gasping mouth. It's Lando milliseconds away from bursting into laughter during the very solemn pre-race national anthem, avoiding Daniel's lethal gaze at all costs with unconvincing sneezes. It's what Carlos lovingly called meter la pata years ago—putting your foot in it. Blundering. Goofing up.

It's Lando's specialty, and it's the F1 75 live event in front of the whole wide world.

You sense him losing grip before he even makes a sound. Though your attention is fixed on the Ferrari team unveiling their livery, your peripheral vision catches his dimly-lit face scrunching up. He rests his elbow against the table to hide the bottom of his face as you shoot him a glare. To the untrained camera, he'd look nonchalant, but you know the glint in his eye better. He's just been overcome with something really stupid.

Then Vasseur takes the mic, all the screens in the O2 displaying his bonhomie, and a soft chuckle escapes your boyfriend.

"Norris," you warn him with a stern whisper, "do not start Norrising on me now."

But Lando leans over to your chair, mouth still hidden away from cameras and eyes glittering with unconcealable delight. This does not bode well.

"He..." But he's cut short by a series of giggles that he clumsily passes off as coughs. "He looks like—" he can't help the laughter now, rattling his shoulders and splitting every word into shaky syllables, "Fred, he looks like the... the evil egg thing from Puss in Boots," he finally wheezes out on the third attempt.

You can't help it—you chortle, something a little too loud between laughter and shock that has neighboring tables glaring over at you, because what the fuck is he on about and why would he say that now but you glance back at the giant screens where Vasseur's jovial, full-moon face sinks into the collar of his suit and Goodness, yeah, he does look like that fuck ass egg.

"He does, oh my God, Lan," you giggle back, hiding your face in your hands—and Lando wheezes, blowing bubbles into his champagne.

This is ridiculous, and stupid, and you're both being horribly impolite, and the alcohol is making it worse and you feel tingly all over from holding back the laughter, but it's uncontrollable, rising into you like a tidal wave and Lando's whiny chuckles next to your ear are the worst kind of torture. He exhales slowly, and you dare hope crisis is averted... until Vasseur turns around, shiny, round head in all its glory underneath the spotlights, and Lando loses it.

Thank God for Lewis Hamilton's first time in red stealing all the attention. You're not sure how either of you could have explained to the press your two figures, groomed and perfurmed and designer-clad, hunched over the table in maniacal spasms.

"Lando, we're gonna get kicked out," you manage to exhale as you try your hardest to hide behind the champagne bucket.

"Don't look at me," he pleads. Like a kid fearing detention, his face red and crinkled from hilarity. "Please don't look at me." And a few seconds later, when he spots Toto Wolff at the next table over raising an unimpressed eyebrow at him, "I need some air."

Right. It's life or death. At least diplomatic life or death.

All too aware of the Twitter captions you'd find under the video of you leaving together unexplained right now—Lando Norris, Girlfriend Can't Be Bothered To Sit Through Ferrari Exhibit; Leave Arena For Own Kind Of Fun!—, you make a show of pursing through your bag, scanning the table, then the floor, and hope to God the place is too dark to distinguish your expression; bitten lip and flushed cheeks are not the best look for someone who's supposed to be frantically looking around for misplaced belongings.

"Follow me," you whisper curtly at him.

He startles out of his chair, scraping it against the floorboards like a thunderstorm, and somehow that makes you laugh even more, so you stiffen your lips, doing your utmost to avoid the bewildered looks from all the guests. You're almost trotting by the time you push open the grand swinging doors of the auditorium, hastily shutting them behind a still-giggling Lando.

A pause, first. Then a glance—just one—and you both erupt into laughter, as if it were escaping from the very marrow of your bones. Lando isn’t even laughing anymore: he’s whining, hands on his knees like he just ran a marathon. When he finally straightens up, breathless and eyes glazed with tears, he sways into your arms, as if to cloak his exhausted body in yours—but you push him away at once.

"I can't fucking believe you!" you exclaim. But you're not mad—not really. He knows it, and he's still giggling, and your indignant mouth melts into a full-toothed smile. "Seriously, you're a bloody idiot. You're the biggest idiot I've ever met. Genuinely—I'm not laughing!" you say between giggles when he shakes his head affectionately. "Do I look like I'm laughing? That was so rude. Everyone is going to say you think you're too good for Ferrari or something."

"Well they already think I think that," he just shrugs, leaning against the wall. "Can't a guy have some fun?"

"You're gonna kill me, Norris," you sigh, and he sighs back, exaggeratedly, beckoning you into his arms. You fall into the familiar embrace, and he kisses the crown of your head, filling his lungs with your sweet scent.

"I don't think I can go back in there," he admits, his voice cracks away from breaking into laughter again.

"It's your event, champion."

"I'm not even champion, so I don't see the point. Wait here a sec?"

"Wait here a sec."

His heart rate dwindles slowly back to a normal rhythm against your ear, and you remain immobile, far from the spectacle, in the empty hallway, so out of place in your fancy clothes—yet exactly where you need to be; crying from laughter with him at some shitty event he only finds bearable because he gets to look at you all night.

"Do not look at me even once when we walk back in there."

"Yeah, and you neither."

MASTERLIST / TAKING REQUESTS!

292 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Text

LOVE THIS

· · · · ♡ NO LOVE IN NEW YORK

… starring oscar piastri x f!reader ... 5.2k words ... in which your good samaritan tendencies, and some loser forgetting to show up on your first date, lead you to the most bizarre yet exhilarating nyc commute of your life. ... featuring fluff, humor, meet cute, some forced proximity. female reader (wears 'feminine' clothing). language, reader gets stood up on a date, suspension of disbelief for manhattan geography and the logistics of the mta (please forgive me new yorkers i went ten years ago). english is not my first language. ... author notes tadaaa oscar piastri debut who cheered!!!! not me because i'm scared to death of getting him wrong lowk. i was bemoaning the absence of oscar pictures at the f1 premiere and thought, "i know he just couldn't be bothered to go, but wouldn't it be funny if he'd just gotten lost?" and thats how this fic happened. ngl this is very much out of my comfort zone, i know oscar less than other drivers + much more romcom than i'm used to and idk how i feel about it so feedback would be VERY appreciated! very much open for a part 2 if you'd like that tho!!! enjoy ヘ(≧▽≦ヘ)♪ MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

There was no valid reason dating in New York City should have been this complicated.

Yet you prided yourself on being quite smart—smart enough to survive in the hostile urban jungle as a twenty-something on her own; definitely smarter than the national average judging by the (frankly depressing) headlines you heard pinging on your phone every morning. Outstanding high school GPA, reading comprehension way above your grade as a kid, and still no damn clue how to score a date in Manhattan.

Well, rather, how to score an agreeable date. Or perhaps just one that turned out to be real.

Monday morning had risen with a yawn from the sun, as though it were remembering only now that June was well underway but the streets remained chilly. Weak light shimmered over the fire escape when you’d drawn your curtains open. Ramen was sitting on the railing, licking his cream paw and staring at you with unimpressed nonchalance, and you’d grinned. Ramen—your downstairs neighbor’s cat, a sandy little imp whose real name you’d never found out but had baptized so after he’d stolen your instant dinner right off your kitchen counter—only showed up on mornings with importance. Like the day you’d aced Introduction to Statistics with nothing but two hours of sleep and five Monsters.

This was a good omen.

So yes, you were enthusiastic by the time you got home from class, scrambled together an omelet, and disemboweled your apartment looking for your favorite earrings. You were optimistic, and that sometimes sounded like the worst thing anyone could be in New York City.

But this first date promised to be nothing like the others, your inner voice hammered home as you tried to cram your feet into shoes half a size too small. He was cute, funny, not a fascist, he waited exactly the right amount of time in between replies—neither psychopathic nor disinterested—, and he’d told you to dress up because it was only fair that real-life art should match the paintings on the wall. After half a dozen insipid dinners at every other pizza place in Little Italy, and as many ghostings, a museum first date sounded more promising than you’d dared to hope.

Even though he dropped off the radar at ten p.m. the prior evening. Even though you shot him a bubbly, “you said 2:30pm right? can’t wait!” at eleven (the appointed time was but a scroll away, but you just needed to say something, diffuse the nerves somehow). Even though you double-texted him at two fifteen, “omw!”.

But Ramen was there this morning, blinking his slow blinks at you. The date had to go well.

The sun was fully awake, undeniable, blazing above the trees and endless spires piercing the sky beyond Central Park, by the time you sat down on the steps in front of the museum. Alone.

It wasn’t until two fifty-seven that you accepted to face the glaring truth.

First miss for Ramen.

You collected yourself in a clumsy torpor. Nothing to do with your heels, or the stupidly long dress you’d picked out and whose skirt you now had to lift with every step—this was the inescapable, crushing feeling of disappointment.

Of course New York City would punish the optimistic. The naïve. The superstitious, who put the outcome of their days into the hands of some feline apparition, scan the sky for four-leaf clover clouds. Served you right for still believing in things falling into place.

Your face burned from the sun and the humiliation, eyes prickling from unshed tears as you stuffed your phone into your purse. Pretended not to notice the group of tourists snapping shots of you, perhaps thinking you some roaming Millais muse. Disappeared into the shade of 103rd Street station, green gown flowing behind you like a pennon.

Every step down the long stairway stung more than the last, but you kept your gaze firmly to the ground, careful not to trip—and bury any ounce of dignity left in you for good. Blend in with the jaded city folk, you thought as you swiped your Metrocard; act as if you know exactly where you are going and go there with purpose, even if you could not be more stranded. Where to now? Back to your disordered, sweltering apartment, its haphazard pile of dishes in the sink and Ramen gauging you silently from the windowsill? Or to the campus library, trying to glean whatever productivity lies within heartbreak? And risk bumping into your friends, who’d teased you all day about the giddy bounce to your step, and having to explain you weren’t even worth showing up for?

“Excuse me?”

You looked up and met hazel. A mop of chestnut hair, that he had manifestly tried to arrange before giving up; discreet moles on an otherwise pale face, and brown eyes where danced flecks of gold and the most gripping kind of urgent resignation. The stranger was cute, and for some incomprehensible reason he matched you: he, too, was dressed to the nines like he’d run off from some wedding, and he also distinctly looked like he wished more than anything for the Earth to swallow him.

“Are you going to the F1 movie premiere?”

“What?”

“The, uh, the F1 movie red carpet thing? Are you going there right now?”

You were starting to worry your foreign-accent (British, or perhaps Australian?) comprehension skills had gotten alarmingly bad, or maybe the shrieking of MTA wagon brakes had finally rendered you deaf.

“No, uh... I…” Oh, what the hell. Like there was any use lying to a beautiful stranger who seemed like he was somehow having a worse afternoon than yours. “I got stood up by my date. F1, you mean like Formula 1?”

What a formidable and ridiculous scene you two must’ve painted—two kids in formalwear, standing in the middle of a New York City subway platform, stuck amidst the pungent smell of piss and nonsensical conversation.

“I’m sorry about your date, they sound like a bit of a dropkick,” the stranger replied, and although you weren’t entirely sure what a dropkick was you were surprised to find him genuine. “But, uh… I think I’m lost, and I hoped you might help me, or else I’m gonna be the one doing the standing up. On about two thousand people.”

You had no time to furrow your brow, or chew on his words. Suddenly everything clicked with an audible bang, right in sync with the train doors closing to your left. The reason you’d felt so familiarly drawn to that cherub face, and why he had mentioned Formula 1… None of the downright lubricious Instagram edits your best friend had ever sent you featured him in a suit, but he was unmistakable.

“Oh my god, you’re Oscar Pia—”

“Please don’t tell all of Manhattan,” Piastri interrupted, grimacing as he glanced around the platform. You suffocated your voice, though found his dread of being heard a little pointless. Two people standing idly in black-tie garments as metros passed them by were eye-catching, for sure, but nowhere near NYC eye-catching standards. “It’s already pretty bad how late I am to my own premiere, I don’t want to have to take selfies in the subway.”

A million questions jostled about inside your head, but all you could do was stare at him, mouth agape in incomprehension. You didn’t keep up with Formula 1, hardly saw any point in cars going in circles, and perhaps a McLaren (was it McLaren or Mercedes?) superfan might have known better than you what the fuck Oscar Piastri was doing there. Not the film premiere gimmick, you were willing to believe that was the kind of fanfare F1 drivers spent their off-days doing—what the fuck he was doing alone at three in the afternoon, asking for your help in some acrid station on Lexington Avenue.

“Couldn’t you just drive to the damn premiere?”

“Oh, right, so I should just steal a car off the street?” he deadpanned.

“No, I mean… don’t you have a chauffeur? An… an agent or something? A team? How do you even end up…” you trailed off, finding no words that wouldn’t bring you to astonished frustration. Instead, you opened your arms wide, encompassing all of New York’s rickety railways. “Here?”

Piastri parted his lips to retort with one of his impassive quips, but his whole face fractured then with tremendous vulnerability.

“I’ll tell you if you help me find my way. Please?”

He did not look like the type of man who’d ever begged anyone to do anything for him—you expected a high-adrenaline junkie like him to pray for neither forgiveness nor permission—and the contrast made you consider. That, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. And the fact the only other way you could see your afternoon ending was with an onslaught of messages from some guy assuring you life had gotten “sooo hectic” in the last ten to twelve hours.

Piastri was much cuter than him anyway.

“You know what, yeah, sure, what the hell,” you shrugged with a growing smile. “I’ll help you. I could use the good karma. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

This whole plan was utterly ridiculous, and you had no idea how you’d possibly explain that to your friends when they’d ask how your date had gone, but the way Piastri deflated with relief, like his whole body was exhaling, had you convinced you’d made the right call.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He said your name with the slightest of accents, and you caught yourself wishing he could say it again. “Maps said this was the shortest path to Times Square, but I think it’s a little confused—”

“Times Square? Oh, you’re not getting anywhere near that on the 6. We need to get to Central Park North. You coming?”

You tilted your head to the side, to the staircase drenched in hazy summer light, and Piastri seemed to be weighing the pros and cons for a split second—you couldn’t fault him, to be fair; you could’ve been a stalker, or a lunatic, or the lowest echelon to a weird MLM scheme. Still, he must’ve decided whatever you were recruiting him for was less dangerous than missing this premiere, because he took off after you.

When he billowed out of the station and back into the city, Piastri winced, and at first you assumed it due to the piercing sunlight reverberating on glassy panels, or the cacophony of horns and engines. However, you quickly noticed him glancing at the passersby with frantic interest… and looking puzzled at their utter disinterest in him.

“Relax, no one’s looking at us,” you reassured him, striding down the street on autopilot. He jogged two steps to catch up.

“You sure?”

“Certain. There’s so many people in New York City, and so many of those people do weird shit, that practically anyone can go unnoticed. I assure you that this,” you gestured down at your long dress, catching the light like rippling topazes, then at the silver cufflinks on his jacket, “does not even make the top 5 weirdest things any of these people have seen today.”

But the Australian looked unsure still, twisting his thin lips in a crooked zigzag, so you stopped in your tracks and hailed a young lady passing you by on the sidewalk, Airpods firmly bolted inside her ears.

“Excuse me, do you know who this guy is—”

She strode past you with the most furtive glance biologically possible and a mechanical Nothankyouhaveagoodday. You turned back to Piastri.

“See? No one cares.”

He chuckled, face breaking like dawn, and you chuckled too with no real reason. You weren’t too sure what was funny about typical New York callousness, but the way Piastri’s eyes crinkled, still somewhat strained from stress but illuminating all his features, made you all fuzzy inside. Up close and under sunlight, he looked even younger than you’d thought, no more than twenty-five, and the shadows on his face had lifted, rounding the angles and softening the corners. Like he’d been oil-painted on canvas, ochres and whites melting into each other at the edges.

“Okay, I guess you’re the local,” he conceded, and you resumed your brisk walk.

Maybe you really were at the museum, after all.

“So,” you spoke up after a bit. “I was promised a story.”

“Right,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly regretting his bartering skills.

“How do you, Oscar Piastri, end up late to a movie premiere and alone in a subway station?” You stepped across a grate on the sidewalk, careful not to wedge your heel in the holes. “They just left you behind? Did you oversleep or what?”

No reply, but his dry laughter morphing into a cough was a flagrant enough response.

“Oh my God, Piastri,” you gasped merrily. “Did you seriously sleep through your movie premiere?”

“No! … It’s not over yet. I’m just late for the red carpet part. I can still make it to the screening.”

You stared, unconvinced, and he stared back, unconvincing. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched your smile grow wider until he couldn’t take your teasing anymore. For heaven’s sake—you’d known him a grand total of five minutes and were already tormenting him!

“What?”

“How do they let you get away with this?”

“I was racing in Canada yesterday! God forbid a guy wants a nap,” he stressed the last as though it were some capital punishment and rolled his eyes.

Something in his demeanor was fabulously amusing. He was all relaxed tension, calculated coldness akin to what you’d expect from a person who’s constantly scrutinized; yet there was something more, a sort of agitation bubbling within, under the pores of his handsome face. Feeling so deeply and letting a stranger see so much was not in his nature, that much was clear. Every microexpression, in the lift of his brows, the curve of his lips, the arc of his eyes betrayed a kind of imbalance. He was losing his footing, like a glacier abraded from the top by the sun.

New York City had trained you for all sorts of people, including still waters like him. How to ripple their surface.

“Does this happen to you often?”

“No. Never.”

“Never missed a flight?”

“Just once. My mom woke me up screaming one hour before boarding the second ti—watch out.”

Swiftly, he grabbed your elbow and switched your spots on the sidewalk, pushing you closer to the wall. Before you could open your mouth to protest, the ground rattled from a firetruck barreling past you, ruffling Piastri’s hair and the lapels of his jacket.

“But I set three different alarms on my phone and I figured, Lando will probably break my door down if I sleep through them, so I’m safe,” he resumed, entirely unfazed. You looked up at him like he’d just performed actual magic. “But… apparently not. I woke up… twenty minutes ago?” That explained the slim, red pillow mark on his face you’d mistaken for a fading sunburn. “I wanted to call a taxi, but they’ve cut off traffic. It’s a big deal, you know? Brad Pitt’s gonna be there.”

The way he said Brad Pitt, with a tone so level it became thick with meaning and the littlest of jazz hands, made it abundantly clear there were few people on Earth Oscar Piastri would’ve been less excited about than Brad Pitt.

“Are you in it?”

“What?”

“The movie. Are you even in it?”

“Uh, my elbow is. Minute fifty-three.”

“Wow,” you giggled, arching your eyebrows in a playful wave. “So am I talking to Oscar Piastri the pro athlete, or Oscar Piastri the movie star?”

“Eh, just Oscar Piastri’s fine,” he shrugged, non-committal, though the glint of a smile now flickered uninterrupted on the corner of his lips, almost real enough to remark upon.

Your steps had carried you to the subway entrance north of Central Park already—too soon, far too soon, you thought with a faint ache in the chest. Piastri stirred in your body some kind of early-summer warmth, soft and shimmering like a drowsy morning. As soon as he would vanish to the far side of the platform, only the icy wind would remain, howling endlessly through the corridors…

Piastri, however, did not seem set on giving you up. At least judging by the tiny, tentative steps he took as he walked up to the turnstile, as though the machine could eat him the way it did cardboard tickets. You saw him take out a small, green-lettered card from his pocket… and stopped him.

“Wait, that’s not gonna work.”

“Huh?”

“Your ticket, it’s a single ride. You used that back there on Lexington, right?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“You don’t have a Metrocard?”

He turned to you, puzzled, and almost slammed into a hurried businessman in the process. Thankfully for Piastri, even assault was too inconsequential to reroute the average New Yorker, and the man just breezed past the turnstile and into the guts of the Earth with a nasty glare and a taunting beep!

“Why would I have a Metrocard, Y/N, I’m in this city about twelve hours a year.”

You glanced toward the entrance, where a faint trickle of light still seeped in. A flock of little old ladies, perhaps en route to a high-stakes bingo showdown, had laid siege to the terminals. Judging by their furrowed brows and squinting eyes, no one else in the station would be seeing so much as a hint of a ticket anytime soon.

Goodness gracious. Your helpfulness would be your undoing.

“How late are you to this thing?”

Piastri checked his watch. “Very.”

“And how much do you care about being late to this thing?”

“Normal dude Oscar Piastri? Not so much, to be honest. Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri…”

“Say less.”

Veritable horror surfaced on Piastri’s face at your confident strides, as if he imagined you were about to vandalize your way through the gates.

“Come on! Hop over,” you signaled.

“Uh…”

“Or we could wait in line. Your call.” Like trying to get a puppy to jump through a hoop. What was he waiting for, a treat?

Or perhaps the patrol of inspectors coming down the hallway at the exact same second as Piastri gathered momentum and jumped the turnstile. That, too, seemed like a sensible thing to be on the lookout for.

The two men cried out right as his dress shoes hit the ground.

“Oh come on!” you whined. “They’re never here!”

“What do we do?!” he cried.

“What do you mean, what do we do? Just book it!”

You heard a cacophony of footsteps behind your back, promptly echoed by lighter sounds as Piastri ran down the corridor. Without a second glance, you pushed down on your hands, swung your legs forward, and… came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Looked down. Sage green fabric had wrapped around the metal blades of the turnstile, like snakes constricting their branches.

“Oscar!” you yelped.

If you’d had any doubt Oscar Piastri was the real racing deal until now, they were all silenced at once from the way he spun on his heels, ran back to you and, without a split second’s hesitation, not even the span of a breath, picked you up from your perch and took off. Instinctively your arms wrapped around the taut base of his neck as you felt his clammy hands slide down your back: the glossy fabric offered no grip to hold on to, yet his strong arms held you into place as tightly as they could. You gritted your teeth, prayed to God your heels would not fall off, and watched in stunned silence as Oscar raced down the stifling hallways.

It seemed like but an instant had passed when Oscar threw himself into the belly of the train, its imminent departure chime his very own chequered flag, and the old doors rattled shut behind you. For the first time, New Yorkers shot you strange looks. Finally you had crossed their threshold for urban bizarrerie.

And you were still in Oscar’s arms, flushed and panting even though he was the one who’d done all the running. And had barely broken a sweat.

You were about to clear your throat and kindly—begrudgingly, perhaps?—request he put you down… when the announcer’s perky voice began chirping out the next stops through the loudspeakers. You snapped your head at the line map above the doors. No matter what language she said it in, your next stop was always wrong.

“Oscar,” you murmured.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

“We got on the wrong way.”

“There’s no oil in New York City.”

Oscar remained silent for a few seconds, as if in a trance. His jittery leg did not.

“What?” he mumbled when he broke out of his reverie.

You simply pointed at his knee, bouncing up and down since he’d sat.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to drill a hole in the ground with your shoe for. There’s no oil in New York City. If there was, Trump would’ve sucked it dry already.”

Oscar sighed, throwing his head back against the glass panel, but your heart swelled with satisfaction when you caught a glimpse of his smile.

Rippling anyone’s surface had seldom proven as easy as it was fun.

You leaned a little closer to him, and he closed his eyes with a faint grunt. His leg, however, was now still.

“Why are you so nervous about being late? You’re the main attraction, it’s not like they’re going to hold it against you.”

Hearing his reply proved difficult over the train’s thundering racket, glass windows and moist handles vibrating within their sockets like charged electrons. His eyes, mercifully still closed, allowed yours to linger on his mouth—to decipher each word as it formed, and to savor the quiet contemplation.

“Being fashionably late usually draws more attention than I like to get.”

“So why bother going? You don’t look like you enjoy being in the public eye that much anyway.”

Only one eye opened, tentatively so, and met your small, expectant smile, chin resting on your fist and your crossed legs imperceptibly brushing his. Any story he could’ve told you right then would’ve been riveting, it seemed, and for the first time in weeks Oscar found that for you, he did not mind sharing one.

“I told Lando I’d go. We collided yesterday on track and they thought it would maybe look bad if one of us showed up and not the other. Like we’re avoiding each other or something. I don’t know, PR stuff. But I promised Lando, so.” He pursed his lips then, and blew air through his nose, holding back a giggle. “Also, I don’t know, I felt like I had to go. I had a… a premonition.”

“A premonition?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, some kind of hunch. In my cereal.”

You stared at him long, assessing him and the likelihood of a lie, but he was a master of the unreadable smile, the one that could mean anything from I’m one look away from bursting into laughter to I have never dissociated more than I am currently, and even, perhaps, I wish this train ride with you would never end.

“In your cereal?”

“This morning, at the breakfast buffet, I had cereal and there was this kinda cornflake clump that looked like a clapperboard. You know,” he mimed it with his hands and the click of the tongue to match. “So I thought that was some… sign? The universe was telling me to go to this premiere, or something.” His neck tensed abruptly as he suddenly remembered himself. Who he was, and what he believed in. “But uh, that’s a little stupid. Forget it.”

The subway doors opened and closed, chimes rang and accordion tunes from the platforms faded in and out of the background chatter. You had close to lost count of how many stops were left until Times Square. The incessant ballet of New York’s illustrious unknowns would still play out, with or without your attention.

When Oscar looked down at you, almost entirely hunched over his lap and taking him in like he was an August rainshower, he found you beaming.

“No, I totally get you. This date I was supposed to go on before I ran into you… I went because Ramen showed up, even though there were so many red flags that I could’ve seen coming.”

“Who?”

“Ramen.”

“Who’s Ramen?”

“The neighbor’s cat. That’s not his real name, just what I call him.”

Oscar stared at you, expression frozen in one of delightful incomprehension, the one you get when you are not entirely sure a miracle is destined for you just yet. And you stared back, awaiting his next words for as long as it’d take them to come.

“So you went on a date because a cat told you to?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, silly, he’s a cat,” you retorted like it was the most obvious thing in the universe, to which Oscar rolled his eyes and muttered Of course. “He just stared, and every time he does it, I know I’m gonna get lucky that day. He’s never failed me before. Well, until today.”

A beat passed, during which you refused to elaborate further out of fear you’d betray the words lingering at the front of your mouth. Maybe this hadn’t been a miss for Ramen, after all. Maybe his magic had worked in unexpected ways. Oscar, on the other hand, just basked in the whole of you, and his lips slightly parted without a sound, as though they didn’t quite know where to begin.

“What?”

“It’s just… My job, this whole universe I live in, there’s no room for good luck charms or silly little superstitions. They’re just… distractions. All the answers are in the data. Our only faith is in the numbers.” And you sensed him about to say something else, something he had to wring out of the very cloth of his ribcage, but suddenly the deep wells in his pupils were sealed off with his favorite lid of deadpan humor. “Well, except the Italians. But they suck, so I wouldn’t take them as an example.”

“Oh my God, Oscar,” you gasped, “you can’t say that, do you know how many Italians there are in New Y—”

A sudden jolt shook the entire train, knocking the carriage back onto its breathless tracks; the momentum sent a teenage girl flying into a tall gym guy, who in turn crashed into you—your hands were too slow to catch you, not lighting-fast and gloved in greatness—you fell on top of Oscar, your nose buried against the open buttons of his shirt.

You were upright in less than a second, locked in a litany of Oh my God sorry’s to which Oscar replied his own recitation of No worries it’s not your fault’s. The train resumed its journey through the depths of Manhattan as if nothing had happened, and truthfully nothing had—except you were now a little closer to each other than you’d been before, and you hoped with all your might that he wouldn’t notice the way your eyelids fluttered, or how your fingertips had started burning up, or how the air was now thicker, or maybe you hoped he did, so you wouldn’t have to speak it aloud—nothing had happened, and truthfully everything had.

“Why did you think I was going to the F1 premiere back there?” you asked softly, not sure why that was the question you’d elected to go with now.

Oscar’s face was impassible—he’d found his calm, collected control back. But he didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, that you could hear his heartbeat louder than the railroad racket below.

“You looked funny.”

“Okay, you’re literally wearing a bowtie, and it’s crooked, by the way.”

“No, I mean, you looked pretty.” The faintest flick of his tongue showed above his bottom lip, undoubtedly accidental. “You looked really pretty, so I assumed you were a guest or something.”

Maybe what you’d heard and thought was his heart pulsating in sync with the wobbly tracks had not been his, but yours. Somewhere indistinct, the lady’s mechanical voice crackled something about Times Square.

“Thank you,” you smiled, with no mischief attached, this time.

“I’m… pretty glad that your date didn’t show up in the end, huh,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“Oscar, Times Square,” you sprung to your feet, nearly twisting your ankle. “That’s you!”

The doors almost chewed down on the hem of Oscar’s pants when he jumped out of the train. Without so much as a glance back or a single word of forgiveness, all the carriages vanished into heavy shadows, and the world was back to normal again.

Or almost. If there was anything even remotely normal about Times Square.

Every single light blinded you—no matter how many times you came you could never wrap your head around how the place managed to dazzle you even in broad daylight—as you both exited the metro station. Summer lay heavily on the commotion of cars, police whistles, loud music, and… screaming bloody murder?

“Ah, I think that’s my cue.”

Oscar held his hand over his eyes as he took in the scene, and only then did you notice the race cars parked in the middle of the street, some fifty meters ahead. It was probably a fair assumption, then, that the thousands of people massed near the makeshift stage, underneath gigantic screens, were all waiting for him. A fair assumption, and an incredibly odd one; to think you had spent such a mundane moment with the man they would soon shout themselves hoarse for!

“Yeah, good luck with that, I’m not going any nearer,” you forced between clenched teeth. “I hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

When you spun on your heel, you found Oscar extending his hand out for you to shake, squinting his eyes against the sun. Or maybe it was an excuse not to have to look you in the eye more than absolutely necessary. In the same way you couldn’t tell whether your hand was slightly clammy from the heat or the nerves.

“Thanks for saving the day. Or at least mine,” he said, a little too solemn, a little too final. Like this was a farewell rather than an acknowledgment.

“Thanks for saving mine,” you replied, hoping the little smile you forced on your lips looked appropriately warm, and not inexplicably aching. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

To anyone else Oscar would’ve replied the truth—Probably not—but that was not what his bowl of cereal would have wanted of him, so he said:

“Maybe.”

He gave you a wink half a second too long, and immediately looked horrified at what he’d done, which made you double over in a flurry of giggles. When you opened your eyes, he was a few steps ahead, waving you goodbye, and you returned the salute. You watched him jog the distance to the first cameras until he was but one more black and white dot in a sea of elegant millionaires, your throat hollow save for a funny kind of longing.

Then you walked back the way you came, carrying the end of your skirt down the stairs of the metro station.

Thirty minutes later, as you rummaged through your purse for your keys in front of your apartment complex, you noticed your phone lighting up. Usually, when you went on a date, you’d put it on Do not disturb so as to not be tempted—basic education, you reckoned, and something not many dates of yours had had the courtesy of reciprocating—, but you always sent your best friend your location beforehand and allowed her and only her to go through. She knew better than to text you unless it was life or death.

Clearly, this was of the utmost importance, and the fact there were only three messages instead of the fifty-seven you were expecting did not reassure you one bit.

“bitch” “who tf is that with oscar” “and why tf is it you??????”

A link to a TikTok came up mere seconds later.

The sage green gown was unmistakable. Anything else could’ve been explained otherwise, maybe blamed on some uncanny resemblance, a fortuitous angle—it looked like the video had been shot from very far away, and the protagonists not at all aware of the recording; but you would’ve recognized that lilypad-bright dress anywhere. Just like you knew that the blurry mass of pixels near the man’s face was a pathetic excuse for a wink, and the woman doubling over for no reason was actually laughing. That she’d watched him disappear into the crowd, immobile and longing, to commit to memory the very way his bones moved when he walked.

“Oscar Piastri’s Mystery Date Gets Cold Feet Right Before Red Carpet Debut?? ��”

You stared at your phone even as it kept going off, its vibrations tickling your palm. A series of interrogation marks, each its individual message, popped up one after the other on your notification bar, and all you could do was clutch the screen as though you could shatter it with your bare hands.

This meant nothing, you calmed yourself down. This would blow over soon, you swore. As soon as they realized Oscar Piastri would never be seen again with this mysterious woman, and that it was never anything serious. Anything at all, even. That the New Yorker in apple green was just a mirage on his path, pertaining only to him and for a split instant.

And even if things didn’t smooth over… you had a feeling Oscar’s team would have no problem tracking you down.

⤷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... endless giggles (ln4)!

808 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Text

BET A MOLE, BET A KISS Pt.1

Masterlist

I have to go.” Oscar mumbles against her lips. “Sorry.”

Y/N rolls over him sitting on his lap, with a smirk on her face. “Will you win?”

Oscar giggles, pulling her hands to his face as she gets closer.

“I will try my best.” She laughs giving him a soft peck.

Taking time for observing him with pure adoration in her eyes.

“What?” Oscar feels shy under her scanning eyes.

Y/N lay over his chest. “How many moles do you think I can count on you?”

Oscar laughs nodding. “Many.” He finally rolled over her one more time, standing.

He must training.

“I guess it is something we should find out, later.”

Y/N pulls the blankets over her, now she feels the cold of the morning; it's 5 am, and leaving her like this makes Oscar hard to move from the side of the bed.

“It's early, go back to sleep, I'll come back and pick you for breakfast, ok?”

Y/N nods, she spent the night studying for her exams, but feeling Oscar moving in the bed was enough for waking her up.

“Do you need I…” Y/N turns around without that sheepy smile.

“You're the one who's about to go training and you're asking me if I need something.” Oscar leans down, giving her another kiss, what he can say, he simply can’t resist.

“Well, you're about to become a cardiologist, that brain of yours will make us richer.” Oscar said before giving another kiss finally with a lot of effort going to change his clothes.

Y/N laughs, hard to believe no matter what Oscar always puts her on the top.

“I believe…a 100.” Y/N said with narrow eyes as she observes Oscar eating a piece of watermelon.

“What?” Oscar cleans the corner of her mouth.

“100 moles.” She clarified as Oscar scoffed, leaning back in the chair.

If she could see it, the view he has is amazing. At the back of her is the clear ocean and the blue sky as the sound of the waves is enchanting.

He fakes pondering it. “Could be.”

Y/N nods as she gets closer to his face. “Why, suddenly, you are so curious about it?”

She chuckles, feeling shy. “Well, you remember Steven?” Oscar nods. “Well, he has a gorgeous girlfriend…”

“I can refute that, but go on.” Y/N chuckles down her face. “I think you don’t look at yourself properly or hear yourself.”

“Ok, I…” She covers her face. “Shit Oscar I lost the tread of the story.”

He adores cause that on her; there are time that between work and her degree she tends to put a lot of pressure on herself, and her bad habit of look down on her strikes without a warning. Reason why, he put that goal in his mind, every time he could, he will remember her how amazing she is.

“Steven and his girlfriend.” Oscar helps her a little bit as he calls for the waitress. “Can we have another coulant du chocolate please?”

“You have a race in three days.” Y/N warned him.

“It’s not for me.” Oscar points to her empty plate, she loves that dessert.

Y/N shakes her head, faking she's full, but her rosy cheeks always betray her.

“I've been eating really well, you know it.” Y/N tingles her fingers with his over the table.

“I know, however, let me spoil you a little bit.” He kissed her hand. “Besides, it's not for free.”

Oscar sides her, seeing her mouth open and eyes wide round; she knows he's playing for the way he pouts, fighting to contain a smile.

“I know, I know probably I'm asking too much, but…” He observes around the place.

Is a lovely restaurant, private; the plants falling elegantly from the cinnamon color walls, the bubbles lights on the ceiling and the fact they had the roof only for them is exceptional.

“Could you come to the race?” Oscar leans over the table, tightening the grip of his fingers around hers. “I know, I know you'll be just finishing a 36 hour shift, and I don't tend to ask this…”

The scrunch nose and her eyes avoiding his, something is going on.

“Oh no.” Y/N nods, smiling in an apologetic way.

“Sorry, I confused the days, and by the time it is supposed my call must be over, now I know: I switch the days, that day my call just barely begins.” Oscar let his shoulders drop. “Sorry, love.” She kissed his cheek.

Oscar put out his phone calling her attention. “What are you doing?”

“Sue the hospital for stealing you from every race.” Y/N laughs. “How many have you lost…with this?”

It’s been two months that between surgeries, on calls, emergencies, each time she gets close to going to one GP together, she must stay and work.

“You know I always watch it, right?” She tilted her head. “I’ll mend it out to you.”

Oscar looks at her, he couldn’t ever complain if she looks at him like that; those sparkling eyes and lovely smile.

“Your dessert.” The waitress announced as he switched her empty plate with a new one.

She giggles as press her lips together excitedly, as she thanks the man.

“You’re telling me about the mole things.” Oscar gets back the conversation to the main topic.

“Oh! Yeah.” She takes a bite. “You know I won’t be able to focus as I eat, so short story.” Oscar laughs head backwards. “They bet about the total of her moles the loser would do everything the winner wants; she wins with a nice number of 37.”

Oscar keeps thinking but he won’t say it. “This is so good! You want some?” She offers him but he shakes his head.

“If I arrive at Silverstone with more than 500 grams, Zak will kick me.” He put her hair behind her shoulders to avoid getting covered in chocolate. “Still looks fantastic.”

“It does!” Y/N hasn’t any chance to add another word, Oscar softly pulls her to him.

Capturing her upper lip between his, as he smiles for the way she’s mesmerized.

“Yeah, it tastes fantastic.” He whispers as she laughs, turning her face to the left.

“Again?” Albon asks Oscar, seeing him arrive alone; they won’t mention but some of them are wondering the same as the reporters.

Is Y/N and he still together?

Oscar sighs standing in front of them. “A 36 on call gets in between.” Albon and Charles giggles. “However I’m preparing something for her and casually, I need your help.”

Charles and Albon look at each other with narrow eyes; Oscar knows he needs the proper team if he wants this work.

So, who better than them?

“Doctor Bell!” Charlie is a 6 year old girl, who’s been in the hospital for more than a month under her eagle eyes.

“Hi Charlie.” She waits for the nurse to finish her check up. “Hi, Mrs. Miles.” She greets her mother with tired eyes and a tense smile.

Y/N checked what her record said for the last couple of days, all under control; the nurse mentioned some things before leaving them with a soft smile.

“Well Charlie, you've been doing pretty well.” The tense smile is gone in a blink. “Still, you must stay another week, ok? Nothing serious, I want to make sure before you go, all stays under control.”

“Does she have…?” Y/N shakes her head, she knows Mrs. Miles she’s terrified of a relapse.

“At all, she’s a warrior. That’s why…” Y/N takes something under her white coat. “I have my contacts and well, he made sure to bring this with him.”

Y/N extends a square box causing sparkling eyes on Charlie, who looks at her mother then to her, asking for some kind of permission.

“Charlie, come on! I don’t know what it is, either.” Mrs. Miles laughs. Since they arrived that afterron with the worst scenario in her mind, Y/N never left Charlie alone during all her process.

Charlie giggles ripping the box apart for taking out a cap and a t-shirt of Ferrari. “MOM! LOOK AT THIS!”

Charlie takes a couple of seconds to realize the autograph in both of them, letting out a loud scream that calls the attention from everyone outside of her room, Y/N must peek out to notify Charlie is fine.

“It’s Lewis's autograph, and he writes Charlie!” The little girl hugs the clothes and the cap, then pulls Y/N so she sits over the bed, huggin with all her strength. “Thank you so much Y/N! And say Oscar that thank you! This is the best gift ever.”

Y/N watches Charlie's mom with tears in her eyes and mumbles a soft thank you.

“Well, this is for you to keep fighting ok? We’re almost out of this.” Charlie lets her go as Y/N wipes her tears. “Promise?”

Charles nods. “Promise.”

Next morning Oscar received a video of Charlie, wearing nothing more and nothing less, a McLaren shirt with his number, thanking him and saying she’s rooting for him, still she’s a Ferrari girl.

The race was pretty clean in all the aspects, once he got the pole Saturday morning; nothing changed.

Driving in a McLaren with clean air, is driving a rocket in the space.

“Oscar, great race, how do you feel?” A reporter asked, seeing his happy face.

“Good, good, it’s been hard work, we had a great weekend, the only thing we had to do is settle in earlier.” Oscar smiles grow wide.

“Any special congratulations?”

He giggles with the PR boy containing his laughs. “Well, my girlfriend… I haven’t spoken with her properly, but I already knew something from her.”

The reporter laughs seeing him so happy. “Thanks Oscar.”

He nods, walking back as he asks for his phone one more time. “Is everything?”

“Yeah, once Lando finished his round we’ll take the photo, you have a couple of minutes in case you need to make a phone call.” The guy smiles as he follows Oscar to the garage.

His eyes are stuck on the screen where one of Y/N’s friends from the hospital makes sure he has a proper angle of a 4:45 am video morning.

She’s on the roof of the hospital, in her break, with her jacket covering her, to avoid her getting cold; the dark sky and the lights of the city are her background.

In her lap is her tablet as she probably has headphones because besides her and giggling, he can’t hear anything.

She throws arm in the sky, pressing the tablet against her chest probably when he enters the pits, taking one glance before she finally sees it again, when he crosses the finish line, she screams in silence raising the tablet as she smiles big.

Finally, something is audible.

“Omg, you’re out of this world.” Y/N smiles tenderly at the screen, then to her watch. “SHIT!”

Break time is over, she grabs her tablet walking to the elevator where she finally notices her friend.

“What?” She laughs, as she keeps walking.

“The sneaky girl strikes back.” The floor is the only thing he sees. “He won?”

Y/N scoff. “Could any other?”

“She’s so…” Oscar mumbled as he lay back in his room.

238 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Text

twin flames | piastri

piastri x fem motogp!reader, 1k

oscar piastri was a force to be reckoned with and whatever he was in formula 1, you were the same in motogp. you were always around each other, but you couldn't help it, the challenge was delicious.

INCLUDES: use of y/n, reader is an exact replica of osco maybe even a bit more badass bcs duh, inaccurate and fictional events, this is a BLURB

NOTE: ok i got this idea from the smooth criminal glee cast performance...... they're both so hot AND literally the best in both of their groups so like why not recreate that same tension in a very (VERY) serious sport. again, i only know the basics to motogp so pls do bare w me. also im not the proudest of this but i wanted to write

( masterlist | more OP81 )

You and Oscar Piastri were the same person in different fonts and different websites.

Oscar was well-known for being a rising superstar in Formula 1— winning Formula 3, Formula 2, and being the championship leader in the season so far.

You were the same— just in a different motorsport. You took home the gold in Moto3 and Moto2 and were high up in the clouds mid-season, absolutely dominating the field.

The both of you started at the very same time— careers paralleling each other in different universes. You two knew of each other, but never met until one fateful day when Quad Lock decided to create an F1 and MotoGP crossover with their global ambassadors.

You sat in your brand gear, cradling your helmet in your hands. Oscar stood with his arms crossed, Quad Lock hat on full display.

They had decided it would be a good idea to put the both of you in karts and pocket bikes for two separate videos. Obviously, Oscar crushed you in karting and you crushed him in bikes— everyone saw that coming.

The media thought that interaction would be the last they saw of you two in a while. Until the annual motorsports gala where the both of you tie for "Athlete of the Year".

They bring you both on stage— the perfect representation of differing categories in the sport. Oscar lets you talk first, signaling you to go ahead in front of the microphone. As you do so, you say something that triggers the tension that you and the F1 driver have had since you both saw each other from across the room.

"...And lastly, I want to thank Mr. Oscar Piastri who I share the stage with today for being a great second option." You lift the trophy up as the crowd breaks out into applause. You spot your fellow riders cheering you on and you spot the F1 drivers snickering in their seats like pre-pubescent boys.

Media outlets explode at your acceptance speech, reporters have a field day asking Oscar what his thoughts were on your words, and you merely enjoyed the entertainment of it all.

Two months later, the both of you find each other at a charity event. You get in the simulator and impress everyone with your lap times. Oscar gets on the bike and impresses everyone with his balance. And while a crowd of interested fans crowded you, you only paid attention to each other.

"And you doubted my two-wheel abilities?"

"Yeah, thought you'd find it hard to balance. What with that big head and all."

You two bicker the whole time. Focus still locked onto the simulators you both started, but attention onto the person beside you. The crowd started pulling their phones out, tweeting and posting clips of the moment. Your dynamic eventually went viral and the media dubbed you two as golden twins— the prince of Formula 1 who crossed paths with the princess of MotoGP.

This eventually leads you two to exchange numbers, not doing much with it except for the weekly banter. After a race, you would text Oscar and compliment him on it. Of course, mentioning the atrocious understeer that almost cost his race. After a race, Oscar would text you and compliment you on it. Of course, mentioning the cocky stab at gravity that almost makes you go flying into the stands.

You two eventually end up on a podcast together, trying to out-snark each other with each flying minute. This leaves the hosts confused as to what was happening and the fans just ate it up like they were starved. Were they flirting? Fighting? Or both?

Then this leads to a helmet swap a week after the podcast aired. Your teams called it marketing, you two called it stupid. Yet you still did it. And the only evidence that that interaction happened is a picture of the two you side-by-side, holding each other's helmets up like you enjoyed it. And maybe you kinda did.

Fast forward a few months, Quad Lock has you both in a chokehold once again. Marketing makes you do simulators, reaction tests, everything you do as training. And its a back and forth of you and Oscar winning.

"Now I know why you win all the time." Oscar sends you a cheeky smile.

You narrow your eyes playfully, trying to hide the smile that wanted to stretch on your face. "Oh yeah?"

"I've never been there to distract you."

Twitter erupts, fan pages explode, and the Formula 1 and MotoGP teams absolutely love the back and forth. So much so that Quad Lock decides to bring Oscar to a race.

You won, of course, and Oscar stayed for the entire podium celebration. You enter your garage afterwards, sticky from the champagne. You spot Oscar and quickly walk towards him, a smirk on your face.

"Enjoyed the race?"

Oscar smiled at this, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. "Yeah, until you won."

You place the champagne bottle and trophy down on an empty table, looking at the driver with an impressed expression. You take your hat off and toss it towards him. He effortlessly catches it and admires it, the blue Michelin hat sat drenched in champagne in his hands.

"You can have that as a token of you being here," you start, picking up your trophy and bottle. "Already have a lot of those, anyway."

You wink as you walk away, leaving him stunned in place, hands still gripping onto the hat like it was a brick of gold.

Two weeks later and it was your turn to show up for the other's race. Oscar won, like he always did, and you stayed for the podium celebration as well.

Walking back to the hospitality, you hear footsteps jogging towards you until you spot a familiar champagne-soaked driver next to you. He says nothing, just a stupid smile on his face, before he holds out the Pirelli hat that you take.

"Hope you were taking notes, two-wheels." And he runs off before you could reply. You walk slower than you did a few minutes ago, mentally processing what just happened.

Because whatever this was, you liked it. You had finally found someone who could match you. Someone who wasn't better or worse than you— but someone who was the exact same. And you found it intoxicating.

849 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Text

2 HANDS | LH44

type social media au

pairing lewis hamilton x social media manager + muslim!reader

face claim zainab jiwa

song 2 hands by tate mcrae

summary brand new driver for ferrari means a brand new social media admin as well. but is that all you are? the tifosi doesn't think so.

warnings can be read as platonic or romantic, one (1) landoscar slander

author's note 2 hands with landoscar ❌ 2 hands with lh ✅🙂‍↕️ i'm still in the process of reposting my old stuff but in the meantime i hope u guys can enjoy this little piece first 🫶🏽

english is not my first language. all pictures taken from instagram, pinterest and twitter. credit to owners.

masterlist

INSTAGRAM!

scuderiaferrari

liked by lewishamilton, charlesfan1 and 222,826 others.

scuderiaferrari alexa play 2 hands by tate mcrae

view all 1644 comments

user1 i'm looking very respectfully

user2 i have something inappropriate to say

user3 uhm that's landoscar song

user4 user3 "uhm that's landoscar song 🤓☝🏻" wdgaf

user5 oh this new admin just GETS IT

user6 user5 new admin?

user5 user6 yes ferrari has a new admin for their instagram account. don't know if it's true though

scuderiaferrari user6 new admin here! can confirm ✌🏽

user6 scuderiaferrari omg thank you for feeding lh44 girlies everywhere with this post

scuderiaferrari user6 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ more soon

user7 lewis liked 😭

user8 user8 lol he approves this new admin

scuderiaferrari user8 yes he does 😉

scuderiaferrari

liked by lewisfan1, lewisfan2 and 390,726 others.

scuderiaferrari it’s almost time to go again 👊

view all 644 comments

user1 admin giving us the hamilton content we NEEDDDD i feel so blessed

user2 user1 they feeds us well i swear

scuderiaferrari user2 it's my job 🫡 literally lol

user3 admin i love you

user4 these pics are so female gaze i can't explain it

user5 user4 ADMIN IS ONE OF US

user6 user5 maybe the new admin is a woman

scuderiaferrari user6 only girls can understand girls 🙂‍↕️

user6 scuderiaferrari OMG I WAS RIGHT

scuderiaferrari

liked by bxllajames, kimerahramnath and 482,927 others.

scuderiaferrari some more pics from admin's personal camera roll

view all 836 comments

user1 STOP THE WAY HE WAS LOOKING AT HER 😭😭

user2 are my eyes deceiving me or was he blushing in the last pic

user3 are you guys thinking what i'm thinking

user4 user3 yes this feels WAY too personal

user5 the fact that 3 out of these pics are about lewis

user5 user5 admin are you team lh 👀

scuderiaferrari user5 😉😉

user6 am i allowed to ship lewis with ferrari insta admin even tho we don't even know what she look like

user7 "thank you scuderia ferrari instagram admin" we all say in unison

scuderiaferrari user7 you are so welcome besties

f1gossipofficial

liked by lewishamilton, ynln and 5,836 others.

f1gossipofficial The identity of Scuderia Ferrari F1 team new Instagram admin has been leaked, believing to be Y/N L/N ynln. Some of our followers connected the outfit she posted in Ferrari's latest Instagram post to match the one worn by one of the VIP guests in the paddock club. She was also rumoured to be Lewis Hamilton's personal guest during at the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix.

view all 78 comments

user1 SHE'S BEAUTIFUL OMG

user2 LEWIS AND Y/N LIKED??????

user3 oh so she really meant PERSONAL in that photo dump

user4 user3 no wonder those photos at the saudi gp hit different 😭😭

user5 "personal guest" oh? 👀

user6 isn't she a tad too young for him

user7 I hope they're together. She has a great sense of style.

user8 user7 lewis has a very high taste i mean look at him lol i'm sure she'd match his standard

user9 those outfits kinda ate omfg

user10 didn't she use to post tiktok videos about f1?

user11 user10 tiktok is probably her side thing. she's a journalist of some kind. i think she works in the entertainment industry too.

user12 everybody's talking about them potentially dating while i'm here freaking out over the fact that the ferrari admin is a hijabi like me 🥹❤️

user13 user12 YES!! representation matters ❤️

354 notes · View notes

kakorrhaphiphobia · 4 days ago

Text

people we meet on vacation (pt. 3) | OP81

masterlist part 2

pairing: oscar piastri x singer!reader (smau!)

summary: oscar and his childhood best friend, whose families always vacationed together, haven't seen each other in forever. maybe the f1 2025 season summer break is the time for them to rekindle?

tropes: friends to lovers, fluff, angst, social media + written, based loosely off of people we meet on vacation by emily henry

yn.jpg

liked by oscarpiastri, fayewebster, and 562,839 others

yn.jpg billy joel soundtrack to vienna!!!

view all comments

user54 they're back!!!!!! istg the only person less consistent than ynoscar is the hunger games official account

user55 bro... did you see the magno casting??

yn.jpg I DID I AM SO EXCITED I LOVE BILLY PORTER

user55 excuse me, i shan't be watching sotr bc i'm DEAD

charles_leclerc did you pray to niki lauda?

yn.jpg oscar did, religiously

charles_leclerc that's my son 🥹

lizzymcalpine my love 💞

yn.jpg meine leibe 💞

user19 somewhere in austria, oscar is tweaking tf out

user56 anywhere but the studio *sigh

lando WEINER schnitzel

yn.jpg this is why we ignore your messages sweetie

lilymhe yn come home, the kids miss youuu

yn.jpg you mean alex?

alex_albon no, stay away. when you're here, lily never hangs out with me

yn.jpg she knows her priorities 😏

oscarpiastri alexa, play "she's always a woman"

logansargeant 🤨

oscarpiastri it's billy joel, get out

user57 im gone

user58 can we make clones of op81 for everyone?

lewishamilton 💛

user59 who do YOU think you are?

user60 sir lewis hamilton, 7 world championship titles

user61 relax, yellow is for friendship

yn.jpg don't be putting hearts in my comment section when you won't let me babysit roscoe

oscarpiastri

liked by gabrielbortoleto_, nicolepiastri, and 1,028,920 others

oscarpiastri Nearing the end of summer break, excited to be back on the track but sad to be leaving places like Vienna and people like Yn. Pretty place, pretty people, pretty Piastri?

view all comments

lando who let him get away with "pretty Piastri?"

yn.jpg guilty (but regretful)

user62 oscar looking fineeee

user63 my wdc 2025!

user64 i just know the comments will be full of people talking abt yn or whatever her name is

user1 he's not gonna choose you!!!! hope this helps!!!!

olliebearman steal any credit cards?

oscarpiastri no...?

kimi.antonelli wrong brunette to ask that

user65 y'all i'm a ynoscar fan but no one will love this man like lando does

user66 fr he's always commenting and liking within seconds lol

yn.jpg i didn't approve this layout

oscarpiastri i'm trying this new thing called independence

yn.jpg it doesn't suit you

yn.jpg and most things do, so it's just a testament to how you should stop 🤗

user67 she thought we wouldn't see that???

mclaren The track misses you too!

isackhadjar pretty piastri indeed

oscarpiastri thank you, isack, i really needed to hear that

user68 this man has hoes on hoes on hoes

georgerussell63 when do we play padel?

user69 why do all the f1 boys love padel? are they paid?

oscarpiastri play with lando and alex, you prefer them anyway 🙄

georgerussell63 i do but we need four people

yn.jpg do not come to my town

july 21st, 2025 - 7:33

Oscar and Yn had been on the train to Amsterdam for an hour now, but it had begun to feel like a lifetime the second they stepped on. Of course, Yn was blind to this, intrigued too much by the newest Miranda July novel to notice Oscar's confused eyes and unusual inability to sit still.

It had been roughly three days since he'd decided that he could only ever remain 'friends' with Yn, but the decision had yet to sink in. In his head, it was all perfectly clear. He'd gone through every scenario, and each ended with him losing her, the one person who he couldn't bare to lose. Why would he change paths if every one of them ran out of tracks?

His heart was the one stalling. Despite feeling the logic of his choice all the way down to his bone marrow, the increased thumping of his heart against his ribs whenever her perfume wafted through the air or whenever she laughed to herself was in disagreement. Even right now, in her oversized Snoopy shirt and messy hair and practically acrobatic sitting position, it beat, faster than usual.

"Can you pass the strawberries?" she asked, eyes still focused on the page. He smiled, widely, knowing she wouldn't see, and complied. A small nod was her curt way of saying thank you before digging into the fruits, clealry starving.

"You hungry?" Her eyes darted up immediately. Having known her for most of his life, Oscar was well aware of the little things he could do to get her to pay attention to him and not to whatever hyperfixation had caught her focus. His entire childhood consisted of pretending to fall so she'd stop crocheting and play with him.

"Starving, how could you tell?" she grinned, closing the book and sitting up. "Why are you smiling like that?" Oscar shrugged, unable to hide the smile playing on his lips.

"While you were sleeping in," he enunciated, slightly teasing, "I found that bakery you were dying to eat from." The excitement was quickly evident on her face.

"No way! I basically sold my soul trying to find that place, how'd you find it so quick?"

As he began digging through his bag, Oscar explained, "I found it when we got here, I just hid it from you."

"You dick!" Yn said.

"It's more fun this way," he replied, handing her a fancy paper bag full of pastries. "I like to surprise you."

Her eyebrows burrowed, "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

Yn shrugged, taking a huge bite into a seemingly delicious butter croissant, "Well, we've known each other for ages. I don't think there's much to surprise ourselves with."

"That's why it's nice," he told her, reaching over the table in their compartment for a croissant. She tilted it without even looking, hinting at just how well she knew him. "I've done everything with you. It might seem repetitive--I don't think it is--so I like to try to make it interesting. I don't want you to get bored."

She set the bag down. You know it's serious when Yn stops eating her breakfast.

"You think I'd get bored of you?"

It was Oscar's turn to shrug, "It's not a crazy thought, Yn. I'm away all the time. All we do is go on vacation. It wouldn't be insane if you wanted someone who was... I don't know, around? Or did more than sit with you on flights or share hotels with you."

"You've got to be the dumbest person alive, Piastri," she said, so calmly that it confused him. "You're the Formula 1 driver here. You've got everything. If anyone's getting bored, it's you."

"How could you say that?"

"You said it first."

"Yeah, well, I was trying to be open. Communicative. You know, that thing you always say is super important in relationships?" A beat followed. "Like, relationships as in friendships. This is a relationship because we're--"

"I know what you meant, Oscar," she said, arms crossing over her body. I said something wrong, he thought to himself, fuck. "I'm not getting bored of this friendship." Her eyes rolled at the word, and Oscar decided that was enough for the day. His stubborn heart would beat to the rhythm of her words for the rest of the week if he didn't cut it off right now. Friendship, she said, as though it was an insult to her. Maybe she wanted him to say best friendship? Oscar didn't know.

They sat in silence for five minutes, Yn back to her book and Oscar pretending to solve a sudoku. To the background of train tracks and distant chatter from other cabins, Yn quietly murmured, "I'm not getting bored, Oscar. This is forever for me."

He looked up. When their eyes met, he nodded slighly, "Good." She held his gaze for another second before forcing herself to look away.

What a friendship.

oscarpiastri posted a story!

julu 22nd, 2025 - 10:21

Yn hated arguing with Oscar more than she hated avocado (she really hated avocado). Not only was it painful to be yelled at (and to yell back at) a person whom she'd felt nothing but love and admiration for since kindergarten, it was impossible to take the arguments seriously. They were always pointless. She didn't feel there was much she could do to push Oscar away. He'd always find his way back, like a frisbee. Stupid fucking analogy, Yn, she thought to herself as she grabbed her things from the train.

Oscar was waiting off the train, patiently, with his hands behind his back. As she approached the doors, he smiled and she smiled back and that feeling of safety flooded Yn again. They'd been fighting a lot recently--about things they'd never fought about before--and despite being able to tell herself that it would be fixed, it wasn't always easy to believe that. Seeing him there, that sweet look on his face, was a reminder she knew she could count on.

"How can you look like that after a long-ass train ride?" he jokingly asked, grabbing her suitcase and helping her out. "Share with the rest of the class. I'm the one that's got media following him, it's more important I look good."

"How many times in one trip does a girl need tell you that you never don't look good for it to stick?"

"A lot more," he grinned, "tell me again. Pretty please."

"You look good, Osc. Paparazzi will be too blinded to take photos."

"That's the goal."

They made their way out of the train station, conversing so intently that they didn't notice how refreshing the Amsterdam air felt as it hit their skin or even how close they had gotten, with Yn's hand wrapped around Oscar's bicep. Friends walked like this all the time. Yn had seen it in the movies. Although, to be fair, those cinema friends would either end up dating or be gay.

"I want to go to a club tonight," she told him, anticipating the shocked look on his face. "I know it's not your style, so you don't have to go with me if you don't want to. But I figure, Amsterdam is the city of clubbing. It'd be a shame for my twenty-year-old self to not go to the club. If anything, I'll have a story for my grandkids."

yn.jpg

liked by rolemodel, maxverstappen1, and 489,003 others

yn.jpg amsterDAMNNNNNNNN

view all comments

maxverstappen1 Yn and Oscar in Amsterdam. I'm scared they're going to burn my country down. liked by author

user70 she's so aesthetic

user71 do i want to be her or date her?

rolemodel come to my show

yn.jpg can't, i'm a busy, busy bee

rolemodel make her come to my show oscarpiastri

lando i love lurking in yn's comment section, she's my beyonce

user71 she knowLES

yn.jpg aww lando ur nice

oscarpiastri no he's not, he's trying to take my wdc

yn.jpg bad lando 😡

maxverstappen1 yours? bitch please

iamrebeccad you and oscar look so cute in slide 2 <3

user72 WHAT DOES SHE KNOW THAT WE DON'T

user1 lit nothing, they're just friends

user8 NOOOO user1 why are you off the ynoscar train

user1 i'm tired, i'm old and grey, i have no more hope

user73 who will be our leader now?

pierregasly yas queen

yn.jpg did franco teach you this?

oscarpiastri thank you to the random stranger who took slide 2 👏

user74 stop pretending you like her oscar, it's okay, she's annoying, we know

user2 i SWEAR i will commit crimes

Yn didn’t know the name of the club. She knew it was hot and the loud techno music was providing an incredibly steady beat, but she didn’t know the name of the people around her or the meaning of the lyrics or the type of alcohol in her addictive drink. She didn’t even know if she was having a good time.

She should’ve been. The appeal of Amsterdam, for all normal people, was the nightlife. But right now, Yn wasn’t normal. It was incredibly not normal how, despite the sea of good-looking men, all she could think about was her best fucking friend.

Oscar may as well have been a ghost the way he was haunting her. She’d liked him for years, but never had it felt less like a crush and more like a fucking need than tonight. Maybe it was how close in proximity they'd been, or maybe she just got tired of waiting. Maybe it was this darkened room full of strangers that made her realize she wanted Oscar to be anything but.

He probably didn't want the same. On the train, he was the one to insist they were solely friends, as if he could read her mind in those precious moments and see how her cheeks reddened at a brush of his hand. He was the one in Rome who assured her that friends could too sleep in the same bed. Every word out of his mouth felt like an attack on her most precious secret. He had to know. But, fuck, if he knew.

If he had known and not taken her into his arms in the way she'd envisioned him doing, it might be worse than any other possibility. She'd danced with men, she'd kissed them, she'd loved them, but only one could she laugh, cry, and just be with. And it was the one who probably saw her as a sister.

This is why I haven't talked to him in a while, she reminded herself. The last time she spent too much time with Oscar, these stupid fucking feelings arose. She almost kissed him on the balcony as they shared a slice of pizza. She was out of her mind, so she needed to be out of his vicinity. But she had to keep coming back. They had this promise that they'd grow old and gray together and tell their respective kids about their adventures as idiotic twenty-year-old selves. How could she survive until then without letting these feelings spill out, like the red wine that night in Bali four years ago?

She had to talk to him. No more missed opportunities on balconies or lingering looks in dim rooms. No fucking more. Pushing through the crowd, Yn wrestled her phone out of her clutch, struggling to focus her vision on her contacts. Once she tumbled through the exit, she rang Oscar, waiting and unknowingly teeter-tottering.

"Yn?" his deep voice answered--had he been sleeping?

"Osc!" she sang, twirling as she did so.

"Is everything alright? Are you drunk?" In the background, she could hear him shuffling out of what was presumably bed.

"I'm a lot of things," she dragged out, swinging her clutch around.

"What's going on, do you need me to pick you up?" Why was he so fucking perfect?

"That would be nice," she said, shy all of a sudden. "You're always so nice to me, Osc. It's not fair. It's like you're an angel and I don't think I deserve that."

"Where are you?" he asked, ignoring her comments.

Yn giggled. "I don't know, the name is in Dutch or something." Even though she couldn't see him, Yn knew Oscar had rolled his eyes.

"Okay, describe what's around you."

"Um, there's a metal gate with like a shit ton of stickers on it. It's like an alley here. Wait, let me move out of the alley."

"How'd you get there earlier?" His voice close to the phone, creating the slightest sense of static.

"I walked. Why? Wondering which shoes I'm wearing? You always care so much about my shoes, and I think it's cause I care about them. See? Nice."

"I asked because if you walked it must be near the hotel. Stay on the line, describe more."

"I'm between two tourist-y stores. There's also a flower shop in front, but it's closed. But it's not on the other street. I'd buy you flowers. You don't get enough flowers, Osc. I know I send them when you win a race, but you deserve them every day."

"Description, Yn."

"Okay. Tall, handsome, soft brown hair that sometimes looks bad--sorry--hazel eyes, really fucking cute teeth, God, your teeth make me want to die--"

"Of the street, Yn."

"Oh, yeah." She gulped. "There's a mushroom sign. On a nearby building."

"Give me a second, I'll find it." While Oscar stayed quiet, with the exception of a few soft clicks on his phone, Yn kept talking. Maybe too much.

"I shouldn't have gone without you," she admitted. "Not because I can't, I can, but I don't like to. I'm here with you. With Oscar Pastry. I should spend time with Pastry. I don't even want to fucking club. Everything I want, I can get from you." A moment passed before Yn started chuckling. "Well, I can't get that," she dragged it out, almost in song.

"I see you," he said over the phone, quickly hanging up after. Yn turned around before hearing his voice from the other side of the street. He was still in his pajama pants, a classic Oscar Piastri plain white t-shirt to match. How could he look so good? When he was near enough, his hands went to her arms, stabilizing her. "Are you alright?" His eyes were darting around, and it really made her feel bad for what she was about to say.

"No," she simply replied. Oscar gaped at her, confused and even more worried. "I haven't been fucking alright for so long, Osc. I... I can't be alright when you're here and you're perfect and you're my stupid fucking friend? It's not fair. I mean, how can a girl be alright? I don't even know how to answer that. I don't even know--"

"Yn, what are you saying?" he asked, his grasp on her arms lightening.

"You know what I'm saying, Oscar. I'm saying I don't want us to be friends. I don't think I can take it. I haven't been able to just be friends for a long ass time. What I'm saying is..." she couldn't find the words. Her eyes met his and suddenly it wasn't words she needed, it was action.

She pulled him close and kissed him.

aaaaaaand that's part 3. a little less social media and a bit more writing but i felt it was necessary. hope you guys enjoyed!!!! final part coming soon <333

249 notes · View notes