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leviathan0000 · 24 days ago

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Ahhhh this made my heart sing💓💖💞

Just Married, For the Week - PG10

Masterlist || Part 1

Summary: Pierre and a chaotic supermodel accidentally get married in Vegas and decide to stay married for one week, just “for the plot.” What follows is an unhinged, meme-worthy saga through the Formula 1 paddock and beyond — complete with paddock chaos, media madness, Dior photoshoots, aquarium honeymoons, surprise spa days, driver group sleepovers, and rising tension between the fake newlyweds. By Day 6, the joke starts to feel dangerously real.

Warnings: Explicit language, alcohol use, accidental marriage trope, chaotic humour, strong language, light emotional angst, suggestive dialogue, celebrity/fame themes, some kink/sexual references, romantic tension.

One week. That’s what they’d agreed on.

Seven days of legal matrimony, champagne toasts, and global chaos before heading to the courthouse and getting it annulled. No harm, no foul. Just a stupidly expensive, internationally visible inside joke.

And Pierre thought that was fine. Hilarious, even. He’d been the one to suggest it while lying on the hotel room carpet at 6 a.m., hair full of glitter and McNuggets cooling on his chest. “Let’s just stay married,” he’d said between sips of water. “One week. For the plot.”

And she’d grinned. Lazy and chaotic, like she hadn’t just changed the trajectory of his fucking life. “You sure you can handle me for seven days, Gasly?”

“I survived Yuki,” he’d deadpanned. “I’ll be fine.”

The group chats were already in flames. Every driver knew by lunch. Every team principal by dinner. His phone hadn’t stopped vibrating since the county’s Twitter account outed them. Geri Horner was already asking for tea. It was like setting off a confetti cannon in a chapel. But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the paddock.

DAY 1

She stepped out of the car in ripped jeans, a white tank top with the word "WIFEY" in rhinestones across the chest, and sunglasses shaped like hearts. No PR badge. No filter. Just absolute chaos on legs. Pierre was already sweating.

“Okay,” he muttered, walking beside her through the paddock, “we’re keeping it lowkey today. Like, just a vibe. A casual married couple vibe.”

“I literally sparkle in direct sunlight,” she said, flipping her hair. “Lowkey doesn’t exist in my vocabulary.”

Charles spotted them first. He was leaning against the Ferrari hospitality wall, halfway through a protein shake, and nearly dropped it when he saw her. “Oh my god,” he said loudly, grinning. “She’s here.”

“You’ve met me, dickhead,” she called back, strutting up and kissing his cheek. “Thanks for not letting us die last night.”

“Anytime,” Charles beamed. “I’m still processing it, honestly.” He looked at Pierre and burst out laughing. “You actually married her.”

“Shut up,” Pierre muttered.

They didn’t even make it ten feet before Lewis strolled by, double-taked, then turned fully around. “Wait,” he said, eyes wide behind tinted glasses. “Is this the girl?”

“She’s the wife,” Charles offered helpfully.

Lewis blinked. Then broke into a grin. “Holy shit.”

She extended a hand like she was meeting the Queen. “Pleasure to be your sister-in-law.”

Lewis cracked up. “Pierre, you married a menace.”

“I’m aware.”

“Does she come with subtitles?”

“No,” she said cheerfully. “But I do come with opinions about your necklace layering game.”

By the time they got to Red Bull, Max had already been warned. “Pierre got married,” Max deadpanned when they walked up. “Vegas should be illegal.”

“Hi Max,” she said sweetly. “I’m your problem now.”

He just blinked at her. “…You’re the one from the fries tweet?”

“Goddamn right.”

She gave him a French fry from her pocket. Max nodded slowly, like he was genuinely impressed. “Okay. Yeah. I get it now.”

By midday she’d met half the grid, told Lance his eyebrows were "weaponized," challenged Yuki to a wasabi shot contest, and managed to convince Carlos that the marriage was a strategic career move. “It’s for the PR,” she said with a straight face.

Carlos tilted his head. “You two are the most unserious couple I’ve ever seen.”

“We aim to confuse.”

Oscar and Lando stood together near the McLaren hospitality, whispering like middle school girls. “Dude, that’s his wife.”

“She’s unhinged.”

“I think I love her.”

“She just told Christian Horner she thinks his ‘aura is greenwashed capitalism.’”

“Oh my god.”

Meanwhile, Geri was LIVING for it. She cornered Pierre near the media pen. “You married her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what this means?” she said, eyes sparkling. “WAG status. Front row. Gala invites. Chaos. Power couple. I can work with this.”

“Please don’t.”

“She’s perfect. Keep her. If you divorce her, I’m keeping her.”

Helmut Marko walked past, looked at her once, and just muttered, “Of course.”

By afternoon, the press had picked it up fully. Headlines like:

GASLY WEDS SUPERMODEL IN VEGAS TEQUILA RAMPAGE MARRIAGE OR MARKETING? THE MOST CHAOTIC F1 COUPLE ‘WE MET OVER FRIES’: AN EXCLUSIVE LOOK AT THE GRID’S FAVORITE ACCIDENT

Pierre did one interview where he said, “Yeah, we’re married. No, we’re not sober yet. No, I don’t know what happens after the week. Stop asking.”

She did another where she was asked what made her fall for Pierre. She just said, “You ever seen that man shirtless?” Cue internet meltdown.

Dinner that night was at the trackside hospitality tent. Everyone was invited. She showed up in a minidress with Pierre’s last name bedazzled on the back, sat beside Fernando Alonso, and got him to snort beer out of his nose within six minutes.

“Tell me everything,” Fernando begged.

“It started with tequila. Ended with legally binding vows. You know, girl math.”

“Are you gonna stay married?”

“Ask me after I see him naked.”

Pierre, across the table, choked on a breadstick.

Andrea Stella whispered to Fred, “They’re either gonna kill each other or fall in love for real.”

Fred shrugged. “I’m just here for the memes.”

Later that night, they sat in the hotel bathtub, both fully clothed, eating room service pasta.

“This is going way better than I thought,” she admitted, twirling linguine with a spoon.

Pierre looked at her, hair damp, eyes soft. “You’re actually insane.”

“And yet you married me.”

“Worst decision of my life,” he said. Then: “Top five best.”

She nudged him with her foot. “Careful. Sounds like you’re catching feelings.”

Pierre grinned. “Only for your fries.”

They high-fived again. Shared the pasta. Fell asleep tangled up, mouths still laughing. One day down. Six to go.

Day 2

It started with a text from Charles. Of course it did.

CHARLES [8:02AM] honeymoon plans xoxo 🐠✨🐡 you’re welcome

Pierre blinked at the message. Then at the link that followed.

"Shark Reef Aquarium VIP Experience: private tour, professional photos, behind-the-scenes access.”

Attached was a digital receipt. Paid in full. Under the booking name: “Mr & Mrs Gasly — Newlyweds 💍🐟”

Pierre groaned. “You’re kidding me.”

From the other side of the hotel bed, where she was aggressively eating room service fruit in one of his t-shirts and nothing else, she perked up. “Aquarium?”

“No. No way. Charles actually booked us a honeymoon day at the shark exhibit. And Kym Illman is apparently coming to document it.”

She grinned. “God, I love that little Ferrari bastard.”

“I'm getting a restraining order.”

“You’re wearing your ‘Husband’ shirt.”

“You said it was cute.”

“You looked like a lost baby duck, I stand by it.”

Pierre threw a pillow at her.

10:45 AM — Outside the Shark Reef Aquarium.

Kym Illman was already there. Camera slung over one shoulder. Visibly confused.

“Okay,” he said, eyeing them as they approached, “so let me get this straight: you got married by accident, are staying married for a week, and now I’m... photographing your honeymoon?”

Pierre sighed. “I guess?”

Kym looked at her. “You’re not scared of sharks, are you?”

She grinned. “I am the shark.”

Kym muttered something about needing a drink and followed them in.

11:00 AM — Exhibit Hall, Sea Turtle Section.

She was narrating the fish. Loudly. For children. That didn’t exist.

“Here we have Pierre’s distant cousin, the overdramatic French angelfish. Known for its tendency to pout and swim into traffic.”

Pierre was half-laughing, half-dying of secondhand embarrassment. “Please stop.”

“No. I’m educating the masses.”

“You called a stingray a tax evader.”

“It looked shady.”

Kym was already ten photos deep. One shot of her pretending to argue with a seahorse. Another of Pierre laughing so hard he nearly fell into the jellyfish tank.

A family walked by. The dad whispered, “Is that… Pierre Gasly?” The teenage daughter whispered louder, “IS THAT HIS WIFE?” And then asked for a selfie. With her. Not Pierre.

11:45 AM — Shark Tunnel.

They were holding hands. Mostly because she kept pretending the sharks were legal witnesses to their marriage.

“That one’s the officiant,” she whispered. “He said we’ll owe him a favor someday.”

Pierre snorted. “You’re unwell.”

“You married this.”

“In a moment of weakness.”

“You kissed me in front of a vending machine.”

“You tasted like fries and tequila.”

“I was ICONIC.”

“You were dangerous.”

Kym took a photo of them mid-banter, the light of the tunnel glinting off their ridiculous matching necklaces (hers said “GASLY,” his said “HELP”).

“This is the worst honeymoon I’ve ever photographed,” Kym muttered.

“You say that,” she said, turning around, “but I’m gonna ride a mechanical shark in five minutes and you’re gonna feel something.”

12:30 PM — Aquarium Gift Shop.

They bought matching bucket hats. Pierre tried to stop her. He failed.

She also bought:

A plush octopus named Kevin. A coffee mug that said “I’m With the Catch” with an arrow. A keychain of a hammerhead shark. Two t-shirts that said “Just Hooked”

She insisted they wear the shirts immediately. Pierre looked like he wanted to file for annulment.

Charles sent a selfie of himself cackling at their outfits.

CHARLES [12:41PM] LOOK AT MY CHILDREN. I MADE THIS HAPPEN.

1:00 PM — Lunch Break (Aquarium Café).

She ordered a fish sandwich. Pierre stared at her like she was committing war crimes.

“You can’t eat fish at an aquarium.”

“Circle of life, babe.”

“You’re a monster.”

“I’m your wife.”

“Exactly.”

Kym filmed their whole argument and posted it to Instagram with the caption: “Married life: day 2. Already debating seafood ethics.”

2:15 PM — Back in the hotel

They collapsed on the bed in matching shirts and gift shop bucket hats.

“You know,” she said, kicking her shoes off, “I think this is the weirdest day of my life.”

Pierre turned his head to look at her. “Same.” He paused. “You having fun?”

She grinned. “Are you kidding? I’ve hijacked your life and made it more glamorous.”

“I made you breakfast.”

“Fine. Fifty-fifty split.”

He laughed. “Deal.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“…Do you think Charles will book us a dolphin experience next?”

Pierre groaned into a pillow. “Don’t give him ideas.”

Day 3

It started quiet. Too quiet. For once, they weren’t being hunted by Charles’ chaos. There were no cameras. No bucket hats. No matching shirts. Just white robes, cucumber water, and the ghost of last night’s aquarium hangover.

Pierre had booked the spa day himself. He didn’t tell her that. He claimed it was “part of the Charles Experience™,” but she knew better the moment she caught the spa confirmation in his email.

"You're soft," she whispered, grinning as they lay side-by-side in the couple’s massage room, faces squished into donut pillows.

"You're heavy," he muttered.

She kicked his leg. "I’m your wife."

"Temporary wife."

"My lawyers say otherwise."

By the time the hot stones were on their backs and the lavender oil was in the air, neither of them remembered whose idea the fake marriage even was. They bickered through facials, made inappropriate jokes during the mud wrap, and got scolded for laughing too hard in the sauna.

They sat in the hot tub after, champagne in hand, her legs tangled with his.

"This is dangerously close to being romantic," she said.

Pierre didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Don’t ruin it.”

She smiled, leaned back against his chest. “Too late.”

DAY 4

The shoot was at a private villa in the hills outside Vegas. High ceilings. Sculpted gardens. The kind of space that smelled like old money and better cheekbones. She walked in like she owned it. Because she did. Dior called her the face of 2025. Vogue called her a fashion god-tier menace. The entire staff called her that unfiltered icon who married a Formula 1 driver for jokes.

Pierre sat in the corner. Silent. Watching.

She let herself be pulled into hair and makeup, stripped down to black lingerie and pearls, posing against marble and shadows like it was second nature.

He tried to act casual. He really did. But she saw the way he shifted in his seat when she turned toward the camera, lips parted, shoulder strap slipping.

“You okay, husband?” she called across the set, mid-shot.

Pierre blinked. “Just admiring the… uh, lighting.”

The whole team laughed. She winked at him. And kept slaying.

By the afternoon, he was holding her coat, sunglasses, and bag. Someone handed him a Dior lanyard that said Plus-One to the Queen.

He wore it. Proudly.

When she was finally done, glitter still on her collarbone and perfume trailing in the air, she flopped into the car beside him.

“Long day?” he asked.

She turned to him. Smiled. “I like when you come with me.”

Pierre didn’t answer for a moment. Just reached over. Brushed a piece of hair from her face. “Good,” he said. “I’m not leaving.”

DAY 5

The plan was no plan.

Day 5 was supposed to be recovery. Sleep in. Robes. Room service. A few hours of pretending the outside world didn’t exist.

They lay sprawled on the hotel bed, watching some cursed French reality show on mute, a full Dior shopping bag acting as a popcorn bowl between them. She was wearing his AlphaTauri hoodie and nothing else. He was in joggers and a permanent state of disbelief.

“You know,” she said, licking salt off her thumb, “if we were real married, we’d have a dog by now.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “A dog?”

“A chaotic dog. One of those ugly ones with a smashed face. We’d name him after something terrible. Like ‘Sebastian.’”

“You’re not naming our dog after Vettel.”

“Too late, I already told Vogue.”

Before Pierre could reply, the hotel room door buzzed. He blinked. “Did you-?”

“I didn’t order food.”

Pierre got up and opened the door to a lineup of chaos. Charles. Lewis. Lando. Max. Carlos. George. And Alex.

They held bags of snacks. Champagne. Card games. Someone had a Bluetooth speaker. Charles was wearing a “#GASLYWIFE” shirt he absolutely had printed himself.

“Boys’ night,” Charles declared.

“Boys’ night with your legally bound goddess,” she corrected, sliding off the bed and kissing Pierre’s cheek. “Come in, degenerates.”

It escalated quickly.

Lando spilled a drink on the minibar. Max tried to teach them all Dutch swear words. Lewis called her ‘Queen Vegas’ the entire night. George and Carlos started a heated debate about astrology, which Alex filmed for evidence. Charles kept showing everyone their wedding photo and claiming he was “basically the best man.”

At one point, she dared Pierre to kiss her in front of everyone. He did. And no one blinked. Not even Max. Because by now, everyone kind of… loved it.

When the guys finally stumbled out just past 2am, Charles patted Pierre on the back.

“You’re punching,” he whispered.

Pierre flipped him off.

DAY 6

They started the morning in matching sunglasses, hoodies, and hangovers. Somehow, a group of the younger drivers had convinced her and Pierre to come to themed adrenaline therapy, also known as: an F1 group theme park day.

Oscar, Logan, Lando, and Yuki were already in line when they arrived. She had a churro in one hand, Pierre’s hand in the other, and declared herself the official chaos liaison of the day.

She and Yuki got competitive about rollercoaster bravery. She made Logan cry laughing on the teacups. Pierre watched her run through the park like a cartoon character, screaming over funnel cake and buying the ugliest souvenir hats she could find.

At one point, they all took a group selfie and Yuki captioned it: “Mrs. Gasly & her children 💅”

Pierre couldn’t stop smiling. But the second half of the day? Serious.

Pierre had official media and sponsor meetings with team principals and select drivers. Instead of leaving her behind, he took her with him.

“You don’t have to,” she said quietly in the car, suddenly shy for the first time all week. “I know this part’s important.”

Pierre shook his head. “If I can handle Charles Leclerc printing custom shirts with your face on them, I can handle Christian Horner.”

And he did. They arrived at the paddock. She wore sunglasses, a high ponytail, and a beige set that screamed “expensive but unbothered.” She was polite to Zak Brown, sharp with Franz Tost, and somehow made even Toto Wolff smile.

When they entered the Mercedes motorhome, Susie offered her coffee, and George loudly whispered, “Our favourite fake wife!”

At the final meeting, Christian Horner glanced at Pierre, then at her. “So,” he smirked. “Still married?”

She smiled sweetly. “Only until someone offers me a better contract.”

Pierre choked on his water. Christian laughed. The room did too.

That night, as they walked back to the hotel, Pierre stopped her in the elevator.

“You were amazing today,” he said.

She grinned. “You liked my Horner burn?”

“I liked that you’re you. Even in front of the people who matter.”

She tilted her head. “Starting to think you like me for real.”

Pierre stared at her. No smile this time.

“…Maybe I do.”

She froze. Just a second too long. Then the elevator dinged. Saved by the bell. They didn’t speak again until they were curled in bed, half-watching bad TV, their legs tangled and hearts too loud.

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leviathan0000 · 24 days ago

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Victoria Always Wins Pt.1

F1 Drivers x Original Character! Victoria Rothschild

Summary: Victoria Rothschild is rich, like filthy rich. Her family fortune didn't just open every door for her - it built every one of them. So when the media labeled her a gold digger after she was spotted with F1 drivers, what would she do?

Inspired by Mean Girls by Charli XCX

Faceclaim: Katarinademe from ig.

Warning: Victoria has trust issues and commitment issues and some may think she's mean.

Hi everyone this is my first original F1 fanfiction. English is not my first language so i write in Chinese and English then i use DeepSeek to translate it. Please be kind and let me know how do you feel about this.

Lando met Victoria at a club in Las Vegas. The bass pounded through the space, vibrating the air. Nearly every driver and team member was there, wild and drenched in champagne. Lando was already wasted. He clapped Max Verstappen on the shoulder, congratulating him once again on defending his World Driver’s Championship title. Then he slipped into the dance floor, which had devolved into pure, chaotic revelry.

A group of girls instantly caught his eye—not just because they were stunning, but because they didn’t look like the usual afterparty groupies who tag along the drivers. They moved with an untamed energy, like they owned the damn night.

Lando scanned the six girls, and one in particular seized his attention. The moment he saw her clearly, the whole world seemed to mute itself. The music still blasted, but all he could hear was the hammering of his own heart.

For the love of god, she was breathtaking. A brunette in a tight, V-neck black dress that hugged every curve, revealing a nearly lethal cleavage. Men around her had already undressed her with their eyes a dozen times over. She didn’t give a damn.

She danced like she owned the fucking room. Lip-syncing the lyrics, twerking and swaying her hips with her friends.

“Oh my fucking god,” Lando breathed—or maybe he said it out loud; he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she glanced his way. Just a fleeting look. Nothing more.

He saw one of the other girls say something to her, and then the whole crew started moving toward the bar. The crowd parted for them almost theatrically. Six gorgeous girls together? People just made way.

They leaned against the bar, laughing brightly, radiating energy. That’s when a guy approached.

Lando watched him stride confidently toward her, say something to the bartender—probably offering to buy their drinks or some crap like that. The girls exchanged a look and politely declined, but the guy didn’t back off. He pushed closer.

“So what are you pretty girls doing here tonight? Girl’s night out?” He wore a smarmy, arrogant smirk. Someone needs to punch that face, Lando thought.

“Yeah,” she replied flatly, already turning back to her friends, shutting him down with a dismissive shrug.

The guy still wouldn’t quit. Lando started forward, but someone beat him to it—fit, gleaming, dreadlocks: Lewis Hamilton.

He said something to the man, a polite but firm smile on his face. The guy fawned over Lewis, shook his hand eagerly, and finally slunk away.

Lando watched Lewis greet her, his hand resting casually on her shoulder. They clearly knew each other, and well. The other girls in the group chimed in, chatting easily with him.

Of course. Classic Lewis charm.

Lando seized the moment. He tapped Lewis’ shoulder with his signature boyish grin. “Hey Lew!”

Lewis turned casually. “Hey Lando, you having fun?” “Yeah yeah, just danced a bit. And hello to the pretty ladies!” He nodded at the group, his gaze lingering on Victoria a beat too long. The girls offered polite but lukewarm smiles.

“Well,” Victoria downed her champagne flute, “who’s up for a drive? This place is suffocating.” “Yeah, Vic!” “Let’s go!” “Hell yeah, I just got my new Porsche!” the girls cheered. “Then we’re outta here! See you, Lew.” She kissed Lewis’ cheek. He gave her waist a brief, familiar squeeze as they said their goodbyes.

Lando’s jaw dropped. He just got here and they were already leaving? No way! “Need a driver?” He intercepted Victoria as she passed, flashing a hopeful smile. Lewis watched, unfazed. Victoria lifted her lashes, her deep eyes finally locking onto his. Their first real connection of the night. “I don’t know. Are you a good one?” Lando’s throat went dry. Damn, it’s just a question. Get your shit together, Norris! “Well, no complaints so far,” he said, holding her gaze steadily. “And I do drive for McLaren.” “McLaren? Wrong brand.” Her retort was effortlessly brutal. She glanced back at her friends. “Maybe next time.”

She walked away, her shoulder brushing his arm. The scent of champagne and roses trailed behind her. Lando stared after her – the swing of her hair, the curve of her hips, her animated chatter fading into the crowd.

“Wow, that’s your game?” Lewis’ amused voice snapped Lando back. “OMG, bro, who is that? You know her?” Lando pleaded, desperate for intel. “That’s Victoria, mate. Lethal weapon.” Lewis’ tone held a clear warning. “Don’t mistake her for those other girls. That’s a recipe for disaster.” Lando was already spellbound. “Victoria who?How’d you meet? You got her number?” “Bro, calm down. You’re whipped already.” Lewis fought an eye-roll. “Met at a charity thing. Shared music taste. Her name’s Victoria Roth.” He eyed Lando’s eager expression – like Roscoe begging for treats. “As for her number? I have it. But I’m not handing it out. I’d need to ask her first.”

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 oc #f1 x oc #lando norris x oc #lewis hamilton x oc

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leviathan0000 · 25 days ago

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little miss perfect - r.c - (+18) - exes & oh's!

pairing: siren!reader x rafe warnings: suggestive; nudity.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s too fucking hot, even with the ocean breeze cutting through the dunes. Sweat slicks the back of Rafe’s neck, and the bonfire dancing twenty feet away only makes it worse. Music’s blaring, someone’s shirtless and backflipping off the pier into the dark water.

Rafe's got a beer in his hand and his eyes on a nuisance.

Correction: you.

When Topper said, "bring her or don't come," he should’ve stayed the fuck home.

Now you’re sitting in a faded Tommy Bahama beach chair, drink untouched in the sand, wearing some sheer little cover-up that doesn’t cover shit and is not the bikini Rafe told you to not wear around his friends.

Your thighs are crossed, mouth glossed, and attitude lethal. People stare when you walk past, you turned this into a fucking catwalk instead of a party.

You also haven’t looked at him once since you got here.Which he’s sorta happy about, it means you’re staying away.

He watches you now, body angled enough to show off without it looking obvious. You’re listening to some asshole go on about a story, biting your thumbnail, pretending to laugh.

Rafe downs the rest of his drink.

"You're pissed," Kelce says, catching up beside him.

"No shit."

"Look at her. What’d you expect?”

“I didn’t think she’d—” he breaks off, eyes narrowing as you lean in and say something into the guy’s ear, "—flirt all night."

Kelce shrugs. “That’s just her face.”

His friend is already drifting off—free beer tends to scatter friends like pigeons—but Rafe stays rooted, eyes fixed on you. He assures himself he’s only checking in case you do something reckless.

He should’ve known.

You were annoying the whole car ride up, feet on the dash, sunglasses sliding down your nose, whining about how his playlist was “a frat house funeral,” and trying to change the song with your toes.

He told you to stop, told you to be normal.

“Can you behave…tonight?” It took him every bone in his body to ask, “Don’t start with the drama, okay?”

"I’m not doing anything," you’d argued. “God forbid I show up and breathe like a normal girl.”

He reminded you to stay away from him when you got there, to blend in. He told you all of it while you looked him dead in the eye and said, “Fine. I’ll behave.”

Now you’re across the fire, bare legs crossed, arms shimmering with whatever oil you slathered on earlier, laughing at a joke that's not funny. It’s petty, but Rafe knows it lacks any humor because that guy you’re laughing with can’t be smart enough to pull that sound out of you. None of them are.

Topper strolls up with two beers in hand, one already almost gone, the other he tries to hand to Rafe, who doesn’t bother to look at it.

Instead, he stands stiff, breathing hard through his nose, watching you like you offended his entire bloodline. Which, funnily enough, you have on numerous occasions.

Topper follows his gaze.

“Damn,” he says, impressed. “Still can’t believe you get to live with that every summer.”

Rafe finally drags his eyes off you long enough to scowl at him.

“Yeah. Fuckin’ nightmare.”

Topper almost chokes on his beer. “Nightmare?”

He’s already mid-eye roll, muttering, “She’s awful, man.”

Topper whips his head around so fast his neck pops, looking between you and Rafe “Awful?!”

Rafe gestures vaguely in your direction, like that proves everything. “Look at her. Look what she’s doing.”

“She’s sitting?”

“Flirting her way around.”

Topper throws his hands up. “She’s insanely hot. That’s not a crime.”

Rafe scrunches up his nose.

“She’s not.”

Topper starts laughing so hard he nearly drops his drink.

“Bro.”

Rafe turns on him, insulted. “What?”

Topper’s wheezing now.

“Do you wanna switch places or something? Seriously, say the word. I’ll house swap; she can scream at me and wear tiny bikinis and ignore me in public—please.”

Rafe bristles at the comment.

“She’s not all that. I don’t know what the fuck you mean.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am!” Rafe insists. “There’s plenty of other hot girls here.”

His best friend tilts his head, lips stretching wide like he’s about to pounce.

“Okay. Name one hotter.”

Rafe’s eyes dart around the party, he spots a girl in a red bikini laughing near the pier. One of the older kook girls flips her hair, flashing a white smile. A blonde walks past, bikini strings swinging.

“...That girl over there,” He eventually offers, motioning vaguely toward someone in the dark.

Topper squints. “The one eating corn?”

“She’s not eating corn.”

“She’s absolutely eating corn.”

“I didn’t mean her.”

“Okay. Then who?”

He doesn’t answer because he can’t; none of them come close.

Most of them are pretty. One has long legs, another has a tiny waist, and a designer bikini she bought just for tonight. There's tan skin, glossy hair, white teeth, and shiny things everywhere.

But they all look the same in his head.

They don’t glow like you do. None of them are smirking with secrets tucked under their tongue. None of them roll their eyes like they’re doing him a favor just by showing up.

That’s what pisses him off most.

He needs them to come close, prays for the distraction.

But they’re not you.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up, Top.”

Rafe shoves the empty into a trash bag and digs for a fresh bottle. Ice water burns his knuckles. He hears Sarah laughing with Kie by the volleyball net and someone’s screwing around with a Bluetooth speaker.

Stay busy.

That’s the plan, if he’s busy, you won’t have a second to mess with his head.

He pops the cap, tips the beer back. He shoulders through a knot of kooks, lifting the mini–kegerator so they can slide a crate underneath. Easy grunt work, no mental load, no you.

He lingers while Topper lights the tiny mortar shells and pretends the metallic whine and powdery after-smell are interesting. But when a red bloom explodes overhead, he reflexively glances across the sand, searching for your silhouette backlit in crimson sparks.

He's only doing a headcount for field sober rides, starting a mental note list, a flimsy excuse to pace the shoreline, scanning for you.

Half an hour later, he’s wedged between the dunes with a handful of guys from Coastal. Somebody passes a pack. Rafe doesn’t usually smoke, but a spark feels good between his fingers right now.

Nicotine scalds his lungs, settles meanly in his chest. He thinks about you swiping one of Ward’s cigars when you were fifteen, grinning around the fat thing like a cartoon villain.

Rafe had been furious; he is now, at the fact that memory tastes sweeter than the cigarette.

“Yo, Cameron,” one of the Coastal dudes says, “Your girl’s—”

“Not my girl,” Rafe clips.

“Whatever, bro. She’s down by the water, about to drown some chick.”

“Fuck’s sake."

Rafe’s flicking the half-smoked cigarette into the sand.

Not his girl, no his fucking problem. Except it is.

The sand is hot beneath his feet, damp against the rubber soles of his shoes as he jogs toward the water. His beer sloshes warm in his stomach, the bass from the speaker fades the further he gets, replaced by the rush of waves and the unmistakable tone of your voice.

He knows that tone.

You’re standing close to someone, body rigid, chin lifted, and then he sees her, familiar highlights, the baby voice.

His ex. Gemma, was it? Great.

He slows, trying to catch the tail end of whatever’s being said. You’re pointing now, nails flashing under moonlight, voice raised.

“—you think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’ve been staring since I walked in.”

“You walked in wearing nothing, sweetheart,” Gemma replies. “Don’t get mad at me just because he still doesn’t want you.”

Rafe has a second to register it before you're lunging forward, all teeth and fury and swinging limbs, not drunk-girl flailing.

“Hey—” He surges forward and wraps an arm around your waist from behind, hauling you back as your fingers swipe air, inches from hair you were aiming to yank out. “Fucking chill—fuck, hey!”

You’re struggling in his grip, kicking sand, barking over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna talk to her—”

“Talk to her? With your fists?”

“She started it—"

He’s got you locked to his chest now, arms around your middle like a seatbelt, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah?” he huffs, lips brushing your ear. “Then how come I’m the one holdin’ you back right now?”

You stop squirming for him to think you’re done, then you kick backward and catch his shin with your heel.

"Fuckin' psycho.”

“Let go of me.”

“In a sec,” he mutters. “Soon as you stop channeling Mike Tyson.”

“You didn’t hear what she said.”

“I heard, alright.” He’s still laughing, with adrenaline. “Believe me, baby, the whole fucking beach heard.”

You wriggle harder at that, hissing something murderous, but he’s grinning against your neck now, too proud for a guy who claims to despise you on a good day.

You’re impulsive, you never do what he tells you.

“Stop it,” he tuts, turning you toward him as your chest heaves. “What the hell got into you?”

“She was talking shit,” you snap, brushing sand off your thighs with a sharp flick of your hand.

“Me? You were the one hitting on him while we were together!”

Gemma’s not lying.

You lurch forward but Rafe catches you in time as you growl, glaring over his shoulder.

“If I’d wanted him, I’d have had him.”

Unfortunately, that’s true.

Rafe knows it like he knows his name; knows it in the worst, most inconvenient way. If you wanted him back then—even now—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance. It makes him wonder what it would be like if you ever stopped playing and smiled at him genuinely.

His arms tighten, effectively confining you.

“Okay. Okay, nope. That’s enough.”

His ex laughs ugly. “Sweetheart, he hates you.”

You tilt your head, “Yeah?”

Yeah, he’s said that.

He said it to your face more times than he can count, and he meant it, too, mostly. But hearing it from his ex, delivered with venom, sounds ugly and brutal.

You’re not looking at him, you’re still smiling, but your posture has changed: shoulders slightly higher.

Rafe recalls the way he used to rant about you to his ex. He’d make it sound like you were this mosquito in his ear, a pest, only a problem.

But he never told her about the nights he’d spend re-reading your texts, never told her how his stomach twists in that specific way when you show up at his house every June.

He does hate you, but not the way she thinks.

“That’s enough,” he says again, directed at both of you.

Gemma shrugs, flippant. “Didn’t know you went for sluts now—”

Rafe’s head snaps toward her. “Shut the fuck up.”

“She tried to assault me!"

“Yeah,” Rafe says dryly, arms still wrapped around you, a rabid animal in a sequined bikini. “That’s why I grabbed her.”

She blinks. “So…?”

“So what?”

“So aren’t you gonna say something?”

He’s got one arm keeping you from tackling her and the other braced, in case he needs to start breaking up round two.

His ex scoffs as you twist around to look at him, smirking even though you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar, but also bit the other kid who tried to take the last one.

Gemma all but cries out, “She threatened me, Rafe!”

“You kinda asked for it.”

You suck in a pleased little breath and lean into him.

“Aw, look at you defending me.”

“You’re taking her side? Rafe—Rafe—this is me. She’s just—”

“I’m not your boyfriend.”

Your head turns sharply to meet his eyes over your shoulder.

“I mean—fuck,” he mutters. “Not her boyfriend either.”

“Yikes,” you whisper, clearly delighted. “Say it with a little more venom next time, Romeo.”

“Shut up,” he hisses, releasing you like you’re radioactive.

You spin on your toes, unbothered, brushing imaginary dust off your chest.

“The fuck did I just say?” Rafe snaps, stepping between you fully now, body blocking like a shield. “Go.”

Gemma scoffs again, but there’s a wobble in it; she’s never seen this version of him.

“Unreal,” she mutters, backing off with that bitter, glossy pout.

He turns to you then, you’re still fuming, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged at the corner, hair wild from whatever scuffle nearly happened. You look insane. Gorgeous.

Rafe considers turning around and walking into the goddamn ocean.

You’re vibrating with leftover rage, a lit fuse with nowhere to burn. He knows you wanted the fight, and he’s never seen anything hotter in his entire life.

He should be pissed.

Instead, he’s standing here with your voice still ringing in his ear and his palms tingling from where they touched you for so long.

He hadn’t meant to hold you that tight, to lean in close enough to smell your shampoo.

“You didn’t need to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cuts in, hating that you get to him. “You’re deranged.”

“You’re easy to rile up,” you hum, but it sounds like you’re complimenting him. “She thought you were going to play white knight for her. How embarrassing.”

“You think I forgot how she keyed my truck?”

“She said it was her cousin,” you reply, batting your lashes.

You both know it wasn’t. Rafe had to park backwards for three weeks so no one would see the dick and balls etched into his door.

He scrubs a hand down his face, trying to wipe the glee off it.

“You’re so—fuck me, you’re so annoying.”

You step back before he can say anything else, turning on your heel and sashaying up the beach like nothing happened, like you didn’t almost throw hands with a girl you hardly know while he was trying to be a good fucking person.

He follows you.

You’re like poison in his bloodstream, something he can’t sweat out or sober up from. And maybe it’s the fight in you, or the chaos, or the way you never let him forget he’s still got a pulse, but fuck, he likes it.

“What did she say anyway?”

He won’t tell you he’s dying to get the gossip.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Rafey.”

You’re covering up half your body in that sheer little thing, and shit, if that isn’t distraction enough. It's clingier than a second skin, and the way it hugs your hip...Rafe’s trying to hide the gawking, but you got him slipping up like a rookie.

You’re already halfway to the chairs, tossing him a glance over your shoulder. He follows—obviously —dragging his gaze up from the curve of your ass because, goddammit, he’s better than this.

Supposed to be. But you make it impossible.

Then you stop, turn, and look at your face, and he knows you’re about to do something stupid.

You start untying your bikini top.

He chokes on air.

“Okay. What the fuck?!"

You’re peeling it off like it’s nothing, teasing, playful, like the whole beach isn’t ten feet away. His head snaps side to side, checking if anyone’s watching, but you're too fast, shrugging it off your shoulders.

Rafe lunges.

Instinct overrides logic, and he pounces on you, arms around your bare back, shielding your chest with his body like a human barricade. He’s cursing under his breath, tugging the damn cover-up closed around you like he’s saving a life.

"What are you doing?!”

You smile up at him, “What?”

His eyes are up, must stay up, and his whole body’s screaming.

You’re topless now, he can feel it. You lean in again, brushing your mouth near his ear like a dare.

“I’m gonna skinny-dip.”

Rafe jerks back. “The fuck you are.”

“Why not?”

“Why—” He splutters, “Because I’m telling you not to, that’s why. Get dressed.”

You whine, long and drawn out, five seconds from throwing a tantrum. “Nooooooo.”

Rafe’s eyebrows lift so high they could fly off. “No?”

If he lets go, you’ll sprint naked into the waves and make him chase you.

“You’re not doing this,” he asserts, trying to be the adult, the voice of reason, while your bare skin is brushing his chest and he’s a second away from exploding.

You tilt your head. “You gonna stop me, big boy?”

He stares at you, glaring more like, but his fingers are twitching, his ears are red and his swim trunks are doing nothing to hide how much you’re getting to him.

You giggle, spinning out of his grip and sprinting toward the water, sheer cover-up fluttering behind you like a flag of war. He curses under his breath, watching the ridiculous bounce of your hips as you hit the surf, laughing like you haven’t just ruined his night, his plans, his fucking life.

“Get back here!” he shouts.

“Join me, you uptight asshole.”

He’s already chasing you.

The water’s cold, or maybe it’s the shock of what he’s doing, running full speed into the ocean after a half-naked girl with no regard for public decency or his very fragile sense of self-control.

He should’ve left you back there, flashed the entire beach and dealt with the consequences. But no, he ran to you.

He splashes into the surf after you, muttering curses, saltwater hitting his chest as you twirl like a drunk mermaid just out of reach.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he growls, wading closer.

You turn to face him, water just shy of your collarbone, yeah, he’s looking. Hair slicked back, eyes glittering with trouble, skin glistening in the moonlight—it’s cruel.

Your silhouette is bare and ethereal and not what his brain is equipped to handle right now.

“You didn’t have to follow me.”

“You’re naked.” His voice is strangled.

“So?”

“So—what if someone sees you?”

You swim closer, “Then maybe they’ll get a better look than you.”

.The ocean is dead quiet and his thoughts are just static and "fuck, she’s trying to end me."

He looks up, he has to, or he’s not gonna survive this. Your lips are quirked, that wicked smile that confesses you know what you’re doing to him.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m going to drown you.”

You laugh.

He closes his eyes like that’ll help. It doesn’t. When he opens them, you’re floating backward, arms splayed like you own the whole fucking ocean.

He follows and wonders, not for the first time, what the fuck he’s going to do if you ever stop letting him chase you.

He finally catches up, not because you slow down but because your laughter trips you up. A wave hits your back, you sputter, and he grabs your waist before you can go under.

You blink up at him, water streaming down your cheeks, eyelashes stuck together, looking like trouble wrapped in moonlight.

"Who was that guy earlier?"

The words come out clipped.

“What guy?”

“The one you were talking to.” His tone is flat, but his hands are gripping you harder now, afraid you’ll leave with the tide.

You stare at him, chest rising and falling with the ocean.

“My ex.”

He lets go of you, not all the way, enough to make the space feel colder than the water.

“You’re joking.”

You shake your head slowly.

He breathes out, long and bitter.

“You let that dumb motherfucker put his hands on you?”

You tilt your head, mock-thoughtful.

“I mean…” You drag it out, “He is dumb.”

Rafe’s nostrils flare.

“But,” you add, features stretching wickedly, “He’s great in bed. Or in the back of his car, more like.”

Rafe blacks out for a second.

“You—” he chokes, about to throw a punch at a wave.

Your words play on a loop, over and over, some sick little horror movie with you as the star. The backseat. Of a car.

You, your laugh, your thighs, those sweet, breathy sounds you probably make when you’re teasing, when you're close—you gave that to him.

Rafe can’t stop it, his mind painting it out in vivid fucking detail: you gasping, legs draped over some busted seat, eyes fluttered shut, whispering someone else’s name while that idiot touched what he shouldn’t have even been allowed to look at.

He turns his face away from you.

“Don’t worry,” You confide in mercy, lips so lethal he swears the moon flinches. “I was thinking about you every single time.”

Then, you float backward, arms spread like a siren, meant to leave that wreckage in your wake.

He’s still burning when you disappear into the water.

267 notes · View notes

leviathan0000 · 25 days ago

Text

This is so cute🥰🥰🥰

The Secret Girlfriend - Chapter 7

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

Paris dripped with the kind of cinematic drama only it could conjure. The scent of espresso and diesel in the air, flashes of paparazzi cameras outside the venue, the unmistakable undertone of expensive perfume clinging to every velvet curtain and backstage wall.

It was barely 10 AM and the backstage of the Versace show was already feral.

Hair dryers. Foundation mist. Stylists barking orders over the roar of curling irons. Interns running in four-inch Prada platforms with clips between their teeth. Everyone wore black, everyone was sweating, and everyone was moving like their life depended on it.

Except Lily James. She was still as art.

Sat in front of a glowing makeup mirror, her long legs crossed, a black McQueen hoodie half zipped over tiny lace Versace briefs, cherry vape in one hand, her other arm resting in her lap as three stylists danced around her like priestesses. She wasn't even trying to look good, but somehow, she looked like a scene. Lip gloss was being applied while one stylist pinned diamond hair clips into the waves tumbling down her back, another gently adjusting the silver cuff on her wrist, and two more circling like bees with their products and brushes.

Lando watched the scene unfold from his perch on a backstage trunk. He looked criminally out of place and exactly like he belonged.

Black baggy trousers. Red linen shirt. Black sweater draped over his shoulders. The hand-stitched red detailing glowing under the white backstage lights. He looked fresh off a photoshoot, like the kind of man you'd assume was either her boyfriend or her stylist, depending on your own self-worth.

And he was holding her phone.

Swiping through it like it was his own. Opening the camera, angling it carefully as she turned slightly in the chair, pushing her hair back to let a stylist get to her neck. The natural light from the backstage skylight hit her shoulder like god was also on the lighting team.

He snapped one candid. Then another. Then grinned as she peeked sideways at him in the mirror.

"I'm sending this to Lewis," he said under his breath.

"Tell him I said hi," she murmured, not even looking.

Lando opened his own phone now, camera quick and cheeky. One click and the photo was snapped: Lily mid-smirk, a literal army of stylists orbiting her like she was Beyoncé about to go live.

Then he opened his messages.

📩 To: Lewis 📸 (Image attached) 'This is what I'm left with whilst I wait for Anna to collect me. Feel like a child waiting to be picked up from school.'

He hit send.

And just as the swoosh of the message disappeared, a hush rippled through the space.

The kind of silence that wasn't about quiet, it was about reverence.

Because Anna Wintour had entered the room.

The air changed. Stylists stood straighter. PR girls stopped mid-scroll. Assistants tightened ponytails and unclipped iPads. The mere sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor made a Versace seamstress physically flinch.

And Lando? He stood up. Holding both phones awkwardly. Anna turned, her signature black shades still perched on her face like armour. She spotted him instantly.

There was a beat. A pause. A visible hesitation as she processed what he was wearing. Her mouth opened, a cutting remark clearly already locked and loaded, "Are those jeans?" or "Is that linen?"

But she stopped. Paused. Then tilted her head. "You look... better than usual," Anna said flatly.

Lando smirked. "Thank you. I was trained."

Anna sniffed. "Who? Lily?"

"Close. Lewis Hamilton."

That earned the tiniest twitch of her mouth.

She glanced to where Lily still sat, now looking up at her in the mirror, smirking softly with her chin slightly raised like a queen accepting an offering. "I'll assume you're still behaving," Anna said to her.

"No promises," Lily replied.

Anna turned back to Lando. "Come on, child. Front row doesn't fill itself."

Lando grinned, passing Lily her phone again and stealing a kiss on the top of her head before following Anna out of the room.

She muttered as they walked, "You'd better not be chewing gum."

Lando checked. "Nope."

Anna paused. Then, just barely, she smiled. The usher barely had time to finish checking credentials before Anna Wintour's signature bob swept past him like a guillotine made of satin. With her heels clacking softly against the marble floors, she didn't break stride, simply turned her head just enough to murmur, "Norris," and Lando obediently fell into step beside her like a schoolboy summoned by the headmistress.

Their walk was short but powerful, the kind where people stepped aside instinctively, phones were lowered, and photographers pivoted to follow them like orbiting drones.

The venue was dripping in decadence. Velvet seats. Gilded chandeliers. The kind of lighting that made diamonds wink and cheekbones sculpt themselves. Anna's assistant pointed them toward the center of the front row, the seat cards already laid: Anna Wintour and Mr. L. Norris.

Lando blinked. Mr.. Alright then.

They sat down together. The silence was not awkward, it was curated. Intentional. As if speaking too loud would disturb the chi of the runway.

Anna crossed her legs, placed her bag just so, and leaned the tiniest bit toward him. "You look less tragic than I expected, than usual."

Lando fought a grin. "That's probably the best compliment I've had today."

"You can thank Lily for that."

"I already did. Twice."

Anna allowed herself a single, short exhale. Maybe a laugh. Or maybe just a breath. You could never really tell with her. "She said you'd behave," Anna murmured.

"I said I'd try."

Another pause.

"You've tried well enough," she admitted, before glancing over her sunglasses at a photographer shifting across the room toward them.

"Norris. Camera. Right side. Two o'clock."

Lando glanced, saw the subtle rise of a DSLR lens, and straightened his posture just slightly. Anna placed one elegant, commanding hand on his knee.

"Don't over-smile," she said. "You're not a pop star."

"Noted."

"Chin down slightly. Don't slouch. Look expensive."

"Do I not look expensive?"

"You look well-funded. There's a difference."

The flash snapped once. Twice. Anna adjusted her sunglasses slightly, tilting her face into the light like it was instinct. Which, of course, it was.

"Now-" she continued, still smiling for the cameras, "-don't look at Lily too hard when she comes out."

Lando blinked. "Huh?"

She didn't move her mouth. "The camera lenses. The livestreams. The thirty fashion blogs will dissect everyone's facial expressions tomorrow. Someone will notice if you gaze at her like you're already planning the wedding."

Lando smirked. "Noted. So, no heart eyes?"

Anna finally turned to him. "You can have one heart eye. Two will blow your cover."

He chuckled, shifting slightly in his seat, hands clasped loosely in his lap, suddenly all too aware of how much effort he was putting into not looking like a man with a ring saved on Pinterest.

"Front row's a minefield," he muttered.

"Welcome to the war."

More paparazzi snapped. This time directly at Anna. She adjusted her posture and, surprisingly, didn't shove Lando out of frame. Instead, she tilted her head toward him and murmured, "Now. You'll smile. Softly. No teeth."

Lando followed suit. Another flash.

"Good. See? Almost believable."

"Almost?"

"Let's not get cocky."

He snorted.

As the lights began to dim, signalling the show's beginning, Anna gently adjusted the hem of her sleeve and leaned one last time toward him. "You're the first boyfriend she's ever let sit here."

Lando stilled.

"She's had Juude," Anna continued. "But she didn't trust him enough. Not like this."

He swallowed. Anna turned to face the runway. "So, behave. And don't fuck it up."

The music started. Lando nodded. "I won't."

The first bass line rolled through the room like thunder wrapped in silk. Lights dimmed. Conversations died instantly.

On the runway, soft fog spilled out across the marble. The front row adjusted,Gucci loafers tapped impatiently, champagne flutes were lowered, jewel-toned sunglasses tilted down so pupils could dilate properly.

Then the lights surged up. Not white. Not gold. Something colder. Cinematic. The kind of light that made cheekbones gleam and sequins scream.

And then, she walked. Not first. Not last. But centrepiece. Third out.

Lily fucking James.

The room... shifted. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like air moved differently when she stepped out.

Black, tailored suit jacket. Skin-tight. Nothing underneath. It clung to her waist like it was sculpted. Her legs bare, heels tall, the kind of confidence in her strut that made time itself feel irrelevant. Her hair slicked back into a low bun. Diamond cuffs on her wrists. Red lipstick that dared you to breathe near it.

And Lando? Lando didn't move. Didn't smile. Didn't flinch. Didn't twitch. He sat with the frozen posture of a man who'd been trained. Who'd been warned. Who understood the stakes.

Because he wanted to look. He wanted to drop his jaw and watch her like a wolf in a Dior suit. But Anna had literally threatened to break his knee if he broke posture. And also? There were thirty-five photographers trained on their row alone.

So he kept his back straight. His expression neutral. His eyes mostly focused on the runway itself.

But his jaw twitched. Once. And Anna caught it. She didn't say anything. She just gave the tiniest smirk to herself, sipping her champagne. Like a lioness watching a cub try not to fall in love.

Lily walked past them like she didn't even know them. Head high. Eyes fierce. She hit the end of the catwalk, posed, one leg cocked out, jacket flared slightly to show exactly what wasn't underneath.

Lando's grip on his thigh tightened.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Probably Lewis. Or Jude. Or Gavi. All probably texting some variation of "bro she's insane." But he didn't look.

Next look. Now she's in sheer lace. Tight. Blood-red. High slit that stopped just short of criminal. Her legs looked longer than his career. Her walk? Slower now. More deliberate. Sex incarnate. The flashbulbs fired like lightning. Every second, someone capturing something that would be on a billboard before Monday.

Anna smiled again. Not at the design. Not at the styling. Not even at the audacity of the slit. But at Lily.

"You're staring," she whispered to Lando, still looking ahead.

"I'm not," he whispered back, jaw locked.

"You want to."

"I always want to."

She smirked.

Then Lily walked a third time.

Final look. This one? Was personal. Off-white slip dress. Bare shoulders. Hair loose and wavy now. He knew that look. That walk. That face. This wasn't runway Lily. This was the Lily who padded barefoot across their penthouse at 1AM in his hoodie, licking cake frosting off her finger while humming Lana Del Rey.

And fuck, he wanted to stand. He wanted to scream mine. But instead, he held still. Shoulders back. Eyes forward.

The dress sparkled under the lights. Every inch of her was perfection. Her mouth quirked just a little, like she was holding back a laugh. Probably at him. Probably because she knew.

The crowd applauded.

Lily turned at the end of the runway.

And for half a second, just a flash, her eyes met his.

Then she looked away. And the crowd kept clapping like the world hadn't just cracked open.

Anna leaned over. "That," she murmured, "was your girlfriend."

Lando exhaled, finally. "I know."

Anna paused. Then smiled again. "I've seen a lot of runway girls, Norris. That one? She owns it."

"She owns me," he muttered under his breath.

Anna chuckled. "Good. Keep it that way."

The show ends with the kind of hysteria only the fashion world knows how to cultivate. Lights flash one last time, the final models disappear behind the black velvet curtain, and then: chaos.

Real, messy, champagne-soaked chaos.

Assistants running. Designers hugging and sobbing. PR girls screaming into headsets. Two models in rhinestone heels shriek with laughter, nearly colliding with a man carrying a crate of Dom Pérignon. Hairbrushes fly. Shoes are kicked off. There's a half-empty charcuterie board on a stool next to a sewing machine, and someone's already crying because they broke a nail and it was gel.

And Lando Norris is standing right in the middle of it. Holding his phone like a lost intern, watching a girl sprint past him in thigh-high boots and nipple tape, still high from the runway adrenaline.

"Stay close," Anna Wintour mutters, already slicing through the crowd with the force of a war general. "Don't touch anything."

He follows behind like an obedient duckling, weaving between stylists and models and racks of custom garments worth more than his car.

He's barely aware of anything else, because he's looking for her.

And then he sees her. Through the maze of naked bodies and garment bags. Through the fog of hairspray and spilled champagne.

She's standing by a rack of clothes, one hip popped lazily out, hair tossed into a loose knot on top of her head, barefoot on the polished concrete. Still glowing with runway magic, but already peeled halfway out of her final look.

She's in nothing but a black lace bralette and matching panties. And she's laughing. Gorgeous. Wild. Unbothered.

One arm resting against the rack, the other gesturing as she talks animatedly to one of the Versace stylists, a flute of champagne swinging from her fingers.

Lando stops. Just stops moving entirely.

His chest tightens. His jaw slackens slightly. Because it's not the outfit. It's not the chaos. It's the look on her face. Free. Proud. Radiant. As if she just carried the entire world on her shoulders and made it look like ballet.

She sees him before he speaks. Her eyes flicker past the stylist's shoulder and lock onto his. The smile doesn't change. It deepens. "Hey, handsome," she calls out, not caring who hears, not caring that she's basically naked, not caring that Anna Wintour is two feet behind him.

Lando chuckles, suddenly aware of every camera lens not in this room.

Anna tilts her head. "Go, then. She's yours."

He steps forward. Her arms are already around his neck before he even says a word. Champagne breath. Lipstick-stained cheek. Her bralette is slightly askew, one strap slipping, but she doesn't care. He doesn't either.

He kisses her cheek. "You were incredible."

"You were very good at not looking like you wanted to fuck me in front of 400 people."

He snorts. "Barely. Anna threatened to break my kneecaps."

"She's sweet, isn't she?"

"Terrifying."

She hands him her champagne. "Finish that."

He does. Obediently.

Then she glances down. "Hold this." She slips off her heels and hands them to him.

"Are you just going to undress completely here?" he murmurs.

She shrugs. "They've all seen worse."

He looks around. She's not wrong.

A girl in nothing but a towel is having her nipple covers removed ten feet away. Another model is FaceTiming her boyfriend while literally changing into a hoodie. A stylist steps over a discarded corset like it's a pair of socks.

And in the middle of it all, Lily is radiating.

"C'mere," she says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back toward her dressing station. A makeup artist is packing up. A stylist is folding garments. There's a rack with her name on it. And a mirror already smudged with fingerprints and red lipstick.

He watches as she pulls on an oversized black hoodie. Then drops the champagne flute into the trash like she's clocking out of work.

"You good?" she asks, finally looking at him properly.

He nods. "I just watched you break a thousand hearts in five minutes."

She grins. "Hopefully they weren't yours."

He leans in. "Mine's already ruined."

They kiss. Quick. Soft. Just enough. Then she pulls back and sighs. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make me do an interview."

The door to the hotel suite clicked shut behind them like a secret locking itself in.

Lily giggled as she kicked her heels off with a clatter, one going left, one skimming under a velvet armchair. Lando was behind her in an instant, hands at her hips, guiding her forward until they tumbled into the master bedroom like a mess of tangled limbs and leftover runway adrenaline.

The lights were soft, dimmed to a golden hue, just the way she liked it. The curtains were already drawn, city lights shimmering through the sheer fabric like a thousand blinking paparazzi lenses, only these ones weren't going to leak anything.

She flopped backwards onto the bed in nothing but the massive black hoodie she'd stolen from him post-show. Her legs bare, long, already folding open lazily like an invitation without trying. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair still wild from the frantic dressing room. She looked wrecked in the most expensive way.

Lando crawled over her, knees bracketing her thighs, one hand planted beside her head on the duvet, the other already finding the hem of the hoodie. He leaned in, nose brushing hers, eyes locked.

"You looked like fucking royalty tonight," he whispered, lips ghosting over hers.

She grinned, wide and breathless. "You saying I looked good?"

"I'm saying I nearly got hard in front of Anna Wintour."

Lily snorted and shoved his chest, but he didn't budge. He just pushed the hoodie up, slowly, revealing inch after inch of her skin, the lace bralette, the curve of her ribs, her stomach rising and falling with the rapid pace of her breathing.

"I'm serious," Lando murmured, eyes dragging down her body like it was his first time seeing it. "You looked like you ruled the fucking world."

She bit her lip, a little breathless, still floating from the show's high.

Then Lando yanked the hoodie over her head and tossed it to the floor.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?" he asked, voice low, rough around the edges now.

Her eyes widened, lips parting. "Yes."

He brushed a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness. "Good."

Then he sat back on his heels, thighs spread wide between hers and gestured with two fingers for her to move.

She didn't hesitate. She slid forward, shifting onto her knees, the lace of her panties grazing the sheets. Her hands landed on his thighs for balance as she looked up at him, waiting.

"C'mere," he said, voice dropping even lower.

She shuffled closer, between his legs now, her lips already parted.

His hand found the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair, gripping softly, a command, not a request.

She moaned the second he tugged just slightly, guiding her down.

Her mouth opened and he slipped between her lips, slow and deep. Her eyes fluttered, but she didn't pull back. She let him lead.

"That's it," Lando muttered, his voice a rasp now. "Fuck, baby, just like that."

He guided her with gentle pressure, his hand wrapped firmly in her hair. She relaxed into it, let him take. Let him use her mouth like it was his to control, because it was. Every filthy sound echoed through the room, lewd and wet and perfect.

She pulled back just slightly, tongue swirling over the tip, before sinking down again, deeper this time. Lando hissed through his teeth, hips flexing.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he groaned. "So fucking good for me. Always so good."

She moaned around him, the vibrations making his thighs twitch.

He didn't need to tell her what he liked, she already knew. She'd memorised it. The rhythm, the pace, the spots that made him hiss and jerk his hips. Her nails dug into his thighs as she worked him with everything she had, swallowing him down, messy and eager.

He kept his eyes locked on her — hair fisted in his hand, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, drool slick on her chin.

His good girl. "God, baby," he whispered. "You're gonna make me cum just from this."

She hummed again, encouraging, and he lost it for a second, hips jerking, breath catching.

"Wait," he gasped, tugging her off gently. "Need you. Need to feel you."

She sat back on her heels, panting, lips swollen and wet, eyes glassy with want.

He leaned down and kissed her, hard, hand still tangled in her hair.

Then he pushed her back onto the bed, palms sliding up her thighs, hooking under her hips to drag her where he wanted her.

"Round two," he whispered against her skin.

"God, yes," she moaned, head falling back.

He hooked his fingers in her panties and yanked them down, tossing them away without a thought. Then he leaned in, letting his mouth explore — soft kisses, sharp licks, teasing flicks of his tongue until she was writhing, gasping, clawing at the sheets.

"Gonna make you cum before I even fuck you," he said, voice pure sin.

He kissed her stomach first, then her ribs, then her sternum, his hands smoothing up her sides as she panted beneath him. Every touch was deliberate, every movement soaked in worship. Not rough. Not rushed. Just reverent.

"Still with me, baby?" he murmured, voice low and hoarse.

She nodded, throat tight. "Yes."

"Good," he breathed, dragging himself up until they were nose to nose. "Because I'm not done."

She whimpered, actually whimpered, and he smiled.

Then he reached down and lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through the mess between her thighs, spreading slick across her folds, teasing.

Her hips lifted. Instinctive. Desperate.

"Please," she whispered.

He looked her in the eye. "Tell me you're mine."

Her lips parted. "I'm yours, Lando."

Only then did he slide into her. Slow. Controlled. Like he had all the time in the world.

She gasped, her back arching, and his hands immediately went to her hips, grounding her, keeping her still as he sank in, inch by inch. He filled her completely, in every sense. Deep, thick, familiar. Her body had been made to take him.

"Fuck, you feel good," he groaned. "So tight, baby. Always so fucking perfect for me."

She whimpered again, hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. He didn't flinch. He loved it.

His hips began to move, slow thrusts, dragging out just enough to make her sob for more. He watched every flicker of emotion cross her face: the overwhelm, the pleasure, the submission.

"Look at you," he whispered, brushing her hair from her face. "Taking me so well. My good fucking girl."

She nodded frantically, overwhelmed.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

His hips snapped forward, deeper, harder now — the angle brutal and perfect.

She cried out.

"There it is," he whispered.

Her nails dragged down his back.

"You're doing so good," he said, thrusts relentless. "So fucking good for me."

"Lan."

"That's it. Let go, baby."

She shattered beneath him. Legs locking around his waist. Mouth open in a silent scream. Her whole body tightened around him like a vice.

He groaned, head falling to her shoulder, breath heavy. "Fuck, baby," he panted. "You're gonna fucking kill me."

She kissed him. Sloppily, hungrily, fingers still trembling.

He pulled out just enough to fuck back into her harder, chasing his own high now. She let him. Let him take. Let him use. Let him cum buried so deep she'd feel him for days.

And when he did, when he finally gasped her name and collapsed over her, he didn't move. Just stayed there, still inside her, forehead against hers, breath mixing.

Lando chuckled, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth. Then he stroked her bottom lip with his thumb, watching her. Her lips parted automatically, and he slid his thumb into her mouth, just slightly. She closed her lips around it with a soft hum, her eyes never leaving his.

The sound he made was low, barely a growl. "Can you give me one more, baby?" he asked, his voice all silk and sin. "Just one more. For me."

She nodded without hesitation, the motion slow and hazy. "Yes."

He slipped his thumb from her mouth with a soft pop, kissing her gently, then trailing his mouth down her neck, across her collarbone, down her stomach. She was already shaking, oversensitive, twitching when his breath hit her skin, but she didn't stop him. She opened her legs without needing to be asked.

"Such a good girl," he whispered against the inside of her thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft skin there. "Always so fucking good for me."

Her fingers threaded into his curls as he settled between her legs. He kissed along her inner thigh again, slower now, like he was making art out of her. She whined softly, hips twitching toward him.

"Easy," he murmured. "I've got you."

Then he licked her, slow, flat, intentional. She gasped, head pressing back into the pillow.

Lando grinned against her. "Still so sensitive, huh?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

He sucked her clit into his mouth, gently at first, then with more pressure, his tongue flicking in patterns he'd memorised by heart. Her thighs tensed around his shoulders, her fingers tugging gently at his hair. Every moan she gave him was fuel, and every tremble of her thighs was permission to keep going.

"You're doing so good," he praised, fingers pressing into her hips to keep her still. "So fucking good."

She was already close. He could feel it. The way she panted. The way her hips rolled involuntarily. He slid two fingers inside her without warning, curling them just right, and she nearly sobbed.

"Lan-"

"Let go for me, baby," he whispered. "Give it to me. Just one more."

Her whole body arched, her back lifting off the bed, her mouth falling open. She came again, harder this time, a loud cry ripping from her throat as she clenched around his fingers, as his tongue never let up. She shook violently, clutching the sheets, her vision swimming.

Lando stayed with her through every second of it, licking her gently through the waves, whispering her name like a prayer.

She collapsed into him, boneless and exhausted, fingers curling weakly into his side.

Lando's mouth was still wet with her. Her thighs were shaking. Her body limp. And yet, she was still looking at him like she'd give him the world.

She always did.

He moved up her body just slightly, chest hovering over hers, his mouth curling into that boyish, cocky smirk that never quite softened — even when he was at his softest. Even when he was soaked in her come and breathless with love.

"You're okay?" he asked quietly, thumb stroking over her cheekbone.

She nodded. Barely. Dazed. Floating.

"You're perfect," he whispered, and kissed her.

Then he kissed lower, her throat, her collarbone, the space between her tits still damp with sweat. And without warning, he slipped back down her body, mouth dragging heat down her stomach until his face was buried between her thighs again.

"Lan-" Her voice was raw. Frantic. But there wasn't fear in it. Only that aching, trembling anticipation.

He looked up at her from between her legs, hair messy, chin shiny. "One more," he murmured. It wasn't a question.

And she nodded. Because she always would.

He grinned against her, wicked and full of purpose. His hands spread her legs wider, thumbs digging gently into the soft skin of her thighs to keep her open, keep her exposed. She whimpered, already twitching from the contact, nerves fried, body electric.

Then he went in again.

Not soft this time. Not delicate.

His tongue was relentless, dragging through her soaked folds, curling over her clit with practiced, obsessive precision. He licked her like he needed it. Like he was starving. Like her body was the only meal he'd ever wanted.

Her hands gripped the sheets. Then his hair. Then nothing, because she was losing the ability to move.

"Too much," she whispered, voice broken, breathless.

He shook his head, mouth still on her.

"No it's not," he said into her, voice muffled and feral. "You can take it. You always do."

She sobbed. Actually sobbed.

He sucked her clit into his mouth and held it there, slow, focused suction that made her scream, hands flying to his hair again, thighs trying to close. He didn't let them. He held her wide open, locked down, helpless.

And then came the whisper. Again. His voice wrecked and worshipful. "One more."

Her body shattered. Again.

It was different this time, violent. A full-body climax that ripped through her spine and slammed her into the mattress. She moaned so loud it echoed off the hotel suite walls. Her hips bucked involuntarily, her hands shaking, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.

He kept going.

Tongue still flicking. Slow now. Teasing. Over and over and over until she was gasping, trying to crawl away, the pleasure now bordering on painful.

"Lan-please," she panted.

"One more," he whispered again, dragging his tongue along her slit, circling back to her clit with maddening patience.

She was crying now. Softly. Beautifully. The kind of cry that only came from being completely overwhelmed.

He kissed the inside of her thigh. Then the other.

"You're okay," he murmured. "You're mine. I've got you."

She nodded, broken and breathless. "Yes-yours. Always."

He licked her again.

Another orgasm rolled through her body like a hurricane. Shorter. Sharper. But no less powerful. Her limbs were useless now. Her fingers slack. Her chest heaving like she'd run a marathon.

Lando finally pulled back, licking his lips like he was drunk on her.

He looked up at her, glowing, ruined, crying.

And he smiled. "Such a good fucking girl."

The air was still thick with sex and sweat. Paris hummed faintly beyond the windows, but the suite itself was dead silent, except for Lily's broken breaths.

She was flat on her back, eyes barely open, limbs twitching involuntarily from the sheer intensity of what she'd just been through. The sheets were kicked halfway down the bed. Her legs were still parted, hips tilted slightly, like her body hadn't even registered that he'd stopped.

Lando was watching her. Leaning on one elbow beside her, his curls damp with sweat, lips slightly swollen from the way he'd used them on her. But his eyes, fuck, his eyes. They weren't cocky now. They weren't teasing. They were soft. Proud. In awe.

He reached out, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. "You still with me, baby?"

She gave the smallest nod. Her lips parted, but no sound came out yet. Her chest rose and fell like she'd just run a marathon barefoot in the rain.

Lando smiled, tender, boyish, full of love.

Without another word, he moved. Gently. He pulled the sheets back up over her thighs, tucking them loosely around her hips. Then he leaned down and kissed her temple.

"You were perfect," he whispered. "So fucking perfect."

She made a small sound, half a whimper, half a sigh, and turned her face toward him, eyes fluttering closed again as if even that took effort.

Lando curled into her.

He didn't throw himself over her like he sometimes did after sex. He didn't crush her with his weight. He lay beside her, carefully sliding one arm under her neck and the other across her waist, until her head was resting against his chest and her body was cradled in his.

He held her like she was something breakable. Something precious.

His fingers stroked up and down the bare skin of her back. Light, rhythmic, grounding.

"You're everything, y'know," he murmured into her hair. "Everything I want. Everything I need."

She made another small noise and curled further into him, her hand resting over his heart. She could feel it beating beneath her palm, slow, steady, safe.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded, still without words. He smiled again and kissed the top of her head.

"Did so good for me," he breathed. "Took it all. Let me have every part of you."

He kept stroking her back. Barely-there touches. The kind that whispered you're safe now. The kind that said I love you without needing to say the words out loud.

Lily's body twitched once more. Just a little. A leftover spark of something too intense to name. She let out a long breath and finally spoke. Voice hoarse, wrecked, glowing. "Love you."

He didn't respond with words. Just kissed her again, so slow, so full of feeling it made her eyes flutter shut all over again.

They stayed like that. A mess of tangled limbs and slow breath. Lando humming little sounds into her hair. Lily breathing against his chest. The city outside moving fast, but inside, time had stopped.

Just them. Still. Soft. Whole.

Still his.

106 notes · View notes

leviathan0000 · 25 days ago

Text

Love this one 🥵🥵

Didn’t See It Until I Did - LN4 🔥

masterlist

You never looked at Lando like that. Not when he helped you sneak vodka into your first house party. Not when he threw his hoodie over your crop top in year eleven because your dad would’ve lost it. Not even when he FaceTimed you from Bahrain just to show you the pre-grid chaos and told the whole fucking McLaren crew you were his girl, like it meant something.

It didn’t. Not to you. You’d always had men orbiting you. Tall, rich, older. Drivers. Actors. Models. You liked power. You liked control. You liked sex.

And Lando, sweet, annoying, dorky Lando, was just your best friend.

Until that day. The gym session. You weren’t even meant to be there. You were just killing time in Monaco before a dinner reservation, wandering into the private floor of the performance centre because you knew he wouldn’t care if you crashed.

What you didn’t expect was to walk in and find Lando shirtless. Sweat-slicked. Headphones in. Tank clinging to his back, biceps flexing, veins snaking down his forearms as he panted through a weighted set. His curls were damp and messy. His jaw was tight. And when he finished his last rep, he growled under his breath, low, primal, hot as fuck.

You froze. You’d seen him naked. Slept in the same bed. Watched him cry, laugh, burp, puke, grow up.

But you’d never seen this. Not until now. And your stomach flipped. Hard. He saw you. Pulled out an earbud. “Hey babe,” he said, breathless, wiping sweat from his collarbone. “What’s up?”

Nothing. Everything. You were fucking blushing. You waved it off and blamed the heat. But it didn’t leave your head. Not that night. Not the next. Not through your date with some tech guy from Madrid who had the nerve to text you “u up?” at 3AM when you were already back in bed, phone in hand, scrolling through Lando’s Instagram like a lunatic.

You even watched a tagged video of him working out again. Twice.

What the fuck was wrong with you? You tried to ignore it. Right up until that Friday night, two weeks later, when you showed up to his Monaco flat with wine and sushi, and walked straight in to the sound of moaning.

Not porn. Real moaning.

You stopped in the hallway, wine bottle in hand, eyes wide as the unmistakable sound of skin slapping and a girl's breathless “fuck yes, right there-” echoed from behind his cracked bedroom door.

You should’ve left. Instead, you froze. Stared. Listened. Felt something in your throat tighten.

When the girl came, loud and messy, your thighs clenched.

Then the bed creaked. A zip. Shuffling. You backed up a few steps. But the door opened before you could escape.

Lando stepped out. Shirtless. Sweaty again. Hair a mess. And when he saw you standing there, red-lipped, stunned, heart racing, his face went still. “Oh,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

You blinked. Swallowed. “Apparently.”

He looked over his shoulder. “She’s leaving.”

“Clearly.” You turned. Marched straight to the kitchen. Opened the wine and poured a fucking glass like you weren’t spiralling.

He followed you. “Want me to ask her to leave faster?”

“Don’t care,” you said, sipping. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something. Didn’t.

The girl emerged a minute later, mini dress, smug smile, hair tousled, and winked at you like she knew a secret. You didn’t look at Lando until the door clicked shut. Then you slammed your glass on the counter. “What the fuck was that?”

He raised his brows. “You said you didn’t care.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I lied.”

Silence. He crossed the kitchen slowly. “You’re jealous.”

“No.”

“You are.”

You glared. “You were the one with your dick in someone else.”

“And you’re the one acting like it should’ve been you.”

Your stomach flipped. “Fuck you.”

He stepped closer. Close enough to smell the sweat still drying on his chest. “You want to.”

You blinked.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for years,” he said, voice low. “I’ve wanted to since you were eighteen and you told me no man would ever own you. I’ve wanted to since you called me your ‘safe place’ and then went and let every asshole in Europe fuck you instead.”

You gasped.

“You want to know why I brought her home?” he asked, stepping closer. “Because I couldn’t sleep. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you watching me in the gym like you wanted to suck my cock.”

You slapped him. He caught your wrist. And kissed you. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth and tongue and desperation, years of repressed lust exploding like a fucking supernova in your chest.

He backed you up against the wall. Pinned your hands above your head. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

You whimpered. “Lan-”

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

“Louder.”

“I want you-fuck-I want you.”

He dropped to his knees. Your skirt hit the floor. Your panties followed. And then Lando Norris, your best friend, licked you open like a man possessed, tongue flattening against your clit, fingers sliding into you with practiced, aching precision.

You sobbed. Shook. Came fast, too fast, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your thighs squeezing around his face.

He stood. Wiped his mouth. Smirked. “Taste better than she ever did.”

You didn’t even have time to respond before he spun you around, bent you over the couch, and shoved his cock inside you in one perfect, brutal thrust. You screamed. He was big. Thick. Harder than you’d ever imagined. And he didn’t wait, didn’t ask, just fucked, deep and rough, his fingers gripping your hips like he was scared you’d disappear.

“You gonna run back to one of your little boys after this?” he grunted. “Let them pretend they can fuck you like I do?”

You sobbed. “No-fuck-only you-”

“Say it again.”

“Only you-Lando-please-”

He grabbed your hair. Fucked harder. “You don’t get to look at anyone else,” he growled. “You’re fucking mine now. You got that?”

“Yes-fuck, yes-”

He pulled out. Flipped you. Fucked back in. You came again. And again. He didn’t stop. Not until you were crying, shaking, wrecked. Not until he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Took you long enough.”

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leviathan0000 · 26 days ago

Text

Puppy love

Don't Laugh While I'm Inside You - KA12 🔥

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They were already naked when it happened. Well, almost. Her hoodie was still on. His boxers were still somewhere around his thighs. They'd been making out on the sofa for twenty minutes straight, getting hotter, dumber, slower, her giggling every time he whispered something filthy in her ear in Italian, because he knew exactly what it did to her.

And now? Now she was on her back. Sweaty. Flushed. Panting. And Kimi was balls-deep inside her, forehead pressed to hers, hand cradling her jaw, eyes locked with hers like he was trying to memorise every single reaction.

It should've been serious. It was serious. But then he groaned too loud, and she bit back a laugh, a real one, honest and sharp, cracking through the tension like glass.

Kimi paused. She snorted. And that was it. His head dropped into her shoulder. "You're such an asshole."

She was giggling now, completely helpless. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just-your face-"

"My face?!"

She was laughing so hard she hiccuped.

"I can't do this," he muttered into her neck. "I can't keep a stroke going if you're laughing like I just read you bedtime stories with my dick out."

She choked. "Stop-"

"I'm serious," he huffed, finally pulling back to look at her. "You're gonna make me start laughing and then I'm gonna lose the rhythm and then neither of us comes and that's on you, not me-"

She kissed him. Hard. "Then stop talking," she whispered. "And fuck me."

He blinked. Then grinned. "Say please."

She narrowed her eyes. "Kimi."

"Say it."

She rolled her hips under him. "Please."

And he groaned like it hurt, rolled his hips, and fucked into her so slow and deep she gasped mid-laugh.

"Oh."

"Yeah," he muttered. "Now you remember."

He set a rhythm, deep, slow, exact, one hand on her thigh, the other pressed between them, two fingers circling her clit as she tried so hard not to giggle again.

"Tesoro," he whispered, "you gonna be good now?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

"You gonna come for me?"

"Yes-Kimi-yes-"

And then? His stomach growled. So loud. So stupid. She blinked. Then broke again, laughing hysterically. "NO-"

"I'm hungry!" he shouted, collapsing on top of her. "I told you not to suck my soul out before dinner!"

"YOU said we didn't need dinner!"

"I lied!"

They were both laughing so hard now they couldn't breathe, limbs tangled, sweat sticking skin to skin, and Kimi still inside her, hard, throbbing, laughing into her shoulder like he'd never stop.

And then she whispered, breathless, "Still hard for me though."

He froze. She smirked. He growled. And then? He flipped her. Bent her over the back of the couch. And said, so low, so filthy, "Laugh now, baby. Let's see if you're still laughing when I don't let you come for the next hour."

She moaned. "Yes please."

865 notes · View notes

leviathan0000 · 27 days ago

Text

The Mysterious Mrs Piastri - The "Canon" Version

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

Notes:

Hi! This is the reworked version of the "The mysterious Mrs. Piastri". No worries! The original is still there. The problem is, that I wrote that piece originally as a stand alone.

There was never supposed to be Bee. There was never even supposed to be Felicity, because it was originally supposed to be a reader insert.

There was never supposed to be a sequel, which is why there is a lot of social media stuff in the original that's very out of character for Felicity, but I used back then to flesh out the "character" more because again, there was never supposed to be sequel.

So here it is: The new and "improved" version:

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Lando relaxed. This one was easy. Surely Oscar would say tattoo. Maybe he’d joke about getting “downforce” written across his bicep in cursive. Something normal.

Instead, Oscar said, calm as ever, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

Lando choked.

He choked.

His drink shot out of his mouth like a missile. “YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned to him, eyebrows creased in confusion. “What? No.”

And then it happened.

Lando watched, in real-time, as his brain caught up with Oscar’s words. “Wait.” His voice cracked. “WAIT.”

He stood up. Actually stood up. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

Oscar just nodded. Calm. Chill. Like he’d just announced what time breakfast was, not that his entire personal life was something Lando apparently had zero clue about.

Lando was spiraling. “WHAT?”

Even the interviewer sat forward, sensing blood in the water. “Wait—married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar looked almost offended by the clarification. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands flew to his head. His whole worldview was crumbling. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged like they were discussing tire strategy. “A while now.”

Lando looked to the crowd for help. The crowd was screaming. Phones were recording. PR was probably out back crying.

“I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend!” Lando yelled.

Oscar squinted at him. “You know that.”

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT.” Lando was full-blown shrieking now. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oscar just shrugged again, that same infuriating calm on his face. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando’s soul left his body. “YOU HAVE A WIFE?!”

The interviewer was thriving. “We need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar, ever consistent: “Since we were fifteen.”

Lando wheezed. “FIFTEEN?!” He sounded like he was being personally attacked. Oscar nodded like that was a normal answer.

“Where did you meet?”

Oscar blinked. “School?”

Lando turned to the audience, pointing like he needed witnesses. “Look at this guy! Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course!”

“When did you get married?” the interviewer asked, beaming like she’d just uncovered the next great F1 scandal.

Oscar: “When I was eighteen.”

The crowd erupted. Lando clutched his chest. “EIGHTEEN?! WHY?!”

Oscar: “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

Lando physically recoiled. “What, like… straight out of high school?!”

“Not straight out,” Oscar said thoughtfully. “We waited.”

“How long is a bit, Oscar?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Three weeks after graduation?”

Lando made a noise he was pretty sure only dolphins could hear. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, THAT’S A BLINK.”

The interviewer was practically in Oscar’s lap at this point. “How did you propose?”

Oscar shrugged. “I asked her to marry me.”

Lando stared. “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where?” the interviewer prompted.

“At home.”

“…At home?”

“On the bed.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “YOU ABSOLUTE ROBOT.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

“That poor woman,” Lando muttered.

Then came the worst part.

“How did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?” the interviewer asked.

Oscar gave the most Piastri answer imaginable: “No one asked.”

Lando screamed.

“Who is she?!” the interviewer asked, practically vibrating. “What’s her name? Where’s she from?”

Oscar, completely useless: “My wife?”

Lando looked ready to launch himself into the stratosphere. “YES, BUT WHO IS SHE? WHY HAVE I NEVER MET HER?!”

Oscar blinked. “I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!”

Oscar just shrugged again.

Lando was losing it. “Okay, but why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew,” Oscar said, like that wasn’t the most unhinged thing he could possibly say.

“How would I have known?!” Lando shouted. “Do I look like a mind reader to you?!”

Oscar just looked at him, completely unbothered. The calmest chaos Lando had ever known.

Finally, Lando gave in. “You have to introduce me to her. Like, actually. You can’t just be married and expect me not to meet her.”

Oscar sighed, clearly seeing the writing on the wall. “Fine.”

“Good.” Lando sat back. Then narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Does anyone else know?”

Oscar considered. “I think Zak does.”

Lando shrieked. “WHY DOES ZAK KNOW?!”

“Because he’s my boss?”

“I’M YOUR FRIEND!”

Somewhere, McLaren PR was having the worst day of their careers.

Oscar Piastri, the most low-maintenance driver in the paddock, had just casually revealed on live fan stage that he had a wife—and had had one since he was eighteen.

And Lando?

Lando was never going to emotionally recover from this.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/FormulaTea: 🚨OSCAR PIASTRI JUST CASUALLY ANNOUNCED ON FAN STAGE THAT HE’S BEEN MARRIED SINCE HE WAS 18??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN. WHAT.

@/chaoticf1brain: not oscar piastri saying “i already did one of those” to a “married or tattoo?” question and lando immediately short-circuiting. THIS IS CINEMA.

@/pitlaneprincess: the fact that oscar piastri’s marriage reveal came from a game of “would you rather get married or get a tattoo” is so unintentionally iconic. robot behavior. absolute king.

@/mclarensburner: no like. imagine being oscar’s teammate, sharing hotel gyms and debriefs and flights and NEVER KNOWING he was out here with a whole ass wife since he was a teenager. i’d scream too.

@/lanxiety_norris: Lando’s live meltdown over not knowing Oscar was married has already entered my top 5 F1 moments of all time. He spat out his drink. He screamed. I will be studying this footage for the rest of my life.

@/drivehivehq: oscar saying “she’s amazing. 10/10. would always marry her again.” in the middle of lando’s breakdown 😭💍

why is he lowkey husband goals???

@tiretalkpod: Oscar Piastri being married for FIVE YEARS and no one knowing is somehow more chaotic than any on-track drama we’ve had in the past 3 seasons. This man kept a whole wife secret like it was tire strategy.

@/piastrified: oscar: “how did i keep it a secret? no one asked.” the ENTIRE INTERNET: now asking every possible question at once

@/PRnightmare: McLaren PR right now: 🧍‍♂️💻💥🔥🧯📉📉📉📉📉

@landosocial: lando literally said “I’M YOUR FRIEND” like a hurt Victorian child finding out his best mate got married without telling him i’m sobbing 😭😭😭

@/f1brainrot: we don’t know her name. we don’t know her face. we just know she said yes to a man who proposed “at home. on the bed.” and honestly? she’s a legend.

@/gridwivesunite: Oscar said “I proposed at home. On the bed.” Oscar also said “she said yes.” Sir??? Why is this accidentally the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard???

@/tracklimitsandtea: Me watching Oscar drop five years of marital lore in one fan stage while Lando has a nervous breakdown: 👁️👄👁️

@/buzzingtonstan: IF THIS MAN HAS A WHOLE WIFE, DOES THAT MEAN HE ALSO HAS A KID?? IS THERE A BABY PIASTRI OUT THERE??? OSCAR. BLINK TWICE.

@/landodrama: someone make the Netflix episode of this IMMEDIATELY. title it “How Oscar Piastri Crashed the Internet in 6 Words”

@/flannelanddownforceWHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS MRS PIASTRI!?!?

@/nicolepiastri: I see the internet is discovering my son is married. Welcome to the club. I, too, found out after the fact 5 years ago. 👍

↪️@/piastriluv: NICOLE PLEASE TELL US YOU’RE KIDDING 😭😭😭

@/landochaotic: Did he at least call you after the ceremony or did you find out via a tax form?!

***

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call barely rang twice before Felicity picked up, her face appearing on-screen, framed by the garage lighting. She had her hair tied up and was wearing one of his old hoodies—his favorite one, judging by the faded McLaren logo on the sleeve.

Just seeing her calmed him down instantly.

“Hey, Oz,” she said, smiling like she already knew he needed it.

Oscar slumped back against the couch, head tilted to rest against the wall. “Hey, Fliss.”

She studied him for a second. “So. How was your day?”

Oscar closed his eyes for a beat. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyebrows lifted in slow, amused surprise. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar opened one eye. “Apparently not.”

That earned a full laugh, soft and familiar. “How the hell did you think he knew?”

Oscar shrugged. “I dunno. We’ve been married for, what, five years now? I figured… someone would’ve told him.”

Felicity gave him a long, fond look. “Oz. You’re about as subtle as a torque wrench, and somehow also the most emotionally secretive man alive.”

“I can be romantic,” Oscar huffed, immediately defensive.

Before she could reply, there was a loud, unmistakable bang on the door. Followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar closed his eyes again and muttered under his breath, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

On-screen, Felicity was trying very hard not to laugh. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND DEMAND ANSWERS—”

Oscar tilted the phone so she could see the ceiling. “Yes.”

Now she was laughing freely, and it was a beautiful sound—one he’d always liked more than any podium cheer.

The banging continued. “STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING.”

“You should probably let him in,” Felicity said, lips twitching. “Before he combusts.”

Oscar sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate. He got up, opened the door—

—and Lando barreled in like a man on a mission.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Lando demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. Just held up the phone like it was Exhibit A. “She’s on FaceTime. Calm down, lunatic.”

Lando whipped around so fast he nearly tripped, then launched himself onto the couch, staring at the screen with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Silence.

Felicity gave him a polite, amused smile. “Hi. You must be Lando.”

Lando stared. Then pointed. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

He turned to Oscar, looking betrayed on a spiritual level. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the screen. “And you married him? At eighteen?”

Felicity shrugged, her smile fond. “Yep.”

“WHY?!” Lando looked genuinely baffled.

Felicity tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

Felicity stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Oscar side-eyed Lando. “What’s so hard to believe?”

Lando just flailed his arms. “You’ve been my friend for years and I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend, let alone a wife!”

Oscar folded his arms. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, and now I’m the emotionally unaware one?”

“Yes.”

Lando flopped back on the couch like his entire world had been shaken. “You never told me!”

“You never asked.”

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar looked at him flatly. “You’re meeting her. Right now.”

“No. In person. I need proof she’s not a deepfake generated by your PR team to make you seem like a human being.”

Oscar deadpanned, “No PR team is that good.”

Lando pointed to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you soon.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to Fliss, who was fully laughing.

“You were not kidding about him,” she said.

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife- Felicity—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 14. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

Fliss is still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

@/felicitypiastri

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???↪️ @/felicitypiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @/felicitypiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/landoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention?↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of.↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/felicitypiastri: 10/10, would marry you again. (Even if you forget to tell people.)↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

***

@/felicitypiastri Instagram Post

Caption:

So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love.

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of nearly two years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer?10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments:

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OBVIOUS TO WHO?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/paddockgossip: Did ANY other drivers know??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.

@/f1softies: The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes.

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: To be fair, you were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He still does that, btw.↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/arthur_leclerc: The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/felicitypiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/logansergeant: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. Also, I am busy at home. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yep.

↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/piastrified: oscar posting a heartfelt essay about marrying the love of his life felicity posting a selfie from their wedding day and casually mentioning he stole her pen we are in a ROMANCE NOVEL people

@/tifosibutsoft: not to be dramatic but i would lay down my life for felicity piastri and her 20-photo instagram grid.

@/formulafeminism: her instagram goes: 🧠 page-long math caption 🐔 chicken in a knitted sweater?! 🛠️ engine restoration 🍞 perfect sourdough crumb 💍 wedding ring in engine grease this woman is unhinged. i love her.

@/landoslostmind: lando finding out oscar is married via fan stage chaos the internet finding out felicity is better than ALL of us via a grid that has exactly zero curated content same vibe.

@/chaosinturn1: felicity: “technically i’m an f1 wag” also felicity: wears oil-stained jeans, builds a gearbox, and bakes bread from scratch at 3am this woman is a weapon

@/garagegirlsupreme: Felicity Piastri’s whole vibe is: “I could kill you with this torque wrench or love you for the rest of my life. Either way, you’re eating homemade banana bread.” 10/10 no notes.

@/formula1tumblr: Oscar: “I’d marry her again in a heartbeat.” Felicity: “We were inevitable.” Me: sob crying into an old hoodie I pretend is Oscar’s

@/pitwallposters: you know she’s terrifyingly brilliant bc her instagram isn’t even TRYING to be aesthetic and it still made us fall in love with her

@/felicityspanner: people are out here thirst-following felicity for hot girl math & carburetors and you know what? same

@/softoscarpiastri: Oscar: “I assumed people knew.” Felicity: “Oops.” Me, holding back tears while reading both their posts like it’s a Nicholas Sparks adaptation: 🧍‍♀️

@/beehivetheory: felicity piastri’s instagram is the most confusing and impressive thing i’ve ever seen. one post: her holding a sourdough starter like it’s her child. next post: her under a 1967 alfa romeo spider with a wrench in her mouth. next: her proving a theorem i don’t have the qualifications to read.

@/mclarenbrainrot: i think the best part is that felicity’s account is just soft lighting, feral captions, old cars, and a literal chicken coop.

@/chaoticgoodfelicity: “Technically I’m a WAG. I steal Oscar’s hoodies so that counts right?” felicity i want to be you SO BAD.

@/formulanope: I don’t know who I want to be more:

Oscar, who married the love of his life at 18 and thought everyone just knew

Felicity, who loves cars, chickens, and spreadsheets more than media attention

@/speedmathqueen people are shocked oscar married a genius but felicity’s instagram LITERALLY has a video where she’s like “just fixing a differential while calculating gravitational drag on a whiteboard” and then makes banana bread like it’s nbd how is this woman real

@/lanlanf1: every team principal right now reading oscar’s caption like: “okay so not only is he unshakeable on track but also writes like a poet, has been married since 18, and literally fixed himself by 15. great. fantastic. my drivers can’t even commit to a protein shake.”

@/gpbutemotional: Zak Brown: “we support family at McLaren.” Andrea Stella, quietly reprinting Oscar’s driver bio with “married to a woman smarter than all of us combined”

@/justpitthings: the fact that felicity Piastri could win an engine-rebuild competition, a bake-off, and a theoretical physics conference in the same weekend AND look bored while doing it… she’s what every gifted kid from tumblr wanted to become

@/tinfoilfelicity: convinced felicity is the reason oscar is so calm. you grow up married to someone who organizes her maths notes in color-coded hexadecimal and has chicken and suddenly nothing in life phases you anymore.

@/piastriupdates: what do you mean oscar’s love language is handwritten notes inside his gloves before every race i’m actually going to cry in the middle of a petrol station

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