miaaaxxz

[miaaaxxz]

I just want to suggest maybe making a masterlist

masterlist here 💋

[miaaaxxz]

F1 MASTERLIST

Max Verstappen

And If I Stay? ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ What began as a casual fling turns complicated when feelings get involved.

Oscar Piastri

Unfinished Business ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ I. II. III. IV. V. Alpine’s hope, McLaren’s champion. She was there, he was gone. Years later, old tensions resurface, and some stories are far from over.

Edge of Rivalry ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Two sports. Two egos. One long game of who breaks first and neither of them plays to lose.

Lando Norris

Lucky ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ I. II. III. After a bad year and a Grand Slam win, she’s not sure how to feel. But he sees her, even when she’s not sure she sees herself.

Charles Leclerc

Bush Man ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ I. II. It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours.But then you found him. In your bush. And nothing about that night or the morning was normal.

MORE COMING SOON !

[miaaaxxz]

Edge of Rivalry | OP81

Two sports. Two egos. One long game of who breaks first and neither of them plays to lose.

genre: slow-burn rivalry, psychological tension, competitive obsession, egotistical Oscar, egotistical OC, figure skating x F1, playful teasing, focus on perfection and skills

word count: 5.5 K

author's note!! this is my first long fic, I tried something a bit different than usual. Let me know what you think, I had sooo much fun writing it!

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📍Zürich, Switzerland

THE GLASS DOORS of the Zurich Convention Center reflect a muted, cloudy afternoon. The air inside is crisp, smelling faintly of polished wood and expensive perfume. The press conference hall is a cathedral of sport high ceilings, rows of white chairs, the steady hum of camera equipment being adjusted.

Camille Laurent sits at the center of the stage, her posture straight as a ruler. Every part of her is curated: the fitted black dress that falls just below her knees, the delicate silver earrings that catch the light only when she moves her head, the neat bun that hides the fact she’s been awake since 5 a.m. for practice. The calm expression she wears is her armor.

In her sport, figure skating, smiles are weapons as sharp as blades. She knows how to wield one without letting it reach her eyes.

The moderator is halfway through his long, over-rehearsed introduction about the brand’s new “Global Sports Ambassadors” campaign when the left-side door opens.

A ripple moves through the room. Heads turn. The click of camera shutters grows louder.

Oscar Piastri walks in like the moment already belongs to him.

Camille studies him the way she studies her competition: coolly, assessing the threat. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, but his hands are shoved in his pockets, his pace unhurried. His brown hair is slightly messy, like he didn’t bother to check the mirror more than once. His expression says, I don’t need to try that hard.

The crowd eats it up.

Of course, she thinks, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. In her world, respect comes after decades of precision and discipline. In his, apparently, it comes after a few race wins and a charming smirk.

From where he’s sitting, Oscar can feel the sharpness in her posture. She doesn’t even have to open her mouth for him to know she’s sizing him up.

He knows her name Camille Laurent. A big deal in figure skating. Multiple championship medals, the “ice queen” of her sport according to every profile he’s read in the last 48 hours. The brand told him she was a perfectionist. He can see it in the way her fingers rest lightly on the table, in the way her chin stays perfectly aligned with the camera angles.

What he doesn’t get is the tension in her shoulders every time he moves. Like he’s… offensive by existing here.

The moderator’s voice is too bright.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Formula 1’s rising star, Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar flashes a polite smile, waves once at the journalists, and walks toward the stage. His footsteps are measured, confident, not rushed.

From Camille’s side, his shadow falls across the white table they’ll share. He sits down in the empty chair beside her. He doesn’t look at her at first. He takes the glass of water in front of him, sips slowly, as though he has all the time in the world. Only then does he glance sideways.

“You’re the figure skater, right?” he says, voice low, smooth.

Camille turns her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“And you’re the driver.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“The driver. Nice. I like how that sounds.”

She keeps her smile fixed, the one that never gives anything away.

“Glad you enjoy it. I’ve heard your races last, what… two hours?”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting.

“Depends on the circuit. I suppose skating in circles for four minutes takes much more stamina.”

The remark is casual, but it’s a jab and she knows it. She’s used to competitors trying to get under her skin, but this is different. He’s not her competition. He’s from another world entirely, yet here he is, acting as if they’re equals on the same track.

Before she can reply, the moderator begins the Q&A.

The first journalist stands up.

“Camille, how does it feel to represent not just your sport, but also athletes worldwide in this campaign?”

She answers flawlessly, voice smooth, her French accent just enough to make the words sound expensive. She talks about dedication, training from a young age, the honor of inspiring younger generations.

Then the next question comes for him.

“Oscar, Formula 1 has exploded in popularity globally. Do you think your sport requires the same discipline as something like figure skating?”

He catches Camille’s eyes for half a second before leaning into the microphone.

“I think discipline is important in any sport. But racing is… a little less scripted than skating. There’s no choreography. You adapt every second. It’s not about hitting a perfect routine, it’s about surviving at 300 km/h.”

He doesn’t miss the flicker in her expression, a quick tightening around her mouth before she resets. The cameras might not catch it, but he does.

She hates the way the journalists latch onto his words, nodding like he’s just delivered the philosophy of sport itself.

She’s spent her life on the ice, repeating jumps until her ankles bled, holding herself to impossible standards because one imperfect landing could erase months of work. And yet, here’s Oscar, implying her world is too scripted, too safe.

Her turn to speak again.

“Every sport has its dangers,” she says, her voice cool but edged. “On the ice, one mistake can end your career in a fraction of a second. The danger isn’t speed, it’s precision.”

There’s a subtle shift in the room. Journalists lean forward. The PR team probably wants a friendly, harmonious panel, but the spark between them is undeniable and not the good kind.

Oscar smiles faintly, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Precision’s important. But I guess I prefer my danger to come with an engine.”

The laugh from the crowd is instant. Camille feels the burn in her chest, but she keeps her face perfectly composed. Let them think she’s unfazed.

The moderator tries to steer things toward lighter topics , their training routines, the upcoming events they’ll attend together as brand ambassadors. But every answer they give feels like another quiet move in a chess match, neither of them admits they’re playing.

When it’s finally over, they stand for the photo op. Oscar steps closer, one arm loosely at his side. She keeps the minimum polite distance, her smile razor-sharp.

Oscar leans just close enough to speak without anyone else hearing.

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

Camille keeps her gaze on the cameras.

“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you, monsieur. Not yet.”

The click of the shutter freezes them like that smiling, but with a war already brewing under the surface.

The black car door shuts with a muted thunk, sealing her away from the chaos outside. Zurich’s streets are muted through the tinted glass, but Camille can still feel the flashbulbs lingering in her eyes. She exhales, slow and controlled, but the knot in her chest refuses to loosen.

Across from her in the backseat, her coach and long-time manager, Margot, watches her with the same sharp gaze she uses before competitions.

“You didn’t like him.”

Camille leans back, arms folded.

“I didn’t dislike him,” she says, though her tone betrays her. “But I don’t understand why I’m being paired with someone who thinks figure skating is… scripted.”

Margot raises a brow.

“He didn’t say it was lesser.”

“He implied it.”

Camille stares out the window. The city’s old stone buildings blur past, snow gathering in thin layers along the sidewalks. She can hear Oscar’s voice in her head, that irritatingly calm tone, the tiny smirk like he’s already won some unspoken match.

Margot’s phone buzzes. She glances at it, then hands it over.

“You should see this.”

t’s a sports news headline, barely an hour old:

“Piastri Throws Subtle Shade at Figure Skating During Brand Event”

Below it is a still from the press conference , Oscar mid-smirk, Camille mid-glare. The quote is front and center: “I guess I prefer my danger to come with an engine.”

Her jaw tightens.

“Perfect,” she mutters.

Margot tilts her head.

“This could be good for you. People love rivalry.”

“I’m not interested in being a meme.”

But the truth is… rivalries do pull attention. And attention, in an Olympic season, can be weaponized.

He’s in his hotel suite, jacket tossed over the back of a chair, phone plugged in and buzzing with notifications. His PR manager, Liam, is pacing near the desk, scrolling through Twitter.

“You’re trending,” Liam says. “And before you ask, no, it’s not about the upcoming Grand Prix.”

Oscar takes the phone. Sure enough a trending topic: #PiastriVsLaurent. Clips of the press conference are everywhere.

One tweet catches his eye:

“This isn’t a brand partnership, this is a sports drama waiting to happen.”

He smirks.

“Well… they’re not wrong.”

Liam looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. Oscar knows that look , the don’t start a PR fire look.

“It’s fine,” Oscar says. “She’s sharp. I like that.”

“You like provoking her.”

Oscar doesn’t deny it. He thinks about the way her eyes hardened when he said “scripted.” He hadn’t planned it. It just… came out. Maybe he was poking the bear a little.

The bear had sharp teeth.

By the time she gets to her hotel room, the hashtag has exploded. She scrolls, partly out of masochism, partly out of curiosity. Half the posts are from F1 fans defending him. The other half are skating fans defending her.

She tosses the phone onto the bed and groans. Margot, ever the opportunist, would tell her to keep feeding this. Rivalries are free marketing, she’d say. But Camille isn’t interested in playing games for attention.

Except…

Except she can’t shake the thought that maybe letting this rivalry simmer in public could be… useful. Not for fame. For control. She’s used to controlling a narrative on the ice, maybe she could do it off the ice too.

Liam warns him:

“Don’t add fuel to this. The brand wants positive synergy between ambassadors.”

Oscar nods, then ignores the advice entirely. Later that evening, during a casual live interview for a sports podcast, the host inevitably brings it up.

“So, Oscar, social media’s having fun with your dynamic with Camille Laurent. Is there an actual rivalry there?”

“Rivalry might be a strong word. I just think we see sport… differently. She’s chasing perfection. I’m chasing chaos. That’s bound to clash.”

She sees the clip an hour later. The words replay in her head chasing perfection… chasing chaos. It’s a neat little soundbite, one that will follow them both for months.

Margot calls almost immediately.

“You need to answer that.”

Camille hesitates.

“I don’t want to feed it.”

“It’s already fed. Right now, people are picking teams. If you don’t say something, his version of the story sticks.”

She hates that Margot is right.

So she opens Instagram, finds the trending clip, and reposts it to her story with just four words typed neatly over the top:

“Chaos isn’t winning.”

No emojis. No hashtags.

When he sees her story, he laughs. Not out of mockery out of genuine enjoyment. Most people either try to charm him or ignore him. She throws a jab right back, minimal effort, maximum effect.

He doesn’t reply publicly ,not yet. The fun is letting the tension breathe.

Instead, he sends her a direct message.

“We’ll see.”

No context.

Her phone buzzes at 12:17 a.m. with his message. She stares at it for a moment, weighing whether to answer. She doesn’t. Leaving him on read feels like its own small victory.

She sets the phone down and pulls the hotel curtains shut. Snow has started to fall outside, silent and relentless, coating the streets of Zurich.

Tomorrow, she’ll be on the ice again. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll imagine that every perfectly landed jump is another way to prove him wrong.

By morning, the internet has already decided: This is war.

📍 Paris, France

Paris in winter is a paradox, soft and brutal at the same time. The streets around the Hôtel de Crillon glitter with pale Christmas lights, but the wind cuts straight through her tailored coat.

Inside the ballroom, warmth wraps around her like velvet. Chandeliers drip crystal light over a long table set for the brand’s “Athletes’ Gala.” She spots the photographers first, always the first line of attack then the sponsors, then, inevitably, him.

Oscar Piastri, in a dark navy suit this time, leaning against the bar like the night belongs to him. He’s talking to someone from the marketing team, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of champagne. His expression is half-listening, half-scouting the room.

Margot catches her looking.

“Play nice.”

Camille keeps her tone flat.

“I always do.”

But her steps toward the table slow when she sees him turn, notice her, and, annoyingly, smile. Not a warm smile. The kind that says I was waiting to see you walk in.

The moment she enters, he feels the quiet shift in the air. Camille Laurent has that kind of presence. It’s not loud, not showy. It’s calculated, like she knows exactly how long to let a room look at her before she looks back.

She’s in a deep emerald dress tonight, the color making her skin seem warmer, her eyes sharper. No bun this time her hair falls in loose, deliberate waves over one shoulder. He wonders, briefly, if that’s a tactical decision. A softer weapon.

He takes a slow sip of champagne, lets her catch him looking.

When she reaches the table, he’s already pulled out the chair beside him.

“Figured they’d sit us together again,” he says.

“Pity,” she replies, but she sits anyway.

Halfway through the evening, the brand’s PR lead appears with two microphones.

“We’d like a quick joint interview for the livestream. Just a few questions.”

Camille wants to say no. Oscar can see it in the tightening of her jaw. But she agrees, because refusing would look worse. They’re led to a smaller stage at the corner of the ballroom, bright lights trained on two tall chairs.

The interviewer is young, eager, clearly aware of the online hype.

“So, you two have been the talk of social media since Zurich. People love this… dynamic between you.”

Camille’s smile is thin.

“It’s called professionalism.”

Oscar leans back in his chair, microphone casual in his hand.

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Do you see yourselves as rivals?”

Camille answers first.

“I compete against athletes in my own sport. Rivalries happen when we share the same goals.”

Oscar cuts in, eyes glinting.

“Or when you just don’t like each other.”

Her head turns, slowly, until her gaze locks on his. The tension sharpens, but the interviewer looks thrilled.

“I don’t waste energy on people who aren’t worth competing with.”

Oscar smiles, slow and deliberate.

“Good thing I have plenty of energy to spare.”

The audience noise swells,whispers, muffled laughs, the collective awareness that they’re watching something unscripted.

She hates that he’s good at this ,the push and pull, the teasing edge that never tips fully into hostility. Worse, she hates that she’s starting to enjoy matching him.

When the interview ends, they stand for photos. He steps closer than necessary, not touching, but close enough that she catches the faint scent of something expensive and clean, not cologne exactly, but unmistakably him.

The cameras click. She tells herself it’s just for the image, the branding, the storyline they’ve been accidentally building. But her pulse disagrees.

He can see it now the tiny shift in her. She’s still guarded, but there’s a spark under the ice. When she throws those sharp lines at him, it’s not annoyance anymore. It’s engagement.

As the photos wrap up, he leans slightly, voice pitched low so only she hears:

“Careful, Laurent. You’re starting to smile for real.”

Her lips stay in that poised, photo-perfect curve.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

She walks away before he can get an answer, and he finds himself watching her disappear into the crowd, wondering if he’s crossed some invisible line or if she’s daring him to.

Camille stands by the tall windows overlooking Place de la Concorde, a champagne flute in hand, watching the traffic lights change. She feels the shift in the air before he joins her.

“Not hiding from me, are you?” he says.

“Why would I hide?”

He studies her for a moment, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth.

“Because you don’t like losing, and I think you’re starting to lose this one.”

She turns fully to face him now, her voice soft but laced with steel.

“What exactly is there to win, Piastri?

He tilts his head.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

They part ways at midnight, but the rivalry has changed shape. It’s no longer just barbed comments and public posturing. It’s curiosity now. Dangerous curiosity.

📍 London, UK

The charity event is exactly the kind of PR stunt she hates ,too many cameras, too many fake smiles, too many “spontaneous” moments that have been rehearsed to death. The venue, an indoor sports arena in London, is buzzing with journalists, influencers, and sponsors.

She’s here because the brand insisted. “It’ll be fun,” they said. “Lighthearted competition,” they promised.

Then she sees the event schedule and nearly laughs.

Obstacle course, team challenge.

And her “team partner”?

Oscar Piastri. It's look like people love drama.

Margot hands her a branded sports jacket, already anticipating her reaction.

“It’s not optional.”

Camille zips it up with mechanical precision.

“Of course it isn’t.”

When they tell him he’s paired with Camille, he almost grins. Almost.

It’s been months since Paris, but her last words: What exactly is there to win? still rings in his head. Tonight, maybe he’ll get closer to the answer.

He spots her across the arena, stretching like she’s about to skate a routine instead of crawl under nets and jump over hurdles. She looks immaculate as always, even in sportswear, she somehow radiates control.

“You ready to lose, Laurent?” he calls out as he approaches.

She straightens, not missing a beat.

“That depends. Do you plan on slowing me down?”

The challenge begins.

The whistle blows. They’re off.

The first section is a series of rope ladders. Camille takes them like they’re nothing quick, precise movements, barely breaking a sweat. Oscar keeps pace, but only just.

“You’re fast,” he says between breaths.

“I’m efficient,” she corrects, not looking back.

The next section is a crawl under low nets. They drop to the ground almost simultaneously, the space so tight that their shoulders brush. He hears her steady breathing, sees the glint of determination in her eyes as they push forward.

Camille goes first, her movements sharp and deliberate. Oscar follows, deliberately adding just a little more bounce to his steps to rattle her.

She doesn’t falter. Not once.

She hates that he’s good at this, not just physically, but in reading her. Every time she speeds up, he matches her pace. Every time she tries to pull ahead, he’s there, half a step behind, like he knows she can’t stand him shadowing her.

They reach the final stage, a wall climb with a rope. She goes first, muscles burning, but she’s focused on getting over fast. Her grip slips slightly near the top, just enough to cost her a second.

And then his hand is on the rope above hers, steadying it.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says, voice low, just for her.

She climbs the last stretch, pulls herself over, and lands on the other side. He follows in one clean movement.

They cross the finish line almost together, breathing hard, adrenaline buzzing. The announcer declares them the winners of their heat, but the crowd is louder for the fact they didn’t kill each other in the process.

He catches her eye.

“Not bad, Laurent.”

“You kept up,” she replies, but there’s no venom in it this time.

They’re standing off to the side, waiting for the closing photos, still flushed from the race.

“You know,” he says, “you’re different when you’re actually competing with me.”

“Don’t read too much into it,” she says, but her tone is lighter now.

He steps a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough that she notices.

“I think you like winning with me more than you’d admit.”

She looks up at him, eyes sharp but not cold.

“And I think you talk too much.”

When they’re called forward, Oscar doesn’t hesitate , his arm goes around her shoulders for the cameras. She could step away. She doesn’t.

The photographers capture it instantly: two athletes who are supposed to be rivals, standing just a little too close, smiling just a little too genuinely.

That night, the photo goes everywhere.

The captions vary, but one theme is constant: Maybe the rivalry isn’t so simple anymore.

The afterparty is winding down, voices getting quieter, laughter more forced. She’s near the balcony, the cold air biting through her coat, grateful for the brief silence.

She lights a cigarette, a secret vice she rarely admits to, and inhales deeply. The smoke curls up around her fingers like a shield.

Then, a shadow falls next to her.

Oscar stands there, hands in pockets, watching the city lights. Neither says anything for a long moment.

“You don’t usually come out here,” he finally says, voice low, casual.

She shrugs without looking at him.

“I prefer the cold.”

He smirks slightly.

“Suit yourself.”

She’s not sure why, but she doesn’t feel the usual urge to brush him off. Instead, she flicks ashes into the night.

“You seemed… different tonight,” she says, more to herself than to him.

He laughs softly.

“Yeah? Maybe I’m getting used to losing.”

She shoots him a look.

“I’m not making it easy.”

“I don’t want easy.”

The air between them shifts, charged but cautious.

e watches her from the corner of his eye, the way the smoke tangles around her fingers, how the tension in her jaw eases ever so slightly.

“This rivalry thing,” he says quietly, “it’s exhausting.”

She turns to face him, eyebrows raised.

“You’re telling me.”

He shrugs.

“Maybe it’s just a show we put on. For everyone else.”

She pauses, then nods slowly.

“Maybe.”

The night feels fragile, as if saying something more will shatter it. She doesn’t want to be the first to cross that line.

“I’m going back inside,” she says, flicking the cigarette away.

He steps closer but doesn’t reach out

“Same time next event?”

Her lips twitch into something close to a smile.

“If you survive."

They part with no promises, no confessions, just a silent understanding that the war between them might be more complicated than either expected and maybe, just maybe, that’s terrifying.

📍 Rome, Italy

The venue was buzzing with energy, cameras flashing, athletes moving with precision, journalists scribbling notes, and fans screaming from the stands. But Camille hardly noticed any of it. Half a year had passed since London, since that night on the balcony.

She found herself alone, slipping onto a side balcony to catch a breath, to escape the chaos for just a moment. The city below shimmered in a thousand lights, but she focused on the air, the cold biting gently at her cheeks. A brief sanctuary.

Then she sensed it.

“Predictable,” a familiar voice said behind her.

She didn’t flinch. Not this time. She turned slowly, letting her eyes meet his across the narrow distance. Oscar stood there, casually confident, hands in his pockets, smirking perfectly in place. She had expected him. And she had expected to feel something.

But she didn’t waver.

“You made it,” she said evenly, tone measured, almost bored.

“I always do,” he replied, stepping closer, though not too close. The air between them sparked, subtle but electric. “Same place, next event, remember?”

She let her lips twitch. “I do. I also remember not needing you to make it interesting.”

He chuckled softly, eyes glinting. “Oh, I think I make it more interesting than anyone else could.”

“Maybe,” she said, leaning lightly on the railing. “Or maybe you just make it predictable. You know me, I hate predictable.”

“That’s true,” he said, voice lower now, teasing. “But you also love the challenge. You thrive on it.”

She shot him a look, sharp, unwavering. “Don’t assume. I’m here at an event, not to play games with you.”

He smiled faintly. “Who says this isn’t part of the game? Every glance, every word… a little chess match. And I like chess.”

“I prefer strategy that actually wins,” she replied, eyes narrowing slightly, the faintest edge in her tone. “Not just a show of power.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Ah, but you’re competitive enough to make me push harder. And you know it.”

She let out a short, controlled laugh. “You think I’m going to let you win? Even in a battle of words?”

“Never thought otherwise,” he said. “But I enjoy testing boundaries. Seeing how far you’ll go before you crack.”

Her hands tightened on the railing. “I don’t crack. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

“Good,” he said softly, leaning slightly closer, just enough to let her feel the proximity without touching. “I like a fight. And I like a rival who refuses to yield.”

She met his gaze, steady, unbroken. “Then you’ll just have to settle for being frustrated.”

He laughed, a low, amused sound that somehow made her pulse quicken despite herself. “Frustration is part of the fun,” he said. “I can handle it. Can you?”

“I thrive on it,” she said quietly, almost defiantly, a smirk playing on her lips. “Frustration doesn’t scare me.”

The night stretched around them, heavy with unspoken words and lingering tension. Neither moved closer, neither retreated. They simply existed in the same space, eyes locked, breathing measured, the world below fading into irrelevance.

Finally, she straightened, flicking the last wisp of hair from her face. “I should get back inside. Practice doesn’t wait.”

He watched her, smirk unchanged. “As you wish. But know this…”

She glanced at him, expression neutral.

“I’ll be keeping score.”

And with that, she turned and walked back inside, leaving him on the balcony, grinning faintly to himself, already plotting their next encounter. Because the rivalry wasn’t over. Not even close.

And Camille, competitive as ever, wouldn’t have it any other way.

📍Montréal, Canada

Camille skated across the pristine ice, each movement sharp and precise, her mind completely absorbed in the routine she had been refining for months. The Grand Prix was coming up , and every jump, every spin, every landing mattered. She was alone in the arena or so she thought, focused on the perfect execution of her triple axels and intricate combinations.

Then she heard it. A familiar, unmistakable laugh echoing across the rink.

She froze mid-spin, skates digging into the ice as her head snapped toward the source.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing.

Oscar stood at the edge of the practice rink, hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the railing as if he belonged there. His racing suit had been replaced by casual clothes, but the aura of effortless confidence remained. He had already finished his Grand Prix race days ago and apparently decided to stick around, just for this.

“You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun alone, did you?” he called, smirk tugging at his lips.

Camille’s jaw tightened. She didn’t like being watched, not when she was vulnerable, not when she was testing limits. And yet, the sight of him here, just lingering in the background, stirred something complicated inside her.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said, voice low but sharp, gliding closer to the barrier. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He chuckled, not moving closer, respecting her space, yet the tension between them was palpable. “Finished my race. Got a few days before the next schedule. Thought I’d… observe.”

“Observe?” she repeated, incredulous. “You’ve come here… to watch me skate?”

“Why not?” he said with a shrug, tilting his head. “You’re competitive, precise, relentless. I like seeing that up close.”

Her fingers clenched around the railing, a subtle tremor betraying the storm of irritation and curiosity brewing inside her. “Up close, huh? And I suppose this is totally innocent?”

He smirked, eyes gleaming. “Of course it’s innocent. Totally innocent. Purely professional. Maybe just a little personal… entertainment.”

She glared at him, turning her attention back to the ice. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But the heat on her cheeks betrayed her.

“You really never learn, do you?” she muttered, spinning into a clean landing, her blade carving a sharp line.

“I do learn,” he said softly, voice carrying across the arena. “I just enjoy the challenge of pushing you, seeing if you crack under pressure. And I have to say…” He stepped slightly closer, keeping a safe distance but letting the proximity charge the air between them. “…you’re surprisingly resilient.”

Her chest rose and fell, controlled yet tense. She let out a short laugh, dry, with a hint of exasperation. “Surprising? You must mean infuriating.”

“Maybe,” he said with mock seriousness. “But I like it. Keeps things interesting.”

Camille shook her head, skating to a stop near the boards, facing him fully now. “I don’t play games for anyone, Oscar. Least of all you.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes darkening just enough to unsettle her. “Because I’d be disappointed if you did.”

The rink felt smaller, charged with tension, their rivalry intensified by proximity, by unspoken attraction, by the thrill of competing not just on ice or track, but in everything.

She flicked a stray lock of hair from her face, steadying herself. “I have practice. And I have a competition to prepare for. So… entertain yourself somewhere else.”

He smiled faintly, as though accepting the challenge. “I will. But I’ll be watching. Always.”

She glanced at him one last time, glare sharp, competitive fire blazing. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.He nodded, as if that was exactly what he intended.

And with that, she turned back to the ice, every muscle, every focus directed toward her routine. But the thought lingered, unavoidable: he wasn’t just watching. He was waiting. And so was she.

“You’ve improved,” Oscar said softly from the railing, leaning casually, watching her. Not in a press-like, distant way, but close enough that she could feel his presence radiating across the ice.

She shook her head, skating to a stop a few meters from him, chest rising with controlled breaths. “You’re unbelievable. Do you ever take a day off?”

“Not when the competition is this good,” he replied, voice low, teasing, the tension between them almost physical. “And clearly, you thrive on challenges.”

“Maybe I do,” she said, tone steady, unwavering. “But I don’t crack. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

He stepped closer, carefully, his gaze locking with hers. “We’ll see.”

A playful, dangerous game began. Words, glances, subtle movements, each testing the other’s limits. Camille spun sharply, each turn calculated to display skill, strength, and defiance. Oscar leaned, smirking, never leaving, subtly pushing her, teasing with comments, challenging without touching.

“You think you can outlast me?” he asked, eyes glinting, voice a challenge.

“I know I can,” she replied, lips curving slightly, but with fire in her eyes. “And you? Are you going to crack first?”

He laughed softly, low and amused. “Not a chance. You’ll be the one begging me eventually.”

Her lips twitched into a teasing smirk. “Yeah, in your dreams.”

They circled each other like predators, tension snapping like the sharp edge of a blade. Every word, every glance, every subtle motion was a dare. Neither gave in. Neither cracked. The air between them vibrated with a combination of rivalry, respect, and something unspoken but undeniably charged.

Minutes felt like hours. Every step Camille took across the ice, every adjustment of her posture, every spin was measured to maintain composure. Oscar’s gaze never wavered, and with every slight smirk or teasing comment, she had to fight the pull of her own reactions.

“You’re stubborn,” he said finally, voice low, almost reverent in its intensity. “I like that. It makes the victory so much sweeter.”

She didn’t answer, just spun again, letting her ice blade carve sharp, perfect arcs. She would not give him the satisfaction of a verbal victory.

“I’ll admit,” he said softly, stepping even closer now, the air charged between them, “this is… fun. Seeing you like this. Challenging, fierce. Unbreakable.”

"I told you,” she said, pausing mid-spin to face him, eyes locked, unwavering. “You’re not breaking me. Ever.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched, their rivalry, flirtation, and tension crystallized in the empty arena. Then he tilted his head, smirk deepening, voice a whisper meant only for her.

And just like that, the challenge ended, temporarily. Neither had cracked, neither had given an inch, but the war between them had reached a fever pitch. Every glance, every word, every movement promised that the next encounter, the next game, would be even more dangerous, more thrilling, more irresistible.

As she finally skated to the edge of the rink, breath steady, muscles trembling from exertion, she caught his gaze one last time. Fire and challenge burned in their eyes alike.

Neither yielding, neither breaking, yet everything between them had shifted irreversibly.

And somewhere, in that tension-laden silence, both knew the game was only beginning.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets @18racecar81 @fairyjinn @siennaluvshcky (Tagging based on previous fic! If you don’t wanna be tagged in other future things I post, just lmk 💌)

[miaaaxxz]

Bush Man | CL16

previous part

summary: It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours. But then you found him. In your bush.And nothing about that night or the morning was normal.

word count: 1.3K

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader

NOT PROOFREAD

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

Who would’ve thought the easiest way to get free paddock passes was to drag a drunk F1 driver out of your aunt’s bush?

A few days after your strange little encounter, an email landed in your inbox. Subject line: “As promised.”

You blinked at the screen, expecting maybe the usual paddock passes you had jokingly asked for, but what you saw instead made you pause. Attached were two hospitality passes. No signature, no message. Just that. Classic Charles.

Hospitality passes? You barely let yourself hope. These were a whole level up, access to the VIP lounges, the best food, the exclusive views. Not just standing around in the paddock trying not to look out of place.

You weren’t even sure he remembered the deal you made that night in the bush, but apparently, he did.

Since then, the conversations were light, casual memes about Ferrari’s never-ending strategic disasters, a few sarcastic comments, and one cheeky bush emoji sticker you sent just to test if he’d block you. He didn’t. Instead, he responded with a rolling-eyes emoji. You couldn’t help but smile.

And now… race day was finally here.

Your anxiety was next-level. Three outfit changes, multiple YouTube tutorials on winged eyeliner, and a frantic search for “how to look expensive on a budget.” This wasn’t about impressing Charles anymore. It was about surviving the fact that you were about to walk into a world reserved for people with designer badges and bank accounts you could only dream of.

The passes were worth more than your rent. Maybe even a kidney. You had to at least look like you belonged there.

You arrived early. Way early. The scanner beeped when your pass was scanned, and you plastered on a confident smile, a smile that almost faltered when you tripped slightly over a cable inside the entrance.

Instead of being handed a welcome pack and pointed toward some food tables, you were greeted with a voice you recognized instantly.

“Hey. You made it.”

You turned and there he was: Charles Leclerc, dressed in Ferrari gear, sunglasses shielding the tired but unmistakably mischievous spark in his eyes.

“You didn’t think I’d actually show you around, did you?” he asked, falling into step beside you.

“Honestly? I thought you’d ghost me and I’d spend the day pretending to text someone important,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

He gave a smirk that made you question if he was teasing or just being Charles. “Good news. You’re someone important today.”

The hospitality area was everything you’d imagined and more , coffee bars that looked like they belonged in a boutique café, food arranged with the kind of precision you’d expect from a pit stop, and people who wore exclusivity like a second skin. You nodded and smiled, trying not to let your nerves show as you took it all in.

Then came the paddock.

The scent of fuel mixed with warm metal hit you as you followed Charles past teams and mechanics rushing around with laser focus. People greeted Charles with familiarity and no one questioned why you were there. The unspoken privilege of being with him granted you silent access.

You passed Lewis Hamilton mid-conversation, and your heart did a weird flip. You stumbled slightly, and Charles caught the movement with a grin.

“You okay?”

“Totally,” you said, the words rushing out too fast. “Just… overwhelmed.”

Charles laughed softly and started pointing out little details: the timing boards, the technicians’ hand signals, the tiny markings on car parts. It was like a backstage tour of a show you never thought you’d get into.

Finally, you arrived at the Ferrari garage. The hum of machinery and the faint smell of burnt rubber filled the air. Charles exchanged a few quick words with his engineer, then turned to you.

“I thought you might back out,” he said honestly.

“And miss the chance to meet the GOAT?” you teased.

He laughed, hand on chest. “You mean me?”

“No,” you said with a grin. “Alonso, obviously.”

And as if the universe were listening, you caught movement in your peripheral vision.

Fernando Alonso was heading toward the garage, chatting casually with someone from the team. He glanced up mid-conversation, spotted Charles.

“Fernando,” Charles greeted, the smile in his voice making it sound like they’d just bumped into each other at a café instead of a Formula 1 garage.

“Charles,” Fernando replied, before his eyes flicked to you with mild curiosity.

Without missing a beat, Charles gestured in your direction. “She’s here on a very important mission. Needs an autograph for her dad.”

It was somehow both casual and completely disarming.

Fernando’s smirk deepened just slightly as he reached for the cap you were already holding — when had you pulled that out? — signed it with a quick flourish, and handed it back.

“You’ve got good taste,” he said, tone light but carrying the kind of charm that made your brain temporarily forget words.

“Thank you,” you managed, hoping it sounded like actual speech and not a squeak.

Fernando gave you a polite nod before moving on, already halfway into his next conversation, and the paddock noise seemed to rush back in around you.

Charles tilted his head, clearly amused. “You okay?”

“Totally fine,” you said, clutching the cap like it might disappear. “Just… you know. Meeting the GOAT.”

He laughed, unguarded and warm, before steering you toward the next part of the tour

The rest of the tour was a blur, glimpses of other drivers preparing, the constant buzz of the team at work, the quiet intensity that filled the garage before the storm of the race.

Eventually, you found yourselves in a quieter corner, both holding drinks that felt way too fancy for you.

“This was fun,” you admitted, still catching your breath.

“So,” Charles said, breaking the silence, “what do I owe you now? More passes? A Ferrari cap signed in blood?”

You smirked. “Invite me to a strategy meeting. I have some ideas.”

He groaned. “Don't we all have?”

You laughed. It felt like you belonged here, even if just for a day and all because of a ridiculous night, a silent deal, and a driver who actually kept his word.

***

The race ended in a blur of noise and chaos. You barely registered the cheers and groans around you as Charles and the team gathered in a corner of the paddock, exhaustion and frustration written all over their faces.

Charles ran a hand through his hair, eyes dark with irritation. He glanced at you and let out a sharp sigh.

“Well… that was a disaster,” he said, voice low but tense. “Honestly, I don’t even know how we managed to screw up that badly.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Sounds… rough.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rough doesn’t even cover it. If I had a say, I’d make you an official member of the Ferrari strategy team.”

You laughed. “Oh, so the lifetime paddock pass deal is just the beginning? Now I get to fix the whole mess?”

He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Yeah, you’d probably do a better job than the people making those calls.”

You nudged him gently. “So when’s the first meeting? Should I prepare my presentation?”

“Whenever you want. I’ll make sure they listen if you show up with those passes.”

He looked around, then lowered his voice a notch. “Honestly though, it’s frustrating. We’ve got the car, the speed, everything. But then… the strategy just blows it all up.”

You nodded, understanding. “Sometimes it’s the little things that make or break everything.”

He exhaled, the tension easing slightly. “Yeah. But hey, at least today wasn’t a total loss. You got to see behind the scenes, got your autograph… and didn’t fall flat on your face at the gate.”

You smirked. “Small wins.”

He glanced at you, a genuine smile breaking through. “Thanks for sticking around today. For real.”

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectionist @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets @nibblinook (Tagging based on previous fic! If you don’t wanna be tagged in other future things I post, just lmk 💌)

[miaaaxxz]

I started working on Bush Man part 2 (you wanted it. I’ll deliver ), but I physically cannot write the next part of Unfinished Business and it’s actually killing me 😭 like I adore that plot sm but my brain said nope( motivate me pls) 🤓

[miaaaxxz]

😭😭

New brocedes lore I guess, brought to you by Nico fucking Rosberg

[miaaaxxz]

please tell me there going to be a part 2 to Bush Man 😭😭😭

bush man part 2… is that what y’all want? 👀

(who knows, maybe there’ll be free paddock passes involved) 🤓

part 1

[miaaaxxz]

so my mind is basically 50% F1 and 50% tennis and yes… a crossover happened in there. Should I write it? (blame the Wimbledon dance for the inspo)

[miaaaxxz]

[miaaaxxz]

Unfinished Business | OP81

previous part

summary—In the aftermath of Silverstone, tensions simmer just beneath the surface. A late-night call turns into a turning point, forcing them to confront what they’ve been avoiding and what they might be risking if they don’t act soon.

pairing—oscar piastri x alpine strategist!reader

word count—1.6K

The morning light was too bright.

It sliced through the half-closed hotel curtains and spilled across the tangled sheets, harsh and cold. The kind of light that made reality unavoidable.

She woke first, but didn’t move.

Oscar was still beside her, face half-buried in the pillow, arm thrown loosely over the edge of the mattress like his body had given up sometime around 4AM. His back rose and fell slowly, steady breaths betraying a calm he probably didn’t feel.

She stared at the ceiling.

Last night felt like war. Like they’d both picked up every piece of anger and guilt they’d been swallowing for weeks and thrown it at each other until they couldn’t breathe and then tried to forget it through skin and desperation and hands that shook even as they gripped harder.

It hadn’t fixed anything.

If anything, it had made everything messier.

She sat up slowly, careful not to wake him, and reached for the discarded shirt on the floor. Her fingers brushed the empty glass on the nightstand a loud clink in the stillness.

Oscar stirred.

She froze.

He blinked, slow and unfocused at first, then tensed the moment his eyes found her.

The atmosphere shifted instantly sharp, electric, wrong.

Neither of them spoke.

She stood and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door just a little too softly. Not slamming it. But almost. The mirror reflected someone she barely recognized. Tired. Hollow-eyed. Skin blotchy from restless sleep and too much thinking.

When she came out five minutes later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the floor.

Like he was waiting for a verdict.

She didn’t give him one.

Instead, she grabbed her phone, tossed it onto the nightstand, and crossed her arms, leaning against the wall.

Oscar looked up. Tired eyes, unreadable expression.

“Morning,” he said, voice dry.

She just nodded.

They stood like that for a beat too long. The weight of everything unsaid stretched between them like glass , see-through, but ready to shatter if anyone breathed wrong.

Oscar exhaled. “You okay?”

She let out a soft scoff. Not mean. Just… bitter.

“Define ‘okay.’”

He didn’t answer.

Because they both knew she wasn’t.

Neither of them were.

It had been too much the race, the penalty, the strategy fallout, the rumors. And then the fight. And then the way they’d clawed at each other like it was the only thing keeping them from falling apart.

And now?

Now there was this silence. Raw. Unfiltered. Like two people standing in the middle of a battlefield after the smoke cleared, not sure what was left standing.

“I’m leaving today,” she said finally, cutting through the tension with clipped precision.

Oscar nodded once. “Same. Flight in five hours.”

“Monaco?”

“For now.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You?”

"Home. Probably."

She shifted her gaze to the floor. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but his shoulders had drawn in again, not like someone resting. Like someone bracing.

After a long pause, he spoke again. “I don’t think I can figure this out on my own.”

Her eyes lifted. Slowly.

He didn’t meet them. “Whatever this is all of it it’s bigger than just bad timing or bad luck. I keep turning it over and over, but nothing sticks. Nothing makes sense long enough to hold.”

She exhaled, sharp. “You think I’ve had better luck? I’ve been doing the same thing in my head every night, hoping something will click. It doesn’t.”

This time, their eyes did meet. Neither looked away.

He stood, slow, but steady. “We need to stop pretending we can handle this separately.”

“No more vague updates. No more half-truths. If we want to get ahead of this, we need to be on the same page.Fully.”

She didn’t agree right away. She let the moment stretch just long enough for him to feel it. Then finally, she said, quiet but firm:

“Fine. Call me when you land.”

જ⁀➴

Four Days Later 23:17 PM

The call rang twice before he picked up.

No greeting. Just a faint inhale and the familiar sound of movement fabric rustling, a chair creaking. He was there, like always. And she was too, curled on the kitchen floor with her back against a cabinet, knees pulled to her chest, phone pressed between her shoulder and cheek.

Oscar didn’t bother with a greeting. “I think I freaked my manager out.”

That made her sit up. “What? Why?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, flat:

“My shirt rode up a bit during briefing. He saw the nail scratches on my back.”

She blinked. “No.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“What… what did he say?”

“Nothing,” Oscar replied. “But he looked horrified. Like I’d been attacked by a wild animal. Or involved in some kind of… unlicensed ritual.”

She let out a soft wheeze, pressing her palm over her face.

“Oh my God.”

Oscar sounded completely deadpan. “He blinked at me. Once. Slowly. Then handed me a bottle of water and said ‘rest up.’ Like I’d come back from war.”

She couldn’t help it a laugh escaped, short and sharp and borderline unhinged.

“That’s not funny,” she said, still laughing.

“It kind of is.”

“No, it’s terrible.You think anyone else noticed?”

“The scratches?”

“No. Us.”

“If they didn’t before, they will now. Everything’s louder lately. Even silence feels suspicious.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s the point. Not to catch us doing something wrong, but to make everyone think we are.”

Oscar leans back against the headboard, phone still pressed to his ear. He doesn't respond right away.

“Found anything?” he asked. His voice was tired. Not sleepy, just worn out. Like two days of picking at the same frayed thread had finally started unraveling him too.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But it’s… fragmented.”

“Aren’t we all?”

It had started two nights after Silverstone.

A text, short and reluctant:

If we don’t talk, we’ll go insane.

Then another:

Midnight. My time. That work for you?

And now, it was routine. A cold, quiet routine. Like checking the perimeter after a storm seeing what’s still standing, what’s salvageable. They didn’t talk about what had happened. Not the night in the hotel, not the silence the next morning, not even the fact that they'd both left without saying goodbye.

Just the problem. The leak. The audio. The sim file. The silence that now buzzed with threat from every angle of the paddock.

“I was looking through Alpine’s internal comm logs,” she started, running a thumb over the edge of her mug, untouched tea gone cold. “There’s no record of me saying that line. Not even in the encrypted folders.”

Oscar made a low sound. Thoughtful. “But we both remember you saying it. Austria. Post-race. You were pissed.”

“I was right,” she muttered. Then, quieter: “But yeah.”

“So someone recorded it externally.”

“Or... someone had access to McLaren’s archive and pulled it from another source. A test run? A private debrief?”

Oscar was quiet for a beat.

“You think it’s internal?”

She didn’t answer.

That was the thing they both wanted to believe it was external. That this was sabotage, some coordinated attempt to ruin reputations and compromise strategy data between teams. But the deeper they dug, the more it looked like rot from within. Someone who knew enough. Who had access.

“I checked my sim logs from the last month,” he said after a pause. “Nothing out of the ordinary until Silverstone week. Then...boom. One corrupted file. Inserted thirty-six hours before that run. Timestamp doesn’t match the session.”

“That’s not a bug,” she said flatly.

“No. It’s not.”

There was a long silence then , not empty, but thick with shared dread. The kind of pause where you both know something’s wrong but neither of you want to be the one to say it aloud.

She finally broke it.

“My access credentials were changed the week before. Temporarily.”

“What?”

“I didn’t notice. Matthieu probably thought it was standard IT procedure. But someone elevated my permissions. Then reverted them three days later.”

“Jesus.” Oscar exhaled. “So whoever did this wanted it to look like you had access to things you normally don’t.”

“Yeah.”

“To make it look like you leaked it.”

The words landed heavy between them. She didn’t even flinch. Not anymore.

“Okay. So we’ve been focusing on the cough, the sim file, the leak as separate things. But what if they’re not? What if it’s not just bad luck someone recorded us twice? What if that person is the same?”

That silenced her for a moment.

“You think someone’s following us?”

“Or watching. Listening.”

Beat.

“Someone who knows when we’re together. Someone who knows where to plant things. I mean your voice ended up in my sim run, in a McLaren file, after you got pulled from pit wall. That’s not an accident.”

She didn’t argue. She’d been circling the same thought.

“You think it’s someone from Alpine?”

Oscar hesitated. “I don’t want it to be. But someone has access to your audio. And someone else or the same must’ve had access to our location, or our comms.”

“So you’re saying it’s… internal.”

“I’m saying it’s not random. That’s what keeps hitting me.”

A pause.

“I keep thinking back to that morning in Silverstone. I said we’d stop hiding. That we’d work together.”

He echoed her words, and for a second, her throat tightened.

She shifted, pulling the blanket up like it could shield her from the pressure in her chest.

“Okay,” she murmured. “So what do we do?”

“We think like them.”

“Like whoever’s behind this?”

“Yeah. We ask: if I wanted to sabotage a strategist and a driver without getting caught, how would I do it?”

“I’d pick moments when they’re isolated. Or vulnerable. Or emotional.”

Her voice dropped.

“Oscar.”

“Hm?”

“I think they want us to turn on each other.”

It landed heavy between them.

Because it was true. Because it was working.

“I almost did,” he admitted. “That night in your hotel room? I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. Part of me thought what if it was her? What if she used me and walked out?”

That stung. Even now. But she didn’t flinch.

“And I thought you’d deny it all. Play victim. Pretend you didn’t hear that cough or know what it meant.”

“I didn’t want to doubt you,” he said. “But everything around us is built to make us do exactly that.”

“Paranoia is the point.”

“Exactly.”

જ⁀➴

It was 1:47 AM.

Another call. Another night of circling theories like sharks the same facts rehashed, the same timelines replayed. She was pacing barefoot across the cold floor of her Airbnb kitchen, sipping chamomile tea like it could untangle her brain.

“We’ve been doing this for two weeks. Same questions, same possibilities. Nothing moves.”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

There was no greeting, no hesitation. Just his voice in her ear, low and rough, like it had been boiling in his chest for hours and finally cracked.

“We’ve had the same fucking conversation five times this week. What if it was X? What if it was Y? What if this team did that, what if the other leaked that file. I’m tired.”

She didn’t respond right away. She’d been sitting in bed, phone pressed to her ear, trying to will herself to sleep. Now, her spine was straight. Alert.

“Oscar—”

“No. I’m serious. We’re stuck in a loop. Replaying theories like it’s gonna magically give us a new answer. And in the meantime, I’m getting paranoid as hell, you’re one step away from being blacklisted, and someone is still ten moves ahead.”

He exhaled sharply. “I can’t live in rewind anymore.”

Silence.

She sat up straighter, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. “Then what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

His voice cracked on the last word not loud, not dramatic. Just frayed. Honest.

“I feel like I’m being moved around like a fucking pawn. I’m either the golden boy or the problem. My own team looks at me like I’ve got something to confess. "

There was a long pause before she spoke.

“I have something to tell you.”

Her voice was too careful. Too rehearsed. The kind of tone that made his stomach knot instinctively.

Oscar shifted the phone tighter to his ear. “What is it?”

She inhaled slowly. “McLaren made me an offer.”

Silence.

Not the kind that asks for more. The kind that falls like glass shattering across the floor.

“They—” he cut himself off. Tried again. “When?”

“Yesterday. Officially.”

She swallowed. “Andrea himself reached out.”

Oscar laughed. Once. A sharp exhale that didn’t hold even a trace of humor.

“Right. Of course he did.”

She winced. “I didn’t say yes.”

“But you didn’t say no either.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

The air between them turned electric, charged with something hot and volatile and clawing. For a second, she thought he might hang up.

But he didn’t.

“You realize how insane that sounds?” His voice was lower now. Strained. “You’re in the middle of a scandal. Your reputation’s on fire. And McLaren , my team , wants to hire you?”

“I know.”

“So what, is it charity? Damage control? Or are they trying to keep you on a shorter leash?”

She didn’t answer. Because she didn’t know either. That was the worst part.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “You’re toxic right now. No team touches someone that radioactive unless…”

His voice trailed off, like he didn’t want to finish the thought.

She whispered it for him.

“Unless they already know something we don’t.”

A/N: Should she take the job? 🤔

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets @18racecar81 @fairyjinn @siennaluvshcky

[miaaaxxz]

girlll, please make Unfinished Business a seriesss 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 i'm so in love with your fic

I might have a surprise for you. 💋

[miaaaxxz]

Unfinished Business | Series Masterlist

SUMMARY—She was there when Oscar Piastri was Alpine’s hope, the quiet force everyone underestimated. When he left without a word, she was left to pick up the pieces. Now, years later, with Oscar leading the championship and tensions flaring, she’s sent to McLaren to smooth things over. But some stories don’t end, they just wait for the right moment to ignite.

PAIRING —oscar piastri x alpine strategist!reader

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR*

CHAPTER FIVE

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets @18racecar81

[miaaaxxz]

I wanted to update Unfinished Business but the Sinner-Alcaraz final at Wimbledon had me STRESSED 😭 I couldn’t function.

[miaaaxxz]

Bush Man | CL16

next part

summary: It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours. But then you found him. In your bush.And nothing about that night or the morning was normal. word count: 1.2K

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader

NOT PROOFREAD

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

After another race where Ferrari had managed to screw him over , again, Charles Leclerc flew back to Monaco with a head full of noise and no desire to hear anyone’s voice but his own.

Summer break had officially started, but instead of rest, he felt hollow. Drained. Like something inside him had burned out quietly while no one was looking.

He didn’t even unpack. He just threw on a jacket, grabbed his wallet, and left the apartment. No plans, no texts. He needed to not think. So he went where thinking was nearly impossible: a club.

The lights were too bright. The music too loud.

He hadn’t meant to drink that much , a couple shots, just to take the edge off. But the edge only grew sharper. The music blurred into a hum, the voices faded into static, and at some point, the idea of staying in that room, in that body, became unbearable.

So he left. Alone. Jacket forgotten somewhere. Phone slipping in and out of his hand. His steps unsteady as he wandered through the warm streets of Monaco, passing bars, cafés, glowing storefronts he’d known since childhood.

He didn’t know where he was going.But eventually, he saw it. A patch of green. A quiet little garden in front of someone’s house. And for some reason it looked inviting.

So Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver, Ferrari’s golden boy, collapsed into a bush like it was a luxury mattress.

જ⁀➴

You had just said goodbye to your best friend at the corner of the street, the two of you walking home from a night out that was supposed to last one drink and ended five hours later. Typical.

Lina lived a few houses down. You were staying at your aunt’s place for the summer, which thankfully wasn’t far. She made sure you got to the front gate before turning back, still talking about some guy in the club who had danced.

“Text me when you get in” she grinned.

“Only if you promise not to drunk-message your ex again.”

You waved her off with a lazy smirk and headed inside. Within minutes you were out of your dress and into the comfiest t-shirt you owned. The one with the slightly faded print and sleeves you always rolled twice.

You had just sat on the edge of the bed when your phone lit up.

Lina. Again.You frowned, picking up.

“I don’t wanna scare you or anything, but I think you have a Charles Leclerc in your bush.”

You blinked. “…I have a what in my bush?”

“A man. In your garden. And he looks exactly like Charles freaking Leclerc. Like... Monaco’s price. Ferrari golden boy"

You sighed. “You’re drunk. Lina, babe, we’ve talked about this. You can’t just manifest men into existence.”

“I’m dead serious. Come outside right now. Bring a flashlight. Or a bat. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

She hung up.

Still half-convinced this was some sleep-deprived prank, you shoved your feet into the first pair of slides you could find and tiptoed down the stairs of your aunt’s house. The summer air in Monaco was heavy and warm, humming faintly with the remnants of club music from the hill above.

Lina stood dead still near the front hedge, phone flashlight trained at something just beyond the leaves.

“There. Look,” she whispered dramatically. “I swear is him”

You squinted. There was definitely someone in the bush. A figure lay curled up awkwardly in the bushes, one shoe missing, hair a chaotic mess, muttering low curses in French.

“…Oh my God,” you breathed.

“Right?” Lina hissed. “Tell me that’s not him.”

You angled your phone light closer to his face.

Brown eyes squinted open, immediately scrunching shut again. He groaned.

“Putain de lumière… qu’est-ce que c’est…”

Yep. That was him.

That was Monaco’s golden boy. Passed out in your shrubbery.And definitely very drunk.

“What do we do? Call someone?” you whispered, panic rising. “Ferrari? A manager? The Pope?”

Lina looked down at him, then at you. “You want me to call Ferrari and say ‘Hi, your driver’s in my garden and it's look like he's dying'"?

“I don’t know!” you hissed. “Check if he has his phone or something.”

She leaned down, carefully patting his pockets while trying not to fall over.

“Found it!” Lina pulled out a sleek phone completely black.

“…It’s dead.”

Of course.

You both stared at each other for a long moment, like you were in the middle of some weird alternate universe.

“What now?” Lina asked.

You glanced down at him again. He groaned, rolling slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the shrubbery.

“…We drag him inside.”

“What?”

“We can’t just leave him in a bush, Lina!”

“I’m not dragging an unconscious Formula 1 driver into the house like it’s normal!”

You sighed. “Help me with his legs.”

Lina groaned. “This is how people end up on the news.”

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Lina hissed, practically folded in half as she tried to lift Charles by the shoulders.

You had one arm under his knees and another gripping the back of his now grass-covered shirt. “Why is he so floppy?”

“Because he’s unconscious. And a man.”

You adjusted your stance, your sock sliding slightly on the tile as you both finally dragged him through the front door. He groaned low in his throat, head lolling against Lina’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” you whispered instinctively, though no one else was home.

Your aunt had left for Nice that weekend, a spontaneous getaway with her best friend.

“I think my spine just snapped,” Lina muttered as you both half-carried, half-dragged Charles into the living room and awkwardly maneuvered him toward the couch.

“I think my soul just left my body.”

You bumped his legs against the coffee table on the way. He barely flinched. Just let out another dramatic groan in slurred French and melted deeper into your grip.

“Almost there,” you breathed, sweat prickling the back of your neck.

With one final push, the two of you managed to drop him gently, but not gracefully onto the couch. He slumped sideways, one arm flopping dramatically off the edge.

You both stood back, panting.

Lina placed her hands on her hips. “Well. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to Charles Leclerc’s thighs.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smirked. “Too soon?”

You walked over, grabbed the soft grey throw blanket from the armchair, and unfolded it.

“Help me roll him.”

“What are we, paramedics?”

“Shut up and lift.”

Between the two of you, you managed to get him somewhat properly positioned head on the pillow, legs stretched out, arms tucked in enough to not dangle off the sides.

You pulled the blanket over him, tucking it slightly around his shoulders, then stepped back and stared at the scene.

Charles Leclerc.Formula 1 driver.Sleeping like a tranquilized bear in your aunt’s house.

“What even is my life right now?” you muttered.

Lina flopped onto the armchair. “Honestly? I don’t know, but I think I love it.”

Eventually, Lina stood up and stretched. “I should go before I start making questionable choices.”

You walked her to the door. “Thanks for helping me not drop him on the front steps.”

She winked and disappeared into the night.

You closed the door behind her, locked it, then turned back to the couch.

Charles was still fast asleep, mouth parted slightly, one hand now curled under the pillow like he’d always belonged there.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, watching him for a moment that lasted longer than it should’ve.

Then you muttered to yourself, “Tomorrow is going to be weird.”

જ⁀➴

Sunlight poured gently through the curtains, casting long stripes of gold across the wooden floor.

The apartment was still. Quiet. Still half-asleep.Until a soft, muffled groan broke the silence.

Charles stirred on the couch, head sinking deeper into the pillow before lifting suddenly, his brow furrowed, lips dry and slightly parted.

His body ached. His mouth tasted like regret. And his brain? Foggy. Useless.

He blinked against the light, squinting as he tried to figure out... anything.

This wasn’t his house.This wasn’t anyone’s house he recognized.

He sat up slowly, groaning again as the blanket slipped off his chest.

The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar living room: warm-toned walls, a throw blanket now puddled in his lap, the scent of lavender lingering faintly in the air.

The second thing he noticed... was you.

Curled up in the armchair across the room, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, a half-full mug resting on your knee. You looked like you’d just woken up too, hair messily tied up, but your eyes were fully on him.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

A tense beat passed.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to remember how he’d ended up here.

He opened his mouth, voice dry and cracked.

Then, he finally spoke.

“Where am I?”

You stretched and yawned softly, pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“You’re at my aunt’s,” you said simply. “She’s away for a few days, so I’m looking after the place.”

Charles blinked, trying to piece together the foggy fragments of last night.

Then the memory hit or at least part of it.

“…Did I…?” he asked, voice hoarse. He gestured between the couch and where you were sitting. “Did we…?”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“No,” you said, lips twitching into a small, amused smile. “ Babe, I just found you in the bush.”

Charles stared at you.

“…Sorry, what?”

“The bush,” you said again, nodding toward the window. “Outside. You were face-down in it. Very committed, honestly.”

He let out a noise half groan, half mortified choke. His hands dragged down his face as if he could wipe away the entire memory.

“Putain…” he muttered, muffled.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “So no, nothing happened. ”

“God…” he muttered again, now flopping back against the couch, blanket tangled around his legs like it was trying to strangle him out of pity. “Please tell me no one saw that.”

You tilted your head.

“Are you asking if I’m going to tell anyone, or if I’ve already drafted the tweet?”

He cracked one eye open. “Both.”

You smirked. “Depends.”

His brow furrowed. “…On?”

You leaned back, swirling your mug slowly.

“Do I get free paddock passes for life if I keep it a secret?”

His groan echoed through the room as he dropped his head back against the pillow.

“Please don’t blackmail me.”

You grinned. “Too late.”

Another pause.

Then silence again. But this time, a little warmer. He peeked at you from under the blanket.

“I really was in a bush?”

You nodded. “Dead center.”

“…That explains the scratches on my neck.”

“And the bit of leaf still in your hair.”

He reached up immediately, running his fingers through it. You pointed. He missed it. You walked over, leaned down, and gently plucked the small, crumpled green leaf from behind his ear, holding it up like a prize.

“Souvenir?” you asked.

He let out the softest, defeated laugh.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets (Tagging based on previous fic! If you don’t wanna be tagged in other future things I post, just lmk 💌 part 5 of Unfinished Business soon)

[miaaaxxz]

girlll you keep cooking so hard 😭😭 i've been reading all your stuff and you also seem so so nice. i wanted to message you but i'm lowkey scared lol just wanted to say keep doing whatever youre doing bc its amazing ❤️❤️

omg 🥹 that’s genuinely so sweet, thank you sm!! please don’t be scared to message me !! I promise i’m friendly haha 🫶🏻

[miaaaxxz]

hii, I really like your stories, they are so well written, and I wonder if you ever feel comfortable writing some smut.❤️

hii, thank you 🫶🏻🤍

I do write smut sometimes, but I usually prefer smut with plot. I only include it when it feels right for the story.Most of my stories focus more on feelings and emotional connection (I’m not really good at writing smut though 🤓)

part 4 of Unfinished Business has a little smut 👀 ( sorry, I have to, I like angry/frustrated smut)

[miaaaxxz]

Unfinished Business | OP81

previous part | next part

summary: Pressure mounts as secrets and lies unravel beneath the surface. Frustration brews between two people caught in a web of betrayal, forcing them to confront harsh truths about the race, their careers, and each other.

word count: 2.3K

pairing: oscar piastri x alpine strategist!reader

warnings: smut!!!

It wasn’t subtle.

Walking into the Silverstone paddock side by side, not touching, not smiling, just matching strides was enough.

They didn’t need to say a word.The silence between them screamed louder than any headline.

She felt it first, that static buzz in the air. The moment awareness shifted. When a dozen heads turned just slightly, enough to make it obvious they were being watched.

Oscar felt it too. His cap was pulled low, almost comically so, but it couldn’t shield him from the rising tide of attention.

“They’re staring,” she murmured.

He didn’t look at her. “Let them.”

Phones tilted upward. Screens flicked open. Someone whispered her name.

“She’s Alpine.”

“What the hell is she doing walking with Piastri?”

“I thought she got cleared.”

The whispers slid beneath her skin like glass. Her black Alpine jacket was soaked at the shoulders, and each cold drop felt sharper than it should have. She didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But her fingers were clenched into fists inside her pockets, knuckles white, fingernails digging crescent moons into her palms.

She’d made it to the garage before she realized she hadn’t spoken a word since they left. Oscar brushed past her in silence, already heading toward his engineers.

And then there was Matthieu, the head strategist.

Waiting. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t greet her. Just tilted his head toward the door behind him.

“Inside.”

The word was a razor.

She followed, jaw tight.

The briefing room was dim and suffocating, like it always was before qualifying , stale coffee in the air, stress in the walls. She pulled off her jacket with more force than necessary, flinging it over the back of a chair like it had betrayed her.

Matthieu didn’t sit.

Didn’t even move.

“I told you to keep your head down,” he said flatly. “You walk through the paddock with him like it’s a red carpet.”

Her spine straightened. “He’s a McLaren driver. I’m not chained to the garage. We were walking.”

“It wasn’t walking,” Matthieu snapped. “It was a statement.”

She stared at him. “A statement?”

“People talk. They already think you’re compromised.”

Her mouth twisted. “Because I exist near him? Because I breathe the same air?”

“Because somehow, your voice made it into their sim files last week,” he said coldly. “Because after everything, you stroll through one of the most watched paddocks of the season beside the very driver they think you’re feeding data to.”

“I’m not feeding anyone anything—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It should matter.”

“You think the media gives a shit about facts?” He stepped closer, voice still low but lethal. “They want a headline. You just gave them one.”

She blinked, slow. “So what, you want me to disappear?”

“I want you to remember you’re a strategist,” he said. “Not a celebrity. Not a driver’s shadow. You build numbers. You win races from the walls, not the headlines.”

A beat.

“I wasn’t part of the story,” she said, quieter now. “Until someone dragged my voice into a file I didn’t touch.”

Matthieu’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re too emotional,” he said. “You’re letting proximity cloud your judgment.”

Her voice cracked. “You think this is about him?”

“I think this is about you wanting to be seen.”

"Do you think I am a seeker attention?"

Matthieu stepped back. Final. Decisive.

“You’re off strategy for qualifying and race. Effective immediately.”

The words didn’t compute at first. “What?”

“You’ll assist from the tech trailer. No radio. No pit wall. Jules will call for Pierre.”

Her throat burned. “I’ve built every call for him this season. Every tire window. Every delta. You trusted me.”

“Then earn it back. Quietly.”

She stared at him, not blinking.

And then, slowly, walked out.

જ⁀➴

She wasn’t even allowed near the pit wall.

No headset. No channel. Not even a glance from the engineers she used to call by name.

They hadn’t said it out loud, they didn’t need to. The message was clear: she was a liability now. A risk too public. Too emotional. Too close.

So she’d watched the race from the back of the Alpine garage, arms crossed, headset silent, heart muted.

It had been raining. Not enough for chaos, but just enough to complicate everything and that, once, would’ve been her domain. Her data. Her call. She would’ve thrived in that mess.

Now she was just… watching.

And still, somehow, giving more than she got.

Pierre crossed the finish line in P6. A solid result. Decent points. A clean race in difficult conditions. She nodded once, to herself. Quietly proud. Quietly… bitter.

Because the cameras, the cheers, the headlines they weren’t for Alpine.

McLaren took another 1-2.

And Oscar, Oscar should have won.

He’d driven like a man possessed. Fast. Precise. Ruthless in the rain. He led almost the entire race, defying every challenge, commanding the field like he had something to prove.

Until a mistake that cost him 10s penalty

She heard it before she saw it.

"Piastri. Ten seconds penalty"

Her breath caught.

Not because she was invested. Not because she still watched him when she wasn’t supposed to.

But because she knew ,exactly , how much that would break him.

The win was gone. Lando took it , his home race, the roar of Silverstone behind him like thunder. Oscar crossed second. Still on the podium. Still leading the championship.

But it would never taste the same.

She stood in the corner of the Alpine motorhome long after the race ended. Her lanyard hung limp at her collar, headset untouched. No one came to talk. No one congratulated her for P6. No one blamed her, either.

It was worse that way. Like she no longer mattered enough to blame.

Like she wasn’t even there.

જ⁀➴

She had barely made it back to the hotel room before the weight of everything crashed into her.

She didn’t cry ,not yet ,but her hands were shaking as she locked the door behind her. Her breath came fast and sharp, and every object in the room felt like a threat , the lamp, the glass on the counter, the TV remote. Her fingers hovered over each one, willing herself not to hurl it across the room. Not to break something. Not to become someone she wouldn’t recognize.

Her career had been built on control.

And now all she felt was chaos.

It was almost 2 AM when she heard the knock.

Sharp. Then again louder. Angrier. Relentless.

She opened the door just enough to see him.

Oscar. Wet hair plastered to his forehead, shirt damp at the shoulders, jaw tight.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, voice low. “Someone could see.”

He didn’t flinch. “Thought we stopped hiding. Remember?”

A beat. Then she stepped aside.

It was strange seeing him there, in her space , not tucked in some shadowed corridor or hidden in the back of a motorhome. Just him, here, as if they were something real. As if they’d earned the right to exist without consequences.

She closed the door behind him, silence stretching too far, too tight.

“I was pulled from debrief.”

The words came suddenly, sharp as a crack in glass.

He turned. “What? When?”

“After the walk through the paddock,” she bit out. “Apparently I was ‘fueling the drama'’”

She laughed, but it was a cruel sound. Hollow.

“Do you know what it feels like to give years of your life to a team, to spend sleepless nights poring over data, building strategy, fighting to be heard and then to be shoved aside like you were never part of it at all?”

“I lost the race,” he said flatly.

Her eyes snapped to his.

“No,” she said. “You lost a win. I lost my career.”

He exhaled, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” she snapped.

“Turn this into some scoreboard. You think this is easy for me?”

“You’re still driving!” Her voice rose. “You’re still leading the championship, you’re still on every headline and every podium , I had to watch it all from the fucking back of the garage"

She laughed again ,this time more bitter than before.

He stepped closer. “That’s not fair.”

She didn’t back down. “Neither is getting benched for something I didn’t do. Neither is working twice as hard for half the recognition. Neither is losing everything because someone thinks you might be compromised.”

“You think I haven’t been torn apart too?”

“You think you’ve been torn apart?” Her voice cracked. “You still have a seat, a team, a career. You still get to show up and matter. You still get to race.”

“You don’t understand,” he growled.

“No,” she snapped. “You don’t.”

Silence.

Hot. Thick. Buzzing in the air between them like static before a lightning strike.

“I fucking miss you,” he said suddenly, voice rough, like the words cost him something.

She stared at him. Felt the air shift. Her lungs collapsed under the weight of everything unsaid.

“I miss us. Or whatever the hell we were. Whatever the hell this is. Even when we were hiding in hallways or pretending not to care. Even when it hurt.”

Her bottom lip trembled. Just once. Barely there.

But he caught it. And something inside her buckled.

“I can’t—” she began, but it broke halfway through, like glass shattering under pressure. “I can’t keep pretending this didn’t cost me everything.”

His voice gentled. “Then stop pretending.”

That was all it took.The tears hit like a wave, sudden and devastating , hoarse sobs, the kind that ripped out of her throat before she could swallow them. She sank down against the bed, hands clutching the edge like it could anchor her, but it didn’t. Nothing could.

He moved before he could think, dropping beside her, his arms wrapping around her before she could push him away, not that she tried.

She buried her face in his chest, gasping through it all , the fear, the grief, the betrayal, the bone-deep exhaustion of fighting for every inch in a world that wanted her to fail.

And for once, she let herself fall apart.

જ⁀➴

Hotel room — 03:38 a.m.

Silence. Just the hum of the AC, the distant traffic, and the shallow way she was breathing against him, eyes puffy and red, hair stuck to her face. Oscar didn’t say anything at first. He just ran a slow hand through her hair like he was trying to calm something wild. Maybe in her. Maybe in him.

“I know I said I’d drop it,” he murmured. “But I don’t think I can. I don’t think this ends here.”

Oscar didn’t move. Didn’t shift or twitch. He just held her as her breathing slowly returned to something steadier not quite calm, but no longer trembling.

Her head was still pressed to his chest. His shirt was damp from tears. His heartbeat was quick, but not erratic ,just there, grounding.

Her fingers loosened their grip on his shirt.

And for the first time since she walked into that cursed paddock, she let herself breathe fully.

“I didn’t mean to cry like that,” she said, voice hoarse.

Oscar's hand moved gently over her hair, slow and rhythmical.

“You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.”

She let out a broken laugh.

“I don’t even know who I am without all this. Without Alpine. Without strategy. I built my life to belong there. And now I’m watching it fall apart from a folding chair in the tech trailer.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. But his hold around her tightened.

“You’re more than a fucking job title.”

She looked up then. Eyes still wet, but sharper now.

“Yeah? And what about you? If you weren’t leading this championship, if you weren’t Oscar Piastri F1 driver, what would they see?”

He flinched. Just slightly.

“Nothing,” he said. “They’d see nothing. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Her throat closed up again.Because it was.The same truth that haunted her.

They both sat in it ,that truth, that weight and it ached.

“I’m so fucking tired,” she whispered.

“So am I.”

Their eyes met. Tired and angry and bruised in ways they didn’t have names for.

And then,the air shifted.

She leaned back just a bit. Enough to look at him fully. Her hand hovered at his jaw, her thumb tracing a spot near his cheekbone without thinking.

There was so much emotion in her face : anger, confusion, pain.

But also something else.

Something unspoken that had been simmering under everything for far too long.

He looked at her like he couldn’t breathe. Like just seeing her unravel like this was enough to undo him.

“We shouldn’t,” she said.

“I know,” he murmured. “But I don’t care.”

And then they were crashing into each other.

Lips meeting in a kiss that was anything but soft. Her fingers twisted in his hair. His hands gripped her waist like he was afraid she’d vanish.

It wasn’t slow.It wasn’t careful.It was all-consuming.

Clothes were pushed, pulled, ripped her hoodie discarded, his shirt yanked off over his head. She gasped when his hands found her skin, but didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to.

Because this wasn’t about tenderness.

It was about release. About losing themselves in something real after years of pretending.

“Fuck—” she hissed when his mouth moved to her neck, biting down a little harder than he should’ve. She pulled his head back by the hair and kissed him harder, nails dragging across his back.

He growled, actually growled , into her mouth.

She shoved him toward the bed, and he went willingly, lips never leaving hers. She climbed onto him, breath ragged, eyes dark.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” she said between kisses, like a warning. Like a confession.

“I don’t want it to fix anything.”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Honest.

“I just need you.”

She needed him too and that was the worst part. The part that hurt more than it should’ve.

He rolled them over, hovering above her, and for a second one, brief, fragile second their eyes locked.

Something unspoken passed between them.And then it was gone.

His mouth was back on hers, bruising, biting, claiming. Her legs wrapped around his waist as their hips found a rhythm that was fast and messy and full of everything they hadn’t said. Her nails clawed into his back, his hands pinned hers above her head. She moaned into his mouth, raw and unfiltered.

It was need. Not romance.But it was real.

Every thrust was a scream. Every kiss a plea. Every breath shared between them a white-hot thread of pain and want and desperation.

And when they finally collapsed sweaty, shaking, wrecked there were no words.

Just panting. Trembling.

And when it was over, when they were tangled in damp sheets and the silence was less brutal, more human she was the first to speak.

A whisper, ragged:

“I didn’t tell you everything.”

Oscar blinked up at the ceiling, chest still rising unevenly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

She turned her head slowly toward him, eyes swollen from crying, lips raw, voice barely more than air.

“Alpine... they’ve been watching you since the second you left.”

He looked over at her now.

She sat up against the headboard, dragging the sheet around herself, suddenly cold.

“I found out weeks ago. Way before the leak,” she confessed. “They were trying to push this idea internally that McLaren had been stealing strategic frameworks. Data patterns. Pit window models. Things I wrote.”

Oscar’s brows furrowed. “What?”

She nodded, jaw clenched. “They were building a narrative. Nothing solid just whispers, enough to cast doubt. Enough to suggest someone was... passing intel.”

He sat up too, sheet sliding low across his waist. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the tension rolling off him again, a storm barely held back.

“And they were going to blame you,” he said slowly.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

That was answer enough.

Oscar exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck. So the leaks wasn’t just some accident.”

She turned to him, eyes searching his. "I didn't know they were going to put me in.What did Lando tell you? ”

She knew. Of course she knew. He hadn’t told her everything ,never had. But that was just like him: trying to protect Lando, trying to keep the team’s fragile balance intact. She understood the loyalty, the unspoken code between teammates.

Oscar’s mouth twisted. His voice came out low and bitter.

“He was on a call during that conversation. He told me it was background , that he didn’t realize his mic was hot, but later he admitted it wasn’t just random.”

Her stomach dropped.

“He was talking to someone. Someone who did him a favor months ago"

Oscar’s voice grew harder.

“They told him he owed them. When the time came, he’d just have to listen.”

Her throat tightened.

“Listen to what?”

“To me. To us. They asked if I’d mentioned anything off record. If I was acting strange. They wanted to know if you were... manipulating me.”

Her mouth parted in disbelief. “They used him.”

“And Alpine used you,” he said bitterly. “Sending you on that day to talk with me. Not saying anything, just letting the image speak for itself. They knew it would look suspicious. Knew exactly what narrative it would feed.”

!!! This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and organizations depicted are entirely fictional or used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to real-life strategies, decisions, or conspiracies is purely imaginative. No harm, disrespect, or false implication is intended toward any real persons or teams.

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets @18racecar81