no-144444

[no-144444]

the day -m. verstappen

꩜summary: the day has finally come

꩜pairing: max verstappen x fem! reader

꩜a/n: i've been so busy and just writer's block-y recently, so I am genuinely very sorry that stuff hasn't been coming out. I love writing for this blog but between school starting up and everything else going on in my life, ya girl is tired :(

The day had finally come. All the planning and torturous hours spent arguing over whether ivory was white, and whether or not eloping sounded better than the 300 person wedding you two were planning. Yes, 300 people. That was after cuts. 

But it was all worth it. You woke up to the love of your life snoozing comfortably beside you, his arms thrown over you and wrapped tighter than he’d admit, and today, you two would be married. 

You felt sick. God, the amount of people you’d have to talk to, all eyes on the two of you, jesus christ, weddings really were an introvert's worst fear, weren’t they? You were excited too, of course. You couldn’t wait to get ready with all of your bridesmaids and family. You couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle, or slide the ring on his finger and finally call him your husband. You could probably wait to deliver the vows (mostly because they were long as shit), though you could probably wait for the embarrassing speech your sister was going to deliver, you could wait to feel that dull ache in your chest when you remembered that your grandmother wouldn’t be there to see you walk down the aisle , and you could wait for the first dance. 

You couldn’t wait for Max. Surprisingly, he had taken the reins when it came to wedding planning. He was good at it. He cared, a lot. He had spreadsheets and word docs dedicated to seating charts and guest lists. He had the venue booked before you even had to say you liked it, he just knew. He just… he knew you. Completely. He took what he liked, and he took what you liked, and he meshed them perfectly. A stunning venue in the country with space enough for all the guests, at a reasonable price (reasonable enough for a multi-millionaire), and the most accommodating and kind staff. You’d been on cloud nine since you’d arrived last night, the rehearsal dinner going off without a hitch. 

“You’re thinking so loudly right now,” he sighed, smushing his face into the side of yours, draping himself over you even more. “Shush.” He smiled against your skin and pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

You smiled and brought a hand up to brush through his hair. “We’re getting married today.” You said dreamily. It didn’t even feel real. How was this your life? 

His hand cupped your jaw and turned your face towards his, then he swallowed your lips in a passionate kiss. Your lips worked together, deepening the kiss as your hands ventured south. It had been 3 full weeks since you’d seen each other, and you were both more than excited to be physically together, but of course, the wedding came first. 

A knock on the door pulled you apart from each other, the deafening voices of Victoria, your sister, Sophie, your mom, and your brother screaming to wake up for the special day. Max sighed and dropped his head against yours, soaking up the last few seconds he’d have you for the morning. “I’ll see you later?” He asked like it was a real question. 

You chuckled. “I’ll be in white.” 

He looked at you with that look in his eye. The one that made you want to hide, because he just looked so… happy. It was overwhelming sometimes. “God, I can’t wait to marry you.” He smiled, and kissed you one last time, then got up and opened the door to the screaming family. He was dragged away by his groomsmen and Victoria, who was his Best Woman, and your bridesmaids rushed into the room with breakfast and pre-wedding jitters to spare. 

You took a breath, and let the day begin. 

The morning had been great, breakfast with your bridesmaids, fixing some last-minute changes, getting your makeup done, talking to your photographers and videographers, and just generally being ridiculously busy. 

Now was the moment. You were dressed in a gorgeous white dress that had felt right since the moment you’d pulled it on in the beautiful dressing room. Everyone was sitting in their seats, everyone was in their walking order, your father stood on your right, and your mother on your left. The music began. The groomsmen walked. The bridesmaids walked. Victoria and your sister walked down together, the Best Woman and the Maid of Honour. The ringbearer walked. The flower girls walked. Next it was you. Your father turned to you, eyes shimmering with tears he refused to shed. “You’ve got this. He’s got you.” He whispered, one final promise of belief in this, in you and Max. 

It planted the smile that you walked down the aisle with. You just took it one step at a time, not actually believing this was real. People gasped and smiled, and you thought you saw Sophie tearing up. What you didn’t expect was Max crying. Yes, yes, we’d all like to think our future spouses would cry when they see us walk down the aisle to them, but Max was always just so… Max. He was calm and nonchalant. He was controlled and unbothered. He didn’t cry unless he had a reason, but you guessed this was as good a reason as any. The tears fell down his cheeks, but he made no attempt at wiping them away, he just kept his eyes on you. Radiant, gorgeous you. He was enamoured, he always had been, but you really nearly knocked him on his ass this time. When you had finally finished the long walk to the top of the aisle, you hugged your parents, they hugged Max, then you turned to him. 

Time stopped for a moment, and you just stared. His perfectly messy but styled hair, his beautiful face, his stupidly kind eyes. God, you adored him. You loved every piece of him, even the competitive and borderline violent racing side of him. He stared at you too, taking you in. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he smiled tearily. “Fuck, I love you.” He shook his head, like if he kept staring at you, he’d break. 

“I love you too,” you smiled, wiping some tears away for him. The officiant smiled at the both of you, waiting for the nod of approval to start. “Ready for this?” You asked, squeezing his hand. 

He smirked. “Can’t wait.” 

And the ceremony started.

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[no-144444]

jealousy- o.piastri

꩜ summary: oscar's jealousy is actually something else in disguise

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

꩜ a/n: yall life and writer's block has been hitting me like a bitch so please bear with me for the moment :)

Jealousy wasn’t something he was completely familiar with. He applied the same logic to everything since he was a kid, if he wanted something, he worked, and eventually, he got it. School, races, his seat, his championships, and even you. He put in the work, and it worked out for him. You two had met in school, and after a few months of friendship, you’d asked him out. He’d been blind-sighted (as only teen boys can be), but happy that he had a chance with the girl he’d been subconsciously crushing on for months. You two hit it off, but that didn’t mean there weren’t things you both had to fight for. The distance was never easy, but you both fought to stay together. The media was never easy to deal with, but you both fought to keep it out of your minds and the relationship as a whole. 

So jealousy had never been a problem. He loved you, and you loved him. 

It was becoming a problem. Oscar was meant to have his mind on the conversation happening in front of him. Mark was probably recounting a great story about something Oscar would be interested in. Zak was probably making good jokes about something related to the story. His mind couldn’t leave you. There you were, across from him at the table, giggling with Jack Doohan. Now, Oscar knew Jack. He was sweet. He had the whole laid-back-surfer vibe about him. He was charming. 

But you didn’t go for that. No, you’d gone for the awkward, deeply sarcastic, and annoyingly competitive man who was sitting in front of you. The man who had nearly made you cry off all of your makeup before you guys got here, because he told you he’d be missing your anniversary again. God, he loved being an F1 driver, but he hated not having control of his schedule. You’d taken it like a champ, like usual. Did that thing where you swallowed back your tears and smiled and promised him it ‘didn’t matter’, even though it clearly fucking mattered to the both of you. He grinded his teeth as he watched Jack sneak yet another look down your dress. He felt himself getting warm, too warm. His mind kept racing, and soon, the thoughts turned from punching Jack, to reminding himself that this was his doing. You’re never there, don’t be surprised when she finds someone knew. That sentence hit him like a brick to the head, the words of his sister all those years ago. It’d been one of those shitty days where all he wanted was some comfort, but you literally were on a different continent, and he didn’t know what to do. There had been rumours of a new exchange student who had a crush on you, and he’d freaked out about it and blown up at you. You had told him to calm down and ended the call. He went to his sister for advice, since she was the only one home. Hattie had told him that after she’d heard what he’d said to you. It still ran through his head every single time you two got into an argument or even when something came up about the distance and time away from each other being too much. He couldn’t lose you, it would make everything he’d ever done completely worthless. 

He blinked back some badly-hidden tears and before anyone could say anything, he got up and excused himself to the bathroom. Everyone just stared at you. You stared back, confused, as Mark sent you a nod, as to tell you to go check on him. 

The restaurant's bathrooms were ridiculously hard to find, but you did, and there he was, standing outside them, pacing. 

“Okay, what is up with you tonight?” you asked, stepping in front of him, demanding an answer. If he’d been ‘quiet’ in the car, he’d been silent at dinner. You knew these things always caused a rift, but it was never this bad. 

He looked at you, tears welling up in his big brown eyes, and he breathed out. His hands found your waist and squeezed, as his head dropped to your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he practically whimpered, trying to fight back the tears. “I’m so sorry.” 

You shook your head, arms wrapping around him, and you held him. “It’s alright Osc-”

“It’s not,” he said simply, clearing his throat. “I want to be there, but I can’t. I can’t fucking be there, and I’m so scared that one day you’ll start mistaking ‘can’t’ for ‘not wanting to’.” He admitted, his hands holding onto your waist like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to you. 

You ran and hand through his hair and lifted his chin to look at you. “I know you want to be there, but you can’t, and it’s shit, but it’s what it is. We’ll call, we’ll celebrate the day after, whatever. I’m just happy I have you Osc, yeah?” you smiled, a soothing hand carding through his hair. 

He nodded and pressed his lips against yours, desperate to find some sort of comfort in this shitstorm. Of course you gave it to him. You always took care of him.

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[no-144444]

꩜summary: carlos decides it's finally time he gets greedy

꩜pairing: carlos sainz x fem! sister's best friend! reader

꩜warnings: hardcore smut, kind of pwp but also kind of not 18+

Carlos had done it again, proved himself again. In front of you, nonetheless. He shouldn’t want you, fuck, it was wrong. He knew it was. His sister’s best friend? Come on, he seemed like a pervert. You’d grown up together, always the loud one who took focus on a room. Carlos had always been the opposite, silent and waiting at the edges of parties and gatherings, much more interested in blending in than standing out. That’s what made you work. He would be there, no matter what. You would need him, always.

Neither of you admitted it, just left it to drunk touches and empty beds, usually on the family holidays you were invited to. You oscillated each other until you were pulled together, it was the perfect dance. He barely knew who you were really, but he caught glimpses. Soft smiles in the after. Creased brows at game night. Soft giggles over a rare cup of coffee.

He’d heard from others too. You were too wild to pin down, ‘you’ll be lucky to know anything past her name’, ‘you’ll be put through hell to know her’, you talk but don’t say much, but most importantly, you’re different. Not in the way everyone else claimed to be. You were unique. You were you.

And he wanted you. Badly.

The celebrations were in full swing when he laid his eyes on you. You’d been at the track, dressed in one of those skimpy fucking skirts that made all his blood rush south, and an even tinier top that would be better off as a rag than a shirt. For short, you looked good enough to eat, and he was hungry. Now, you’d switched to a simple black dress, the kind that made everyone's eyes fall on you as you practically ran the room through various drinking games and conversations. He watched as men eyed you up and down. He watched as women did the same. He watched in awe. He’d decided. Tonight wouldn’t just be a ‘drunken mistake’, it’d be planned. It’d be purposeful. It’d be the start of something. 

You led his eyes to a man and his breath caught. The man took your hand and led you towards the dancefloor, now that had him standing from his spot at the edge of the couch. He wasn’t going to let you get away tonight, not if he knew this was his chance. He weaved through the sweaty bodies, collecting congratulations and cheers like coins. He didn’t register their voices, just sent them non-committal smiles and continued walking. He turned a corner and the view in front of him hit like a storm. There you were, dancing in front of everyone, in front of that asshole, skimpy dress showing off just enough to remind people that you were more than stunning, and more than enough to drive him mad. 

He hated parties, always had. He didn’t like the noise or the sweat or the people, but he endured them for the sake of free alcohol and humouring his friends. That’s not what tonight was about. Tonight was about him. 

A hand pressed against your ass as another grabbed your shoulder and pulled you flush against him and you startled, until a familiar scent wrapped around you, pulling the corners of your lips up. “Carlos,” you practically purred. He somehow stopped himself from shuddering. “Congratulations, winner.” The words fell from your mouth, and though there was nothing particular about them, they sounded like sin to him. His fist balled at your waist, pulling on the fabric of your dress. 

You gasped, hitting his hand away. “This is Valentino!” you scolded, turning to him and pointing at his chest. He grabbed your hand and pushed it out of his face, pulling you even closer in the process. Your breath caught despite yourself. 

He cleared his throat, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. “I think we have things to talk about,” he cocked his head to the exit. “Shall we?” 

You put a manicured finger up to your chin and tapped like you were thinking. “I don’t know Carlos,” God, the way you said his name did something to him. He could feel his trousers getting tighter. “We wouldn’t want you to get greedy with my time, now would we?” you questioned, teasing him. He rolled his eyes, and led you out of there with a hand wrapped around your wrist. The elevator ride was torture, his eyes boring into yours like there was nothing else interesting to look at. Maybe there wasn’t. 

Your back pressed up against the door of his hotel room before you could stop yourselves, his lips finding yours as your brain fought with your pussy. You thought you could’ve talked your way out of it by now, think your way out of it, tease your way out of it, but no. Something in you pulled to something in him, and you couldn’t ignore it. He pressed against you, hot and heavy, his breath on your cheek as he stared into your eyes, desperate. You’d never done this sober before, mostly because you knew what you’d lose. You’d lose the power to call it a mistake, you’d lose your lack of accountability. Tonight, you’d be his, properly. You couldn’t tell if it terrified or excited you, and that turned you on. 

“¿Aún conmigo?” he questioned, his lips brushing against the edge of yours. You nodded and quickly swallowed his lips in a searing kiss. “Want you.” he huffed out. 

“Don’t blame you,” you ran a hand through your hair, a cocky smirk on your lips. “I’d want me too-” Shockingly, he was rather sick of the cocky act, especially when he already knew how to make you beg for him. He captured your lips with his own again, trying to win the fight. So you fucked to fight, who cares? You two were multi-taskers. It got him hard and you wet, so clearly you were doing something right. His hands wrapped around your waist as yours raked through his hair with more force than probably comfortable. He groaned into your mouth, and suddenly the stupid zipper at the back of your beautiful Valentino dress was broken open by his hands. You pushed him off you, cursing him. He sat back on the bed, peeling his shirt off his body, his trousers following. You fiddled with the dress until it fell down your body, and you didn’t miss the string of Spanish obscenities that fell from his lips in a light whisper. “You couldn’t have just asked for help?” you questioned angrily, fully aware of the fact that you were completely topless in front of him, only in a thong (if it could even be called that) and heels. He gulped. “Boys,” You shook your head, straddling his lap and pushing him back. You scootched up his body, his hands anchoring on your hips as you positioned yourself over his face. He tried to pull you down to meet his watering mouth, but you resisted. “You’re going to buy me a new dress?” It was more of a demand than a question. 

It pulled a weak “Yes,” from his lips before you sat and started to enjoy your ride. Your worries subsided as he ate your cunt like a man starved, groans falling from his lips as moans fell from yours. A hand flew into his hair, another secured you to the headboard as you fell into the pleasure full-force. One of his hands kept you against his face, unable to squirm away, the other reached up and played with your tits, mixing between squeezing, and just plain hitting. He didn’t want to make you cum first just out of manners, though he knew it was the right thing to do, he did it because he fucking loved watching you fall apart for him. You loved it too, loved this. You loved to resist against him and make it harder for him, edging yourself on his tongue until he’d eventually flip you over and tongue-fuck you to mulitple orgasms. It took about five minutes before you were on your back, gripping the bedsheets with both hands, and moaning like a whore while he scissored two fingers inside you as you gushed right into his mouth. You pushed his face away with your foot, still shaking with the aftershocks, as he laughed. 

The fucker laughed. You scoffed as you sat up and watched him lick his fingers clean. You grimaced. He rolled his eyes. “I just ate you out, it’s the same, no?” You shook your head as he rolled his eyes again, crawling to you on the bed. “Ride me?” he asked, sitting beside you and pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your shoulder. 

Playfully, you rolled your eyes. “Making me do all the work?” you teased, and he just let out a groan and wrapped a hand around your waist as he got on top. You bit your lip, trying to hide the smile at getting your way. You always did. 

“Eres un puñado,” he breathed out against your lips. You smirked against his as your hand made its way into his pants, giving his dick a few pumps before pulling his briefs down and lining him up with your pussy. “Look who’s greedy now, eh?” he smirked, thrusting into you in one breath-stealing push. You gasped out his name, fingers digging into his biceps as you tried to catch your breath. You couldn’t really, not when he was fucking you so goddamn deep. He started with those deep and hard thrusts, not too fast, but not too slow. Always catching you at the worst moment and knocking the air out of your lungs with a dirty moan. He kissed up your neck and chest, his tongue and teeth marking you up expertly. You just took it, took everything he could give you. “You’re mine.” 

And there it was, out in the open. For the first time, he wasn’t trying to hide it, and you weren’t shying away from it. 

“Says who?” you smirked, but it quickly fell away as he picked up his pace, falling into a blissful moan. You both knew it. You were built for each other, the perfect mix of lust and love. He wanted to know you, every part of you, and something in your chest told you that you wanted that too. “Fuck, there-!” a particularly hard thrust punched a groan out of you and you nearly came, but he slowed down. You whined at the loss of speed and a hand gripped your chin, dragging your gaze to meet his. 

“Say it.” he spat, his breath heavy, like he was holding back too. This was the out. This was your chance to run. 

“I’m yours.” you nodded, pulling his mouth down and against yours as he started again, thrusting into you even quicker than before. You just clung to him, moaning his name as he made you cum for the second time that night, then continued long after that. And there it was. 

You both finally got what you wanted.

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[no-144444]

Are you going to do or have you done any follow up to Miami Blues?

miami reds- o. piastri

꩜summary: nerves, bravery, a tense conversation, and a scream into a pillow

꩜pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader

find all other parts here -> mclaren masterlist

The McLaren motorhome was equally as imposing as it was impressive. The paddock was filled to the brim with thousands of bodies, all seemingly ten times busier than you’d ever been. It was nerve-wracking, but also exciting. The stadium was vast. Ridiculously big in that way only America can make it. You sucked in a breath and put on the same brave face you’d plastered on a million times, and you walked in with Mia’s hand in yours. Questions would be raised, you knew that. People knew you as Max Verstappen's sister-in-law, they knew you as Lando’s potential love-interest/ best mate, very few knew you as Oscar Piastri’s ex-girlfriend and current co-parenting partner. You swallowed down the ball of nerves in your throat, and somehow lowered your heartbeat down to a respectable 80bpm. Mia squeezed your hand, she hated walking in, hated the attention. You frowned. “Need a lift?” you offered. She crushed her face into the side of your leg and nodded. 

“Don’t like it,” she murmured. “Too busy.” Damn, was she right. It was always chaos, all those photographers deciding whether or not you were worth photographing, and somehow, you two always were. Either it was someone alleging you were dating Lando, alleging Mia was Lando’s, alleging you were having an affair with your brother-in-law, or some other nonsense they thought they could spin. They’d have a field day once they found out Mia was actually Oscar’s the entire time, they’d make reels about it, it’d be all over gossip pages, and they’d dig up the old photos of you and him at F2 and F3 races. You weren’t sure what made you shudder more, the pictures of a 17 year old you being splashed on the front cover of an instagram page, or having people want in on your privacy. More anxiety spread through your chest, grabbing ahold of your lungs until your breath quickened. Mia fisted your t-shirt, holding you as close as possible as she hid her face in the crook of your neck. You made a split second decision, one you knew wasn’t fair to Oscar, but you’d already been so fair to him. You’d been nothing but gracious and welcoming, when there were still moments when you wanted to wring his neck out for what he put you through. 

The RedBull motorhome smelt familiar, like an old jacket you’d never really get tired of wearing, even after saying you needed to replace it a thousand times. Familiarity can also be misconstrued with cosiness, and make no mistake, the RedBull motorhome was anything but cosy. It had sharp corners and even sharper looks from those who didn’t know (or care) who you were. You mentally thanked past Max that he had sent you extra RedBull hospitality tickets just in case things got wild at McLaren. Fuck, you felt like a fraud. You hadn't even tried yet and you were hiding. Mia didn’t protest, and soon she was playing with some of Max’s pit crew while he watched over her, as you thought about everything. 

Perhaps your reservations had been right. You’d never shared them to anyone, but Oscar just dropped everything to be in your life again, fuck, he moved. In a week! It was sweet and all, but it was overwhelming. Mia was such a wonderful kid and all you ever wanted was the best for her, but was this world the best? Cameras and invasions of privacy, pre-conceived notions based on names alone, and all the pressure in the world. Realistically, you needed to talk to Oscar about the best way to go about this, which felt strange to think. You’d always been the one doing it on your own, making these terrifying decisions for yourself and for her, and just hoping everything would work out. You watched as she climbed on the back of GP, a bright smile on her face as he made her giggle. Your little miracle girl. You thought back to those days when she was so small and fragile you could only see her through a case. Now she was running laps around you already. You chuckled as she told off one of the engineers for stepping on GP’s foot, and smiled when she waved at you. 

Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t deprive Oscar of her. Not when she was this wonderful. 

He’d watched you choose the RedBull motorhome from the meeting room in the McLaren motorhome, and he pretended it didn’t sting. He knew he had no right, he was just being irrationally angry and you were bringing Mia to see Max and Oscar was in meetings until midday anyway, so it didn’t matter. 

But it did. He’d been scared you almost wouldn’t walk in. Just leave him be and see him another time. You didn’t, of course, you were too kind for that. 

His heart stopped when he saw you sitting at a table with Mia in your lap with Mark Webber, Nicole Piastri, and Chris Piastri sitting across from you. God, bile rose in his throat before he knew what to do, and he was already rushing over there, terrified that a well-placed jab would send you two running back to RedBull and out of his sight. He couldn’t let them fuck this up, couldn’t let them ruin the one thing he now refused to lose.

“Hey Osc,” his dad clapped a hand on his shoulder. “All good?” Oscar searched his father’s eyes for anything that could cause an issue, any hidden plans or agendas. Nothing. Just calm, cool, collected Chris Piastri. Oscar took in a sharp breath. Chris did the same, paired with that calm stare that had always made the hair on Oscar’s neck stand up straight. He nodded.

“Dad!” Mia jumped up from your lap, a bright smile on her lips as she reached for her dad. His stress melted away when he picked her up and held her close. The night before had been nice, really nice. They’d watched a movie, read some books, he’d explained some F1 stuff, and they played princesses. All-round great night. “Missed you.” She cuddled into his neck, grabbing at his t-shirt like he’d seen her do to you a thousand times. You smiled fondly at Mia, though he’d like to think there was some fondness for him too. Nicole smiled at the two of them. She, out of everyone, was the happiest at this. She’d watched how the breakup had torn Oscar apart all those years ago, and now, how having you and Mia back in his life, how happy you made him. 

“Missed you too, Bug,” he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and sat in the chair next to yours, flashing you a soft smile as a hello. No one spoke for a minute, just watching as Mia babbled to Oscar, and Nicole noticed how he smiled brighter than he ever did when in the car. “You good?” He practically whispered and she nodded.

“So, how are you doing, Y/n?” Mark cleared his throat, turning his attention from Mia and Oscar, to you. Nicole knew Mark had never liked you, he was too focused on the future to see the way Oscar’s shoulders relaxed when you walked into a room, to see the way he smiled just a little easier after a loss when you were there. She looked at you, your eyes wide and surprised that they were even speaking to you. She frowned, kicking Mark under the table. Don’t fuck this up for him. She mouthed to the men. He’s happy. 

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the silent conversation going on in front of you. “I’m… I’m good, thanks,” you smiled politely. “Tired from the jetlag, but I’m alright. How are you guys?” 

“Good, thanks,” Mark flashed his signature smile. “So, are you going to be coming to many of the races this year?” He asked, trying to sound as casual as he could. You shook your head quicker than he’d ever seen. He sent a look to Oscar, who tried to hide the way his shoulders sank in disappointment. 

“No,” you chuckled softly. “This is a one-time thing, Mia has Montessori and I have work.” You explained, your eyes trained on Mia in Oscar's arms. 

“That’s too bad,” Nicole pursed her lips. “We’d love to have you at other races, if ever there’s a moment you’re free?” she smiled. You nodded appreciatively and smiled at her. Mark was staring daggers into the side of her head, her ex-husband doing the same. “And the girls would love to see you and Mia,” she added. “They’re coming to Belgium? If you’re free that weekend?” 

You smiled shyly, and shrugged. “Maybe,” you nodded. “Thank you, I’d love to see them again.” 

Nicole smiled brightly. You’d really grown into the woman she always thought you’d be, all polite and shy, but completely brilliant. Drop-dead gorgeous, of course. She still saw fragments of that headstrong girl she’d watched grow up alongside her son, and she loved it. She saw it in Mia too. 

“You could come to Silverstone too,” Oscar offered, his eyes boring into yours like you’d disappear if he didn’t look at you, like there was nothing else to look at other than you. “If you two are free, obviously.” He added with a shrug and an easy smile. You didn’t answer, just nodded softly at him, that ridiculously attractive soft smile on your lips. 

“Well, we’ll leave you three to it,” Nicole announced, standing up and dragging Mark up with her. “See you after quali.” she smiled and pressed a kiss to Oscar’s forehead, and ran a hand over Mia’s hair with a smile. Chris and Mark reluctantly left with her, but you could feel their animosity from miles away. You let out a breath. 

“Mark still hates me,” you shook your head. “Shocker.” You chuckled to yourself, but Oscar didn’t find it funny. He found it disrespectful and rude. He found it ridiculous. 

He sighed. “Yeah, he’s still a dick- I mean, he’s silly,” he coughed to try and cover it up, but you were already laughing at him. Alright, so he hadn’t entirely mastered the art of not cursing yet, but he’d get there. His frustration melted away into laughter as he listened to yours. So melodical. So beautiful. He wondered how he ever lived without it. He watched you for a moment, the scrunch of your nose, the curve of your smile, everything. He smiled fondly. It fell when he remembered what he had to say to you. “I don’t know if you want to talk about it, but about the Beth thing,” he took in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was going to come in, and I had no idea what she was going to say. Everything has just been so… quick, and I wasn’t on top of it, so I’m sorry.” 

You nodded. “Thanks,” you wished he hadn’t brought it up, but it was mature of him to apologise. “I hope I didn’t mess anything up for you two?” You half-asked, half-pleaded, hoping you hadn’t ruined anything for him. 

He shook his head. “No, we’re-”

“Oh thank God,” you pressed a hand over your heart, seemingly just seeing the shaking of his head. “I was so worried.” 

He gritted his teeth, but smiled anyway. He and Beth were over, he was only interested in you now. “Yeah, all good.” 

You smiled. “I’m glad,” you put your hand over his, and he pretended it didn’t set everything in him, alight. “I’m happy for you, it’s important you have someone who can support you. I know this is overwhelming for me, but it must be even worse for you,” of course. Of course you’d be so fucking kind to him. “I mean, last night I went out on my first date in years,” You had no idea why you said it, but it felt right, to remind him that he didn’t have to be on his own, or that he didn’t have to feel guilty for having a girlfriend. “It’s good to have a support system.” You reeled yourself back in, you let go of his hand, you cleared your throat. 

Everything in him burned with jealousy, but he didn’t want to admit it. Sure, he had his kid in his arms, you were her mom, and he had no right to have any claim on you other than as co-parents, but all he saw was red. While he’d been with Mia, you’d been out with some guy. His jaw clenched, but he nodded, trying to push down the ugly feeling. “Really?” his voice sounded strange in his own ears. “I’m happy for you.” The words were forced and foreign, but you didn’t seem to notice, just smiling and nodding. 

“Thank you,” you smiled. “I’d be open to meeting Beth as well, if you guys are serious.” You offered. He shook his head. You nodded. 

He tried to hide it. He tried to stop himself. He couldn’t. He handed Mia back to you, giving some shitty excuse and curt response to your goodbye, and he walked into his driver’s room, and screamed into a pillow. 

Embarrassing? Yes. Necessary? Also yes. 

mclaren masterlist

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@htpssgavi @widow-cevans @anayaverse @1800-love-me @your-mommy-ems @scriptedinkbyxim @painfromblues @dustie-faerie @bowielovesyou @sweetwh0re @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @anunstablefangirl @wherethezoes-at @susn3treading @formulawhore @lavelavenderturtle

[no-144444]

WHEN ARE YOU GONNA WRITE THE MIXTAPE FOR THINK LATER? I WILL BE WAITING BUT WHEN?

LY DIVAAA

꩜summary: lewis sees you at a party. your hair is shorter. other things have changed too.

꩜pairing: lewis hamilton x fem! reader

꩜warnings: drug use!!!! (please be so careful and do not take drugs!), reader is a mess, lewis is scared, they're both in love with each other but won't admit it :)

꩜a/n: hey yall! sorry this has been taking so long, i've been having a bit of writer's block plus some other things going on in my life soooo yeah :) enjoy and thank you for all the love on this series, i love writing it!

When Lewis walked into the party, he was not expecting to see you there, and definitely not looking the way you were looking. Short hair, that was the first thing he noticed. You’d had long hair for as long as he’d known you, and you two went way back. The next was the white dust around your nose. His posture stiffened. LA was notorious for this, but you weren’t. You’d always been the kind of girl who preferred a night in, or a pub crawl with friends. Not some big LA party where everyone knew everyone and pretended they didn’t see them when they sneaked off to bedrooms despite the rings on their fingers, and watched as they ingested more alcohol and substances than the human body should be able to take. He crossed the room in a few strides, and he was in front of you, searching you for any signs of recognition as he wiped your nose. 

“Y/n,” he said softly, taking note of your glossy eyes and doped out smile. “Y/n.” he tried again, panic surging through him. He wanted to get you out of here, let you sober up, make you talk about whatever was happening. You’d been MIA for weeks, ignoring his calls and texts and offers to come to a GP. He’d seen pictures, but he knew better than to believe the press and what they were saying about you. He just wanted his best friend back. 

You looked up, staring at him like you’d only noticed him, then you smiled. Wide and pretty, and it brought a soft smile to his lips too. “Lew?” you yawned. “You’re here?” You reached up to touch his face, like you needed to prove he was actually there. He let out a nervous breath as he nodded. 

“How about we go back home, yeah?” he smiled softly, helping you to your feet. He still couldn’t get over it, the hair, it was so short. Still, he pushed that aside as he helped you into his car, something he couldn’t name pulling at his heart when he saw your glossy blown-out eyes. Maybe it was fear, or care, or maybe even disappointment. He didn’t linger on it, just got into the driver’s seat, and focused on getting you home. The car ride was short but you spent the entire trip babbling nonsense that he just tried to decode. It was difficult, he was only catching words and phrases, but he got so nervous about it that he grabbed the narcan he kept in his glovebox (he had celebrity friends, of course he kept narcan in his car), and held it in his hand, just in case. You tripped as you got out of the car, and he caught you, lifting you up until you got inside and somehow scurried out of his hold. 

You stumbled into the bedroom, shedding his jacket, before plopping onto his bed. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the fond smile on his lips as you closed your eyes and relaxed. He shook his head, that sense of fondness hitting him in the chest and spreading. “I’ll grab some water-” 

“Stay,” you demanded, and who was he to refuse? He had a bottle beside his bed already, he always did. “Missed you,” you mumbled, reaching a hand out for him to take. He took your hand and held it to his chest as he watched you. How had so much changed? You used to be the girl who would annoy him in the paddock, always finding him at the worst moments and turning them into the best. Yeah, you were a bit younger than him, but still, you two were best friends. You’d always been easy to talk to, for anyone. You walked into any room and lit it up, at least that’s what Lewis thought. Now, this was reality, and he really missed those moments. “Been so bad, Lew,” you admitted, and he saw tiny tears falling from your eyes. It pulled at his heart and he already knew he’d do anything to get you out of whatever hole you were in. “I don't know what to do.” He gulped back the ball of emotion in his throat and hummed.

“What’s happening sweetheart?” he cooed, so gentle, so kind. It just made you cry harder. You don’t deserve it, you told yourself. He sat beside you on the bed, raking a hand through your hair. “Talk to me.” 

“I’ve been having selfish thoughts,” you admitted, words slurred as your need for tears subsided, and you just stared. Glossy eyes. “Want you, so bad,” you whispered like you were telling a secret. His heart stopped in his chest as he gulped down a surprised gasp, but still, he stayed closed and listened. “I hate it.” 

He hadn’t a clue what to say. You were high and probably wouldn’t remember this tomorrow, but he couldn’t lie and pretend he hadn’t been waiting to hear those words out of your mouth for years. He just hated that they weren’t sober. He hated that he hadn’t seen the signs, taken better care of you, noticed. He looked back down at you, and you were already asleep in his arms, so he just tried to quieten his mind enough to sleep. It took some time, but he eventually fell into a deep sleep, content to have his arms around you. 

Your head pounded, your skin felt too tight, and your eyes genuinely couldn’t handle the light. You tried to think back, to remember where you even were, think of who you were with, but nothing came to mind. You recognised the curtains, those long black curtains. You gulped, suddenly a lot more awake. Lewis. The man you’d been dodging for months. The man whose bed you were in right now. You sat up much too quickly and covered your mouth with a hand as you felt the urge to vomit, but swallowed it back down. You weren’t going to vomit in Lewis’s bed. 

“You’re awake,” he stated, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. You pulled the covers up your body like they could shield you from his inevitable wrath, fuck, you hated this. You felt so small, he had all the power in the room because you were the junkie and he was the concerned friend who needed to fix you. You looked down. This is what you had been avoiding. You awaited the infamous question, the one you’d been dreading to hear from his lips for months. The ‘how long have you been using?’ question. The one that cemented that you had a problem. The one that meant rehab and therapy, and trying to fix yourself. “You cut your hair?” He questioned, and your eyes shot up to meet his. He was walking closer, his eyes trained on you.

“Yeah,” you nodded, pushing some of the strands back. “I felt like I needed a change after the break up.” You hadn’t talked about it, not with him. Your ex was the one who got you into everything, everyone in LA knew that. Then he left you, high and dry (literally) to go fuck a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, and left you behind with a drug addiction and heartbreak. It was always his idea to get high, always his stuff, always him convincing you it was a good idea. You wished you hadn’t listened. You wished you’d just left him first. 

“Are you alright?” Lewis asked tentatively, his hand reaching out to brush your shoulder. His eyes were full of concern and love, like they always were. You tried to hold them back, but the tears fell. You shook your head, and it was enough for him to wrap you up in his arms and hold you, whispering the entire time. “I’ve got you.” He promised. You believed it. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered back, face flush with his chest. “I’m so sorry.” You wailed but he hushed you softly, a hand running up and down your back soothingly. 

“I’ve got you now,” he cooed. “We’re going to get you help, yeah? I’ll be there the whole time.” He promised, a hand running over your hair and cupping your chin so that you’d look him in the eye and see his commitment. Panic filled your chest at the idea of rehab, at the idea of admitting you had a problem, but the thought of Lewis being there beside you, you guessed that was the best way to do it. “I love you.” he reminded you, but it didn’t sound like all the other times. Either way, you nodded. 

“I love you too,” you nodded, your arms wrapping around his neck once again. You could do this. Or at least try to, for Lewis.

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[no-144444]

First time requesting kinda nervous 🫣

anyway I love love loveeeee ur blog and have been reading so much of the stuff you write and I heard through the grapevine you’d be willing to write for Alex Dunne

so like I was wondering if you’d be up for writing smth where maybe the reader is the younger sister of one of the McLaren F1 drivers maybe Lando cos of the whole FP1 thing so Alex would’ve been on his side of the garage and obviously they’re being very protective of their sister but she ends up developing a crush anyway or whatever

but again loveeeee ur blog and no pressure to write anything you don’t want to 🫶

pretty strange- a.dunne

꩜summary: lando's gone to breakfast while you chat up another mclaren driver

꩜pairing: alex dunne x fem! norris! driver! reader

꩜a/n: thank you for requesting! i'd love to write for alex if anyone has any ideas, plus any other f2 drivers :)

Alright, it wasn’t your fault. Lando had fucked off to do whatever, Oscar was busy with his own set-up, and Alex was so charming. He had that soft smile and polite nature that made you (upsettingly) weak in the knees. Oscar wouldn’t tattle if you chatted to him, right? 

“Hi,” you smiled, holding out your hand to be shook. “I’m Y/n.” He looked up at you with wide eyes, like he was shocked you’d ever introduce yourself to him. He didn’t move for a second, just stayed there, mouth wide open with surprised eyes. 

He suddenly lurched back into motion, and he took your hand (which you’d placed directly in front of his face), stood to his full height (taller than you), and smiled, shaking your hand softly. “Alex,” he introduced. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.” He admitted, trying to keep his cool and failing miserably. A lot of people have heard a lot about you, most people, in fact. Lando Norris’s sister shocks the racing world with a move to WEC, with an all-female team!? Or other headlines. Y/n Norris is showing off that racing is in her blood as she leads the championship. Or another. Youngest, first female, championship leaders, Cadillac is coming out on top! Everyone seemed to know you now, and you could barely wrap your head around it. You loved to race, of course, and you’d never want to do anything else. Watching your brother do it, showed you that you could too, especially considering you were already marginally smarter than him, so it was just a case of realising that F1 wasn’t your sport, but WEC was. You loved being in a team, especially your team. You didn’t think many people would understand, you’d been in a single-seater for half of your life, but it was what you wanted. You had other reasons too, mostly that you wouldn’t want to fight with Lando on-track. You knew you’d win, and you knew he’d hate you for it. So WEC it was. 

Finally, he stopped shaking your hand, and you exchanged little chuckles. You cleared your throat. “I’ve heard all about you too,” you smiled, sharp as ever. He felt his heart skip a beat, but tried to ignore it. He hoped it was good things from Andrea or Zak, and not the terrible stories all of his F2 mates had to say about him, though he was aware of your closeness to Jak Crawford, and he gulped. “You’re pretty quick out there,” you admitted, sitting in the seat beside him. You felt that spark of electricity when your knee brushed his. “How does it feel?” 

He let out a small sigh with a smile. “It’s amazing,” he nodded. That bright smile seemed to be surgically implanted on his face, but you didn’t mind it much. “And thank you,” there goes those manners again. “But you’re prettier- I mean-! I mean you’re pretty fast, pretty and fast… I mean I’m a big fan.” He somehow stopped the word-vomit coming out of his mouth as his eyes widened and a hand clapped over his mouth, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as you laughed beside him. Oscar jumped out of his car and gave you a pointed look, one that said ‘finish this now or lando will hear about it’. He was always nice like that, always gave you a little more leeway. 

You wiped away a tear and smiled harder than you had in days. “You’re really strange Alex,” you clapped a hand on his back and in a split-second decision pressed a lightning-fast kiss to his cheek, and got up to walk out. “And you’re pretty too,” you whispered behind you, but with the tomato-like flush on his cheeks that appeared, you knew he heard you. 

Oscar joined you in your walk to the motorhome with a knowing smirk on his face. “You know I have to tell Lando now, right?” he chuckled, and you groaned, crossing your arms. 

“I’m a fully-grown adult. I can do what I want,” you scoffed.  “You sure look like one right now,” he murmured under his breath. Yes, you may have resembled a toddler throwing a tantrum, but that was neither here nor there. You rolled your eyes and nudged his arm, and he smiled back. Maybe this would be the start of something, because one thing was clear, you couldn’t get Alex out of your head.

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[no-144444]

Kimi antonelli fluff???

🙏🙏

everything I need- k.antonelli

꩜summary: a quiet night of reunion

꩜pairing: andrea kimi antonelli x fem! reader

You were restless. Your day dragged you down, and everything felt difficult. Like you were swimming upstream with no moment to breathe. Like you were trying to drive a car with no breaks. Like you- you get the picture. You felt sluggish and exhausted, and completely incurable. Nothing helped, not sleep, not medicine, not even a day off. Nothing stopped your shoulders from being wound just too tight, your hair falling in just the wrong way, or your back aching just too much to be deeply uncomfortable. You wanted to say it was burnout, or fatigue, or blame it on some niche and obscure illness you didn’t know you had, but you didn’t know why you felt the way you did, or how to fix it. 

Your keys hit the door at 11:23pm, and you felt every tiny movement you made. Every muscle was on fire, your eyes burned, and your brain pounded, and you still had more work to do. Usually you were better at pacing yourself, but apparently not this month. 4 college deadlines and an accounting fuck-up at your work placement blew up your schedule and turned you into a crisis manager with too much on your hands, on top of your regular duties. Every second of the day had been torture with more people coming to you to solve their problems, when you could barely solve the ones you already had on your desk. 

You felt him before you saw him, that lingering mix of colognes and deodorant that you knew so well, even amidst the smell of some sort of pasta dish that you knew would satisfy the rumbling in your stomach. Somehow, you smiled, walking into your kitchen and leaning in the doorway as you watched him work. Small hums left his lips as he focused on the task in front of him. Fuck, it made your heart swell. 

“You broke in again.” you mused, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rested your head on his back. He chuckled, the sound reverberating through his body against yours, making your smile all the more brighter. A hand covered yours and squeezed. It’d been months. Months of phone calls and facetimes, months of texts gone unread for hours due to time differences, and months of missing. Missing moments, big and small, missing each other. You felt that ache in your chest ease, and then dissipate entirely. He had a habit of making everything okay, you realised. Especially as your shoulders sagged for the first time in a week, and that weird kink in your back somehow magically disappeared. You didn’t want to claim miraculous magical boyfriend healing, but maybe it was a thing? 

He brought one of your hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of the knuckles with such gentleness. “Ciao bella,” he practically whispered. “Alright?” he asked, turning off the stove and turning around, your arms still around him. Your face met his chest as you let yourself remember what it felt like to have him here, to have him safe. He breathed softly against you, perfectly content to stay like this forever. 

“Alright,” you nodded, and looked up at him. Those brown eyes and that soft smile made you weak. “Missed you,” you added and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His lips parted in a wide grin and his arms circled your waist and squeezed the skin there. He pressed his lips to your temple as you dropped your head back to his chest. “Too long apart.” 

He didn’t say anything, but you knew he agreed. This was hard, living apart was hard, being in a long-distance relationship was hard. But he wouldn’t trade you for the world, or any race win, or any championship. It would only matter if he had you standing by his side, even if you were really thousands of miles away. He nodded his head and tightened his hold. “Missed you more,” he admitted, and you both knew it was probably true. You had family here, friends here, a job, a stable life. He travelled the world, living his life with a calendar that counted every second, the media constantly looking for a slipup, and the burden of expectations hanging over his head. He swallowed down that emotion building in his throat, and he smiled. He was here. He was home. 

That’s all he wanted. All he’d ever want. Standing here, with you in his arms.

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[no-144444]

kisses- a.albon

꩜summary: you're finally home

꩜pairing: alex albon x fem! reader

꩜a/n: lowkey suggestive btw, but no smut or anything just heavy making out :) (also in a time where there is no Mercedes seat shitstorm like there is rn)

All he wanted was a moment of quiet. All the shit in Williams, all of the expectations, all of the repeated questions, it was all too much. He’d debated heavily, and the offers from the top teams just kept rolling in. If McLaren wanted him, yeah, he’d take that. But they didn’t. They side-stepped the conversation. Mercedes finally wanted him now, hell, everywhere seemed to want him. RedBull was calling again. Aston was offering him a seat. Part of him just wanted to hang up his racing suit and go to WRC or WEC. Maybe try out Le Mans, just not bother with the decision making and stay out. Fuck, he just wanted to drive. 

But he didn’t. He loved it. He loved the speed. He loved the challenge. He loved being the best in the world. 

Training had gone how it always did, tiring, boring, mindless. The Monaco sun belted down on his back as he ran around the harbour, his head down as he tried to quiet his mind. He reached his apartment, stepping into the air conditioning and a smell of freshness he wasn’t exactly used to. 

You were home. A week-long work trip had held you away from him as Silverstone came and went, though your support was felt from the other side of the world. He thought you’d still be gone until Friday. He spotted you in the kitchen, tidying plates and cups away as you silently danced to whatever music was in your headphones. For the first time in a week, he smiled properly, the tension in his shoulders easing with every step he took to get closer to you. 

“You’re home,” he breathed out as he wrapped his arms around you, despite the sweat. You ignored that and just smiled, turning to him and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It always started like that, him coming back from training tired with his mind full. Just needing to wash away those thoughts that didn’t seem to understand his ideal of a healthy work-life balance. Just a small peck was enough to leave him wanting more. Much more. 

“Someone’s needy,” you teased, pulling back, but he just pulled you right back in, his hands squeezing your waist and pulling you closer as he took what he needed from you, though his cheeks heated. His grip only tightened when you opened your mouth against his, welcoming his tongue. “You like this?” you whispered against his lips, sending a shiver down his spine as you wrapped your arms around his neck. If F1 didn’t drive him crazy, certainly you would. He let out one of those tiny whimpers as you climbed up onto the counter, parting your legs so that he could fit between them, his mouth never leaving yours. The noises he was making were so cute you giggled in the kiss, as he hummed against your lips, those thoughts he’d been plagued by for days, finally melting away with just a swipe of your tongue. You pulled back for some air and caught a glimpse of his blown out pupils and glossy eyes, looking so gone for you. Like you were the single thought on his mind, just you, you, you, constantly. You smiled. “You alright?”

He gulped, nodding. “Fine,” he explained. “Just missed you.” He admitted, squeezing your waist again, trying to focus on your eyes as everything in him screamed for him to just kiss you again. You leaned in and pressed a cautious kiss on his neck, waiting for him to let out that classic breath, the one that told you he was completely giving up his fight and just letting you do whatever. It came, and he leaned his head back as you began your attack on his neck. Fuck, he was irresistable. You let one of your hands travel lower, resting against his abs as he tensed under you. He groaned against your lips as you chuckled. 

“Calm down,” you chuckled, pulling back and cupping his face with your other hand. 

“Can’t,” he breathed out before kissing you again.

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[no-144444]

Hey, would you ever write for f2 drivers like Alex dunne? :)

110% i would love to! please send in some requests and i'll get to them!!!

[no-144444]

After 239 entered races.

After 15 seasons.

After close call after close call.

Nico Hülkenberg has finally done it.

The curse is broken.

Nico Hülkenberg is a Formula 1 podium finisher.

[no-144444]

hii can i request something with Oscar that maybe reader is just so insistent on having a boyfriend and that no boys pay attention to her , and then is Oscar who is her best friend who is just so in love and obsessed with her, it’s painfully obvious to everyone but her and then in the end Oscar just runs out of patience and just confessed, super cute and fluffy in the end. Idk if it was too specific but i hope you understand 😭😭😭

lovefool- o.piastri

꩜ summary: oscar piastri has been in love with his best friend for years. she's buried all her feelings for him for years, and has set her sights on finding love elsewhere. what happens when he finally (accidentally) confesses?

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! best friend! reader

꩜ a/n: this is...6.7k+ words... hehe. thank you for requesting I love the idea!

It’s not like you were obsessed with love. You weren’t. You were perfectly fulfilled in your life. You had good friends. You’d escaped your parents. You had your dream job. You’d turned your nightmare into your dream life. You travelled the world with your best friend, and watched as he surpassed his wildest dreams. You just… wondered. Why weren’t you in a relationship? Why didn’t someone like you enough yet? Why hadn’t you found someone yet? Everything else in life was perfect, you were happy. You just… wanted something else, someone to care about you, someone to love you. 

It probably didn’t help that you had a scary guard dog best mate in Oscar Piastri. He knew you better than anyone, listened to you, and he was kind. You were glad you’d met him and gotten so close, he was now a huge part of your life. You remembered meeting him like it was yesterday; a shitty day in a new school. Somehow you’d expected more from your parents. You thought they’d listen, but why would they start that?

 Haileybury is a new start. Haileybury is a great school. 

It didn’t matter what you wanted, it never had. It just mattered that you wouldn’t bother them. Your talent spoke for itself, your family name spoke for itself, but no one saw you. People saw the name. They saw the ability. Then they watched, like hawks. Waiting for you to fuck up, so they could run back to your parents and remind them of the mistake that you were. Show them exactly why they shouldn’t waste their time with you. In all honesty, you wanted to run. The tall gates of Halieybury came into view, and behind it, the behemoth of a school sat, waiting, taunting you, as Headmistress Graham, a tall woman with the largest glasses you’d ever seen, explained the rich history of the area, and told you how you’d ‘love the library, it’s world class!’. You feigned interest. You smiled through the tour. You were polite to every person you met, even those girls who were already sizing you up, on your first fucking day. You wished your parents a safe flight home with about two metres distance between the two of you. There were no hugs in your family, no space for warmth. You walked into your bedroom, and you fucking screamed into your pillow. You just… you had to endure. That’s what you told yourself. With your brain, you could graduate early, then you wouldn’t be stuck in this fucking hellscape, a million miles away from home. You wanted those walls you knew so well, even if they were silent now. You wanted the ability to walk around freely. You wanted your home back, even if it was irrevocably changed. 

You didn't bother showing up to breakfast. It was a bank-holiday Monday, only very few people stayed back, their rich parents were too wealthy and important to bother seeing their children before they’ve already become adults. You walked around the grounds. Perfectly manicured. Perfectly used. Everyone walked the same path here, literally and metaphorically. They would get their education, and they’d go on to work for their parents until they realise working (if you could call it working), isn’t as fun as they make it out to be. Sometimes it requires effort, and they’re not used to getting their hands dirty, so they push it onto someone else. Someone else always has to take their shits for them, and wipe them up after. You rolled your eyes when a group of girls were waiting at the front gate, for what, you had no idea, but it was blatant whatever it was could only be something that gets Year 7’s out of bed on a day they could spend gossiping and whining about having homework. Hats off to whatever it was, that was impressive. You walked on, the cold air invading your lungs as you listened to the crunch of the ground beneath you. It was melodical. You thought back to home, back to the wild gardens and overgrown trees you loved to climb, and you felt that pull again, the one telling you to go home. You swallowed it down, and you walked back inside, looking for those rehearsal rooms Headmistress Graham had been banging on about. 

You sat on the stool as softly as possible. Your hands hovered over the keys. You pushed down. Careful. Cautious. Calm. Controlled. That’s what you’d been taught to be. That’s what you had to be. 

A ruckus from just outside the hall pulled you out of your playing, and you stared at the door, half-expecting someone to run in. 

He did. A tall boy with brunette hair and two huge bags on his shoulder, his eyes wide as he locked the door behind him. “Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled to himself. You sat there, impatient and annoyed. This was your practice room, it was booked out for you, for the year. He probably played what? Guitar? He didn’t need a fucking reharsal room, he needed a common room and an arsehole with enough ego to assault the lyrics of ‘Wonderwall’ with his voice. He looked flushed, and- had he been running? You guessed he was what the Year 7s were fawning over, and became increasingly more annoyed. 

“Alright?” you questioned, turning to face him. His head snapped up and his jaw dropped. You shook your head. Boys. “I’ve booked this room, sorry.” You turned back to the piano in front of you, expecting him to do the regular thing and walk out with a muttered apology. He didn’t. He came closer, walking up to you. Crossing the hall as quickly as he could without running.  “Hi,” he smiled, and you rolled your eyes. “I’m Oscar.” 

“Hi Oscar, I’m trying to rehearse,” you bit out. Of course, you couldn’t just get one moment of peace. “Please leave.” You weren’t fighting him on this, you had to rehearse, and he had to leave. 

“What year are you in?” he asked, approaching the piano, under some transe. He snapped out of it. “I’m Year 10.” He looked up as you rolled your eyes and turned to the boy as he stood beside you, looking at you or the piano like it was some ancient relic. 

“Year 10,” you mumbled, your eyes sharp and staring at him, hoping he’d get the message. Newsflash, he didn’t.

“Cool,” he mumbled, his eyes stuck to your hands as they hovered over the keys. “I’ve never seen anyone use this before.” So he wasn’t exactly a conversationalist, brilliant. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never seen anyone play a piano?” you scoffed, and he went bright red. 

He scrambled to think of a response, and his brain came out with utter shit. “I mean, this specific piano. E-everyone thinks it’s a bad piano, so no one plays it, and we have other pianos in the school so they all prefer that- I’m just going to stop talking actually,” He shook his head at your amused expression, mortification rising in his body. Fuck, he could talk to Daniel Riccardo about tyre deg for hours, only a day after meeting him for the first time, but a pretty girl with a piano was his downfall? Fuck’s sake. You let out a small, confused chuckle and the sound rang out in his head, making those butterflies that had awakened the second he saw you, fly around his stomach like they were on fucking acid. He held out his hand to be shook. “I’m Oscar.”

You took it with an amused smile on your lips. He felt his entire body ignite when you touched his hand, though he’d never tell you that. “You’ve mentioned that, Oscar,” you teased, that beautiful, small smile on your lips. Holy shit he could’ve sworn he was having a heart attack with how fast his heart was beating now that you were looking at him. “Year 10, Form B.” You held out your hand to be shaken, and he shook it with fervour, probably letting his hand hold yours for a moment too long. 

“Right,” he nodded, his hand still around yours. He was fucked, completely and utterly head over heels embarrassingly fucked. He snapped back to reality. “Form B? Me too.” 

You nodded, your eyes falling down to the rest of him. HP Turners hoodie, baggy trackies, oil-strained shoes. He smelt like a fucking petrol station which deodorant section had exploded. You were curious, and really, you could practice whenever. It was more fun to mess with socially-averse teenage boys. “What’s with the bags?” you questioned, pointing at the comically large bags slung over his shoulder. He looked confused for a split-second, almost so small no one would’ve noticed, like he’d forgotten they were there, and then he dropped them on the floor in front of the both of you. 

“What they are is killing my fucking shoulder,” he mumbled, rolling his shoulder. “My racing bags,” he explained as he took out his helmet. “This is my helmet bag, holds, well, my helmet, and this,” he held up another bigger duffle bag. “Is just all the other shit I need for races like my suit, shoes, tyre strategies, my homework, all that boring shit,” he smiled. You smiled too, for some reason.

You nodded. “Interesting. What category are you in?” 

He looked stunned that you even knew what question to ask. “Umm, British Formula 4,” he smiled. “You know racing?”

“My brother used to race,” you shrugged. You were both quiet, despite both wanting to know more about each other. He saw the way you deflated, noting down your words, ‘used to’. He didn’t pry, he never would. “Well, Oscar, I’d better get back to rehearsal.” He frowned slightly, but nodded and started walking towards the door. 

“I’d like to see you again, and maybe get your name.” he chuckled before he opened the door and walked back out. You quickly realised Oscar-who-smelt-like-petrol was a big deal here. He was a racer, and everyone cared. You were used to it, with what your brother used to do, so you didn’t really care. 

Just a week into school and a group of girls had adopted you into their group and you were slowly beginning to enjoy their company, but not without some troubles.  One girl, Rachel, was in love with Oscar. She could speak of nothing else. It was either his hair (entirely mediocre), or his face (you understood that one), or his arms (lanky?), or what he wore (t-shirts and trackies), or him in his cricket gear (pathetic and prissy). She drove you mad with her constant pestering, always asking about him, since you two were apparently friends now. So what you teased him in form, who cared? Rachel cared. But anyway, soon, your friend group was intrinsically interchangeable with Oscar’s, as his friends became yours after weeks of teasing him. He pretended he didn’t love it, and you pretended not to notice. You tried for literally a year to get Oscar interested in Rachel, just as a favour to her (and yourself), but he wouldn’t bite. Everyone made those jokes that girl and guy best-friend duos always get, the dares to get together, but both of you stood still in your decision. He was your friend. You were his friend. 

That was all. 

Finally, summer break rolled around. The British Grand Prix had been a test of everything that Oscar was. No only had he fucked up his race with a penalty, he could see the way Lando was talking and looking at you, and it made him sick. In the normal, best-friend way, of course. He just… knew the kind of guy Lando was, and it wasn’t what he wanted for you. Anyway, Belgium had gone in his favour once again, a P6 to win after a red flag caused by an Alpine in quali, and Lando accidentally crashing again, giving him a stronger lead in the championship. You’d been there too, sitting pretty in the garage, giving him all the support he’d needed to get those overtakes done. And now, Greece for 2 whole weeks, full Piastri family, friends, and an all-inclusive resort to yourselves. It was all he needed. 

The breeze was slight, and not doing much for the sweat dripping down his back. It was 11am, too early in his world, but Duke had texted him and told him where you were, sending a photo of you swimming in the ocean with the caption “looking for her merman, you might want to be there!”, and yes, it had gotten him out of bed. Everyone knew about his crush (which was really nearly a decade of yearning), and everyone knew about your longing for love. They begged him to just… say something, satisfy both of you. He thought about it every fucking day, every moment between you two, he longed to be more than your best friend, more than the guy you rely on, more than he was. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when it risked losing you. Still, he walked to the beach with three water bottles and a peach (your favourite snack in the world, so much so that the nickname had stuck) in hand, ready to pretend he wasn’t dying inside every single time you touched him. 

“Finally back from the dead?” Rachel snorted, watching him approach. He smirked back, blocked out the sun with his right hand as he let himself shamelessly take you in beside her. Fuck, you were gorgeous. Skimpy bikini clinging to you, still wet. You had those ridiculous snorkel glasses on the top of your head, your hair back and out of your face, sunglasses covering your eyes as you read your favourite book for the hundredth time. A small sense of pride bloomed in his chest when he realised it was the copy he’d given to you, fully annotated, at the ripe age of 17. He didn’t understand it then, but he made it a yearly tradition to read it again and rehash all your favourite arguments. Rachel watched as he stared at you, and rolled her eyes. “A-hem,” she added, bringing you both out of your busy minds. “Oscar’s here.” 

“Osc!” you smiled, scooching over on your beach bed and tapping the spot beside you. You were halfway through the book already, of course, he smiled and sat beside you, handing Rachel over a bottle of water, and started pulling the peach apart, removing the pit, then offering you a piece. You opened your mouth and he popped it in, feeling much too domestic for a best friend. “So I was rereading-” 

“Obviously,” he finished for you, taking a bit of another piece as you rolled your eyes. 

You swallowed down your piece and opened your mouth for another. He placed it in and you chewed, then spoke. “And I was thinking about the setting, and I know these are old annotations-”

“I was 17 and I barely understood the thing, please let me write you a new one,” he begged, genuinely embarrassed of the book in your hands. All of his annotations were subtle confessions, even ones that were outright “I like you”, but you’d never taken them seriously. It haunted his dreams that you still had it. “I’m begging here, Peach.” He nudged your arms but you shooed it away. 

“I like this! It’s old! It’s funny, it’s very you,” you pouted, and he’d never take it away for you if he knew it made you this happy. He shook his head, laughing. “Plus your handwriting was so much better when you were 17, I can barely read it now,” you laughed and he rolled his eyes, scoffing. “But yeah, the setting, I was thinking that maybe-”

Just then, Hattie and Peter (her boyfriend on his first year of the Piastri family getaway), bolted by, running into the water as they giggled. You watched them happily, but felt a twinge in your heart. You groaned and dropped your head into his lap. “When will I get that?” 

Rachel gave him a look that screamed SAY IT!, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk losing you. He shook his head and ran his hand from your collarbone down to the middle of your back and sighed. “Soon, I’m sure.” It killed him to say, but he genuinely did hope you found someone. Even if it destroyed him. He’d given up on love long ago, and he just hoped he could stay close to you once you found your perfect prince charming. 

“How about we go clubbing tonight and you can meet some men?” Rachel suggested and a cold sensation filled Oscar’s veins as he gave her a side-eye. She’d never been the best sport about Oscar not choosing her, but he knew she was just trying to do what was best for you. You wanted love. Just… not from him. Which was fine. That was alright. He’d accepted it. 

“We have family dinner tonight,” you looked up at Rachel from Oscar’s lap. “But after?” you looked back at Oscar, trying to gauge his reaction. He shook his head. 

“Not for me, but I’ll drive you there,” he offered, ever the giver. You frowned. 

Your hand rested over his stomach and he tensed, his abs underneath your hand rock-hard. You didn’t even notice. You’d never noticed, just laughed when he said his clothes didn’t fit anymore and called him lanky anyway. “No, we’ll get a taxi, don’t want to make you drive on your time off,” you pouted. Oscar had been different in recent months. He’d been off about something and you couldn’t figure out what. He wouldn’t go out on nights out anymore, wouldn’t bother to celebrate after big moments like wins or your awards. He always wanted to stay in, cuddle on the couch and head to bed to talk for hours, like you used to do at school. It was fine, you enjoyed nights like that just as much as anyone would with their best friend, but still, it rubbed you the wrong way that he would never go out with you.

He sighed. “You sure you want me to come?” he asked, looking down at you, fingers running up and down your thigh now. It had no effect. He cursed himself. You nodded vigorously in his lap and he smiled. Anything to make you smile. “You sure I won’t be too guard-dog-y and scare all the guys off?” You shook your head and rolled your eyes. 

“You’re not scary in the slightest Oscar, look at you, you’re fucking lanky,” you held up one of his (very much) not-lanky arms, and faltered for a second. Shit, he was bigger. He was taller. His neck was fucking huge, and you could feel a torso full of abs under your hand. He smirked down at you like he knew what he was doing and you gulped. “See!” you finished, giggling at him. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as you stood up. “Come on, you need some water time,” you dragged him up (which seemed much harder than before with his added strength). “No fun playing mermaids by myself!” you started jogging off into the water, and he got the most perfect sight of your smile, then the back of you. He cursed internally and pulled his shirt off, a grimace on his lips. Rachel shook her head behind him and they both thought the same thing. 

How was he going to survive tonight? 

Oscar didn’t like going to clubs with you, because it was torture to watch you flirt with other guys. He hated the way they looked at you, like you were just another girl, like you weren’t a piece of sunshine taken and given to the world. 

But now, apparently that extended to the swim-up bar in the hotel. He was just behind you, waiting at one of those stupid half-submerged tables, after listening to your rant about the setting of the novel for actual hours. A guy went up to you, harmless, right? Wrong. The way he was looking at you, like you were a piece of meat, or something to be won, it made Oscar sick. He stood to his full height, puffing out his chest just a bit. It felt a little silly, but the surprise in the guy’s eyes was worth it. He came up behind you, a warm hand on your hip as he leaned down and whispered in your ear. “You alright?” he asked, lingering over your shoulder as the guy backed off, nodding at the sight in front of him. You crossed your arms and walked ahead, grabbing your drinks off the bar in a huff. Objectively, he felt bad. He knew how much you wanted it, that novel-worthy love, and he wished he could give it to you. It physically hurt him to know he couldn’t. 

You frowned as you sat down at the table. “That wasn’t fair. He was going to give me his number before you walked up,” you sighed as you stirred your cocktail. Day drinking was like a sport on these holidays, and you were already feeling a bit tipsy. Oscar rolled his eyes and sat across from you, placing his hand on your arm as the other held his G&T. He had that stupid pity-smile on his lips and it made you want to scream. “Seriously!” you gaped at his audacity. “He could’ve been the love of my life.” You huffed, deflating. You’d had this conversation with him too many times, but he was always so stubborn, always saying the same thing. 

The love of your life isn’t going to show up at a bar.  The love of your life isn’t going to show up at your gym.  The love of your life isn’t going to show up outside your friend's apartment.  The love of your life isn’t going to show up outside one of your concerts.  The love of your life isn’t going to show up in the orchestra of one of your concerts.  The love of your life isn’t going to show up shirtless on a tinder profile. 

“Peach, the love of your life isn’t going to show up at a swim-up pool,” he said matter-of-factly. You hated that. He was so sure, so fucking aware. Like nothing else could ever be true, because of course not. He was Oscar Piastri and he had the final say. His thumb pressed soothing circles into your arm as he frowned. He knew it was wrong, fuck, he knew it. But he couldn't let you go off with someone else, someone who wasn’t him. Not when he knew his heart fucking beat and bled for you.  “How about we go for a dive?” he offered, trying to wipe the frown off your face. 

“What if the diving instructor touches me?” you hissed, annoyed. “Are you going to drown him?’ you scoffed before swimming off and joining another table, one with Rachel, Duke, Tara, and Eoin. Oscar sighed, his head dropping to the table as he watched you go. He was sent many unappreciative glances from the tale, half of them mouthing the same thing at once. TELL HER! but instead, he stayed over at his table, then joined his sister for a game of marco polo, which he continuously lost.

It was an hour to dinner and he hadn’t seen you. He’d swam until he was sure he’d reached his cardio goal for the day, gone to the gym and did some weights, then walked back to your shared room for a shower. You weren’t there. He got dressed into a linen shirt and slacks which was pretty fancy considering the fact that he’d been showing up to dinner in his togs and a tank most of the days. His phone rang with a message, and almost wasn’t bothered to get up and grab it, but he did, fearing it would be from you.

Rachel: Peach’s in here getting ready, still mad about earlier, but it’ll be smoothed over with a PROPER apology. For fuck’s sake just tell her!!!!!!!!!

He gathered his things, and your handbag, and stalked down the hall to Rachel and her partner, Evie’s, room. He knocked once. Then twice. 

Then your face was in front of his, all wide-eyed and smiling with those dots of contour going unblended on your cheeks. Your face fell when you realised it was him, and it would’ve been a mood killer if you didn't look so stunning. The hotel robe over his favourite dress of yours, he could see the colour spilling out beneath the white, and his smile somehow perked up even more. That fucking dress with the spider web on the back an the dangerously low neckline, the one that had almost made him say it the last ime. On his birthday no less. It was maddening, the way you’d been dancing in it all night, and your smile, god your smile drove him insane. The way you pushed him to do new things and try new things and evolve, that was his favourite thing about you. You constantly challenged him, and he’d never get tired of it. “Oscar,” you cleared your throat. “Evening,” you nodded and let him into the room, some Olivia Dean song you loved playing from the speakers of your phone. The room was tense, Rachel and Evie watching you two, silent for the first time in god knows how long. Fuck, you couldn’t fake being mad at him that well, and soon the facade slipped with one tiny giggle. He laughed too, wrapping his arms around you from behind as he whispered apologies into your hair. You looked at him through the mirror, and something about the way his eyes lingered on you made you squirm. You liked it, the thrill of him watching you, you always had. 

“I’m sorry, Peach,” he said again, definitively. “I was only worried about your safety, but it was a dick move and I promise it won’t happen again,” he smiled that wolfish smile, and you knew it was a lie, but you believed it anyway. You nodded and curled a hand around his own giving it a squeeze before detaching and sitting back down to your vanity and resuming your makeup. “Are we good?” he asked, and you nodded with a smile. 

“We’re good,” you parroted, putting his fears to bed as Rachel rolled her eyes. Christ it was exhausting watching you two walk around each other in circles like idiots. To think she once liked Oscar was wild.  Now, she saw him as what he was, a pathetic lapdog that would follow you to the ends of the earth. It was kind of funny actually, watching as he fell over himself to be as close as he could to you. You two were so perfect, fitting together like two pieces of a jigsaw, but you just couldn't see it. Mostly, it was Oscar’s fault for not stepping up and admitting his feelings, but you were also to blame for not noticing the way he lit up around you. She shook her head as he entertained you by throwing popcorn into your mouth. Hopeless. 

God, if that interaction with Mr. Muscles earlier wasn’t going to send him over the edge, Hattie trying to set you up with one of her friends from college would. His name was Freddie, and Oscar already hated him because he was perfect for you. Smiley and surfing, long hair and completely Melbourne, tall and muscly and a brian full of smarts. He even had little sisters he took care of. He seemed perfect. Oscar just begged the universe to tell you that your heart wasn’t in it, to remind you of the boy who sat beside you who looked a lot like a man now, but still kept those foolish, boyish dreams alive, those ones of you waking up beside him or walking down the aisle towards him. He held his breath as you scrolled through his photos. 

He was everything you were looking for. Fuck’s sake, his name was Freddie, what was cuter than that? Osc- No. You stopped yourself. You’d buried that when you turned 18 and watched him with his tongue down the throat of one of the popular girls, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t come up again. Oscar wasn’t yours. He didn’t want you. But you stacked everyone up against him. The way he introduced himself, dorky and too strange to be anything but fate. The way he wouldn’t leave you alone, not until you finally agreed to be his friend. The nights he’d sneak into your dorm and listen as you told him about the horrors that awaited you during break. The night he’d promised you that, while he wouldn’t be able to magically make your brother appear again, he could hold your hand through any tough moment you needed him. The way you believed him. That stupid night when you were both 17 and told yourselves it wasn’t a big deal, and you kissed him and you understood. Understood what it meant to be loved and taken care of. Have someone care. 

You blinked it all back. All those moments and memories that you stowed away for those days after dates when you realised that while Oscar was who you wanted to be your forever, he couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be, because he didn’t want you. “He’s cute.” you smiled, but anyone could tell it wasn’t real. Hattie smiled back and promised to send on his number, and you thanked her. 

Oscar stiffened beside you, and he had to stop himself from putting a possessive hand on your thigh. He reminded himself, she’s not yours. She won’t be yours. He swallowed back the bile in his throat. Dinner tasted like cardboard, but it wrapped up anyway, and five of you bundled into the rental car, a heavy silence between you and Oscar for the second time that day. The rest of the group were too busy singing whatever showtunes Duke had insisted on to notice, but you did. 

The club was cool, this half-inside-half-outside deal with strobe lights and far too sensual music playing. In the least ironic way possible, it felt like a movie scene. The Hills by the Weeknd blaring from speakers as you were dragged into a dance with Evie. You just needed to stop thinking about him. You’d gone years keeping these feelings at bay, and there was no need to ruin the best thing in your life with selfish feelings. The red strobe made him look sinful though, already at the bar, already getting you a drink, like he was your boyfriend. Fuck, it was ridiculous. He acted more like a boyfriend than any of your past boyfriend had, opening doors, perfect chivalry, holding hands, knowing you. Knowing what you wanted. The flashing lights made him look even more delicious than he usually did. You kew he was an athlete, and you knew he looked good, but fuck, seeing him shirtless and now in that stupid linen shirt that strangled his biceps made you want to fucking swoon. He searched for you in the crowd until he found you, then sent you a wink and a smile. 

Fuck if it didn’t go straight to your core. 

He stood at the bar, the perfect bodyguard, an eye on each of his friends. Rachel and Duke were already chatting with some locals, always able to make friends wherever they went. You were out on the dancefloor, his brain short-circuiting. Evie sent him an evil look while you spun around, gaining the attention of a few guys around you. He felt that same protectiveness, that voice in his head that screamed ‘mine’, but he stayed back. He laid off it. He didn’t want you mad at him again, and he could always try to convince you he saw they do something shady. Sure, it was unethical and completely unfair to you, but his chest physically hurt to not be stalking over there and kissing you, showing you that you had someone who loved you more than anything. He didn’t. He just watched. Watched how you looked in that fucking dress. Watched the way your eyes lit up when you saw him at the bar. Watched as his heart broke for the fifteenth time that day. 

Duke walked up beside him, his best friend for years.“Look man, just fucking do it. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t, and you know Y/n, she’d never hold it against you and you might get some closure,” he shouted over the music, directly into Oscar’s ear as his resolve slowly chipped away with the way you were dancing. Shit, it was fair. You looked so beautiful out there he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Stop torturing yourself.” He clapped a hand on his back and nodded, his wisdom for the night, now imparted. Oscar’s hand shook as he moved through the sweaty bodies of the dancefloor, one thing on his mind. Duke had a lot of bad ideas, but also a lot of good ones, and he decided that he couldn’t live like this anymore, and he’d dance with you one last time before forgetting. Forgetting his feelings. Releasing you to find someone who hopefully loved you like he did.

He cleared his throat, and smiled when he reached you, then held out a hand. “Care for a dance?” Evie sent him a look, and he nodded. She scurried away as quickly as possible, as you took his hand with a smile. His other hand went up to your waist as you slowly rocked your bodies together, anticipation filling the air. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered in your ear. “Any guy here would be lucky to have you.” The words felt foreign in his mouth, he’d always been the silent supporter of your search for love, but now, he was going to try and help. You smiled up at him with that gorgeous smile, that fucking dress that drove him insane, and just you. You being you. You being your wonderful self. The lights flashed again, and suddenly he was kissing you. 

FUCK. He thought, but he didn’t stop. He hadn’t kissed you since he was 17, and he was making up for it. His hands grabbed at your waist, pulled you as close to him as possible, as he kissed hard. Hoping that everything he felt could just be seen in the kiss. All the desperation, all the passion, all the… love. He wanted you to feel it, to know it had been torturing him since he was 15 years old that he didn’t get to do this everyday. He was so in his own head that he’d barely realised you were kissing him back, and then he just groaned into your mouth, kissing you harder. You wanted to savour the moment, your hand cupped his cheek as the other splayed out against his chest, fisting his shirt and bringing him impossibly close. You buried this, you told yourself. He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours. So you pulled back, and you ran. You couldn’t entertain someone who wasn’t ever going to be yours, especially not when it was Oscar, the guy you’d been embarrassingly in love with since you watched him fall over at a cricket match, but still get up and smile at you with a thumb up. 

Oscar stood there, stunned for a minute. He had no idea what he’d just done. He was just frozen for a solid minute. Someone bumped into him and suddenly he was in motion, fighting through the crowd to find you. He had to tell you, explain, make you understand. It was just a mistake. He didn’t mean it. Everything can go back to normal, he told himself. She’s still your best friend. The balcony looked out over the entire city, the warm Mediterranean air engulfing him as he stepped out. You were out there, leaning against the glass as you watched the last light disappear from the day. He stopped and admired you for just a few seconds, hoping this wasn’t the last time he’d speak to you. Then he decided to do the one thing he’d been putting off for almost half his life, be honest. 

“Peach I’m sorry about that, but-” he started until he realised you were crying. Fuck. He’d really cocked this up, hadn’t he. “Peach, I’m sorry,” he shook his head, leaning against the barrier, leaving too much room between the two of you. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you sniffled, your voice raw with emotion. He passed over a tissue from the packet he always brought with him, for you. “Do you think it’s fun to play with my emotions? Is this like a little game that gets you off? You’ve been fucking playing it since I was fucking 17, and I understand that you probably felt obligated when I asked you when you were 17, but you could’ve said no. I just… this isn’t right,” you scoffed and his eyes widened. You shook your head. “It’s not fair, Osc. Not at all.” He stopped thinking, stopped fucking breathing. You liked him back, this whole time. He could’ve been kissing you every fucking day. He could’ve been your real boyfriend for 7 years now. He cursed himself for not being brave enough before, and for not seeing it before. 

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered, and your world stopped for a second. “I’ve been in love with you since I was 15,” he admitted with a defeated chuckle. “I was just too scared to tell you,” he sighed. “I love how you dance when something is delicious, I love how you cling on to me every fucking day. I love your smile and your hair. I love how fucking smart you are. I love how brave, and strong you are to have gotten through everything with your family. I love you. You’re just… you’re everything,” He explained, tearing up. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before. I’m sorry that it came out in jealousy and possessiveness, but I just couldn’t let you go. I can’t. I won’t. And I’m aware that this might be too much too late, and I understand that, but I just need to make you hear me now. Nothing I’ve ever done for you has been out of obligation, not when we were 17, and not now. I kissed you in there because I couldn’t imagine not doing it. I can’t imagine anyone else being the woman I want. You’re the coolest girl I know. I love you so fucking much, peach, my chest fucking hurts.” He sniffled, then chuckled sadly at himself for crying. 

You turned to him and shook your head. “You’re such a fucking moron,” you smiled before pulling him in for another kiss, this time with your arms around his neck, and a shared understanding that, yeah, you two were in love. And yeah, that was fucking wonderful. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead on his. His pretty wide eyes under the moonlight as the first round of this evening’s fireworks display began behind you. You smiled. “I love you too,” his grin somehow got bigger. “So fucking much-” you could barely finish your sentence before he kissed you again. But you were both thinking the same thing, we have years of kisses to make up for, might as well start now. 

You both tried to ignore your cheering friends, but you broke away (much to Oscar’s annoyance) and smiled at them, celebrating the almost decade-old crush you’d tried so many times to bury. It didn’t bother Oscar when it meant he got to look at you being so happy it made his chest ache to know it was him making you that happy.

Maybe you hadn’t ever buried it. Maybe he’d made it too hard. Maybe all of that didn’t matter now because he had his arm around your waist and your taste on his tongue and you were smiling brighter than ever.

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[no-144444]

Me this morning

ugh fine guysss i'll write an angry sex one shot for oscar piastri after silverstone

[no-144444]

so good- o.piastri

꩜ summary: your best friend wins his home GP, but your boyfriend gets fucked up by a time penalty.

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! ln4 best friend! reader

꩜warnings: smut 18+, piv unprotected sex (please don't be stupid, wrap it up girl), oral (m receiving), jealous oscar, etc. :)

꩜ a/n: this is... hardcore smut. i'm just going to leave it here. we don't have to talk about it :)

10 second penalty fucked him, and he’d wanted to win so badly. In Lando’s house, take it all away from him, and fuck him up mentally. Show him that he wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t fast enough, that he wasn’t winning-material, as Andrea so kindly had called them both. But he finished behind him in P2, and he could already see the comments online. He could hear the roaring fans as he stood on the podium, his brain full of every mistake he’d made, of everything he could’ve changed, of every moment of that godforsaken race. Then everything else that was bothering him came rushing back, having been pushed to the back of his mind during the race. He hadn’t realised it’d be such a big deal. You were British, he knew that from the beginning. You transferred to boarding school so you’d have a better shot at getting the college course you wanted. Fortunately, you’d met Oscar there and started dating. That was nearly a decade ago. You put up with all the distance, all the races, all the moments where he told himself he couldn’t do it. You pulled him back up with just a kiss and a simple ‘you’ve got it’. You still did it now. 

You had a bachelors degree and you were moving on to your masters as you worked. He was an F1 driver. 

Lando was his biggest rival at the moment, and you’d known him basically since conception. He liked Lando, genuinely, but Oscar was a silent killer, and that involved a set of skills, one being observation. He saw the way Lando looked at you. He saw the touches and the giggles, and the moments that he tried to make into big deals. He saw how you always politely brushed him off, just blaming it on the drink or him being touchy. He saw the way his eyes widened when you’d told him about Oscar, even all those years ago. Lando was exactly two years older than you, and you’d brought Oscar to your joint birthday party. You were 16, Lando was finally 18, and Oscar saw the way his eyes stopped on Oscar, sized him up, and realised he’d lost. He still did it sometimes, just these tiny double takes of what you actually wanted. Someone with broad shoulders and emotional intelligence. Someone with a bright smile that only you really got to see. Oscar found it funny, watching Lando get annoyed over the way you went to Oscar after a race. It always started the same, a hug in the garage with a kiss on the cheek, then as he dragged you back to the motorhome after media, you’d tuck yourself into his side, then, once you were finally ‘safe’ and inside the confines of the McLaren Motorhome, you’d kiss him silly in his driver’s room, plus sometimes, a little more. 

He didn’t take Lando’s jealousy personally, and it was flattering if anything. He knew how incredible and stunning you were, and guys looked at you all the time. They, including Lando, could watch you all they wanted, because you were always going to be holding his hand. He liked Lando, but tried to keep him at a distance. You? Not so much. Constantly, he found you around his side of the garage, always chatting his ear off about something stupid he did. It didn’t bother him. Well, he pretended it didn’t bother him, especially when it seemed all you could talk about these days was Lando. You were worried about him, or he was being more quiet than usual, or there was something wrong. It drove him demented. He just wanted his girlfriend to be his girlfriend for more than a few minutes. 

It all built up in his head as he looked around the scene in front of him. He was living his dream, he was loved, he was fine. That’s what he told himself. Just get through the podium and get out of here. The emotional regulation skills he’d built up over the years, weren’t working. He tried the tapping. He tried the breathing. Fuck, he even tried the 5,4,3,2,1 method. Still, his breathing was quick, his muscles felt too tight, and he could feel every nerve in his body, on fire. 

It went quiet when he noticed you in the crowd. He’d almost forgotten you came. You’d been so quiet, so unassuming, so you, during the whole race weekend, just supporting him with your small smiles and glances, fleeting touches and words of wisdom at the end of the day, that he’d barely noticed you. 

You stood behind the McLaren crew, who were all already rowdy. You stood there beside Tom, a soft smile on your face as you clapped for Lando, but, like always, you never clapped as loud for him. Lando noticed. He pretended he didn’t care and turned his head to the crowd, but that only left a satisfied smirk on Oscar’s lips. 

You were his. 

He drenched everyone on the podium, even Lando. He wasn’t going to ruin Lando's excitement of winning his home race over his own irritation. It’s exactly the juvenile shit that Lando does, and he wasn’t Lando. He didn’t whine after races, he didn’t talk himself up in the press, he didn’t care. 

In all honesty, all he could think about was you. His body was buzzing with anticipation as he walked down the steps of the podium and into the paddock. He just needed you, plain and simple. You came up beside him with a furrowed brow, he knew you well enough to know what that meant, and he nodded his head and mouthed “it’s alright”, which meant that you were at his side, hugging him and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered as you clung to his side and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll give you a blowjob in your room if you want.” you whispered and he chuckled, though a lot of blood went down south and he could feel his adrenaline building up again. This side of you always thrilled him, no one else saw you like this, all horny and gorgeous, and he loved it. 

He chuckled and squeezed your hip, sending a bolt of electricity through you. “Sounds good.” he nodded and pressed a kiss to that spot under your ear, the one that drove you crazy. You smirked. Fuck, he wasn’t making it to media on time. 

You both rushed into his driver’s room, and you were fully aware of the fact that he had media, even if he didn’t want to do it. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he pressed bruising kiss after bruising kiss to various places on your neck. “So good out there Osc,” you whined, breathless. “So good.” He loved when you got like this, all clingy and smiley, praising him even when he thought he didn’t deserve it. He knew if he reached inside your panties, you’d be soaked, and it just made his cock harder against his race suit. 

“C’mon pretty girl,” he breathed out, one of his hands smoothing over the side of your face, your blown-out pupils and shallow breathing a visible symptom of your arousal. Fuck, it drove him crazy. You make her like this and she loves it. She loves you. She fucks you. He reminded himself, like a chant in the back of his head. “I was promised a blowjob.” he smirked, that cocky, nearly patronising smirk that made heat pool between your thighs, and made you sink down on your knees, right there, right against the door. He smiled down at you as you made quick work of his soaking suit, pulling it down and off him, then pushing his boxers down his legs. He was already hard, already fucked for you, precum dripping down his cock as you both stared at it. You placed a hand on his cock, and slowly started moving up and down, spreading his precum all over as you kissed a pattern into his chiseled stomach. He tensed under you, grabbing his hands behind his back to stop himself from grabbing your head and face-fucking you until he came down your throat. 

You pressed your tongue flat against his dick and he let out one of those mangled moans that drove you crazy. You smiled up at him, and he was sure he had that image tattooed on his brain for the rest of his life. “So fucking gorgeous,” he spat out, his chest heaving as you looked up at him. You both heard the door slam next door, and Oscar just smiled back at you. Slowly, you licked a stripe from the top of his shaft to the bottom and back up, a hand coming up to massage his balls as you finally took him in your mouth, sucking him into your mouth as you moved up and down, jerking off anything you couldn’t fit. It drove you mad, how big he was, and how he thought it was just normal. He was hung, so much so that the first time you two had sex, he’d had to eat you out first to get your pussy pliant enough to take him, and even then, it still hurt like a bitch. Obviously, time had passed and you were finally used to the stretch, but even after just a week apart it would still stretch you out, toeing the line between pleasure and pain. He pretended it wasn’t an ego boost, and you pretended it didn’t turn you on. “Such a good girl,” he cooed as you started picking up the pace around him. You moved over and found his boot-clothed foot, and started grinding through your panties, your skirt already bunched up at your hips. 

A knock on the door stilled your movements, and he left out a disappointed whine, grabbed the back of your head, and pushed you back up and down, thrusting into your mouth as you both picked up the pace. 

“Hey man,” Lando’s voice rang out through the door. “I’m sorry it didn’t go your way today, but thanks for being such a good guy about it and congratulating me. Today means a lot to me. Thanks for noticing,” he explained, just outside the door, completely unaware of how fucking hard it was for Oscar to keep quiet when you were sucking him fucking dry. Holy shit, maybe he should lose more often if it means he got head like this. “Will you tell Y/n my mom is looking for her please? She wants to get a big family photo today, since everyone is here.” Oscar hit his head back against the door as he felt the coil in his stomach building. 

“Yeah,” he choked out, not having enough in him to give Lando a proper answer. Lando lingered on the other side of the door, thinking that Oscar was mad at him, but he just brushed it off. If he had a problem, he could say it like an adult, and he didn’t, so it was fine. You did that weird tongue thing that he adored, and his thighs shook as he came in your mouth. “Fuck!” he groaned. You didn’t stop sucking as he whined your name as quietly as he could manage, genuinely sucking him dry. Slowly, you pulled off his cock, swallowing everything he’d given you. Jesus, you looked gorgeous like this, tears rolling down your cheeks, eyes blown out, riding his fucking race boot as you made him cum so hard he was sure he saw heaven for a moment. He smiled down at you, wiping the tears as you leaned into his affection. “Fuck, you’re so good at that,” he chuckled, hooking his hands around your waist, and lifting you up to your full height. He sat you on his physio table, letting you watch him as he got dressed into his new suit. Your eyes shamelessly ran over every piece of him, still hungry, still horny. He smirked and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Later, I promise.” 

He didn’t miss the way you pressed your legs together as he left the room. 

The drive back to your house was 2 hours on a good day, and the motorway was full of F1 fans already, so neither of you had been particularly fond of the idea of driving all that way back. You’d booked in the same hotel as Hattie and grabbed dinner with her before heading upstairs to finally put an end to a terrible day. Lando had asked you to come celebrate, even invited Oscar, but you'd refused. You said Oscar needed you, and even though Lando pushed, you'd held strong in your choice. It made Oscar bloom with pride. You chose him.

You showered as he watched replays, then he showered as you did your skincare routine. Tension buzzed in the air between you, it always did after a race like today. God, you thought back to Hungary last year. He’d been so fucking smug, basically feral, and absolutley obsessed with you. The bruises had lasted more than two weeks. He stepped out of the shower, hair dripping and pushed back, jawline sharp, and everything tensed. You didn’t speak. 

“Watched the replay,” he grumbled, his accent coming out more as his emotion got the better of him. Annoyance laced his tone, but there was also a reserved kind of understanding, like he saw the data, understood the penalty, but was still frustrated. Maybe it was the fact that Lando had won a race. Maybe it was the fact that Lando had now won his home race, and Oscar’s. Maybe it was the fact that finally, Oscar had made a mistake. You nodded, waiting for more to come, but it never did. You could see the way he beat himself down, those voices in his head shouting that he needed to be better, make no mistakes, fight more. 

You frowned and took his hand, leading him to the couch in your apartment-like hotel room. You sat him down and sat down right on top of him straddling him. He smirked, running a hand down your neck as he appreciated the sight in front of him. “Y’gonna let me take care of you?” you whispered, slowly grinding down on his lap, the towel he’d haphazardly tied around himself undoing beneath you. Thank god you hadn’t bothered with panties under your pyjama slip. He nodded up at you, already in a lusty haze. “Good boy,” you whispered in his ear before licking a stripe down his neck as he let out a whine, his hands grabbing your hips. 

You loved it when he was like this. Pliant and desperate underneath you. Slowly you sat up, taking his half-hard cock and jerking it a few times, his sharp inhales adorable as you played with him. His precum spread over his cock as your wetness literally dripped, soaking the both of you. His breath was shallow as you pushed him inside you, those pathetic breathy whines pushing out of his throat as he let you take over his body. 

“You’re alright,” you reassured him and he nodded as you slowly started moving. He quickly pulled your slip over your body to be met with the sight of your perfect tits bouncing in his face. Fuck, if he died right now, he’d die a happy man. “Touch me,” you bit your lip, his cock already hitting that spongy spot inside you, driving you crazy. He whimpered when you moved slightly to the side, changing the angle, and he pressed his mouth over your nipple. He sucked it as he made those desperate whimpers that shot straight to your core. “So good,” you whined, his hands tugging at the roots of his hair. “So handsome for me, o-on the podium,” you smiled as he thrusted back up into you and he moaned against your tits. “God, you’re so fucking good for me, aren’t you?” you cooed, and he couldn’t help but nod. 

“Yeah,” he let out a broken groan. “Wanna be good, so good,” he nodded, pressing kisses and love bites all over your tits. God, he was gone, just focused on how good you felt around him, and that mind-fucking sweet tone of voice. “C-can’t believe you’re mine.” He let out a particularly pathetic moan as you sped up, chasing your own orgasm as the muscles in your thighs screamed to be given a rest, but you wouldn’t, not when you were both this close. 

“I’m all yours,” you reminded him and he genuinely moaned into your neck, one of his hands grabbing at the fat of your ass and squeezing, making you squirm on his cock. Fuck, this was euphoria. “Always yours Osc,” you whined as he started moving your hips even quicker on top of him. His other hand went to your ribs, just under your left tit, that tiny 81 tattoo you’d gotten as a joke, but really, it drove the both of you fucking insane. He loved that his number was permanently inked into your skin, and you loved it too. He brushed over it with his thumb as he bit his lip to try and stop the incessant, and frankly embarrassing moans falling from his mouth. He couldn’t stop it though, not when you were riding him like this. Fuck Lando, and fuck his stupid face and Landostand. You wore his number every fucking day. Those replays, the things people had said, that move, it was all gone from his mind. Replaced entirely by you. Just you, you, you, running through his mind every damn second. It was a mind-fuck, how desperate he could get for you. He pressed his head into your shoulder as he felt his high approaching. It was like time stopped and the only thing that even remotely mattered was you, you, you. He bit into your shoulder, a high-pitched whine leaving his lips as he sucked over the spot, so, so close to cumming. But of course, you slowed down. You kept bouncing on top of him, but it wasn’t fast enough. He needed more, and you wouldn’t give it to him. “Too pretty like this,” you groaned, not wanting this moment to end, so you kept both of your orgasms at bay. “Wanna stay like this.” You pull in his hair again and he lets out one of those mangled moans again, his eyes filling with moisture. You smirk. 

“Please, just use me however you want,” he begged, those tears falling from his pretty brown eyes as you literally licked them off his face, already riding him quicker. “Please go quicker,” He sounded so desperate, so fucked, so beautiful, you couldn’t stop. His mouth opened and his eyes closed, his whole body practically going slack as you fucked him harder, his pussy gushing as you soaked his thighs with your arousal. You rode him quicker and harder, despite every muscle in your legs screaming to be let rest. His orgasm still seemed to come as a surprise, and he let out the loudest, most embarrassing moan he’d ever made. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated after it, letting you keep using him, even as he fought overstimulation. It triggered your orgasm, soaking his thighs as his cum dripped out of you. Still, you kept riding. You didn’t want the moment to end. His hands tried to grab your waist, tried to slow down your movements as he was fucked into overstimulation, his soft cock getting hard inside you again. “Fuck baby,” he pushed down on your stomach, then wrapped an arm around your waist and flipped the order. Now he was on top of you. He flipped you over, your ass wiggling against him as he lined himself up with your cunt. “Such a good girl for me, right?” he whispered in your ear, gaining a groan the second he bottomed out in you. You moaned like a whore as he fucked into you as quick as he could. The pain of the overstimulation melted away as he kept going, kept fucking you and toying with your pretty clit, hearing all those noises you made. You drove him insane. 

“Fuck! Osc! Harder!” you begged, sobs ripping from your throat in time with his brutal thrusts. He was unrelenting, especially as he played with your clit. You grabbed at the couch cushions, the heat in your stomach building for the second time. “I love you,” you babbled as you came all over him. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.” It fell from your lips like a mantra, and it just pushed him towards his own orgasm quicker.  This was a reminder. You chose him. Nothing Lando or the media, or McLaren said or did, would change that. You were his, entirely. 

After a few minutes of being collapsed on the couch, you cuddled on top of him, resting your head on his neck as he smiled. “You alright?” you asked softly, a satisfied smile on your lips despite reeking of sex. He nodded and wrapped his arms around you. 

“I’m better than alright,” he chuckled and pressed a kiss to your cheek. Lando may have won the Grand Prix. McLaren may have been annoyed at him. Maybe the media would paint him as a vengeful psycho on the next race weekend. He didn’t care.  He had you. He had this.

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[no-144444]

who are you?- l.hamilton

꩜summary: lewis gets into a crash that changes everything.

꩜pairing: lewis hamilton x fem! wife reader

꩜warnings: crashes, loss of a limb, fire, lando is not alright, generally sad, etc. :)

Wind, water, and pain.

That’s all that cut through Lewis’s thoughts as he hit Raidillon Eau Rouge at 300 km/h with Lando Norris crashing into him straight after. His blood spiked, his eyes watered, his head throbbed beneath his helmet as he fought with his seatbelt to get out of the car. The rain battered down on him, feeling heavier and heavier by the second. His everything burned in agony, and he couldn’t stop himself from letting a few whimpers as he tried desperately to free himself. For the first time in his life, he could hear the crowd. Gasping. Shocked. Scared. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up, not even looking down at himself to check. He needed to show he was out of the car, that he was fine. That he didn’t need the marshal’s help. He tried to plant a foot on his seat.

And then nothing. 

His foot didn’t move. His leg didn’t move. He tried the other, nothing.

Anxiety filled his chest and his brain raced. He refused to be another story, another great who got hurt and had to stop. Not when he had a new start in Ferrari, especially not when the car was just becoming competitive, and absolutely not when he was leading a fucking race. He had to get out of the car. He had to have functioning legs. His breathing sped up, his chest rising and falling in time with the rain. Poetic really, he was totally in sync with the world around him, even if he didn’t want to be. All he wanted was to be out of the fucking car, funny that. He’d sent his entire life inside cars, and now all he wanted was to be out of one.

Finally a marshal, a guy no older than 25 caught up to him. Lewis hated the look on his face, but still he continued trying. His legs wouldn’t move, but he chalked it up to shock. “Mate, give us a hand here?” he asked, holding out a hand. The kid shook his head and put his hands on Lewis’s shoulders, pushing him back down into his seat. Lewis sighed out a shaky breath.

“Sit back in the car,” he advised. “The paramedics are on the way.”

Lewis squirmed in his seat again, trying to feel his legs. Nothing. Someone could’ve stabbed him and he wouldn’t feel a thing. That panic rose again, his breathing getting quicker and quicker. “Man, come on, get me out of here-”

“Stay in the car,” the kid advised again. “You are far enough away from the fire, stay in the car until the paramedics get here, alright?” 

He couldn’t totally hear everything, the ringing in his ears was louder than it had ever been and the kid had a strong accent, but he could’ve sworn the kid had just said fire. “Fire?” he questioned, shouting over the rain. “Shit, is Lando ok?”

The kid was wide-eyed, staring at the scene behind Lewis. He wasn’t sure he wanted to look, judging on his expression. “Just stay in the car, they’re here now.” 

It’s too white. That’s the very first thing he noticed when he ripped his eyes open, his lashes sticky. The air was too clean, too sterile, too dry. He quickly realised he wasn’t in the car anymore. He wasn’t in his race suit or helmet anymore. Where is that beeping coming from? He turned his head to the side, then the other, but everything was just too blurry, everything hurt too much, everything took too much effort. He moaned out a pained sigh when he moved his arm, and felt a shoot of pain up his collar bone. It’s all distant. That fucking beeping was the only thing getting through, drilling into his skull like a fucking nailgun. He blinked experimentally, wondering if he'd fall straight back to sleep if he did. He didn’t. His vision got clearer, he made out the screen to his left, displaying some numbers he couldn’t quite read. He looked around the room. 

Hospital. 

He gulped. He, like most people, didn’t like hospitals. They were impersonal, sterile, and full of pain. Mental, physical, emotional, psychological, whatever, but pain all the same. That beeping continued hitting his temples like a sledgehammer, until finally someone spoke. 

“Lewis?” a voice he knew well, but couldn’t quite place. It was muffled. Like those times you’d hear your parents shouting for you when you were underwater as a kid. He thought back. Back to those days before he was who he is now. Those days when he was a little kid on holidays with his dad, staring up at the bluest sky in the world, the water distorting it, adding texture and life. The silence of the water. Or on days where he’d go seas swimming when it was chucking it down, and he’d look up and watch the raindrops hit the water, making small ripples but never touching him, not while he was underwater. The voice came back stronger, paired with an almost doorbell ding. “Shit you’re awake!”

Another blink brings the world back to him. Definition on the chairs and table in the room, definition on the numbers on the screen, definition on the IV drip in his arm. He gulped, and his throat burned. He probably hadn’t drank anything in a while. 

He blinked again, his eyes flying wildly around the room. He found you. 

Jesus, you looked rough. Beautiful, always of course, but exhausted. Baggy clothes and messy hair, red-rimmed eyes and messily removed makeup. He could see the tiredness pulling at your wide-eyes, already full of new tears to shed as you stared at him. He tried to sigh again, but that burning persisted. The door swung open and a fleet of doctors and nurses walked in. His hearing was back in full force, and now everything was too loud. He grimaced as they stood beside him, pulling and pushing buttons beside his bed. Yet, you didn’t take your eyes off him, like he’d disappear if you looked away for a moment, or even blinked. He wanted to reach over and cup your cheek, tell you everything would be alright, explain that he’d be back in fighting condition soon. But he couldn’t. You probably knew more about his condition than he did, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” one of the doctors, a black-haired woman, spoke up. “How are you feeling?” 

He let out a dry cough and reached for the side of his bed to sit up. Three nurses tried to help him. He got there in the end. “Thirsty,” he admitted, his voice dry and small. 

There’s a chorus of laughs, but he doesn’t hear your familiar one. He just felt a bottle of water in his hand. Cold. Your eyes still wide, still thinking a thousand miles away, but here. That’s what he cared about. He took a big gulp, and swallowed down the dryness. It took a few sips before he could really get his voice back, but he did. 

“Better?” someone asked, and he nodded. 

The black-haired woman stepped forward again. “So Mr. Hamilton, this will be a lot to hear but we’ll take it at your speed, is that alright?” 

He nodded, despite the terror filling his chest. 

What the fuck had happened? 

He didn’t have a left leg anymore. From the knee down, it was gone. It was the only way to save him from bleeding out, and it was a split-second decision. You made it. Under extreme stress and exhaustion. You chose to save him rather than save his career. It was brave. It was terrifying. You were scared he’d hate you. Maybe he’d have a reason to. Maybe he’d be justified. But you couldn’t, in good conscience, deprive the world of him. His light. His smile. His kindness. You couldn’t give that up for another championship, and you hoped he wouldn’t either.

The doctors left the room. You stayed quiet, waiting for the storm to rage. Waiting for him to cry, or scream, or simply drop his wedding ring into your hands and point to the door. You’d have left too, if that’s what he wanted. 

“How was it?” he asked, his voice quiet. Soft. Small. “It must’ve been… a lot. For you, I mean.” You bit your lip to stop the tears, squeezing your own hand. This isn’t about you, you told yourself. Ask about him. It was all too much though. The last 72 hours hung above your head heavily, the crash, the paperwork, the surgeries, the fear. Only now were you slowly easing out of your fight or flight responses. Only now were you breathing properly. You knew he was safe, maybe he was hurt, but he was alive, and that was more than you thought at that moment. That moment when you saw his car hit the barriers, Lando right behind him. Fuck, Lando. Lando was in a room 5 doors down, and he hadn’t woken up yet. You knew what you were getting into when you met Lewis, you knew he was a daredevil, you knew he carried some risk with him, but fuck. When you saw them pulling his body out of that car, you wished you’d somehow convinced him to stay in bed that day, to just forget the race and run off with you. The memory was permanently implanted in your brain every time you closed your eyes, it ran on a loop until you opened your eyes again. The burning parts. The silence in the garage. The way all their eyes went to you. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, but your voice was broken. Hoarse from days of crying. Exhausted from explaining what happened over the phone to everyone who needed to know. Burning from the fresh tears threatening to fall. You cleared your throat. “I’m more worried about you.”

He nodded, and reached over, pulling you in by your hands. “You’re shaking,” he frowned, sitting you down beside him. You nodded, holding your breath so you wouldn’t cry. “Baby, we’ll get through this. I promise. We’re a team, remember?” He smiled, but you could see the unshed tears at the corners. You nodded, trying to believe him. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, reminding yourself that he made it. He was safe. He was alive. Different, but alive. 

Anthony walked in with a relieved look on his face. He’d been your rock. He’d been the one who told you that you were doing the right thing. “Lew,” he sat at the end of the bed, his resolve crumbling as his eyes watered. “You’re here.”

Seeing that. Seeing him grateful and happy that his son was there, that made everything worth it. That made whatever would come next worth it. Even if it destroyed you. 

And it would. 

Home had been a faraway thought for the past week and a half. Lando was still out. Lewis was lucky, but he sure as hell didn’t feel it. You were… getting there. You were alright. You had to be, for him. But when the noise of it all died down and he was out of the woods when it came to everything else, the dust settled and you realised how bad it had been. You watched the replay and saw when they accidentally cut to you, that haunted look in your eyes before you sprung into action and started running to the medical centre, so you could be there for Lewis. You saw the video of you holding up Lando’s girlfriend as she sobbed, talking her through her first big crash, your eyes wide but caring, focusing on her and getting her through the day. You saw the comments online, people wishing him well, people praising you, people calling you both frauds. You tried to block it out for him. You tried to not break or crack, or act like you were scared. But you were scared. You were terrified. Nothing was as it was before.  For the first time in 18 years, Lewis wasn’t an F1 driver.  So, who was he?

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ferrari masterlist

[no-144444]

Hi! I'd like to request an Oscar Piastri x fem!reader SMAU mixed with an imagine where after they've dated for a while Oscar starts to become more relaxed and maybe even a little careless about him showing reader affection in public😏😏

changed man

꩜ summary: 3 times you realised oscar had changed, and 1 you understood why

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! singer! reader

꩜ a/n: thanks for requesting!

Red Flag on track

You’d noticed a change in Oscar in recent weeks. It was… strange. Oscar didn’t change much. He liked his hair a certain length (no matter how much you begged him to let it grow), he had his favourite clothes and rarely bought new ones, and he liked to be private. 

You thought an invasion of his privacy would make him retreat further, make him even more shy in front of cameras and fans alike. A few weeks ago, paparazzi had taken a picture of Oscar and you kissing, essentially announcing to the world that you two were together for real. It had upset you both, you wanted to tell them when you were ready. They took that from you, and it sucked. You thought it would mean going back to secret rendezvous and no more Grand Prixs.

But Oscar surprised you, as always, and he didn’t. He started kissing you in the paddock, holding your hand, hugging you during a red flag. It was maddening. It was whiplash. 

He walked up to you smiling, fresh out of the car with a red flag out on track for a bad crash, but thankfully, everyone was alright. The garage was buzzing, P1 for Oscar, P2 for Lando, a battle to ensue in the next 5 laps, rain pissing down everyone's necks. He had more than enough data to look at, and knew he still had a race to win, so what was he doing here? His hands circled your waist before you knew what was happening, and his head rested on your own as he talked to Tom over your head. You just stood there, shocked. You could even see his mum in your periphery, raising an eyebrow. You gave her a confused look back, and she just smiled and pulled out her camera to snap a picture of the moment. 

He squeezed your waist. “You alright?” he whispered over the noise in the garage. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was getting water/ sweat all over you, so he leaned in closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you nodded. What the fuck is going on? You asked yourself. He must’ve picked up on it because he couldn’t stop smirking at the people walking by, pretending not to watch you two. He whispered directly into your ear. “You’re beautiful,” and left to get back in the car. 

You felt a bit light-headed. 

The Instagram posts

oscarpiastri

spanish gp

liked by youruser, nicolepiastri, landonorris, and 567,245 others

oscarpiastri Great weekend, thank you for the support from everyone, onto Montreal! @.youruser

comments

youruser always here to support :) -> oscarpiastri and thank god for that :)

user52 i love how he adds in a picture of her even though it doesn't make sense

user44 we stan an obsessed king

lewishamilton kids these days

user909 my goat wins again, in life, and in f1

user77 omg did we all see the way he kissed her when he won -> user321 fr i was like damn get a room you two

user907 i'm in love with Y/n -> oscarpiastri same

user3434 oscar piABStri

user456 bring back sexualising men plz

youruser

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, noahkahan, and 3,425,423 others

youruser bit of osc, bit of friends, and two of me :) (shoutout oscar for being my photographer!) @.oscarpiastri

comments are limited.

oscarpiastri Always :)

oscarpiastri

liked by youruser, landonorris, nicolepiastri, and 598,354 others

oscarpiastri Solid weekend, awesome gig, onto the next! @.youruser

comments are limited

youruser photographer osc strikes again! -> oscarpiastri too good a subject

youruser

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, hattiepiastri and 4,340,982 others

youruser omfg italy u have my heart please don't give it back @.yourfriend1 @.yourfriend2 @.hattiepiastri @.nicolepiastri @.ediepiastri @.maepiastri

comments

oscarpiastri offended tbh -> landonorris sybau -> oscarpiastri jealous -> landonorris pissed off that you constantly parade your relationship in my SINGLE face -> youruser firstly, love you oscar, secondly, I HAVE A FRIEND FOR YOU LANDO PLEASE TEXT ME -> landonorris Y/N Y/L/N I LOVE YOU MORE THAN HE DOES THANK YOU SO MUCH -> oscarpiastri yk I hate you both

hattiepiastri we love a girls trip -> oscarpiastri we HATE a girls trip -> ediepiastri shut uppppp

ediepiastri my perfect angel baby -> youruser my perfect stylist angel baby

nicolepiastri Love you! xxx -> youruser love you more!

user32 oscar be like 'i lost something once'

user312 his sisters ganging up on him? gagged!

user931 lando being desperate is insane

user131 i'm actually so single omfg.

oscarpiastri

liked by hattiepiastri, youruser, leonbridges, and 1,284,408 others

oscarpiastri Y/n appreciation post, so proud of how the tour is going and how beautiful the music sounds. Love you @.youruser

comments

youruser omg osc what is this -> youruser this is too sweet -> oscarpiastri i'm just proud of you :)

landonorris I love how he rubs it in my face that i'm single like holy shit dude, maybe i should take you out next race -> landonorris FUCK THAT SOUNDED WRONG -> landonorris I mean like crash into him not bring him to dinner or something -> landonorris Well actually idm we usually get dinner together on sunday nights sooooo -> youruser girl this is embarrassing sit down.

user48 i'm actually running in front of a train THEY'RE SO CUTE YOUR HONOUR

user31 get yourself a man who makes an appreciation post for NO REASON like omg love me next please

user890 i want them both

user532 parents

user21 holy shit she's gorgeous and talented i can't even hate her

user803 how did he bag her i'm in shock -> hattiepiastri that was me when he brought her home the first time -> nicolepiastri hahaha! me too! -> youruser awww fanks guys :) -> oscarpiastri i love how everyone thinks i have no rizz -> youruser omg i'm going to vomit u did not just unironically use rizz -> hattiepiastri we don't think it, we know it, this is an example :|

3. Kissing in tyre closets

He won again, and he was admittedly insatiable. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was the half-bottle of champagne he drank, maybe it was just you, sitting in the corner of the garage so quietly and looking so fucking beautiful, but he knew he wasn’t going into a debrief without at least a kiss, but hopefully a bit more. 

He grabbed your hand and you assumed it was to walk you off to the car, promising he’d see you later once his media was done, but he didn’t. He looked over his shoulder for a split second and walked right into the tyre storage, pushed you up against the door once he’d closed it, and kissed the fuck out of you. You gasped into his mouth immediately, taken aback by his forwardness, and downright dirty tendencies. Though, that was quickly turned into a groan when his tongue pushed into your mouth, and his arms wrapped tightly around your middle, holding you against him like he couldn’t get enough. He smirked into the kiss as you wrapped your arms around his neck, his plan working perfectly. God, kisses with you were intoxicating. 

“So pretty,” he broke from your lips to continue their attack on your neck. “Could see you from the top step, so beautiful,” he practically whined as his hands drifted to the hem of your shirt. You gasped. 

“Oscar Jack Piastri-” you started, but he was looking at you with those pleading eyes, the ones he knew drove you insane. 

“Please?” he added, and your resolve was broken. Your t-shirt was on the floor and his hands were already making quick work of your bra. 

Then a bump on the door. You both stopped, like how you would back at school when you realised you’d be murdered for being in the boys dorms and it was already lights out, with a teacher at the door ready for room checks. He went bright red, though disappointment coursed through his veins. He helped you get dressed as you tried to forget this moment, almost melting into a puddle of shame. Finally, Oscar opened the door, giving an oscar-worthy performance of pretending the door was stuck. Fat chance his mechanic believed it, but he couldn’t give a fuck, he was already hard and he had a press conference 5 minutes ago. 

“Wait for me, yeah?” he whispered, sending you in the direction of his driver’s room. “I’m not finished.” He added with a wolfish smirk. 

What had gotten into him? 

The explanation

You genuinely didn’t know what to do with yourself, here he was after years of being private, posting random photos of you in his race week dumps, hugging you during red flags, and not being embarrassed when you were found in the tyre closet, seconds away from being fully naked. 

“What is going on?” you asked one day, your legs strewn across his lap as you lay on the couch, scrolling through his instagram, trying desperately to make sense of his sudden personality switch. He dropped his phone onto his lap and turned to you, confused. “Where’s Oscar and what have you done with him?” 

He let out one of those real Oscar laughs, and you couldn’t help but smile. “What?” he chuckled, rubbing up and down your legs. “What do you mean?” 

You groaned into a pillow. “Ugh, you know what I mean! I kisses in public, and the hugging me during a red flag, and the nearly fucking indecently exposing myself to a member of your team!” you scoffed when he laughed. “It’s not funny!” you playfully kicked him, but he just caught your foot and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your calf. He was so gentle sometimes, it blew your mind.

“I love you,” he shrugged. “I was talking with my mum over the break and she said I don’t physically touch you a lot, and she’d noticed physical touch was your love language. She just… told me to do it more,” he explained. “Do you not like it?”  You loved it, every single second of it. Sure, it sometimes resulted in embarrassing moments or stupid pictures of you being posted on the internet, but you loved it. You grinned. “I love it,” you admitted, though you knew it would result in endless teasing. He opened his mouth to speak but you kicked his shoulder again. “Shut up.”

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)

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alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17, FC43, PG10)

[no-144444]

꩜summary: funny thing about nostalgia... it didn't show up till he lost you

꩜pairing: max verstappen x fem! reader

꩜a/n: omg yall this is the last sctw story!!!! thank yall for all the support on this series i genuinely love doing it :)))))

Max had never felt he was enough. He was made to be a racer. He was taught to be a racer. That was his calling. It didn’t matter that he liked soccer, or that his friends at school wondered what happened when he walked in with bruises, or that he didn’t have any friends by the age of 17. F1 was the dream, and he’d achieved it. He was the perfect racer. The perfect son. 

And then his dad died, and he wasn’t sure who he was doing it for. 

So what happened next? Did he just race other series? Did he continue in F1 and try and beat the record for titles? Did he race in his dad’s honour? 

“Penny for your thoughts?” your voice pulled him out of the mess his head was in. You were good at that, pulling him out of things. That’s how you’d met. You’d pulled him out of his Silverstone crash and made him go to the hospital, despite his father insisting he was fine. You were right. Max bought you dinner as a thank you, and fell head first before he even knew what was going on. Now, here you two were, 4 years later, your hand in his hair as you sat around his childhood home, thinking. 

It had been three days since Jos was buried. “Nothing,” he shook his head. “Just… tired.” 

You pursed your lips and pushed your luck. “Max, you have to talk about these things-”

“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,”he gritted out. He didn’t want to talk about it, because he didn’t know what it would lead to. Would it make him realise none of this was actually his dream? Would it just bring up more pain from his tumultuous relationship with his father? 

“Max,” your voice was soft, caring, and kind. He didn’t deserve it, not with the way he was treating you. “It’s alright to be upset about it. I know everything wasn’t always great, but he was still your dad, and you were close.” 

“You don’t know anything,” he chuckled, but it was funny. “You know what the internet has told you.” 

You sighed and got up, removing yourself from him. “I’m going to give you some space-”

“Walk away, like you always do when something gets hard,” he spat. You turned, knowing you shouldn’t take the bait, but taking it anyway. That’s how it worked with arguments between you two, he barked and you bit. 

“Max, you and I both know I don’t walk away when things get hard,” your voice was calm, it always was. It eased him, though he’d never admit it. “You need to calm down.”

“Oh fuck off Y/n,” he scoffed. “Stop acting like you know me-”

“I do know you. I know you’re going to regret this in 30 minutes and apologise,” you responded, sharp. “I’m giving you some space to try and figure this out yourself. Come to me if you want support.” 

He stood. “I don’t need your fucking support Y/n, I don’t want it either,” the venom pouring from his mouth wasn’t for you. He knew it wasn’t for you. It was for his dad, or his childhood, or RedBull, or anyone else. You didn’t deserve it, yet he kept talking. “And I don’t need your help! I don’t want you near me, and I don’t love you.” He stilled and you stared. His chest heaved, his brain worked overtime to try and make sense of the lie that had just spilled from his mouth. You didn’t stop staring at him, like you couldn’t take your eyes off him, even if you wanted to. That sense of dread he’d had for the past 4 years, that voice in his head that told him you’d leave him before he knew it, to never let you get too close, it all got loud. 

“Fuck you Max,” you spat before turning on your heels and walking upstairs into your shared bedroom, and packing your suitcase right back up. You’d be damned if you ever let a man talk to you like that, and not walk away immediately. 

He didn’t follow you. He knew it was already too late, and he’d just have to live with that. He’d have to live with losing you. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he didn’t like what stared back at him. He looked too different, too angry, too much like his father. 

He hated it.

Monaco was lonely without you. You’d packed up your things in the apartment and moved into another in Nice, according to Lando. He’d told Lando what had happened and he nearly blocked him. He didn’t exactly blame him, considering it the worst thing he’d ever done. Lando got your side of the story, and even you agreed it was probably a bad moment, but you still just… couldn’t. It didn’t take away the fear. It didn’t stop the memories. Which he understood. 

The apartment felt bare. His bed felt cold no matter how many blankets he loaded on. Monaco felt empty. The harbour didn’t seem as interesting as before. The sea didn’t shine like it used to. His life got quieter. He quit F1. he stopped racing. He started trying to enjoy spending his money alone, on his yacht. He tried to convince himself he was happy without you, that he didn’t need or want you. The nostalgia hit him daily, just in small things. Like how he made his coffee. Or how he accidentally set the table for two. Or how that hole in his chest never really seemed to stop aching.   Of course the last thing his father did was ruin the best thing in Max’s life. Of course.

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