ripmyselfxd

[ripmyselfxd]

Hello! Love your fics 🧡

could you do one where Lando and reader are best friends, and Joao Felix is dating reader and at a party or something Lando gets angry that she is dating João and didn’t tell him and he snaps at them bc he wants to date reader?

Betrayal Hits Hard, Heartbreak Hits Harder | Lando Norris x Reader x João Félix

Summary - At a party, Lando Norris discovers you’re secretly dating João Félix. Hurt and heartbroken, he confronts you, revealing he’s been in love with you all along — and walks away.

You should’ve told him.

It starts small, like all dangerous things do.

A glance from across the room. A smirk when no one’s watching. João doesn’t flirt like other people do—it’s quieter, more confident. A hand at your waist as you laugh too hard at one of his dumb jokes. The way he remembers everything you say, even when you’re not trying to be interesting.

You don’t mean for it to happen. But it does.

You start seeing him in secret. Little dates squeezed in between your hectic life and his even crazier one. You meet him after training. You talk until your voice goes hoarse and his Portuguese lilt starts to sound like music. You’re not sure when it stops being casual. Maybe when he kissed you in the rain. Maybe before that.

And all the while, Lando is… Lando.

Your best friend since forever. The one who shows up unannounced with takeout when you’ve had a bad day. The one who knows when you’re lying just by how you breathe. The one who’s always there, quietly orbiting your world like he has nowhere else to be.

And you? You’ve always thought it was safe. Harmless. That what you had with Lando was strong enough to handle anything.

Until tonight.

The party is louder than you expected. Some sports PR guy’s rooftop bash in Monaco—half footballers, half Formula 1 regulars, all glowing under the soft blur of city lights and Champagne haze. You came with João, but you arrived separately. That unspoken rule you made to keep things quiet, at least for now. But the way he keeps looking at you tonight?

It’s like he doesn’t care who sees anymore.

He’s by your side more often than not, brushing your fingers when you reach for the same glass, leaning close to whisper something that makes you laugh even when you’re trying not to. You catch people noticing. But it’s Lando’s gaze that burns the most.

You don’t notice it right away. He’s been busy all evening, chatting with some Red Bull guys, half-distracted. But when João wraps an arm around your shoulders from behind, laughing into your ear about some player’s terrible dancing—

You feel it.

The shift in the air. Lando’s eyes on you.

You turn, and he’s standing just a few feet away. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression freezes you. He’s not smiling. His drink hangs forgotten in his hand. He looks like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

You step away from João instinctively. “Lando—”

He turns, walking fast, threading through the crowd. You follow, heart pounding, weaving between tipsy partygoers until you find him leaning against a stone planter on the quieter edge of the rooftop, where the music isn’t so loud.

He hears your footsteps and doesn’t look up.

You stop a few feet away. “Can we talk?”

He shrugs, but his voice is tight. “About what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, I do?” He finally looks at you, and it’s worse than you expected. His eyes are bright—not angry, not yet—but confused. Hurt. “So it’s true?”

You hesitate. It’s all over your face. He already knows.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you, taut and painful.

“For how long?”

“Not long,” you say, too quickly. “A few weeks.”

He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to explode. “A few weeks. And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t know how. It just… happened.”

“And what, you were hoping I’d never find out? Or were you planning to keep sneaking around behind my back until it got serious enough to go public?”

His voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp. Sharper than you’ve ever heard it.

“It’s not like that, Lando.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me. I saw how he looked at you tonight. That’s not new. That’s someone who’s gotten comfortable.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

You take a shaky breath. “I didn’t know you felt this way.”

“Bullshit.”

The word lands hard, heavier than it should. You flinch.

He steps closer, and now his voice is low. Steady. Almost broken.

“You’ve always known. Maybe not the first year. Maybe not even the second. But lately? You’ve known. You just didn’t want to deal with it.”

You try to speak, but he keeps going.

“I’ve been here. Always. Every heartbreak, every dumb decision, every late-night phone call. I was there when he didn’t even exist to you.”

He laughs bitterly. “And now I get to watch you fall for someone else. Someone who’ll leave again when the season’s over.”

“Lando, stop.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“No,” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Because it’s not fair.”

He stares at you.

You continue, quieter. “You don’t get to decide who I fall for. You don’t get to make this about how you feel when you never told me.”

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

“There’s no such thing.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Somewhere behind you, laughter bursts from the party. João is still out there, probably wondering where you’ve gone. But right now, you can’t think about him. Not when Lando’s looking at you like he’s losing something he thought was already his.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters. “Not tonight.”

He starts to turn away.

You reach for his arm, but he pulls back.

“Don’t,” he says. And then, softer: “Please. If you care about me even a little, let me go before I say something we can’t take back.”

You stand there as he walks off, disappearing down the staircase without a backward glance.

And you’re left alone on the edge of the rooftop, the night colder than it was before, your heart aching for two people at once—and knowing only one of them knows how to hold it without breaking it completely.

[ripmyselfxd]

Stars In The Dark | Max Verstappen

Summary - Before a glamorous F1 premiere, Max Verstappen struggles with his tie until you step in, grounding him with a quiet, tender moment. Later, after the spotlight fades, he plays a soft song and pulls you into a slow dance under the stars—just the two of you, far from the noise, wrapped in something real.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭

The early evening air in Monaco smells faintly of salt and champagne. You’re standing by the floor-to-ceiling window in the suite, gazing out over the sparkling coastline. The sun’s slipping toward the sea, casting long shadows over yachts bobbing in the marina. Down below, the world buzzes with anticipation—the red carpet is being rolled out, lights being tested, cameras adjusted.

Inside, it’s quiet. The suite is muted in color—cool grays, ivory, soft gold accents. Behind you, Max is pacing slowly between the mirror and the wardrobe. The sounds he makes are subtle, but telling: a quiet huff, the rustle of stiff tuxedo fabric, a curse under his breath in Dutch.

You glance over your shoulder and see him standing in front of the mirror, shirt tucked, jacket on, but his bow tie dangling uselessly around his neck. His fingers are clumsy with it, tugging and twisting in vain.

“I swear this thing has a grudge against me,” he mutters, squinting.

You smile, the kind of fond smile that grows without effort. “Do you want me to help?”

He turns toward you, a little sheepish. “Please.”

You step across the room, your bare feet making no sound on the cool hardwood. He stands still as you approach, tall and already dressed to perfection—except for that one detail. You reach up and gently take the ends of the silk tie from his fingers.

He lowers his hands, watching you, his usual sharpness softened by the hour. His cologne—warm, clean, a little spicy—settles around you as you step closer. Your fingers move automatically, folding the fabric into shape, adjusting the length, pulling the knot tight with care.

He tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “You’ve done this before,” he says quietly.

“Once or twice,” you reply, your tone equally soft.

The knot sits perfectly against his collar now. You smooth the edges of his lapels, your hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary. There’s a certain electricity between you—not loud or overwhelming, but constant, low and warm, like a current under the skin.

Max doesn”t move. His eyes search yours, not in a hurried way, but gently. “You always calm me down,” he says, voice nearly a whisper.

You press your palm lightly to his chest. “That’s the idea.”

There’s a knock at the door—his manager, reminding you both it’s time. Max nods but doesn’t look away from you until the door clicks shut again.

——

The car ride is short, gliding through narrow streets polished by twilight. Cameras flash as the car pulls up to the venue, and the air becomes brighter, charged. As soon as the door opens, voices call his name, flashes go off like fireworks. You start to move, but Max reaches for your hand before you step out.

“Stay close, alright?” he murmurs.

“Always.”

And then you’re walking side by side onto the red carpet. His grip on your hand is discreet but sure, fingers curled gently around yours. Reporters shout questions, fans call out, but Max stays grounded—grounded in your presence. You smile for the cameras, but your eyes keep finding his.

After the formalities, the two of you move inside. The ballroom is all velvet and gold, chandeliers dripping with light, the air buzzing with a hundred conversations and the clinking of crystal. You move through it together—posing when asked, greeting familiar faces, laughing quietly at shared jokes between glances.

But it’s when the attention shifts elsewhere—when the crowd turns toward the stage for a speech or a toast—that you feel it most: Max’s hand finding the small of your back, his shoulder brushing yours, the way he turns his face toward you with a quiet smile like you’re the only thing anchoring him in the moment.

Later, after the formalities and the flashes and the clamor begin to fade, you find yourselves slipping out to a private terrace. It’s quieter out here, high above the harbor. The sea reflects the starlight in ripples, and the air is cooler now, easier to breathe.

Max shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. He loosens the tie you knotted so carefully, not because he wants to ruin it, but because the night is finally winding down, and with you, he doesn’t need to perform.

You lean on the railing beside him, close enough that your shoulders touch. “Tired?”

He nods. “A bit. But this… this part’s good.”

You glance at him, and he meets your eyes. There’s a different kind of quiet between you now—not the anticipation of getting ready, not the noise of the crowd. This is softer. More real.

“Thank you,” he says after a while, his voice barely louder than the breeze.

“For what?”

“For being here. For making me feel like all of this isn’t just noise.”

You reach over and take his hand again, just like before, only this time there’s no camera flash to catch it. Just warmth. Steady, sure, yours.

He lifts your joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles—unhurried, reverent. Then he leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

“I don’t need much,” he says. “Just this.”

——

Max’s fingers brush gently again yours where they rest on the terrace railing, a silent request. You look over, and he’s already watching you, eyes warm, a little tired, but entirely present. The noise from the party drifts out in distant echoes, muffled by the glass doors behind you.

Then, without saying a word, Max pulls his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket. He taps through a few things, then sets it on the table beside you. Soft music begins to spill into the night—something slow, gentle, threaded with piano and longing. A love song that doesn’t try too hard. One you recognize, but only because it’s one of those he’s played quietly in the car after long races, when the world feels slower.

He holds out a hand, palm up.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

You hesitate, smiling, not because you don’t want to—but because the question feels like it carries more weight than just tonight. You place your hand in his.

The moment you do, he pulls you close—not too fast, just enough to bring you into the curve of his arms. One hand rests on your waist, the other holding yours as if it’s something rare. Precious. You fit there easily, like you’ve done this before, even if it’s the first time.

Your bodies begin to sway in time with the music. The terrace is quiet except for the soft melody playing between you and the occasional rustle of Max’s loosened tie brushing your shoulder. You tuck your head just beneath his chin, and he exhales like that’s exactly where you were meant to be.

“I’m not a good dancer,” he murmurs.

You smile against him. “You’re doing fine.”

“Only because you’re here,” he replies, and there’s no teasing in his tone—just truth, quiet and unguarded.

The stars above don’t need to be watched; they just shimmer like they’ve seen this before—two people suspended in a private kind of stillness, moving slow while the rest of the world spins fast.

His thumb brushes the back of your hand as you dance, over and over, like muscle memory. He doesn’t look around to see if anyone’s watching. He only looks at you.

After a while, the song ends, but neither of you moves to pull away. Another soft track starts, and it’s like a gentle invitation to stay just a bit longer.

You lean into him. “This is the best part of the night.”

“I know,” Max says softly. “It’s the only part that feels real.”

There’s a pause. He presses a kiss to your temple, his lips warm against your skin. It isn’t rushed. It lingers, like a promise.

“You make everything better,” he says, not looking for a reaction. Just saying it because it’s true.

And in that quiet space—his arms around you, your heart steady against his, the lights of Monaco scattered far below—you understand that even in the fast, glittering world of Formula 1, Max has made room for something slow. For something gentle. For you.

[ripmyselfxd]

Every Wednesday, I will post a poll of the F1 drivers. You will have a chance to vote who will be in my next story. Requests get posted no matter who wins the poll.

I will most likely post the two (or three) top drivers of the vote and their stories will be posted. This poll will go on every Wednesday.

[ripmyselfxd]

Better Keep Quiet | Oscar Piastri

Summary - In the McLaren garage, you work during the night to perfect the car to peak condition for the Bahrain Grand Prix. Not knowing that Oscar Piastri would watch you, and eventually you’d end up in his hotel bed, tangled in the sheets with him, as his engineer and now lover.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟

“Oscar!” You had gasped as his hands slid under your McLaren engineer shirt. His cold bare hands sending shivers up your spine as his hands moved up your body.

“Shh, you’re going to get us caught, eh?” He murmurs in your ear, breath hot against your skin as he pulls you even closer.

Your heart pounded as his fingers trailed down your arm, sending shivers through your body. You should have pushed him away. You should have. But instead, you leaned into him, your resolve crumbling like a sandcastle under the tide.

---

It had started weeks ago, a subtle tension that neither of you could ignore. You were an engineer for McLaren, and he was their rising star. The rules were clear—fraternization between drivers and staff was strictly forbidden. But rules didn’t stop the way your eyes locked across the garage, or the way your stomach flipped whenever he smiled at you.

Tonight, after qualifying in Bahrain, the garage was empty except for you. The team had gone back to the hotel, leaving you to make last-minute adjustments to the car. You hadn’t expected Oscar to show up, but when he walked in, his presence filled the space like a lightning strike.

“Still working?” he asked, his voice smooth and low.

You looked up from the laptop on your desk, surprised to see him. “Just tweaking a few things. What about you? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check on the car.”

The lie was obvious, but neither of you called it out. Instead, you stood there, the air between you crackling with unspoken desire.

“You did really well today,” you said, trying to break the tension. “Pole position is impressive.”

He smiled, but there was something darker in his eyes. “Thanks. But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You laughed nervously. “I just work on the car. You’re the one driving it.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking another step closer. “But you’re the one who makes it go fast.”

Your breath hitched as he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. It was a small touch, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Oscar…” you started, but he cut you off.

“Don’t say it,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Don’t tell me to stop.”

You wanted to. You should have. But instead, you let him pull you closer, his hands sliding around your waist. His lips were inches from yours, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“This is a bad idea,” you murmured, even as your hands found their way to his chest.

“Probably,” he agreed, his lips brushing against yours. “But I don’t care.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle or tentative—it was desperate and hungry, like he’d been holding back for weeks and finally couldn’t anymore. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you melted into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair.

The world outside the garage ceased to exist. There was only the taste of him, the feel of his body pressing against yours, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless.

“We can’t do this,” you said, even as your hands clung to him.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Because… because it’s against the rules.”

He laughed softly, his lips trailing down your neck. “Since when do rules matter?”

You knew you should protest, but the words died on your lips as his hands slid under your shirt, his fingers warm against your skin. Your breath caught, and you arched into him, your mind racing as he explored every inch of you.

“Oscar…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin.

You hesitated. You should have told him to stop. But instead, you pulled him closer, your lips finding his again as the world dissolved into heat and need.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours as his hands roamed your body. You gasped as he unbuttoned your shirt, his lips trailing fire down your collarbone. Every touch, every caress left you craving more, your body betraying your better judgment.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire. “Are you sure about this?”

You nodded, unable to form words. He smiled, a slow, predatory grin that made your knees weak.

“Good,” he murmured, his hands sliding lower.

But before he could go any further, a loud noise outside the garage startled both of you. You froze, your heart racing as reality came crashing back.

“We… we should stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours. “Yeah. Probably.”

But neither of you moved, still tangled together in the dim light of the garage. The air between you was heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension.

“This isn’t over,” he said finally, his voice low and determined.

You nodded, your heart pounding as he pulled away.

“See you tomorrow,” he said with a wink before disappearing into the night.

You stood there for a moment, your body still humming with the memory of his touch. Your mind buzzing with the feeling of just him. And you needed him tonight, and you weren’t going to stop.

——

The hotel corridor was silent, the only sound the soft shuffle of your feet against the plush carpet. Your heart thrummed in your chest, a wild rhythm that matched the pulse between your thighs as you approached his room. You’d never done anything like this before—sneaking into a driver’s room, especially one as off-limits as Oscar. But the memory of his kiss, his taste, his touch, had been looping in your mind all evening, leaving you restless and aching. You couldn’t stay away.

You knocked lightly on the door, and it swung open almost instantly. There he stood, silhouetted by the dim light from the room behind him. Oscar’s shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the taut muscles of his chest, and his hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it in anticipation. His eyes were dark, hungry, and they locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. Before you could respond, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and then his body was pressed against yours, pinning you to the wall. His lips crashed onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue slipping into your mouth with a possessive urgency that left you dizzy.

Your hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head. “Not yet,” he growled, his mouth trailing down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran down your spine, and you arched into him, craving more of his touch.

He released your wrists and dropped to his knees in one fluid motion, his hands sliding up your thighs and under your skirt. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, and he yanked them down in one swift motion. Cold air hit your bare skin, followed immediately by the heat of his breath as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing against your inner thigh.

“Oscar,” you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair as he pressed a soft kiss to the sensitive skin just below your navel. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with desire, and then his mouth was on you, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles around your clit.

Your legs trembled, and you braced yourself against the wall, moaning as he teased you, his tongue flicking lightly against your most sensitive spot. He was driving you mad, taking his time to explore every inch of you, savoring the way you squirmed and gasped above him.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured against you, his voice muffled but thick with need. He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right to make you cry out. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking gently as his fingers worked in and out of you, building a steady rhythm that had your hips rocking against his face.

You were already close, teetering on the edge, but he didn’t let you fall—not yet. He pulled back, letting out a low chuckle as you whined in frustration. “Patience,” he said, rising to his feet and scooping you into his arms. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently before stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. His pants followed, revealing the hard length of him straining against his boxers.

You reached for him, but he caught your hand again, shaking his head. “My turn,” he said, his voice a low growl. He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs and gripping your hips. He dragged you closer to the edge of the bed, leaving no space between you. Then he was inside you in one swift thrust, filling you completely.

You cried out, arching your back as he began to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace that had you clawing at the sheets. His hands moved to your breasts, kneading and teasing your nipples as he fucked you with long, deep strokes that left you gasping for air.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his hips snapping against yours as he picked up the pace. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tightly as he drove into you harder and faster. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through your body, and you could feel yourself tightening around him as pleasure built like a storm inside you.

“Oscar,” you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounded into you relentlessly. Your orgasm hit you suddenly, crashing over you like a wave and leaving you trembling in its wake. He didn’t stop—if anything, he fucked you harder, chasing his own release as your walls clenched around him.

With a guttural groan, he came inside you, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled himself deep within you. He collapsed on top of you, his breathing ragged as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as the echoes of your shared pleasure faded into the quiet of the room.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of sheets as you both came down from the high. Finally, Oscar lifted his head, meeting your gaze with a look that was equal parts satisfaction and something darker—something that sent a shiver down your spine.

He kissed you again—slow and deep—before pulling away and leaning back on his elbows. “This changes everything,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.” And he’s right. This changes everything.

[ripmyselfxd]

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[ripmyselfxd]

Something In The Woods | Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri

Summary - You, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri retreat to a remote forest cabin. One night, they go to get firewood—but return changed, inhuman. As you flee into the woods, you discover the forest itself is twisted, time loops, and reality unravels. You realize too late: the cabin has trapped you in a nightmare you’ll never wake from.

⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎ ⚠︎︎

DARK - BE WARNED

You almost didn’t come.

The whole thing felt off from the start.

A remote cabin Lando had found online—no address, just coordinates—tucked deep into a forest with no trails, no nearby towns, and a one-lane road that barely looked drivable. But they’d both been so excited. Lando promising total isolation, Oscar calling it “a detox from the real world.”

After the past season, the idea of quiet sounded good. You said yes.

You wish now you hadn’t.

The first day was fine. Peaceful, even. The trees went on forever, thick and dark and old. The cabin creaked, but in that charming, old-wood kind of way. A fireplace sat at the center of the main room, the heart of the place. You spent the evening laughing about past races, toasting to the silence with cheap whisky. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

But then the fire started burning differently.

First, the smoke—curling in odd patterns, coiling down instead of up. Then the smell—sour, like rotting pine and old blood. And then the dreams started. Flickering things. Faceless people in the woods. Something watching from the trees. Something waiting.

You wake on the third night to silence so total it feels hostile. Like sound itself has been pulled from the air.

The fire’s low, its last embers sighing into the dark. Your breath fogs the air. Every log is burned. Lando and Oscar are already up, standing by the door in boots and jackets. No one speaks.

You sit up, voice dry.

“Where are you two going?”

“Wood’s out,” Oscar says. His voice is quiet. Too quiet. You think he’s smiling, but you can’t be sure. “We’ll grab more. Stay here.”

Lando adds, “Don’t let the fire die.”

Then they’re gone. Just like that. Vanished into the pitch-black forest, where even the moon won’t follow.

You stoke the last of the heat, but it’s not enough. The cabin groans like something alive. Every shadow presses closer, like they’re straining to reach you. You try your phone again: no signal. Not even the emergency kind.

Minutes pass. Then more.

You check the clock, but the hands aren’t moving anymore.

You hear something outside.

At first, it’s a whisper. A rustling too fast to be the wind. Then a low sound—wet, like meat dragged through snow. You back away from the window.

Then they return.

Lando and Oscar step inside without knocking, without calling out. Just standing in the doorway, framed by darkness. Dripping wet—but not from snow.

Their clothes hang oddly. Torn in places. Burned in others. Their eyes shimmer like oil on water.

You speak. “What the hell happened?”

They don’t answer. They smile.

And it’s wrong.

Their mouths stretch too wide, too flat. Oscar’s teeth don’t match—some are longer, sharper. Lando’s skin has something beneath it. Pulsing. Moving.

“We found something,” Lando says. His voice echoes. But he’s standing right there.

Oscar walks forward—glides, almost—and crouches by the fire. He stares into it with a kind of reverence. “The forest isn’t empty,” he says. “It’s full. It just hides well.”

You step back. You’re shaking now, but not from the cold.

“What… what happened to you out there?”

They both turn to look at you.

Lando’s eyes are solid black now, like polished stone. “We saw it,” he whispers. “We let it in.”

Oscar grins wider, until the corners of his mouth split just slightly. Blood—or something darker—glistens down his cheek.

“Don’t fight it,” he says. “It’s better this way. Quieter.”

The fire dies with a hiss. The room goes cold. The shadows close in.

You stumble back, heart pounding, fingers fumbling for the door. But the cabin shifts. Walls breathe. The doorframe pulses, narrowing, closing like a mouth.

They start walking toward you. Not running—walking. As if they know you won’t make it far.

“You don’t have to run,” Lando says softly.

You should’ve run sooner.

You don’t think.

You just bolt.

Your body lurches into motion before your mind catches up. You crash past the warped furniture, shove through the door—if it can still be called that—and into the forest. You don’t know if the door opened or unfolded, but the cabin seemed to breathe as you left, exhaling rot and smoke into your back.

The cold bites. You’re barefoot. It doesn’t matter.

Behind you, their voices slither out across the snow.

“There’s no leaving, you know.”

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

The forest is wrong.

Branches bend inward like ribs. The trees loom too close together, but the more you run, the more the woods stretch—open for you. Snow crunches beneath your feet but makes no sound. The stars vanish behind the canopy like they’ve turned their backs.

Every instinct in your body is screaming they aren’t following you—

They’re already ahead.

You stop. You try to breathe. You try to think.

Then you hear it.

Not footsteps. Not howling.

Laughter.

Far too close.

And it’s not coming from their mouths.

It’s coming from above.

You glance up—and almost drop to your knees.

Because hanging from the branches are things wearing their faces.

Lando’s grin, but stretched to cover the length of a jaw that isn’t bone anymore.

Oscar’s eyes, too wide, with pupils spiraling out into black cracks.

Their mouths hanging open, chests split wide like peeled fruit, ribs blooming outward, empty.

And the bodies twitch—once, like puppets on invisible strings. They look dead.

But Lando and Oscar are behind you, aren’t they?

You spin around—

And there they are, standing between the trees.

Still smiling.

Still… wearing themselves.

Only now, their skin doesn’t look like skin. It’s too thin, too tight. Something pulses underneath, like wet roots crawling just beneath the surface. You see something move under Lando’s jaw. Like fingers pressing out from inside.

Oscar speaks. His voice is layered, glitching, inhuman.

“It doesn’t like when things run. It likes when they beg.”

He raises one arm—slowly, reverently. Something black and tendril-like unfurls from his sleeve, curling into the snow like a tongue.

Lando steps forward, head tilting in a jagged twitch.

“We tried to resist. We fought it. But it just keeps taking pieces. Little by little.”

His grin widens. His teeth are no longer white. They’re yellowed, splintered. Too many.

“It started with our thoughts.”

They’re closer now.

“Then our bones.”

You scream. Not words—just noise. Raw, panicked, primal.

You turn and run again, deeper into the woods, but they’re not woods anymore. Trees twist into towering black shapes. The snow hisses and writhes like a thousand snakes beneath your feet. The wind moans in a language you almost understand—and that’s what terrifies you most.

You see a light.

Faint. Flickering. Warm.

You don’t question it—you run to it like your soul depends on it.

And when you burst into the clearing, heart in your throat, lungs full of knives—

You stop dead.

It’s the cabin.

Again.

But it’s not the cabin you left.

It’s older. Rotting. Doors hanging off. Roof caved in. Windows covered in black vines that move.

You’ve run in a circle—but time has looped, too.

You take one step back—and hear a voice behind you.

Your own.

“Don’t go in. It’s already inside.”

You spin—and standing there is you.

Or what used to be you.

Your face, pale and gray. Your hands raw and cracked. Your eyes—

Empty.

And then you hear them coming again.

The forest begins to scream.

And now you know:

You never left the cabin.

The moment the fire died, it took you.

You’ve just been running in its dream.

And it’s almost finished with you.

[ripmyselfxd]

Off Limits | Charles Leclerc

Summary - As Max Verstappen’s child, you’ve always lived by his one rule: never date an F1 driver. But after a chance meeting with Charles Leclerc at a post-race party, one conversation leads to a night of unexpected connection. By morning, it’s clear this is more than a fling — and despite the risks, neither of you wants to let it go.

┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐ ——┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐

The party raged on around you, a blur of champagne flutes and glossy designer dresses, but you weren’t really part of it anymore. Not once Charles started talking to you.

You were leaning against the balcony railing, Monaco glittering below like spilled diamonds on velvet. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the harbor, waves rolling gently under the hum of yachts and laughter. And next to you, Charles was all warmth — a sharp contrast to the cool breeze brushing your arms.

He wasn’t trying to impress you. That’s what struck you first. He didn’t lead with headlines or fast laps. Instead, he asked you about you. About your studies. Your interests. How you coped with growing up in the ever-tightening fist of F1.

“My mom used to make me play piano before I could even say ‘kart,’” he said with a crooked smile, nursing a drink that had long gone flat. “I think she thought music might soften whatever motorsport hardened.”

You laughed quietly, looking out at the coastline. “Did it work?”

He tilted his head. “Maybe. Depends on who you ask.” Then, softer: “What about you? What did your dad make you do?”

You hesitated.

He noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “That was—”

“No, it’s okay.” You turned to face him fully now. “He didn’t make me do anything. Not exactly. But it was always clear what not to do. What not to want.”

Charles nodded slowly, understanding without prying. “He’s… intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

That made him laugh — low, unguarded. You smiled, and for a beat, you just looked at each other. A pulse of something electric passed between you. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real.

A sudden cheer from inside broke the moment — someone had started a drinking game with Lando and Carlos in the center of the suite. You turned toward the noise, but Charles leaned closer, his voice near your ear.

“Want to get out of here?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He didn’t take your hand like some movie scene. Instead, you walked side by side, wordlessly weaving through the party crowd. Your pulse raced when someone turned — a Red Bull engineer — and for a second, you thought you’d been recognized. But they were too deep into their own fun to care.

Downstairs, the streets were quiet compared to the rooftop chaos. Monaco was asleep, save for a few night owls and the distant buzz of scooters. Charles walked a little slower now, more relaxed.

“Do you want to go back to mine?” he asked, then quickly added, “Only if you want to. No pressure.”

You glanced at him. There was no edge in his tone, no arrogance — just a quiet invitation. A chance to extend the night.

You nodded.

His suite was high up, overlooking the port. The lights from the track still lingered, casting faint shadows on the sleek, modern interior. He offered you a glass of water, then sat across from you on the couch, resting his arm along the back.

“This is weird, right?” you said with a small smile.

“Why?”

“Because I think my dad would have a stroke if he knew.”

Charles exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah… Probably.”

But then he leaned forward slightly. “But this—” his gaze locked with yours “—this doesn’t feel wrong.”

You held that stare for a moment, your heart thudding like a drum. Then you closed the space between you, slow and unsure at first. His lips met yours gently, and it was like something clicked — like all the noise, all the expectations, all the warnings melted away.

The kiss deepened, a quiet urgency blooming between you. His hands found your waist, cautious at first, then more certain as you moved to straddle him on the couch. His touch was warm, grounding, not rushed. He kissed like someone who had nothing to prove but everything to give.

Your fingers ran through his hair, his curls soft beneath your touch. He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, breath shaky.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. There was no music, just the sound of your breath and the distant hum of the city. You moved together in unspoken rhythm, as if you’d done this a hundred times before. His hands explored your back, your arms, the nape of your neck — never grabbing, only holding.

When he finally guided you to the bedroom, it wasn’t with urgency. It was with care.

He peeled off his shirt and looked at you like you were something delicate. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Are you?”

His smile was all warmth. “I’ve been waiting to find someone who gets it.”

And then the rest of the night unfolded like a dream.

There were no masks, no names, no teams — just two people finding comfort in each other’s arms. The way he whispered your name. The way your fingers traced the curve of his jaw. The way he held you afterwards, his heartbeat steady under your cheek as dawn started to bleed into the sky.

“I don’t want this to be just one night,” he said quietly, his voice rough with sleep and sincerity.

You looked up at him. “Neither do I.”

But you both knew nothing would be easy from here.

Max was going to find out.

The media would feast.

The paddock would buzz.

—

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Not the kind from sunlight — though there is that too, a soft golden glow spilling in through the open curtains — but the kind that radiates from the person beside you. Charles.

Your eyes blink open slowly, adjusting to the light as your fingers curl into the white sheet beneath you. The room smells like expensive soap, faint cologne, and sea breeze. It’s unfamiliar, but comforting in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

He’s still asleep.

You shift carefully onto your side, the movement causing the duvet to slide slightly. Charles is facing you, his mouth parted slightly, curls mussed and cheek pressed into the pillow. He looks impossibly peaceful — younger somehow, stripped of the media-ready smile and the tension he carries after every qualifying session.

For a moment, you just watch him.

And then the reality begins to creep in, quiet and slow like the sunrise.

You spent the night with Charles Leclerc.

Ferrari driver. Monaco’s golden boy.

And the one person Max Verstappen would absolutely lose his mind over.

Your father’s words echo in your memory, sharp and cold:

“They’ll use you, or worse, distract you. That world’s not built for love.”

But last night hadn’t felt like distraction. It hadn’t felt like anything staged or dangerous. It had felt honest. Two people hiding from the weight of legacies and finding a sliver of peace in each other.

Charles stirs, and you freeze slightly. Then his eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep. When they land on you, he smiles — slow, unguarded.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice thick and warm from sleep.

“Hey,” you reply, your throat tight with something you can’t quite name.

There’s a beat of silence before he reaches over, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

“You’re still here,” he says, almost surprised.

You give a soft laugh. “Would you have minded if I wasn’t?”

His brows knit together, just for a second. “Yeah. I think I would’ve.”

You feel your cheeks heat as he shifts closer, one arm sliding around your waist. He pulls you in gently, his forehead resting against yours. The intimacy of it is overwhelming — not just the physical closeness, but the trust in it. No pretense. No hiding.

Not yet.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, as if reading your thoughts.

“I am,” you answer truthfully. Then, after a pause: “But… I don’t think this is going to be easy.”

Charles sighs, his breath warm against your cheek. “No. Not with who your dad is.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” He says it instantly, with so much certainty it makes your heart stutter. “Last night was the first time in a long time I felt like… I wasn’t being watched. I wasn’t performing. It was just me. With you.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat. You can feel the weight of the day already pressing on your shoulders. The texts waiting on your phone. The inevitable questions. The silence from Max when he realizes you’re not in your hotel room.

Charles sits up slightly, rubbing his eyes before glancing at the clock on the nightstand.

“You don’t have to go yet,” he says, almost nervously. “But I get it if you need to.”

You sit up too, the sheet pooling around your waist. The morning light hits your skin, and Charles’s eyes soften again, like he wants to memorize the way you look right now — messy hair, bare shoulders, sleepy expression.

“I don’t want to go,” you admit. “I just don’t want to be found out like this.”

“I’d never let anything bad happen to you,” he says quietly. “Not from me. Not from anyone.”

It’s not a grand promise. It’s not even a solution. But it matters.

Eventually, you pull on one of his shirts, oversized and soft from wear. He watches you from the bed, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

“You look better in that than I do.”

“Liar.”

He laughs, then gets up too, tugging on some joggers before disappearing into the small kitchen. You follow the smell of coffee and find him barefoot, hair still a mess, focused on the machine like it’s the final lap of a race.

It’s the most normal you’ve seen him look. No sponsor logos, no pressure, no eyes.

“Do you have a secret apartment where we can hide forever?” you tease, hopping up to sit on the counter.

He chuckles and hands you a steaming mug. “Unfortunately, no. But I’d run away with you to one.”

You sip your coffee slowly, the weight of everything not yet crushing — just hovering.

“We’ll figure it out,” Charles says, looking at you with quiet determination. “Whatever this is. If you want to.”

You look at him. Really look.

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s star driver. Charming. Kind. Disarmingly sincere.

And you? The one person he probably shouldn’t have let into his world — and the one person who understood it perfectly.

“I do want to,” you say.

And for now — despite the texts, the headlines, the inevitable storm of your father’s disapproval — that’s enough.

[ripmyselfxd]

My Peace | Max Verstappen

Summary - After his Grand Prix win, Max comes home to you. No cameras, no crowd—just a quiet dance on the balcony, and the kind of love that makes it all worth it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The race is over.

But your heartbeat is still trying to catch up.

The crowd, the thunder of the engines, the tension that clung to the pit lane—it’s all still echoing in the back of your mind as the car takes the winding roads up into the hills. Monaco stretches below you in golden lights and winding alleyways, the city alive with the energy of the Grand Prix. People are still celebrating. Still drinking. Still shouting Max Verstappen’s name like he just conquered the world.

He kind of did.

But now, it’s just you and him. Alone at last.

The apartment is quiet as you enter, the soft click of the door muffling the city behind you. Max lingers near the entrance, dropping his keys on the marble counter and standing still for a moment. You watch his chest rise and fall, slowly, like he’s only just starting to decompress.

He peels off the top half of his race suit, tying the sleeves around his waist in that casual way he always does. His Red Bull shirt clings to his skin, damp and slightly creased from the heat and sweat of the race. His hair is a mess. His face is tired. And somehow, all of it makes him look more real than ever.

You walk over to him, gently pressing a hand against his chest. “You’re quiet.”

He looks down at you, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s loud out there.”

You nod, running your thumb just above his collarbone. “And in here?”

“Peaceful,” he says, without hesitation.

You lean into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, and he exhales like he’s been waiting for this moment all day. Maybe longer. His arms close around you slowly, and when he rests his chin lightly on top of your head, you feel the tension leave his body in waves.

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “I could’ve stayed on that podium all night if it meant more points, more photos, more everything. But the second they handed me the trophy, all I wanted was to come home.”

“To me?”

“To you.”

You feel it then—not just his words, but the weight of them. You’ve been there for every early morning flight, every crash, every media storm. You’ve seen the adrenaline highs and the soul-crushing lows. And yet here you are, arms around the man the world sees as untouchable, unstoppable, bulletproof. And he’s holding you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“I don’t care about the interviews,” he murmurs. “The points, the champagne… They all blur together. But I remember your face on Turn 4. Every time.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You were actually paying attention to the crowd mid-race?”

His smirk deepens, that familiar glint in his eye. “You underestimate how well I know your silhouette.”

He takes your hand then, guiding you through the open glass doors to the balcony.

The view never gets old. Monaco is laid out beneath you like a treasure map—boats rocking gently in the marina, string lights winking across terraces, the occasional echo of music drifting up from a yacht party below. But here, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes when you’re above the noise.

Max stands behind you for a moment, hands on your waist, chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You close your eyes, letting the breeze wash over you. Then you feel it—his hand slipping into yours again.

He hums. Some cheesy, slow song he probably won’t admit is one of his favorites. “Dance with me?”

You let out a breathy laugh, turning to face him. “There’s no music.”

“There’s enough.”

He pulls you close, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours gently. You fall into the rhythm of nothing—just the quiet pulse of your joined heartbeats, the faint hum of the city below, the brush of his thumb against your back. You sway together under the night sky, a private celebration no trophy could match.

You look up at him as he leans his forehead to yours.

“Tonight felt different,” he says softly.

“How?”

“I didn’t feel like I had something to prove out there. I just felt… like I wanted to get through it and get home to you. That’s never happened before.”

He looks away for a second, as if he’s afraid of how raw that truth sounds.

But then he adds, “You’ve changed the way winning feels.”

The words settle into your chest like warmth. You squeeze his hand tighter.

He kisses you slowly then—deliberate, unhurried. Like time itself is something he’s finally willing to let go of.

You both stand there for what feels like hours, the world around you spinning quietly on without demand.

Eventually, he murmurs, “Come with me.”

He leads you back inside, barefoot now, unguarded. He pours you both something from the bottle left on the counter—a gift from someone earlier in the day that neither of you had paid attention to. You sit together on the edge of the couch, legs tangled, your head resting on his chest as he absently runs his fingers through your hair.

You talk about nothing. About how the tire degradation surprised him, how his radio cut out for a moment during Lap 38. He asks if you saw the sparks from the undercarriage when he overtook in Sector 2. You laugh, because of course you did—you always notice him.

At one point he goes quiet again.

“What?” you ask, glancing up.

He shrugs, then kisses your forehead.

“Just making sure this is real.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[ripmyselfxd]

Faster Than Thunder | Lando Norris

Summary - During a loud thunderstorm, your frightened 4-year-old son runs into your bedroom while you and Lando are cuddling. Seeking comfort, he snuggles between you both. Lando calms him by explaining that thunder is just the sky having a race, helping him feel safe enough to fall asleep in your arms.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The rain started softly that evening, just a gentle patter against the windows as you and Lando put your son to bed. He’d picked out the same storybook he always did when the sky looked unsettled—The Brave Little Racer—and you both took turns reading it, voices low and comforting while the wind began to pick up outside.

You had kissed his forehead and tucked the blanket under his chin. Lando gave him a goodnight squeeze, whispering a promise: “We’re just down the hall, okay, champ? Nothing’s going to get you.” Your little boy had nodded, but you’d seen it in his eyes—he wasn’t convinced.

By the time you made it back to your bedroom, the storm was in full swing. Thunder cracked like the sky was being torn apart, lightning illuminating the room in sudden, surreal flashes. You crawled beneath the covers, curling into Lando as he pulled you close, his hands instinctively smoothing over your back in small, sleepy circles.

“Poor guy hates storms,” you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by the layers of warmth and cotton.

“He gets that from you,” Lando teased gently, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I love storms.”

You snorted, already half-asleep. “You love driving in storms. There’s a difference.”

Lando chuckled, the sound low and sleepy. “Still counts.”

You stayed like that for a while, limbs tangled, hearts quiet. The thunder rolled in again, louder now, deep and shaking the walls slightly. Somewhere out there, the storm was at its peak.

Then came the soft sound—barely audible over the rain—but unmistakable.

Footsteps. Fast. Hesitant. Small.

The bedroom door creaked open just a little. You turned your head on the pillow just in time to see him: your son, standing there in his dinosaur pajamas, clinging to his stuffed tiger like it was a lifeline. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with fear.

“Sweetheart,” you breathed, sitting up just a little. “Come here.”

He wasted no time, running across the room and climbing up onto the bed. He nestled himself firmly between you and Lando, pressing his small body tight against your side, shaking slightly. His face buried into your chest, like he was trying to disappear into you.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. “It’s okay. It’s just thunder.”

Lando turned toward you both, still groggy but already reaching to pull the blanket over the three of you. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly, brushing the hair from your son’s forehead. “You okay?”

Your boy didn’t answer, just whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as another clap of thunder roared through the sky.

Lando leaned closer and said, “You know what I used to think when I was your age?”

Your son sniffled. “What?”

“I thought thunderstorms were the sky having a race,” Lando said, his voice gentle and rhythmic. “The clouds were like racecars, zooming around, and every time you heard thunder, it meant one of them just made a big move.”

Your son peeked out from under the blanket. “Like… like DRS?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. Even terrified, your son’s love for racing always found a way to poke through.

“Exactly,” Lando grinned. “And the lightning? That’s the sparks when they go full throttle.”

Your son smiled for the first time since entering the room, a little hesitant but real. He looked up at both of you, eyes brighter now, still damp but less panicked. “Then the sky’s really fast.”

“The fastest,” Lando said, tapping his nose. “But not faster than me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Debatable.”

Another roll of thunder echoed outside, but this time, your son didn’t flinch. Instead, he shifted under the covers and curled into the space between you and Lando, letting out a long, tired breath. You felt his small hand reach out under the blanket, grasping for yours. You took it. His other hand found Lando’s.

And in that quiet moment—he finally felt safe.

The storm carried on outside, fierce and wild, but inside this room, it was just the three of you. Safe. Still. Wrapped in each other.

Lando kissed your forehead, then your son’s. “Our brave little racer,” he whispered.

You lay back, one hand on Lando’s chest, the other cradling your son. The storm was no less loud, no less fierce. But in this room, everything was calm.

And somehow, that was enough.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[ripmyselfxd]

Through The Storm: 24 Hours at Le Mans | Lando Norris

Summary - Lando Norris races at Le Mans, but a rainstorm causes a serious crash. He survives with minor injuries, and though the team retires, he remains determined to race again.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

You’d always known Lando Norris was fast—dangerously fast—but nothing prepared you for the way things unfolded at Le Mans. The way the engines roared under floodlights, how the track never slept for a moment in 24 hours. And how everything—fame, focus, even friendship—could be shaken in just a few seconds on a wet stretch of tarmac.

It started like a dream.

The air was thick with fuel, tension, and adrenaline. You stood near the pit wall, your team radio slung over your shoulder, watching Lando gear up for his next stint. He grinned at you before climbing into the cockpit—still the same cocky, funny, ridiculously charming friend you’d known since before the world worshipped him.

“You better be awake when I come back,” he joked through the helmet mic. “Bring snacks. And maybe a medal for how sick I’m about to be.”

You laughed, not knowing how those words would sit in your chest just hours later.

Hour 1–9: Glory in Motion

Lando’s first stint went as smooth as silk. Night fell over the Circuit de la Sarthe like a curtain dropping over a stage, and he carved through the darkness like it was made for him. The hybrid engine whined like a banshee through the Mulsanne Straight. The team’s eyes never left the monitors, and you found yourself pacing like a parent outside an operating room.

He came in once, twice—each time looking more wired than tired.

“You good?” you asked during his second stop, slipping a protein bar into his glove.

“I was born for this.”

He wasn’t wrong. By hour nine, your team had climbed into podium contention, and Lando was pulling a double stint, because he insisted on staying in the zone. Rain was forecast for the early morning hours, but it didn’t matter then. He was flying.

You barely slept. Between the timing screens, pit stops, and Lando’s radio banter (“Tell the other teams I’m still handsome at 3 a.m.”), you were wide awake. Wired like he was. Proud, too. You saw the fire in his eyes every time he passed the pit straight.

Hour 10–14: Cracks in the Night

By hour ten, the mist began to roll in.

You felt it before you saw it—a shift in the air, like the track was holding its breath. The announcers started murmuring about slick spots near Arnage, about visibility dropping. The other drivers grew cautious. Lap times stretched. But not Lando.

“No grip on the tires,” he reported over the radio, voice calm but clipped. “But I can handle it.”

You believed him. He’d driven in worse, hadn’t he? Rain in Monaco. Chaos in Spa. He knew his limits—or at least, he used to.

The team manager hesitated before replying. “Copy that, Lando. Watch for standing water into Indianapolis.”

“Yeah, I see it. Still pushing.”

You clenched your jaw. Something about the way he said it didn’t sit right. You knew him. You’d spent enough time watching him race to sense when he was gambling. And this? This was a coin toss in a hurricane.

Hour 15: The Crash

It happened at 5:12 a.m.

You remember the silence first—the long, unnatural silence in your headset when he missed his check-in. Then the static crackled. Then:

“McLaren number 4—massive impact at Tertre Rouge!”

The words hit like a punch. You dropped the coffee you were holding and sprinted toward the monitors, your heart thunderclapping in your chest.

The camera feed showed chaos. His car was a wreck—twisted carbon fiber, wheels at impossible angles, smoke bleeding into the cold morning air. Marshals swarmed the scene. The safety car deployed instantly. Then the radio buzzed.

“I—this is Lando. I’m… I’m here.”

You sank to your knees with relief. His voice was shaking. You could barely hear him over the crackling line.

“Can you hear me?” you called into your mic, fingers trembling.

“I lost it… hit standing water. No control. Couldn’t save it.”

The medics reached him. You watched through glassy eyes as they helped him out, wincing with every step he took. He limped, clutching his ribs, helmet still on, hands stained with carbon dust. He looked at the camera and gave a thumbs-up.

You couldn’t breathe until you saw it.

Hour 16–24: Aftermath

The next few hours were a blur of hospitals, headlines, and heartbreak.

He was lucky—ribs bruised, not broken. Concussion protocol. Nothing life-threatening, but everything life-changing. You sat by his side in the medical trailer, his fireproof suit shredded at the elbows, IV drip taped to his arm. Still trying to be the funny guy.

“I told you I’d come back,” he whispered hoarsely. “I just didn’t say how.”

You didn’t laugh.

Not until later, when you helped him sneak a doughnut past the med staff.

The team retired the car officially at hour 17. A silent note on the leaderboard. Everyone kept working around you, but the energy had shifted. No one pushed the same way. The magic of the race was gone.

Still, Lando kept asking about lap times. Your team’s position. The weather.

“You’re done, mate,” you said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You gave them everything.”

He stared at the ceiling for a long time before replying.

“I didn’t come here to survive the race,” he said. “I came here to win it.”

The Morning After

By hour 24, the sun broke over Le Mans like a promise. Crowds cheered as another team crossed the finish line. Cameras flashed. Champagne sprayed.

But you weren’t there.

You were still in the medical unit with Lando, the two of you watching the end on a tablet screen. He didn’t say much. Just nodded once.

“You’ll be back,” you told him.

“I know.”

And the way he said it, you believed him.

Because even through pain, through rain, through twisted wreckage and shattered dreams—Lando Norris still looked like he was born for this. And you’d be there when he came back.

Maybe with snacks.

And that medal he joked about.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[ripmyselfxd]

Monaco Magic | Max Verstappen

Summary - After winning the Monaco Grand Prix, Max Verstappen kisses you—his secret girlfriend—revealing your relationship to the world in a moment of love and triumph.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

You’re pressed against the rail, just beyond the paddock, heart pounding so loudly you swear it rivals the growl of the engines. The Monaco sun glints off the harbor, dazzling and hot, but you barely feel it. All your focus is on the screen in front of you—on the last few corners of the final lap.

Your fingers tremble slightly as Max rounds Rascasse. You know this circuit like the back of your hand by now—not from driving it, but from watching him pour his soul into it, year after year. This place is unforgiving. Legendary. A win here doesn’t just earn you points; it earns you legacy.

He’s in the lead. By seconds.

The tension coils tighter in your chest. You know him—how he drives when he smells victory, how he guards the lead like something sacred. And you know better than anyone just how badly he wants this one.

The final straight.

The checkered flag waves.

You don’t hear your own scream of joy—only the eruption of the Red Bull pit wall, the champagne being prepped behind you, the announcers losing their minds.

Max Verstappen has just won the Monaco Grand Prix.

And nobody knows you’re his girlfriend.

Well… not yet.

You stand frozen for a second, caught between the urge to rush to him and the invisible wall you’ve both carefully built for months. You two have guarded your relationship like it was part of the strategy. No Instagram tags. No media leaks. Just hidden smiles, private texts, hotel hallways at midnight. Monaco was supposed to be no different.

But something in your chest cracks when you see him climb out of the car.

He doesn’t even glance at the cameras or the broadcasters circling like vultures. He pulls off his helmet, shaking out his damp curls, and instantly—instinctively—his eyes search for you.

And he finds you.

The look in his eyes is everything. Relief. Pride. Love. There’s something fierce in it too—like he’s decided, right here, right now, that he’s done hiding. That this moment is too big, too real, to pretend anymore.

Your feet move before you realize it.

You duck under the barrier, ignoring the startled glances from team members and PR staff, heart hammering like a second engine in your chest. He walks straight toward you. No hesitation.

“Max,” you whisper, breathless, half in disbelief that you’re doing this.

He grins. “Come here.”

And then he kisses you.

Not a fleeting peck. Not a quick, concealed moment behind a garage.

This is public. Passionate. Unapologetic.

His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. Your fingers twist into the back of his fire suit, still warm from the race. The taste of adrenaline and victory lingers between your lips.

Cameras flash like lightning. Somewhere, someone gasps. A journalist practically drops their mic.

But Max doesn’t care.

When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, breathing fast, smiling so wide it makes your eyes sting with emotion.

“They know now,” you whisper with a nervous laugh, cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he says, voice low, firm. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you in front of the world.”

You blink up at him, stunned.

And then you smile.

He laces his fingers through yours and turns to face the chaos—paparazzi, reporters, fans leaning over balconies. Some are cheering. Some are filming. Some are just staring, trying to figure out who you are.

But Max holds your hand tighter.

He’s not letting go.

The podium ceremony is a blur after that. You watch him climb to the top step, champagne bottle in hand, national anthem blaring. He points to you once. Not to the crowd. Not to the camera.

To you.

You catch Christian Horner giving you a knowing look. Checo gives Max a smirk that says, finally. Even Helmut cracks something like a smile.

And when the press conferences begin and the questions inevitably come—“Who was that girl you kissed?” “Are you two dating?”—Max doesn’t deflect.

He just smiles that devilish grin and says, “Yeah. She’s been mine for a while.”

It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and oddly freeing all at once. The world knows now. There’s no going back.

But when Max finds you later that night—after the interviews and the celebrations, after the suit is off and the cameras are gone—and he pulls you onto the balcony of your hotel suite overlooking the glittering city, you realize you wouldn’t go back even if you could.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both look out at the shimmering lights on the water. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You lean into him. “I am now.”

And with his arms around you, Monaco glowing beneath you, and the weight of secrecy lifted off your shoulders, you feel it in your bones:

This isn’t just a race he won.

It’s a new beginning.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[ripmyselfxd]

Unfinished - Lando Norris

Summary - After Lando crashes out of the Monaco Grand Prix, you find him alone and upset. He feels like he’s let everyone down, especially you. You remind him he’s only human and that he hasn’t disappointed you. In that quiet moment, you comfort him—and that’s enough.

Content - Comfort and fluff, disappointment

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

You’d known before the car hit the barrier that something was wrong.

It was barely a whisper of a slide—one tiny misstep through the chicane, a wobble you wouldn’t even notice unless you knew the rhythm of his driving like a heartbeat. But you did know it. And you felt it, deep in your chest, just a half second before the impact came.

The monitors in the garage flared with static and gasps. Team members froze. Radio silence. And you… you forgot to breathe.

“Is he—?”

“He’s moving.”

Someone behind you murmured it, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t hear the rest. You were already moving.

You found him where you knew he’d be—away from the cameras, tucked behind one of the McLaren transport trucks. Everyone else had flocked to the podium, the pit wall, or the press area, but he sat alone, on a battered black flight case, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

Helmet off. Race suit rolled to the waist. Hands in his hair.

You hesitated for just a second. You’d seen him like this before—frustrated, disappointed. But this felt heavier. Different.

So you approached without a word and sat beside him.

He didn’t look at you. Just sighed, sharp and exhausted. “I screwed it.”

Your heart tightened at the sound of his voice. “Lando—”

“All weekend. We were so close. The car was finally where I wanted it. I had it. And I just…” He made a short, bitter laugh. “Overdrove one bloody corner. Like a rookie.”

“You’re not a rookie,” you said gently.

He shook his head. “Might as well have been today.”

His fingers rubbed at the back of his neck, where the sweat was drying. You knew better than to try and cheer him up with stats or silver linings. He didn’t want logic. He wanted to feel the sting, even if it wasn’t fair to himself.

“I hate letting the team down,” he muttered. “Hate that they put everything into this, every hour of every day, and I just threw it away. And I hate that you flew here for nothing.”

Your breath caught. You turned to him.

“I didn’t come here for a trophy,” you said. “I came here for you.”

That made him glance sideways at you, brows furrowed. “Yeah, well, you got the broken version.”

“I don’t care what version you are. Broken, pissed off, covered in carbon fiber dust—I’m still proud of you.”

That cracked something in his expression. A little light, a little vulnerability.

He looked down at your hand resting between you and, slowly, his fingers found yours. He didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t need to.

You let the silence hang there, comfortable now. Just the distant hum of paddock life moving on, the clatter of equipment, the echo of podium celebrations far away.

“I thought this might finally be the one,” he said eventually, voice quieter now. “The win.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand. “And it still will be. Just… not today.”

He leaned back against the side of the truck and pulled you with him, so your shoulder touched his. For the first time since the crash, he let himself exhale properly, the tension bleeding from his body inch by inch.

“I really hate how much this hurts,” he admitted.

“That’s only because it matters so much.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but it was something. His eyes stayed on the horizon, on the empty bit of track just barely visible past the trucks.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured.

“No, I just see the you that you forget about on days like this.”

He looked at you again, softer this time. And then, finally, he rested his head lightly against yours.

And in that quiet little corner of the paddock, with the world still racing around you, Lando Norris let himself fall apart a little.

Because he knew—without question—you’d be there to help him put the pieces back together.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[ripmyselfxd]

My Princesa - (João Felix)

Warnings- Dad João!!

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚.

“Go, Go!!” João’s voice rung through the backyard as he encouraged your 4 year old daughter, Liliana, to kick the ball into the small net. “Goal!!” João yelled as he ran over to Liliana, picking her up and placing her on his hip. “Estou tão orgulhoso de ti!” (I'm so proud of you!) João said in Portuguese while kissing her face. She giggles, grabbing João’s face and squishing it between her small hands. João lets out a heartily laugh, setting her back onto the soft grass. João picks up the ball, juggling it with his feet. Liliana looks at him amazed, her eyes wide and full of curiosity. You chuckle, watching the two bond. You were sat at the outdoor table underneath a canopy, the sunset going behind the trees that secluded your backyard. Liliana walks over to you, asking for water which you happily gave her. João follows her, smiling at you as he sat next to you.

“I’m so glad we have a family.” He said softly while taking a sip of his water, staring at the setting sun. “You’re my everything, you both are.” He muttered while placing a soft kiss to your lips. You kissed back, running a hand through his hair. After your kiss he gets back up and picks Liliana up, kissing her all over the face before setting her back down on the grass and dribbling the ball, telling her certain things like “Kick the ball in the goal.” Or “Don’t pick it up!” You watched the two interact, feeling a strong sense of love, protection, and happiness when you’re with them.

“Okay, time for bed!” You call out to the two after another hour or so. João looks up and you with a pout, Liliana also looks up at you with a pout. “Aw come on darling, 5 more minutes!” João says to you, while picking up Liliana. Liliana pouts as João takes her inside, you follow them to Liliana’s bedroom. “But me don’t want to go bed!” Liliana says, her English isn’t the best because her first language is Portuguese, but she manages to say some sentences. You smile at her and pick her up, “Daddy will sing to you, how about that?” You ask her while setting her in the bed. João looks at you with a smirk but walks over to Liliana and sits down on the bed and starts to sing a Portuguese lullaby. You watch them both, taking in every small detail. After João sings the lullaby he walks over to you, putting an arm around your shoulder. “Good night, princesa.” João says as you shut the door. “I love you” you say to João as you both sit on the couch next to each other. “I love you too, darling.” João says as he pulls you closer to him. “I’ve dreamed of a family like this forever. And now I get one.” He says as he kisses your head. “One perfect family…”

[ripmyselfxd]

Forgotten - (João Félix)

Warnings- Just angst

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

It was the middle of June and João was coming back to yours and his hometown because it was a short break week from Chelsea’s training. You were so excited because João had been your best friend since kindergarten and he’s finally coming back after about 6 and a half years. Your families had always been close so he was coming over for dinner one night with his family. Yes, you were very excited but also nervous. When you two were 12 he made a promise. A promise to love you forever and come back to you. To start a family with you. You believed that… until last year. You gave up.

So here you are, stuck in your hometown working as a journalist for your local sports news station. Making just the right amount of money to get you by. You or your family was never rich, but you didn’t need to be rich when you had people you love.

「 ✦ 6 Years earlier ✦ 」

“João?!” You call out, wondering where he went. You were playing hide and seek with João, and you couldn’t find him. “João?!” You call out again, “I give up!” You had called out into the darkness. “Boo!” You jumped, looking behind you to see João. “João!” You smacked his arm playfully, “don’t do that.” He chuckled and took a step closer. “Do I.. frighten you?” You giggled and shook your head no. He chuckled again and touched your cheek, “Do you mind if I..” Your breath hitched and you stood still, ‘Is this really happening?’ You asked yourself. Sure enough, it was. His lips were soft, and irresistible. You had kissed back, wanting to savor the moment.

After the kiss you two had sat down on a log, João talking about his dream to play for Barcelona and Atlético de Madrid. “So you want to leave?” You asked him, slightly confused that he’d want to leave you, his best friend. He smiled and looked into your eyes, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” He said while holding your hands, “And when I come back, we’ll get married. We’ll start a family.” You smiled and asked him “Really?” He nodded, “Really.”

「 ✦ End of Flashback ✦ 」

You snapped out of your thoughts, as you were stood on the shower, washing up before João and his family came over. You cracked a smile as you washed your hair, “He’s actually coming back for me.” You said to yourself as you finished washing your hair and getting out of the shower. “He’s actually gonna do it.” You said again. You wrapped yourself in a towel and walked into your bedroom, opening your drawer and picking out a black oversized shirt with red and orange lettering- ‘Let’s watch the sunset’ on the back. For bottoms you wore simple Nike black athletic shorts. You walk out of your room, hearing voices down the stairs. ‘Oh gosh, he’s here. Okay, okay. Calm.’ You say to yourself.

You walk down the stairs, seeing brown fluffy hair, a tall figure wearing a Chelsea shirt. João. He looks even better than last time you saw him. “H-hello!” You say to João’s parents. They turn around, “Oh, darling! You look so beautiful!” His mother says to you while giving you a hug. “Thank you!” You say back, being as polite as possible. “Hello, Mr. Félix.” You say, pulling away from the hug and hugging his dad instead. He chuckled, his chest vibrating as he hugged you. You pulled away, your eyes meeting brown ones. João. He looked hot. He was much more muscular than before and more handsome. He gave you a friendly smile, pulling you in for a hug. “It’s been so long! I missed you.” You chuckled at his words nervously, his scent fulling your nose. “Yeah.. I missed you too.” He pulled away and smiled at your mom, “I heard there’s… dinner?” Your mom chuckles and leads their family towards the dinner table.

After dinner you and João take a walk, down a beach talking about college and grades. After some time you ask him, “So, do you remember last time we were here..?” You ask nervously. He smiles and looks up, thinking. “Uh, no, I don’t believe so. Why?” Your heart shatters into a million pieces. ‘He doesn’t remember he said he’d come back?’ You asked yourself in your head. He stops, looking at you slightly concerned “What’s wrong?” He asks, oblivious to what he said years ago. You look up, mad and depressed. You repeated what he had said years ago, as you spoke you saw him starting to remember. “Oh..” he said after you finished. ‘Oh? Oh?! That’s all he has to say?!’ You thought. You collected your thoughts, “so?” You ask, “Have you come back for me?” You smile. He smiles back, “uh, there’s something I need to tell you..” he takes a deep breath. “I’m dating.” You felt like your heart had been stepped on and punched. “Who?” You asked genuinely curious. “Margarida Corceiro.” You had heard about her, a cheater. “Margarida Corceiro?!” You asked, furious now. He nodded and you scoffed, “a cheater? Wow, João, I thought you~” “Wow, wow, wow.” He interrupted you, “Margarida is not a cheater.” You laughed hysterically, “yes she is João!” He shook his head, getting mad, “No she is not.” You rolled your eyes, walking further down the beach, expecting him to follow you.

He didn’t.

He stayed put, looking at you with shock and disgust. You looked back at him, “What?” He shook his head, “What’s wrong with you? You can’t just accuse her of doing something!” You sighed and tried to convince him “Listen she’s no good~” he interrupted you once more, “Well maybe if you had someone you wouldn’t be so jealous.” You looked at him with side eyes, “jealous?” You asked, shocked that he would say something like that. He nodded “Yes, jealous.” He shook his head before walking back to your house. You stood there even more heartbroken, how could he say something like that? You’re not jealous… but you were. You were jealous that he told you that he’d be back. But not for you. It was never meant to be, never for you. And now he is gone, once again.

[ripmyselfxd]

Why João Félix was not in the Chelsea line-up ↴

I am very sorry, we love you João! 💙🤍

[ripmyselfxd]

I thought - (Lamine Yamal)

Warnings- SAD, angst, mean-ish Lamine, suggestive part at the end

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★

It was the last day of school, and it was your senior year. Lamine, one of your closet friends was at a school game with you, the last game of the year. You were sat next to Lamine, watching as the game starts. Lamine kept glancing at you, something he’s been doing all year. You had been friends since 7th grade and now you’re both graduating, but you’ve liked him ever since 7th grade.

“¡¿Qué?! ¡Eso estuvo tan cerca!” (Aw, what?! That was so close!) Lamine exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. You chuckled at his exclamation, fining it adorable. He looked over at you and laughed, “What?” You out shook your head. “It was just funny.” He leans closer saying, “Oh, was it?” You got a bit flustered but kept with the act. “Yeah..” He chuckled again and leaned away. The heat of his body no longer there.

The game ended in a win by 3 pints, a close game. Everyone started leaving, one by one. When Lamine got up, you grabbed his hand, looking up at him, “Uh, stay for a minute?” He nodded, slightly confused he sat down. “So… why do you want me to stay?” He asked confused. You avoided his gaze, telling yourself not to look at him because you wouldn’t be able to tear your gaze away. “Uh-I-I have a-a confession..” You said, your voice shaking slightly. He smiled and nodded, “Okay,” He said in a cheerful tone, “go on.” You gulped, slowly looking up to meet his beautiful brown eyes. ‘He’s too beautiful’ You thought to yourself. “Uh… I-i,” You decided you would go for it, take the leap of faith. What’s the worst that could happen? You took a deep breath before saying; “Lamine, I have a huge crush on you and I have ever since 7th grade.”

Lamine freezes, his smile turning into something more… cold. “What?” He asked, not in a happy or cheerful voice but a monotone voice. You cleared your throat, repeating yourself. He stayed quiet for about a minute. His expression unreadable. “Uh, I-i don’t like you. I’m sorry but, you’re not my type at all. I don't like… pick me girls..” You froze, trying to show no emotion but failing. “Oh, a p-pick me girl? You think I’m a pick me girl?” You stand up, now furious that your best friend thinks you’re a pick me girl. He immediately tries to take back his words, “W-well I’m just telling the truth..” He said. You chuckled, looking down while saying “Wow, never thought my best friend would say that.” Lamine stayed quiet. A blank expression on his face. “No sorry?” You asked, looking at him with hurt. “I don’t apologize to girls like you.”

This hit a nerve, tears brimming your eyes as Lamine showed no remorse. “I can’t believe I called you my friend!” You run out of the stadium, running to your car, not looking back because you knew Lamine wouldn’t follow you. Though, there was a small part of you that hoped that he was running after you, wanting to fix what he just broke. But you know that was wishful thinking as you got into your car, looking at the stadium before putting your keys in your car and driving off. Crying, you drive home feeling a mix of emotions.

Once you got home you immediately went up to your room, not wanting to talk to your parents in the kitchen. You shut the door, climbing into your bed and crying into your pillow. ‘Why am I so stupid? He could never want ME.’ You thought. Your thoughts soon started to consume you, making you feel even worse. You felt like throwing up. Yes, you didn’t have to go back to school tomorrow because you just graduated but the thought sickened you.

————————-————

A couple of days later you where still laid in your bed, watching heartbreak movies and eating ice cream and Chick-fil-A. There is a knock on your bedroom door, “Come in!” You called out to the person. ‘Surely it’s not Lamine~’ you thought. It can’t be.

Like any cheesy romance fiction, it was Lamine.

He opened the door, guilt and pain was plastered on his face. Your face hardened, and you went back to watching the movie. “What do you want?” You asked in a cold voice, not bothering to look at him. He looked down, standing in the doorway he spoke “I-I wanted to say sorry. That was rude of me.” You scoffed, getting out of bed and walking over to him. “Look at me.” You said sternly. He did. “You think a ‘sorry’ fixed what YOU broke?” He shakes his head, looking at you with a guilty expression. “Sorry doesn’t fix a shattered plate.” He winced at your sentence, now feeling even worse than before. “I know that. But I want to try.” He grabbed your hands, his grip firm but soft. “Please, don’t shut me out… I-I love you..”

That was a lie. He had his lying face on. This was all a lie, a lie to get you to be his friend. A lie to become ‘popular’ again.

“No.” He smirked, backing you up against the wall, “What do you mean ‘no’?” You took a deep breath, “No, you just want me to make you popular again.” He rolls his eyes, “Nah, I love you~” he started to kiss your neck, going to your collarbone. You pushed him away and motioned to the door, “Out. I don’t fall for playboys.” His smirked dropped and he backed away “You’ll be coming back to me in a week, just you wait.” He said while heading towards the door. “I won’t.” You responded, confident, “And good job, you lost your friend.” You shut the door in his face, locking it for extra measure. You then went back to your bed and continued watching movies, while Lamine was outside, in the rain, shocked, and confused. ‘Sorry doesn’t fix a shattered plate.’