swiftiethatlovesf1

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.25

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 24 here it is :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

You sat at the long table in your label’s glass conference room, half-listening to your manager flip through slides on a big screen about streaming numbers and charts. Outside the windows, New York’s skyline glittered in the afternoon sun — but inside, it was all numbers, numbers, numbers.

“…and as you can see,” Erika, your manager, said, tapping her pointer at a giant chart, “the album hit top ten in eight countries, and Breakaway is sitting comfortably at number four on the Billboard Hot 100. Not bad for two weeks out, huh?”

You smiled, a little dazed but proud. “Not bad at all.”

Your assistant, Asha, leaned closer, whispering, “Understatement of the year. It’s huge.”

You bit back a laugh. Maybe it hadn’t fully sunk in yet — that these songs you’d written in the messiest, rawest days of your life were now on playlists around the world. Sometimes it felt unreal — like you were watching some other girl living your life through a pane of glass.

And sometimes, especially lately, it felt like maybe that heartbreak had been the start of something new. Something soft and cautious and hopeful. Something — someone — who made you believe your songs could sound lighter again.

“Okay, so…” Erika flipped to the next slide, which was just a calendar crammed with dates and logos. “Let’s talk what’s next. I know you’ve earned a break, but the label wants to strike while the iron’s hot. We’ve got the New York gala this weekend — you’re the label’s star guest. Then there’s the record store signing in LA the week after. And then…” She shot you a knowing smile. “Qatar. For your… PR engagement with McLaren.”

Your cheeks heated, but you hid it behind a polite nod. “Right. Qatar. Can’t wait.”

The word Qatar made something flutter in your stomach — which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t like you were flying across the world just to see a certain soft-spoken Australian driver. It was for PR. For streams. For the brand. That’s what everyone kept telling you.

And yet, when you thought about Oscar waiting there, all calm eyes and quiet jokes — well. It made the long flights feel easier.

“And after that?” Erika prompted. “Any plans? Creatively, I mean.”

You hesitated. In your bag, your phone was full of half-finished voice memos. Scraps of verses and lines — all softer, sweeter, messier than anything you’d written before. All because of him, though you’d never admit it. Not even to yourself.

“Yeah,” you said finally, feeling your lips curve into a real smile. “I’ve got some ideas. It’ll be different, but it feels right.”

Erika beamed, and Asha squeezed your hand under the table.

Erika beamed. “Perfect. That’s what I wanted to hear. We won’t rush you, but it’s great to have that in our back pocket. For now, let’s just focus on keeping your momentum. Parties, signings, the race weekend. Sound good?”

You nodded, feeling that tiny, fizzy excitement bubbling under your ribs. “Sounds good to me.”

The past two weeks had been a blur — but the good kind.

New York had swept you up in its glittering chaos. The label’s gala was packed with industry people you half-recognized from magazine covers and music videos, but you’d held your own, dazzling in your designer dress, making polite small talk and posing for too many photos to count. More than once, you’d caught yourself wondering what Oscar would say about the stuffy cocktail chatter and champagne flutes.

(You’d texted him a photo of the hors d’oeuvres tray. Tiny food. You’d hate it. He’d replied: I’d rather have drive-thru. You’d laughed out loud at the table, earning curious looks from a pop star beside you.)

Then LA had come and gone in a sunshine haze — fans squealing at the signing, posters and albums scrawled with your looping signature, everyone telling you how much your music meant to them. It still made your heart pinch every time someone said your songs saved me. Because secretly, you always wanted to say they saved me too.

And now… Qatar.

You were buckled into first class, tucked up against the window with your notebook propped on the tray table. Outside, the sky was endless blue above the clouds, but inside your head it was busier than any city.

Your pen tapped against your lip as you read over the lines you’d just scribbled:

Sometimes, I wonder: When you sleep Are you ever dreaming of me? Sometimes, when I look into your eyes I pretend you're mine, all the damn time

You smiled, thinking of a certain Australian boy who somehow had become more than a fake headline, more than a PR stunt — more than even he seemed to realise.

With a sigh, you leaned back into your seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and whispered to yourself: “Okay. Qatar. Let’s see what you bring me this time.”

You barely had time to drop your bags at the hotel before you threw on a floaty sundress and brushed a little life back into your jet-lagged face. The only thing louder than your racing thoughts was your growling stomach.

You stepped into the hotel restaurant, scanning for a quiet corner — only to freeze when you spotted Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz already holding court in the middle of the room, laughing over half-finished plates of pasta.

Lando spotted you first. He lifted his arm and waved so wildly you thought he might knock over his glass.

You mouthed, Me?

He nodded, laughing silently, and beckoned you over.

You crossed the room, trying not to look too shy about it. “Hey, boys. Sorry to interrupt…”

Carlos leaned back in his chair with a grin that could rival the sun. “Interrupt? You’re saving us from Lando’s terrible stories. Sit, sit.” He gestured to the empty chair between them.

Lando was already flagging down a server for another place setting. “Yeah, have dinner with us. Unless you had other plans?”

You laughed as you slipped into the seat. “My other plan was room service and crashing face-first into a pillow. But this is way better.”

They both chuckled.

“So, how’s the pop star life?” Carlos asked, propping his chin on his hand like a gossiping older brother. “And don’t tell me you’re just here for the PR. Have you secretly become an F1 fan now?”

You opened your mouth to answer — but Lando beat you to it, muttering just loud enough for you to catch, “Fan of Oscar, more like…”

Your eyes snapped to him and you shoved his arm playfully. “Excuse me, Norris. Care to repeat that?”

Lando laughed so hard he almost dropped his fork. Carlos just snorted into his water.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “I’m so sorry, Lando, that now you have to share him with me. Must be awful for you.”

Lando, still grinning ear to ear, shot back with faux innocence, “Don’t worry, he’s more than happy to spend time with you. I promise, you’re doing me a favour — keeps him out of my hair.”

Heat crept up your neck. You busied yourself unfolding a napkin, praying they couldn’t see right through you. Because sometimes, when Oscar texted you at 1 AM about the dumbest things — or when he said your name in that careful way he did — it didn’t feel like just PR anymore. But you didn’t dare believe it fully, not yet.

“Anyway,” you said, voice a little too high, “tell me about quali tomorrow. Are we feeling confident, or is it gonna be the usual chaos?”

And just like that, your doubts melted for a moment — replaced by their easy jokes, the clink of forks, and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’d found something real in the most unexpected place.

@justaf1girl, @bm571158, @raweceekk

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.35

Hii guyss, if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 34, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

You could barely feel the warm summer breeze drifting over the garden terrace — not when your whole body buzzed with the way Charles looked at you. 

Your hands were trembling, but Charles steadied them, like he always had, since the very first time your life threatened to shake you apart. He looked at you as though he’d never seen anything so sacred, his thumbs brushing slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you in the here and now.

The officiant’s words blurred behind the hammering in your chest. This is it. This is forever. You’d dreamed of it, you’d survived for it, you’d bled for it — and now you were about to speak it into truth.

Your voice trembled at first, but as soon as you met Charles’ eyes, clear and teary and impossibly soft, the rest came out like breathing.

“Charles…” you whispered, and his name alone broke something inside you — in the best way.

“From the moment I met you, you changed my world. You’ve been my calm when life was cruel, my laughter when days were heavy, and the only dream that made sense when nothing else did.”

You felt his fingers squeeze yours, urging you on when your eyes blurred with tears.

“You have always found your way back to me, no matter how far we drifted or how lost I felt. You never gave up — even when I did.”

A small, choked laugh slipped out, and you heard a murmur of sniffles from your family behind you, but your gaze never left his.

“I promise to stand by you on your best days and your worst. To fight for you, for us, even when the world tries to take you from me. I promise to be your home, always.”

Charles shook his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. A tear slipped down his cheek, and you reached up, brushing it away with your thumb. He leaned into your touch like a prayer answered.

“I choose you, Charles Leclerc. Every day, for the rest of my life. I love you — more than words, more than time, more than every finish line you’ve ever crossed.”

You felt the weight of the world lift off your chest as you finished, and he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers with such reverence you thought your knees might give out.

Then he began to speak. And even though you tried to brace yourself, you weren’t ready for how soft, how sure his voice was.

Charles inhaled shakily, but when he looked at you — just you — his voice came out strong, soft, and devastatingly certain.

“Mon amour…” he said first, and just the way he said it made your chest tighten painfully. “The day you came into my life, I thought I was just a boy who liked to drive fast. But you… you taught me how to live slow. How to breathe. How to want something so deeply it scared me.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb and kept going, never breaking your gaze.

“You have seen every part of me — the good, the reckless, the broken. And still, you stayed. You loved me anyway. There is nothing I could ever do to deserve you, but I promise to spend my whole life trying.”

Your lips parted to say I love you, but no sound came out — your heart was pounding too loud in your ears.

“I promise to fight for you when life is unfair,” Charles continued, his voice breaking. “To laugh with you when we’re old and grey. To hold you so close no storm could ever take you away from me again.”

He exhaled a trembling laugh, a single tear slipping down his jaw. You reached up and brushed it away, both of you smiling and crying all at once.

“You are my greatest victory,” he whispered, so quietly only you could hear it. “And my only finish line. I love you more than racing, more than winning — more than my own life.”

It felt like every person there disappeared. It was just him. Just you. Just forever.

The officiant’s voice, gentle but distant, cut through the fog: “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Your breath caught.

“Charles,” you whispered, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in.

The kiss stole the air from your lungs. It was soft at first — tender, reverent — but it deepened as the crowd around you erupted into cheers and laughter and clapping. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he tilted his head, kissing you like he’d waited a lifetime and would wait another if he had to.

You melted against him, hands fisting in his jacket as his lips moved with yours — an unspoken promise that you were safe, loved, and his. Always his.

“I love you, Mrs. Leclerc,” he whispered, and you laughed a broken, breathless laugh, barely managing to say, “I love you more.”

And when he kissed you again — slower this time, sweeter — you tasted forever on his lips.

The world erupted around you — applause, whistles, the faint sound of your mother sobbing with joy — but all you could feel was him.

His arms wrapped around you as if he would never let you go again. And you knew, deep in your bones, that he wouldn’t.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and giddy and shining with tears, you buried your face in the crook of his neck and felt his heart pounding against yours, steady and wild all at once.

Home.

Forever.

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16, @a-beaverhausen, @lol6sposts, @linnygirl09, @weekendlusting, @ladyoflynx

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Wildest dreams

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Charles one-shot inspired by Taylor Swift's Wildest Dreams.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my main masterlist.

They say Monaco is for the rich and restless — the yachts, the champagne, the winding streets where secrets slip between shutters and sunrise. For me, Monaco is Charles.

I met him on a terrace above Port Hercule, the night humming with music and laughter that spilled into the warm June air. He was leaning on the railing, city lights flickering behind him like fireflies trapped in glass towers. He caught my eye and smiled — devastatingly handsome, heartbreak tucked neatly beneath that grin.

"Let’s get out of here," he murmured, leaning closer so only I could hear. "Where?" I asked, heart already agreeing before my lips did. "Anywhere but here. Just you and me."

That was Charles. A storm you didn’t see coming until you were already dancing in the rain.

He drove me through the sleeping streets, past the Casino glowing like a jewel in the dark, past palm trees swaying against the cliffs. We parked above the city where Monaco spills into the sea, and sat on the hood of his car, legs tangled, sharing secrets too big for daylight.

"Do you ever get tired of all this?" I asked, motioning to the glittering city below. He looked at me — really looked. "Sometimes I just want to be a boy from here, and not… him." I knew what he meant. And maybe that’s why he chose me. I never asked for more than this.

Days melted like ice cream under the sun. We spent mornings in cafes tucked away from tourists — croissants, coffee, kisses hidden behind menus. Afternoons on his boat, me in his cap and oversized sunglasses, him laughing when I squealed at the cold sea spray. Evenings wandering the old town, my dress brushing stone steps older than both of us, his hand warm against the small of my back.

Monaco knew our secret — the way the breeze tangled my hair into his fingers, the way we pressed against each other in alleyways behind pastel shutters. "No one has to know what we do," he whispered once, pulling me closer, my laugh swallowed by his mouth.

Sometimes he’d sneak me into his apartment above the port. It was simple, sunlit, nothing like the grand hotels where everyone expected to find him. There, he wasn’t Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy. He was just Charles — bare feet, sleepy smile, kisses that tasted like salt and something sweet I could never name.

"Promise me something," I asked one night, lying tangled in his sheets, the moon a perfect coin above us. "Anything," he said, breathless against my collarbone. "Say you’ll remember me. Like this." He pulled back, eyes soft, mischief gone. "Even if it’s just in my wildest dreams?" "Yes," I whispered. "Then I promise."

Summer in Monaco is short — a fleeting fever of roses and sunburned shoulders, salt on your lips long after the waves retreat. I could see the end even as it began. Race season would come. So would his world — the cameras, the private jets, the people who’d never see me as anything but a summer secret.

On our last night, we climbed the hill behind the palace, the whole principality laid out below us like a story we’d written in stolen hours. I wore his white shirt over my dress. He pressed his forehead to mine, and for a moment I thought I could keep him here forever.

"I don’t want to leave you," he murmured. "Then don’t," I said, knowing he would. Knowing I would too.

When he kissed me goodbye at dawn, the sky painted itself in pinks and oranges so beautiful it hurt. His hands framed my face like he could memorize it into his bones.

"Say you’ll see me again," I begged, my voice shaking. "Even if it’s just pretend," he breathed against my lips.

I left Monaco with the taste of him on my tongue and salt dried on my cheeks. I never asked him to stay. He never asked me to follow. We didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, when the wind smells like the sea, I swear I feel him — his laugh at my ear, his hands in my hair, his promise echoing down the coast.

And maybe tonight, in some hotel bed between races and dreams, Charles sees me too — red lips, rosy cheeks, standing in a white dress as the sun sets behind the palace.

A summer we’ll never get back. A secret Monaco keeps for us alone. A love that lives on — even if it’s only in our wildest dreams.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.34

Hii guyss, I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 33 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race for your heart

You found Franco near his garage, leaning casually against a stack of tyres while talking to one of the engineers. The moment he saw you, his face lit up with that signature smirk of his.

"There's my princess," he said, pulling you into a quick hug. "Te extrañé." (I missed you)

You smiled, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace for a second before pulling back. "I was talking to Oliver just now," you told him casually.

The reaction was instant—Franco groaned, rolling his eyes. "Dime que es broma."

(Tell me it's a joke)

You sighed. "Oh, come on, Franco."

"What did he want now?" he asked, crossing his arms.

You rolled your eyes. "Nothing, okay? He introduced me to his girlfriend, which means you can finally stop with this nonsense of thinking he likes me."

Franco huffed, unimpressed. "The fact that he has a girlfriend doesn't stop him from having feelings for another"

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Really? That's the argument you're going with?"

"I'm just saying," he shrugged, his expression unreadable. "People stay in relationships for all kinds of reasons, but that doesn't mean they don't have feelings elsewhere."

You groaned in frustration. "Franco, please. Can you drop this? I need you to trust me on this. I just want you to be nice to him, that's all I'm asking."

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you. "Fine. If it's important to you, I'll be nice."

You smiled, placing your hands on his chest. "Thank you."

Franco arched a brow. "Pero no prometo que no lo voy a molestar un poquito."

(But I don't promise you that I won't annoy him a little)

You laughed, shaking your head. "Of course you won't."

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "So, what else did your friend Oliver say?"

"Oh." You bit your lip, suddenly feeling hesitant. "He invited me to hang out with him and his friends tonight."

Franco's grip on your waist tightened slightly. "¿And what did you tell him?"

"I said yes," you admitted. "But I want you to come with me."

He tilted his head, considering it. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to go hang out with Oliver and his little group?"

"Yes."

He let out an exaggerated sigh before finally nodding. "Está bien, princesa. I'll go. But just caused you asked."

(Okay, princess)

You grinned, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "I knew you'd say yes."

Franco smirked. "Yeah, yeah. You owe me for this."

You laughed, grabbing his hand. "Come on, let's go before you change your mind."

Later that evening, you and Franco returned to the hotel to change for the night out. After a quick shower, you stood in front of the mirror, debating what to wear. You settled on a sleek but casual outfit—something that balanced between looking good and not looking like you had put in too much effort.

Franco, however, was having other thoughts.

As soon as you were done getting dressed, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. "You know," he murmured, his lips grazing your skin, "we could just stay in."

You rolled your eyes but leaned into him slightly. "Franco."

"What?" His hands roamed over your waist, fingers teasing along the hem of your top. "I just think we could have way more fun here."

You turned in his arms, already recognizing that look in his eyes. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw before moving lower, trailing down your neck. His lips were soft, teasing, and deliberate.

Then you felt it—the slight suction of his mouth on your skin, just enough to make you realize what he was trying to do.

You pulled away with a knowing look. "Absolutely not."

Franco smirked. "What?"

"You know what," you said, poking his chest. "You're trying to leave a hickey."

He feigned innocence, but the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

"Yes, because we are not showing up with me looking like I just got attacked."

He sighed dramatically, letting his hands drop from your waist. "Fine, fine."

You shook your head with a smile and grabbed your purse. "Come on, we're already late."

A little while later, the two of you arrived at the restaurant-club where Oliver had told you to meet up. The place was lively, the warm lighting and upbeat music making it feel both intimate and energetic at the same time. You spotted Oliver near the bar, laughing with a few other people, and nudged Franco.

"There they are."

Franco groaned under his breath but followed you nonetheless, slipping his hand into yours as you approached the group.

You and Franco made your way through the crowded venue, greeting the group. The music was loud, and the energy of the place was contagious. You leaned in closer to Oliver, your hand resting lightly on his arm so he could hear you.

"Where's Estelle?" you asked over the music.

Oliver sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She got her period and wasn't feeling great, so she decided to stay at the hotel."

You nodded in understanding. "Give her my number so she can text me if she needs anything."

Oliver gave you a small smile. "I will. Thanks."

You returned to the group, falling into conversation and laughing at whatever ridiculous stories were being shared. It was easy, and comfortable—even Franco had relaxed, engaging with the others despite his earlier grumbling.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a familiar figure at the bar. Kimi.

A grin spread across your face. You turned to Franco, squeezing his hand briefly. "I'll be right back, I just saw Kimi."

Franco barely looked up from his drink, nodding. "Sure."

You weaved through the crowd toward the bar, excited to catch up with Kimi.

Franco's POV:

Franco took another sip of his drink, letting the cool liquid burn slightly down his throat. The night had turned out better than he expected, though he'd never admit it out loud. Seeing you so happy, surrounded by people you cared about, made it hard for him to keep up the act of indifference.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

At first, he ignored it, assuming it was just another message from one of his friends. But when it vibrated again, something in his gut told him to check.

Unlocking his phone, his jaw immediately tightened.

"Did you miss me?"

Attached was a photo.

The club. The same one he was standing in right now. The same bar, the same dim lighting, the same familiar silhouettes of people in the background.

He exhaled slowly, gripping his phone tighter. He knew exactly who sent it.

And that worried him.

His eyes darted around the room, scanning the crowd as a weight settled in his chest. He thought this was over. He thought he had made it clear.

But apparently, she hadn't gotten the message.

Tag list: @hs2016, @a-beaverhausen, @hhhs7

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.24

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 23 here it is :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

OSCAR'S POV

Oscar couldn’t stop smiling all the way back to his hotel.

It was embarrassing, really—he was fully aware of how stupid he looked, alone in his car, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

But he didn’t care.

She had kissed him. Okay, it was only on the cheek. But it was her who did it. Voluntarily. After an almost-kiss that he hadn’t been able to get out of his head for the last hour.

He parked, grabbed his bag, and practically floated through the lobby, nodding politely to the night concierge as if he weren’t having a full internal meltdown.

In his room, he threw his keys on the desk, dropped onto the bed for about two seconds, then forced himself to get up and shower—thinking maybe, just maybe, cold water would get her out of his brain.

Spoiler: it did not.

Twenty minutes later, hair still damp and towel tossed somewhere on the floor, he was pacing his room, phone in hand, debating something so profoundly stupid that he felt like a teenager.

But he needed help. Or at least a distraction. Which led him to exactly one solution.

He hit the video call icon next to Lando’s name.

It rang twice before Lando’s chaotic mop of hair and half his ceiling appeared on screen. “Mate, it’s—what—two in the morning? Did you crash your car or something?”

Oscar huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Worse, probably.”

Lando squinted, half asleep but clearly intrigued by the promise of gossip. “Did you finally say something dumb to her? Tell me you didn’t say something dumb.”

“I didn’t say anything dumb!” Oscar snapped, then muttered, “Probably.”

Lando cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be good. Spill. Or I’m hanging up and telling the entire paddock you called me crying.”

“I’m not crying,” Oscar grumbled. But he flopped down on the edge of the bed and gave in. “So. We went to the party, right? Then I drove her home. We got food. There was… almost a kiss.”

Lando’s eyes widened. He practically leapt out of bed. “Almost?! What does that even mean? Did you chicken out? Did she chicken out? Did you sneeze?”

Oscar groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Mate, we were this close. Then my phone rang. And now my brain won’t shut up because when I dropped her off—she kissed me on the cheek. And smiled. And left me here to die.”

Lando burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped his phone. “To die?! You dramatic Aussie. Bro, she kissed you. On purpose. This is not dying. This is winning.”

Oscar peeked through his fingers, annoyed. “Yeah, well… what do I do now? I can’t tell if this is still fake or not. Or if I’m making it something it’s not.”

Lando rolled his eyes dramatically. “Easy: next time, you kiss her properly. Like, for real. No phone interruption. And no ketchup on her face this time, please. God, you’re so tragic.”

Oscar scowled, fighting a smile. “You’re a terrible therapist.”

“And yet, you called me,” Lando said smugly. He pointed at the screen. “Listen, she likes you. You like her. This fake dating thing is the worst kept secret in the entire world at this point. Just don’t overthink it—kiss her when you want to. She clearly wants you to.”

Oscar fell back on the bed, phone hovering over his head, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome. Now let me sleep before I block your number forever.”

Oscar snorted. “Night, Lando.”

“Night, loverboy.”

The call ended, leaving Oscar alone with his thoughts—and the ghost of her lips on his cheek. He turned off the lamp, trying to be rational, to be calm, to be normal.

But he fell asleep smiling anyway.

The next morning, Oscar was lying on his hotel bed, phone balanced on his chest, when his PR manager called. He didn’t even bother sitting up.

“Morning, Oscar. Good news about your relationship,” they said, the quotation marks practically audible through the phone.

“Mm-hm?” he mumbled, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

“Public loves it. Seriously, this is the most positive your socials have looked in months. Her team’s on board too. We’re lining her up for Qatar—photos, paddock shots, a few appearances. It’s gold for both sides. You okay with that?”

Oscar smirked. “Sure. If she wants to come, fine by me.”

There was a pause, like the PR manager expected more excitement, then an awkward, “Okay, well… great. Keep doing what you’re doing. You two are very convincing. Don’t mess it up.”

“Yep. Got it. Thanks,” Oscar said, already opening his texts before they’d even hung up.

He typed:

Oscar: Hey. Just heard you might come to Qatar. Hope that’s not too much of a headache for you.

He scrolled through his gallery while waiting—found a random blurry photo of his dog back home and wondered if she liked dogs. He was halfway down that rabbit hole when her reply pinged:

You: Hey! Yeah, my manager told me too. Looks like you’re stuck with me again 😌

He smiled a little at that, then another message appeared before he could type:

You: Also… thank you for last night. For staying, for driving me, for just… being there. I’m really glad you came.

Oscar’s thumb paused over the keyboard. He blinked at the screen. Something warm settled in his chest that made him forget all the PR scripts and fake dating rules for a second.

He typed, slower this time:

Oscar: Hey. You don’t have to thank me for that. I’m glad I was there too.

Then, before he could second guess it:

Oscar: Looking forward to seeing you in Qatar.

He tossed the phone on the bed, an easy grin tugging at his lips as he muttered to the empty room, “Yeah. Really glad.”

@justaf1girl, @bm571158, @raweceekk

Next part

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Victory tension

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max x reader x George one-shot. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy it too.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

The moment I stepped out of the car, the roar of the crowd was deafening. The pit lane was a blur of orange, silver, and navy as engineers and mechanics swarmed their drivers. But I didn’t care. I had done it — I had crossed the finish line first. My first win of the season, and I had snatched it out of the hands of the two most relentless drivers on the grid: Max Verstappen and George Russell.

The cool-down room was quiet in comparison, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. I took a bottle of water from the table and flopped onto the white leather couch, still buzzing from adrenaline. My fireproofs clung to my skin, damp with sweat, but I didn’t care. I was grinning like an idiot.

Max came in next, tossing his gloves onto the bench and muttering under his breath. George followed close behind, his jaw tight, the disappointment radiating off him in waves. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I sipped my water, watching them from the corner of my eye. They were trying to ignore each other, but the way George rolled his shoulders and Max flexed his fingers told me everything. The replay was about to start on the big TV screen in the corner, and I knew exactly what part of the race it would show.

And there it was.

Lap 47. The battle between Max and George had been intense — wheel to wheel, corner to corner, neither of them giving an inch. They nearly touched three times in one sector. But while they were busy fighting each other like their lives depended on it, I had found the perfect opportunity. I’d stayed just close enough to slipstream and, with a late brake down the inside of both of them into Turn 9, I flew past. Clean. Efficient. Ruthless.

The room went silent for a beat.

Then Max scoffed. “Nice racing, George. You defend like you're trying to win a karting trophy.”

George turned slowly, his eyes narrow. “Excuse me? You were the one dive-bombing into corners like a lunatic. If anyone lost us the lead, it was you.”

“Oh, please,” Max snapped, stepping forward. “I wasn’t the one blocking like it was a game of bumper cars.”

“You just can’t handle someone not moving out of your way for once.”

They were fully facing each other now, the trophy-shaped table between them barely acting as a barrier. Voices rising. Arms flailing. Max’s face was flushed red; George’s jaw was clenched so hard I could see the muscle twitching.

I leaned back on the couch, sighing through my nose.

“Boys…” I muttered. “Shut up.”

Neither of them heard me.

“Seriously,” I said louder, sitting up now. “You’re both acting like—”

But they were too far gone, lost in their own heated standoff, throwing accusations like punches.

That’s it, I thought. Drastic measures.

Without standing fully, I grabbed Max by the fireproof collar and pulled him toward me. His eyes widened just a second before I pressed my lips to his in a firm, no-nonsense kiss. It was quick, but strong enough to completely derail him.

I let go and turned to George, who hadn’t even processed what he’d just seen. His mouth was open, eyes darting between me and Max like a malfunctioning robot. I reached out, hooked a finger under his chin, and kissed him too. His lips were soft and still from the shock, but I felt the way he froze and melted at the same time.

When I pulled back, I leaned into the couch again, finally smiling. “Finally, some peace.”

The silence in the room was… glorious.

Max was standing there, his hand touching his mouth like he was trying to make sense of what just happened. His cheeks were red, a very un-Max-like blush creeping up to his ears.

George looked stunned. Utterly speechless. He ran a hand through his already messy hair and blinked like I had short-circuited his brain.

I took another sip of water.

“You two seriously need to learn how to share,” I said with a teasing grin.

Neither of them said anything, still processing. The screen above us was looping the same overtaking clip again and again, but now it felt like ancient history.

Max cleared his throat finally, voice lower. “You can’t just… do that.”

I tilted my head. “Seemed to work.”

George opened his mouth, closed it, then finally said, “You kissed both of us.”

“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “And you both shut up. Effective strategy.”

Max sat down slowly on the bench across from me, his eyes still fixed on me like he couldn’t decide whether to argue or do something much worse. George joined him, still dazed.

We sat like that for a while. Max trying to act composed, George stealing glances, and me, basking in the glorious, awkward silence I had created.

Outside, the fans were still screaming. Inside, there was only the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sounds of two very confused men trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

And me?

I just smiled.

Peace had never tasted sweeter.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.34

Hii guyss, if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 33, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

The morning sun poured in through the windows, golden and warm, casting gentle shadows on the suite as the room hummed with the quiet chaos of preparation. The sound of soft laughter, popping champagne, and the rustle of silk and satin filled the air. Hair dryers whirred. Brushes clinked against makeup palettes. Your closest friends and family moved around you, glowing with excitement and love, creating a bubble of joyful calm that kept the weight of the day from overwhelming you.

Your mother zipped up your gown with slightly trembling fingers, pausing only to kiss your bare shoulder and murmur, “You look like a dream.”

You smiled at her through the mirror, heart thudding. Your gown shimmered in the light—elegant, timeless, with delicate lace cascading down your back and soft ivory tulle trailing like a sigh behind you. You felt radiant. You felt whole.

Your bridesmaids surrounded you with a flurry of last-minute checks—fixing your veil, patting down invisible wrinkles, handing you sips of water through a straw like you were made of glass. One of them brought over the perfume Charles loved most on you, misting it gently across your collarbone.

You caught your reflection again and blinked. That’s me. I’m getting married.

Somewhere in the suite, your childhood friend cued the playlist—soft music swelling as your little cousin peeked in, ready to scatter flower petals. 

Then came a knock. Light. Hesitant.

Everyone stilled. Your maid of honor approached the door, brows furrowing. “We’re not ready yet—”

“It’s Arthur,” said a voice behind the door. Quiet. Raw. “Just for a second. Please.”

You froze.

The room held its breath. Your heart leapt to your throat.

You nodded once, and the door creaked open.

Arthur Leclerc stood there, a shadow of the boy you used to know and the man he was becoming. His suit was neatly pressed, but his tie looked like he’d put it on in a rush. His eyes, though — they were soft. Emotional. Tired. And full of something you hadn’t seen in a long time: clarity.

He stepped in carefully, glancing around before his gaze landed on you. And when it did, his mouth trembled into the faintest smile.

“You look…” he trailed off. “There isn’t a word strong enough. Stunning doesn’t even come close.”

You walked toward him slowly, bouquet held to your chest, uncertain for a moment. But then he opened his arms, and it felt like coming home.

You buried your face into his shoulder, breathing him in. It smelled like cologne, hairspray, and something familiar you couldn’t name — the ghost of who you both used to be.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, holding you tight. “For everything. For the hurt I caused. For letting my obsession with proving something—proving myself—nearly destroy the two people I love most in the world.”

You pulled back slowly, meeting his gaze. His eyes were full of regret.

“I was so lost,” he went on, voice breaking. “I was jealous. Of you, of him, of what you had together. And instead of facing that, I tried to compete with it. Like a fool. I turned your happiness into some kind of rivalry, and I pushed you both away. God, I pushed so hard, and when it all came crashing down, I thought I’d never deserve to be let back in.”

“Arthur…” your voice cracked.

“I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you. Of who you are. Of what you and Charles have. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I know that now. And I’m so grateful that, somehow, after all the pain, you found space in your heart for me again.”

You blinked fast, your vision swimming. “You were always my family. Even when you forgot it for a while.”

“I’ll never forget again,” he promised. “Never.”

You smiled through your tears. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled too, shaky but real. “I’ll be right there in the front row. Trying not to cry. But I’m not making any promises.”

You laughed, and he kissed your forehead softly, the way he used to when he’d ruffle your hair after teasing you.

Then he looked over your shoulder at your parents, standing together near the archway.

“I’ll let you go,” he said, stepping back. “You’ve got a forever waiting for you.”

With that, Arthur gave you one last nod — respectful, reverent — and quietly slipped out.

You stood there a moment longer, gathering yourself, your heart fuller than it had been in years. The room began moving again. Your veil was adjusted. Your bouquet straightened. Your mother took your left hand. Your father, your right.

“I remember the first time you played pretend wedding in the garden,” your mom whispered with a teary smile. “You made us walk you down the path then, too.”

“Some things don’t change,” your dad added, kissing your temple.

You grinned, a mix of nerves and joy. “Thank you both. For everything.”

The music outside began to shift, the chords of your entrance song floating toward the suite. The doors to the ceremony slowly began to creak open.

And there you stood — framed by light, dressed in love — with your parents beside you and your heart ahead of you.

It was time.

You took a deep breath.

And walked down the aisle.

CHARLES'S POV

His fingers fidgeted at the cuffs of his suit jacket. Not out of nerves, but anticipation. A kind of quiet disbelief. He stood at the altar beneath an arch of white florals and soft greenery, the world around him moving in a soft blur.

His mother sat in the front row, beaming. Lorenzo and Arthur were beside her. Arthur — back, finally. He'd returned. Charles had shaken his hand that morning, hugged him tightly, and simply said, "Thank you for coming." That had been enough.

The music shifted. Everyone stood.

Charles took a slow breath.

And then the doors opened.

For a moment, the air left his lungs.

There you were.

Your dress floated like a dream, the veil shimmering softly with each step. The sun pooled around you, catching the delicate fabric like something out of a painting. Your eyes were shining, a little wet. Your smile trembled as your hands gripped tightly to your mother and father's arms.

You looked like a miracle.

Like every version of love he'd ever imagined, stitched together into something more real than his heart could handle.

His vision blurred.

He blinked, fast — once, twice — but the tears came anyway. A single one rolled down his cheek before he could stop it.

He didn’t wipe it away.

There was no shame in loving you this much.

He smiled through it, lips trembling, heart bursting.

“Mon Dieu…” he whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

The way you looked at him — as if he were the only person in the room — made everything else fall away. It didn’t matter that there were a hundred eyes watching. It didn’t matter how many years had led to this moment. All that mattered was you, walking toward him, eyes locked on his like a silent promise:

I’m yours.

He watched as your father kissed your cheek, your mother squeezed your hand, and then they both stepped back.

You stood in front of him now, holding your bouquet, breathless and glowing.

Charles couldn’t speak yet — his throat was too tight.

So instead, he reached for your hands and gently pulled them into his. His fingers trembled slightly, but his smile was steady now, unwavering.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You have no idea.”

And in that moment — with flowers all around, music fading into stillness, and his hands finally in yours — Charles Leclerc realised that there would never be a single moment in his life more perfect than this.

You had arrived.

And the rest of forever was just beginning.

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16, @a-beaverhausen, @lol6sposts, @linnygirl09, @weekendlusting, @ladyoflynx

Next part

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toxic love

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max one-shot. If you want to read more stories of mine here's Max's masterlist and my general masterlist.

You weren’t supposed to fall for Max Verstappen. Not him. Not like this.

But from the beginning, he had you. Like gravity. Like fate. And despite the wreckage you both left in your wake, you kept coming back.

You always came back.

It started with tension—unspoken glances and biting remarks behind the motorhomes, the kind of energy that crackled even when you tried to deny it. He was fire. Reckless. Untouchable. And you? You were the only one who didn’t flinch when he burned.

You matched him. Fought him. Kissed him like a war. Loved him like a religion.

“Everything is fine now,” he said once, sitting beside you in the darkness of a Monaco hotel suite, the world muted outside your window. You’d just fought—screamed, thrown accusations, nearly walked out—and now you were curled into his side like you hadn't nearly shattered a few hours earlier.

He always said that when things were falling apart. Everything is fine now. And you always believed him. That was the problem.

Your head rested against his chest, his hand absently tracing your spine. It felt like peace. It felt like forgiveness. It felt like the eye of a storm.

“I hate how much I need you,” you murmured.

Max didn’t answer right away. He kissed your forehead instead. Soft, tender. Then whispered, “You’re how I breathe.”

And maybe that was true. Maybe he did need you, in the way addicts need the thing that’s killing them. Because what you had wasn’t soft or simple. It was obsession. It was intensity. You weren’t his calm—you were his chaos. And he was yours.

You’d been with him in silence, in rage, in bed at 2 a.m. when his hands trembled from pressure he wouldn’t admit out loud. You were there when he didn’t speak for days after a race went wrong. You were there when he won and still didn’t feel enough.

For you, there was only love. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

Your friends didn’t understand. They never would.

“Take some space,” they’d say. “He’s not good for you.”

But how could you explain that leaving Max felt like cutting out your heart? How could you admit that even when he was cruel, when his words were sharp and his pride got the better of him, he still looked at you like you were his only anchor?

When you cried, he didn’t always say the right thing. Sometimes he walked away.

But other nights—when no one else saw—he held you like he was afraid to let go. He touched you like prayer. Kissed you like confession.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered once after a fight that had you packing your things, your hands shaking. “I’m always sorry, but I don’t know how to stop ruining this.”

You looked at him then, really looked—at the boy beneath the man the world worshipped. The fear in his eyes. The guilt in his voice. And you softened.

Because you knew you were just as broken. You knew you had your own ways of hurting him too.

“You don’t ruin it,” you said. “We both do.”

He kissed you like it was the last time. You let him, even when you knew it wouldn’t be.

The pattern never changed. Passion. Destruction. Apology. Love. Over and over.

But something about it made it feel sacred. Something about him made you stay. It was him. Always him.

When he was gone, it felt like static under your skin. When he came back, it was like being able to breathe again.

He didn’t need to be perfect. He just needed to be yours.

The world kept spinning. Races came and went. Arguments flared and cooled. Love remained like a scar that never healed. Beautiful. Damaged.

Even in the worst moments—when your voice cracked from screaming and his eyes went cold—you always found your way back. Into each other’s arms. Into that place only you two understood.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.33

Hii guyss, I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 32 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race for your heart

The soft glow of the sunrise peeked through the curtains of the boat, casting a warm golden hue over the two of you. You stirred slightly, feeling the steady rise and fall of Franco's chest beneath your cheek. His arm was wrapped around you, holding you close, as if even in sleep, he wasn't willing to let you go.

A few moments later, you felt his lips press softly against your forehead, a lazy, affectionate gesture that made your heart swell.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice raspy from sleep.

You tilted your head to look at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Morning."

He smirked, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. "You look beautiful."

You scoffed playfully. "I probably look like a mess."

Franco chuckled, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back. "A very beautiful mess."

You sighed contently, pressing a kiss to his collarbone before reluctantly pulling away. "As much as I'd love to stay here all morning, we have to go back."

He groaned dramatically. "I don't want to. Can't we just pretend the paddock doesn't exist?"

You laughed, sitting up and stretching. "You, out of all people, saying that?"

He smirked. "Okay, maybe not. But I'm still stealing you away again later."

Once you both freshened up as best as you could on the boat, Franco took you back to the hotel on his bike. Before you got off, he pulled you in for one last lingering kiss. "I'll see you at the paddock," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, stepping back and watching him ride off before heading inside to change.

With some time to spare before heading to the circuit, you decided to take a walk through the streets of Monaco, taking in the breathtaking views. The air was crisp, the city slowly waking up, and the sight of the yachts bobbing in the harbour made everything feel surreal.

The paddock was already alive with energy by the time you arrived. The sun was shining over Monaco, making the sleek motorhomes and colorful team uniforms stand out even more vividly. You pulled out your phone as you stepped inside, sending Franco a quick text:

You: Just got here. Where are you?

It didn't take long for him to reply.

Franco: Busy right now, princesa. I'll come find you when I'm done.

You smiled at the nickname before tucking your phone back into your pocket. With some time to kill, you decided to grab something to eat at the McLaren motorhome. As you entered, you were immediately greeted by familiar faces—mechanics, engineers, and a few team members you'd gotten to know over time.

"Back already?" One of the engineers grinned at you.

"You know I can't stay away for too long," you joked, grabbing a small plate of food and settling into a chair.

After finishing your food, you wandered through the paddock, taking in the buzzing atmosphere. Everyone was busy—journalists running from one interview to the next, team personnel working on final preparations, drivers deep in conversation with their engineers.

As you glanced around, your eyes landed on Oliver in the distance. He wasn't alone—a girl stood beside him, her arm loosely wrapped around his. She had long, blonde hair that shone under the sunlight and striking grey eyes, her gaze sharp but warm as she listened to whatever Oliver was saying.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you made your way toward them. "Ollie!" you called out, making him turn.

His face immediately lit up when he saw you. "Hey! Look who's back."

"I told you I would be," you teased before shifting your gaze to the girl beside him. "And who is this?"

Oliver cleared his throat. "This is Estelle, my girlfriend."

You smiled and extended your hand. "Nice to meet you, Estelle. I'm—"

"Oh, I know who you are," she interrupted with a playful grin. "I've heard a lot about you. You seem to be quite popular around here."

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh?"

Oliver groaned. "She means that people won't stop talking about you."

Estelle laughed, tilting her head slightly. "Yeah, that's what I meant."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks and quickly brushed it off with a chuckle. "I wouldn't say popular—just friendly."

Estelle smirked, glancing at Oliver, who rolled his eyes. "Trust me, she's being modest," he muttered.

Wanting to change the topic, you turned back to Estelle. "So, have you been to the paddock before?"

She nodded. "Yeah, a few times, but never with Oliver." She glanced at him before turning back to you. "It's a different experience this time, though. Seeing it through his eyes makes it more exciting."

You smiled. "That's sweet. And what do you do? Are you in motorsport, too?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. I'm actually studying law."

Your eyebrows raised in admiration. "That's impressive. What kind of law?"

"Corporate, mostly," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'm still exploring my options."

"That's amazing. I can barely handle my own deadlines—I can't imagine dealing with law school."

Estelle chuckled. "It's intense, but I enjoy it. And I like the challenge."

You nodded approvingly. "Well, if I ever need legal advice, I know who to call."

She grinned. "I'll make sure to give you the friends-and-family discount."

Oliver smirked, leaning in slightly. "Speaking of friends... do you have any plans later?"

You blinked. "Uh, not really. Why?"

"A few of us are planning to go out tonight. Just something casual—food, drinks, maybe some music," he said. "You should come."

You hesitated for a second, glancing at your phone. Franco hadn't mentioned any plans for the evening yet, but the idea of spending time with Oliver and Estelle, plus whoever else was coming, actually sounded fun.

"Yeah, that sounds great," you agreed. "Count me in."

Oliver grinned. "Perfect. I'll text you the details."

Before you could say anything else, your phone rang. You glanced at the screen and saw Franco's name flashing across it.

"Speaking of people I should see," you joked. "I have to go, but it was really nice meeting you, Estelle."

"Likewise," she said with a warm smile.

Oliver gave you a knowing look. "Don't let Franco steal all your time."

You laughed. "No promises."

With that, you answered the call and headed off to meet Franco, already looking forward to whatever he had planned—and the night ahead.

Tag list: @hs2016, @a-beaverhausen, @hhhs7

Next part

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Special reward

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Oscar x reader, since he is the one with the most votes on the poll, I hope you enjoy it.

It's a smut which I usually don't write, so please take that into account.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The sun was beating down on the Spanish GP, but you barely noticed the heat. Your eyes were fixed on the podium, on him—Oscar. Standing in the podium, champagne bottle in hand, that signature shy smile stretched wide across his face. First place. He did it.

Your heart swelled with pride, but your stomach flipped for a different reason entirely. There was something about the way he looked up there—confident, radiant, his suit clinging to him from the post-race celebration—that had your breath catching. He was completely magnetic.

When the ceremony ended and he made his way down, his eyes searched for you instantly. And when he spotted you, that smile softened into something private, something just for you. He walked over, wrapped his arms around you in a quick hug, and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips. You both weren’t into public displays of affection, but god—you wanted more.

"I’m gonna go get changed, meet the team and celebrate," he said, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. "Can you go find my sister? She wanted to see the garage after."

You nodded, still dazed by how beautiful he looked, even soaked in champagne and sweat.

By the time you found his sister and joined the McLaren garage, the energy was electric. The team was gearing up for pictures—someone handed you a team shirt and a cap. The bottles were uncorked again, champagne flying through the air like fireworks. Oscar was laughing, his shirt plastered to his torso, showing every line of muscle beneath. Your pupils dilated, unable to look away. He caught your stare and smirked slightly, knowingly.

“I’m gonna change,” he said as he passed by, brushing his fingers lightly against yours. Without even thinking, you followed.

Inside his driver’s room, the noise of celebration faded into a muffled buzz. He started talking—something about the race, the start, maybe the pit stop—but you barely registered a word. You crossed the room in three quick steps and kissed him.

It was messy. Desperate. You felt his body jolt slightly in surprise, but then he melted into you, hands finding your waist, your back, anchoring you to him. He moaned softly into your mouth as your fingers tangled in his damp hair.

"You were amazing," you whispered breathlessly when you finally pulled back. "You deserve a prize."

He chuckled, eyes darkened, lips pink and swollen. “Oh yeah?”

You grinned, tugging gently at the hem of his wet shirt. “Let me show you.”

You hungrily start kissing and licking the remaining champagne, leaving hickey marks along the way, until you reach for his belt.

You decided to tease him by licking the tip of his cock in circles, listening as he let out several short, raspy moans.

"Fuck stop teasing" Oscar rasps out as he starts gathering your hair into a ponytale, practically begging already.

You take him fully in your mouth before Oscar can say anything about it, making him throw his head back slightly, a soft moan leaving him. You took your hand up, starting to stroke whatever couldn’t fit.

“Take me so well…” Oscar groans, as he slowly guides your head down more of his base, tears pricking your eyes.

You would never admit this, but his words were spurring you on.

"If this is what I get for winning a race, what will I get when I win the championship, baby?" Oscar whispers, lowering his head to look at you and watching you with tears in your eyes.

You squeezed your thighs together at his words, which surprised you coming from your sweet boyfriend.

'Shit I'm so close baby, where do you want it?' he asked, but he knew the answer since you didn't have time to change if he messed up your hair or clothes.

It wasn't even a few seconds until his whole body was shuddering, hips bucking forward, spilling in your mouth while you struggled to swallow through a lust-filled haze.

Oscar didn’t waste a second. His lips found yours again, urgent and breathless, like he’d been waiting the whole day to have you to himself. The kiss was deep, tender and electric all at once—his fingers curled gently around your jaw, anchoring you to the moment.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breathing still uneven. “You okay?” he asked softly, voice low and rough.

You nodded, your heart swelling. “Yeah. That was… something else.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You’re incredible,” he murmured. “And just wait—I’m going to return the surprise tonight at the hotel.”

You laughed quietly, cheeks warm as you leaned into him, your arms tightening around his waist. You just wanted to stay there, wrapped up in the glow of his win and his love.

“I love you,” you whispered, barely louder than a breath.

He paused for half a second, his gaze softening before he whispered back, “I love you more.” Then he kissed the top of your head and held you tighter, like he never wanted to let go.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Surprise date

Hii guys, I hope you enjoy this story based on this idea I had, let me know if you want more of Esteban x reader :) Here's my masterist if you want to read more

It started like most of your conversations with Lance did—casual, slightly chaotic, and fuelled by drinks and mutual teasing.

You were both tucked into your usual booth in a low-key bar in Montreal, sipping cocktails after a long race weekend. The atmosphere was warm, dim, and full of quiet laughter from the other tables.

“I’ve decided I want to learn French,” you announced, half-dramatically, tipping your glass toward him.

Lance blinked, then snorted. “Since when?”

“Since I got asked for directions in French three times this week and just panicked every time,” you said, groaning. “Also, I feel like a fraud every time I order coffee and say merci with a clearly-not-French accent.”

Lance chuckled. “Well, lucky for you, I might know someone who could help.”

You perked up. “A tutor?”

His smile turned sly. “Something like that.”

You didn’t question it too hard. That was your first mistake.

A week later, Lance texted you an address with a winky face and the words “Enjoy.”

You followed it, expecting a cozy language café or someone’s apartment. Instead, you found yourself standing in front of a sleek, softly lit restaurant that looked like it required both a reservation and a decent outfit—which, thankfully, you were just barely wearing.

You frowned and shot Lance a message.

You: Why am I at a fancy restaurant??? Lance: Just go inside. Trust me. ����

So you did.

The host greeted you warmly and said, “Follow me,” like he’d been expecting you. You trailed after him, weaving through tables and velvet chairs… until you saw him.

Esteban Ocon.

He stood up at your approach, his hands nervously smoothing down his white shirt. “Bonsoir,” he greeted, a bit hesitant but smiling softly.

You blinked. “Esteban?”

He nodded. “Lance said you wanted to learn French. I offered to help.”

Your mouth fell slightly open. “Lance set me up.”

Esteban chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently so.”

You stared at him, half in disbelief and half in awe—because, wow. He looked good. Understated, elegant. You weren’t dressed for a date, but you didn’t feel out of place. Somehow, being here with him made it feel just right.

“Well,” you said, finally smiling as you slid into the chair across from him. “Guess my first French lesson is how to survive a surprise date.”

He grinned. “We can start slow. Maybe with some wine?”

The night flowed as easily as the conversation.

You started with a glass of red wine that Esteban picked—“It’s from the Rhône Valley. I think you’ll like it.” He was right.

He taught you a few casual phrases over the starter: J’ai faim (I’m hungry), c’est trop bon (this is so good), and tu parles trop vite (you speak too fast)—which you repeated after him, laughing every time you got the pronunciation wrong.

“French is so complicated,” you said, mouth full of warm goat cheese tart.

He smiled. “It’s not that bad. You just need the right teacher.”

“You mean someone patient?”

He leaned forward a little, voice teasing. “Exactly. And charming. Preferably tall, French, and very into surprise dates.”

You laughed, feeling your face heat up.

As the night went on, you talked about everything—childhood memories, the weirdest fan gifts he’s ever gotten, how he still gets nervous before certain races. You shared stories too, and you were surprised by how easy it was with him. How natural.

At one point, you both reached for the dessert menu at the same time, your fingers brushing.

He smiled gently, then offered his hand.

You placed yours in his, letting the spark linger.

After dinner, instead of calling it a night, Esteban suggested a walk. The evening air was cool but pleasant as you wandered down a quiet street near the river.

“I don’t think this counts as a language lesson anymore,” you teased as you walked side by side, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“No?” he said, glancing sideways with a smile. “Then let me change that.”

He stopped and pointed to the stars above the water. “Étoiles,” he said. “Stars.”

You repeated it softly.

He took your hand again, gently. “Et toi… tu es magnifique.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll have to learn to find out.”

Eventually, he walked you back to your car. Neither of you wanted the night to end.

“Merci,” you said, your French clumsy but heartfelt. “This was… really special.”

He nodded, looking a little bashful again. “I’d still like to help you with your French.”

You raised a brow. “Over coffee this time?”

“And maybe more dinners,” he said. “If you want.”

You tilted your head. “Esteban… are you asking me out?”

A pause. Then: “Yes,” he said simply, honestly. “I am.”

You smiled, heart full and fluttering. “Then oui. Definitely oui.”

He grinned and leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Très bien.”

And just like that, your French lessons—and something new—had officially begun.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.23

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 22 here it is :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

The party had finally started to die down. The lights were dimmer now, the music quieter, and the once-packed rooftop was nearly empty. People had trickled out over the last hour, their designer heels in hand and jackets slung over tired shoulders.

You stood just outside the venue, wrapped in your coat, your clutch tucked under one arm. The cool night air hit your face and brought a shiver down your spine. You reached for your phone, opening a ride app and hovering over the “Request Taxi” button.

Just as you were about to tap, headlights swept over the pavement, followed by the low, familiar purr of an engine. A car pulled up beside you—sleek, familiar, and unmistakably his.

The window rolled down, and there he was, in the driver’s seat, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

“Do you need a ride?,” Oscar said, raising his brows like this was just another normal day.

You blinked, surprised. “What are you still doing here?”

He shrugged casually, as if he didn’t just completely throw you off balance. “What can I say? I’m your personal chauffeur at this point.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, but the warmth blooming in your chest was impossible to ignore.

“You really don’t have to—” you started, but he interrupted.

“I want to,” he said simply, already unlocking the door.

You hesitated for only a second before walking over and getting into the passenger seat. The familiar scent of cologne and leather filled the car, calming you in a way you hadn’t expected.

You buckled your seatbelt and turned toward him. “Well… thank you. Again.”

Oscar glanced at you with a quiet smile. “Anytime.”

You were about to say something else—something slightly more serious, maybe even real—when your stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl.

You froze, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked to you, amused. “Was that… you?”

“I haven’t eaten since noon,” you admitted, blushing. “I didn’t really have time between interviews and hair and makeup and Vogue…”

He laughed under his breath and shook his head. Without another word, he turned the car around, heading in the opposite direction.

You frowned, glancing out the window. “Where are we going?”

“To get you some food.”

You gawked at him. “Oscar, you don’t have to—”

“I do.” He said, throwing you a sideways look. “I think I know I place.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were pulling up to a 24-hour drive-thru, both of you laughing as you tried to decide what to get. Oscar insisted you needed fries and a burger, and you argued that a milkshake was non-negotiable.

Eventually, you ended up with bags of food on your laps, parked in a quiet corner of a nearly empty lot. The city glowed in the distance, but inside the car it was just the two of you, lit by the soft dashboard light.

You bit into your burger and moaned dramatically. “This is better than any five-star catering I’ve had all year.”

Oscar smirked, sipping his drink. “Told you. Midnight drive-thru is a sacred experience.”

Between bites of food and swigs of soda, the conversation drifted into easy laughter. You told him about the time you fell off a stage during rehearsal once and tried to pretend it was “performance art.” He told you how he once got stuck in a racing simulator during a PR event and had to be helped out by three engineers and a very amused Lando which made you laugh.

OSCAR'S POV

Oscar watched you as you laughed—really laughed—your head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled in that way they only did when you weren’t trying to be anyone but yourself. The golden city light danced across your skin through the windshield, soft and flickering, and he found himself unable to look away.

You were still holding a half-eaten fry, but you hadn’t taken a bite in minutes. You were too caught up in telling a story. He’d barely heard the end of the story because, honestly, he was too distracted by how beautiful you looked mid-laughter.

Not stage-beautiful. Not makeup-team-perfect. Just... you. Hair falling slightly out of place, voice still raspy from the night, ketchup near the corner of your mouth from the last bite of your burger.

And before he even registered what he was doing, Oscar leaned in slightly and reached out, thumb brushing against the corner of your lips.

“You had something,” he murmured, quietly, gently.

You stilled instantly.

Your eyes met his, wide and uncertain, and his breath caught.

The world seemed to pause. The soft hum of the engine, the quiet of the empty lot, the warmth lingering between you—it all disappeared for a second. It was just you and him, leaning in ever so slightly, gravity pulling you toward each other like something inevitable.

He could feel the heat of your breath now. He wasn’t sure who was moving first—maybe both of you, maybe neither—but the space between you was disappearing fast, your gaze flicking to his mouth for just a second—

And then his phone rang.

Loud. Obnoxious. Shattering the moment in a single second.

Oscar flinched and let out a breathy laugh, pulling back as he fumbled for his phone in the cupholder.

“Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, glancing at the screen.

You let out a soft laugh too, awkward but breathless, pulling back slightly and tucking your hair behind your ear.

He silenced the call without answering, but the spell was broken now.

Still, as he looked over at you—cheeks flushed, lips parted, avoiding his eyes—he couldn’t help but smile.

YOUR POV

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet.

Not uncomfortable quiet—just different. The kind of silence that wasn’t really silence at all, not with your thoughts spinning the way they were. You leaned your head against the window, watching the blurred city lights race past, but your mind was stuck in that one moment.

Oscar’s hand, gently brushing the corner of your mouth.

The way his eyes had looked into yours—warm and steady and a little hesitant.

The way you had both leaned in, the air charged between you, and how your heart had been pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

And then the phone. Of course.

You sighed, not loud enough for him to hear.

What even was that? Was it a moment? A mistake? A glitch in the fake-dating matrix? It didn’t feel fake. Not to you. And definitely not when he looked at you like that—like he wasn’t just acting.

You peeked at him out of the corner of your eye. He was focused on the road, hands relaxed on the wheel, brow furrowed just slightly. Maybe he was overthinking too. 

The thought made you smile, even as your nerves twisted into a knot.

Before you knew it, you were pulling up to the hotel. Oscar stopped in front of the entrance, the soft hum of the engine lingering in the background as you unbuckled your seatbelt and hesitated.

You didn’t want to leave. Not really.

You turned to him, hand on the door handle, but heart pounding. “Thanks for tonight,” you said softly, offering a smile that felt a little shakier than usual.

His eyes met yours. “Anytime,” he said, just as soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He nodded back, but the quiet between you grew again—familiar, full of something unspoken.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned over the center console, just a little closer than you usually would, and kissed him on the cheek.

It was light. Barely more than a brush. But deliberate.

Oscar froze.

You pulled back quickly, cheeks warm, trying not to smile too much as you opened the car door.

“Goodnight, Oscar,” you said, voice gentle but steady.

He blinked at you, stunned—but then you caught it: the soft pink climbing up his cheeks, the way his lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t.

The last thing you saw as you closed the door was him sitting there, blushing.

And yeah, maybe you were overthinking—but maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one.

Next Part

@justaf1girl, @bm571158, @raweceekk

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto's obsession p.14

Hey guyss, I hope you enjoy this part and if you've missed part 13 or if you want to read it from the beginning here's my masterlist :)

You sat across from Lucas at a small coffee table tucked behind one of the media tents, a bit more private than the usual café setups in the paddock. The barista had just brought your drinks — your usual iced coffee and Lucas’s hot americano — and you were stirring yours absentmindedly as he watched the crowd with fascination.

“It’s still hard to believe you’re actually part of all this,” Lucas said with a little grin. “You used to hate early mornings and now you’re in full gear before 9 a.m.”

You laughed softly. “People evolve. Especially when they fall in love with someone who lives for motorsport schedules.”

Lucas leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the table. “Speaking of… he didn’t look too thrilled when he saw me.”

Your fingers paused on your straw. “Who?”

“Toto.” He shrugged. “I get it, I’m the ex. But he looked like he was about to ask security to escort me out.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not fair. Toto’s just protective. He doesn’t usually expect to see someone from my past randomly walking around the paddock. And let’s be honest, this whole visit was kind of a surprise.”

Lucas held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t start a war. Just… wanted to point out the vibes.”

You sighed, choosing not to argue further. Lucas must’ve sensed it too, because he softened his tone and changed the subject.

“So, what’s been the best part of all this for you?” he asked. “Traveling? Being with your brother? Or is it just the fancy espresso machines?”

You smiled, grateful for the shift. “It’s a mix of things. Being close to George has always been important to me. I didn’t expect to fall in love in the middle of all this… but now I couldn’t imagine life without Toto.”

Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “It shows. You’re… different. Calmer, maybe. More sure of yourself.”

Before you could reply, you heard your name and turned to see Carmen walking over, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair and her arm looped with George’s. He stood just behind her, giving you both a curious glance.

“There you are,” Carmen said with a bright smile. “We’re heading out for lunch. Want to come?”

“I can’t, actually,” you said, glancing at your phone. “I’m meeting Toto soon. We planned to eat together today.”

George raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Carmen nodded, then looked at Lucas. “You should come with us then. You haven’t seen the driver fan zone, right?”

Lucas looked at you for a beat, as if waiting for you to say no.

“Go,” you encouraged him with a smile. “It’ll be fun. Carmen’s the best tour guide.”

“Alright,” he said after a pause, then stood up and gave you a small wave. “Thanks for the coffee. And the company.”

You watched as they walked off together, Lucas glancing back once before disappearing into the paddock crowd. With a sigh, you picked up your things and headed toward the Mercedes motorhome.

Toto was already there when you arrived, standing by the table with a folder in hand, still dressed sharply in his black team shirt and slacks. He glanced up as soon as you walked in, his expression softening slightly.

“There you are,” he said, stepping toward you. “Did your little coffee date run long?”

You rolled your eyes, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “It was just coffee. George kind of roped me into babysitting while he had meetings.”

Toto didn’t respond right away. He crossed his arms, gaze slightly narrowed. “So… Lucas. Your first, right?”

You gave him a look, knowing exactly where this was heading. “You say that like it means something.”

“It means,” Toto said carefully, “that I’d like to know why he’s suddenly reappeared in your life after all these years. And conveniently during your engagement.”

You sighed, sitting down across from him. “It’s not that deep. George ran into him. They talked. George invited him — not me. I was just being polite.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Toto said, sitting down too, the crease between his brows deepening. “This isn’t a playground for your exes.”

You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I get it. You’re not thrilled. But you know I love you, right? I chose you. I’m marrying you. That should be enough.”

His eyes met yours, full of something stormy and possessive, but also deeply protective.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I just… I’ve worked hard to keep things stable. And people from the past have a way of complicating things.”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re not letting anyone complicate what we have. It’s just a weird coincidence, and it’ll pass. Please don’t let it ruin your day.”

Toto exhaled slowly, then gave a short nod. “Fine. But if he steps out of line—”

“He won’t,” you cut in gently. “He’s just curious. This world is completely new to him.”

Toto didn’t look entirely convinced, but he forced a smile and stood up, brushing a kiss over your forehead.

“Alright,” he said. “No more Lucas talk. Let’s have lunch. Just you and me.”

You smiled up at him, letting him help you to your feet. “That’s all I want.”

And as the two of you walked out of the motorhome hand in hand, you couldn’t help but feel like the shadows from the past were still following behind you — quiet, but persistent.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.33

Hii guyss, if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 32, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

The Night Before the Wedding

The moonlight filtered through the gauzy curtains of your hotel suite, bathing the room in a soft, ethereal glow. Outside, the gentle hum of the Mediterranean coast whispered against the windows, the breeze carrying the faint scent of salt and lemon trees. Inside, everything was still—almost reverent. Your wedding dress hung in the corner, wrapped carefully in white silk and tulle, untouched and waiting for the moment that would change everything.

You stood at the window in one of Charles’ old Ferrari t-shirts—slightly too big, worn soft from years of use—and a pair of delicate silk shorts. Your bare feet rested against the plush carpet as you watched the stars blink quietly above the sea. On your finger, your engagement ring caught the moonlight and scattered it in tiny reflections across the glass.

Your stomach fluttered. Not from nerves. Not from fear. But from something sweeter—like you were a child on the night before Christmas, except instead of waiting for presents, you were waiting for forever.

Then came a soft knock at the door, followed by the voice you could recognise anywhere in the world.

“Mon amour, it’s me.”

You grinned, heart skipping, and padded over to open the door.

Standing in the hallway was Charles, barefoot and a little disheveled, his curls tousled from nervous hands, wearing plaid pyjama pants and a plain white shirt. He looked impossibly handsome and adorably restless, clutching a paper bag like it was treasure.

“Charles,” you said with a soft laugh. “You know we’re not supposed to see each other the night before.”

“I know,” he said sheepishly, stepping in with a conspiratorial smile. “But I couldn’t sleep. And I brought reinforcements.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Reinforcements?”

He held up the bag proudly. “Pastries. From the bakery near your apartment. I called them at closing and begged. Told them it was for the woman I’m marrying tomorrow.”

You giggled, warmth blooming in your chest as you stepped aside to let him in. “You’re lucky they adore you.”

“I’m luckier that you adore me,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple as he passed.

The two of you settled onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle like teenagers at a sleepover. Charles opened the bag and began pulling out all your favorites—flaky raspberry tarts, tiny lemon madeleines, and warm mini croissants with chocolate nestled inside. You picked up a tart and took a bite, humming with delight.

Charles watched you like he always did—with stars in his eyes and that soft little smile reserved only for you.

“You really couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you walking down the aisle. And then I’d start crying like an idiot, and it was a whole cycle.”

You giggled, nudging his shoulder. “You’re going to cry tomorrow?”

“Of course I’m going to cry. You’re going to be breathtaking. I’ll be lucky if I don’t faint.”

You blushed, reaching for his hand. “I think I might cry too.”

Charles laced your fingers together and kissed the back of your hand. “Let’s just cry together, then. That way, no one can make fun of just me.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the silence wash over you for a few seconds. There was something comforting in knowing this was your last night with your old life. Tomorrow, everything would change—your name, your title, your future. But this quiet moment, wrapped in Charles’ warmth, felt like the perfect goodbye to the version of you that came before him.

He reached into the paper bag again and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “I wasn’t sure if I’d show you this. I wrote it months ago, back when… when things were uncertain.”

You took it gently, unfolding the letter. The handwriting was his—messy, rushed, unmistakably Charles. Your eyes moved over the words slowly, absorbing them like they were something sacred:

“If you wake up, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are. I’ll marry you. I’ll fight for you. I’ll grow old with you. Just open your eyes, mon amour. Just one more moment with you, and I’ll make every one after it count.”

Your eyes welled with tears.

“Charles…”

He looked away for a moment, blinking back emotion. “You were in that hospital bed for so long. I didn’t know if you’d come back. But I kept writing you little notes, letters—just in case. That one was the first.”

You set the paper down and reached for him, cupping his cheek. “You already made every moment count. Since the second I woke up.”

He leaned into your touch, exhaling slowly, like your words had unclenched something tight inside his chest. “I still can’t believe we’re here. After everything.”

“I can,” you whispered. “Because we were never going to end any other way.”

Charles kissed you softly, reverently, as if he was trying to memorize the feel of you before everything changed. You kissed him back, anchoring yourself in his presence.

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Promise me you’ll get some sleep.”

“I will if you will.”

“I’ll try,” he said with a boyish smile. “No guarantees.”

You walked him to the door, hands lingering in his even as he stood half in the hallway. His thumb traced the engagement ring on your finger, and he looked up at you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re going to be the most beautiful bride the world has ever seen,” he whispered.

You laughed softly, tugging him in for one last kiss. “And you’ll be the luckiest groom.”

“I already am.”

He took one step back, then another. “I’ll see you at the altar, mon cœur.”

“Don’t be late.”

He winked. “Never.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving you breathless with love.

You stood there for a moment, the letter still clutched in one hand, your heart full to bursting. The night felt quieter now, but not lonely—never lonely. You walked back to the bed, curled under the sheets, and let your fingers trace the curve of your ring one last time before sleep claimed you.

Tomorrow, you would marry Charles Leclerc.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t need to dream—because your dream had already come true.

Next Part

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16, @a-beaverhausen, @lol6sposts, @linnygirl09, @weekendlusting, @ladyoflynx

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Why You So Obsessed with Me? p6

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Carlos x reader based on the song: Obsessed– Mariah Carey, if you haven't read part 5 here it is:)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

You came home that evening exhausted. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones, the result of a long week filled with too much caffeine and too many people talking at you. You kicked your shoes off the second you stepped inside, tossing your bag to the side and muttering a mental note to clean something tomorrow—maybe.

But the moment your eyes landed on your kitchen counter, all thoughts of fatigue disappeared.

A bouquet. Not just any bouquet. Your bouquet. Gardenias and white lilacs with soft pink peonies — a strange combination anyone else might’ve found odd. But not you. You’d once told Carlos they reminded you of your childhood, your mother’s garden, and the summers you missed the most. You’d said it in passing. Casually. You never thought he’d remember.

There was a small envelope tucked between the blooms.

You opened it carefully.

Preciosa, Every driver needs a lucky charm. Be mine this weekend in Spain. Your paddock pass is inside. I'll pick you up.

There was no question. No plea. No asking if it was okay with you.

He knew you’d say yes. And the worst part? He was right.

You texted him only two words:

Me: Fine. I’m coming.

His reply came instantly:

Carlos: You have no idea what this means to me. 6 a.m. sharp. Wear something soft. I want you comfortable around me.

— The Next Morning —

Carlos was early.

He was waiting outside your building before you even zipped your bag. Leaning casually against his car like some perfectly sculpted sin, wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses, looking calm — too calm — for someone whose obsession hummed just beneath his skin.

The drive to the airport was surprisingly quiet. Music low. His hand brushing against yours once or twice, lingering a bit too long. His gaze drifting from the road to you whenever he thought you wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. Carlos always looked at you like he was memorizing you.

On the plane, you expected him to keep his distance. Maybe nap. Instead, he leaned in, his knee brushing yours the whole flight.

He asked questions like he’d never get the chance again.

“What was your favorite birthday growing up?” “Who was your first kiss?” “Do you think about me when I’m not around?”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you always like this?”

He smiled lazily. “Only with you.”

— Landing in Spain —

You assumed you were going straight to the hotel or the paddock.

Instead, Carlos directed the car down narrow residential streets until you found yourself in front of a large, beautiful home just outside the city.

You frowned. “This isn’t the hotel…”

Carlos smirked. “No. It’s better.”

He got out, came around, opened your door, and helped you out with a hand at the small of your back.

“Carlos,” you asked, a bit wary, “Where are we?”

He didn’t answer at first. He just took your hand and started walking toward the door like he’d done it a hundred times.

And then, just before he rang the bell, he turned to you and said, “I didn’t tell you earlier because I knew you’d say no. But I want you to meet my family. They’re excited to meet you.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait — what?! Now?!”

Carlos smiled, eyes glowing with something dangerous and sweet. “You said yes to me coming to Spain. That includes the parts that matter.”

Before you could protest, the door opened — and suddenly you were face to face with a warm-looking woman with soft brown eyes and Carlos’ same smile.

“Mamá,” Carlos said, his hand still around yours. “This is her.”

Her. Not your name. Not “my friend.” Not “someone I brought.” Just “her.”

Like you were the only one that mattered.

You didn’t even have time to panic.

One minute, you were stepping into a house with whitewashed walls and old family photos on every surface… the next, Carlos’ mother had her arms around you.

“So this is the girl,” she said in accented English, pulling back to look at you. “You are even more beautiful than he said.”

You blinked. “He talks about me?”

Carlos slid an arm around your waist, chin brushing your temple. “Only all the time.”

There were hugs, kisses on both cheeks, laughter — his sister was there too, and an uncle, you think. The living room was warm, cozy, filled with the smells of garlic and olive oil and wine already being poured into glasses.

“Come, sit,” his mamá said, gesturing toward the long wooden table in the kitchen. “He never brings anyone home. Never.”

Carlos pulled the chair out for you before you could respond. “I told you they’d love you.”

You sat down, nerves twisting your stomach — but then dinner started. His mother brought out bowls of gazpacho, a roasted chicken, vegetables, bread still warm from the oven. Carlos served you first, without asking. He kept your glass filled. He never stopped looking at you.

And slowly, your nerves melted into something warmer. His mother made you laugh with stories of his childhood.

“He once tried to race his bike down the stairs,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Cried more over the bike than his leg.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “It was an expensive bike.”

You laughed, surprised at how easy it felt — and how natural you looked sitting at his side.

Later, when his sister started teasing him about how different he was lately — “He actually smiles now. Like, genuinely. It’s disgusting.” — you caught Carlos watching you from across the table, quietly, like he was soaking you in.

Like this moment was everything he ever wanted.

Carlos’ POV

She doesn’t even realize.

Doesn’t realise she fits in his house like she’s been there forever. That his mother already calls her la novia when she thinks he’s not listening. That he’s been planning this for weeks — ever since she let him kiss her on that doorstep. (the girlfriend)

She sits beside him, laughing with his sister, her fingers curling loosely around the stem of her wine glass, eyes soft.

And all he can think is: mine.

Carlos has always been careful. Calculated. Even when he flirted, even when he teased — he made sure never to go too far. To let her think she was still in control.

But tonight, she’s surrounded by the people he loves most. Eating food made with the same hands that raised him. In the same house where he took his first steps.

And she belongs here. He’s decided.

She’ll fight it, of course. She always does. But he sees it now — the crack in her walls. The way she leans toward him more. How she looks for his hand when no one’s watching.

Later, when they say goodbye and he helps her into the car, her fingers brush his cheek as she whispers, “Thank you… For tonight, I had fun.”

And he wants to say: Don’t thank me yet. But instead, he kisses her forehead and whispers back, “Wait until the next surprise, preciosa.”

Because there’s more. Always more.

He’s barely started.

@sumbellling, @hhhs7, @omgsuperstarg, @as4ka, @iamdedsthingz, @urmomsgirlfriend1

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.33

Hii guyss, I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 32 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race for your heart

The soft glow of the sunrise peeked through the curtains of the boat, casting a warm golden hue over the two of you. You stirred slightly, feeling the steady rise and fall of Franco's chest beneath your cheek. His arm was wrapped around you, holding you close, as if even in sleep, he wasn't willing to let you go.

A few moments later, you felt his lips press softly against your forehead, a lazy, affectionate gesture that made your heart swell.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice raspy from sleep.

You tilted your head to look at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Morning."

He smirked, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. "You look beautiful."

You scoffed playfully. "I probably look like a mess."

Franco chuckled, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back. "A very beautiful mess."

You sighed contently, pressing a kiss to his collarbone before reluctantly pulling away. "As much as I'd love to stay here all morning, we have to go back."

He groaned dramatically. "I don't want to. Can't we just pretend the paddock doesn't exist?"

You laughed, sitting up and stretching. "You, out of all people, saying that?"

He smirked. "Okay, maybe not. But I'm still stealing you away again later."

Once you both freshened up as best as you could on the boat, Franco took you back to the hotel on his bike. Before you got off, he pulled you in for one last lingering kiss. "I'll see you at the paddock," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, stepping back and watching him ride off before heading inside to change.

With some time to spare before heading to the circuit, you decided to take a walk through the streets of Monaco, taking in the breathtaking views. The air was crisp, the city slowly waking up, and the sight of the yachts bobbing in the harbour made everything feel surreal.

The paddock was already alive with energy by the time you arrived. The sun was shining over Monaco, making the sleek motorhomes and colorful team uniforms stand out even more vividly. You pulled out your phone as you stepped inside, sending Franco a quick text:

You: Just got here. Where are you?

It didn't take long for him to reply.

Franco: Busy right now, princesa. I'll come find you when I'm done.

You smiled at the nickname before tucking your phone back into your pocket. With some time to kill, you decided to grab something to eat at the McLaren motorhome. As you entered, you were immediately greeted by familiar faces—mechanics, engineers, and a few team members you'd gotten to know over time.

"Back already?" One of the engineers grinned at you.

"You know I can't stay away for too long," you joked, grabbing a small plate of food and settling into a chair.

After finishing your food, you wandered through the paddock, taking in the buzzing atmosphere. Everyone was busy—journalists running from one interview to the next, team personnel working on final preparations, drivers deep in conversation with their engineers.

As you glanced around, your eyes landed on Oliver in the distance. He wasn't alone—a girl stood beside him, her arm loosely wrapped around his. She had long, blonde hair that shone under the sunlight and striking grey eyes, her gaze sharp but warm as she listened to whatever Oliver was saying.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you made your way toward them. "Ollie!" you called out, making him turn.

His face immediately lit up when he saw you. "Hey! Look who's back."

"I told you I would be," you teased before shifting your gaze to the girl beside him. "And who is this?"

Oliver cleared his throat. "This is Estelle, my girlfriend."

You smiled and extended your hand. "Nice to meet you, Estelle. I'm—"

"Oh, I know who you are," she interrupted with a playful grin. "I've heard a lot about you. You seem to be quite popular around here."

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh?"

Oliver groaned. "She means that people won't stop talking about you."

Estelle laughed, tilting her head slightly. "Yeah, that's what I meant."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks and quickly brushed it off with a chuckle. "I wouldn't say popular—just friendly."

Estelle smirked, glancing at Oliver, who rolled his eyes. "Trust me, she's being modest," he muttered.

Wanting to change the topic, you turned back to Estelle. "So, have you been to the paddock before?"

She nodded. "Yeah, a few times, but never with Oliver." She glanced at him before turning back to you. "It's a different experience this time, though. Seeing it through his eyes makes it more exciting."

You smiled. "That's sweet. And what do you do? Are you in motorsport, too?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. I'm actually studying law."

Your eyebrows raised in admiration. "That's impressive. What kind of law?"

"Corporate, mostly," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'm still exploring my options."

"That's amazing. I can barely handle my own deadlines—I can't imagine dealing with law school."

Estelle chuckled. "It's intense, but I enjoy it. And I like the challenge."

You nodded approvingly. "Well, if I ever need legal advice, I know who to call."

She grinned. "I'll make sure to give you the friends-and-family discount."

Oliver smirked, leaning in slightly. "Speaking of friends... do you have any plans later?"

You blinked. "Uh, not really. Why?"

"A few of us are planning to go out tonight. Just something casual—food, drinks, maybe some music," he said. "You should come."

You hesitated for a second, glancing at your phone. Franco hadn't mentioned any plans for the evening yet, but the idea of spending time with Oliver and Estelle, plus whoever else was coming, actually sounded fun.

"Yeah, that sounds great," you agreed. "Count me in."

Oliver grinned. "Perfect. I'll text you the details."

Before you could say anything else, your phone rang. You glanced at the screen and saw Franco's name flashing across it.

"Speaking of people I should see," you joked. "I have to go, but it was really nice meeting you, Estelle."

"Likewise," she said with a warm smile.

Oliver gave you a knowing look. "Don't let Franco steal all your time."

You laughed. "No promises."

With that, you answered the call and headed off to meet Franco, already looking forward to whatever he had planned—and the night ahead.

Tag list: @hs2016, @a-beaverhausen, @hhhs7