#Excel formula number

[netscapenavigator-official]

Currently trying to figure out how to make a calculator in LibreOffice that can take the "yes or no" answers of four questions and turn them into values for this horrendous formula I've mustered up:

(B1+G1(D1*C1)/P)+(B2+G2(D2*C2))=F

But I've never used spreadsheet formulas outside of basic adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, etc., so using IF/ELSE statements in a LibreOffice Calc document terrifies me. I barely know any Swift from Apple's Swift Playgrounds, but I feel like I could write a better script in Swift than the monstrosity I'm about to make in LibreCalc.

[aquariumsoap]

anyone on this webbed site familiar with excel formulas and the general concepts associated with managerial accounting

[pucksandpower]

Racing Hearts

Lando Norris x cardiopulmonary technician!Reader

Summary: you’ve had a way of making Lando’s heart race since the moment he met you

You glance down at your clipboard as your next patient walks into the exercise physiology lab. “Lando Norris?” You ask, looking up with a smile.

The young British man grins back at you. “That’s me!”

“Excellent! I’m Y/N, I’ll be your technician today. We’re just going to do a simple cardiopulmonary exercise test to get some baseline numbers before the start of the season.”

Lando nods, looking around the lab curiously. “No problem, happy to be poked and prodded in the name of science and fast cars.”

You laugh as you gesture for him to take a seat. “Don’t worry, I promise to be gentle,” you joke. “I’m just going to put some electrodes on your chest to monitor your heart rate, then we’ll get you on the treadmill for the test.”

“Sounds good,” Lando says, settling onto the exam table.

You start placing the sticky electrode pads across his chest and ribs, trying not to blush at his shirtless state. Formula 1 drivers really are fit underneath those racing suits.

“So how’s preseason training going?” You ask conversationally as you work. “Think McLaren has a chance this year?”

Lando grins. “I’m feeling good! Me and the team have been putting in a lot of hard work over the winter. I’m definitely aiming higher than 6th in the championship.”

You smile as you finish placing the electrodes and motion for him to stand. “That’s the spirit. Alright, hop up on the treadmill and we’ll get you moving.”

Lando steps up onto the machine and you start it up slowly, increasing the speed in measured increments. “I’ll take you up to a brisk jog, then we’ll keep you there for about 10 minutes while I monitor your heart rate, breathing, and oxygen levels,” you explain.

“Sounds gucci,” Lando replies with a thumbs up, his breath starting to quicken as the treadmill pace increases.

You make sure the electrode leads are secure, then step back to observe the incoming data on the computer screen. Lando’s lean legs stride smoothly along the treadmill belt as you keep a close watch on his vitals, making notes on your clipboard. After a few minutes, you frown slightly at the heart rate readout. It seems unusually elevated for an elite athlete like Lando, even at this moderate jogging pace.

“How are you feeling Lando?” You call out. “Everything okay?”

“All … good,” he huffs out, face flushed from the exertion.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the concerning heart rate values on the screen. “It’s just that your heart rate is a bit higher than I would expect,” you say slowly. “Are you feeling any chest pain or tightness?”

Lando shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that. I feel fine!” He insists breathlessly.

You bite your lip, still frowning. “Your heart rate is quite high though, over 85% of estimated max. For an experienced athlete I would expect values closer to 70-80% at this pace.”

“Oh … yeah, maybe it’s a bit high,” Lando acknowledges, starting to breathe harder. “But don’t worry about me, I’m fit as a fiddle!”

You reach over to slow the treadmill slightly. “Let’s bring the pace down a bit. I’m concerned about these heart rate readings. We should really have you checked out by a cardiologist before the season starts.”

Lando grabs the front handrails, shaking his head stubbornly. “No, no that’s not necessary, really! I’m fine, just maybe didn’t warm up enough.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Lando, as your technician I have to advise getting this looked at. Your heart rate is elevated beyond normal parameters.”

Lando chews his lip, glancing away evasively. “Um, well … maybe there’s a reason for that.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “What do you mean? Like a medical condition you haven’t told me about?”

“No, no nothing like that!” Lando says quickly. He mumbles something under his breath you can’t quite make out over the whir of the treadmill.

“Sorry, what was that?” You ask, leaning closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh, uh … it was nothing,” Lando mutters, face reddening further.

You stop the treadmill completely so you can hear him better, folding your arms over your clipboard. “Lando, if there’s something I should know that’s affecting your test results, you need to tell me. As your technician, I really think we should get your heart looked at just to be safe.”

Lando locks eyes with you for a moment, hesitation written across his features. He mumbles again under his breath, so quietly you can’t discern the words.

You hold his gaze firmly. “One more time, please. It’s really important that I understand what’s going on so I can interpret these results accurately.”

Lando breaks eye contact, looking down at his feet. He kicks lightly at the motionless treadmill belt, before finally whispering. “It’s you, alright?”

You blink in surprise. “Me? What do you mean?”

Lando glances up at you briefly, his face now tomato-red. “You’re … the reason my heart rate is high,” he mumbles.

You stare at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Lando groans, covering his face with his hands. “Because … I really fancy you, okay?” He admits, the words muffled into his palms. “You’re just … totally gorgeous and sweet and it makes me nervous and … my heart rate goes mad around pretty girls I like.”

Your eyes widen in understanding, feeling your own cheeks flush bright pink. “Oh! Oh ...”

Lando peeks out at you between splayed fingers. “Yeah, so that’s why it’s high. Not because I have some underlying heart condition.” He gives you a sheepish smile. “Just because my technician is really fit.”

You let out an awkward laugh, suddenly feeling shy. “Wow, uh … I’m flattered, Lando. I didn’t realize ...”

Lando drops his hands from his face, looking at you earnestly. “Sorry, is that weird? I know we just met and you’re doing your job.” He fidgets with the electrode wires across his chest. “Don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

You smile warmly back at him, feeling butterflies in your own stomach. “Don’t be silly. It’s not weird at all. Honestly, I, uh … also think you’re really cute,” you admit with bashful grin.

Lando’s eyes light up. “Yeah?” A wide, delighted smile spreads across his face.

You nod, laughing softly. “Yeah, I may have been trying not to blush myself with you shirtless here in my lab.”

“Well I’m certainly not complaining about the view either,” Lando says cheekily.

You smack his arm playfully. “I’m being professional here!”

“And doing a great job,” Lando says, smile softening. “But maybe once we’re done with all this boring medical stuff … we could get dinner? If you want?” He looks at you hopefully.

Your heart flutters with excitement. “I’d really like that.” You smile at each other giddily for a moment before you clear your throat. “But first, we really should finish your assessment properly.”

Lando laughs, nodding. “Of course, you’re the boss!”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Alright, hop back on the treadmill. And this time just focus on your breathing and try not to make eyes at the pretty technician,” you tease.

“No promises there,” Lando quips with a grin as he steps back onto the belt.

You just smile and shake your head as you start up the machine once more, unable to keep your own heart rate from quickening in anticipation of what promises to be a very special dinner date after the test is complete.

***

Several Months Later

You glance down nervously at your paddock pass as you make your way through the crowded paddock. As an unofficial member of Lando’s training team now, you have full access to the exclusive behind-the-scenes world of Formula 1. But despite months of dating the British driver, the glamorous circus still feels surreal.

Dodging golf carts and important looking people with headsets, you head for the McLaren garage. Lando had told you to meet him there before the start of the race. Your heart flutters, as it always does at the thought of seeing him again.

“Y/N!” Lando greets you brightly as you enter the garage. Engine roars echo around you as mechanics make final tweaks to the cars before wheeling them to the grid.

“Good luck today!” You tell Lando, leaning up on your toes to kiss him sweetly.

“With you here, how can I lose?” He grins down at you. His energy is infectious.

You chat together as the cars are lined up on the starting grid, Lando bouncing excitedly in his race suit. You squeeze his gloved hand. “Be safe out there.”

“Always am, love.” He winks before pulling on his helmet and climbing into the cockpit.

You make your way back to the McLaren hospitality suite to watch the start of the race. Your heart pounds as the lights go out and the F1 cars launch forward in a roar of engines. Lando makes a clean getaway, slotting into P5 heading into the first turn.

The race unfolds smoothly, Lando maintaining his position in the top five. You watch tensely on the monitors, hands clenched.

But on lap 38, disaster strikes. Heading into a fast sweeper, the Red Bull of Sergio Perez attempts a risky overtake maneuver on Lando’s inside. They collide in a shower of carbon fiber and a plume of smoke.

You gasp sharply as Lando’s car spins off into the gravel trap, coming to rest against the barrier at an abrupt stop. The McLaren crew monitor the radio channels anxiously.

“Lando, are you okay mate?” His engineer asks urgently.

“Yeh … I’m okay ...” Lando’s labored voice comes back. “Bit winded but I’m alright.”

You breathe a deep sigh of relief along with the crew. The medical car is quickly dispatched to the scene. Lando climbs unsteadily from the battered car, sitting down in the gravel trap as he awaits assistance.

Your adrenaline surging, you take off from the garage the moment you see Lando is out of the car safely. Jogging through the paddock, you make your way swiftly to the medical center.

As you rush in, Lando is just being helped onto an examination table by two medics. He’s dusty and sweaty, his hair sticking up at all angles from where he pulled off his helmet. But otherwise he seems intact.

“Lando!” You hurry over, emotions welling up at seeing him battered but in one piece.

“Y/N, hey ...” Lando greets you with a weary but reassuring smile. He reaches for your hand which you clutch tightly.

One medic cuts away the top of Lando’s racing suit, placing electrodes on his chest to monitor his heart rhythm. You hover anxiously as they check him over.

“Heart rate is quite elevated,” the doctor frowns as he reads the monitor. He glances between you and Lando with concern. “Any chest pain or tightness?”

Lando huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. He looks up at you, his green eyes glinting. “Nah, doc. She’s the reason for the fast heartbeat.”

You feel your cheeks flush as Lando grins. The medic looks confused.

“See, ever since Y/N came into my life, she’s made my heart race a mile a minute,” Lando explains cheekily.

You smack his arm but can’t help laughing too. Trust Lando to still be flirting from a hospital bed.

“Ah, young love,” the doctor chuckles. “Well, your heart may beat for her, but let’s still do a full check to be safe.”

Lando nods agreeably, though his gaze stays fixed on you. He winces slightly as they palpate his ribs and abdomen, checking for injuries.

You cling to his hand, emotionally drained from the scare but overwhelmed with relief that he seems okay. Lando keeps stealing glances at you through the examination.

Finally the doctor steps back. “All done. Amazingly, you’ve escaped with just some bruising. No breaks or internal injuries. You were lucky today.”

The medic packs up his equipment. “Get some rest and ice those sore spots. But overall good news. No reason you can’t race in two weeks’ time.”

“Phew, that’s a relief!” Lando says. He thanks the doctors as you help him down from the table.

Arm wrapped supportively around him, you make your slow way out of the medical center towards the McLaren motorhome.

“Thank you for being here,” Lando murmurs, leaning his head on your shoulder as you walk.

You kiss his dusty hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You scared me to death out there!”

“I know, sorry about that, love. It happened so fast.” He lifts his head to look at you sincerely. “But I’m alright. Just grateful to have you by my side.”

You stop, turning to face him fully. Reaching up, you caress his cheek gently. “I’ll always be right here by your side.”

Lando’s eyes shine. “Is it cheesy to say you make my heart race in the best way?”

Laughing softly, you pull him into a tender kiss. For this brief moment, nothing else matters but the two of you.

Lando sighs contentedly when you eventually pull back. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

You squeeze his hand, smiling up at him. “The feeling’s mutual. Now let’s get you rested up. I want my favorite driver back to full fitness ASAP.”

With his arm wrapped warmly around your shoulders, you’re reminded that no matter what challenges life brings, your hearts will keep racing together as one.

***

It’s a quiet night and you and Lando are cuddling in bed together after a long day. Lando’s arms are wrapped securely around you, your head resting comfortably on his chest. His fingers idly trace delicate patterns along your back as you lay pressed close, breathing in sync.

Though it’s late, you can tell Lando’s mind is still wide awake, trailing far from the coziness of your shared bed. His pensive silence prompts you to prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a curious smile.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?”

Lando blinks up at you before giving a small, distracted smile. “Oh, it’s nothing really ...”

You raise a knowing eyebrow. “Lando, I can always tell when something’s on your mind.” You brush a lock of hair back from his forehead tenderly. “Talk to me?”

Lando chews his lip, eyes darting away evasively. Finally he lets out a long breath, arms tightening around your waist. “I guess … I’ve just been thinking about when I picked you up earlier today.”

You think back to the afternoon when Lando swung by your lab after work like usual. “What about it?”

“Well, when I pulled up out front, I saw one of your patients leaving the exercise center,” Lando explains. His brow furrows slightly. “Some tall, muscular bloke in running shorts.”

“Oh, that was probably Brandon — he’s a sprinter I had in for VO2 max testing,” you reply casually before pausing. “Wait … you’re not jealous, are you?”

“No! No, of course not,” Lando says quickly. But the way his eyes shift away makes you think otherwise.

You frown slightly, snuggling closer against his chest. “Lando, you know you have absolutely no reason to be jealous. I only have eyes for you,” you murmur reassuringly.

Lando sighs, arms tightening around your back. “I know, I know. It’s stupid ...” He trails off, looking conflicted.

You lay a comforting hand along his jaw. “Talk to me, love. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Lando meets your earnest gaze, emotions swirling in his eyes. “I just … I wonder sometimes why you picked me, you know? You meet guys like that every day. And I’m just ...” he shrugs self-consciously.

Your heart squeezes at the vulnerable admission. You tenderly stroke Lando’s cheek. “Hey … you listen to me. You’re the only one I want. All those other athletes are just patients to me. But you ...” You smile down at him adoringly. “You’re the one who makes my heart race with just a look. The one I want to spend all my time with. The one I love with my entire heart.”

The corner of Lando’s mouth lifts in a faint, tentative smile at your words. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” you whisper fervently. Leaning down, you capture his lips in a sweet, loving kiss. “You’re my once in a lifetime, Lando. My soulmate. Meeting you was destiny.”

Lando’s arms wrap tightly around you again, the last of the tension fading from his frame. “I’m sorry I got all insecure like that. I know I’m being silly.” He presses an apologetic kiss to your hair. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You nuzzle your face lovingly against his neck. “You were just yourself — that funny, charming, incredible guy I fell for the moment we met.” You lift your head to meet his eyes again. “I never stood a chance. My heart was yours from the start.”

A smile breaks across Lando’s face at last. “I really am the luckiest bloke in the world, aren’t I?”

“Damn right you are,” you say teasingly, making him laugh. Your expression softens. “But truly, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. My heart only races for you. It always will.”

Lando’s eyes gleam with renewed confidence and adoration as he rolls you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Well in that case, what do you say we get your heart racing again?” He murmurs playfully, brushing his nose against yours.

You grin up at him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’d say you’re on.”

Lando’s smile widens as he dips his head to meet your lips in a passionate kiss. Your pulse immediately quickens at his touch, heart thrumming as you arch up into him.

When Lando finally pulls back for air, his eyes are dancing. “Yep, definitely racing,” he laughs breathlessly, lifting your hand to his lips to kiss your pulse point.

You shake your head in amusement, heart overflowing with love for this man. “You’re the only one for me. Today, tomorrow, and always.”

Lando’s smile softens to something tender and reverent. “And you’re my once in a lifetime, Y/N.” He brushes his thumb along your cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper. And as his lips find yours again, you let yourself get lost in his kiss, your racing hearts beating as one.

[fakebwitch]

mean nerdy!rafe helps reader with physics…

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

you played with your hands while walking along the corridor that would lead you to his dorm. you stopped recognizing the number of his room, you took a deep breath trying to relax yourself as you raised your hand, knocking two times on the wooden door. after a few seconds the door opened wide, your eyes met the figure of rafe, a white polo shirt with simple brown pants, his face decorated with a delicate pair of glasses. he gave you a small look before moving leaving you some space to enter, “come in”.

choosing rafe cameron as your tutor was one of the last things you would have wanted. you had tried to ask other students but everyone was busy with their sessions or they already had too many people to tutor for, and he was your last hope. he was a few years older than you and was fucking good at any scientific subject - math, physics, chemistry, biology - always getting the best grades, and this did nothing but increase his ego, exploiting his excellent knowledge as an excuse to be arrogant and presumptuous. your grades were really bad and failing in physics was certainly not among your plans, so you had to resort to his help.

you would never have thought that he would agree to give you private lessons, you thought that he would have much better things to do, like studying for the next sessions or maybe he already had someone else to whom he dedicated his time, instead he looked at you for a few seconds — maybe feeling your despair — and accepted, giving you an appointment for friday at 5 p.m. at his dorm.

you get inside, a strong smell of cigarette with a vanilla room perfumer flooded your nostrils. the room was quite tidy, very minimally furnished with few personal decorations — unlike yours— there was a small bookcase full of books, and not to mention his desk, covered with scribbled sheets, just as you had imagined it. he sat on one of the chairs fixing his hair, “sit” he said looking at you, you did as he said by sitting in front of him, placing your bag on the chair next to you.

“let’s just start” he said crossing his hands on the table, you nodded taking out your book with a small notebook, as well as a small pencil case. “what do you want to start with?” he asked you, his look stinging while waiting for your answer, you had never had a real conversation with him and being aware of his character you didn’t really know how to behave, you didn’t want to look stupid in his eyes. you opened the book showing him the topic you hadn’t understood, rafe gave it a little look without uttering a word, an imperceptible “mhm” was audible to you while he took his notes.

before you noticed it he began to explain, his words fluid and clear while he gestured lightly with his hands, his eyes fixed on yours sometimes fell on his notes or on your book showing you what he was referring to, not even the slightest difficulty transpired from his speeches, as if he was talking about a banal topic that did not include the most complicated formulas and most absurd meanings. holding his gaze was difficult for you, having to focus your attention on something other than his sharp blue eyes. no matter how much you got lost in the details of his face and how he seemed so involved in what he was explaining to you you could not afford distractions, you had to listen and you had to understand above all what he was saying, or you would not have solved anything.

he stopped leaning his back on the back of the chair, the biceps muscle contracted as he scratched the back of his neck, “got it?” it was all he said, his tone almost arrogant as if not understanding what he said was stupid. “yeah” you nodded placing the pen on the table, on the sheet of your notebook some small sentences were visible concerning some important formulas or terminologies.

“we need to make a little practice” he said taking your book in his hands, flipping through the pages in search of some exercise to put into practice what he explained. the room felt suffocatingly quiet, his presence was intimidating, his sharp gaze like a dagger that kept you on edge.

“let’s try this problem” he said, sliding the book across the table toward you. his hand brushed yours briefly, and you felt a jolt shoot up your arm. it was ridiculous how much his touch affected you, how even his scent—a mix of clean cologne and the faint, lingering cigarette smoke—was making your head spin. “okay” you murmured, trying to focus on the equation scribbled on the paper. but your mind was anything but clear. you picked up the pen, feeling his eyes on you, watching every move you made as if you were under a microscope. he got up from his seat, your breath hitched as you heard his slow step approaching you. you tried to shake it off, focusing your attention to what you should’ve solved, but then he stopped right behind you, you could feel his presence towering you, his scents even more clear now that he was so close to you.

“you’re doing it wrong” he said, leaning closer. his voice was low and curt, but not cruel. he reached out, his large hand covering yours as he guided your pen across the page. his touch was firm, his skin warm, and you found yourself holding your breath as he pressed against your back. “there. that’s how you set it up” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. his breath ghosted across your cheek, and you couldn’t help but turn slightly, catching the edge of his jawline and the curve of his lips in your peripheral vision. he was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes when he glanced at you.

“are you even paying attention?” his words snapped you out of your thoughts, and you blinked, heat flooding your cheeks. “y-yeah, I’m paying attention” you stammered, though your voice betrayed you.

rafe smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “doesn’t look like it.” he sat on the chair next to you, his eyes never leaving yours. there was something about his expression—arrogant, almost predatory—that made your stomach flutter in the most inconvenient way.

“i said I’m paying attention” you repeated, your voice a little firmer this time, your eyes never leaving his. you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how flustered you were.

“hmm” he hummed, tilting his head as if he were trying to figure you out. “prove it. solve the next one on your own.” he slid another sheet toward you, his fingers lingering on the edge of the paper. “let’s see if you actually learned anything.” his voice provocative, almost amused by the situation, as if he knew the kind of effect he was having on you. you did your best to hold back, the words threatened to come out of your mouth but you swallowed them; being given private lessons by the best student was certainly not something that happened to everyone, and you could not afford to lose this privilege just to retort his stupid provocations.

you picked up the pen, determined to prove him wrong, even if your heart was pounding like a drum. the numbers and formulas blurred in front of you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of his body still lingering near yours. you tried your best, but you didn’t even have the slightest idea of where to start. minutes passed, and each seconds you became more discouraged, his gaze fixed on you almost judging you and you couldn’t take it anymore. “I can’t,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

rafe chuckled softly, shaking his head. “of course you can’t.” he stood up, moving behind you. you felt your chair shift as he placed his hands on the backrest, leaning over your shoulder to look at your work. his voice was close to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “let me show you again.” you froze as his hands settled lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing against the base of your neck. it felt too intimate, too intentional, but he didn’t seem fazed. instead, he leaned closer, his chest just barely grazing your back as he reached for the notebook.

“this is where you keep screwing up” he murmured, his tone low and deliberate. “you’re overthinking it.” his hands squeezed your shoulders lightly before one slid down your arm, guiding your hand to pick up the pen again.

you could barely focus on what he was saying. every nerve in your body was hyperaware of his touch, the heat radiating off him as he stayed impossibly close. you managed to scrawl out the equation under his guidance, but your mind was a mess, the numbers meaningless.

when he finally pulled back, his lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “see? wasn’t so hard.” your breath hitched, and you turned to look at him, your faces dangerously close. his smirk widened, his eyes flickering down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. the air between you felt heavy, charged.

“rafe—” you started, but your words faltered when he leaned in, his hand brushing your jaw as he tilted your face up. “relax” he said, his voice a mix of command and tease. “you’re way too tense” his thumb grazed your cheek, and before you could think, his lips were on yours—soft but insistent, a mixture of dominance and curiosity.

you were shocked by his gesture, it took you a few seconds to actually realize that his lips were on yours, and that he was kissing you. your hands tightened around his face pushing him towards you, the kiss quickly became more intense, both fighting for dominance.

rafe pulled away from the kiss trying to catch his breath, but was taken by surprise by your lips again on his, eager to taste his soft lips again. one of your hands went down his chest, pushing him so that he was sitting on the chair next to yours, and in a quick movement you sat on his lap. rafe didn’t utter a word, leaving you free to do whatever you wanted; he couldn’t hide his amusement in seeing you so eager, taking the lead.

his hand tightened around your chin, moving you away from his lips. his intense eyes stared at you for what seemed like an eternity, admiring the way you seemed so desperate after just one kiss, your lips flushed and your hair already messy, your eyes stared at him with a burning desire that you could no longer hide.

“so eager are we?” he was teasing you, a faint laugh left his lips. you tried to speak but his hand was too tight and you knew that if you opened your mouth nothing sensible would come out, he would only have made fun of you. he let go of the grip on your chin, letting it wrap more gently under the jaw, angled your face while his lips approached your cheek, placing a sloppled kiss right under your ear. you bit your lip closing your eyes while his kisses followed the line of your jaw, slowly going down towards your neck. for sure that bastard knew how to use his lips.

his lips moved skillfully against your neck, sucking and wetting the skin. unknowingly your hips began to move against his lap, looking for a desperate clutch with his bulge, your pussy almost praying to be touched. his free hand tightened around your waist stopping your movements, his lips let go of your neck bringing his gaze back to you. “didn’t know you were so needy” he said lowly almost as if he was talking to himself, his cock semi hard in his pants and he could feel through the thin material of your panties a wet spot.

"you were the one who kissed me first," you replied, raising an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth lifting into a sly smirk. you weren't lying-it had been him. he kissed you first, set everything into motion, and now here you were, the one craving more, so typical of him.

his gaze darkened, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "and you were the one who couldn't keep your hands off me, pushing me back so you could grind on my dick" his voice was low, dripping with heat, each word sinking into you. “just a consequence of your gestures” you said shrugging your shoulders, rafe couldn’t help but laugh at your answer.

“i think we should do less talking” he said in a whisper, resting his lips on yours, this time he didn’t stop you, letting you rub yourself on his bulge, earning you little whinings from him. his hand tightened around your breasts, squeezing it between his hand, you weren’t wearing a bra so it was easy for him to feel your hard nipple and squeeze it between his fingers through the material of the shirt, earning a small gasp from you.

“you want this?” he asked you, as if it wasn’t already obvious enough. but he needed to hear you say it, just to boost his ego even more. his hand made space under your skirt, playing with your panties. “yes” you answered without hesitation, the need between your legs growing more and more. his thumb gently brushed your clit, moving in a circular way, the contact sent a shiver all over your back and you couldn’t help but let out a little whine at the slightest pleasure he was making you feel.

“stop teasing” you ordered him in a firm voice, your hands clenched around his shoulders in search of support. “as you prefer” he replied in a moking tone, a grin on his face. without wasting more time with two fingers he moved the material to the side, with two fingers he collected all your wetness. he started teasing your clit again with his thumb, this time, however, he pushed two of his fingers inside you, a big gasp left your lips to the sudden intrusion. his fingers moved quickly and with experts inside you, touching all the spots that made you shudder, as if he knew you for years and knew by heart how to make you melt.

your head fell back completely overwhelmed by pleasure, small and continuous moans kept coming out of your mouth, unable to contain you. rafe loved how responsive you were, your moans were like a sweet song to his ears and he couldn’t help it, he angled his fingers inside you, his pace getting faster and faster making you continue with your melody. “love your pretty sounds” he said, his eyes completely fixed on you while his hands worked on you like no one had ever done, “fuck... just like this” you incited him, your voice choked completely out of breath, your hips moved slightly, riding his fingers.

you could still feel his hard cock against the soft skin of your thigh, and for the pleasure he was making you feel you couldn’t help but reciprocate. you brought your hands to his belt, unbuttoning it quickly, you unbuttoned his pants and with your fingers you tightened the zipper pushing it all the way down with a quick movement. you stopped for a few seconds, your legs trembled while rafe continued to hit your spongy spot. you continued your work by pulling out his cock, his pink and swollen tip practically screaming to be taken care of, he was long and thick. lke a magnet your hand tightened around it, your thumb rubbed on the fluffy skin of his tip.

“g-goddamn...” his head fell back, a spit fell from your mouth ending directly on his tip, using your fingers you spread it along the entire length, quickly working the hand around him. his expression was simply fantastic, his face corrugated, his eyebrows sulked while his mouth emitted small pathetic whimpers. despite this his fingers continued to abuse your little wet hole, his free hand tightened tightly around your thigh, his fingers dug into the soft skin leaving a mark.

“f-fuck” his voice completely broken as he continued to moan your name, your walls tightened around his fingers at the sight below you. you could not explain what you were feeling, in seeing a presumptuous, unpleasant, proud guy like him completely wrapped around fingers, a mess of moans and whines, bringing yourself closer and closer to the orgasm.

slimy sounds filled the room, coming from both of you. you tightened your hand around his tip, focusing on it again, having realized how sensitive he was. “h-holy shiiit baby” a broken moan came out of his mouth and you could feel his legs shaking under you, he was close.

and you were too.

he could feel it, from how your moans were more persistent and how your pussy was clenching around him, almost trapping his fingers. “as much as I love you pretty hand around me, i fucking need to be inside you” and so he took out his fingers, your hole clenched around nothing as you felt your stomach squirm for the orgasm just denied. your hand around his cock stopped,you watched him with a pout, even if you knew that in a few seconds you would finally have his cock inside you.

“you better make it worth” you provoked him. you knew he would fall into your trap, “oh don’t worry angel... you know I’ve got you.” and before you could realize his cock slung inside you, his length made space inside you while his thickness widened your walls. rafe let out a choked moan at the sensation of your warm walls, which welcomed him inside him. “feels soo good around me... so fucking tight” he praised you, his hand was around the flesh of your ass, holding it in his hands.

without giving you a any time to get used to him, he began to push himself hard inside you, his tip hit in no time your cervix. he helped you take off the shirt you were wearing, throwing it somewhere in the room. his hand immediately tightened around your breasts, squeezing it. he gave you an hard slap on the ass as his hot mouth wrapped around your nipple, sucking it and biting it lightly. you wrapped your hands in his hair, pushing him closer to your chest, completely ruining his carefully done hairstyle.

you don’t know what happened to you, but you put your hands on his shoulders, pushing him backwards so that his back was against the back of the chair, you dug your nails into his skin while you crossed his gaze — confused but intrigued by your sudden gesture of dominance — his cock stopped inside you. you began to ride him, your hips moved quickly as a hand of rafe came down to stop firmly on your waist, his glasses completely fogged. “shit rafe... feels so good inside me” you said with a big moan, his big cock sank into your hot and wet pussy. you lowered your face meeting his lips, the kiss was completely messy, your tongues quickly collided with each other, the salivas mixed together as well as your cum inside you.

“look so beautiful like this... riding me so fucking good” he said with clenched teeth, another hard slap on your ass. “i’m cumming” you said immediately after hearing his words, you could feel the weight in your stomach grow. rafe’s hips met your thrusts, while his hand went down, the index and middle finger moved quickly in a circular way on your clit, leading you to high.

with a big moan you finally reached your climax, your movements slowed down abruptly, your legs trembled at the intense pleasure achieved, and if it hadn’t been for his hands tight around your body you were sure that you would have already fallen. “fuuck” your pussy tightened around his cock, releasing your cum that was covering his tip inside you.

“that’s it baby, took me so well... f-fuck gonna cum” his voice hoarse as he used his last forces to push himself inside you, trying to reach his orgasm. it took you a few seconds to recover from the insane orgasm you had just had, despite the sense of overstimulation you moved your hips slowly, meeting his thrusts. “shit... here we go” when he feel he’s reached the limit he pulled out, he squeezed a hand around his length moving it quickly up and down, with a few pumps splashes of his cum finally fell on your lower stomach.

“thaaat’s it” his words dragged as he fully enjoyed the sensation, his hand tight around the tip not wanting to waste even a drop. without thinking twice you brought two fingers along your stomach, collecting his cum and then bringing your fingers to your mouth, savoring its flavor.

he didn’t say anything, but his gestures spoke clearly. he approached to give you one last intense kiss, savoring himself on your tongue, his hand gave a last slap to your ass before finally detaching from your lips, “we have to continue studying” he said, suddenly returning seriously. he lifted you slightly so that you were sitting on the chair next to him.

he got up from his chair, adjusting his pants and polo while sitting in front of you. “alright, let’s get back to work,” he said, his tone casual, as if nothing had happened. but the way his gaze lingered on you told a different story.

[mrsfancyferrari]

JUST READ LOSE MY MIND, CHASE ATLANTIC INSPIRED???? FOAMING AT THE MOUTH FUCK YESS, WE NEED MORE CHASE ATLANTIC APPRECIATION

Don't Stop

Summary: MV1 + "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

Song: Church · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: @dozyisdead thank you for your comment and your wish is my command! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engines was a symphony to some, an unbearable cacophony to others. For you, it was a constant hum, a background track to a life lived in the shadow of Formula 1.

Your father, a team principal with a fiery temper and an even fierier competitive spirit, had instilled in you a love for the sport, albeit one laced with a very specific kind of hatred.

That hatred was reserved for one man: Jos Verstappen. And consequently, for his son, Max.

The feud between your father and Jos was legendary, a well-documented saga of on-track collisions, boardroom betrayals, and accusations flung like grenades across the paddock. It was an old wound, festering and never allowed to heal.

You’d grown up hearing stories of Jos’s ruthlessness, his aggression, and the way he supposedly cheated your father out of a championship win years ago. You were raised to believe that the Verstappen name was synonymous with treachery and malice.

So, logically, you were supposed to hate Max Verstappen. It was expected.

But logic, as you were increasingly discovering, had a way of malfunctioning around the young Dutch driver.

You worked as a data analyst for your father's team, a role that kept you close to the action but slightly removed from the blatant animosity.

You excelled at your job, your sharp mind able to dissect telemetry readings and identify fractions of a second that could make the difference between victory and defeat.

It was during a pre-season testing session in Barcelona that Max first entered your orbit in a truly disconcerting way.

You were hunched over your laptop in the garage, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and burning rubber, when you felt a presence beside you.

"Looking busy," a voice drawled, laced with a Dutch accent that sent a shiver down your spine.

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat despite your best efforts to control it. Max Verstappen. He was leaning against the workbench, his eyes – those intensely blue eyes that seemed to see right through you – fixed on your face.

He was even more striking in person than on television.

"Just doing my job," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I've heard you're good at it," he said, pushing off the workbench and taking a step closer. "Your father keeps a tight ship."

"He expects the best," you retorted, your defenses instantly up.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air. "And you wouldn't want to disappoint him, would you?"

The unspoken question hung in the air, loaded with the weight of your fathers' rivalry. You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "No," you said firmly. "I wouldn't."

He smiled then, a genuine smile that transformed his face and made him look almost… vulnerable. "Good. Because I have a feeling you're capable of a lot more than just crunching numbers."

That was the beginning.

Over the next few months, their paths kept crossing. Brief encounters in the paddock, shared glances across crowded press conferences, and even the occasional, accidental bumping into in hotel lobbies.

Each interaction chipped away at your carefully constructed wall of animosity. You found yourself noticing the way he focused on the track, the quick wit he displayed in interviews, and the surprising kindness he showed to his mechanics.

He was… charming. Dangerous charming.

And he knew it.

He started seeking you out. A quick word in the hospitality tents, a shared elevator ride, a casual inquiry about your work. He was persistent, but never pushy. He was subtle, but undeniably present.

You tried to deny it, to rationalize it, to attribute it to simple curiosity or a harmless flirtation. But deep down, you knew the truth. You were drawn to him.

The tension between you grew thicker with each passing race weekend. It crackled in the air whenever you were near each other, a silent electricity that threatened to ignite into something explosive.

The Italian Grand Prix in Monza was the breaking point.

You were in the team's garage after a frustrating qualifying session, your father's angry voice echoing in the air. Max had just secured pole position, a fact that only added fuel to your father's fire.

You were trying to focus on the data, but your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

He found you in the back of the garage, away from the noise and chaos. He leaned against a stack of tires, his expression serious.

"You look troubled," he said softly, his eyes searching yours.

"Just a bad day at the office," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

"More than that," he insisted, taking a step closer. "I can see it in your eyes."

You finally looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. "What do you want, Max?"

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to your lips. When he looked back up, his eyes were filled with a raw intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"I want you to stop pretending," he said, his voice low and husky. "I want you to stop acting like you don't feel it too."

"Feel what?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He closed the distance between you, his hand gently reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "This," he said, his voice barely audible. "This connection, this… pull."

You stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the electricity crackling between you.

"You know it's there," he continued, his gaze locked on yours. "You've known it for weeks."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "My father…" you began, but he cut you off.

"I don't care about your father," he said fiercely. "Or mine. This is about us."

He took another step closer, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. Your mind was screaming at you to run, to push him away, to remind yourself of the years of hatred and animosity.

But your body betrayed you, remaining rooted to the spot, yearning for something you knew you shouldn't want.

He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "The problem is," he murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous promise, "if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

The world seemed to shrink, the roar of the engines fading into a distant hum. All that existed was him, his eyes, his touch, the intoxicating possibility of something forbidden.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you'd ever admitted to yourself.

But the weight of your father's expectations, the years of ingrained animosity, the potential fallout… it was all too much.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, and forced yourself to step back.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just… don't."

He stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and disappointment. He hadn’t expected you to deny him.

"Why not?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Because it's wrong," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "Because it would destroy everything."

He shook his head, his eyes filled with a sadness that pierced your heart. "You're choosing him over me?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

He took a step back, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I understand," he said, his voice flat. "You made your choice."

He turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the back of the garage, the weight of your decision crushing you.

The next few weeks were torturous. You avoided Max at all costs, burying yourself in your work, trying to convince yourself that you'd done the right thing.

But every time you saw him on the track, every time you heard his voice, every time you caught his eye, the memory of that moment in Monza would come flooding back, a painful reminder of what you had denied yourself.

He, in turn, became distant. Acknowledging you with a curt nod whenever your paths crossed, his blue eyes now devoid of the warmth you had briefly glimpsed. He became the Max Verstappen the world knew - the ruthless, focused driver, untouchable and unapproachable.

It was as if he was deliberately burying the flicker of vulnerability you had witnessed, replacing it with an impenetrable wall.

One evening, after a particularly grueling race, your father called you into his office. He looked tired, the lines on his face etched deeper than usual.

"I know about you and Verstappen," he said, his voice heavy.

Your heart sank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "Don't play coy with me. I've seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him."

You remained silent, refusing to confirm or deny anything.

"I won't allow it," he said, his voice hardening. "I won't have you fraternizing with the enemy."

"He's not the enemy," you argued, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Your father slammed his fist on the desk, making you jump. "He is the enemy! He's a Verstappen! Don't you understand what that means?"

You looked at him, your eyes filled with a mixture of anger and disappointment. "Yes, I understand. I understand that you're letting a decades-old grudge dictate my life."

"I'm protecting you," he insisted, his voice softening slightly. "He'll only break your heart."

"And you won't?" you countered, the words laced with a pain you had kept hidden for years.

He looked at you, his expression softening, and you knew you had struck a nerve. He knew that, in his own way, he had already broken your heart, countless times.

You stood up, your body trembling with a mixture of anger and grief. "I can't do this anymore," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't live my life according to your rules."

You turned and walked out of his office, leaving him sitting alone in the silence.

You knew you couldn't stay. You couldn't continue to live a life dictated by other people's hatred.

That night, you packed a bag and left.

You didn't know where you were going, or what you were going to do. All you knew was that you needed to escape, to find a place where you could be free from the weight of your father's expectations and the shadow of the Verstappen rivalry.

You drove for hours, until you reached a small coastal town, far away from the noise and glamour of Formula 1. You found a cheap motel and checked in, collapsing onto the bed, exhaustion finally claiming you.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of the ocean. You walked down to the beach, the cool sand between your toes, the salty air filling your lungs. You sat down on a rock, watching the waves crash against the shore, and finally allowed yourself to cry.

You cried for your father, for the years of missed opportunities and unspoken words. You cried for Max, for the connection you had denied, for the love you had let slip away. And you cried for yourself, for the life you had been living, a life that wasn't truly your own.

As the sun began to set, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. You didn't know what the future held, but you knew that you were finally free.

A few days later, while you were having coffee at a small cafe, you saw a familiar figure walking down the street.

Max.

Your heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here? How had he found you?

He saw you too, his eyes widening in surprise. He hesitated for a moment, then walked towards you, his expression unreadable.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I needed a break," he said, his gaze fixed on the ground. "And I thought I might find you here."

You stared at him, your mind racing. "Why?"

He looked up then, his blue eyes meeting yours. "Because," he said softly, "I couldn't let you go."

A denial trembled on your lips. This is a mistake. It can't work. The feud, your father, everything stands in our way. But the words wouldn't come. Your heart, traitorous thing that it was, soared at his words, desperate to believe in the impossible.

"Max…" you began, but he cut you off, stepping closer, his presence filling the small space between you.

"Don't," he pleaded, his voice raw. "Don't tell me it's a bad idea. Don't tell me we can't. Just… just let me be here. With you."

The intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming. You looked away, breaking the connection, needing to gather your thoughts, to reign in the emotions that threatened to consume you.

"You shouldn't have come," you said, the words sounding harsher than you intended. "It's not… it's complicated."

He sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair. "I know it's complicated. I'm not stupid. But I don't care about complicated. I care about you."

He pulled out a chair and sat down, his gaze unwavering. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. You knew you should tell him to leave, to go back to his life, to the expectations and pressures that defined him.

But you couldn’t. The yearning in his eyes, the vulnerability he showed, mirrored the longing that had been buried deep within you for so long.

"My father knows," you blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "He knows about… us. And he’s not happy."

Max's jaw tightened. "I figured as much." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Does he know how long 'us' has been going on?"

You looked down at your hands. "He doesn’t know there is an 'us'."

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Right. Well, that's what you're afraid of. And that's the least of your worries. I'm sure he threatened you. He knows my father as well as anyone, and he'll have made it clear that he wants nothing to do with us."

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze. "He… he said I couldn't see you. He called you the enemy."

"And you listened?" There was a challenge in his voice, a flicker of the competitive fire that burned so brightly on the track.

You finally looked up, meeting his intense gaze. "No," you said, your voice stronger this time. "I didn't. That's why I'm here."

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. The weariness seemed to lift, replaced by a glimmer of hope. "Good," he said, his voice softer now. "Because I don't think I could have handled it if you had."

He’d sought you out, finding you holed up in this anonymous corner of a city far removed from the glitz and glamour of Monaco. A city where you hoped to disappear, to catch your breath after the fallout.

But Max, with his unwavering determination, had a knack for finding you.

“This is crazy, you know,” you said, the small smile on your lips trembling slightly. It was crazy. Everything about this was insane. The clandestine meetings, the stolen moments, the constant fear of discovery. And now, the open defiance of your father’s wishes.

“What’s crazy is you living by yourself this whole time,” Max replied, his voice serious, devoid of the playful banter that usually characterized your interactions.

“Yeah, I’ve been living in a small hotel, a big change from Monaco, right?” you joked, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. But Max remained unsmiling, his focus unwavering.

“Has anyone tried to do something to you?” he asked, a furrow appearing between his brows. The intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. The concern was real.

“Nope, nothing I couldn’t take care of before,” you answered, offering a reassuring smile. “You’re overprotective for someone who is supposed to be my enemy,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice low, insistent. “This whole situation… your father… it’s not safe. You shouldn’t be alone.”

You sighed, stirring your lukewarm latte with unnecessary force. “I know, I know. But what choice do I have? Staying in Monaco was… unbearable.”

The unspoken words hung heavy between you – the suffocating atmosphere, the judgmental eyes, the constant reminders of the chasm between your world and Max’s. Or, more accurately, between your fathers' worlds.

Silence descended, a pregnant pause filled with unspoken anxieties and desires. Then, Max broke it, his voice a quiet rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

“You could stay with me.”

The words hung in the air, simple yet earth-shattering. You stared at him, your breath caught in your throat. Stay with him? Live with him? It was a leap of faith so profound, so reckless, it took your breath away.

“Max…” you began, but he cut you off, his eyes pleading.

“Think about it. You wouldn’t be alone. You'd be safe. And… and I want you to be with me.”

The raw honesty in his voice was disarming, stripping away the layers of cynicism and doubt you had so carefully constructed. The thought of waking up beside him, of sharing your life with him, was a siren song you couldn't ignore.

You swirled the dregs of your latte, avoiding Max’s intense gaze. He’d sought you out, finding you holed up in this anonymous corner of a city far removed from the glitz and glamour of Monaco.

A city where you hoped to disappear, to catch your breath after the fallout. But Max, with his unwavering determination, had a knack for finding you.

"This is crazy, you know," you said, the small smile on your lips trembling slightly.

It was crazy. Everything about this was insane. The clandestine meetings, the stolen moments, the constant fear of discovery. And now, the open defiance of your father’s wishes.

"What’s crazy is you living by yourself this whole time," Max replied, his voice serious, devoid of the playful banter that usually characterized your interactions.

"Yeah, I’ve been living in a small hotel, a big change from Monaco, right?" you joked, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. But Max remained unsmiling, his focus unwavering.

"Has anyone tried to do something to you?" he asked, a furrow appearing between his brows. The intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. The concern was real.

"Nope, nothing I couldn’t take care of before," you answered, offering a reassuring smile. "You’re overprotective for someone who is supposed to be my enemy," you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice low, insistent. "This whole situation… your father… it’s not safe. You shouldn’t be alone."

You sighed, stirring your lukewarm latte with unnecessary force. "I know, I know. But what choice do I have? Staying in Monaco was… unbearable."

The unspoken words hung heavy between you – the suffocating atmosphere, the judgmental eyes, the constant reminders of the chasm between your world and Max’s. Or, more accurately, between your fathers' worlds.

Silence descended, a pregnant pause filled with unspoken anxieties and desires. Then, Max broke it, his voice a quiet rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

"You could stay with me."

The words hung in the air, simple yet earth-shattering. You stared at him, your breath caught in your throat. Stay with him? Live with him? It was a leap of faith so profound, so reckless, it took your breath away.

"Max…" you began, but he cut you off, his eyes pleading.

"Think about it. You wouldn’t be alone. You'd be safe. And… and I want you to be with me."

The raw honesty in his voice was disarming, stripping away the layers of cynicism and doubt you had so carefully constructed. The thought of waking up beside him, of sharing your life with him, was a siren song you couldn't ignore.

"You don't have to answer now but can we get a meal, I'm starving after driving so long," Max said, breaking the heavy silence.

"I have food in my hotel, if you want," you replied, the offer escaping before you could fully register it. It was a small, hesitant step, a tiny crack in the wall you’d built around yourself.

Max's face softened, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. "Really? Are you sure? I don't want to impose."

"It's just leftovers," you said, trying to downplay the significance. "But it's better than this coffee shop. And cheaper."

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Alright, lead the way. But I'm buying dessert later."

The walk back to your hotel was short, the silence less oppressive than it had been at the cafe. You found yourself stealing glances at

Max, noticing the way the afternoon sun caught the golden flecks in his eyes, the slight stubble that shadowed his jaw, the easy confidence in his stride. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of energy and passion, and you were inexplicably drawn to him, even though every instinct screamed that it was a terrible idea.

Your hotel room was small and functional, a far cry from the opulent suites you were accustomed to.

You felt a flush of embarrassment as you opened the door, revealing the cramped space with its generic furniture and slightly musty smell.

"It's not much," you mumbled, gesturing vaguely around the room.

Max shrugged, unfazed. "It's a place to sleep. I've stayed in worse." He surveyed the room with genuine curiosity, his eyes lingering on the small framed photo on the bedside table – a picture of you and your mother, taken years ago on a sun-drenched summer day.

You busied yourself in the tiny kitchenette, pulling out the containers of leftover pasta from the fridge. "It's just pasta, nothing fancy," you said, your voice muffled.

"Pasta's perfect," Max replied, leaning against the doorway, watching you. "Especially when someone makes it for me."

You felt your cheeks flush again. "I didn't make it. I ordered it from a restaurant."

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. "Details, details. The point is, you're sharing it with me."

As you ate, the conversation flowed more easily. You talked about everything and nothing – the weather, the city, the ridiculousness of the reality TV show playing on the small television.

You avoided the topic of your fathers, of the racing world, of the complicated web of politics and rivalries that had brought you both to this point.

After you finished eating, you started clearing the dishes, but Max stopped you, gently taking the plates from your hands. "Let me do that," he said. "You relax."

You watched him as he washed the dishes in the tiny sink, the water splashing and the sound echoing in the small room. There was something surprisingly domestic about the scene, something that felt both comforting and unsettling.

When he was done, he turned to you, drying his hands on a dish towel. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension.

"So," he said, his voice low, "about that offer…"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "Max, I don't know. It's… a lot to consider."

"I know it is," he said, taking a step closer, his eyes searching yours. "But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was the right thing. For both of us."

You closed your eyes, trying to block out the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. Fear, doubt, longing, hope – they all battled for dominance.

"My father would kill me," you whispered, the words barely audible.

"He won't have to know," Max said, his voice soft. "We can keep it our secret. For as long as we need to."

The idea was tempting, dangerously so. A secret life, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, where you could be with Max without fear of judgment or reprisal.

But the thought of deceiving your father, of living a lie, weighed heavily on you. "I don't know if I can do that," you said, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze.

Max's expression was unreadable. "Then what do you want to do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You didn't know. You wanted to run away, to escape the suffocating pressure of your life. You wanted to be with Max, to explore the connection that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

But you were afraid. Afraid of the consequences, afraid of the pain, afraid of the inevitable heartbreak that seemed to follow you everywhere.

You stepped back, putting some distance between you. "I need time to think," you said, your voice trembling.

Max nodded slowly, his eyes filled with understanding. "I know. Just… don't take too long. I don't want to lose you."

He took another step closer, closing the gap between you. You could feel his breath on your face, see the flecks of gold in his eyes, smell the faint scent of his cologne.

"The problem is," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, "if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

The air crackled with electricity. You knew he was right. One kiss, one touch, and you'd be lost. You'd surrender to the desire that had been building between you for months, and there would be no turning back.

You closed your eyes again, bracing yourself for the inevitable. But instead of kissing you, Max stepped back, his face etched with a mixture of longing and restraint.

"I should go," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll let you think."

He turned and walked towards the door, leaving you standing alone in the small hotel room, your heart pounding, your mind reeling, and your body aching for a touch that you knew you couldn't afford to have.

The scent of him lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the choice you had to make, of the path you had to choose, and of the dangerous, irresistible man who was waiting for you on the other side.

You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that your life would never be the same again. . . .

The sudden buzz of the hotel room door jolted you from your introspection, the muffled sound piercing the quietude that had settled over the space like a warm, velvet shroud.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart fluttering like a caged bird at the thought of seeing Max again. Two days had felt like an eternity, and you hadn't been able to shake the feeling that something was amiss. The buzz grew more insistent, and you realized you'd been holding your breath.

With a soft exhale, you approached the door, peeking through the peephole to confirm your suspicion. There he was, Max Verstappen, his frame slightly hunched as if he were carrying an invisible burden.

You swung the door open, the cool metal handle smooth against your palm, and took in the sight of him. Your eyes widened in alarm. Max looked as if he had been through a storm, his usually impeccable hair disheveled and his clothes rumpled, but it was the bruise blossoming on his left cheek that truly concerned you.

"Max! What happened!" you exclaimed, reaching for him, your voice a symphony of worry and relief. He stumbled forward, his eyes hazed with pain, and you caught him before he could collapse, the weight of his body a comforting presence that sent a rush of adrenaline through your veins.

With gentle insistence, you guided him to the plush couch that dominated the room, the soft fabric whispering against his skin as he sank into the cushions. He winced slightly, and you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles tensed beneath his shirt.

"Nothing happened," he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the air, thick with unshed emotion.

But the tremor in his words was a telltale sign of his distress, and you knew better than to take his dismissal at face value.

"Max," you said firmly, kneeling in front of him and placing your hands on his knees. The fabric of his trousers was rough against your palms, grounding you in the reality of the moment.

You searched his eyes, willing him to open up to you. "You can tell me." His gaze flicked to the floor, a silent confession of his vulnerability.

"My father…" he began, his voice cracking. "He hit me after I told him I was coming to see you today." The words hung between you, heavy with the unspoken implications of his actions and the price he'd paid for you two.

Your chest tightened with a mix of anger and fear for Max, but you pushed the feelings aside, focusing instead on the warmth of his body so near to yours.

"Why?" you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. His eyes met yours, the turmoil in his eyes a tempest that you desperately wanted to soothe.

"He doesn't approve," Max said, his jaw clenching. "But that's never stopped me before." A hint of defiance flashed in his eyes, and you felt a spark of admiration for his courage.

The silence stretched, a taut bowstring drawn between you both. The air grew thick with unspoken desire, and the space between you seemed to shrink until it was nothing more than a whisper.

You wanted to reach out, to trace the line of his jaw, to brush the hair from his forehead, to tell him everything would be alright. But you couldn't find the courage.

"I'll go get a first aid kit," you muttered, breaking the spell and standing abruptly.

You practically fled to the bathroom, grabbing the familiar box from under the sink. Your hands trembled as you opened it, the sterile scent of antiseptic doing little to calm your nerves.

You took a deep breath, trying to regain control, and walked back into the living room.

You returned with the familiar red and white box, the scent of antiseptic and sterile gauze a stark contrast to the intoxicating aroma of Max's aftershave that still lingered in the air.

He was lying back just as you'd left him, legs splayed slightly, a picture of vulnerable masculinity. A wave of protectiveness washed over you, eclipsing the earlier anxiety.

You walked between his legs, a move that felt both intimate and practical, and gently tapped his shoulder. "Max, wake up," you murmured, your voice soft.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, heavy-lidded and unfocused for a moment. He sat up slowly, wincing almost imperceptibly, and instinctively placed his hand on the side of your leg, a light, possessive touch.

"Yes, schat?" he asked gently, his voice thick with sleep and something else you couldn't quite decipher.

The word, Dutch for "treasure," sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to ignore the way your skin prickled under his touch, focusing instead on the task at hand. "I've got the first aid kit. Let's take a look, okay?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours, searching, questioning. "It's nothing, really. Just… a bit sore."

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Let me be the judge of that." You knelt before him, opening the kit and carefully laying out the contents: antiseptic wipes, bandages, gauze pads, and pain relievers.

"Where are the worst spots?" you asked, your voice professional, though your heart hammered against your ribs.

He hesitated, then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a faint bruise blossoming on his chest. You gasped softly, your fingers tracing the edges of the discoloration.

"He didn't hold back, did he?" you whispered, your voice laced with anger.

Max shrugged, trying to downplay the severity of the situation. "It's fine. I've had worse."

"That's not the point," you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended. You softened your tone, looking back up at him. "Let me clean it up. And then we can talk."

He sighed, relenting. "Alright."

You carefully cleaned the bruise with an antiseptic wipe, watching his face for any sign of pain. He remained stoic, his gaze fixed on your hands as they moved with gentle precision. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions.

Once you finished cleaning the bruise, you applied a thin layer of antiseptic cream and covered it with a bandage. "There," you said, stepping back to admire your work. "That should help."

Max looked down at the bandage, then back up at you. "Thank you," he said softly.

You met his gaze, and the air crackled with tension. You knew you couldn't ignore the elephant in the room any longer. "Why, Max? Why do you keep coming here, knowing what it costs you?"

His jaw clenched. "Because I want to," he said simply. "Because being with you… it's worth it."

"But is it really?" you pressed, your voice laced with doubt. "Is it worth the pain, the conflict, the disapproval of your family?"

He reached out and took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His touch was warm, grounding, reassuring. "Yes," he said firmly. "It is. Because you make me happy. You make me feel… alive. And I don't want to give that up."

His words resonated with a raw honesty that tugged at your heart. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that your connection was strong enough to withstand the forces pulling you apart.

"I worry about you, Max," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

He squeezed your hand, his eyes filled with concern. "I know. But I can handle it. I'm a racing driver, remember? I'm used to taking risks."

You managed a weak smile. "That's not exactly reassuring."

He chuckled softly, the sound a welcome relief in the tense atmosphere. He pulled you closer, his gaze fixed on your lips. The air grew thick with anticipation.

It was a dangerous game you were playing, one that threatened to consume you both.

"I… I don't think we should see each other," you muttered, your hand instinctively reaching up to play with the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

The words felt like shards of glass in your mouth, each syllable a betrayal of your own desires.

"And why is that, schat?" he slowly smiled, his Dutch accent thickening with playful provocation. He rubbed the side of your thighs, the simple gesture sending shivers down your spine.

"Because you're getting hurt because of me," you replied, knowing it was a weak argument, but all you could manage.

"For you? I'll do anything," Max said, moving closer, his breath ghosting across your lips.

He was so close, you could see the flecks of the ocean in his blue eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, a memento from his karting days.

You knew you should pull away, end this before it went any further, but you were frozen, caught in his magnetic pull.

He raised his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "I wasn't joking," he whispered, his voice husky and low. "If I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, threatening to break free. The world seemed to narrow, focusing only on him, on the anticipation that was building inside you. You knew he was right.

One kiss, and you'd be lost, spiraling further into this forbidden love affair.

"Maybe that's the problem," you whispered back, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, his eyes searching yours. "What is?"

"That I don't want you to stop," you admitted, the truth spilling out like a confession.

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, heart-stopping smile that made you forget all the reasons why this shouldn't be happening. He lowered his head and finally, his lips met yours.

The kiss was electric, a jolt of pure energy that coursed through your veins. It was possessive, demanding, and utterly intoxicating.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, surrendering to the moment, to the overwhelming desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

Time seemed to dissolve as the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. He tasted of rain and adrenaline, of the forbidden thrill that defined your relationship. You ran your fingers through his hair, savoring the feel of it against your skin.

He pulled away slightly, gasping for air, his eyes dark with passion. "See?" he murmured, his voice raspy. "Told you."

You laughed breathlessly, the sound filled with a mixture of joy and apprehension. "You're impossible," you said, shaking your head.

"Maybe," he conceded, his eyes twinkling. "But you love it."

You couldn't deny it. You loved the danger, the excitement, the feeling of being completely alive when you were with him. But you also feared it. The consequences of your actions loomed large, threatening to crash down on you both.

"What are we going to do, Max?" you asked, the question heavy with uncertainty.

He sighed, his expression turning serious. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm not giving you up. Not without a fight."

He pulled you close again, burying his face in your hair. "Tonight," he murmured, "forget everything else. Just be with me."

You knew it was a temporary solution, a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. But in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, your love was strong enough to overcome the obstacles in its path.

The roar of the Formula 1 engines rumbled in the distance, a constant reminder of the world he belonged to, the world that was waiting for him.

He needed to leave, to go and fight, to drive the best race of his life.

You pulled away and looked in his eyes. “Go. Win. I’ll be watching.”

He smiles, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. “For you, I will.”

He kissed you once more, a quick but passionate kiss before turning and disappearing into the night. As you closed the door, you leaned against it, your heart pounding in your chest.

You knew this couldn't last forever.

But for tonight, you would allow yourself to dream, to believe in the impossible, and to hope that somehow, against all odds, your love story would have a happy ending. . . .

[sinofwriting]

Sparks - Ollie Bearman

Words: 833 Word Prompt: Sparks

Masterlist | Support Me! | Sin’s Sept. Blurbs

Her hands come together, clapping, as she jumps up and down cheering.

She lets David guide her, keeping himself between her and some of the PREMA team members as they watch Ollie stop the car behind the number one spot and then get out. More cheers erupting from the movement.

He throws himself into the team and her smile somehow grows wider as she watches them all grab and pat at him, beyond happy with him. She even spots Kimi in the crowd of mechanics despite his poor race, having gotten put into the wall by someone in an overzealous move on lap three.

Ollie makes his way down and she feels David’s hands fall from her shoulders as he pats Ollie on the back before Ollie pulls her up and into a hug. She makes a squeaking sound as her feet leave the ground, but clutches at him back, his grip on her unbelievably tight and she just knows he’s going to be shaky when he gets back from the podium.

“Last weekend in F2 and you practically pulled a grand slam!” She shouts and can just barely hear Ollie laugh, his fingers tightening somehow, refusing to let her go. “You did amazing, Bear!”

He laughs again, full of disbelief and then he’s slowly and carefully putting her down to yank off his helmet.

“You’ll stay here with my dad for the podium right?”

She nods, eagerly. “Of course.” She glances at David who looks somehow even prouder of Ollie than he usually does. “David won’t let anything happen to me.”

David pats her shoulder. “Not a single hair will get touched on her head.”

As she just a few minutes later watches Ollie on the podium she can’t help but fall a little bit more in love with her best friend than she already was. He looks so happy and relieved that this is how he’s finishing out his career in Formula 2, not with a bad run of races, but with two wins, a pole position, fastest lap, and fastest in practice. It was like a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

When he finally comes back to the small drivers room that Ferrari had given him in their garage, his dad pats him on the back, ruffling his hair before excusing himself and the door shuts behind with a soft click, leaving just the two of them alone.

“You did so well, Bear.” Her soft voice makes him break, a strangled sob leaving him and she quickly wraps an arm around him, pulling his head to rest in the crook of her neck. “You did so well.” She repeats, tears of her own coming to her eyes as she feels him shaking in her hold.

“I can’t,” he sobs. “I can’t believe it’s over. I’m so fucking tired.”

Her heart aches, she knows how much the media and fans saying it was odd to see him promoted when his F2 season was so poor, even after his two excellent drives in F1, had hurt him. And she knew that it had been a matter of time before he broke. She wasn’t expecting for it to happen as soon as he was out of the car and away.

She continues to hold him as he cries, her skin hot and soaked from his tears and her hips feel squeezed from the tight circle of his arms, but his sobbing has stopped, his crying is slowing, his shaking no longer.

“I don’t want to watch the race.” He mumbles against her skin and her pulse jumps. “Or debrief.”

“You’ll have to do a debrief, but I’ll message Jock. And maybe your dad can talk to Rene about an informal debrief, just an email sent out tomorrow.”

“That sounds nice.” He says, pulling just a bit away as he stands up straight, wiping at his face to clear it from the tears that spilled. The movement makes her hand fall away from his hair.

“I’ll text him and see what he can do.”

“Can you hold me still while you do it?”

Blood rushes to her face at the question, “I think it will be more of you holding me, but I’ll do my best.”

Pulling out her phone, her breath hitches as Ollie now tucks her into him.

It’s a brief text and she tries to show Ollie, but he shakes his head with a grumble and tells her to just send it. David’s response is a quick on it which she relays to Ollie.

As she puts her phone away, Ollie grumbles again and then sparks seem to fly across her skin as he puts his hands under her shirt, pressing her somehow even closer. It makes her head tilt back with a gasp.

“Bear,”

Her name comes out just the same and then he’s leaning in, eyes staring into hers, both of them holding their breath and she gives a slight nod and then his lips are on hers.

[fxrmuladaydreams]

lucky red bull driver (mv1)

max x reader , george x reader (platonic)

summary: george may have made a mistake when he introduced you to mercedes’ number one rival

notes: george is so dramatic in this, it’s great. i’ll probably write a part 2 to this

next part

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re sure there’s a clause somewhere in your contract that says you aren’t allowed to be doing what you’re doing, but you can’t help it.

Being hired as an assistant to Toto Wolff led you into the constant whirlwind of a life in Formula One. You’d gotten to learn a lot about the sport, and a lot about the Mercedes team.

Constantly being by the side of Toto Wolff had it’s perks. You got to travel the world, go to all of the Formula One races, meet and become close friends with Lewis Hamilton and George Russell. You were living the dream of many others.

Then he had to come in and ruin it. He ruined it with his pretty eyes, and his wide grin. He ruined it with his snarky comments, and soft praises. He was a hurricane storming in and you were trapped in the eye.

You could blame the whole thing on George, claim that it was his friendship to Max that had started your romantic endeavors with the Red Bull driver. Whenever Toto didn’t need your help, you were allowed to do whatever you liked, whether that be sightseeing or just relaxing. Recently though, you’d joined George on his paddle outings, which was where you had officially met Max.

George often played with some of the other drivers. Alex, Lando, and Max frequented the group. You had quickly become friends with the others, what with them being close in age to you, and their chaotic and amusing behavior when around one another.

This version of Max wasn’t the version you were used to seeing on the track. That version was serious, a scowl practically glued to his face. He’d gotten into verbal fights with some of the other drivers, George included. But this Max was different. He smiled a lot. He laughed when George and Alex would start bickering like an old married couple. He gave them all a pat on the back whether he won or lost the game.

It was during a game when you first spoke with the Dutch driver. He had tapped out, claiming he needed a break, and sent in someone else that had joined the group for the day. He sat on the bench next to you beside the court, watching the game unfold between the others.

He made quiet conversation with you, just about little things like how you were enjoying your job, your friendship with George. It had gotten to the point where you had stopped paying attention to the paddle game and gave Max your undivided attention.

That is, until a ball came hurtling towards you. You saw it out of the corner of your eye, lifting your arm up and turning your head away so that you wouldn’t get hit. But the ball never came in contact with your head, instead it hit Max’s paddle, which was being held up near your head.

“Watch where you hit the ball!” He shouted to the players on the court.

George looked sheepishly surprised as he jogged over to you. “Are you okay? I swear I didn’t mean to hit it to you-”

“At her. You hit it at her.” Max corrected him.

“I’m sorry Y/n.” George apologized again.

You shake your head. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

You take a walk with Max afterwards, looking to avoid anymore rouge paddle balls. The two of you refuse to talk about anything that has to do with Mercedes or Red Bull while you walk, knowing that if you did you’d be in serious trouble with your bosses. Instead you talk about your childhoods, about how the two of you actually started your careers in Formula One, and about things that interested you outside of the sport.

You were surprised to hear Max say that he didn’t really excel in any other activities. You were shocked that the three time world champion, the man who was at the top of his sport, admitted that driving was really all he was good at.

You laugh and shake your head as you return to the court. “I don’t believe that for a minute Max.”

“It’s true! Put me in a pool and I’ll drown. On a football field and I’ll fall on my ass more times than you can count.” He grins as you laugh.

“Y/n, ready to head back to the hotel?” George asks making his way over to the two of you. His eyes travel back and forth between you, watching as you’re standing so close to one another that your arms brush against each other.

You clear your throat and take a step away from Max, your eyes refusing to meet George’s. “Yeah, sure.” You turn back to Max. “It was nice talking with you.”

“You too. I hope we can do it again sometime.” He gives you a smile, then leaves you to join Lando.

When you look back at George he’s got his eyebrows raised as if waiting for you to say something. You don’t give him the satisfaction, instead walking back to his car.

You get in the passenger seat of his car silently as he throws his equipment in the backseat. When he gets into the drivers seat he sits quietly for a moment then breaks the silence with a slew of questions.

“Alright, what happened? What is going on with you and Max? Did you tell him anything about Mercedes? Did he tell you anything about Red Bull? Why does he want to see you again?”

You stop the waterfall of questions with a hand on his shoulder.

“We just took a walk. No, neither of us said anything about our teams. And I don’t know George, maybe he wants to see me again because he enjoyed my company.” You last sentence is laced with sarcasm.

George rolls his eyes. “Yes Y/n, you’re an absolute delight. You know Toto will have a conniption if he finds out you’re buddies with Max Verstappen.”

“Well we’re not, so there’s no reason to worry.” You shrug.

You like to believe you kept that up for a while, attempting to avoid the Red Bull areas of the paddock, and running the opposite direction when you saw the navy blue team kit headed your way, but it didn’t take long for you to give into the tugging feeling in your chest whenever you saw him.

Avoiding him turned into brief greetings when passing each other, which turned into longer conversations with each other, which turned into seeking the other out while at work.

There’s no denying what’s going on at this point. Race weekends consist of you sneaking into his hotel room to see him, sharing meals together, and falling asleep wrapped around each other in his bed.

You hide in empty corners and walkways to see each other, sharing rushed kisses and hushed words of affection.

If anyone saw you, with his blue polo, and your white one, chaos would ensue. That’s exactly what happened when you were caught. You were pressed between a wall and his body, your arms wrapped around his neck as his held onto your hips. One of your hands reaches up to tangle itself in his hair, knocking his cap off his head onto the ground.

Even though you’re quite literally wrapped up in him, you still manage to stay aware of your surroundings, listening for anyone who might pass by the dark walkway you currently occupy.

“No one is going to find us liefje.” Max murmurs against your lips. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head.” He teases you as his kisses start to trail down your neck.

His teeth scrape against your pulse point, causing a light gasp to escape you. You can feel Max smirking into your neck.

“And what if someone does find us? And they see me making out with a Red Bull driver? What will they say?” You lean your head back against the wall behind you.

“Lucky Red Bull driver?” He grins as he pulls away from your neck.

You scoff and hit his chest with your hand. He lets out a loud laugh, slightly stumbling back. You grab onto his shoulder pulling him back towards you and place a finger over his lips.

“Max! You need to be quiet!” You whisper to him.

He leans his forehead against yours as your hand drops from his lips. He looks down at your lips then back up into your eyes.

“I know how you can keep me quiet.” He dives back down to your lips and pressing you into the wall again.

In that moment you’re so consumed by him, by his kisses that become more and more heated, by his tongue that slips into your mouth, by his hands that keep a firm grip on your hips, that you fail to notice the sound of someone approaching.

“Oh god!” A voice rings out.

You’re quick to push the Dutch driver off of you, looking towards where the voice had come from.

George stands about three meters away from you, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hanging open. His eyes go back and forth between you and Max, who stands next to you, running a hand through his hair.

It’s almost as if the three of you are having a stare down. You’re all searching for the right words to say, but no one can find them.

You take a slow step towards George with a hand lifted in front of you, almost like you’re trying not to scare off an animal.

“George-” you start softly, but that’s all it takes for an endless stream of words to come flowing for the Brit’s mouth.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! You and him?” He points accusingly at Max. “Fucking Max Verstappen? Do you know how bad this is? Toto’s going to kill you!” He points at you now. “He’s going to kill you, then he’s going to kill you!” He points at Max again. “Then he’s going to kill me!” He arm drops back down. “Oh god, we’re all dead!”

You take a few quick steps to stand in front of George, placing your hands on his arms. “No, no one’s going to die, because Toto isn’t going to find out.”

“Because if you tell him I will push you off track.” Max says.

You turn to give him a stern look, then look back at George.

“George, you can’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Y/n…” he groans.

“Please George, please don’t tell anyone.” You beg him.

He glances back at Max who’s picked up his hat from the ground and now adjusts it back on his head.

“You really like him? Like you two are together?” George asks looking back at you.

“I mean…” You turn to face Max. You were far too busy sneaking around to actually put a label on what you were.

Max shrugs. “She’s my girlfriend.”

George sighs shaking his head. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t you have just dated Lando? Or Charles?”

“Because I like Max, not Lando, and not Charles. Besides, you’re the one who introduced us.”

George groans covering his face with his hands. “I’m dead. I’m gonna be out of a job and dead.”

Not much changes after George finds out. It’s difficult to get him to keep his cool at first, but quickly adjusts to keeping this secret hidden away.

To others he seems closer to Max, the pair occasionally walking together, talking to each other in hushed tones. What was once just an acquaintanceship has seemingly turned into a close friendship.

George, only after being what some may call threatened by Max, now helps you sneak around with the Red Bull driver. He makes up excuses as to why Toto can’t find you while you’re in Max’s driver’s room. He offers to roadtrip with you from track to track so that you can travel with Max.

Everything goes smoothly for a while, until a few photos circulate Twitter.

You and Max were very careful about where you met up. It was usually somewhere secluded, somewhere that others wouldn’t find you or wouldn’t be able to see you.

You really enjoyed being with Max, but the hiding was starting to take a toll on the both of you. You wanted to be able to walk into the paddock hand in hand, and he wanted to be able to sweep you into his arms after winning a race.

It was nearing the day that would mark 4 months with each other, so Max had begged you to do something special. He just wanted to take you out. He promised he would make sure that everything was quiet and no one would catch you.

After reluctantly agreeing Max had called up your favorite restaurant. He paid to make sure the two of you would be the only ones dining there, and that you would have access to any back doors to get in and out.

Surprisingly dinner went off without a hitch. The restaurant was empty when you arrived, allowing you and Max to have a quiet romantic evening with each other somewhere other than between the walls of either of your apartments. You spent the nights smiling and laughing with each other, occasionally stealing food off the other’s plate.

You left the restaurant and headed back to his apartment with your takeout boxes. You spent the night there with Max, cuddled up into his chest as you let sleep overtake you.

The next morning you woke up still pressed against Max. Usually he would stay in bed, stroking your back or your hair softly until you woke up, but now he was sitting up looking at his phone.

His eyebrows were furrowed and a scowl rested on his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” You ask, slowly sitting up.

“I’m sorry liefje…” He hands his phone to you.

He’s got Twitter open, and on it are a few photos. There’s one of you smiling up at Max. You can’t really tell that it’s Max, just a guy in a white shirt. Then one of you kissing the same guy. Then the last is one where you can clearly see Max, his face now turned towards the camera.

Someone took these photos as you were leaving the restaurant. Clearly someone had informed paparazzi that you would be there, sneaking in and out together.

You can feel your heartbeat speed up in your chest. You give Max his phone back and reach over for yours.

You’ve also got a slew of Twitter notifications, as well as a few texts from George.

Are you alright?

I don’t know how the hell that happened.

I’m here if you need me. Either of you.

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. You can feel tears start to well up in your eyes, already picturing what’s going to happen next. You could lose your job, you could be forced to end your relationship with Max, you could be sued for potentially giving Red Bull classified information.

Max sees your eyes become glassy and immediately pulls you into his arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Y/n.” He lets you cry into his chest. “It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay. I promise.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Once you’ve finally got your breathing back to normal you slowly pull away from Max. He gives you a soft smile, then softly kisses you. He kisses you once, then twice, then a third time, until you finally return a smile to him.

You lay with him quietly for a few minutes until you hear you phone buzz.

Your screen lights up with a text notification from Toto.

We need to talk. Thursday, 4 o’clock, my office. Bring Verstappen.

[beansprean]

many benefits...colin you old softie

My Familiar’s Ghost part 72

Masterpost

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Full body of Colin Robinson in brown slacks, shoes, and a gray sweater vest laying stomach-down on his bed. He is propped up on his elbow with his phone in both hands, legs kicking up behind him. He turns his head toward the viewer with a grin and says 'Oh yeah, Stu and I are having a lot of fun. The other day, he showed me how to write a bunch of excel formulas. Ya gotta know the rules to screw them up, y'know?' 1b. Close up of Colin's phone in his hand, showing a lockscreen with a photo of him kissing Stu's cheek. Colin continues, 'There are many benefits to dating an IT guy.' 1c. Shoulders up of Colin, now sitting up and clutching his phone in both hands. He makes a little cat grin, cheeks pink, and adds, 'Also he has a nice little tuchus.'

2a. Shoulders up of vampire Guillermo, eyes a bit red from crying and dressed down from his previous outfit to his button up shirt, holding up his own phone with a stylus poised in his other hand. He furrows his brow at the screen and asks himself, 'Wha? How do spam callers already have my new number?' 2b. Close up of the phone screen in Guillermo's hand, showing the start of a text conversation with an unsaved 912 number. The number sent a link titled 'Panera-cctv.mov?42069bb' and then a text that says 'Knowing is better, trust me.' /end ID

[ynnie631]

┆𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄: 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐮𝐦 𝐨𝐩𝐮𝐬 : ratio

summary .☘︎ ݁˖⊹ surely a scholar like Veritas Ratio is acknowledged by Nous, the being and path who represents intelligence— but no, his assistant is the one who was acknowledged.

not proofread - ratio might be ooc - shitty writing w.c .☘︎ ݁˖ 2.3 (oneshot)

Veritas Ratio is a man known for his many achievements in the world of geniuses.

He is renowned as a genius. One of the few who excels in various fields, achieving countless memoirs and documentaries all dedicated to his theses and innovations.

Despite being an undergraduate in the Department of Mathematics at Cosmos Liberty University, his mastery of math, physics, and even philosophy has far surpassed the requirements for an undergraduate degree in many universities.

Veritas Ratio has managed to solve complex mathematical equations at an unexpected speed. His understanding of concepts that had other undergraduates in his class struggle to comprehend, displaying his utter intelligence in the span of a few system hours.

He has shown remarkable perception, curiosity, and creativity that everyone expects from a ‘genius’

Veritas Ratio is the utter embodiment of intelligence.

It was only a matter of time before Nous, the astral–intelligent computer who ascended into godhood, took notice of him— his accomplishments that transcended the research of this era.

So, imagine his surprise when his former undergraduate, now his current academic assistant, receives the recognition he believes he deserves.

His finger twitches, his plaster head masking the scowl of disdain.

He remembers you.

The timid, quiet undergraduate. Always scribbling notes and asking questions he found painfully obvious. He’d scoff every time your hand went up, disrupting the class with your need for clarification.

Yes, you were timid— but never shy. As if shame was never in your vocabulary at all.

If he asked you to speak to a random stranger, you’d hesitate only for a moment— then agree, not out of obedience, but from curiosity. You’d narrow your eyes, observe your target, note every detail down to what was hidden at first glance.

Within seconds, you’d formulate a plan. (all that for conversing? wow.)

Awkward, yes. But undeterred.

You were part of the students who struggled with complex lessons. You’d linger after lectures, poring over formulas with your head tilted, as though the numbers didn’t daunt you; As though those lessons deserved your time and energy.

There were even times when you’d challenge the phrasing of his definitions— not out of arrogance, but from a need to understand. To dissect, to touch the concept from every angle.

He hated it. Hated how shameless you were.

You’d meet his contempt with mild interest, as if it didn’t register— or worse, it didn’t matter. As if his name, his theories, his accolades, were just that: names, not meanings.

You didn’t revere knowledge the way others did.

You wrestled with it.

And now, years later, you stand across the room with that same quiet poise. The same narrowed eyes scan and calculate. Your lips curl into an innocent smile as your gaze flickers to the letter in his hand.

The Genius Society’s official seal emblazoned in the corner of the invitation letter. A certificate of recognition.

But the name— it wasn’t acknowledging his— It was written to acknowledge yours.

A letter of invitation. A commendation. Yours.

It irks him.

For a moment, he wonders if it was sent to him by mistake— or it was set to mock him. He exhales, slow and controlled, as if to expel the irrational emotion that twists in his chest.

Envy.

How ironic, a voice laughs inside his head. Foreign and sharp against the data that pulsed through his thoughts. He of all people— plagued by such a base emotion.

Again, he exhales. Slow and controlled. A man like him is never swayed by base emotions.

“Congratulations.” he says, handing you the invitation. You approach with long strides, your fingers brushing past his as you accept the letter.

You read the content with skepticism— gasping as you realized the invitation’s worth.

“I can only assume that your work was nothing more than…” he pauses, drumming his fingers against his biceps.

“…uniquely insightful.” his finishes, eyes narrowing as he recalls the inaccuracies in your past reports— the misspellings, and meandering logic, the endless tangents.

He pauses for a brief second, fingers concluding its incessant drum.

He scoffed internally. How ironic. Veritas Ratio, the hyper–logical, contentious, and driven by the standards of intellectual merit—succumb to envy?

Unlikely. Completely and utterly improbable.

But— he rationalized. A thought that blooms an ache to his temple— such chances are heightened by his mortality.

“Thank you, Dr. Ratio.” you smile, earnest and kind, “Honestly? I didn’t even think it was possible… I did mislabel some of the diagrams… oh! Not to mention the misspellings—”

“Ah, yes. Such inaccuracies that beg the reason on why you were chosen.” sarcastic and blunt. That’s how the scholar is… but this time, his voice was laced by a different inflection.

A tone you can’t quite decipher.

You blink, your lips parting in confusion before slowly curling into a sheepish smile. “Y–yeah… I don’t even understand how I was chosen.”

He hums, noncommittally. “Neither do I.”

Silence. It’s uncomfortable and tense.

You try to force a smile, a laugh.

Anything that would ease the growing anxiety. You were used to his direct and somewhat arrogant self— after all, you’ve been his assistant for ages.

You try to rationalize it. Excusing his actions as just his usual self—

“Would you humor me?” he tilts his head, expression unreadable behind the plaster head.

—Humor…?

Oh…!

He was trying to joke with you!

“Have you brought the reports, like I’ve told you to?” ah, so he was scolding you.

You laugh nervously, lips pursed and apologetic. “Actually— about that…” he loudly sighed, waving his hand for you to continue.

“I brought it!”

“And where have you placed it exactly?”

You winced, looking elsewhere, “So… that’s the thing… I kind of forgot where. Haha.”

Veritas Ratio was calculating— that much is certain.

For days on end, he’d test you, observe you.

Gauging your potential despite the gnawing stir of envy— for he of all people knew better than to dim the light of someone with the wit and integrity to transcend this era’s research even further.

Dissecting you proved fruitful.

With his calculations, he hypothesized your clumsy–forgetful nature as a farce. A mask that conceals your true nature, derived from your timid self and quiet nature… he deduced that once your relation with an occupant increases, your persona lifts.

Revealing the genius that he, and a few others, had once perceived as idiotic.

He would never admit it— not now, at least— but he respects you. You’ve earned it.

An equal he can call upon to aid in his studies. Something rare that he, Veritas Ratio himself, could have never believed…

“Oh! So, the equation would turn out as…” with a few flicks and twists of your pen, you came to the exact solution he had written in his head.

He smiles, satisfied with your process, hidden underneath his mask.

“Impressive.” swiftly moving to his papers strewn along his desk. “Not many can keep up with the tempo of my thoughts.”

Envy would not become him. Rather, that redundant base emotion would only further his pursuit to distribute knowledge.

Starting with you.

With a few refinements in different sectors of your disposition, he can turn you into the perfect paradigm of rational brilliance—

“Oh wow…” you reply, surprised at his praise. You smile bashfully, “err– thank you, Dr. Ratio!”

“Try not to get used to it.” he scoffs, scanning the labeled papers he had assigned to Margaret— anything to divert attention from the faint uptick in his pulse.

The corner of his mouth threatens a smirk, but he suppresses it beneath his mask of stoicism.

With a few refinements in different sectors of your disposition, he can turn you into the perfect paradigm of rational brilliance— Not as a mere assistant, but a culmination.

His magnum opus.

During his time at CLU, he remembers a specific lesson his professor taught in psychology. It bordered on philosophy but strained against the concept as it relied more on the person’s opinion.

Their world view.

And so, his professor states that: Curiosity lies embedded in the precipice of the mortal soul. When fed with reason, it evolves to culmination, birthing ideas that stir and swell into innovation. Whether such revolution brought life of misery or wonder, it remains a means to an end.

An end to where that same curiosity lies and festers like the mara–struck— a disease that spreads like fungus: sprouting its leaves through the bloodstream. The infected physicality mutates, hosting branches and vines that taint the mind and soul, each fiber straining and bleeding until the thoughts that run amok are flashes of pain.

The fears that haunt them, the trauma that scarred them, are forever etched into their sight.

Chasing, taunting, and mongering fear— forcing their instincts to fight.

It’s cancerous in growth, erratic in form, until the mind forgets and hungers for what might be.

But in those moments of turmoil and piercing lucidity— those maddening flashes of perceived truth— their reasons become twisted. Unnatural.

At first, the comparison of mara-struck was strange. Unfitting.

Ratio vividly remembers raising his hand to question the integrity of the lesson. Why was it so important for undergraduates to learn about curiosity? They were in university for god’s sake.

It was a base emotion, natural and understood without explanation.

But his professor answered with a chuckle, that by “due time” his students will understand his reasons, its importance.

Ratio would admit. He never understood his professor nor its importance.

But then— he remembers you.

The timid, quiet undergraduate. Always scribbling notes and asking questions he found painfully obvious.

The same undergraduate he revered with that same interest his professor spoke in a strange metaphor.

It is said that curiosity evolves toward culmination, and when fed by reason, by desire. Such revolution brings life of misery or wonder.

It remains a means to an end.

An end that Veritas Ratio deems impossible.

He knew the risks well. If his studies allowed leeway for such base, redundant emotions, his whole purpose— his mission, would lack the precision he seeks to uphold.

Disregarding what the lesson entailed, Ratio wholly believes curiosity is a mark of brilliance— his gaze turns to you.

His magnum opus.

You work across him, carefully tipping the vial of potassium citrate in a beaker of chelators.

The early formulation of a serum for Lithogenesis.

A disease that petrifies individuals to turn into mineral-like beings. A disease so severe that it’s been dubbed “The King of Diseases,” emphasizing both its widespread impact and the terrifying permanence.

And you were curious.

Sifting through old medical records, stumbling upon an unsolved file. Bursting into his office and declaring that the two of you would cure Lithogenesis. Despite his reluctance and an overburdened schedule— he couldn’t refuse. You didn’t let him.

You then dragged him to the laboratory and demanded research, identifying significant data trends and causative agents.

A reason that fed your hunger for cultivation.

You were wild. Unkept. Wonder-filled, and lacked the rigid decorum expected of Nous–affiliated scholars.

And yet… that wonder captured his attention.

Veritas Ratio was discreet— long before his years at Cosmos Liberty, you had somehow drawn his gaze.

Whether it was your quiet demeanor, or the spark of authenticity during your presentations— you exude the essence of brilliance.

You struggled with advanced theories, yes. But you never let it sway you— You’d linger after lectures after all. Poring over formulas as though the numbers deserved your time and energy.

A trait that most undergraduates lacked.

One of the many reasons that fed Veritas Ratio’s curiosity about you.

He scoffed internally. As if he was curious— he regarded you with no importance, then with envy, and now with curiosity.

How ironic. He of all people, succumbing to such base and redundant emotions.

A poke to his mask draws him from his thoughts.

“Are you okay, Dr. Ratio?”

Ratio pauses. Blinking once, then twice.

Since when were you so close?

Your features resolve sharply within the tunneled vision his plaster mask affords— eyes reflecting like stardust, lips parted with worry. His breath catches, your voice muffled beneath the weight of his thoughts, which orbit solely around you.

His mask left no room for distraction. There’s nowhere else to look at besides you.

His stomach churns, and he feels weird— there’s a strange pulse, it’s persistent and grating; irritating and unfamiliar.

He hates it.

It doesn’t make sense. None of these thoughts makes sense.

It’s consuming. Suffocating. Surrounding him with tingles, his skin warms unbidden.

And— oh.

oh.

He realizes a little too late— you’ve been waiting for a response.

Ratio clears his throat, turning his head away, confused.

Just what in the world is happening to him?

“I’m… fine.”

One of your brows arches, doubting his sincerity.

“If you're tired, you can rest. I’m sorry for dragging you along without asking,” you gestured toward the vials and beakers. “I don’t even have your consent, and I know how busy you are.”

Ratio swallows— Don’t say that, you fool— resisting the urge to speak the thought aloud.

“Apologizing for a proposal with this much potential is irrational.” His tone is even, though a tremor threatens to crack.

“If your hypothesis proves correct— and it will— then dragging me along was the most rational course of action.”

A pause.

“Consent becomes secondary when lives are at stake.” he adds, more softly now.

Ratio notes your stunned face, your lips twitching as you beam.

“You're absolutely right!” with swift steps, you pivot back to your experiment with renewed vigor.

And despite his better judgement, Ratio huffs— his version of a chuckle— and shakes his head. He walks to the untouched file, filled with your barely legible notes and wild tangled hypotheses.

He scans them, immediately calculating the research required to refine the serum.

Veritas Ratio believes curiosity is a mark of brilliance— his professor be damned, that was his world view after all— it was the source of innovation after all.

Curiosity can evolve to culmination, birthing ideas that stir and swell into innovation. Whether such revolution brought life of misery or wonder, it remains a means to an end.

And this time…

This serum you proposed— a culmination that stemmed from curiosity— can bring an end to ‘The King of Diseases’.

“If anyone could’ve done it… it’d be you.” Ratio murmurs, flipping his notebook open to note its pathophysiology.

Just what are you doing to him?

💌┆wtf? where did my italics go... also lost motivation to fully write the oneshot, oh well

Dividers belongs to @v6que (lace) @uzmacchiato (squiggle)

[valyrfia]

The Sainz Effect on Media: What the Hell is Going On?

Last weekend, Carlos Sainz Jr. won the 2024 Australian GP, and subsequently, almost every single F1 media outlet has seemingly lost their minds. From the aramco power rankings giving him a perfect score (despite Max not getting one for a grand slam last weekend), to motorsport.com acting like a fan account, everyone is tripping over themselves to sing his praises.

F1 is a complex sport, it requires several different aspects to even get a car moving, even more to make it competitive, and even more to enable a championship fight. From driver line-up, to aero, from international politics, to tyre deg. There's no other sport like it. To truly be an expert in Formula 1, you have to have knowledge of how a track works, an understanding of combustion engines and aerodynamics, a grasp of interpersonal and sports psychologies, and a sense of international relations. This is why, even more so than any other sport, good journalism is vital to the sport's ecosystem. No one person can be expected to be an expert in all these areas, you need a team of people who are willing to pool their knowledge and resources before coming up with conclusions to disseminate to their audience.

But media also likes narrative, and media likes an underdog, that is undeniable. And you can create an excellent underdog narrative with Carlos. From losing his seat despite his teammate keeping his, to him having to get his appendix out in Jeddah, the circumstances are there to set up an underdog narrative. But the crux of the issue is this: anyone with any sort of F1 wheel knowledge understands why Charles was kept over Carlos (a better driver even in a car built away from his driving style, who is revered almost as a messiah figure amongst the traditional fans of the team), why Sir Lewis Hamilton is a much more desirable asset to a top team than Carlos (7x world champion, who brings in a massive draw for talent that will far outlast his stint with Ferrari). So what do you do with these characters who don't match the narrative that you want to push?

Simple. You discredit them.

Make no mistake, this is what we're seeing across every major F1 news outlet in the past week. A plain journalistic choice to choose narrative over integrity. There's all sorts of rumours whizzing around as to why that could be: from possible covert payouts from Sainz Sr, to possible misogyny towards Leclerc fans to pundits simply not being bothered to do their research. But the why of it, although important, doesn't matter nearly as much as the fact that however you look at it, these journalists are failing the sport they claim to love. What's even worse, is that it takes a simple glance at numbers to tell us that these media outlets are digging themselves a hole, and are going to have to backtrack or try and excuse their belief in this narrative in the coming months.

Let's take a common line that Sky Sports like to use as an example, "Carlos Sainz is driving for himself. How incredible would it be if Carlos could compete for the championship this year." Max Verstappen will likely win the championship this year, there are no ifs and buts about it. Red Bull are still developmentally leaps ahead of their rivals, and even if Ferrari were to catch them, Max is still at the wheel. And if Ferrari were to catch them, why would Ferrari prioritise Carlos over Charles? The only driver who has been proven to be able to beat Max in his current form at Red Bull on pure pace is Charles Leclerc, which he achieved in Las Vegas last year, and would've gone on to take the win at that same race if not for the safety car. The most likely championship fight this year is Max Verstappen vs. Charles Leclerc, and that's hinging on Ferrari matching Red Bull development. This outcome is blindingly obvious to anyone who knows how this sport works, and yet the current media angle seems to not be to explain how the sport works to the general public, but rather to double down on narratives that are certainly going to be proven incorrect in a manner of months, if not weeks.

Let's look at another common angle the media seem to like to take, "You have to ask, did Ferrari make a mistake swapping out Carlos Sainz for Lewis Hamilton?". Now, if you've been even near a TV showing F1 in the past ten years, it's pretty obvious this answer is of course not. Lewis Hamilton is likely the greatest driver of all time, his name in a lot of cases outshines the sport itself. No other driver on this grid even comes close to his level of acclaim. This reason alone is enough for Ferrari to sign him. Ferrari has not won a championship in close to two decades, the best and brightest engineers want to be working where they know the results are going to come from, and right now, as a stellar engineer, Red Bull or Mercedes or even McLaren would be a choice over Ferrari, which has the added hurdle of moving to Maranello (considering nearly all the other teams are located in the Midlands in the United Kingdom). Acclaim aside, Lewis Hamilton is still a very impressive driver. P3 in the championship last year to a Red Bull 1-2 is not something to be taken lightly, considering his teammate finished in P8 in the same car with only one more retirement. It does make pure racing sense to sign him over Carlos, who finished in P7, especially since Ferrari have an up and coming talent in Ollie Bearman, and what they need is someone with experience to fill that gap until Ollie can make it to Ferrari, and will likely happily step aside when that time comes at some point in the next five years.

However, has there been a single major F1 news outlet calmly and rationally explaining this thought process for those who may enjoy the sport but are not experts? No. Instead, what we get is Sainz sensationalism, and bias so explicit it tips right over into unprofessional. From The Race saying that a Sainz/Leclerc civil war is Leclerc fan hysteria, despite their own outlet running an article just months ago about tensions in Ferrari, to motorsport.com creating a CV for Carlos, and then proceeding to harass fans who ask why they are so keen to ignore facts. Every single F1 outlet seems to have lost their minds.

The sad thing is this will only backfire massively on Carlos himself. Charles will outperform Carlos, every metric from the past year indicates so. Ferrari may be in the running for the WCC by the midpoint of the season, but Carlos's win will fade into distant memory long before we reach Spa, and the average enjoyer will look back on all this crazy media hype and go "hm, well he didn't live up to expectations did he? He was massively overrated." And this too, will be the fault of F1 media.

In conclusion, F1 media sensationalism has failed Charles, Lewis, and Max, it will fail Carlos in the coming months, but most of all, it has failed the fans of the sport, by choosing to focus on far-fetched narratives, rather than deliver proper journalism and build equally compelling narratives out of the data on the table. It highlights a lack of skill and awareness, which threatens the entire ecosystem of the sport that we all know and love.

[rottenpumpkin13]

maybe this is a weird question, maybe not, ignore it you feel weird to answer!

what's the reaction about having a "real" baby for AGS? (can be a joke) (or not?) (maybe not)

Sephiroth: Suspiciously competent. Actually no, Terrifyingly competent. He straps the baby to chest in a reinforced, custom-fit holster. The baby has more armor than SOLDIER Thirds. He doesn't even break eye contact while neutralizing a threat. The baby sleeps through explosions. Sephiroth knows exact dosages of formula, microwaves nothing, uses a sterilized portable bottle warmer, and wears a baby monitor clipped to his coat. He owns an annotated parenting manual and will raise this child in a safe, healthy and loving environment. He's got sensory toys and classical music on rotation and gives the baby tummy time on a plush rug. The baby drools and Sephiroth sighs in relief— "Excellent. Salivary function working normally." He's so lenient and loving that it drives Lazard insane.

Lazard: Why is there a child here. Sephiroth: They woke for this. Must I deny them exposure to other humans? Lazard: The baby is holding your SUMMON MATERIA. Sephiroth: They need to play with everything they see to satiate their sensory needs, Director. *The baby giggles, then activates Ifrit*

Angeal: Anxious as hell, simultaneously knows what he's doing and doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He has a parenting planner, charts nap schedules, feeding times, but is so anxious and keeps googling things like: "how loud is too loud for baby sneeze??" and "baby said gaaa is that a cry for help??" Baby giggles—Angeal immediately starts crying. Baby sneezes—Angeal also sneezes and cries harder. Zack walks in with a blanket cape and says "I'm gonna be the cool uncle who teaches them how to backflip off rooftops." Angeal responds by grabbing him by the neck and whispering: "No. You're going to be the responsible uncle who holds the diaper bag, memorizes the pediatrician's number, and sings the backup vocals to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I have not slept in four days, Zackary. Do not test me." Zack finally knows fear.

Genesis: Treats the baby like it's a luxury, limited edition accessory and carries it like a fashion statement. It's got leather booties, a gold-trimmed pacifier, and a red bib that says Amor Fati. He's competent, surprisingly, but barely. Forgets bottles but remembers the imported artisanal tangerine baby food that comes in a crystal jar. Takes baby to missions, to cafés, and to nightclubs to pick up dates. Spins elaborate stories to strangers like "My wife left me... she said I loved the stage more than her and left me with our child." Women cry and hug him.

[crssvjb]

Moments -Sebastian Vettel

Sebastian Vettel x Senna!reader

Summary: Moments of your relationship with the pilot Sebastian.

Warnings: Mentions of Ayrton Senna here (not many). A little long.

The Encounter - 2008

The year was 2008, and the Formula 1 tracks were both a place of excitement and nostalgia for you. As the daughter of Ayrton Senna, the racing legend, the world of F1 has always been part of her life. Now, as a mechanical engineering student, you landed an internship at Toro Rosso, an opportunity that blended your passion for engineering with deep memories of your father.

One afternoon, in the Toro Rosso pits, while analyzing the car's data, the voice of Sebastian Vettel, a young German driver, interrupted his thoughts. – "These numbers always seem very complicated." – He said with a relaxed smile.

You turned around, surprised to see the pilot next to you. – "Well, to me, they tell fascinating stories." – You replied, smiling. The connection has been made. Sebastian, curious and respectful, began to ask questions about his father and the time when Senna dominated the tracks.

– "Ayrton Senna is a legend. What is most incredible about him that people don't know?"

You smiled, appreciating the sincerity of the question. – "In addition to his incredible driving skills, my father was driven by an intense passion for competition, but also by a deep respect for other competitors. He sought excellence, not just for himself, but to elevate the entire sport."

Sebastian, his eyes shining with interest, replied: – "It's incredible how he influenced Formula 1 and all of us. I'd love to hear more about him."

Between conversations about cars, racing and engines, you got closer and became friends. Sebastian, being a promising driver at the time, showed genuine interest in his passion for mechanical engineering. The bond between you grew, even when he left for the Red Bull team the following year.

The Invitation - 2009

In 2009, Red Bull Racing became the new stage for the emotions of Formula 1. Sebastian Vettel, now the team's driver, was conquering the world with his skill on the track. Still, you remained a constant part of his life, the connection growing with each run.

The day after the exciting race in Singapore, Sebastian invites you to a quiet dinner. The atmosphere is cozy, an elegant restaurant in the city. As you browse the menus, Sebastian smiles, looking straight into your eyes.

– “These moments on the track have been even better with you around.” - He says. – "And I was wondering if you'd like to hang out with me. Not as teammates, but as... something more."

Sebastian holds his hand, demonstrating the sincerity of his words. – "I really wish this was something beyond the track. What do you think?"

The sincerity in Sebastian's words is moving. You smile, feeling a rush of emotion. – "I would love to, Sebastian. It would be a pleasure."

The Instructor - 2010

The year was 2010 and the Formula 1 season was about to start. Red Bull's Sebastian Vettel had a bigger challenge ahead of him. And you? Well, you were about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. Red Bull Racing decided that you would be Sebastian's instructor for the season.

The days leading up to the start of the season were intense. You and Sebastian spent hours on the simulators, discussing strategies, adjusting technical details and analyzing each curve of the circuit. It was a perfect elaboration, where the pilot and the engineer shared ideas and experiences.

On a rainy afternoon at the Red Bull office, Sebastian looks at you with a smile. – "You really know what you're doing. It's amazing how everything makes more sense when explained by you."

You laugh, sharing your knowledge with passion. – "It's all about understanding the nuances, the details that can make a difference. And when you drive, these details become even more crucial."

The season begins and the races bring challenges and triumphs. In a memorable race, Sebastian achieves another podium at home. The atmosphere in the pits is electric, and after the team celebrates, they turn to you.

– “This is for us, for our partnership.” – says Sebastian, and before you know it, your lips meet in a passionate kiss, revealing to the world the connection that developed behind the scenes.

The news about you two spreads quickly through the media, but you face everything head on. At a press conference, Sebastian smiles for the cameras. – “Finding someone who shares the passion for the sport and understands the madness that is Formula 1 is rare. And I’m grateful to have her by my side.”

The coming months will be one of continued celebration. Wins on the track create a unique dynamic. The world championship is an achievement for both of them, and on the podium, after the last race of the season, Sebastian surprises everyone again by holding the trophy, looking at himself and saying: “This victory is ours.

Commitments - 2012

After an intense and exciting race, you and Sebastian return to the hotel tired, but radiant from the victories achieved on the track. The atmosphere is relaxed and intimate when you find yourself in the hotel suite, with the city lit up in the distance.

Already dressed casually, you snuggle into bed, sharing laughs and memories of the day. The city lights mix with the twinkle of the stars, creating a magical scene.

Sebastian, looking at you tenderly, comments: – "You know, today was a special day. Not just for the races, but for being together. I have something for you." – He gets up and takes something from the table next to the bed.

Upon returning, Sebastian holds a small box. His eyes light up as he opens the box, revealing the dazzling ring. – “From the moment we met on the slopes, my life changed, darling. It’s not just about running for me, it’s about the journey we’re building together.”

He looked into her eyes tenderly. – "I don't just want the races, I want all the twists and turns of life by your side. So, Y/N, will you agree to be mine forever?"

The moment for Y/N is as if she were participating in a romantic movie. Your romantic movie. The city lights, the few stars in the sky and Sebastian's request create an unforgettable scene.

You, excited, respond with a smile lighting up your face. – "Yes, Sebastian. I accept with all my heart."

He gently places the ring on your finger, a tangible symbol of your commitment. The cold ring is bright and contrasts with the warm exchange of glances between you. An enveloping hug follows, as if it were a seal that transcends words. The racing heart is the echo of the emotion shared in that intimate moment. Amid the silence of the hotel suite, the kiss that follows is soft but full of meaning.

Weddings and Achievements - 2013

In 2013, on July 13th, the wedding of Sebastian Vettel and S/N Senna was a great spectacle. The lush garden was adorned with a profusion of flowers, while the mountains in the background provided a picturesque backdrop. The golden early afternoon sun cast a magical light on the ceremony, where Sebastian anxiously awaited the arrival of his bride.

The bride, radiant in her wedding dress, walked towards the altar. Sebastian looked at her in awe, and when she finally reached his side, he whispered, "You look amazing." The words were soft, but they carried with them all the depth of the love they had built since that first conversation.

The ceremony was filled with personal vows, each word echoing the unique journey that brought them here. When it was time for the vows, Sebastian held Y/N's hands gently.

– "Y/N, since the moment you came into my life, everything has changed. You are not only my partner, but my light at all times. I promise to be your constant support, to love you on good days and bad, always ."

With tears in her eyes, Y/N replied: – “Sebastian, you are my passion and my calm. I promise to support your dreams, laugh with you in the joys and face the challenges together. ."

The kiss after the vows wasn't just a symbolic gesture; it was the confirmation of an eternal promise. Under the warm applause of the guests, the celebration continued in an atmosphere of joy and happiness.

The reception was a festival of colors, twinkling lights and carefully planned details. The party continued with dancing, laughter and unforgettable moments. Each reflected the couple's unique personality and the love that permeated their union.

In the privacy of Sebastian's three-time world champion's room, the trophies and photos that told the story of his victorious career were proof of his achievements not only on the track, but now also in his personal life. The wedding photo occupied a prominent place, symbolizing the harmony between professional and personal victories.

Life continued with travel, intimate moments and the making of memories that would become fundamental pillars of the journey together.

At the end of 2013 the Brazilian Grand Prix arrived and emotions were running high. Sebastian, determined and focused, aimed for his fourth world championship. The Interlagos tracks witnessed a spectacular performance, culminating in the victory of Sebastian Vettel, who became four-time world champion.

In the pits, the team celebrated and Y/N was there, proud and excited. Y/N, with a smile lighting up her face, approached him. – "You deserve it, love." – She said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

Thus, under the vibrant colors of Brazil, the couple celebrated not just a victory on the tracks, but the victory of a love that withstood all the curves and straights of life. Sebastian Vettel's fourth championship marked not only racing glory, but also the consolidation of an extraordinary journey, where love and success were intertwined in a unique and unforgettable narrative.

Family and New Challenges - 2015-2022

The years that followed marked an extraordinary journey for Sebastian Vettel and S/N Senna-Vettel, a path full of challenges. In 2015, Sebastian embraced Scuderia Ferrari, diving into a chapter full of promises and achievements.

The space dedicated to Sebastian achievements, where his shiny trophies are kept, but now also for children's laughter and colorful toys. Elias, the firstborn, was born in January 2016, filling the house with the sweet melody of a baby's cry and transforming the world bedroom into a haven of joy and life.

Antonella's arrival in May 2019 further expanded the Vettel family's horizons. The days were filled with laughter, games and the innocent wonder of children discovering the world. The pantry room, where all the trophies are kept, now decorated with drawings and children's toys, has become a microcosm of family love.

At the end of the 2021 season, where Sebastian was at the Aston Martin team, he decided to retire and had Y/N's full support.

On a calm day, Sebastian and Y/N found a moment for a serious conversation about the future, sitting in the world room. Looking at the trophies that told the story of his victories, Sebastian began, "I think it's time for a change, Y/N. I've decided to retire at the end of this season."

Y/N looked at him surprised and, at the same time, understanding. – "Sebastian, this is serious. Are you sure this is the right time?"

Sebastian held her hand tenderly. – "Yes, I'm sure. I want to be more present for you, for Elias and Antonella. Every time I get home it seems like they grow another 5 centimeters. Life is more than tracks and races."

Y/N, despite her surprise, smiled, feeling the warmth of her decision. – "I understand. We will be by your side no matter what."

The last Grand Prix - 2022

The final Grand Prix of the 2022 season was a bittersweet spectacle. In the Aston Martin pits, the atmosphere was charged with emotion as the Vettel family gathered to support Sebastian in his final race. Watching the race, Y/N got emotional.

Six-year-old Elias watched beside her, with a mixture of curiosity and understanding beyond his years. 3-year-old Antonella was excited, fascinated by the colorful cars on the screen.

When the race ended and Sebastian crossed the finish line for the last time, Y/N was emotional and proud. As they approached the pits, he affectionately joked: – “You are sadder than me, because I am retiring”.

Y/N laughed, wiping away a furtive tear. – “It’s hard not to get emotional, Sebastian. There were so many achievements, so many laps together.”

Sebastian hugged her, looking at Elias and Antonella. – "You saw daddy run, didn't you?"

Elias, his eyes shining, nodded. – “It was incredible, daddy!”

Antonella, in her enthusiastic way, exclaimed: – “I want to run too!”

Sebastian laughed, taking her in his arms. – "Who knows, little one. Life is full of surprises."

⎊𝙘𝙧𝙨𝙨𝙫𝙟𝙗 - ²⁰²⁴

[purplephantomwolf]

Love in Motion

Chatper Two

Synopsis: You are a normal college student until you get a wrong number text.

Note: This is not an accurate portrayal of how the real people in this act. I do not know them personally, so I will not be portraying them accurately.

Warnings: None

Previous chapter: Chapter One

Masterlist

I AM REWRITING THIS FROM AN OC STORY. IF I MISS ANYTHING, PLEASE LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT! THIS IS CHAPTER 2 OF 5 OF ALREADY WRITTEN CHAPTERS. I AM REWRITING THIS FROM AN OC STORY. IF I MISS ANYTHING, PLEASE LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT! THIS IS CHAPTER 1 OF 5 OF ALREADY WRITTEN CHAPTERS.

April 5, 2022 6:30 PM

Your phone vibrates, pulling your attention away from the code you are currently working on. You smile as Luke’s name flashes up on the screen.

Luke: Good morning, Y/n

You: Good morning, Luke

Luke: Did you sleep well and have a good day?

You: I did! Did you sleep well and have a good day as well? What did you do during the day?

Luke: I did too! I spent the day putting some finishing touches on an event for this weekend. Did you watch any more F1 during class today?

You: No, I was a good student today. But I’ve got a Monza quali on as I work on my code.

Luke: Ahh, that was an exciting weekend for McLaren.

You: Shhhh! Don’t say anything! I don’t know the results!

Luke: Sorry! My lips are sealed.

You: I know that Max obviously wins the championship, but that’s literally all I know about the season. I’ve managed to not see any of the results.

Luke: How have you managed that?

You: I know literally no one who watches F1, so no one to spoil it for me.

Luke: Well, now you have a friend to talk to about it.

You: I do! You’re going to get a bunch of texts on Saturdays and Sundays about it.

Luke: That sounds good to me. I won’t be able to respond to them because those are my busy days.

You: Sounds good. I’ll try to not overwhelm you with texts then.

Luke: Alright. Do you want to continue our game of 21 questions?

You: Sure, it was your turn to ask a question!

Luke: Okay, going to go deep here. What’s your biggest fear?

You: Damn, that is deep. But I think it’s not having no one. I fear that I’m going to end up alone, with no friends, no significant other. My turn to go deep. What do you do to cope when things get hard?

Luke: I go to my family and friends. I talk to them about what’s going on and what I’m struggling with. What’s your favourite thing about yourself, physically and not physically?

You: Physically, my eyes. Not physically, probably my ability to get along with everyone. What’s your biggest pet peeve about social media?

Luke: The hate that everyone dishes out because they’re behind a screen. It’s awful to see the things people comment on posts of the drivers and their friends, just because they’re behind a screen.

You: I’m sure. I personally dislike social media, so I’m not really on it. I’m only on TikTok and Discord.

Luke: No Instagram? No Twitter?

You: Not even Facebook.

Luke: Damn, I wish I could do that. I have to do it for my job.

You: Yeah, it’s nice not having to worry about putting up a facade for my fellow college students to hate on.

Luke: Yeah, that’s nice. So, photography. Your photos are excellent. How did you get so good?

You: Well, my grandpa was a photographer for a while. I used to spend a lot of time in his studio, so I kind of picked things up from him. Then I took some classes in high school. I’ve luckily managed to find time each week to take photos in college, so I haven’t lost my skills.

Luke: That’s awesome. You mentioned that your parents won’t let you do photography. Why don’t you find a job in it and then move out?

You: I’ve thought about it. But there’s no jobs that I’ve seen that I would be interested in.

Luke: That sucks, I’m sorry.

You: It’s okay! I’ve been keeping an eye out though.

Luke: Okay, so what got you interested in Formula 1?

You: I saw a TikTok of one of the drivers one time and was like “He’s kinda cute and funny, wonder what he does.” Which led me down a rabbit hole that ended in an obsession with learning everything I can about the sport.

Luke: Interesting. Which driver was it?

You: It was Charles, but then I was watching some old McLaren content of Carlos and Lando the same day, and Lando became my favorite.

Luke: So Lando has always been your favourite?

You: I’d say that, yeah. What got you into the F1 world?

Luke: I had a friend that was in karting when I was a kid. He got me interested in the industry, and I thought it would be fun to plan the events for the drivers and fans.

You: That’s fun! As much as I’d love to continue this conversation, I should go be a good student and work on my homework.

Luke: Oh! Sorry for distracting you!

You: It’s okay! I’ll talk to you once I’m done with my assignment?

Luke: Yeah! Sounds good to me!

You: Perfect! Talk to you later!

Luke: Bye Y/n!

You put your phone down and focus back on your assignment. You groan seeing that you still have five errors left. You hunker down and start making your way through the errors.

******************************************************************************

9 pm

You: I am back. I have completed the god awful homework.

Luke: That’s a win. So, tell me a little about yourself.

You: Well, what do you want to know?

Luke: Anything you want to tell me.

You: Well, I’m a 20 year old software engineering college student. My birthday is May 17. My favorite color is purple. I love watching YouTube, specifically Smii7y. I absolutely love music, I’m always listening to it. I like art and creative activities. Tell me a little about yourself now.

Luke: Well, I’m a 21 year old event manager for McLaren F1 racing team. My birthday is November 13. I love traveling the world and taking photos, too. I love hanging out with my friends and family.

You yawn as you read Luke’s message. You rub your eyes, trying to stay awake to continue the conversation.

You: I am currently fighting sleep so hard.

Luke: Go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.

You: Okay, sounds good. Good night, Luke. Talk to you tomorrow.

Luke: Good night, Y/n. Talk to you tomorrow.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Permanent tag list:

@sol3chu

@faithshouseofchaos

Story tag list:

@anotherapollokid

[notebooks-and-laptops]

We all know that the real reason you hate Veilguard is that non-white people have agency and power in the story, unlike your precious BG3 fetishizing racism. Imagine you giving a shit about the fact that Karlach's story is incomplete because Sven Vincke believes that oppressed minorities deserve racist abuse.

Okay so obviously this ask wasn't sent in good faith (and bizzare considering Karlach, Lae'zel and Wyll are my favs in Bg3 and I've been outspoken about disappointment in their treatment by Larian compared to Astarion but I digress). But it has prompted an interesting thought because....

What agency do characters (any, but especially our non-white as anon has pointed out) have in Veilguard? I think of any RPG (maybe even any videogame?) the Veilguard companions have the LEAST agency I've seen.

All RPGs involve an element of helping to decide your companions fate; will Merrill smash the mirror or keep it? Will Isabela come back? Will Alistair become a warden, a king or a drunk? Will Leliana let ruthlessness or compassion rule her? And how you play does effect this; often there are important choices at certain moments.

I think these decisions in general work better when they're slowly built up over a number of choices (e.g. Leliana in DAI, who will be divine) or come from approval/disproval (Merrill smashing the mirror if she feels she has nobody on side vs. keeping it if she feels she has you at her back). This is because in these situations the characters are not just asking what to do to the player they are influenced by numerous situations and circumstances and that effects the decisions they make.

But veilguard...well. the approval system doesn't exist. None of the companions can hate or dislike Rook, they can only like you to various degrees of intensity. So that doesn't effect anything. They have no agency over their relationships and whether or not they like someone. And there is a total of one choice which I would say truly affects the game long term (maybe you can argue two if you say a meaningful decision with long reaching consequences can happen an hour before the game ends) and even making that choice won't really sour Lucanis or Neve against you fully.

I've mentioned a few times that veilguard companions have no line in the sand; they're very maluable to just...whatever Rook tells them. None of them have strong opinions about magic, religion, race, culture, society. Is that agency? Is it agency to water down a character so they have no stance on anything? Can a companion HAVE agency if they don't have any real negative opinions ever? If they never truly get to be influenced by the world to make decisions for themselves?

Each companion has a choice of two endings and Rook makes them for the companion in question. DA has done this kind of decision before (Bull comes to mind) but they've never followed such a formulaic system in which everyone looks to Rook at one moment and decides the fate of their lives (and in Bellaras case their people) from one decision the player makes. The companions don't push back against Rook for making a choice they dislike or regret letting Rook make for them. When you chose to kill Avelines husband for her she is pissy at you YEARS later for making that decision for her in the moment. In veilgurd there is just. Nothing. They lack any real agency in the narrative at all that can last beyond the scene they're in.

This I think is particularly aggregious with Bellara and Taash; Bellaras agency in the narrative is completely bulldozed by the fact that Rook is allowed to decide whether or not she keeps the archive spirit; something with deep significance to the Dalish/her culture. There's an excellent post about how this is akin to book burning even if DA didn't mean for it to be. You can just tell her to get rid of it and she does! No regrets! Because her culture is never truly at the forefront of her storyline it's viewed as something tangential to who she is; something she can easily discard if you tell her to. Is that agency? She doesn't get mad at you for any particular decision, is that agency?

And then Taash...God Taash deserved so much better. They're living a story about lack of binaries and yet every single choice is about forcing them in one. Taash says they're happy being multicultural at the beginning of the story and you slowly but surely strip that from them and you're FORCED to do so. Is that agency for them? Is that what you think giving characters agency Is? Is that not one of the more racist/insensitive options Bioware has EVER placed before a player.

Davrin spends the narrative learning there is more to him than having to die at the end of a hard fight; he becomes a father, and allows his love of Assan to guide him in the sense that Assan acts as a mirror; just as the griffins can be reframed as protectors of Arlathan rather than just wardens doomed to die so can Davrin...but then they decided that Davrin should be up as the choice of who dies and not only that but they made that decision because they thought players would find it hard to chose between ASSAN and Harding not Davrin and Harding. Which. Is gross. I do think Davrins storyline is handled the best out of everyone which is why he's my favourite, but the ending just adds a bad taste to my mouth.

Neve, Dorian, Mae and the Black Divine are happy to leave their countries future political situation to a complete outsider no questions or disagreements mentioned. Is that uhhh. Is that agency?

Even Solas is stripped of any agency in this narrative; Mythal made him do it! If she says he can stop he will! What? Where did THAT come from? How uninteresting does that make Solas?

As for if the Veilguard companions have power or are in positions of power....I guess? Maybe? Neve can be the leader of a smuggler gang (don't think too hard about what they might smuggle in the slave capital of the world) which is a position of power. Or an...inspiration? Which gives her very little concrete steps towards actually helping docktown. Lucanis can lead the crows I guess? That's powerful...altho he doesn't seem to want the position or be able to refuse it or even complain about it. We have no idea or clue what happens to Harding, Davrin, Taash after the game but hey maybe that's because they could all be dead.

The characters ARE powerful ill give you that. We have some immensely powerful mages in our party and I LOVE every scene where Neve throws up a sheild or places herself as a shield to protect her friends. I wish we'd got to see more of Bellaras science and tinkering smarts but what we get is GREAT. But having a powerful character isn't the same as a character having agency in their story or being able to effect meaningful change.

So yeah. I mean. Obviously bad faith anon straw manning me because I dared to have an opinion about a game they happen to like (and liking the game is fine! I like parts of the game! I think the characters deserved better but hey ho). But I think it's interesting to think about agency and power in this narrative because....I don't think anyone actually gets much of it. Certainly not in comparison to previous DA characters like Blackwall, Leliana, Viv, Zevran, Fenris, Anders, Merrill, Isabela etc.

[copperbadge]

Migrating Off Evernote

Evernote, a web-based notes app, recently introduced super-restrictive controls on free accounts, after laying off a number of staff and introducing AI features, all of which is causing a lot of people to migrate off the platform. I haven't extensively researched alternative sites, so I can't offer a full resource there (readers, feel free to drop your alternative sites in notes or reblogs), but because I have access to OneNote both in my professional and personal life, I decided to migrate my Evernote there.

I use them for very different things -- Evernote I use exclusively as a personal fanfic archive, because it stores fics I want to save privately both as full-text files and as links. OneNote I have traditionally used for professional purposes, mainly for taking meeting notes and storing information I need (excel formulas, how-tos for things I don't do often in our database, etc). But while Evernote had some nicer features it was essentially a OneNote clone, and OneNote has a webclipper, so I've created an account with OneNote specifically to store my old Evernote archive and any incoming fanfic I want to archive in future.

Microsoft discontinued the tool that it offered for migrating Evernote to OneNote directly, but research turned up a reliable and so-far trustworthy independent tool that I wanted to share. You export all your Evernote notebooks as ENEX files, then download the tool and unzip it, open the exe file, and import the ENEX one by one on a computer where you already have the desktop version of OneNote installed. I had no problem with the process, although some folks with older systems might.

I suspect I might need to do some cleanup post-import but some of that is down to how Evernote fucked around with tags a while ago, and so far looking through my notes it appears to have imported formatting, links, art, and other various aspects of each clipped note without a problem. I also suspect that Evernote will not eternally allow free users to export their notebooks so if nothing else I'd back up your notebooks to ENEX or HTML files sooner rather than later.

I know the number of people who were using Free Evernote and have access to OneNote is probably pretty small, but if I found it useful I thought others might too.

[5starl1ght]

The missing piece

Lando Norris x reader

➪ you've got everything but maybe not everything until you meet Lando

Warnings:nothing

Mesterlist

You have it all: a fulfilling career that you love and excel at, a supportive circle of friends who are always there for you and make you laugh, a wonderful family who loves you unconditionally and is proud of your achievements. You're living your best life, and you know it. You're grateful for everything you have, and you don't take anything for granted. You're happy, and you show it.

But sometimes, late at night, when you're lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling, you can't help but feel that something is missing. A spark, a thrill, a challenge. Something that makes your heart race and your palms sweat. Something that makes you feel alive.

You've tried to fill that void with different things: hobbies, travels, books, movies, music. But nothing seems to satisfy you. You feel restless, bored, unfulfilled. You crave something more, something different, something exciting.

And then you meet him.

Lando Norris, the Formula One driver who has taken the world by storm with his charisma, talent and charm. He's everything you've ever dreamed of: handsome, funny, smart, adventurous. He has a smile that melts your heart, eyes that pierce your soul, and a voice that sends shivers down your spine. He's also completely out of your league. But he doesn't seem to care. He's drawn to you like a magnet, and he makes you feel things you've never felt before.

He's the solution to it all. He's the missing piece of your puzzle. He's the one who can make you happy.

But can you handle the pressure of being with him? Can you cope with the fame, the media, the fans, the rivals? Can you trust him to stay faithful and loyal? Can you keep up with his fast-paced lifestyle?

You're about to find out.

You meet him at a charity event that your company sponsors. He's there as a guest of honor, and he gives a speech that inspires everyone in the room. You're impressed by his eloquence and his passion. You clap along with the rest of the audience, but you don't expect him to notice you.

But he does.

He walks up to you after his speech, and he introduces himself. He shakes your hand, and he looks into your eyes. He compliments you on your dress, and he asks you what you do for a living. He listens attentively as you tell him about your job, and he nods in appreciation. He tells you that he admires your work ethic and your ambition. He asks you if you like racing, and he invites you to join him at his next race.

You're stunned by his offer, but you don't hesitate to accept it. You exchange phone numbers, and he promises to call you soon. He kisses your cheek, and he leaves with a wink.

You're left speechless, breathless, mesmerized.

You can't believe what just happened. You just met Lando Norris, and he asked you out.

You pinch yourself to make sure it's real.

It is.

You smile like an idiot, and you feel butterflies in your stomach.

You can't wait to see him again.

You see him again two weeks later at his race in Monaco. He flies you there in his private jet, and he treats you like a princess. He shows you around the city, and he takes you to the best restaurants. He buys you flowers, chocolates, jewelry. He makes you laugh with his jokes, his stories, his impressions. He makes you feel special with his compliments, his attention, his affection.

He makes love to you in his hotel room overlooking the sea.

He makes love to you like no one else ever has.

He makes love to you like he means it.

He tells you that he loves you.

He tells you that he loves you more than anything in the world.

He tells you that he loves you more than racing.

You believe him.

You tell him that you love him too.

You tell him that you love him more than anything in the world.

You tell him that you love him more than your career.

You mean it.

You're happy.

You're happy like never before.