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pitlanepeach · 2 days ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Five

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — I listened to Never Be (5sos) exclusively while writing this chapter. Make of that what you will.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They sat in one of the smaller meeting rooms off the admin hallway. Too clean. Too bright. Harper sat stiffly on one side of the table, Oscar next to her, foot bouncing under the chair. Chris sat across from them with his hands folded in front of him.

Harper thought Chris looked like Oscar — or, she supposed, Oscar looked Chris.

Chris was just older. Somehow calmer than her stony faced, rarely phased boyfriend.

Although that wasn't hard right now — she wasn't sure Oscar had been calm since she barged into the boys dorms four days ago, all wide-eyed and panicked.

Chris cleared his throat gently. "Okay. First things first—you're both fine. No one's angry at you. We're not going to panic. We're just going to figure this out."

Harper nodded once. Her hands were fisted around her skirt and her shoes tapped against the floor with every nervous motion.

Chris looked between them. "That said, I'm going to ask you both some questions that might feel a little uncomfortable, but they're important. Okay?"

Oscar groaned softly. "Dad..."

Chris gave him a dry look. "You don't get to be squeamish now, mate."

Harper actually let out a breath of a laugh, but it sounded more like a cough.

Chris turned to her gently. "Harper. Have you seen a doctor, or just taken the pregnancy tests?"

"Just the tests," she told him. "I—uh, I don't have a GP here. My mum takes me to doctors all over the country. Private clinics. Some in London, some in Geneva. It just... depends where she is."

Chris nodded slowly, absorbing that. "Okay. That's fine. We can sort that out. But you do need to be seen by someone soon — someone consistent. I'll speak to your mum, just to make sure you're healthy and everything's progressing safely—"

Harper's head snapped up.

"You'll speak to my mum?" Her voice was sharp, incredulous. Her eyes were wide now, panic blooming behind them. "No. No, no, no. You can't speak to my mum. She'll lose it. She'll be even angrier if I let someone else tell her."

Oscar shifted beside her, already on edge. "Dad—"

Chris held up a hand, not unkindly. "Alright. I hear you, Harper. I do. I'm not going to call her out of the blue."

"She'll think I'm doing it to humiliate her," Harper went on, fast now, tripping over her own words. "Like I'm trying to ruin her reputation or something. She'll go nuclear. She always does when she doesn't feel in control. And this—" she gestured vaguely to her stomach, her voice cracking, "this is like her worst nightmare."

Chris watched her for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Okay," he said gently. "Then we make a plan. You'll be the one to tell her. In your own words. On your terms. But we can't avoid this, Harper. She's your mother. She's part of this, even if it's hard."

Harper nodded, small and quick, but her hands were shaking now.

Oscar slid his hand over hers under the table, gave it a quick squeeze. She didn't look at him, but she didn't pull away either.

Chris remained calm, his tone steady. "I also need to ask—are either of you, um, involved with anyone else? Right now or before? I don't need names or details. It's just about making sure you're both medically okay."

Harper flushed red, heat creeping from her collar to her cheeks. "No," she mumbled. "Only ever Oscar."

"Only ever Harper," Oscar echoed, a beat late and way too loud.

Chris gave a small nod. "Okay. That's good to know. But we'll still need to get you both checked out. Full screenings, just to be safe."

"My mum's going to want us to see someone on her books," Harper said under her breath, eyes flicking away. "For... confidentiality reasons."

Chris blinked. "Confidentiality?"

"She—she's kind of a big deal," Harper admitted. "She founded La Ruche. It's a fashion label."

Chris's eyebrows rose, just slightly.

"And my dad was... J.J. Whiatt."

Chris leaned back, exhaled slow. "Jesus. That complicates things."

Harper's bottom lip wobbled. "I'm sorry."

Oscar shifted, dragging Harper's chair closer to his, one arm sliding protectively around her shoulders. He whispered something just for her — soft and steady — and she nodded, breathing a little slower.

Chris sat forward again. "Look, I don't want to overwhelm you. I know this is scary. But you need to tell your mum, Harper. Nothing can happen here until she knows, and things need to start happening." He stared at them for a beat. "I'll give you until tomorrow morning. If you haven't told her by then, I'll do it myself. Okay?"

There was a pause.

Then Harper whispered, "Okay."

Chris gave her a gentle smile. "Thank you. You're part of this family now, Harper. Our family. That means than I'm going to look out for you, same as we do for him."

Oscar looked up, throat tight. "Dad?"

Chris met his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Oscar said. "Neither of us meant for any of this to happen."

Chris nodded. "I know. But it did. And now we handle it — like adults."

Oscar didn't respond right away. Then he reached across the table and hooked his pinky around Harper's. Held it tight.

Chris noticed. Didn't say a word. Just flipped open his notebook.

"Okay," he said. "Let's make a to-do list."

—

They sat outside Oscar's dorm window, backs against the brick wall, knees bumped together. It was stupid cold, but neither of them cared. Harper was wearing his blazer — it was two sizes too big on her and covered her skirt and made it took like she wasn't wearing anything underneath it.

She was quiet. Had been for a while.

Oscar kicked a loose stone. "You okay?"

Harper shrugged, but it wasn't a real answer. Her arms were wrapped around her knees.

After another minute, she muttered, "My mum wasn't always like she is now, you know."

Oscar looked over. She wasn't looking at him.

"She used to laugh at my jokes. Braid my hair for ballet. We used to bake Christmas biscuits together and she'd make my birthday cake every year from scratch."

He didn't say anything, just listened.

"When I was nine," she said, voice weirdly flat. "Me and my dad went on a ski trip. He thought it'd be a good bonding experience — just the two of us."

Oscar turned his full body toward her, heart sinking. Something about the way she said it made his stomach twist.

"There was a helicopter," she said. "We were flying off the mountain. There was a storm. It wasn't — nobody expected it. And we went down."

Oscar stared at her. "Wait, what?"

She nodded. "I don't remember us actually going down. I just remember waking up. I was so cold. I couldn't feel my legs. My back hurt. And my arm was... all messed up." She looked down at her hands. "Everyone died. The pilot, his co-pilot, and my dad. But I just... didn't."

"Jesus," Oscar whispered.

Harper gave a weak little smile. "Yeah."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't have the right words for helicopter crashes or dead dads. So he just sat there, panicking quietly.

She didn't seem to expect anything, though. "I've got some scars," she said. "On my back. From the crash. I usually hide them." She smiled at him, a bit wry. "I guess I got good at it."

Oscar frowned and shifted closer to her. "Wait, like... real scars?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, fake ones."

He blushed, and she sighed. Then, carefully, she tugged the back of his blazer and her white shirt up. Just enough to show him. A couple of pale, rough-edged marks trailed across her lower back, like lightning marks carved deeply into her skin.

Oscar's heart thudded at the sight of them. His throat thickened. "Shit," he said, because what else was there?

She pulled her shirt back down quickly and looked away. "It's gross. Whatever."

"No," he said fast. "No, it's not. It's not gross, it's... I dunno." He raised his hand to touch her and then dropped it again with a flush in his cheeks. "Sorry. I just — I can't believe I never noticed."

That made her snort, just a little. "It's fine. My mum didn't even visit me until three days afterwards," Harper said with a shrug. "When she did, she acted more like she was visiting some stranger in hospital than her daughter. I was crying in pain and she that I needed to suck it up because I should've just been grateful to be alive. And then she said that my crying was making people uncomfortable."

Oscar clenched his jaw. "She sucks."

Harper smiled at that, but it was a sad kind of smile. "She started treating me different after that," she said. "Like I'd made her life harder by surviving."

Oscar reached out and bumped her knee with his. "You didn't."

She sniffed. "Feels like I did."

"I can't believe you survived a helicopter crash," Oscar said after a bit, eyes still on the horizon. "You might be the luckiest person I know."

She gave him a look. "Osc. I'm pregnant. At fifteen."

He grinned faintly. "Okay, yeah. But still."

Harper choked on a laugh. "Right. Thanks," she mumbled.

"For what?"

"For not saying something stupid."

Oscar shrugged. "Just wish I could make it all better for you."

"Yeah," she mumbled. "Me too."

—

Oscar slipped out of the library after study-hour and ducked behind the music building, phone pressed tight to his ear. He already knew what was coming. His dad had warned him. Still, nothing prepared him for the moment her voice broke through.

"Oscar."

It was sharp. Cracked down the middle. He flinched.

"Mum—"

"I trusted you." Her voice rose — not angry, exactly. More stunned. Wounded. "I trusted you to go to England and be smart. To focus. To take this opportunity seriously."

"I am taking it seriously."

"Clearly not seriously enough if you're knocking up boarding school girls in your dorm—"

"Mum." He winced. Cut her off. "Please don't talk about Harper like that."

There was a pause. A huff. Not quite crying. Not yet. "I'm not talking about her. I'm talking about you. My son. The one I thought had more sense than this."

Oscar pressed a hand to his forehead. The wall behind him was cool against his back. "I didn't mean for this to happen." He felt like a broken record. "Neither of us did."

"No one ever means for it to happen." Her voice was tight, clipped. "And now what? What do you think happens now, Osc? A fairy-tale ending?"

"No." He was quiet a second. "No. I think we just have to deal with it."

Another pause. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller. "I feel like I don't even know you right now."

That one hurt more than anything else. He stared out across the courtyard, eyes stinging. "I'm still me, Mum."

"Are you?" she snapped. Then softer, more pained. "God. You're still a baby yourself. You're fifteen."

"I know."

"You're fifteen, Oscar. And I've seen fifteen. I was fifteen. When I was your age all I cared about was Billy Joel and which shop would sell me my next pack of cigarettes."

He breathed through his nose. "I know."

Nicole didn't answer for a long time.

When she did, it was quiet. Flat. "Your father's there now?"

"Yeah."

"So, what's the plan, Oscar?" She asked on a sigh. "Are you going to raise a child together at boarding school? Split custody between the boys and girls dorms?"

"We haven't even decided anything yet."

"God," she muttered. "Oscar, I just—" Her voice cracked. "I wanted so much more for you."

He swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Jesus," she breathed. "Okay. Okay. I need to... I'll call you later. I'm not—I'm not in a good place to say anything else right now."

"Okay." He hesitated. "Mum?"

"What?"

"I really am sorry."

Silence.

Then, "I know, Osc. I know."

She hung up.

Oscar leaned his head against the wall, the guilt crawling under his skin like it belonged there.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and stared at the astroturf where the year eights were playing tackle rugby.

And he sat there until the next bell rung.

—

Harper sat on the cold stone steps just below the landing outside the girls dorm — the one spot on campus where phone reception was always strongest. Her knees were pulled to her chest, Oscar's racing hoodie baggy and warm on top of her school uniform. She'd been staring at her phone for ten minutes.

The screen glowed.

Mummy (Victoria)

She tapped the call icon before she could think too hard.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times—

"Harper?" Victoria Whiatt's voice was sharp, brisk. "It's a school night. Why are you calling?"

Harper's voice caught in her throat. She tried to swallow it back down. "I — Hi, Mum," she whispered. "Can you... would you be able to come to Haileybury, please?"

Silence.

"It's just that... I need you," she said, the words tumbling out. "Please. Mum—Mummy, please." She closed her eyes tightly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I need you to come. I'm scared and I don't know what to do."

"Harper," her mother said, voice clipped with impatience. "What's going on? Have you done something wrong? Are you in trouble? God, do I need to call my lawyers?"

Harper pressed the heel of her palm to her eye. She didn't want to say it like this. She'd planned to be calm. Clear. Strong. But now her whole body was shaking and she was begging her mother — calling her mummy out-loud for the first time since she was eight — and it had all turned into a big mess.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. But I need help. I don't know what to do, and I'm scared, and—"

"You're what?" Victoria's voice was suddenly thin. "God. Jesus fucking Christ. Harper Grace — tell me you're joking."

Harper's breath hitched. "I'm not. I just—Mum, please. Please come. I need my mum. I need you."

The silence was suffocating.

When her mother finally spoke, her voice was tight. Controlled. "How far along?"

"I don't know. A few weeks. The test said three plus. I need to see a doctor but—"

Her mother cut her off with a low curse. "Christ. You're fifteen. Fifteen, Harper. You're still a child!"

"I know," Harper said, her voice breaking. "And I promise that I didn't mean for this to happen. But it has and I know that I'm stupid and an idiot and all of the other horrible things you want to call me right now — but I'm scared and alone and I need you to help me, mum."

Her mother didn't respond right away. Harper could hear something rustling — maybe papers, or her mother's laptop.

"Mum?" She whispered.

"I'm in Milan," Victoria said stiffly. "I have a show tomorrow."

"I don't care about your show." Harper's voice rose, desperate. "Please. Please just come."

A long pause.

"I'll be on a flight tonight."

Harper let out a tiny breath, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Is it his? The kart boy? Is it his baby?" She asked.

Harper nodded. "Yeah. Yes. I — Yeah. It's his baby."

"Right then. I'll be there at seven a.m. tomorrow morning." Was all her mother said. And then she ended the call.

Harper curled tighter into the stairwell wall, phone still clutched in her hand.

And then the crying started — not the quiet, clenched kind she'd perfected over the years.

But loud, messy sobs that racked her chest and made her shoulders shake.

Jane found her less than a minute later.

She didn't ask questions. Just dropped to the step beside her, wrapped both arms around her like she could hold her together, and pressed her cheek to Harper's hair.

Harper sobbed into her shirt.

Five minutes later, Oscar rounded the corner in his uniform — blazer unbuttoned, tie crooked. He paused mid-step when he saw them. Just froze.

His breath caught.

Harper, curled in on herself like something broken. Jane holding her. The echo of her crying bouncing up the stone walls.

Oscar's stomach dropped.

"Shit," he whispered, voice barely audible.

Then he moved.

He jogged the last few steps, dropping to his knees on Harper's other side. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud.

"Hey, hey," he said gently, reaching for her, brushing her hair back. "I'm here."

Harper turned blindly into his chest without thinking, her sobs still shuddering through her.

Jane shifted, giving him space, her face tight with worry.

Oscar pulled Harper into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other steady at her spine. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't have to.

He just held her tighter.

"Love you," he whispered, barely more than a breath.

"Love you too." She hiccuped.

—

The classroom was cold despite the sunlight cutting across the desks in crooked lines. Harper sat with her arms folded over her notebook, pen resting in the crease of the spine. She wasn't writing. Just breathing.

Her eyes were still red and swollen.

Oscar slid into the seat beside her, spinning his pencil once before leaning close.

"You good?" He murmured.

She didn't look at him. "Not really."

He was quiet for a second, then said, in a low, overly serious voice, "The eagle is landing near the river tonight. Nest secured. Feathers ruffled, but holding."

Harper blinked at him. "What?"

"It's code," he said, a bit flustered. "My dad. Staying at the hotel near the river. He's had the heads up that he'll be meeting the Mothership tomorrow."

She winced. "Please don't call my mother that."

"Operation Parental Peace Summit is a go. He said he'll be there when she arrives. You, me, him, Queen Doom herself — roundtable discussions. Treaties. Diplomacy."

She gave a faint, exhausted laugh. "You're so ridiculous. I don't know what you're saying, Oscar."

"Code is effective," he whispered. Then he smiled at her, all teeth — and she realised that he was just messing around. Trying to make her smile.

It'd worked.

Harper hesitated, staring at the lined page in front of her. "I think..." she started. "I think the idea of not keeping — it — makes me feel worse than I thought it would."

Oscar's expression softened immediately, his eyebrows coming together. "Okay." He said quietly.

She kept her voice low. "I'm not saying I've decided. Just — I get this tight feeling in my chest when I imagine... not going through with it."

Oscar nodded slowly. "Okay."

Before either of them could say more, the teacher turned from the whiteboard.

"Mr. Piastri. Miss Whiatt. Something to share with the class?"

Oscar straightened, fake smile already in place. "Just discussing international conflict resolution, sir."

"Save it for Model UN." The teacher glared at them.

Harper hid a smile, ducking behind her hair. The teacher turned back to the board.

Oscar passed her a note under the desk.

I'm on your side whatever you decide.

Harper traced the edge of the paper with her thumb.

—

The next morning, Harper waited just outside the school reception, blazer buttoned unevenly and hands fidgeting with the hem of her pleated skirt. The courtyard was grey and thick was early morning mist, the kind that clung to skin and made her hair frizz no matter what she did to try and stop it.

She'd been up since five. Couldn't sleep. Could barely even manage the breakfast bar that Jane had shoved at her. She'd brushed her teeth twice and still felt sick.

Her fingers trembled as the black town car pulled up — sleek and silent.

The suit-clad driver stepped out and opened the back door.

Victoria Whiatt emerged like she was stepping onto a runway. Designer coat, dark glasses even in the morning haze, heels clicking across the old stone. She didn't look like she'd spent the night on a plane. She looked like she was ready for a press release.

Harper stood up straighter without meaning to.

Her mother's eyes scanned her. Once. Head to toe. "You look haggard."

"Hi, Mum," Harper said quietly.

Victoria took off her sunglasses slowly. "Is that really what they make you wear here? I don't remember it being so — juvenile."

Harper blinked.

"Your skirt is creased. And the buttons on that blazer — God, Harper, how hard is it to dress yourself like a normal, respectable person?"

"I—I didn't sleep much." She managed.

"I should think not." There was a long pause. Victoria looked around at the school buildings like they were beneath her. Then her eyes snapped back to Harper. "So." Her voice was sharp. "Where is he?"

Harper's fingers clenched around the strap of her bag. "He's with his dad. They're—waiting for us to go to meet them at the hotel he's staying at."

Another pause.

"I don't want a performance out of you," Victoria said coolly. "I don't want tears or sentiment. I want honesty. I want facts. And I want to know how you could possibly be this irresponsible!"

Harper flinched. But she nodded. "Yes, Mum."

"Fix your blazer," Victoria muttered, already turning away. "And get in the car. Which hotel?"

"The nice one. The one you stayed at when I first moved here," Harper said, forcing her voice to stay even.

Victoria exhaled slowly. "Of course. The one with the mediocre wine list and the doorman who talks too much."

She opened the passenger door with a perfectly manicured hand. Harper moved around to the other side, heart pounding against her ribs.

They sat in silence for a moment as the driver pulled away from the school gates.

"So, they've got money then?" Victoria asked, eyes still on the road ahead. Her voice was light, sharp as a needle. "That's nice. I'm sure it'll make this a lot easier."

Harper turned her head slowly, looked at her mother. The way her profile was all angles and detachment, like she was discussing stocks or seating charts — not the life growing inside her daughter.

"I want to keep the baby," Harper said.

The words landed like a brick dropped into a still pond. The ripple of them filled the car.

Victoria blinked.

Then blinked again.

Her head turned, slow and deliberate, until her eyes locked with Harper's. "What did you just say?"

Harper held her gaze. "I said I want to keep it. The baby."

Victoria stared at her like she was speaking another language. "You're fifteen."

"I know."

"You're going to ruin your life."

Harper's throat tightened, but she didn't look away. "Like I ruined yours?"

Victoria's lips parted, then closed. She looked out the window again, something flickering behind her eyes. "This isn't a dog, Harper," she said finally, voice thin and brittle. "You don't just get to decide that you’re going to keep it. You're still a child — you're not old enough to make that decision. God, imagine it, Harper Grace. Imagine what people would say? Your father's name—"

Harper swallowed, hard. "Dad would've understood. He would've hugged me. Told me he loved me. He might've been disappointed — but he wouldn't have treated me like you are right now."

Victoria's jaw tensed. Her fingers curled against her lap, white-knuckled. "You don't get to invoke him," she said, low and venomous. "Not when you've made a circus out of everything he built for you."

Tears burned the corners of Harper's eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "I'm not trying to hurt you, mum," she whispered. "I'm just trying to do what feels right in my gut. For me. For Oscar. His dad—"

"Oh, wonderful," Victoria snapped. "The 'pit crew' is standing by." She made physical quotations around the words.

Harper flinched again. Looked down at her hands. "Please, Mum. Please don't shut me down like that. I'm scared, alright? I know that this was my fault, mine and Oscar's. But we've talked, okay? We've talked about it, about keeping it or not. And we — we both agree that it feels right to keep it."

Victoria was silent.

Then she sighed, the long, tired kind that Harper remembered from fittings and fundraisers and end-of-term reports that were anything but a 99 or above.

"I'm not shutting you down. I'm here, aren't I?" She bit out. "God knows why I even bothered. We could've done this over the phone."

Harper knew that was the closest thing to an "I love you" that she was going to get.

NEXT CHAPTER

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fangirlfuel · 4 days ago

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The Internet's Favorite Couple

---

Lando Norris x Actress!Reader SMau

---

@.yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, carlossainz55, lando, and 4,682,561 others

Y/N Press tour life lately. Swipe for chaos.

Comments

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---

Twitter Thread: @F1updates

@Username1: "Top 10 Simp Lando Moments for Y/N That Made Us Believe in Love — a thread"

@.username1: That time he stood behind a barricade with fans just to surprise her at her premiere and screamed louder than the paparazzi.

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---

@.landonorris

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 2,389,528 others

Lando photo dump. ft my favorite person

Comments

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---

Fan Tweets Compilation: #ynlando

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@ user827: I want what they have. And also her skincare routine.

@landosunshine: she called him her muse in that GQ interview and I haven’t known peace since.

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suliigwp · 2 days ago

Note

okay but but may i requesr some Rookie! Reader being an absolute menace that she’s considered a ticking timebomb bc of how ballsy she is with her moves on the track? Yk the quote— “I knew he'd hit the brakes—he has a wife and two kids at home.” Reader applies it to EVERYONE. They have families back home, people to get back to, and she doesn’t even care if she lives or dies, she has to cross that finish line 😭 yk everyone is praying in their respective garages when she’s racing 😭 I’d love a fic where we can see just how death defying vroom vroom is and how her grid parents and the f1 community reacts !

TICKING TIME BOMB

Rookie! Reader x Platonic! Paddock

Previous part!

SULI: Hiiiiii thank you all so much on the love for this series — this is extremely rushed and a little short but oh well I was stuck- this is a more serious one I haven't been feeling well and can't really come up with jokes- sorry the next part well be back

Warnings: reckless driving, she's better at English here, bad writing lol

They started calling her that around Monaco.

The Time Bomb.

Not to her face. Never to her face.

Because you don’t provoke someone whose idea of a clean overtake involves two wheels in the grass and a sixth sense for who won’t risk it all.

Everyone had a theory.

“She grew up karting with criminals.”

“She used to race bikes in underground leagues.”

“She watched too much Senna footage and lost the plot.”

None of it was true. None of it mattered.

Because whatever circuit she was on, she drove like it was her last race on Earth. Not desperate, not suicidal—indifferent. Like crashing or finishing were equal outcomes. As long as she got past you first.

Barcelona, Turn 1.

She went wheel to wheel with Sainz at the start.

The commentators said: “That’s gutsy!”

The team said: “That’s unnecessary.”

Carlos said: “She’s insane.”

She said nothing.

When asked about the incident, she shrugged and unzipped the top of her race suit like the air was too heavy.

“I knew he’d brake,” she muttered to the wall of microphones. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

The media room fell into an uneasy silence.

A few reporters exchanged glances. The PR girl standing beside her stiffened slightly. She didn’t bother clarifying. She wasn’t joking.

The Grid Watched.

She had no interest in post-race handshakes or fake Instagram smiles. The others stopped tagging her in memes. Stopped inviting her to dinner. It wasn’t personal. It was caution.

She walked like someone who had better places to be. Talked like she’d done this all before.

Fast in the car. Faster out of conversations.

No one knew where she went after the debriefs. Some nights she was spotted at the edge of the paddock. Others, she disappeared before the cooldown room had even emptied.

She lived in silence and tire smoke.

Lando Noticed.

He didn’t mean to. But you notice the things that scare you.

At first, it was little things. Her qualifying laps—perfectly controlled chaos. Her refusal to let anyone walk behind her in the garage. Her habit of double-checking her steering wheel even after the mechanics had gone over it.

Then it became something else.

He saw her staring at the pit lane before a race, completely still, like she was somewhere else. Not zoned in—zoned out. Like she was waiting for something to catch fire.

“You know,” he said one afternoon, leaning against the wall of her hospitality, “you drive like you don’t care what happens.”

She didn’t look at him. Just kept tapping her fingers against the water bottle in her lap.

“I don’t,” she said, eventually.

He laughed a little, awkwardly. “You can’t mean that.”

Now she looked at him. Eyes like flint. “I’m here to win. I’m not scared of anyone on this grid.”

He believed her.

...

Spa Weekend, Qualifying.

She went purple in Sector 2.

Purple, despite rain, despite cold tires.

Purple, even after nearly clipping Albon into the wall on the previous lap.

Her engineer’s voice cracked mid-sentence: “Box—no, wait—okay, you're—fuck—”

DNF.

She came back into the garage with two wheels vibrating like they’d seen war. Took off her gloves and threw them on the floor.

“I had half a second in that lap,” she muttered, ignoring the shaking hands she quickly stuffed into her pockets.

Her team principal pulled her aside.

“You have to stop doing this.”

She blinked. “Doing what?”

“Risking everything. You’re not racing them, you’re threatening them.”

Whispers on the Grid Grew.

“He said she cut across him at 290.”

“She’s going to hurt someone.”

“She’s going to hurt herself.”

When asked about it, Max didn’t say anything. Charles gave a diplomatic shrug. Pierre muttered something about needing a cigarette and walked away.

Lando? He just watched.

There was a storm behind her eyes that he didn’t think she even noticed anymore. Like she’d been living inside it so long, she thought that was just the weather.

Later That Night.

He found her sitting on the curb behind the motorhomes. Helmet beside her. Still in her race suit. Her boots were untied, like she hadn’t even noticed.

“You okay?”

She didn’t look up. “Do I look okay?”

“No. You look like you might detonate.”

A dry chuckle escaped her lips, but there was no warmth in it.

She pulled out a cigarette and stared at it for a moment before tucking it behind her ear. “You ever feel like you’re one bad day from being someone else entirely?”

He didn’t answer.

She looked up at him then—finally—and her voice was quieter. “This isn’t about winning, Norris. It’s about surviving long enough to win.”

And that was the first time he realized:

She wasn’t reckless.

She was exhausted.

...

Monza.

She went P3 after nearly tangling with Alonso on the final chicane.

As she walked past Lando in parc fermé, he said, “Nice moves out there.”

She looked at him. Not a glare. Not even her usual smirk.

Just that same hollow smile.

“I knew he’d brake,” she said again, softer this time. “He’s got people to go home to.”

She paused, eyes flicking to Lando’s.

“And you? Would you?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

She nodded like that was the only answer that made sense.

Tick.

She wasn’t trying to crash.

But no one was brave enough to assume she wouldn’t.

She was only just getting started.

Taglist For Vroom Vroom, comment to be added;

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz

Make sure you can be tagged! Thank you!

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satellite-evans · 3 days ago

Text

scary

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: A pregnancy scare forces you and Lando to confront what you want—and what you’re ready for. Relief doesn't bring peace, and his unexpected reaction changes everything.

Word count: 2.6k+

Warnings: angst, pregnancy scare, swearing

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It started small. A flutter of unease in your stomach when you realized the calendar was off. One day, then two. You brushed it off at first—an innocent oversight, nothing more. But by the time it reached five, your thoughts had already unraveled into a thousand tangled threads, each one darker than the last.

You tried to rationalize it. Travel had thrown off your routine. The stress at work had been building. Maybe it was the new supplements you’d impulsively ordered online after reading some influencer’s glowing review. You repeated those explanations like a prayer, hoping that if you said them enough, they’d become true. But each morning you woke up still waiting, the excuses felt flimsier. Fragile things that couldn’t withstand the weight of what you feared.

Lando was in Monaco. Or maybe Milan. You couldn’t even keep track anymore—his life was a carousel of cities, photo ops, and flights. All you saw were time-stamped glimpses of it through his Instagram stories: sunlit terraces, grid walks, that easy grin he wore like armor. He looked happy. Effortless. Untouchable. And you? You lay curled in bed, covers drawn up to your chin, one hand over your stomach as if that could stop whatever might be happening inside you. As if stillness could keep the world from shifting beneath your feet.

You watched the ceiling, silent and still, imagining the moment everything would change. The click of a test, the blur of a second line. You didn’t even know yet—and still, it felt like the before was already slipping away.

When your phone lit up with his name, your heart jumped. FaceTime. You let it ring out, watching the screen dim and fall silent. Later, you told yourself it was because your phone was on silent. Not because the thought of seeing his face, carefree and thousands of miles away, made something inside you ache. Not because you didn’t know how to pretend. Not because you were afraid of what he might see in your eyes.

You rolled over, burying your face into the pillow, and let the silence grow between you—thick, heavy, and full of things unsaid.

He came home two days later.

You heard the key turn in the lock—faint, metallic, unmistakable. A sound you’d heard a hundred times, yet tonight it caught in your chest like a breath you forgot to finish taking. Your hand hovered over the simmering pot, wooden spoon motionless. The smell of tomatoes and garlic clung to the air, thick and comforting in the way familiar things are, even when the world feels unfamiliar.

There was a pause, a beat of silence, and then the clatter—his duffel bag dropping to the floor in the hallway. The rustle of his jacket being shrugged off. Then his voice, soft but tired, like a question he wasn’t sure how to ask.

“Babe?”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The sauce had long since finished cooking, but you stood there anyway, stirring it out of habit more than need. The gentle bubbling was the only sound in the kitchen, a small thing that somehow grounded you as the rest of your body threatened to unravel.

You felt him before you saw him—his arms sliding around your waist, warm and familiar, like muscle memory. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, breath brushing your skin in slow, even puffs.

“Smells good,” he murmured. “Missed you.”

Your grip on the spoon tightened, knuckles paling. The words didn’t slide off you the way they normally did. You wanted to melt into his touch, but instead you stood stiff, held together only by tension and the thin thread of resolve you’d been spinning for days.

“I’m late,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.

His arms paused, still circling you but suddenly motionless. “Late?”

You turned in his hold, slowly, as if movement itself might shatter something fragile between you. Your eyes met his, searching, steady. You wanted to gauge his reaction before you even said it aloud. Wanted to see if he already knew what you were about to say.

“My period. It’s two weeks late.”

There was a flicker—barely there—a flick of his eyes, a brief flash of something unreadable. Then silence.

“Do you think...” he began, but didn’t finish.

“I don’t know,” you interrupted. “I haven’t taken a test.”

He nodded, once, then again slower. “Then we should get one.”

You watched him, waiting. For the quick deflection. For the easy, dismissive smile. For the usual “It’s probably nothing” or “Don’t stress.” The scripted lines. The predictable reactions. But none of them came.

Just quiet acceptance.

He didn’t let go. Didn’t flinch or step back. His hands stayed on your waist, his thumbs brushing small circles against your sides, as if he were grounding himself—or maybe you.

And that scared you more than anything else.

Because if he’d panicked, you could’ve been the calm one. If he’d brushed it off, you could’ve gotten angry and made it real. But this—this stillness, this softness—felt like walking into the unknown without armor. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing the wind isn’t strong enough to stop you from falling.

The silence stretched between you, not awkward, but thick with everything you were both too afraid to name. He didn’t ask you why you hadn’t told him sooner. Didn’t ask why your eyes were a little red, or why the apartment was unusually spotless, or why the sauce had been simmering too long.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he’d spent those long flights imagining this moment too.

“Okay,” he said finally, gently. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever it is.”

You nodded, but didn’t speak. Just leaned into him, resting your forehead against his chest, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe that figuring it out was possible.

The pharmacy felt like a vacuum. The moment you stepped inside, the world seemed to shrink down to its most clinical elements: the hum of fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead like anxious thoughts, the sterile gleam of polished tile beneath your shoes, the soft beep of scanners at the front register. The air was cold, dry, scented faintly with antiseptic and something sugary from the candy aisle nearby.

But none of it touched you. You and Lando moved through it like shadows—quiet, contained, orbiting something unspeakable.

You walked together in silence, your footsteps falling slightly out of sync. No one looked at you, but it felt like everyone could see you. As if your thoughts were painted across your forehead in bold, pulsing letters: Possible pregnancy. Complete emotional freefall.

The feminine care aisle was tucked away near the back, as if it, too, wanted to offer you privacy. But the moment you turned the corner and stepped into that row, the weight of it all dropped onto your shoulders like lead. Rows upon rows of pastel-colored boxes stared back at you—some blue, some pink, all impossibly cheery for what they contained. Promises of early detection, digital readouts, results in minutes. Neat packaging for a moment that could tear your life in two.

You stopped in front of them, unsure of how to breathe. Your fingers hovered just above a sleek white box with soft blue lettering. It was the same brand you remembered from years ago—long before Lando, before now—when the test had come back negative and you had cried with relief you didn’t quite understand.

But today your hand refused to close around it.

“I can’t,” you murmured, so softly it barely left your lips.

Lando stood beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence like a shield, like a question. He didn’t ask you to explain. Didn’t try to coax or reassure. He didn’t fill the silence the way some people might have, didn’t try to fix the fear curling tight inside your chest.

Instead, he stepped forward.

Without a word, he reached out, selected a box—one with a digital readout, something simple, something clear—and took it from the shelf. His fingers curled tightly around it, like it was something precious, or dangerous. Maybe both.

He didn’t hand it to you.

Instead, he turned, and with a quiet, steady presence, walked with you back through the store. Past the vitamins and painkillers, past the racks of magazines with bright headlines and glossy smiles, past a mother holding a toddler on her hip. You wondered, in a moment of cruel irony, if that might be you in nine months.

The cashier didn’t say much. Just scanned the test, gave a quick glance between the two of you, and slid it into a small paper bag. Lando paid, slipping his card back into his wallet like this was just another errand. But you could see it in his shoulders—the way they sat straighter than usual, the way his hand tightened around the bag as he took it.

Outside, the cold hit you immediately—sharp, bracing, real. The kind of cold that made your lungs ache and your eyes sting. It was early evening, and the sun was already sinking, painting the street in dusky gold and icy blue.

Still silent, Lando held the bag in one hand, his other brushing lightly against yours as you walked side by side again.

And though no words passed between you, you felt the shift. The gravity of what you were carrying now belonged to both of you.

Back at the apartment, the silence stretched like a rubber band pulled to its limit, taut and trembling, threatening to snap.

You didn’t speak as you slipped the pharmacy bag onto the bathroom counter. Your fingers trembled as you tore the box open, the cardboard giving way with a soft rip that still felt too loud. The plastic wrapper crinkled between your hands, resisting you in that final, deliberate moment before you peeled it open.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs—steady, loud, almost punishing. Each beat seemed to echo inside your chest, a countdown in its own right.

You sat down on the edge of the tub, the test clutched tight in your palm. It was just plastic, light as nothing, and yet it felt like holding a live wire. You did what you had to do, movements mechanical, almost detached. Then you set the test carefully on the edge of the sink, not daring to look at it too long, afraid that your gaze alone might make the result appear faster.

Five minutes.

You left the bathroom like it might explode, like the test might detonate if you lingered in the same room with it.

In the bedroom, Lando was already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed slightly. His leg was bouncing—rapid, nervous energy pulsing through him, trying to escape. You knew that bounce. You’d seen it before on race days, just before he stepped into the car. It was the tell of someone pretending to be calm while their insides were chaos.

“Five minutes,” you said quietly, standing in the doorway like a ghost.

He nodded, but didn’t speak. The test was now on the nightstand, facedown. Its tiny, plastic frame looked almost laughable against the gravity of what it represented. You stared at it like it might catch fire, like it could scream your future out loud if you so much as blinked.

“I didn’t plan for this,” you said. “I don’t want it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with guilt and truth.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence wrap itself around the statement, as if trying to decide whether to accept it or challenge it.

“I don’t know if I do either,” he finally said, voice low. “But I didn’t feel scared when you told me. That surprised me.”

You turned toward him, arms crossed, more to hold yourself together than anything else.

“You’re not the one who’d have to carry it.”

His jaw tightened. A flicker of pain passed through his eyes, but he nodded slowly. “I know. I’m not trying to make this about me.”

And to his credit, he wasn’t. But the space between you still felt like a chasm neither of you knew how to cross.

Then your phone buzzed—a sharp, vibrating alarm that shattered the silence.

Five minutes.

You didn’t move right away. Just stared at your phone, as if the sound itself could delay the inevitable. Then, slowly, your hand reached for the test. Your fingers were shaking. You turned it over.

One line.

Negative.

Relief hit you like a wave, hard and fast. You exhaled sharply, all the tension collapsing out of your body at once. Your shoulders slumped. Your knees wobbled.

“It’s negative,” you said, almost to yourself.

Lando leaned in slightly to look, nodding again, but his expression didn’t match yours. His face didn’t soften with relief. Instead, his brow furrowed, a subtle crease forming between his eyes. There was something there—something unreadable, but not indifferent.

You looked at him. “What?”

He blinked, looked away. “Nothing. It’s good. That’s good.”

“Lando.”

He hesitated, then finally spoke, his voice almost gentle: “I just… when I thought it might be real, I didn’t hate the idea. That surprised me.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

He looked at the floor. “Yeah.”

You could feel the anger rising, sharp and hot. “You’re gone most of the year,” you snapped. “You think a baby is a good idea right now?”

“I didn’t say it was a good idea,” he shot back, more defensive now. “I said I didn’t hate it. I thought... maybe I could be okay with it.”

“You thought you could be okay with it?” Your voice climbed, emotions catching in your throat. “Are you even listening to yourself? I’ve been here, spiraling, scared out of my mind. And you’re out there picturing baby names?”

His expression darkened. “Don’t do that. Don’t make me the bad guy for feeling something.”

You stood up, pacing now, needing distance. “I’m not making you the bad guy. I’m trying to explain that this—us having a kid—isn’t something I can even comprehend right now. We’re barely managing this.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said suddenly, standing too. His voice was louder now, sharper. “You keep acting like I’m never here, like I wouldn’t show up if it mattered.”

You rounded on him. “Would you? Would you show up at 2 a.m. when I’m vomiting from morning sickness? Would you cancel a race if something went wrong?”

He flinched like you’d struck him. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is you being disappointed that I’m not pregnant.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And something in his expression shifted. Like he was seeing you with new eyes. Or maybe realizing just how far apart you’d already drifted.

“I just thought...” he said, voice quiet again. “It might have meant we were growing into something.”

Your chest tightened. It hurt to breathe. “It doesn’t take a pregnancy to prove we’re real, Lando. If you needed that to feel grounded in us, then maybe we’re already too far apart.”

His mouth opened like he might argue. But then he swallowed, hard. His eyes dropped to the floor. After a beat, he stepped toward the nightstand and picked up his keys.

“I need some air.”

You didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. The words were there, but they wouldn’t come.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And the silence he left behind was deafening. Louder than the shouting. Louder than the truth.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the test still in your hand. One line. Clear. Definitive.

Not pregnant. Not anything.

And yet, somehow, it still felt like something had shattered—quietly, invisibly, in that way only hearts know how to break.

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p1girlfriend · 4 days ago

Text

torque & tenderness – OP81

CW: misogyny, mentions of workplace discrimination, soft comfort + protective behavior / oscar piastri x mechanic!reader requested!

You were used to stares. Greasy hands, ponytail tucked under your cap, grease smudged on your overalls. The only woman on Oscar’s side of the garage — and the youngest. You didn’t need anyone’s validation. Your work spoke for itself.

But some people just didn’t listen.

“I mean, you have a female mechanic now,” one of the older journos said during media pen chaos. “Is that a marketing move, or…?”

Oscar blinked, lowering his mic. “I’m sorry, what?”

The reporter laughed, shrugging. “I’m just saying. Doesn’t it distract you? You know… someone like her, all up close with your car—”

“Someone like her?” Oscar repeated, eyes narrowing. “You mean, the best suspension tech we’ve had this season? The one who literally saved my ass last race with a last-minute fix?”

The area went quiet. Cameras were still rolling.

“She’s not a distraction,” he said calmly, jaw tightening. “She’s the reason I finished Q3 today.”

You were nearby, sorting cables, pretending not to listen. But your ears burned. Your heart pounded.

“Look, if you’re intimidated by smart, skilled women in a garage, that’s your problem,” Oscar continued. “But don’t try to make it mine. Or hers.”

The PR woman motioned to wrap it up, but Oscar wasn’t done. He turned his mic off and walked straight to you.

“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” he murmured. “And I’m really sorry they spoke to you like that. You don’t deserve it.”

You shrugged. “It’s not the first time.”

He clenched his jaw, then exhaled. “But I wish it were the last.”

You smiled, despite everything. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

“I always will,” he said. “Every time.”

The camera crews might’ve been done with him, but as you walked back toward the garage, hand brushing his for a second too long, it didn’t matter.

They could run their mouths.

You’d keep building the machine that shut them up.

©p1girlfriend

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desigal-26 · 1 day ago

Text

Because I believe that no one acknowledges the fact that Oscar has won such beautiful trophies

Pretty Trophies

Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader

He had pretty trophies, but none compares to her

‘“You’re the best prize I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, like it was a secret just for her. “For all the years I’ve struggled. For the pressure, the sacrifices, the doubt. For the late nights, the empty airports, the near-misses. You are the thing I never saw coming. And nothing I’ll ever win on track will feel as important as winning you.”’

Warnings: Reader gets a bit insecure—but no worries, our Osc is there to handle everything. Just Fluff.

Word Count: 1.2K (I know, it’s short)

Oscar sighed contentedly, pressing his back against the hotel room door as it clicked shut behind him. For a moment, he let his eyes fall closed, allowing the events of the past few hours to settle around him like soft, triumphant waves.

He was leading the World Driver’s Championship.

The first Australian to do so since his own mentor — and now manager — Mark Webber.

Five wins in eight races had earned him 186 points and a ten-point lead over his teammate. The numbers were surreal. Clean. Ruthless. Beautiful.

But for tonight, Oscar didn’t care about standings, margins, or strategy. Not now. Not after a day like this — a day that had meant more than just a P1.

This win had been personal.

His young sister, Eddie, had flown in for the race, her bright grin beaming down from the garage. And sitting in the paddock, heart in her hands and eyes full of pride, was the woman he loved — attending her first race of the season.

He had made sure to sign the champagne bottle in both of their names, a quiet little gesture captured on camera — though it took fans a while to decipher what it meant. And by the time they had… it was already making the rounds on Twitter, Instagram, and F1 Tumblr edits with captions like “soft launch of the century.”

But none of that mattered as much as the woman sitting on the bed in front of him now.

He opened his eyes, and the moment he did, the tired, composed exterior of a race-winning driver melted into something far more vulnerable. Something real.

There she was — his girl — perched cross-legged in one of his shirts, her gaze soft as she studied the newly acquired trophy resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the sharp, intricate lines of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya like it was something sacred.

Oscar’s breath caught a little. Not because of the win. But because of the look on her face.

That reverent little smile.

The shine in her eyes.

The faint pink in her cheeks from when Lando had teased her about being “Oscar’s Lady Luck” in the media pen.

She was his calm in a storm, the quiet balance in his fast-paced world. Before her, he didn’t believe in luck — only in precision, data, and consistency. But then she arrived like a quiet miracle — a soft summer breeze across his sunburnt skin, a snowfall that whispered instead of screamed. Something divine choosing to belong in his world of rubber and fire.

The bed dipped slightly as he settled beside her. He didn’t speak — he just watched. Not the trophy. But her.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the curves of the trophy.

“You’re staring too,” he countered, voice low.

“At an inanimate object,” she said with a shrug, finally glancing up — her lips curved in a smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

With a sigh, she gently placed the trophy on the bedside table, her eyes flicking back to his. “I’ve got what I really came for anyway,” she whispered, voice playful, and edged closer to him with a mischievous twinkle in her gaze.

“You’re thinking something,” Oscar observed, eyebrow raised.

“Am I?” she whispered back, nose brushing his as she pressed a featherlight kiss against its tip.

He immediately scrunched his face, caught off guard, which made her burst into a giggle — full, warm, and alive.

“You love doing that,” he groaned, though the corners of his mouth curled helplessly into a smile.

“I just love your nose scrunches,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice all sweetness and mischief. “They make you look like a golden retriever.”

He rolled his eyes, but his hands had already moved — one sliding around her waist to pull her against him. She yelped in surprise, half-laughing, half-gasping as she landed in his lap, hands pressed to his chest.

“Careful,” she warned, voice breathless. “You’re still a national treasure right now. Must protect the asset.”

“I’ll risk it,” Oscar murmured, brushing her hair gently off her face. “Besides… pretty sure you’re the one who brought me luck today.”

She tilted her head, smiling softly, eyes locked on his. “Then I guess you’ll have to keep me around till Abu Dhabi, huh?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Long after that,” he promised.

She giggled softly, still caught in his embrace, before her eyes flickered toward the gleaming silver resting on the bedside table.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “You love collecting pretty trophies, don’t you?”

The question caught him mid-movement. His fingers paused where they’d been brushing the curve of her back, his brows knitting in faint confusion. He tilted his head to the side, an amused quirk in his lips.

“What?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

She grinned and gestured lazily toward the Spanish Grand Prix trophy. “I mean, just look at that. And the rest of them. Last year’s Hungarian GP, this year’s Chinese, Saudi Arabia…” She wrinkled her nose in mock frustration. “And I know I’m forgetting a few. Maybe Bahrain?”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his eyes warm as they studied her.

She shifted just enough to rest her chin against his chest, her voice still playful but quieter now — edged with something she didn’t name.

“You like collecting beautiful things. Earning them.”

Oscar didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her, really looked — the way her lashes fluttered, the way her mouth tilted into a half-smile even as her eyes held something a little more fragile. A little unsure.

And then he gently tilted her chin up so her gaze met his completely.

“I do like collecting beautiful things,” he said softly, voice slow and certain. “But those trophies? They’re just metal. Stats. Symbols.”

His thumb brushed against her cheek, the gesture unbearably tender.

“You’re the best prize I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, like it was a secret just for her. “For all the years I’ve struggled. For the pressure, the sacrifices, the doubt. For the late nights, the empty airports, the near-misses. You are the thing I never saw coming. And nothing I’ll ever win on track will feel as important as winning you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the air catching in her throat.

Oscar smiled gently, forehead brushing against hers.

“I’d give up every podium for you. No hesitation.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of meaning. Of weight. Of promises unsaid but deeply understood.

She opened her mouth to say something, but emotion clogged her voice, and instead, she leaned in — pressing her lips softly to his. It wasn’t rushed or fiery, but reverent, like she was answering with everything she couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, she whispered against his mouth, “You make it very hard to stay composed, Piastri.”

He smirked. “Good. Because I’ve been completely ruined for composure since the moment I saw you in that bloody paddock sundress.”

She laughed, her face buried in the crook of his neck now, and he held her tighter, as if the world could melt around them and he’d still be exactly where he wanted to be.

With her.

His real victory.

#f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 2025 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #formula one #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri #oscar x you #oscar x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x female oc #mclaren

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the-secret-formulaone · 2 months ago

Text

DARLING, HOLD MY HAND

prompt: your new manicure has oscar's brain short circuiting

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

word count: ~1.8k

warnings: 18+, cursing, handjob, very tame

a/n: this was purely impulsive and self-indulgent. i got my nails done today and this is how i feel about them and how i'd like my boyfriend (if i had one) to react.

this oneshot is very fluff and only a tinsy bit spicy. the smut is not the main point hence why it's not my best work but it's enjoyable! [and a bit nasty hehe]

this is my offering to the oscar girlies who constantly keep me fed with his fluffy fics. i owe the oscar girlies everything. they are some of the best writers in this platform. idk if it's them or oscar which have that secret ingredient.

enjoy!

You love to get your nails done. Every couple of weeks you make an appointment and go get your nails done without fault.

Oscar knew not to mess with that.

From the day he met you, you've had your nails done. He can't recall if he's ever seen you without nail polish and it's been a couple of years since you got together.

You often mention how having your nails bare makes you feel naked. It’s part of your identity it’s what makes you…you.

Oscar doesn't mind in the slightest. It's one of your quirks and he respects it. Whenever you come home with new nails you'll show him excitedly and he'll tell you they look good promptly returning to your lives.

You've taught him to always remind you if he has an important event to attend or a vacation planned so you can fit in your nail appointment before then. Yes, you cared about your hair and your makeup and your outfits but your nails where everything. A priority.

Oscar has been witness to the catastrophe that is breaking a nail. He will follow along your lead and nod at how it sucks and it’s the worst thing to ever happen.

He thinks it's cute how you will look at your hand and huff in annoyance at the mismatched length the days leading up to the appointment. The same one you bumped up on your schedule.

The one thing Oscar never counted on was his brain chemistry changing after one particular manicure.

He's home chilling watching TV. You've been gone for a couple of hours to get your nails done. He doesn't dare to make plans at that time knowing you'll chose to get your nails done over doing whatever with him.

You'd never cancel on your nail tech the same day, especially after browsing for new nail art for days in preparation. He doesn't argue with your routine lets you be. Oscar knows the drill already.

The door opening and your keys jingling tells him everything he needs to know. "Osc, I'm home," you call out to him, leaving your bag and coat by the door.

You pad down to the living room where he's sprawled out on the couch, grey sweatpants and hoodie covering his fit body. You smile at the sight, you have such a lovely boyfriend.

"Hey babe, how was your appointment?" He asks, looking away from the TV to spare you a glance.

"It was great. Look at my nails," you squeal, falling beside him on the couch and showing him your nails. You stretch your arms in front of you, putting your hands right on his eye line.

You finally bit the bullet and got the famous cat eye nails. Tired of the Pinterest girlies living their best lives with sparkly nails without you, you paid the extra fee to join them.

The nude color shimmered in magnetically designed patters with every move of your fingers. You spent the whole way home oohing and awing at how spectacular they looked. They say money can't buy happiness but you're pretty damn happy with your manicure.

Oscar stares blankly, watching the shimmering polish catch the light. He's never had an opinion on your choice of color or design, everything you picked suit you and was pretty even if you voiced your disappointment about how your idea panned didn’t pan out as you imagined.

But this manicure in particular made his brain short circuit. He felt like a magpie chasing after something shiny. The more you wiggled your fingers, the more tranced he was.

"Osc?"

"That's pretty neat. Is this the first time you do that color?" He asks, knowing the answer because there's no way he missed this before.

"Yeah, it's a fairly new popular type of polish. Had to pay extra though," you shrug, taking your varnished fingers away from his face. He almost had half a mind to pull your hands back to keep starring.

"Huh," he says, returning to the TV as you settle more comfortably beside him to scroll on your phone.

As the days go by he's hyper focused on your nails. Always observing the cute way the light hits them and how they make your hands look very attractive. In his eyes it's so classy and sexy. Oscar can't explain it properly.

It’s not like your hands changed or the shape of your nails. It’s the eye catching shimmer that has him in a trance. He panics on the inside about seemingly developing a new kink based on the color of your nails. It’s a new low even for him.

You and Oscar aren't the type to hold hands all the time, but ever since you changed your manicure he's been holding them non stop to watch the fine glitter shift with the angle of the light.

You're the type of person to talk with your hands so whenever you're having a conversation with your boyfriend you catch his eyes following your hands. He's obsessed and you love it.

You say nothing, letting him have his fun. You won't ever turn down your boy for admiring one of your favorite things. Your phone is filled with pictures of your new manicure so you understand him perfectly.

Oscar has half the mind to give you more money just so you can tip your nail tech extra. Hell, he'll send them to her with a small thank you note. He feels indebted.

One morning, the brightness of a new day wakes him up. Oscar forgot to shut the blinds the night before. You never do because you like to fall asleep looking at the night sky.

It's cheesy and Oscar teases you about it endlessly, but being the good boyfriend he is he takes on the responsibility of shutting them every night so the sun doesn’t disturb you in the morning.

You're asleep on your side, facing him. Your hand resting between the two of you. The promise ring he gave you glints with the sunlight along with your pretty nails.

He touches the varnish lightly with his finger tips, admiring it once more. Grabbing your hand, he kisses each one of your fingertips, following your hand, your wrist and up your arm.

He might as well take advantage of waking you from your peaceful state after you begged him to the day before. You wanted to see him before he left to work out and meet with his team.

He kisses your shoulder softly, before burying his head on your neck. "Wake up, love," he whispers into your ear. His voice heavy with sleep still.

"Hmm," you whine, throwing your arm around Oscar to hug him close. "Five more minutes," you groan as your nails come up to his head to scratch his head.

"I have to go," he laughs softly, but he relaxes in your arms, enjoying the feel of your nails on his scalp.

"Five more minutes." He can hear the pout on your voice so he stays in place, face on your neck and arm thrown around your waist. Oscar closes his eyes and enjoys the affection you're so freely offering.

Throughout it all, Oscar comes to realize that your nails look the best when your hand is wrapped around his cock with the flash of his phone shining down on them as he records the moment.

He records intimate moments between the two of you often for when he's away on a race and you can't join him. Sometimes the time zone difference don’t let you help him and he has to depend on these videos he has tucked away on a locked folder of his phone.

"Fuck, that's it baby," Oscar groans as your hand pumps his hard cock up and down. You're lying down next to him, kissing his neck while reminding yourself not to leave any hickeys.

Oscar has gotten in trouble for that before.

Your hands are shiny from the lube you applied all over his length to make your job easier. Other times, you'd have your mouth and hands all over him but he requested this so, who are you to say otherwise?

The nail polish and the shimmers pop with the harsh white light of the flash and Oscar knows this will be in his favorites folder for months to come. You swipe his tip with your thumb, stimulating the sensitive area.

Oscar's hips jerk against your hand and a groan spills from his lips. You whisper in his ear, praising him and talking dirty. Comments that will leave him blushing when he randomly remembers them in the middle of the day.

His cock was throbbing and leaking precum all over your palm. "I love it when you get messy, Osc," you brush your lips on the shell of his ear and feel him shiver.

Your teeth sink into his earlobe, making him groan. You're playing dirty, you know Oscar's sweet spot is in his ear.

Oscar moans your name, tearing his gaze from the phone on his hand to press his lips against yours in a wet kiss. He hisses into the kiss as you carefully grip his cock tighter.

"I'm gonna cum," he moans, shutting his eyes tightly as his head falls back. The phone falls on his stomach as he chooses to grasp at the crisp white bedsheets. You grab it with your free hand, finishing his job of recording as you speed up.

His cock is slick with lube and precum, his tip a bright pink as it swells up. You record as your hand slips up and down firmly, Oscar's hips stutter, chasing his release. One of his hands gripping your side tightly as the other joins yours on his cock.

In a matter of seconds, Oscar cums as his moans echo in the dark bedroom. Sticky, white covers his cock, his thighs, his stomach and your hands. You turn the phone in your direction, licking the cum off your fingers, savoring the taste of him. Nails glint mischievously at him. With a cheeky wink, you blow a kiss into the camera and wave, stopping the recording.

It's definitely being saved to his favorites.

Everyone typically hates Monday's unless it's a festive day but not Oscar. Oscar likes them because he can rest after a stressful race weekend.

That was until disaster struck on a Monday and then he understood everyone's hatred of the day.

"Oscar, I'm home," you sing, taking off your shoes and leaving your bag on the table by the door. You bounce into the kitchen excitedly finding him preparing a smoothie.

"Hey babe," Oscar greets you as he drops the fruit into the blender, leaning down when you tug his hoodie to drop a kiss on his cheek.

"Look at my new nails," you giggle, extending your hand in front of his face.

Oscar feels his face fall at the new color varnish. It's a pretty red that compliments your skin well but it's not the cat eye nail polish as he's come to learn it's called. Many men would love the sexy red color and he does like it but he much preferred the other one.

"What happened to the other color?" He lets slip as he holds in his horror.

"What do you mean? Osc, my nails were falling apart, you know I change them every couple of weeks," you say, tilting your head in question.

The polish was starting to lift at the edges and you hate when your hair gets stuck on it. Only Oscar was allowed to pull your hair.

"Oh," he says plainly, hiding his disappointment.

"You don't like them?" You ask him, inspecting the color yourself to see if there was something he noticed that you didn't, but the red color looked perfect.

"No, no," Oscar is quick to reply, grabbing hold of your hands and giving a kiss to the back of each one, "They look perfect as always. I just really liked that other color is all."

"Oh okay," you sigh, pecking his lips, "I'll keep that in mind for the future, Osc."

Something lights up in Oscars eyes. "So you'll get them done like that next time?"

"God no," you giggle, patting his cheek, "We'll be right in the middle of the summer. I was thinking about something bright, like orange!"

Oscar sighs in defeat but he smiles at you and nods. He lets you go do your own thing as he finishes his smoothie. The loud whirring of the blender a representation of how he's crying on the inside.

thoughts?? prayers?? complaints?? applause??

hope you liked it!!

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checkeredflagggs · 1 day ago

Text

Taken From Me

Pairing: pierre gasly x girlfriend!reader

summary: while traveling with pierre, your childhood pet is put down

a/n: anon requested pierre comforting reader and it’s coming up on the anniversary of my childhood dog’s passing — I didn’t know until it afterwards

WARNINGS: pet death

Masterlist | Taglist

y/n

liked by pierregasly, mom, charles_leclerc, and 738,823 others

y/n: Happy birthday to my bestest girl, Nala!

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mom: We gave her an extra big bowl for breakfast and one of those special treats she loves

↳y/n: Thank youuuuuuu!! And could you give her an extra big kiss from me! And let her know I’ll be home soon?

↳mom: Of course dear

pierregasly: Happy Birthday Nala!

↳y/n: Oh you’re gonna love her Pierre!

↳pierregasly: I’m sure I will — she looks like a good dog

↳y/n: the best!

user1: the bond between a girl and her dog is not to be underestimated

↳y/n: Nala is my best girl!!

user2: petition for a Nala paddock visit!

↳y/n: Potentially! Nala is getting up there in age though and her comfort comes first!

↳user3: Understandable

user4: Best dog mom?

↳user5: best dog mom!

charles_leclerc: Leo says he’d like to meet this Nala!

↳y/n: Well I can’t disappoint Leo can I?

↳charles_leclerc: you can’t!

f1wagwatch

liked by user, user, user and 628,833 others

f1wagwatch: Alpine’s Pierre Gasly and his new girlfriend, y/n l/n, arrive at the Miami Grand Prix!

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user6: she’s so gorgeous!

user7: love her style

user8: literal perfection…and Pierre

↳user9: ok but Pierre is fine af

↳user8: you’re right — he just gets outshined by y/n

↳user9: everyone does

y/n

liked by pierregasly, alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe, and 928,824 others

tagged: pieregasly

y/n: A small break before we got back to the grind

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user10: Do you guys need a third? A maid? A dog?

↳user11: are applications open?

↳user12: where do we apply?

alexandrasaintmleux: without me?

↳y/n: shush baby I just have to get Pierre off my back and then we can run away

↳lilymhe: my bags are already packed

↳alexandrasaintmleux: let me grab Leo and I’m ready

↳charles_leclerc: what?

↳alex_albon: no?

↳pierregasly: babe please stop threatening to run away with Alex and Lily

↳lilymhe: ummm it’s not a threat it’s a promise?

pierregasly: Can I go where you go?

↳y/n: can we always be this close?

↳user13: honestly goals

flavy.barla: you’re coming to the triple header right?

↳y/n: nothing could keep me away!

↳flavy.barla: good!

mom: have fun dear!

↳y/n: will do mom!

Private Messages, Mom and y/n

Private Messages, Pierre and y/n

f1wagwatch

liked by user, user, user, and 572,284 others

tagged: y/n

f1wagwatch: Is y/n absent? Despite previous claiming attendance to Imola, she doesn’t seem to be coming this weekend!

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user14: No! My wife is missing!

user15: god they look good

user16: I wonder what happened with y/n…

↳user17: Right?

↳user18: I hope it’s nothing bad…she was really excited to come!

user19: If I may? Dream threesome

↳user20: while there is quite few pairings I’d prefer more I see the vision

user21: did you guys see the rudegossip page?? Something is definitely wrong

↳user22: what the fuck is wrong with people?!?

↳user23: god why would they post that…

rudegossip

liked by user, user, user, and 638,924 others

tagged: y/n

rudegossip: Trouble in paradise? F1 wag y/n l/n seen crying and eating a burrito in her hometown while new boyfriend Pierre Gasly races in Italy this weekend

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user24: what the fuck is this??

user25: leave her alone??

user26: such an ugly crier 🤢

↳user27: alright you basement dweller

↳user27: obviously something is wrong so like leave her alone

user28: oh no! I hope everything is alright…

↳user29: I mean obviously not??

user30: god Pierre could do so much better…

↳user31: right? Like shut up bitch and get to Italy

↳user32: don’t you have literally anything better to do than mock people?

user33: lol does she actually do anything but cry and mooch off her significantly BETTER half??

↳user34: probably not

↳user35: fuck off! Leave her alone!

Private Messages, Pierre and y/n

pierregasly

liked by flavy.barla, alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe, and 1,723,823 others

tagged: y/n

pierregasly: taking a comfort day with my girl

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alexandrasaintmleux: sending all my love to her

↳pierregasly: she’s demanding a girls day with dogs present please

↳alexandrasaintmleux: packing up my things as we speak

charles_leclerc: sending some wine and chocolate with Alex

↳pierregasly: it will be appreciated

alex_albon: Lily and I are on the way with the albon zoo

↳pierregasly: she smiled when I told her horsey was on his way

↳lilymhe: give her an extra tight hug from me

↳charles_leclerc: wait we can come too? alexandrasaintmleux wait for me!

estebanocon: Flavy and I are coming up the stairs right now

↳pierregasly: she is literally waiting at the door for her

↳estebanocon: glad to know where we rate…

↳pierregasly: whatever makes her smile right now

y/n (2 months later)

liked by pierregasly, alex_albon, charles_leclerc, and 924,023 others

tagged: pierregasly

y/n: 2 months ago, a personal tragedy struck me — my dog Nala passed away. It was unexpected and completely devastating to me — she was a cornerstone of my universe and I couldn't imagine a life without her.

In the days and weeks since, Pierre has been a rock, a safe harbor, pretty much the only place I’ve felt safe to express my feelings about it. He’s dealt with my crying and depression, the silence and the days where I wouldn’t say anything.

I couldn’t have asked for a better partner or friend. There’s so much more I’d like to say but for now I’d just like to say thank you, for everything. I don’t think I would have made it through these last few months as well as I have without your love and support.

And today we’re welcoming a new member or our family — meet Simba! He’s been a light in our lives since we got him last week.

Pierre and Simba — I love you both so much

comments have been limited on this post

pierregasly: Oh mon amour, il n'y avait aucun autre endroit où je préférerais être à tes côtés pendant que tu traversais cela. Oh my love, there was nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side as you went through this.

↳y/n: Merci pour tout Pierre. Thank you for everything Pierre

↳pierregasly: Et maintenant, nous avons notre Simba! And now we have our Simba

charles_leclerc: Simba better be making an appearance soon!

↳y/n: he literally never leaves my side so yes, he will

↳alexandrasaintmleux: Leo and I are so ready

lilymhe: Suddenly, I’ll be free to come this weekend

↳alex_albon: really?

↳y/n: I am so ready to see you again!

↳lilymhe: it’s definitely been too long

flavy.barla: so ready to spend the weekend with you!

↳y/n: I’ll bring Simba and snacks if you bring the tea!

↳flavy.barla: I have tea so good you won’t believe it

Taglist

Please interact with my taglist post if you want to join — I don’t always check the notes on the individual posts

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @il0vereadingstuff @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @teti-menchon0604 @galaxygurlll @star73807-blog @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @allthings-fandom @hannahmotors10 @moonypixel @nikfigueiredo @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @mimisweetz @books-fangirl-books @fastandcurious16 @lilyofthevalley-09 @rexit-mo @alessa-the-enchantress @1800-love-me @vhkdncu2ei8997 @toodeepintofandoms @tukes @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @lecfosimaxbull @dramaticpiratellamas @devilacot @supernatural-harrypotter7 @nightrose-18 @alexxavicry @vhkdncu2ei8997 @purplephantomwolf

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eclipsedcherry · 2 days ago

Text

so beautifully written, is it my period coming or did i cry over how good this fic was

NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana.

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head.

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant.

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?”

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself.

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow.

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface.

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol).

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her.

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment.

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment.

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened.

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter.

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves.

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

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pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

Text

The Long Way Home I Chapter Three

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Notes — Are you ready? Because I'm not ready.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Harper regretted everything the minute they hit the incline.

"This was your idea," Oscar said, not even out of breath.

"I hate that you're actually good at this," she wheezed.

He grinned and reached for her wrist mid-stride. "We can stop."

"No." She panted. "If I stop now, I'll never start again. They'll have to airlift me out."

They were deep in the woods behind the school, the quiet part where no one really went except Oscar when he was doing his trainer-mandated endurance runs three times a week. It smelled like wet moss and pine needles and early autumn.

He slowed to a walk, just enough for her to match pace, then slung an arm lazily around her shoulders. She leaned into it, grateful and exhausted and warm in a way that had nothing to do with her temperature.

They didn't say anything for a while. Just breathed. Let the trees hush them.

Then, softly, "This is where I come when I need to think," he said.

Harper glanced up at him. "Or avoid people?"

"Same thing."

She smiled and nudged him. "You've been doing that more lately."

He shrugged. "It's been... a lot. Winning the British championship. Leading the WSK. Talking to teams. My dad's getting anxious about sponsors."

"And Mark?"

"Always calm. But I can tell he's pushing a bit harder now. It's all getting a bit more serious."

She nodded, quietly. "Yeah."

They walked until they hit a small clearing; soft grass, dappled light, the faint hum of wind through the trees.

Oscar dropped to the ground first, tugging her with him, and Harper let herself fall beside him. Their fingers tangled without thought. Her heartbeat still hadn't slowed.

"You really hate running, huh?" He teased.

She turned her head toward him. "I don't hate it."

He raised a brow.

"Okay, fine. I hate it. But I like being with you," she said, eyes soft.

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "That's a good enough reason to torture yourself?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against herself and she giggled breathily against him, shifting to her knees and pressing close to him.

And when she whispered, "Can we... just stay here a while?" He nodded, no questions, no pressure, just a gentle hand on the curve of her back.

They didn't... plan it.

They didn't even really speak about it as it happened.

They moved the way they always did — with instinct and quiet understanding, with laughter in the middle and too many nerves and awkward fumbling that quickly gave way to something softer.

They were teenagers, yes. But more than that — in that pretty little clearing, they became each other's firsts. And it wasn't perfect. It was fumbled and awkward and probably a bit out of order — but it felt right.

It felt like theirs.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in the grass and the quiet, Oscar drawing invisible lines on her shoulder, Harper tucked into his side like she belonged there and nowhere else.

"I don't think anything has ever felt that perfect," she whispered.

He kissed her again. But her lip. Made her giggle as he said, "You made it perfect."

—

Harper tiptoed into their bedroom just past curfew, hair messy, hoodie zipped up to her chin, and a dazed sort of softness clinging to her features like afterglow.

Jane was already in bed, face masked, glasses on, reading some dystopian paperback with a wildly dramatic title. She didn't look up.

"I know what you did," she sung.

Harper froze halfway across the room. "What?"

Jane turned a page. "Please. You've got pine needles in your hair and your skirt is on backwards.'"

Harper flushed. "Oh my God."

Jane finally looked at her. "Was it good?"

"...Yeah," Harper whispered, and then suddenly grinned, wide and a little overwhelmed. "Yeah, it was."

Jane set her book down and patted the edge of her bed. "Come here and tell me everything, you naughty, terrible girl."

Harper crossed the room in two steps, crawled under Jane's blanket like they were twelve again, and for the first time in a long time, let herself glow.

—

Monday morning, Harper's phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down to see the sender: Viard Admissions.

Opening it felt like swallowing a stone.

The email was clinical, polite — an official acceptance letter to the elite boarding school in Switzerland her mother had threatened. Lines about curriculum, dates, and fees, but beneath every word, Harper could feel the cold weight of control.

She stared at the screen, heart sinking.

The rest of the day was a blur. Her smiles felt forced. Her laughs, hollow.

At lunch, she barely touched her food. During math tutoring, her mind floated, distracted by the looming exile.

Oscar noticed.

He cornered her between classes, hands stuffed in his pockets, brows furrowed.

"Hey," he said gently, "you've been off all day. What's wrong?"

Harper shook her head, trying to hide the tightness in her throat.

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell me."

She hesitated, then finally exhaled. "My mum." she admitted, voice cracking. "She emailed my mu acceptance letter. To that school in Switzerland she was threatening me with the other week."

Oscar's jaw tightened. "That's shit," he said.

"Yeah," Harper whispered. "I feel like I've found somewhere I belong, and now she's trying to take it away."

Oscar reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You do belong," he said firmly. "Here. With me. And with our friends. People who care about you."

Harper blinked back tears, the knot inside her loosening just a little. "Thanks, Osc," she said softly.

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "We'll figure it out, yeah? Together."

—

Saturday evening, their bedroom was buzzing with whispered giggles and the fresh scent of cucumber.

Harper and Jane lounged on the floor, wrapped in fluffy blankets, their faces slick with a honey-avocado facemask as they binge-watched Mean Girls for the third time that week on Jane's laptop.

"Oi, we're coming in!" Matt's voice boomed from outside their door.

The door swung open to reveal Matt, Sam, and Alfie — each armed with their own packets of face masks and towels, looking both sheepish and excited.

"Um, what the hell are you guys doing here?" Jane asked, raising an eyebrow at them.

"We're your new beauty consultants," Sam grinned, holding up a jar of what looked like expensive aloe mask (which he'd definitely stolen from whichever girl he was currently dating).

Alfie was already spreading a pink goo over his cheeks, looking hilariously out of place in the girls' soft dorm lighting.

Harper laughed despite herself.

"Fine. Whatever. But only if you promise not to mess up the blankets," Jane bargained.

Matt plopped down on the floor, slapping a bit of mask on his nose and grinning. "Deal."

The night unfolded with half-serious skincare advice, sarcastic commentary on Mean Girls, and a lot of laughter.

At one point, Alfie tried to reenact the "You can't sit with us" line — but with a face mask so thick it practically obscured his words.

Harper messages Oscar a sneaky picture she'd taken of them.

Oscar: I asked them to keep an eye on you. Sry if they were annoying lol. Wish I was there x

Harper stared at the message and pulled her knees up to her chest with a hitched smile.

Harper: Thank you. Love you

She held her breath as he typed.

Oscar: Love you too.

And it was that easy.

—

Jane's birthday was always celebrated in style.

The music thrummed through the room, warm and electric. Harper spotted Oscar across the room, his eyes locking onto hers with something intense — a mix of nerves and something more.

He moved toward her, hand reaching out gently to take hers. She didn't hesitate.

They stepped onto the dance floor, bodies close but careful, hearts pounding louder than the beat.

Oscar's hand found her waist, steady and reassuring. Harper's fingers curled lightly around his neck, breath catching in her throat.

They swayed together, the world narrowing to just the two of them — the noise, the lights, the rest all fading away.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and Harper's pulse quickened. When their lips met, it was soft at first — tentative, like testing the water.

But the kiss deepened, filled with all the restless energy and longing they'd been holding back.

They pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

"Happy birthday, Jane," Harper whispered, smiling shyly.

Oscar grinned, his fingers brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Best party ever."

—

The door clicked softly behind them as Oscar guided Harper inside his bedroom, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

She pointedly ignored the insane amount of mess.

"If you get caught here, we're both fucked," he whispered, pulling her close.

"I won't get caught," Harper replied, snuggling into his side as they settled onto the rumpled bed.

Oscar wrapped an arm around her and tugged her flush against him.

Then Harper shifted, her voice soft but animated. "I started this new coding camp online. It's... complicated, but kind of awesome."

Oscar tilted his head, interested. "Yeah? What's it teaching you?"

"How to build games. It's a bit elementary, but I'm learning how to work with CSS more efficiently."

Oscar smiled, fingers tracing slow circles on her arm. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "That's pretty cool."

Harper hummed. "I know. I'll show you the video game when it's done. Won't be anything special, but it'll still be cool."

Oscar pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'm glad you're here."

Harper nodded, resting her head against his chest. "Me too."

—

Harper's stomach churned as she made her way through the quiet halls toward the headmaster's office. Her mind raced with possibilities — had her mum found out about the late-night escapades? Had somebody seen her sneaking out of the boys dorm? Was she in trouble?

She knocked lightly, then stepped inside.

The headmaster looked up, a warm smile on his face. "Harper, come in. Have a seat."

Her heart pounded, but she took the chair offered.

"I wanted to talk to you because I've been hearing some very good things," he said. "Your math level has improved significantly over the course of the term — and I understand that with dyscalculia, this is something to be very proud of."

Harper blinked, surprised.

"I understand that there's been some study sessions with a few of your classmates during your free time in the common rooms. A few teachers found the pinned-up schedules amusing. But that kind of initiative is impressive."

She let out a relieved breath, a smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, sir."

"It really is a fantastic turn around, Harper. Keep it up."

As she left the office, the tension eased from her shoulders.

Maybe things were looking up after all.

—

Oscar sat on the sofa in the common room, phone balanced on his knee, his parents' faces bright on the screen.

"It's been great to hear from you, mate," his dad said, smiling.

Oscar grinned. "Yeah. You too."

The door opened softly, and Harper stepped inside, still catching her breath from P.E., cheeks flushed.

She paused, then eased herself down next to Oscar, curling up against his side.

Oscar glanced at the screen and said, "Harper's here."

Oscar's mum smiled warmly. "Hello, Harper, sweetheart."

"Hi," Harper murmured, closing her eyes and resting her head on Oscar's shoulder.

Oscar slipped an arm around her, fingers gently brushing her hair.

The conversation continued quietly, but Harper drifted off, the soft rhythm of Oscar's voice and the warmth of the room lulling her into a calm nap.

—

The cafeteria was quiet, soft morning light filtering through the windows. Harper sat at their small table, pushing her usual bowl of Weetabix aside.

"I'm not really feeling up for that," she said softly. "Just some toast, yeah?"

Oscar looked up from his cereal, eyebrows knitting together in quiet concern but not pressing. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, sliding a plate across to her. "Whatever you want."

Harper nibbled at the edges, her stomach twisting uncomfortably, but she shrugged it off.

"Just feel a bit gross, probably nothing," she muttered, a bit frustrated. "Maybe it was that chilli we had last night. It tasted weird."

Oscar reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "If you want, I can find you some ginger tea? My mum always made me drink it when I got sick."

She smiled faintly, grateful for the thought. "I'll be fine. Thanks, though."

She shuffled closer to him throughout breakfast, until she was practically on his lap as the ready of the sleepy students came pouring in.

Jane slammed her tray down on the table and said, "Can you believe that the prom theme is going to be 'Pirates'. I mean — who the hell came up with that?"

Harper giggled against Oscar's shoulder.

—

The bell had just rung, and students spilled into the hallway. Harper was making her way slowly toward the common room when she spotted Oscar waiting near the door.

He caught her eye immediately and fell into step beside her.

"You feeling okay?" He asked quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Harper shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Better. Still a bit off, but it's nothing."

Oscar studied her for a moment, concern softening his features. "Want me to walk you back to your dorm? Or maybe grab some fresh air?"

She nodded, grateful for the offer. "Yeah, that'd be good."

They walked together, the afternoon sun warm on their backs, and Harper leaned just a little closer to him.

—

The last weeks of the school year felt heavier somehow — classes wrapped up, corridors buzzing with end-of-year chatter, but Harper's thoughts kept drifting.

She sat beside Oscar on the astroturf, the chill in the air making them both pull their jackets tighter.

"Four weeks," she murmured, voice soft. "That's how long you'll be gone."

Oscar nodded, eyes tracing the frost on the pitch. "I know. It'll feel like forever."

Harper looked down at her hands, twisting the little rope bracelet Oscar had given her. It was black and white; the colours of a chequered flag. The finish line.

"I'm going to miss you," she admitted, the words tasting strange but true.

Oscar reached over, fingers brushing hers. "I'll miss you too. But it's not forever. We've got FaceTime, texts..."

She smiled faintly, though the lump in her throat didn't go away. "Promise you won't forget about me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. It was ridiculous, but she was feeling just a tiny bit delicate.

"I promise, babe," Oscar said, squeezing her hand.

She took a deep breath and let his words settle something in her chest.

—

The snow had started falling just before dusk, blanketing the city in soft white as Harper and her mother walked briskly up Fifth Avenue. The holiday lights sparkled across shop windows, casting golden reflections against the ice-slicked pavement. It should have felt magical — it usually did — but this year, everything felt off.

Her mother was walking a few steps ahead, as always. Perfect posture, sleek gloves, eyes forward like she was leading a press conference instead of walking to her parents' townhouse.

"Straighten your scarf," she said without looking back. "You're not ten."

Harper didn't answer. She just adjusted the scarf, more out of habit than compliance.

Her grandparents' house was beautiful in that cold, museum-like way — all polished marble and antique chandeliers. They were kind enough, but Harper always felt like a stranger to them.

Dinner was stiff. Conversation danced around neutral topics — school, future plans, the weather in London — but never quite landed. Harper could feel her mother's eyes on her every time she spoke, like she was a sentence away from saying something inappropriate.

When dessert was served, Harper quietly excused herself and climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, her phone already in hand.

She laid across the bedspread, scrolling through old photos of her and Oscar — blurry selfies after he'd climbed out of his kart, the one where he'd fallen asleep during a maths session, the video of him trying orange marmalade for the first time and gagging like it was poison.

Her chest ached.

There was a message waiting for her.

Oscar: Made it to the beach before Mum could shove a Santa hat on me. Send help. Miss you.

She smiled, blinking hard.

Harper: You'd better FaceTime me tomorrow. Or I swear I'll swim to Australia just to see you.

—

Harper sat cross-legged on the guest bed, the soft hum of New York traffic muffled by snow and distance. Laughter floated up faintly from the living room downstairs — the clink of glasses, her grandfather's booming voice, her mother's delicate laugh, like porcelain.

She stared at her phone until it buzzed, the screen lighting up with one name.

FaceTime Incoming: Oscar

She answered immediately.

Oscar's face appeared, backlit by sunshine. He was sitting outside, shirtless and tanned, with the ocean glinting behind him.

"Merry Christmas," he said, grinning.

Harper smiled, the tightness in her chest easing a little just at the sound of his voice. "Merry Christmas, beach boy."

"Snow yet?"

"Everything's white. Including the tablecloth. And every single guest."

He huffed out a dry laugh. "You okay?"

Harper nodded, though it wasn't entirely true. "Better now."

He looked at her through the screen, really looked. "It's been weird not seeing you almost every day."

"It's horrible," she admitted, flopping back on the bed and bringing the phone with her. "She made me wear this velvet dress that itches like hell. I would sell my soul for a hoodie and one of your perfect plates of breakfast toast."

Oscar chuckled, lying back on a sun chair, mirroring her position. "We had a barbecue. Dad burned the sausages. Classic."

There was a pause — not awkward, but full.

"I miss you," Harper said softly, picking at a fraying thread on the sleeve of her dress.

"I miss you too," Oscar replied, quieter this time.

Neither of them said it, but it hung in the space between them: I love you — unspoken, but understood.

"We'll be back home soon," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Ten days."

"Not like I'm counting."

Oscar smiled. "I'll call you tonight. Properly. When the house is quiet."

"Okay."

"Go be elegant and miserable," he teased.

"And you go burn in the sun."

"I'm wearing SPF."

She smiled again, softer now, the ache still there, but bearable.

"Bye, Osc."

"Bye, Harps."

—

The train ride had been long. The platform cold. And Harper's suitcase wheel had started squeaking halfway across campus.

But none of that mattered the second she saw him.

He was already there — leaning against the gate near the common room, hoodie half-zipped, hair sun-lightened from two weeks under the Australian sky. He looked taller. Or maybe she just missed him that much.

Oscar straightened the second their eyes met.

Neither of them said anything at first. He just stepped forward and took her suitcase handle from her hand like it was second nature, like she hadn't been gone for 28 days, 16 FaceTimes, and countless messages.

Harper looked up at him, trying to smile but it wobbled. "Hey."

"Hi," he said, and his voice caught on it.

She opened her arms before she could think better of it, and he pulled her into him like he'd been holding his breath since December.

His nose tucked against her temple. "You're freezing," he murmured.

"You're warm," she whispered back.

They stood there for a while, unmoving, while students bustled past with post-holiday energy and distant laughter filled the air. None of it touched them.

Finally, Harper leaned back just enough to look up at him. "You got taller."

"You got sadder," he said gently. "But you're back now."

She nodded, eyes stinging. "I missed this."

"I missed you."

They didn't kiss — not here, not in-front of everyone — but his hand found hers and didn't let go as they walked the familiar path toward the dorms.

Back to routine. Back to toast and maths study and Astro nights and quiet, stolen moments.

Back to where they belonged.

—

Harper was half-draped across Jane's bed, a leftover Quality Street melting on her tongue, while Jane rooted through her suitcase with dramatic flair.

"I forgot how depressing the lighting is in this room," Jane muttered. "It's like they want us to slowly wilt."

"You're very tan though," Harper said through a yawn. "So it looks fine."

Jane straightened up triumphantly, holding up a pink silk scrunchie like it was a crown jewel. "There it is."

Harper blinked. "That's what you were hunting for?"

"Excuse you — this scrunchie survived the Atlantic Ocean." Jane dropped it on her desk and flopped beside Harper. "I swam on Christmas Day. It was freezing. I highly recommend getting your period before beach season. It was the first year I didn't have to stress about leaking in the Mediterranean and attracting sharks."

Harper smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

A beat.

And then another.

And then—

Her face drained of colour.

"Oh."

Jane tilted her head. "What?"

Harper sat up, very suddenly, like the air had gone too tight. "I haven't... I haven't had mine."

Jane blinked. "Like—"

"I didn't think about it, I just—" Harper's voice trailed off as she stared at the wall. "I've felt sick. Tired. I haven't wanted my Weetabix."

Jane was still for a beat, then reached out and put a steadying hand on Harper's knee. "Okay. Breathe. It could be stress. Travel. Life."

Harper nodded slowly, but her brain was moving a million miles an hour. "Yeah. Yeah. Totally. Stress."

But Jane could see it in her eyes.

That switch had flipped.

Something inside Harper knew — whether or not she was ready to say it out loud.

—

She didn't knock.

She didn't even hesitate.

Harper shoved open the door to the boys' dorm common room, heart in her throat, fingers trembling, her mind screaming in spirals. Oscar was on the floor with Alfie and Matt, half-focused on a Mario Kart match, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, looking so calm it almost made her dizzy.

He looked up immediately.

And stood up faster than she'd ever seen him move.

"Hey— Harps?"

She just stared at him for a second, trying to speak, trying to make the words form. She couldn't do this with anyone else. Only him.

"I—" Her voice broke. "Can we talk? Please?"

"Yeah. Of course." He was already crossing the room, grabbing her hand, guiding her down the hallway toward his room without another word. The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Oscar turned to her, brows knit with concern. "What happened? What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then forced the words out before she could second guess them.

"I think I might be pregnant."

Silence.

Not judgment, not panic — just... stillness. The way Oscar always went quiet before a race, centring himself.

Harper blinked fast. "I haven't had my period. I've been nauseous, tired, my brain's a mess. And I didn't notice— I didn't think—" Her voice cracked. "I'm not saying I am. But I might be. And I don't know what to do."

Oscar stepped forward and gently took her hands in his, grounding her.

"Okay," he said simply, his voice steady. "Fuck. Okay. We'll figure this out."

Harper let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. "I didn't know what to do. I just panicked."

Oscar's eyes softened. "Yeah but you did the right thing. You came to me."

She nodded, chest tight, and leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, warm and sure.

"Whatever happens," he murmured, "we'll handle it."

Harper sniffled. "I'm fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen."

He closer his eyes. "Shit, yeah. I know. Me too." He laughed.

Nothing about this situation was funny.

She couldn't help but laugh too, a warped, wet kind of sound.

—

The chemist in the village was almost empty. Harper kept her head down, winter hat pulled low, scarf wrapped high. Oscar stood beside her, tall and quiet, his hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over his hands. He didn't say much — didn't need to — just waited beside her.

They didn't look at the packaging too long. Just grabbed the one that looked familiar, Oscar paid in cash, and they left without a word.

—

Back at school, they slipped into the small student toilet block behind the science building — the one Oscar had jimmied the lock on once during a thunderstorm. It was quiet. Private. The only place that didn't feel like it had ears and eyes everywhere.

Harper set the box down on the sink with trembling hands.

"You don't have to stay," she whispered.

Oscar shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded. "Okay."

She went in, closed the door, and a moment later, came back out holding the test in shaking fingers. He didn't look at it. He just held her free hand and guided her to sit on the windowsill.

They set it down on the ledge between them.

A timer on Oscar's phone started counting down.

Two minutes.

Neither of them spoke.

Oscar's thumb stroked the inside of her palm, rhythmic and slow.

Harper stared at the test, as if watching it would make it kinder.

Her voice was barely a breath. "I'm scared."

"I know," Oscar said. "Me too."

Thirty seconds left.

The world outside the window was silver-grey, students scattered across the grass in the distance, oblivious. Everything felt fragile.

Fifteen seconds.

Ten.

Five.

Harper's grip tightened.

"Do we look?" She asked.

Oscar nodded once. "Together."

She reached for the test with trembling fingers.

—

The rain had started again. A soft pattering against the windows that filled the silence like a lullaby.

Oscar lay behind her on her narrow dorm bed, one arm around her waist, the other tucked beneath his head. Harper was curled into herself, facing the wall, her fingers gripping the edge of the duvet like it might keep her from floating away.

He hadn't said much when she showed him the test. Just took one look at her face, reached out, and pulled her into him.

Now he was just holding her.

Breathing with her.

Letting her be silent.

Her cheek was damp against the pillow, but she wasn't crying anymore. She felt wrung out, like all the air had been squeezed from her lungs, like her bones were vibrating with too many thoughts that had nowhere to go.

Oscar pressed his nose into the back of her shoulder. His voice was a whisper. "It's going to be okay."

She didn't answer. Just nodded once.

He didn't say it to convince her. He said it because it was the only thing he could offer — his calm. His presence. His belief in her, in them, in the idea that they'd somehow survive this.

His hand slid down to rest gently over hers.

She swallowed hard. "I don't know how far along I am."

"We'll figure it out."

She turned in his arms then, finally facing him, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. "I don't feel like a real person right now."

Oscar blinked slowly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Yeah. I feel a bit out of it too."

She let out a small, watery laugh.

And then she tucked her head into his chest, and he held her tighter, as if he could anchor her to something solid.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, it was quiet.

NEXT CHAPTER

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jojojoy1 · 1 day ago

Note

Hey!! can you do a lando x driver y/n. Your writing is amazingggg! <3 have a good dayyy

I'm sorry I won - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x reader

You climbed out of your car seething with anger. There was only one word you could think of to describe that race: shit. You'd been leading the race for Every. Single. Lap. Until you weren't...

You'd managed to hold off the McLarens up until the last lap, when you hit a piece of debris on the track. The papaya cars flew past you, leaving you in P3. Not a bad result, but not what you wanted.

You stormed past all the reporters after getting weighed. FIA and team personnel ambushed you, pushing you to do the post-race interview and podium.

Lando watched as you argued your way to the exit. There was no way you were going to talk about that shitshow. So you didn't. No interview. No podium. You just left.

Everyone knew of your relationship with Lando, so everyone knew how tense the next few days would be. He wanted to run to you after the race. He wanted to apologise and comfort you. Tell you it wasn't personal, just racing. But he had duties, the same ones you ignored. So he couldn't.

When he finally got back to the hotel, he could feel the argument brewing. He opened the door slowly, hoping you were asleep and trying not to wake you. You were laying somewhat peacefully in bed, but you weren't asleep.

"Fuck off. Find a different room to sleep in tonight." Your monotone voice made Lando feel like he was being stabbed with your words. You didn't look at him, facing the wall with your back to him.

"Baby, please, don't be like this. I'm so-"

"Don't say you're sorry. You won. You were very fucking happy, and you should be. Well done." It was the blandest 'well done' ever. No joy in your voice. You didn't sound proud of him, not that he expected you to. He knew how angry you could get sometimes when it came to racing. "I don't hear you leaving."

"The hotel is packed, they definitely won't have an extra room for me to stay in just because you're mad at me." Lando didn't want to say too much, not knowing what might set you off.

"Well you're not sleeping in the bed," Finally, you rolled over to face your nervous boyfriend. "You can sleep over there." You gesture towards the tiny leather sofa on the other side of the room.

"Seriously?" He questioned, his slightly annoyed expression quickly changed with the sharpe glare you sent him. "Fine. If that will make you happy."

"Winning would have made me happy."

"No need for the sass, y/n. It's not my fault you hit that debris." You didn't respond to that, just rolling over again to ignore him. "And seriously, you're the only person that ever holds anything that happens on track against me. Everyone else just brushes it off because that's racing. You know I love you but you also know I can't just go easy on you because I love you. So I'll sleep on the sofa tonight but you need to let this go. I'm not sleeping on the sofa when we get home."

"Ugh..." You roll back and sit up, looking at your boyfriend. "I'm sorry, you're right. It's just racing and I should leave it on track." That response shocked Lando. He expected you to blow up at him. Screaming and shouting, so an apology is not at all what he had prepared himself for.

"Does that mean I can sleep in the bed?" Lando asks, hopeful. You consider it for a moment.

"Fine. Come cuddle me, mister winner." Your arms outstretched to welcome him for a hug. Lando flops into your arms as if he'd just turned to liquid.

"How much trouble were you in for skipping everything?"

"Oh so much."

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #formula one fluff #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x driver!reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #Formula one

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23victoria · 22 hours ago

Text

my hair

pairing: 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

word count: 1.6k

synopsis: 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒆𝒙

warnings: 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻! 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌, 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚, 𝒅𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒚, 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒆𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒖𝒉𝒉𝒉 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒍 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒔

authors note: 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈. 𝒊 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔. 𝒊. 𝒂𝒎. 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓. 𝒊𝒕. 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒓. 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒘𝒉𝒐, 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚! 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅!

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕?! CLICK HERE!

F1 MASTERLIST

Oscar’s hand slid slowly down your thigh, his fingers tracing every curve like he was trying to memorize you by feel. His lips never left your skin for long — kissing your jaw, your collarbone, the soft dip of your throat, working lower with every passing breath.

Your body was already humming, buzzing beneath his touch like static before a storm.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice low and full of awe. “Spread out under me… skin warm, eyes all soft… You have no idea what you do to me.”

You tilted your head back when his fingers traced up your ribcage, brushing the underside of your bra before he reached behind you, unclipping it in one smooth motion. He watched it fall away like it was the unveiling of art, like your body was a masterpiece he didn’t feel worthy to touch.

But he did touch you.

Carefully at first. Reverently. His palm smoothed over your breast, thumb brushing gently over your nipple as he leaned in and kissed the other, lips warm and wet and achingly slow.

Your breath caught.

He looked up when he heard it, eyes dark with heat and affection. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, too breathless to speak, fingers tightening in the soft fabric beneath you.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, teasing you with another flick of his tongue. “I wanna hear it.”

“It—yes,” you whispered, cheeks flushed. “God, Oscar, yes.”

That satisfied look spread across his face — that boyish, cheeky grin he always gave after a great overtake or a pole position — except this time, it was for you. Just you.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice husky now.

He took his time, trailing kisses down your stomach like each inch deserved attention. When he reached the waistband of your panties, his hands slipped under, fingers tightening slightly against your hips.

“Still okay?” he asked, breath warm against your skin.

You nodded quickly, chest rising and falling with anticipation. “Yes. Please.”

He slid them down in one slow, fluid motion, eyes never leaving yours — even as he settled between your thighs.

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t on your lips.

You gasped his name, one hand flying to his curls, and he groaned in response, like your voice alone was enough to undo him. He didn’t rush. He never rushed with you. He let you writhe beneath him, thighs tightening around his shoulders, your hips rising up on instinct as he kept his mouth on your clit — licking, sucking, kissing with deep, deliberate care.

He made you feel everything.

The gentleness. The focus. The heat.

When your voice cracked and your body arched, he didn’t stop until he felt your release roll through you, your fingers tightening in his hair, your legs trembling slightly around his head.

Only then did he lift his gaze, mouth slick, eyes molten.

You were glowing.

He kissed his way back up your body, lips dragging across your skin, murmuring soft praises between every breath.

“So fucking good for me…”

“You’re everything, baby…”

“Can’t believe you’re mine…”

You caught his face in your hands when he reached you again, pulling him in for a deep kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, but more than that — you tasted how much he wanted you.

“Now you,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He swallowed hard. “You want me, baby?”

You nodded, pulling at the waistband of his sweatpants.

He groaned into your mouth when you slipped your hand beneath them, fingers brushing over his big throbbing cock. He was hard, hot, pulsing — and he bucked into your touch with a quiet curse.

“God, sweetheart…”

He nudged his nose against yours, panting slightly.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered. “You already have.”

You smiled and pulled him closer.

“Good.”

Oscar kissed you fiercely, and with a swift movement, he took off the rest of his clothes and pressed his body to yours again. You both moaned at the contact — skin on skin, no barriers between you now, just warmth and heat and love in every touch.

He reached between you, guiding his hard cock to your aching hole, teasing your entrance.

You gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ll go slow, baby” he promised. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

And when he pushed in, inch by inch, he watched your face the whole time — making sure you were with him. Every breath. Every sound. He kissed your cheek, your temple, your lips again, whispering sweet nothings that melted into your skin.

“You feel so good…”

“So perfect…”

“Mine.”

The stretch burned in the best way, and the fullness of him had your eyes fluttering shut.

Oscar groaned, hips stilling as he bottomed out. “Fuck. Baby. You’re—fuck—God.”

You tightened your legs around his waist. “Move, baby. I want all of you.”

And he gave it.

Slowly at first — a rhythm that built heat in your belly, his hips rolling against yours in waves. He kissed you through every moan, every shift, every time your body trembled under his.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me see those eyes.”

You did.

And when your eyes locked, it felt like the whole world narrowed to this moment — this rhythm, this man, this overwhelming wave of love and pleasure that pulled you under, over and over again.

You came with his name on your lips, your body pulsing around him.

Oscar followed with a low, broken sound, spilling into you with a shudder as he buried his face in your neck, panting, trembling.

For a brief moment, the room was quiet, save for your breathing.

Then he kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. Slower now.

He didn’t pull away.

Just stayed there, inside you, wrapped around you.

“Baby, you think you can give me one more?” he whispered. “For me, please.”

You smiled, stroking his damp curls. “Ohh, once wasn’t enough for you baby, huh.” You say teasingly, sliding yourself over him to straddle his waist.

He laughed softly, chest still heaving.

“No ma’am.” he groaned looking up at you with lust filled eyes. His hands gripping your waist before slapping your ass softly. "I can never get enough of you baby. I'd want you anywhere, anytime, anyplace. Doesn't matter where we are—if it's you, I need it." he says in your ear sending chills through your body.

Oscar’s hand slid up the side of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. He didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it until he gave a soft, instinctual tug — pulling your head back gently to expose more of your throat as he kissed down your jaw.

You gasped, hips rolling up to meet his. He kissed you roughly, you moaned into his mouth, his tongue touching yours. “Fuck.” he says pulling away from you as flips your body onto all fours, back arched, ass in the air.

The sound you made went straight to his head. But just as quickly, he froze.

“Shit, baby—sorry,” he breathed against your skin, loosening his grip. “I didn’t mean to mess up your hair—baby, I didn’t even think—”

You cupped the side of his face, panting softly, your lips swollen from his kisses, your skin glowing.

“Oscar,” you whispered, a teasing smile curling at your mouth. “Don’t stop.

“I liked it,” you added, voice low and breathless. “Baby, it’s okay. I like it when you do that.”

His eyes darkened instantly. Something inside him clicked.

“You sure, baby?”

You nodded, coming up a little, your back against his chest as you pull his hair a bit. “Pull my hair as you fuck me, baby. Just… not too hard.”

He groaned deep in his chest — the sound of a man pushed right to the edge.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice suddenly wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He was on you again — his mouth hot on your throat, sucking a trail of kisses down your neck. His fingers returned to your hair, gripping just enough to tilt your head, just enough to make you whimper for him as he kissed along the delicate line of your throat.

“Like this, baby?” he whispered, tugging gently as he rolled his hips into yours.

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Oscar, fuck—yes, yes—just like that…”

He kissed the underside of your jaw, then your collarbone, all while keeping that pressure in your hair — giving him control, giving you bliss. His other hand was pushed you back on your elbows, his hands gripping your hip now, holding you in place as he guides his hot thick cock into your pussy. He bottoms out quickly, thrusting hard, fast and deliberate, fucking you into the mattress, he was claiming every inch of you.

“Fuck. You sound so good, baby…” he groaned against your skin. “You feel so good.”

He pulled your hair again, just a little firmer this time, and your mouth fell open with a moan that had him biting down gently on your neck, soothing it with his tongue immediately after.

The tension between pain and pleasure had you arching up into him, and he took advantage — fucking into you even harder and deep. He pulled on your hair making your body move closer to his chest as he continues to fuck you, his lips meeting yours as his body moved with yours in perfect rhythm.

One hand pulled at the bed sheets, while the other hand clung to his waist, your nails digging into him.

“Mhpmm! Oh fuck! Oscar—fuck—don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” he rasped, voice low and raw. “Not ‘til I make you come apart all over again.”

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” Oscar groans, his voice ragged with pleasure. His pace doesn’t slow, his body moving with precision and desire. You can feel the heat building between you both, the tension winding tighter with every thrust until it feels like you’re going to break.

“Shit, baby, your pussy is squeezing me so tightly. Fuck.” he says as he thrusts into harder, the pleasure is too much. Now your face is against the pillow, your body trembling.

“Oh, sweetheart. You gonna come baby, huh?”

“Ohh…yes! Fu-ck, y-yes! Baby, I’m—”, you say feeling yourself come undone, completely fucked out in total bliss.

“Mhm. Yeah, I know baby—fuck—come for me, baby”, he groans as he messily fucks into about to come himself.

His words send shivers through your body as you come undone, Oscar staying inside you, groaning as he fills you up. You shudder, completely fucked out, collapsing onto your chest on the bed. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, his chest pressed against your back, both of you catching your breath. Then, his hands slide to your waist, and with a firm but gentle grip, he flips you both over. Now you’re on top of him, still buried deep within you, and you gasp at the unexpected movement.

You guys stay like that for a minute. Comfortable. He smiles at you, eyes soft and full of adoration, completely in love. His fingers gently brush your hair back as he murmurs, “Don’t fall asleep yet, baby. You know you have to pee—I don’t want you catching a UTI.”

“Mph… nooo,” you mumble, burying your face into his chest. “I’m tired. Just wanna sleep.”

He presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “I know, baby, I do. But your safety and health come first, okay? Go pee, and I’ll clean you up, change the sheets, and then we can go to sleep. How does that sound?”

You huff dramatically, eyes still closed. “…Okay.”

“That’s my girl,” he says with a soft smile, kissing you on the lips.

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