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jadore-f1 · 2 days ago

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Don’t make me wait | IH6

Synopsis ♡ Your relationship with Isack is going extremely well and you're ready to take it to the next level. 4.5k words

A/N ♡ can’t believe that after 10 years in fandom culture, i'm posting my very own fanfic. The writing isn't great, the dialogue is eh and the smut is rushed but i WROTE this. I'm so proud of myself.

Warnings ♡ SMUT! 18+ mdni!!! Fem!reader, Strong language, google translated french, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, switch!Isack (sorta), he has a filthy mouth, p in v, protected sex (pls do this!), grammatical errors, this is barely proofread tbh, probably other things idk

You and Isack had been officially dating for just over a month now, though the two of you had been dancing around your feelings for much longer than that. It all started at the preseason “Meet the Grid” dinner. He was the promising new rookie and you, a wide-eyed media intern just trying to stay out of the way and do your job.

You didn’t even speak to him that night. Just watched from across the room, quietly taking in the way he seemed to slot in so easily with the senior drivers. He was charming, warm, and effortlessly magnetic. It was hard to look away. When he eventually caught you staring, his smile shifted, softening into something less media-trained and more… curious. You turned away quickly, heart pounding, trying to mask the flush crawling up your neck and ignore the flutter low in your stomach.

Yeah. You were immediately smitten.

It continued like that for a while, lingering looks across the paddock, stumbling through interview questions because he’d say something that could’ve been considered flirting if you thought about it long enough. (you didn’t though or at least tried not to, no way he would be flirting with you)

For a few weeks things never went any further than that. You figured he was too busy finding his footing as a rookie to even think about dating, and he was convinced you were either completely oblivious to his flirting or just too kind to turn him down outright.

When the Melbourne grand prix incident occured you felt your heart sink for him. You’d fought with yourself the entire day before finally just deciding to bite the bullet and reach out to him on instagram that night.

@youruser: Hi, I’m not sure if you know me but I work in the paddock

@isackhadjar: yes __ hi! we’ve met before, what’s up?

@youruser: I saw what happened today so i just wanted to check in, you know if you need a friend or a place to vent completely unbiased i’m available!

@youruser: …Not saying you don’t have people, just figured an outside perspective might help. Plus, I’m a pretty good listener

@isackhadjar: lol don’t worry i did not take it that way

@isackhadjar: how about coffee tomorrow morning?

@youruser: sure! Does 8:30 work for you?

@isasckhadjar: perfect, it's a date :)

And the rest was history. He'd asked you out officially somewhere in between the Bahrain and Saudi Arabia races and you’d been basically attached at the hip ever since.

Because the relationship is still so new, there are things you're both still discovering about each other. Little details, unspoken boundaries, milestones you haven't quite reached yet.

The most obvious one is the physical side of your relationship. So far, it's been limited to quick good luck kisses before quali or races, and soft, grounding hugs when the weekend doesn’t go his way. That’s it. And you’re okay with that. You're more than happy to follow his pace. You understand how complicated things can get when you're constantly under a microscope, with cameras everywhere and millions of fans analyzing your every move.

But still… as time goes on, it's hard not to want more.

You're willing to wait—of course you are. You’d wait as long as he needed. In the meantime, you make do with your imagination and the handful of photos tucked away in a private folder on your phone. No complaints. No pressure. Just quiet longing, and the hope that when he’s ready, you’ll be right there.

Then Monaco happens.

You’re waiting in his drivers room like you do after every race, drivers get a 10-15 minute break after each race before they have to enter the media pen so you and Isack use this time to catch up in private otherwise you’d have to wait until the end of the day just for a moment alone. He steps into the room and you’re on him the second the door closes.

“P6 Zack! P6 in Monaco! Baby I can't believe you pulled that off!” you say in between little pecks all over his face, he’s still sweaty but you don’t care at all, too hyped up on adrenaline and something else you don’t want to name yet.

“I know! I can hardly believe it either!” He laughs but he sounds exhausted, hell he looks exhausted, face flushed red and the imprint from his earbuds still visible on his cheeks yet the grin never leaves his face.

When you try to step back to give him breathing room he just makes a small sound of disapproval and pulls you closer, hands tightening around your waist until you're pressed fully against the warmth of him. He lays his forehead gently against your own and just takes a deep breath, like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. You stay like that for a minute reveling in the silence because you know any moment now you're going to have to leave and return to the chaotic world outside your bubble. Eventually you pull back a little just to look at him again.

“I'm so so proud of you Isack” you push his sweat slicked hair back from his eyes and hope he can tell how much you mean it. He leans into you again like he can't bear the small distance you've created.

“Merci mon ange” he whispers before pressing a searing kiss to your lips. It's hot, wet and nothing like any of the kisses you've had before.

One of his hands travels from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair while his thumb rests on the hinge of your jaw moving your head exactly where he wants it.

His tongue presses against the seam of your mouth and you open up immediately—there's no point in denying it, not when you've been dying to kiss him like this. It makes your brain all fuzzy around the edges.

Your hands move to explore as well, one immediately gripping onto his bicep bulging through that skin tight fireproof shirt that has definitely made a few appearances in your dreams. The other lightly scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to shiver and let out a breathy little noise. Fuck. you want to hear that again.

You pull away from his lips and theres a string of saliva still connecting you together, you wipe your thumb against his bottom lip to remove it and he presses a gentle kiss to the pad it, his hand coming to cover yours and he continues to press kisses up, up your arm until he reaches your neck. He nips and licks up and down your neck and until he finds the spot that makes you arch into him, then he bites down.

“Haah- is-isack no fair I can't do the same to you” you manage with a keen.

“Sure you can, just gotta be somewhere discrete bébé” you can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He sounds so smug you can't help but tease him a bit, moving your leg so it's in between his. you press upwards grazing him with just enough pressure.

“Oh putain” he hisses out, hands tightening on your hips, he thrusts forward seeking out the friction again but you remove your leg before he can get it.

“Ok! Baby i'm sorry just please do something please” he whines out, his hips thrust up again chasing any type of pleasure he can get. He looks so good like this, all desperate just from a bit of teasing.

“Oh poor Isack, you get this hard just from kissing?” you pout at him sarcastically. The power you feel right now is unfathomable, you could get used to this. If only he knew how soaked you are between your thighs.

“Since you did so well today I guess I can't be too mean, what do you want? My mouth or my hands?”

“Your mouth please i-” someone bangs on the door of the trailer and you both jump a mile in the air.

“Hadjar! You're late for post race interviews let's go!” his PR manager yells from outside.

You sigh empathetically. He sighs as well tilting his head back against the door like he can’t believe his luck.

“Can't believe I have to talk about my best race finish with blue balls.” he mutters, adjusting himself so it's not as noticeable. You can't help but giggle. He glares at you with a look that says ‘this isn't over’ and heads out the door.

“We’ll finish this later ok!” you yell after him with another laugh.

Later doesn't come that night (and neither do you) or the rest of that weekend for that matter.

That’s the thing about triple headers. It’s three weeks of non-stop chaos, travel, and work. Between back-to-back races and packed schedules, finding even a single quiet moment alone feels impossible.

The tension from Monaco still lingers though. Looks across the paddock are now charged with something heavy, good luck kisses are a little longer, deeper, hungrier. It feels like you’re a balloon seconds away from bursting.

Things finally settled down after the race in Spain. Isack scored points again, and it was amazing to watch. He was steady, focused, like he was really starting to find his rhythm.

To celebrate, the two of you went out for dinner at a cozy, authentic Spanish restaurant Carlos had personally recommended. The food was incredible, the atmosphere relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like you could both finally breathe.

Now, back in the quiet of your hotel room, you're winding down for the night, full, content, and maybe just a little bit tipsy on red wine and the heated glances shared over the candlelit table.

Technically it’s Isack’s hotel room, you have your own on another floor with the rest of the media team but what your supervisor doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

You’re freshly showered and in one of his shirts and some boy shorts just scrolling on social media waiting for him to finish up in the bathroom so you guys can cuddle and start a movie.

The bathroom door swings open, and without looking up from your phone you call out

“Zack, I swear if they don’t give you Rookie of the Year, I’m burning the FIA to the ground.”

He laughs, voice warm and easy. “Love the energy, bébé, but then we’d both be out of a job.”

You glance up to respond, but the words catch in your throat.

You’ve seen Isack shirtless before on the occasional social media post—but never like this. He’s standing by the dresser, back to you, rummaging for something, muscles shifting under damp skin. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to make your mind go blank. His curls are still wet from the shower, starting to dry into that soft, messy wave you adore.

And it hits you.

That’s your boyfriend.

This sweet, ridiculously good-looking, insanely talented man is yours.

How the hell did you get so lucky?

“You’re staring mon ange.” he says softly and you don’t even have it in you to pretend to be embarrassed because now he’s facing you while leaning against the dresser and you can see everything.

Your eyes zero in on the sweatpants again, they’re so low you can see his v-line and the trail of dark hairs leading down beneath the waistband.

You let your eyes trail upwards over the naked skin of his torso, still glistening from the shower practically begging you to lick the droplets of water up yourself.

But honestly it’s the chain around his neck that does you in. It’s shining against his skin and it makes you want to wrap your fingers around it and tug him closer to you like a leash, makes you want to watch it dangle in front of your face, makes want the feel the cool metal pressed against your own heated skin while he poun-

“Ehem” he raises his brows in amusement and your face does heat up this time.

“You just look really good right now” He preens under the compliment, standing straighter and flexing under your gaze.

“Oh? is that why you’re looking at me like you want to eat me?” he steps closer to the bed.

“Amongst other things.” you give a sly smile, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

When he reaches you, you stand up on your knees so you two are face to face. his hands find their place on your waist and yours around the back of his neck. You go to lean in for a kiss but before your lips meet you feel him, solid and warm against your leg.

It’s your turn to raise your brows in amusement now and he scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it, bébé—you’re in my shirt and barely anything else, telling me how much you want me.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, though the curve of your mouth betrays you. “I didn’t realize stating facts was such a crime.”

He steps closer, eyes flicking down for the briefest second before settling back on yours, smoldering. “It is when you say them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice is low, thick with the weight of restrained desire.

You bite your lip, a slow smile forming. “Maybe I do.”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, hands rubbing soft circles on the skin of your waist with maddening ease. “Then don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

“I’ve been ready since Monaco,” you murmur, fingernails lightly raking down his chest. “And I always finish what I start.”

He lets out a stuttered gasp—your turn to make him breathless.

You tilt your head up and your lips meet in a passionate kiss, all teeth, tongue and weeks of build up.

Isack kisses you like a drowning man gasping for his first breath of air. It's desperate, consuming. Like he’s trying to burrow his way into your very soul. And you’d let him. You’d let him claw through your ribcage and settle into the space you’ve always kept open just for him.

Your lips part ways and you fall back onto the bed, slowly scooting up toward the headboard. He follows without hesitation, crawling over you until he’s hovering above. For a moment, you both pause, eyes locked. There’s no awkwardness, no uncertainty you might expect from a first time, just a quiet heavy knowing that every heated moment before now has been leading to this.

“__ are you sure?” he asks softly. You want to tell him that you’ve never been more certain about anything in your life. That there's nowhere else you'd rather be than right here, taking in every detail of his face, the way the city lights cast golden shadows across his features. But the words catch in your throat, too full, too much.

So instead, you just nod and reach for that damn chain, pulling him back to you once more.

your lips meet the skin where his jaw and neck connect, nipping and sucking there lightly just enough to leave a faint mark.

“I still owe you from Monaco, yeah?” you breathe into his skin.

“No you don’t have too.” he denies but you just scoff playfully and switch your positions so he’s lying on his back and you're on top, legs straddling his hips.

“Gotta finish what I started.” you grin and peck his lips before making your descent down his body. you pause at his chest tugging one of his nipples between your teeth softly just to hear that pretty little whine again before kissing your way down to the edge of his sweats.

The imprint of him is hard to miss and you can’t help but run your hand over the bulge and squeeze. his body jolts like he’s been electrocuted.

“Oh mon Dieu bébé, s'il te plaît, ne me taquine pas!” you don't know exactly what he's saying but the impatience of his tone gives you a clue. Oh my God baby please don't tease me

“Relax baby, I'm gonna give you what you want.” your fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats and you pause there, looking up into his eyes again with a silent question. He nods supportingly, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and his hips raise towards you. His sweats and boxers come down together.

Holy shit.

He’s not overly large, very proportional to his body but the thickness of him takes you aback. He has the kind of width that you know you'll be feeling for the next couple days. The tip is flushed red dripping in precum, your fingers wrap around the base and start kitten licking at his leaking head.

“mph-oh fuck” he makes a sound like the air has been punched from his lungs and your thighs clench together in response. His head falls back into the pillows. He’s so sensitive it’s driving you insane. Normally giving head is your least favorite part of sex but his reactions have you retracting that mindset.

You open your mouth and fully take him in going as far as you can, using both hands to cover whatever you can’t reach. his hips twitch up subconsciously and you gag.

“Putain, je suis désolé mon ange, feels so good” he rasps out. you just moan in response and the vibrations pull another breathless whine from him. Fuck, i’m sorry angel

you pull off of him with a subtle pop, hands continuing to work him over while you catch your breath.

“Do you want to cum like this Zack?” you ask and receive no reply.

He’s too blissed out, eyes closed, thrusting up into your fists.

you stop moving your hands and he cries out pathetically. his upper body bows towards you and when you meet his glistening eyes you almost feel bad for ripping away his impending orgasm. almost.

“I asked you a question.” it takes him a moment to find his senses and respond.

“I want it to be inside.” His voice is several notches deeper and the darkness in his gaze sets fire to your veins. His hands slide up your thigh, under the edges of your (his) shirt.

“Take this off cherie.” tugging it up with his assistance, you're completely bare with the exception of your little sleep shorts.

“C’mere.” he mutters softly, pulling you up to him again. Your lips connect, softer than your previous kiss but just as passionate. Your upper body presses up against his and the coolness of his chain makes you shiver in delight, giving you goosebumps.

You sigh deeply, body sinking into him further in contentment. He groans in response, hands tightening around your hips as he uses his bodyweight to flip your positions so he's on top. He presses up onto his palms beside your head. His biceps are on display like this and you can't help but lean up and bite one of them.

“Eh? What was that for?” he asks with a shocked laugh. You shrug with absolutely no shame.

“I've always wanted to do that.” he laughs again while you just gaze at him lovingly. When he catches your stare he bites his lip and the soft moment heats up again.

“Can I feel you now, cherie?” he asks softly, you nod and he's tugging off your shorts immediately, tossing them somewhere behind him. When you're completely bare for him he sits back on his haunches with a look of awe. You try to close your legs together under his unwavering stare but his hands grasp your thighs firmly keeping them apart.

“Ange, tu es tellement mouillée que ça dégouline sur les draps.” he says, thumbs rubbing warm circles on the underside of your thighs, it's nice but if he doesn't touch you properly soon you might explode. Angel, you're so wet it’s dripping onto the sheets

“Please Isack don't tease” you whine out. He smirk’s fingers lightly grazing over your center.

“It's no fun being teased, is it bebe?” he grins cheekily, “You had such a mouth on you earlier. Use it and tell me what you want.”

“Fuc- I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” his thumb presses into that bundle of nerves rubbing light circles but you’re too worked up, it’s not enough.

“Ah Zack please!” you cry out grabbing his forearm in an attempt to drag his fingers where you really want them.

“Mmm ne pleure pas bébé, tu sais que je te donnerai toujours ce que tu veux.” his fingers slip into you and your vision whites out. Don’t cry baby, you know i’ll always give you what you want

“Oh shit- yes!” you moan, back arching off the bed, hands gripping the sheets. God his fingers are so nice, thick and callused from years of driving.

“Feels good baby? Putain, tu ne sais pas depuis combien de temps j'ai rêvé de ça.” Isack leans down on the arm not between your legs, brushing the sweaty hair from your eyes and laying his forehead against yours. Fuck, you don’t know how long i've dreamt of this

“Look at me, yeah? Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers.” you want to break away from his intense gaze but the hand grasping your hair keeps you right where he wants you. You’re practically drooling while his fingers abuse that sweet spot inside you.

When you feel yourself getting closer you try to warn him but all that comes out is “a-ah Zack i’m comi-ah!” before your eyes roll back and you claw your hands down his shoulders.

“Yeahhh fuck bébé that’s it.” he works you through your orgasm slowing his fingers down when you stop spasming around him. you feel him placing little kisses on your face and chest while you struggle to catch your breath.

You pull him in for a soft appreciative kiss and he melts into you. He slots himself in between your legs and you feel him warm and sticky against your inner thigh. You look down between your bodies and catch a glimpse of him, rock hard and tip fire engine red from lack of attention.

“You know, tonight was supposed to be about you.” you reach down to stroke him, he lets out a sharp hiss and grabs your hand to pin it beside your head.

“Continue comme ça et cette nuit se terminera tôt pour nous deux, making you feel good makes me feel good too don’t be silly.” he chastises you lightly. Keep it up and this night will end early for us both

Your legs raise higher up to his hips, opening yourself up to him more and he positions himself against your core, sliding between your folds covering his cock in your slickness before stopping at your entrance. He reaches over to the nightstand for his wallet for a condom, quickly tearing the wrapper and rolling it into himself.

“Can you give me one more?” you nod quickly and he grins “That’s my girl” The slow press of him into you has your breath catching in preparation of the thickness of him. He immediately clocks your hesitation and links his hand with yours, little pecks placed onto your lips in hopes of distraction.

“I got you mon ange, relax.” you do as he says letting out a deep sigh and he pushes in slow and steady until he bottoms out completely.

“You’re so pretty like this.” he nuzzles his nose against yours lovingly.

“Isack!” you groan out, hips grinding against his own with need “Oh God please move!”

“I know baby I know- just need a second.” he grits out, whole body shaking in barely contained restraint. He pulls his hips back until just the tip is there and then slides all the way in again. His pace speeds up and you’re losing your mind.

All you can focus on is Isack, the look of him all sweaty, lip between his teeth and his abs flexing as he pumps himself inside you again and again. You can’t even tell him how good he’s making you feel, the only thing coming out of your mouth is little ‘ah-ah-ahs!’ and broken intervals of his name.

Isack seems to be having the opposite effect though, his mouth won’t stop running.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long, since that fucking dinner party.” The hand not still linked in yours slides down onto your stomach and presses down just below your belly button and you scream.

“Fuuuck yeah bébé” he lifts one of your legs over your shoulder, cock reaching into you so impossibly deep.

“Wanted you so bad in Monaco too, would’ve told my manager to piss off just so I could bend you over that sofa in my drivers room.” he grunts out voice rough from exertion.

“And you’d let me too huh pretty girl, let m-oh fuck let me take you in that tiny room where everyone could hear how good I make you feel.” you clench around him hard at the thought. “mph-yes yes Zack please don’t stop!”

“Mon dieu look at you.” he’s babbling more to himself now, getting closer and closer to his peak. “Comment je suis censé penser à autre chose maintenant ? Je pourrais vivre dans ta chatte.” How am I supposed to think about anything else now? I could live in your pussy

His hips switch into a deep grind, pelvic bone brushing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars.

Your orgasm hits you so quickly you don’t even have time to think let alone warn him. Your cunt spasming around him pushes him to his climax soon after and he wails out hotly against your throat.

“Holy shit.” he whispers before collapsing on top of you, sweaty and spent. He rolls over to toss the condom in the bin before immediately pulling your back into his chest.

It’s silent for a while, you two just basking in the afterglow before he presses soft kisses onto the back of your shoulders and neck.

“That was worth the wait, no?” you have no idea how he can sound so smug so soon after but you can’t help but agree.

“Of course, just never make me wait that long again.” you joke, turning in his arms to face him. Hands tracing over those beauty marks you love so much.

“We can go again if you want.” he says, wriggling his brows with a cheeky smile.

“Isack!” you laugh pushing his head away.

Ending was shit but thank you sm for reading! hope you enjoyed! 🫶🏾

#isack hadjar #isack hadjar smut #isack hadjar x reader #ih6 #f1 x reader #f1 smut #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you #isack hadjar x you #ih6 smut

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theonottsbxtch · 13 hours ago

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A CROWN LEFT BEHIND | IH6

an: i was feeling nostalgic and was missing home again so i wrote an isack aladdin au! i made this exta special because i used arabic darija in this fic (obvs with translation) i hope you guys enjoy this baby i wrote

wc: 13.5k

summary: a street thief with nothing but a dog and a smile. a princess trapped behind gold and glass, longing for freedom. one quiet escape into the night changes both their fates. secrets whispered in alleyways, promises carried on the wind. in the end, the streets remember what the palace chooses to forget.

ALGIERS NEVER TRULY SLEPT.

Even in the dusk between call to prayer and moonrise, when the shadows stretched long like fingers across whitewashed walls, the medina whispered. The breeze carried the scent of cumin and orange blossom, the air warm like honey clinging to the skin.

Somewhere, the sound of a flute curled upward from a rooftop. Laughter, sharp, drunken, echoed in the alleyways below.

And Isack ran.

Barefoot, nimble, heart thudding like a darbuka drum in his chest, he darted through the tight alleys of the Kasbah. His curls stuck to his brow, a sliver of stolen gold tucked into his sash. He had the grin of someone used to running, used to getting away.

“Waqef! Waqef ya l’kleb!” Stop! Stop, you dog!

He didn’t stop.

Instead, he vaulted over a market cart, snatched a fig from a vendor’s stall mid-air, and winked at the shouting man behind him. It was a dance, the only one he knew. The guards were slow. He was fast. And the streets were his.

By the time he climbed the back wall of a half-collapsed riad and collapsed onto the tiled rooftop, the sky had turned gold. He bit into the fig, sweet and overripe, and let the juice run down his chin.

Below, the city pulsed. Blue doors, stray cats, distant call to prayer. A woman’s laughter from an open window. Laundry snapping in the wind.

He loved this place. It was cruel, yes. Hungry. But it was his.

He leaned back, golden-brown eyes flicking upward toward the first stars emerging in the indigo sky. The city’s noise became a hum, and for a moment, he felt almost like a king.

And elsewhere, behind tall palace walls, she watched the city from her window, veiled and silent.

Below her, chaos, life, fire. A city she was not allowed to touch. A city that belonged to her only in name.

They called her princess, l’amira, daughter of the land, of bloodlines older than the red earth itself. She had her mother’s cheekbones, her father’s eyes. But her soul? That was her own.

She pressed a hand to the cold lattice, eyes following a small boy climbing a wall far in the distance. Free. Barefoot. Laughing.

She envied him.

Her maid’s voice broke the silence.

“L’amira, your father, he says there’s a suitor. Another one.”

Another one. Another man with polished words and ancient rings, sent to ask for a piece of her like she was a jewel in the souk.

She didn’t answer. Only watched the horizon, where the rooftops met the sky. Somewhere beyond it, the stars were starting to blink awake.

She wished one would fall.

The palace walls were smooth sandstone, gold-dusted and cruel.

They caught the sun at every hour, gleaming like something divine, but she knew better. Inside them, everything was hushed and heavy. Voices behind curtains, steps softened on marble. Nothing real ever made it past the gates.

She sat now on a silken cushion, spine straight, wrists wrapped in gauze-thin silk, and tried not to scream.

Across from her, the suitor spoke in a voice as smooth as almond oil, his words polished to a shine. He was a noble from Constantine, or maybe Tlemcen, she couldn’t remember, and he wore his robes like armor. Perfect posture. Perfect manners. Perfect boredom.

He was talking about the scent of jasmine in his summer home.

She nodded politely.

Her tea had gone cold.

Behind him, just past the carved archway that opened onto the courtyard, the muezzin’s call rose into the air, haunting, beautiful. The day was sinking into twilight, and the world outside was moving.

She turned her head slightly, not enough to be scolded, and looked past him.

The gates beyond the garden had been opened for the breeze, and through them, beyond the veil of palm leaves, she saw the street.

Children ran barefoot toward the mosque, drawn by the call to prayer. She saw a boy with wild black curls tugging his younger sister along, both of them laughing, racing the call. Their djellabas fluttered behind them like wings. One of the guards smiled as they passed.

A knot tightened in her throat.

That life, so ordinary, so loud, so free, would never be hers. She had never run in the street. She had never laughed outside the palace walls. She had never once stood beside strangers and bowed her head in prayer as an equal. Even her worship was private, sterile, behind curtains and gold incense burners.

She looked back at the prince.

He had stopped speaking.

He was watching her with a soft frown, like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. “Forgive me,” he said gently, setting his cup down. “I don’t think I interest you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. There was no real way to explain it.

“You’re not unkind,” she managed, at last. “You’re just not real.”

He blinked. “Not real?”

She offered the smallest of smiles. “Not enough.”

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She shed her jewels. Let her hair fall unbound down her back. The moonlight caught the copper strands threaded through it, a family trait, they said. Her birthright. Her burden.

The palace was quiet. Too quiet. Like a tomb that smelled of oud and rosewater.

She walked barefoot through the colonnade, cool tile beneath her feet, heart fluttering like a trapped swallow in her chest.

From her window, the city glowed, a thousand flickering oil lamps, rooftops like mosaic pieces laid out for the stars.

She didn’t know exactly where the thought came from. Only that it arrived fully formed.

She was leaving.

Not tomorrow. Not with guards. Not with permission.

Tonight.

She turned from the window and began to move, silent, deliberate, pulling on a plain linen tunic left behind by one of the maids, wrapping her hair in a faded scarf. She looked nothing like a princess now. And maybe for once, that was the point.

Her pulse sang.

Outside, the world waited. Wild, sharp-edged, and beautiful.

And the palace slept.

She moved like a shadow past the guards, heart hammering in her ribs, the scarf around her head slipping ever so slightly in the breeze. No one looked at her twice, not like this. Not dressed in rough linen, no kohl on her eyes, no scent of amber trailing her steps.

For the first time in her life, she was invisible.

And it thrilled her.

Once beyond the palace gates, the city opened up like a book she’d never been allowed to read.

The air at night was cooler, threaded with the scent of charcoal smoke and distant mint tea. Lanterns swung gently from the iron hooks above doorways, casting dappled patterns across cobbled streets. Stray cats watched her from rooftops. Someone played a flute off-key in the dark. The call to Isha’a had passed, but the buzz of night lingered.

She wandered deeper into the medina, past shuttered stalls and old men playing dominoes beneath a flickering bulb. Nobody recognised her. Nobody bowed. No one whispered l’amira like a ghost.

She felt giddy. Lightheaded with it. Free.

She didn’t even notice the man at first.

He’d been sitting on a step, smoking. When she passed, he straightened. Followed.

It wasn’t until the footsteps quickened behind her that her stomach turned.

She kept walking. Turned into a narrower street.

Too narrow.

She should have gone back. She should have kept to the open, where there were people. But her legs moved faster than her thoughts. And then he was there, in front of her now, as if he’d appeared from the shadows themselves.

He was older. Unshaven. Smelt like cheap wine and sweat. A smirk played at his lips as he stepped into her path.

“Labas ‘lik, zine?” What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone at this hour?

She tried to step aside, but he mirrored her.

“I don’t— I don’t want trouble.”

“Oh, I’m not trouble,” he said, teeth flashing. “Not unless you make me be.”

He reached for her wrist. She pulled back, fast, panic blooming in her throat. Her breath caught.

And then—

A low growl sliced through the quiet.

The man froze.

From the darkness of the alley, a shape emerged, all silhouette and shadow. First the dog: big, bone-coloured, eyes sharp like molten gold. Then the boy. Barefoot. Loose shirt open at the throat, curls wild, a crooked grin stitched across his face like sin.

He took one look at the man and smiled, slow and lazy.

“Khoya,” Brother he said, voice like honey over blades. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to girls who don’t want to talk to you?”

The man sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Isack tilted his head. “Lah ybarek, I think it does.” God Bless

He clicked his tongue once.

The dog lunged.

The man screamed, stumbling back, barely dodging a snap of teeth. “Wah! Get it off—!”

Isack gave a soft whistle. The dog stopped, but only just. Still growling, still close enough to bite.

“Mazal barki,” Too early, Isack said calmly. “He’s just playing. If he were serious, you’d already be on the floor.”

The man spat on the ground. “You’ll regret this.”

Isack took a single step forward. The dog took two.

The man ran.

Silence settled in the alley.

Isack looked at her then, but really looked. His eyes softened slightly, but his smile stayed wicked.

“Bit far from the palace, aren’t you?” he said, almost teasing.

She blinked. “How—?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “You lot smell different. Like roses and gold coins.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

Isack held out a hand.

“Come on, l’amira. You’re not going to last ten minutes out here without someone like me.”

She hesitated. Looked at the dog, then back at him.

Then she took his hand.

And just like that, the world tilted on its axis.

They walked side by side through the sleeping veins of the city, the dog padding ahead of them like a quiet sentinel. The lanterns were dimmer now, the night heavy with spice and dust, and still, the thrill hadn’t left her chest.

She kept glancing sideways at him, the boy who'd appeared from the shadows like a spirit, all cocky swagger and barefoot confidence. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

Eventually, she spoke.

“Where are you taking me?”

Isack gave a half-shrug, as if that question had no weight.

“I’m assuming you wanted to live a real life. Not many other reasons a girl like you leaves a palace in the middle of the night.” He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re sneaking out to see a lover. That would be scandalous.”

She scowled. “No.”

“Shame.” He grinned. “Would’ve made a good story.”

She stopped walking. “You think this is a joke?”

His grin faltered, not completely, just softened at the edges. “No,” he said, more quietly. “I think it’s a risk. And risks are either foolish or brave.”

They walked in silence after that, her arms folded tightly over her chest, his hands buried in his pockets. The city around them seemed to pulse with a life she’d never noticed before, an old women leaning out of windows to gossip, a boy chasing a chicken down a lane, the rustle of music from a distant courtyard.

At last, they turned into a narrow side street, its end lit by a single flickering bulb above a door.

“Come on,” he said, pushing it open. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had this man’s mint tea.”

The teahouse was small and dimly lit, smelling of cardamom, smoke, and dried orange peel. Rugs layered the floor, and the low wooden tables were uneven. There were no other customers, just an old man behind the counter with a wiry beard and thick glasses, hunched over a chessboard.

He looked up when he saw Isack and groaned.

“Ya weledi, not you again. I’m not running a charity.”

He sighed.

Isack held up a hand, grinning. “Sidi Ahmed, Allah ybarek fik w fi shay bik.” Sidi Ahmed, may God bless you and your tea.

“Rahmt Allah fi sabrek, mashi fiya.” God’s mercy is in His patience, not mine.

He eyed Isack’s companion. “At least this time you bring someone polite.”

Isack gave her a look. “Don’t let the scarf fool you.”

She sat carefully on a cushion by the wall, her spine still too straight, her eyes absorbing everything. The chipped glasses, the way the steam curled from the kettle, the way Ahmed measured sugar like it was gold dust.

He poured two small glasses and set them down with a grumble. “Pay this time, Isack. I’m not running a zawiya.”

Isack patted his pocket, dramatically empty. “We’ve talked about this.”

The old man turned away, muttering, “Sh-shabab li mabghawsh ykhadmou.” The youth who don’t want to work.

She looked between them, and without thinking, slipped one of her bangles off her wrist. It was thin gold, etched with delicate Berber script, a gift from her grandmother.

She stood and offered it gently across the counter. “Please,” she said. “Let this cover both.”

Before Ahmed could take it, Isack’s hand came down over hers.

“La,” he said under his breath. No. “Khalih.” Leave it.

She stared at him. “Why not?”

He leaned closer, voice soft. “You don’t trade gold for tea. Not here. Not tonight.”

Then he turned, all charm again, flashing a grin at the old man. “Tell you what, you still need that window patched? I’ll come tomorrow. Ghadwa, inshallah.” Tomorrow, God willing.

Ahmed narrowed his eyes. “You said that three bukras ago.”

“And now I have an audience to impress. I’ll even sweep the floor, if that helps.”

The old man gave a long sigh, more theatre than protest, and waved them off.

“Yallah, sit before I change my mind.” Come on.

Back at the table, Isack slid her glass toward her. The tea was hot, sweet, filled with bruised mint.

She took a sip.

It was rich and strange and entirely perfect.

“You were going to pay,” he said, watching her. “With something real.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You’re not here to help,” he said, without cruelty. “You’re here to learn.”

She set the glass down carefully. “What makes you think you have anything to teach me?”

Isack’s grin didn’t falter. “Oh, l’amira, I’ve got a whole city to teach you.”

And across from him, for the first time since leaving the palace, she smiled without hesitation.

The tea had cooled by the time their conversation found stillness again.

Outside, the street hummed with distant laughter and the thud of footsteps against stone. But inside the teahouse, everything felt quieter, as though the night had folded itself around the two of them and held its breath.

She sat with her knees drawn in, hands wrapped around the chipped glass. Across from her, Isack leaned back against the cushion, head tipped slightly to the side as he watched her. Not in the way men usually did, not with hunger or calculation, but with curiosity, like she was something rare he hadn’t quite made sense of yet.

“So,” he said, gently, “what were you planning to do?”

She blinked at him.

“What?”

“Out there,” he nodded toward the door. “On your own. No guards, no money, just what? Wander through the city until you found a better life?”

She looked down at the rug beneath them, at the intricate threads that felt far more grounded than she did.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

He gave a soft laugh, not mocking, more surprised than anything.

“You really didn’t have a plan?”

She shook her head. “Only that I couldn’t stay there. That I needed out.”

There was a silence then. Not awkward, thoughtful.

He took another sip of tea and set the glass aside, speaking without looking at her.

“I don’t usually do this. Take people in.”

She turned her head, slightly wary. “Take people in?”

“To where I stay,” he said. “It’s not much. But it’s safe.”

She blinked, startled. “You’re offering?”

He nodded. “For tonight. You can leave in the morning if you want. But the streets, they change after midnight. Not even your silk cloak will keep you safe then.”

She hesitated, lips parting, but no protest came. Just a quiet breath of surrender.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

He looked at her then, really looked. No teasing, no smirk, just something careful in his eyes. A flicker of understanding.

“Come on then, l’amira.”

“Still calling me that?”

“Until you tell me different,” he said over his shoulder. “Or until you learn to walk like someone who doesn’t own the world.”

She rose, following him out into the night, her footsteps softer now.

She had no idea where he was taking her. And for the first time in her life she didn’t mind.

They weaved through the medina like shadows, the narrow alleys stitched with silence and stars. The dog trotted ahead confidently, tail swishing, as if it knew the way by heart.

Eventually, Isack stopped beside a faded wooden door nestled between two closed shops. An old fig tree leaned over it, casting broken leaves across the stoop.

“Here?” she asked, surprised.

He didn’t answer straight away, just offered a hand and gestured upwards. “Not quite.”

He led her down a short passage, then up a creaking set of exterior stairs. They climbed to a flat rooftop covered in laundry lines and rusted water drums, then over a low wall onto another roof just below.

The dog leapt across first, landing clumsily with a thump before padding toward a slanted wooden hatch tucked beneath the shade of some old cloth draped like a makeshift canopy.

“Mind your step,” Isack said, and helped her across with an easy grip. His hands were calloused but warm.

She landed lightly beside him, breath caught more by the moment than the leap.

It was a small space, little more than a cove made from old beams and patched fabric. But inside, it was gently lived in. Worn futons lined the edges. There was a low crate filled with books, a chipped mirror hung on the far wall, and a faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.

The dog circled twice before flopping onto a blanket with a sigh.

“This is…” she began, then hesitated. “It’s lovely.”

Isack shrugged, already crouching beside the hatch. “It does the job.”

Before she could respond, he swung himself halfway back down through the opening and called softly, “Hadja kayna waḥda mikhadda?” Hadja, do you have a pillow?

A voice snapped back immediately from the flat below.

“A pillow, Isack? At this hour? Wallah, you treat me like a hotel!”

“Just one,” he laughed. “For a guest.”

There was a short pause. Then the shuffle of slippers, the thud of a cupboard.

A plump hand emerged through the gap, clutching a well-worn cushion. “Here, waldi, take it, and no more surprises tonight, tfaddal.”

“N’barek fik, Hadja.” Bless you, Hadja.

He climbed back in with the pillow in hand, a bit of thread clinging to his hair.

She had been watching the exchange silently, eyes wide in quiet mesmerisation.

“She called you waldi,” she said.

He smiled as he tossed the pillow onto one of the futons. “She’s not my mother. But she pretends she is.”

“She gave it to you anyway.”

“She always does. Even when she’s cross.”

He gestured for her to sit, then settled across from her on the floor, back resting against the far wall.

“She took me in when I was ten. Found me trying to steal her olives.” He smirked. “Didn’t succeed, by the way. She hit me with a broom and then fed me loubia anyway.”

She laughed, properly this time, not the polite laughter of courts and expectations, but something warm and unguarded.

He watched her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” she said. “Neither are you.”

They talked until the city slept.

Not just quiet, but truly asleep, the kind of stillness that only arrived deep in the night, when even the stray cats gave up their prowling, and the moon hung low like a watchful eye over the rooftops.

Isack had lit a stub of a candle from a jar tucked in the corner. It flickered beside them, casting shifting shapes across the patched fabric walls.

He told her about growing up with his back against the stone, the days when food came from the hands of strangers or not at all, how Hadja would scold him and feed him in the same breath. He spoke of the souks, the rooftops, the ocean he’d only seen twice, and how sometimes, when the wind came in strong from the coast, he could still taste the salt on the air.

She told him little things. That her mother had died young. That she was educated, but not free. That there was always someone watching, waiting, measuring her every word, her every breath. That she didn’t know what to do with freedom now that she’d found it, or something like it.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Leaving the palace tonight?”

He nodded.

She looked out through the fabric flap where the stars peeked in, and shook her head.

“No. I regret waiting this long.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just offered her a second cushion, and a smile that didn’t need explaining.

Eventually, her eyelids began to lower. The weight of the day, the years, pulling gently at her bones.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“I don’t want to take your bed.”

“You’re not.” He motioned to the futon. “That one’s for guests.”

She arched a brow. “How many guests do you usually have?”

He grinned. “None.”

He laid out a folded blanket, then pulled the cushion from the futon before she could object. Dropped it to the floor and settled beside the wall, arms folded behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.

“Isack—”

“Let me,” he said simply, eyes closed now.

She hesitated, but something in his tone made it impossible to argue.

So she lay down, curling onto the futon, fingers brushing the edge of the thin mattress. The dog gave a soft snore from the corner. The candle had gone out, leaving only moonlight, the kind that made everything look a little silver, a little softer.

She stared at the ceiling, expecting her mind to race the way it always did, with lists, and rules, and voices, and what-ifs.

But it didn’t.

For the first time in her life, there was no marble floor beneath her. No silk sheets. No guards. No walls.

Just the scent of sandalwood, and mint tea, and something faintly like hope.

And sleep, when it came, came gently, and held her like it meant to keep her.

She woke to the sound of the adhan, the call to fajr, curling through the air like the voice of the city itself.

It came from somewhere distant but clear, high and smooth and mournful in the way only the earliest hours could carry. The dog shifted but didn’t rise, only thumped its tail gently once and settled again.

She blinked, still tucked into the futon, a thin sheet drawn up around her shoulders. The world around her was a shade of soft blue, the sky just beginning to brighten in the east. It cast everything in hush,the worn crates, the fluttering fabric, the half-drunk tea still resting in its glass.

Isack was still asleep, curled slightly on his side on the floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely against his chest. In the half-light, he looked younger or perhaps just less guarded. A small furrow sat between his brows even in sleep, like he’d never quite let go of watchfulness.

She sat up slowly, the futon sighing beneath her.

The call continued, echoing from minaret to minaret across the rooftops. As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm… Prayer is better than sleep.

She knew she had to go.

There was no panic. No urgency. Only a quiet knowing. If she stayed longer, if she let herself fall even a step deeper into this stolen freedom, she wouldn’t return at all. And the world, her world, wasn’t ready for that.

She slipped her feet into her shoes, the silence stretching around her like a shawl.

The dog opened one eye but didn’t move, watching her with the calm understanding of someone who knew better than to bark at goodbyes.

She glanced over at Isack once more.

Then, with a breath, she reached for her wrist.

She slid off two of her bangles, the thinner ones, delicate, etched in the filigree of her mother’s people, and set them quietly on the edge of the futon where she’d slept.

Not payment.

A mark. A memory. A thank you.

She didn’t write a note. He would understand.

Then she pulled the scarf tighter around her face and stepped out into the early light, down through the hatch and over the rooftop. The air was cool and clean, the streets below still drowsy, not yet stirring with market cries or children’s footsteps.

The city hadn’t woken, but she had.

And by the time the sun had fully lifted above the rooftops of Algiers, she was already crossing back through the hidden door in the palace wall, the scent of mint and dust and candle smoke still clinging to her clothes.

Isack woke to the faint chill of dawn slipping through the cracks in the wooden hatch. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and mint, the scent she’d left behind.

He blinked, stretched his hand out instinctively and found the futon beside him empty.

His heart sank a little, slow and steady like the weight of knowing.

She was gone.

On the edge of the futon, catching the soft morning light, were two thin bangles, delicate and filigreed, the ones she had worn when she arrived.

He picked them up carefully, rolling them between his fingers, feeling the cool metal and the slight dents that told stories of a life far from his own.

A soft sigh escaped him. “Mashi moshkil.” It’s okay

He understood. She had her world to return to.

He slipped on the bangles and let his shirt cover the gold from the sunlight.

Downstairs, the old wooden door creaked open and the smell of strong tea and cooking filled the air.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Hadja.” Good morning, Hadja

“Sbāḥ l-nūr, waldi. Katḥess b’raḥtek lyom?” Good morning, my boy. Feeling alright today?

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kān bghī nsaʿdek shwiya f’dar.” I wanted to help you around the house a bit.

Hadja smiled, hands busy folding fresh flatbread. “Daima mzyan, waldi. Ma tkhafsh, ghadi nkhdem mʿak.” Always good, my boy. Don’t worry, I’ll work with you.

As he handed her a kettle, she caught sight of the bangles peeking from beneath his sleeve.

“Shno had lḥwayej?” What are these things?

He hesitated, then showed them to her.

“Tqdr tsawb bihom flus bzzaf,” You could make a lot of money with these she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Isack shook his head, a faint smile tugging his lips.

“Hadi, mashī ghir ljawhra.” They’re more than just jewellery.

He grabbed a length of string from the counter and carefully threaded the bangles onto it, pulling the makeshift necklace over his head.

Hadja watched, then chuckled softly.

“Mashi mzyan, waldi. La tkoun ḥmar w mat'ttīsh rasek.” Not smart, my boy. Don’t be stupid and don’t get caught.

He grinned wider, a spark in his golden-brown eyes.

“Ana mabghītsh nshouf hadchi,” I never get caught, Hadja he said, voice low and certain.

She shook her head, but there was no real scolding in her voice, just the warmth of someone who’d seen too much but still hoped.

He tucked the string beneath his shirt and turned back to the rising sun outside.

His thoughts drifted, to the girl who had left the bangles, to the quiet promise of a night that had felt, somehow, like home.

By mid-morning, the streets were wide awake, sun burning the rooftops, voices rising from alleyways, children darting between market stalls like fish in water.

Isack moved through it all like he belonged there, because he did. The city knew him, and he knew it back. The dog loped along beside him, tongue out, tail wagging every time someone threw them a passing “salam” or scrap of bread.

He reached Sidi Ahmed’s place just as the old man was dragging out a broken wooden cart wheel, grumbling under his breath.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Sidi,” Good morning, Sidi. Isack called, crouching beside the wheel.

The old man grunted. “Mzyan jeeti. Rah kayna chghol bzzaf.” Good you came. There’s a lot of work.

Isack smiled and set to it, sleeves rolled, sweat already gathering at the back of his neck. The wheel was splintered, but nothing beyond saving, a couple of new dowels, some sanding, a bit of patience.

Sidi Ahmed’s son, Youssef, lingered nearby, watching with a lazy sort of interest, chewing on a stem of wild mint.

“Chouf,” Isack said after a while, glancing over at him, “tqder tsaʿdni f waḥed lsu2al?” Can you help me with something?

Youssef raised a brow. “Dirti chi musiba khra?” Have you done something stupid again?

“La, la, had mara....” No, no, this time…

Youssef understood the unspoken words and spat out the stem. “Go on.”

Isack wiped his brow with his sleeve and leaned back slightly against the wall, gaze fixed on the wheel but mind clearly elsewhere.

“Say you meet someone,” he began, slow. “Someone who’s not from your world. Proper different. But you get on, like, really get on. And then they vanish.”

Youssef squinted at him. “She run off with your shoes?”

Isack huffed a quiet laugh. “Not quite. Just left. No goodbye. But left something behind.”

Youssef’s face softened slightly, as if he’d caught the edge of what Isack wasn’t saying.

“What did she leave?”

Isack hesitated, then tugged the string out slightly from beneath his shirt, just enough to let the bangles glint in the sunlight.

Youssef whistled under his breath.

“Hadchi mn lkasr?” This from the palace?

“Ma-gult walou.” Isack shrugged. I didn’t say anything

Youssef leaned in slightly. “You want advice?”

He nodded.

“Nsuḥk. Khalli l’aql qbl lqlb.” My advice. Keep your head before your heart.

Isack looked down at the bangles, his thumb tracing the edge.

“W ila ma bghītsh ndīr haka?” And what if I don’t want to do that?

Youssef laughed. “Then may God help you, Isack. Because no one else will.”

They both chuckled, the tension breaking for a moment.

Isack stood, stretching, wiping dust from his palms. “Come on then, help me lift this wheel. Unless you just came to offer useless wisdom.”

Youssef grinned and bent down beside him. “Ana daba fassḥab raḥna f chi hikayat dyal Alf Layla w Layla.” I feel like we’re in some story out of One Thousand and One Nights.

Isack didn’t reply straight away, just smiled faintly, eyes catching the sunlight, the bangles warm against his chest.

The palace was quiet in the way that only vast, marbled halls could be, a kind of elegant, echoing silence that never let you forget how alone you really were.

She sat in the morning sunroom, half-curled on one of the velvet chaise lounges, fingers absently twisting the end of her braid. A tray of untouched figs and almonds lay on the table beside her, along with a fresh pot of tea that had already grown cold.

Her father entered without knocking, as he always did. The sharp scent of musk and cedar preceded him, the trailing end of his white robe brushing softly against the mosaic tiles.

“You’re off,” he said without greeting, eyes narrowing as he took her in, from the slight slump in her shoulders to the vague shadows under her eyes.

She didn’t look up. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer. “What kept you up?”

She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “The usual. Thoughts. Expectations. Century-old ceilings.”

“Don’t get clever.”

That earned him a glance. “Don’t ask stupid questions, then.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, brief, but visible. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“You never speak to me like that.”

“I suppose I’m tired of speaking like I’m being examined.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You used to confide in me.”

“When I was ten, and thought you ruled the sun,” she muttered.

There was a pause. He let it hang in the air just long enough to shift the mood.

Then, with the same cold precision she knew too well, he dropped a rolled scroll onto the table beside the figs.

“What’s this?” she asked, already knowing.

“A list.”

“Of?”

“Potential suitors. From respectable bloodlines. Royal, military, or diplomatic, no lesser. And no more poets.”

She stared at the scroll. Didn’t touch it.

“You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“And if I don’t?” Her voice was tight now, clipped at the edges.

“If you don’t choose one by July,” he said calmly, “then we’ll have an issue.”

She stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with more force than she meant to. “An issue.”

“Yes.”

“Like a diplomatic incident, or just another daughter buried in silk and obedience?”

His jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”

She met his gaze, hers unflinching, gold-flecked and defiant. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was a wall, and she’d lived behind it all her life.

He gestured to the scroll.

“Make a decision. You’re not a child anymore.”

Then he turned, and just like that, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of a palace built more for power than people.

She sat slowly, eyes still fixed on the scroll. Somewhere far beyond the stone walls and manicured gardens, the city lived and breathed without her.

She reached for a fig. Bit into it absentmindedly.

It tasted like nothing.

She let it roll on her tongue, slowly chewing, but it crumbled like ash. Sweet and hollow. Like the walls of this palace. Like her life.

With a quiet breath, she set the fruit back onto the tray and rose, silk skirts whispering against the marble as she slipped through the archway and into the palace gardens.

The air outside was cooler, fragrant with orange blossom and rosemary, soft earth beneath the soles of her slippers. Here, the palace forgot itself. Here, at least, the stone gave way to soil, and life.

She walked past the cypress trees, fingers grazing their rough trunks, until she reached the familiar little corner where the rose bushes curled like old memories around a simple stone marker.

Her mother’s grave.

The marble was smooth, the engraved words worn by years of wind and rain.

She knelt, brushing away a few stray petals from the base, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Salam, Mama,” Peace (Hello), Mama she murmured softly.

The wind stirred the roses gently, as if in answer.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice barely carrying. “I don’t know what I want or who I am supposed to be.”

Her fingers tightened in the folds of her gown.

“I met someone,” she went on, casting her eyes down. “A boy. A boy with dirt beneath his nails and laughter in his eyes. With his feet on the ground and his heart open. Full. More than he has. More than he can give.”

She closed her eyes.

“Bzaf ʿlih... bzzaf ʿlia.” Too much for him... too much for me

She exhaled, slow and long.

“I wanted to be free, Mama. I wanted to run and see and breathe. But now I’ve tasted it, I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know if I can fit in this life any longer.”

Footsteps crunched lightly on the gravel behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Lalla,” Little girl, came the familiar soft voice, her mother’s old maid, gentle and lined with age. “You sit here like your mother did. All these years, nothing changes.”

She felt the old woman settle beside her with a quiet sigh.

“What would you do?” she asked softly. “You knew my mother better than she knew herself. What would you tell her, if she stood where I am now?”

The maid smiled faintly, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap.

“Tāmen b’Allah... w tmshi b’qlbek. Huwa li ghadi yurik triq.” Believe in Allah... and follow your heart. He will show you the way

The girl swallowed, throat tight. “And if my heart leads me away from here?”

The old woman touched her hand, warm and steady.

“Then you were never meant to stay, bnti.” my daughter

For a long moment, they sat in the quiet, the scent of roses thick in the air, the world turning softly beyond the palace walls.

Later that night, she sat alone on the terrace, the one on the farthest wing of the palace, furthest from her father’s private quarters and the endless eyes of the guards.

The marble beneath her legs was cool, her bare feet curling against the stone edge as the evening wind lifted strands of her hair. Above her, the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars, silver threads sewn across velvet black. The moon hung low and full, casting the palace rooftops in gentle light.

She breathed in the air, the scent of distant jasmine and city dust, the distant echo of life beyond the walls. It felt like sitting between two worlds. On one side, the endless gardens, the sharp spires, the cold, polished perfection of the palace. On the other, the old city, asleep and breathing, warm and rough-edged, untamed.

Her gaze lingered there, past the battlements, past the dividing walls, past the courtyards where only soldiers and servants tread. She tilted her head, lost in thought, wondering if the boy with the sun-darkened curls and the restless smile was asleep somewhere beneath that same sky.

A soft sound pulled her from her reverie.

She stiffened.

There it was again, a scrape, gentle but clear. A footfall against stone.

Her heart quickened. She glanced back towards the archway, towards the shadowed corridor behind her, empty. Still.

Then from the wall that marked the boundary between palace and city, the high old wall she’d once scaled as a child before she’d been caught and forbidden to try again came a quiet voice, low and teasing.

“L’amira...” Princess

Her breath caught. Familiar. Impossible.

She turned sharply and there he was.

Perched like a cat upon the wall, crouched comfortably as if he belonged there, was Isack. His hair caught the moonlight in soft curls, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief, his grin wide and unrepentant.

She gaped, mouth slightly open. “You—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Do you want half the guard waking up?”

“How—how did you get up here?” she hissed, eyes darting nervously to the shadows behind her. “You’ll be killed if they see you.”

He swung his leg over the wall, now sitting casually, unbothered by the drop beneath him. “I’ve been climbing these streets my whole life, l’amira. Walls don’t frighten me. Neither do guards.” His grin widened. “Nor kings.”

She stood, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder as she stared at him in disbelief, hands curling into the stone balustrade.

“You’re mad,” she breathed. “Completely mad.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, easy as rain. “But you left before I could say goodbye. Before you could say anything at all. That’s rude, you know.”

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. “I had to go.”

“I know.” His gaze softened, the teasing edge fading, something quieter behind his eyes now. “But I couldn’t let it end like that. Not without seeing you again.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the terrace, palace silk against street dust, gold against leather, two pieces of a story that shouldn’t have touched.

She swallowed hard, voice low. “What are you doing here, Isack?”

He grinned again, but this time it was softer. Less bravado. More truth.

“Kan-fakker fik.” I was thinking of you

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering breath, steadying her racing heart.

“And what do you plan to do now that you’re here?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes dancing in the moonlight.

“Depends. Do you want to see the city from the rooftops? Like a real life? Or are you going to stay here, on this cold stone, and dream of it forever?”

For a long moment, the world was silent, save for the wind in the olive trees and the distant call of a night bird.

Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Help me over,” she said softly. “Before someone sees you and you lose that charming head of yours.”

His grin lit up his whole face.

“Mzyana bzaaf,” Very good he murmured.

His hand was rough when she took it, warm and steady, calloused from years of work and climbing and living. Not like the soft, perfumed hands of the princes she’d been paraded before.

“Careful, l’amira,” he murmured with a crooked smile, steadying her as she clambered up onto the wall beside him. “Palace girls aren’t used to balancing this high.”

“I’m not palace born,” she whispered back, grinning despite herself. “My mother birthed me out of the palace, something the Sultan would not want anyone to know.”

Isack chuckled softly. “So you do have secrets.”

She glanced at him sideways. “More than you’d guess.”

“Good.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Hold on.”

And then, like two shadows slipping from their chains, they swung down onto the flat rooftops of the old city, his dog jumping up at the sight of them with a soft whine of excitement. The stones beneath their feet were warm from the day’s heat, glowing faintly under the moon. The air smelled of spice and dust and distant sea wind.

They ran.

Across roof tiles and crumbling plaster, over narrow alleyways and sleeping courtyards. The city stretched wide beneath the sky, full of twisting streets and secrets. She laughed, sudden, wild, unguarded, the sound breaking free from her chest like a bird uncaged.

It startled her.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. Like a girl, not a daughter of kings.

Isack grinned at her, breathless, pulling her forward. “Raki mzyana…” You’re beautiful His voice was low, teasing, but something in it was true and soft.

She ignored the heat in her cheeks and ran faster.

They went down twisting iron staircases into a courtyard where a fountain murmured in the dark. Past shuttered shops and quiet mosques, their tall silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the stars. The old souk lay deserted at this hour, only the scent of cinnamon and leather lingering in the air, and they wove through its maze, her slippers scattering sand and dust behind them.

They paused near a quiet square, where an old fig tree grew beside a shuttered bakery. Isack caught her hand, pulling her into the shadow of the branches.

“Look,” he whispered, nodding upwards.

There, the sky above the rooftops opened wide, and the stars poured down like light on water. The moon hung low and close, so bright it painted silver across his face, across the soft dark curls of his hair.

She leaned against the tree, breathless. Smiling.

“I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten what it smelled like. The dust, the baking bread, the night air...”

“Machi nshan, l’amira,” It’s not forgotten, princess he said softly.

He crouched by the base of the tree, resting a hand on the warm stone. “It’s in you still. The city. Like breath. Like blood.”

His dog sniffed the cobblestones, tail wagging slowly.

She crouched beside him, tucking her silk robe beneath her knees. “And this is your life. Dust and stone and sky.”

“And tea,” he grinned, pulling a tiny wrapped sweet from his pocket. “Never forget tea.” He unwrapped it, split the piece and offered her half. “You eat like the street folk tonight.”

She laughed softly, taking the sweet from his hand, their fingers brushing. “I think I prefer it.”

For a while they sat like that, sharing the sweet, listening to the quiet city breathe.

Then he stood, holding out a hand again. “Come. There’s more to see before the sun comes.”

And she went.

He led her down the back alleys where old women hung strings of chillies to dry; past the little mosque where boys gathered before dawn; over the market square where, tomorrow, the traders would shout for customers. She touched the walls, the stalls, the rough stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. She smelled mint and old wood, old iron and salt from the far-off sea.

When they reached the sea wall, they sat, side by side, legs swinging high above the water. Below them, the waves lapped gently against the old harbour.

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me why you live like this. So free. So careless.”

He smiled faintly, gazing at the dark water.

“Because no one expects anything from me, l’amira. No crown. No bloodline. I wake. I eat. I live. That’s enough.”

She watched his profile in the moonlight, the ease in his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice.

“I don’t know what that feels like,” she whispered.

He turned to her, gently.

“Maybe tonight you do.”

For a while they sat in silence, and it was enough.

When the sky began to pale towards dawn, he stood and dusted off his hands.

“Come. One more place.”

He took her up a steep stairway to the rooftops again, to a flat-topped house where the whole city spread beneath them, rooftops and minarets, domes and arches, all touched with silver light.

She turned slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve never seen it like this.”

“It’s yours,” he murmured beside her. “All this. Yours to hold or let go.”

She looked at him, at the dog sitting quietly at his side, and something old and tight in her chest eased.

“I don’t want to go back.”

He smiled sadly. “But you will.”

She touched his arm gently. “For now let’s stay until the sun rises.”

And they did.

Until the first light touched the city’s edges, soft and golden, and the distant call to Fajr prayer rose into the waking sky.

For one night, she had lived.

For one night, she had been free.

The first light of dawn crept over the sleeping city, turning the edges of the old stone buildings to gentle gold. The minarets stood like watchful sentinels against the softening sky, and far in the distance, the call to Fajr rose, a quiet, melodic thread carried on the morning breeze.

She stood atop the rooftop, her silk robe stirring gently against her ankles, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. The night’s freedom clung to her skin like perfume, warm and giddy. A soft yawn escaped her lips, unwilling, but honest, and when she rubbed her eyes like a child, Isack laughed quietly beside her.

“Let’s get you home, l’amira,” he murmured, gentle and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting.

She turned her gaze to him, eyes still bright with the thrill of the night. “No,” she said softly, firmly. “Not home. Just the palace. These streets...” She let her gaze sweep across the waking rooftops, the winding alleys below, the scent of baked earth and mint and dawn filling her senses. “These streets are home.”

He looked at her, properly looked, as if seeing something new unfold, and smiled. A real smile. Quiet. Fond. As if he understood without needing any more words.

Together they made their way back to the high wall separating her world from his, the wall that divided gold from dust, silk from leather, crown from calloused hand. His dog padded silently behind them, yawning as it trotted.

At the wall, he crouched first, bracing his hands, offering her a boost.

“Up you go, l’amira,” he whispered with mock ceremony.

She grinned and took the step, his strong hands steady at her waist as he lifted her. Her slippers found the old stones with ease, and she pulled herself over, turning back just as she perched atop the crumbling edge.

Isack swung up lightly beside her, half his body leaning over the top, one leg still hooked to the city’s side.

He rested his forearms on the cold stone, his face close to hers in the pale light of dawn. His voice dropped low, gentle as the breeze that stirred her loose hair.

“You know where to find me,” he said softly. “Just call my name, l’amira, and I’ll hear you. It’ll carry through the winds and I’ll come for you.”

Her heart gave a quiet, aching twist.

She reached out, without fear, without hesitation, and brushed the dark curls back from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered a moment longer than they should.

“Thank you,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My Isack.”

And then, daring, bold, the way she had not been for all her carefully caged years, she leaned forward and pressed her lips softly to his cheek.

A kiss, warm and fleeting, left just beneath the edge of his eye.

For a heartbeat, he stilled, surprise flickering in his golden-brown gaze, before the familiar, crooked smile curved his mouth once more.

“Tsbah bel khir, l’amira,” Sleep well, princess he murmured.

She smiled back, heart thudding against her ribs.

And then she dropped silently to the palace side of the wall, back into the world of marble and duty, secrets and silk.

Isack stayed a moment longer, watching, his dog seated patiently at his feet, and then, like a breath on the wind, he was gone.

But her heart stayed wild in her chest, like the streets. Like him.

For the first time in her life, the palace felt far less like home.

Since that night, the months slipped by like sand through his fingers.

First April, when the city blossomed with the scent of oranges and the sea air grew soft and warm. Then May, hot and golden, when the sun lingered late into the evening and the alley cats grew lazy in the shade. June followed, dry and sharp, with the dust rising in thin curls from the streets. And now July was beginning to creep in, slow and heavy with its heat, the sky pale and cloudless as far as the eye could see.

And she had not called his name. Not once.

Hadja had warned him, wagging a crooked finger in his face as she stirred her pot of lentils. “Ma tderhach, waldi. Don’t go waiting for her. Girls like that, palace girls, they fly high and they never look down.” Don’t do this my boy

But his heart, that foolish, disobedient thing, still yearned.

Every evening he’d find himself drifting along the edge of the palace wall, pretending he was walking the dog, pretending he wasn’t hoping to hear her voice on the wind. But nothing came. Only the distant murmurs of the guards. Only the scent of jasmine and stone.

When the morning rose he wandered to Sidi Ahmed’s little shop near the mosque, the dog padding along beside him, tongue lolling. The old man sat outside, grumbling over a chipped tea glass, puffing on his thin roll of tobacco as he squinted at the quiet street.

“Sbah el kheir, Sidi,” Good morning Sidi Isack greeted, swinging down onto the low wall beside him.

“Sbah en-nour,” the old man grunted back, eyeing him sideways. “Mafi shghal? You’ve time to waste this morning?” No work today?

“Waiting on wood delivery for you,” Isack shrugged, scratching the dog behind the ears. “And tea. You promised tea, old man.”

Sidi grunted and waved a hand. “Go make it yourself, I’m too angry for tea.”

Isack smirked. “What now? Someone insult your prices again?”

“La, worse,” Sidi huffed, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “The streets are closing for two days. Two whole days. For that cursed royal wedding.” He spat into the dust. “Two days no trade, no customers, no deliveries, no work. All because of that stupid fuss.”

Isack frowned, stirring the tea leaves lazily in the pot. “Wedding? Which wedding?”

Sidi gave him a look of disbelief, squinting one eye. “Yal himar” You donkey “You live under the sky and you know nothing, boy? The princess. The l’amira. She’s to marry that fool from Tizi Ouzou. Some prince’s son. Their tents are already pitched outside the palace walls. The wedding’s at the week’s end.”

Isack’s hand stilled on the teapot.

“Shkun...” His throat tightened. “Shkun bnat l’malik?” Which princess?

Sidi snorted. “As if there are many. The king’s only daughter, of course. The pretty one with the Berber cheekbones, the one who never smiles. But she will soon, I suppose. Once she’s properly wed, hm?”

Isack felt the breath leave his chest as if someone had punched him. The dog whined softly at his feet, sensing the sudden change in him.

“She never said...” he murmured under his breath, staring blankly at the steam curling from the teapot. “She never said anything.”

Sidi leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “Wach bik? What’s this face, boy? You look like you’ve swallowed a bad date.” What’s wrong with you?

“Nothing,” Isack said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”

But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Two days the streets would close. Two days of silk and gold and music. Two days and she would belong to another man, some polished stranger from the mountains who smelled of mint and power, who had never run the streets with dust in his hair or tea stolen in the market, who had never touched the old fig tree under the stars.

His hand drifted to the string around his neck, fingers brushing the hidden bracelets tied close to his skin. Cold now. Silent.

Hadja’s words whispered in the back of his mind.

“Palace girls never look down, waldi...”

But she had looked down once. And smiled. And kissed his cheek.

And now she was to be caged again, gilded and perfumed, behind marble walls.

“La tkoon hmaq,” Sidi muttered, grumbling as he refilled his glass. “Don’t be stupid, boy. This is their world. Not ours.”

But Isack said nothing.

He only sat in silence, the tea cooling between his hands, staring at the city that no longer felt like home.

She was to be wed.

To another man.

In three days.

And then she would vanish behind those marble walls forever, a shadow behind silken curtains, a memory pressed flat like petals between the pages of an old book.

Unless...

He set the glass down with a quiet clink.

There was no time to waste.

That night he paced the narrow cove above Hadja’s house, the bracelets heavy against his chest, as the old woman snored softly below. The dog lay awake by the door, tail thumping once when Isack knelt beside him.

“N’har el Khmis,” Thursday Isack whispered, running a hand through the thick fur. “You and me, boy. One last foolish thing.”

He sketched the plan in his mind as clearly as a carpenter laying out his wood. Simple. Sharp. No room for mistakes.

Early in the morning on the wedding day, the streets lay quiet, stripped of their usual noise. Banners of white and crimson fluttered from the palace walls. The gates stood heavy and closed, but not for him.

He slipped along the shadowed alleys, the dog at his heel. When they reached the outer court, he knelt low, cupping the hound’s face in his hands.

“Sma’ni, a sahbi.” Listen to me, my friend

He tugged gently at the dog’s ear. “Run to the court. Bark. Chase. Bite the silk if you must. Make every guard chase you. And don’t stop until you hear my whistle.”

The dog wagged its tail, tongue lolling, clever dark eyes bright.

“Go.”

He bounded away, streaking through the open side gate just as the servants brought out wedding garlands. With a sudden wild barking and a flurry of paws, chaos broke like a summer storm. Men shouted, cloth ripped, baskets fell; the dog danced circles round them all, scattering petals and kicking over vases.

And while the front court swarmed in shouting confusion, Isack slipped silent as breath to the side wall.

He pulled himself up, grunting softly, legs swinging over the stone as he dropped to the inner courtyard where the date palms whispered. His heart thudded loud in his ears, not with fear. With something far more dangerous.

Hope.

Up the servant stairs, fast and quiet, barefoot. Past the scent of rose oil and incense. He knew the way; he’d listened to Hadja’s stories of the palace, of secret paths and quiet doors. Now they led him straight to her chambers.

He heard her voice from within, soft, distracted.

“You aren’t allowed to see me until after the wedding,” she called, assuming it was her betrothed, come foolishly to break the old tradition.

A grin touched Isack’s mouth as he leaned on the doorframe, careless and sure.

“Well, l’amira, lucky for you, I never cared much for rules.”

The room fell silent.

The curtain stirred, and she stepped out.

And for the first time in his life, Isack forgot every clever word he had ever known.

She stood there in her wedding kaftan, ivory silk, embroidered with gold threads that caught the light like dawn’s first glow. Her hair was plaited with fine jewels, little silver charms from the old mountains woven between the strands. Kohl lined her eyes, making them deep and dark and filled with too many feelings at once.

“Isack...?” Her voice was a whisper, barely breathing.

He swallowed hard, staring, utterly and beautifully lost.

“Ya lahbibti,” he managed, a soft smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You’re something the poets forgot to write about.”

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the chaos far below, then back to him, wild and bright, like the girl who had run laughing through the streets with him under the stars.

And in that quiet moment, caught between the palace and the world beyond, the air hummed with something ancient and fierce.

A promise.

A choice.

A beginning.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The soft scent of jasmine oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the crisp tang of fresh silk. Somewhere below, the shouting and chaos of the courtyard still stirred, muffled by distance, but here, in this quiet chamber high above the world, time itself seemed to have stopped.

Isack swallowed, his gaze steady on her, his chest tight with something raw and reckless.

“Come with me,” he said softly. His voice was not a command, nor a plea, but something gentle, a thread stretched between hope and fear.

Her hand gripped the carved edge of the dressing table; her knuckles pale against the dark wood.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, eyes dark and steady. “Can’t or won’t?”

She said nothing.

The silence between them grew thick, not of anger or doubt, but fear. Old fear. Palace fear. The kind spun into your bones from birth, as heavy and clinging as the scent of burning myrrh in the halls.

Isack smiled sadly, tilting his head as if listening to the wind through the date palms.

“It’s fear, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Not the walls, not your father, not even this ridiculous silk cage they’ve put you in. Just fear. Like a thread round your throat. It’s the oldest prison of all, l’amira.” His voice dropped low, rough as dusk on old stone. “Fear of wanting more than they told you you deserved. Of flying too far from the cage door. Of hearing your own name echo back from the wind and realising you were always meant for the sky.”

She closed her eyes, a shiver racing down her spine.

He stepped close enough to reach her wrist where it rested by her side, the silk of her kaftan soft beneath his fingers. Gently, reverently, he touched the thin golden bracelet there, the one she always wore, with its old engraving worn soft by time.

His thumb brushed across the script, his mouth quietly shaping the words in Arabic:

"Ul-iwazzan ur ttur, ul-iwazzan ur ikkes; ul-iwazzan ur ifus, zriɣ deg ul-iwazzan." The heart that is given is never lost; the hand that offers is never empty; the soul that dares is never broken.

Berber words. Mountain words. Old as the wind.

He smiled faintly.

“Your mother’s?” he asked softly.

She gave the smallest nod, her throat tight.

He traced the bracelet once more, his fingers lingering on the warmth of her skin. Then he raised his gaze to hers, dark eyes bright with something fierce and unspoken.

“Give me a chance,” he murmured. “I’ve nothing but a cove above Hadja’s roof and a dog that’s tearing up the palace court as we speak but if you’ll have me—” he breathed, the smile touching the edge of his mouth, soft and sure, “—I’ll make every breath of this life worth it. Every step. Every dawn. Until you forget what fear ever tasted like.”

The silence quivered between them.

And for the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be free.

To fly.

To fall.

And never break.

She stood frozen. A breath caught at the edge of her lips, the weight of centuries resting on her shoulders.

For a heartbeat Isack feared she would say no, that the palace would win, that the fear woven into the very stones of this place would tighten its grip and pull her back to the life she hated. Her eyes dropped to the floor; her hand trembled faintly against the silk folds of her wedding kaftan.

Then, a sound.

Her father’s voice, low and steady, carried down the corridor with the heavy certainty of all things expected.

“Binti” My daughter “It’s time. Come. We must go to the mosque.”

The words hung like iron in the air.

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the weight of her father’s voice, and then back to Isack, standing there in his worn shirt, dust on his skin, light in his eyes.

She lifted her chin, something fierce sparking in the dark pools of her eyes. Her fingers reached for the bracelet he had touched, her mother’s words warm against her wrist.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and strong, like water breaking stone. “Take me from here. Take me to the mosque, but only if you promise one thing, ya Isack.”

He stilled, breath caught.

“Promise me that you will wed me yourself. With no lords, no gold, no court. No lies. In the mosque, in the sight of Allah, with nothing but the truth between us. And let me be free of this life. Forever.”

His heart clenched. He reached out, gently cupping her face as he smiled, a slow, soft smile that held the sky itself.

“I swear on my life,” he said. “On my breath, on my dog, on the roof that shelters me and the streets that made me, I swear, l’amira. I’ll take you to the mosque with my own hand and you will be free. No walls. No cages. No fear.”

For the first time, she smiled, real and unguarded, bright as the morning sun cracking over the sea.

“Then let’s go.”

Without another word, he took her hand rough against the silk, and led her to the window. Below, the court was still in chaos, guards chasing the barking hound who darted between their legs like a spirit from the stories.

With a quiet laugh, Isack helped her swing over the terrace ledge, steadying her as her golden slippers met the stone. She glanced once over her shoulder, at the life she’d lived, the father who called for her, the walls that had held her since birth.

And then she leapt.

Into the dawn.

Into the world.

Into freedom.

Isack grinned, pulling her close as they dashed for the stairs, the wind rushing warm and alive against their faces.

“Come, l’amira,” he breathed as they ran, hearts pounding like drums. “Let’s get you wed, properly.”

And hand in hand, they fled into the waking streets of Algiers, where the call to prayer rose soft and silver into the sky, and the city opened before them, endless and wild as the sea.

They ran through the streets like the children she’d once watched with longing eyes, but now she was part of that world, part of the dawn, part of life.

Her slippers barely touched the cobbles, her golden bangles chiming softly with each hurried step, her silken wedding kaftan billowing like a cloud behind her. Jewels still clung to her neck and wrists, shimmering under the dim light of the waking city. Beside her, Isack ran barefoot in his worn scraps and dust-stained linen, his laughter breathless, his grin as bright as the sun rising behind them.

And together, like foolish lovers from some old street tale, they dashed towards the mosque.

The great white walls rose before them, calm and still against the blue-tinged sky, the call to prayer fading softly into the air. The old wooden doors stood half open, light from within spilling golden onto the stone.

Isack pushed through first, his dog waiting outside, tail wagging fiercely at the steps.

Inside, the familiar scent of oud and old prayer rugs filled the air. And there, bending to arrange the worn books of scripture, stood the imam, a stout man with a silver beard and thick brows, muttering to himself as he worked.

“Ya khoya!” Brother Isack called, grinning as he hurried forward. “Remember when I caught your runaway rooster last winter and you promised me a favour?”

The imam straightened slowly, squinting at him.

“Ya waldi, I’ve no dinar to pay you for that rooster,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I told you already, that bird brought me nothing but bad luck.”

Isack only laughed, glancing at her, breathless, radiant in her silks and gold.

“I’m not here for money, imam Saïdi,” he said softly, the grin fading into something almost shy, almost sacred. “I’ve come for my payment. Please, wed me to the woman who holds my heart. Now. Quickly. We’re in a rush.”

The imam stared, from Isack’s rough clothes to her shining wedding jewels, then back again.

“Are you sure, boy?” the old man asked, voice low with the weight of tradition. “This is no small thing, not a game to win and laugh over. Marriage is binding before Allah, here, and in the next life.”

Isack turned to her, his hand reaching for hers, fingers twining tight. She met his gaze, her heart thudding hard and wild.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice steady. “We are sure.”

The imam sighed, but the faintest smile curved his lips beneath his beard.

“Very well, waladi. Come here. Both of you.”

And so, beneath the carved wooden beams of the mosque, before the worn prayer rugs and the quiet dawn, the old man began the nikah.

Isack spoke first, his voice clear: his ijab, his offer to take her as his wife. Her heart jumped as she gave her quiet qabul, accepting him, her breath soft and warm in the hushed air.

Witnessed by Allah. No gold. No courts. No walls.

Only truth.

Only choice.

Only freedom.

The imam prayed over them, his hands lifted gently, invoking peace, blessing, mercy. The words of the Qur’an wrapped around them like light, weaving them into something whole and sacred.

“Baraka Allahu lakuma,” May Allah bless you both he said softly at last.

But before the final words could fall, the heavy crash of iron-shod boots broke the quiet, and the wide doors of the mosque burst open.

Palace guards.

Dozens of them.

Their dark leather armour gleamed, swords glinting under the oil lamps. The captain stepped forward, gaze sharp and cruel.

“There they are!” he barked. “Seize them, by order of the Sultan himself!”

The peace of the mosque shattered, but Isack only smiled, fingers tightening around his new wife’s hand.

“Ya Allah...” the imam muttered, clutching his beads.

Steel-clad hands grabbed Isack roughly by the arms, wrenching him backwards with such force his shoulder jarred painfully. The dog growled low and deep from outside but dared not move as three more guards kept their blades close.

At the far end of the prayer hall, she stood, now alone, radiant in her wedding silk, defiant as the sunrise behind her. Her dark eyes flashed as the heavy tread of boots approached.

The Sultan himself entered the mosque, flanked by advisors and more guards, the weight of his presence sinking into the air like stone into water. His robe of deep emerald trailed behind him.

He halted in the centre of the prayer hall, eyes flicking from the bound street boy to his daughter, who was supposed to be waiting at the palace gates for her grand procession.

His face darkened.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice cut sharp through the silence, hard as steel drawn from its sheath. “What foolishness is this? Binti, explain yourself. Now.”

She lifted her chin, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I have nothing to explain to you, Father,” she said, her voice low, steady. “I have done what you never let me do, I chose.”

His gaze narrowed, dark with warning. “Chose?” he spat. “Chose what? This—” he flung a hand towards the struggling Isack, “this gutter rat? This thief from the streets? You throw away a kingdom for him?”

He strode towards her, his robe whispering against the tiles. His hand shot out, catching her chin hard, lifting her face so her eyes were forced to meet his.

“You shame me,” he hissed. “You shame your mother’s name. Your country. What have you done?”

Before she could speak, Isack's voice cracked the air, hoarse but fierce, his whole body straining against the guards’ grip.

“Don’t touch my wife!”

The words hung like thunder in the mosque.

The Sultan froze.

So did every guard.

Even the imam, who stood quietly by the prayer books, bowed his head and folded his hands before him.

“She speaks the truth, sidi,” the old imam said softly, his voice carrying clear and unafraid through the vast chamber. “By Allah’s law and witness, they are wed. Just now. With her qabul and his ijab. With me as their witness. The nikah is done.”

The Sultan’s hand dropped slowly from her face.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he stared at his daughter, who stood unflinching, her chin high, her eyes clear and bright.

“You married him,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “You married this... street boy. Without my blessing. Without the court. Without—” His hand trembled. “You dare defy me, your father, the Sultan?”

“I dared, Father,” she said softly, “because you left me no choice. You caged me all my life. This is my freedom. My will. My faith.” Her voice hardened. “And he is my husband.”

Silence fell like a heavy cloth over the mosque, save for the dog’s soft, warning growl and the faint creak of armour.

The Sultan stared at them, the gilded princess and the dusty street boy, joined in defiance and faith.

His jaw tightened.

And the air held still, waiting for his judgement.

The Sultan’s face darkened, rage twisting the lines of his mouth as the weight of his shame settled upon him. In front of his men. In the house of God. His pride, his own blood, choosing a street rat over the throne.

His hand shot out.

A sharp crack split the air as his palm struck her cheek, sending her head whipping to the side.

A breathless hush swept the mosque.

Isack roared.

With a violent wrench, he tore free from the guards' grip, their surprise too slow, their hands grasping at empty air as the boy, lean and lithe from a lifetime of running and scrapping, lunged across the space between them.

He grabbed the Sultan by the front of his robes, strong, hands knotting into the silken lapels and hauled him forward until their faces were but inches apart. His chest heaved; his golden-brown eyes burned bright as fire.

“The only thing holding me back from sending you to your death for laying a hand on my wife,” he growled, voice low and shaking with fury, “is that we stand in the house of Allah. But God is my witness, Sultan, if I see you again, and you dare try one more thing against her, against us, you shan’t live to say the word ‘La’.” No

A gasp rippled through the guards.

Even the dog bared its teeth, hackles raised, a low rumble thrumming in its throat.

The Sultan’s eyes, wide with shock, stared into Isack’s face, the breath stolen from his chest. No man, no beggar, no prince had ever dared grip him so. His guards hovered, hesitating, unsure whether to drag Isack down and risk defiling the mosque further.

Isack shook him once, hard, before shoving him back, hard enough that the Sultan staggered on his feet, his robes twisting about him like wounded pride.

She gasped softly, her fingers brushing her stinging cheek, but her heart swelled with something wild and bright. Isack, this boy from the streets, stood tall before a king without fear.

The Imam stepped forward quietly, his old hands raised.

“Enough. Baraka min hadshi.” Enough of this

His voice cut the tension like a blade, heavy with the quiet authority of one who spoke for God.

“All of you, this is sacred ground. No more violence beneath Allah’s roof. Leave your wrath outside.”

Isack stood firm, breathing hard, the fire still in his eyes.

The Sultan straightened his robe, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the silk smooth, his gaze burning into the boy before him.

“You have shamed me,” the Sultan hissed. “Both of you. This is not over.”

Isack smiled, slow, dangerous, wolfish.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s only just begun.”

Her hand slipped into his, fingers tightening around his as the guards shifted uneasily, no man daring to break the Imam’s peace, no sword daring to fall where Allah’s name was spoken.

And in that quiet moment, beneath the great dome of the mosque and the morning light streaming in, they stood, husband and wife, defiant and unbroken.

And free.

The weight of the morning’s confrontation still clung to them as she and Isack made their way through the narrow, twisting streets, fingers intertwined. They arrived at Hadja’s humble home.

Hadja greeted them with a knowing smile, her eyes sharp beneath heavy brows that had witnessed decades of stories. “Ah, waldi,” she said softly, her voice thick with affection. “And l’amira, the princess with the heart of a rebel.” She welcomed them inside, where the scent of mint tea and spices wove through the air like a familiar song.

Once seated, tea poured and steam swirling upwards, they looked to her for guidance. Hadja’s gaze softened as she began, her voice falling into a quiet rhythm, the past and present folding together.

“Love,” she murmured, she smiled faintly, “is a wild flame. I was once foolishly in love, too.”

Her eyes drifted to a faraway place, as though seeing a younger version of herself beneath a fading lantern’s light.

“There was a boy from a far village, kan zwin, he was handsome, kind, but life had other plans. Tqadit I was deceived. I thought love alone would be enough, but it was not.”

“Knt bghit nhss b huriya I wanted to feel free. But freedom, l’amira, isn’t given; it’s taken. And love is the courage to take it.”

When she finished, silence settled, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

Hadja’s hand reached out, worn and steady, resting on Isack’s.

“My son Isack, listen carefully. Take passage from here to Ghazaouet. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

Isack’s brow furrowed, surprise flickering across his face.

Hadja turned to l’amira, eyes shimmering with a secret long kept.

“l’amira, your mother was from Ghazaouet. I took passage with her to Algiers long ago. She was brave, she’d be proud of you.”

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around Isack’s hand.

“My sister works in the palace, she was your mother’s maid. You were closer than you ever knew.”

A tear traced a line down Hadja’s cheek, touched by both sorrow and hope.

“You’ll find fertile land there, and people who will welcome you. Seek out the trader named Rashid, he will guide you.”

The room felt alive with possibility, the past and future intertwining in Hadja’s words.

Isack nodded, determination hardening in his gaze.

She felt a quiet hope bloom inside her, fragile but fierce.

Together, they would chase the horizon.

Together, they would find freedom.

That night, they found passage to Ghazaouet, with nothing but a dog, a cloth bundling their meagre belongings, and their hearts. The road was long and winding, carving through desert and coast, dust clinging to their clothes and salt from the sea staining their hair. But they carried no burden heavier than the lives they had shed behind them.

It took five days. Five days of quiet prayers, whispered plans, shared bread, and watching the dog run wild through the hills as though he had always known freedom. On the evening of the fifth day, with the sun resting low like a gold coin on the edge of the horizon, they arrived.

They found Rashid just as Hadja had said. A man with lines on his face from years of salt and sand, eyes that knew the weight of secrets, and a heart that softened the moment he saw her face.

“Bint Laila” he whispered, as if he were seeing a ghost. “Your mother would be at peace now.”

He led them to the land her mother had left behind, acres upon acres of olive trees and wild thyme, crowned by a single stone house, worn by time but strong, built upon a rise that overlooked the endless sea. It had a stah, a courtyard with faded tiles and jasmine climbing along the old walls. Her mother had kept it all untouched, in case she too bore a restless heart, as she once had.

They did not return to Algiers. The city forgot them, as all cities forget their rebels and dreamers.

Isack worked with Rashid, hands calloused by honest labour, skin browned by the coastal sun. He returned home each day to a house alive with laughter and the scent of mint and coriander. His wife was no longer a princess. She was something far freer, a woman of her own making. She walked barefoot in the morning dew, learned the names of herbs, stitched cushions for the stah, and left her hair uncovered to dance with the wind.

They lived slowly. They lived wholly. And in quiet moments beneath the olive trees, Isack would take her hand and kiss her wrist where the bangle once sat and say, “You, l’amira, are the only kingdom I’ll ever kneel for.”

Years passed like the tide, soft but certain. No one remembered the boy from the streets of Algiers who stole the heart of a princess. No one spoke of the princess at all. The crown she once wore died with her old name, and she never mourned it.

In the spring of their third year by the sea, they welcomed a son. Isack held him with trembling arms and named him Nur el-Din, the light of faith, for he came into their lives as proof that their love had been blessed.

Years later, a daughter followed, born beneath a full moon. She named her Amal Layali, the hope of nights, for she had once looked to the stars and prayed for freedom, and the stars had listened.

They raised their children on stories and soil, on faith and fire, and on the unshakable truth that love, when pure, needs no crown to be sacred.

And in time, no one remembered the palace or the boy who walked its shadows.

But on the cliffs of Ghazaouet, where jasmine grows wild and the sea sings to the shore, you can still find the house with the stah, where a dog once slept in the sun, and where two hearts, once lost, found their way home.

And if you listen closely to the wind, you might still hear her whisper his name.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine @rayaskoalaland @amyelevenn @obxstiles @jaxtellerverstappen

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annaswrites00 · 6 hours ago

Text

Dress

IH6 x bestfriend!reader

(2.2k)

Summary - Say my name and everything just stops I don't want you like a best friend… Inspired by Taylor Swift’s Dress… warning -suggestive content

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The streets of Monaco hum with celebration, golden light bleeding over the white yachts and pastel balconies as the evening folds into itself. The air is thick with the sharp fizz of champagne, with the clatter of heels against stone, with the sound of the sea breathing against the docks.

But you’re not watching the harbor, or the crowd pressing against the barriers, or even the podium celebrations you’ve pretended to care about all afternoon.

You’re watching him.

Isack’s hair is still damp, curls clinging to his forehead in unruly spirals as he ducks his head through the crowd. His race suit hangs half-unzipped, fireproofs bunched around his waist, a glint of silver chain catching the low sun as he moves. He should be glowing—he scored points today. Monaco points. He should be swept up in the tidal wave of his team, of the cameras, of the podium’s distant spray.

But his eyes are flicking through the bodies like he’s still racing. Like he’s looking for something.

Like he’s looking for you.

You raise a hand without thinking and the moment he finds you, something in him softens. It’s a crack down the middle of his tightly drawn face, a breath he finally exhales, like you’ve flicked the world back into color.

And then he’s moving, jogging the short distance until you’re within reach, his grin stretched so wide it barely fits on his face. His palm is warm when he cups the small of your back and pulls you into him, forehead leaning into your neck, breathless and giddy and all yours.

“P6,” he pants, as if you didn’t already know, as if you hadn’t screamed yourself hoarse when he crossed the line. “P6 in Monaco.”

You smile, pressing your thumb to the soft curve of his cheekbone. “I’m proud of you.”

He leans into your touch without hesitation. It’s natural now, the way he lets you steady him, like you’ve been doing it his whole life.

“They’re probably waiting for me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move away.

“So go,” you whisper, though your hands stay on him.

His eyes flick to your lips and back up. He wets his own nervously, tongue darting out quick and unconscious. “Will you come later? To the party?”

“Of course.”

His relief is palpable. His grip tightens, just briefly, before he finally pulls back, still smiling like the city is his.

“Save me a dance,” he calls over his shoulder as he jogs back toward his team.

You don’t tell him you’d already bought a dress just for that.

Just for him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’ve known Isack Hadjar long enough to remember the buzzcut era.

Long enough to remember when his arms were all awkward elbows, when his knees were perpetually scabbed from karting crashes, when he would grin with a mouthful of braces and talk about Formula One like it was a place he could walk to if he just kept moving forward.

You’d sit on cracked sidewalks outside karting circuits, sharing melting ice cream and big, ridiculous dreams. He’d always tell you the same thing.

“When I get there, you’ll be there too.”

You didn’t know then that he’d mean everywhere.

The memories bleed in quietly, like warm syrup pooling in the cracks of your ribs. You remember his hair bleached blonde one summer on a dare—how you teased him for weeks, how the color made his skin glow even more golden. You remember the nights you stayed awake in his family home, your bodies folded into the familiar grooves of his soft couch, the static buzz of late-night racing replays humming in the background.

There’s an indentation in the shape of him on the beanbag in your room now—a worn dip on the right side where he always sits, where his body has pressed into the cushion so many times it’s as if they remember him even when he’s gone.

Sometimes, when you get home after a long day, you sit there, in his space. It fits you, but it’s still his. A mark he’s left without even trying.

It’s not just the seat.

It’s the hoodie draped over your chair, the way your playlists have quietly reshaped themselves around his favorite songs, late nights you've stayed up reading about pit strategy, the unopened bottle of his shampoo he left in your bathroom after a race weekend last year—never taken back, never questioned.

There’s a gravity to him. A pull you’ve felt for years but never followed.

There were moments, though. Almosts.

One rainy night at home. He was wet and shivering on your doorstep. Holding a blue and white VCARB hat. You had jumped up and screamed for him. Then wrapped him in your biggest sweater, curled up on the couch, his head against your shoulder, his breathing slow and steady against your neck. You’d thought, for one dangerous second, that he might kiss you.

But he didn’t.

At a school party, in a basement bedroom too small for the weight of what neither of you said, you’d brushed his hair out of his eyes, your fingers trembling, and he’d caught your wrist, holding it there, his thumb ghosting across your pulse point.

You’d laughed it off. He’d let you.

All this time, you’ve been waiting. All this silence and patience, pining and desperately waiting

He’s so tangled into your life you don’t even know where he ends and you begin. He’s carved his name into the edges of your world, stitched himself into the fabric of your days like some golden tattoo you never asked for but could never scrub away. A thread of silver pulled taught in a little bow.

And you’ve never told him.

Not once.

But maybe tonight.

Maybe Monaco.

Maybe now—you will.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The memory of him lingers like salt on your skin, like sun-warmed silk, like the faintest pressure where his palm cupped the small of your back just hours ago.

The shape of him is everywhere.

In the indentation on your beanbag.

In the playlists that accidentally became his.

In the unspoken almosts that stitched themselves into your ribs.

And yet, tonight feels different. Like a page is curling, ready to turn.

You’re not sure what makes you braver tonight—maybe the Monaco air, thick with champagne and sea breeze, maybe the way he looked at you in the paddock, or maybe it’s just the dress.

You’d bought it weeks ago. Hung it in the back of your closet and pretended it was for some other night, some other reason. But when you slipped it over your skin tonight, you knew the truth.

You bought it for him. And you want him to notice.

The party hums around you, electric and untamed. Someone’s yacht, all sharp lines and soft lighting, anchored just far enough from the dock to feel like a world suspended. Music thrums through the deck, the bass curling in your ribs, the smell of salt and sweat and celebration thick in the air.

You arrive late.

When you step onto the boat, there’s a pulse that travels through the room. You catch the way people turn, how heads tilt in your direction. The fabric clings just enough, the hem skimming higher than you’d usually dare. And though you’re smiling, soft and sweet, your pulse drums against your throat.

And then you see him.

Isack, drink in hand, half-listening to something one of his friends is saying. He’s laughing, head thrown back, curls even messier than they were this afternoon. The chain at his neck glints under the yacht’s soft lights, and when his gaze finally finds you across the deck, the laugh dies in his throat.

His lips part. His grip tightens around his glass. And for a heartbeat, everything else melts away.

Say my name, you think. Say it and everything will stop.

And when he does—when your name drops from his mouth, barely audible over the music—it feels like the earth tilts, just slightly, just enough to send you spinning toward him.

"Finally decided to show up, huh?" His grin is quick, familiar, cocky—his comfort zone. But there’s something else in his eyes, something unsteady.

"I had to make an entrance," you tease, leaning in just enough for the warmth of him to skim your skin.

His gaze drags over you, slowly, like he's memorizing. His hand lifts halfway, like he might touch you, but he drops it before he can.

"You—" He clears his throat, trying for nonchalance. "You look… different."

"Good different?"

"The best kind," he murmurs, his voice low, sticky with the weight of something he doesn’t know how to say yet.

Before you can answer, you’re swarmed—mutual friends tugging you toward the drinks, arms slung around shoulders, laughter loud and unfiltered. Someone presses a glass of champagne into your hand, the fizz tickling your skin, and the night tumbles forward in a blur of music and clinking glasses.

Isack stays close, always hovering near you like some invisible tether binds you together. When you talk to others, his gaze drifts. When you laugh, his smile returns, lazy and soft, like it’s reflex now.

At some point, Liam slings an arm around both of you, swaying with the movement of the boat, his voice loud with the casual, sharp-edged humor of people who think they know everything.

“You two,” he slurs, pointing between you with mock accusation. “When are you gonna admit you’re more than best friends?”

You both laugh. You’re good at this part—the pretending. The easy deflection.

But when you glance at Isack, his smile falters, just for a flicker of a second, like he’s tired of the joke. Like maybe he’s wondering the same thing you are.

When the group dissolves, scattering toward the next round of drinks, Isack hooks a hand around your wrist and tugs you gently toward the edge of the deck, where the air is cooler, salt-laced and quiet.

The city glows across the water, all soft golds and silvers, like the world’s been dipped in sweetness.

“You know,” he says, voice slurred just slightly, his words looser than usual, “I hate when they say that.”

“Say what?”

“That we’re just friends.” His thumb brushes across your wrist absently, circling over your pulse point like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“That’s what we are, though. Right?” you say it like a joke, but it sticks in your throat.

Isack’s smile twists, like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.

“You know what’s funny?” he murmurs, stepping closer, until there’s nothing between you but the thin air of the Monaco night.

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you like a best friend.”

The world stills. The sea, the music, the pulse of the party. All of it fades under the weight of those words.

His hands find your waist, clumsy but careful, his fingers warm against the fabric of your dress.

“I bought this dress because—” your voice wobbles, your throat thick, “—because I thought maybe you’d notice.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, leaning in until his forehead nearly rests against yours.

“I noticed.” His voice drops, just for you. “You’re all I ever notice.”

You’re both drunk. Drunk on champagne, on years of pining, on the sheer relief of finally saying what’s been trembling between you all this time.

His thumb slips under the strap of your dress, just barely, tracing lazy circles into your skin, and your breath hitches.

“Do you remember when you signed for VCARB?” you whisper, heart thudding wildly against his chest.

His eyes darken, his grip tightening.

“I remember thinking if I kissed you then, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Your laugh catches, soft and disbelieving. “Idiot. I wanted you to.”

His hands slide up to cup your face, his fingertips brushing your jaw as if you’re something breakable.

“I want you now.”

Your name falls from his lips again, and this time—this time—you let everything stop for it.

And then he’s kissing you. Sloppy, champagne-sweet, all teeth and desperation and years of holding back. His hands cradle your face like he’s terrified you might disappear, and you fist your fingers in the front of his shirt to keep him anchored to you.

It’s not perfect, not practiced—it’s a collision. But it’s yours. Finally.

When you pull back, dizzy and breathless, you don’t let him go far.

“You really are an idiot,” you murmur, resting your forehead against his.

“Yeah,” he breathes, grinning like you’ve just handed him the entire world. “But I’m your idiot.”

His thumb drags softly under the strap of your dress again, a subtle, teasing pull.

“Was the dress really for me?” His voice is low now, playful.

You hum, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Only bought this dress so you’d take it off.”

His breath catches, his hands stuttering against your waist.

“Oh,” he says, and it’s so stunned, so perfectly him that you laugh, giddy and weightless and warm.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, trailing your fingers along his jaw, “you’ve got time.”

And as the music swells behind you, as the sea laps against the hull and the city flickers like a heartbeat across the water, you realize you’ve stopped waiting.

Because he’s yours now. And maybe he always was.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Thanks for reading!!!

#isack hadjar fic #ih6 x reader #f1 imagine #isack hadjar fluff #ih6 fluff #ih6 x you #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 fic

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cheftsunoda · 26 days ago

Text

wait, what? — ih6

smau + real life

lewis hamilton x !daughter reader

isack hadjar x !model hamilton reader

Isack grew up idolizing Lewis Hamilton — posters on the wall, interviews memorized, the whole deal. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the moment he unknowingly asked out his daughter. One minute, he’s shooting his shot… the next, he’s dating a Hamilton.

fc : halima saadiyah

not proofread — still trying to brainstorm ideas for new series— send me any requests!

—

whotfisnaya

liked by lewishamilton, kikagomes, charles_leclerc & 1,348,308 others.

whotfisnaya : can’t talk rn doing hot girl shit

(also ferrari get your shit together or so help me god😁🔪)

—

kikagomes : my gf lover angel gave me flowers when i landed this morning 💘💋🤩🥹

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : take notes pear, this is why she is mine

liked by kikagomes

pierregasly : I lost her to you a long time ago..i just quit fighting

username00 : don’t feel bad pierre, it’s just part of the hamilton charm

liked by whotfisnaya & kikagomes

lewishamilton: Bub. What did we say about threatening the new team already? At least give them a full season.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : my patience is out. i choose violence.

lewishamilton : I will not be making any further comments on that. You look beautiful, princess! Miss you.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : thank you fatherrrr💘 see you this weekend!

liked by lewishamilton

charles_leclerc : welcome to the ferrari family, naya!

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : idk how you’ve made it this long leclerc…i would’ve crashed out and burnt everything to the ground like 3 years ago

liked by charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc : I’ve thought about it…but i just keep going back

whotfisnaya : stockholm syndrome. ferrari free my man from these chains

liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

georgerussell63 : only 6 races into the season and I already miss you (somehow)

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : you try so hard to act like you don’t love me but i think you cried harder about me leaving than you did about dad

lewishamilton : can confirm

whotfisnaya : tell big man toto to be prepared because i am coming over next race

liked by georgerussell63

georgerussell63 : mario kart?

whotfisnaya : sigh. yes GR

carlossainz55 : psssst. it doesn’t get any better naya

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : im glad you’re free my friend

whotfisnaya : gonna start some mid season contract negotiations for him — im tired

whotfisnaya : WHO WANTS 8 (🖕🏻) TIME WORLD CHAMPION LEWIS HAMILTON ON THEIR TEAM

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63, pierregasly, lando, olliebearman, and oscarpiastri

lewishamilton : naya honey there is a reason I have professionals do this

—

f1 added a post to their story!

seen by 12,453,389.

—

There’s something about the Ferrari red that still doesn’t feel real. I’ve spent most of my life watching my dad win in silver, black, even turquoise—but red? It still throws me.

Still, I can’t lie… he wears it well.

I stroll into the paddock, dodging cameras and a few fans with sharp eyes. Sunglasses on, credentials tucked into my jacket, I keep my pace casual. Familiar.

“Look who decided to show up,” Dad calls before I even reach the Ferrari garage. He’s leaning against the wall in his race suit, arms folded, exuding the exact same energy he’s always had before lights out—calm, confident, and just a little smug.

“Didn’t want to miss my favorite guy in red,” I say, stepping in for a quick hug. He pressed a kiss to my temple.

Charles appears beside him, grinning as always. “You mean me, right?”

“You’re definitely top three,” I tease. We share a hug.

We fall into easy conversation—something about tire strategy, Charles’ espresso addiction, and how dad had to clear things with Ferrari after my recent…comments online.

It’s comfortable here. Familiar. But after a while, I shift my weight and check the time.

“I’m gonna go find Ollie,” I say, casually, but I see the way Dad lifts an eyebrow.

“Just friends,” I remind him before he can say anything.

“I didn’t say a word,” he replies with a smirk.

Charles, of course, does. “That’s not what your dad’s face says.”

I roll my eyes and walk backward toward the exit. “You two need new hobbies.”

—

The Haas garage is less polished than Ferrari’s—more wires, more noise, more energy. It feels alive.

Ollie spots me right away, lifting his helmet slightly and grinning. “You’re late.”

“You’re early,” I shoot back.

We fist-bump and fall into step, walking along the edge of the garage. “We’re still on for that sim day next week?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

As we walk, someone else joins us— shorter than Ollie, dark curls, relaxed smile.

“Oh—Naya, this is Isack. Isack, Naya.”

I offer a small smile. “Hi.”

Isack returns it, maybe a little too quickly. “Hey. Uh… sorry, are you new to the paddock?”

Ollie snorts. “You could say that.”

I shrug. “I’ve been around a while.”

He holds out a hand. “Well, it’s cool to meet you. Are you, like… press or PR or something?”

I shake his hand, biting back a grin. “Something like that.”

Ollie coughs pointedly but doesn’t say more. I shoot him a look—don’t you dare ruin this.

Isack turns slightly red, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re probably used to being around all this, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, eyes flicking back toward the sea of red where my dad is doing media interviews. “You could say it runs in the family.”

—

I didn’t mean to hang around the garage that long. Really, I didn’t. But somehow, after Ollie wandered off to a briefing, I was still there—leaning against a pit wall, sipping on a bottle of water, chatting with Isack like we’d known each other longer than just a few hours.

He was easy to talk to. Surprisingly easy. Funny in a quiet way. Charming in a not trying too hard kind of way.

“So, you’re not press. You’re not PR. But you are paddock fluent,” he says, leaning on the wall next to me, arms crossed.

I smirk. “Observant.”

“And you won’t tell me what you actually do?”

“I like mystery.”

He laughs. “Alright, Miss Mystery. You coming to the after-party tonight?”

I tilt my head. “Depends. Are you going?”

“I might now,” he says, eyes glinting. “If I knew someone cool would be there.”

My smile softens, but I keep my voice even. “I’ll think about it.”

He pauses for a beat, and I can feel the shift—the way his tone gets just a little more serious, like he’s testing the water.

“Okay, real question,” he says. “Do you want to get coffee sometime? Like, not here. Somewhere… quieter. Just us.”

For a second, I just blink at him. He still doesn’t know. Still doesn’t realize who I am.

And it’s kind of… nice.

“Are you asking me out, Isack Hadjar?” I ask, folding my arms with a playful smile.

He grins, a little sheepish. “I think I am, yeah.”

I pretend to consider it, tapping my chin. “Hmm… you’re cute. And bold. I respect that.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Maybe,” I say, letting the word hang. “But only if you promise not to freak out when you find out who I am.”

His smile falters, just a little. “Should I be scared?”

I grin. “Terrified.”

Just then, I hear someone call my name—one of the Ferrari PR girls, waving me over.

“Duty calls,” I say, stepping back.

He watches me go with a slight frown. “Wait, are you actually someone famous or—?”

I shoot him a wink over my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”

Lando and Max stood next to Ollie and the rest of the rookies who were watching intently.

“He doesn’t have a clue who she is, does he?” Max asked with a smirk present on his face.

“Nope.” Ollie said with a chuckle.

—

whotfisnaya

liked by olliebearman, isackhadjar, charles_leclerc & 2,277,843 others.

whotfisnaya : i was told no more threatening ferrari so idrk what to caption this paddock dump

—

charles_leclerc : out of all the pictures you chose THAT one naya

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : that’s what you get for stealing my phone charles

scuderiaferrari: thank you naya. we appreciate you for trying

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya: id appreciate you guys trying some actual strategy

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and carlossainz55

username00 : NAYA😭

isackhadjar : so nice to meet you today, naya!

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : nice to meet you love!!

olliebearman : and to think you tried to tell me the ears weren’t a fashion statement

olliebearman : i look GOODt

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : bitch u look good with a t at the end…or whatever tf saweetie said

georgerussell63 : half of our mario kart time was taken up by you and toto gossiping

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya: god forbid a girl and her bestie catch up

whotfisnaya : still gave me enough time to beat your ass

georgerussell63 : i demand a retrial

whotfisnaya : you just want to hang again

georgerussell63 : blah blah details

username7 : her and toto gossiping omg

—

whotfisnaya added to her story!

seen by lando, olliebearman, lewishamilton & 2,278,358 others.

lando : does he know yet?

whotfisnaya : girl ur so nosey…and no

olliebearman : get in there isack!!!!

whotfisnaya: hate u 💘

lewishamilton: Hm. Who?

whotfisnaya: I don’t kiss and tell father but you will meet him soon.

lewishamilton : Sigh. I’ll go ask Toto.

whotfisnaya: that man would never spill my secrets, not even to you.

—

I wasn’t even nervous. Okay, maybe a little. But it wasn’t like a real date, right? Just coffee. Just… two people getting to know each other, in a quiet café tucked away from the chaos of race weekends. No pit lane, no photographers, no Ollie looking smug in the background. Just me and Isack and some overpriced espresso.

He was already there when I arrived — black hoodie, cap pulled low, sunglasses on like we were undercover spies instead of two mildly recognizable faces. He stood up when he saw me, smile soft and completely unguarded.

“You made it,” he said, sounding almost surprised.

“I said I would,” I replied, sliding into the chair across from him. “Do I strike you as unreliable?”

“Not at all,” he grinned. “Just… cool enough to bail at the last second if something better came up.”

I shrugged. “You’re lucky I like coffee.”

We talked for over an hour. About everything and nothing. He told me about his first karting crash, the fact that he still forgets to pack socks on travel weekends, and how much he actually hates running, no matter what his trainer says. I told him about the cities I’d lived in growing up, my obsession with baking shows, and my ongoing feud with Ferrari’s coffee machine.

(That part almost gave me away. But he didn’t catch it. Not yet.)

At one point, he leaned back, just watching me over the rim of his cup.

“What?” I asked, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

“You’re hard to figure out.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not at all.”

The silence between us was warm, not awkward. Comfortable. Which is probably why I blurted it out before I could overthink it.

“So… I’m having a birthday thing at the end of this month. It’s kind of a mix of family and friends, not a huge party, but you should come.”

He blinked, like I’d just asked him to join me on a trip to the moon. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Why not?” I took another sip of my coffee and added casually, “You’re fun. I like you.”

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that didn’t need any clever reply.

“I’d love to come,” he said finally. “What should I wear? Are we talking jeans or, like, red carpet-level fancy?”

I laughed. “Definitely not red carpet. Just… look nice. And maybe be ready for a few surprises.”

His brow furrowed. “What kind of surprises?”

I smirked. “You’ll see.”

—

whotfisnaya

liked by isackhadjar, georgerussell63, olliebearman & 2,389,294 others.

whotfisnaya: life’s been cute or whateva

—

lewishamilton: I always thought I spoiled Roscoe the most and then I came back and you had ordered him every vegan item off the menu.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : that’s my boy right thurrrr— he asked me for it all and I deliver

lewishamilton : yeah on my credit card

whotfisnaya: duh

georgerussell63 : so honored to be included in a dump alongside your soft launch

whotfisnaya : only added because carms looks so cute

carmenmmundt : love you naya❤️❤️

liked by whotfisnaya

georgerussell63 : BETRAYAL

olliebearman : oh so we’ve moved into a soft launch era?

whotfisnaya: I literally should have never taught any of you men that phrase

—

isackhadjar

liked by whotfisnaya, olliebearman, yukitsunoda0511 & 424,289 others.

isackhadjar : lovin’ life

—

olliebearman : getting close with the in laws I see?

this comment has been deleted

olliebearman : who is the lady?!

isackhadjar : nunya

olliebearman: that’s a weird way to spell naya.

whotfisnaya: oliver stop being a menace

yukitsunoda0511 : 🔥🔥

username00 : him having Lewis’ daughter in his likes and his dad comforting him must feel amazing

—

lewishamilton

liked by whotfisnaya, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 & 4,397,298 others.

lewishamilton : Happy birthday to my favorite girl in the world. Watching you grow into the woman you are today has been the greatest privilege of my life. You’re smart, bold, kind, and full of fire — just the way I always hoped you’d be. Keep chasing what sets your soul on fire. I’ll always be in your corner. Love you endlessly.

—

olliebearman: ofc the one day isack avoids instagram- sigh. HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAYA LOVE YOU

charles_leclerc : happy birthday mini hamilton! can’t wait to celebrate you.

georgerussell63 : to the biggest most lovable menace on the planet— happy birthday!

susie_wolff : Happy Birthday Sweet Girl!

scuderiaferrari : happy birthday naya!! 🎈🎈

mercedesamgf1 : happy birthday naya! we miss you so much!

—

The thing about hosting your birthday in Monaco is that there’s always a yacht, always a DJ, and always a guest list full of people who look like they belong in a GQ spread.

Mine wasn’t over-the-top — not by Monaco standards, anyway. Rooftop terrace, ambient lights, too many photographers across the street pretending not to be watching.

I spotted Isack the second he walked in, wearing a button-down that was definitely ironed by someone else and looking very out of place in the best way possible.

He kissed my cheek when he found me. “Happy birthday, Miss Mystery.”

“Glad you came,” I said with a grin. “Feeling brave?”

“Honestly? A little nervous,” he admitted. “I’ve seen three world champions already and I’ve been here five minutes.”

“Mm. You might want to stay nervous.”

I took his hand and pulled him gently toward the center of the terrace, weaving past Red Bull engineers, a retired footballer, and a couple of Ferrari mechanics.

And then—there he was.

Dad, standing by the bar, dressed in a sleek suit and sipping on sparkling water.

“Hey,” I said, walking up to him. “Someone I want you to meet.”

Dad turned, already grinning.

“This is Isack,” I said, as casually as if I were introducing him to my barista. “My boyfriend.”

Isack froze. Completely.

“Isack,” Dad said, offering his hand with a knowing smile. “Good to see you again.”

Again.

Isack blinked. Twice. Looked between us. “Wait. Hold on.”

I tried not to laugh.

“You’re…” He looked at Dad. “You’re her…?”

“Father,” Dad said smoothly. “Did she not mention that?”

“I—no. She definitely didn’t.”

I took a sip of my drink, trying not to smirk. “Felt like it would ruin the surprise.”

Isack turned back to me, eyes wide, voice half a whisper. “You’re Lewis Hamilton’s daughter.”

“Took you long enough.”

Dad clapped him on the shoulder, a little too hard. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Isack looked like he was questioning every life choice he’d ever made. I leaned in, voice just for him.

“close your mouth, love. you’ll catch flies.” i said and pushed up his chin.

—

“Oh no,” Isack muttered under his breath. “Why are they all here.”

“Because I have amazing friends,” I said sweetly. “And they love watching you suffer.”

“Hadjar!” Lando called, arms already spreading like he was about to hug him just to whisper something evil in his ear. “So you’re the one dating the princess of Formula One, huh?”

Jack whistled low. “You’ve got some guts, man.”

Kimi, deadpan as ever, tilted his head. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t know!” Isack said for what was probably the seventh time tonight. “She didn’t say anything!”

“He called Lewis ‘sir,’” Ollie chimed in again, grinning like this was the best day of his life. “It was so formal.”

“Wait, did you?” Lando asked, barely holding in his laughter. “Like, a ‘Hello, Mr. Hamilton, may I date your daughter’ type situation?”

“He panicked!” I added, giggling. “Tried to act like they hadn’t met before.”

“I had no idea!” Isack groaned. “You all suck.”

“I’m just saying,” Jack said, nudging Kimi. “If I found out my girlfriend’s dad was seven-time world champion Lewis Hamilton, I’d have walked straight into the Mediterranean.”

Kimi nodded, stone-faced. “We still might throw you in.”

“Please do,” Isack said, face in hands. “End it.”

Lando gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder. “Look at it this way. You’ve already peaked. Can’t go higher than impressing Lewis Hamilton.”

Ollie leaned into me with a smirk. “You know he didn’t even realize until Lewis introduced himself back?”

I sipped my drink. “Timing is everything.”

Isack looked up at me then — red-faced, wide-eyed, but grinning. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Only a little,” I teased. “But hey — you’re handling it like a champ.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like an F1 champ or…?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jack said dryly.

Kimi cracked the faintest of smirks. “We’ll see how you qualify next weekend, Hamilton’s boyfriend.”

—

whotfisnaya

liked by isackhadjar, lando, lewishamilton & 4,389,387 others.

whotfisnaya: long story short…i love isack and isack loves my dad (the selfie is warming my heart by the second)

—

username00 : dating your idols daughter?? wasn’t familiar with your game isack

olliebearman: neither was he

whotfisnaya : oliver be nice

lewishamilton : Welcome to the family, Isack. We love you even if you are oblivious sometimes.

liked by whotfisnaya, lando, isackhadjar and olliebearman

olliebearman : is it cheating since he will be mentored by the goat?

lando : he fr just skipped ten levels

isackhadjar: love you the most even if you embarrassed me in front of my goat

liked by whotfisnaya

—

🦋🐞💋🫶🏻🧜🏻‍♀️

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bear-yawns · 2 months ago

Text

　𝗕𝗜𝗚 𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗢𝗡 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗢𝗡.　formula one · #f1

　　　whether the f1 grid prefers being the big spoon or little spoon when cuddling.

genres : fluff ... established relationships ... f1 grid x reader (max verstappen, yuki tsunoda, lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, ollie bearman, kimi antonelli, isack hadjar, carlos sainz, alex albon, zhou guanyu, franco colapinto included).　word count : 1k.　warnings : not proofread.　 note : ugh i think my brain melted by the end of this it was SO hard to think of how to write these without it being super repetitive and low-key i think it still is repetitive but know i tried my best </3　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

𝗠𝗔𝗫 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗡

a big spoon all the time, his arms are like your safe haven. whether in bed, on the couch, or a simple hug in the kitchen, his arms are around yours like it’s the most natural position ever. if you were really truly insistent about being the big spoon, he will attempt being the small one, but he’s not a big fan of it. you need to be in his arms, there’s simply nothing else that will satisfy his itch for physical contact quite like it.

𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗢 𝗡𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗦

he usually starts out as the big spoon, but he always ends up as the little spoon after a few minutes. there’s something so comforting about being nestled in your arms, forehead and curls nuzzling against your shoulder. is always just extremely soft in your arms, but will end up denying that he likes being a little spoon. insists he’d rather have you in his arms than the other way around even when he naturally moves to the smaller position first.

𝗜𝗦𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗛𝗔𝗗𝗝𝗔𝗥

if you asked him, he would say he’s a big spoon without skipping a beat. but in actuality he always becomes the little spoon with you, even if he doesn’t realize it. he’ll get distracted by your hand gently scratching a spot on the nape of his neck or your arms hugging him tightly. he doesn’t even really register that you’re the one spooning him after he was so adamant he was nothing but a big spoon.

𝗞𝗜𝗠𝗜 𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜

he likes being a big spoon, but it entirely depends on the situation, and how eager you are to have your hands in his curls. he will happily let you rest your arms around his waist during late night cuddle sessions, but during the day, he’s definitely going to be the big spoon. maybe a little bit of boyfriend protectiveness comes into play as well, but your waist is like a magnet for his hands. he’s always holding you like that, and will rest his chin on your shoulder too!

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗘𝗦 𝗟𝗘𝗖𝗟𝗘𝗥𝗖

charles is usually the big spoon, because it feels more natural to him. he’d definitely the type to rest his chin on your shoulder as he’s hugging you or trace little circles on your hip. whatever position you’re cuddling in, he needs to have you as close as possible to him. he loves the smell of your perfume and shampoo and it keeps him cuddled as close as possible, face buried in the joint of your neck and shoulder.

𝗬𝗨𝗞𝗜 𝗧𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗢𝗗𝗔

now yuki hates thinking of himself as the little spoon. he already gets people pointing out how small he is all the time, and admitting that he likes being cuddled up in your arms instead of taking the more “manly” position feels wrong. but he can’t deny it when he’s with you. he loves having his head rested on your chest or shoulder, legs intertwined too if possible. and maybe you also hug your arms around his waist before you go to sleep, but does it really count as a little spoon? (yes, yes it does).

𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗫 𝗔𝗟𝗕𝗢𝗡

alex is tall, making being the big spoon just make more sense. anytime he’s trying to be the little spoon, it just ends up a little awkward and only half spooning. so he’s glad that you’re both content to have him fulfil the role most nights. you fit so perfectly in his arms too! he almost doesn’t want to let you go in the morning when he wakes up with you still snuggled closely to his chest <3

𝗭𝗛𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗨𝗔𝗡𝗬𝗨

guanyu is good for whatever you want. he doesn’t mind either way! it’s comfortable to be the big spoon or little spoon depending on the situation. usually when you’re falling asleep he will be the big spoon, but regular cuddling could go either way. you like to hug his waist and rest your head against his back, which ends up in him being the little spoon a lot of the time.

𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗢 𝗖𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢

you can barely count it as spooning, since franco’s favourite way to cuddle is him entirely on top of you, or you entirely on top of him. he likes the weight of your body, and tracing little patterns on the back of your shirt while you cuddle. on the flip side, he appreciates resting his cheek on your chest or having your arms around his waist. he thinks the concept of spooning is a little redundant though. as long as you’re both cuddling, that’s all that matters. he never gives it much thought when he’s pulling you into his arms.

𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗦 𝗦𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗭

big spoon. just not a chance he’s ending up the little spoon on purpose. maybe a couple of times he’s woken up as the little spoon after tossing and turning in the night, but he’s 100% gonna fall asleep being the big spoon for you :( and he loves holding you in his arms too! his hands are meant to be around your waist and his shoulders perfectly blanket your figure— truly he has to be the big spoon. there’s just no other way when you fit so perfectly in his arms.

𝗢𝗦𝗖𝗔𝗥 𝗣𝗜𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜

big spoon usually, but he doesn’t have much of a preference. he’ll just go along with whatever you want, whether that’s to be in his arms or have him in your arms, he never questions it. he does like it when your hair is close enough to his face that he can smell your shampoo, though. he thinks it smells amazing and it definitely has him pulling you closer and hugging you tighter.

𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗡

big spoon no questions. he’s got long limbs and their purpose is to wrap around your body. he honestly doesn’t know what to do with himself when you’re trying to be the big spoon. you’ve definitely tried before and both come to the conclusion that you being the little spoon is much better. he just feels a lot more comfortable holding you. plus he likes to kiss your forehead and nose and the position gives him easy access!

taglist: @lxvemaze,, @liawleclerc,, @caffeineboi,, @divierses

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littlegrapejuice · 9 days ago

Text

Post Uploaded! | IH6

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x Reader

Summary: Being VCARB's social media admin is definitely not for the weak, especially when you got a chaotic duo to babysit. But maybe it isn't so bad when it means that you can land a cute driver as your boyfriend.

Author's Note: whoever's the actual vcarb admin, ilysm🫶🏻 istg i look forward to watch whatever they post everyday, it's just fucking hilarious + the dynamic btwn isack and liam is🔛🔝 also, huge thank you to my bestie @sk8termikey who beta read this, ily babe<3

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

“Have you seen this trend?” was probably the question that Isack asked you the most. And whether you replied positively or negatively, it was always followed by “can we do that?”.

As part of Racing Bulls’ social media team, it was supposed to be your job to be creative and find ideas for the team’s socials. However, due to Isack being even more chronically online than you, he was always suggesting things before you even had time to edit and post the previous videos you had filmed.

It was certainly a bit calmer now that Liam had replaced Yuki at Racing Bulls – Yuki was as chaotic as Isack, and them being together meant that you were never able to catch a break during race weekends. Still, Liam and Isack made up for a crazy duo.

But even if you let out the biggest sigh known to mankind whenever Isack was walking up to you, far from innocent grin on his face, you were glad that you didn’t have to force your drivers to film content. Social media admins from the other teams often expressed their jealousy, gushing about how lucky you were that you didn’t have to chase your drivers in the paddock just for a ten seconds long video.

You weren’t paid enough for that, though. You loved your drivers, you really did. But God, they were way too energetic for you. You had to listen to them talk about Cars at least twice a day – you loved the film, but not enough to hear about it every time you were with them; and they often argued about who you’d prefer based on whose idea you’d film first – definitely not Isack. But the most draining thing was for sure when they would both follow you everywhere around the paddock as soon as they had a video idea. Hell, you even had to get lunch with them – more like them getting lunch with you actually – while they showed you examples and made you listen to funny audios.

But you loved them, most of the time.

Except right now.

Right now, all you wanted was to relax. Well, relax as much as you could while working. You had your headphones on with some of your favourite songs playing and were looking at some pictures from the latest race as you had to choose which ones to post after having also edited several videos. You were in your little bubble, until Isack sat down in front of you. You tried your best to ignore him for the time being, but you could see from the corner of your eye that he was expecting you to interact with him.

Not removing your headphones, you decided to acknowledge him:

“Please, just give me ten minutes. I’m almost done with this, and then I’m all yours. Been on it for the past hour; I’m dehydrated and I have a headache, but I’ll be free for whatever silly trend you got. Just ten minutes, thanks Isack.”

It could’ve been considered rude from you to not even glance at him, but he understood. Not that you had seen or heard anything, but Isack nodded and told you that he would be back soon. You were focused on your task, and desperately needed to finish it before the next event of the weekend was to happen. You weren’t usually this dramatic, but you were more exhausted than usual because of the triple header, and were therefore more stressed to not fulfill your job within the deadlines.

After ten long minutes that felt like an hour, you were finally done with your editing. Pictures and videos had been posted; they featured both drivers, and all had a nice caption. You sighed as you leaned back on your chair, removing your headphones before putting them around your neck. You then noticed that Isack wasn’t here anymore, and wondered if you had been too mean to him.

Still, you took advantage of the calm and silence that echoed in the room. Everyone else was either downstairs or outside, and you found peace in the quiet around you as you closed your eyes.

Breathing in, and out. In, and out.

You were a bit less tense than earlier, and kept enjoying the silence until you heard someone approach as they seemingly put something on the table. Opening your eyes, you saw that Isack was sitting down once again in front of you.

“You’re back, good. Just five more minutes of peace, and we can film whatever you want.”

“It’s okay,” Isack replied. “This is for you, by the way.” He pointed to the glass on the table.

“Me?” You asked, straightening up and looking at him.

“Yeah, you said that you were dehydrated and had a headache. So I brought you a drink, and some painkillers.”

That’s when you noticed the blister pack next to the glass, and you couldn’t help the smile that appeared on your face. Immediately popping a pill into your mouth, you didn’t hesitate gulping down half of the drink right after. You let out a satisfied sigh, which made Isack chuckle.

“Better?” He wondered.

“Yeah, that will definitely help. Sorry about earlier,” you apologised. “Guess I got a bit grumpy, but I’m free for you if you wanna tell me about whatever trend you found.”

Isack dismissed your apology and told you it was fine, before he quickly got his phone out to open TikTok. His enthusiasm was contagious. Soon enough, you were back to your usual self and laughing at the video that Isack was showing you as you both discussed what your take would be for the team’s social media.

…..

You didn’t know what to expect when you accepted that Isack and Liam take control of the team’s socials for a day. You had only agreed to it after Isack kept reminding you how well the video of him pretending to be VCARB’s admin had done, and you had to admit that it had indeed been a popular video.

So here you were, shadowing the drivers for a while until you had to take a lunch break. For once, it was you who offered them to join you. But they politely refused your invitation, claiming that they wanted to film a couple more videos. So you let them do their thing, thinking that it was fine – especially when they kept saying that you would actually be able to rest while eating.

It wasn’t fine.

Well, it was at first.

Before going back to wherever Isack and Liam were in the paddock, you decided to check if they had posted anything since this morning. There were two new videos, crossposted on TikTok and Instagram: one was of them simply notifying the fans that they were taking over VCARB’s socials for the day – simple and efficient, you thought. The other video was already a bit chaotic compared to the first one: the two drivers had tried to sneak into every garage and pretend they were from that team before someone noticed that they were, in fact, absolutely not part of it.

You had to admit, they could come after your job as the videos already had a fair amount of likes and comments. People were clearly enjoying today’s content, and you were glad that they could indeed be trusted.

But of course, something had to go wrong.

After a quick text to your drivers, you found yourself in Isack’s driver room where they had been brainstorming more video ideas. When you opened the door, you saw that Liam was apparently filming something and you were about to apologise for interrupting when Isack noticed your presence.

“Hey!” The French said with excitement. His smile was bright, like a warm ray of sunshine. “Have you seen our videos? Our content is almost better than yours!”

“I did watch them both, yeah.” You nodded, before noticing that Liam had stopped recording and was now looking at his phone with a smirk on his face. “Did I interrupt anything?”

“No, you’re fine. In fact, you helped with something.” Liam was being kind of cryptic, as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“I did?” You wondered while tilting your head in confusion. You had simply entered a room, so you were a bit lost as to how you could have provided anything to his content. “What’s your video about?”

“You’ll know when I post it later”, Liam simply replied.

“Okay…” You were quite suspicious, but decided to trust him. “Can I help with anything else?” You asked them.

“Personally, I’m good. But I wouldn’t mind if you kept us company today,” Isack admitted. “Unless you have other things to do, of course.”

“Isack, you guys are literally doing my job right now. So no, I actually don’t have anything else to do.”

“That’s great, then. You can stay with us for the rest of the day”, Liam concluded.

And so until media day was over, you had followed your drivers around the paddock. They kept having crazy ideas after crazy ideas, and you couldn't help but laugh every time they had to do multiple takes due to one of them not being able to stay in character. This was probably one of the best work days you’ve ever had, and you almost wished that they would do this more often.

Keyword: almost.

Because of course, there had to be that eventual issue mentioned earlier.

Liam had been filming Isack doing whatever he was doing until the French driver tripped on his own feet and ended up face first in a wall. The sudden noise alarmed you, and you immediately rushed to Isack’s side as he was holding his head.

“Are you okay?” You asked, worry evident in your voice.

“I think I’m dying”, Isack dramatically replied.

You chuckled at what was definitely him overreacting. You forced Isack to sit down before you crouched down to his level, making him look up at you.

“Remove your hand, please.” Isack did as he was told, and you carefully inspected his head. “Where does it actually hurt?”

“Like– my forehead,” he said.

You nodded in understanding, and cupped his face to make him stay still – it was probably not even necessary as you being so close to him was almost making him stop breathing, and he didn’t dare make a move. You gently pushed his hair back from his forehead, looking for any kind of bruise as you stroked his skin to feel if any lump had appeared. You were so focused on your task, you didn’t even notice how flustered Isack was becoming with every second passing.

Liam, however, had very much noticed. And unbeknownst to you or Isack, he was absolutely enjoying the scene, still recording for God knows what reason. This was good content for the video idea he’d had since this morning, which he had slowly but surely been filming for throughout the day.

After a couple minutes, you finally released Isack’s face – he couldn’t decide whether it was a good thing or not, given that it had been messing with his heart a lot – and he was already missing the warmth of your hand on his cheek.

“All good”, you eventually concluded. “Might have a slight bump forming, but you’ll survive. You’re a strong guy, right Isack?”

“Y–yeah, of course. Thanks”, he could only reply due to how nervous you were making him.

“Pathetic…” Liam mumbled under his breath, unheard from you nor Isack.

Glad that Isack was fine, you straightened back up with a smile before offering him your hand. He hesitantly took it, and you then pulled him up so he could stand. Not expecting to end up so close to you once again, Isack quickly took a step back with the blush intensifying on his cheeks.

Liam was definitely having a field day, while you were completely oblivious to the effect you were having on the French driver.

“I wish I could trust you to keep playing social media alone, but I’m gonna have to review your next ideas before you start filming them and I’m being put on the spot.”

The drivers both nodded, understanding that you were simply worried about them – and about your job too. So for the rest of the day, you made a compromise with them: you would still give them creative liberty to film – almost – whatever they wanted, but you had the right to veto anything that could seem to eventually end up badly for one of them.

…..

A few hours later, media day was finally over. Isack and Liam had filmed three other videos, while you supervised them like a babysitter from afar. Although they had done most of the job, you still helped them edit their videos and confirmed to them that yes, their caption ideas were funny.

“Well, this was an interesting day for sure. But I don’t think we’ll do that again for a while,” you told the drivers when all their videos were posted.

“Sorry to have wasted your time”, Isack apologised.

“It wasn’t wasted,” you reassured him. “I just didn’t rest as much as you had promised me. But it was fun, I guess.”

“It was very fun, yes. Glad I was able to know more”, Liam said.

“About my job?” You wondered.

“Amongst other things”, Liam vaguely replied.

Although a bit confused at his words, you didn’t think much of it as you knew that Liam had enjoyed the day as well. He had harboured a satisfied grin for most of the afternoon, and you were glad to see it every time you would look at him. You wouldn’t be glad in the near future, but this was another story.

After checking that the team’s social media was doing fine, you announced to Isack and Liam that they were free to leave the track and go back to their hotel. You were actually all staying in the same one, which led to Isack suggesting that you all go back together before he also asked you if you wanted to join him – and Liam – for dinner. You hesitated a bit as it wasn’t really something you often did unless there were other VCARB employees going out with you, but Isack’s excited smile made it impossible to refuse.

…..

So now you were back in your hotel room, about to go downstairs after having changed from your team kit. You were strangely nervous, already picturing the worst that could happen. It wasn’t everyday that you were hanging out with your drivers off track – only the three of you – so you really hoped that the evening would go smoothly.

But once again, you had spoken too soon.

Courtesy of Liam who had apparently come down with a “last-minute stomachache”, you were now looking at your menu with only Isack sitting at the table with you. He had surprisingly dressed up a bit, and you wondered if the supposed stomachache had been planned between the two of them. But with the way that Isack was avoiding your gaze, his cheeks slightly flushed, you truly didn’t know what to think of the situation.

It looked just like a date.

You. And Isack. On a date.

And that’s not even the worst that would happen. The worst had happened right after you and Isack had ordered. The tension had lightened a bit after a waiter had come to your table, bursting the little bubble of nervousness that had surrounded you two. You were now patiently waiting for your food as you sipped your drink, when you heard your phone going off.

You were about to apologise to Isack for not muting it, when you saw what the notification was:

Post uploaded!

Furrowing your brows, it was safe to say that you were confused; because the account that was showing wasn’t your personal one. No, it was the team’s account. And that’s when you started panicking.

“Is everything alright?” Isack asked you, easily noticing your stress.

“Yeah, hmm… it’s just Instagram being weird,” you said. “I don’t know what happened.”

Just to make sure you hadn’t posted anything weird, like a wrongly scheduled video, you opened the application. Nothing had prepared you for the video that immediately played before your eyes. The editing was basic, but the caption was far from being a usual one: 30s compilation of isack having a crush on admin.

You watched the entire video with widened eyes, each clip showing a different version of Isack throughout the day. Your face wasn’t shown, but you recognised the moment from earlier in the afternoon when you were checking on Isack after he had bumped into a wall. He was looking up at you with flushed cheeks, his eyes filled with something you didn’t dare think about.

When the video finished, it automatically replayed and you could only rewatch those clips of Isack’s eyes glancing at you – his face lightening up when you had entered his driver’s room, his smile brightening as he talked about you.

You didn’t know what to think of it. And for a couple minutes, you had forgotten that Isack was actually sitting at the table across from you.

“Are you okay?” He worryingly asked. “Your face has gone a bit red.”

Of course your face had gone red! It wasn’t everyday that you had to see your driver look at you as if you were the prettiest girl in the world – Isack wouldn’t deny that, as if you were the only thing that made him wake up in the morning, the only person he was impatiently waiting to see at every race.

“I’m fine…” That was a lie. “I just think that a certain someone posted a video on the team’s account without consulting me first.”

“Liam?” Isack guessed. He unlocked his phone to go see it himself, and was met with his own face as he clicked on the video. “Oh mon Dieu, putain…”

Isack would definitely kill Liam for that. Setting him up on a date with you was one thing, but a public video that displayed his crush on you for the entire world to see? Isack wanted to die of embarrassment. His face had gone even redder than yours, and he didn’t dare look up from his phone. He was afraid to see your expression, afraid that you’d be mad about the situation.

But you weren’t.

After a few minutes of silence between you and him, you caught his attention.

“Isack”, you called out his name which made him nervously look at you.

“Wait! Before you say anything”, he interrupted. “I’m so sorry for this, I didn’t know Liam had planned that. And I’m also sorry for the dinner, he told me at the last minute that he wasn’t coming. I swear it wasn’t on purpose! And–”

“Isack, breathe!” You exclaimed as you saw him almost hyperventilating. You took his hands in yours, which made him go still for a second. “Calm down, it’s fine.” He raised an eyebrow at you, and you chuckled. “Okay, it could’ve been better. But it’s not the end of the world,” you tried to reassure him.

“Kinda feels like it is for me”, he argued. “Liam just outed my feelings on the team’s socials, out of all places.”

“I’ll admit that was a shit move.” You were definitely giving Liam a lecture tomorrow morning, and removing his access to the VCARB account until the end of time. “I’m actually going to take this down while I think about it,” you said as you quickly deleted the video before focusing back on Isack.

“I’m sorry, again.”

“If anyone should apologise, it’s Liam. You have nothing to be sorry about, unless it’s to tell me the video wasn’t telling the truth.”

“It is…” Isack tried to avoid your gaze once again. “And now it probably ruined our friendship, as well as our professional relationship.”

“It hasn’t, though.”

“Really?” He was confused, but it was kind of getting his hopes up. “You’re not weirded out by me liking you?”

“Nope”, you replied with a grin. “If anything, the video was actually cute.”

“Cute?” Isack repeated.

“Yes”, you confirmed with a nod. “You’re cute, Isack. Sorry I never noticed this until now. Well, I would be blond not to have actually noticed. But I never truly did, I guess”

“You’re cute too.”

“Well, I hope so given how you look at me.”

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Got it!” You chuckled and leaned back in your chair. “But there’s something we can do now.”

“What?”

“Liam expected something out of this, right?” When Isack nodded, you continued. “Let’s make it happen.”

“And it is…?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” You shrugged, a challenging expression making its way on your face. “Maybe you asking me on a real date, so tonight isn’t wasted. Or maybe it’s you being the one to confess instead of Liam doing it for you.”

“I didn't really ask for that to happen in the first place”, he reminded you. “But if you’re actually serious, then I’d love for tonight to be a real date. Let me make it better than how it started.”

“You’re on the right path, don’t worry.” From the corner of your eye, you could see your food finally arriving. “Here’s to our first date!” You said as you raised your glass towards Isack before taking a sip.

“Here’s to our first date”, he repeated with a nervous smile.

And thankfully, it wouldn’t be the last.

…..

The next day, you lectured Liam for at least ten minutes. His head hung low and he apologised countless times to you. You also forced him to apologise to Isack, as the French driver had been the most affected by Liam’s actions. Luckily for him, he was saved by his engineer calling him for FP1 as it would be starting soon and so you had no choice but to let him go.

“It did work, though. Right?” Liam asked with a smirk right as he stood in the doorway.

“Get out Liam”, you only replied. “You’re on thin ice right now, and your social media privileges have been revoked for an undetermined period of time.”

“I know. But being so defensive means that it worked!” He quickly concluded before leaving you and Isack alone.

“He’s not wrong…” Isack smiled at you.

“Doesn’t mean I wanted to admit it to him”, you argued. “But yes, it did help speed up things between us.”

“You know, I would’ve still confessed even without Liam. Maybe not before months,” he admitted, “but I was planning on us becoming closer friends before that.”

“And what would’ve made you confess?” You were now definitely curious about it.

“I wish I could’ve gotten a podium first,” he explained. “I only have points as an achievement right now.”

“That’s enough for me, don’t worry.” You quickly looked at the time, realising how late it was getting. “You better go join Liam by the way, I don’t want to be fired for keeping you away from your job.”

“I would vouch for you, don’t worry. You’re the best admin we could have”, Isack claimed.

“You’re just saying that because I make you look good on our socials.”

“But you think I look good off socials too, right?”

“Get out, Isack.” Your tone was teasing, and your cheeks a bit flushed. “Go drive your little car and let me do my job in peace.”

“Okay, okay!” He raised his hands in defence, before he left his room.

Now that you were alone, your only reaction was to put your head in your hands. You could only giggle as you remembered what had happened from yesterday to just a few seconds ago.

You were just a girl after all.

But right now, you were definitely a happier girl than ever.

…..

You didn’t think that you would see Liam and Isack still in the garage by the time you finally left Isack’s room – it had taken you a dozen minutes alone before you felt comfortable to go out, but they were talking with some engineers while half of the drivers were already on track for FP1.

Taking advantage of the moment, you called out their names and they walked to where you were in between their garages.

“Okay guys, quick picture time if you don’t mind.”

“Both of us or separately?” Liam asked.

“Let’s do three pictures: two individuals and one of you together”, you decided. “I’ll see what I eventually post later.”

The drivers nodded and waited for your directions.

“Do we do anything special or…?” Isack wondered.

“Just stand there and look pretty,” you said without thinking. “Won’t be too hard for you.”

While Isack blushed at your words, Liam’s face was making an exaggerated and disgusted expression.

“I know it’s thanks to me that y’all are finally together, but please refrain from flirting in front of me.”

“That wasn’t flirting!” You tried to argue. “And we’re not even together…”

“Yet,” Isack pointed out.

“You’re not helping,” you told Isack with what you hoped was a stern glare. You sighed and tried to remain professional. “Just smile and give me some thumbs up, please.”

Taking a few pictures of them together first, you then let them go to their respective side of the garage so that they could gear up and get in their car. You took that as an opportunity to take individual pictures of them, starting with Liam.

“You know,” he caught your attention, “I’m actually happy for you two. And I’m sorry again for making it chaotic, but I’m glad y’all can make it work.”

“Thanks, Liam.” Your smile was genuine, and you knew Liam had only wanted to help. “Next time, let’s have private conversations instead of using the public internet.”

“Copy.”

You both exchanged one last smile, before you walked to Isack’s garage as he was about to put on his helmet.

“Wish me luck?” He asked, holding his helmet next to his face while he smiled for a picture.

“It’s FP1, Isack. I’m sure you can manage without me blessing your car.”

“But what if I crash and it’s because you haven’t wished me luck?” Isack was being dramatic, his voice teasing.

“Please don’t joke about that,” a mechanic said. “And definitely don’t crash on purpose to get your girlfriend’s attention.”

“Not his girlfriend”, you mumbled with a faint blush on your cheeks.

“Yet”, Isack said in reference to earlier.

“Get in the car, Isack.” You sighed as you took one last picture before he secured his helmet. You waited for him to get in the car before you spoke again. “Good luck.”

Isack’s head turned so quickly towards where you were, it almost seemed like his neck could’ve snapped. Only his eyes were showing, but you could see in the way Isack looked at you that he was grinning. Your expression was soft, which made Isack almost want to get out of the car and kiss the smile that had appeared on your face.

…..

And he would eventually do so, after getting his first F1 podium. Not wasting any time as soon as he would reach parc fermé, Isack would get out of his car so quickly that you would barely have time to realise that he was in front of you. He would hug you tightly, while everyone cheered around you. He would then struggle to remove his helmet, having only one goal.

And when he would finally succeed, Isack would drop his helmet to the ground without a care and he would get as close to you as the barrier between the two of you let him do so. And this time, his arms wouldn’t be around you; because his hands would reach for your face, cupping your cheeks and pulling you close to him as his lips kissed yours.

Isack wouldn’t give a damn about the podium, or the trophy. Because you were his prize.

In this moment, you would forget about the video of Isack that you were filming. You wouldn’t be VCARB’s social media admin anymore, you would simply be Isack Hadjar’s girlfriend. And for once, you wouldn’t mind being the one in front of the camera.

..........

Tagging the lovely people who expressed a wish to read this, thanks to y'all for motivating me to finish it: @fellowwomenlover @mrssaturday @boke---hinata---boke

HOPE Y'ALL ENJOYED🫶🏻🫶🏻

Kudos again to my bestie who's fr my soulmate bc she literally complimented on the exact thing i had been unsure of (without even knowing i had struggled w that)

Really manifesting an isack podium soon bc pookie is doing so well recently and ik he's on the right path to perform even better🕯🕯

I also wanna say that we've reached 400 followers and it feels absolutely insane, so tysm for supporting me and my silly lil fics🫂

See you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #isack hadjar #isack hadjar x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x you #isack hadjar x you #ih6 #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you

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jungwnies · 1 month ago

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bf moments | isack hadjar

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!isack x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : compilation of fluffy boyfriend isack moments

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : miami race weekend y'all...the ferrari livery was uhm.. yeah but racing bulls is so cute >.<

boyfriend!isack who playfully tries to out-sass you but forgets who he’s talking to when you raise an eyebrow like, “you sure about that?”

boyfriend!isack who makes dumb little voice memos instead of texting because he loves knowing you’ll laugh at his accent or his weird commentary on life.

boyfriend!isack who gets genuinely offended when your phone autocorrects his name. “what do you mean HADJAR isn’t a real word. i’m a real boy.”

boyfriend!isack who calls you “mon ange” when he’s feeling clingy, but also “brat” when you tease him too well and he can’t think of a comeback.

boyfriend!isack who pretends not to care about matching outfits but 100% changes into a hoodie that matches your vibe the second you’re not looking.

boyfriend!isack who gives you his hat when your hair’s in your face — then immediately takes a thousand pictures of you wearing it.

boyfriend!isack who is the most annoying passenger princess, fiddling with your playlist, turning the AC on and off, and dramatically narrating your every turn like you’re in a rally car.

boyfriend!isack who acts so smug in public but clings to your hoodie sleeves when you're alone. “no i'm not needy. i’m cold. you just happen to be warm and soft. shut up.”

boyfriend!isack who makes you laugh mid-fight on purpose because he cannot stand when you’re mad at him, even if he kinda deserves it.

boyfriend!isack who literally stops mid-moment, forehead pressed against yours, just to mumble “you know i’m obsessed with you, right?” like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula one #formula one imagine #formula one x reader #isack hadjar #isack hadjar imagine #isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar fluff #isack hadjar x you #𐐪♡︎₊˚ ― jungwnies #jungwnies #f1 #ih6 #ih6 imagine #ih6 x reader

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no-144444 · 20 days ago

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always does- i.hadjar

꩜summary: as isack's best friend, you're a little oblivious until you're not

꩜pairing: isack hadjar x fem! reader

You never understood why Isack kept you so close-by (in a metaphorical sense, of course). You were his best friend, yeah. You didn’t wander away from him, even when he moved. You just… worked through the distance and the time differences, and you were as strong as before. You didn’t pull away too much when he had a girlfriend and you didn’t expect him to pull away too much when you got a boyfriend. When you guys were together, you were there to be together in whatever you were doing. It didn’t matter if it was a simple walk, or a day out at a theme park, time together was few and far between, so you had to make it count. Your other friends stepped back for the day, Isack stood or sat by your side, his hand brushing yours until he eventually took it. And you’d stay like that. Sleep in the same bed. Make morning coffee together. Brush your teeth together. Domestic shit, but it didn’t matter. Isack and you weren’t like that, you never would be.

Obviously, you knew he was hot. Anyone with eyes and a brain saw the fact that he was conventionally attractive. But you never had that switch in your mind that your other friends had with their guy friends. They spoke about it like some day they just started seeing them differently. Like it was quick. Like it was a snap of fingers, and suddenly you're in love with him. It wasn’t the same for you. Isack was just… Isack. Your Isack. The Isack who bought you ice cream and held your hand walking down the streets of Venice, and that same Isack who would push you into the bushes in his back garden when you raced each other. He hadn’t changed much, just got taller, his voice got deeper, and he was an F1 driver. You hadn’t changed much either, ass and tits, hair longer than when you were five, and you finally didn’t work on the other side of the world, you were in Paris and he was in Monaco.

“Come to Monaco,” he begged over the phone. “I’m so bored on my own and it’s so weird here.”

“I literally told you so, Isack,” you chuckled. “And anyway, I’ve a date this weekend, so I’m busy.”

He stopped. “A date? Like with a guy?” he asked. “Why do you have a date?”

You scoffed. “Wow, thanks. And it’s just this guy who asked for my number at work. He’s sweet.”

“Seriously?” he scoffed. You didn’t notice the way his chest tightened and his jaw clenched. You didn’t see the way his breath hitched. “Just reschedule, please. I want you here.”

A younger you would’ve given in with the way he pouted, but you had a date. A date you wanted to attend. “No can-do pretty boy,” you shook your head, and he nearly passed out from the pet name. You didn’t see it, but caught a glimpse of the time. “Oh shit, I better go. Work,” you sighed, getting up. You didn’t wait for an answer. “Love you,” you smiled into your phone camera and hung up, knowing he'd say it back.

“You’re so fucked for her, aren’t you?” Liam chuckled, sitting beside Isack. It pulled him out of the small world he created on the phone with you. When he saw your apartment, he just thought of the nights he spent there, the smell of the vanilla candles, the warm lights, the wool blankets, you. Isack groaned, putting his phone back into his pocket and looking at his hands. He didn’t like to talk about it. He didn’t really know what to say about it. “Talk,” Liam shrugged. “What’s going on?” “Nothing,” he shrugged. “That’s the problem.”

“She doesn’t like you back?” he asked, cracking open a can of redbull and handing it to him, then opening one for himself.

He sighed. “She doesn’t. She doesn’t notice me. I’m just her best friend.”

“Have you talked to her about it?” Liam asked.

“How am I supposed to admit something like that?” he questioned. “What if she hates me and doesn’t ever want to talk to me again? What if I lose her completely?”

It was his worst fear. More scary than crashing the car, than losing his seat, than anything. He couldn’t lose you. He refused.

“I think you need to evaluate what you want and whether or not you can keep going like this,” Liam offered. “And I’m happy to listen more, if you need it.”

Since when was Liam so philosophical? He listened to Zach Bryan for god’s sake. He got up, tapped Isack on the shoulder, and left him to ruminate.

He remembered the exact moment he’d fallen for you. You were 15. You had come to visit him at Spa for one of his F4 races, and he’d won. He ran out of the car. You were waiting at the barrier. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. You stood there, looking so proud, so caring, so you. He couldn’t get enough. He’d race the hell out of any car anyone handed him if it meant he saw that look on your face. And you’d hugged him. You’d kissed his cheek. You stayed up all night celebrating and fell asleep beside him. You didn’t question the way he was looking at you, because maybe he’d always looked at you like that. Maybe it was just him realising then.

But you didn’t feel the same, and that was fine. He didn’t care. Well, he cared a lot, but he wasn’t going to make it your problem.

Quali was long and which was good and bad. Good, because it meant he was starting 4th in Monaco, which was incredible. Bad, because it meant he didn’t have his phone on him to track your location and watch your date play out in real time. Which is a totally normal thing to do, right?

He jumped out of the car, searching for Liam, or Ollie, or someone to talk to about how shitty the tires would be the next day, but he turned his head to the left and caught a glimpse of a face he knew all too well.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” he practically squealed. Ollie would have laughed, but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arm around your waist, lifting you up and against him. “Holy shit,” he breathed into your hair. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he couldn’t trust his senses.

And it was like your eyes opened.

You liked sleeping in the same bed as Isack. You like brushing your teeth beside him. You like the way he treats you. You liked the way he had kissed you on your 18th birthday when you were both wine drunk in Paris, walking along the river.

You froze for a moment. You didn’t let him go. He didn’t seem to care, though he untucked his head from your neck and stared at you, confused. “Are you alright?” he asked, his face changing to panic. “Y/n.”

“You’re incredible!” you shook yourself back into the moment, as if you hadn’t just had the most insane realisation of your life. “4th in fucking Monaco!”

He chuckled, his panic easing. “I know right,” he smirked. “I might just have to be your favourite driver now.”

“Of course you are,” you rolled your eyes. “Always have been,” he didn’t recognise the way you were looking at him, but he welcomed it all the same. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

“You’re quiet,” he whispered, nudging your arm with his own. The paddock was loud and full of his name, but he still noticed you. Well, it would be hard no to, for him. “What’s up?”

You looked down, seeing where your foot collided with his in a constant, soft game of footsies. “Nothing, the sky,” you listed, stifling a giggle. He rolled his eyes and looked up, sighing. It gave you time to look at him. Notice the way his neck had gotten bigger, see the progress he’d made with his training, observe his bulging biceps and arms. Holy shit you had it bad for him, maybe all your mates were right? No, it couldn’t be. Because it wasn’t fast. You’d slowly fallen for him, over a matter of years. Slowly, you’d gotten used to the small things he does for you, you appreciated the hugs and cheek kisses, the protective arm around your shoulder every now and then, that stupid laugh you’d fallen so hard for. It wasn’t this quick, free-fall. It was slow, like a leaf falling down in the autumn wind. It was different. It was Isack. “I don’t know. This weekend just feels… different. Maybe you’ll get on that podium.”

He chuckled, turning to face you. “I think something’s gone to your head,” he teased. “You sure it’s redbull in that can?”

You scoffed, playfully pushing him. “Never say never. Some things change, even when we don’t expect them too.”

He stared at you, seeing that look in your eye again. “We’re alright?” he questioned.

You nodded. “Always.”

And once again, you walked away, leaving Isack all alone with his feelings. Liam always walked by at the right time, it was disturbing. “She’s in love with you, mate.”

Isack jumped, not hearing his teammate join him on the bench (he was too busy looking at you longingly). “What the fuck-?!”

“She has it bad for you mate, I know these things,” he nodded. “You should ask her out, she’ll say yes.”

“Do you remember any of our conversation from the other day?” He stared at him in disbelief as Liam shrugged. “And, I didn’t even think she was coming this weekend so what has changed between then and now, huh?” he questioned, his accent coming out the more he spoke.

Liam cleared his throat. “Exactly mate, you’re welcome,” he smiled. “Nothing like an unrequited love story in Monaco, anything can happen here.”

“You brought her here?” Isack’s jaw dropped. “For what?!”

“For you, you fucking loser,” Liam chuckled. “Talk to her! Ask her out! Take control of your destiny!” the more he spoke the less Isack knew what he was saying. He stared at him dumbstruck as he walked off, winking at him.

What a strange weekend.

Every bone in his body ached to fall into bed, but he just couldn’t sleep. He’d tried everything. Meditation. Breathing exercises. Tea. that navy sleep technique. Visualisations. And now, walking the dark streets of Monaco. The barriers were up. The fanstands were empty, but by tomorrow morning they’d be full. And he’d be in a car on the second row. Part of him couldn’t believe it. Part of him didn’t want to. He had trouble sometimes with taking pride in his work, maybe because in his mind it was an obligation more than an ambition. He didn’t think he’d be truly happy with his career until he lifted that Championship trophy. It didn’t matter how many races he won, how many people called him the goat, or what people said about him. If he didn’t have that trophy it wasn’t worth it. His life’s work wasn’t worth it. And that scared the shit out of him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you spoke and he turned his head in disbelief. “Missed me too much already?”

You had gone to bed earlier than him, and he didn’t have a chance to offer you his bed. Which was fine. But there you were, standing there in the streets he knew like the back of his hand (well, the hairpin he knew like the back of his hand), wearing your pyjamas out in the mild Monaco air. You couldn’t have looked more beautiful. He took a deep breath. “Always,” he smirked, walking up to you. “What are you doing out here so late?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Do you always have to be so protective?” you chuckled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You started walking in step with each other, your hand wrapping around his arm as you spoke. He cleared his throat. “Worried about tomorrow?” he asked, watching your side profile as you kept your eyes ahead.

You turned to him. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

There was humor in your voice but it fell flat against the tension between the two of you. He was close. Too close. So close. You could feel his breath on your cheek, and he didn’t step back. He just kept staring. Staring and staring at your face as if he hadn’t seen it a thousand and one times. Like he didn’t know the layout of it like he knew the layout of the track beside you. The streetlamps illuminated his eyes, the perfect shade of brown. God, you could’ve just gotten lost in that moment, staring at him, when saying nothing truly meant everything.

He leaned over and his lips met yours. Not like it was planned but, not like it wasn’t either. Just simple, passionate, soft, and delicate. His hand cupped your cheek like he’d bruise it if he touched you too roughly. You didn’t mind. You kissed him back, gently running your hands through his hair as you felt yourself back up against a barrier. He didn’t stop and neither did you.

“I love you,” he breathed out against your lips, not thinking clearly. He was drunk off the taste of you, off the moment. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

You didn’t answer right away, slightly shocked at the confession. People had mentioned it, pointed it out, or blatantly told you that he was in love with you. You didn’t take it to heart. It was hard not to when his hands were on your face as he kissed you against a barrier in Monaco. Your hands fisted his t-shirt, pulling him closer. “I love you too,” your voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard it. He always did.

He pulled back with that soft smile on his face, fixing your pyjamas slightly. He looked at you with all the care in the world, but then again, he always did.

navigation for my blog :)

redbull & vcarb masterlist

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whoisraii · 22 days ago

Text

Feeling my way back to you...(IH6)

F1 MASTERLIST

starring: isack hadjar x bestsellingpoet!reader.

social media au.

includes: fluff, romance, friends to lovers, kind of slow burn {im a slowburn maniac ik 😇}, social media chaos ig? yep thats it.

note: This is like my first social media au and first time writing for Isack so like please forgive me if i mess this up slightly 😭. As alwways imma try to deliver the best but just a warning this is my first one 😭 also face claim for olivia rodrigo and louis partridge also a lill messed up dates because i forgot to read them propperly

Music: Lovers - Anna of the North (slowed)

Liked by isackhadjar,user731,and others yourusername Sundays are for poetry, coffee, and race days 🏁 imola didn’t disappoint..

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user1 the multitasking is unmatched user2 guys isack hadjar liked this like IMMEDIATELY user3 wait she watches f1 😭 ⤷ user4 oh you must be new here 🙃 ⤷ yourusername keeps me mentally sane for the entire week 😇 user5 can't wait for the new poetry book to drop 🎀 ⤷ yourusername trying my hardest to finish it within the next few months😭isackhadjar glad you liked watching the gp ⤷ user6 help 😭 he's back at it again

Liked by isackhadjar, scuderiaferrari, and others yourusername thank you scuderiaferrari for the invite, the speed and the sea were good for the soul ❤️‍🔥

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scuderiaferrari come back anytime poet 😇 charles_leclerc glad to have you watching from the paddock today ⤷ yourusername glad I got to meet Leo finally 😭 isackhadjar monaco suits you. ⤷ user3 ISACK. AGAIN. ⤷ user2 you aren't slick 💀 user6 imagine having your favorite team invite you to your favorite driver's home race ⤷ yourusername IKR I happy cried for about half an hour before letting it sink in 😭

yourusername posted a story

yourusername Definitely didn't expect this invite...but not asking twice 🌬️✈️ #vcarb

Liked by isackhadjar,visacashapprb,and others yourusername “wasn’t on the calendar, but surprises are good for the writing process 🇪🇸🌀thank you visacashapprb for the view

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isackhadjar You are a good luck charm L/n ⤷ yourusername thankyou always hadjar 🎀 visacashapprb we are fast learners 👏 ⤷ user3 and matchmakers 😭 user8 slide 3. i am eating the walls. user19 you’re telling me she just CASUALLY showed up at vcarb looking like THAT??? user5 if yall like eachother just say it 😭. end the suffering

isackhadjar posted a story

isackhadjar the world is more peaceful when she's the one yapping

yourusername thanks for not letting me fall face first in the cafe 😞 ⤷ isackhadjar always L/n

yourusername posted a story

yourusername another one? maybeee...😌

Liked by isackhadjar,visacashapprb, and others yourusername slow morning, caffine overdosage and isackhadjar

Veiw all comments

isackhadjar you do drink a very concering amount of coffee ⤷ user4 cant be that much... can it? ⤷ isackhadjar 6 cups a day is concering ⤷ yourusername who let you speak 💀 user8 i am NOT surviving this era user19 her softlaunch game is leathal 😭

Liked byyourusername,visacashapprb, and others isackhadjar too much caffine. yourusername

Veiw all comments

yourusername hey I made it less today 😭 ⤷ isackhadjar 4 cups a day is still concering ⤷ yourusername stop 💀 user8 how long are they going to drag this 😭 user1 its pure suffering at this point.

Liked byyourusername,visacashapprb, and others isackhadjar so we’re both terrible at being subtle and somehow still managed to say nothing until a fan tweet shoved us off the edge yourusername

Veiw all comments

yourusername sounds very us ⤷ isackhadjar very us user3 finallyy stopped beating around the bush 😭😭 user9 we finally made it out the blurry-photo era y’all user4 he fell first. she fell harder. user8 if she writes a poem about their soft launch i’m suing for emotional damage

Liked by isackhadjar,visacashapprb, and others yourusername so apparently ‘just friends’ don’t stare at each other like that isackhadjar. thank you, twitter, for the intervention. 🫶

Veiw all comments

isackhadjar i was just staring in a respectful, slightly obsessed way. that’s legal right? ⤷ yourusername you’re lucky you’re cute. and that you texted first. ⤷ isackhadjar justice for me typing and deleting that text 47 times btw. user9 THEY CONFIRMED??? OH WE’RE WINNING TODAY 🫠🫶 user4 his whole face changes when he looks at her i’m gonna cry on the floor brb user12 this isn’t a soft launch this is a swan dive into endgameuser83 is this why her last poem ended with “maybe the softest thing about love is the way he looked at me across a quiet room” user3 not the caption dragging them both and thanking twitter 😭 you’re welcome ig? user2 can’t believe we went from grainy café pics to full on mutual pining confession arc in a MONTH

©WHOISRAII 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

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springintosummerxx · 2 months ago

Text

﹒୨𝑒 ﾟ ˖ ⠀summer lovin' ˖ ﾟ୨𝑒 ﹒

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

ih6 x uni!reader

in which instagram witnesses lovedrunk! isack during summer break

warnings: mildly suggestive

word count: 451

masterlist

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

isack is laying in bed, skin still a bit raw from the sun, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.

he'd just posted a photo dump of the week, spent in the southern french islands on one of the other driver's yacht.

you come through the bathroom door of the hotel suite, humming a pop song, hair wet and carrying a bottle of lotion between your fingers.

before he could offer to help you, he noticed a comment on his post.

"omg slide 4"

obviously, he scrolls to slide four. it's a group picture, all of you an array of burnt, tanned and red. the two of you sit closer to the edge of the group, isack on a seat of the yacht, and you on the back of the seat.

your thigh is slung over his shoulder and onto his chest, and his hand is wrapped around your calf.

he studies the photo, momentarily distracted by the way you look in your bathing suit, and the glow of your skin.

you were mainly what he'd been looking at before choosing it to post, if he was completely honest.

what he hadn't noticed was how pressed up against you he was: his face, smushed into the thigh that was resting on his shoulder, the hand on your calf, the other reaching up to intertwine with yours that was on his other shoulder.

he ignored all of the "can isack fight" comments (there were many, but he didn't regret that the majority of the slides in the post were of you) and scrolled until another caught his eye.

"chill bro no ones trying to take her away from you"

"he's so clingy lmaoo"

he frowned. was he too clingy? he did show up to your apartment after your second date, half-drunk and needy, but...

"do you think i'm clingy?" he asks as you crawl into bed next to him.

"what?" you ask, snuggling up into his chest, peering at the phone he angles at you.

he repeats his question, and your expression turns pensive.

he likes that about you; you always answer his questions and think about them, even if they're kind of stupid.

"yeah," you admit, "but i think we're allowed to be."

he presses a kiss to your temple absent-mindedly, waiting for you to elaborate.

"i mean, we hardly get to see each other. it only makes sense that we make the most of the longer periods of time, right?"

that makes sense. and you cling to him just as much as he clings to you.

"love you, handsome," you tell him.

"love you too, mon chérie."

isack takes extreme care to cling extra to you for the rest of the trip.

#isack hadjar x reader #f1 x reader #isack hadjar x you #isack hadjar #ih6 x you #ih6 x reader #f1 drabble #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #vcarb f1 #racing bulls

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multicohn · 2 months ago

Text

summary: being promoted to f1? awesome! being teammates with your girlfriends insanely overprotective older brother who doesn't know your dating? not awesome.

warnings: yuki being overly protective, cursing

pairing: tsunoda! reader x isack hadjar

genre: smau, established relationship, secret relationship ( at the start )

face claim: naoi rei

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

youruser

liked by isackhadjar and others

youruser: gave me roses and a nice dinner because buying the world is too expensive nowadays 🙄 men…

view all comments

danielricciardo: *gasp* little tsunoda????

| user: little tsunoda aint so little anymore

user: ARE YIU SEEIOUS

user: WHAT TBE H

user: LITTLE TSUNODA HAS A BF???

pierregasly: oh!

yukitsunoda0511: WHAT THE FUCK

| youruser: um i think that’s against the guidelines

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT THE FUCK

user: not y/n pulling someone before her brother LMAO

user: aw baby’s growing up 💖

| yukitsunoda0511: NO SHES NOT ALLOWED TOO

yukitsunoda0511: TELL ME WHO IS IT

| youruser: no.

| yukitsunoda0511: ILL TELL MUM

| youruser: oh!

| youruser: she already knows 😜

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT

user: men these days are too cheap 😒 like wdym you can’t give me world????

| youruser: i knew someone would understand

user: yuki is going through it lol 😭

isackhadjar: apple juice?

| youruser: 👀

| isackhadjar: 😅

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

youruser

liked by isackharjar and others

youruser: ☀️🌊🏖🐚

view all comments

yukitsunoda0511: turn your location on. now

| youruser: no

| yukitsunoda0511: what if you get kidnapped? or he sells you?

| youruser: please trust me

| yukitsunoda0511: all men are wolves. i know i am one

| youruser: that’s not a good look for you…

user: oh i know a diva when i see her

francisca.cgomes: gorgeous

| youruser: me or the view???

| francisca.cgomes: both 😘

| youruser: 🫣

user: youre unbelievable

alexandrasaintmleux: text us if you need anything

| francisca.cgomes: and we mean… anything 👀

| yukitsunoda0511: traitors. the both of you’s

user: good genes really run in the family

| youruser: no they passed him

| user: like a true little sister

user: location?

| youruser: beach.

| user: girl 💀

isackhadjar: nice 👍

| youruser: thanks 👍

| user: help why is he so dry

| user: what do you want him to say 😭 most of the grid doesn’t even follow her cause yuki threatened them

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

youruser

liked by isackhadjar and others

youruser: *sees 3rd pic* write that down 📝 📝WRITE THAT DOWN ✍️✍️✍️

view all comments

yukitsunoda0511: FRENCH

yukitsunoda0511: HES FRENCH

| youruser: we finally have something in common 🫶

| pierregasly: keep me out of this

| youruser: i didn’t say that i was talking about you…

| pierregasly: ⁉️

| youruser: sigh. i’ll give you a hint

| youruser: he’s not actually french but he lives here <3

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT

| youruser: have fun

| yukitsunoda0511: GET BACK HERE I NEED MORE

| yukitsunoda0511: Y/N TSUNODA I SWEAR

user: at least he knows how to take pictures

| youruser: he didn’t. but i taught him

alex_albon: 👀

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT DO YOU KNOW

| alex_albon: do you want me to be honest?

| yukitsunoda0511: YES

| alex_albon: absolutely nothing lol

| yukitsunoda0511: keep one eye open 🔪

user: i would buy you everything

user: she’s so pookie coded

isackhadjar: disney!

| youruser: disney!

| user: aw they’re getting along

| user: bet it’s cause he’s french too

| user: french you say 👀

| user: girl theyve like just met dont even 💀 plus isack isn’t french he was just raised in france

| user: 👀

| user: ❌

user: yuki crashing out that she’s dating was not on my bingo card but here we are

kellypiquet: p can not stop obsessing over those ears you’re sending

| youruser: anything for her <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

viscashapprb and isackhadjar

liked by formula2 and others

visacashapprb: winter break diaries 📖 ( isack’s version ) #f1 #vcarb

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user: hey hot stuff 😏

user: aw the 2nd pic

user: im sorry king i was unaware of your game last year 🙏

user: is he single?

| user: as far as we know

pepemartiofficial: looking fresh

| pepemartiofficial: wonder who for 👀

| user: oh nvm

| user: SPILL PEPE WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user: THE LAST PICTURE????

| user: what about it?

| user: DOES THE BEACH NOT LOOK THE SAME AS THE ONE ON YUKIS SISTERS???

| user: idk every beach looks the same to me?

| user: could be a coincidence. she showed that she was staying somewhere towards the bottom

| user: how are we so sure that it was her room though?

isackhadjar: I forget to properly look through the photos i sent

| youruser: youre a dumbass i cant believe the official team account did your soft launch

| isackhadjar: you love me

| youruser: guilty

| user: HWAT

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

isackhadjar

liked by youruser and others

isackhadjar: i have been given hard launch duties. here is my girlfriend 😊💙

( tagged: youruser )

view all comments

pepemartiofficial: finally

| yukitsunoda0511: YOU KNEW

| pepemartiofficial: 🧍‍♂️

olliebearman: rip isack. you’ll always be remembered for crashing in monza 🙏

| kimi.antonelli: i will sing at the funeral

| gabrielbortoleto_: i will prepare a speech

| jackdoohan: i’ll arrange a casket

| liamlawson30: i’ll get the location

| fernandoalo_oficial: and i will do flowers 👍

yukitsunoda0511: YOU

yukitsunoda0511: DIE

yukitsunoda0511: NOW

pierregasly: there he is

| danielricciardo: never even got a chance to meet him 😔

| pierregasly: it was better this way 🕊

youruser: not yuki beating me when im literally right next to you…

| youruser: this is embarrassing i need to step up my game

| yukitsunoda0511: YOURE WHERE WITH WHO

| youruser: in paris with my boyfriend 😁

youruser: WHY DID YOU PICK THOSE PICTURES

| isackhadjar: cause i like them

| youruser: omg really

| isackhadjar: yes. i like everything about you :)

| youruser: let’s get married

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT NO

yukitsunoda0511: you’re going to regret ever being in f1

| youruser: yuki seriously chill. i’m not a kid

| yukitsunoda0511: idc YOURE MOT ALLOWED TO DATE ESPECIALLY A DRIVER

| youruser: too bad plus mum loves him

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT

youruser: i love you

| isackhadjar: I love you more

yukitsunoda0511: ill see you in australia.

| isackhadjar: i feel like this is a threat

| yukitsunoda0511: it is.

| isackhadjar: oh!

| youruser: 🤦‍♀️

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dannyriccsystem · 2 months ago

Text

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER TEXTS

Summary:

Your/Their sibling takes your phone and says some meeeaan things.

Warnings: Insecure drivers! Mostly crack though

Featuring: GB5, IH6, JD7, KA12, LL30, OB87

Requests open! ☆

GABRIEL BORTOLETO - GB5

—

ISACK HADJAR - IH6

—

JACK DOOHAN - JD7

—

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

—

LIAM LAWSON - LL30

—

OLIVER BEARMAN - OB87

Thank you for the “request”! @makanirock05

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nottivagos · 3 months ago

Text

an: hihi everyone!! sorry this isn't smut for tonight, i was just feeling the isack hadjar blues and decided to write some fluff for him <3 that being said, you can now request isack hadjar fics if you'd like!!

“isack hadjar is out of the australian grand prix!”

those words loomed over the racing bulls paddock as your wide, shocked eyes fixated on the screen in front of you, broadcasting isack’s crash as a replay. the vision of the vcarb hitting the wall after spinning due to the wet conditions on track haunting you as a pit formed in your stomach, tight knots of uncertainty of his safety following.

your heart shattered. isack’s mechanics groaned out of sympathy, heads in their hands at the horror that your boyfriend had suffered on his debut in formula one's formation lap. he'd been so strong all weekend, really proving himself and pushing himself to his limits to qualify just out of the points zone, keeping himself optimistic and level headed all weekend.

as you watched him jump out of the wreck, hand covering his eyes when he lifted his visor, you felt powerless. how you yearned to hold him in his arms, ever so tightly, just to try and console him after his terrible blunder. you knew how much today meant to isack, the golden chance he had to make a mark in the chaotic world of formula one, maybe even shine above the other 5 debuting rookies on this rainy sunday in melbourne, just to have it taken away by something out of his control.

the aftermath of the crash hung heavy over the paddock, some of the mechanics muttering about how isack’s crash must've “really took a knock out of his confidence” as you watched isack embrace anthony hamilton on his way to the media den. you couldn't help but smile at the sight, not only did he get the selfie he'd always dreamed of getting with the sir lewis hamilton, but now he was being consoled by the man's father.

his head hung low, probably out of embarrassment and upset as his sombre interview became background noise as you placed your headset back on its stand, making your way over to his driver room for after his interviews. you inhaled a shaky breath, clutching your bag slightly tighter on your shoulder as your eyes slightly welled up with tears.

a lump of sadness formed in your throat, the sight of your disheartened boyfriend burnt into your mind as the moment haunted your every step. what if the accident was worse? what if he'd gotten injured before he was even able to prove himself in the car? what if his career had ended in those moments before he'd even fully begun? the ‘what ifs’ plagued your mind, as you carried on down the path.

the muffled voices of isack and his engineer could be heard as you finally made it to his driver's room. gulping back your growing sorrows, a slightly shaky fist came to knock onto the door, with an abrupt silence following.

“who's there?” his engineer called out from the closed door.

you quickly introduced yourself, hoping that you'd be able to see your partner, hoping to hold him in your arms and shower him in much needed kisses. to your relief, a mumbled “let her in,” came from isack, and the door opened.

your eyes lit up as his engineer let you have this moment with him, closing the door on both of you.

“hey honey,” your voice was soft, as gentle as it could be as you took a seat next to him on the edge of the bed. his head hung low, eyes not bothering to look at you as you wrapped an arm around his shoulder, your thumb brushing soothingly against his white fireproofs.

“i thought this was my moment, ma beauté,” a strangled sob escaped isack’s lips, his hand coming to cover his eyes as if he tried to hide his overwhelming sadness and humiliation away from you. “i've let everyone down," he continued as you sighed, sliding off of the bed, removing your arm from his shoulder to stand in front of him.

“oh, mon cher,” you whispered, hand coming to cup his stinging cheek, “look at me. please.”

isack’s head turned upwards, meeting your soft eyes with his own sorrowful expression. “it's okay,” you spoke with a loving smile, “just let me kiss you,” you hummed, lips moving to pepper his face in light kisses.

isack smiled slightly, cheeks turning slightly pink at the unexpected affection from you. his hands found your hips, grabbing them gently as you continued to kiss him all over, giggling sweetly as you felt his heart flutter and his mood change slightly.

“what's this for, hm?” he asked, moving his face away slightly, tilting his head upwards to meet your eyes. “i didn't think you would've wanted to kiss a failure.”

“isack.” your voice became sterner for a second, “you're not a failure at all. this is merely just a little slip up. there's plenty more chances to show everyone just how amazing you are,” you mumbled, arms wrapping around him in a warm, loving embrace.

he chuckled slightly, arms wrapping around you as your bodies fitted beautifully perfectly together. he then sighed, “but what if i don't get any more chances? what if i’m more unlucky. what then?”

“isack, amour, you're overthinking,” you mumbled into his ear with a saddened sigh, pressing a soft kiss on his temple in response.

“i suppose i might be,” he responded, letting you nuzzle into his neck for a moment before you let go from his embrace.

“i almost forgot,” you chuckled, rummaging into your bag before pulling out a tupperware box full of your signature freshly baked croissants. “i wanted to share these with you after the race,” you continued, presenting the box of his favourite baked goods in front of him, “but maybe you'd appreciate them now? it might turn that frown upside down.”

you chuckled softly as isack quickly took the tupperware from you eagerly. “these,” he spoke, eyes glimmering with happiness as he set them down on the bed to his side before standing up, “have just made my whole weekend.”

he added, hands coming to cup your cheeks ever so tenderly, love shining in his eyes as he flashed his signature cheesy smiles. “thank you. for everything, ma chérie,” isack mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“you're welcome, isack,” you giggled lovingly, nose grazing his own, “anything for you.” <3

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cheftsunoda · 10 days ago

Note

what about max sister who is a rookie in f1!?!?!?!

dnf (do not fall) (in love) — ih6

smau + blurbs

isack hadjar x !verstappen rookie reader

max verstappen x !sister rookie reader

being a verstappen meant racing was in yn’s blood— there was no way around that. this is her rookie year with vcarb and the one shot she has to prove herself as not only a female in f1 but max verstappen’s sister. she expects a lot of criticism and a rough adjustment but what she doesn’t expect is to fall in love with her new teammate — isack. the two are inseparable…all until a second seat at redbull opens and she has the opportunity to race next to her brother. will their young love survive?

(a/n) : i wasn’t sure if you wanted the reader to have a love interest or not and according to my polls the most requested rookie is isack and i loved this idea once i came up with it sooooooo. (anon if you want this changed i can absolutely rewrite you another version— just msg me) ps big brother max has me in a chokehold

fc : jazmynmakenna on ig and various f1 academy ladies

—

ynverstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, lando, danielriccirardo and 2,509,875 others.

ynverstappen : they gave yours truly an f1 seat! cannot wait and thank you for the opportunity @/visacashapprb. i have also chosen to race under my brother’s previous number, 33, as i hate to say it but he has been a huge inspiration to me over the years. (ft a picture of maxie when he found out)

tagged : visacashapprb and maxverstappen1

—

view 510,078 comments.

username07 : nonchalant just has to run in the verstappen genes because her announcement that she got an f1 seat as a female is too chill.

username15 : it literally does. this is the most emotion i’ve seen max show recently that wasn’t anger.

isackhadjar : kind of intimidated to share a garage with a verstappen😳

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : promise i don’t bite

liked by isackhadjar

lando : she is lying

lando : i’ve known her for years and her presence still makes me feel inferior

ynverstappen : that’s just because dominant woman give you a boner

liked by lando

username08 : 33 rebirth?? us max fans r in shambles rn

username10 : the video where max found out mid interview and freaked out (and actually showed emotion) and left to call her had me so emotional

lando : cut to me losing to ANOTHER verstappen. when will the suffering end? congratulations love, no one deserves a seat more😁

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : your suffering brings me so much joy <3 but thank you my lando. i’ll try not to lap you x

liked by lando

maxverstappen1 : “huge inspiration” meaning she has copied me since age seven. but i am so proud of you, zusje. it will be an honor to race beside you.

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : copying since age 7, overtaking since age 14 😇 proud to be your little sister— lets make history maxie:)

liked by maxverstappen1

username00 : this is so cute omg

username17 : max has always had such a soft spot for his sisters

victoriaverstappen : endlessly proud of you, ynn! you are incredible and unstoppable ❤️ love you

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : love u sm vic

josverstappen7 : 💪🏻💪🏻

liked by ynverstappen

sophiekumpen : nothing makes me happier than getting to see my babies live out their dreams together. so proud of you, yn.

liked by ynverstappen and maxverstappen1

ynverstappen : love you endlessly mama<3 thank u for giving me the strength to do it

liked by sophiekumpen

danielricciardo : i am so proud of you, bug. you did it! wish i could’ve been around to race with you but being able to watch you live your dream is enough for me.

liked by ynverstappen and maxverstappen1

ynverstappen : omg i miss you sm, danny. i love you:)

username00 : oh this has me in shambles

charles_leclerc : Congratulations! Please go easy on me, Ferrari is hurting me enough.

liked by ynverstappen

yukitsunoda0511 : let’s gooooo mini verstappen 🔥

liked by ynverstappen

susie_wolff : Absolutely incredible!

liked by ynverstappen

lewishamilton : As much as I do not need another Verstappen on the track, this is absolutely incredible and you definitely earned the spot, kid. Congratulations!

liked by ynverstappen

visacashapprb : So excited to have you! 💙

liked by ynverstappen

—

Max tapped his fingers against the armrest, half-listening as Yuki rambled about their latest post-race dinner bets. They were filming a “Red Bull Unfiltered” segment, the kind that always involved way too many inside jokes, mildly concerning questions from fans, and Max slowly losing patience with Yuki’s love for chaos.

“…and then Max tried to pay the bill with an expired hotel key card,” Yuki was saying.

“I was tired,” Max muttered, but his eyes flicked toward the producer walking over, whispering something to the crew behind the camera. One of them held up their phone, waving for Max’s attention.

“Uh,” the producer said carefully, “we just thought you might want to see this. It’s, uh, kind of big news.”

Max furrowed his brows and leaned forward, squinting to read the headline on the screen.

‘BREAKING: YN Verstappen Signs with Visa Cash App Racing Bulls for 2025 — Verstappen Set to Make Her F1 Debut’

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…wait. My sister?”

Yuki perked up beside him. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

Max snapped his head toward him. “What do you mean I didn’t know?! She didn’t say anything to me!”

Yuki shrugged. “I figured she wanted it to be a surprise.”

Max stood up so fast his mic wire popped loose.

“She’s in F1?” he repeated, voice climbing with disbelief. “Like—actually? Contract signed? Racing suit and all?!”

The producer gave a helpless nod. “It just went public two minutes ago.”

Max ran a hand over his face, pacing just out of frame. “She didn’t even text me. She just… dropped it on the internet?!”

Yuki was cackling now. “She said she wanted to do it ‘dramatically.’ I support it.”

Max didn’t answer. He was already unlocking his phone, shaking his head with a mix of pride and exasperation.

“Unreal,” he muttered, dialing her contact. “She’s in F1 and she didn’t even call her brother. I’m going to yell at her and then cry. Probably both.”

“Tell her congrats from me!” Yuki called after him.

“Tell her yourself,” Max grumbled. “She’s your problem on track now too.”

And with that, he disappeared off set—phone pressed to his ear, smile creeping in despite himself.

—

your pov

I hadn’t even posted the announcement yet. One second I was sitting in the kitchen, trying to decide if the “I made it to F1” Instagram dump needed one or three selfies — and the next, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree.

Thirty-two missed texts.

Two from Lando.

And three from Max, which was honestly scarier than anything.

I didn’t even get the chance to call him first. My phone started ringing again.

I sighed, braced myself, and answered.

“Hi—”

“YOU SIGNED WITH A CONTRACT AND DIDN’T TELL ME?!”

There it was. Classic Verstappen tone— 40% outrage, 40% disbelief, 20% Dutch dramatic flair.

“I was going to tell you!” I protested. “I just—”

“Oh, so you were gonna call me when? After lights out in Bahrain?!”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Max, relax.”

“I am not relaxing, you absolute traitor. I had to find out from a Red Bull media producer. A media guy, YN!”

“That’s kind of poetic, actually.”

“Don’t be cute! I nearly choked on my coffee!”

“Oh my god,” I groaned, flopping back into the couch. “I wanted to surprise you, okay? It was all super last-minute and I wasn’t even allowed to say anything for a week, and then it just—happened.”

There was a pause on the other end. Static silence. Then.

“…So it’s real? You’re actually—on the grid?”

I swallowed, heart twisting. “Yeah. I signed the contract yesterday. I’m a Formula 1 driver, Max.”

Another beat of silence. This one different.

“You’re a Formula 1 driver.”

And suddenly I felt it — the lump in my throat, the way my chest got tight. Because hearing it from him made it real.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice rough. “Even if you’re annoying and disrespectful and stole my number.”

I choked on a laugh, wiping at my eyes. “It was available and iconic. I saw my chance and I took it.”

“You’re the worst,” he muttered, but I could hear the smile.

“I love you too, Maxie.”

He sighed. “Just… don’t beat me too often, alright?”

“No promises,” I grinned. “I am younger, cooler, and statistically more photogenic.”

He groaned. “God help us all.”

—

The second I stepped into the paddock in my team gear, it hit me.

The cameras. The flashes. The smell of tire rubber and stress. The hum of engineers, reporters, PR teams, and mechanics buzzing like bees in a hive. It felt different. Bigger. Louder. Real. And before I could even finish taking a breath—there he was. Max. Walking toward me with his Red Bull attire on, arms crossed like he was already disappointed in someone.

I grinned. “Maxie!”

He stopped a few feet away and just stared for a second. No words. Just Max Verstappen, blinking at me like he’d seen a ghost.

“You look like a child who stole someone’s race suit.”

“Hi, nice to see you too.”

He smirked, finally stepping forward to pull me into a hug—tight, fast, and very Max. Like if anyone blinked, they’d miss it and think he wasn’t actually that emotional about it.

“You’re shorter than I remembered,” he muttered.

“You’re balding more than I remembered,” I shot back, grinning.

He pulled away, rolled his eyes, and nodded toward the paddock walkway.

“Come on. You’re with me.”

“What?”

“We’re doing a lap.”

“Max—”

“Nope. You’re not walking in alone. People are going to ask questions. And stare. And talk. So we’re going to give them a show.”

“A show?”

He smirked. “The Verstappen siblings. Side by side. Deal with it.”

And that was how I found myself being paraded around the paddock by my World Champion older brother, who somehow managed to look both wildly proud and deeply annoyed the entire time. Every five feet, someone stopped us.

“She’s really in F1 now?”

“Yes,” Max would reply, “and no, I had no say in it, which is why I’m coping with sarcasm.”

“Is she as fast as you?”

“No, she’s faster. But don’t tell her that.”

“How’s the family taking it?”

“Dad’s thrilled. Mom’s pretending to be chill. I’m recovering.”

At one point, Christian Horner walked by, gave me a hug, and said, “Don’t let him bully you.”

I smiled sweetly. “Too late.”

Max sighed like he regretted everything.

But as we finally reached the garage, he turned to me with something rare in his eyes—softness.

“You’ve got this,” he said. ��I’ll still shove you off track if you come near me, but—you’ve got this.”

I bumped his shoulder. “I’ll wave as I pass you.”

He groaned and walked off, muttering in Dutch.

But I saw it—just before he turned the corner—he looked back. Just for a second.

And he smiled.

—

Max had left me at the door with a clap on the shoulder and a “Don’t crash on your first out-lap,” which, coming from him, was peak affection. But now I was alone. Rookie. Verstappen. On paper, that combination sounded bulletproof. In reality? My stomach was twisting.

“Hey,” a voice said behind me — light, but laced with hesitation. “You’re the other one.”

I turned and found him already looking at me. Isack Hadjar. Soft brown eyes, fireproofs half-zipped, posture relaxed but eyes alert. Another rookie. Another question mark.

“I guess I am,” I replied, folding my arms like I’d been here for years. “You’re Isack.”

“And you’re Max Verstappen’s little sister,” he said with a crooked smile. “Not intimidating at all.”

“I try,” I shot back. “But don’t worry — I only bite on race day.”

He laughed softly, but I could see the nerves flickering beneath the surface. I recognized it. Because I was feeling the exact same thing — only mine was hidden under sarcasm and inherited swagger.

“You excited?” he asked, then quickly corrected himself. “I mean—nervous?”

I shrugged, eyes scanning the garage like it wasn’t swallowing me whole. “Excitement, nerves… same thing with better PR.”

Isack tilted his head slightly, studying me. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Hiding it.”

I blinked. That hit a little closer than I expected.

“I grew up with Max,” I said after a pause. “You either learn to act unbothered, or you get flattened by a remote-controlled kart before your fifth birthday.”

He chuckled again, but there was something softer in his expression now. Like we’d quietly agreed not to lie to each other about how terrifying this all actually was.

“Same here,” he said. “Well, not the Max part. Just the pretending.”

There was a beat of silence between us. Comfortable. Mutual understanding in the middle of the storm.

Then he nodded toward the hospitality tent. “Come on. I found the best coffee machine already. It’s basically sacred now.”

I grinned, falling into step beside him. “Lead the way, Hadjar. But if you crash before lap three, I’m switching teammates.”

He smirked. “Deal — but only if I get to make fun of your first pit stop.”

“Perfect. I like you already.”

And just like that, the nerves didn’t feel so loud.

—

The second the checkered flag dropped, the radio crackled in my ears with a mess of cheers and screaming engineers — but I barely heard them. My hands were shaking on the wheel. My heart was trying to punch a hole through my chest.

P3. On my debut.

I barely managed to pull into parc fermé before my cockpit was ripped open by a pair of gloved hands.

“Are you serious?!” Max’s voice cracked as he reached in, grabbing my helmeted face like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “P3?! First race?!”

I laughed — breathless, dazed. “Surprise?”

He yanked me out of the car like I weighed nothing, spinning me once before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug, my helmet knocking against his chest.

“You little legend!” he shouted. “Proud doesn’t even cover it!”

The photographers were already swarming, flashes popping like fireworks. I pulled off my helmet just in time for Max to ruffle my soaked hair with his sweaty glove, completely ignoring every PR handler telling us to move.

“I beat half the grid,” I gasped.

“You beat four world champions and Lando, which is more important,” he smirked.

“Lando’s gonna cry.”

“I hope he does. I want to frame it.”

By the time we were pushed toward the podium, I was still floating — running on champagne fumes and Verstappen adrenaline. The announcer’s voice echoed in my ear. “In third place… on her Formula One debut… YN Verstappen!”

The crowd roared. The Dutch flags waved double.

Max was already standing in the middle spot, arms crossed proudly as I stepped up. He bumped my shoulder.

“You good?”

“I might throw up.”

He grinned. “Don’t. I already claimed that corner after turn 7.”

The anthem played, the champagne popped, and Max didn’t even try to wait — he turned his bottle on me first, absolutely soaking my suit while I shrieked and sprayed him right back.

By the time we were dragged off for media, we were dripping, hoarse from laughing, and still grinning like kids who got away with something huge.

“First podium,” Max said, slinging an arm around my shoulders, “and I didn’t even have to slow down to make it happen.”

“Don’t lie,” I teased. “You saw me in your mirrors and got scared.”

He snorted. “Terrified. Genuinely.”

And for once, I didn’t have to pretend I belonged.

Because I did.

—

The second I stepped away from Max and the chaos of the podium, I was ambushed.

“P3?!” Isack shouted, eyes wide, face flushed from the heat and pure disbelief. “Are you joking?! That was insane!”

Before I could even get a word out, he pulled me into a hug — tight, overwhelming, full-body kind of joy. And then?

He picked me up.

“Isack!” I half-laughed, half-screamed, gripping his shoulders as my feet left the ground. “Put me down!”

“Never, podium girl,” he grinned, spinning me once before finally setting me back down. “You drove like a lunatic. I’m in love.”

“You say that to all the girls who finish ahead of you?” I teased, still breathless.

“Only the ones who scare me.”

—

The music was loud, the lighting low, and everyone smelled like champagne and sweat and victory. Max was in the center of it all — holding court like the king of chaos — but I had slipped out to the terrace for air. Or maybe to find him. Isack found me first.

“You disappeared,” he said, stepping up beside me. His curls were damp, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make my heart stumble.

“I needed quiet.”

“You just got your first podium and quiet is what you want?”

I glanced over at him. “I’ve had a Verstappen in my ear all day.”

“Fair,” he said, laughing. Then quieter. “You were unbelievable out there.”

I smiled. “Thanks. You weren’t so bad yourself.”

We stood in silence for a beat, the party muffled behind us, lights from the track still glowing in the distance. The kind of night that buzzed in your chest.

Isack shifted closer, his voice lower now. “You know, I’ve been trying to play it cool since day one.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, tilting my head.

He looked down at me, eyes lingering. “You’ve made it impossible.”

The space between us crackled, the air suddenly warmer. I didn’t move away.

“So stop playing.”

His hand found my waist before I even finished the sentence, and then he kissed me — soft at first, careful, until I kissed him back.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud.

It was just ours.

—

ynverstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar, lando & 4,098,022 others.

ynverstappen : kinda gagged you hoes with this one tbh— p3 for me and p10 for isack. @/viscashapprb picked the right rookies ;)

—

view 403,075 comments.

maxverstappen1 : god i raised you right. congratulations again, zusje.

liked by ynverstappen

username00 : max pulling her out of the car and into a hug had me in shambles.

lando : kinda shit my pants when i saw you come up beside me

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : how’d i look from behind lando?

liked by lando

maxverstappen1 : do not answer that lando

liked by ynverstappen

visacashapprb : rookie era = domination era

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

mickschumacher : i think max actually teared up. proud doesn’t cover it, sis.

liked by ynverstappen

pierregasly : iconic caption. terrifying sibling duo.

liked by ynverstappen

danielricciardo : you are not supposed to be able to flex this hard your rookie year. you are insane.

liked by ynverstappen

isackhadjar : ok podium princess. pop off.

liked by ynverstappen

kellypiquet : SO proud of you, yn! P was so proud of her Auntie.

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : give her a kiss for me <3

—

We were supposed to be at the F1 movie screening. You know — that very important, very serious, very mandatory private event that Liberty Media put together for the drivers. Instead? Max and I were halfway through a jumbo popcorn bucket, watching Tom Cruise sprint across a train at full speed in the new Mission Impossible movie.

“Why does he always run like that?” Max whispered, squinting at the screen. “His arms are doing too much.”

I shushed him, mouth full of M&M’s. “He’s an action hero, Max. Let him have his dramatic cardio.”

He snorted and stole a handful of my candy. “You realize we’re both going to get fined for this.”

“Not if they don’t know.”

“They’re definitely going to know.”

I shrugged. “Worth it.”

Max tilted his head. “You’d really rather be here than on a red carpet with Lando trying to flirt with himself in a mirror?”

“Obviously.”

“…Okay, fair.”

We sank deeper into the plush seats, pretending we weren’t professional athletes ditching a high-profile media event for Tom Cruise and slushies. Halfway through the movie, my phone buzzed. A text from Lando in the group chat.

where are you?? and max?? are you together??

I sent back a blurry photo of the movie screen and Max flipping the bird in the background.

family bonding exercise. don’t tattle. i will know.

Ten minutes later, another text — from Isack this time.

sigh. i will lie for you both. you owe me thoughhhh

I leaned over to Max. “We need a code word for if anyone asks where we were.”

“Easy,” he said. “We were… at a closed-door Verstappen family strategy meeting.”

“Nice. Sounds important.”

“We’re very professional.”

As the credits rolled and the lights came up, Max stood and stretched like we hadn’t just committed PR war crimes.

“Ready to face the wrath of literally everyone?”

I popped a last kernel into my mouth. “Always. Want to hit up a McDonald’s before we go back?”

He grinned. “That’s the Verstappen spirit.”

—

ynverstappen added posts to her story!

seen by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar, charles_leclerc and 10,097,004 others.

{caption : mission impossible gets a A- from the verstappens}

danielricciardo : the most verstappen thing i’ve ever seen. so unbothered. so iconic.

liked by ynverstappen

visacashapprb : this will be brought up at the meeting on monday.

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : ok but max made me so can big daddy redbull yell at him too?

lando : you both r so unhinged i love it

liked by ynverstappen

charles_leclerc : max can get away with this but you doing this your rookie year is so wild that i can’t help but love you

liked by ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 : id say more of a b+ just due to his running

liked by ynverstappen

—

508,090 likes.

f1 : Yuki Tsunoda has had to drop out of the rest of this season due to personal injury. YN Verstappen will be taking his place for the continuation of the season.

—

ynverstappen : get well my yuki pie. kiss that constructors goodbye mclaren. max and i have got it under control now <3

liked by maxverstappen1 and yukitsunoda0511

lando : god damnit

username00 : YN??? in the redbull seat???? beside her brother??? omg

username15 : from rookie to redbull in half a season?? i love her.

redbullracing : new verstappen unlocked.

liked by ynverstappen

visacashapprb : once a bull, always a bull. we will miss you, yn! good luck!

liked by ynverstappen

isackhadjar : gonna miss the best teammate on the planet:(

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : oh hush you will still see me all the time. you cannot escape me hadjar

liked by isackhadjar

username10 : little verstappen girlbossing her way to the top. iktr my queen

liked by ynverstappen

username22 : max, yn and christian walking into the paddock like that one mean girls hallway scene

username14 : isack pretending to be ok with his secret love getting promoted is tugging at my heart strings

—

The paddock was quiet. Almost unnervingly so. Most people had already gone home, flown out, moved on. Except us. I found him in the back of the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, sitting on the floor like he couldn’t be bothered to pretend he was fine.

I closed the door behind me. “Hey.”

Isack looked up. Eyes tired. Soft. Too soft.

“Hey, Red Bull.”

I winced. “Don’t call me that.”

He didn’t say anything.

I crossed the room and sat beside him. For a second, we just existed in silence — the kind that sits between two people who don’t know what happens next.

“I didn’t know,” I said quietly. “Not until this morning. I swear.”

He gave me a small nod, but I could feel the weight behind his silence.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I added. “Yuki’s out, and they didn’t want to bring someone from outside. I just… I don’t know. I got the call and everything moved so fast.”

“I know,” he said finally. “I know it’s not your fault.”

I glanced at him. “But?”

He shrugged. “But it still sucks.”

That was fair. Because it did. It sucked. We’d built this little world — a bubble between races and pressure and secrecy. We were in this together. And now, I was leaving. Not physically, maybe. But symbolically, I was crossing the line into something… different. Bigger. Riskier.

“You know I didn’t want this to change us.”

He leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. “Yeah. But it will.”

I looked down at my hands. “Do you hate me?”

His head snapped toward me. “What? No. God, no. Don’t ever think that.”

“Then say something real, Isack. Because I’m terrified. I want to be excited, but I feel like I’m losing you at the same time.”

He reached for my hand, fingers brushing over mine, like he was trying to memorize something before it slipped away.

“You’re not losing me,” he said. “You’re just… driving away a little faster now.”

I laughed, watery and cracked. “That was so corny.”

“Yeah, well. I’m dramatic.”

We sat there like that for a while — our hands tangled, our hearts somewhere between celebration and heartbreak. And neither of us said the words that felt too dangerous to speak out loud. But we both thought them.

—

ynverstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo, isackhadjar and 5,090,788 others.

ynverstappen : i did not come here to race— i came here to gamble and find aliens.

—

view 120,079 other comments.

redbullracing : your contract says you are here to race

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : details details

username00 : i just know those pictures are with isack i can feel IT

maxverstappen1 : if the fia doesn’t fine you i might. get my face off that thing. who did you even pay to do that???

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : i never spill my secrets

danielricciardo : yn. i love you so much. never change

liked by ynverstappen

isackhadjar : no aliens so far but big wins at the casino

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : my 25 cents got me a bouncy ball

charles_leclerc : you are the strangest person i ever met and i mean it with love.

liked by ynverstappen

lando : am i going to have to stare at max while i’m driving??

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : sadly no— he has to be taken down tomorrow :(

yukitsunoda0511 : did you get me one of those magnets??

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : absolutely. also got you a hat

liked by yukitsunoda0511

georgerussell63 : i would say i am surprised but this seems right on brand for you

liked by ynverstappen

oscarpiastri : aliens, beer, chaos and still managing to be faster than all of us. i respect it.

liked by ynverstappen

—

Isack leaned in close, grinning as he dropped a coin into one of those cheap slot machines near the back of the casino. It chimed dramatically — a few lights blinked — and nothing happened.

“Wow,” I deadpanned. “We’re really making financial history here.”

He turned to me with mock offense. “Don’t underestimate me. I’m manifesting a $1.25 win tonight.”

“Big spender.”

“Only for you.”

He looked good in the dim casino light — hoodie up, laugh lines crinkling, hands brushing against mine like he forgot we were still supposed to be subtle. We were tucked into a little corner, away from the high-stakes tables and the main traffic, blending in like two tourists with a gambling problem and no adult supervision. Which was ironic. Because we did, in fact, have adult supervision. And he was literally walking toward us.

“Tell me that’s not who I think it is,” I muttered, already bracing myself.

Isack followed my gaze, and then visibly stiffened. Max Verstappen. In a baseball cap. Looking so out of place in a casino that he might as well have worn a sign that said “I’m here to ruin your night.”

“Is this… a date?” Max asked, approaching like a dad discovering his daughter at prom with the neighborhood bad boy.

I blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw your location on Find My Friends,” he said simply, like that wasn’t insane. “And I was hungry. There’s a buffet. What are you doing here with him?”

Isack was trying very hard not to laugh. Max turned to him. “You. Are you corrupting my sister?”

“I’m sitting next to her.”

“Exactly. Corruption.”

I sighed. “Max, we’re literally just playing slots and pretending we’re cooler than we are.”

“You could be doing that with me.”

“You crashed our night.”

“You soft-launched him, YN. On Instagram. That’s not subtle.”

Isack, finally unable to help himself, leaned forward and said, “I can just… go lose a few games and come back if you two need to work this out?”

“No, you stay here,” Max said. “I want to watch.”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, burying my face in my hands.

Max pulled up a chair. “So. Who’s winning?”

“Not me,” I groaned.

Isack slipped an arm around the back of my chair. “Emotionally? I am.”

Max pointed a finger at him. “Keep that energy and I’ll make you drive the simulator for ten hours straight.”

—

I found Max sitting in the far corner of the hospitality suite, feet kicked up, watching an old race replay on mute with a bowl of M&Ms.

“Hey,” I said, slumping into the seat beside him.

He glanced at me, raised an eyebrow. “If you’re here to tell me you broke the simulator again, I swear—”

“I’m dating Isack.”

Max blinked. Then slowly turned to look at me, like his brain was buffering.

“…That’s not the sentence I thought was coming.”

I sighed, tugging my Red Bull hoodie tighter around me. “We’ve been together for a few months. And I want to tell people. I want to post him. But Red Bull said no. PR thinks it’s messy for ex teammates to be public. Especially rookies.”

Max was silent for a beat too long. Long enough for the lump in my throat to make itself known.

“And I’ve been fine with it, really. But now it just… sucks. I’m proud of him. Of us. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

When I glanced over, Max’s expression had shifted. Still smug, sure — he was genetically incapable of anything else — but softer. Protective.

“You love him?” he asked, suddenly serious.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I really do.”

He exhaled. “Well, shit. That’s gross.”

I snorted. “Thanks.”

“But,” he continued, sitting up straighter, “you’re my little sister. And if you want to go public, then they’re going to have to deal with it.”

“I don’t think they’ll listen to me,” I admitted quietly.

He gave me a look. “They’ll listen to me.”

“Max…”

“No, no. Let me do my big brother thing. I’ll make it sound like my idea. I’ll throw in some nonsense about driver psychology and team chemistry and then threaten to tell everyone Christian once used the company card to buy socks or something.”

I blinked. “Wait—”

He smirked. “It was a lot of socks. Suspiciously soft. But that’s not the point.”

I smiled, for real this time. “You’d really help me with this?”

“Of course,” he said, nudging my shoulder. “You’re my sister. Also, it’s getting weird how often I see you two sneaking around the paddock like you’re in some bad teen soap.”

“We are discreet!”

“You once hid in a tire stack. A tire stack, YN.”

“…Okay, that one was bad.”

“I rest my case.”

He grinned, then stood, tossing a handful of M&Ms into his mouth.

“Don’t worry. Give me 48 hours and I’ll either have Red Bull greenlight your relationship, or Isack will mysteriously be promoted to team chef. Either way, you’ll be together.”

“Max.”

“What? He’d look good in an apron plus he is French, they all know how to cook.”

—

third person pov

Max walked in like he owned the place — because, in most ways that mattered, he kind of did. No one dared stop him as he bypassed the closed office doors and planted himself at the PR team’s weekly strategy meeting.

“Hi,” he said, dropping into the nearest seat and immediately grabbing someone’s Red Bull can. “We need to talk about something important.”

The PR lead — Anna, a steely woman who’d dealt with three world championships, six major scandals, and Daniel Ricciardo’s press era — narrowed her eyes. “You’re not on the agenda.”

“I am now.”

Anna sighed. “What is it this time?”

Max leaned back, completely unbothered. “My sister and Isack. Let them go public.”

The entire table went still. “Max,” someone ventured, “we’ve already discussed—”

“I don’t care what you discussed,” he said casually. “She’s not just any rookie. She’s a Verstappen. And you’ve built half your marketing around that name, so don’t pretend she’s just another F1 junior.”

Anna pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not about her. It’s about optics. Two rookies, on that were on the same team, in a relationship—if things go wrong, it reflects badly on everyone. Including you.”

Max smiled. It was not comforting.

“Well, lucky for you, it won’t go wrong. And if it does? I’ll handle it. Personally.”

“Max—”

“She wants to support him. She wants to be proud. And if you think the fans don’t already know, you’re delusional. They’re soft-launching harder than Red Bull launched the RB20.”

There was a brief pause as Anna quietly suffered an aneurysm. Max continued, tapping the table for emphasis. “You don’t want a PR mess? Fine. Spin it. Call it a modern motorsport love story. Say they’re the new power duo. Say it’s good for morale. Say I approve.”

“And if we say no?”

Max’s smile turned sharper. “Then I’ll start answering press questions with nothing but increasingly obvious metaphors until everyone figures it out anyway.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I once threatened to tell the world Christian Horner buys cashmere socks with the team card. Try me.”

The table went silent again. Finally, Anna gave a tight sigh.

“Fine. We’ll prepare a rollout plan. But they need to wait until after the next race weekend.”

“Perfect,” Max said, standing. “See? Productive meeting.”

And with that, he walked out—leaving behind only stunned silence, a stolen Red Bull, and the faint scent of smug satisfaction.

—

your pov

I was curled up sideways on the little motorhome couch, legs tossed over Isack’s lap while he absentmindedly scrolled through his phone and occasionally played with the hem of my hoodie. We were both half asleep — the kind of tired that only comes from humidity, media duties, and not enough hydration. It was peaceful. Cozy. Normal. And then Max burst through the door. Like, no knock. No text. Just dramatic, older-brother energy and a swinging door slam that jolted both of us upright.

“Hey,” he said casually, already walking in like he paid rent. “You can go public now.”

I blinked at him. Isack looked like someone had hit him with a tire gun.

“…What?”

He flopped into the armchair across from us, totally unbothered. “I talked to PR. They said yes. Starting next week, you can post your little couple photos and stop sneaking around like badly-written spies.”

“You what?” I sat up straighter, heart hammering. “Max, are you serious?”

He picked up an energy drink off the table and opened it like he was commenting on the weather. “Yes. You’re welcome. Also, the part about me maybe threatening to sabotage their next press conference unless they agreed is not important.”

Isack coughed. “You did what?”

Max waved him off. “Relax, it was charming. Besides, if you’re going to date my sister, you need to get used to this level of intensity.”

I was still trying to catch up. “They actually said yes?”

“Yes,” he repeated. “You’ll be allowed to post him. Or whatever weird Gen Z thing you two do. God help us all.”

I blinked again and then threw a pillow at him — hard. He caught it easily, smug as ever.

“Max,” I said, trying not to cry and also not to laugh. “I’ve been so stressed about this.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said. “So I fixed it. Now you don’t have to be sad, and I don’t have to keep pretending not to see your ‘subtle’ Instagram stories of your matching shoes.”

Isack turned red instantly. “You saw those?”

Max grinned. “I see everything.”

I lunged for another pillow. Max was already halfway to the door, dodging with a laugh.

“Love you too, zusje,” he called. “Don’t do anything weird in here. These walls are thin.”

And then he was gone — the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Isack and me in stunned silence.

“…So,” Isack finally said, wide-eyed. “Your brother really is terrifying.”

I grinned, heart full. “Terrifying, chaotic, and unfortunately… kind of my hero.”

—

I could barely breathe when I pulled into parc fermé, hands shaking as I climbed out of the car. The lights of Vegas were wild — flickering, neon, larger than life — but somehow, they weren’t brighter than this. My first win. I won. In Las Vegas. Max was the first one to reach me, already half out of his own car in P2. I barely had time to process the blinking cameras before he pulled me into a crushing hug, lifting me off the ground like I weighed nothing.

“P1 in Vegas?” he shouted, grinning so hard it looked painful. “You’re such a show-off.”

I laughed, clinging to him. “You’re the one who told me to ‘go big or go home.’”

“Yeah, not bigger than me!”

Lando joined us, helmet under one arm, smirking. “I was this close to denying a Verstappen 1-2. Next time I’ll actually try.”

“Save it for the podium,” I shot back, wiping sweat and confetti off my face.

The podium ceremony was electric — loud, glittering, ridiculous. Vegas on steroids. I took my place at the top step, looking out over the crowd, and when the Dutch anthem started playing, I looked down at Max — my brother, my forever teammate — and he saluted me like an idiot, mouthing, This is so annoying for me. I nearly cried laughing. Champagne flew. Trophies gleamed. Gold lights burst above our heads. But the real chaos came the moment I stepped down from the podium and turned — straight into Isack. He was waiting just off to the side, still in his racing gear, eyes shining. No words — just a smile, the kind that hit deep in my chest. I threw my arms around him, and before I could think, he was lifting me off the ground like I weighed nothing, spinning us once before setting me down and—Kissing me. Right there, in front of everyone. The cameras. The teams. The fans. Max. It didn’t matter. Because it felt like the win, the noise, the moment… all crashed together into one perfect second.

When we finally pulled back, Isack grinned. “So, I guess it’s your round at the casino tonight?”

I laughed, cheeks on fire. “Only if you kiss me like that again when I win roulette.”

Max wandered up behind us, champagne bottle still in hand. “Right, okay. I’ll allow the kiss this once because she won. But don’t make it a habit or I’m launching you into the Bellagio fountain.”

Isack just grinned and pulled me closer.

“Worth it.”

—

ynverstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar, lando & 10,075,000 others.

ynverstappen : celebratory vegas win post (hard launch post coming in the next 5 minutes)

tagged : isackhadjar, maxverstappen1, kellypiquet

—

view 420,904 other comments.

kellypiquet : getting a blanket with your face on it next— congrats our race winner ❤️

liked by ynverstappen

victoriaverstappen : the proudest i have ever been:)

liked by ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 : what about my first race win??

liked by ynverstappen

victoriaverstappen : BOOOOOO

maxverstappen1 : i raised this little beast myself, you are welcome world. congratulations zusje, i love you. (but don’t tell anyone)

liked by ynverstappen

lando : not me being third again behind BOTH verstappen’s, one wasn’t enough, huh? congratulations darling:)

liked by ynverstappen

alexalbon : isack giving trophy wife realness

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

charles_leclerc : you and max look like the evil twins from the shining in your matching redbull gear

liked by maxverstappen1 and ynverstappen

ynverstappen : here’s johnnyyyyyy!

—

ynverstappen

liked by isackhadjar, lando, maxverstappen1 & 8,090,007 others.

ynverstappen : everyone say thank you max for threatening redbull so isack and i can go public 🗣️

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view 110,050 other comments.

maxverstappen1 : i blackmailed my own team just to have to stare at these photos. sigh. best brother of the century.

liked by ynverstappen

ynverstappen : love you maxieeeeee

liked by maxverstappen1

username0 : omg this is such a max thing to do and it warms my heart

lando : the way i saw you both flirting for months and i just thought you both were weird.

liked by ynverstappen

carlossainz55 : just casually won your first f1 race as a rookie and launched your f1 driver bf within the same hour— wild. love it.

liked by ynverstappen

sophiekumpen : soooo cute! bring him home to me soon.

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

lando : wait wait wait— does this make you both WAGS?

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

isackhadjar : yep

isackhadjar : you may have won vegas but i won you and that is the biggest achievement in the world

liked by ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 : redbull i take it back- ban them.

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

redbullracing : two verstappens on our team means we get absolutely no rest.

liked by ynverstappen and maxverstappen1

—

isackhadjar

liked by ynverstappen, maxverstappen1, yukitsunoda0511 & 2,035,078 others.

isackhadjar : the love of my life. ft a throwback pic of me and mad max who saved the day.

—

view 80,074 other comments.

maxverstappen1 : you both owe me dinner and a vacation.

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

ynverstappen : lucky for you we just won 20 dollars at the casino

ynverstappen : my boy<3 love you always

liked by isackhadjar

yukitsunoda0511 : I KNEW ITTTTT. now you guys owe me one of those inflatable alien things from area 51.

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

ynverstappen : already shoved in one of my suitcases

visacashapprb : the cutest. we started this!! 💙

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

username00 : did max give a big brother speech?

ynverstappen : 10 hours of maxplaining

maxverstappen1 : did what was necessary

isackhadjar : i learned that when we get married i will be forced to take the verstappen last name

liked by ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 : damn right

ynverstappen : you said when not if ASDHBDUBDSPA🥺

maxverstappen1 : blocking you both rn.

liked by ynverstappen and isackhadjar

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