#formula one x oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherry-leclerc · 2 months ago

Text

greed ☆ op81

genre: smut, affair, erotic literature, angst, forbidden romance, enemies to "lovers", a bit angst/yearning, established relationships, voyeurism

word count: 16.4k

greed (noun) — intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, missionary, riding, fingering, f!receiving, deep throat, m!receiving, finger sucking

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]

cherry here!...had fun writing this one teheee. it's a long one, so definitely take breaks in between and enjoy. missed you guys—welcome to the twisted world of greed mwah!

Twirling your tongue around the bright pink straw, you blink blankly, quietly taking in the conversation that occurs in front of you. You should probably talk a bit, you remember thinking. Smile, at least, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to lie—you didn't want to be here.

“I thought you hated pineapple?”

Turning, you shrug half-heartedly over at Lando. “It makes my mouth itch,” you mumble, not enjoying a single sip of the smoothie. Well, except for the whipped cream. Taking a lick, your eyes stay connected onto his blue ones as he shakes his head.

“Don’t drink it, then,” he tries, but you simply turn a blind eye, facing the complete opposite direction. From where you're sitting, you spot a group of kids playing jump rope. Even when one of them falls with a loud splat and starts to cry, you continue to stare.

“Oh no,” a soft voice gasps. As soon as you hear it, you grind your teeth, hearing a slight crack immediately. “Poor baby.”

You like to think of yourself as an even person. Everyone who enters your life deserves a fair chance. You’ll get to know them—befriend them, perhaps—and if it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but no one can say you never tried.

But oh, how you hated Lily Zneimer.

The worst part of all is that there isn’t really a single reason for your sudden distaste towards her. On paper, you two should be the best of friends, but the one thing holding you back is sitting right in front of you.

Oscar clicks his tongue, a nice tick coming through as his sharp brows raise with surprise as he watches the scene unfold. He, too, sort of remains as stoic as you, but the one difference is that he has a bit more empathy. You lack a lot of that, you’ll be the first to admit.

The cries continue, the young boy's parents suddenly alert by now as they run towards their child. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he says, squinting his eyes due to the bright sun. “It builds character.”

“Getting hurt?” Lily asks, frowning as she gently shoves his shoulder. “You really do have a heart made of ice.”

This gets a snicker out of your boyfriend, making you sigh, instantly checking out, but Lando is as happy as can be. While he enjoys the moment, you lack interest in it, and if it weren’t for the fact that the Australian was the one that invited you both out for drinks, then you would have happily been tucked away in bed. Make good use of the hotel perks and whatnot.

The brown eyed driver swings a hand behind his girlfriend's chair, playfully tugging her hair, making her blush and making you recoil with disgust. Not that you ever show it, but you definitely feel it. “Maybe I do, but only you can make it melt.”

That’s enough to call it a day. Standing abruptly, the chair squeaks against the pavement as you share a tight lipped smile. All at once, their eyes look up at you as you force a yawn. “I think I’m going to head up now. Thanks for the invite,” you say.

Lily pouts subtly, blue eyes round and hazy. “So soon? It’s still early.”

You nod, sparing her small smile, but deep within, the sound of her sweet voice begins to irritate you to the point you think you might snap. “The sun’s got me tired. I just need to lay down a bit.” Leaning forward, you peck Lando’s cheek, warm and sandy. “But I'll see you later, yeah?”

“Sure,” she squeaks, waving numbly as they watch you walk away—practically fleeting, really. Humming sadly, the British girl looks down onto her lap, toying with her bracelets. “I don’t think she likes me much,” she mutters, wincing sheepishly.

Oscar frowns. “That’s not true…”

Lando frantically nods, feeling bad for Lily and her first encounter with you being a total bust. Come to think of it, ever since the blue eyed girl has been around, you’ve been quite distant. “She hasn’t been sleeping well.” Lie. “She just needs to recharge, that’s all.”

You end up spending the next few days locked up in yours and Lando’s room. You avoid the paddock at all costs because you’re really not in the mood to see anyone—especially her. The British driver tried his best to get you out from these four walls, but gave up shortly after you blamed it on a migraine. You haven’t had one of those in years, but he learns to respect your decision. You do promise to be there for his race, though.

And as expected, you see her. Sat perfectly with her legs crossed, the young girl beams, motioning for you to join her on the open chair. At first you act like you don’t see her, preferring to stay standing for the next few hours rather than being pushed up next to her, but when she calls your name, you curse beneath your breath before making your way.

“Hey,” you cheer, hugging her briefly before taking a seat.

A giggle. “Hey. I heard you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Huh?”

Lily blinks. “Lando said—”

In one quick motion, you click your fingers, nodding along. Right—Lando had lied on your behalf. It completely slipped your mind. Letting out a muffled groan, you wince theatrically, hoping she buys it. She does, worry quickly taking over her gentle gaze. “I have, yeah, I have.” Cheer’s erupt as the camera pans over to the fan zone, then back to the drivers that line up for the National Anthem. “But I'm much better now!”

Her concern slowly melts away as she smiles. “That’s good to hear.”

You would have not traveled with Lando to this week's race if you had known she would be here. Usually, she’s not, but you almost feel as if you know everything about her from how much Oscar talks about her. It gets exhausting hearing the same stories being told over and over again, as if she was the best thing to come around. Was it really that hard to just not bring her up?

But alas, you are here, and so is she.

It feels like an eternity slowly goes by, so you’re quick to dart out the garage as you make your way towards the podium. The good thing is that she doesn’t need to because Oscar secured a lucky fourth place. Close, but not close enough.

Running towards you after a round of media, Lando pecks your lips. He smells like a mix of champagne and sweat, not a completely unpleasant scent. He wiggles his brows. “Proud?”

You grin, eyes crinkling just the same as his. “Super.” Another kiss. “You were great out there.”

A subtle shade of red burns his nose as he smiles widely, pulling you towards the direction of McLaren Hospitality, leaving you to follow him as you admire the way everyone looks at him the same way you do.

You like that he’s a winner. You like that you’re dating the winner. And that’s why you admire him, because he gives you the right to brag about him by simply being his girlfriend. The kind everyone wishes to be. Entering the familiar orange motorhome, you two are caught at a stop as soon as Zak calls out for Lando who turns curiously.

“My man!” he cheers, making you take a step back and letting them have their moment. You listen for the first few minutes, but when it looks like the congratulatory might run deep, you claim a seat on the nearby sofa, scrolling through your phone to kill time. At some point, you look up to see them bid goodbye, sighing tiredly as you make your way up. Zak grins from ear to ear, pointing at you with nothing but radiant energy. “See you there!”

With that, he walks away, leaving you two alone once again. Raising a sharp brow, you tap Lando’s shoulder with confusion. “What does he mean by that?”

“He’s rented a yacht for the team to celebrate today's win,” he explains, guiding you towards the privacy of his room with a large hand on your lower back. “You know him—he likes to go all out.”

You hum, still walking up in front of him. “I figured you would want to go clubbing…”

There’s a cloudy sigh behind you as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I mean, yeah, I do, but we should probably skip that and do this instead.” Reaching to twist the knob, you pause, turning to face him with a surprised expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” you respond, shaking your head. “Look at you maturing. You see, my Lando would have never preferred a classy yacht party instead of a trashy club.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve changed.”

“Right,” you tease, finally opening the door, but as soon as you do, the room next to you squeaks, indicating someone exiting. Oscar and Lily come to a halt as soon as they spot you both. Your lips open in the smallest of gaps as they smile politely.

“Congratulations,” the British girl is the first to break the silence as she goes in for a quick side hug, one that Lando accepts without missing a beat. “You must be over the moon.”

“I am,” your boyfriend lets out, still not used to the feeling of being first. A beat. “Hey, did Zak mention anything about—”

“The yacht party?” Oscar fills in with a loopy grin. Lando snickers, nodding at his guess. He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we can’t. I have to drive Lily to the airport.”

Intrigued by the fact, your brows dart up. “Ah, no way—you’re leaving already?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling tiredly. “I have a few tests lined up for next week, and I can’t miss them.”

“Shame,” you hum, but the relief of not having her around anymore makes you feel a thousand times lighter. “I was going to suggest grabbing dinner next week…”

“Really?” Lando and Lily question in sync, both equally as surprised as one another. On the flipside, Oscar stands with an unrecognizable expression, making you avoid even looking at him because something about it somehow convinces you that he can see right past your lie.

Coughing awkwardly, you bob your head, catching the glimmer in her blue eyes as she holds her breath, almost. Something about it makes you feel bad, but just for a split second. “Yes, really, but it looks like we got a bit unlucky.”

Swiftly, Lily turns to face Oscar with a helpless expression, as if pleading for aid, but for him it was an easy decision. “You can’t skip out on exams,” he whispers lowly, but still clear enough for you to hear. “You know that.”

And sure—she does—but ever since she got here, she’s felt so out of place. Not with the team, not with two McLaren drivers as a duo, but rather with you. And now this? Any opportunity to have you as a friend is as good as gold in her eyes.

And to be quite honest, you didn’t expect for someone as truthful as Lily to lie to their professor in a lengthy email, claiming to be severely down with the flu in order to stay a couple extra days and catch that unpromising dinner you had made up as some way to get her to think you’d miss not having her around. This was your reality and you just had to deal with it.

But Oscar?

Watching you carefully as you hug Lily back when she leaps with excitement into your arms, he squints with subtle suspicion in your character. Something in your rigidness and mannequin smile makes him want to pull the British girl away from you, feeling the need to protect his girlfriend's innocence.

Smiling softly over her shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, making your stomach churn. His eyes remain on you for a second longer before sharing a smile of his own.

Yup, you think to yourself.

He knows.

A week goes by at a snail's place.

The four of you fly together to the next continent with nothing but fake enthusiasm. Well, fake from you, and unbeknownst, fake from Oscar, too.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t trust you completely. In hindsight, you haven’t done anything wrong, but everytime you and Lily are together—which is most of the week—it feels like you have. Maybe it had something to do with the sinister glares you’d send her way when you thought no one was looking, or the fact that you’d have to take a heavy breath in preparation every time she’d greet you with a warm hug. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was seeing something that wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean he’d be at ease for the rest of the week.

Hence, dinner.

You find yourself forced to make a reservation at one of the fanciest cuisine restaurants close to where you’re staying and that itself was annoying. You shouldn’t be doing any of this—she shouldn’t even be here.

Smiling gingerly, the British girl let out a small giggle at some joke Lando made. By the looks of it, it’s pretty funny, so you numbly follow her lead, though you have yet to know what it was. “You must be laughing all the time,” Lily notes, blue eyes focused on you with wonder. You hum, pursing your lips with uncertainty. She giggles harder. “Well because of how funny he is.”

Lando claps once, making you flinch in return. “Thank you! It’s about damn time someone appreciates my humor.”

“I do appreciate it,” you defend, slowly losing your patience. Licking your lips, you look back towards Lily who remains with a smile. “Don’t listen to him, he just likes the attention.”

“That I can agree on,” Oscar adds, cracking a grin of his own. Suddenly, you’re all into the discussion. The Australian sneers childishly. “You can’t seem to live a single moment without making things about yourself.”

“Oscar,” Lily warns, faint pink painting her pale skin. “Be nice.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Lando says, waving her off like it’s no big deal—which it’s not. He leans back against his chair, flipping his teammate off who scoffs lightheartedly. “This is how we talk. Right, Osc?”

“Right.”

Somewhere in between dessert, while you’re in the middle of licking your spoon clean, the invitation that came to ruin your life, comes up. Lily clears her throat nervously, suddenly worried by the thought of you turning her down. “I was meaning to ask…” Puzzled, you keep your eyes on her, awaiting her next words. She shrugs sheepishly. “Well, I graduate this summer, and Oscar is throwing me a party up in North Carolina…” She trails off, gathering her words. “I was wondering if you two would like to come?”

“Oh,” Lando's voice comes through like a muffle, mouth full of cheesecake. He swallows, blue eyes flickering between the couple and his girlfriend who remains with a blank expression, metal spoon still in place. “I mean—yeah. Right?”

Unfreezing, you place the utensil down onto your plate, smiling weakly. “Uh…yeah.” Lily grins, letting out a breath of relief, making Oscar frown over the realization that your response mattered so much to her. You nod robotically. “Sure, why not?”

“Great!” Lily cheers, beaming like a kid on Christmas Day. “And don’t worry about spending on a hotel—we’ve got you covered.”

You blink, bewildered. “You do?”

She nods. “Of course, we do! You’re our guests, you’ll be staying with us.”

Your boyfriend smiles faintly. “That’s kind of you, but it’s really no problem. We wouldn’t want to overcrowd.”

“Nonsense,” the Australian speaks up, shaking his head, brown strands of hair swinging in the slightest. “We have plenty of room. All of our family and friends are already staying in the hotel nearby—it’d be nice to have a bit of company.” His eyes soften, making your heart beat a little faster. “What do you say?”

It feels like he’s looking directly at you—chocolate orbs as sweet as can be. As if nothing else exists in this moment if it’s not you or him. But in reality, his attention is focused on your boyfriend, awaiting his response.

Not yours.

Flustered, you poke Lando’s leg beneath the table, hoping he takes the hint. Blue eyes flicker towards your direction for a millisecond before returning with a nod. “Looks like you have two roomies.”

Lily squeals, smiling brightly as Oscar’s lips remain in a thin line, his version of a smile.

And if he could turn back time…

He really fucking would.

Once the season ends, everyone is on a high. Lando for coming in second in the Driver’s Championship and for bringing in the Constructors Championship for the first time in years, and Oscar for the latter. Regardless, it was an outstanding season for the two of them.

You and the Brit end up flying in a few days later due to going back home to pack a few more necessities, but once you’ve got that all figured out, you find yourselves in the middle of a heatstroke, making you second guess all your life's choices all at once.

“It feels as if my skin’s melting off,” you groan, fanning yourself with the roadmap, because as it came, satellites are utter shit when it comes to where you’re staying. Lando tries to convince you that having no internet for a few weeks isn’t all that bad, but as soon as a twenty minute drive turns into a one hour drive due to getting lost without the guidance of a GPS, he regrets his words. You roll your eyes, narrating as he finally pulls up to the driveway of what appears to be the best looking house in all of North Carolina.

He whistles. “If it weren’t so hot during the summer, I’d definitely move here.”

Scoffing, you exit the car rental, looking up at the navy blue house where green ivy hangs. “We are not moving here. I’d rather die.”

“Fair,” he mumbles as he makes his way towards the front door, you right on his heels. Swinging the door open, you two are instantly hit with the fresh gust of air. “Thank God,” Lando moans, loving the fact that the AC is the only thing preventing him from fainting.

Pushing him in, you make sure to close the door behind you as you shut your eyes with sweet relief. Somewhere towards the end of the hall, you hear shoes squeak against the wooden tiles. Lily waves, hair up in a similar ponytail as yours, as she smiles as warm as the weather that nearly cost you your life. “You made it!”

“We sure did,” you respond, gritting your teeth in order to prevent yourself from letting out some snarky remark. Not that she deserves it, of course she doesn’t, but you couldn’t help it. Pointing back towards the wooden door, you wince apologetically. “Sorry to barge in. Someone didn’t bother knocking.”

Lando makes a face, then turns to the blue eyed girl with a playful smile. “You don’t mind, do you, Lily?”

She shakes her head, pursuing her lips with delight. “Not at all. We left it open knowing you two would show up. We’ve been fixing the guest bedroom for the past hour and we didn’t want to run the risk of not hearing you knock, so…I guess it all worked out just fine.”

“See? Lily says it worked out just fine,” your boyfriend says smugly as you roll your eyes, not at all impressed with his sudden cockines. “Where is Oscar, by the way?”

Lily signals upstairs, then blushes. “Do you mind helping me grab a few things from the car, Lando?” A shy chuckle. “It’s just we went out for some party essentials last night, but we were too tired to bring them in, and the box is too heavy, and Oscar is pretty busy, and I’d hate to bother him, and—”

“Sure,” Lando cuts off her rambling. “That way I can grab our suitcases, too.”

“Fantastic,” she hoots, dusting her hands against her shorts as she grabs a set of car keys from the kitchen table. Turning to you, she grimaces. “Do you mind checking up on Oscar?”

Your plump lips part, a line of dehydration hung upon them. “I would, but I should help Lando—”

“It’s okay,” your boyfriend fills in. “I’ve got it all under control.”

Lily pleads silently, brows drawn in together. “You’d really be doing me a favor. It’s just that he was in the middle of fixing the duvet and he tends to run out of patience if he doesn’t get it right away.” A chuckle. “Please?”

Which is how you find yourself in a room, alone with the one person you probably shouldn’t be alone with, but find yourself wishing that were always the case. Alone with one another, that is. Gently knocking on the already open door feels like the right thing to do, so you do just that. Alerted by the sound, the Australian’s head jerks up, brown eyes caught against yours.

You tilt your head slightly, like some greet. “Lily sent me,” you find yourself explaining as he sighs, resting on the unmade bed. Leaning against the doorframe, you bite the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say next.

He huffs. “Of course she did.” A snort. “Sorry your room still isn’t ready. It's just that, I, uh…can't seem to get this right,” he admits, shyly scratching the back of his neck as he motions towards the unmade mess. “Lily always helps, but she’s a bit busy right now, and I'd hate to bother her, and—”

“I can help.”

A pause, then: “Oh, don't worry, you don't need to do that. You’re our guests.”

Chuckling, you shake your head, already making a move to grab the sheets. Taking hold of one corner, you signal for him to do the same, the Australian instantly catching on and taking hold of the opposite side. Aligning it, you look up at him, watching as he focuses on your hands and repeats the order. You smile, going for more and doing it all over again. Once it's perfectly laid out, you take a step back. “Not too shabby.”

“Huh,” he muttered, blinking with amazement. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you say, fixing the mountain of pillows before taking it in with a gentle smile. “Lando’s excited to be here.”

Oscar looks up, neat brows raising. “Is he?”

“Mhm,” you hum, finally connecting your gaze to his. From this distance—close—you note the faint trace of cologne that hugs him, along with a thin layer of sweat. Grinding your molars, you fume silently within you as you catch it—her perfume. You wonder how close she had to have been in order for it to imprint on him, but as soon as you ponder for too long about it, you shake your head, acting as if you’re brushing away some invisible dust. “He’s looking forward to jet skiing.”

A deep chuckle. Pressing his back against the wall, he crosses his arm, giving you a clear view of his muscles that pulse like the world's biggest temptation. If you had the chance—just one—you’d kiss them the way you've fantasized for so long now.

He opens his mouth, about to say something that's going to change everything amongst you two, but bails at the last minute, shaking his head as if he barely caught himself. Intrigued, you raise a neat brow. “What's wrong?” you ask, feeling far too curious.

Oscar tsks. “No, uh, it's nothing.” A beat, then he looks up, squinting his eyes skeptically, as if you're a puzzle he can't quite figure out. He's looking at you the same way he did that day you lied about planning the dinner, and that itself makes your stomach dip. Suddenly, you're not as interested in finding out what he has to say anymore. “Lily loves you, you know that?”

Not what you were expecting. “She does?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, orbs still trained on you. You want him to look away—you need him to look away. Pink lips curl into something of a scoff. The Australian’s eyes darken, making you freeze with trepidation. “She thinks you’re great.” Opening his arms like some grand gesture, he motions towards the lively room. “I mean, look at her. She’s trying her best to please you.”

Something about the way he says it makes you feel as if he’s not that fond of Lily’s behavior. As if you don’t deserve her kindness, even just a sprinkle of it. Pursing your lips, you rock against the heels of your feet. “And I appreciate that, I really do.” A hint of hesitation. “And I like Lily, as well—”

A raw chuckle. Blinking, you catch him shaking his head, brown eyes shut in disbelief, and when he opens them once again, it’s not that kind-hearted and easy-going Australian you’ve come to know—no. He’s broad, and cold, and guarded.

“No you don’t.”

You gulp, laughing awkwardly as you rub your forearm, feeling the heat of shame radiate off your body. “What are you talking about? She’s super sweet—”

“I never said she wasn’t,” he cuts you off again, this time a bit harsher. Enough to take a step back. Your heart races times a million at this point, palms moist with sweat. “I never said she wasn’t sweet—I don’t doubt that even for a second. But I know that you’re lying, and I know that you hate her.” A beat. “Why?”

“I do like her,” you continue to insist, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “What makes you even think otherwise?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he says, accent sharper than usual. “Like you wish her the worst—I know what hate looks like.”

This time, you grab what’s left of your courage, and look at him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “Yeah? And what does hate look like?”

“You’re looking at it.”

It’s as if an ice cold bucket of water is thrown at you with no alert. His insinuation makes you want to recoil, but if you do, then he’d know he’s gotten to you, and if he gets to you, then he’ll figure the rest of it out.

“I’m sorry, that was rude.” He smiles tauntingly, inching close and tilting his head as he opens his mouth. “I just don’t like you, that’s all. I’m not cruel enough to hate.” Cruel. He’s calling you cruel. He knows, therefore, you’re cruel. The word itself shouldn’t affect you this much, but it does. Narrowing your eyes, you push him away, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he cocks his head in question with little to no surprise. “What? You don’t like hearing the truth of what you are? Did you really think you were a good person?”

“Look,” you finally speak, glaring. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I don’t hate Lily. For God sakes, I barely even know her!”

“Exactly!” he shouts back, breaking. “Which is why I’m more than confused! What has she done to you?”

Have possession over you, you think to yourself as you pant, blink with defeat. I hate her because what she’s done to me is have possession over you, and that’s not fair.

“I—”

“Hey,” a soft voice melts into the room, Lily coming into view, cheeks flushed. “Is everything alright in here? We thought we heard yelling.”

Standing behind her, frowning over her shoulder, Lando stares with a lost expression. Everything indicates that there had been some sort of altercation, but the smiles you two wear are enough to try and convince them otherwise. Walking towards her, Oscar wraps his arm around her waist, pecking her temple as she blinks, still worried. “What? That’s absurd. We were simply talking. Weren’t we?”

It takes you a minute to register that he’s talking to you, so when you do answer, it’s nothing but a whisper. “Yeah… just, yeah.” You shake your head, blinking hastily. “We were just talking.”

“Are you sure?” Lando asks, pushing past the couple as he rushes to you, large hand grabbing your wrist softly as he looks at you. His gaze flickers momentarily toward Oscar, as if accusing him for doing something, in return, making the Australian frown for his sudden distrust. As if he’s the bad guy.

You nod, plump lips formed into a thin line. “Yup,” you say, attention flickering down to where Oscar keeps Lily secure against his touch. As if you’re the bad guy. You chuckle, shrugging. “He was thanking me for helping him do something so easy as setting a bed.”

Oscar clenches his jaw. “Yeah. Thanking you.”

Anyone who knows you, knows that you’re a decent human being. There’s not much to contradict that. But no one will ever know you the way you know yourself. Because if they did?

They’d find out that there was no one greedier….

Than you.

Dinner that night is homemade pizza. Lily followed a recipe.

It’s quite delicious, sure, and you’re able to make that note due to that one small bite you had before you ditch it for your mimosa. Lando tries to get you to eat, but you gently promise him that you’re just not that hungry. You see the way Oscar stares, feeling bad for his girlfriend who spent hours making this for you. She excuses herself, rushing towards the kitchen as the Australian apologizes, following after her.

Turning abruptly, the British boy huffs, causing commotion. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“This again?” you groan. “I already told you—nothing. Drop it.”

“What’d he say to you?” he questions, a layer of curiosity making an appearance. “Did he say something to offend you?”

“No,” you hum against your glass. “He did not.”

“Did you say something to offend him?” he switches the inquiry, making you glare.

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

Lando sighs, relaxing against his chair once again. He takes a bite, swallows, then takes another. “I get the sense that you’re keeping something from me—you’re not like that.”

Actually, you are. He just doesn’t know it. Placing a hand over his, you hum, calming him down as he connects his gaze onto yours, eyes as soft as jello. “He might’ve lost his temper on me a bit.”

“What?” he screeches, making you hush him.

“Let me finish,” you hiss. He nods, curls bouncing. “He couldn’t get the sheets to stay in place. Remember how Lily said he tends to lose patience because of that?” Another nod. You shrug. “Well, that was it. We just didn’t want you two to make a big deal out of nothing. Much like now,” you point out, spotting a subtle blush threatening his cheeks.

“Well, forgive me for looking out for you,” he sings. “I care, you know?”

“And I thank you for that, darling, but you can let go of it now, right?”

“Definitely.”

He doesn’t. Matter of fact, as soon as the couple makes their way back, it’s the first thing he brings up, teasing his teammate who blinks, confused, then: “Oh. Yeah. Right. I had a bit of a moment where I couldn’t get the…yeah. That was it.”

Lily rolls her blue eyes. “Didn’t I warn ya?”

You giggle. “You did, you really did.”

There isn’t much to do from that point on, the sun has set and the moon hangs as bright as headlights. Lando knocks out after a much needed shower, and while you can’t sleep with wet hair, you settle on fixing yourself up a tea now that it’s cooled down.

Walking barefoot towards the lake, you hum, finding peace with the way crickets sing. Blue, gentle waves sway back and forth as you look beyond, mind at peace. That is until you hear a small cough. Startled, you search for the culprit and you find him, laid down on the grass.

“Can’t sleep?”

Oscar sighs. “I’d rather not talk to you right now.”

“Or ever?” you offer, but he doesn’t find you humor all that entertaining. Making your way, you find a space next to him. “You can’t ignore me, you know that? We’re about to spend a month together. That, and you’re my boyfriend's teammate. I see you on track.”

He disregards the fact that you're right, sitting up instead, laying his arms over his bent knees. “What’s your game?”

“I don’t have one,” you say softly. “I’m just here to have fun—it’s summer.”

A scoff. “I’m serious—what do you want from us?”

There was a point in time when you first met the Australian where you remember thinking: this is a boy. His arms were twigs, his neck was small, and his fireproofs fit him loosely.

Fastword, a year later: everything has taken a turn. Oscar Piastri has matured, and now—now you want him.

“My parents had my sister three years after they had me.” Oscar cocks his head, puzzled as to why you’re telling him this. You continue, occasionally sipping on your tea. “And the months leading to her birth, they always told me how lucky I’d feel to have her once she was born. Then she was,” you say. “And you know what I felt?”

“Lucky?” he finds himself guessing quietly.

You shake your head, causing his brows to jump up with surprise. “I love her, I do, but I think that was the moment I realized I didn’t like to share. I wanted my parents to stay my parents, and not hers. I wanted my grandparents to stay my grandparents, and not hers. And…once we grew up and we were old enough to date—I wanted her boyfriends to like me more than they liked her.”

Quiet, his eyes linger with disgust. “I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want.” This time, you look at him, and it hits him all at once: you want him. You smile, like what you’re saying is funny and not fucked. A giggle. “You’re a smart individual, Oscar. Do you get what I’m saying?”

He does. And it makes his stomach knot.

“I’m in love with Lily,” he states, as if that will make you back off. “I’m. In. Love. With. Lily.”

But he can tell you don’t care. You never have, and you never will. And the fact that she has you is why you hate her. He sees that now.

Standing, your knees are at his eye level, forcing him to look away, forcing him to look up. You hold power in this stance, and he’s basically at your knees—worshiping you. He doesn’t like that. In one fast movement, he jumps up, towering over you, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter. And he realizes he can never win when it comes to you because it seems you like that too.

He gulps. You grin.

“Doesn't matter.”

You’re playing a dangerous game.

It starts early in the morning and ends late at night. At times, he feels like a kid hiding behind his mum's skirt, practically sticking to Lily like superglue, and normally she loves that, but with how busy she is with graduation, she pushes him off most times now. It’s always: Oscar, no or Oscar, what now? He can’t seem to get it right.

“Why don’t you go jet skiing with Lando?” you speak up and he finds it weird that you’re helping him out. The British girl nods. Yeah! Why don’t you? He doesn’t need to be told twice.

They come back with fresh sunburns and a couple new freckles. Lando’s curls are hard from the sea salt, so he gives you a quick kiss, running up stairs for a quick shower. He’s been having lots of those. Not even a minute later, Oscar goes on to do the same.

Somewhere along the line, you hear your name, and you know what that means. Rolling your eyes, you look over at the blue eyed girl. “I bet you he forgot his towels—”

I forgot my towels!

Giggling, Lily shakes her head, muttering ‘boys’, then signals towards her room. “I just washed some, you can grab them from our cabinet.”

“Thanks,” you chirp, making your way. While yours and Lando’s room sits at the far right side of the hall, Oscar’s and Lily’s is on the left. And you never meant to walk in on him, not at all, but you did.

Swinging the door open, you’re caught face to face with a shirtless Oscar, dying his wet hair with a blue towel. He freezes. “W-what are you doing here?” he stutters.

You try not to stare, you really do, but you can’t help it. His body is solid, chiseled, even. His skin is moist from lathering lotion and that’s enough to make your head spin. And yet, you don’t let him see that. Pushing past him, you dig your hand deep into the cabinet, pulling two fresh towels, similar to his. He frowns.

“Just grabbing towels for my boyfriend.” Smile. “See you.”

Is this how you get people to fall for you? By not seeming desperate? Because while he knows that you want him, you sure don’t show it, and that definitely confuses him.

That same night, you four are watching a movie in the living room. Cherry Falls to be exact. The entire way through, you’re curled into Lando’s chest under a blanket. On the other side of the long couch, Lily and Oscar sit as straight as can be, but his arm remains over her shoulder, keeping her safe.

You’re not jealous over something like that, but when she flinches during certain scenes and he comforts her, that gets you. “Hey,” you start, whispering into the Brit’s ear. Green eyes are stuck on the screen, nodding robotically. Yeah? You kiss his warm skin, making him jump. “Why don’t you and I go to bed?”

“Bed?” he asks, slow and unsure where you’re headed. “Already? But…we’re halfway through.” You yawn, rubbing a hand along his thigh. He blushes, impressed with how cool you’re able to play it. Coughing, he nods excitedly. “I think we’re done for the day,” he announces, a bit too loud.

Lily pauses the movie, tilting her head curiously. “Aw, but we’re halfway through…”

“I know,” you add, smiling apologetically. “But I’m just so tired.”

“As am I!” Lando cuts you off, voice squeaky. He shakes his head, blinking hastily, then clears his throat. “But please, don’t let us stop you from finishing the movie.”

“Yeah,” you quip, getting up, about to walk away when Lando reaches for your hips, keeping you in front of him. It doesn’t take much to feel his bulge pressed against your ass. He laughs awkwardly. “We still have that picnic tomorrow, don’t we?”

“We do,” Lily cheers, smiling widely. “Oh, I’m so excited!” Turning to face the Australian, who hasn’t said much up until now, just stares blankly, she taps his knee. “We should probably go to sleep, too.”

“No!” Lando yelps, blushing bright red as the blue eyed girl frowns. “Keep on watching. Keep the telly on. In fact…” He reaches for the control. “Turn up the volume.”

“Great idea,” Lily says, pursing her lips as the numbers go up on the screen. “Alright then, you two go rest.”

“Thank you,” you reply, walking carefully in front of the British boy who still tries his best to hide behind you, waving sheepishly. “See you in the morning!”

Oscar really underestimated how naive Lily can be. While she was wide-eyed enough to believe that you two were ready to knock out, he knew the truth. Pecking her cheek, he makes a stand, making his girlfriend pout. “Where are you going? I thought we were gonna finish the movie?”

“We are,” he promises, smiling gently. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick. Be right back.”

Running up the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushes to your side of the hall, quickly identifying small moans. He stops dead in his tracks, heart stuck in his throat, and he doesn’t know why.

Fuck, baby, he hears Lando groan. Oscar grimaces, shutting his eyes with discomfort. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn’t have his ear pressed against the door, intruding in your guys’ private sex life.

He shouldn't be bothered so much. Or at all.

Lando, you whine, surely writhing with pleasure. The sound makes him break a sweat, makes his brain go fuzzy. He can’t even think properly. And he knows this is wrong—on so many levels—but what’s worse is that he wishes Lando were dead.

Skin to skin contact makes his jaw clench with anger. The fact that he knows what you feel like makes him want to barge in and rip you two apart. And it dawns on him—why does he care so much?

“No,” he mutters, taking a step back as if the door were made out of lava. He blinks hastily, shaking his head harshly until he feels his brain jump from side to side. “God, no…”

It’s official—you have his attention.

Without even making a move.

You feel his gaze on you. You don’t even have to look and see to know that it’s him and not Lando. Lando’s gaze doesn’t burn, but his? His zaps. Looking up from where you rested on the red gingham blanket Lily rolled onto the fresh grass, you squinted behind your glasses, making eye contact with the Australian.

You know you have him.

Reaching into your bag, you grab your sunscreen, squirting it onto your legs, making sure to lather it on in a teasing manner. You rub up and down, slow and steady. Briskly, he looks away, paying attention to his teammate who continues to ramble on and on about nothing in particular.

Not as particular as you.

“I love having you two around,” Lily says, ripping your gaze away like one would their band aid. She hums, gingerly fixing her floppy hat and motioning towards your sunscreen. Go right ahead. “Thank you,” she replies sweetly. A beat. “I have a favor to ask.” This get’s your attention. Furrowing your brows, you nod, urging her to continue. “So, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“What is it?”

Lily blushes, as if she’s too embarrassed to admit. “Remember how I skipped a few exams in order to extend my stay the first time we met? In order to have that dinner with both you and Lando?”

“Yeah,” you say, still uncertain about where this might possibly lead. “I think I do.”

She cringes. “I never took them.”

“What?”

“I know! And now my advisor is telling me I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t find a way to take them, and I don’t know what to do!” She groans, bumping the edge of her palm against her forehead. “Oh God, Oscar is going to be so mad at me.”

“Okay, calm down,” you soothe her. “Have you tried reaching out to your professor?”

“Not yet,” she mumbles, tears pooling the corner of her eyes, making you feel just a dash of pity. “Should I?”

“Yes,” you respond quickly. “You should. Ask them if there’s any way to take those exams. Say you’re sorry—like really sorry. They have to be able to tell that you never meant to skip out in the first place.”

“I didn’t,” she squeaks, voice wavering. “I’m not usually like this, but…” Her blue eyes flicker down to her lap, fingers playing nervously with the hem of her shirt. “I just really want to fix this and graduate on time. Everyone is counting on that!”

“You’re going to walk that stage, Lily, alright? You just need to keep your eye on the prize.” Sighing, you unlock your phone, handing it to her. “E-mail them right now.”

“O-okay,” she sutter, eyes softening. “Thank you for being such a great friend.”

You blink. “Oh. Yeah—anytime.”

She finds privacy back in the parking lot, leaving you alone with the boys deep in the horizon. It’s peak golden-hour, so they look significantly tan. You smile, lying back down, glasses hugging the curve of your nose. You’re halfway asleep at one point, but as soon as you feel a droplet fall onto you, you peek an eye open.

“Where’s Lily?” Oscar questions, furrowing his dark brows.

You roll your eyes. “She went to get something from the car.” She probably wouldn’t like Oscar knowing the truth, and you’re not one to tell it. You wave your hand dismissively. “Now move—you’re blocking the sun.”

Grinding his teeth, the Australian scoots, but his eyes remain down on you. You lay tan now, white bikini standing out against your skin. Brown eyes trails down your legs, spotting an ankle bracelet. He hums. “What’s it say?”

You sigh. “Could you be more specific?”

He kicks your feet, making you lean against your elbows, staring at him coldly. Noticing what he was referring to, you lick your lips. “It's the number four.”

“Four?” he asks plainly. “Why four?”

“I’m really trying to relax,” you spit, taking your sunglasses off and glaring. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you just left me alone.”

Aren’t you supposed to want him? Aren’t you the one who's supposed to be chasing after him?

The tips of his ears burn bright red, and not from the sun. Seeing as he wasn’t leaving, you let out a heavy breath. “He asked me out on April fourth—fourth month, fourth day. His racing number is four.” You make a face. “Do you get it or do you need further explanation?”

He ignores the dig. “Why an ankle bracelet, though? Why not a ring or a necklace?”

Your red lips part open, then close. His guts twist with jealousy once he comes to the realization. The reason it’s an ankle bracelet its so that anytime he fucks you, legs dangled over his shoulders, he could admire it. Seeing as he figured it out without having you respond makes you blush.

“Ankle bracelets are my favorite.”

His eyes darken. “You know what? Next time you two fuck, why don’t you moan a little less loud?”

Your neat brows lift up with surprise. “How are you so sure we already did?”

He pauses, clearly caught on spying. He swallows. “You sound like a pornstar.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” You laugh. “Lando doesn’t seem to mind. In fact…” Biting down on your bottom lip, you blink innocently up at him as his breathing pattern becomes uneven. “He fucking loves it.”

God—what were you doing to him?

Just as he’s about to speak, Lando calls out for him and Lily calls out for you. Where are the beers, mate? The Australian spins back and lets out a lousy smile. “On it, give me a second!”

As he turns again, you’re already up on your feet, adjusting your bikini and throwing Lando’s shirt over your head. The sight alone irks Oscar more than he’d like to admit. “I should go see what Lily needs,” you sing teasingly. Spinning on your heels, you stop, cocking your head to the side and giving him one last glance. “Oh, and Oscar?”

You point down to his hard on imprinted on his short. Horrified, heat rushes to his cheeks.

“Don't get so excited over nothing.”

What appears to be the first time in her life, Lily lies to Oscar.

They need some last minute measurements for my cap and gown, she explains, puffing her cheeks as if the thought of flying back home is too much of a tassel, and not a necessity—she has to go back and take her exams. She had received an extension, but the only catch was that she had to take them in person, as originally planned. I’ll be back in a week.

The Australian tries to tag along with his girlfriend because the thought of being left alone to third wheel a couple who probably fucks 24/7 is too unbearble. But as expected, Lily declines, claiming it’d be rude for both hostesses to leave their guests behind. And all would’ve been fine if Lando’s father hadn't broken his clavicle playing rugby.

“Do you really have to leave?” you sigh, zipping his suitcase.

He nods. “Mum would kill me if I didn't show up.”

“I’ll miss you.”

A soft smile. Pecking your lips, his thumb rubs against your cheek lovingly. “I’ll be back before you know it. Time will fly by.”

Which is how you and Oscar find yourselves sharing a large house with a million desires. He's quick to note that you have a thing for summer dresses—and so does he, apparently. Jaw clenched, he carefully watches as you cut up a variety of fruit, humming as you prepare yourself a plate. You hum a soft melody, making him more and more intrigued to know what it was.

“Love in the Morning. Ennio Morricone,” he hears you say, munching on a slice of watermelon, walking towards the living room. There, on T.V., plays an unknown reality show, but he's not paying much attention, either way. No, his gaze is stuck on you, focused on the way you stretch your legs onto the coffee table, the rest of your upper body resting against the comfy couch. You swallow, reaching for a piece of mango. “One of my favorite instrumentals.”

It's one of his, too, and not because he knows it by heart, but because you do. Because you sound so beautiful, like a siren, when you hum it. He wonders if you're aware of the power you hold. Though, the way you ignore him lets him know that you do.

Against the sunlight, the one that peeks through the open window and summer skies, your ankle bracelet shines, blinding him, almost. He feels his chest grow tight—so much so, that it hurts to breathe regularly—and he has to remind himself that this isn’t normal—this isn’t normal.

Since when did you matter this much to him? Since when did you affect him this much?

Without a second thought, he claims a spot next to you on the couch, reaching for a berry and popping it in his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, somehow satisfied by this small action of his. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. In all your time of knowing the Australian, he never once bothered to get to know you—really get to know you. He never cared, not even in the slightest. But now, in a turn of events, he does. Squinting suspiciously—teasingly—you shake your head, vanilla perfume radiating off your skin.

“No.”

His lips turn downwards. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, flipping through the channels, pretending he wasn’t even there. A click. “Why should I?”

Because suddenly, you’re the only one in my mind.

He bites down on his tongue, tasting a hint of blood. “I’m not into you, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I never said you were,” you say, a bored tone evident.

Oscar’s hands get clammy, thankful for having them pressed against his lap. Maybe he can still make a run for it. To his room. Back to Australia. He doesn’t even care where, exactly, but far, far, far from you. That way, he wouldn’t feel so grossed out in wanting to know more about his teammate's girlfriend. The one whom he never thought about once before this trip. And how can he even defend his honor?

You got into his head.

You don’t register what he’s doing—not instantly, at least—but before you know it, he’s pushing your legs off the coffee table, claiming a seat there, instead. Now, rather than having a clear view of the television, you have one of him. Large and desperate and perfect.

He narrows his eyes, sharp and threatening. “Are you glad that both Lily and Lando are gone?”

“Nope,” you respond, popping the p. “Why would I?”

Why would you? Geez, who really knows? Oh, maybe because now you have me all to yourself, and isn’t that what you wanted all along? Why don’t you want me anymore?

Slightly grinning, Oscar lets out a raw chuckle, making you want to jump onto his thick lap and lick up his neck. You bet it’d taste like salt and cologne, but the mere thought sounds like a dream. A wild, wild dream.

“I know you think about me.”

Zero reaction. Unimpressed, you push your bottom lip out, wagging your index finger at him before pressing it against his cheek, making him pause because that alone makes his skin burn. You push, forcing a dimple before doing the last thing he’d ever thought you’d do.

Slap him.

He thinks he’s imagining it, and you didn’t just do that, but the smug look on your face and the sting on his lets him know that he isn’t picturing it, and you did just do that. You smile sweetly, standing and ditching your place right in front of him, making your way towards the stairs.

“Get a life, Oscar. Not everything is about you.”

You like to mess with people’s sanity. That must be it because—what the fuck is wrong with you?

First, you insinuate lusting over him. Later, you put on a show for him every chance you get. And now? Now you toy with him, making him feel like the crazy one. And one thing’s for sure.

He is not crazy.

You barely have a foot up one stair when you’re pulled back, and before you know it, pushed down to sit on the step, the Australian kneeled down in front of you. You breath hitches, eyes as wide as cherry pies. His brows are drawn in softly, a pink tint dusting his ears like some shy teen.

“Maybe not—but everything is about you.”

You always knew you’d get him, and you knew exactly how you’d do it. You’d plant the seed and have him come running to you. It always works. I mean, it’s how you got Lando, after all.

But Lando was a want. Oscar is a need.

With his knees still glued onto the ground, the brunette leans down and kisses your ankle, laying his lips flat as you gasp softly, feeling the familiar bracelet dig into your skin.

“Tell me you think about me too,” he whispers pathetically—fragile. Another kiss, this time up your calf. “What do I have to do in order to get you to say it?”

“You’re insane,” you mumble, orbs stuck on the top of his head, shaggy hair hanging loosely before he looks up at you, past his lashes. Butterflies erupt.

Up your thigh, he licks you, tasting your lotion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the bitter taste. “Come on—I want you.” He sucks, forming a purple bruise. “Don’t you want me, too?”

You do. You fucking crave every piece of him. But you can’t let him know that. And you really do try your best to fight him off, but as soon as he starts curling his fist around your small dress, you’re just as good as gone.

A tiny moan rings through the air, then a pant follows. He’s barely even touched you and he’s already knocked the air straight from your lungs.

“I d-do, Oscar.” Whine. “I do want you.”

And just like that—he’s taken whatever power you were claiming onto—back.

Letting go of your dress, he chuckles, enjoying your out of breath state, and standing, making you feel small as you blink, confused as to why he stopped.

Dark eyes glint sinisterly as he kicks your open legs together, not too hard, but still enough to make you jolt with surprise, leaning your elbows up against the step, brows furrowed.

A beat. “You really are a pretty little thing.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you to feel abandoned.

It’s a brutal game of tug-of-war. One where both of your guys’ hands are burning from trying not to be the first to let go.

The first to admit defeat.

Though, it seems like the days grow longer, your dresses fall shorter, and his mind is hazier. All of which is making it more difficult to keep a distance. That is, until Lily FaceTimes Oscar.

“I need you to buy some flowers.”

Mid-bite, his teeth push down on his apple, eyes glued on her. He pulls away, drying his mouth with the back of his hand. “Won’t they dry out before the party?”

She shakes her head, highlighting what looks to be a set of notes. “That's why you're going to get carnations. They last longer.”

“Is that so?” he entertains, smiling gently when she bites down on her marker, brows furrowed as she reads her piece of paper. Throwing away what's left of his fruit, he hums. “Alright, I’ll take care of it tomorrow, don't worry.”

“Oh no, tomorrow won’t work. You have to do it today.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because she's only available today. She's going dress shopping tomorrow.”

He doesn't even have to ask who she is because he already knows. Shaking his head adamantly, the Australian rejects her idea before it even has a chance to lift off the ground. “I could do it myself,” he snaps, his usually tranquilent voice coming out a bit harsher than intended. And it’s not like him. He never, ever, speaks to Lily this way. So, obviously, it surprises her, a wounded expression mapping out immediately.

And she could have been mad. She really could have been mad—but she wasn’t. “Is everything okay?” she asks carefully, as if walking on eggshells. It makes him feel like shit. “What's wrong, Oscar?”

“I…” His tongue goes numb. The vivid image of you looking at him, like you hold him in the palm of your hand, comes through. And he doesn’t completely hate it, not right away. But once the British girl hums softly through the phone, he’s ashamed. “I just wish you were here. I miss you.”

A beat, then: I love you.

You had not been the biggest fan of going floral shopping with Oscar, either. Quite frankly, you didn't think being with him for hours on end was a good idea. At least, here in the house, you could escape, but out in the open, your chances were ironically not that good. Where would you run off to if you depended on him for a ride back?

Yet, you found yourself saying yes, and you didn’t know why. You had no clue why you felt the need to help her out. You had no clue why you felt a certain way towards her all of sudden.

You had no clue when Lily Zneimer—the girl you're supposed to hate—was someone you saw as a friend.

It was a tough pill to swallow, because on one hand, you were still attracted to her boyfriend. But on the other hand, you suddenly had self-control. You didn't want to ruin their relationship anymore. You didn't want to lose her amity.

You were trying to be better.

“Ready?”

Looking up from your book, you nod. “Let me just go grab my sunglasses.”

As he watches you run upstairs, he feels something—different. From your end, that is. As if something has shifted. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because before he knows it, you’re back.

The car is quiet and his music can barely even be heard, but nothing is far more awkward than the tension between you two. It’s suffocating, so much so, you roll down the window. He makes a noise, making you tilt your head to look at him. He’s frowning. “It’s a hundred degree’s out, roll it back up. I can turn on the AC.”

You don’t utter a single word, just follow his instructions. He finds that weird. See, usually, you’d be doing something to get him hot and bothered, but these days you seem to be playing it safe. If anything, he should be thankful. He should be glad that you’ve left him alone for whatever reason.

But now he wants in on your game.

“How’d you meet Lando?”

“Don’t. We don’t have to talk.”

He ignores you. “I met Lily in school. She was in the class next to mine and I used to think she was the most beautiful girl in the world.” His mind panics as soon as he realizes what he’s just said, but you don’t seem to have done the same. A cough. “How’d you meet Lando?”

Seeing as he probably wasn’t going to let this go unless you answer his question, you sigh, twisting your body and adjusting yourself to have a good view of him. Like this, you can count every mole on his skin if you really wanted to, but you don’t. “I never really met Lando, per se. I just always…knew him, I guess.” His brows furrowed and you chuckle. “We grew up as neighbors.”

“You did?” he asks, brows jumping up with shock. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. “He was my sister’s boyfriend for two years.” This shouldn’t surprise him. Coming to a red light, he turns to look at you, fighting the urge to show any kind of reaction, he doesn’t want to scare you off. You look away, wincing. “I knew what I was ruining the moment he and I started talking behind her back, and I did it anyway.”

“So…they were still dating?”

Nod. “She caught us locked up in the bathroom. There really wasn’t any explanation to that.” Green flashes as you point numbly and he steps on the gas once again. “And you know what? I didn’t even feel all that bad, and you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I got what I wanted.”

I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want, that is.

Your words from nights ago replay inside his overly crowded mind, making it pound like a sore thumb. His lips open, but he has nothing to say, and it appears you’re done talking, too. Or so he thought.

“Oscar…” you whisper. “I can’t taint another relationship.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw slacked. You don’t want him anymore. You want nothing to do with him. Shouldn’t he be pleased? Shouldn’t he be ecstatic that your diabolical plan has expired? One you never admitted to, but still.

So then why does he feel let down?

“Lily is great,” you continue, eyes closed as you nod gingerly. “She’s the best, and she deserves the friend she thinks she has.”

“Except you two aren’t friends.”

You blink. “Wh-wha—yes we are. What are you talking about?”

He grits his teeth. “You two aren’t friends. You could never be.”

This gets a rise out of you. Straightening your back, your brows pinch together with offense. “And why not?”

“Because.”

“Because?” You scoff, not impressed by his bland response. “We can’t be friends simply ‘because’?”

Switching lanes, he huffs, spotting pink carnations in his rear view mirror. You had chosen those on Lily’s behalf. He didn’t really care at the moment, but now he wishes you had gone with white. What were you two arguing about again?

Spotting the familiar blue house, he lets out a breath, pulling into the driveway, quickly putting the car in park, and turning off the ignition. This almost makes you back down because suddenly his sole focus is on you, not the road.

“You’re on my mind.”

Oh. Biting down onto your bottom lip, you shake your head. “I’m n—”

“Yes,” he says, firmly, reaching for your hands and pulling them up to his mouth, kissing them over and over. “You are and you know it.”

“Oscar, no…” you let out, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. A crazed look colors his irises as his chest rises fast, up and down, as if he’s close to hyperventilating. Bewildered, your lips turn to a downward spiral. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“Yes, I do!” he yelps, voice cracking as you stare with shock. “You did this to me, you got in my head on purpose!”

“I didn’t do anything!” you squeal, frightened by his tone. “Did I tell you that I wanted you?”

“You implied it,” he defends rapidly, pleading with eyes for you to show any signs of recollection. “What changed?”

“I already told you,” you snap, this time using all your power to yank your hands back. “I don’t want to be this way anymore. I can’t.”

Silence.

Slow breaths explore the car as he stares blankly. “That’s not fair.”

“What isn’t fair?” you hiss, aiming a glare.

Oscar shakes his head, flinging his door open and hopping out, leaving you dumbfounded as you watch him go. Unbuckling yourself, you make a beeline for him, barely even reaching him as you tug on his shirt, making him turn back with a dark look in his eyes. Your heart nearly flat lines from how scared you are of him from this point of view.

“What isn’t fair, huh?” you ask, trying to sound brave, but there’s a slight tremble in your voice.

Glowering down on you, the Australian’s lips form a slow smile, almost in a sinister way. Mocking, too. He chuckles to himself. “You like to have your own fun, don’t you?” Your shoulders drop, taking a clumsy step back, but he takes a dominating one forward. “Yeah…you do. You get to knead your fingers into someone’s brain until all they can think about is you, and once they do, you’re out.” Pause. “It’s no longer fun.”

“That’s not—” You let out a shaky breath, wincing at his accuracy. “Where are you going with this?”

Oscar shrugs, broad shoulders going up before falling sourly. “I’m gonna do the same.”

You freeze, stomach twisting with trepidation. “Huh?”

He nods, clicking his tongue. “How come you only get to have your fun?” He leans down, coming eye level with you, and narrowing his gaze until you see his iris dilate. Something about that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why can’t I do the same, too?”

Taking a step back, he makes sure to send a sly smile, the kind that lets you see he has a hidden dimple. He sighs as he steps into the house, forcing you to watch him go with a smug reaction and leaving you with a poor one. Last minute, he turns around, inclining against the doorframe, making him appear larger than the world.

Oscar squints teasingly.

“I’m going to have you begging me to fuck you.”

There was a moment in the past week where you nearly fell for it—almost.

It happened one morning, and all he had done was walk into the house, all big and sweaty. He had just come back from a run.

“Excuse me,” he says, reaching over to grab a glass from the cabinet, intending to pour himself a bit of water. A certain warmth radiates off him and you feel it cling onto you immediately, pushing you towards him. You physically have to stop yourself.

Pursing your lips, you move, allowing him to easily grab what he needs. Without a single thank you, he hums, the cool water tasting heavenly. The way his Adam’s Apple juts up and down makes you want to scream, looking away as rub your eyes fiercely. He smiles, setting the glass down. “I need your opinion on something.”

“What is it?” you ask, still not looking. Maybe you should leave to go buy your dress for the party. Time is running out, and you have nothing. Though, at this point, you didn't want to be here anymore.

“It's about Lily’s graduation gift. Should I get her a necklace with her birthstone, or—”

An ankle bracelet with my number on it?

Immediately, you turn to face him, cheekbones beet red and a slight twitch in your eyes, those that are now dark and looming. Satisfaction plays a role in his features as he stares innocently. “I was leaning towards the ankle bracelet. I really do think you and Lando are onto something.”

“What’s your game?” you ask, bitterness evident in your tone. Your question takes him back to when he was the one asking it. To you. Neat brows furrow with anticipation.

The brunette shrugs. “I don't have one. I'm just here to have fun.” He smirks. “It's summer—isn't it?”

This is all a bad case of deja vu, one you don't find appealing. How dare he ask you something like this with a dirty smile on his face? The look is just the right amount of disgusting, and the right amount of intriguing.

He was getting to you.

Clicking your tongue, you roll your eyes. “Whatever your plan is—stop it.” Pointing a finger, you shake your head firmly. “Because it's not going to work on me.”

“It’s not?” he asks, closing the gap and towering over you dangerously so. He sees the way your breathing becomes a tad bit irregular, letting him know that this was working, no matter how much you denied it. “Because you’re a better friend now? Because you got one taste of loyalty and now you've decided to be loyal to yourself?” A large hand reaches for your chin, forcing your head to tilt back and look up at him. And you hate how handsome he is in an infuriating moment like this. “People don't change overnight. I doubt you'd be the first.”

Old habits die hard, but over time, and he's right. You're still the same avaricious girl as yesterday.

Pushing his thumb against the corner of your lips, you instinctively open your mouth, making room. A soft smile tugs at his own lips as his eyes admire your lipstick coating his finger. Slowly, he eases the digit in, feeling your wet tongue hug it. And then, suck.

“Fuck,” he groans beneath his shaggy breath, brown orbs not wanting to miss a single second of this. Humming, your vibrations send a chill down his spine, finding it harder to not bend you over amd just fuck you into oblivion. But no—he had to hear you say it.

Pink tongue laps around his thumb, doe eyes blinking prettily, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Instant jealousy enters the room as his mind begins to race with the fact that Lando has probably had you like this millions of times. He pushes down on your tongue, making you whine and bite down. And he doesn't even flinch.

“Tell me you want me…” His brows knit with need. “The same way I want you. Please, just—say it.”

Without warning, you bite down hard, this time getting a reaction out of him as he grunts with pain, and you push him away harshly until his back pounds against the nearest wall, letting out a loud thud.

“Let me tell you one thing, Oscar,” you start, strolling over to him like a fallen angel. Today you wear a white dress, clung to your body like a glove, allowing him to see every curve of yours, in return, making his palms sweat. You grin, reaching him. “You won't ever see me begging for anyone—especially you.” His stomach drops. “No matter how much I want this to happen, too.”

Are you willing to get down on your knees and supplicate?

The answer is an obvious one for him: yes. He’d spend hours at your feet if that meant having you, for even just a second. Normally, he isn't this submissive, nor this desperate, but it seems like only you bring this side out of him. He doesn't entirely hate it.

“Ye—”

Ring! Ring!

Sighing, you walk up to your phone that sits on the nearest counter, and pick it up. “Hi, baby,” you greet sweetly. “How’s Adam?”

Ring! Ring!

Digging into his back pocket, he curses, picking up. “Hello, darling,” he says warmly, making you flicker your gaze over at him with accusation. “How’s everything going?”

Turns out, Adam’s bone wasn't actually broken and Lily had aced her exams. She ended up telling Oscar the truth, to which he was surprised she had kept it hidden from him for so long, but was far more surprised when she told him that you knew. Long story short, by some twist of fate, they’ll be back in the next couple of days. They land on the same day, so they’ll save the Australian the hassle and just drive in together.

“See you in a couple of days. Alright. Bye,” you say, rubbing your temples.

Oscar looks up, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “I’ll see you, then. Fly safe.”

A moment passes by. “Did she tell you—”

“That they’re flying in together? Yeah. They were both in London, after all. It makes sense.”

“Sure,” you mumble, brushing a strand of hair away. “They land Wednesday, then?”

“Correct,” he says, nodding along. It’s already Monday, so that was…soon.

Too soon.

“I should probably start fixing up the arrangements,” you announce. “Lily asked me a couple of days ago, but I haven't gotten around to it. I just pray they haven't died yet.”

“They haven't,” he states, making you curl a brow. He smiles sheepishly. “Carnations last longer. Lily said so.”

“Of course,” you say, grinding your teeth. “Lily said so, so it must be true.”

Nothing more, nothing less. You just walk towards the flowers, and feel the irritation paint your silhouette, because as expected, Lily was right—like always.

Thing is, Oscar has come to learn your behavior. The way you tell a lie, the way you tell the truth. He's learned your body language, and right now, he can tell one thing for sure.

You never stopped hating Lily.

He smiles.

And that makes him happy. Because he knows this isn't over yet.

By Tuesday, the entire setup is ready. The flowers sit beautifully at every table, and the lights hang nicely around the trees. The sound of the lake singing is your only reminder that you could use a break. And apparently, it was also Oscar’s.

“The event decorators just left. But you did an excellent job with the florals,” he adds last minute.

A hum. “I tried my best.”

The dock creaks. The frog's ribbit. The crickets harmonize. And you two are too close to one another. Your shoulders brush, making you flinch and for him to cough awkwardly. “Despite everything, I had fun having you around. A summer well spent, don't you think?”

With a deadpan expression, you turn to look at him, making him laugh, and the corners of your lips fight back a smile. You haven't heard him laugh in so long, you come to realize. In all sincerity, that is. “It was alright,” you respond, shrugging it off as if nothing. “But yeah. I had fun, too.”

Fun teasing each other. Fun trying to get each other to crack. But fun, nonetheless.

And he thinks: if not now, when? You don't know at what moment he catches you off guard, but he does, because in a single second, he's kissing with urgency. Like he's never kissed anyone before and he was making sure to get it right. And it was more than right. Heat pools in between your legs as you try your best to keep up with him, but the taste of cheap beer makes you get high on life. Since when is he much of a drinker?

Since you.

The good thing is that the entrance back to the house isn't that far, so your guys’ tumble is pretty successful. Though, you don't make it to either’ bedroom, but rather the couch, where a bunch of disposables lay. Lily had them shipped a couple days ago. Says she wants as many pictures as possible, savor the memories for a lifetime.

Without any precaution, he wipes his arms across the cushion, sending the cameras to crash against the floor and throwing you onto the couch, smiling once you squeal with excitement. All except one camera—but neither of you notice that yet.

Your soft hair lays around you like a halo, making him wonder if he’s gone straight to heaven. You gesture him to come in closer, and he’s quick to obey, diving for your neck. You giggle, a lazy hand finding its way into his locks. “No marks,” you pant, squirming as he licks a line down your throat before going up towards your lips.

“No marks,” he confirms. “On your neck.”

You pause momentarily, disattaching your mouth from his. “No marks anywhere.” He grins, nodding just because. You frown. “I’m serious, Oscar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure.”

Then, he’s on his knees, kissing your ankle like that one time on the stairs, except now, he’s taking it nice and slow. Steady. Your mind grows dizzy as he grazes his fingers gently down your skin. It sends goosebumps, seeing him like this. So…submissive.

“I never wanted you,” he whispers as he presses his pink lips onto your left ankle this time. He hums. “You were just another girl to me. My teammate’s girlfriend—that’s it.” Another kiss. “You never crossed my mind, not even once.”

And now…

Making his way up, he kisses in between your thighs, nuzzling into your warmth. You let out a weak moan, chest rising raggedly. Playing with his earlobe, you massage it gently as you try your best not to ruin this moment. Though it seems like nothing could. Not when he’s devoted to it already. And so were you.

Feeling a slight burn, you furrow your brows as you spot him sucking gently against your inner thighs. You squirm, pushing his head away as he keeps his position. “I said no marks.”

And you actually feel his smile start to spread against your skin.

“He won’t see these, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Another suck, this time harder. “Well…unless you want him to. Then that’s your decision.” Looking past his lashes, he bites down on the flesh, making you flinch. “So what? Are you gonna let him see how someone else has fucked you while he was gone?”

Pulling your panties to the side, he dips his tongue into your pussy, making your hips fly off the couch, and for him to push them back down, holding you in place. Sloppily, he kisses it—practically making out—and groans like a madman with the way you taste. Your sweet nectar makes his cock grow hard instantaneously, and he can’t help but grind against the edge of the cushion where your legs hang.

“Holy.” Whine. “Fucking.” Moan. “Shit.” Groan.

Twisting with an obscene amount of pleasure, you tangle a shaky hand through his hair, ignoring how soft it feels. The need to run away and stay is a confusing pattern, but as soon as he adds a finger, curling it just the right amount, you let out a high pitched moan.

Just like that, Oscar, just like t-that.

Adding another digit, he picks up the pace of his tongue, drawing figure eights as the knot in your stomach burns brutally. You feel a white cloud surface over your eyes as they close, screwed shut as if that might help you last longer. But he knows what your body needs, and that itself was an alarming thing to realize.

With one last mewl, you finish all over his tongue as he licks you clean, not wasting a single drop. And the way you taste—makes him not want to go back to not knowing. With a smile filled with bliss, and that familiar afterglow, you giggle, nose scrunching like a bunny as your cheeks remain as red as a rose. The sight alone makes him struggle to comprehend that this is most likely a one time thing, and not something he’ll be able to relieve whenever he wants.

At the end of the day—you're not his.

But he can still reminisce about this moment from time to time.

Mid-giggle, a flash goes through as you come to a stop. Oscar grins, shaking the green disposable, showing it off. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful.”

Your breath hitches, his words tugging at your heart strings. You haven't experienced something like that in so long. Shaking your head, you push your dress down, climbing off the couch and pushing him to sit. “I like to play fair.” Sliding down to your wobbly knees, you shoot a gentle smirk, something that makes his cock grow painfully harder. “Let me take care of you, Oscar.”

Undoing his belt, you hurriedly unzip his jeans, fighting the urge to take him completely. You don’t, though. No, you first kiss the tip, making him groan, feeling as if pushing you head down is a good idea. Then, you suck at a comfortable speed, like a baby sucking their thumb, and watch past your lashes how his chest begins to rise slowly.

“You’re huge,” you hum, pecking it. “How am I gonna fit you into my small mouth?”

Moaning, the brunette drags a hand over his tired expression, faking a smile. “You’re saying you can’t?”

You suck harder, still treating it like a lollipop. Licking his tip like a kitten licks their bowl clean. It’s starting to cut his patience thin. “I can figure it out…”

I’ve done it with Lando. How much harder can this be?

That’s it. Pushing the back of your head, he forces you to deepthroat him, keeping you in place as you drool on either side of his lap, soft gurgles coming through. You try to push off him, but it seems like that makes him shove you down twice as hard.

“Something to say, baby?” he pants under his breath, raising a brow. “What was that?”

Slapping his thigh, tapping out, you find yourself being pulled off of him, dragged onto his lap as in one swift movement, he pushes your panties to the side once again and thrusts his thick cock deep inside of you. So much happens so fast that you barely have a chance to adjust to his girth.

“Does Lando make you feel half as much as I make you feel?”

He’s not talking about sex. It hasn’t been about sex for a while now.

Moaning, you bounce up and down, your hair hanging like a curtain as you give your best to keep up with him and his rhythm. But he practically controls you, snapping his hips up with anger. At least, that’s what it feels like.

“Does he make you feel good?”

“Yes,” you sigh against his ear as you clutch an arm around his shoulder, keeping as steady as possible. “He does.”

But you make me feel better.

The sound of your praise does something to him, something inexplicable. And while he can’t quite put a name to it, he does know that you’re telling the truth. You had to be.

Again, pulling you off his swollen cock, he flips you around, having you use him as a chair as he squeezes his girth into your tight pussy, strong arms looping under your legs and spreading them open as he abuses your cunt, feeling your head fall back as you gasp.

“F-fuck,” you shriek, head bopping with each thrust, and your throat growing dry. “Fuck me—fuck me.”

“I’m trying,” he chuckles, continuing as you try your best to understand how he was able to learn that he knew how to do all this. “Look at you. Just…look at you.”

There comes a time of life where someone is meant for you, and you’ll find your way to each other, no matter what. He’d like to think that it’s true. Sure. It is. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s not?

Maybe the person you think you’re supposed to be with is busy thinking the same thing as you? Living a full life with someone else who isn’t their soulmate? Romantically, that is.

Lando and Lily. They’re both place holders. They’re nice, yeah, and they’re amazing, too—but that’s about it.

You hold his entire destiny.

He just wants to live by it.

But the way he has you—it’s temporary. And nothing good ever lasts forever. But God, he really fucking wishes it did.

Close, he hears you whisper, followed by a squeal as he holds your legs up higher, still fucking you in the same position. So, so close.

“Not. Yet.”

Hauling you off, you’re quick to whine, feeling empty as he spreads you onto the couch, admiring your glistening lips. He presses a thumb down against your bud, feeling the pulse that enlightens him to smile. You copy him, toying with your dress.

“Should I—”

“Keep it,” he says firmly. A beat. “Please. Keep it.”

When you nod, your hair only gets tangled against the cushion, but that’s the least of your worries. You frown. “You haven’t cum yet…”

“I will, don’t worry.” Silence. Pushing this thumb inside, you squirm, wincing slightly as your eyes remain on him, waiting for his next move. “Open.”

Opening your legs wider, he chuckles, shaking his head. Your mouth. You gulp, then open wide as he hums, bringing his wet finger into your mouth, making you taste yourselves. And normally, you’d be grossed out. God, you don’t let Lando even do this, but something about Oscar makes you feel okay. That, and like a pathetic freak.

“Good, no?” It’s an awkward thing to ask, you can’t help but blush against his digit, lashes fluttering. The Australian tsks, pressing his large finger against your tongue as your eyes grow wide. “Right?”

In a heartbeat, you nod because it just felt like the right thing to do. Satisfied, he smiles, taking another photo of this beautiful sight. Your eyes are round and full of life, and slightly teary, and that’s what he likes to see.

Retracting his thumb, he smirks. He makes room for both of you on this small couch, towering over you and he starts raising both your legs over your shoulders. Your stomach twists.

“I wanna see it when I fuck you.”

With your dresses scrunched up, and his cock cutting you in half, you both moan in sync as the wet sounds echo through the hall of the empty house. And this wouldn’t have happened—probably ever—if you hadn’t accepted their invitation to spend the summer in North fucking Carolina.

The number four dangles, and not only is the sounder a reminder that it’s there, but he can spot it from his peripheral vision every time he pounds into you a little harder. And he should be jealous—God knows that’s true—but surprisingly, he’s not.

Because he’s heard the way Lando fucks you. And nothing—nothing—compares to now.

It feels as if he’s practiced moves like this for a lifetime. As if he were to promise you that this could all work out, then you’d believe him.

You really would.

A sloppy thrust. “I never wanted you to begin with,” he grunts, screwing his eyes shut as your body reacts to his harsh confession. “I saw you with Lando, and I felt absolutely nothing. I had Lily to focus on. But God—what have you done to me?”

His tip seems to find your g-spot as you cry out, withering around. “I was taught to respect others. To respect what’s theirs. Whether that be a journal, or a remote control car, it didn’t matter. But you do,” he confesses, watching as you continue to whimper, probably not catching any of this anymore. “You did this to me…”

You filled me with greed.

Grabbing your ankles, he lurches them over his left shoulder as he continues to pound into your tight cunt, hearing you gasp before erupting into a string of moans.

“Now, everything he has, I want.” You whine. “I’m going after his Championship.” You whine louder, eyes opening as you watch a bead of sweat roll down his nose. “I’m going after his team.”

Oscar chuckles darkly. “And I’d love to say that I’m going after you, but hey…looks like I already have you.”

And just like that, the pit in your stomach bursts as you two clash against one another, your orgasms riding out together as your legs finally fall, but not before he makes sure to press a gentle kiss.

A flash.

“Really?” you ask, glaring.

“Stick your tongue out.”

Without any questions, where you lay, you open your mouth, watching as he stands up to tower over you, jerking his cock one last time as his drops of cum fall against your tongue, white and thick.

Your eyes flicker with excitement as he makes sure to take a picture. If he can’t have you later, or probably ever again, then he’ll make sure that he gets an angle of you that only he could ever dream of years down the line.

Pulling his pants back up, he makes sure to clean you up before making you sit, him only a few inches away, but honestly, it feels like miles. All of a sudden, he’s distant, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does.

Biting down onto your wobbly lip, you comb your fingers through your hair—you’re doing your own after care.

“I know things with us won't ever be the same, but…” You wince. “Please don’t treat Lando any differently. He sees you as a brother.”

He flinches because he knows it's true. Of course it is, everybody knows it. Oscar nods in agreement. “Only if you promise to stop hating Lily.”

You snort. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

The sound of tires is what ultimately gets your two to spring up, rushing towards the window as you look onto the driveway. Laughing, you first see Lily, then Lando, then you frantically twist your heels to face the Australian who remains with a blank expression, clearly not expecting them.

“They were supposed to be here tomorrow, you said!” you hiss, rubbing your temples. “What the fuck?”

“They must’ve upgraded their tickets to get here sooner,” he shoots back, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He grimaces. “Hurry! Help me pick up the disposables from the floor!”

“Right!” you screech, running toward the living room as you fall onto your knees, picking up the cameras and tossing them back onto the couch. Oscar does the same, but with his eyes stuck in the door, waiting for a knock.

Knock! Knock!

Freezing, you two look at each other, as if debating whether to make a run for it together or not. Though, as soon as you hear Lando call out for you, you’re sure you have no chance. Taking one last glance at the pile of cameras, you huff, skipping towards the door, fixing your knot up hair as best as possible.

“Hey!” you greet, nearly over exaggerating, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he beams, grinning from ear to ear. Lando pecks your lips, lingering for a moment, making your heart drop. Because he can’t know—can he? Distancing himself, he wears a subtle frown, sort of there, sort of not, so you’re quick to smile. “I’m so happy you’re back.” You turn to face Lily, who’s stayed in the background, letting you have your moment. “That you’re both back.”

“It's nice seeing you, too,” she says before her eyes wander to a place behind you. Suddenly, her eyes twinkle as she grins at Oscar who comes closer with lips drawn into a firm line. “Look who just woke up from a nap.” Kissing his cheek swiftly, she tippy toes, fixing his messy hair into a neat comb over. “You look as if you got into some kind of bar fight.”

“Yeah,” Lando hums, looking over at you with dark eyes. “It sort of does…”

“We were fixing the outside tables—”

“We were fixing the floral arrangements—”

Lily and Lando quirk a glance at each other, then back towards you and Oscar whose faces are flushed. Oscar coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Why don’t you guys come and check it out?”

“Yes, please!” Lily squeals, already making her way out the door, the Australian not that far behind.

Sighing, you go on to follow as well, but there’s this hold on your wrist that just won’t let go. You spin, staring at Lando who clenches his jaw.

“Did you fuck him?”

You flinch. “No—I didn’t.”

Blue eyes fill with warning as he nods, silently thinking to himself before rubbing his chin harshly. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re capable of.”

This physically makes you feel sick, ashamed that he knows you for being a lying cheater. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, wishing to take it back as soon as it comes out. He raises a brow, clearly surprised. You gulp. “You’re capable of doing the same thing as me, aren’t you? Isn’t that why we’re together?”

“We’re together because I love you.”

“Yeah, well, I love you, too. I’ve literally given up the relationship I had with my sister—for you.” Taking his hands into yours, you knit your brows together softly, and just like that, he melts. “I love you, Lando. There's no need for anyone else.”

Looking past the clear window, Oscar stares at you and the Brit, who share a hug, taking occasional loving pecks as if nothing else matters.

As if his feelings aren't worth anything.

“I love it,” Lily says, ripping his gaze from getting hurt any further. Because that’s what this has all led to —him getting hurt. She grins happily, making her way closer. “I really appreciate you two working on this together, it all looks so wonderful.”

Guilt makes his tongue trip as he tries to say something, but when all fails, he settles with a warm smile, pulling her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. “I’d do anything for you, Lily Zneimer.”

With your head resting on Lando’s shoulders, you look out to where the couple stand, in the same embrace. This makes your eyes sting, which is silly because—why do you feel so invalidated?

Despite being so far apart, you and Oscar are still able to connect, looking at each other with a certain yearning. This is not what this was supposed to be. The Australian would have never dreamt of any other girl that wasn’t Lily, so what happened?

“I love you,” Lando mumbles, securing his hold on you.

“I love you,” Lily mumbles, face pressed against his heart, feeling it thump fiercely.

You spare Oscar a smile, and Oscar spares you the same. And neither of you two can bring yourselves to lie.

So, instead, neither of you say it back.

It all comes crashing down on you one Sunday morning.

By now, Lily has graduated, summer is over, and you’re back in Monaco. And for some reason, Lando offered to help get Lily’s picture’s developed. He knew a guy who’d get him a nice discount, apparently. Film is expensive as it is, so of course the British girl accepted.

You’re sitting outside on the balcony. It’s windy today, and you should probably go back inside, but the ocean looks particularly blue today, so you decide to stay.

Curling yourself tighter with your blanket, you sigh, staring numbly, mind racing. Because this is a daily occurrence now.

All. You. Think. About. Is. Him.

Him and his obnoxious smile. Him and his warm brown eyes. Him and his chuckle that sounds dry to everyone else, but lively to you.

Just…him.

And without a doubt, Lando has figured out that something was wrong with you, but he never asked questions.

Until now.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down next to you, pressing his lips against your temple quickly before smiling. “Have you been here all day?”

You blush, shivering by the sudden breeze. “If I say no, would you believe me?”

“Yes,” he admits, clicking his tongue. “Because apparently I believe almost everything you have to say.”

Including your lies.

You hear him, but his voice is muffled by now with all that you’re feeling. He handed you an envelope, and you first opened it with curiosity, then with dread and shame when you realized what was inside.

The film.

You’re laughing, eyes shut with delight.

Your lips are wrapped around his thumb.

Around his cock, too.

Drops of cum lay flat on your tongue.

One where his head is beneath your dress.

One of his hands wrapped around your ankles, a certain number four glimmering.

All of this, and more.

Licking your lips repeatedly, you sit up, staring at him with an open mouth. “Lando—”

“I’m not mad.”

You blink.

He shrugs, taking the pictures, making you want to snatch them back and figure out what to do with them yourself. How could you and Oscar forget to set this one aside?

He can tell that you’re mortified, so he sends a reassuring smile, but it does no good. “I’m not, alright? I’m just…disappointed.” His reaction is confusing, he can tell what you’re thinking. Why is he so okay with this? “I’m not the biggest fan of you lying to me, but whatever, it’s fine.”

“And sure, I should be furious that you two went behind my back, and maybe I am—but I’m willing to let it go because I love you.” The blue eyed boy pecks your lips, you still frozen with shock. He chuckles. “This is what I get, right? This is my karma? For sleeping with you while I was still dating your sister?”

When you still don’t say anything, he nods to himself, as if this is all making sense to him, and only him. “Must be.” A beat. “I forgive you.”

“What about him?” you squeak, scared of his response.

Lando clenches his jaw before breaking into a helpless smile. “He doesn’t have to know, I know. This will just remain between you and I—just like always. He doesn’t have to know. Lily doesn’t have to know.”

You hold yourself from crying because in a way, he’s right. Out of everyone, Lily Zneimer doesn’t deserve any of this. She has been nothing but good to you, and you’re embarrassed to notice now that you ruined a perfectly good friendship. And while she may have no clue, you do, and that’s enough for you to probably wince every time you look at her from now on.

“Just don’t do it again. M’kay?”

Rubbing his thumb against your lips, it’s almost like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t seem to do whatever he was thinking, his eyes darken, and he gets up with a bitter smile.

He takes the pictures with him and you don’t know what for.

But you don’t dare ask a single question.

It’s just you. Your thoughts.

And Oscar.

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neferaskingdom · 2 months ago

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♡ Mini-Charles | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: He’s used to fans, but something about this tiny one in Suzuka hits different, and Charles can’t stop smiling. Mini-Charles 2026 pretty-please? you'd make such an amazing maman mon amour-

A/N: Chat I fear I cooked with this one. Mini-Charles literally made my ovaries almost burst, so I present thee with this little blurb.

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

One of the best parts about the Japanese Grand Prix was always the fan stage. Rain or shine, Suzuka fans showed up in full force, enthusiastic, respectful, and often wildly creative. Charles had seen all kinds of things over the years—handmade banners, fans in full Ferrari suits, even one guy who brought a cardboard cutout of him as a saint to every single event. But this time, something, or rather someone, really stole the show.

It started when Charles was doing the fan Q&A alongside Lewis. He was mid-sentence, answering one fan’s question, when he noticed a flash of red near the front row. Not the usual Ferrari cap or flag, but something... smaller.

A child, maybe five or six years old, standing perfectly still with his hands on his hips in what could only be described as an exact replica of Charles’ fireproofs. Down to the logos. Even the custom detailing on the sleeves. He was wearing a mini version of Charles’ helmet too—full visor, the matte red and white colors perfectly matched. And the stance. God, he was standing exactly like Charles does when he’s focused in the garage.

Next to him were two girls around the same age. One was decked out in Max’s navy fireproofs and helmet, and the other had gone all out in papaya orange, even painting freckles on her cheeks like Lando. But it was the little Charles clone that made him pause mid-answer.

He leaned slightly toward Lewis, nodding subtly toward the kid.

"You seeing this?"

Lewis squinted. Then grinned. "Mini-you? Yeah. That kid's got your whole aura going on."

Charles laughed softly, eyes still glued to the boy. "He stands like me. That's terrifying."

"He's probably got the hand gestures down too."

Charles kept glancing at him throughout the session. Every time he looked, mini-Charles was looking back up at him, visor slightly tilted, tiny hands on his hips like he was part of the team.

It didn’t take long before a Ferrari PR staffer approached the boy’s guardian and arranged for them to come into the garage. Word traveled fast, and before Charles had even finished his media rounds, he heard, "Little Leclerc's in the garage!"

The name stuck immediately.

She found Charles in the Ferrari hospitality area a few minutes later, practically bouncing as he pulled her by the hand.

"You need to come see this kid. I swear to God, it’s like someone shrunk me."

She raised an eyebrow. "They cloned you in Japan?"

“I just wanna see him up close,” he said, glancing back at her with the giddiest grin. “He had the little visor, chérie. The visor! And the gloves. Like mine! And he even did the pose. Did you see that?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I saw. You’ve been smiling like an idiot ever since.”

He didn’t even deny it. “I love him. He’s my favorite person here.”

By the time they reached the garage, mini-Charles was standing between two engineers, who were enthusiastically showing him how the pit boards worked. His fireproofs were real. High-quality replicas down to the seams, probably custom-made. Even his boots had the little CL16 logo printed on them. He was soaking it all in with this quiet, intense focus that looked way too familiar.

Charles crouched down and called softly, "Hey, champion."

The boy turned instantly, visor flipped up to reveal a round face and wide brown eyes. He didn’t speak—just lit up with a shy grin and ran the last few steps into Charles’ waiting arms.

Charles caught him effortlessly and stood, the kid now perched on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. His tiny gloves clutched the front of Charles’ polo, and the smile Charles gave him was soft, full of awe.

"You see this?" he asked her quietly. "I mean, come on. Look at the gloves. The detail. He’s even got the sponsor patches."

She stepped closer, smiling as she took in the sight of the boy.

"He’s better dressed than you."

Charles crouched beside him. “Tu es magnifique. You look better in my suit than I do.”

The boy just stared up at him in awe. “You’re my favorite driver.”

Charles clutched his chest, looking like he was about to melt into a puddle any second. “Mon coeur. I’m done for. You are adorable.”

They took photos—a lot of them. With the engineers, the mechanics, even Fred Vasseur came over to see what all the fuss was about and ended up holding the boy for a photo. The engineers joined in. The boy was passed around the garage like a VIP guest, posing with everyone, giving high-fives, and pretending to check tire pressures with an air of serious professionalism.

She stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching Charles with a fond smile that she didn’t even try to hide. He was fully enchanted. There was a softness in the way he bent to talk to the boy, the way he smoothed the kid’s hair when it stuck out from the helmet. She hadn’t seen that side of him in a while—not since their last trip to her home when he spent a whole afternoon playing pretend race car with her nephew in the living room.

Then Charles was waving her over, grinning. “Come on, chérie. You have to be in the photo too.”

“I’m not in uniform,” she said, gesturing to herself.

“But you’re part of the team,” he insisted. “We need a proper photo. Mini-Leclerc needs his whole crew.”

The three of them posed together—Charles, her, and the tiny version of him in the middle, clutching the helmet proudly.

"Smile!" someone called. "We need a nice family photo of the Leclercs!"

She froze slightly at the comment, but Charles just grinned, looking between her and the boy with a soft, far-off, dreamy expression. He didn’t correct them. Didn’t even blink.

After the photos, someone jokingly put mini-Charles on the scale, and the number made Charles nearly choke.

"Sixteen point sixteen kilos? Are you kidding me? That’s... that’s my number! Twice!"

He was laughing, absolutely delighted, holding the boy’s hand as the mechanics lost it behind him.

Later that night, back in the hotel, he was still grinning.

"Did you see how he stood by the car? Like he was about to jump in and drive it. I swear, it was like watching a tiny version of myself."

She sat on the bed, watching as he opened his phone and showed her photos from earlier. "Look at this one. Look how he’s holding my visor like it’s sacred. This kid gets it."

"You were smitten."

"Can you blame me? I mean... that could be our actual little Leclerc one day."

She looked up slowly. "Oh, we’ve moved on from 'mini-me' to actual mini Leclerc now?"

He leaned into her side with a sigh. “He was perfect. Did you see how serious he looked when I let him sit in the simulator? Like a little pro.”

She smiled. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am,” he admitted easily. “I want one.”

She blinked. “A simulator?”

“A Mini-Me. Like… a real one. Ours.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want a kid now?”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t, like, wake up thinking that. But then I saw him, and—mon dieu—he looked exactly like me. It was so weird. And he had the little gloves and the fireproofs. I swear, he had the same little fold in the elbow. I didn’t know kids could look that cool.”

She laughed. “Charles.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I already found a onesie online. Look.”

He pulled up his phone and showed her a Ferrari red baby onesie with a tiny number 16 on the back.

“Stop.”

“There’s a mini balaclava too,” he said, completely ignoring her tone. “And look—this one has a hood shaped like a helmet. Isn’t that cute? I mean, come on. This baby looks ready for a race.”

“Charles. You're literally in the middle of a championship fight. You don’t sleep enough as it is. Not to mention you travel all year. When would you even see this baby?”

“‘I’d make time obviously.”

“And babies cry. And don’t sleep. And poop. A lot.”

“I can handle poop.”

She stared. “That’s your strongest argument?”

“No, my strongest argument is that I would make an amazing dad,” he said proudly. “I would be so fun. Like, I’d teach them how to race little go-karts and read them bedtime stories in three languages. And make the best sandwiches for school lunches. And if they wanted to wear their race suit to preschool, I’d let them.”

She bit her lip to hold back a laugh. “Max is having a baby,” he added after a pause.

“Oh no. You’re not doing this.”

“Why not? I’m just saying. Max is having a baby.”

“And?”

“So why can’t we?”

“Charles, this isn’t a competition.”

He pouted. “It’s not not a competition.”

“Unbelievable.”

He sighed and slumped against her, his fingers drawing aimless shapes on her arm. “You’d be such a good maman. You’re warm and patient and you already take care of me and Leo. It’d be easy.”

“Charles Leo is a dog. You’re talking about an actual real life baby here!”

“I’m not saying now now,” he said quickly. “Just… soonish. Ish. I’m just planting the idea. Watering the seed. Like a gardener.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can the gardener sleep now?”

He grinned. “Can I fall asleep while showing you just one more video? It’s this baby in a chef outfit trying to flip pancakes and he throws them on the dog.”

She groaned. “Bed. Now. It’s not the right time for this conversation.”

He followed her into bed, still murmuring about Mini-Charles and tiny helmets and kids in the paddock.

As she lay down, he slid in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "What if I just... keep showing you baby videos until it becomes the right time?"

"That’s not how this works."

"I found one earlier of a baby eating spaghetti for the first time and just losing it. It reminded me of you."

"Charles No."

"Or the one with the baby who keeps saying 'no' to everything? That one’s also very familiar."

"Go to sleep."

“I’d call him Jules,” he whispered against her neck. “If it’s a boy.”

“Go to sleep, Charles.”

He pouted into her shoulder. “Fine. But at least think about it. Just saying, Little Leclerc has a nice ring to it."

She turned off the bedside lamp and rolled back towards him, burying her face in his chest. "Sleep now. Babies later."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and sighed.

"Fine. But just you wait. One day, I’m putting that onesie in my shopping cart."

And she couldn’t help but smile.

Because if today had shown her anything, it was that Charles Leclerc would make a very cute dad. Just... maybe not this season.

“Bonne nuit, future maman.”

“Stop!”

He grinned against her shoulder and didn’t say another word. But she could feel the way his fingers gently traced circles over her stomach, and she didn’t stop him.

Maybe one day. Just not today.

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hamilando · 2 months ago

Text

ੈ✩ is it kesha? becky? (smau) ੈ✩

pairing : charles leclerc x reader

tw : fluff; chaos, mentions of cheating

fc : lily-rose depp

a/n : this was requested by @josephqunnies I hope you like it and thank you so much for supporting me ! lysm 🫶🏻 AND YES, ITS NOKIA IN THE TITLE

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡��ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

liked by charlesleclerc, arthurleclerc, franciska.gnomes and 1,345,574 others

roseyn yup, those flowers weren't for me

view comments

user1 y'all, posting this between cheating rumors.....

user2 is this an unhinged post or ....

user3 WE NEED CLEAR EXPLANATIONS MA'AM

user4 she is smiling in the pic, so idk

user5 this is all so confusing

user6 why would she post charles if he was cheating

user7 charles is even liking her posts !!!!

user8 so is arthur and lorenzo

user9 so did he actually cheat or did he not ?

user10 lord, give us a sign

liked by franciska.gnomes, user1, user2 and 1,983,247 others

roseyn thank you, NEXT

view comments

user1 yup, he definitely cheated

user2 AT 4AM ???? THANK YOU NEXT ???

user3 charles messed up real bad

user4 i am here for the tea era

user5 my parents divorced :(

user6 this is so random but I feel this is a prank

user7 is it like April ?

user8 it's literally october 😭

user9 ig cheaters cheat

user10 hoopers hoop, drivers drive, cheaters cheat

liked by user1, user2, roseyn and 238,546 others

f1wagnews Amid cheating rumors, Charles Leclerc was seen attending Wimbledon with someone other than his girlfriend, Y/N Rose

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user1 so its true huh

user2 didn't realize i was supporting an cheater

user3 i thought it was a prank

user4 didn't expect that from charles

user5 why does the girl look too similar ?

user6 lowkey charles being into curly hair

user7 first a curly hair teammate and now curly hair gf

user8 i feel so bad for yn

user9 why is lorenzo's wife smiling at charles when he is clearly with his mistress !?!?!

user10 this is so messed up

liked by charlesleclerc, lewishamilton and 2,478,456 others

roseyn may i present the side chick

view comments

user1 YN 😭 !!!!!

user2 oh lord, she really brewed a rumor over bromance

user3 she said i have had enough of bromance

user4 cant believe we fell for charles cheating rumors

user5 it was lewis all along !?

charlesleclerc merci for clearing my name

roseyn your fault for not buying me sushi 🫶🏻

user6 not yn fooling us all and having a laugh

user7 i cant imagine charles or lewis's face '

user8 the second pic 😭😭

user9 why is lewis peaking like that into the car

lewishamilton next time you're hungry, please contact me instead of giving my team a heart attack

roseyn 🩵🩵

user10 lewis is having a meltdown over the pictures realised

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 736,478 others

f1wagnews the side chick was none other than his own teammate, Lewis Hamilton

view comments

user1 lewis in his long hair era !?!?!?

user2 knew it that the person looked familiar

user3 that's one great laugh there

user4 imagine getting involved in cheating rumors with your own teammate

user5 ferrari admin going crazy

user6 ferrari legal team suing yn frfr

user7 just because yn was hungry at 4am

user8 welp, we all got mini heart attacks

user9 lewis needs to wear a dress now and go out with charles

user10 they said bromance over romance

let me know if you want to be added or removed to the tg!

permanent tg: @isotopemylove @chair-things @justaf1girl @bibblemiluvr @blushmimi @nikfigueiredo @amz824 @ivegotparticulartaste @raizelchrysanderoctavius @freyathehuntress @piastri-fvx @sadiemack9 @ilivbullyingjeongin @cherry-piee @luvleylisen @sweate-r-weathe-r @jxnellat @loveofmylife12 @budgetcupid @lilaissa @scorpiodiosa @wondergirl101ks @nichmeddar @hoeforlifee @urfavnoirette @lily-ann-b @okcurran @miniboast @teti-menchon0604 @motorsportloverf1 @formula1-motogpfan @capricornito @star73807-blog

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cherryxbooo · 4 months ago

Text

Yeah, I’m the lucky one

Summary: Hiding it when you're sick from your boyfriend is one thing, but hiding it from your clingy boyfriend is a whole other challenge.

Reader x Lando Norris

Genre: fluff

The paddock is alive with energy, buzzing with anticipation, the sound of engines roaring in the distance, and the hum of the crowd outside.

Lando is in his element, calm yet radiating an excitement that’s palpable.

The focus in his eyes is like nothing I’ve ever seen, and it’s clear that today matters more to him than most.

The weight of the race, the pressure of the expectations, and the fire in his heart are all simmering beneath the surface.

It's a mix of raw determination and adrenaline, and it brings out the best in him.

But me? Well, I feel the complete opposite.

I woke up feeling off, my head pounding and my body aching with a fever I couldn't shake.

I knew I should stay in bed, but I couldn’t. Not today.

Not with everything he’s worked for. I couldn’t let something as trivial as being sick get in the way of him having the best race of his career.

He’s been talking about this day for weeks, getting ready for it with an intensity that I’ve only seen in the world of motorsport.

But as I made my way through the paddock, trying my best to act normal, I felt the weight of my own discomfort pulling me down.

I’ve been silently counting the minutes until I can just crawl into a quiet corner and hide.

But the last thing I want is for him to see me like this. He’d immediately worry, go into panic mode, and lose focus.

Lando, with his big heart, would put everything aside just to take care of me, and I don’t want to do that to him.

Not today. Today is about him.

As I stand next to his family, making small talk with his friends, I feel dizzy.

The lights are a little too bright, and the sounds a little too loud.

I try to steady myself, offering a weak smile whenever someone glances my way, but the effort feels exhausting.

Lando’s mum catches my eye, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of concern in her expression.

But she doesn’t say anything, just gives me a warm, reassuring smile. I’m grateful, but I can tell she knows something’s off.

Then, out of nowhere, I feel a familiar hand on my back. A small shiver runs down my spine as I turn to face Lando, and I instantly feel a warmth spread through me, despite the fever still creeping in.

“Hey baby, you okay?” His voice is soft, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes, like he’s always aware of everything around him, especially me.

I don’t want to worry him. I can’t.

So I give him a smile that’s more practiced than I’d like to admit,

“Yeah, just a little tired. Big day, huh?”

Lando raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

He studies me for a second, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual, his hand gently squeezing my back.

The touch is warm, comforting. “You sure? You don’t look so great.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You focus on the race. I’m just here to cheer you on.”

Lando hesitates, his lips pressed into a thin line as if trying to gauge if I’m really okay.

But then he nods slowly, though his concern doesn’t quite vanish.

“Alright… but if you need anything, you let me know, okay?”

His voice is almost a whisper, like he’s trying not to give away just how much he cares.

“I will,” I promise, trying to keep my tone light and convincing.

But as he walks away to prepare for the race, a sense of loneliness settles over me.

The noise around me feels overwhelming, and the crowd only amplifies the ache in my head.

I find a quiet corner, away from the chaos, hoping to just breathe for a moment.

I didn't realize that I had been hiding away for a while already.

But before I know it, Lando’s voice cuts through the distance.

“You’ve been hiding from me.”

I turn to see him standing there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed with a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

His presence alone seems to calm the storm inside me.

“I wasn’t hiding,” I protest weakly, though my voice cracks just slightly.

“Just… taking a break.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

“Taking a break from what? From me?”

He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch my cheek, his fingers warm against my skin.

I close my eyes for a second, leaning into the touch, even though I feel like I might collapse at any moment.

“From the chaos of the paddock,” I admitted softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze softens, the teasing in his eyes fading. He steps in closer, his body brushing against mine as he gently cups my face with both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Hey…” His voice is tender now, a deep, comforting lull.

“Are you really feeling okay love?"

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat suddenly unbearable.

“Yes, don't worry Lan. I'm fine.”

I whisper, my voice slightly breaking as I fight the urge to lean on him completely.

I stare up at him, feeling a mix of love and pain.

I don’t want to be the one who holds him back, but I can’t deny how much I crave the support and warmth he gives me without even thinking.

Lando lowers his hands, but not without giving me one last comforting touch, his fingers brushing my wrist.

“You need to rest,” he says firmly, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind his words now.

“I’m not going to let you make it through today without me taking care of you at least once.”

I laugh softly, despite the dizziness still swirling in my head.

“I’m fine, Lando. You go be amazing out there.”

He looks at me, his eyes soft but filled with determination. “I will be. But only because you’re here.”

Before I can say anything else, he leans in, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll make sure to get at least P3 for you.”

And with that, he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of engineers and teammates.

But the moment he’s out of sight, I feel my energy drain completely.

Regardless of how I felt I still made my way to the rest so I could support Lando and be there for him.

Everywhere I look, there’s movement, excitement, and a sense of urgency.

Lando’s already suited up and surrounded by his team, getting ready to focus on the race that could mean everything for his career.

I’m supposed to be the one cheering him on, being his support, his calm, but instead, all I can do is try to survive the overwhelming wave of heat coursing through me.

Every few seconds, my head spins, my chest feels like it's on fire, and the nausea rolls in like a tide.

It’s getting harder to keep it together, but I’m trying. I can’t let anything distract him.

I can't make this his problem today, not when he’s been working so hard for this moment.

I take a seat next to Max and Pietra, hoping the three of us can keep the mood light and give Lando a little peace before he heads into the race.

I force myself to laugh at Max's joke about the weather, but it comes out more like a wheeze.

My throat feels like it’s coated in something dry and scratchy, and each breath feels like I’m not getting enough air.

Max doesn’t notice, but Pietra does.

She’s always been that way, observant, kind, and so very perceptive.

I’ve always admired how in tune she is with people.

She shifts in her seat beside me, her eyes narrowing as she studies my face.

“You okay, Y/n?” she asks gently, her voice laced with concern.

“You look a little pale.”

I immediately try to put on a smile, but it feels like the most exhausting thing I’ve done all day.

“I’m fine, really,” I say, hoping I can convince her.

“Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Pietra doesn’t buy it, not even for a second.

She leans in closer, her gaze steady as she inspects my face, my trembling hands.

“You sure?” she presses, her brow furrowing.

“You don’t look fine. Maybe you should lay down for a bit?”

The room suddenly feels like it’s closing in on me.

The dizziness that had been simmering beneath the surface is starting to take hold, and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes focused on her.

I swallow hard, trying to push the wave of nausea down, but it’s impossible to ignore now.

I nod weakly, doing my best to stay composed.

“I’m okay, Pietra. Just... a little dizzy. I think I’ll sit down for a moment.”

Max, still glued to his phone, glances up briefly, probably sensing the shift in the air.

His eyes scan me quickly before he leans closer to Pietra, muttering something under his breath, probably about how pale I look.

I’m about to wave it off, to reassure them both that it’s nothing, when Pietra’s soft hand touches my shoulder.

It’s warm and grounding, her touch gentle but insistent.

“No, you’re not okay, Y/n,” she says firmly.

“You’re not fooling me. You need to go back to the hotel and rest. Max and I will handle everything here. Don’t worry about Lando. He’ll understand. He doesn’t need to know right now, and you’re not helping him by pretending you’re fine.”

My heart clenches at her words. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to make him worry.

He’s about to race, about to compete for something so important to him.

The last thing I want is to make this about me. But Pietra’s expression leaves no room for argument.

Her hand squeezes my shoulder, and I feel a wave of guilt hit me hard.

“I... I can’t just leave,” I whisper, my voice shaky.

“I don’t want him to—”

“Y/n,” Pietra interrupts, her voice soft but full of authority.

“Lando will be fine. He’ll be more upset if you stay here, pretending to be okay when you’re not. Let us take care of everything. He doesn’t need the distraction. He needs you to get better, not to keep pretending.”

I shake my head, still fighting it. “But he’s going to think I don’t care.”

“He knows you care. You don’t have to prove it by running yourself into the ground,” she says, her tone firm yet reassuring.

“You need to listen to your body. Max and I can make sure everything’s fine here.”

I hesitate for a moment, my vision swimming in and out of focus, and then I feel it, the dizziness getting worse.

My stomach turns violently, and I barely suppress a gasp. Before I can protest, Pietra’s up and at my side, helping me stand.

“Max,” she calls out to him, her voice tinged with urgency.

Max looks up from his phone, his attention now fully on us. He doesn’t need to ask questions.

Without a word, he stands, motions to security, and gestures for them to clear a path.

“We’re getting you back to the hotel,” Max says, his voice gentle but decisive.

“No arguments.”

I open my mouth to protest, to tell them I’m fine, but the dizziness overtakes me again.

I feel my legs wobble, my knees threatening to give way beneath me. The nausea is so strong now that I can’t hold it back any longer.

My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and my heart races as I fight to keep everything together.

“Okay,” I whisper, too weak to resist any longer. “Okay, let’s go.”

Max’s arm wraps around my shoulder, steadying me as Pietra follows closely behind.

I glance over my shoulder at the paddock, seeing the hustle and bustle of the team preparing for the race.

And even though I want nothing more than to stay and support Lando, I know Pietra’s right, he doesn’t need to see me like this.

As we make our way out of the paddock, past the busy crew and excited fans, the world seems to blur again.

All I can think about is Lando, how much he’s worked for this, and how much I wish I could be there cheering him on.

But right now, all I can do is focus on getting back to the hotel and trying to heal.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Pietra murmurs, sensing my anxiety.

“Lando will understand. We’ll make sure he stays focused.”

“Thank you,” I whisper back, squeezing her hand.

Max looks over at me, offering a reassuring smile.

“No problem, Y/n. We’ve got you.”

And as they guide me toward the exit, the sound of the engines roaring to life in the distance feels far away, almost like a distant memory.

All I can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other and hoping that, by the time Lando crosses the finish line, I’ll be okay.

Meanwhile,

The race was intense, there was no other way to describe it.

Lando’s heart was pounding, his breath coming in quick bursts as he fought to stay focused on the track ahead.

Each corner, each straightaway felt like it mattered more than the last.

The roar of the engine under him, the vibration in his hands as he gripped the wheel,it was like the world was screaming at him to push harder, to get everything he had into every lap.

And he did.

Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, the world outside of his car becoming a blur of colors and sounds.

But amidst the chaos, there was something else tugging at his mind, something he couldn’t quite shake.

Just before the race started, he had caught sight of Y/n sitting among their friends, looking beautiful as always, but something was... off.

Maybe it was the way she had looked at him, her tired eyes betraying a sense of exhaustion that didn’t quite match the energy of the day.

Or how quiet she seemed, like a flicker of something hidden behind her usual smile. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but something wasn’t right.

But there was no time for that.

He pushed those thoughts away, focusing back on the race, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated the track with everything he had.

He couldn’t afford to think about anything but the next corner, the next lap, the next move.

And when he crossed the finish line, the elation of victory should’ve been enough to make everything feel perfect.

After all, he had gotten P2.

The cheers, the confetti, the roar of the crowd, it was everything he’d been working for, everything he’d dreamed of.

But in the midst of it all, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought of Y/n.

His gaze searched the area, instinctively looking for her.

He was surrounded by teammates, sponsors, friends, but all he wanted in that moment was to see her smile, to know she was okay.

He scanned the area again, but she wasn’t there.

Not where he had left her. His stomach tightened, his mind racing. Something wasn’t right.

Lando quickly moved through the crowd, dodging everyone on his way, his eyes darting between faces, searching for any sign of her.

He was so focused on finding her, he almost didn’t see Max and Pietra standing off to the side.

When he finally noticed them, his heart skipped a beat. You weren't there.

Lando’s pace quickened as he approached them, his voice betraying the worry he couldn’t hide.

“Where’s Y/n?” he asked, his words coming out sharper than he intended.

Pietra exchanged a glance with Max before she sighed, the look on her face telling Lando everything he needed to know.

"She wasn’t feeling well," she said softly, her eyes clouded with concern.

"We had to send her back to the hotel."

Lando’s chest tightened, a heavy weight settling over him.

His pulse quickened, the sudden rush of guilt and worry clouding his thoughts.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice rising slightly, not in anger, but in genuine confusion.

Max stepped forward, his expression calm but serious.

"Mate she didn’t want to distract you. She said it was important not to take your focus away from the race."

Lando’s mind was spinning now, the elation of his victory evaporating as quickly as it had come.

Guilt was flooding him, he couldn’t believe Y/n had been struggling, that she’d hidden it from him.

She’d always been there for him, supportive, understanding, even when he was caught up in his own world.

And now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let her down.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of the situation was suffocating.

He didn’t know what to say.

All he could think about was how she had been sitting there, probably feeling miserable, and he hadn’t even noticed.

The race, his career, all of it felt so insignificant compared to the thought of Y/n being alone and sick.

“Why didn’t she just tell me? I would’ve understood. I could’ve—”

Pietra stepped forward, her hand gently resting on his arm, grounding him in the moment.

“Lando, she didn’t want you to worry. She knew how much today meant to you. She didn’t want to take that away from you.”

Max nodded in agreement.

“She’s always there for you. But she’s not the type to let herself be a distraction, not when you’re in the zone like that. You know how she is, she cares about you more than anything, but she didn’t want to pull you away from your focus.”

Lando let out a long breath, feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on his chest.

“I should’ve noticed,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the ground.

"I should’ve been paying more attention."

"You’re not a mind reader, Lando," Pietra said, her voice calm but firm.

Lando realized that she was right.

He quickly greeted the rest of his family and did some other duties before changing and heading back to the hotel.

Lando arrived at the hotel room, his body still buzzing from the race, but his mind consumed by a different kind of worry.

As soon as he entered, the first thing he did was quietly close the door behind him.

The soft hum of the air conditioning and the dim light from the lamps were the only sounds in the room.

His eyes immediately fell on your figure, still asleep, your peaceful face glowing softly under the sheets.

The sight of you, so vulnerable yet so beautiful, made his heart ache with both affection and guilt.

He quietly pulled a chair from the small desk and sat down beside the bed, never taking his eyes off you.

He wanted to be close to his girl, but he didn’t want to wake you.

He knew you needed rest, but the worry of the day, the worry about you, hadn’t let up.

He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from your face.

His fingers lingered there for a second before he let out a soft breath, resting his chin in his hand, his elbow on his knee.

He could almost hear the questions running through his mind, wondering why you hadn’t told him what you had been feeling.

He could feel the weight of your absence, the quiet ache in his chest from not knowing exactly what had been going on with you.

The minutes seemed to stretch on, each tick of the clock amplifying his thoughts.

He hated this uncertainty, this feeling that something had been left unsaid.

Then, after what felt like forever, a soft groan escaped from your lips, and Lando’s attention snapped to her immediately.

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim light in the room.

Your gaze slowly focused on him, confusion settling on her face as she took in her surroundings.

Lando watched her with a mix of relief and concern, his heart lightening at the sight of you waking up but still heavy with the questions that lingered in his mind.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Lando said softly, his voice full of warmth and affection.

My vision cleared, and I smiled sleepily at him.

Lando’s heart squeezed.

"You’re awake. I’ve been here waiting for you to wake up for, like, ages now." He chuckled softly, though his eyes were still filled with concern.

"But seriously… why didn’t you tell me?"

I sighed, feeling the weight of everything pressing on me.

My hand reached for his, finding his fingers weakly, and I squeezed them, my fingers trembling a bit.

"I didn’t want to be a burden," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn’t want to ruin your day or take away from the race. It was important to you. I just… I didn’t want to distract you."

Lando smiled at me softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand.

"You’re never a burden, Y/n." He looked at me with such sincerity, it made my heart ache in the best way.

"You are always my priority, okay? Not the race, not the fans, not the win. You. Always."

I felt my heart flutter at his words, my eyes softening as I looked back at him.

The tears I’d been holding back threatened to spill, and I could feel them welling up.

Being sick just makes people extra emotional, give it a break yeah?

"I’m sorry," I murmured, my voice breaking slightly.

Lando shook his head, his heart aching.

He leaned closer, cupping my cheek gently, his thumb brushing over my skin.

"You don’t have to apologize," he whispered.

"You never have to hide anything from me, especially not when it comes to you."

I felt the weight of his words, the tenderness in his touch, and I wanted so badly to just melt into him.

I was so grateful for him, for the way he always made me feel safe, loved, and heard.

Lando sat beside me on the bed, leaning back just enough to grab the water and medicine he’d set out earlier.

"You need to drink this," he said softly, his voice gentle but firm.

"Get some rest, and I’ll be right here with you. Just take it easy."

I hesitated for a moment, but then reached for the glass of water he held out to me.

My fingers were still shaking slightly, but I took it from him gratefully.

There was a small, tired smile on my lips as I drank, and Lando’s eyes never left me.

He was watching me closely, making sure I was okay. It felt nice to be looked after this way.

After I finished the water, Lando sat back down next to me again, his hand finding mine once more.

"You don’t ever have to hide something like that from me, okay?" he said, his voice soft but serious.

"If something’s wrong, you have to tell me. Promise me you’ll tell me next time."

I looked up at him, my eyes full of emotion, and I nodded slowly.

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over, and I felt a few of them slide down my cheeks.

Before I could say anything, Lando quickly wiped them away with his thumb, his touch light, tender.

"I’m sorry," I whispered again, my voice barely audible.

He slightly laughed, "You're such a crybaby when you're sick babe."

Lando leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment.

"You don’t have to apologize," he said, his voice full of love and affection.

"I love you, baby. I love you, and that’s all that matters." His voice was quiet but strong, filled with reassurance.

I pulled him closer, resting my head against his chest, letting out a small, exaggerated sigh.

"Mmm, this is the best pillow ever," I mumbled, half-laughing, half-groaning in exhaustion.

Lando wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in tighter.

His chin rested on top of my head, and he chuckled softly.

"You come first," he said with a mock-serious tone, trying to sound all deep and dramatic.

"Always."

I snuggled in a little closer, feeling his warmth.

"Oh, I know now," I said, glancing up at him with a grin.

"You’re basically my personal butler, aren’t you? Always there when I need you."

He let out a dramatic gasp. "But of course! My whole existence is to serve you, my queen."

I rolled my eyes, fighting back a laugh.

"Thank you for being here," I said, the words half-sweet, half-teasing.

Lando smirked, pressing a kiss to my hair.

"Please don't cry again... and well yeah, where else would I be? I’m not going anywhere."

Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he added,

"Besides, you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. You know that, right?"

I couldn’t help but laugh lightly, feeling him grin against the top of my head.

"Oh, I know," I said, playfully tapping his chest.

"You're my big soft marshmallow. I practically own you."

Lando chuckled, his arms tightening around me. "You absolutely do. And you’re not even sorry about it."

I smirked, rolling my eyes. "Well, I am your number one priority, aren’t I?"

His eyes sparkled with affection, and he pulled me a little closer.

"You’re my number one everything, Y/n. No competition."

I snorted, unable to help the grin that spread across my face.

"Good. Glad we’re clear on that."

As we sat there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside felt miles away.

All that mattered was us, his heartbeat, my tired sighs, and the way we fit together like we’d always been meant to.

For a moment, everything else faded, and all I could think was: Yeah, I’m the lucky one.

The end

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itscalledastrategyfred · 1 month ago

Text

Curtain Falls, So Do We

Request: -🏀

Pairing: Brother!Charles Leclerc x Sister!Reader

Warnings: missed performances :)

Summary: Charles missed your dance and he'll do everything to make it up to you.

A/N: tysm, 🏀 anon!

The curtain had just fallen.

The lights dimmed, the applause still echoing like a heartbeat in your ears, but you stood frozen behind the wings, trembling in your pointe shoes, your tutu barely rustling as you breathed in shaky, silent gasps.

You’d done it.

The first solo performance of your life.

Except—he wasn’t there.

You turned toward the doors, your eyes scanning the silhouettes beyond the velvet curtains.

Nothing.

No sign of the signature Leclerc curls. No smile that could melt your nerves. No warm arms ready to say “You were incredible, mon étoile.”

Just darkness. And noise. And stagehands calling cues for the next group.

You blinked.

Swallowed.

And walked off with your chin high.

Back in the dressing room, everyone buzzed. Makeup being wiped off, pointe shoes unfastened, glitter dusting the carpeted floor. Girls hugged. Instructors smiled. Parents waited outside, holding presents and bouquets.

You sat at your mirror, slowly unlacing your shoes. The satin ribbons trembled in your fingers.

Your heart felt too big and too empty at the same time.

Your phone buzzed.

You swiped it open without much hope.

Charli 8:42pm — “Je suis désolé, chérie. We got held up at the paddock. I'm coming now. Please wait for me.”

You stared at the text for a long moment.

Then a tear fell. And another. They kept coming.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears sliding down your cheeks like kisses from a rose petal.

You’d told him about this performance months ago. He’d promised. Pinky promised. Charles never broke those. It was the childish nature in him.

Except now, with the season full swing, the Monaco GP madness around him, and press demands on every corner…

You’d been pushed down the list.

Again.

It was twenty-five minutes later when he finally arrived.

He burst through the backstage hallway in his Ferrari polo and jeans, hair slightly mussed, eyes frantic.

“Y/N!”

You didn’t look up right away. Just sat in the corridor still half-dressed, your bag open beside you.

His voice softened when he saw you.

“Oh, ma petite…”

“I’m not that little anymore,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your bag zipper.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, crouching in front of you. “But you’ll always be my little étoile.”

You sniffed.

“I danced without you.”

“I know. And I’m so proud of you.”

“You weren’t there to see it.”

Charles looked like he’d been hit straight in the chest.

He reached forward slowly, like you were made of glass, and gently tucked a loose curl behind your ear.

“I’m so sorry. The race weekend—it ran long, the media was insane—I didn’t want to miss it, I swear on everything.”

You nodded, barely. Only just.

He dropped to sit beside you now, shoulder to shoulder on the cold floor.

There was a pause.

Then: “You know what I used to do before every kart race?”

You shook your head.

“I would listen to that one Chopin piece. The one you used to practice with. The one with the soft piano and the sad ending. It made me think of you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You did not. Liar.”

“I did. Even in Formula 2. Even now sometimes. It reminded me of how hard you worked. How graceful you were. How pretty and neat. How I never wanted to let you down.”

You bit your lip, a tear escaping. A gentle hiccup escaped.

Charles turned to face you.

“You didn’t let me down,” you whispered. “I just… really, really wanted you to be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he said, voice cracking a little.

You looked up, and there it was—his face, open and full of love and guilt and admiration all in one.

“I’m your big brother. But tonight, I was also the guy running through the parking lot like a maniac to catch his sister’s final bow.”

You laughed, watery.

“That sounds stupid.”

“It was stupid. And I still missed it. But I swear, next time—I will be there an hour early, in the front row, wearing a glitter tutu if I have to.”

You burst out laughing.

The ache didn’t vanish, but it softened.

He pulled you into a hug.

“You looked beautiful,” he murmured into your hair. “Even now, all tired and glittery and grumpy. You’re everything I’m proud of, (Y/N). Always.”

You buried your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe again.

Back at home, he insisted on cooking pasta.

“You danced, I make dinner. That’s the rule.”

You sat at the kitchen island in your hoodie, finally warm and makeup-free, watching your Formula One driver of a brother burn garlic in a pan like an amateur.

“You’re not doing it right,” you teased.

“You sound like Enzo.”

“You cook like Enzo.”

“Watch it.”

“Maman cooks better than you and she makes toast with tomato sauce.”

He gave you a deadpan look.

“Rude.”

You smiled, slowly, for real this time.

Later, you lay on the couch, legs stretched over Charles’s lap as he scrolled through pictures from your performance that your ballet teacher had sent him.

“She sent me like fifty,” he muttered, zooming in. “Look at your arm here! That’s crazy! You looked like you were floating!”

You blushed.

“Stop hyping me up.”

“Never.”

You peeked at his phone screen. One photo caught your eye — you, mid-pirouette, lit from above like a painting.

You inhaled. “I… I really did that, huh?”

“You owned it, ma belle. No wonder people cried in the audience.”

Your eyes widened. “Someone cried?”

“Yeah. Maggie’s mom told Arthur.”

You covered your face, groaning.

“Oh noooo.”

He laughed and poked your ribs. “Famous already.”

You peeked at him. “Did you mean it? About wearing a tutu to the next show?”

“Do you want me to?”

You grinned.

“Only if you bedazzle it.”

“Done. Ferrari red.”

You laughed so hard your stomach ached and tears fell.

As the night wore down and the apartment dimmed to its sleepy hush, you curled into the corner of the couch, head on Charles’s shoulder.

He wasn’t talking now. Just scrolling through photos again, eyes fond.

“I was scared today,” you murmured suddenly. “Before going on stage.”

He looked down. “Really?”

You nodded. “I thought I’d fall. Or forget the choreo. Or freeze.”

He wrapped an arm around you. Strong and protective. “But you didn’t.”

“Because I pretended you were out there watching.”

Charles didn’t speak for a moment.

Then he kissed the top of your head.

“I’m always watching, even when I’m late,” he said quietly.

You smiled.

That was enough.

That was more than enough.

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jungwnies · 6 months ago

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click the links to view the masterlist for each of the categories! <3

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✮ f1 grid stories ✮⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⤷ these are stories written for multiple drivers on the grid into one post

⤷ these stories are typically broken up into TWO parts featuring - max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri, kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, yuki tsunoda, isack hadjar, liam lawson, and lance stroll + special features when specifically asked for

⤷ requests are closed until june

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✮ solo driver stories ✮⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⤷ these are solo stories for the individual drivers!

⤷ requests are closed until june

2024 © jungwnies | tumblr

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theonottsbxtch · 7 months ago

Text

MY KINDA CRAZY | LN4

an: i was listening to do re mi by blackbear and i was just thinking about the concept of lando dating a driver who is just straight up insane but that's their dynamic.

wc: 3.4k

Lando was lounging in his gaming chair, half-focused on his Quadrant stream, when he heard the sound of glass shattering in the distance. His gaze flickered, eyebrows furrowing as the noise registered. He glanced toward his mates on-screen, catching a few laughs over the headset.

“What was that?” Max asked.

He narrowed his eyes and leaned back, glancing over his shoulder toward the window. “Hang on a sec.” He muted his mic, got up and moved toward the source of the commotion.

He reached the edge of the window and peered outside—and there she was, standing beside his brand new black Ferrari, one of his precious golf clubs in hand, bringing it down on the windscreen with a satisfying crack. She looked wild-eyed, fearless, like she belonged right there, shattering his world with a smirk on her face.

He didn’t even have to look at the monitor to know his friends were watching his expression. After a pause, he unmuted the mic. “Uh, guys,” he said, exhaling a laugh. “I’ll be back in five.”

“Is that…?” Steven started. The rest fell into stunned silence, disbelief etched across their voices as he nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

“Bro, are you serious? You need to cut her off,” he heard Ethan say, as the sound of glass crunched through his headset again. They’re trying to talk him out of it, telling him how crazy this is, how she’s crazy. But he knows the truth—that they’re just as bad as each other, and he can’t imagine it any other way.

“I got it handled,” he assured them, already making his way downstairs.

Lando stepped into the lobby, where the apartment security guards were trying—without much success—to talk her down. One of them looked up at him, relief flashing across his face. “Sir, do you want us to call the police? We’ll get her to leave.”

But he just shook his head, giving them a grin. “Nah. I’ll deal with her.”

Striding out, he reached her, catching her wrist just as she raised the golf club for another swing. She froze, looking up at him, and he could see the fire in her eyes, the way she was daring him to react.

He just grinned, leaning in close enough that she could feel his breath brush her cheek. Without breaking eye contact, he wrapped an arm around her waist and, in one swift motion, lifted her up and slinged her over his shoulder. She let out a yelp, then an indignant laugh, smacking his back with the flat of her hand.

“Put me down, you cunt!” she demanded, but there was a thrill in her voice he knew too well.

“Are you done having your moment, sweetheart?” Lando murmured, a teasing edge in his tone. He could feel her bristle, and could almost hear the smirk in her voice when she muttered, “Maybe.”

As he walked back inside, her breathless laughter filling the air, he slid his hand up the back of her thigh, just to hear her gasp. She wriggled against his shoulder, trying to hide the way her body was reacting, but he felt it—felt her melt under his touch, even as she clung to her defiance.

Once they were back inside, he let her down slowly, pressing her back against the wall. She glared up at him, but it was a look laced with something darker, something that has his pulse thrumming. He caged her in with his arms, leaning close enough to feel the heat radiating off her.

“You really thought that was gonna get a reaction out of me?” he murmured, voice low, teasing. She smirked, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Oh, it got a reaction,” she whispered, her fingers sliding down to his belt, tugging him closer.

For a moment, there was just the sound of their breaths, mingling in the charged air between them. Then he closed the gap, capturing her lips in a kiss that was hard and demanding, like they were daring each other to go further. She kissed him back fiercely, her hands twisting into his shirt, holding him as close as possible.

When they broke apart, breathless, he pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, “Next time, try not to break the Ferrari.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “Can’t make any promises.”

She stepped through the bathroom door, expecting things to be exactly where she left them. Instead, her eyes widen as she notices the vanity—completely empty, wiped clean. Her makeup, all of it, is gone.

She dropped her phone on the floor, her jaw tightening as she stormed through the apartment, finally finding Lando lounging on the sofa, casually scrolling through his phone as if nothing’s amiss.

“You didn’t,” she hissed, fists clenched at her sides. Lando looked up slowly, meeting her glare with an infuriatingly calm expression, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I did,” he said, tossing his phone aside and stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. “Figured you might like a fresh start. Maybe if you didn’t wear all that makeup, you wouldn’t be getting so much attention.”

Her hands balled into fists, but she didn’t look away. He watched the spark ignite in her eyes, that unmistakable fire that was both thrilling and a little dangerous. She took a slow step toward him, a mocking smile spreading across her face.

“You’re insane,” she said, voice low and deadly, but he only grinned, watching her like he was daring her to do something about it.

“Yeah?” Lando replied, leaning back and looking her over with a smirk. “But you go wild for it.”

She stalked closer, moving to stand over him, her hands braced on either side of his shoulders, forcing him to look up at her. Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “That was my stuff, and you don’t get to decide what I wear.”

He let out a low laugh, his gaze unwavering as he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering just a bit too long. “Then stop trying to get my attention by looking at every other guy,” he murmured, his voice soft but dangerous, his hand trailing down the side of her face, fingers brushing along her jawline.

“You think I’m looking at anyone else?” she breathed, leaning in close enough that her lips grazed his, teasing. Her hands slid up his chest, clutching his shirt as she lowered herself to straddle him, trapping him in place. “Trust me, sweetheart, when I want someone’s attention, I get it.”

Lando felt her heartbeat against his chest, fast and unsteady, betraying the anger simmering just under the surface. He grinned, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush together. His voice dropped down to a whisper, low and possessive. “Then prove it.”

She didn’t hesitate, her mouth crashing into his, all sharp teeth and rough edges, like she was determined to make him regret it. He returned the kiss with equal intensity, his grip tightening as he pulled her in deeper, like he was staking his own claim. They were tangled together, her hands gripping his hair as he pressed her closer, their breaths mingling in a haze of frustration and heat.

When they finally pulled back, gasping for air, Lando smirked, brushing his thumb over her swollen lip. “See? Much better.”

When Lando walked in, the first thing he noticed was a mess of fabric strewn across the floor of the living room. The second? That familiar, smug defiance hanging in the air. His designer shirts—one after another—were lying in a pile, each one sliced clean through.

He let out a low, dark laugh, shaking his head as he picked up a piece of ruined silk. Of course she did this. Of course.

He followed the trail of destruction down the hall, where he found her sprawled on their bed, scrolling through her phone as if nothing was out of the ordinary. In her other hand, she was twirling a pair of scissors, the blade glinting as it caught the light.

He cleared his throat, and she glanced up, that innocent look in her eyes that he knew all too well. It was the look she gave right before she said something that’ll push every one of his buttons.

“Something wrong?” she asked, the corner of her mouth quirked up in a satisfied little smirk.

He stepped closer, holding up the tattered remains of one of his favourite shirts. “Oh, nothing,” he drawled, letting the fabric slip from his fingers. “Just wondering if you’ve got something you want to say.”

She gave a nonchalant shrug, returning her attention to her phone as she flicked through it lazily. “Thought I’d free up some space in your wardrobe. You never seemed to like those shirts anyway.”

He chuckled, watching her with narrowed eyes as he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, close enough that she had to look up at him. “And what if I told you that those were my favourites?” he murmured, reaching out to take the scissors from her hand, his fingers brushing her skin just a moment too long.

She tilted her head, her smirk widening as she let him take the scissors, her eyes flicking to his with that bold, unyielding spark he can never resist. “Then maybe you should take better care of your things,” she said, voice low and sweet, laced with mock innocence.

He let out another laugh, setting the scissors aside, his hand lingering on her thigh as he leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath hitch. “And what am I supposed to do with you, hmm?” he asked, his fingers brushing slowly up her leg, tracing light circles that sent a shiver through her.

She raised her chin, meeting his gaze with a challenging glint. “Maybe you should take better care of your things,” she said again, her tone daring him to react. Her fingers trail up his chest, her touch feather-light, barely there, but enough to send heat coursing through him.

“Careful,” he whispered, voice dropping as he moved his hand up to cup her face, his thumb tracing along her cheek. “Keep this up, and I might have to show you what happens when you mess around this much, sweetheart.”

She leaned into his touch, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”

She was exhausted, every muscle aching as she finally made it back to their apartment building after a gruelling day of training, it was hard to keep up with Max sometimes. She was only thinking about a hot shower and maybe collapsing into bed, but when she slid her keycard into the lock, nothing happened. She tried again, frowning as she heard the familiar beep and saw the small red light flash, denying her access.

Frustrated, she let out a sigh and looked up, only to see Lando standing by the window on the second floor, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk stretched across his face.

“You trying to come in?” he called down, amusement glinting in his eyes as he watched her wrestle with the lock.

Her jaw tightens. She raises her voice, letting her irritation show. “Open the door, or I swear I’ll—”

He just laughed, leaning out of the window, entirely unbothered. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I had to revoke your access. Apartment is under my name, after all.” He paused, tilting his head as he looked her over, clearly savouring her frustration. “It’s just... you’ve been taking a few too many liberties lately.”

She scoffed, storming toward the front desk, where the concierge looked up, shifting uncomfortably as she approached.

“Can you open the door?” she demanded, her voice sharp with exhaustion and irritation.

The concierge frowned apologetically. “I’m sorry, miss, but Mr. Norris" he hesitated, glancing up toward the smirking man in the window— “he’s requested that your access be restricted. I can’t let you in without his permission.”

Her fists clench at her sides, and she looks back up at him, glaring. He was still leaning against the window, arms folded, watching her with that smug, insufferable grin. She was just about ready to give him a piece of her mind when he called down, his voice lazy and laced with amusement.

“You know,” Lando said, “there’s a way you could get in. Just gotta say the magic word.”

She narrowed her eyes, arms crossing as she stared up at him. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Oh, come on.” He shrugged, feigning innocence. “A little begging never hurt anyone.” He grinned, tilting his head mockingly. “Or are you too proud? Red Bull’s Princess can’t say please?”

She bit back a retort, anger simmering under her skin. But the day had worn her down, and the idea of spending the night locked out was even worse than giving him what he wanted. She let out a sigh, glaring at him with a look that could kill.

“Please,” she said, voice strained, her jaw clenched tightly.

He cupped a hand to his ear, grinning wider. “Didn’t quite hear that.”

She let out a frustrated growl, swallowing her pride as she raised her voice, forcing herself to repeat it. “I said, please,” she grit out, hating every second.

But Lando only shook his head, laughing softly to himself. “Not quite enough, darling. You’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

Her eyes narrowed, fury blazing in her gaze as she glanced around, making sure no one else beside the concierge was listening before she took a deep breath. She fixed him with a look, voice dropping lower, softer. “Please… let me in.”

For a moment, he just watched her, savouring every word, every hint of frustration in her eyes. And then, finally, he relented, nodding to the concierge with a satisfied smirk.

The door unlocks, and she strode in, tossing one last glare up toward him as she headed up to their apartment, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the wake of her frustration.

When she reached the door, he was waiting there, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame, still looking far too amused for her liking. She stormed past him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her just before she could slip away.

“Glad to see you can be reasonable,” he murmured, his voice low, laced with amusement as he pulled her closer.

She rolled her eyes, tugging her hand free, but he didn't let her go, his grip firm, challenging her as he leaned in close, his breath warm against her skin. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Don’t push it,” she muttered, but there was a hint of a smirk on her lips, her irritation melting into something warmer as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

“Oh, I plan to,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, savouring the way her resistance softens, just a little, under his touch.

Lando was out at the bar with Max, Charles and Oscar, a half-empty glass in his hand, when his phone buzzed on the table. Glancing down, he noticed it was his bank calling. He frowned, picking it up with a raised eyebrow.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sir, this is a courtesy call from Credit Mutuel. We just wanted to confirm a recent transaction—3,600 Euros from Versace? We wanted to make sure it was authorised.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, immediately picturing her wandering through the store, swiping his card without a second thought. Of course, she would do that.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, trying to hide his amusement. “Go ahead and approve it.”

He ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket, just as his friends gave him questioning looks. Charles leaned in, a grin already spreading across his face. “3.6K at Versace? Who’s racking up that kind of charge?”

He shrugged, smirking as he picked up his drink. “My girl. Guess she decided to go shopping.”

They exchanged looks, half-amused, half-incredulous. Max whistled low, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding. She’s really that bold?”

“Bold?” Oscar chimed in with a laugh. “She’s insane. You really need to put a stop to that.”

He just raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “What, and miss out on all the fun?”

“Man, she’s gonna drain you dry,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “You need to cut her off.”

He took another sip of his drink, the thought not even crossing his mind. “Nah. She’s my type of crazy.”

They all looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but he didn't care. She kept him on his toes, always a little unpredictable, a little wild—and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’re out of your mind, man,” Max said, chuckling. “No one’s worth that kind of chaos.”

“She’s your teammate, put respect on her name.” Lando quipped, his voice light but a slight bit of truth to it.

“Teammate or not. Kelly spent 3k in Versace? I'm asking her dad to pay me back.”

He just laughed, his gaze drifting toward the door as if he half expected her to show up, Versace bags in hand and that signature defiant look on her face. “Eh this is what keeps it interesting.”

Hope you bought something nice for me to rip off tonight x

The Singapore night lights gleam across the track as the roar of the crowd echoed through the air. Lando managed to bring the car to first place. It was a win that put him further ahead in the World Drivers' Championship—closer to clinching the title that both she and him were battling for. She’d just come in third, and he knew she’d be furious about the gap widening, about him taking both the sprint and the race.

He was basking in his victory, the top step of the podium all his, the adrenaline still coursing through him, as he turned to celebrate with the other two drivers on the podium. But he couldn't ignore the tension in the air. She was standing just a few feet away, third place still sitting uncomfortably on her shoulders, the gap between them widening with each race.

Her jaw tightened as she grabbed a bottle of champagne, shaking it quickly in her hand, she slammed it on the top step of his podium, his signature celebration. And she watched.

She watched as it hit his trophy, knocking it from the podium. The silver gleamed for a split second before it crashed to the ground, the base shattering in a shower of sparkling fragments.

She stood there, blinking for a moment, watching as the trophy’s broken pieces settled at their feet, her champagne bottle still in hand, the remnants of the cork still floating in the air like confetti. Slowly, she turned her eyes to him, that familiar, defiant glint sparking in her gaze.

“Whoops?” she said, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as if she couldn’t care less about the broken trophy—or the effect it’s had on him.

He stood there for a moment, shock flashing across his face. But it was quickly replaced with a grin. He chuckled, shaking his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

Without thinking twice, he stepped off his podium, the world blurring around him as he strides over to her. Her eyes widened in surprise as he reached out, his hand slipping under her jaw, tilting her face up to his. For a heartbeat, the noise of the crowd faded, the lights dimmed, and it was just the two of them locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then, before she could react, he pulled her in, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was both possessive and challenging, a reminder of the victory that was still fresh on his lips. She was stiff at first, her fists clenching by her sides, every bit of her resistance radiating through her. But then, just as he was about to pull away, her grip relaxed. She let out a shaky breath against his lips, and suddenly she was kissing him back, just as fierce, just as unapologetic.

The world erupted around them in a chaotic mix of cheers and gasps, but they were lost in the heat between them. Charles, grinning like he was witnessing the best drama of the year, stepped forward with his bottle and sprayed them both, champagne splashing across their faces, soaking their race suits.

They broke apart, gasping for air, champagne dripping down their faces, but neither of them stepped back. He was grinning, that familiar arrogant smirk, knowing he had pushed her, made her break her carefully guarded composure right in front of everyone.

“You’re still behind, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Better step it up.”

She narrowed her eyes, her lips twisting into a smirk of her own. “Keep pushing your luck,” she replied, voice dripping with challenge. “I’ll catch you sooner than you think.”

He let out a quiet laugh, raising his champagne bottle in a mock toast. “Looking forward to it.”

She was standing in front of the press, still in her race suit, a mischievous gleam in her eyes as the interviewer approached her, mic in hand. The buzz in the room was all too familiar—she’d been the talk of the circuit all season, and tonight, after the “accidental” destruction of his trophy, they were all eager to get her take on it.

“So,” the interviewer started, grinning as he raised an eyebrow, “quite the, uh, performance on the podium. How are you feeling about, well… breaking Lando’s trophy?”

She shrugged, her expression as cool and collected as ever. “Not my trophy, not my problem,” she replied, smirking as a few people in the crowd let out quiet chuckles.

The interviewer laughed, but he was clearly fishing for more. “Rumour has it that he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. Are you worried there might be… consequences?”

Her smirk widens, and there was a dangerous glint in her eyes as she leaned just a bit closer to the mic. “Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just get punished at home,” she said, her voice dropping to a playful whisper as she glanced directly at the camera. “If you get what I mean.”

The reaction was immediate—the interviewer’s eyes widened, the crowd let out a collective gasp, and the director frantically signalled for the camera to cut the feed. But before they manage to turn it off, her laugh echoed through the speakers, rich and unapologetic, leaving the whole room buzzing with her brazen, unfiltered confidence.

As the screen went black, she tossed the mic back to the interviewer with a wink, giving the camera one last look before she strutted off, knowing she’d left them with more questions than answers—and loving every second of it.

the end.

1K notes · View notes

gguk-n · 5 months ago

Note

Hii!! Could you make a Oscar!smau that they are childhood best friends and start dating (smau thoughout the years pleease!!)

I’m sorry!! I’m obsessed with this song since the snippet came out…so the face claim is Tate McRae😅 I hope you like it!!

Sports Car

2015

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by oscarpiastri and 9,203 others Tagged oscarpiastri

y/n.y/l/n #tb to when Oscar was actually cute

oscarpiastri 🤦🤦 user1 they are the cutest!! user2 I want a best friend like them user3 ❤️❤️😭

2017

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by oscarpiastri and 4,390 others Tagged oscarpiastri

y/n.y/l/n You're looking at 2017's P2 at F4!! So proud of you Oscie!!😭😭

oscarpiastri thanks❤️ user4 Congratulations!!❤️❤️ y/friend/user cutie!!😍 y/friend Congrats Oscar!!❤️

2020

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by oscarpiastri and 134,789 others Tagged oscarpiastri

y/n.y/l/n F3 Champion!!! Can't believe it!!😭😭

oscarpiastri Thanks for being there for my win!! user5 I forget you have a career and you aren't just a Oscar fanpage😳😳 user6 user5 What does she do? user5 user6 She's a singer and song writer!! user7 who is this?? user8 user7 her bestfriend but we’re hoping they’ll date

2021

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by oscarpiastri and 256,927 others Tagged oscarpiastri

y/n.y/l/n F3 than F2 back to back and reserve driver for Alpine!! I'm here for it!!

oscarpiastri All because of my lucky charm Liked by Author user9 girl!! Date him already!!🙏🙏 user10 These two couldn't be more obvious!!🤌 user11 I don't even watch races but I did because of you and god that boy's in love with you, end his misery!!🥺🥺

2024

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri, landonorris and 450,380 others

y/n.y/l/n 2 hands out now!!

user16 why did we think it was Lando when Oscar existed🤨🤨?? user17 how are people shipping her and Lando🧐🧐?? user18 Oscar's been pining for years😭😭!! user19 I didn't think she'd actually have anyone but the Oscar reveal in the end was hot🥵🥵 user20 they can't be friends, not after that mv😳😳 oscarpiastri loved being in the video🧡 y/n.y/l/n oscarpiastri thank oscie🧡🧡 landonorris good taste😏 y/n.y/l/n landonorris ikr😏 landonorris y/n.y/l/n I was talking about the car😒

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by oscarpiastri, oliviarodrigo and 1,289,209 others Tagged oscarpiastri and mclaren

y/l/.y/l/n What a way to end the year😍😍!!

oscarpiastri Congrats on your tour😍😍!! y/n.y/l/n oscarpiastri Congrats on your championship baby boy😭😭 user12 Both of them are winning😍😍 user13 y/n in orange is fucking everything😭😭😭 user14 I love them❤️❤️ user15 y/n calling Oscar baby boy was not on my 2024 bingo😳😳 oliviarodrigo Orange is your colour babe🧡🧡

2025

y/n.y/l/n

Liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and 920,370 others

y/n.y/l/n But've got a sports car

user21 OMG!! ITS FINALLY HAPPENEING🤭🤭 user22 I can't be normal about this😔😔 user23 I have no one to talk to about this😭😭 user24 my parents are finally together🥹🥹 user25 what is he doing to her😏😏 user26 banger❤️❤️ user27 I didn't know you had game oscarpiastri🧐

oscarpiastri

Liked by y/n.y/l/n, mclaren and 1,290,345 others Tagged y/n.y/l/n

oscarpiastri I got a sports car

user28 this is fucking crazy🤌 user29 did he just....🫢🫢 user30 I need the season back, this is crazy. First Franco and now him😭😣 user31 They are so cute😫😫 user32 I want what they have😩😩 y/n.y/l/n ik😏Liked by Author lando y/n.y/l/n you two are freaky🤢🤢 y/n.y/l/n lando oh shut up, like you haven't👀 mclaren OKAY you three please 🙏 🙏🙏

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checkeredflagggs · 9 months ago

Text

A Perfect Storm

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: meet dr. alice “barbie” sargaent, professional storm chaser

a/n: so twisters 2024 changed my life (glen powell in wet white T-shirt changed my life) so…here’s this. Also I got conflicting info about instagram so for here - no one but those that follow you can see a private accounts comments (even on a public post). Also plz suspend your disbelief - idk anything about storm chasing or tornadoes

Part 2

drbarbie

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 2,345,239 others

drbarbie: tbt to the very first storm I ‘chased’ and the lifelong obsession that it sparked within me!

view all comments

user1: you were so young!

teammember1: nice to know you’ve been crazy for years! 😂❤️

drbarbie: Passionate! The term is passionate 🩵

teammember2: no I think crazy is better

user2: ok but what are Logan Sargeant and Oscar Piastri doing in the likes…

user3: right?

user4: maybe they watch the Storm Wrangler YouTube channel?

user3: that would be the crossover of the century!

teammate3: awwww baby Dr. Barbie…

drbarbie: I think I made my dad drive around for hours trying to find where the rain was actually coming down

user4: ok that’s adorable

user5: newbie here 👋🏻 why the nickname Barbie?

drbarbie: I’m a 5’11” blonde woman with blue eyes who was in like every conceivable sport and after school program. Some butt starting calling me Barbie as a joke and now people forget my real name 😅

user6: wait your name isn’t actually Barbie? What’s real? What’s fake? Who knows? 🤣

drbarbie: yeah you can blame my twin for that…

loganpriv: you begged for weeks to get a cool nickname and were delighted! To tell people to call you Barbie.

alicepriv: shush 🤐

oscarpriv: oh really?

alicepriv: I said shut up?

user7: you have a twin?!

drbarbie: yup! I’m older then him by about 5 minutes - and I’ve never let him forget it 😂

loganpriv: and another lie! What’s up with that?

alicepriv: I’m gonna tell mom you’re bullying me!

loganpriv: do it! And I’ll tell her you’re lying to the internet

logansargeant

liked by alicepriv, oscarpiastri, and 1,023,677 others

logansargeant: traveling means time to catch up with TheStormWranglers

view all comments

user8: you’re a buckaroo too?! Love this!

oscarpiastri: watching the back episodes or the live stream?

logansargeant: back episodes first of course!

user9: ok but they’re both buckaroos too

user10: am i dumb? Buckaroos?

user11: kinda a you had to be there moment - during one of their first live streams teammate2 called everyone on the team buckaroos to get them moving and the fans just? kinda adopted the term for ourselves

user10: ohhhh ok. That makes sense and it’s so cute! Proud to be a buckaroo!

user12: this is gonna be your week Logan!

user13: yeah! Austin has always been really good to you! 🩵

alicepriv: so I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this…

loganpriv: what does that mean?

oscarpriv: Alice…

drbarbie

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 3,677,345 others

drbarbie: isn’t she a beaut! One of the biggest this year and I’m very happy to say Dolly (and us!) survived it!!! The opportunity to quite literally drive into the storm started as a fever dream from a few of the team members but we proved that it could be done. And this now allows us to gather even more important data — and as we always say, you can never have too much data!

view all comments

user14: Watching that almost gave me a heart attack oh my god

user15: i know! And they didn’t even give us any warning that it was something they could do!!!😡😢

drbarbie: We apologize! The team had been so excited and focused on getting Dolly ready for this that we forgot other people don’t live in our brains

user14: what even prompted this?

drbarbie: we were hitting bumps in the research process and as we were brainstorming ideas on how to fix it someone said that the easiest way was to…just go into the tornado. We said “bet” then figured out a way to allow us to do that safely!

teammember1: so I’m switching vehicles. I’m staying with the weather van from now on

drbarbie: oh it wasn’t that bad!

teammember1: I have about 200 new strands of grey hairs and a sore throat from all the screaming

drbarbie: like I said! Not that bad

user16: oh so you’re crazy crazy

drbarbie: we’re doing important research!

user17: what even was the point of all this?

drbarbie: my team and I are researching for a way that would allow us to stop a tornado in its tracks. We’re at the point where we can almost completely accurately predict when and where a tornado will hit — which is hugely important! Cause that allows us to save lives. But my team wants to take it a step further — to stop the storms when they do hit! To help protect people’s livelihoods

user17: holy shit! That’s huge!

user18: I didn’t even realize that is something that could be possible!

drbarbie: we believe strongly that it’s something that can be done. And we’re trying everything that we can to make it happen!

loganpriv: what the hell is this?!?

alicepriv: i told you you wouldn’t like it

oscarpriv: yes but there’s a huge difference between not liking it and it being completely INSANE

alicepriv: the theory was sound

loganpriv: this time - that’s not good enough

INCOMING CALL

ACCEPT OR DECLINE

TRANSCRIPT

What the hell Alice? Driving into a tornado?

Oh don’t even Logan! Not when the two of you drive those super speed death traps!

That’s not even remotely the same and you know it!

…I know. Ok I know…

Alice…

Don’t. I know I should have told you before but…

Barbs?

I know you don’t like this answer but the theory was sound. We reached out and talked to like 10 different universities on the best way to modify the car and took all the extra precautions we could. The science-

doesn’t lie…

Haha

…you’re ok?

I think my heart is still racing but yes. And it’s almost done!

What is?

Project Aeolus!

Really?

TRANSCRIPT CONTINUES

logansargeant

liked by alicepriv, alexalbon, oscarpiastri, and 627,933 others

logansargeant: ahhhh Austin, my home away from home. It’s always good to come back to you — and the people that live there 🩵

view all comments

user19: IS THAT A GIRL LOGAN HUNTER SARGEANT?

user20: are we soft launching now?

alexalbon: Did you get a puppy?

logansargeant: no 🤣 just pet sitting for the day! This is rascal!

alexalbon: i think it might be criminal if you don’t let me meet rascal!

logansargeant: I’ll ask! But it will probably have to be after COTA!

alexalbon: worth the wait!

user21: rascal? Like drbarbie’s newest puppy?

user22: no but that dog looks just like her new dog and we know that Logan is a buckaroo!

user21: I've connected the two dots

user23: You didn't connect shit

user22: I've connected them

user24: are my 2 fandoms colliding?

alicepriv: rascal!

loganpriv: i see how it is. I come back home and you just want me to watch the little nightmare

alicepriv: rascal is perfectly well behaved! You’re just a bad example

oscarpriv: I’m agreeing with her. We’ve had no problems with him until you came along…

loganpriv: lies and slander. Objection

alicepriv: law and order again logie?

williamsracing

liked by drbarbie, logansargeant, alexalbon, and 4,034,838 others

williamsracing: all smiles here at COTA as we welcome a special guest! Spending the weekend with us is Dr. Barbie, a meteorologist who specializes in tornadoes with a popular YouTube channel The Storm Wranglers!

view all comments

user25: DR BARBIE IN THE HOUSE!

user26: this is everything I didn’t know I needed holy crap

drbarbie: it’s always a pleasure to visit COTA! And it’s even better to visit one of my favorite teams!

williamsracing: so glad to have you here!

user27: ok but do you see the look on Logan’s face?

user28: yeah mans in love

user29: or…and hear me out…he could just be happy to meet her? We know he’s a fan of her channel

user28: no one is ever THAT happy to just “meet” a YouTuber, no matter how famous

logansargeant: Glad you could make time in your schedule to visit!

drbarbie: “But it's the Grand Prix!”

logansargeant: “Is it? Who's playing?”

drbarbie: “No one's playing. It's the Grand Prix. I never miss the Grand Prix.”

user28:…ok maybe you guys connected the dots

alexalbon: it was nice to meet you! Didn’t think I’d ever meet someone who had a more dangerous job then race driving though

drbarbie: same! It was such a pleasure — and don’t even. I’ll take my job over yours any day

alexalbon: really? You’d rather drive after and into tornados then drive in circles?

drbarbie: stupid circles! And yes. Yes I would

alexalbon: they’re not stupid!

user29: ok but they’re funny af

drbarbie

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 2,654,887 others

tagged: williamsracing, logansargeant, alexalbon

yourusername: trading in Dolly this weekend for some faster cars! Zoom zoom 🏎️💨

view all comments

user30: COTA! I’m at COTA! 🤞🤞 I might get to meet her and get her signature!

user31: oh my god! That would be the coolest thing ever

user32: you’re at a Grand Prix and meeting some stupid blonde is better?

user31: watch yourself! Dr Barbie is about 1000x better then you are you damn mouth breather

user30: mouth breather? 😂😂

user33: cool you’re at COTA but sargeant? You couldn’t pick literally any other driver to support?

drbarbie: and that’s you blocked. I don’t support hate on my page and I definitely don’t support hate against Logan

user31: you said it so well! Supportive queen!

loganpriv: cool your jets Alice. It’s fine

alicepriv: I don’t support hate but I do support bullying your unsupportive twin. Take that attitude and shove it

oscarpriv: sometimes I forget you’re twins and then I see you interact…

alicepriv: you watch yourself too. I’m soon to be in head smacking range…and I’m tall enough to get you

oscarpriv: yes ma'am

loganpriv: whipped

alicepriv: 🤨

loganpriv: 🤷🏼‍♂️

alicepriv: 🖕🏻

user34: ok but why Dolly?

drbarbie: why after the fabulous Dolly Parton of course

user35: you named your truck after Dolly Parton?

drbarbie: she’s had a lot of work done but she’s still the best

user35: 😂😂 icon behavior

logansargeant

liked by alexalbon, drbarbie, alicepriv, and 1,208,943 others

tagged: drbarbie, williamsracing

logansargeant: THANK YOU AUSTIN!! P3 baby! AND SPECIEAL THANKS TO MY YOUNGER TWIN SISTER ALICE drbarbie!!!

view all comments

user36: SISTER?

drbarbie: yes! He’s my YOUNGER twin brother!

logansargeant: the hell I am!

drbarbie: I HAVE PICTURE OF THE BIRTH CERTIFICATES YOU WET NOODLE

logansargeant: fake!

user36: ok that’s definitely a sibling relationship 😂

drbarbie: HE DID IT! P3!! CONGRATS LOGIE!

teammate1: woohoo! Go baby sargeant!

teammate2: congrats baby sargeant!

teammate3: could you feel us cheering for you baby sargeant?

teammate4: couldn’t be prouder baby sargeant!

logansargeant: not you guys too…

oscarpiastri: congrats man! A well deserved podium!

logansargeant: thanks brother!

user37: brother?!? dots are connecting again!

user38: oh give it up

alexalbon: great race today dude! Congrats!

logansargeant: thank you! You’ll be next!

williamsracing: Congrats Logan!

user39: he saw us shipping him with his sister and said hell no 😂😂

user40: right? Most definitely had to set the record straight!

danielricciardo: good job man!

charles_leclerc: great to share the podium with you!

maxverstappen1: good race!

oscarpiastri

liked by logansargeant, alicepriv, landonorris, and 2,567,432 others

tagged: mclaren, landonorris

oscarpiastri: not the race we wanted today but we’ll come back stronger next week. Congrats on p4 landonorris and congrats to logansargeant on your first podium!

view all comments

user41: don’t worry about it Oscar! You’ll get it next week!

landonorris: thanks man! next week will be our week for sure!! papaya rules!

oscarpiastri: for sure! Papaya rules!

user42: it might not have been your week but that overtake lap 12 was INSANE

user43: right? Pretty sure I woke my dog up screaming

alicepriv: it was a good race babe. Glad to have been there to see it 🧡🧡

oscarpriv: you know I always love it when you can come to a race

alicepriv: and you know I always love watching you working for your dream

oscarpriv: 🧡

loganpriv: cheesy

alicepriv: 🖕🏻

alicepriv: anyway…

alicepriv: maybe I can get you to come to my job next? 😆😘

oscarpriv: your job at the universities? Yes. Your job in the field? No way in hell

logansargeant: great race brother! Taking notes on that overtake man

oscarpiastri: thanks Logan!

oscarpiastri

liked by logansargeant, drbarbie, landonorris, and 3,728,899 others

tagged: drbarbie

oscarpiastri: you are the best thing that’s ever been mine

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Part 2

1K notes · View notes

whiteraven87 · 3 days ago

Text

The Flame That Never Fades - chapter 6 - The Machine (6/16)

pairing: Toto Wolff x Victoria Lorenz (Original Character)

summary: She's young, fiery, naive and blindly in love. He's older, married, powerful and dangerously irresistible. To him, she was an obsession, an escape, a desire. To her, he was everything. The Flame that Never Fades is a story of forbidden love in the world of Formula 1, born from lust… and ending in something that can never be undone.

warnings: age gap (28 years), forbidden romance, obsession, desire, dark romance, smut, infidelity, emotional manipulation, dominant older man, angst, longing, possessiveness, emotional pain, toxic dynamics, no promise for happy ending.

word count: 37k

read on: AO3 - Wattpad - Tumblr

====================

my other finished fanfiction: The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC]

====================

chapters until now:

Prologue 1: Middle of the Night 2: Frozen 3: Shameless 4: Lilith 5: Ruthless 6: The Machine

============================

Chapter 6: The Machine

Fell in love with the machine Fell in love with you I made something That'll love me Even when I'm wrong I made something that'll love me Even with my faults My faults Fell in love with a machine Fell in love with you Baby when we touch Feels like you were made to take all my love Something about you, I can't get enough Fell in love with a machine Fell in love with you The Machine - Reed Wonder, Aurora Olivas

Austrian GP, a few days later, June

His hand tightened on her hip, his movements rhythmic, strong — just the way he liked them. He led her with certainty, deep and unhesitating — his body knew every trembling spot on hers, every reaction to his pressure. With each passing moment, she felt herself falling apart, losing the ground beneath her feet, sinking deeper and deeper into him.

It was their ritual. Hidden, passionate, wild. Body to body. Breath to breath. She on his hand, his mouth, his hand again. He played her like a favorite melody — sometimes tender, sometimes with brutal fire.

After a successful qualifying, she was buzzing with emotion, lit up, triumphant. And he — he was her prize.

He had swept her off the hotel corridor barely an hour after the press conference. Threw her on the bed without a word and took her—as always—whole, hungry, greedy, guiding her through waves of orgasms that stole her voice and shattered her awareness.

Now she lay curled up against his body. Her fingers gliding over his chest, his back, while he was still inside her. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her head nestled in his neck, as if trying to hide from a world that didn't know them. She hadn't calmed down yet. She could still feel him. Inside. And she didn't want the moment to end.

He was breathing heavily. His hand tangled in her hair. Their bodies still pressed together. When he moved slightly, she moaned softly and looked up at him.

Her eyes shone. Unfiltered. Unmasked.

"I love you, Toto," she whispered.

She said it in that moment when their breaths were still entwined. When his body still pulsed with the echo of his climax. When he thought it was safe, that no words would be spoken that would linger forever.

And yet, they were spoken.

The silence that followed cracked like thunder.

He didn't respond.

He looked at her for a long time. His hand froze in her hair. His gaze shifted—something dimmed in it, something trembled. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something... but then he closed them again.

He didn't pull away. He didn't say he shouldn't be there. He didn't run.

But he didn't say anything, either.

Victoria felt everything inside her slowly begin to freeze. And yet, she didn't look away. She didn't apologize. Because it was the truth. The whole truth she'd carried for months, for years. She had spoken it when she was naked—not just in body, but in soul.

Toto closed his eyes. Not from pleasure. From pain. Still silent.

He'd heard those words from women before. But never... not like this.

Because in Victoria's voice, there wasn't a trace of a game. No attempt to make him stay. She wasn't using love as leverage. She wasn't manipulating him. She said it with absolute purity and innocence, as if she simply had to. Because she could no longer hold it in.

He felt his heart squeeze to the edge of breaking. He wanted to pull her closer... but his body refused to move.

Because he knew he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve her love.

Not the love that burned in her eyes and came with a soul ready to surrender completely. Her tenderness. Trust. Submission. Fire. Each of these parts made him a different man when he was with her.

But he couldn't promise her anything.

"Don't say it," he wanted to tell her. "Don't tell me that, because I won't be yours."

Instead, he said nothing.

Because if he answered... maybe everything he built with Susie would collapse. Maybe he would lose his home. His son. Irrevocably.

Or maybe... maybe he was just afraid that once he let himself love Victoria the way she loved him, he would never be able to stop.

He didn't reply. Swallowed hard. He didn't trust his voice. He didn't trust himself.

She curled into him more tightly. As if sensing he would leave her soon.

He lay there a while longer, in silence, but each second hurt more than the last. Every ticking moment reminded him he had a family, a wife. That he had no right to stay in the arms of the woman who was everything he wanted... and nothing he could have.

***

Victoria lay nestled into his body, feeling his breath slow. Each second was like a farewell, though no one had said goodbye yet. Her hand rested on his chest, fingers tracing mindless shapes on his skin—shapes she wouldn't remember anyway. She always did that—in those moments after—when she was still with him, but he was already slowly leaving.

She could delude herself. But not today.

She knew he would get up soon. Say something calmly. Maybe kiss her. Maybe stroke her hair, the way he did when he wanted to soothe her. And then he'd return. To the hotel room. Maybe call his family—Susie, Jack.

She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the conversation with the boy just a few hours earlier. He had called, excited.

"Vici! Dad said that when he gets home, he'll take me and Mom to the ocean! We're going to stay in a cabin on the beach, with no phones!"

She smiled then with sadness, tears in her eyes, saying "That's wonderful, Jack," but her heart was already tightening.

Because she knew—that was his world. Not her. Not the girl, the orphan who had fallen hopelessly in love with an older man who had a family, who once showed her kindness and affection. And she, like a moth, had flown into his light.

"I love you, Toto," she repeated in a whisper. Softly.

Maybe hoping that if she said it a second time, something would change.

He didn't answer. Just like before.

She felt him move. Felt his hand slowly, regretfully slide off her waist. Felt how gently he pulled away, trying not to leave behind too much cold—but not too much hope, either.

She pulled away before he could. Sat up, not looking at him. Began putting on her shirt, her hands trembling slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said tonelessly. "I shouldn't have said what I feel."

"No," he replied softly, his voice gentle but unmoved. "You have the right to feel. The right to speak. I... I just can't give you what you'd want."

"I know." She gave a crooked smile. "I've always known."

He was silent. Like always, when he had no answer. And yet he was a master of words. A diplomat. A strategist. He could speak with cool precision about the team's future, contracts, drivers. But with her—he often fell silent. Maybe because there was nothing here to fix.

She looked at him one last time that night.

He didn't respond. He stood up, walked to her, leaned down. Kissed her on the forehead.

"Be careful tomorrow. You're starting from pole. Don't let them pull you wide on turn two."

His voice was suddenly cold. Professional. Safe.

She smiled bitterly.

"Of course, boss."

He looked at her one last time. And left.

He left behind his scent. The warmth in the sheets. And an empty space beside her.

Victoria was alone. With the love she had spoken aloud. And with the silence she had received in return.

The next day, race day

The engine roared, and the world ahead blurred into streaks. Turn after turn, second after second. She pushed into the seat, pressed the throttle. Harder. Deeper. As if she wanted to lose herself in it.

She had started from pole position. Had led from the start. But she was driving... differently. Not calculating. Not listening. Every corner was taken with minimal margin. Every exit onto the straight with more speed than she should. Braking later. Taking more risks. A lot more.

As if she wanted to destroy herself. Or break through something no one else could see.

"Victoria, brake temps are climbing. Cool the fronts. Delta minus one, watch turn 9."

Her engineer's voice—calm, routine. She ignored it.

"Victoria, copy?"

She lapped another car. Didn't even notice who it was. Drove like in a trance. All she could see was the image of his back as he walked out. The hotel door closing quietly. The silence after I love you.

"Victoria, brake temps CRITICAL. Shift balance or we pit. Do you copy?" — her engineer's voice was sharper now.

She gripped the wheel tighter.

Not now. I don't want to think. Just drive. Outpace the heart that hurts.

And then... his voice sounded in her ear.

"Victoria."

She froze. A split second. Enough for a shiver to crawl down her spine. He rarely intervened during the race. Only in critical situations. And today... she was at the edge.

"Victoria, it's Toto. We know you're fast. But this is not the time for recklessness. Not now. Please."

His voice was professional. Controlled. But she heard something more. Fear. Genuine fear. And that couldn't be faked.

"Back off the pace. Give me five clean laps. Please. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. You're already a champion. You've already won."

She closed her eyes.

If she hadn't been speeding at 280 km/h, she might have stopped altogether.

Instead... she lifted off the throttle. For a second. One short second that no one would catch in the telemetry data.

But he knew. He heard her answer in the silence.

"Copy," she whispered.

And that was the only moment that day when she felt she could stop running. That someone saw her. Maybe not as a woman. Not as a lover.

But as a human being on the edge.

And someone—if only for a moment—tried to pull her back.

Night before the Austrian GP

The door to the hotel room closed behind him almost soundlessly, and yet that sound hit him like a gunshot. He leaned back against the wall, feeling everything fall away—tension, pleasure, but above all, the truth he couldn't bear.

"I love you, Toto."

Her voice echoed in his mind. There had been no drama in it, no hysteria. It was... pure. True. Deep. And because of that, all the more unbearable.

He slid down to the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. The room was quiet. Too quiet.

He missed her breath. He missed her body curled against his side. Her fingers tracing over his skin. Her gaze, which spoke more than words ever could.

He couldn't sleep. Lay in the darkness, hearing the clock tick louder with every second. As if it was counting down to the moment she would realize he would never be hers. That it had only ever been a moment. A space stolen from the world.

But he was addicted too. Not to sex.

To her.

Her laugh, which disarmed him better than whiskey. Her wit. Her fury. Her silences. Her courage when she stood face to face with drivers who had decades of experience—and still, they gave way to her.

And the way she could give herself to him completely. Without condition. As if she knew he would break her heart—and came anyway.

Morning, before the race

He saw her near the truck, already in her race suit, speaking to an engineer. Hair tied in a severe bun, sunglasses on her nose.

She didn't come to him. Didn't look at him.

She was cold. Composed. Professional. Operating like a machine—perfectly oiled.

And that terrified him more than anything. Because he knew her too well.

He knew that when Victoria locked her emotions behind a wall, it meant she was ready for something... final.

The Race

When the lights went out, she launched like a bullet. Led from the start. But after the first lap, he already knew something was wrong.

"She's too fast. Too aggressive."

"She's not controlling it. She's attacking. Like it's not a race, but an escape."

Data flickered across the screens—brake temperatures, position deltas. Everything screaming a warning.

"She needs to back off," he said to the team. "Tell her we have a strategy. She doesn't need to drive like this. She can bring it home safe in P1."

But she wasn't listening.

And then... he reached for the radio.

"Victoria."

His voice trembled. He hadn't wanted her to hear that. But it was stronger than him.

"This is Toto. Please. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. You've already won."

Something inside him cracked. He couldn't stop her with his arms. Couldn't stand in her way. He could only speak. Pray she would hear him.

The silence felt like forever.

And then: "Copy."

That one word was like a breath. A flicker of her soul that hadn't yet jumped from the edge. Not yet.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in a very long time... he was truly afraid.

Not for the result. Not for the reputation. For her.

Because he knew he had hurt her too deeply that night.

And if he lost her now... He would never recover.

-----------

Next -> chapter 7: Ride

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23 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Glass Girl — MV1 + OP81

Summary — Maya Horner was raised to be perfect — polished, silent, smiling. The daughter of a pop star and a motorsport legend, she learned early that love was conditional and softness was weakness. Then came two drivers: one all fire, the other quiet steadiness. Neither asked her to perform. They just saw her for who she really was, and chose her despite it all.

Pairing — Max Verstappen x Maya Horner (OFC) x Oscar Piastri (MMF)

Warnings — Bad parenting, TW disordered eating (encouraged from childhood), throuple (mmf), D/S dynamics, non-consensual touching (not between the main characters), strong language, time jumps.

Word Count — 9.5k

My Masterlist

The hotel bathroom is marble and chrome; and it’s really cold. Maya sits on the edge of the bath with a white towel wrapped around her, makeup absolutely perfect. Always perfect.

Her phone buzzes where it’s facedown on the sink vanity. Probably her mother. Maybe a stylist update. Probably a reminder not to eat before the party so the dress fits the way it’s supposed to.

She hasn’t eaten all day.

Not because she forgot.

It’s one of the only things that’s completely hers—this control. Everything else; her schedule, her wardrobe, her smile, her voice—is curated by committee. But this? What she puts into her body, or doesn’t?

That’s hers. And it’s hers alone.

She stands and looks at her reflection. The daughter of a motorsport king and a pop legend. She knows exactly what she’s supposed to be. Shiny. Sculpted. Successful. A walking billboard of two very different empires.

She touches the necklace at her throat. A gift from her dad, probably chosen by an assistant. She can’t ever remembering being hugged by him for longer than three seconds at a time. She’s never cried in front of him without being sent out of the room.

The girl in the mirror is flawless.

She hates her.

Maya wraps her arms around herself. Not for warmth, there’s never enough of that, but for pressure. To feel something and grounding. She digs her fingernails into her skin just to feel the pinch.

Tonight, she’ll smile. She’ll flirt with men twice her age in tailored suits who call her darling and look at her like she’s a prize to be won. She’ll be photographed beside champagne towers, caught mid-laugh for magazines that will call her “elegant” or “high-value,”. She’ll laugh with billionaires she barely knows, play the role so well no one will question whether she even likes the game.

Her mother will press an air kiss to both cheeks — careful, performative — and murmur, “Good girl,” because it’s the highest compliment she knows how to give.

Maya turns to face the dress laid out on the bed.

Gold. Strapless. Short in the front, ankle-length in the back. Something the stylist said would make her look “regal and expensive.”

She hates it.

It isn’t her.

She likes soft things. Silk. Blush pinks and pale pastels. She likes feathers, maybe, or beading that glitters softly under warm lights — not this loud, metallic glare. She wants to feel delicate, not displayed. She wants to feel like a girl, not a product.

But no one ever asks what she likes.

No one ever has.

—

The car door opens, and the flash hits before her heel touches the ground.

She steps out like she’s done this a thousand times—because she has. One leg, then the other. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Smile soft but controlled. The driver offers a hand. She doesn’t take it. She never does.

Behind her, the red carpet glitters with a curated selection of Monaco’s elite — racers, musicians, heirs, actresses who always laugh a little too loudly when the photographers call their names. Everyone knows the rules here. Everyone plays their part.

And she is very good at hers.

The gold dress catches the light like flame, like money, like something she’s been told she should be. She smiles for the cameras. Tilts her head to the side, the way the photographers like. She even gives a little wave. Not too big. Just enough.

Her mother is already inside.

Her father is on the terrace talking shop with someone from Liberty Media.

She walks alone.

People turn to look at her — and not just the paparazzi. She sees the way some women measure her, the way some men assess. But none of it touches her. It can’t. She won’t let it.

She moves through the party like a ghost in gold, offered flutes of champagne she doesn’t drink, compliments she doesn’t believe, questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Who are you wearing?”

“Will you be at the paddock this weekend?”

“Is it true you’re seeing Lando Norris?”

Smile. Nod. Laugh. Deflect.

All of it is noise.

Until she feels it — not a sound, but a pull. Like gravity, sudden and unwanted.

Two sets of eyes.

Across the room.

Watching her.

One pair of eyes is storm-dark — intense, unblinking, charged like thunder held just behind his pupils. Max Verstappen. The lion. Known for his fire, his brutal honesty, his refusal to play nice for the cameras.

The other pair is cooler. Quieter. Greenish-gold and devastatingly observant. Oscar Piastri. Reserved but impossible to ignore. The kind of quiet that makes people lean in closer — and underestimate him at their own peril.

They’re standing close. Not touching, but close enough. Close enough for the rumors to feel real.

Because everyone’s heard them by now.

The whispers. The speculation. The way they were always together — in the paddock, in hotel lobbies, spotted at private dinners where the other drivers weren’t invited. The tabloids were spinning theories like silk; rivals turned lovers, lovers turned something else. No one knows for sure.

But the photos don’t lie.

Max, leaning into Oscar’s space, laughing like only he can. Oscar, looking at Max like he already belongs to him.

A scandal. A headline. A PR nightmare.

And they’re both looking at her.

Not like a party guest. Not like a name. Not like a legacy.

But like a secret they’re dying to unfold.

She feels it—how their attention cuts through everything. Through the cameras, the noise, the men in suits who want her because of who her parents are. Through the dress she hates and the face she’s painted on.

They’re not seeing her image.

They’re seeing her.

And it terrifies her.

Because she wants to let them.

God, she wants it so badly it makes her stomach twist — to drop the smile, to let her shoulders fall, to go to them and say, please, just hold me for a while. Just let me rest.

But she doesn’t move.

She stands there, still and golden and trembling beneath it all.

Because not a single person has ever looked at her like that before.

And now, there’s two of them.

—

The Oxfordshire house is quiet in the way big houses often are — not peaceful, just empty. Too many rooms. Too much space. Not enough love.

She sits at the breakfast bar, the marble countertop cool beneath her bare arms. Outside, the countryside rolls out in perfect green waves. Inside, everything is polished and still. Museum-like.

Her father stands by the espresso machine, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, half-listening. She used to love mornings like this. Before she understood how many of their conversations were just… PR briefings in disguise.

“You’ll be traveling with me this year,” Christian says, like it’s already been decided. No smile. Just a sip of coffee, a glance at his calendar. “Full season. We’ll do media prep in Milton Keynes for you.”

She blinks. “Why?”

He looks up, frowns at her like she’s somehow missed the obvious. “Because it makes sense. You photograph well. You’re part of the family—might as well show the world what that means.”

She lets that sit between them. Part of the family.

The Red Bull family. The Horner family. The brand.

Not the daughter.

Not the girl.

“Is that… what you want?” She asks, softer.

Christian’s brows furrow slightly. Not with cruelty — just confusion. Like he doesn’t understand the question. “It’s what’s best,” he says, putting down his cup. “The more attention on the team, the better.”

She nods slowly. Her hand curls slightly around her glass. “Okay. I didn’t have anything else planned for this year anyway.”

He gives a tight, approving smile. Then he’s already moving on — into emails, logistics, contracts. His affection is efficient. Conditional. Not unkind, but not enough.

Her mother is nowhere to be seen. Probably in London. Or LA. Or at a spa with someone from Vogue magazine.

She’s used to it.

She’s always been told she has everything — the bloodline, the platform, the wardrobe, the name.

But none of it has ever felt like hers.

Not the legacy. Not the house. Not even her own future.

Outside, the wind brushes softly against the tall hedges in the garden, making them sway like they’re bowing to something. Or someone. Even nature bends here.

She looks at her father.

Really looks at him.

The sharp lines of his profile. The calm efficiency in his movements. The way he speaks with confidence not because he’s certain, but because he knows certainty is power.

And for a moment — a breath, a blink — she wonders; ‘Is this what it feels like to hate someone?’

The thought startles her. It’s not sharp, not violent. It’s worse. It’s cold. Hollow. A slow, creeping realization that maybe love was never given freely — only traded. That every nod of approval, every plane ticket, every high-end dress was just… currency.

She doesn’t hate him the way people hate villains in stories. She doesn’t want to scream or shatter anything. No, it’s quieter than that.

She hates that he doesn’t see her. Has never tried to.

Nausea clings to her skin. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then gets up and goes back to her bedroom.

—

The air in the stables smells like cedar shavings, hay, and early summer rain. It’s the only place on the estate that ever feels real.

She walks past the stalls in her boots and riding coat.

In the far stall, ears flicking at the sound of her footsteps, is a tall dapple grey mare with a proud gait and watchful eyes. The stable plaque says Blue Echo, a name chosen by some branding consultant years ago. Something elegant. Powerfully feminine.

But to her?

She’s just Princess Daisy.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, stepping into the stall. “Miss me?”

Princess Daisy nudges her gently in reply, warm breath puffing against her shoulder.

She buries her fingers in the horse’s mane and rests her forehead against the soft arch of Princess Daisy’s neck. The mare shifts slightly but doesn’t move away.

She closes her eyes.

And for a few rare, precious seconds—she can just be a girl with a horse.

A girl who likes silly names and soft animals and the wet hay smells in the rain.

Tomorrow, she’d be on a plane to Bahrain.

The reminder settles over her like a shadow.

Bahrain is heat and concrete and lights that don’t go out. Her father will walk ahead of her through the paddock like he always does — brisk, focused, already talking strategy. She’ll trail behind in heels she didn’t choose, in outfits pre-approved by someone from marketing, her paddock passes swinging from her neck like a collar and chain.

They’ll call her the Red Bull princess. They’ll talk about how lucky she is.

She’s learned not to flinch at that word anymore.

She hasn’t felt lucky in a long time.

But… Bahrain also means them.

Max. Oscar.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about them for weeks — not since the event in London.

She doesn’t know what it means; the way they look at her. She doesn’t even know what she wants from them. Not really.

But tomorrow, she’ll be on a plane to Bahrain.

—

It’s 3:12 AM.

Maya walks barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, ghosting past closed doors and floral arrangements that all smell the same. The nightmares had been bad tonight — hot hands around her ribs, a voice telling her to smile while she couldn’t breathe. She’d woken up gasping. Like always. Like clockwork.

This is what she does.

Walks until the world quiets enough to let her sleep.

But tonight, she’s not alone.

At the end of the hallway, two figures step out of the elevator — laughing, low and quiet, until they see her.

Max. Shirt half-buttoned, curls still damp.

Oscar beside him, hands in his pockets, always slightly behind, always watching.

All three of them stop.

She doesn’t say a word. Couldn’t find them even if she tried.

Max’s eyes darken. His jaw tenses. He’s already scanning her — not like other men do, not with hunger. With concern. With sharp, unapologetic focus.

Oscar tips his head slightly. Reading her, quietly.

“You okay?” Max asks, as they approach. His voice is low, rough around the edges.

She hesitates. Then nods.

They don’t believe her.

She should say something cool. Flirty. Maybe bring up the race weekend. That’s what she’s been trained to do.

But she’s so tired.

“I get nightmares sometimes,” she says instead. “I walk them off. It’s not a big deal.”

Oscar steps closer, voice soft, steady. “Every night?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t answer. That’s enough.

Max’s fists curl at his sides — not angry at her. Frustrated. Protective.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back.”

She should say no. Insist she’s fine. She’s an adult, she’s capable.

But she doesn’t. She just nods.

And it’s strange — how easy it is. How they move with her like they’ve done it before. Max takes the lead, always scanning. Oscar stays beside her, not touching, but close.

They don’t talk. Don’t ask stupid questions.

They’re just there.

At her door, Max leans against the frame. “Do you know when it’s going to be a bad night?”

She nods.

Oscar meets her eyes, calm and unwavering. “Text us. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Us, he says. Like they’re one unit. A package deal.

She blinks. “I… don’t have your numbers.”

Oscar holds out his hand. She fishes out her phone — bubblegum pink case, a sparkly charm hanging off it.

He frowns when he sees there’s no passcode. Doesn’t comment. Just types.

Max watches. Then tips his head. “Don’t walk alone at night again, liefje. I mean it.”

She swallows. She should argue. Be sharp, defensive. Strong.

Instead, she just wavers. “Okay,” she whispers.

Max starts to reach for her — then pulls back.

Oscar doesn’t. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, featherlight. Like touching something breakable.

She closes the door gently behind her.

Then leans against it, heartbeat still uneven.

For a moment, she thinks, ‘maybe I could’ve asked them to stay.’

Not to sleep with her. Not for anything like that. Just… to be there.

To sit beside her in the dark until the world felt safe again.

But she didn’t.

She never could.

Instead, she crawls into bed.

And, for the first time in a long time—she sleeps without nightmares.

—

The paddock smells like heat and asphalt and engine oil — familiar and choking.

Maya walks two steps behind her father, sunglasses shielding her face. Every movement is rehearsed. Casual, but camera-ready. Effortless, but flawless.

She hasn’t eaten today. Not really. A half spoonful of yogurt, picked apart like a battlefield.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s just pain, now. But it’s familiar. She likes it, in a way. Craves it.

“Chin up,” the press officer mutters beside her, clipboard in hand, headset pressed to one ear. “And smile. Not the polite smile — the good one. The Geri smile.”

Maya’s lips curve on command.

“You’ll be shadowing the team today, then joining your father for the press walk at two. BBC wants a short segment on ‘Red Bull’s focus on family and legacy.’ Don’t make it about yourself. Make it about the team. Say something about grit and heritage. Try not to blink too much.”

She nods like she’s listening. Like she cares.

They pause outside the hospitality suite. A photographer raises his lens.

“Angle your shoulders a little—yes. That’s it. Beautiful,” the press officer says, voice like lacquer. “Your mum’s bringing back the Spice Girls for the anniversary next month. You’ll probably be part of that too, so start thinking about your wardrobe. No feathers.”

No feathers.

She loves feathers.

Her stomach turns.

Inside, Max is already sat near the coffee station, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. His eyes flick to hers as she steps in — just a second. Just enough.

Oscar isn’t Red Bull. He shouldn’t even be in this part of the paddock. But he’s here, standing in the far corner with a drink in hand, casual as anything. Somehow, no one questions it.

When Maya passes them, Max’s hand brushes lightly against hers. On purpose. Just once.

She doesn’t flinch. But she feels it all the way up her spine.

The press officer pulls her aside before she can speak.

“You’ve got two minutes before your father goes live. Repeat after me — ‘It’s about legacy, about excellence, and about pushing beyond limits.’ Again.”

Maya says it like a spell.

Legacy. Excellence. Limits.

They clap her on the back and smile like she’s done something brilliant.

But all she can think about is the yogurt she didn’t finish, and the way Oscar looked at her like she didn’t have to say anything at all, and the warm tingle that shot straight to her heart from Max’s touch.

—

She finds him by the McLaren garages, perched on a flight case, nursing a protein bar and a can of Monster.

“Oh hi, Princess Red Bull,” Lando grins, hopping down. “Gracing me with your royal presence?”

Maya huffs a laugh. “Sir McLaren. Still pretending to like those things?” She nods at the protein bar.

“I like the idea of them,” he says. “It’s the never-ending chewing I can’t get behind.”

She smiles.

Lando has always been like this — irreverent and bright and just enough of a nuisance to keep her grounded. Like an older brother who knows all your secrets and still thinks you’re worth teasing.

He ruffles her hair, because he knows it’ll mess up the look the press team spent twenty minutes on. “You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” She sighs.

He stops, looks at her properly. “Bad night?”

She nods, and his hand drops from her hair to squeeze her shoulder. Gentle. No pressure to talk. Just knowing. Just safe.

But then someone calls her name — loud, exaggerated — and when she turns, there’s a camera pointed straight at them. A pap, just beyond the fence, zoom lens already snapping. Another angle for the internet to twist.

Lando sees it too. His jaw tightens.

“Great,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s headline: ‘Horner Heiress and Lando Norris—Mid-Paddock Rendezvous or Something More?’”

“Why can’t they just leave me alone?” Maya looks away, eyebrows drawn, stomach clenching tight.

Lando gives the camera crew a shitty look. “Wish I could tell them to fuck off without losing my job.”

She shrugs, suddenly cold. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, well… fuck ‘em.” He spits.

She blinks at him. Wants to hug him — wants to let him hold her and kiss her forehead the way he does when there isn’t any cameras around to take something viciously innocent and turn it into a sexually charged headline.

Instead she just gives him a tight smile and mutters a quiet, “See you later,” and puts the persona back on. Poised. Perfect.

A complete lie.

—

Engineers crisscross with tools and telemetry, mechanics crouch low beside the car. They’re five races into the season, and tensions are sky-high.

Maya’s off to the side, as always. The silent mascot. Polished, painted, press-ready. Her hair’s done. Her makeup’s perfect. There’s a microphone waiting for her just beyond the paddock cameras.

She hasn’t eaten since Wednesday — fasting was healthy, that’s what her mother had told her a million times as a teenager.

She’s dizzy.

And then it happens.

A hand — not anyone she trusts — brushes too close to her waist. Too familiar. A laugh follows. Low, sleazy. One of Checo’s engineers, older, always looking a little too long, a little too interested. His voice cuts through the buzz. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to cause even more of a ruckus than usual in that dress.”

It’s not the worst thing she’s ever heard. Not even close. But today, it breaks something.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice slices out, louder than she meant. Louder than anyone’s ever heard from her.

People turn. Eyes shift.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, princess—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Silence crashes over the garage like a dropped wrench. Everything stops.

She’s shaking. Her breath is ragged. She can feel it happening — the panic, the heat in her chest, the cold in her fingertips.

And then she’s crying.

In front of everyone.

Mascara streaking. Breath stuttering. Completely, heartbreakingly exposed.

Christian’s voice cuts through the tension. Cold. Humiliated. “Maya. Now is not the time.”

It feels like a slap.

She stares at him. At everyone. At their shock, their discomfort. She’s made them uncomfortable.

Of course she has.

And so—she runs.

Out of the garage. Past the cameras. Past the clicking lenses and the whispering media handlers scrambling after her. She can’t breathe. She can’t think. She doesn’t know where she’s going until—

“Lando!”

His name is barely a sound, but he hears it. Sees her stumbling through the paddock, heels in her hand, tears on her face.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Hey, hey, come here—”

But she’s already moving past him, too far gone.

It’s Oscar who catches her.

He’s just stepped out of his driver’s room when she crashes into him, trembling and breathless and half-sobbing.

“Maya—”

She clings to him, fists curled in the front of his hoodie, crying so hard it hurts to breathe. Oscar doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just wraps his arms around her and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She folds into him like paper.

“I— I just—”

“I know,” he murmurs, already reaching for his phone.

He calls Max.

“She’s with me,” he says, voice tight with something sharp. Protective. “Something happened. She needs you. Now, Max.”

—

Maya feels smaller than usual. A fragile thing, curled into herself on the narrow cot bed in Oscar’s driver’s room, her head resting against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. She’s not crying anymore, not really, but her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, blinking slowly like she’s afraid that if she lets the tears fall again, they might never stop.

Oscar holds her gently, like he knows exactly how close she is to splintering again. Like if he breathes too loud, she might vanish.

Max had arrived in a blur — storm-bright eyes, clenched jaw, voice hushed but heavy with concern. Now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to feel the quiet thrum of his presence, but not close enough to crowd her. Max always knows when to be heat and when to be shelter.

“You okay?” Oscar asks, his voice low, careful. He doesn’t expect an answer. The question isn’t for her, not really. It’s for himself. For Max. For the quiet ache in both their chests at seeing her like this.

Maya nods — a twitch more than a motion — as if the truth is too loud to say aloud. She curls her fingers tighter into the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie, her knuckles pale. It smells like him. She thinks she could fall asleep like this. If her body would let her. If her mind would stop shaking.

“You know,” Max says after a beat, casually, like they’re talking about the weather and not the way her skin is stretched too tight across her frame, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything in two days.”

Her stomach twists. “Dunno,” she mumbles. “Not hungry.”

Not a lie. Just a truth she’s learned to live inside of. The empty ache of it is more familiar than the weight of food in her body. Hunger feels like control. Like safety.

“You’re not doing that anymore,” Max says, firmer now. He reaches over, lays a hand gently on her shoulder. The heat of him sinks through the cotton of her oversized hoodie. “You hear me? We’re not going to let this happen.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say she’s fine. She isn’t. And she’s too tired to pretend. Too tired to wear the perfect smile or make excuses.

Max exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, tension simmering beneath his skin. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath — not at her, never at her — just at the mess of it. The pain she’s been carrying alone. The silence she’s been drowning in.

His tone softens again, the sharp edge blunted by tenderness. “No more making your own calls if this is what they look like. No more hurting yourself just to keep up the act. We’ll decide things now.”

Oscar shifts, his arm around her waist tightening slightly. He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking her arm in slow, calming circles. Then he speaks, gentle but firm. “From now on, we’ll take care of you. That’s the deal. That’s what you need, I think.”

She finally looks up at him. Blinking, broken, her expression so raw it almost hurts to see. There’s no mask here. No practiced smile. Just Maya — stripped of every performance, every expectation. She looks so young. So exhausted. So desperate to be loved right.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Yeah, I—please.”

Her voice cracks mid-word. It breaks something in both of them.

Max’s breath catches, his eyes softening as he reaches for her. “Come here, Maya.”

Oscar helps her shift, and she slides out of his lap, her whole body trembling with the effort. She lets Max pull her in, lets him hold her like something precious — not because she asked him to, but because he knows she needs it. She always needs it.

He gathers her against his chest, one arm around her back, the other curled protectively over her legs as he cradles her in his lap like she weighs nothing. Like she’s something delicate and treasured.

Max mutters something sharp and aching in Dutch against her hair, lips barely touching her temple. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

“Niks van jou over, baby.” There’s nothing left of you.

Not accusation. Just sorrow. Truth. She’s a whisper of herself now, and it’s killing him to see it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, so quietly they almost miss it. “I’m sorry.” Her voice catches again, frays at the edges. She says it like a reflex. Like she’s used to apologizing for her own existence.

“Don’t,” Oscar says gently. “You don’t need to be sorry. Not ever.”

Max holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re going to fix everything. You hear me? No more of this… act. No more acting. You’re going to be exactly who you are, Maya, and that’s exactly who we want.”

She believes him.

Not because of the words.

But because of how he said them.

Like he meant it.

Like his word was law.

—

Max’s suite is warm, lights dimmed low. Maya’s curled up on the plush couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of Oscar’s cologne. She hasn’t said much since they brought her back, just let herself be gently guided, repositioned, and reassured. Max and Oscar have made it almost effortless—wordless, even.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, carefully unwrapping takeout containers from room service. He opens each one slowly, as if not to overwhelm her, arranging little piles of food like offerings: soup in a delicate ceramic bowl, plain rice, soft bread rolls, slices of mango she’d admitted were the only fruit she actually liked.

“You don’t have to eat a lot,” he says softly, eyes flicking up to her. “Just something. Okay?”

Max, standing behind the couch, rubs a hand down the back of his neck. “It’s a good start,” he adds, “but we have no expectations.”

Maya nods, small and silent, and takes the spoon Oscar offers. She eats slowly, every bite like a whisper, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with being taken care of. But she eats.

Max disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when he returns, he’s holding something carefully folded in his hands. “Here,” he says, offering the bundle. “Figured you might want something to sleep in.”

She blinks, takes it from him with trembling fingers. It’s soft. Pale pink. Satin. The cuffs and ankle hems are feathered, delicate and girlish in a way that sends a jolt through her chest.

She sucks in a silent gasp.

Because she’s seen this before. This exact set. A matching top and bottom with candy-colored buttons and wispy little ankle feathers. It’s one of the first things she ever pinned to her secret “want want want” board on Pinterest. She’s stared at that set more times than she can count. Longed for it in that way she’s learned to bury—sweet, soft things that felt too childish, too indulgent for the life her parents demanded she perform.

She looks up, wide-eyed, confused. “How—?”

Oscar, still cross-legged at the table, doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. “You left your laptop open a few weeks ago. Your Pinterest tab was still up.”

Max shrugs, unbothered. “You said you never get to want things. Thought we’d start with these.”

Her throat closes up.

She presses the satin close to her chest and covers her mouth with her hand, and to her horror, the tears come fast. Her shoulders shake, and she ducks her head, trying to hide it, to shove the reaction down where all her emotions usually go—but she can’t.

Oscar is on his feet in seconds, next to her before she can move. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Max crouches in front of her, brushing a thumb under her eye, catching one of the tears. “You’re allowed to cry, baby. Doesn’t make you weak.”

“I just…” She tries to speak but it breaks apart in her throat. “It’s stupid, it’s just pyjamas—”

“It’s not stupid,” Oscar cuts in gently.

She clutches the fabric tighter and gives in to the sob stuck in her throat. For the first time, the tears don’t feel like shame. They feel like a release.

Later, she changes into the pyjamas, and they’re a little big, and the sleeves fall past her wrists, and the feathered cuffs brush her ankles with every step. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more like herself. Not the Red Bull princess. Not Horner’s daughter or Geri’s publicity machine.

Just Maya.

Soft. Girly. A little fragile, but held together by hands that want to protect, not mold.

When she walks out of the bathroom, Max is already under the covers. Oscar’s flipping through TV channels with the volume low, but both of them look up the second they see her.

Max whistles under his breath, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There she is.”

Oscar doesn’t even smile—just stares at her like she’s something holy. “You look exactly how I thought you would.”

“Like what?” she whispers.

“Like yourself,” Oscar says.

—

Over the next few weeks, they fulfil their promise in tender, small ways.

Maya stands behind Max, a quiet shadow in a branded cap. The sun is relentless, and her skin’s too pale for this heat. Oscar’s the one who notices first.

“You’re squinting,” he murmurs, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose. “Take mine.”

She starts to shake her head, but he’s already pulling his hat lower to shield his own eyes. She doesn’t give them back.

Max passes her his water bottle without looking, like it’s muscle memory to provide for her.

No one comments. But the cameras do catch it. And people start to talk.

—

They’re at a grid dinner before the summer break.

She barely eats.

Max doesn’t call her out on it, doesn’t lecture. He just cuts his steak into bite-sized pieces and nudges his plate toward her, like it’s hers, like it’s obvious.

Oscar orders her a dessert she once said she liked in a half-forgotten conversation, and when it arrives, he says nothing — just waits. She takes a spoonful and doesn’t realise she’s smiling until he smiles back.

—

Oscar presses a soft kiss to her temple before the elevator closes, like it’s second nature. Max trails a knuckle down her spine with a look that promises he’s always watching over her. It’s subtle. Intimate.

They don’t need to say the word ours. Everyone sees it.

And people continue to talk.

—

She shows up late to media training, lashes clumped from crying, collarbone sharper than it was two weeks ago. The press officer says, “Try to smile more, Maya, you look ungrateful.”

Max hears it. He’s across the room in two strides.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he says flatly. “Have some fucking humility.”

The room goes silent.

—

It’s after qualifying in Singapore. She’s in the garage corridor, still wearing Max’s fireproof jacket draped over her shoulders when her father finds her.

He’s quiet at first. Scarily calm. “This thing you’re doing,” he says, tone cold and precise, “with Max and the McLaren kid—it ends now.”

Maya doesn’t flinch.

“You’re embarrassing your mother. You’re embarrassing me. Do you understand? You look needy. Weak. Do you want the press to call you a liability? Is that what you want?”

Her throat closes. Her fingers tremble. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the words keep hitting. Like they always have.

He steps closer. “You were meant to carry your surname with grace. And instead you’ve latched onto two drivers like—”

“Like what?” Max’s voice cuts in, sharp and deadly.

Christian turns. Max is already standing between them.

“She’s mine,” Max says, low and dangerous. “Ours. And if you don’t want the best driver on your team walking out mid-season, I suggest you shut the fuck up and stay out of this, Christian.”

Oscar’s there too now, not as loud, but just as present. Always behind, always backing her. “They like it,” Oscar says calmly. “The media. The public. They think it’s sweet — that she can finally be herself. That she’s finally being taken care of. Loved.”

Christian scoffs, mouth twitching, shaking his head and looking like he might explode.

Max doesn’t move. “You’re a fucking coward,” he says quietly. “You throw money at her instead of love and call it parenting. You ignore the fact that she’s killing herself because it’s an inconvenience to you. Well… she’s not yours to hurt anymore.”

Maya is shaking. Oscar’s hand is on her back. Max opens his arms wordlessly.

She steps into them without hesitation.

And when Christian walks away, furious and silent, she doesn’t look back.

—

It’s late. The city lights flicker below them like stars scattered across the sand.

There’s a linen-covered table set for three, candlelight dancing in the breeze. Oscar had picked the restaurant. Max had reserved the whole rooftop. She hadn’t even been told where they were going—just that she should wear something soft, and pink if she wanted.

She had. A silky dress with a bow at the back. Pearl earrings. Her heart on her sleeve.

They don’t rush dinner. Oscar orders for all of them, but always checks with her first. Max brushes her knuckles with his thumb every few minutes like he can’t quite believe she’s real and needs a reminder that she is.

There’s laughter. Champagne with fresh raspberries. A moment where she forgets to shrink herself.

After dessert, she leans back in her chair, barefoot now, cheeks warm from the alcohol. “So this is a date?” she asks, half-teasing, half-afraid of the answer.

Oscar glances at Max, then back at her. “Yes.”

“You didn’t ask,” she says, tilting her head.

Max’s voice is low, serious. “Because we weren’t going to give you room to say no. Not in the way you usually do. You say no to kindness. To care. Not because you don’t want it—because you think you’re not allowed to have it.”

She looks down. The vulnerability stretches between them like thread. Thin. Fragile. Shimmering.

“We’re in love with you, Maya,” Oscar says, steady and calm. “Have been for a while. Since Bahrain, since London, probably.”

Max reaches for her, puts his hand under her chin, tilts her head up. “You don’t have to do anything. Say anything. Be anything. Just… existing is enough, liefge.”

“We’re just asking you to let us love you,” Oscar finishes.

Her bottom lip trembles. She presses her hand over her mouth like that will stop it, but it doesn’t. “You don’t even know all the messy parts,” she whispers. “You think I’m sweet and good. But I’m—I’m so tired. And I’m not always good. I’m… I’m a lot.”

Max stands. Walks behind her. Presses a kiss to her hair and murmurs against her ear, “We want all of it.”

Oscar reaches across the table and holds her gaze. “You’ve just never been loved right, I think.”

She breaks.

Not in a loud way.

Just a slow inhale, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, her hands shaking as she lets Max pull her to her feet and into his arms. Oscar wraps his arms around both of them. They stand like that—on a rooftop above the desert, the girl they’re already in love with finally, finally starting to believe them.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says into Max’s chest. “The three of us. I’ve never—“

Oscar kisses her shoulder. “That’s okay.”

“We’ll show you,” Max promises, holding her tighter. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

—

It’s raining in Barcelona.

Not a storm. Just a soft, endless drizzle.

They’re in Oscar’s hotel room. Max is asleep — sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm over his eyes, shirtless and worn out from media rounds. There’s a tiny freckle on his shoulder and Maya is struck with the urge to kiss it.

Oscar is sitting on the floor with her, both of them tucked against the wall by the window. She’s in one of Max’s old Red Bull hoodies, swimming in it. Her bare legs are tucked under her, knees touching Oscar’s. Her damp hair smells like jasmine.

They’re listening to the rain.

He’s been reading to her. Something calm. Poetic. He reads slowly, like the words are delicate things. She hasn’t really been paying attention. She’s just been watching his mouth move. Breathing.

She interrupts him with no warning.

“I love you.”

Oscar blinks. His lips part, then close again. He sets the book down slowly.

“I love you,” she says again, to make sure he knows it. “You and Max. It’s not new. It’s just—now it doesn’t feel too scary to admit.”

Oscar cups her cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to meet his. “We love you too.”

“I know.” She smiles, wobbly.

Max shifts on the bed with a sleepy groan, rubbing his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Maya crawls over to him slowly, climbs into his arms, and says it again.

“I love you.”

Max stills. Then smiles. He cups her face and kisses her forehead. “Liefje,” he murmurs, kissing her again. “You’re everything.”

Oscar joins them, wrapping around both. The three of them curled into the sheets, quiet and close as the rain falls outside.

—

It’s late. The kind of late that wraps everything in a hush, the lights dim and warm, the air thick with stillness.

Maya is curled between them on the hotel sofa, tucked into Max’s side, her legs draped across Oscar’s lap. There’s a documentary playing, something about old race legends, but none of them are really watching.

Oscar’s hand traces absent circles on her calf. Max’s thumb brushes along her shoulder where her silk robe has slipped, and she doesn’t move to fix it. She feels safe like this. Weighted. Held.

“I like this,” she murmurs, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.

Oscar looks down at her. “Like what?”

“This,” she says again, quieter now. “You. Him. Here.”

Max shifts just enough to lean in and press a kiss to her temple — tender, slow. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Then Oscar’s voice, soft but sure. “Never.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at them both, and her heart stutters at the way Max is already watching Oscar. The fire and the calm. Always orbiting each other, always steady. Like they’d found something solid long before she was ever part of it.

And then — like they’ve done it a thousand times — Max leans in, fingers brushing Oscar’s jaw, and kisses him.

It’s unhurried. Familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home, and she watches it happen with her chest aching in the best way.

When they pull back, Max glances at her, just a hint of a smirk curving his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” she whispers.

Oscar’s fingers find hers. “You’re ours.”

And just like that, her world tilts a little closer to whole.

—

The building is pale pink stucco with tall windows and soft gold accents. The sign reads The Princess Daisy Foundation.

Maya’s wearing a gown the colour of strawberry milk, with a tulle overlay and delicate pearls stitched into the bodice. Her heels sparkle. Her nails are glossy and pale. Her smile, for once, is real.

“They said it wouldn’t be taken seriously,” she says into the mic, voice calm but warm, “that no one would support a charity for underprivileged girls to study ballet. But they were wrong. People just had to be reminded what true, authentic beauty looks like.”

The crowd claps. Cameras flash. Oscar hands her the scissors. Max presses a kiss to her temple once it’s done. Neither are on the stage, but they’re close. Always close.

—

The magazine is high fashion. Not tabloid. Not gossip.

She’s not in a power suit. She’s not reinvented.

She’s herself.

Feathers. Lace. A sheer pink blouse with a velvet bow tied at the collar. Hair curled softly, glitter dusting her collarbones. The spread is titled Soft is Strong.

They call her a disruptor. A visionary. A symbol of femininity without apology.

In one of the outtakes, she’s sitting on Max’s lap, Oscar’s hand on her thigh. It never runs, but she frames it in her home office anyway.

—

She’s barefoot in the paddock — her heels in one hand, the hem of her ruffled dress knotted up slightly to avoid engine grease. Max is arguing with GP about race strategy. Oscar is reviewing telemetry data on his phone.

Maya’s sipping an iced lavender latte when a tiny dot of a girl comes running up to her, flanked by two out-of-breath guardians.

“Hi Maya.” The girl says shyly. “I love your dress.”

Maya hands her latte to Oscar, who doesn’t even need to look up from his phone to take it. Then she crouches down and adjusts the girl’s glittery headband. “I love yours too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between them. “You sparkle in the sunshine!”

When the photo of them gets posted by the girls parents, the caption goes viral: “She’s like if a cupcake had a heart (and two boyfriends).”

—

They’re at a party.

Christian is there.

So is Geri.

Maya greets them politely. She doesn’t flinch. She’s radiant in silk and diamonds and a matching custom clutch that says good girl in pink rhinestones — a reclamation, not a reminder.

Max is on her left. Oscar on her right.

When a journalist tries to bring up her rebellious phase, Max shuts it down with a single look. Oscar gently steers her away, murmuring, “You look like a dream,” and her laugh sounds like wind chimes.

—

There’s a photo on their kitchen fridge of a much younger Maya — awkward, unsure, all eyes and shadows.

Beside it, there’s one from just last week; she’s lounging on their balcony in a cloud of pastel robe, eating a croissant and reading French literature, Max kissing her shoulder, Oscar curled beside her with his nose in his phone.

In both photos, she’s looking at the camera.

She only recognises herself in the second one.

—

The house is quiet.

There’s birdsong from the trees outside the open windows, the soft hum of a coffee machine, the occasional sound of a little girl giggling.

It’s a peaceful quiet. The gentle kind.

Maya stands barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in a silk robe the color of rose quartz. The hem is trimmed in delicate feathers.

There’s a half-drunk cappuccino beside her. Her fingers are dusted with flour — she’s trying to bake something today, even if Oscar ends up taking over halfway through like always. Max is still asleep, she thinks, though she heard him stir when she slipped out of bed at dawn.

Below, the garden is blooming. Lavender and soft pink roses, a stone path that leads to the small dance studio she had built on a whim — or maybe not a whim at all. The ballet charity is doing well. Better than she imagined. Sometimes, when she visits classes and helps the girls with their ribbons, she feels like she’s rewriting her own childhood, one gentle hand at a time.

She turns as she hears the sliding door open.

Oscar steps out, barefoot, shirtless, wearing sleep-soft shorts and blinking into the light. He walks straight to her and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Had a dream,” she murmurs. “Not a bad one. Just… vivid.”

He rests his chin on her head. “Want to talk about it?”

She leans back into him. “No. Maybe later.”

Max appears a few minutes later, hair wild, expression fond and grumpy all at once. He kisses her without a word and steals the rest of her coffee.

They stand there together in the morning sun, warm and safe and quiet.

Oscar’s hand finds hers. Max’s arm settles around her waist.

There’s no performance.

No audience to entertain.

There’s just love.

A squeal — high-pitched and girly — splits the quiet morning like sunlight through lace. Then, the balcony doors burst open, and a blur of pink tulle and fluttering white feathers launches herself outside.

“Daddy!”

Oscar catches her mid-air like he was waiting, arms instinctively cradling her as she giggles and wriggles against his chest. She’s dressed like a ballerina — a soft pink leotard, satin slippers with little ribbons tied messily at her ankles, and a tiny feather boa draped around her shoulders.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, spinning her once, pressing kisses across her cheeks as she squeals with laughter. “What are you doing up so early, huh?”

“Had a dream,” she says seriously, parroting Maya’s earlier words. “That the kitchen turned into a castle and the fridge was made of cake!”

Oscar gasps. “A cake fridge? Why didn’t I dream that?”

“Because you’re boring, daddy,” she says with complete confidence.

Maya laughs and walks toward them, curling herself into Max’s side as he stands behind her, arms wrapped around her middle. His chin rests on her shoulder, his hair still a little wild from sleep. She feels his breath against her skin, hears the soft sound he makes when he sees his daughter light up in Oscar’s arms.

“She’s wearing feathers again,” Max says against her ear, his breath a tickle. “That’s your fault.”

Maya hums. Shrugs. “She wanted a ‘Mummy dress’ today. Couldn’t say no.”

Max kisses the curve of her neck. “I wouldn’t have, either.”

Gia, their tiny, perfect girl, reaches out one hand toward her mother. “Mummy, daddy said I could wear my crown to breakfast.”

Oscar looks betrayed. “No, I didn’t—!”

“You didn’t not say it,” she grins.

Max chuckles, the sound low and affectionate. “She’s got you beat, Osc. You’re hopeless.”

She has them all beat, is the thing. This little girl—drowning in love and affection and never wanting for anything.

—

Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, something bubbling gently on the stove. Oscar sets their daughter on the counter, steadying her as she swings her legs in excitement, reaching for a tiny crown resting beside the fruit bowl. Max lifts it with two fingers, exaggeratedly serious as he places it on her head with a little bow. “Your Highness.”

She beams, the sunlight catching in her curls.

Maya watches them, heart aching with a kind of joy that still feels new sometimes. She leans against the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, letting herself stay in the moment a little longer.

On the fridge are photos. Lando, her brother in all ways but blood, had taken most of them.

Oscar’s mother, kneeling in the garden with Gia on her lap, both of them grinning wide. Max’s father teaching her how to drive a go-kart — a day that ended with a kart in the wall and a lot of apology ice cream. There’s one of Maya too, half-laughing, mid-spin in the living room, her daughter in her arms, both in matching pink feathered robes.

Maya’s daughter doesn’t know her maternal grandparents. Not really. They’ve met, yes. Christian had flown into Belgium once, uncomfortable in the stillness of their home, talking more about Max’s contract than about his granddaughter’s third birthday party. Geri had sent expensive, ridiculously expensive dresses by courier.

Maya only let Gia wear them in the garden, where they would get covered in mud and water and sand.

Maya never let them stay long—her parents.

She wouldn’t risk it. Not for a second.

She knows what inherited silence feels like. What praise laced with expectation can do to a child’s pure heart. She remembers being told to smile when she wanted to cry, to suck in her stomach and keep her chin up and never — ever — be soft.

She’d walk through fire before letting her daughter carry that same weight.

So instead, her little girl grows up in ballet slippers and glitter crowns, with two fathers who would rearrange the stars if she asked them to — who teach her strength isn’t silence, and kindness is power, and softness isn’t something to outgrow.

And Maya learns too. Every day.

Oscar hands her a mug of warm milk and honey; not breakfast, just something to warm her up. Max brushes a kiss across her temple before pulling their daughter into his arms and dancing her toward the dining table.

She closes her eyes for a second.

This is the life she built from the ruins of the one she survived.

And it’s hers. Every breath of it.

1K notes · View notes

cherry-leclerc · 4 months ago

Text

reckless driver ☆ mv1

genre: photographer!reader, angst, moody!max, yearning, jos hate club

word count: 9.9k

Switching to be Max’s personal photographer wasn’t a planned note on your agenda. Neither was him opening up. A lot of things weren’t, therefore, making his growing crush on you catch him completely off guard.

inspired by reckless driving, lizzy mcalpine !

cherry here!...would it be a regular cherry fic if it didn’t hurt ya just a little bit?

All he knew was how to be perfect.

It has nothing to do with his looks, doesn’t even mean this in a condescending way. The perfect shade of watercolor eyes. The perfect mix of dirty blond hair. The perfect color of pink that taints his lips. The perfect curve of his nose. This had nothing to do with that.

For fucks sakes, Max! Jos grits his teeth tightly, marching closer and closer. The accelerator is there for a reason!

From a very early age, Max’s vocabulary grew an excessive amount, but again, it mainly had to do with how many curse words he could count based on angry verses his dad would often spit at him. By the time he was five, he knew them all, and he knew them by heart. Something inside of him became almost immune to all of that. The hurtful comments, the hatred behind his eyes, the annoyance of not being the best. There was nothing he couldn't handle. And if he remembers well enough, then he can still vividly hear the conversation between his parents.

Just one more, Sophie. Maybe then, if we’re lucky, we’ll have another boy. One that actually has potential.

He swore to be the greatest in that very moment. No matter how much he wanted to give up, he never would. Not when he was constantly put down by his own father, or when the nerves ate him alive, making his skin crawl—no. He wouldn’t give into being a failure. Wouldn’t satisfy them ever.

So, he prayed. He prayed every single night for the new baby on the way to be anything but another boy. Let it be a girl, let it be an alien, let it be anything but a boy. Because even though he was just a kid, he knew that if there was another opportunity for Jos to train another son of his, he’d take it, and Max would be left as some unfinished project.

And lo and behold—it was a girl.

He never really knew true happiness until that very moment. He cried a whole lot when he first held Victoria and everyone thought it was adorable, but no one knew just how much this meant to Max. He would continue to be his father’s main focus, and that’s all that mattered. He would craft himself to be the winner he knew he needed to be in order to get a solid smile from him, even just once. Either way, a few years later his parents wound up getting a divorce, so all was good.

Now, at this very moment—he had finally done it.

Being a World Champion felt the way he knew it would: unreal.

Yes, the fireworks and the cheers were a part of that, but the warm hug from Jos was what really made it all worth it. All the snarky comments, all the panic attacks, all the isolation growing up—it was all worth it.

That’s a good boy! Jos yelled, rustling his sweaty hair before grinning widely. That’s how you do it!

He wishes to remember this moment until the day he dies, and hopefully, if he's lucky enough, a bit after that. Whatever the case might be, he’s content, but now there’s something new.

Higher expectations.

You were born to be the greatest, Max. You were destined to outbeat those who are stupid enough to think they have a chance against you. They don't. No they fucking don’t because you, Max Verstappen, are one hell of a lion. Jos takes a sip of champagne, swallowing harshly and not at all quietly. And you wouldn’t want to fuck that up, now would you?

The answer is no. No way in hell would he let his father’s affection slip away. Not when he’s been dreaming of it for so long. He’s worked—and he’s worked hard—for this. There’s nothing, nor anyone, who would matter as much as Jos Verstappen and being the best driver there could ever be.

But then—just then.

You came along.

You should have said no. Looking back at it now, you really should have said no.

And yet. You couldn’t have possibly known that from the very beginning.

Funny enough, you started off as Checo’s photographer. You loved it. He was easy to work with. Not only was he nice to you, but so was his family. The work environment was healthy and fun. Your dream job, really, there was nothing to complain about.

But one by one, from a nearby corner—always a nearby corner—you watched as Max’s photographers rapidly lost their minds and quit. It’d start off with a scowl from him and end with a huff from them, dropping their expensive cameras and leaving without sparing a second glance.

It isn’t until photographer number eight where things really do take an unexpected turn.

For you.

“What do you say?” Christian’s voice booms with need.

You blink hazily. “I-I’m not too sure. I mean, Checo and I work so well together…”

“No, I know what—and trust me, I feel bad for doing this—but we’re really counting on you. You get along with everyone. Everyone loves you! Who’s to say Max won’t?”

“And what if he doesn’t?” you fight back. “Then what? I quit too?”

“First of all, he will. And second of all, that won’t be necessary because he’ll love you.”

“You’re that confident?”

“I am.”

You sigh, rolling your tired neck before looking back at him. “Well, I’m not. I need to think this through.”

The Red Bull principal nods. “Of course! You need time, of course. But please—you’d be helping us all. Especially Max.”

You’d be a liar if you were to say that his words hadn’t stuck with you. What did he mean by ‘especially Max’? Was it to get the wheels spinning? If it was, then it was definitely working.

Adjusting your camera strap that hangs around your neck, you stare off into the distance as if you might find the answer somewhere in between the clouds. And maybe you did find it. The answer, you mean. You were one hundred percent certain now that you wanted to stay with Checo, you just didn’t know how to break the news to Christian who has done so much for you ever since you started working at Red Bull.

“I heard about the offer,” a deep voice rumbles next to you, making you jump with fear, clutching your camera towards your chest like some sort of secret weapon. The Dutchman remains unbothered, taking in the same sunset as you once were. “Christian tends to do that. Put people on the spot. I hate that about him.”

In a way, you’re sort of surprised by him even speaking to you or that he even knows about your existence. Over the past few years, you’ve only interacted with him a couple of times. Once, when he won his first championship. Twice, when he won his second. And thrice, when he won his, well…third. And they were all due to the awkward congratulatory hug you felt yourself forced to give since everyone around you was doing the same.

Other than that, you had no reason to cross paths with him despite working for the same team. You two always stayed on opposite sides of the paddock, but it was never intentional, it was just the way things played out. Until now.

“You really shouldn’t say you hate the man who's making your dreams come true,” you whisper, struggling to find your own voice.

Max hums. “All I said was that I hate that about him, not that I hate him as a person.” A beat. “And for your information, he isn’t the one making my dreams come true—I am.”

“He gave you a chance—”

“A chance he knew someone else would have taken if it weren’t him.” That shuts you right up, silence lingering. Seeing as you both were standing on the terrace overlooking the paddock, you two watched as Christian and Checo converse with one another, hands on their hips like some kind of businessmen. “I worked hard to get to where I am, so please, don’t give him all the credit when we both know that's not true.”

More silence. “Listen, I think I’m going to—”

“Turn him down and continue working with Checo?”

Your voice catches. “W-what?”

The Dutchman clicks his tongue, like he’s got you all figured out. Three conversations over the past three years and he thinks he has you all figured out?

“I can’t say I blame you. You don’t think we’ll work well together, and quite frankly, I would agree. We wouldn’t. You’re too…nice.”

You have to laugh. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth,” he’s ricochets.

Turning towards his tall frame, you huff, hair washing over your face before faking a tight smile. “And you’re too…complicated.” Something about the way his gaze darkens at your words makes you want to back down like some shivering dog, but miraculously, you remain still. “And that’s not a compliment.”

“Didn’t sound like one.”

“Well because it’s not.”

He’s not too far from you, and honest to God, that made you shake more than you intended. There was something about him—there always was. Even though you never really worked close to him, you knew there was something there, hiding between the crease of his brows, and now, standing this close to him, you can see it all in a new perspective.

Max releases a breath, bored and unexplainable. Runs a hand through his hair, turns his face for a second before connecting his gaze back to yours. “Look, you appear to be a sweet girl, but…I think you should turn down Christian’s offer.”

“Why?” He’s taken aback. You catch it the moment his lips twitch in the slightest. You tilt your head, urging him to answer. “You must have a reason, so what is it?”

“You’d hate working with me.”

“And you get to decide that?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Have you enjoyed this conversation so far?”

“No.”

“Then you probably wouldn’t enjoy our time either. And I’d just rather not waste my time on you finding out. No offense.”

“No, no, none taken,” you respond sarcastically. By now, Christian and Checo have spotted you both, secretly hoping there was some sort of friendship forming. They wave cheerfully and you mimic their movements.

“I hope we get along—I really do,” you say with a smile as you wave enthusiastically over at Christian who lets out a whistle and sends you an excited thumbs up.

His jaw clenches.

“If not, you’re really going to hate having me around.”

By now, you’ve completely understood why every other person has quit on him.

Your blood boils deep inside your veins for the millionth time in the past hour. His large hand covers his face as he continues speaking with his engineers. They all look back at you, half-amused, half-pitiful. They grimace when you try once again to get a picture of him, only to get shut down by him spinning around to make you face his back.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter beneath your hot breath, glaring harshly to the point you feel a migraine growing, pounding the sides of your head. Marching off, you cross over to Checo’s side of the garage, watching as he discusses his strategies with a couple of his crew members. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he responds, flashing a bright smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Pleading for you to take me back?” He laughs, eyes crinkling, freckled nose scrunching with humor. “It feels like I’ve signed my life away.”

“Ah. Come on. It can’t be that bad. Give him some time.”

“It’s been a month!” you exclaim. “What more does he need?”

The Mexican driver’s eyes soften, feeling bad for the swap neither of you wanted, but knew was necessary. Checo knows how patient you can be, how sweet and caring you tend to act towards those you truly care about. And right now? He worries you won’t ever reach that point with Max.

A heavy sigh. “Max isn’t much of a talker, you know that. But maybe—in order for him to get comfortable around you, he needs you to do something that the other photographers didn’t bother doing.”

Your stomach churns. “Like what?”

He smiles warmly. “Getting to know him.”

Maybe Checo was right. Maybe all Max needed was a friend—someone to talk to.

Sliding back to your side of the garage, you sheepishly walk over to the grumpy Dutchman. Currently, he’s sitting down on the floor, back pressed against the wall, scrolling through his phone. “C-c-can I talk to you?” you ask, nervous fingers lacing through the hoop of your jeans.

He doesn’t bother raising his gaze. “Can you even talk to begin with?”

“S-sorry?”

This time, he does look up, looking past his lashes. “Your stutter.”

Lamely, your mouth opens, only for you to find it drier than the Sahara Desert. The crack of your voice is a clear indication over your weak attempt to speak and that just makes you a blushing mess. Fuck him. You took several speech therapy classes to try and get rid of it, but him pointing out a stutter you thought has gotten better over time makes you want to be photographer number nine.

You glare—hard. You mentally go over your dialogue and that itself makes you feel small. Embarrassed. So, instead…you don’t say anything at all.

There’s a reason no one likes to work with him.

And you think you just found out.

Some days are easier than others. Some days are harder.

Today?

Today was awful.

“Jesus Christ, Max! What the fuck was that?” Jos yells, nearly pressing his face against the Red Bull driver who stands close by, watching him flinch in the slightest before regaining composure. You’ve heard rumors—plenty of them. Between mechanics, between Checo and a few other bystanders, you heard them all. How Jos’ behavior was unbearable to deal with, especially when it came to him and Max. You just never thought you’d witness it firsthand.

“My brakes weren’t working,” he replies, holding eye contact that would have left you in a coma. “It was never my intention to crash.”

“See, you say that, and yet everytime I come and visit, you always seem to be messing up one way or another,” Jos hisses, face beet red, and a splash of saliva spraying over Max as he grits his teeth, taking a step back. “I’m confused—do you want to lose the Championship this year or what?”

“No,” the Red Bull driver fires back, firm and quick. Blue eyes translate to a darker shade as they look to where his dad wears a mocking smile. “I’m winning that title, don’t worry.”

Running a hand against his stubble, Jos rolls his eyes before releasing a tired breath. As if he’s the one working endless hours. As if he’s the one who just crashed against the wall at a terrifying speed he couldn’t decrease even if he tried. As if he’s the one with the bruised temple.

Everything was just always about him.

“Don’t bother resting until you figure out how to fix all the shit you’ve caused.” Sharp eyes narrow. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Max whispers, watching as he storms off without even saying goodbye to anyone else that wasn’t Christian himself. So much for having him around. Frustrated, he angrily yanks his gloves off, throwing them against the wall and walking the opposite direction.

Something tells you to leave him alone—let him be. You get why he’s upset, but you checking up on him probably wouldn't help. Also, you're supposed to be mad at him, right?

And yet.

“Wait up!” you gasp, out of breath.

Clenching his jaw, he stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with accusing eyes. “Why are you following me?”

“I just…” Coming to a stop as well, you wince at your sudden side stitch. “He shouldn’t have yelled at you that way,” you finish, analyzing the way his body stiffens. “Especially in front of everyone.”

Blue orbs flicker past your figure for a second, then he lets out a lopsided smile. “I bet you enjoyed it, though. You know? Because I’ve sort of been acting like a dick towards you…” The small smile disappears, replaced with a thin line.

“I didn’t,” you find yourself admitting. His brows raise up with surprise, and even you’re surprised to be telling the truth. You should feel good about this moment—someone finally told him off, someone finally put him in his place. But you felt none of that satisfaction. If anything, you felt bad. Swiping your tongue against your lips, you purse them awkwardly. “And you haven’t been a dick. He has.”

And for the first time—he laughs.

You blink, bewildered at the sound, but he doesn’t seem to notice that. “Like father, like son, right?” he jokes, making you feel like this was all some sort of fever dream. He continues, squatting down against the wall until he sits down completely against the cold pavement. “Your perspective about me has suddenly changed, or what?”

Hesitant, you choose to sit across from him, tucking your legs beneath your butt. His eyes close, smiling softly. Though I doubt it, he mumbles. “I just think I had you all wrong, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” he encourages. “Why?”

You swallow. “Well…because—now it all makes sense. Why you’re so cold towards everyone, I mean. You do get it from your dad, but it’s also not your fault.”

“My dads not the problem,” he hums. “I am.” Your legs are slowly becoming numb, buzzing like a thousand ants are crawling on them, but you don’t dare move an inch, scared of ruining the moment of him being so honest despite being allergic to it. “I let him down constantly and he’s just being…candid.” His eyes open, focused like he’s known you’ve been here all along, sitting across from him. “The issue here is that no one seems to get that. And that’s fine, but I do.”

“C-c-can I…” you cringe at the sound of your stutter, biting harshly down against your sore tongue. You expect him to laugh—make fun of you in any way possible—hold it over your head…but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits patiently for you to feel comfortable enough to continue your question. Your chest loosens up, along with your anxiety. You never thought he’d help with that. “C-can I ask you a q-q-que—”

“A question?” he finishes your sentence, you feeling immensely grateful. You nod. “Sure,” he answers.

Repeating the question over a couple of times, you find yourself feeling more and more comfortable around him and it’s only been a couple of minutes. “Why do you belittle me?”

There’s no way of hiding his shame now as his head hangs low, dirty blond hair hugging the sides of his face with a thin layer of sweat, a purple bruise forming due to his crash of high impact. A tsk. “I want you to know that I don’t hate you. Regardless of what you might think.”

You nod, paying close attention.

He shrugs. “But I just don’t think we’ll work well together.”

“That’s it?” you ponder, genuinely lost. “You haven’t-t-t even given me a chance to prove myself. Maybe we can?” A beat. “Or maybe you’re not telling the w-whole truth.”

A playful scoff erupts from this throat, ignoring your comment. “You’re right. I haven’t given this a fair shot.” A calm look paints his normally stoic features. “And it doesn’t seem like you’ll be quitting anytime soon.” Reaching out to swat his race boot, you smile, eyes crinkling. The Dutchman chuckles. “So maybe we should start getting along, no?”

“I agree,” you comment, straightening your shoulders and extending your legs, instantly feeling a wave of relief from the pressure. “I-I-I’d like t-that.” Pause. Your smile stretches. “I’d like that very much.”

What you know now is obviously something you didn’t know back then.

So realistically, you fell into a friendship that ended like most.

Complete, utter disaster.

As time went on, Max started to change for the better. His glares turned into soft smiles, his monotone voice turned into something that was more untroubled. He was starting to become someone you consider a friend, and you couldn't help but wish he felt the same way too.

“Come out and have a drink with us,” you say, carefully cleaning your lens with the back of your shirt. He looks up from where he packs his things into a small duffel bag. You nod enthusiastically. “Come on, it’s my birthday and I want you there. Celebrate my birth, celebrate your win—it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t like to party,” he confesses, scrunching his nose like the thought alone makes him want to puke. “Never have, never will. Happy birthday, though.”

“You’re no fun,” you mumble, placing your camera back into your own bag. “I wish you’d be more fun.” A beat. “Wait. What do you do for fun?”

“I don’t have any. I just…live a quiet, peaceful life whenever I’m able to.” He throws his bag over his broad shoulder. “I like it better that way, anyways.” With that, he walks out of his driver's room.

Gathering the rest of your things quickly, you chase after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “It’s okay to have a quiet life if that’s something you want, but, I don’t know…” You turn the corner, soft hair whiplashing. “Aren’t you able to…well, put that aside for special occasions?”

“Like what? Your birthday?”

You blush heavily. “Well—no. But maybe yours? I know it’s coming up. What are you gonna do then? Stay home working on a crossword puzzle?”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps I’ll read a book, who knows.” Still walking towards his car, he momentarily turns back to look at you, watching as your cheeks glow bright pink. He smiles before turning back. “I’ll make sure to let you know.” Unlocking his car, he raises a brow. “You coming?”

“Can’t,” you pant softly. “Promised Checo that I’d help him find a gift for Carlota.”

“His daughter or his wife?”

Seeing as they share the same name, you can’t help but giggle. “I’m actually not sure.” Flashing one last smile, you wave sweetly. “I’ll make sure to let you know!”

He keeps his eyes on you, watching as you jog towards Checo who laughs as you trip over a nearby rock, nearly falling. Max laughs to himself, feeling an unfamiliar burst of happiness. But that all flies right out the window as soon as his phone buzzes deep inside his pocket, making him groan.

“Hey, Dad.”

He ends up texting for your birthday and you end up doing the same. You end up going out to party and he ends up staying home. Point is, you do exactly what you two said you were going to do, so when a last minute texts comes through at midnight, you’re low key appalled.

Max, 12:00pm

Are you home?

He knows where you live because you once told him. You’re just surprised he remembers.

Yeah? Where are you?

Max, 12:04pm

Come outside. Bring a sweater.

The ocean roars loudly as you two make your way closer towards the shore. The breeze is ice cold, but you aren’t complaining. He is, though.

“Shit. It’s freezing.”

A giggle. “Need a jacket, princess?”

Sending a deadpan expression, he shrugs you off, choosing to sit close enough to see the waves, but far enough to not get wet. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of this, but…I got you something.”

“Max,” you coo, admiring the film camera he hands you as if it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing because when it comes to him it means everything. “This must’ve cost you a fortune,” you whisper, fingers tracing the rim of the black camera that shines against the moonlight. “You shouldn’t have.”

“And you shouldn’t have stuck around. But you did. So…thank you.” The tides grow louder, making him do the same. “I never really said it, but I’m grateful for having you as a friend.”

You freeze and he seems to notice what he said, too.

“Co-worker?” he tries, cringing.

You relax. “F-f-friend sounds better.”

And there it is again, that warmness that only seems to appear whenever you’re around. It should be alarming, but at this point it's not. If anything, it’s normal.

“Now I feel like shit,” you speak up, bumping your leg against his. He hums. “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday. And if you know anything about friendships, then you’d know that presents are a vital thing.”

“Don’t fret. I don’t need anything else other than…” he trails off. “How was your birthday, anyways?”

You don’t notice his sudden shift. Or maybe you did. Either way, he doesn’t know. You snort. “Got shit-faced, what else do you expect? Though, I faintly remember Abby kissing the bartender, so that was cool.” When he fails to recognize the name, you roll your eyes as if you’re dealing with a third grader. “Checo’s photographer? She’s awesome. Has her own car.”

It’s his turn to laugh now. “And you don’t?”

“Nope. But God, I wish. Maybe one day.” You dig your feet deeper into the sand, twisting your lips before smacking them as if that might help hydrate them. You squint an eye. “I’m barely home, so there’s really no need for one yet. I can sense you wondering.”

“I was,” he admits. Swallowing, he mimes your movements. “I’m barely home, either.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Do you?” he returns with no response.

You ponder. “I know I miss my parents. My sister. But other than that, no—maybe not.”

“I don’t either.”

“But I thought you were a homebody?” you accuse.

“Well, I am, but…I miss my home. The place I paid for with my own money.”

“What home don’t you miss, then?”

“The one my parents tried to convince me and my sister that it was. We had all the family portraits and the typical white picket fence, but it just never felt like home to me. And I don’t miss that.”

“Oh.” Just oh.

“Yeah,” he follows with a raspy voice. “Oh.”

Tugging the jacket closer to your chest, you shiver. Surely your nose is burning bright pink and your lips are chapped, but nothing felt better than this moment for some reason. “I don’t like your dad,” you mumble beneath your breath, hoping the wind would hide your confession, but if it didn’t, you wouldn’t care.

It didn’t.

Scoffing, Max nods. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“I don’t like the way he speaks to you. It’s not—normal.” A beat. “Do you think it is?”

“I do,” he hums, blinking slowly as he watches the way a bird gets caught in the wind, trying to lurch forward but only getting sent back. “You get used to it.”

“You shouldn't have to,” you whisper, brows pinched up with concern. “I know I said you were a complicated person, but you’re not. And—and I just don’t want you to think that it’s true.”

He’s the first to disconnect his eyes from yours, feeling a burning sensation forming in the depths of his throat. It’s not completely unknown, he’s felt it many times when he was a kid. The only difference was that he used to feel it behind his eyes as well. Which is why it catches him off guard this time around—years later.

“You’re not like him, Max,” you say with reassurance. Blue eyes soften up, feeling a rush of emotions. This is something he didn’t even know he needed. Tilting his head, he opens his mouth lamely, words getting stuck like a boy and not a man. You smile tenderly. “And I hope you know that.”

He drives you back home that night despite saying you’d be fine walking back. You fall asleep for the next thirty-minutes, and he overthinks through all of it. Fingers tap against the steering wheel, taking occasional glances to where you breath softly.

“I told you to bring a sweater,” Max groans once you enter his car. “You’re going to freeze to death.”

You wave him off. “I think I’ll survive.”

As soon as you arrive at the beach, you’re quick to rub your hands against your skin, wishing to have some sort of blanket. With a knowing look, the Dutchman rolls his eyes, slipping off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Thanks,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek, suppressing a smile.

Hearing his teeth chatter, he blows his cheeks out, squinting his eyes when a particular gust of wind slaps him across the face. “Shit. It’s freezing.”

“Need a jacket, princess?” you tease, enjoying the way his lips form a snarl.

You giggle.

It’s his favorite jacket, the one you’re wearing.

It’s his favorite because of that.

“I’m fucked,” he whisphers to himself, grinding his teeth until he feels them squeak. He tries to focus on the road, but that seems to be the most difficult task in the world when he has you right besides him. And he isn’t thinking anything sinisterly dirty—he’s not—but instead, he’s dreaming.

I can be different, he thinks to himself, repeating the same words over and over. I can be someone she likes. If I try hard enough, I can do that. Planning ahead was always something he hated, but just thinking about it now makes his veins rush with excitement. As if the possibility of you might exist somewhere down the line.

You said some things he never thought he’d hear, because to be quite honest, he never thought someone would understand him the way you have. For the longest time, he thought a fucked up person like him could only get with an equally fucked up person or simply he’d have to live by himself for the rest of his life.

And here you came, proving him wrong.

He doesn’t realize how fast he’s going, how he’s pressing hard on the gas. Not until you groan. “Fuck. Are you alright?” he asks with concern as soon as he hears your head thud against the window from his jerky turn at the roundabout.

“Yeah.” A beat, then a giggle. You rub your head. “This is gonna bruise.” He winces, taking a glance. Keep your eyes on the road, you laugh, but he can’t. Not when your eyes crinkle the way they do. Like your eyes have a dimple of their own. He’s never seen that on anyone else. “We’ll be twins,” you state as some sort of lame joke. And it does the job because he’s quick to let out a chuckle.

“Sorry,” he apologizes.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Pulling up to your house, you go in to unbuckle yourself before slipping the jacket off. He shakes his head. “Keep it.”

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” you try. “I’m already home, I’ll be fine. Put it on.”

“Well I’m not cold anymore,” he pushes back. “It’s fine, really. I have plenty—what’s one missing?”

“It's freakishly soft,” you debate, furrowing your brows with concentration. “Okay. Thanks, Max.” Grabbing your film camera, you let out a shy smile. “For this too. Just—for these past few hours. I had fun.”

“Yeah,” he hums gingerly, running his hand along the steering wheel. “So did I.”

This grabs your attention, ears perking up like some German Shepard. “Am I dreaming? Did Max Verstappen just say he had fun? With me?” you interrogate, eyes shining.

He groaned, tossing his head against his seat. “I take it back—”

“You can’t do that—”

“I take it back,” he repeats firmly, but the amusement poured into his accent tells you otherwise. “Now get out of my car.”

You poke your tongue out at him before raising your hands up defensively. “Drive safe,” you shout over your shoulder as you walk towards your house, backward. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask!” Rushing to his side of the car, you signal for him to roll his window. He does, quirking a brow. You grin. “Let me take you out.”

His heart thuds. Pulses. Skyrockets.

It’s a scary feeling.

You beam. “Yes! As your birthday present! Let me take you out. Just you and I.”

“You and I?” he repeats robotically, blinking with round eyes.

A nod. “Yeah. Just like today. You took me out and gave me an amazing gift. Let me do the same for you.” Pause. “Please?”

It dawns on him that this is the first time a girl has asked him to hang out. Whether it’s romantic or not, it doesn’t matter, and the way you bat your cartoon eyes makes him spiral, feeling his breath hitch. “Y-y-yeah,” he finds himself saying. “Sure. Why not?”

“You only turn twenty-seven once,” you hum. Like that might seal the deal besides the fact that he’s already accepted.

The Dutchman chuckles nervously, fighting the urge to just…God.

“You only turn twenty-seven once,” he agrees, sharing a tight smile, hands gripping the leather wheel.

Your plans end up getting pushed back due to your guys’ tight agenda. The season is tough on not just him, but the entire team. McLaren is thriving, sometimes more than Red Bull, and that has everyone feeling on edge.

Chewing your nails, you watch as Lando crosses the finish line, nearly a minute ahead from the Dutchman. You know he’s not going to want to talk about it, but he will. He has to.

Because Jos is here.

“You’re getting quite comfortable on that second step,” Jos says tauntingly. He’s not yelling—not like the other times—and somehow, that just makes him scarier.

“I’m not,” Max defends as he rubs a sweaty hand against his face. His hair is longer than usual, so that doesn’t help the awkwardness he feels when he has to push it back. “We still did good—”

“Good is not good enough,” he hisses, pressing a finger against his son's suit, making him take a step back before he regains composure. “Unless it is. For you, I mean.” Silence. “So what? Is it?”

“No,” Max mumbles, fighting the urge to push him back. He’s thought about it—many times. And maybe he’s reached his limit, and maybe he can do it…

But he’d never dare to in front of you.

Blue eyes quietly plead for you to leave. And yes. That would be the wisest thing to do right about now, but your feet betray you. They’re super glued, you begin to suspect. Why else would you not be able to move?

“You used to be so good,” Jos points out, eyes only getting sharper. “What happened? What’s distracting you? Who’s distracting you?”

Max’s eyes flicker for a second—just a fucking second—to where you stand, paralyzed, and he prays he doesn’t notice it. But he does.

Turning to face your small figure, Jos lets out a shallow laugh, a confused expression mapping his wrinkled face. “Are you serious?”

“I—” Max tries, but is waved off by his massive hand.

“A crush isn’t going to get you anywhere, Max, come on, you know this.” Jos rubs his eyes, aging quickly. “Especially with a girl like her.”

“I-I-I,” you stutter, feeling your face grow red. Swiftly, this makes you feel as dumb as when you first met Max, but somehow worse.

A million times worse.

“Y-y-you what?” Jos mocks your stutter, walking closer to where you stand. “You what?��

“H-h-he doesn't like me. So, there’s no need to…w-w-w—”

“Worry,” Max fills in, marching to stand in between you two, and you immediately feel your shoulders relax, but your breath continues to struggle to find its way out of your system. “There’s no need to worry. I just had a bad race, it happens. It’s no one’s fault.”

“Except it is!” Jos finally screams, spraying his saliva with every punctuation, something you’ve come to realize happens when he gets fired up, which nearly occurs every time he's here. The only difference is that this time, you’re caught in between the argument. Jos breathes heavily, chest puffing. “It's someone's fault, and I’ll lay it out for you since you can’t seem to take responsibility—it’s your fault.”

“No, it’s not,” you protest from behind Max, feeling courage quickly expand through your ribs because you knew that wasn’t true. “It’s no one’s fault.”

But someone like you is invisible to someone like Jos Verstappen.

Ignoring you, he gets rid of that last step that separates Max from himself, faces inches apart from one another. And it’s terrifying how similar they are. Their eyes, their nose, their lips. The only thing separating them from being twins was Max’ kindness.

“Say it’s your fault,” Jos orders with a solid and demanding tone. “Say the crash was your fault and that you fucked up.”

You’re breath catches once again, frantic eyes darting to where Max clenches his fists before letting them relax.

“The crash was my fault—”

“It's all your fault,” Jos adds.

The Red Bull drivers lips twitch. “The crash was all my fault…” A beat. “And I fucked up.”

“Max,” you whisper, gingerly grabbing his hand. He flinches at your touch and pulls away as soon as his dads eyes linger down to where you two connect. You wither.

“Get your act together,” Jos threatens with fury before walking out, slamming the door behind him.

You jump at the unexpected sound. No one speaks, no one moves, no one dares to acknowledge what just happened.

Max Verstappen lands second on this week's podium, Crofty announces, pulling you away from the daze you were stuck in. Max’s gaze switches over to the T.V. as he stiffens. Say, what are the chances he wins this year's Championship against Lando Norris who seems to be having the time of his life in that McLaren?

“You did good out there—”

“No. I didn’t.” He looks away. “But that won’t matter because that Championship is mine.”

Mine.

You notice he’s reverted back to his old habits the moment he gets snappy. The moment he starts blocking everyone out, including you. You sort of saw it coming, but still—it hurt. And it took you a moment to realize, realize why it burned so much.

You loved Max Verstappen.

He’d always been unapproachable. Spine-chilling, even. But ever since you two started talking to each other as more than strangers, you realize he was none of that. He had once been kind, once been sweet, but this was all Jos’ fault. Weeks went by—months, even—and all you ever really did was snap pictures of him on the stimulator. That’s it.

It’s as if your friendship never even existed.

It came as no surprise when he failed to pick up your phone calls and texts. He was awfully good at doing that. By the time you were a month away from the Championship, you had stopped trying.

Max can feel the awkward tension he had created. It sat there between you two every time you followed after him like a dog on a leash, timidly taking his picture, afraid of getting the wrong reaction out of him. It had happened a couple of times in the past, when you first started working for him, so it seemed you were trying to prevent history from repeating itself. The slight sting in his chest took a jab at him every time without fail.

Vegas was typically a good time for both the drivers and people like you. You’d be the first to admit how easy it is to get lost in the gist of it all.

Except this time around, it was hard to live through it.

Hey. You home?

Max groans, rubbing his eyes until they’re wide awake, picking up his phone.

Max, 12:00pm

Are you okay?

A minute scrolls by.

I have your present.

The first thing he notices is his jacket. His initials are sewn onto the sleeve. He didn’t even know that was a thing, but the sight of it made his stomach flip. “Looks good on you,” he compliments as soon as he enters your car. You chuckle.

It’s a nice jacket. The best one I own.

He notes how smooth you drive, like a grandma. You’re precise with your turns, ahead with your signals—extremely observant.

“See how I steer the wheel,” you speak up, wiggling a neat brow. “Unlike you.”

“I said I was sorry,” he laughs, getting a reminder of the last time you two were together. “How’s the bruise?”

“Nearly gone.” A beat. “How’s yours?”

He smiles, remembering about his own. “Nearly gone.”

“Told you we’d be twins.”

You take him to a nearby park. It’s lame, I know, you apologize, wincing shyly. I’m not good at this, but I hope your present makes up for it.

“This is great,” he eases your nerves, seeing how they scribble across your face. “This is my first time at a playground, actually.”

Your eyes widen as soon as you sit down on the yellow swing. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Huh.”

He takes a seat on a nearby swing, following your soft kicks against the sand. “My dad preferred to have me on the race track than waste my time on anything else.”

This gets an eye roll out of you, soft wind fanning your face as you kick back and forth. “That explains it all.” He shuts his eyes momentarily, enjoying the silence. Far enough away, he can hear the city—but that’s the least of his worries.

You’re the first and only one to give me a childhood so late in life. Round eyes flicker towards him where he digs his shoes into the sand, not worried about the uncomfort it'll cause. If it weren’t for you, I probably would’ve gone my whole life without knowing what a playground is like.

The thought alone is saddening. Your mind makes up an image of young Max, looking into the distance at every other kid who runs towards slides and monkey bars as he straps his helmet and slips on his gloves, longing to know what it’s like to have a normal youth.

“Don’t feel bad.”

Your lip wobbles. “Don’t make me feel things, then. Why would you say that?”

“I thought we could open up to one another,” he jokes, but you can hear his seriousness in it. That’s all he’s needed, after all—someone to talk to. “Should I shut up from here on out?”

“No,” you reply rapidly, gripping your hand around the metal chain. “Don’t you ever shut up.”

His smile relaxes, eyes opening as he tilts his head, then looks up ahead at the moon. And it’s one of those nights where it’s scarily white—almost too much. One might think it’s a flashlight, by the way it shines, but there’s a clarity to it that makes it easy to admire. “I don’t think I love my dad.”

You try not to let out a reaction. “You don’t mean that.”

“No…” He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I think I do.” A shrug. “I respect him. A tiny bit, but I do. But love?” A bitter scoff. “God, I don’t even think he loves me.”

“Sure he does—”

“He loves my success,” he cuts you off. “And it’s embarrassing how everybody knows it.”

Neither of you are swinging anymore. Gathering your thoughts, you look down at your lap, inspecting your dirty shoes. “If it helps, I love you, Max.” In a heartbeat, his blue eyes dart towards you, seeing the way you breathe evenly. “Is that surprising to you?” He doesn’t answer. He couldn't answer. And boy did he want to. Smiling tenderly, you nod. “It’s not that hard, really.” You begin to swing again, as if you didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on him that left his heart in his throat, beating at an abnormal speed. “Not when you’re so patient with me.”

The chain squeaks, making him snap out of his daze, blinking harshly. “I hate my stutter. I’ve had it tugging at my leg since I was eight. Don’t know what caused it, but it’s been there, trust me. So, when you made fun of it a while back, I thought to myself: this guy is a real douchebag.”

Shame pours within him as he recalls that interaction. Checo had told him about his photographer's stutter and how hard it was to hold a conversation with her at first, but the longer they worked together, the more he found it endearing. And that’s exactly what Max felt the moment you became his photographer at a stage in his life where he still didn’t know you all that well other than the fact that you carried your camera like a newborn baby.

“I’m so—”

“Don’t be,” you cut him off. “I don’t hold grudges. Plus, you’re quite helpful now that you’re used to my stammering, don’t you think?”

Guilt fuels him as he apologizes with his eyes. “I shouldn’t have mocked you. Ever.”

“Probably.” A hum. “But the way you read my mind makes up for it.”

He’s been doing a lot of that, without even realizing it. He concludes your sentences without batting an eye about the words you’re trying to get out, trying to express. And in all fairness, you hadn’t noticed it either, not until Checo pointed it out.

That’s how normal it had become.

“My stutter was my number one insecurity growing up.” Connecting your gaze back to where he’s already looking, you draw your eyebrows in with gentleness. “And you made it go away.”

Before he can think his words through, he opens his mouth. “I love your stutter.”

You blink, bewildered at the comment. Then—you laugh.

“Thanks?” Your volume increases. “Never heard that one before.”

Screwing his eyes shut, he shakes his head, grimacing at the sound of his voice replaying inside his crowded mind.

“What I’m trying to say is that I love you,” he rambles, much faster and correctly this time, making you stop your laughter, eyes going wide once again. “Is that surprising to you?” he whispers, awaiting a response with anxiety dripping from his fingertips that clench around the chain that loops around the swing, giving it security.

“You mean as friends, right?” you ask carefully, making his stomach drop.

“I don’t think friends think about each other the way I think about you,” he confesses, out of breath by the sudden shift he’s caused. “I see you differently.”

As soon as your lips part to say something, he pleads silently as if saying: please, just hear me out. And that’s exactly what you do.

He’s standing right in front of you now, pacing back and forth like some football coach as you watch him like a clueless cheerleader who sits on the sidelines. He clears his throat after a lengthy minute.

“I noticed you first when you walked into your interview four years ago.”

Your mind races back to a moment in time where your camera was significantly cheaper and your dreams were larger than life.

He nods, watching as you recollect the memories that were tucked in the far back of your brain, like it didn’t matter for the longest time, which to be fair, it hadn’t.

“You were supposed to be my photographer.”

Your brows furrow, completely lost by his words. “What?”

His large hands run through his shaggy hair from his slumber that you had ripped him away from. “From the very beginning, it was supposed to be you and me. But…”

Neat brows narrow down harder. “But what?”

Max stops his pace, killing his tracks that lands him right in front of you looking up at him with innocent eyes. He sighs. “I said I didn’t want you working with me.”

“Oh.” A beat. “It’s always been this way, then? You not wanting me near you?”

“For a while,” he says quickly before cringing. “But now that we’ve worked together, I realize the mistake I made. How many years it could’ve been us…”

“What’s the real reason?”

Flinching, he squirms under your focus. “What?”

You nod, encouraging him. “You always said it was because you didn’t think we would work well together, and look at us now—we have.” Leaves rustle from the dozen of trees that wrap around the park. “What was the actual reason?”

He’s known the answer to this question from the moment you joined the team, more specifically, Checo’s. He knew the answer to the question the moment he crossed that finish line, claiming his first Championship like the greedy man he was carved out to be by his own father.

He’s just not sure how you’d take it. Coughing awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, he avoids eye contact. “I knew you’d distract me.”

Your stomach twists like a licorice. “Oh God—have I?”

“No!” he yelps, but the defense he guards up like a soldier lets you know that that’s nowhere close to being true. You shrink, increasing the distance between you two. His palms begin to sweat. “You haven’t—”

“Your dad was right,” you whisper. “I have been a distraction to you. That’s why you’ve been having such a weird season compared to the previous ones…”

“No,” he presses firmly. “The car has changed, that’s why I’ve been driving differently, it has nothing to do with you.”

But you don’t seem to engage with his words, instead, you shake your head like an angry child who never gets their way at the candy store. “How can you love me when I’m the reason your dad puts you down every chance he gets?”

It’s like you forced your fingers in at an open wound, one he tends to forget is there when he’s with you, but when you mention it's existence, he remembers why he dreads it so much.

“He talks to me like that because he’s a shitty dad, not because of you,” he says, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “I liked you the second year I won my Championship. The first time you said my name.”

“Congrats, Max,” you say with an awkward smile after you pull away from an even more awkward hug. “You did good.”

“I was infatuated by you the third year I won my Championship.”

“You can’t keep firing your photographers,” Christian lectured him with a tired voice, making his accent sound ten times stronger. “Especially when we don’t even have their replacement.”

“I haven’t found one I like,” he says as he watches you walk by, heading towards Checo with a bright smile, bragging about a recent setting that puts your old photos to shame. He looks away when you turn towards his garage, as if you felt his eyes on you. “It’s not my fault.”

“No, young man, it is,” the team principal presses, letting out a tired sigh. “You need to mature with the idea of having one, if not—”

“If not what?”

“If not…uh…we’ll…” Christian looks around for a while before turning back to the Dutchman. “We’ll have to take a different approach.”

“Yeah?” Max questions with amusement. “Which is?”

Christian shrugs. “Swapping Checo’s photographer with yours.”

This makes the Dutch physically recoil. “I’ve told you a thousand times already—it would never work out. She’s too…happy all the time.”

“And maybe that’s exactly what you need.”

Max lets out a shaky breath, watching your chest rise and fall as if you find it harder to breathe with every passing second.

“And I haven’t won my fourth,” he begins with a light smile and an even lighter tone. “But I already know that I love you.”

This is it. The last smile of his. Of that soft dimple of his that caught you by surprise the first time you saw it. It's the last time because you know that whatever happens after is going to ruin it all.

“I love you—”

“I don’t.”

His lips run dry, forcing a small chuckle like he didn’t hear you right. “I’m—I’m.” He smiles hesitantly. “B-but you said…” No more wind circles around you. “You said it.”

“I know.” You wince, brushing your hair back, annoyed with it by now. “I know I did, but…Max. I didn’t mean it in that way.”

The blue eyed Dutch takes a step backward, noting the uncomfortableness the sand is causing his feet to feel now that the adrenaline is gone. “What do you mean?” he murmurs with embarrassment. “What do you mean?”

Licking your lips, you focus on a tree that stands behind him, how fucked up looking it was. As if someone stabbed it over and over again until it bled wood chips.

“I do love you—but as a friend.”

“Why, though?”

“Friendships last longer,” you respond, like you’ve had the answer sitting on the tip of your tongue for the longest time now. “Relationships don’t.”

“Ours could,” he tries, feeling pathetic. “I’m good at everything. I bet I’ll be good at a relationship, too.”

“A relationship is not a game, Max,” you argue, your voice slightly raising, making him clench his jaw. “And I’m sure you think it is because you're such a perfectionist, but it’s not that easy. There’s a lot of dedication that goes into it.”

“Then I’ll be dedicated to you,” he says. “Heart, body, and soul. I swear. Just—give me a chance.”

“I can’t…”

“But why not?”

“Because all I see is a friend!” you shout, regretting it instantly. His skin loses its natural color, switching to a ghostlike state. His pink lips snap shut like a bear trap. And his furrowed brows revert back to their usual place. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you massage your temples that suddenly feel painful.

“We’re so different from one another, Max. Your life is written down, from birth to death. And you know you’ll live a good one. And mine—mine is constantly changing. I mean, look at it. A few months ago I was working with your teammate and now…”

He remains silent, patiently watching your lips move with every word that pinches his feelings like the biggest bully. “The love I hold for you is there…but not the same way yours is there for me. Your life moves fast, and I’m barely even able to keep up with a conversation with this fucking stutter that appears most times with others, but very few with you.”

Still nothing. Just his eyes focused on this jacket now, like he's already reclaiming it. “And I really do thank you for that, I do. But I thank you the most for letting me get to know you for who you really are. Not who you pretend to be or what others say you are—and I wish I could reciprocate, but…I just… don’t.”

An eternity passes by, it feels like. He doesn’t even know how long you two have been standing here now, but the sunrise is a clear indication that it’s been forever. And he doesn’t feel tired, nor does he feel upset…

He just feels dumb.

“I get it,” he finally speaks up. “We view each other differently and that’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It's not your fault,” he repeats, wearing a warm smile, hoping you'd believe his lie. That and he doesn’t think he can handle much more. All he wants to do is go back home. “I’m just glad I had someone to talk to for a while. And, well—I’m sorry. I must have gotten confused by the situation. Maybe I don’t love you, who knows. I probably just got excited, you know? Went my whole life without having an interaction like ours, maybe I’m convincing myself to believe in something that was never there to begin with. For either of us, that is.”

I just got excited, is all.

He did end up winning his fourth Championship the way he said he would. You did end up taking that perfect picture as he stood on that podium, shining as bright as his golden trophy. Jos was happy, Christian was happy, the entire team was happy, but you and Max?

Blue eyes lock with yours, feeling the differenceness between it all. He still loves you, he realizes. He wasn’t confused after all. But neither were you.

All you saw was your best friend, and now you’re not even sure you have one anymore. You two no longer hang out, you barely even speak to one another despite spending most of your days together. He still smiles at you from time to time, but it’s not the same. Nothing could ever be.

And it was a soul crushing thing to realize.

“Congratulations,” you muffle against his race suit as you hug him without your arms fully wrapping around him and his hardly wrapping around you. “This is your moment, Max.” A beat. “No one else’s.”

You’re talking about his dad. He knows that.

Chuckling, he nods. Like he’s sure of that now. That all his success is his, and his alone. That you have finally managed to matter the most in his life—not his trophies, not his father’s respect.

You.

Pulling away, he still feels your invisible hug linger on him in a way he can’t explain and neither could you. You dig into your pocket, pulling out a silver bracelet.

“Your birthday gift.”

Right. You never got the chance to give it to him after the last real conversation you two ever had. After that, both of you ignored the fact it ever even happened, and in a way, he was grateful for that, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. Looking down at it, he reads the engravement, feeling his heart take a last lap.

To my favorite open book. With love.

He laughs, clutching his fist around it. “I’m nowhere close to being an open book, but…thanks. I love it.”

You giggle, eyes crinkling with tears as you brush them away. “Not at first, but—eventually. It takes time.”

The cheers rise, but neither of you acknowledge them. Not even when they chant his name, over and over.

“You’ve peeled me,” he admits, nearly whispering. “Completely.” Your breath hitches, sucking in that breath that cost to take in. Max shrugs with a gentle grin. “You’ve peeled the lemon,” he jokes with a shaky breath of his own, blue eyes switching to a darker shade that makes your limbs go weak. “So—do your fingers burn?”

You force a laugh. The kind that makes your head tilt just a bit before tippy toeing to give him a proper kiss on the cheek. He goes still.

“I wish they did. That’d make my decision much easier to go through.”

With that, you step away, the Dutch immediately being over taken by journalists, photographers, the FIA, the drivers—everyone except the only person he really wants there celebrating with him.

His mind is racing faster than his Championship winning car. What decision? What could you possibly mean by that—

Christian embraces him, ruffling his sweaty hair as he pours a bottle of champagne over his head, laughing with glory. Max shakes his head, leaning down to ask the only question that ever made his heart break before he ever even got a response.

“Did she quit?”

Christian knows exactly who she is, but what catches him by surprise is how agitated he appeared to suddenly get. The team principal shrugs. “We’ll find you a new one!”

“No,” Max whispers in disbelief as he tries to find you from a distance, but all he sees are flashing lights that begin to cut his patience thin. “No.”

I wanted her.

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