Mon Soleil

from the start ⋆𖦹⋆｡˚⋆ฺ

pairing: oscar piastri x childhood friend! reader summary: when you show up to your first day of work experience at McLaren, you're greeted by a friendly face and a whirlwind of old emotions warnings: none, just some awkward dialogue and a backstory i very vaguely hint at because i don't want to reveal it yet ... w/c: 2.6k

a/n: whew this ended up being WAY longer than I had intended it to be whoops. also! may or may not have relied on personal experience from living in a small aussie suburb and having awkward interactions like this DAILY. thinking of making a pt2 for this if it gets enough attention :"") hope u guys enjoy !!

you can read pt2 here !!

You hadn’t seen Oscar in 12 years, maybe even longer. 

And yet, here he was standing in front of you - much, much taller albeit. Words seemed difficult to form, the only thing you were certain of was that nothing you said could encapsulate the pure shock that swept over you upon locking eyes with the boy, if you could even call him that anymore. 

“Oscar.” Was all you could let out, breathy and a little incredulous. You were lucky though, as it was clear he was experiencing a similar wave of emotions. Your name tumbles out of his mouth and you’re almost snapped out of your daze by the fact that his voice has dropped about a thousand octaves from the last time you heard it. 

“It really is you,” he says, and you let out another gasp of disbelief as you watch his mouth curve into a smile. 

“You two know each other?” came the voice of your superior, who had just been showing you around the McLaren building - the place you had been assigned to for work experience, a requirement during your last year as an engineering student  - and was clearly eager to get on with it. 

“Yeah we, uhm, went to school together. When we were kids.” Oscar piped up, answering the question on your behalf with a polite tone that didn’t give much else away about how he felt about this, admittedly awkward, twist of fate. It also didn’t give away the fact that you two could hardly just be called ‘people who went to school together’ - although you chalked that up to him seeking to avoid any more questions. 

“Guess karting worked out for you, hey?” You were the worst at small talk, but something inside you was desperate not to let go of this opportunity chance had dropped into your lap, even if a stupidly obvious question was what it took to do so. 

He lets out a soft chuckle, easing the tightness in your chest, thank god. “Yeah, I guess you could say so.” He continues to laugh as he’s saying it, his eyes crinkling and cheeks flushing a little as he does. You’re so entranced watching the little movement in his expression, simultaneously so familiar and refreshing, that you hardly notice the blush spreading across your own face. 

Your superior, still standing behind you with his arms folded and a bored expression on his face, clears his throat loudly. You take it as your sign to go on with him for the rest of your tour, but it’s like your feet are stuck in place, your eyes stuck on Oscar’s. A wave of regret washed over you. 

Regret at not bothering to look at the social media accounts of the company you were applying to, because then you might’ve seen his face plastered all over them - although whether that would’ve changed your mind you’re less sure about. 

Regret at not wearing a better-ironed top, or fixing your hair properly because now you’re standing here in front of him, and his stupidly perfect hair, feeling a little bit ridiculous. 

But most of all, regret for not keeping up with him over the years, because then you might’ve been able to have a decent conversation instead of whatever this was. 

Finally, you managed to uproot your feet and crane your neck just enough to catch sight of your superior disappearing around the corner.  

“Well, I should probably get going.” You stuff your hands in the pockets of your pants and try your best to not move so damn awkwardly, but he just stands there and watches you. 

“Right, well, I’ll uhm, see you around I guess?” You still can’t get over how low his voice is now. Even a lower voice isn’t enough to hide the familiarity of his cadence though, cool and casual as always. 

You nod, already halfway down the corridor, mind racing with thoughts. But one whip of your head as you turn the corner tells you he’s looking back at you, mind racing all the same. 

---

Your first day at McLaren was nearing its end, and you had yet to tell anyone about the things that had happened between you two - mostly because you were sure no one would care for the childhood drama between one of their main drivers and some lowly engineering student, but partially because you weren’t even sure how to describe it to anyone. Your superior had made his stance on it clear by not having mentioned it since the morning’s awkward hallway encounter, although you leaned towards him having simply forgotten it. That would’ve been the preferred choice too given your dual worry at the potential of this ‘situation’ getting in the way of you and your work experience. 

Because if you were a car, and this job the road, then Oscar Piastri was a rock placed just precisely enough to send you hurtling into a sidewall. 

He really hadn’t been kidding about seeing you around too. You had bumped into him a subsequent four (and yes, you had counted) times. He was always there, in his bright orange jacket - in board rooms, chatting with other engineers, making the most of complementary snacks in the office kitchen. And whenever the two of you crossed paths he would only flash that smile, warm, polite, but not much more, which you were always a little delayed in returning just because of how off guard it caught you every time. And when he wasn’t there in person, he was plastered across walls next to his teammate. Almost every screen, or wall, or company-issued mousepad you came across had his face, familiar grin and perfect hair, and you couldn’t help but feel - for lack of a better word - haunted. You had yet to get used to the lifesize cardboard cutouts of him and his teammate that stood guard by most of the main entrances too. 

But you were determined, even when fate seemed to keep throwing you two together, weaving your paths across each other after years apart, not to let this distract you from what you were here to do. So it only seemed fitting, when you were packing up after your first day and about to head home, that your eyes locked with a familiar pair on your way out of the main exit. 

“Hey,” Oscar starts this time, pausing for a second before adding, “Again.” 

“You’re not stalking me or something, are you?” You say, pulling your backpack higher up on your shoulders solely for the sake of having something to do with your hands which you feel start to tremble. He laughs that damn laugh again, and your knees feel weak. 

“If anything, I should be the one asking you that.” He gets to the door first but doesn’t walk through it, large hands coming up to hold it open instead. He motions for you to pass through first and you do, albeit a little tentatively. “Headed home for the day?” 

“Yeah,” you say, hearing his shoes on the gravel as he jogs to catch up to you and you wait for a bit to let him before continuing. “Not looking forward to it though, I’m still figuring out the public transport here.” 

This gets his attention, evidenced by how his neck whips around to look at you, eyebrows slightly raised. “You’re taking public transport here?” You try to make out the tone of his voice, which is a mix of shocked, concerned, and slightly impressed. 

“Yeah?” You respond hesitantly. You scan his face for any sign of what his next words might be, hopefully, tips on how to figure out the train lines. But as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his pants, letting out a shy laugh, nothing can prepare you for what they are. 

“Do you uhm,” Even he’s unsure of what he’s about to say it seems, “Do you want a lift?” 

At this, you feel your palms grow a little sweatier, your pace a little slower. For the second time that day, the boy in front of you has rendered you incoherent. Even so, your mouth seems to be working faster than your mind. 

“I’d love that.” you hear yourself blurt out, to which he offers a grateful smile and begins to walk ahead of you, guiding you through the carpark. 

Finally, your mind seems to catch up to the situation at hand and begins weighing it up. More so, weighing up all the things wrong with your decision. You haven’t seen Oscar in over a decade and right now you should be considered nothing more than colleagues, who had only met today. Getting into his car might not be the safest idea, both for your nerves and your position, since you knew how fast gossip spread. You’d be letting him know where you lived too. 

But on the other hand, you didn’t know if you had the mental energy to stare at a map of the city. As you slipped into the passenger seat of Oscar’s car, offering him a smile of gratitude as he closed the door behind you, you were somewhat grateful for your fast mouth for once. Now, you just had to hope it would get you through the drive home. 

He lets you put the address of your apartment into his GPS before starting up. “So, engineering huh?” comes Oscar’s voice as he pulls out of the carpark. You can sense the awkward hesitation in his voice but appreciate his effort at keeping the conversation going, even though you feel your palms sweating at it. 

“Yeah, and uhm, for the record I had no say in being assigned to McLaren,” you say defiantly. “Plus, I didn’t even know you drove for them! Hell, I didn’t even know you still drove.” You’re rambling now, but whatever it takes to fill up the tense air in the car. 

“Ouch, I’ll try not to take that too personally.” 

“So do you want me to stalk you or not? You’re confusing me here Piastri.” He laughs, warm and smooth like honey. It’s been 12 years and it’s taken a coincidental work placement for you to realise this, but you’ve missed his laugh. 

“Just saying, keeping in touch wouldn’t have hurt. Especially after what you said to me the night before I lef-” 

“Anyways.” You cut him off stiffly because you know exactly what he’s going to say. He’s going to bring it up, your history, and you don’t exactly feel like digging it up - not now at least. Even so, he’s hitting you where it hurts and the worst part is you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s doing it at all, or whether he just wants to talk. Either way, you’re not going to let him. 

“You’re liking it here?” He tries to start up conversation again, and you find yourself going along with it. 

“Yeah, well I mean I’ve only been here a day so I can’t say much. But overall, I’m liking it. Everyone seems nice and I get a sense you guys have a real passion for what you do.” You turn to him as you speak, watching him nod at your words. With him watching the road it gives you a chance to take him in, how much he’s changed. 

His face has sharpened out, the round cheeks you once knew have now given way to a defined jaw which you watch move as he speaks. Your eyes travel to his hands, large, gripping the steering wheel firmly as he turns a corner. It’s hard to believe that he’s the boy you knew all those years ago. However, as you watch his excited expression as he tells you about all the antics he and the team get up to you’re reminded of him once more. That passion, that spirit, that joy he had always had for racing was still there, and stronger than ever. 

You think about those times, which seem so strangely distant now, when he would invite you to watch him race. How his face had lit up at the sight of you, and how quickly he would rush over to you after he won to gush about you being his ‘lucky charm’, helmet lines still imprinted on his flushed cheeks. How, even though neither of you were even in the same friend group, you always found yourself going along with him whenever you could - before and after school and even on weekends, when you found the time. How his passion for his sport, and the hours upon hours on which he had rambled to you about its logistics, was what first got you into engineering, which proved a passion of your own. 

But most of all, how much you’ve missed about his life. And how you can’t bear to tell him the reason you haven’t kept up with him since the day he left is because it would hurt too much to. To watch the life he’s made for himself, perfectly fine without you. 

Even so, you feel yourself smiling as you listen to him. And as weird as it sounds you feel yourself relax for what might just be the first time all day, sitting in his passenger seat. 

But, fate has never been your friend, as you’re reminded once Oscar pulls into your street and your heart sinks a little knowing your little moment has come to an end. He parks, impressively easily, and you go to unbuckle your seatbelt before he speaks up again. 

“Wait,” he stops you, before rummaging around in his pockets and pulling out a pen and a little notepad - you try not to laugh at him for the fact they’re both McLaren branded. You watch, confused, as he scribbles something down before handing it to you. 

You unfold your hand to reveal a slip of paper with his number written on it, smiling at the fact he’s written his name too - as if you would ever forget it. 

“Just in case, you know. If you ever need another lift,” he pockets the pen and paper, hand coming up to rub his nape shyly. He’s avoiding eye contact, it’s far too endearing, and your heart pace quickens. “Or, someone to talk to, about McLaren, that is.” 

“Thanks, for the ride and this,” you say, gesturing to the paper as you open the car door. He nods in response, eyes watching you carefully. The biting cold hits your skin as you walk to your apartment door, he hasn’t left yet though, since you can still hear the car engine humming behind you. 

You turn right before you get to the door, and see him saying something to you through the rolled-down window, though you can’t make it out from your distance. 

“What?” you shout out into the night air.

“I said, see you tomorrow Pip,” he repeats, louder. The childhood nickname hits you harder than anything, and it takes a while to muster up a response. 

“Right back at you, Oz.” You finally say, watching his face break into that familiar smile, only now it has shed its layers of politeness which have been replaced by sincerity, at the sound of his own nickname. At that, he rolls up his window and drives off, though you can make out the smile still on his face even as he turns the corner. You hardly notice the stupidly massive smile on your own face as you go to unlock your door, gripping the piece of paper in your hand tightly.

Work experience was shaping up to be a lot more exciting than you thought. 

(in) love language ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

yuki has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where yuki is a pretty scary japanese teacher to everybody else.)

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x reader. ꔮ word count: 0.8k. ꔮ includes: fluff, romance. profanity. isack's pov, japanese/french from google translate. ꔮ commentary box: #coping after aus gp. anywaaay. part of my soft spot mini-series! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Isack is convinced he’s going to go crazy. 

Somebody on the social media team is out to get him. He’s sure of it. Whoever thought up this challenge ahead of Suzuka— a ‘learn Japanese with Yuki’ segment— had flat-out lied to the rookie. 

It’ll be fun, they said. Yuki will be nice, they said. 

“That’s not how you do that,” Yuki snaps on Isack’s nth attempt to write his name in Katakana. 

“If you have an issue with my name,” Isack grumbles below his breath, his pen pressing a little more firmly into the paper in front of him, “take it up with my mother, yeah?” 

“What did you say?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” 

There’s some snickering from the Racing Bulls staff. Oh, they’re having a field day. Yuki is being his usual fiery self, and Isack is the carnage of the older driver’s rampage. And it’s all on camera. 

Isack is already drafting his resignation letter in his head. It’s certainly a lot easier to write than whatever the hell Yuki is expecting from him. 

“Try ‘Red Bull’,” Yuki says, leaning over Isack’s shoulder. “Like this.” 

The Japanese driver scribbles the words across the paper. レッドブル. “It’s pronounced reddo buru,” he adds. 

“Red burr,” Isack tries, and Yuki makes a face. From that alone, Isack knows it’s going to be a long day of filming.

He at least gets some reprieve when the social media team has to ask around for a powerbank. The rookie breathes out a beleaguered sigh, which Yuki pointedly ignores. 

“Are you always like this?” Isack asks. It’s posed to be a joke, but he’s suffered just enough for it to sound half-serious. 

Yuki answers with a question of his own. “Like what?” 

“Un monstre,” Isack deadpans. 

Yuki, once again, chooses to ignore Isack. The older driver instead focuses on absentmindedly scribbling in Hiragana. 

Isack is about to try and get another jab in when you walk in the room.

The changes in Yuki are subtle. The way he sits up a little straighter, the way his eyes flash with something warm. It’s the first time Isack is seeing it happen— or, rather, noticing it. No one else blinks an eye when you try to hide behind the other staff, even as Yuki tracks your every move. 

When he calls out for you, gone is the sarcastic tone of earlier. It’s as if the mere mention of your name has softened all of Yuki’s sharp edges. You shyly come up to the two drivers; the break in filming, dragging out due to a lack of a proper phone camera.  

“Isack,” you greet, “Yuki.” 

“Bonjour,” Isack chirps. 

“We’re learning Japanese today, Hadjar,” Yuki huffs. “Get with the program.” 

Is there— a hint of jealousy in his tone? Isack thinks he must be imagining it. There’s no reason for Yuki to be jealous of him. 

Unless. 

“Oha-yow,” you amend, the word a bit clumsy on your tongue. 

Isack half-expects Yuki to wince, to start cussing you out for butchering his mother tongue. That’s what the past hour has been like for the rookie, anyway. 

Except he does neither. 

“It’s more like ohayō,” Yuki tells you delicately, his expression disgustingly fond. Like he finds your verbal stumble cute. “You should take out the ‘ow’ sound.” 

Isack can’t believe his fucking eyes. 

Here’s Yuki Tsunoda, suddenly doing a full 180. He gives you none of the sarcastic remarks and vicious side eyes that Isack has been receiving in abundance. Instead, Yuki is all gentle reminders and tender touches as his fingers ghost over your wrist, guiding you in writing your name. 

The rookie is slack-jawed as he watches it all unfold. He glances towards the other people in the room, his face a wordless, incredulous question of Are you guys seeing this shit? 

They all stare back at him sympathetically; this isn’t their first rodeo. Everybody knows that Yuki is criminally down bad for you, and Isack is getting a front row seat to the show. 

You say something that makes Yuki chuckle. He laughs a little too hard, throwing his whole body into it. Isack is willing to bet real money that whatever you whispered isn’t that funny, but that doesn’t matter. The two of you have all but frozen out Isack, and now he’s a third wheel to his own co-driver. 

The social media team finds the camera they need for the shoot to continue. You step back into the fringes, and Yuki’s eyes linger on you for just a beat too long. It amazes Isack, just how oblivious you seem to be. 

Yuki looks at you like you’re a language he wants to learn. 

And— if your hint of a smile is anything to go by— then you’re not so far behind him.

All of Yuki’s affection bleeds out of his body when Isack teases him. “Simp,” Isack breathes through gritted teeth. 

Yuki mumbles something back. Isack’s not sure, but he thinks it might be some profanity in Japanese. 

It doesn’t matter. Not when Isack now has ammunition for days. ⛐

McDonald’s and Make Up

OP81 x Norris!reader

Pictures are not mine and credit is given to those who took/edited them. Also this is in no way meant to represent any of the real life people- they are their own person and have their own relationships. This is all fake lol.

Summary: Lando’s sister is pissed with how he treated Oscar after his first win.

You were waiting for the moment your boyfriend stepped off of the podium, practically vibrating with excitement. He was officially a Grand Prix winner and you couldn’t be more proud.

Now on the other hand, you couldn’t be more pissed at your brother.

Having seen the way he side stepped Oscar during the podium to shower Lewis with champagne, it made your heart hurt. Lando was always one to wear his emotions, but you had honestly expected more from him.

Oscar was his friend, and his little sister’s boyfriend.

Your boyfriend. Someone who is very important to you. Lando couldn’t suck it up for two seconds on national tv?

Lando walked, no, stormed into the McLaren garage before Oscar, the race winner always had more press time than the other drivers.

You could feel the anger in the room.

“What the fuck was that?” You asked, stepping in front of him, blocking him from walking right past you like he had planned to do.

Lando was pissed, and when he was pissed he said things he didn’t mean. You know that, but it still doesn’t mean that his words don’t hurt.

“It was me giving your fucking boyfriend a win. Piss off.”

Anger coursed through your body. This prick had some nerve hinting that Oscar didn’t deserve his win, his first win.

“Giving him a win? He earned it. He out preformed you the whole race! I’m sorry your ego is hurt, asshole.”

Your mother would wring both of your necks if she saw the public disturbance the two of you were making, but Lando always managed to get on your nerves the most. You two were the closest in age after all, an eleven month difference.

“Don’t talk to me, go fangirl over him. You guys won’t last anyway. Just like the rest of you’re relationships.”

“Fuck you,” you turned away from him. The engineers in the garage quickly turning away from where they had been standing, obviously watching the heated argument go down between the Norris siblings.

Tears prickled in yours eyes, you hated the fact that when you got pissed it almost always made you cry.

“Hey, hey—sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Oscar had shown up just in time to see you wiping away tears, and by the look in your eyes they were angry tears.

“Shit, I—I didn’t want you to see me like this. Baby, I’m so proud of you. You’re first win.”

You gushed, ignoring your feelings before pulling him into a tight hug, nose wrinkling with the stale smell of champagne and sweat.

“Thank you,” he bent down and kissed the top of your head before ushering the two of you back to his driver room. The other people in the garage congratulating him and giving him affectionate slaps on his shoulder.

Closing the door behind you, he carefully placed the trophy on a table, and looked at you. That was all it took before you cracked again. This time crying with excitement.

Fuck, your emotions were all over the place today.

“You did such a good job.”

He blushed, he liked when you complimented him.

“Thank you. Now, are you going to tell me what that was?”

He jerked his head to the door, he wanted to know why you were in upset tears earlier and not happy tears.

“You deserve every bit of this win.”

“I…I know. I think I did a good job, yeah? I do wish the pit stop had gone smoother and the team gave better orders, but you know. Lando and I still did great!”

Oscar liked to talk through how to race went most times. Go over what he thought went well and what went poorly to try to be better for the next race.

He obviously hadn’t heard Lando’s radio recording yet, he may have a different opinion about how well they both did.

“Lando’s a twat!”

Oscar couldn’t stop the shocked look that came on his face before joking with you, a chuckle escaping his lips. Lando was always a twat on his eyes.

“Yes, I know. But why is he a twat this time?”

“Because. I—“ you paused, not wanting to ruin his moment. It was such a huge moment in his career and you wouldn’t let his teammate ruin it.

“Because he just is. I’ll tell you later, baby.”

Oscar knew you were holding back, but you weren’t going to push it. After all, the three of you would be flying back to Monaco together.

“I’m going to go tell Lan congrats again. I’ll be back!”

Oscar happily left the room and you heard him talking with Lando just across the hall. Their voices too low for you to be able to hear what they were speaking about.

You cursed the fact that your mom had Lando before you, you could’ve been an only sibling. That would’ve been nice.

It was going to be a long night.

You were right, it was a long night. You sat awkwardly across from Lando on the flight and next to Oscar who was too busy looking between the two of you.

He couldn’t figure out what was going on, and he didn’t like it. Both of you were important to him, but when it came down to it he would side with you if need be.

Oscar tried speaking with Lando in his room before they left, but he had only shook his head and said, “Don’t worry, Osc.”

That only made him worry more.

He would’ve been happy with the silence normally, but this was weird. The Norris siblings were usually joking with one another and playing card games while yelling that the other was cheating, this behavior was odd to say the least.

It definitely had something to do with his win but he couldn’t figure out exactly why.

He knew Lando was let down, they talked about it earlier, but why would he be upset with you? You didn’t make the call for him to let Oscar pass.

You could practically hear Oscar’s thoughts racing, placing a comforting hand on his leg that was bouncing with anxiety.

“Is someone going to tell me what exactly is going on?” Oscar broke the quiet that had lasted exactly an hour.

Lando said, “No.”

Just as you spat out an even harsher no.

“Okayyyy, how about we play cards?” Oscar hated cards. It bored him and you knew that. You knew each time that you begged him to play a game of cards that he would refuse because you were just as competitive as your brother, if not more so.

The longer you sat with it the more you understood where your brother’s frustration was coming from. Lando was so close to catching up with Max and a P1 would’ve gotten him that much closer. He wanted that world champion title so badly.

But still—his words had hurt and his view on your relationship even more.

He didn’t think you and Oscar would last?

Even after you told him that you couldn’t even imagine being with someone who wasn’t him? That Oscar was it for you? It made you sad and almost doubt where you stood in the relationship.

“You hate cards.” Your retorted, not wanting to even look at your brother. Let alone play Uno with him.

“Fine, Monopoly it is.”

Oscar rushed away and came back with not just Monopoly, but a huge bag of McDonald’s. One of his favorite cheat foods, the twenty piece nugget was a weakness of his and a good way to cheer him up.

“Double cheeseburger for you.” Oscar handed you a wrapped burger. “And a Big Mac for you.” He handed it to Lando.

You stared at Oscar before holding you hand out expectantly.

“And a Diet Coke,” your boyfriend said, handing you a large cup, he could never forget your drink.

“Okay, now eat. Make up and play this game with me. You guys are worse than my sisters.”

“Fine,” Lando huffed. “I’m sorry.”

You focused more intently on your Diet Coke and took a sip, ignoring him to scroll through your Instagram.

“Hello?” Lando leaned forward, acting as if you were hard of hearing.

“Want a sip?” You made eye contact with a flustered Oscar. Who couldn’t help shake his head at the pettiness that you were displaying.

“Come on!” Lando yelled in disbelief that you were still ignoring him. You haven’t done that since you were eight and he cut your hair with scissors while you were asleep.

“Fine. You’re rude and I don’t like you very much right now.”

“Finally! Atleast you say something.”

“Well, you had too much to say!”

“Um, like what exactly?” Oscar hesitantly tried to break into the conversation. Wanting to be in the loop.

“Like talking shit about us, Oscar. Then hinting to the fact that I’m the problem in all my relationships!”

Lando glared, like you had snitched on him to your mother.

“Damn—that’s…that’s pretty bad. Do you not want us together, mate?”

Oscar’s ‘mate’ came out a little harsher than he had wanted, no Lando was desperately trying to back track.

“No! I was just pissed—“

“And being a dick!” You chime in, smirking at him.

“And being a dick. Obviously the race didn’t go how I wanted and I took it to heart.”

“Are you mad at me?” Oscar’s voice was quiet now and your attitude melted away, waiting on edge for Lando’s response. Your boyfriend sounded so unsure of where his friendship sat. This should be the happiest moment of his career and Lando has tainted it.

“No..no. I’m more disappointed in myself and how I reacted. I’m sorry, you both didn’t deserve it.”

Finally looking Lando in the eye, you have him a small smile, letting him know that you accepted his apology. The two of you would be sure to have a talk later, but after you both had time to cool down and get some sleep.

“Okay..” Oscar paused momentarily, then decided to also accept the apology. “Now, eat your McDonald’s so I can smoke you all in Monopoly.”

YOU SHOULD'VE SEEN YOUR FACE | Sebastian Vettel

Sebastian Vettel x Pregnant Wife!Reader

SUMMARY: Seb's wife is pregnant, but she hasn't told him yet since she doesn't seem ready. However, after he almost crashed pretty badly during a Free Practice session, she can't help but tell him in not the best way possible ↳ REQUESTED BY ANON: Okay but can you imagine Sebs wife being pregnant but she has not told him yet. He does some dangerous and bold move on a drive and she gets mad and scared and just some fluff when he finds out :)

WORD COUNT: 1804

WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of anxiety, overthinking about Formula 1 crashes (?), pregnancy, Ferrari Seb in general (if you know, you know)

TAGLIST: @hc-dutch @raavadakedavra @coffeedestroyingperson @evey-kuznetskova @bowielovesyou @chaoswithus @isotopemylove @iceman-kazansky @gwginnyweasley @formula1-motogpfan @herdetectivetheorist @myescapefromthislife @regalbanshee [in case you wanna be tagged just tell me so i can add you!]

VEE'S NOTES: Hi guys! Finally back to posting fics! This year I don't only want to write more, but also establish some kind of writing routine because I've been dealing with anxiety over Christmas for some personal problems family related and found out that I missed distressing with writing. Also, thank you so much for all the support you've been showing me lately! Appreciate it a lot since I wasn't feeling very comfortable with my writing. Let me know your thoughts on this one <3 ↳ MAKE YOUR REQUESTS | LET'S TALK! | JANUARY UPDATE CALENDAR

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

Despite being quite far from the pit lane, you could hear nothing but the deafening roar of the engines, the clatter of tools on Kimi's car, and the curses of the race engineers at the constant stunts Seb had decided to pull during the free practice session.  

Your husband's red car seemed not just to race but to fly around the track. FP2 had started barely twenty minutes ago, but Seb had already come within inches of crashing into the walls far too many times after going off track more often than you could count.  

You couldn't deny that you had loved watching Seb race ever since you met and you learned he was a driver in one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Today, however, luck was not on your side, and anxiety was consuming you. The nausea, uncontrollable on its own, felt even worse than usual. Not to mention, you felt on the verge of a panic attack.  

"Are you okay?"  

You turned at the sound of Riccardo Adami’s voice, Seb’s race engineer. The Italian removed one side of his headset and covered the microphone to ensure the driver wouldn’t hear anything.  

"Yes, yes, of course," you replied hastily, forcing a smile and suppressing the urge to gag as you felt it rising in your throat. "I’m just a bit more nervous than usual today, that’s all."  

"Seb knows what he’s doing. Don’t worry about that."  

You nodded, but as soon as Adami turned his attention back to his screen, you rolled your eyes and did the same.  

"You know, sometimes he thinks that he’s a cat and has seven lives," you muttered under your breath. "Someone should remind him he’s in an actual Formula 1 car, not in a simulator."  

"Don’t worry, I’ll remind him in the post-session briefing," the engineer joked, flashing a smile before immersing himself back into Vettel's driving.  

You didn’t pay him much attention. Once again, you were entirely engrossed in both your husband’s onboard camera and the telemetry, even though you didn’t understand much aside from the fact that he was setting purple sectors, which was undoubtedly a good sign.  

You didn’t know much about the inner workings of the cars, but after so many years with Seb, you knew that the faster his times were, the higher the risks became.  

You were also acutely aware that your husband was pushing himself too hard in those moments.  

You began to tremble slightly, fidgeting with your hands in an attempt to calm your anxiety, but it didn’t work. Instinctively, and trying not to draw much attention, you placed your hands on your belly and prayed that your child wouldn’t give you any scares like his father was giving you.  

"Sector two in purple as well, Seb!"  

Even though the garage erupted into cheers and applause, you remained motionless. Instead, you couldn’t take your eyes off the screen, which now showed your husband’s car in full view.  

Your panic peaked the moment Seb lost control of the rear of his car and went off the track. You swore that if it hadn’t been for the sudden braking, he would have ended up in the barriers with a wrecked car and himself heading to the medical center because the crash would have likely exceeded the G-force limits.  

When Seb didn’t respond immediately, your heart stopped.  

"I’m fine, I’m fine..." Seb finally said in a disappointed tone. "But I can’t say the same for the car. I think it’s more damaged than it looks."  

"Can you bring it back, Sebastian?" Riccardo asked in a tone that was a mix of irritation and disappointment.  

"Yeah, no problem. Coming back. Sorry, guys."  

Just as no one on the team said anything to you, you, who had forced yourself to sit down because your legs were trembling too much and you felt dizzy, also remained silent until your husband returned and got out of the car.  

Seb removed his helmet, revealing an expression that was hard to decipher. You stood up carefully and approached him, trying to keep your composure. Without giving him a chance to say anything, you grabbed his hand and led him toward his driver room, ignoring Britta's protests to talk after interviews were done.  

"It could have been worse, right?" 

Sebastian closed the door behind him and turned to face you. You stood there with your arms crossed, visibly upset. Your glare alone was enough to tell Seb he was seconds away from one of your infamous scoldings.  

The problem? He had no idea why. You had never acted so strangely over something as common as a collision during a race weekend.  

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you exploded, your voice filled with frustration. “Fuck, Seb, can you explain what that was all about?!”  

“What do you mean, what was that? I was... racing, like I always do, babe,” he replied cautiously, still clueless about what he'd done wrong.  

You, however, didn’t know what was bothering you more: your husband’s calm demeanor or the sight of a few Ferrari team members peeking through the window to catch the drama unfolding between the two of you.  

“You were so close to slamming into a wall, Sebastian, that’s what happened!” you shot back, yanking the curtains shut and flipping off the nosy onlookers. “Are you out of your mind or what?!”  

“Come on, love, I had it under control. What you saw on the onboard might’ve looked bad, but I swear it wasn’t as dangerous as it seemed.”  

“Not as bad as it seemed? Are you seriously telling me that?” you retorted, your voice trembling with anger. “Do you think driving is just like playing a video game now? Do you have any idea what it would’ve meant if you hadn’t reacted in time? Do you know what it would’ve meant for me and for—”  

You stopped yourself mid-sentence, refusing to continue.  

You knew your emotions were running wild because of your pregnancy hormones, but you forced yourself to calm down. Getting so worked up would only lead to a pointless argument with Seb and wasn’t good for you or the baby.  

“For who, Y/N?” Seb asked, stepping closer and gently taking your hands in his.  

“For... me! Who else?” you replied quickly. 

Sebastian didn’t know how to respond. He’d never seen you so distressed about his racing, and while he tried to stay calm, inside he was battling a storm of worry and confusion.  

“This stress isn’t good for me or for the situation you and, well... you’ve gotten me into,” you said, your voice cracking.  

“Y/N, babe, I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about. Fuck, I’m pretty worried about you right now with all this shit, but if you don’t tell me what’s going on—”  

“Damn it, Seb! I’m pregnant!”  

You looked down, tears streaming down your face. You clenched your fists tightly, furious at yourself for revealing such big news in such an emotional, unplanned way.  

Sebastian, meanwhile, stood frozen, his eyes wide in shock at the unexpected news. Slowly, everything started to make sense: your morning sickness, falling asleep all the time, constantly complaining about being tired, and the flimsy excuses you gave for not drinking wine, something you normally loved.  

He cursed himself for not realizing it sooner and for believing your weak justifications about bad leftovers being the cause of everything.  

“You’re... pregnant?” His voice was barely audible, almost afraid to say the words out loud because they didn’t feel real.  

You wiped your tears and sniffled, doing your best to meet your husband’s gaze without feeling ashamed.  

“Yes...” you said timidly. “I wanted to tell you in a special way... you know, by giving you a baby onesie in a box with the positive pregnancy test inside, but...” You shook your head and finally looked him in the eyes. “I thought you were going to die out there today and leave your child and me alone. The thought of losing you, now of all times, just...”  

“You’re really pregnant? We’re going to have a baby?”  

You nodded, and Seb couldn’t hold back his tears. He pulled you into a tight embrace and began kissing you tenderly. You melted into his arms, feeling an immense weight lifted from your shoulders.  

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you admitted. “I swear I wanted it to be special, but seeing you out there today, thinking something could happen to you...” Your voice broke again. “I was terrified, Seb, like never before watching you race.”  

“I’m so sorry, love. I really am,” he said sincerely, cupping your cheeks gently and kissing you over and over. “If I’d known, I would’ve been more careful. God, love, this is incredible... This is the best news I’ve ever received.”  

“You’re not mad that I didn’t tell you sooner? You should’ve seen your face earlier...”  

“Mad? That you didn’t tell me sooner?” You shrugged, your insecurity showing despite your years together. Seb tilted his head, understanding this was one of your rare but extreme moments of doubt. “I’m just... in shock. I can’t believe we’re going to be parents...”  

Sebastian hesitantly touched your stomach, and you burst into fresh tears at the tenderness of his gesture.  

“Now you have to promise me something, Seb,” you said, playing with his hair as he knelt before you, leaving kisses on your belly.  

“Anything for you and our little one.”  

“You need to be more careful from now on. Stop thinking so much with your adrenaline and testosterone, and start using your brain more,” you said, trying not to sound too harsh. “I know Formula 1 and racing is your whole life, but I don’t want you risking it when we’re bringing a new one into the world. I’m eight weeks along, and we still have 32 to go assuming everything follows the perfect pregnancy script.”  

Seb stood and gazed at you, trying to convey the calm you both could only find in each other.  

“Love, I promise,” he whispered softly. “For you, for the baby... I love winning, but today, and even more so when our child is born, I’ll have won the second most important race of my life.”  

You frowned, confused.  

“If that’s the second, what’s the most important race of your life then?”  

He chuckled and scooped you into his arms, kissing you again as he laid you both on the couch behind you.  

“The race I ran for so many years to win your heart,” he murmured between slow, deliberate kisses that said more than words ever could. “After all those years trying to get you to go out with me in high school, and now we’re eight months away from having a baby... what else could it be, mama?”  

OK OMG can i request sub oscar literally having to take a break from fucking because he’s gonna come too quick? 🙈

♪ — 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 oscar piastri  x  girlfriend! reader (smut) fic summary . . . after weeks apart due to Oscar’s F1 commitments, he and you finally have time with each other. the deal to not indulge in sexual pleasure while apart comes to bite oscar in his ass (562 words)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, p n v sex, overstim, vanilla sex, begging, sexual frustration, light teasing)

an — i love getting these types of oscar requests. finally getting around to writing them, thanks for the request lovie <3

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar’s forehead presses against your shoulder, his breathing already unsteady, hands gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

He hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds.

You can feel the tension rolling off him, the way his muscles shake as he forces himself to stay still. And you know why.

It’s been too long.

Between his F1 schedule and all the traveling, he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone spend a night tangled up with you. And after weeks of teasing phone calls, half-whispered confessions about how much you missed each other, you made a deal—no touching, no getting off, nothing—until you were together again.

At the time, it seemed like a fun way to build up anticipation.

Now? Oscar looks like he’s about to combust.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, his voice strained. His hands flex at your hips, like he wants to move but knows he shouldn’t. “I just—I need a second.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smirk. He’s barely inside you, buried to the hilt but still, and he’s already this close to falling apart.

“You okay, baby?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Oscar groans, lifting his head just enough for you to see how wrecked he already looks—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, flushed all the way down his chest.

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “I—I can't. You feel too good. It’s—fuck, it’s too much.”

You tighten around him just to be mean, and holy shit—the way he shudders, a choked whimper spilling from his lips, makes heat coil low in your stomach.

“Jesus,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “D-Don’t do that. Please.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “What happened to my sweet, patient boy?”

Oscar exhales sharply, gripping your waist tighter. “She left me stranded on the other side of the world for weeks and made me promise not to touch myself,” he grumbles. “Now she’s acting surprised that I’m losing my fucking mind.”

His words make you clench around him again, and he whines, dropping his forehead to your shoulder again.

“Okay, okay—seriously, I need a second,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I move, I’m gonna come in like, two thrusts, and you’re gonna make fun of me forever.”

You hum, running your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly at the roots just to hear him whimper. “You’re already giving me plenty to tease you about, baby.”

Oscar groans. “You’re evil.”

You tilt his chin up, making him look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips bitten raw, and you feel a rush of affection mixed with arousal at the sight of him like this—so desperate, so yours.

“Take your time,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I want you to feel good.”

He exhales shakily, nodding, but there’s still frustration in the furrow of his brows.

You smile. “And when you can’t hold back anymore, I’ll take care of you. Okay?”

Oscar swallows hard, gaze flicking to your lips. “You—” He stops, taking another deep breath, trying to ground himself.

Then, finally, he moves—just a little, a slow roll of his hips that sends a full-body shudder through him.

He groans, high and so needy. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice breaking.

You smirk, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.

“That’s the fun part, baby.”

I Mean It - Franco Colapinto

[gif credit goes to @argentinagp]

summary: your friendship with franco takes a surprising turn when his protective instincts kick in...

"Oh god, it's Chad again," you murmur under your breath, watching him stumble towards you with his friends in tow.

"Who's that?" asks Franco, not taking his eyes off the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens almost imperceptibly.

You roll your eyes, the neon lights from the street outside flickering in the car's cabin. "Chad. He's had a thing for me since high school, but I've never given him the time of day."

Franco's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection. "Well, maybe he just needs to realize you're not interested." His voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent of something else—concern, perhaps.

You sigh, watching Chad and his entourage draw closer to the car. "I've told him plenty of times, but he's like a bad penny."

Franco's jaw clenches as he shifts gears. The engine purrs beneath you, a comforting sound in the growing tension. "Why don't you let me handle it?"

You glance at him, surprised by his protective tone. "It's okay, I can handle it."

But as Chad knocks on the window, his leering smile plastered across his face, you feel a shiver of fear. You've dealt with this before, but something about the way he's looking at you tonight sends a chill down your spine.

Franco doesn't miss a beat. He rolls down the window, his eyes cold and sharp. "What do you want?" he asks, his Argentine accent more pronounced than usual.

Chad's smile falters, glancing from you to Franco and back again. "Just saying hi to my old classmate here," he slurs, gesturing towards you with a sloppy wave.

"Hi's been said," Franco replies curtly, his eyes never leaving Chad's. "Now if you don't mind, we're busy."

Chad's friends snicker, but his smile turns sour. He leans closer, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. "What's going on here, then? You two on a date?"

You tense, ready to speak, but Franco beats you to it. "It's none of your business what we're doing." His voice is even, but the muscles in his neck stand out, a clear sign of his growing irritation.

Chad's eyes narrow, his grip on the window frame tightening. "It is when they're with me," he sneers, his hand reaching for the car door.

Without hesitating, Franco's hand shoots out and grabs Chad's wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. "Back off," he warns, his voice a low growl. "Or you're going to regret it."

Chad's friends exchange uneasy glances, taking a step back. They hadn't seen this side of him before—the fierce, protective side that only emerged when someone threatened someone he cared about. You sit frozen in the passenger seat, heart racing.

"Take your hand off me," Chad spits, trying to pull away.

Franco's grip tightens, his eyes never leaving yours. "You heard me. Back. Off."

Chad tries to jerk his hand away, but Franco's hold is like steel. The unspoken message is clear: no one messes with you on his watch. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his protective stance, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at the intertwined hands—Chad's meaty and desperate, Franco's firm and unwavering.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Chad slurs, his voice shaking slightly.

Franco's eyes flick to Chad's face, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea." He releases Chad's wrist and the other man stumbles back, almost falling.

Chad's friends grab his arms, whispering in his ear, trying to calm him down. His cheeks flush with a mix of alcohol and embarrassment. He glares at you before stumbling away, his words slurred and angry. "You'll regret this, you little tease."

Franco's gaze follows Chad until he's out of sight. Then, he turns to you, his expression softer. "You okay?" His hand reaches over to give your knee a gentle squeeze.

"I could have handled that myself, you know," you murmur, trying to regain your composure.

Franco's hand lingers on your knee for a moment before retreating back to the steering wheel. "I know," he says softly. "But I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

You nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, relief, and a flutter of something more. You've never seen Franco act like this before, not even when he's racing against the clock. "Thanks for that," you manage to say, your voice shakier than you'd like.

He nods, his eyes flicking back to the road. "No problem," he says, but you can see the tension in his jaw. He's not one to get involved in other people's drama, especially not like this. But there's something about you that makes him want to protect you, even though you've never talked about being more than friends.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light, and you both sit in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound. You can feel the warmth of his hand where it touched your knee, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you are. The chemistry between you has always been palpable, but this is the first time it's felt so intense.

The light turns green, and the car jolts forward. You clear your throat, trying to break the silence. "So, do you do that for all your friends?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

Franco glances at you, his eyes lingering for a moment. "Only the ones who are worth it," he says with a small smile.

You laugh nervously, your heart racing. The air in the car feels charged with something new. You both know there's a line that's been crossed tonight—a line you're not sure either of you is ready to talk about.

Franco's eyes flick to you again, a question in them. "Do you want me to take you home?" he asks.

You nod, the adrenaline from the encounter with Chad starting to wear off. The thought of being alone with him, in the quiet of the night, sends a thrill through you. "Yes, please."

The rest of the drive is tense, filled with the unspoken words hanging in the air. You can't help but steal glances at Franco, his strong profile silhouetted against the glow of the dashboard. His focus is solely on the road, but you can feel his eyes on you every now and then, checking if you're okay.

When he pulls up to your house, the engine's purr dies down to a gentle rumble. He puts the car in park but doesn't turn it off. The silence between you is thick, charged with the unspoken tension of the night's events.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Franco asks, his voice gentle but still holding a hint of the steel from earlier.

You nod, trying to ignore the way your stomach flutters when he looks at you with genuine concern. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for, you know, not letting him ruin my night."

Franco smiles, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to thank me for that." He pauses, his hand hovering over the ignition. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head. "Not really." The words tumble out before you can stop them. You're not ready to dissect the mess of emotions swirling inside you.

Franco nods, his hand dropping to his lap. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in the dim light. "But if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

You appreciate his understanding, the sincerity in his voice. "I know," you murmur, reaching for the door handle. The cool night air seeps into the car as you open the door.

"Hey," he says, stopping you before you can step out. His hand grazes your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. "I mean it."

You look back at him, the intensity in his eyes making your heart race even faster. "Thanks," you murmur, feeling the weight of his words. You've known each other for years, but this is a side of Franco you haven't seen before—vulnerable, caring, and fiercely protective. It's intoxicating.

As you step out of the car, the cool evening air brushes against your flushed cheeks. You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Would you, uh, want to come in for a bit?" You hadn't planned on asking, but the words just slip out.

Franco's eyes light up, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah," he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. "I'd like that."

You lead him inside, the warm glow of your house a stark contrast to the dark, quiet street outside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the air feels different—electric. You both know that this night has changed something between you, and you're both equally terrified and excited by it.

\\\

In the cozy living room, you offer him a seat on the couch. He sits, his movements deliberate and cautious, as if he's afraid to shatter the delicate moment. You sit opposite him in an armchair, the space between you feeling both vast and suffocatingly small.

You start with small talk, asking about his racing career, the upcoming races he's excited for, trying to keep the conversation light. He answers, his eyes never leaving yours, and you can see the excitement in them when he talks about his passion. But there's something else there too—an unspoken question, a silent plea for you to acknowledge the shift in your friendship.

As the conversation lulls, the air between you crackles with unspoken feelings. You bite your lip, wondering if you're reading too much into his protective behavior earlier. Maybe it was just a friend looking out for a friend.

Franco clears his throat, breaking the silence. "So, that guy," he says, his voice low. "What's the deal with him?"

You shrug, trying to play it cool. "He's just an old classmate who doesn't get the hint."

Franco's gaze intensifies, his eyes searching yours. "But he's more than that, isn't he?"

You swallow hard, noticing the way the shadows play across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the concern etched into his brow. "Yeah," you admit. "He's been bothering me for a while now."

Franco's jaw tenses, his hands clenching into fists on the armrest. "If he ever bothers you again, you tell me. I won't let him get away with it."

You nod, feeling the gravity of his promise. "I know."

Franco leans forward, closing the distance between you. "But I'm not just talking about Chad," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't like seeing you upset or scared."

You look down at your hands, twisting in your lap. "I know," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur. "But it's not your problem to deal with."

"It is when it involves you," Franco insists, his eyes never leaving yours. "I care about you."

The words hang in the air, and you feel a rush of heat to your cheeks. You've had a crush on him for what feels like forever, but you've never dared to hope he felt the same way. "Franco…"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I know we're just friends," he says, his voice a soft rumble. "But I can't ignore how I feel anymore."

You look up, your heart pounding in your chest. "How do you feel?" you ask, the question a whisper in the quiet room.

Franco leans closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I think you know," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

You can't help but lean into his touch, your eyes closing for a brief moment. When you open them again, you find him staring at you with a look that makes your heart ache. "I've had feelings for you for a while now," he confesses, his voice a soft rumble. "But I didn't want to mess up what we have."

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "You wouldn't mess it up," you murmur, your voice barely audible. "I've had feelings for you too."

The confession hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that's been building between you for so long. Franco's hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you.

You lean closer, the space between your faces shrinking until you can feel his breath on your lips. "Then why did you wait so long?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

Franco's hand slides around the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin in a gentle, soothing motion. "I didn't know if you felt the same," he admits, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or rejection. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

You lean into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading through your body. "It's okay," you whisper. "I've felt the same way."

Franco's gaze lingers on your mouth, and you can see the moment he decides. He leans in, closing the gap between you. His lips are soft, tentative at first, as if asking for permission. You give it, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into the kiss. The chemistry that's been simmering between you for so long ignites, sending sparks through your veins.

The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more needy. His other hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you closer, as if trying to erase the years of unspoken longing. You wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The world outside the confines of the armchair fades away, leaving only the two of you.

As the kiss breaks, you both lean back, panting. The air is thick with anticipation, your hearts racing in sync. "I've wanted to do that for so long," you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion.

Franco's eyes are dark with desire, his hand still resting on the back of your neck. "Me too," he whispers, his thumb caressing your skin in a gentle rhythm. "But I didn't want to push you."

You smile, feeling the warmth of his palm against your cheek. "You didn't push. I wanted it too."

Franco's smile widens, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he leans in again, his lips brushing against yours in a soft caress that sends your heart racing. This time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment.

You melt into him, feeling his warmth envelop you like a blanket on a cold night. His arms tighten around you, and you realize that you've never felt safer, more cherished. It's as if he's been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

"I should have told you sooner," he whispers against your lips, regret lacing his words.

You shake your head, your heart hammering in your chest. "It's okay," you reply, your voice a breathy whisper. "We're here now."

Franco's arms tighten around you, his warmth seeping through your clothes. You press closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, the comforting thud echoing in your ear. The weight of his confession settles on you, a warmth spreading through your body that has nothing to do with the heat of the moment.

You pull back slightly, needing to look into his eyes. "What happens now?" you ask, your voice a whisper in the quiet room.

Franco's gaze holds yours, filled with a vulnerability that makes your heart ache. "Whatever you want to happen," he says, his thumb tracing small circles on your cheek. "We take it slow, we talk, we figure it out."

You nod, your pulse racing. The idea of navigating a romantic relationship with your best friend is both exhilarating and terrifying. But the way he's looking at you now, with so much care and longing, makes it feel right. "Okay," you murmur, your voice barely above a breath.

Franco leans back, giving you some space. He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I don't want to rush anything," he says, his voice steady. "But I can't ignore this anymore."

You nod, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. "Neither can I." The words feel like a confession, a secret you've held close for so long finally spilling out into the open.

He smiles, a soft, gentle smile that makes your heart flutter. "Good," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, it's slower, more deliberate, as if he's committing every sensation to memory.

The kiss lingers, and when you finally pull away, you're both left breathless. The silence stretches out between you, filled with the unspoken promise of what's to come. You can feel your heart racing, your skin tingling from his touch.

"I should go," Franco says, his voice gruff. He doesn't move, though, his hand still cradling your cheek.

You nod, your heart racing. "Okay," you whisper, feeling a mix of disappointment and relief. You stand up, and he follows, his hand slipping away as you both regain your footing in the new reality of your relationship. The space between you feels charged, the air heavy with unspoken promises and the weight of what's to come.

♪ — 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗬 𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧 max verstappen x  wife! reader (fluff) fic summary . . . a tiktok trend is surfacing where people go up to their s/o and tell them they can't pay rent to see their reaction. There isn't a reason why you shouldn't participate (567 words)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

Max is completely locked in, eyes glued to the screen, hands firm on the wheel, mouth slightly open in concentration. His headset is snug over his ears, blocking out the world as he maneuvers through corners with precision. His sim-racing setup is no joke—triple monitors, top-tier wheelbase, everything fine-tuned to perfection.

You take a deep breath and step into the frame, phone in hand.

“Max,” you say, voice soft, but just enough to be heard over the whirring of his wheel.

“Mm?” He doesn’t look away.

You hesitate for dramatic effect, then sigh. “I, uh . . . I can’t pay rent this month.”

The reaction is instant. His foot slams the brake pedal so hard his virtual car nearly stalls. His head jerks toward you, brows knitting together in pure confusion.

“What?”

You bite your lip, fighting the smile creeping onto your face. “I don’t have enough this month. I can’t pay rent.”

Max blinks. He blinks again. His hands hover uselessly over the wheel before he suddenly rips the headset off, letting it dangle around his neck. “What do you mean you can’t pay rent?” He tilts his head, looking at you like you just told him you crashed his actual F1 car.

You shrug. “I just—things were a little tight, so I can’t—”

Max pushes his chair back and stands so fast it nearly topples over. “But—wait.” He stares at you, then rubs his temple. “What do you mean you can’t pay? How were you paying in the first place?”

It’s so cute how he’s actually struggling to process this.

You tilt your head, acting innocent. “With my money?”

“You don’t pay rent!” he practically yells. His Dutch accent thickens, hands flying to his hips in exasperation. “I told you—you are my princess. You don’t pay for anything! This is my house, my responsibility!”

You blink up at him. “So . . . you’re saying I don’t have to pay?”

Max looks personally offended. “Have you been—were you secretly paying rent behind my back?!” His voice jumps an octave. His hands gesture wildly between you and the general direction of his computer, as if that will help him understand what’s happening. “Did the rent go up and you covered it?! Why didn’t I know? Who did you send money to? Do I need to call someone—?”

He’s spiraling.

You bite your lip harder to keep from laughing. “So . . . you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Max runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little. “Schat, I am not mad—I am concerned.” He stops, suddenly grabbing your hands. “How do you not have enough money? What happened?” His eyes are full of actual worry now. “Did someone scam you? Did you buy something? Do you need more? I can transfer you money now—”

The way he’s already reaching for his phone makes you lose it.

Your laughter finally breaks through, and Max freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Wait.” His lips press together, suspicious. “Is this a joke?”

You nod, still giggling, and Max exhales so hard it’s like he just finished a two-hour race. He groans, rubbing his face.

“You—” He shakes his head. “You are lucky I love you.”

You grin, wrapping your arms around his waist. “So I don’t have to pay rent?”

Max huffs, still annoyed but already melting into your hold. He kisses your forehead with a dramatic sigh.

“Schat, you were never paying rent to begin with.”

HAUNTED.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you.” — Torn apart by break up, bound by work, haunted by each other’s voice.

pairing. Max Verstappen x journalist! fem! reader

warnings. angst (happy ending??), Max being a bit of dick, longer than I expected wtf??

babs’ notes. IN THE HONOR OF MAX’S WIN IN JAPAN! this race was well.. something. Guys ik I promised so close to 2 BUT for some reason i wrote chapter 3 & 4 first so it’s bit complicated.. give me time 😭

music. Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

JOURNALISM IN FORMULA 1 WASN’T JUST A CAREER—it was your dream, your passion, the goal you had spent years working towards. The roar of the engines, the adrenaline of race day, the stories waiting to be uncovered in every corner of the paddock—it all fascinated you. So when you finally landed your role, credentials swinging around your neck like a badge of honor, you felt like you had made it. This was where you belonged.

And then, there was him—Max Verstappen. The reigning champion, the so-called “arrogant” and “rude” driver who had built a reputation as much off the track as on it. Everyone talked about Max with a kind of reverence laced with caution, as if he was more of a storm than a man. A force of nature, unpredictable, intense. But the first time you met him, you realized there was so much more to him than the media’s caricature.

It wasn’t arrogance you saw when you interviewed him that day. It was focus, determination, an intensity that burned behind his sharp blue eyes—the kind of intensity only someone who had given their entire life to this sport could possess. His Dutch accent was strong, his words direct and unfiltered, but there was a warmth there too, hidden beneath the layers of his public persona. The kind of warmth that could make you question everything you thought you knew about him.

Max wasn’t just “arrogant” or “rude.” He was confident, unapologetically so, but not without reason. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Yet, in those fleeting moments when he looked at you, when he softened just slightly, you wondered if anyone else had ever seen this side of him—the side that wasn’t a storm at all but something quieter.

You had gotten closer to Max, much closer than you ever thought you would. It wasn’t just the quiet conversations away from the cameras or the way his sharp blue eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. It was the way he made you feel like you mattered—like you were the only person who could understand him in a world filled with noise and expectations. He ensured you loved him, pulling you in slowly, deliberately, until the thought of him consumed your mind entirely.

You’d slept together more than few times, nights filled with fiery passion and moments of unexpected tenderness that made you believe this was different. That he was different. He didn’t just hold you physically; he held your emotions in the palm of his hand, his touch leaving a mark on your heart you couldn’t erase. For a fleeting moment, it felt real. Like the guarded driver had finally let someone in, and that someone was you.

But then, just as you had allowed yourself to believe, he shattered it. Sitting across from you, his voice low and steady, his Dutch accent cutting through the words you weren’t ready to hear. “I’m not ready for a relationship,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “I don’t do that... I need to focus on myself and my career.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words crashing over you like cold water. He wasn’t apologetic, not really. To him, it wasn’t personal—it was just the way things were. But to you, it felt like a betrayal, like he had pulled the rug out from under your feet just as you began to stand on solid ground. Wow, you thought, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe you should have expected this.

The signs had been there, hadn’t they? The way he avoided deep conversations about the future, the way his life revolved around the sport he lived for, the way he always seemed just out of reach. You had seen it all, but you chose to ignore it because you wanted so badly for this to work—for him to be different.

Sitting in the emptiness of his words, you realized the truth. Max Verstappen wasn’t yours to hold. He belonged to the track, to the roaring engines and the thrill of victory, to the world that demanded every ounce of his focus and energy. And you? You were just a moment, a fleeting connection that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—prioritize.

You still saw the day he said those words to you in your dreams. It played on a loop in your mind, vivid and unrelenting, as if the memory itself refused to fade. You could still hear his voice, the exact tone he used—calm, almost detached, like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from beneath your feet. It wasn’t the words alone that haunted you; it was the way he’d said them, so measured, so unshaken, as if it had cost him nothing at all.

Some nights, the dream would start with the warmth of his touch, his blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you once mistook for sincerity. And then, as if the universe were mocking you, the scene would shift, the same cold words spilling from his lips. “I’m not ready for a relationship.” The sound of it, the finality of it, would jar you awake, your chest heavy with the ghost of heartbreak.

The memory clung to you, reshaped you. It made the F1 paddock—once your dream, your sanctuary—feel suffocating. Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of him. The roar of the engines, the press briefings, the fleeting glances in the paddock… it all felt like too much, like you were trapped in a world where his shadow loomed over everything.

And so, you made a choice. You left. You handed in your credentials, packed up your life, and decided to start over. Football became your refuge—a fresh start, a chance to leave the echoes of Max Verstappen behind. You thought maybe, just maybe, switching to an entirely different world would silence the memories.

But you haunted Max too, probably even more than he haunted you. He wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions—not openly, not consciously—but you had made an impact that he couldn’t shake. Your voice lingered in the corners of his mind, unbidden yet ever-present. He heard it in the hum of the engines, the roar of the crowd, and in the silence of the nights that followed. It didn’t matter where he was—on the track, in a hotel room, or staring at the endless line of questions during an interview—you were there.

When he raced, he was untouchable, focused, pushing every limit. But somehow, even in the middle of the chaos, you would find him. He could almost hear your laugh, the lilt of your tone when you teased him, and the way you called him out in ways no one else dared to. It wasn’t distracting, not exactly, but it was there, a part of him now.

The interviews were worse. Sitting under the blinding lights, fielding questions about his victories, his rivals, his career—it should have been second nature. And yet, all he could think about was you. He’d catch himself scanning the press room, half expecting to see your face, your notebook in hand, your eyes meeting his with that spark that had undone him so many times before. But you weren’t there anymore, and the absence was palpable.

At first, Max explained your absence at the races with small, dismissive assumptions. Maybe you were sick, maybe you’d taken some time off—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing permanent. It was easier for him to believe that than to confront the possibility that your absence had something to do with him. That maybe you’d left because of him.

But as the weeks turned into months, it became impossible to ignore the truth. You weren’t just absent—you were gone. Completely. He found out from someone in passing, a casual mention that you had switched to football journalism. There was no announcement, no explanation, no goodbye. You had just vanished from the world you had dreamed of being part of, the same world where he had selfishly taken you for granted.

It hit him harder than he expected. The irony wasn’t lost on him—not in the slightest. He had done the same to you. He had walked away without giving you closure, without considering how his actions might affect you. And now, you had done the same to him. The emptiness left in your wake mirrored the emptiness he had created in you. It was poetic in the cruelest way.

Max tried not to let it bother him, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. But it did. He realized it every time he glanced at the press room and didn’t see you there, every time he answered a question about his performance and your voice wasn’t the one asking. The races felt different now—not because the roar of the engines had changed, but because your presence wasn’t there to ground him in something outside of the sport.

Your departure haunted him. Not just because you were gone, but because it reminded him of the way he had treated you. He didn’t know what to do with the guilt, the regret, the quiet ache he felt whenever he thought of you. And maybe that was the real irony of it all—the fact that he had pushed you away only to realize he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Six months later, there you were, standing in front of the paddock gate once again. The world around you felt both familiar and foreign, as if you’d been transported back into a life you weren’t sure you belonged to anymore. The hum of activity, the chatter of journalists, the whir of tools in the distance—it all reminded you of a chapter you thought you’d closed for good. But here you were, holding the very thing that had once been your dream and your curse: your paddock pass.

Your fingers brushed over the laminated surface, tracing the outline of your photo and the bold letters that read Media. It felt heavier than it should have, almost symbolic, like it carried more than just access. This wasn’t just a pass; it was a ticket back into a world you’d deliberately left behind. A world that he—Max—still occupied.

You stared at the gate for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t the roar of the engines that sent a shiver down your spine, nor the thought of the stories waiting to be written. It was the memory of him, the way his voice had echoed in your mind for months after he’d let you go, the way he had unknowingly followed you into every corner of your new life. And now, you were walking straight back into his orbit.

You spotted Lissie near the media setup, her smile lighting up the moment she saw you. She was one of the few familiar faces you felt truly comfortable with, someone who had been your anchor back when the paddock felt like a storm you were constantly navigating. You couldn’t help but grin as you approached her, the weight of the past six months lifting slightly with the comfort of her presence.

“Y/n!” she said brightly, pulling you into a quick hug. “I was starting to think you’d never come back.”

“Missed me that much, huh?” you teased, the warmth in your tone belying the nerves still lingering in your chest.

“Of course,” Lissie said, her eyes sparkling. “Nobody asks the questions you do.” Her voice was laced with nostalgia, and you wondered briefly if your absence had left a gap bigger than you’d realized.

The drivers started to filter in one by one, the hum of the paddock growing louder with each arrival. There was an electric energy in the air, as there always was after a race, the buzz of victory and defeat still lingering. You stood near the media setup, microphone in hand, mentally preparing yourself for the endless stream of questions, answers, and moments that would play out in front of the cameras.

But he wasn’t there. Not yet. Probably still waiting for his turn, somewhere out of sight. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you weren’t scanning the crowd for him or bracing yourself for the inevitable moment when he’d appear. Yet, your gaze seemed to wander anyway, unconsciously seeking out the one face you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

It was almost a relief, then, to be pulled from your thoughts by the warm smiles of familiar faces. People recognized you instantly, their expressions lighting up as they spotted you standing there. Drivers, team members, journalists—they all greeted you with nods, waves, and smiles, as though no time had passed.

For Max, the whole day felt off. It wasn’t something he could pinpoint exactly—just a nagging sensation that something was wrong. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong at all. Maybe it was something else entirely. He had gone through the motions as usual, the race, the debrief, the endless stream of questions from his team. But the feeling lingered, gnawing at the edges of his focus.

As he waited for his turn to be interviewed, the noise of the paddock buzzed around him, a familiar chaos that usually grounded him. But today, it felt different. And then, he heard it—your voice. At first, he thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing tricks on him again. He had heard your voice in his head so many times over the past six months, haunting him in moments he least expected. But this time, it felt more real. Louder. Closer.

He turned his head, scanning the crowd, his pulse quickening despite himself. And then he saw you. Standing there, microphone in hand, interviewing Charles. You were laughing at something Charles had said, your smile lighting up the space around you in a way that made Max’s chest tighten. He blinked twice, as if trying to assure himself that you were really there, that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of his imagination.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His heart was racing now, a mix of shock and something he couldn’t quite name. Lando, standing beside him, turned his head at the sound of Max’s curse, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?” Lando asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at Max. His friend's demeanor was visibly off—nervous, tense, unlike the usual calm confidence that defined him. Max wasn’t even pretending to act normal, and that alone was enough to catch Lando’s attention.

Max’s voice was low, almost strained, as he pointed toward the media area, toward you. “Y/n’s here,” he said, his words clipped, heavy with the weight of realization.

And then, he came walking towards you. The moment you had been trying so hard not to think about was suddenly unfolding right in front of you. Max Verstappen. Of course, you knew he’d been assigned to you for the interview—how could it have been anyone else? Yet, despite your efforts to stay composed, to treat this as just another name on your clipboard, the reality of seeing him again made your heart race.

You gripped the microphone a little tighter, your pulse quickening as you watched him approach. He moved with the same self-assured confidence he always carried, his strides purposeful, his expression unreadable. You forced yourself to focus on the task at hand. You had done this thousands of times before—countless interviews with drivers, each one conducted with the poise and professionalism you had perfected over the years. This would be no different, you told yourself.

But when his eyes met yours, you felt the air shift. It wasn’t the usual tension of a post-race interview; it was something deeper, heavier. His blue gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, and you saw the flicker of something behind it. Was it surprise? Recognition? Guilt? Whatever it was, it left you unsettled.

“Max,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you. “Congratulations on the race today. Let’s talk about your strategy—particularly during that late overtake. What was going through your mind at that moment?”

Max adjusted the cap on his head slightly, his expression composed but with a trace of thoughtfulness behind his sharp blue eyes. “That late overtake,” he began, his Dutch accent giving his words a distinct cadence, “was about timing. I knew I couldn’t risk waiting too long—if I hesitated, the gap would close, and I’d lose the opportunity.”

Max stood before you, his expression outwardly composed, but there was something different in the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the detached gaze of a driver facing an interviewer, the routine exchange of words that he had perfected over years of answering media questions. No, the way his eyes lingered on you spoke of something more—something unspoken but undeniably present.

As you asked your questions, his voice carried the sharp precision you expected, but you noticed the subtle tremor behind it. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to pick up, but you knew him well enough to see it. With each response, his tone faltered slightly, like he was fighting to keep control over a conversation that felt far from ordinary.

Your gaze met his several times, almost unintentionally, but each meeting brought a quiet tension that neither of you could ignore. His blue eyes held yours longer than they should, breaking away only to wander back moments later. And even as you tried to focus on the task at hand, your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to him in a way that made the air around you feel heavier.

Max’s answers were calculated, yet distracted, as if he were answering out of habit rather than genuine thought. When he spoke about his late overtake, his words stumbled briefly, his gaze flickering back to you as though seeking something he couldn’t put into words. For a moment, you saw the mask slip—the professional veneer cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath it.

The interview drew to a close, your professionalism intact despite the weight of the moment. You lowered the microphone, offering a polite nod. “Thank you for your time, Max,” you said, your voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil simmering beneath your calm exterior.

Max matched your professionalism with his own, nodding briskly. “No problem,” he replied, his words clipped, almost routine. For a moment, you thought that was it—the end of the interaction, the closure you needed to move forward. But the moment was far from over.

As the cameraman turned off the equipment, signaling the end of the broadcast, the air around you shifted. The noise of the paddock faded slightly, the buzz of activity momentarily muted. And that’s when you heard him. His voice, softer now, no longer performing for the cameras.

“Good to see you back,” Max said, his tone carrying a weight that hadn’t been there during the interview. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded and searching, the barrier he’d constructed between you cracking just enough to let the truth slip through. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic—it was simply him.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. For a brief moment, you didn’t know how to respond, your heart betraying your attempt to remain unaffected. But then, just as quickly as the moment came, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of mechanics and drivers like he always did.

You stood there for a moment longer, the echo of his words lingering in the space around you. “Good to see you back.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation. But it was something—a fragment of the truth he couldn’t admit outright. And as the paddock buzzed back to life, you realized that he had left you with more questions than answers.

After hours of catching up with colleagues, swapping stories with managers, and fielding countless “welcome back” smiles from drivers, you felt the weight of the day settle over you. The energy of the paddock was as intoxicating as ever, but now, it left you drained, longing for a quiet moment to yourself. Deciding you’d had enough for the night, you packed up your things and made your way out.

The paddock had changed under the cover of darkness. The once-bustling pathways were now quieter, bathed in the soft, golden glow of overhead lights. The hum of activity had dulled to a faint background noise—mechanics packing up for the night, the occasional sound of an engine being tinkered with, the low murmur of voices carrying on the cool evening breeze. The air smelled faintly of rubber and oil, a scent so distinctly tied to this world that it felt almost nostalgic.

As you walked, the click of your shoes against the concrete echoed softly in the stillness. You let your mind wander, replaying moments from the day—the laughter with Lissie, the surprise on familiar faces, and, of course, the interview. His interview. The memory of his quiet “Good to see you back” lingered in your thoughts, stirring emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

The paddock gates loomed ahead, signaling the end of your night here, but you didn’t rush. Instead, you took your time, letting the calm of the night paddock wash over you. This was a place that had once felt like home and a battlefield all at once. Now, walking through it in the quiet moments, it felt like both again.

“Y/n!” The voice cut through the quiet of the night paddock, freezing you mid-step. You knew that voice instantly. It was one you hadn’t heard off-camera in over six months, yet it still held the same unmistakable weight. Max.

For a moment, you considered ignoring it, considered walking away without looking back. But something—some stubborn, lingering part of you—made you stop. Your feet faltered as your heart thudded in your chest, a mix of emotions crashing into you all at once. You turned slowly, the strap of your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as you did.

There he was. Max. Jogging towards you, his expression more open than you’d ever seen it. His blue eyes were fixed on you, and even in the dim light of the paddock, you could see the hint of urgency in them. It wasn’t the composed, collected driver that the world saw. This was different.

You stood there, waiting as he closed the distance between you, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know what to expect—an apology, a confrontation, or something else entirely. But as the man who had once been so infuriatingly composed now hurried towards you.

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, your voice calm but edged with a slight exasperation as you crossed your arms. You slightly rolled your eyes, watching as he tried to catch his breath. His hair was a little messier than usual, his cap tilted slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked unsure, almost uncharacteristically so, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Uh, well,” he began, pausing to rub the back of his neck—a gesture that immediately gave away his uncertainty. He was nervous, that much was clear, and seeing him like that was both disarming and unsettling. “I just... what made you come back?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he was afraid of your answer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A dozen answers ran through your mind, each one more complicated than the last. The truth—that you had come back, in part, because of unfinished business with him—wasn’t something you were willing to admit. Not to him, and not even to yourself, if you were honest.

So, instead, you shrugged, keeping your tone light and detached. “Money,” you replied simply, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “They offered me a big amount for interviewing you.”

Max stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or if he was trying to figure out the truth behind your words. Either way, the flicker of something—disappointment, maybe?—crossed his face before he masked it with a faint nod.

“Of course,” he said, his voice neutral, but there was an edge to it that you couldn’t quite place. He glanced away for a brief second, as though gathering his thoughts, before looking back at you.

“And I also wanted to know how you’re doing,” you said, your voice softening as the words slipped out. It wasn’t rehearsed, and it wasn’t meant to sound vulnerable, but it did anyway. For a second, you almost regretted saying it, the quiet weight of your own admission catching you off guard.

Max’s gaze shifted, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity you weren’t sure how to interpret. His expression wavered, the practiced coolness giving way to something more genuine—something raw. He didn’t speak right away, as though your question had disarmed him, pulled him out of the routine he lived so comfortably in.

“I…” he started, pausing as his hand instinctively brushed the back of his neck. He hesitated, the confident driver who always knew exactly what to say suddenly at a loss for words. “I’m fine,” he finally said, his tone quieter than before, almost uncertain. “I mean, I’m… okay.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unyielding. You both stood there, the quiet of the night paddock wrapping around you like a cocoon, amplifying every unspoken word. Maybe you didn’t want to accept it—that he was fine without you. Maybe that’s what made the silence so unbearable.

But then, he broke it.

“Fuck no, I’m not okay,” Max said suddenly, his voice raw and unfiltered, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, as if the admission was too much to deliver while meeting your eyes.

“I miss you,” he added, his voice quieter this time, but no less intense. The vulnerability in his tone was something you’d never heard from him before, and it hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’d built to protect yourself.

“I still hear your voice,” Max said, his voice raw and unsteady, the vulnerability cutting through the silence like a knife. He exhaled sharply, as though the words had taken more out of him than he’d expected. “In the car, at home… everywhere.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes momentarily dropping to the ground before flicking back to yours. “I think I was going insane for the past six months.”

The confession caught you completely off guard, your chest tightening at the intensity of his words. You weren’t sure what to say—or even if you wanted to say anything at all. There was no trace of the self-assured, composed driver standing in front of you now. This was Max, stripped down to something raw and real, baring the parts of himself he had always hidden so carefully.

He took a step closer, the light from the paddock glinting off his features as his blue eyes searched yours, desperate for some kind of response. “I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought… I thought pushing you away was the right thing. For me, for my career, for everything. But I was wrong.”

What did he expect you to say? This was too much—too much information, too much emotion, all at once. You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against the walls you’d built around yourself. “What do you want me to say or do, Max? I don’t understand,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with frustration.

He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I thought…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “I thought maybe you would give me a second chance?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with hope and uncertainty. It felt almost laughable, absurd even, that he would ask this of you now, after everything. But as you looked at him—this man who had always seemed so untouchable, now standing before you with an open vulnerability—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Not outright.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief flashing across your face. “I thought you don’t do relationships,” you said, your tone measured but carrying a pointed edge.

Max winced slightly at your words, the reminder of his past declaration hitting him like a sharp jab. “I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I thought I couldn’t. But I… I was wrong.”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen in him before—regret, yes, but also sincerity. And for the first time, you realized that the man who had once pushed you away wasn’t the same man standing in front of you now.

You sighed, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. The words hung on the tip of your tongue, hesitant, uncertain, but impossible to ignore. “Maybe we should try it again,” you said quietly, the admission leaving your lips before you could second-guess it.

Max’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope flashing across his face, quickly tempered by a hint of caution. He straightened slightly, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, more tentative. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if he didn’t quite trust what he was hearing.

You glanced away for a moment, your gaze landing on the dimly lit path behind him. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice carrying the weight of everything that had happened between you. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not even sure it’ll work.” Your eyes flicked back to his, meeting his steady, searching gaze. “But... maybe it’s worth a shot.”

Max exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief washed over his features. It wasn’t the triumphant grin of a man who always got what he wanted. It was something quieter, more genuine—gratitude, maybe, or the quiet realization of a second chance he never thought he’d get.

“I won’t mess it up this time,” he said, his tone firm but with an edge of vulnerability that made his words feel more like a promise than a declaration. “I swear, Y/n. I’ll do it right.”

You didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between you as you searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But there was none. For the first time, you saw a man who wasn’t just saying the right thing—he truly meant it.

Radio Silence | Chapter Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, detailed meltdown on-page, angst.

Notes — Another double update, go me! PSA: Our Amelia has a bit of a difficult time in this one. Take care of yourselves x

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2019

WhatsApp Groupchat — The 2019 F1 Grid

Charles L. I have found an iPad in Ferrari hospitality. It is engraved with the initials A.B. Any ideas?

Lewis H. Does it have a bunny sticker on it?

Charles L. Yes!

Lewis H. That’s Amelia’s, then.

Lando N. lol I’ll come get it just gimme 10 mins im in a debrief rn 

Charles L. Sure no problem Amelia is Zak Brown’s daughter, yes?

George R. Yeah mate The smart one.

Sebastian V. Haha. She is the one Binotto wants? Brown hair, pretty smile?

Lando N. Bro.

Lewis H. @Sebastian — Mattia has tried to get her to Ferrari?

Sebastian V. Yes. He’s offered her some very lucrative opportunities. She has so far turned all of them down.

Carlos S. She’s loyal to McLaren. Leave her to us, yes?

Valtteri B. But if she ever decided to go elsewhere, Mercedes would make sense.

Lewis H. Yeah obviously 👍🏻

Lando N. ????????????

Lance S. If she was offered a million dollars to fix the Racing Point car, do you think she’d take it? Not a hypothetical. My dad wants to know.

Max V. Money won’t work. You forget she’s already the child of a millionaire.

Lance S. Damn it.

Kimi R. Is this the child always in Norris’ garage?

Lando N. Don’t call her a child we are literally the same age

Kimi R. That does not change the fact

Daniel R. But seriously, why was she even in Ferrari hospitality in the first place?

Max V. Ice cream.

Lando N. Ice cream 

Lewis H. Ice cream.

Sebastian V. I can confirm she was here for ice cream. Pistachio, specifically.

Charles L. I cannot believe I’ve still never met her. Is she really so smart?

Lando N. Yes.

Pierre G. Absolutely.

Max V. Smarter than you are capable of comprehending, Charles.

Charles L. Then I suppose I will just have to charm her into accepting Mattia’s offer 😌

Lando N. I will put in the wall, Leclerc.

Charles L. Oh! You are together with her, Lando? I didn’t know!

Lando N. No, we’re not together.

Charles L. Then I am confused.

Max V. Her father has practically forbade them from dating. Total nonsense if you ask me.

Carlos S. They are dating.

Daniel R. @Carlos 😳😳😳

Lando N. @Carlos NO WE ARE NOT STOP SAYING THAT

Sergio P. Mucho defensive…

Carlos S. He wrote his race number on her shoes.

Lando N. So what? That means nothing.

Daniel R. Oh brother….

Max V. Yeah, sorry, I can’t even back you on that one Lando. That’s a lot.

Kimi R. My wife had my number stitched into her shoes. We got married six months later.

George R. So Kimi is saying you’re basically engaged, bro.

Lewis H. Let’s stop talking about this. Before Lando has a full on meltdown.

Charles L. Too late. He has arrived for the iPad with a terrible attitude. 

Lando N. I hate all of you.

— 

Subject: Workplace Conduct Reminder – Inclusivity & Respect at McLaren

From: HR Department To: All McLaren Racing Staff Date: [Sunday, post-race, 10:42 PM]

Dear Team,

As the season continues and tensions rise both on and off the track, we’d like to take a moment to remind everyone of McLaren’s core values — collaboration, respect, and inclusion.

We are incredibly proud of the diversity across our team, from engineering to strategy, operations to communications. Every person is here because they bring something exceptional to the table — and that includes our colleagues who may experience or perceive the world differently than others.

We ask that all team members remain mindful of the following:

Neurodiversity is not a barrier — it is an asset. Please be conscious of language and behaviour that may unintentionally alienate or diminish the contributions of individuals who may process things differently. This includes members of our extended team, trusted advisors, and collaborators who work closely with us — regardless of job title or official role.

“Vibes” are not a metric — Judging someone’s energy, personality, or communication style is not only unprofessional but also unfair. Everyone representing or contributing to McLaren, formally or informally, deserves respect.

Support one another — Whether someone wears McLaren orange full-time or contributes behind the scenes, everyone here plays a part in our collective success.

Rumours are not culture — Let’s keep paddock gossip out of professional spaces. If you have concerns, we encourage you to speak directly to your manager or HR.

This message is not in response to any one incident but rather a gentle pit stop reminder: our team functions best when everyone feels seen, heard, and safe.

If you have any questions or want to speak to someone in confidence, please feel free to reach out to HR directly. We’re here to help.

Kind regards, The McLaren Racing HR Team [hr@mclarenracing.co.uk]

— 

iMessage — 11:40pm

Lando Yo, did you see the email?

Carlos Sí.

Lando Kinda hardcore. Glad Zak did something 

Carlos Somebody was… how you say… discriminate to Amelia?

Lando Yeah someone in PR idk I feel like I should know more about her stuff I feel stupid tho. Like I don’t know anything. Just that she’s Amelia yano 

Carlos I did some reading. Come to my hotel room. We eat pizza. I teach you what I know and we google the rest.

Lando Legend. Thanks, mate.

— 

The course he took her to wasn’t flashy — quiet, tucked away, the kind of place her dad’s friends would never be caught dead in. That was intentional. They weren’t exactly hiding their… friendship, but they weren’t trying to advertise it either.

Amelia stared down at the club he’d handed her like it was a piece of martian debris.

“This is very stupid,” she muttered. “Pointless, really.”

“It is,” Lando agreed, his lips twitching. “Just hit the ball.”

She squinted at the tiny white ball he’d settled on the grass in front of her. “Is it supposed to just… go?”

“Yes.”

“Like in a line?” she clarified, glancing at him.

He shrugged. “In theory.”

She swung. Missed.

Lando clapped anyway. “Incredible form. I’ve never seen such calculated failure.”

“It was bad,” she said seriously. “I didn’t hit the ball. I made a hole in the grass, Lando.” She stared down at the muddy crater with quiet horror.

He just gave her an encouraging nod, gesturing for her to try again.

She sighed, feeling the beginning of a stress rash creep along her neck. But she tried again. And that time, she hit it — not far, just a lazy roll across the grass — but enough to surprise herself. Lando caught the way her eyes widened, saw the exact moment the thrill overtook her frustration.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed her another ball.

They kept going like that for a while — her slowly getting the hang of it, him slipping in dumb jokes and patient explanations between swings. She never asked for help, but he noticed how closely she watched every move he made. Her eyes, always sharp, always calculating.

Eventually, she dropped to the grass with a dramatic sigh and said, “Why do people think this is relaxing? I’m hot and my legs are tired.”

Lando chuckled and sat beside her, kicking his legs out long. “I think it’s relaxing. Your dad likes it.”

“I don’t want to talk about my dad. It makes me stressed.”

“Yeah?” He asked.

She pulled at a blade of grass, rolled it between her fingers. “He told me again that it would be better if I stayed away from you. He said it would make things easier. For me. For you. For the team.” She continued. 

Lando let the silence sit for a moment before asking, his voice quiet and slightly unsure. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I want him to not worry. I want him to trust me. I want…” She hesitated, frowning at the grass. “I want to feel like I can make my own choices without feeling like I might wreck everything.” 

“You’re not wrecking anything,” Lando said. He tapped the ground next to her leg and she glanced at him, blinking. “I like hanging out with you.” He told her. 

She didn’t say anything, just flicked the blade of grass from her fingers and looked at the trees that surrounded the course. “I don’t know what I feel yet,” she said finally. “Toward you, I mean. But I know that I have liked this. Today. Not the golf. Being with you.”

Lando grinned — couldn’t help himself. Probably looked like a right knob, but he didn’t care. “Want to keep playing?” He asked. 

She gave him a look. “I might get fined for ruining so much of their grass.”

He handed her another ball. Shrugged. Smirked. “It’s fine. I make a lot of money.” 

She rolled her eyes.

— 

Amelia shut her bedroom door with more force than she meant to and leaned against it, breath caught high in her chest like she’d just ran a marathon. Her bag hit the floor. Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t know why. Except; she did.

Her body was full of something too big. Too much. A knot of heat and noise and confusion that had no exit. It felt like all the inside parts of her were pressing outward, like she might split open if she didn't stay still.

She pressed her palms hard into her eyes like she could push it all back in. But it was already too late. The thoughts were everywhere; spilled oil, tangled cords, static static static. Her brain wouldn’t quiet down. Wouldn’t give her space to think.

She’d had a good day. That was the worst part. 

Lando had been good.

He never looked at her like she was difficult. He didn’t act like she was hard work. When she didn’t catch onto something the first time, he just explained again. No sighing. No staring. No pretending. Things weren’t easy with him, not exactly, but they were lighter. Easier.

She sat hard on her bed and the tears came without warning; fast, silent, relentless.

She didn’t cry often. Usually she just shut down. Usually the wall slammed down before anything could spill out. But this time everything had slipped past it, and now she was sobbing, but it didn’t even feel like crying. It felt like her whole nervous system had shattered.

A knock at the door.

“Amelia?” her mum’s voice, soft. “We just got back. Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned her face away and wiped at it, even though the tears kept falling. Her skin was already stinging. Her chest was tight.

The door creaked open.

“I’m not upset,” Amelia said fast, panicked. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why I feel like this. No. I do. I do. I just don’t know what to do with it. And I don’t want to talk about it—except I do. I do, I just—” She broke off, swallowing hard.

Her mum sat on the edge of the bed, calm. Grounding.

“I went out with Lando today,” Amelia said, too fast. “To play golf. His idea. He said we should do something fun. So I did. And it was fun. I didn’t freak out or embarrass myself. I didn’t ruin it. I didn’t ruin it.”

She dug her nails into her palms. Her face was blotchy and sore.

“He makes me feel normal,” she whispered. “Not small. Not like a problem. Just… me. And now I don’t know what I feel. I think I want him to be my friend. Or maybe something else. I don’t know. And I don’t want to know, because it doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Her mum asked calmly.

Amelia blinked at her, and then, like someone flicked a switch, the anger surged. Hot and fast, like a fever.

“Because of Dad,” she spat. “Because he thinks that it would be a distraction. Because he thinks I’ll screw everything up just by being around. Like I’m some walking disease that’s gonna infect Lando’s entire career. I know that’s what he’s worried about the most.”

She was breathing too fast. Her limbs were twitching now, hands clenching and unclenching.

“I don’t have friends,” she said. “You know that. I’ve never had friends. Not ones that stay. I get too intense. Too blunt. Too weird. Too tired. And people always stop trying.”Her voice cracked. Her throat burned. “But Lando didn’t stop. He hasn’t stopped. And it’s still not enough. I still don’t get to have this one good thing without it turning into a problem.”

The sobs came back, messy and loud this time. She stood up too fast, swaying. Her hands started moving uncontrollably at her sides; jerky, uncoordinated. A warning sign. The meltdown was building and she couldn’t stop it, could never stop it. 

Her mum stood too, moving slow, blocking her path without touching her.

“Okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to think about any of that right now.” Her mom’s attempts to comfort her were useless against the onslaught of emotions she was feeling. 

“I’m so angry,” Amelia choked out. “I finally feel calm, I finally feel seen, and it’s not allowed. I’m not allowed to want something or feel something if it’s inconvenient for anyone else!”

She was trembling now. Her skin felt wrong. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. She wanted to rip it off. She wanted to scream and break things. Instead, she clenched her fists and shook and shook and shook.

“Do you want me to get your things?” her mum asked, voice calm, anchoring.

Amelia nodded hard. “Yes. My weighted blanket. And the golf ball. It’s in my bag. Lando bought it for me and I want to hold it. It’s yellow.”

“I’ll get everything,” her mum said gently.

“I’m not doing this on purpose,” Amelia shouted, the volume jarring even to herself. “I’m trying so hard. All the time. I’m always trying.”

“I know,” her mum said. “And I’m proud of you. Every day.”

Amelia slid to the floor. Her body folded in on itself, hands clawed into her sleeves, breathing uneven.

The noise in her head kept rising.

Usually, this was when she wanted her dad. Wanted him to sit next to her. Watch a race in silence. Be there without asking anything of her.

But not now.

Now, all she wanted was for him to stay far, far away.

— 

It was almost midnight.

Her room was quiet now; weighted blanket pulled up to her chest, lights off, only the soft blue glow of her phone screen lighting her face. The golf ball sat in her right hand, warm from where she’d been holding it for hours. She kept rolling it between her fingers, feeling the small ridges, the smoothness. Grounding.

She had stopped shaking, but her body was aching like one big bruised muscle. 

She stared at the message thread with Lando, her thumb hovering, retreating, hovering again.

She didn’t know what to say.

Everything in her head still felt too big. Too messy. But the quiet between them was worse. Not bad, not uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar. She wanted to talk to him. 

Finally, she started typing. 

— 

iMessage — 10:11pm

Amelia I didn’t enjoy golf very much. But I liked being with you. Thank you for inviting me.

Lando Norris I’m glad you came anyway We had fun though, right? I had fun :)

Amelia Yes, I had fun. It was confusing. But in a good way. I liked learning something new.

Lando Norris I liked today too You were kind of great We should do more new things together. Just us

Amelia Maybe. I feel strange tonight. My head is a bit loud.

Lando Norris That’s alright

Amelia Do you think if I asked you questions about your Formula Three races… you would answer them?

Lando Norris Absolutely I’d love that Haven’t talked about F3 in ages Might be nice to remember

Amelia Okay. What did it feel like the first time you won?

Lando Norris Like my hands knew before I did Like the whole world stopped for one second so I could catch up It felt… right. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be ya know 

Amelia Oh

Lando Norris: You okay?

Amelia: I forgot all the questions I had for you. Sorry.

Lando Norris That’s okay. Don’t worry. Your brain’s probably sleepy. It’s late Are you tired?

Amelia Yes. I got upset earlier for no reason and it’s made me tired I’ll go to sleep now. Thank you for texting me back. Goodnight.

Lando Norris You don’t have to thank me for that I like talking to you Feel better soon, yeah? Goodnight x

— 

The house was still, the kind of stillness that only came after a storm.

Tracy sat on the couch in the dark, legs curled beneath her, a half-cold mug of tea resting in her hands. She hadn’t moved since she’d come downstairs after leaving Amelia. The couch blanket was draped over her shoulders, but she still shivered slightly, not from the cold, but from the heavy weight of witnessing her daughter’s pain. 

Zak entered quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, tie loose, shoulders slumped, guilt etched deep into the lines around his eyes. After a long moment, he crossed the room and sat down beside her.

Tracy didn’t look at him. Just murmured, “She’s asleep now. I checked a minute ago.”

Zak nodded slowly. “She didn’t ask for me.”

“She didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t want help. Just needed space.” Tracy’s voice cracked, but she kept it steady. “She was barely holding on, Zak. I haven’t seen her like that in a long time.”

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he said too quickly. “I just… I thought I was protecting her.”

“I know you did,” Tracy replied gently.

Zak stared at the floor. “I didn’t think it would hurt her like this. I thought—” He faltered. “I thought keeping her away from Lando would keep things simple. Keep her safe. From getting hurt. Or confused. Or from people talking. From getting her hopes up.”

“You didn’t trust her,” Tracy said. Not accusing, just honest.

Zak exhaled hard. “No. I didn’t trust him.”

Tracy finally turned to look at him. “But he’s been good to her. You’ve seen that, surely.” 

“I have,” Zak admitted, tersely. 

“But it wasn’t on your terms,” Tracy said. “So you didn’t like it.”

Zak didn’t argue.

“She’s not a problem to solve, Zak. She’s our daughter. And she’s doing something incredibly brave. She’s opening up. She’s connecting. That’s huge for her.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “God, I know. I just…” He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been someone safer?”

“Because love isn’t safe,” Tracy said. “And friendship isn’t simple. And if you’re lucky enough to find someone who makes you feel okay in your skin, even just for a little while, that’s not a risk for someone like her. That’s a lifeline.”

Zak leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked hollowed out. “I feel like I’ve completely blown it.”

“You haven’t,” Tracy said gently. “But you will if you keep pushing like this. If you keep trying to prevent something that is starting to seem pretty much inevitable.” 

Zak was quiet.

“She loves you,” Tracy added. “But she can’t keep fighting you on this. Not when she’s also fighting herself. That kind of pressure… it’ll break her.”

That landed like a stone. He blinked against the sting in his eyes and nodded, slow and tired. “Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”

Tracy leaned into him and kissed the rough edge of his jaw. “You’re a good father, Zak. She knows that. She’ll forgive you.”

Zak didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the dark hallway.

“She didn’t ask for me,” he said again, softer this time. Raw. Frayed.

Tracy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “I know, honey.”

— 

The flat was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional thump of bass through the wall from the upstairs neighbours. Lando sat cross-legged on the sofa, eyes unfocused on the muted Rally Car stream playing on the TV. Max was in the kitchen, one sock on, microwaving some disastrous smelling leftover curry.

“You ever liked someone,” Lando said suddenly, not looking up, “so much that even the idea of them ruining your life doesn’t sound that bad?”

Max made a noise that landed somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Christ, mate. What brought that on?”

Lando shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve just been thinking.”

“About Amelia?” Max asked, already knowing. He padded over and dropped into the armchair opposite, bowl in his lap.

Lando exhaled slowly. “I really fucking like her. It doesn’t make sense. She’s, I mean— Jesus, I don’t know. Feels like I can breathe right around her, you know?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Just stirred the curry and watched the screen for a second. Then, gently: “Yeah. I get that. But... Come on, mate. You sure this isn’t a bit too much, too fast?”

Lando looked over. Frowned. “What do you mean?”

Max shifted, trying to find words. “It’s not just about liking someone. It’s about who she is. Like, she’s your boss’s daughter. That’s... not insignificant here.”

“I know that.” Lando bit back. 

“Okay. But do you really know what it means? If something goes wrong, if it ends, and ends messy, it’s not like you can just walk away. There’s no possibility of a clean break with her.” 

Lando was quiet, but his jaw tightened.

“I’m not trying to scare you off,” Max added quickly. “I just... I know how much you’ve worked for this. Since you were, what, six? Your whole life’s been about driving. Being the best. And now you’re closer than ever.”

“I’m not giving up racing,” Lando snapped, defensive before Max even finished.

“I didn’t say you were,” Max snapped right back at him. “I just don’t want you to stop being Lando Norris: F1 driver and become Lando Norris: the guy who fucked around with his boss’ daughter, you know?”

Lando stared down at his hands. He felt like a piece of shit as he said, “Zak’s basically said the same thing. So has my dad.”

Max nodded. “‘Cause we’re all thinking the same thing, mate.” 

Lando rubbed his hands over his face and pulled his hood up. “Maybe you’re right,” he mumbled. “Maybe this isn’t... good timing.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just went back to eating, quiet again.

And Lando hated that suddenly it felt like all of their reasons made sense.

— 

The air was different now. Cooler. Thinner. The sun still came through her window in the morning, but it didn’t cling to the walls the same way. The trees had started to shift, just barely, into that pre-autumn colour. And Amelia felt like she was holding her breath all the time. For something. For nothing.

She hadn’t spoken to Lando for days. Not since she'd sent him a photo of the coffee shop in town that had spelled her name wrong again, and all she got back was a laughing emoji. No reply. No question. Just that.

It felt like a door closing very slowly. 

She was sitting in the bay window of her bedroom, blanket around her shoulders, golf ball in one hand and her phone in the other. It was the fourth time she'd opened their chat and closed it again. The most recent messages sat there like ghosts. 

—

iMessage — 9:04am

Amelia Hope you’re not too tired from training. 

—

Read. Two days ago. No response.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to write that wouldn’t sound… needy. Or hurt. Or desperate. God, she hated the idea of being too much. It made her skin itch. She didn’t want to become exactly what people were always assuming that she’d be.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, her thoughts, her everything. But it hurt in a way she didn’t understand; this slow, quiet loss. It hurt in a way she didn’t have a name for. It felt a lot like emptiness.

“Don’t spiral,” she whispered to herself, rocking gently, rhythmically. “Don’t spiral. Don’t spiral.”

But it felt like she already was.

— 

Both McLaren cars DNF’d in Belgium; the first race back after the Summer break.

She’d written it down two hours before lights out — in the margin of an old notebook, under a page of technical notes she hadn’t meant to be looking at anymore. The exact reason. The probable lap. A strange little instinct that curled in her gut and told her today’s not going to go the way they want it to.

She closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer, and told herself it didn’t matter.

Nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever ask. Because she wasn’t in the garage. Wasn’t in the paddock. Wasn’t even watching from the hospitality suite like she always did, like clockwork.

She was in Woking. In her bedroom. As far from Lando’s garage, from the paddock, as she could possibly be.

And on the TV, when the Sky Sports commentator mentioned her absence like it was some small anomaly (“No sign of Amelia Brown in Norris’ McLaren garage today. Odd, considering she rarely misses a weekend”) she didn’t feel flattered or seen or missed.

She felt sick.

Like the air got thinner the second they said her name.

So she turned it off.

Just like that.

The screen went dark. The sound cut out. And for the first time in ten years, she didn’t watch the entire race.

Not because she didn’t want to. 

But because it hurt too much.

not what it looks like ⛐ 𝐆𝐑𝟔𝟑

george has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where the media goes crazy because george is... snacking?)

ꔮ starring: george russell x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 0.6k. ꔮ includes: fluff, romance. mentions of food. established relationship. ꔮ commentary box: i suppose this is a thing now </3 part of my soft spot mini-series! inspired by george in this video. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s been a while since the paddock has been this intrigued. 

A rather big feat, considering the nature of the sport. F1 thrived on drama and excitement, preyed on moments of humanity and weakness. Today, though, it’s not anything on-track that has everyone buzzing. 

No. It’s just— George Russell with a bag of chips. 

Cameras click away. Reporters rush to pull up receipts. They’re all thinking of an interview from way back, where the driver had answered a slambook question of What’s your top three snacks? in typical George fashion. 

I’ll go with fruit, he had declared. I’m an athlete. I don’t snack on chocolate, no. Like… would an athlete snack on chocolate? 

No one had bat an eye, then, because of course the Briton would say something along those lines. Today, though, the clickbait headlines write themselves. 

George is snacking. Not only on chips, an eagle-eyed journo notes. He’s got a whole plastic bag in hand, presumably from the 7-Eleven down the road. 

Kimi is understandably confused when a reporter tries to interview him about it. 

“It’s just a snack, no?” the rookie stammers. “Are we— are the Pringles banned on the track?” 

George is unsurprisingly questioned as well. It comes as he’s heading out of the garage home; some nosy columnist calling out, “Russell! Bit hypocritical, innit?” 

The driver doesn’t stop walking, forcing the media personnel to keep up with his quick pace. He’s mastered the art of keeping his expression checked, so his expression is mostly neutral— dry, even— as he responds. 

“What is it this time?” George huffs. 

In his head, he’s already running through the day’s practice session. Did he make some comment on the radio? Was it something about track limits? Or—

“You’ve got crisps,” a journalist accuses, “and chocolate.” 

It’s so stupid. So unbelievably minor in the grand scheme of the impending race weekend. If he hadn’t been caught so off-guard, George might have sniped at the reporters to try and ask better questions. Surely there was something more interesting than his grocery list. 

George is jolted, though. Enough to falter in his steps and stare incredulously at the wolf pack of journalists, all clamoring for a soundbite. 

He ends up giving them one. “It’s—” He breathes a disbelieving laugh. “It’s not what it looks like.” 

The surrounding reporters erupt into a flurry of pointless follow-ups. “What happened to your body being a temple, George?” “Bit of a cheat day, innit?” “How do you like your chocolate? Dark, milk, white?” 

Another laugh bubbles out of George. He ignores all the questions and heads for his car, already weaving the story in his mind.

That’s why the tale is just a little bit dramatized, by the time he gets to you. He had an entire ride to come up with it after all. 

“They were brutal out there,” he bemoans as he tosses the offending plastic bag of goods onto the coffee table. “Calling me a hypocrite. Claiming that I’m not an athlete because I was caught with this!” 

You let out a sound between a scoff and a giggle. It doesn’t matter which, really, when the underlying affection is all the same. 

“My poor baby,” you coo, “and the lengths you go through for little ol’ me.” 

George plops down on to the couch as you lean over to survey his purchases. It’s everything you would’ve asked for; all your cravings that you’ve been too busy to indulge. 

Your boyfriend pulls your legs on to his lap. Absent-mindedly, he rubs circles into your ankle as you happily tear open one of the chocolate bars. 

“The lengths I go through,” he repeats, aiming to sound annoyed and valiant. Instead, he comes off as smitten. Whipped. 

George still doesn’t like to eat much chocolate. 

He gets his fair share of it whenever you lean in to kiss him, your lips sweet as the guilty pleasure that you liked to indulge. 

“Thank you,” you murmur against his mouth, and he hums in response before going in for another kiss. 

Just for a taste, he swears. ⛐