A Sip Of Sweet Speed
A Sip of Sweet Speed
paring: Zhou Guanyu x fem!reader
summary: You always wanted a peaceful life, so how did you end up with an F1 driver who dragged you into his upside down, unpredictable world where every race start was an adrenaline-pumping adventure?
warning: a bit angst, descriptions of crash scenes, heiress!reader
note: The entire story is just a plea for Guanyu to secure a seat… In my previous fanfics, I didn't describe the reader's race or appearance, but in this one, the reader is at least depicted as someone who can speak Chinese. Enjoy:)
You first met Zhou Guanyu at the milk tea shop. London always attracts people from all over the world, so a handsome Asian boy wasn’t that surprising.
Until he hesitated for a long time without ordering and finally decided to ask if you could speak Chinese.
You said yes, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Great,” he said, and then asked if you had any recommendations.
You recommended your favorite combo: brown sugar boba tea smoothie with less ice and half sugar. Based on your half-year experience working at the milk tea shop next door, you guaranteed that it’s the kind of “not too sweet dessert” that Chinese people would love.
He praised your recommendation and brought a friend with him the next day. It was a curly-haired boy with an Australian accent who insisted he was 1/16th Chinese. When you served them their drinks, both round faces looked up at you and said “thank you” in Chinese.
You had a rare chance to chat with them during your break in the afternoon and learned their names: Oscar and Zhou Guanyu. Zhou wrote his name on a napkin for you, explaining that “Guan” means champion and “Yu” means universe.
A universal champion. The typical East Asian desire for one’s son to become a big name seemed to carry a certain lightness in him. As you were lost in thought, he suddenly bowed his head toward you, which made you a bit nervous: Oh my Goddess, is he about to talk about unmet expectations or childhood trauma? Is this moving too fast? You pinched your thigh, trying to make your expression on your numb workaholic face look warm and understanding.
“Do you think this hat looks good?” He still had his head down, pointing to the racing car, bubble tea cup, and rabbit on his cap. “I designed it myself.”
Well, well, well.
“You’re a pretty good designer.”
“If I weren’t a racing driver, I’d want to be a designer.”
These two gentle-looking young men shyly told you that they were race car drivers, met on a French team, and now both lived in London. Zhou said he might invite you to watch one of their races someday. You realized they were likely some born with a silver spoon who were no longer satisfied with what money could buy and were drawn to the raw adrenaline rush of underground racing.
Yet you still exchanged phone numbers with Zhou and started casually dating. Most of the time, he’d come alone to your milk tea shop, order a drink, and chat with you if you weren’t busy. When you were busy, he once tried to help but ended up wasting a lot of ingredients, so you kicked him out of the bar counter.
However, his cooking was unexpectedly good. One evening, after you planned to watch a movie together, it naturally progressed to having a late-night snack at his apartment.
He skillfully started the fire, boiled water, and cooked noodles. He took some scallions from the fridge and evenly sprinkled them in the bowl. Just as the noodles in the pot were perfectly cooked, the boiling soup immediately scalded the scallions. He fried an egg to a golden hue in a pan. You took the steaming bowl of noodles, cradled it in your hands, and ate heartily at his dining table, asking why he wasn’t eating.
Sitting across from you, he rested his face on his hand, smiling slightly as he watched you. “I can’t eat late at night; I have to watch my weight.”
“But you drink bubble tea all the time?”
He hesitated for a moment, his smile deepening with an unusually sweet and direct statement: “Because I want to see you.”
You stood up, leaned over, and kissed him lightly.
Before summer arrived in London, you became his girlfriend. He would drive you to work while he was in town, using some lane-switching and drifting techniques if you overslept and were nearly late. This almost made you vomit your breakfast.
“It’s my fault,” he said, rubbing his hands, “in rush hour my skills are actually good. I’ll take you for a spin after work as an apology.
You wanted to ease the tension with a light-hearted joke, but his dark circles hinted that oversleeping was a shared responsibility.
In short, men may have an obsession with proving their “skills”. That night, he drove you home in an Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio.
You never linked your boyfriend’s frequent trips with his racing career. In your mind, he was probably just an underground racer until he invited you to watch his race at Silverstone.
You listened in a daze as he rambled about how his request for a pass application was late and he couldn’t get you into the garage with his family, but he had bought you tickets for the whole event. Silverstone wasn’t far from London, and he really wanted you to support him.
“I’m almost a VIP at your shop; could you come and support me too?”
You thought about the countless silly questions you’d asked him about racing, which he had patiently answered, and it took a long time before you found your voice: “So you’re an F1 driver?”
“Yes.” He grinned, showing more than eight teeth, like a mischievous rabbit.
Neither of you expected Silverstone to unfold as it did.
After the cars passed through turn two, a red and white car — a car from Alfa Romeo — flashed by in an unusual posture. All you could see was George Russell jumping out of his Mercedes and running towards the trackside.
There was no broadcast footage.
You knew something major had happened. Soon, you confirmed it was Zhou’s name that quickly dropped in the standings on the screen.
Everyone in the stands took out their phones, trying to get the latest news from social media.
Your mind was blank. His name kept falling, and each drop tugged at your nerves. Fear overwhelmed you like a tidal wave: Will you lose him? In those few seconds, memories of him involuntarily flashed through your mind: how he spoke slowly, liked to hold your hand while walking, the thin calluses on his hands, and how he passionately and earnestly declared his love for bubble tea, racing, and you.
About half an hour later, the official broadcast resumed with video footage, and replayed recordings from various angles began to appear on the screens.
Zhou’s car had been hit by another car from the side and rear, causing it to flip over and slide along the track upside down for a long time, sparking and raising dust, heading toward the trackside barriers before a violent collision. This still didn’t stop the car, as the massive impact propelled it over the tire wall, hitting another higher barrier and getting wedged in the narrow space between the barrier and the grandstand.
The car was severely damaged, with wheels flying off and the intake duct worn flat.
Tears blurred your vision as you watched the big screen and couldn’t help but smile at the term intake duct which he had taught you.
News finally came from the control room that Zhou was conscious and undergoing further checks, and a round of applause erupted from the crowd.
Soon, you received a message from him: “I’m ok, sorry for worrying you.”
You looked at the white text box and couldn’t help but cry.
Soon, he sent another message: “Why are you leave me on read? :( I begged the PR for a long time to get my phone.”
“Babe? Are you mad at me? I’m really sorry.”
With trembling hands, you replied, “I love you.”
Later, you met him in the garage. He seemed fine, wearing his team gear and jeans, apparently unaffected by the incident. You felt your heart still racing, wondering how he remained so calm after such an event. He reached out and hugged you quietly. In that moment, all your thoughts vanished, and it was enough to be able to hold him.
Back in London, he asked if that “I love you” was due to the suspension bridge effect. You made yourself a bubble tea, bit into a pearl, and slowly said, “I don’t think so; I just regret not saying it sooner. Fortunately, it’s not too late.”
He reached out and held your hand. “I love you too.”
The F1 schedule didn’t give the drivers much time to rest. He was back on the track in Austria a week later. During his absence, you finally had time to seriously think about your relationship.
You always wanted a peaceful life, so how did you end up with an F1 driver who dragged you into his upside down, unpredictable world where every race start was an adrenaline-pumping adventure?
You liked him a lot, to the point of loving him, but you didn’t want to live a life full of uncertainty, constantly on edge and floating in a void, just for the sake of love. You imagined scenarios of breaking up and silently disappearing from his life, but when you opened your photo album and saw pictures of you two together, your emotions, which you had numbly suppressed for days, surged like a flood. You curled up on the bed, clutching his sweatshirt left behind at your place, and broke down in tears.
In the end, you couldn’t bring yourself to break up with him.
You made a phone call.
He understood your unease. He assured you he would be careful, that the FIA had comprehensive rules to ensure his safety, the halo, VSC, and ongoing updates to the car's crash structures.
You asked him why he didn’t become a designer instead. He thought for a moment and then said that the first time he watched an F1 race was at the 2004 Chinese Grand Prix in Shanghai. At that time, his parents didn’t know they needed a parking pass, so they had to park their car far away. Yet, the five-year-old him didn’t complain at all and walked almost an hour to watch the race.
For know his world better, one of your favorite pastimes was sitting on the sofa together under the same blanket, your legs draped over his, watching F1 races. Even though you still found driving in circles a bit dull, you had the world's cutest commentator right next to you.
He tried to help you understand team strategies and the differences between undercuts and overcuts, while you commented on how pretty Alpine's pink livery was, how beautiful the night view in Singapore looked, and how the aerial shots of the chase in Monaco seemed like they were straight out of a movie.
“If I were the FIA, I’d make all 24 races street circuits,” you said.
You watched as his eyes widened in surprise.
You then asked him if he wouldn’t want to race on the Shanghai Bund, with sparks flying against the dazzling Huangpu River nightscape. How romantic would that be?
He seemed to seriously consider this scenario, “I think I’d be happy just racing on the Shanghai circuit.”
In 2024, you and he returned to Shanghai. You thought there couldn’t be a more thrilling moment than this: the whole audience cheering for his every overtake, and after the race, when his car stopped at the starting grid, 200,000 people shouting his name, Zhou Guanyu, as if he really were the champion of the universe.
You thought that hometowns were always special. This boy, who had gone through many setbacks to stand here and remained calm and polite no matter what he faced, was in a way having a conversation with the younger version of himself, the boy who walked an hour just to watch an F1 race. It was both a "say hi" and a "see you later."
When you wiped away his tears, you thought to yourself that you might truly fall in love with this sport because of this boy.
He rarely drank bubble tea during the races. It wasn't until the summer break that he made himself a cup of brown sugar bubble milk tea smoothie with light ice and half sugar, but he still didn’t look particularly happy sitting by the window.
You asked him what was bothering him lately, saying that not even sugar could make him happy. You really weren't interested in racing, and the little attention you did pay was because he was racing. But you couldn’t stand seeing him unhappy.
After hesitating for a moment, he finally confided in you: “I might not be able to race in F1 next year.”
“What do you plan to do then?” you asked.
“I might become a reserve driver for a team or maybe switch to Formula E. You know, FE has a race in Shanghai, too, so I could still participate in my home race—” he tried to sound relaxed and forced a smile.
“But isn’t F1 the pinnacle of motorsport or something?” You knew that F1 had been his dream ever since he started karting, and choosing another series would be more about the profession and less about the dream.
“Yes, but two rookies are entering the starting line next year, and you know, the car's been struggling this year. I'm certainly not the best one out there—” he paused.
“Oh, don’t say that. Is there any way to secure your seat?”
“Unless the C44 suddenly becomes competitive and we start scoring points, or I get a big sponsor.” He wasn’t the type of driver to vent his frustrations on the team or the engineers. Even when talking to you, he would just say, “This car is way too slow”.
You tentatively asked, “Which option do you prefer?”
“The latter. It’s more realistic,” he replied patiently, as he always did.
You nodded, indicating that you understood, “I’m going to make a phone call.”
He seemed puzzled but didn’t question you. As the conversation progressed, you could see his eyes widening. Your words were filled with so many familiar yet strange terms.
“How can I buy a team? Yes, like Lawrence Stroll. Okay? Then sponsoring a driver shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Porsche? No F1 team, not happening. TotalEnergies? Citibank? Can’t you just buy me some Ferrari shares?”
After hanging up, you sat across from him, holding his hand.
“Sweetheart, take a deep breath. I know you have a lot of questions right now, but listen to me first. Tomorrow, my investment advisor will contact your team to offer you a sponsorship of around $10 million. More can be added if needed. They also hold some shares in TotalEnergies, not a lot, maybe about 8%, but I think it could help in talks with Alpine. If you want to drive a fast car, give them some time; we can acquire a team. Do you prefer a Mercedes engine or a Ferrari one?”
He followed your instructions and took a deep breath, then tried to remain calm as he asked, “Milk tea shop owner?”
You nodded, “That’s right.”
“A peaceful life?” His voice trembled a bit.
“Opening a milk tea shop is quite peaceful.” You smiled.
“Parents passed away?” He cautiously asked, trying to piece together a complete story.
“Correct, but they left me a trust fund.” You patted his hand to calm his nerves, “Are you happy? You’re going to have a seat. For many years to come. Even if you're not happy, it won’t help; you're set to race in F1.”
“You never told me you were so wealthy.” His voice finally carried a hint of disbelief.
“Well, you didn’t tell me you were an F1 driver at first, so we're even.”
“That’s different!” he protested loudly, which was rare for him.
“Didn’t you notice? I live quite well in London, open and close stores as I wish, go to your races whenever I want. How could I sustain my lifestyle without some savings?”
“We don’t call money that can buy an F1 team ‘some savings’. Anyway, I thought at most you owned this shop... No wonder you refused when I offered to invest.” He rarely complained, and you loved his subtle humor.
“Oh, I own the whole building, sweetheart.”
Your dream was to open a milk tea shop, and you achieved it long ago. Now, it was time to help your boyfriend fulfill his dream. You were content with that thought.
“As long as you don’t make all 24 races street circuits, I’ll agree to whatever you say.”
Many years later, when Zhou Guanyu was frequently scoring points, standing on podiums, and eventually winning a race, he would find himself in a daze: how did he become the driver with the most stable seat in the F1 paddock?
Many years later, you looked at the bustling crowd in the milk tea shop and complained to your husband sitting across from you, “Could you please stop recommending my milk tea shop to the fans? Where is my peaceful life?”
He pulled his hat down a little, didn't even look up as he continued scribbling and designing the new menu. “But the brown sugar boba tea smoothie is really delicious, babe.” he said.
More Posts from Tammyfortis and Others
Brake Balance
Charles Leclerc x mafiosa!Reader
Summary: something about the brake issues that Charles had to deal with in Bahrain just seems off … so you take matters into your own hands while your boyfriend is none the wiser
Warnings: depictions of violence and minor-character murder
You make your way through the paddock of the Bahrain International Circuit, weaving between team members and mechanics as they go about their pre-race routines. The energy in the air is electric, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first race of the season later tonight.
You flash your paddock pass at security and head into the Ferrari garage, eyes scanning the organized chaos for the familiar mop of brown hair.
There he is, sitting in his red race suit that matches the iconic color of the Ferrari he drives, focused intently as his mechanics make some last minute adjustments. You walk up behind Charles and place your hands over his eyes.
“Guess who?” You say playfully.
Charles reaches up and removes your hands, a smile breaking across his face as he turns in his seat. “Ah, mon cœur! My favorite surprise.”
You lean down and kiss him softly. “How are things looking for today?”
“Good, good,” he nods. “The team had to change the left front brake duct exit deflector earlier, just as a precaution. But I’m feeling optimistic, the car has been solid all weekend. I think I might even be able to challenge Max for the win if everything goes to plan.”
His confidence makes you smile. Charles has been working so hard, both physically and mentally, to start this season strong. You know a win today would mean the world to him.
“I’ll be cheering the loudest when I see you on that top step today,” you say.
Charles grins. “We’ll see. Still have a race to get through first.”
You lean in to give him a quick kiss and head to the back of the garage so you’re out of the way. The mechanics are in full focus mode now, choreographing their dance around Charles’ car with practiced precision.
Charles goes through his usual pre-race routine — sips of water, reviewing data on the screens, and loosening up his muscles. He’s the picture of calm, but you know him well enough to see the coiled adrenaline thrumming just under the surface, ready to be unleashed once he settles into the cockpit.
The time comes to head out to the grid. Charles pauses before he puts his helmet on, meeting your gaze. You close the distance between you and cup his face in your hands, kissing his lips sweetly. Then you take the helmet from him and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips over the smooth surface where his would be.
“Be safe out there,” you say softly.
He nods, face disappearing behind the tinted visor, and climbs into the Ferrari. You watch as the car pulls away, weaving between other vehicles making their way to the starting grid. With a deep breath, you head deeper into the garage and take a seat next to Charles’ performance coach, Andrea. He hands you a headset so you can listen to Charles’ radio during the race.
“Let’s hope for a good one today,” Andrea says.
You nod, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you fit the headset over your ears. On the monitors, you see Charles lining up on the grid in P2 after the formation lap, Max Verstappen’s Red Bull beside him on the front row in P1. The lights go out and the cars leap forward, engines roaring to life. Charles gets a good start, but Max keeps the lead through the first few turns.
The pack of cars higher up on the starting grid stays bunched up through the first few turns, but then you notice Charles starting to fall back little by little. His lap time slows as Max opens up a gap in front.
“The car doesn’t feel right, something with the front end,” Charles says. Your brow furrows in concern.
Only a lap later, George Russell in the Mercedes overtakes Charles on turn 4. Then Perez in the other Red Bull breezes past not long after.
“Come on Charles, stay focused,” you murmur under your breath. But things only seem to be getting worse. Carlos battles with Charles and eventually gets by, which frustrates you to no end. Charles fighting his own teammate for position is the last thing you want to see.
“Something felt very wrong with this set, the fronts were locking up like crazy,” Charles reports over the radio. Your heart sinks. Andrea shakes his head, equally perplexed.
The issues continue to persist. “What’s going on with my front left?” Charles asks, audible tension in his voice. “I just cannot get out of front locking. Everywhere ...”
Xavi, his race engineer, replies calmly, “We have temperature imbalance, higher front left.”
“How much is the imbalance?” Charles asks.
“Around 100 degrees.”
You grimace. That kind of discrepancy could make the car undriveable. Sure enough, Charles continues to struggle. It’s clear he’s fighting with the car now rather than racing the drivers around him.
“My car is fully going to the right when I am braking. With this I cannot fight, it’s dangerous,” Charles says, frustration seeping into his tone. You chew your lip anxiously. The rational part of you wishes Charles would just retire the car before he gets himself hurt trying to wrestle with it. But you also know that’s never been in Charles’ nature — he’ll keep fighting until the very last lap, no matter what.
Lap after lap, Charles battles to keep the car under control. “I think we can forget about driving now. It’s pulling everywhere,” he finally concedes. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’ll pull into the pits and call it a day. But no, your boyfriend is never one to simply give up. After the radio, through sheer force of will, Charles somehow overtakes George to reclaim P4. You can only imagine how hard he must be having to fight to keep the car in the track.
In the end, it’s a disappointing P4 for Charles while his teammate makes it on the podium in P3. As Carlos is lead to the cooldown room with Max and Checo, you watch Charles, frustration etched across his face as he tugs off his helmet and balaclava. He doesn’t even glance your way before the mechanics descend on him to start looking over the car.
Clearly the brake issues have cost him any chance at challenging for the win today. Most other drivers would have given up even trying to reclaim P4. But not your Charles. Never your Charles. Your heart aches for him.
Charles gets led away swiftly for the usual post-race weighing and interviews. You know from his body language that he’s utterly deflated by today’s results.
While the reporters pepper him with questions, you pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts. Enough is enough — something is clearly not right with Charles’ car and you want answers.
Your finger hovers over the call button as you contemplate who to reach out to. The last thing you want is for Charles to have to fight against his own machine again. A solution needs to be found immediately, and you know just the person who can help.
With a determined nod, you press call and lift the phone to your ear, ready to get to the bottom of these brake issues once and for all.
***
The phone only rings once before a gruff voice answers. “Boss?”
“Hello, Gianluca,” you say. “I need you to do something for me.”
You go on to explain in detail the brake issues Charles faced during the race, how the problems started right after they replaced the left front brake duct exit deflector.
“I don’t think it was just bad luck,” you say. “Something seems off about the whole situation. I want you to look into it, see if anyone on Charles’ side of the garage could have tampered with his car.”
Gianluca is quiet for a moment. “Sabotage, you think?”
“Possibly. I just … I can’t shake this feeling that someone meant for this to happen to Charles’ car. He truly thought he could at least try to challenge Max for the win, then suddenly it’s like he’s driving an entirely different machine. Too much of a coincidence for my liking.”
“I’ll look into it boss, don’t you worry,” Gianluca says. “I’ll go through the team with a fine tooth comb, see if anything seems out of the ordinary. If someone did intentionally compromise Charles’ car, I’ll find out who and how.”
You let out a breath. “Thank you, Gianluca. Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Charles can’t afford issues like this again.”
“You got it. I’ll be in touch.”
The call ends and you lean back against the garage wall, gaze fixed unseeingly out across the pit lane. Your mind turns over the events of the race, Charles’ baffled frustration over the radio. He’s worked too hard for too long to have valuable points stolen away by something like this. If there is sabotage afoot within the team, you’ll get to the bottom of it.
A few days later you’re back in your study after flying home from Bahrain. A knock at the door interrupts your work and you call for them to enter. Gianluca steps in, an uncharacteristically grim look on his face.
“Boss,” he greets you. Wordlessly, he steps forward and places a thick manila folder on your desk. You flip it open, eyes scanning over photos, documents, even what looks like stills of CCTV footage. Gianluca remains silent, allowing you to take it all in.
“I went over every inch of security camera video from the Bahrain paddock and garage,” Gianluca finally says. “And I found something.”
He leans over your desk and flips to a page in the folder, tapping a finger on a freeze frame showing one of Charles’ mechanics.
“This is Tomaso, one of the brake technicians,” Gianluca explains. “I noticed him acting strange all race day. Fidgety. Nervous. He was trying to hide it but his body language gave it away.”
Your eyes narrow as you study the photo. There is a shifty, almost guilty look about the man as he glances over his shoulder.
“I watched him like a hawk after that,” Gianluca continues. “When the team went to change the brake duct exit deflector, that’s when I saw it happen.”
He flips to another page, this one showing screen captures of CCTV footage in the Ferrari garage a few hours before the race start. You can make out Tomaso slipping the replacement deflector into his pocket before taking out another piece and installing it in Charles’ car. Your blood turns cold.
“He tampered with the part,” Gianluca confirms grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind he switched that deflector with a compromised one. Sabotage, just like you suspected.”
You sit back, shaking your head in disgusted disbelief. “Why? Why would he do this?”
Gianluca shrugs. “Hard to say for sure. Could be someone paid him off, wants to see Charles fail. But what I know for certain is that he meant to damage Charles’ car.”
You drum your fingers on your desk, thinking hard. This level of betrayal from someone Charles trusts, it’s unthinkable. An affront you won’t let stand.
“You’ve done excellent work, Gianluca,” you finally say, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for getting to the bottom of this. I’ll handle it from here.”
Gianluca nods. “Of course, boss. Let me know if you need anything else.”
He turns and leaves your study, closing the door quietly behind him. You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled under your chin. Your expression is stone, but internally your thoughts roil with anger. Tomaso will pay for this, you’ll see to that.
Charles has enough challenges to face without sabotage from his own team. Your resolve hardens — you won’t stop until justice is served and he can race with full confidence again. The treachery ends now.
***
After Gianluca leaves, your mind turns over what to do about Tomaso. The team flew straight from Bahrain to Saudi Arabia to prepare for the next race, so he’s out of your reach for now. Still, you won’t let him slip away that easily. You pick up your phone and call a trusted associate, instructing him to organize a surveillance team to keep constant eyes on Tomaso until you arrive in Jeddah yourself.
The days crawl by painfully slow as you wait to confront the saboteur. You resist the urge to call Fred Vasseur and have Tomaso removed from the team immediately — better to handle this yourself. Finally, it’s time to fly out for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. Upon landing, your associate meets you at the airport.
“We have eyes on the target,” he reports. “He’s currently at the hotel bar, quite intoxicated.”
You nod curtly. “Good. Let’s pay him a visit.”
You’re led to the hotel and pointed towards the bar. Sure enough, there’s Tomaso, stumbling drunkenly out the door into the night. Now is your chance. You follow him down the street, waiting until he turns into a shadowy alley to make your move. In a flash you have him by the collar, shoving him against the brick wall.
“What the hell, let me go!” Tomaso slurs, trying to shove you off. But drinking has made him clumsy and weak.
“I don’t think so, Tomaso,” you reply coldly. “We need to have a little chat.”
His eyes widen in fear and confusion. You press on before he can respond.
“Let’s see, Tomaso Barbieri, born May 5th, 1992 in Turin. Moved to Maranello in 2021 to begin work as a mechanic with Scuderia Ferrari. Parents Lucia and Giacomo Barbieri, both schoolteachers. Sister Cecilia studying abroad in London.”
As you rattle off details about his personal life, Tomaso’s eyes grow wider and wider.
“What the hell, how do you know all that?” He stammers. “Who are you? Does Charles know the ugly truth about his girlfriend?”
You fix him with an icy stare. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know exactly who you are, Tomaso. A mechanic for Ferrari … and apparently a master of espionage and sabotage in your spare time.”
Tomaso’s eyes dart wildly, still trying to make sense of the situation in his inebriated state. He attempts an unconvincing laugh.
“What are you talking about man? Sabotage? I think you’ve had too much to drink ...”
Your response is to slam him hard against the wall, causing him to grunt in pain. You lean in close, anger simmering in your eyes.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Tomaso. I know what you did in Bahrain, switching out the brake duct deflector to sabotage Charles’ car. Did you think you could get away with it? That there wouldn’t be consequences?”
Up close, you can see the color drain from his face, eyes wide with fear. He tries to retain some composure.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats weakly. “I would never sabotage Charles’ car, I want him to win ...”
You slam him against the wall again, cutting off his lies.
“I said, enough bullshit!” you snarl. “We have you on video. We saw everything. We know you pocketed the real deflector and installed a defective one instead.”
He is trembling now, any hint of drunkenness replaced by sobering fear.
“Please,” he whimpers pathetically. “I’ll do anything, just please let me go. I made a mistake ...”
You shake your head in disgust. “A mistake? You betrayed Charles’ trust and tried to ruin his race out of what? Jealousy? Greed?”
Tomaso says nothing, eyes downcast in shame. You take a breath and continue in a low, menacing tone.
“Here are your options. One: you go directly to Vasseur first thing in the morning and resign from Ferrari immediately. You will leave the team and ensure you are never so much as in the same country as Charles again. Two: I deal with you myself, in a much less pleasant manner. The choice is yours, Tomaso. What’s it going to be?”
He meets your steely gaze again, jaw clenched. “I can’t just quit,” he says hoarsely. “My job is my life. You might as well just kill me.”
You purse your lips and shake your head. “I was afraid you’d say that. Very well.”
In one swift motion you draw your gun from its concealed holster and press the barrel firmly under Tomaso’s chin. He recoils in terror, plastered back against the wall.
“Last chance,” you say calmly. “Walk away from Ferrari and never look back, or your days end tonight in this alley.”
Sweat drips down his brow as the gun digs harder into his throat. His eyes are saucers of fear, flitting between your steely gaze and the weapon poised to end his life.
“Well?” You ask after a long silence. “What’s it going to be?”
Tomaso swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against the gun barrel. When he speaks, his voice is a terrified croak.
“I … I won’t quit. I can’t.” He closes his eyes in resignation, awaiting his fate.
You click your tongue in disappointment. “That’s unfortunate. I wish it hadn’t come to this.”
Your finger tightens almost imperceptibly on the trigger …
“Wait, wait!” Tomaso cries out, hands raised in desperation. “I’ll do it, I’ll quit! Just please, don’t hurt me!”
You pause, gun still aimed steadily at his throat. “And why should I believe you now?”
He swallows hard, eyes brimming with tears. “I swear, I’ll resign first thing tomorrow. You’ll never see me near the team again. Just let me go, I’m begging you!”
You consider him coldly for a moment before lowering the gun. Tomaso sags back against the wall in relief. But you’re not done with him yet.
“Who paid you?” You demand. “Who put you up to sabotaging Charles’ car?”
The blood drains from his face again. “I can’t tell you that. They’ll kill me, and my family ...”
In a flash the gun is back at his throat, your grip like iron on his shirt collar.
“I assure you, I can do much worse than they ever could,” you say menacingly. “Now give me a name, or you can say goodbye.”
Tomaso shakes uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. You can see the internal struggle, debating which is the lesser evil — defying you or those he conspired with. Finally, he slumps in defeat and leans in close, voice barely a whisper.
“It was ...”
He utters a name directly into your ear. Your eyes widen briefly in surprise before narrowing again. You release Tomaso and take a step back, processing this new information.
“I see,” you say slowly. You nod over your shoulder and two of your associates emerge from the shadows.
“Get him out of my sight,” you order. They grab Tomaso roughly by the arms. He sags between them, the fight gone out of him completely. You fix him with an icy stare.
“My men will escort you to the airport,” you inform him. “You will be on the first flight out of this hemisphere. And you are never to go near Ferrari or Charles again — don’t even think about trying to contact the team to explain yourself. As far as they will be concerned, you simply resigned. Am I clear?”
Tomaso nods wordlessly, defeated. The men begin dragging him away towards a waiting black SUV.
“Oh, and Tomaso?” You call after him. He glances back warily. “If I ever see or hear of you so much as setting foot in a paddock again, you won’t get a second chance. You’ll simply disappear. Permanently.”
The color drains from his face one final time. Then he is shoved into the back of the SUV, the door slamming shut behind him. You watch impassively as the vehicle drives off into the night, carrying the saboteur away for good.
Or so he thinks.
Unbeknownst to Tomaso, you have contacts everywhere, including at his destination. The second he steps off the plane, thinking he’s escaped your wrath, your local associates will be waiting. And his life will be ended swiftly and permanently, as promised. You don't make idle threats after all.
Betrayal of this magnitude must be punished, no matter how far Tomaso runs. The message will be clear — cross you, and nowhere on Earth will be safe. You've given the order, and your associates are nothing if not ruthlessly efficient. By the time the sun rises, there will be one less threat to Charles’ success. The sabotage ends here and now. You'll see to that personally, no matter the cost.
For a moment you simply stand alone in the dark alley, processing everything. This is bigger than you initially realized. Tomaso was clearly just a pawn, the sabotage orchestrated by someone higher up the chain — someone with enough power and influence to scare a man into risking his career and life.
Your jaw clenches as you think about Charles being targeted like this, not only being robbed of a deserved finish but also put in danger as collateral. Well, it ends now. The shadowy orchestrator thinks they can get away with playing games in the dark? They’re about to realize just how big of a mistake they’ve made.
Now that you have a name, you can start unraveling the web, tracing every thread back to find where it leads. And when you do find the spider at the center? You’ll make sure they can never endanger Charles again. For good.
Satisfied with this plan, you straighten your dress and exit the alley onto the brighter streets. Time to put your considerable resources to work. Phone records, financials, travel records — you’ll dig through it all, leave no stone unturned.
And you have a feeling the name Tomaso gave you is only the first thread. This goes deeper. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve dealt with far more dangerous criminal elements before. These shadow games don’t scare you. You’ll keep following the threads until you reach the source, uprooting the entire enterprise in the process.
By the time you reach your car, your phone is already buzzing with incoming calls and updates from your associates. They know the drill by now — when you give the word, they mobilize into action immediately, utilizing the full extent of your influence and power.
For you, they’ll tap every resource, call in every favor owed. Because you protect what’s yours at all costs. And Charles? He’s under your protection now, whether he knows it or not. So for his sake, you’re going to find the ones trying to undermine him, and you’re going to tear out the threat root and stem. Permanently.
Let them keep playing their games for now, oblivious to the axe hanging over their heads. They’ll find out soon enough that nobody crosses you and gets away with it. And when that time comes, no mercy will be shown. No loose ends left to unravel.
Time to remind them exactly why your reputation precedes you in certain circles, why your name is uttered only in hushed whispers. They’ll regret the day they dared threaten someone you care about. You’ll see to that personally.
With your jaw set in determination, you climb into the idling car. Time to go hunting.
***
Two days after dealing with Tomaso, you make your way through the Jeddah Corniche Circuit paddock towards the Ferrari motorhome.
Your stiletto heels click along the pavement and you glance down, frowning slightly at the flecks of blood still staining the pointed toes of your red soles. Such a shame about these Louboutins, you really love this pair. But a bit of blood is a small price to pay for protecting Charles, especially after personally dealing with the orchestrator who had been paying Tomaso off.
You had tracked them down and made sure they could never threaten Charles’ success again. Subtly, you crouch down and wipe at the stains, managing to remove the worst of it.
Satisfied, you straighten and continue on your way. The familiar bright red motorhome comes into view and you sweep inside, immediately spotting Charles standing with some team members. His face lights up when he sees you, excusing himself to rush over.
“Mon amour, you made it!” He exclaims, enveloping you in a tight hug. You melt against him, breathing in his familiar scent.
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss seeing you race for anything,” you reply, pecking his lips sweetly.
Charles takes your hand, leading you to a quiet corner where you can talk. “I missed you so much while you were away,” he says. “But I’m so glad you’re here now.”
You smile and stroke his cheek. “Me too, darling. But I’m here now and I’ll be cheering the loudest for you all race.”
Charles’ grin falters a bit. “It’s been a strange few days actually. Tomaso, one of my mechanics, just up and quit in the middle of the week. No explanation or anything.”
You school your features into a look of surprise. “Really? That’s so odd.”
Charles nods. “Very weird timing to just resign like that. But maybe it’s for the best if his heart wasn’t fully in it anymore.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” you agree. “The team is better off without any negativity.”
Before Charles can reply, Andrea enters the motorhome. “Charles, time for some quick physio before the race.”
Charles sighs but nods, giving you a swift kiss before following Andrea out. You watch him go fondly before making your way trackside to the Ferrari garage. The mechanics are in race mode, voices terse and movements precise as they make final adjustments on Charles’ car.
You stay back, letting them work, thoughts drifting back to everything you did to get to this point. A small price to pay to ensure Charles can race with a fair chance again.
Finally it’s time for Charles to get in the car. You approach as he’s putting on his helmet and balaclava, stealing a tender kiss that he returns happily. Then you lift the helmet and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips softly over the smooth surface where his lips would be. Your ritual.
“Be safe out there,” you murmur. Charles squeezes your hand, then lowers himself into the cockpit. You watch tensely as the car pulls away, the lights of the circuit glittering against the dark night sky.
In the garage you pace anxiously throughout the race, listening to the radio chatter. Again Charles qualified P2, behind Max Verstappen’s Red Bull. But this time, you have no sabotage to worry about. The Ferrari proves fast and consistent all race, not quite keeping pace with the Red Bull but allowing Charles to maintain P2 smoothly.
The SF-24 doesn’t have the speed to challenge Max, but there’s no issues, no sudden grip loss or components failing. Your shoulders finally uncoil with relief as Charles crosses the line to take P2, securing a podium finish.
The garage explodes into cheers and applause as Charles pulls into parc fermé. He’s beaming as he climbs from the car, pulling off his gloves and balaclava. You run over to the barriers and throw your arms around him ecstatically as soon as he nears.
“I’m so proud of you!” You exclaim. Charles hugs you back tightly.
“Thank you, mon cœur,” he says warmly. “It felt good to finally have a clean race again.”
You just smile knowingly, heart bursting with joy at seeing Charles on the podium where he belongs. During the celebrations, he keeps meeting your gaze in the crowd, smiling and pointing down to you in the crowd of red. As he sprays champagne with Max and Checo, he looks utterly elated and at peace. No frustration or disappointment, just the satisfaction of a hard fought race with the result he deserved.
Afterwards, in the privacy of Charles’ room, he takes you into his arms again. “I don’t know what changed or why, but the car just felt right this weekend,” he says. “It makes me so optimistic for the rest of the season.”
You stroke his face gently. “You deserve it. All your hard work is paying off.” Inside, you allow yourself a small, satisfied smile. Charles doesn’t need to know just how much work went on behind the scenes to get here. He only needs to focus on driving his heart out, and securing the championships you know he’s destined for. The rest is simply details.
“Thank you again for being here,” Charles murmurs, pulling you close. “Having your support means everything to me.”
You rest your head on his shoulder contentedly. “Always, my love. I’ll be right by your side.” And you mean that with every fiber of your being. No matter what happens going forward, whoever tries to interfere or stand in Charles’ way, they’ll have to go through you first.
You won’t let anyone toy with Charles’ performance and safety again. The lesson has been sent — Charles is untouchable now. Dare to threaten the success that is his, and you’ll come for what’s theirs.
But Charles doesn’t need to carry that burden. He just needs to keep his head held high and drive his heart out. You’ll handle the rest. It’s the least you can do for the man you love more than life itself.
So as Charles holds you close, you silently promise to always shield him from the ugly underbelly that lurks beneath the glitz and glamour of Formula 1.
He gives so much of himself already in pursuit of greatness. Let others vie for power and influence through dirty tricks and mind games. That’s not Charles’ way, which is why you’ll ensure he remains untainted. For him, you’d walk through fire without a second thought.
So really, what’s a little blood on your Louboutins in the grand scheme of things? A man like Charles Leclerc deserves that and so much more. And you’re going to give it to him, no matter the cost.
Let them keep playing their games in the shadows. Little do they know, you’ve already checkmated them all.
Cuffing Szn
Max Verstappen x MidSize!Reader
it's cuffing season and all the girls are leaving to get a big boy (I need a big boy, give me a big boy)
As Max Verstappen's new girlfriend, you're one of the few WAGs on the grid who isn't a model and the only one, you think self consciously, who doesn't look like a model either. Good thing your big, strong boyfriend is here to set the record straight about how much he disagrees with you.
Content includes: 18+ MDNI, trigger warning: explicit discussion about eating disorder and body dysmorphia, dom!max, sub!reader, size kink, this is just a shameless excuse for me to write smut about max's thighs
When you'd delivered one of your favourite patient's 3rd baby, handing over the healthy, crying pale blob (after thoroughly wiping it down because, you know) with a congratulations, Victoria, its a boy! you hadn't expected to catch the eye of the patient's very attractive, tall older brother at her side.
But as you walked off down the hallway once the baby checks were done, you were surprised to find Max stopping you with a large but gentle hand on your shoulder. You'd seen him a couple of times in Victoria's pregnancy, accompanying her and her husband at the ultrasound checks leading upto the delivery. You'd secretly thought he was so adorable with the way he handled his nieces and nephews patiently while his sister got scanned.
You'd also thought he looked positively delectable in his white linen shirt that highlighted his broad shoulders, and skinny jeans that clung to some of the thickest thighs you'd seen a man be blessed with. But making bedroom eyes at patient's hot family members was generally frowned upon (although not explicitly prohibited in the Hippocratic Oath, one could argue) so you promptly forgot about the handsome blonde 5 minutes later when the emergency bell went off.
But he stood before you that day, looking every bit as attractive as you remembered, even more so with a pink dusting on his cheeks as he asked if this was the last time you'd be looking after Victoria?
You tilted your head quizzically at him, your neck a little strained from looking up at his 6 foot frame from your 5"1 one. Yes it is, you informed him, and because new families often got anxious, you sweetly added that it was a good thing, to not see you again, because it meant darling Victoria and her baby are both healthy.
He confuses you again by saying that he was hoping to see you again. Oh! You smile excitedly, are you and your wife expecting? You pull out your clinic card and tell him that you're actually all booked out for the year but you'll make an exception for Victoria's brother.
His blush deepens. (Somewhere in a hospital broom cupboard, Lando Norris was filming this scene unfold and cackling.) Max rapidly explained that he's not expecting. Oh, and he's not married. And also he doesn't have a girlfriend. Basically, I'm single - he finally stammers out. (Rizzless and bitchless, Lando texts him). Thankfully, at this point you had caught on that Max was trying to ask you out, and after a quick phone call to the legal team to confirm you were clear, you turn back around to inform him cheekily that he could pick you up at 8pm Friday night for dinner. (Wait, this actually worked? a flabbergasted Lando now texts.) The emergency pager then goes off so you gently tug on Max's shirt to hint that you want him to bring his face down, give him a goodbye kiss on the cheek, and sprint off to Ward 6.
The dinner goes perfectly, with Max's charm returning in full force after a G&T - Sorry about earlier, schat, you're such a gorgeous woman and a very smart doctor, it makes me nervous - leading to a 2nd date and then a 3rd and then to a weekend trip in a romantic Nice winery, where you can't resist jumping into his muscly arms after a glass of wine and demanding he have his way with you. (He does. Very thoroughly. Multiple times that night, and the morning after. Thinking about it still has you blushing.)
6 months later, you two are officially going out and you're making your first appearance as his girlfriend at the races. You had carefully dressed in a classy Mirror Palais dress, complete with matching heels to save your poor boyfriend having to bend down too much. You'd also become rather turned on at seeing your normally soft, gentle cat dad of a boyfriend turn into an absolute menace once the Redbull suit is zipped up, terrorising his way all the way to P1 and living up to his nickname of the Dutch lion. As his assistant guides you to the podium ceremony, you're stopped by various fans who compliment your outfit and ask for pictures. The media attention is very new to you, as Max had been very insistent on protecting your privacy as you two established yourselves as a couple. But everyone had been so nice today - until you started noticing the dirty looks thrown your way, glaring up and down your form. And then, a couple of snide comments from passing fans about how you were very confident to wear such a body hugging dress, especially with your curvy figure.
You roll your eyes at their clearly jealous tones, and walk over to the podium ceremony to greet your boyfriend. He breaks into an adorable grin when he sees you, his whole face lighting up as he easily scoops you up for a deep kiss. The cameras around you two go crazy, but don't pick up his whispers when he sets you down and leans in, telling you that you looked so pretty today, schat, he'd been staring at you so much GP had to tell him to focus, and how was your first race? nobody gave you a hard time, did they? You don't miss the way his eyes are attentively focused on your face, clearly still worried about the damage he had warned you about before you agreed to go public.
You aren't going to spoil his win over a couple of snide comments. Not at all, baby you reassure, before whispering back that he looked really hot in his tight fireproofs, could he pretty please bring them home later when you give him his reward for such a good performance on the track? The tip of Max's ears go pink as he struggles to maintain a straight face for the cameras. Giggling, you press a kiss to his cheek and murmur you'll see him after his interviews.
Later though, when Max is in his interview across the paddock and you're being introduced to the other WAGs, you can't help but notice how different they all look in their body hugging dresses compared to you. Although you wouldn't be called fat, you aren't slim either, and you're nowhere near the tiny, trim figures the other girls maintain. Once the seed of insecurity is planted, it's very hard to stop it growing out of control - and at each race or public event or launch party you attend at Max's side, you start to pick apart more and more insecurities about yourself. How you're so much shorter than the numerous models on the grid, making you feel childish and round compared to their lithe gracefulness. How their delicate collarbones and ribs can clearly be seen at all times, but yours only if you twisted your neck a certain way. And they're all so lovely, chatting eagerly with you and interested to hear about your work, asking if you'd take so-and-so on as a patient, you had a great reputation already even though you were a new doctor in Monaco! The conversations distract you from your worries for a bit.
But afterwards, when you'd be laughing at cat memes online and sending them to your boyfriend, you'd come across the paparazzi pics of you speaking to the WAGs and felt sick to your stomach at how huge you thought you looked compared to everyone else, clearly standing out as the plainest one amongst their flawless faces. Some of the comments agreed, saying that it was just sad that the best driver on the grid had the ugliest girlfriend, and couldn't Max buy his gf some ozempic with all his tax evasion money? Comments that would have made you laugh at the originality now suddenly had you sobbing, and you're glad you hadn't stayed at Max's tonight and had to explain the state you were in.
When you'd been younger, in college, you'd started struggling with managing your stress levels given you were a perfectionist working towards a very difficult medical degree. Having always been a stress eater, you frequently binged on junk food, and obviously ended up gaining quite a bit of weight. Your family and ex boyfriend had ridiculed you endlessly, and so the year after you had to work hard and lose it all, which you had managed to do. You'd mentioned this to Max in passing, a couple months into dating when he'd spotted an old college picture of you and muttered so fucking cute, pocketing it.
You didn't tell Max about how you'd lost the weight though - with a vicious binging and purging cycle for the better chunk of a year. You'd grown out of that "phase" once you'd left college, or so you thought - because it was almost too easy to slip back into it now, to enjoy the sick pleasure at barely eating all day and seeing the weight drop on the scale, then bingeing on whatever you wanted because it didn't count, you'd throw it up anyways. You had to be very careful with it this time round, because your boyfriend's attentive gaze had been fixed on you even more so than usual - noting how you've been wearing higher heels, how your dresses are still as gorgeous as ever but never body hugging anymore, how you spend hours before a race now perfecting your makeup instead of joining him in the garage and don't spend the nights at his anymore. You weasel your way out of his questions when he asks you repeatedly if everything was okay, schat?
But you weren't able to fool him any longer after attending a charity gala for one of his sponsors. You'd actually been happy with your appearance for once, pleased with your slimmer waist this month, but as the night went on you started to feel the fatigue of starving yourself catching up, leaning more and more into Max's side as he glanced at you with concern. Rubbing your back soothingly, he asked if you wanted to leave early, but you shook your head, murmuring you were okay, your feet just hurt a little is all. He frowned then, hating to see you in pain just to be dressed up for some stupid event he couldn't care less about. Bringing you to the empty lobby, he told you he was going to grab your coats and have the car brought round, end of discussion, you need to rest, okay liefje? You didn't have it in you to protest any longer so just nodded. You hadn't realised just how much you'd been leaning on him until he left, and as stars started entering your vision, Max returned just in time to catch you before you stumbled.
You felt him firmly grab your waist, fully supporting your weight as he led you out to the car, lowering you gently into the seat and even buckling you in. You started feeling a bit better inside his Aston Martin with the aircon on, nibbling on a high protein low calorie bar you'd stashed in your clutch. Regaining your alertness, you notice the tense atmosphere, with a stormy expression on Max's face as he drove rather furiously through the Monaco streets, his hand not even resting on your thigh like it usually did but gripping the wheel tightly. Maxie - you begin uncertainly, hoping to diffuse the tension and ask why he suddenly seemed upse, but he cuts you off with a terse Don't. Let's wait till we're home.
So you wait, until you're both walking in through the front door. Max rips off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves, but he still doesn't talk and instead heads to the kitchen. You follow him, sitting on a barstool to admire how he still looked so handsome in the fitted sky blue shirt and tight navy pants, even when he was clearly mad. As Max starts cooking, his back to you, he tells you about how growing up his sister Victoria had to go to therapy for a long time because she wouldn't stop throwing up every time she ate because their father told her she was too fat (despite looking like a buffalo himself, Max snorts as he sets down a simple but delicious plate of chicken pesto pasta with salad in front of you), about how Max has seen countless girlfriends on the paddock purposely avoid eating all day, including his already stick thin model exes, and how Max himself would be called fat every month or the other by some trashy gossip magazine, because the media is just fucking toxic, he hisses. This is why I wanted to keep us hidden away from the cameras. He glances pointedly at your plate, where you've eaten the salad and chicken and not touched your pasta. You sigh and pick up your fork, slowly working your way through the food as you tell him that you suppose your diet had somewhat...spiralled out of control, but honestly, Max, I'm completely fine, and you two can't avoid the cameras forever given how he's the frickin F1 winner at all-
Don't tell me that you're fine. Do you really think I don't know what's going on? Max demands tersely with crossed arms. Finally finished with your meal, you hop off the stool to neatly place your plate in the sink, ignoring his question. Standing behind you, he watches you wash the dishes, still not even reaching his chin, even in those damn 6 inch heels you're still wearing. You do respond when he asks you just why you're putting your body through such torture.
C'mon, Max you say with an eyeroll, You know why, I need to lose some weight, I'm so much heavier compared to all the other girls and all your exes, and you deserve to have a girlfriend who looks-
Don't tell me what I do or don't deserve, schat. I always want the best and that's why I picked you. You're really gonna question the choice of a world champion, hmm? Max's deep voice is now right by your ears as he leans down behind you. You feel a shiver run up the back on your spine as he curls his huge arms possessively around your waist and thighs. He continues his whispers, his hands roaming up to your plush tits and another squeezing your ass, telling you You're so goddamn pretty. Every single part of you, just for me, making you bite your lip and breathily moan from his affections - it'd been a while since he'd had his way with you with all your avoidance, after all.
You feel him slowly unzip your dress, and the silk easily falls to the ground, leaving you only in your stiletto heels and a deep red lingerie set he’d gifted you for your 3 month anniversary. You tense, already feeling self conscious, but before you can say anything Max has wrapped a large hand around your waist and easily flipped you around to sit on the kitchen counter. You gasp from the action, hands automatically going to rest on his broad shoulders as your face comes level with his.
I haven’t made it clear just how lucky I am to have such a beautiful girl all to myself, schat, Max says huskily, before pulling away to unbutton his shirt, his blue eyes darkening as they roam over your pretty tits spilling over in the lacey bra, over your cute plush tummy, and over those deliciously soft thighs he adores. His hungry stare is really starting to drive you wild now, and you beg at him to hurry up and finish undressing. Chuckling, he throws his pants to the side as well, now only wearing his tight boxers. He pulls you forward on the counter so you're flush against him. See what you do to me, sweet girl? Hmm? he grinds the very prominent bulge in his boxers against your own damp core, making you gasp. You get me so hard and you haven't even touched me yet, that's the kind of power you have over me.
At his words, you don’t hold back from running your hand all along Max’s well defined chest. Your boyfriend is so much bigger than you and it's incredibly sexy. He towers over you easily with his 6 foot frame, all wide shoulders and swollen biceps and muscled thighs, and you don't hide the hypnotised look in your eyes as you trace from his thick neck down to his slutty waist, desire and desperation coursing through you, replacing any inhibitions you'd had earlier.
He grasps one of your wandering hands in his own, his larger palm easily dwarfing your tiny one and making you bite your lip at the difference in size. His attentive gaze doesn't miss this either, and with a low hmm he brazenly asks if you found it as hot as he did, the fact that you were the perfect size for him to snap into half if he wanted? He knows he's got you right where he wants as your pupils go wide with desire, breath hitching at the thought of your big boyfriend using his strength against you for once.
Then he's pulling apart your pretty little set, lace ripping and a large hand easily wraps around your entire throat, pulling you into a breathless kiss that has you moaning at his skilled tongue. You barely have time to collect yourself when he suddenly lifts you up by the waist, biceps flexing, and you widen as you're lifted impossibly high in the air and find yourself straddling his thick shoulders, his face now at the perfect height to bury his tongue into your dripping pussy right in front of him. Max! you squeal, utterly ruined by his impressive display of strength. You're desperately scrambling for purchase at the cabinets behind you, head banging back against the wall as he relentlessly thrusts his wicked tongue into your puffy folds.
And he only sets you down after you cum obediently all over greedy lips like he demands you to do, then gently carries your shaky form to the bedroom to show you multiple more examples of how you were just made to take him, truly the perfect girl for him, weren't you? You'd been too blissfully fucked out by that point to form a coherent response.
Needless to say, you find yourself caring very little next time strangers had anything to say about the way you looked, thanks to Max's hands on affections (he'd also taken you to therapy like the supportive boyfriend he was, bless him.) He'd quickly formed a personal favourite method to prove to you just how desperate he was for you and how you had the world champion in the palm of your hand, whenever he saw that look flicker into your eyes from time to time. He'd take you back home, make you undress yourself for his hungry gaze, then lift you up into his arms, folding your thighs up against your waist from where he held them. You’d moan as he slid into you, bouncing your whole body onto his hard cock like you were a ragdoll, making you scream his name endlessly as he fucked you mid-air.
And sometimes, when he was feeling particularly possessive, he'd flip you around, pressing your back to his toned chest, as he made you watch with him in the mirror how he obscenely slid in and out of your dripping pussy. Whispering in your ear that see, like he had told you, he had such good taste, don't I, schat? And as you met his heated gaze through the reflective surface, clenching around him when you saw the pure love and raw desire in his eyes, you couldn't help but agree.
---------------------------------------------------------
A/N: guys can you guess I have a thing for boys who are big. Big boys, if you well. Someone just let me sit on Max’s lap goddamn 💸💸 as always lmk what you think and if u have any requests!!
“can you watch my boyfriend for a sec?” ❁
f1 grid x fem!reader
summary: TikTok trend with the grid!!
authors note: saw the carlos one and knew i had to write about it!! his reaction made me laugh!! i also just saw mclaren do it to oscar!! i hope the other teams do it to their drivers as well!! also first time writing for seb, jenson, and daniel, i had the time so i said why not?!any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!
f1 masterlist
Lewis
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to grab something from the car."
You head out, leaving Lewis alone in front of your phone's camera. He looks around, slightly bewildered.
"What? Y/N who’s on the phone? Uh, hey there. I guess I'm being watched. So... how's everyone doing? Good? Cool. Uh, any Mercedes fans here?" He starts talking about his day and how Roscoe is doing, trying to entertain the 'audience'. "Alright, she'll be back any minute now... right?"
Max
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to take out the trash."
Max raises an eyebrow as you walk away. He looks at the phone, unsure of what to say.
"Huh? Um, okay. This is weird. Hi, everyone….I guess…..Y/N what is this?! Who’s on the phone? So…what do we do now? Should I... talk about racing? Or... maybe I could just sit here…?" He awkwardly shuffles in his seat, checking his watch. "How long does it take to throw out the trash? Y/N come back! I don’t know what to say or do!"
Lando
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to get a drink from the kitchen."
Lando grins as you walk away, immediately knowing the TikTok trend. He leans in closer to the camera.
"Hey, TikTok! I was wondering when Y/N was going to do this trend on me! What have you guys been up to? Should I prank her back? Give me some ideas in the comments!" He starts to look around, trying to find something to do. "Should I play some games on my computer or maybe I'll hide and jump out when she gets back?"
Oscar
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to get my food."
Oscar blinks, looking at the phone and then at the door you just walked towards. He frowns slightly.
"Huh? What….okay? Uh, hi? I guess you guys are going to watch me eat my breakfast…Not sure what I'm supposed to do here. Should I be saying something interesting?" He scratches his head, and moves his food around, clearly uncomfortable. "So, did you guys have breakfast yet? I hope you did, breakfast is important….uhhh yea. Y/N!! Babe!! Come back!! I don’t know what to do!!"
Charles
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to take a call."
Charles watches you leave, then looks at the phone, confused but trying to be polite.
"Uh? Wait what? Hello, everyone. I guess your...on watch duty?" He laughs nervously. "This feels strange. Maybe I should sing a song? Or talk about Ferrari? Oh, I know, I'll play some music on my piano!" He moves towards the piano, but then hesitates. "Wait, how long is this call going to be? Y/N! Baby!!"
Carlos
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to make a smoothie."
Carlos looks at the camera, then at the direction you went, raising an eyebrow.
“What is this? Hello? Anyone there? Who were you talking to? Y/N?! Uhhhh hi… Wait, a smoothie? Bebe make me one too please! Okay, hi everyone. This is Carlos, just here... being watched?" He starts looking around, picking up random items on the table. "So, let me show you my favorite things on this table. This is a cool pen, and this is... a coaster. Fascinating, right?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "This is so weird. How long does making a smoothie take anyway?"
Sebastian
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to water the plants."
Sebastian gives you a puzzled look as you leave and then turns to the camera, smiling politely.
"What?! Y/N what is this? Hello? Hello? Anywhere there? I’m confused… Y/N!! Who were you talking too? Honey? … Um, hello everyone… I guess I'm under surveillance now." He chuckles. "So, while she's watering the plants, let's talk about... sustainability! Did you know you can make your own compost at home? It's really simple and great for your garden." He starts explaining the process, gesturing enthusiastically. "I hope she comes back soon because I might run out of eco-friendly tips! Oh wait!! I know! Let me show you my bees!!"
Jenson
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to grab the mail."
Jenson watches you leave with a bemused smile, then looks at the phone.
"Ummm what?! Babe? Y/N? Hello? Uhhh..hey there. So, I guess I need to be watched for a minute. You guys are in babysitting duty? Let’s see... what can I do to entertain you?" He glances around and spots his dogs. "Hey, meet my dogs! Come here babies!." He tries to get their attention but Bentley and Rouge ignore him, while Storm walks up to him, just to sit and stare at him. "Well, that didn’t go as planned. I guess they’re tired from playing this morning. Oh well, maybe next time! Isn’t that right Storm." he says putting down the camera.
Daniel
You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to fix something in the bathroom."
Daniel immediately grins and laughs as you walk away, sensing a prank.
“Huh? Babe? What? Oh wait! It’s that TikTok trend!! Alright, what’s up TikTok, what's going on? He starts making funny faces at the camera and then leans in closer. "I have no idea what to talk about. This is so stupid and awkward.” He says bursting out laughing. He keeps glancing towards the bathroom, barely containing his laughter. "Babe come back!!"
© 23victoria 2024 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate, or claim my work as your own.
The Wrong Letter
Lewis Hamilton x Reader
Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?
Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!
THE WRONG LETTER
The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent
⸻
The flat is still.
There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.
Exhaustion lives in your bones now.
Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.
You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.
It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.
You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.
You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.
⸻
Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.
You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.
I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.
Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.
But that version of you never existed, did he?
No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.
I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.
So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me
⸻
You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.
M. Hamilton
312 Grafton Way London NW1
You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.
You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.
It says:
L. Hamilton
213 Grafton Lane London NW1
You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.
But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.
It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”
⸻
A Week Later — Monaco
He notices the envelope right away.
It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.
L. Hamilton
He sighs.
Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.
Still, something about it makes him pause.
He’s been restless lately.
Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.
And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.
Then twice.
Then again—slower.
By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.
The words dig beneath his ribs.
It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.
The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.
He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.
He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.
And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.
⸻
He stares at the letter again the next morning.
He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.
But he did.
Twice.
And now—again.
He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”
Same.
Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.
The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.
And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.
She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.
She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.
Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?
He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.
Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.
It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.
And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.
I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.
You didn’t do that.
You just wrote.
And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.
I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.
If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.
Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.
If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.
—L
He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.
Just an initial.
Nothing else.
No fame. No clues.
Just words.
He hesitates before sealing it.
He could throw it away.
He probably should.
But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.
The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.
⸻
Back in London – Three Days Later
You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.
It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.
Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.
You write back that night. Just one line:
Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.
⸻
It becomes a ritual.
You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.
Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.
⸻
Letter #2
Dear L,
I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.
And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.
You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.
Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.
I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.
⸻
Letter #3
Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:
I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.
I forgot how much I hate almond milk.
As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.
My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.
(...That’s probably too much information.)
This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.
And I think that says something.
Still writing, —L
P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.
⸻
It keeps going.
Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.
You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”
You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.
He picks up on it. Of course he does.
⸻
Letter #5
Dear Y/I,
I think we forget how brave softness is.
Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—
You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.
Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L
(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)
You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.
You don’t know what this is.
But you know it’s becoming something you need.
You write back the same night.
⸻
Letter #6
Dear L,
It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.
I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.
I wanted to tell you.
And I don’t even know your face.
But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.
So I’m sending you something too.
It’s small. But it made me think of you.
— Y/I
(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)
⸻
And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.
You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.
Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.
⸻
Letter #12
Dear L,
I thought about deleting this letter.
I still might.
But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.
There was someone.
He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.
He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.
But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.
But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I
He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.
He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.
He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.
But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.
⸻
Letter #13
Dear Y/I,
I don’t know if this will help, but...
You don’t speak in whispers anymore.
Not to me.
Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.
And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.
But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.
You’re not nothing.
I hope you never forget that
—L
And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.
Sometimes soft.
Sometimes raw.
Always honest.
⸻
Letter #15
Dear L,
I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.
To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.
You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.
Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.
It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.
And I think... that’s more important.
— Y/I
⸻
Letter #16
Dear Y/I,
There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.
But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”
I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.
But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it just has to be honest.
Like us.
—L
(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)
⸻
You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.
And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.
⸻
You don’t set an alarm anymore.
Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.
You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.
It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.
You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.
You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.
It holds his letters now.
You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.
⸻
Your day unfolds the way it always does.
You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.
You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.
You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”
You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.
⸻
At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.
“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.
You shrug. “Not really.”
“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.
You fight the smile. “Maybe.”
“God, you’re such a romantic.”
“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”
She gives you a look but lets it go.
⸻
The school day ends.
You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.
And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.
Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.
You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.
⸻
Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.
Inside?
A note.
And a photo.
⸻
Dear Y/I,
It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.
But I found a little moment of stillness.
I thought you might like it.
You feel like stillness, sometimes.
Like breath.
More soon.
—L
(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)
You press the photo to your chest. And smile.
⸻
He wakes up in yet another hotel.
He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,
it’s Barcelona.
The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.
He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.
Another debrief after that.
Then sim work.
Then setup.
Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.
He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.
There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.
Always does now.
Wherever he goes.
Just in case.
He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.
“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”
He smiles.
And exhales.
⸻
The paddock is chaos.
People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.
He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.
He does the dance.
But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.
Back to her.
To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”
He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.
⸻
He takes photos quietly.
A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)
He frames the shot. Clicks.
And hears a voice behind him.
“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”
He jumps slightly, turning.
It’s Charles.
His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.
“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”
Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”
“Yeah. Personal one.”
Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”
“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.
Then, without thinking, he adds:
“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”
Charles tilts his head. “She?”
Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”
Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”
“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”
But he’s smiling.
Because that’s what she does to him.
Makes the world feel quiet again.
Even here.
⸻
That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.
He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.
⸻
Dear Y/I,
Today was loud.
The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.
But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.
I think you’re right.
This isn’t much.
But it made me feel quiet.
And when I feel quiet, I think of you.
—L
(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)
He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.
He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.
⸻
The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.
⸻
Letter #28
Dear Y/I,
I don’t know what this is anymore.
And I don’t mean that in a bad way.
It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.
I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.
(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.
Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.
Still yours,
—L
⸻
You read that letter three times.
Then again the next morning.
You walk through your day differently now. More alert.
More tender.
You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.
⸻
Letter #29
Dear L,
You said you don’t know what this is anymore.
I don’t either.
But I know what it’s not.
It’s not nothing.
And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.
Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...
You already saw it.
You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.
And that scares me.
But it also makes me feel whole.
— Y/I
P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.
⸻
Letter #30
Dear Y/I,
This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.
I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.
So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.
But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching?
To just be a man next to a woman he respects.
Not a name.
Not a brand.
Just L.
(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)
— Still just L
⸻
You reread that paragraph.
“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”
Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.
You could.
But you don’t.
Because whatever this is—it’s enough.
And you trust him.
⸻
Letter #31
Dear L,
When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.
“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”
I found them again last week.
And I cried.
Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.
You didn’t fix me.
But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.
You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.
And still—you see me.
More clearly than anyone else has.
— Y/I
⸻
He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.
The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.
But none of it matters.
Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:
That he matters without being anyone else.
That she wants him, not the idea of him.
That she’s ready.
And just like that—
He knows.
It’s almost time to tell her who he is.
⸻
It was raining the day you wrote the draft.
Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.
This was the kind of rain that felt mean.
That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.
It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.
You were already crying before you picked up the pen.
And you shouldn't have written it.
But you did.
Not to him.
Just... to yourself.
A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?
You wrote:
Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.
You folded it.
Slid it into your drawer.
You didn’t sign it.
Didn’t intend to send it.
You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.
You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.
⸻
Four days later — Monaco
He gets home late.
The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.
He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.
Her letter is there. Waiting.
He smiles before he even opens it.
But the smile fades.
Line by line.
Word by word.
He reads the first sentence.
And stops.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”
It feels like a slap.
Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.
A joke.
A mistake.
A test.
But it’s just... her.
Questioning all of it.
All of him.
And he—
He doesn’t know what to do.
⸻
He doesn't reply.
Not right away.
Not at all.
He wants to write something. Anything.
But the words won’t come.
Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.
So he doesn’t write.
He disappears.
⸻
A Week Later
You feel it before you know it.
The silence.
It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.
You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.
And then it comes.
One envelope.
No letter inside.
Just a photo.
A paper airplane.
Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.
And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:
I didn’t know I was disposable.
You sink to the floor.
The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”
Because it wasn’t meant for him.
That letter—
That damn letter—
Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.
You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.
And there it is.
The real one.
The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:
You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.
You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.
Too late.
You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:
“Please come back.”
⸻
Days pass.
Then a week.
Then two.
You don’t write.
Not because you don’t want to.
But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?
“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?
“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?
“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?
You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.
You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.
But tonight—
You do.
You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.
And then...
You write.
⸻
Letter #32
Dear L,
I sent you the wrong letter.
That’s the truth.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.
It wasn’t supposed to be you.
That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.
But I sent it.
And I know how it must’ve sounded.
Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.
But I didn’t. I don’t.
I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.
I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.
You gave me my voice back.
And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.
I understand if that’s unforgivable.
But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:
You are not disposable.
You never were.
You are everything.
And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.
Come back. — Y/I
⸻
You don’t send it.
Not right away.
You fold it.
Place it inside the box. And wait.
⸻
Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco
He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.
Even though it hurts.
He’s been quiet too long.
Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.
Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.
But then—
He finds her real letter.
Not on purpose.
It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.
He flips it open.
And there it is.
The handwriting.
His heart stops.
He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.
And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.
She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.
And that—
That’s what finally breaks him.
He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.
⸻
The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.
Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.
And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.
He won.
But it feels empty.
⸻
TWO DAYS EARLIER
“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.
“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”
He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”
Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”
He’s not.
He hasn’t been for a while.
It’s been almost two months since her last letter.
Or rather, since his last letter.
The one he didn’t send.
He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.
⸻
Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.
They’ve got a shot at pole.
Maybe more.
Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.
His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”
He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”
“That’s not the same as being present.”
He finally lifts his eyes.
She softens. “Still thinking about her?”
He swallows. Doesn’t answer.
“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”
Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”
He looks away.
⸻
RACE DAY
The car feels good.
Better than it has in weeks.
Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.
Maybe it's adrenaline.
Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.
He takes the win.
First place.
Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.
And maybe he did.
But it’s not the world he wants to save.
⸻
That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.
And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.
⸻
Dear Y/I,
It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.
And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.
Because I was a coward.
Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.
But if I’m being honest? I
stopped writing because I was scared.
I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.
I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.
But you didn’t leave me.
I left you.
And I’m sorry.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve asked.
I should’ve told you the truth.
—
I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.
—
You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.
—
I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.
I miss you.
Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head.
You.
Whatever name you wear.
Whatever face you have.
You are already mine in every way that matters.
—
I got something.
A tattoo.
I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.
You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”
I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.
A becoming.
And I want you to see it.
—
If you never write back, I’ll understand.
But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—
I’m ready.
I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.
I want all of it.
Not in fragments.
Not in metaphors.
You.
Please let me come home.
—L
(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)
⸻
You wake up with paint on your hands.
Dried glitter on your temple.
Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.
It’s been 51 days since your last letter.
52 since you heard from him.
You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.
You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.
But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.
You still miss him.
And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.
⸻
8:02 AM — Your Classroom
“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”
You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.
“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.
“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”
You smile, and feel your throat close.
You used to write like that.
⸻
10:14 AM — Playground Duty
You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.
Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”
You nod. “Fine.”
“Liar.”
You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”
Ana stays quiet.
Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”
⸻
12:45 PM — Staff Room
You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.
“Delivery for you.”
You frown. “Here?”
She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”
Your heart stops.
You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.
It’s heavy. Dense.
Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.
Just your initial.
Your hands shake.
You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.
Ten pages.
Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.
The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.
Tears fall silently.
You clutch the pages to your chest.
You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”
And for the first time in 52 days—
You let yourself hope.
⸻
6:04 PM — Your Flat
You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.
Your hands are still shaking.
You grab your best pen.
A blank page. And write.
⸻
Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.
I think I do.
It’s real.
It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.
It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.
It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.
It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.
Because you heard it.
And then you answered.
You said you want to hear my voice.
You said you want to see my face.
So let’s.
Let’s stop hiding behind paper.
Let’s meet.
Let’s begin.
You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.
And I think we’re meant to do it together.
— Y/I
P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.
(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)
⸻
Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply
You don’t expect a response this fast.
But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.
You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.
⸻
Letter #33
Dear Y/I,
I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.
I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.
But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”
So here’s the truth:
I want to see you.
I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.
I want to meet you too.
And I think we’re ready.
So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.
Saturday. 11AM.
There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.
I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.
If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.
That way... I’ll know it’s you.
And if you don’t come—
I’ll sit there for an hour.
I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.
But if you do come—
Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L
P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.
⸻
You press the letter to your chest.
Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.
You don’t even hesitate.
⸻
The Night Before
You can’t sleep.
You try. God, you try.
You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.
Your mind won’t stop.
What if he’s not what you imagined?
What if you’re not?
What if it’s perfect?
You finally fall asleep around 3AM.
You wake at 6.
Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.
The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.
⸻
Meanwhile — Monaco
Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.
His hands are shaking.
He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”
He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.
The tattoo is healing.
He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.
It’s not for her.
It’s for him.
Just four words:
"Be who she knows.”
⸻
Back to Present – The Bookstore
You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.
You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.
You check your reflection in the bookshop window.
You look the same.
But you’re not.
Not since him.
Not since the letters.
The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.
You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.
You sit.
And wait.
⸻
11:08 AM
He’s standing outside the shop.
His heart is a percussion instrument.
He walks past once.
Then again.
He almost turns back.
But then he sees it—
Through the window.
You.
Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.
And he knows.
⸻
The bell rings.
You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like
something tectonic shifts.
Your mouth parts just slightly.
He’s real.
More real than you ever imagined.
He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.
His lips lift, soft and unsure.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” you whisper, standing.
Neither of you moves.
Then—he laughs once.
Nervously.
“This is weird, right?” he says.
“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.
He glances at your necklace.
“You wore it.”
“You told me to.”
He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”
You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.
You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.
“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.
“Disappointed?” he teases gently.
You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”
He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”
You nod.
And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.
⸻
You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
You’re trying to breathe normally.
“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
Your heart drops slightly.
“You’re... more.” he finishes.
You smile. “That was a save.”
“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”
“And now?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
“You’re better than magic.”
Your throat catches.
“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”
He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”
You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.
“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”
You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”
You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.
Then you grow serious again.
“This... is real,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah. It is.”
You look down. “So what now?”
He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.
“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”
You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”
He grins.
“I’ll write the first line.”
⸻
EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED
The flat is quiet.
Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.
But the house always feels different when he’s gone.
He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”
You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...
...and there it is.
A folded note.
His handwriting.
You already know what it is.
⸻
Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.
Mostly because I get to tell you now.
But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—
God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.
And who we still are.
You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.
And I’ll write you forever.
— Me
⸻
You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.
He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”
You don’t say anything.
You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”
⸻
Later That Week
It’s raining.
You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.
And you find it.
Tucked in a notebook.
No envelope.
No note.
A Polaroid.
Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.
A letter on a table.
Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.
You flip it over.
Two words.
“I waited.”
And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?
He’s here.
THE END.
⸻
THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK
1. His First Polaroid
Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."
2. Hers
A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."
3. His – From Somewhere Quiet
A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.
→ No words. Just breath.
4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention
A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."
5. His – The Near Reveal
A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."
6. Hers – Come Back
Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."
7. His – The Tattoo
Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”
→ No caption. Just the truth.
8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”
His Most Prized Possession
Pairing || Dark!Mob!Bucky x Wife!Reader
Summary || You’re the wife of the most feared man in all of New York City, James Buchanan Barnes, the mob boss of the biggest mafia in town. Your his—his girl, his beauty, his love, his property, his most prized possession. He will torture and kill anyone who dares to make any advances on his woman, and he won’t hesitate to show them who you belong to in the most sinful way possible before their end…
Word Count || 8876
Contents & Warnings || Fluff, Smut, Angst, Dark Themes — NSFW, 18+ Only, Minors DNI, slight dub-con, Dark!Jealous!Possessive!Bucky, angry/vicious!Bucky, soft!Bucky, mob/mafia business, mention of drugs/alcohol, violence, implied use of weapons, implied torture, blood, murder, crying, use of force, graphic/explicit content/language, pet names (doll, baby, babe, princess + others), unprotected vaginal sex, exhibition kink, forced voyeurism, daddy kink, spit kink, degradation & praise kink, use of the word whore, dom/sub dynamics, oral (m & f receiving), teasing, begging, face/throat fucking, gagging, fingering, spanking, choking, rough fucking, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cum swallowing, creampie, mention of bodily fluids, aftercare.
Authors Note || After a lot of work it’s finally done! I’m so proud of this! Please enjoy this twisted and sinful journey! Feedback would be so much appreciated on this piece <3 I want to know what you think!
Disclaimer || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!
Mob!Bucky Masterlist
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The Underground Lounge
It was the most high-profile club in all of New York City. A place for criminals, the filthy rich, politicians and like-minded people to converge in secrecy for whatever they desire with no repercussions, whether that be alcohol, drugs, women, sex or just a fun time. Everything and anything went down here.
The club was nestled deep below The Blend nightclub, which acted as a cover for the underworld of crime below.
They were both owned by James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky amongst friends and loved ones. The most feared man in all of the city and the mob boss of the biggest and baddest mafia in town. He was also your husband. Your dangerous, vicious and sexy husband.
You and Bucky would usually be at the club on the weekends for some party and fun, which you were right now.
The VIP area that was only reserved for Bucky and company was slightly elevated over the rest of the club—giving Bucky the best view to look over his domain. It also showed the guests that they were nothing compared to the boss sitting on the high throne. The VIP area had an abundance of seating places—fitting several people. All compacted in a sizeable curved couch with a low circular table in the middle to put drinks on or other substances, for that matter. There was also enough space for Bucky’s security to keep a lookout over the club and its activities.
Today it was only you and Bucky attending. No friends, no other company, except for your security detail.
With a good percentage of alcohol in your system, you and he were all over each other—lips sloppily crashing into one another as you moaned and groaned into each other's mouths and hands roamed both your bodies.
You'd unbuttoned a few buttons of his white long-sleeved shirt—wanting to feel his collarbone and chest underneath your fingertips as you made out. His dark blue velvet dress jacket was tossed to the side long ago. Your other hand rested delicately on top of his covered bulge—palming him ever so often.
Bucky’s hand kept a tight grip on your naked upper thigh; the short little dress you wore barely covered anything, giving him easy access to your skin. His other held your throat gently in his grasp, making it impossible to move away from him not that you wanted to.
Ever so slightly, he inches his way higher up your thigh, hicking your dress up with his moves, as he caressed your delicate skin with his rough hands, making you moan and whimper into his mouth. His end goal was to get into your panties—wanting to force his fingers knuckle-deep into you and have you make a mess all over them.
It wasn't unusual for him and you to get a little naughty together in the club. On multiple occasions, you'd have his fingers deep inside your pussy or straddle his lap to grind yourself on his clothed cock. And occasionally giving him a handjob here and there.
You'd think he would be against having you so exposed to everyone’s prying eyes since he was always so protective and possessive over you in day-to-day life. But on the contrary, he loved showing you off here. It gave him the power to assert his dominance over you and make everyone know that you're his—his girl, his beauty, his love, his property and his most prized possession.
This was his club—his rules—his everything. Everyone knew not to mess with the mob boss's precious wife. Not unless they had a death wish.
Your body tingled in anticipation of having his digits buried deep inside you. You were so ready for it. So needy for it, but… God, did you really have to pee now, urgently.
“Bucky.”
His name came out in a moan rather than a plea for him to stop with his touches, making him think you wanted more. He swiped your damp panties with his thumb while his lips assaulted your neck with licks, kisses and bites, making you whine even more.
“Bucky!”
You placed your hands on his chest, shoving him lightly off you, making him stop with his kisses and retract his hand from under your dress.
“What!”
An annoyed tone was laced in his voice, but that quickly turned into concern as he thought something was wrong.
“What is it, baby?”
His thumb caressed your cheek lovingly as he tried to search your face for any discomfort. There was none, so he didn’t understand why you'd make him stop.
“I just really need to go pee.”
He nodded his head in understanding and was about to call for one of the security to accompany you, but you stopped him before he could.
“No! I can go on my own.”
“Doll…”
He cocked his head to the side. He didn’t like that. He didn’t want you going on your own.
Although the club was a safe space for you to wander around due to everyone knowing who you were and not daring to approach you under any circumstances, Bucky still wanted you looked after due to the reason that occasionally a rouge and unwanted person managed to get into the club, despite the tight security, and cause chaos and bothering the other club patrons. But that rarely happened, and right now, you just wanted to go on your own without having anyone on your tail all the time.
“Please, Bucky,” you pleaded with those puppy-dog eyes you knew he couldn't resist, “if I'm not back in 15 minutes, you can come and find me.”
“Alright, princess,” he pecked your lips, “but hurry back to me, baby,” and once more, “because I need to bury my fingers in your tight little pussy….”
He cupped your core harsh, making you moan out at the roughness. Bucky groaned out as he touched what belonged to him.
“... my tight little pussy.”
He growled in your ear, making the hairs on your neck stand and your core pulsate at his filthy words.
“I’ll be right back, babe.”
You gave him one last peck before you got up and fixed your dress—the material had bundled up your hips entirely. Bucky gave you a light tap on your ass before you walked away in search of the bathroom.
You did your business in the bathroom and freshened up before walking out to the club’s main area.
Bucky hadn't left his positing from the VIP area. His leg was crossed over the other, and his arms rested on the back of the couch while he looked calm and relaxed. You wanted to take advantage of your freedom and decided to get a quick drink at the bar before returning to him.
You made your way to the bar that was settled in the middle of the club while swaying your hips to the music playing. Luckily, the bar wasn't packed, so it should be a quick deal.
You order the drink and make yourself comfortable with your elbows on the bar counter, squeezing your breasts together, almost exposing them entirely. Your ass poked out behind you—the dress so tiny and short that it almost showed your entire ass.
You knew everyone had their eyes on you, thirsting and yearning for you—for something they knew they could never have, and that's what you loved so much about it. In this club, you loved being a little cock-tease to everyone—it made you feel powerful.
While waiting for your drink, you scanned and observed the club’s guests. Most of them you'd seen before and recognised—politicians with their mistresses, criminals making shady deals with each other, and some new faces you'd never seen before. Everyone looked to be in great spirit and having fun tonight.
“My, my… don't you look pretty tonight.”
A deep, smooth voice murmured in your ear, making you jump out of your skin a little at the roughness of it. You thought it was Bucky for a second, but the voice didn’t match quite right. When you spun around, you found yourself caught in an intense gaze by a man. Usually, you'd back away and decline any stranger like that, but something about him just made your whole being scream in need.
The man oozed danger, sex and confidence—all things you loved and had gotten so used to with Bucky. So you couldn't help yourself when you got ensnared in this stranger's trap. You knew you shouldn't talk to this man. Bucky would be pissed if he found out. But Bucky wasn't here right now, and the drink should be done any second, so you decided to play along and then would politely decline once it was time. Bucky would never know.
“Well, hello to you, stranger.”
You batted your eyelashes at him and gave him your most appetising smile and gestures you could muster up, popping your hip out and tilting your head to the side, wanting to play a bit dirty and rile him up.
“My, you're the prettiest little thing in this whole club.”
He came closer, almost pinning you against the bar with his massive frame. He licked his lips as his eyes travelled across your whole body. This man was playing a dangerous game in approaching you like that—intentions clearly sexual.
He presented his hand, and you took it gladly, shaking it.
“The names Roman,” he brought your hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it while maintaining eye contact, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Roman?
Roman?
You'd heard that name before, but you couldn't quite put your finger on who he was. It was such an unusual name that you would think with such a name, you'd remember who it belonged to, but your mind was completely blank. It must be the alcohol and the intense surge of sexual energy you were experiencing.
“The pleasure is all mine, Roman,” you gave him your name, which made him smirk when he heard it.
“That's a beautiful name, princess. What brings you to this club, sweet thing?”
“Oh, I-”
The conversation was cut abruptly by someone grabbing Roman’s shoulder and pulling him away from you, turning him to face whoever it was.
You gasped.
Shit. It was Bucky.
His face was stone cold as he stared Roman down with absolute dark rage in his eyes. His fists clenched by his side—knuckles turning white.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Roman?” Bucky spat out while getting all up in his face.
Wait?
Bucky knew him?
Oh…
Oh!
Oh, no…
He was that Roman.
Shit. Now you remember.
He's the man that betrayed Bucky about a year ago and went to be with Bucky’s number one rivals instead. You remember at the time what kind of a toll it had taken on Bucky to be so gruesomely crossed.
This was not good. You felt so horrible and guilty now with the later knowledge of know this man was. How could you have forgotten him? Forgotten what he's done? You should have brushed him off instead of instigating his actions further.
You couldn't hear what they were saying because they were so up in each other's faces, but you could tell that it was a heated argument. You wondered what was being said. What kind of complications and events this would all lead to.
Suddenly, Bucky shoved him hard, and it looked like he would fight him right then and there. But he didn’t…
“You’re fucking dead, Roman,” Bucky uttered through gritted teeth.
Bucky came to your side and grabbed your arm hard. So hard that it hurt, and you winced and tossed to try and get out of his harsh grip, but he wouldn't budge. He pulled you back to the VIP area and ordered you to sit on the couch.
“Don't fucking move.”
His words were like poison, making you flinch at the absolute anger in his voice. Your eyes were becoming glossy—tears threatening to spill at any moment. You wrapped your arms around yourself for comfort.
How could you be so stupid? You should have just said no to Roman instead of acting like a fucking brat and whore—wanting to be a little cock tease for a man that wasn't even your man. You should have just been an obedient little wife and returned to your husband like you were supposed to.
Bucky was furiously talking to one of his men for several minutes. You saw how stressed, angry and fearful his demeanour was. His hand ran through his short hair multiple times. It was rare to see Bucky in this state. He was usually tough and determined, not bothered by what people said and did, and always in control of things. But it looked like Roman had really struck a sensitive nerve—said something that had put Bucky out of check.
When he was done conversing, he came back to you and took your hand, gently this time, and pulled you with him out of the main club area, not saying a thing. It looks like you were leaving. You went through the backdoor that was only used for you and Bucky and a selected few other people.
Once in the elevator, Bucky wrapped a protective arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his torso, still not saying anything. You wanted to say something. To plead for his forgiveness, but you felt awkward doing it in this tight place when you weren't alone. You would try and talk to him in the car when it was just the two of you.
Bucky ushered you into the backseat of the black luxury car, him getting in behind you. You weren't sure where you were going—home, most likely. The screen divider that separated the backseats and driver seat was up, so you were all alone, and you could finally try to talk to him.
“Bucky?”
You tried in a sweet and calm voice.
Nothing.
He pulled his phone out when it pinged with a message. His mouth remained in a thin line, eyebrows furrowed, with no emotions in his eyes as he typed on his phone before placing it inside his jacket.
“Bu-Bucky?”
Your weak voice cracked as his name came out in a sob this time.
“I-I’m so s-sorry. I-I shou-” You sobbed even more, unable to finish your sentence. You were about to cry any second, knowing that Bucky was mad and disappointed in you for being so stupid and reckless. You turned your head away from him, unable to look at his stern face.
“Doll…”
His voice was sweet compared to the poisonous one he used with you in the Underground. You thought he would yell at you once in the car. But it was the opposite. His loving and caring side surfaced—your wonderful husband that loved you beyond words.
“Baby…”
He grabbed your chin with his fingers and turned your head towards his. His eyes held nothing but love and adoration for you—his wife. His heart broke when he saw a few tears roll down your cheeks, your lips quivering.
“P-please d-don't be mad a-at me, Bucky.”
“Oh, baby… come here.”
He pulled you onto his lap and wrapped his strong arms around your waist. His head nuzzled in your neck as he laid tender kisses on the soft skin to try and soothe you,
“Mad at you? No, doll. I could never be mad at you, and I’m sorry it came across that way. I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you like that, my sweet love.”
“Bu-but, you seemed s-so angry at me. Angry for what I’d done and who I was talking to. I swear, Bucky, I forgot who he was, and I-I just-”
“Doll.” He made you rest your forehead on his. His piercing blue eyes focused deep into yours—showing you that he spoke the truth. “I’m not mad at you at all. Please don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s not your fault. Not even the slightest, ok? I love you, babydoll.”
“O-ok. I-I love you t-too, Bucky.”
He dried your tears while giving you a warm smile. “My precious girl.” He cradled your face in his hands and laid a light, comforting kiss on your lips. The kiss slowly progressed to a more passionate one—neediness and love poured into it.
The moment was quickly interrupted by Bucky’s phone pinging with a message in his jacket. He groaned as he fished it out to read it. You caught a glimpse and gasped when you saw what it said.
It's done.
You knew what it meant. It was the worst possible outcome following the events that unfolded in the club.
“Is, is he d-dead?”
“No, no, doll. They only questioned him, that's all.” Bucky tried to reassure you.
You knew what questioned meant. It meant that they had beaten the shit out of him, almost to the point of death. And although Bucky spoke the truth that Roman wasn't dead, he would be soon. Bucky never let something like what happened at the club go unpunished—people trying to cross his line. Certainly not when it comes to you. He would torture and kill anyone who made any advances on you, especially when they were fully aware of who you were and belonged to. And Roman most certainly knew what he was doing when he approached you. He wanted to provoke Bucky and test his limits. And now he would pay for it.
Maybe he didn’t think it through enough? Perhaps he thought he was safe because he was under the protection of Bucky’s rivals?
But one should never underestimate Bucky. He didn’t give a fuck who anyone belonged to, enemies or friends. If provoked, he would have you severely punished or, in the worst case, killed.
You shook your head—not wanting to think about it anymore. Instead, you lay your head on Bucky’s shoulder and close your eyes for the remaining car ride. His fingertips delicately caressing your arm lulled you to a relaxed and sleepy state…
———
“Doll,” his soothing voice murmured in your ear, pulling you out from the light sleep, “baby, we’re here.”
You softly moaned as you lifted your head and saw that you’d pulled into the garage of your penthouse—you were indeed home now. Luckily, because you were ready to cuddle up with your husband in bed and go to sleep in his loving and protective embrace.
“You want me to carry you?”
“N-no, I can go on my own.”
Once in the elevator, Bucky pressed the button for the roof terrace, not the apartment like you thought we would. You looked up at him. A confused expression on your face—eyebrows furrowed.
“Are we not going to bed yet?”
“Not yet,” he wrapped his arms around your shoulder, pulling you close to him, and kissed your head, “I have something I want to show you.”
What did he have to show you on the rooftop?
When the elevator arrived, Bucky took your hand and led you to the patio overlooking the light-filled city. Nothing looked unusual. Everything looked as it always did. There was no thing to show. So why did he bring you here?
“Bucky, what are we doing here?”
“Come.”
He led you to the very edge of the fence and wrapped his arms around you from behind. His head rested on your shoulder, and you leaned yours on his.
“Do you see, doll?”
“See what, Bucky?”
“The city!”
“Your city, babe.”
“Our city, baby girl. All of this is for you. Everything I do is for you. You and my undying love for you influence every decision I make in life.”
“James… you know I don't need any of this. I appreciate it, baby, you know that, but… I just need you.”
“I know, I only need you as well, but I just wanted you to know that we’re in this together. We can always count on each other. We will always have one another. Our love is powerful and unbreakable.”
“You know it, Bucky.”
You stood for a while longer. Staring out over your city as you swayed to imaginary music. Bucky’s lips graced your cheek as he whispered sweet nothings that had your heart burst with warmth, love and security.
Words can’t describe how much you loved this man. This vicious, menacing, murderous, but also affectionate, warm and joyous man. One would think such words couldn’t be combined to describe a man—that it doesn't fit. But Bucky was all those, and you wouldn’t change him for the world.
Your sweet bubble was interrupted by another notification on Bucky’s phone, making him groan in annoyance. He held one arm around your waist while the other retrieved his phone.
You couldn't see what it said this time, but he let out a groan of approval and then pulled you with him back to the elevator once he read it.
“Where are we going now? More surprises?”
“We’re just going to our room.”
Ah, finally. As much as you loved Bucky for bringing you up here and expressing his undying love for you, you really just wanted to snuggle up to him in bed now.
But once you arrived at your room, one of Bucky’s men was waiting by the door, which was highly unusual. You wondered what was going on. It probably had something to do about Bucky’s recent text message. Probably an update on Roman and his current… situation. But no matter what it was, you hoped it would be able to wait till the morning. You just wanted Bucky all to yourself now.
“Wait here, doll.”
You stood in place while Bucky approached his man. He whispered something to Bucky, and Bucky nodded before he called you over. The man bid you good night, and then it was finally just you and your husband.
“What was that all about, babe?”
“My love…”
He lay his hands on your shoulders, staring deep into your eyes with seriousness written all over his face.
What was going on?
Why was he acting so… strange?
“Yes, my dear?”
“Do you trust me?”
“I do, Bucky, with my life.”
“Would you do anything I ask of you?”
You didn’t like to admit it, but you would kill for this man if the situation ever occurred.
“I-I… yes.”
“Then come with me,” he presented his hand, and you took it without hesitation, “don't be alarmed.”
Alarmed?
He opened the door to your shared master bedroom. Your heart was pounding in your chest. Although you trusted Bucky, his behaviour was more abnormal than usual, which scared you slightly.
You expected to be met with something significant while walking into the room, but there was nothing in the dim-lit room. It was a little hard to see with the lights out, so you scanned the entire space to try and find the abnormality—from the huge windows lining the outer wall, to the bed, and finally, the other side of the room. And that's when you saw it.
You gasped out loud in horror, eyes wide like saucers when you saw a person in the darkened corner of your room. It was a man—beaten, bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair. His scream was muffled by something shoved into his mouth.
Oh my god… it was Roman…
“B-Bucky, wha-”
What was happening? This was wrong. This was so wrong on so many levels. Bucky never brought any of his mob business into your home. He always tried to shield you from that gruesome aspect of his world as best as possible. So what was he doing?
You backed away slowly but were stopped by colliding into Bucky’s chest. He grabbed your upper arms to keep your shaking form in place. His breath fanned your face while he whispered in your ear.
“Don’t be scared, my love.”
You were very much horrified by the sight of a bloodied and bruised man bound tight in your room. I mean, who wouldn't be?
“Wh-what i-is going o-on?”
You contemplated screaming and running away. If that's what you wanted, Bucky would have let you go—he would never force you into doing something you absolutely didn’t want. But you didn’t move a muscle. This situation intrigued you. Bucky’s vicious and twisted mind fascinated you.
Although you were the innocent and sweet one in the relationship, you had a slight devious nature to you as well. So you wanted to see what kind of plans Bucky had in store for bringing Roman into your privacy. What kind of things does he want to do. So you let go of all your worries and went with the flow.
With Bucky’s hand secured around your neck, craning your chin up to make you look at Roman. Bucky spoke, loud enough for Roman to hear as well, the most sinful, possessive and immoral words he's ever uttered—making you shamelessly aroused and almost crumble to the floor.
“He’s gonna watch us, doll, all powerless tied up in that chair as I do with you as I please. He’s gonna watch as I undress you and expose your beautiful flesh to his eyes. He’s gonna watch as I kiss, lick, suck and bite all over your skin. He’s gonna watch and hear as I make you moan, whimper and scream. He’s gonna watch as I fuck you hard, my wife. Claiming your body and soul as mine, and mine only.”
Fuck.
You were all in.
Bucky circled his arms around your waist and brought you closer to his firm chest. Very delicately, he started leaving kisses on your exposed shoulder, making you purr in delight. His feather-light kisses made goosebumps erupt on your skin. You craned your neck to the side, giving his lips more space to continue their journey further up. A loud moan of satisfaction escaped you as he became rougher with it—licking and sucking on your tender sweet spot.
In a swift motion, he removed your little dress—leaving you in your pretty underwear. His hands started roaming all over your exposed body, paying close attention to all your curves with his fingers—hips, waist and breasts—especially your breasts. He palmed them in his grasp and pinched your nipple through the material of your bra, making you wince out at the slight pain.
While one of his hands palmed your breast, the other ran down your stomach and found its way into your panties, making you gasp once his expert fingers found your aching core. He ran his fingers through your slick folds, groaning deeply in your ear, making the hairs at the back of your neck stand.
“Fuck, baby, already so wet and messy for me, huh? Did that turn you on, princess? My little speech about fucking you and claiming you as mine while he watches all helpless?”
“U-uh, huh.”
You were revelling in the pleasure your twisted and loving husband provided you that there was no way to form any coherent words, let alone sentences. It made Bucky chuckle in a sinister way at how absolute speechless he could make you with such simple touches.
Then it all stopped—his touches and kisses. You whined out in protest and were starting to turn around to see what was going on, but he stopped you by grabbing your upper arms and turning you towards Roman again.
“Stay still, baby.”
Thankfully, his delicate touches returned to your skin. His fingers ran from your shoulder and down until they met the clasp of your bra—unclasping it with no difficulty. The bra straps ran down your arms and hit the floor with a soft thud. Your breasts fully exposed to the two men.
With Bucky’s hands caressing your waist, he descended to the floor behind you. His fingers hooked into your panties and pulled them down your legs. Now, you were fully exposed; your parts that Bucky was so protective and possessive over came to light.
He left a wet kiss on each of your ass cheeks before travelling the kisses upward your naked back—until he stood straight up and wrapped his hand around your throat again, making you yelp and pay full attention to the man tied to the chair. Bucky spoke loud again for him to hear as well.
“This here is all mine. My body—my tits, my ass, my pussy,” he groped your wet and naked core, making you gasp out, “Only I will get to touch and take all of her as I please. Isn’t that right, baby girl?”
“I-it’s yours, B-Bucky, I-I belong to y-you.”
He turned you around and pulled your naked body flush into his clothed one. His hand grasped the back of your neck and brought your lips to his—hungrily kissing you, tongues caressing one another as you moaned and groaned into the heated and needy kiss. His other hand took hold of your ass cheek—altering between squeezing hard and delivering slaps to the plump flesh, which made you whimper into his mouth each time he did.
While still keeping your lips connected, Bucky manoeuvred you to the foot of the bed and removed his jacket while you helped with unbuttoning his white shirt—tearing it off his muscular body.
You roamed your hands all over his hard chest and stomach, moaning as you felt every curve and dip of his delicious muscles. While you touched him, Bucky went to work on getting his pants off.
“Let me.”
You descended to your knees, finding a comfortable place on the marble floor, and helped him tug his pants and underwear down. A satisfied gasp slips from your mouth as his hard cock springs to life—slapping against his belly.
“This cock belongs to me, doesn't it, daddy?” You mutter as you take a firm grasp on his base, and kitten lick his tip while looking up at him.
Bucky chuckled at your possessive nature, licking his lips. You could be just as possessive over Bucky as he was over you, and he loved it. He belonged to you as much as you belonged to him.
“You know it does, baby,” his hand cradled your face, “all of me belongs to you, body and soul.”
You pushed him down to sit on the foot of the bed, his hands on the mattress keeping his weight up. His eyes were fixated on your kneeling form as you nestled between his spread legs. The palm of your hands caressed his thighs up and down as you stared at his entire cock—your mouth watering at how delicious it looked.
“I’m so hungry for your cock, daddy.”
“Yeah? You gonna show him what a little cock-whore you are, baby?”
“Yes,” a glob of your spit fell on him, making him groan as your hand jerked him and spread the saliva all over his length, “I’m a little cock-whore that wants your cock in my mouth.”
He twitched at your lewd words.
“Take all of me then.”
With his hand at the back of your head, he guided and encouraged you to take him whole. With no hesitation, you engulfed his length immediately—too cock-hungry to tease and toy with him until he begged for you. You desperately needed his length deep in your throat.
You gagged around him as he tickled the back of your throat. The vibrations made him shudder where he sat. With each hand cradling your face, he forced your head up and down on him, thrusting his hips upwards to meet your moves.
Tears pooled in your eyes, and saliva dribbled out of your mouth as he forced his way down your throat. It was so messy and erotic—sloppy sounds filled the room.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he concentrated on how your warm and wet mouth felt on his throbbing cock. Guttural groans rumbled in his throat.
“Fuck, you take my cock so well, baby.”
He removed you from him, which made you whine in protest—missing the feel of him choking you with it. Your hand wrapped around him and jerked his length in long strokes as you presented your tongue—showing him how absolute needy you were for his cock shoved deep in your cavity.
With his fingers holding your jaw, he leaned down till he was level with your face and gifted you a glob of his spit on your awaiting tongue. “Fucking whore, you know that?” You nod your head. The degrading action and words had your pussy flutter. You rolled your tongue into your mouth and leaned down to retake him, bobbing your head while Bucky supported his weight on his hands, allowing you to take control of his cock as he sat and enjoyed the lewd performance.
“I bet you’re fucking jealous now.” Bucky sneered at Roman as the corner of his mouth turned up in a sinister smirk.
Your hand accompanied your mouth—stroking his base while your mouth paid attention to his sensitive head—finding a perfect rhythm to bring Bucky over the edge. The other hand cupped his balls to fondle them.
“Look at me….”
You peered up at him through your thick lashes while you had your mouth and hands full of his cock and balls. Drool and tears covering all of you.
“...fucking shit, doll, you’re gonna make me come.” A few seconds later, he grunted as he reached his climax. His hand gripping your shoulder hard to brace himself.
Watching his face contour in pure pleasure, moaning, groaning and grunting while his thick load shoots down your throat must be one of the most pornographic scenes you’d ever witnessed. Your pussy fluttered at the sight and vocalisation of him—slickness running down your inner thighs.
Holy fucking shit.
You worked him thoroughly through his intense orgasm to make him feel as good as possible. Not letting a single drop of him go to waste—all of it trickled down your throat.
Once he had come down from his high, you pulled him out from your mouth, making his head leave with a pop. Bucky hisses as his sensitive cock is freed from your expert hold.
You were a mess—drool covering your face, hands and tits, but to Bucky, it was the most stunning you’d ever looked.
“Oh, baby. So beautiful and messy for me.”
With his hand holding your throat, he leaned down to give you a sloppy kiss which you whimpered into.
“Get on the bed.”
All giddy, you switched places with him. Your elbows supported your weight as you spread your legs for him, showing him your glistening and needy pussy.
“Fucking gorgeous.”
“Are you gonna fuck me, daddy?”
Bucky tugged your legs, pulling you further towards him—till your ass was right by the edge of your bed.
“Not yet, babydoll. I need to taste that pussy first.”
He finds a comfortable place on his knees between your spread legs so he can go to work in worshipping all of you, like the Goddess you are. His face is inches from where you so desperately need him, feeling his breath on you, making your pussy ache for him. You arch into his face, your hand running over his short hair, begging for him to taste you, touch you, do anything to you. To eat you out until he shatters your existence.
“Please, Bucky,” you pathetically plead.
“You want it, baby?”
The tip of his tongue flickers your nub. That simple touch has your whole body convulse on the bed and a soft whimper escaping you.
God, you were so needy.
“P-please.”
“I’ll make you feel so fucking good, princess,” he laid a simple kiss on your wet folds, making you convulse once more, “but first, I need to clean up this mess you’ve made, baby.” He was referring to the slickness that had spilt from you, running down your inner thighs.
While his hands caressed the side of your waist, making delicious tingles erupt on your skin, he went to work on cleaning you up with his tongue—licking up the mess you’ve made, moaning at your taste. “Your taste is outstanding, baby.” Your whimper in pain and pleasure as he nips the skin of your inner thigh with his teeth—his tongue soothing the sting after.
“You have the prettiest pussy; you know that, baby? I’m so lucky that I’m the only man who will ever get to see it, to taste it,” he licks your outer lips, which has you arch into him for more, “and to fuck this needy little cunt.”
Finally, he places his mouth where you desperately need it to be. He drags his broad tongue through your folds and flicks the tip of it on your clit. The action has you arch your back, and your eyes flutter shut.
“O-oh…”
A glob of his saliva hits your clit, trickling down your folds. He groans as he watches his mess mix with your own—making your pussy look like the most delicious five-star meal he’s ever seen.
“Look at him, baby. Look at him while I eat your pussy.”
You turned your head to look at the man bound in his chair. It’s fucked up to admit it, but it turned you on to have Bucky between your thighs while a beaten-down man watched. You could see him shaking in his chair, shock overloading his system while his bloodied face pleaded for mercy—for his hurt and misery to end.
Fuck, this was hot.
You moaned loudly as Bucky went to work on devouring your pussy like a starved man that hasn’t had a decent meal in forever. He drags his tongue through your slit multiple times to get all of your flavours. His groan against your pussy at the taste has you quiver on the mattress and a loud cry emitting from you.
He lewdly spits on your pussy to claim ownership over it before his lips wrap around your raw nub—altering between sucking and licking the sensitive nerve. You try to keep your focus on Roman, but your eyes flutter at the pleasure, your mind and vision becoming blurry.
Two fingers penetrate your velvet walls, stretching you out and reaching knuckle deep, making you wail out. Their tips brush against the spot that has you absolutely lose it, making you writhe on the bed. The other works your breast—palming the supple flesh in his grasp, pinching and pulling on your sensitive nipple. You're nothing but cries of pleasure—moaning, groaning and whimpering as Bucky works you to perfection.
You feel kind of embarrassed at how noisy and pathetic you sound, so you bite your bottom lip hard to try and keep yourself down. Bucky didn’t like that at all.
“No, no,” he releases your clit from his hold, “let him hear. Let him hear all your pretty noises, baby.”
He quickly returned his assaults on your swollen clit that throbbed in need. His fingers moved in and out of you at an expert pace, and his other hand worked your breast.
Upon his wishes, you let your cries of satisfaction flow freely—filling up the bedroom. Your breathing hitched in your throat as the buildup was nearing its breaking point, so close to shattering your whole existence—body and soul.
Both your hands are placed at the back of his head, keeping him there so that he cannot move away and deny you your pleasure under no circumstances. Your hips rock into his vicious mouth as you chase your orgasm—it’s right there, so close.
“Bucky,” you cry as you come hard, your toes curling and your whole body convulsing on the bed. You try keeping your gaze on Roman as the coil in your stomach snaps, but your eyes cross. The surge of intense pleasure on your mind and body is almost indescribable—you’ve never come so hard in your entire life. As stars blur your vision, you feel like you're floating on a cloud.
Bucky groans as he works through your orgasm, your clit throbbing in his mouth and your tight walls fluttering around his digits. He’s in awe as he watches you fall apart like you’ve never done before, and he doesn't stop pleasuring you until you are all but satisfied.
You sob from sensitivity as his mouth and fingers leave your used and abused pussy. You’re a panting and heaving mess as you try and come back to your senses.
“You have no idea how sexy and breathtaking you are when you come like that, baby,” he says before kissing your mound, making you twitch. He proceeds with his kisses up your stomach and gives each of your nipples a lick; each touch has you spasm on the bed at how overly sensitive your whole body feels. He comes to face you—gently laying a kiss on your lips so you can taste yourself.
“I really fucked you up, didn’t I? I’m the only one that can make you come like that, huh?”
All you can do is nod while babbling unfinished words as you still haven’t recovered from your high.
Bucky chuckled at your distant and fucked out state.
“I’ll fuck you up some more, doll. He’s gonna watch as I absolutely wreck you.”
He pulls you further up the bed until you’re both in the middle of it.
With his hard cock in hand, he taps the head on your swollen clit, making you twitch and sob; a weak no falls from your lips as you place your hand on his hip to try and push him off.
You can’t. You’re so overly sensitive that it hurts. You can’t take anymore. But Bucky didn’t seem to give a fuck. He wasn’t done with you.
“I-I c-can’t.”
“Yes, you can, baby.” He speaks through gritted teeth.
He takes your hand off him and pins it down on the mattress.
Again he taps your clit, pulling out the same reaction from you as before. He glides his leaking tip through your wet folds. Gradually, his cock gliding on your tingling nub feels fucking incredible, and you’re ready for him to wreck you with his length.
“Please, daddy, fuck me.”
He groaned out at your neediness for him and lined his tip with your quivering entrance. Slowly, inch by inch, he penetrates your tight velvet walls with his cock, making you whimper at the slight ache. His hands grasp the back of your thighs as he forces his way inside you, guttural groans rumbling in his throat as your warm and tight walls engulf him. The last bit of him he forcefully pushes inside you, slamming into your pelvis, making you sob a cry, and your eyes roll back—showing white. The feeling of fullness has you blabbering pleas for him to destroy and fuck you senseless.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight.”
His voice is so deep and husky, making your walls flutter around his length, pulling out a heavy moan from him.
“I’ll fuck you so good, doll.”
He pulls out and then forces himself hard into you again, making you jolt and cry on the mattress. He does it a few times, being rough and abusive with it, before he starts fucking your tightness in deep and powerful strokes, slapping his skin against yours.
He hoists your legs on his shoulder, pinning them against his front, as he thrusts into you, his tip brushing your sweet spot each time he reaches deep inside you. You’re nothing but a moaning, whimpering mess as you take it all. Your hands grip the sheets to brace yourself, your eyes cross as he fucks you into oblivion, and your breasts bounce with each abusive thrust he delivers.
“My pussy. Mine, mine, mine, mine,” he grunts between each hard thrust, watching his length disappear through your walls.
There's nothing on your brain other than his cock—nothing but earth-shattering pleasure that it's giving.
You convey that you want him closer with grabby hands as you’re entirely speechless with how he’s fucking you.
Answering your pleas, he drops your legs on each side before lowering his body till his naked chest meets yours, holding his weight up so he won’t completely crush your sensitive body. His forehead rests on yours as his warm breath hits your face.
“So needy for my cock, huh? So needy for all of me?”
You can only let out a sound of approval.
“Good fucking girl.”
With the rolls of his hips, he manages to reach even deeper inside you, making you wail in pleasure. You wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck, clinging to him with your weak strength. The buildup was fast due to your last orgasm, and you were ready to explode with pleasure once more.
“I-I-I’m go….”
You couldn't even form a coherent sentence, making Bucky chuckle at how good he was fucking your brains.
“You gonna come, baby?”
“U-uh, huh.”
“Look at him, baby,” with his fingers on your jaw; he turned your head to look at Roman, “look at him as you cream and make a mess all over my cock, you fucking whore. Look at him while I stuff your little cunt.”
You try to keep your focus on him, but it was near impossible with the way Bucky was fucking you, clouding your every sense.
A few more brutal thrusts, and you come hard, toes curling, almost blacking out at the intensity. Silent noises escape your open mouth, and your eyes roll as you explode around his cock—your walls viciously pulsating around his length and making a mess all over him. Tears streamed down your face as it became too much, too hard, but you wanted more; you wanted his cum to fill you so badly, so you pulled him in tighter with your weak legs, wanting him to spill his warm seed inside you.
With a heavy grunt, he spurts ropes after ropes of his cum inside you, decorating your walls. His hips snapped rapidly against you as he filled you up to the brim, emptying himself entirely and not stopping until you were both fucked out and satisfied.
“Good girl. Good fucking girl taking all of me.”
He stilled inside once he was done, making a breath of relief and satisfaction escape you, and a deep groan came from him at the aftershocks. He peppers kisses on your clammy neck and collarbone, whispering sweet praises and affirmation after being so dominant and rough with you. You hold him close, nuzzling your face into his short hair as you hum and sigh in contentment at being stuffed full of his cum.
A whimper falls from you as his body leaves yours, leaving you cold, followed by a sob as his cock leaves your used and abused hole, leaving you unfulfilled.
“Look at that, baby,” Bucky was fascinated with his cum trickling out of your quivering hole, ”such a pretty sight.” He collected all of the cum with his tip and pushed himself hard into you again, making you squeal. After giving you a few more strokes, he pulled out, making the cum flow out once more. He gave you a sweet kiss on the cheek, followed by some words that made your breath hitch.
“Stay still, baby. I need to show him.”
He what?
You were still and spread out like he requested, your body too sensitive and sore to move anyways. With hooded eyes, you watch Bucky’s naked behind as he walks away from you and over to the man bound tight in the corner.
Bucky removes the gag from Roman’s mouth, and you can hear him coughing blood and saliva as his voice is freed. He tries to say something, but it comes out as a gurgling sound.
“Did you really fucking think I would let you go unpunished from my club, you fucking filth?”
Bucky’s fist connects with Roman’s bloodied and bruised face—the noise of skin punching skin and the crackling of Roman’s teeth at the force of it is the most uncomfortable sound you’ve ever heard. You shut your eyes tight as Bucky hits him again, and then a last time.
“Did you really fucking think I would let you speak about my wife like that without me having your head for it?”
You still didn’t know what Roman had said to Bucky in the club, but it was obviously triggering. So Bucky had gone to this extent in showing him, and others for that matter, what happens when someone spoke about his possessions.
Bucky removed his restraints and pulled Roman by his hair over to you on the bed—propping him up so he rested on his knees, his bruised face close to your pussy.
You were lost for words at what was happening, at what Bucky was doing. You just closed your eyes tight and hoped that whatever was going to happen would be over soon.
“Look at that, huh. Look at it. Isn’t it so fucking beautiful?”
Bucky was referring to his cum seeping out of your quivering hole—making a beautiful mess.
Roman looked with hooded eyes and tried to say something, but his words came out strained and unclear.
“Fucking LOOK AT IT!”
Bucky yelled in his face. It startled you and made tears roll down your cheek. This feels so degrading… but my God, also so fucking hot at the same time—to have someone being forced to look at your most intimate part that’s just been used and abused and stuffed full of cum.
Roman looks with wide eyes now, well, one at least; the other one is too bruised to open fully. He makes a painful noise as Bucky pulls his head up by his hair.
“This is mine. My pussy,” Bucky spreads your lips, “this is my girl, my fucking wife, and that’s my fucking cum that’s claimed her. You will never ever get to touch her. Touch what rightfully belongs to me. How dare you come into my club and use your filthy disgusting words on my wife, especially after betraying me like that, you worthless piece of shit.”
Bucky tosses him to the ground, his body hitting the hard floor in a loud thud while he groans in pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky spat at him.
Bucky retrieves his phone from his jacket, and you hear his thumbs moving across the keyboard—typing a message. You’re unsure what’s happening and too tired and slightly traumatised to ask questions.
A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the bedroom door, and Bucky stands with his back, all tall and broad, to you, blocking your body so whoever is on the other end can’t see you fully exposed. Bucky doesn’t care about his own nudity in the slightest.
Whoever entered the room didn’t say anything, but you could hear them come closer and stop by Roman, waiting for Bucky to give them instructions.
“Dispose of him,” Bucky utters in a deep and sinister voice.
“Yes, Sir.”
You hear Roman getting pulled away, never to be seen again, and then a door closes, leaving only you and Bucky in your bedroom.
“Baby.”
His sweet and caring voice was back; his protective and warm touches were back—your loving husband. He cleans you off with his shirt and then cradles your body, making you sit on his lap as he wraps his tender, soft arms around your frame. You nuzzle your face into his sweaty neck, a tired sigh leaving you as his fingers run delicately on your clammy skin, soothing your aching flesh and lulling you to sleep.
“Are you ok, doll?” He takes your tired face in his hands, making you look at his concerned one, searching yours for any sign of stress or discomfort. “Was that too much? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, doll, you had to see that, to hear that. That I had to put you through that.”
You honestly didn’t know what to say at what just unfolded—too tired and sore to process the whole event properly, but you were ok, for now. You were just happy to finally have your husband to yourself after such a pleasurable and vicious evening. All you wanted now was to fall asleep in his protective embrace.
All worries and questions about tonight could wait until the morning.
“I-I’m o-ok, James, just tired,” you yawn.
“Oh, baby…”
He scoots you up the bed—until you both rest your heads on the fluffy pillows, facing each other.
“... come here.”
You make yourself small and vulnerable as you nuzzle and cling to the embrace of your vicious lover and protector—his arms and legs holding you close. A content sigh breathes through you as your head tucks into his chest; listening to the calming beats of his heart—this was your home, where you wanted to be forever; despite Bucky’s brutal nature at times, you never ever wanted to leave his side.
Bucky’s murderous hands treat your skin like it's the most delicate thing in the world—softly stroking your back, making you shudder and purr in delight. Sweet words of affirmation are whispered against your hair, followed by a hum of a pleasant tune that slowly lulls you to sleep.
The last thing you hear are words that solidify your love and trust for your husband.
“You’re mine, mine only, my everything, and I love you beyond words, my sweet love….”
Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people!
Reporter: "how much did it change overnight because there seems a big difference in the performance?"
Max:"a lot"
Reporter:"can u elaborate in terms of what?"
Max:"no! I might get fined or get an extra day so"
Reporter:"well are you confident max uhh with the race pace?"
Max:"maybe"
Reporter:"I mean how much of a step into the unknown is the race given the problems you had yesterday in practice?"
Max:"it's an unknown yep!"
Reporter:"tell us about lining up-?"
Max:"this is not towards you , don't worry I don't want to upset you"
In Every Quiet Moment
Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything
The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.
You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.
You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.
You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.
And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.
There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.
A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.
He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.
You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.
It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”
He turns.
Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.
You frown. “Is it hurt?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”
You open the door wider. “Come in.”
He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.
But he steps forward.
The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.
“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.
You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.
“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.
You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.
“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.
A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”
You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.
“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.
He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”
You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”
“That’s a horrible name.”
“I like it.”
“She’ll get bullied at school.”
“She’s a cat.”
He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.
You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”
“Walking.”
“In this?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”
His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”
You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”
Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”
“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”
His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.
You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.
He leaves without giving you his name.
You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.
€2,000 tip.
You stare. Check the name.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You almost drop the broom.
***
The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.
You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.
“You came back,” you say, blinking.
He shrugs. “You were nice.”
You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”
“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.
That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.
You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”
He nods.
This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.
You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”
“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”
“Sounds like love.”
He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”
“Like you?”
“Worse.”
There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.
“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”
You glance up. “You did. With money.”
“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”
You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”
He pauses. “I panicked.”
“Panicked?”
He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”
He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”
The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.
“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”
He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”
You blink. “That’s not an answer.”
He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”
You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.
You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”
“I’m listening.”
“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”
He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”
Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.
“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”
He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”
You’re quiet.
You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.
You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”
“Then I won’t rush.”
“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”
“I’ll remind you.”
You blink. “You’re a stranger.”
“I’m Max.”
The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.
You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”
He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”
So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.
Neither of you move.
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
***
Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.
He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.
Just sits. Watches. Listens.
You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.
He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.
“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”
He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”
“It’s a tiny café.”
“Still good.”
You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”
“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”
You blink. “You’re joking.”
He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”
You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”
He just smirks into his coffee.
That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.
And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.
***
It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.
You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.
You glance up.
The man in the red scarf is watching you.
You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.
You look again.
He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”
Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”
He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”
You frown. “Other night?”
“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”
You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”
He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”
You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”
He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”
You pull back. “Not for sale.”
He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”
You don’t answer. Just walk away.
And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.
At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.
You turn.
Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.
His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”
You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.
The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”
Max doesn’t blink. “No.”
Your stomach twists.
“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”
The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”
Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”
It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.
He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.
You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.
Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.
“Are you okay?” He asks softly.
You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He looks unconvinced.
“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”
Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.
You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”
“You scared the hell out of him.”
“That wasn’t hard.”
You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”
He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”
You blink.
His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”
You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.
You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”
***
The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.
You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But I’m glad you did.”
He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”
You snort. “Story of my life.”
He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”
You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.
Then — voices.
A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.
One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”
He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”
“Can we get a photo?”
He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.
They thank him, then run off, giggling.
He turns back to you.
You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”
His voice is quiet. “Good.”
You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do it?”
He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”
You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”
“Yeah. Guess I am.”
You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.
Max lingers.
You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”
He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”
You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”
He nods. “Of course.”
But he doesn’t leave right away.
You hover near the door. “Max?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”
“I don’t.”
You study him.
He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”
Silence.
Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”
Your throat tightens.
“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”
You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”
He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”
You blink. “You where there?”
He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”
A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”
He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”
You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.
And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.
***
It’s late when Max asks.
You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”
You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”
“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”
You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.
You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”
***
His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.
The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.
And cats.
There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.
Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”
A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.
“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”
A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”
“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”
You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.
Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”
“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.
He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”
You raise a brow. “You cook?”
He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”
You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.
You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”
“Maybe.”
You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.
***
You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.
“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.
The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.
Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.
You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”
He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”
“I am peaceful.”
He grins. “Good. That was the point.”
***
Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.
Max eats slowly. Savors things.
You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.
“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”
His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Too late. His smirk grows.
Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.
Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.
“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.
He nods. “When I want it to be.”
You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”
Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.
You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.
***
When you wake, the lights are lower.
The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.
There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.
Then you hear it.
Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.
“No. I said no.”
You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.
“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”
Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.
“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”
You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.
“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”
Silence.
You don’t wait for him to hang up.
You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.
He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.
“Max.”
He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.
His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.
“You heard that,” he says flatly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”
“Were they writing about me?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.
“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”
You blink. “Why?”
He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”
You step closer. “And you called them?”
“I made a call, yeah.”
“To shut it down?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”
“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”
There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.
You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”
“I know that.”
“Then why-”
“Because I want to.”
You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.
“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”
You don’t answer right away. Can’t.
He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”
“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”
A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.
Finally, you say, “You care about me.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“And you’re not going to say it.”
“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.
His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.
But you don’t vanish.
You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.
***
It happens the next morning.
You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.
But it’s not enough.
The flash comes out of nowhere.
One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.
“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”
You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.
By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.
You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.
But the whispers start by lunch.
You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.
Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.
By evening, it’s everywhere.
***
Max calls. You don’t answer.
He texts: I’m handling it.
You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.
By the next day, the article disappears.
Completely. As if it never existed.
A notice appears in its place.
Retracted at source.
Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”
Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”
You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.
A screenshot.
An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.
Another message: Let me do this. Please.
You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.
***
The panic hits later.
Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.
The guilt first — sharp and sour.
He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.
You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.
And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.
So you do the only thing that feels safe.
You pull away.
***
You stop replying.
Not rudely. Just slowly.
A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.
You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.
Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.
Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.
***
He doesn’t chase.
He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.
Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.
It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.
A note, tucked between the teabags.
I’ll wait.
Nothing else.
Not even his name.
***
You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.
You feel stupid.
Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.
You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.
***
Three days pass.
Then four.
By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.
On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.
On the seventh, it rains.
Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.
You don’t bring an umbrella.
You don’t bring excuses either.
You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.
You knock once.
It opens almost instantly.
He doesn’t look surprised.
Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.
“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.
He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.
He just opens his arms.
And you fall into them like you never left.
His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.
He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.
You don’t speak. Don’t have to.
His chin rests on your hair.
You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”
“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”
Your breath hitches.
“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”
“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”
Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”
You pull back, just a little.
Look up at him.
His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.
“I’m scared,” you say quietly.
He nods. “So am I.”
You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”
“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”
You blink. “Then why …”
His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”
You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.
You lean in.
So does he.
The kiss is soft.
No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.
His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.
When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.
You exhale. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He rests his forehead against yours.
“I’m here,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes. “So am I.”
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.
***
Max doesn’t say “I love you.”
Not with words.
He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.
He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.
But tonight, he speaks more than usual.
It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.
He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.
“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”
You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.
He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.
“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”
You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.
He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.
“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.
Your heart tightens.
“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.
His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.
“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”
You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”
Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”
You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”
That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.
“Tell me,” he says.
So you do.
You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.
He listens like he has nowhere else to be.
Not just hearing — holding.
Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.
When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.
“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”
***
The next few weeks are full of small shifts.
Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.
His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.
Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.
He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.
He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.
You try not to need it.
You try not to expect it.
But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.
***
The comment comes three races into summer.
You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.
You look up when the door opens.
It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.
He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”
Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.
You don’t reply.
He doesn’t give you time to.
“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”
The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.
But Max is already there.
You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.
But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.
Just present.
Heavy.
Silent.
The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”
Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”
Silence.
Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”
The boy opens his mouth.
Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”
The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.
But dangerous.
The kind of promise you don’t test.
Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”
Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.
Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.
“Max-”
He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”
You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”
He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”
“I know,” you say again, quieter now.
“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”
You step into him. “I didn’t.”
His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”
Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”
He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”
The kiss is slower this time.
No heat. No anger.
Just need.
Just want.
***
It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.
You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:
“I want you.”
His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.
“Are you sure?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.
“Then I’m going to take my time.”
And he does.
***
It’s not rushed.
Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.
It’s reverent.
It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.
“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”
He never stops looking.
Not once.
He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.
You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.
“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
And you are.
You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.
He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.
Guiding. Worshipping.
“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”
And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.
The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.
***
Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.
You don’t speak.
You don’t have to.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.
The mask is gone now.
For both of you.
***
The letter comes on a Tuesday.
You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.
You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.
Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.
And then you’re holding the future in your hand.
“Max?” Your voice wavers.
He glances over. “Yeah?”
You hold the letter up.
He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.
You don’t have to say anything. He knows.
The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.
You stare at the words like they might vanish.
They don’t.
You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.
“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.
“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”
He nods. “Yeah. I know.”
Before.
Before him.
Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.
You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.
“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.
“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.
You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.
“I don’t know what to do.”
He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”
Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.
Only patience.
Only love.
“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”
You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”
He takes your hand in his.
“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”
You laugh, eyes damp.
He keeps going.
“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”
Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.
Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.
And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”
Max doesn’t speak.
He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.
***
You don’t waitress anymore.
One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.
You open it slowly.
It’s Max’s handwriting.
Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.
PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.
You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.
And you do go home.
But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.
***
At night, the café changes.
The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.
Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.
But word spreads.
You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.
He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.
“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.
You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”
Max smiles, slow and sure.
“I am.”
You meet his eyes.
He means it.
***
You play at the café again that Friday.
The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.
You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.
Before your last piece, you clear your throat.
“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”
You glance at Max.
His eyes don’t leave yours.
The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.
When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.
Then, applause.
But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.
Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.
You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”
He leans in, kisses your temple.
“I like dramatic.”
You tilt your head. “Yeah?”
His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”
***
You find the recording equipment a week later.
Just … waiting.
Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.
There’s a post-it on the chair.
In case you change your mind.
You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.
And start writing again.
***
You don’t take the job in New York.
You don’t regret it.
Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.
But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.
What’s real.
Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.
Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.
Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.
And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.
But for now?
For now, you stay.
Because love like this?
You don’t walk away from it.
Not when he’s willing to give you the world.
And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.
slow mo miami max
The Singapore Grand Prix of 2024
Higlights
1. Almost... Almost.
Norris almost became one of the drivers to achieve the Grand Slam feat had it not been for Ricciardo taking the fastest lap from him.
2. He Pulled A Ric
Colapinto divebombs Albon, sending Albon wide in Lap 1.
3. Albon And Magnussen Retires During Race
Magnussen's comeback race was ended early due to a puncture in his car, retiring 2 laps before the conclusion of the Grand Prix. Albon also retired earlier in the race due to overheating problems.
4. No Safety Car!?
This track is notorious for featuring at least 1 safety car per race but this year the first not to feature one!
5. A Back-To-Back Papaya Win
Verstappen is sandwiched between the two McLarens as he takes P2 with Piastri in P3 and Norris in P1.
6. In 33, There’s 3
In what may be Ricciardo's last race, we see him giving it his best until the very end, even earning DOTD, and taking the fastest lap from Norris. Ricciardo's fastest lap guaranteed that so long as Verstappen finishes P2 behind Norris in every remaining race, he could still win the WDC.
Race Recap
Lights Out!
Verstappen launches into T1 but Norris keeps the lead.
There are chaos behind as a few cars run wide on Lap 1.
Russell pushes Piastri wide causing the McLaren to lose momentum, opening a window for Hulkenberg to overtake the Aussie. Alonso and Sainz try avoiding Piastri, causing both Spaniards to run wide.
Albon is on radio upset about Colapinto divebombing him, sending Albon wide, yikes!
Piastri gets past Hülkenberg by T8.
Pérez takes P11 from Sainz as Albon takes P15 from Ricciardo.
Pérez also manages to overtake Tsunoda and takes P10.
DRS Train
A DRS train follows Hülkenberg who's in P6 all the way to Ricciardo in P16 on Lap 6.
Early Pit For Ricciardo
Ricciardo pits in Lap 11, dropping from P16 to P20.
Future Teammates
Albon pits on Lap 12 from 17th position and comes back in ninteenth.
Sainz pits next in Lap 14, he drops to P18, just ahead of Albon.
First DNF Tonight
Albon retires due to overheating problems.
What’s Going On Back There?
Sainz overtakes Bottas into T10 of Lap 17.
Lots Of Stuff In Lap 18
Hamilton boxes Lap 18, Russell is now in P3. Hamilton comes out behind Magnussen who's in P12.
Leclerc, still behind Alonso, is currently in P7.
Pérez is on the radio complimenting Colapinto by saying 'he's (COL) good, difficult to pass'.
Sainz overtakes Zhou in T7 of Lap 20. At the front, Norris still leads.
Overtakes, Incoming!
Sainz overtakes Stroll in Lap 22's T7.
Hamilton overtakes Ocon in the same place.
Leclerc is finally released from Alonso into Lap 25's T16.
Hamilton makes a move on Tsunoda, earning the last scoring place. Tsunoda fights back, regains P10 by T18.
Sainz overtakes Magnussen on Lap 26, T7.
Alonso boxes lap 27, coming back ahead of his teammate who's in P15.
Hamilton overtakes Tsunoda once more.
Stroll pits on Lap 28 and enters the race, way at the back in P19.
Lap 29
Leclerc overtakes Hülkenberg.
Pérez pits and gets back into the race in fourteenth position.
In The 30s
Magnussen and Verstappen enters the pits in Lap 30.
Verstappen comes back behind Leclerc, the Ferrari in P3.
Sainz makes a move on Ocon and takes 10th position.
Hülkenberg and Colapinto also pits. From P6 and P8, they return to P10 and P11, but Gasly overtakes both. Behind them, Pérez also manages to overtake Colapinto. Pérez is now P10.
Norris finally enters the pitlane in Lap 31, and comes back still in the lead, Piastri behind him.
Verstappen makes a move on Leclerc and earns P3 in Lap 31.
Leclerc makes a stop in Lap 37 and once again gets behind Alonso.
Gasly and Piastri are next to box in Lap 39, Verstappen and the Mercs get through.
DRS For #81
Piastri gets DRS and passes Hamilton on Lap 40's T8, taking 4th position.
Near The Chequered Flag
Leclerc and Sainz switch positions after their team asked Sainz to get behind his teammate in Lap 42.
Piastri finally takes P3 from Russell in Lap 46.
Norris clips the wall in Lap 48.
Ricciardo makes a 2nd pitstop and comes back in P19.
12 Laps To Go
Leclerc overtakes Hamilton on Lap 50, finally in P5.
Meanwhile, Magnussen reports a puncture. He enters the pitlane and rejoins the race. He sets a fast lap.
Norris finally laps Colapinto who's in P11 in Lap 58.
Magnussen retires at Lap 60.
Ricciardo makes a final stop for soft tyres, trying to achieve the fastest lap with only two laps left.
With a 20.9s gap from Verstappen, Lando Norris wins the Singapore Grand Prix of 2024 from pole position, completely dominating the race!
For more content like this, please follow me on Tumblr as @chequeredandreas. I am also on Instagram and Threads as @chequeredandreas.
The mysterious Mrs. Piastri
We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming for a Valentine's Day Treat. Remember that video where Oscar was asked "Get married or get a tattoo?" Well, it showed up on my FYP and I was like..:WAIT
Summary:
Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.
And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.
(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )
Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.
Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.
And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.
It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.
“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”
Easy. Straightforward. Oscar barely had to think before responding, “Well, I already did one of those things.”
That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.
Because one second later, Lando spat out his drink.
“YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”
Oscar turned, confused. “What? No.”
Lando, looking equal parts betrayed and horrified, pointed an accusing finger. “Mate, I’ve seen you in swim trunks. There’s no way you have a tattoo. Where is it?”
Oscar frowned. “I don’t have a tattoo.”
Lando’s face twisted in confusion. “But you just said—” He stopped. His eyes widened. Oscar could see the moment his brain caught up.
“WAIT. WAIT.” Lando practically jumped out of his seat. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” Lando looked genuinely stunned, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Oscar nodded, calm as ever. “Yeah.”
Lando’s reaction was not calm. Lando let out a strangled, guttural noise, kind of sounding like an indignant cat.
“WHAT?!”
The interviewer, who had been mostly observing up until now, leaned forward, eyes shining with the excitement of a woman who had just stumbled upon the biggest scoop of the season. “Okay, hold on. You mean married married? Like, legally?”
Oscar frowned. “Is there another kind?”
Lando’s hands were now on his head, his entire world seemingly crumbling around him. “SINCE WHEN?!”
Oscar shrugged. “A while now.”
The crowd lost it. The interviewer looked like Christmas had come early. The McLaren PR team, wherever they were, was probably having a collective heart attack.
Lando’s jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU HAD A GIRLFRIEND.”
Oscar frowned. “You know that," he told Lando pointedly.
“I DO NOT KNOW THAT,” Lando shouted. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”
Oh well. Oscar just shrugged. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”
Lando let out a hysterical laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. No, no. You’re telling me you have a freaking WIFE?!”
The interviewer seized the moment. “Okay, no, we need details. How long have you been together?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Since we were 15."
Lando made a strangled noise. “15?! YOU’VE BEEN WITH HER SINCE YOU WERE 15?!”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”
The interviewer looked delighted. “How did you meet?”
Oscar tilted his head. “School?”
Lando groaned and turned to the audience. “Look at this guy. Look at him. Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course.”
The interviewer pressed on. “When did you get married?”
Oscar shrugged. “When I was 18.”
The entire crowd erupted. Fans were screaming, phones were recording, and McLaren PR was definitely hyperventilating somewhere.
Lando, meanwhile, looked like his whole world had just collapsed in real-time.
“You—you got MARRIED at EIGHTEEN?!” he wheezed. “WHY?!”
Oscar looked at him like he was stupid. “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”
The interviewer cooed over the answer. Lando physically recoiled. “What, like straight out of high school?!”
Oscar frowned. “Not straight out of high school. We waited a bit.”
“HOW LONG IS A BIT?!” Lando demanded.
Oscar thought about it. “Like… three weeks after graduation?”
Lando let out a strangled noise. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, OSCAR. THAT’S BASICALLY IMMEDIATELY.”
Lando dramatically fell back in his chair. The interviewer, meanwhile, was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Okay, okay, follow-up question—how did you propose?”
Oscar thought about it. “I asked her to marry me.”
The interviewer stared. “…That’s it?”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”
Lando threw his hands in the air. “UNBELIEVABLE.”
The interviewer, trying desperately to salvage something remotely romantic, asked, “Where did you propose?”
Oscar, as if this were a perfectly reasonable answer, said, “Uh. At home?”
The interviewer looked at him. "...At home?"
"On the bed," Oscar added.
Lando looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.
The crowd groaned. The interviewer looked physically pained. Lando just laughed in disbelief. “I knew you’d be the most unromantic bastard alive.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”
Lando wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “That poor woman.”
The interviewer shook her head in awe. “Oscar, mate, I have to ask—how did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?”
Oscar blinked. “No one asked?”
Lando just screamed.
The interviewer, who had completely abandoned all pretense of professionalism, leaned forward. “Okay, wait, wait, who is she?”
Oscar blinked. “My wife?”
Lando threw up his hands. “YES, OBVIOUSLY, but who is she? What’s her name? Where’s she from? What does she do?”
Oscar's forehead creased. "Is that... relevant?"
The interviewer just about had a stroke. Lando looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.
The fans were losing their freaking minds.
Lando nearly fell out of his chair. “YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND I’VE NEVER MET HER.”
“I mean, I thought it was obvious?”
“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!” Lando yelled. “BECAUSE IT WASN’T OBVIOUS TO ME.”
Oscar just shrugged.
Lando groaned. “Mate, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE EXISTED!”
Lando looked like he was seconds from grabbing Oscar and shaking him until some kind of information fell out. "Okay, I can't believe I have to ask this, but why the hell didn't you tell me?”
"I thought you knew," Oscar answered simply.
Lando just gaped. "How on earth would I have known?"
Oscar shrugged. The interviewer, meanwhile, was leaning closer, clearly invested in the whole thing now.
Lando, apparently having had enough, decided on a different tactic. Lando pointed at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting away with this. You are going to introduce me to your wife.”
Oscar sighed, clearly knowing a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine,” he said after a moment.
Lando sat back, satisfied. “Good.” Then he paused. “Wait—does anyone else know? Like, do the team know?”
Oscar shrugged. “I think Zak does.”
Lando made a strangled noise. “Why does Zak get to know?!”
Oscar pointed out, “Because he’s my boss?”
The interviewer, clearly having thrown all professionalism out the window, was just enjoying the chaos. Lando looked like he wanted to scream. “But I’m your friend!”
Somewhere in the background, McLaren PR was probably losing their minds, trying to figure out how to handle the fact that Oscar Piastri, their quiet, low-maintenance driver, had accidentally revealed he’d been married since he was 18.
Not Oscar’s problem, though...After he escaped Lando Norris' clutches.
He had a wife to call after all.
Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.
He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.
Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.
The call rang twice before she picked up.
“Hey, love,” she greeted, her face appearing on screen. She was sitting in their apartment, hair tied up, wearing one of his hoodies.
Oscar felt himself relax immediately. “Hey.”
She smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”
Oscar sighed. “Lando found out we’re married.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”
Oscar shook his head. "I thought he did."
She let out a small laugh at that. "How the hell did you think he knew?"
Oscar shrugged. "I dunno. We've been married for, what, five years now? How could he not know?"
Her smile widened. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're about as romantic as a cactus?"
Oscar let out a huff. "I can be romantic."
Before she could respond, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by—
“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”
Oscar sighed through his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
His wife bit her lip, clearly seconds away from laughing. “Is that…?”
“YOU HAVE EXACTLY THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND—”
Oscar hung his head. “Yes.”
She was laughing now, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad because it was an adorable sound.
The banging continued. “I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE. STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR.”
His wife bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “You should probably let him in before he tries to break the door down.”
Oscar debated not letting him in, but realistically, Lando would either A) find a way in, or B) make this everyone else’s problem.
So, with a long-suffering sigh, he got up and opened the door.
Lando barreled in immediately, eyes wild.
“WHERE IS SHE?!?” he demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”
Oscar sighed, holding up the phone. “She’s on FaceTime, you absolute lunatic.”
Lando’s head whipped around, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the couch. He pushed past Oscar with a huff, then stared, wide-eyed, at the phone.
Lando was silent. For once.
His wife was, bless her soul, doing her best to fight her laughter at the look on Lando’s face. “Hi,” she said. “You must be Lando.”
Lando just continued to gape.
Then, slowly, he pointed an accusatory finger at the screen. “You’re real.”
She laughed. “I hope so.”
Lando turned to Oscar, looking personally betrayed. “SHE’S REAL.”
Oscar sighed. “I know.”
Lando turned back to the phone. “And you married him? At eighteen?!?”
She smiled. “Yep.”
Lando reeled. “WHY?!”
She tilted her head. “Because I love him?”
Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”
Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”
“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.
Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”
Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”
Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”
Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”
Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”
His wife stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.
Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.
“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”
Oscar sighed. “Lando—”
Lando pointed at the phone. “I need to meet her.”
Oscar sighed. “Fine. Silverstone.”
Lando gasped. “Really?!?”
Oscar deadpanned. “No, I just said it for fun.”
Lando turned back to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you at Silverstone.”
She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”
Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”
Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”
Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.
Oscar turned back to his wife, who was fully laughing.
“I love Lando,” she said. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”
Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”
She smirked. “Love you.”
Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”
And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.
****
@/oscarpiastri ✅
Posted: 1 day ago
Caption:
So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.
To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.
Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.
So, meet my wife—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.
We met when we were 15. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.
She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.
She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.
When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.
So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.
We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.
I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.
She’s still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.
She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.
So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.
I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️
Comments:
@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???
↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???
↪️ @/mrspiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.
@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.
@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @mrspiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.
@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.
@/lanoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀
@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)
@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.
@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.
@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??
@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.
↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.
@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.
@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.
@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.
@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of. ↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.
@/mrspiastri: 10/10, would marry him again. (Even if he forgets to tell people.) ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️
@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.
@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.
@/mrspiastri
Posted: 2h ago
Caption:
"So. Yesterday happened.
Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:
1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!
Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.
2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love (and slightly impulsive).
3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.
3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.
5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of three years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.
5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?
6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.
7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer? 10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.
Comments:
@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.
@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.
@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.
@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.
@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖
@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.
@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.
@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”
@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.
@/paddockinsider: Be so honest. What did people say when they found out you guys eloped? @/mrspiastri: Oh, everyone thought we were insane. Random people who barely knew us were convinced we’d crash and burn. Now we get a lot of, ‘Wow, you guys really made it work.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Wasn’t hard.
@/f1obsessed: Did you guys ever break up? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. Not once. Not even a ‘we were on a break’ situation. We’ve been together since we were 15, which is wild when I think about it.
@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere lol. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.
@/gridgossip: So who knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark. Andrea. Probably Zak? Our families, obviously. And, um. That might be it?
@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: “OBVIOUS TO WHO??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.
@/f1insider: We need more details about Mark Webber finding out. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I swear I saw his soul leave his body. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Didn’t seem necessary to tell him at the time ↪️@/landonorris: “HOW IS MARRIAGE NOT NECESSARY INFORMATION???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark Webber sat Oscar down like a disappointed dad and was like, ‘Mate. How do you just… forget to mention you’re married? ↪️@/mclarenupdates: “And what did Oscar say??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: “He just shrugged and went, ‘Not really relevant to racing. ↪️@/landonorris: “I NEED TO LIE DOWN.”
@/paddockdrama: People always joke that Oscar is a robot. Does that ever bother him? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. I once asked him and he just shrugged and went ‘Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone as long as you know how much I love you.’ ↪️@/landonorris: NO BECAUSE WHERE WAS THIS ENERGY WHEN I TOLD HIM I GOT P2 AND HE JUST WENT ‘NICE’??? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It was nice.
@/paddockgossip: “Did ANY other drivers know???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.
@/foreverf1: Wait, I need to know—who said ‘I love you’ first? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar did. Completely out of nowhere, too. We were 16, lying on the floor doing homework, and he just looked over and went, ‘Oh. I love you.’ Like he just realized it in real time.
@/f1teaqueen: Okay but like… NO COLD FEET?? Not even a little?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. We were 100% sure.
@/wildforwags: Who actually officiated your wedding?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Some very lovely lady at a London registry office. She called us ‘sweethearts’ and I think she knew we were completely insane, but she was very supportive about it.
@/racewifematerial: What did you wear?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A white sundress I bought the week before. Oscar wore a suit that was slightly too big because he borrowed it last-minute. We looked like two teenagers who ran away from home, which, to be fair… we kinda did.
@/formula1fangirl: Who took the wedding photos? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We handed a disposable camera to two very confused tourists outside the registry office. They did a great job.
@/landoandchaos: Oscar, babe, how did you manage to keep this from your friend for FIVE YEARS? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Listen, Oscar is elite at two things: racing and not offering information unless directly asked.
@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’
@/fastandflawless: Be honest, did you ever have a moment of ‘Oh my god, I married an 18-year-old racing driver, what have I done’?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really? I mean, other people definitely thought we were nuts, but we knew exactly what we were doing. The real crisis moment was a few months later when I realized I’d have to file taxes as a married person.
@/waggossip: “Did Oscar have a big, romantic proposal, or was it just like, ‘Wanna get married?’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar woke up one morning, looked at me, and said, ‘We should get married. Logically, it makes sense.’ ↪️@/f1softies: YOU’RE JOKING. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I was like, ‘Okay?’ And he said, ‘Great, I’ll book an appointment.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: So let me get this straight. No knee. No ring. Just ‘We should get married.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Correct. ↪️@/f1wifeguys: And you weren’t even a little mad?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nah, I thought it was funny. If he’d done some big, dramatic proposal, I’d have thought he was concussed. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Please tell me he at least got a ring after that. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He did! We picked one out together. It has both our birthstones.
@/paddocktea: Okay, but does he ever get super romantic out of nowhere?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. Once, when I was really stressed out, he just looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m always going to be here.’ ↪️@/f1wifeguys: STOP THAT’S SO SWEET.
@/paddockinsider: What’s the most uncharacteristically romantic thing he’s ever said? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were lying in bed once, just scrolling on our phones, and out of nowhere he goes, ‘You know, no matter how my life turned out, I think I would’ve found you in every version of it.’ And then he just went back to reading about Formula 2 tire degradation like he hadn’t just ruined me.
@/backmarkerbrigade: “So, like, what did you do after you got married? Fancy dinner? Celebratory champagne?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: ...Sandwichs at Pret-a-manger
@/gridlove: What’s the most Oscar Piastri way he’s ever told you he loves you? ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time he texted me ‘You’re my favorite human’ completely out of the blue. No context. No follow-up. Just that. It was adorable.
@/pitlaneprincess: Who cried more at the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Me. Oscar was annoyingly composed. He did squeeze my hand really tight when we said our vows, though.
@/drsforlove: “This man has been giving post-race interviews like ‘Yeah, good race, car felt good’ and then just casually drops a wife like it’s a tire strategy.
@/wildforwags: What’s something you wish you had done for the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly, nothing. It was chaotic, but it was ours.
@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.
@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.
@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.
@/paddockprincess: Wait, so how did Oscar’s family react to you guys getting married so young? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? They were really supportive. His mum just went, ‘That makes sense,’ and his dad laughed. Oscar’s family has always been the ‘if you’re happy, we’re happy’ type. ↪️@/oscarpiastriupdates: “So no dramatic reactions from the Piastris??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: “The most dramatic reaction was his mum sighing and saying, ‘You two are hopeless.’ But she meant it fondly.”
@/chaosinthepaddock: What about your family? 👀 ↪️@/mrspiastri: Ah. Well. See, they did not get over it in five minutes. ↪️@/f1tea: Omg. HOW mad were they??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Very. Like, ‘multiple angry phone calls’ mad. Like, ‘we refuse to speak to you for years’ mad.” ↪️@/landonorris: Did they actually say you were ruining your life? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, yes. There was a lot of dramatic ‘you’re throwing your future away’ speeches. Which was funny, because my future was literally the same, just with more love and an Australian husband. ↪️@/piastrination: Did Oscar ever try to talk to them about it? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, he tried. But Oscar is Oscar, so he just very calmly said, ‘I love her, we’re married, and that’s not changing.’ Which, surprisingly, did not make them less angry. ↪️@/f1gossip: Have they come around since then? ↪️@/mrspiastri: No.
@/landonorris: Lando’s reaction when he found out vs. your family’s reaction when they found out—who had the bigger meltdown?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, my family by far. Lando was just confused—my relatives were furious.
@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.
@/drsdiva: “This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.”
@/f1softies: “The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.”
@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash
@/piastriupdates: “Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.
@/f1memesdaily: “Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.”
@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???
@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.
@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/mrspiastri: See? Alex gets it.
@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/mrspiastri: To be fair, you two were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He still does that, btw. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.
@/jehannadaruvala: “The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/jehannadaruvala: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/ollicaldwell: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’
@/f1softies: Okay but does he ever have romantic moments?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. They just happen out of nowhere and leave me emotionally ruined. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Example, please. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I was having a bad day, and he just looked at me and said, ‘You know, the best part of my life is that I get to love you.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME SIR??? ↪️@/landonorris: “WHAT THE HELL.”
@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.
@/f1insider: So how did Mark find out?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We didn’t tell him. He found out when Oscar referred to me as his wife in conversation. ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were in a meeting. Mark stopped mid-sentence and went, ‘Your WHAT?’ ↪️@/landonorris: HIS WORLDVIEW SHATTERED. @/mrspiastri: Oscar, completely unbothered, said, ‘Oh. Yeah. We got married a while ago.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: I CAN HEAR MARK WEBBER’S EXASPERATION. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark didn’t speak for a full minute. Then he sighed, rubbed his temples, and went, ‘Mate. You can’t just drop that into conversation like it’s nothing.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I didn’t see the problem. ↪️@/landonorris: YOU WOULDN’T. ↪️@/f1updates: Does Mark ever bring it up now? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Every single time we see him. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It’s been years. He should let it go. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Finally he just said, ‘Yeah, I should have figured.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Apparently, Oscar was too relaxed for someone hiding a major life decision. Mark said he’d seen too many drivers try to balance racing and relationships, and he knew Oscar had already locked it down. ‘Kid’s too stable for anything else.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: That’s actually terrifying. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Immediately after he went ‘Alright. Suppose we better make sure this doesn’t derail your career then.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Classic Webber. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Did he at least congratulate you? ↪️@mrspiastri: Yes. Eventually. But only after making sure we’d thought it through. ↪️@/f1softies: Did he give you a lecture?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. More like a ‘If you’re doing this, do it properly’ talk.
@/drsfordays: The fact that her family was furious while Mark Webber just sighed is sending me.
@/oscarpiastri_fanclub: So Mark Webber has known this whole time??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. And I think he’s still mildly offended that Oscar didn’t ask for any advice beforehand.
@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.
@/f1updates: Oscar is so calm and logical on track. Is he the same at home? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mostly, yeah. But sometimes, out of nowhere, he’ll just say the most devastatingly romantic thing. ↪️@/f1softies: EXAMPLES PLEASE. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I joked, ‘You’re stuck with me forever,’ and he just looked at me, completely serious, and said, ‘That was the goal.’
@/f1updates: Do you ever wish you dated other people before settling down? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Not even a little? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Why would I? I already found my person.
@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Anxiety. And I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yep. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.
@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.
@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.
@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.
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