Hi, I Was Wondering If You Could Write Something For This Ask Please. You’re The Social Media Manager

the one to beat ⛐ 𝐆𝐑𝟔𝟑

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE 📀 it’s your relationship— or lack thereof— that keeps george on his toes.

♫ starring: george russell x journalist!reader. ♫ word count: 2.7k. ♫ includes: romance. feelings realization, george is down bad -ish, unspecified race win, kimi makes an appearance. @mvk1ma requested the alchemy by taylor swift. ♫ commentary box: i, too, love yearning. and with taylor swift as the soundtrack? chef's kiss. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“You know, you’re getting way too comfortable with me.”

George smirks across from you, a light chuckle escaping him as he leans back in his chair. The sound of clicking cameras and the low buzz of reporters settling in fills the air. It’s pre-race day, and the usual frenzy of the paddock has shifted into the waiting room for interviews. The white walls and sterile fluorescent lights above are almost too bright, making everything feel like it’s under a magnifying glass.

You and George have already carved out your own rhythm; you two have your own unspoken routine. Reporters from various outlets watch this interaction like it's a game they’re all too familiar with— George, the charming driver with a smile that can light up the room, and you, the reporter who doesn’t buy into any of it.

George’s eyes twinkle. “I thought we were past the formalities,” he quips, his voice a little too smooth for a simple pre-race interview. “Aren’t we supposed to be discussing strategy and tires?”

“You mean I should stop calling you out for your atrocious racing decisions?” You tap your pen against your notebook with an air of nonchalance. “I’m sure that’ll be a hit with your PR team.”

The other reporters exchange  knowing looks. They’ve seen this act before: George’s playful banter, your sharp critiques. It’s a dance you’ve both mastered over the past few seasons. He teases, you cut to the heart of the issue, and somehow, it all comes back to racing.

George’s shoulders relax, a slight laugh escaping him. “Oh, come on. You’re not that hard on me. Am I not allowed to have a bit of fun in this job?”

“You’re allowed to have fun,” you retort, not missing a beat. “But maybe you should focus on making fewer mistakes first. You know, like the last race— where you seemed to forget how to brake in the wet conditions.”

The group of journalists around you stifles a few chuckles, but George’s expression doesn’t let up. Instead, he leans forward, his hands folded in front of him. “Okay, that was one race. Can we let it go already? The car wasn’t exactly perfect, you know.”

“You’re not making it easy for me,” you reply dryly. “And you’re still saying it’s the car, not your decision-making?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll take the blame for the mistakes,” he says. “But we both know there’s more to it than just me, don’t we?”

“Don’t try to pull me into the ‘team effort’ talk. I know better than that.” Your eyes narrow in that critical way you’ve become known for. “You’re not fooling anyone with that nonsense.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in George’s gaze, but he tries to tamp it down. Instead, he turns slightly toward the rest of the room as if to break the intensity of the moment. You can tell he’s not really bothered. This back-and-forth is just as much a part of the game for him as it is for you.

“You’re really good at making me sound like a villain,” George notes thoughtfully, a playful edge to his tone. “Maybe I should start calling you out on your writing. How about that?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair. “Try it. I dare you.”

George cackles before redirecting the conversation. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. Can we at least agree that you’ll cut me some slack if I do well this weekend?”

“Do well?” you echo. “If you actually do well, Russell, then we can talk about cutting you some slack. Until then, you’ll have to earn it. You’re not a rookie anymore.”

His smile fades slightly, replaced by the first hint of seriousness you’ve seen all day. “Fair enough,” he mutters, though the edge in his voice makes it clear that the playful George from earlier is still just beneath the surface.

The tension in the room shifts as the next set of interviews begin; you and George share one last look. It’s comfortable, the kind of quiet understanding that exists between two people who’ve known each other long enough to know how to push each other’s buttons.

As the next journalist steps forward, George stands up and shoots you a half-smile. “I’ll see you after the race. Just so you know, if I finish P1, I’m expecting a full apology.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Russell.”

He’s still grinning as he begins to entertain the next reporter. He takes your words as what it is— a challenge. And George Russell never backed down from a challenge. 

Kimi is uncharacteristically nervous. 

It’s not something George is used to seeing in his rookie teammate, who usually carries a quiet confidence despite the weight of being the youngest driver on the grid. Today, Kimi’s stance is stiff, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket as he glances over at you from a distance.

“Mate, what’s going on?” George asks bemusedly, leaning against the garage wall with his arms folded. 

The faint hum of activity in the paddock surrounds them— the roar of engines in the distance, the chatter of mechanics— and yet Kimi seems to have become a statue, eyes locked on you as you conduct another round of interviews.

Kimi gives his co-driver a sheepish look, then mutters, “I’m… I’m worried about my interview.” 

George chuckles, the sound warm but knowing. He can see the concern etched on Kimi’s face. “Ah, you’re afraid of her?” 

Kimi nods, his eyes still trained on you, as if trying to calculate how long he has until your attention shifts to him. “She doesn’t— I’ve seen how she’s been with you. She doesn’t hold back,” he says frantically. 

“Yeah,” the older man admits. “She’s tough. But that’s why she’s good at what she does.”

Kimi glances back at him uneasily. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I mean, I’ve heard her ask you some—” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “—hard questions.”

George laughs again, but there’s a soft edge to it now. A rare vulnerability in his voice. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t pull punches. She asks tough questions because she expects answers,” he elaborates. “She’s got an eye for detail. And she’s... honest.”

“You seem to handle it, though. Like it’s no big deal.”

George shrugs, an easy movement that masks the slight tension still coiled in his body. “I don’t know if I handle it that well. But you get used to it. With someone like her, you can’t be anything but real. She can smell a lie from miles away.”

His voice softens as his gaze follows you, the way you’re speaking to a reporter. Your sharp wit cuts through the small talk with surgical precision. George goes on, “It’s like... she’s not after the typical headlines. She wants substance. She doesn’t care if it ruffles feathers.”

Kimi hesitates. “So, I just need to answer honestly?”

“Exactly,” George says with a slow nod. “If she thinks you’re hiding something, she’ll dig. But if you give her the truth— even if it’s uncomfortable— that’s when she respects you.”

There’s a quiet pause, and then Kimi shifts on his feet, still looking unsure. “Thanks, George. I’ll try.”

George gives him a reassuring smile, though the weight of the upcoming race is starting to settle in. “You’ve got this, mate. And don’t worry— when it’s your turn, just be straight with her. She’s not going to bite your head off… unless you give her a reason to.”

Kimi laughs nervously, clearly trying to lighten the mood. He nods again and then walks off to prepare for his own interview.

George watches him go, but his attention quickly shifts back to you. You’ve just wrapped up with the last reporter, and now your gaze scans the paddock, sharp eyes landing on him. The briefest flicker of something takes over your expression as you catch his eye. It’s not friendly, it never is, but there’s something else there too. Something that keeps him coming back for more.

Kimi moves into his interview with you. George watches how you interact with the rookie from a distance, the easy way you break through Kimi’s nervousness with a few direct words. Your sharp questions force him to stand a little straighter. 

You’ve always been like this. Elusive and impossible to predict. 

It’s your relationship— or lack thereof— that keeps George on his toes.

He shifts on his feet, cracking his knuckles in the quiet lull before the storm. Today, the race feels different. More personal, somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s finally starting to understand how you work. How you see through him. How you make him think harder than anyone else.

That’s why he needs to win today. He can’t let you see any chinks in his armor.

He takes a deep breath, stepping forward. He’s not sure what drives him more— the race or the challenge of figuring you out. But today, he plans to give you something to write about.

Something that’ll make the headlines for the right reasons.

The final lap is a blur.

George feels the adrenaline surge through his veins as the roar of engines and the shouts over his comms meld into a single, deafening hum. The McLaren and Red Bull cars are breathing down his neck, just a fraction behind. His grip tightens on the steering wheel as he pushes harder, every muscle in his body responding instinctively to the challenge. 

There’s no room for doubt, no room for error— just the need to get to that line first.

And it’s in sight. The corners and straights blur into nothingness, and then, in one brief moment of glory, the checkered flag waves.

Mercedes has done it. George has done it.

P1. The first of the season. 

The roar of the crowd vibrates through the stadium even before he’s fully out of the car. He can feel it. The disbelief in the air, the feeling of the impossible having been achieved. His heart is still pounding as he climbs out of the cockpit, throwing off his gloves and helmet, his chest heaving with exhaustion and euphoria.

A few pats on the back from the team and cheers from the Mercedes team flood in, but it doesn’t matter. There’s something else he’s after.

Without a second thought, he’s striding through the mob of staff, reporters, and team members. His mind is a singular focus; he can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him; all of that fades when his eyes lock on you in the throng of people. 

You’re standing there, clipboard in hand, perfectly poised in the chaos of the paddock. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he sprints toward you, ignoring the reporters’ calls, the crew patting him on the back, even the ones offering him water. He moves faster than he’s ever moved from the pit lane to the paddock.

A team member shouts after him. “George! The podium, mate!”

He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care about the podium. 

The adrenaline isn’t just from the win; it’s about getting to you. Because now, with this victory, he wants something else— something more.

The crowd parts for him as he barrels forward. When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He’s there, eyes alight with the same fire that’s been there ever since you first made him sweat with your questions.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the two of you in this messy, chaotic world. He can see the surprise in your expression— brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.

“Russell,” you greet, your tone the perfect balance of shock and confusion.

“Where’s my interview?” he exhales, leaning in just slightly, hands still shaking from the thrill of the race. “You owe me an apology, and I’ve got a question for you.” 

The energy between the two of you shifts. There’s the usual edge, that same tension that’s existed since the moment he first met you. But now, there’s something else, something deeper. A sense of familiarity. An acknowledgement that the question is not going to be about his race, but rather his prospects. 

Not on the track, but with you.  

It hits him all at once, the realization that he’s no longer holding back. He doesn’t need to hide anymore. He doesn’t need to pretend he isn’t affected by your probing questions, by your constant scrutiny. Because, in this moment, he’s realized: He likes this. Likes you.

And for the first time, George allows himself to acknowledge it fully.

You’re still looking at him, the edge of a smile tugging at your lips as you cross your arms. He can’t tell if you’re bothered by all the attention this scene is attracting. No doubt, people would be talking about this moment for days, weeks to come. 

Race winner George Russell and the journalist who allegedly hates his guts. 

“What, no trophy?” you taunt, but the edge in your tone is softened by something that sounds an awful lot like hope. “You’re just going to run over here instead?”

George laughs, breathless but genuine. “Eh,” he says noncommittally, the energy of the moment catching up to him. “Podium’s overrated.”

You let out a snort of laughter. “Can I quote you on that?” 

“You want a quote?” George shoots you a look, one that feels like it’s meant only for you. His grin never falters. “Sure, but you might want to double-check the facts first.”

“Meaning?” 

He knows exactly what this looks like. The way the reporters are still watching, the buzz of their murmurs lingering in the air, as if at any moment they could pounce on whatever he says next. But this moment— right here, with you— it feels like his own. 

He knows he only has a couple of minutes. He’s going to make them count. 

“Meaning,” George says, leaning in even more as though he’s about to tell you something only you can hear. His voice drops a little, just enough for the two of you to feel like you’re in your own little bubble amid the chaos. “Podium? Overrated. But my favorite place to be? Right here, with you.”

He sees it immediately— the moment his words land, the way they yank the rug from underneath your feet. You blink, caught off-guard for a second. It’s the first time he’s been so open, so unfiltered. The kind of thing that, in the middle of the paddock, could make you question if he’s playing to the crowd or if the words are meant to stay between you two.

“Go on, then,” he continues, tone giddy and light all at once. “Write it down, make it sound like I'm all about the race results and trophies. But we both know the real prize is something a little... more personal.” 

The subtle shift in his voice is something new— an undercurrent of sincerity beneath the usual playful teasing. For the first time, there’s no joke in it, no facade.

He means it, you realize. To what extent, you’re not sure, but he means it. 

George is already pulling back before you can do something defensive, like knee him in the groin or demand he be serious. You gulp in some air and build your defenses right back up. 

“Like I said earlier,” you grumble. “Way too comfortable with me, Russell.” 

He giggles— an actual giggle!— and for a brief, electric moment, the tension that’s always hung between you seems to dissolve. There’s no resistance left in him anymore. He’s too used to you, too comfortable, and maybe, just maybe, you’re not as immune to the pull as you thought you were.

“If you think I’m getting comfortable with you now, just wait until the next race,” he says. “Keep your eyes on me, alright?”

He smiles, feeling more at ease than he thought he would. George is realizing that maybe, just maybe, this feeling, this tension, this push and pull is something he’s starting to understand.

The team drags him away. There’s an award ceremony, a national anthem, and a shower of champagne awaiting him; a whole lot of media obligations, too. 

But when he catches the hint of a grin on your face, he swears it’s the same win in a different font. He’s not the only one getting comfortable, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s the beginning of… whatever this is. A nameless, once-every-few-lifetimes type of chemistry. 

George isn’t about to try and fight the alchemy of it all. ⛐

fill her veins — lando norris

lando norris x fem!reader [3.5k] summary: your friend’d had you in all the different ways. fast and hard, deep and bone rattling but this was his favourite. lazy, slow and deep. warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, friends with benefits, porn without plot, lazy sex, unprotected (piv) a/n: to the anon that dropped this concept in my ask box, I hope you don’t mind that I took the idea and ran with it. I have so many drafts to finish but this just wouldn’t leave my mind. consider this as a thank you for all the amazing love you’ve poured me with lately, I love you guys so much!! lmk what you think of this!

Lando has an odd taste for trashy reality tv shows. He claims that he doesn’t, that he usually puts them on for background noise but he always ends up settling down on the nearest flattest surface; Eyes glued to the screen. It’s funny, it’s not something you’d expect and most of all, you don’t really mind it. Because he doesn’t care if you don’t pay any attention to it, as long as you’re either in his lap or spooning him.

He’d texted you earlier tonight and you hadn’t expected it, not really. You figured that after the long weekend in Belgium, he’d be ready to travel where the wind took him without any worry about the next weekend where he’d have to show off his best side and bring home a win for his team. Lando had talked about the Maldives and even Singapore, hinting at you coming with him but you’d been quick to shut him down, claiming that your life couldn’t be put on hold. Because it couldn’t.

But he’d gone home, spending exactly three hours with Max before the fucker abandoned him to hang out with his girlfriend and Lando was bored out of his mind when the flat got too quiet, so quiet that he could hear the neighbours flushing their toilets. Then you’d sent him a funny video of cats and Lando had responded with an ‘are you home?’ after laughing himself silly to the video.

Keep reading

IT WAS OBVIOUS.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.” — Oscar accidentally shows too much excitement after his win, revealing your true relationship to your brother and the whole world.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x Norris! fem! reader

warnings. none. AGAIN, IN THE HONOR OF OSCAR’S WIN IN CHINA ‼️🥹 (two posts in one day, crazy ik)

music. The Alchemy by Taylor Swift.

YOU WEREN’T ENTIRELY SURE if hooking up with your brother’s teammate was the best idea you’d ever had—or the worst. But here you were, tangled up in something you couldn’t quite resist.

It all started when Lando and Oscar became teammates. Their friendship blossomed quickly, the kind of bond that seemed effortless. So, naturally, it wasn’t long before Lando introduced you to Oscar. And, well, Oscar caught your eye in a way you hadn’t expected.

He was everything your brother wasn’t—polite, calm, and kind. Where your brother was loud and relentless, Oscar was steady and thoughtful. You couldn’t help but wonder how the two of them could even be friends, let alone teammates.

But the real surprise? You caught Oscar’s eye, too. What began as casual texts and lighthearted calls quickly evolved into something more. Dates, secret meet-ups, stolen moments that felt like they belonged to another world. You didn’t tell your brother for a multitude of reasons. First, it wasn’t any of his business. And second, you knew exactly how he’d react—relentless teasing, endless questions, and a level of overprotectiveness you weren’t in the mood to deal with.

When you and Oscar decided to make it official, it was a quiet decision, just between the two of you. Well, the two of you and your best friend—because keeping secrets from her was impossible. Beyond that, no one else knew. And maybe that was part of what made it so thrilling. The secrecy added a layer of excitement to every interaction, every glance, every touch.

The moments before a race were your favorite. The paddock buzzed with energy, the air electric with anticipation. And amidst it all, there were the secret kisses, the fleeting touches when no one was looking. It was a game, a dance of stolen moments that only the two of you understood. The thrill of it all made your heart race almost as much as the roar of the engines.

Lando's invitation to the Chinese Grand Prix felt like the perfect follow-up to his stunning victory in Australia. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and being here felt like a privilege. The atmosphere buzzed with energy, and you were eager to cheer not just for him, but for Oscar as well—your two boys.

Now, you found yourself standing behind the barriers, shoulder to shoulder with McLaren team members who shared in the collective anticipation. The hum of engines roared in the background as the cars sped around the track, each lap bringing Oscar closer to something extraordinary. His first-ever pole position had already felt like a monumental achievement, but now, with the race on its final lap—lap 56—Oscar was leading. His car, sleek and powerful in its vibrant McLaren orange, glided through the turns with precision, almost effortlessly.

The tension in the air was palpable, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you cheered with the team. Oscar had practically won by now, the gap between him and the car behind him widening with every second.

Standing there, witnessing the culmination of hard work and talent, you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with pride—not just for Oscar and his incredible performance, but for Lando, who was right behind his teammate. The cheers around you grew louder as the finish line approached.

The chequered flag waved, signaling the end of the race, and as Oscar crossed the finish line first, with Lando right behind him, a surge of overwhelming pride and joy coursed through you. It was a moment of pure triumph, made even sweeter knowing how much Oscar had struggled during his home race in Australia. To see him claim victory here felt like vindication for every ounce of effort he had poured into this season.

As Oscar parked his car behind the gleaming P1 sign, your gaze never wavered from him. His car came to a halt, and in the corner of your vision, you caught sight of Lando parking just behind, the two McLarens standing like trophies of the team’s efforts. But your focus was locked on Oscar, on the way he climbed out of the car, exuding both exhaustion and exhilaration.

Helmet off, his face glowed with triumph as he threw up his arms in his signature victory pose, the crowd erupting in cheers. The moment was electric, but your heart raced for a different reason as you watched him turn—not towards his team, who stood waiting with cheers and open arms, but towards you.

Oscar’s strides were purposeful, his gaze unwavering as he crossed the distance between you. Your breath hitched when he reached you, ignoring everyone else, his arms wrapping around you in an embrace that was full of relief, joy, and something so uniquely him. You held onto him tightly, feeling the intensity of the moment.

As you pulled away slightly, his face was so close to yours, his brown eyes meeting yours in a way that made the world around you blur. For a fleeting second, there was a pause, a shared understanding, before he closed the gap. His lips met yours in a kiss that was unplanned but utterly perfect—an unspoken testament to everything he couldn’t say in words.

The team’s cheers rang louder behind you, but in that moment, it was just the two of you. The thrill of victory, the secret you shared, and the raw emotion of it all were woven together in that single instant. And for that brief, breathtaking moment, nothing else mattered.

As he pulled away, his voice was quick but steady, the words tumbling out before he turned away: “I love you.” And just like that, Oscar was off, moving to embrace the cheering team members who waited to celebrate his victory. The moment hung in the air for a beat, the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

You didn’t need to think twice about what had just happened. That kiss—bold, unapologetic—wasn’t just seen by the team. It was seen by the cameras, the crowds, and possibly even the entire world. And your brother. But none of it mattered anymore. Oscar had chosen this moment to make it clear where he stood. His love, his support, his pride in being with you—none of it wavered, regardless of what anyone thought. To him, the name you carried meant nothing in comparison to the connection you shared.

As your eyes trailed back to him, now surrounded by his teammates, the warmth of the moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Your brother was already in front of you, arms crossed, his face set in that classic judgmental look he’d mastered over the years.

You tried not to squirm under his gaze, instead forcing a smile and stepping forward to embrace him before he could say a word. "I’m proud of you," you said quickly, deflecting with a playful tone as your arms wrapped around him.

Lando’s body stiffened for a split second, his eyebrows raised in suspicion, but he eventually hugged you back. "Hmm," he muttered, clearly not convinced but letting the moment slide—for now. You could already see the gears turning in his head, and you knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation.

As the top three entered the Cool Down room, the adrenaline still seemed to linger in the air, blending with the excitement and chatter from the race outside. The drivers were greeted by monitors showing highlights of their performance, the distant roar of the crowd fading into a steady hum. Lando followed a step behind, his usual playful energy evident in the slight bounce of his step as he grabbed a water bottle from the corner table. The tension of the race seemed to dissolve, replaced by camaraderie as they settled in, catching their breath.

It didn’t take long for Lando to break the ice in true Lando fashion. He turned towards Oscar, pointing at him with dramatic flair, his expression mock-serious. “Osc, don’t think for a second I didn’t see that,” he began, his tone accusatory yet laced with humor. The way he gestured, finger wagging as if scolding a misbehaving child, made it clear he was enjoying every second of this.

Oscar, who had just picked up his towel to dab the sweat from his face, froze mid-motion. He glanced at Lando, a mixture of confusion and resignation flickering across his features. “Here we go,” he muttered, almost too quietly to be heard. But he didn’t need to say much. He knew exactly what this was about.

“My poor eyes!” Lando cried dramatically, his free hand flying up to shield his face as if he were genuinely scarred. The theatrics escalated quickly, his voice rising in exaggerated despair as he staggered backward a step for added effect. “I’ll never recover from this trauma.”

Oscar sighed, shaking his head slightly, though the smallest twitch of a smirk threatened to betray his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, man,” he said, his voice dry but tinged with tolerance—the tone of someone well-practiced in dealing with Lando’s antics.

But Lando wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “I mean, honestly,” he continued, his mock indignation unwavering, “a little heads-up would’ve been nice. You know, like—‘Oh, hey, Lando, I’m about to make the whole world cringe by publicly making out with your sister.’ Something like that. Is that too much to ask?” His grin widened as he tossed the water bottle between his hands, his eyebrows arched in that trademark cheeky expression.

Oscar rolled his eyes, lifting the towel to hide his face for a moment as if shielding himself from Lando’s relentless teasing. “It wasn’t that bad,” he replied, his voice firm but quieter now, as if trying to downplay the moment.

“Wasn’t that bad?” Lando repeated, his voice climbing an octave as he placed a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally offended. “Mate, I think I just lost three years of my life.” His grin made it clear he was enjoying this far too much, but beneath the jest, there was no malice—just Lando being Lando.

Oscar finally allowed himself a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. Next time, I’ll send you a formal invitation first,” he deadpanned, the sharp wit of his retort earning a mock gasp from Lando.

“Oh, how thoughtful,” Lando shot back, finally leaning against the wall as if he’d exhausted his dramatic reserves. But the mischievous glint in his eye remained, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let Oscar off the hook anytime soon.

The night paddock lay in near silence, the excitement of the day's events now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The dim glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows across the asphalt, illuminating the reflection of Oscar's trophy as he carried it proudly in one hand. His other arm rested securely around your shoulders, a gesture that brought a quiet warmth as the two of you walked side by side.

Lando walked just a step behind, still buzzing with energy despite the lateness of the hour. His natural playfulness was impossible to suppress, and it wasn’t long before his voice broke through the calm, cutting through the stillness with a sense of exaggerated drama. “Soo…” he began, his tone drawing out the word as if he were preparing to deliver a theatrical monologue.

Oscar groaned quietly, already anticipating where this was headed. “Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his head dipping just slightly. You felt his arm tighten around you briefly, as though bracing himself for impact, while you stifled a small laugh. Lando was nothing if not predictable.

“You two have a lot to explain,” Lando finally said, his voice laden with mock sternness as he caught up to walk alongside you. His brow furrowed in an attempt to appear serious, but the mischievous sparkle in his eye gave him away. He raised an eyebrow for effect, his gaze darting between you and Oscar as though he were demanding a confession for some unspeakable crime.

Feigning innocence, you tilted your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. “What do you want to explain?” you asked, your voice light and teasing. It was clear you weren’t going to make this easy for him. Even as your heart raced slightly at the idea of confronting the topic, you couldn’t resist the urge to play along.

Lando stopped walking for a moment, crossing his arms as he stood in the middle of the path, looking every bit like a self-appointed interrogator. He narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching as though he were holding back a grin. “You two are like… a thing?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, emphasizing the weight of what he was asking.

Oscar exchanged a quick glance with you, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything for you to know what he was thinking—this was so typically Lando. As much as the question lingered in the air, it was impossible to take him completely seriously. Still, the tension buzzed ever so slightly beneath the surface, and it was clear that neither of you could sidestep the question for much longer.

But after a few lingering seconds of silence, Lando cleared his throat dramatically, clearly preparing to fill the void. “I mean, it was obvious,” he declared, his tone laced with faux confidence, as though he had pieced it all together from the start.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. “No, it wasn’t,” you shot back, shaking your head at him. “You had no idea, Lan.”

Lando’s eyebrow shot up as he feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest in mock indignation. “Excuse me? I’m incredibly observant, thank you very much.”

Oscar, who had been quietly amused throughout the exchange, finally chimed in, his voice calm but teasing. “Yeah, right,” he said, glancing at Lando with a smirk. “You only noticed because we made it too obvious today.”

Lando threw up his hands in a theatrical shrug. “Well, maybe. But still. I figured it out. That’s what counts,” he insisted, though the grin on his face betrayed how much he was enjoying winding the two of you up.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a playful shove. “Alright, Sherlock. Sure, you ‘figured it out,’” you teased, unable to keep the grin off your own face. Despite the teasing, there was an undeniable warmth in the moment—a mixture of relief and lighthearted acceptance. Leave it to Lando to turn even the most awkward revelations into something almost comforting.

“But seriously now,” Lando said, his tone softening as he let his teasing demeanor fade away for a moment. He glanced between the two of you, his lips curling into a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you guys,” he admitted, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

Oscar smiled warmly in return, his arm tightening slightly around your shoulders, as if silently thanking Lando for his support. It was a simple moment, but you felt the weight of Lando’s words—his approval meant more than you’d realized.

“Just a bit mad for not telling me sooner,” Lando added, raising his eyebrows as though pretending to scold you. Though the hint of mischief in his smile quickly undermined any seriousness. “You could’ve spared me the whole awkward guessing game, you know.”

a little better - c.leclerc

꩜ summary: charles puts a bit more effort in and it seems your bond is becoming stronger.

꩜ pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader

꩜ a/n: would yall want more parts of this? pray tell :0

part one (this can be read on it's own tho but this just gives more context)

“My love!” he called out as he came in the door. While Bahrain hadn’t been great, he still wanted to come home before the triple header ended. He’d been around the house so much during the break that not seeing you had become weird. In the past few weeks, he’d really noticed how different your lives had become now. Long gone were the late-night phone calls that used to define your relationship. Replaced only by text updates on things that concerned you both. He tried asking how your day was, but you just turned it straight back on him and started discussing strategy and asking how he was feeling. Long gone were the small flirty or sweet texts throughout the day. It seemed you were allergic to your phone before 9pm at night, or maybe you just knew his routines so well and didn’t think he’d want to hear from you before that. Which broke his heart. 

Apparently everyone else had noticed it too. Carlos had thought he was in the process of a divorce when he went to him about it. All of Ferrari assumed you two were separated and trying to figure out how to co-parent. It made him sick. Mostly, because he knew it was all his fault. Where was the Charles that used to speak about you everyday? Where was the Charles that defended you to the press so fiercely when you first entered his life? Where was the Charles who wasn’t a complacent, selfish asshole, who cared about his family and work for them, not himself? That Charles was gone. Or just hidden, somewhere, deep inside of him. He just had to… bring him back from the dead. 

“Charles?” you questioned, getting up from the couch and scrambling to hide something. He stopped in his tracks as you turned to face him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to see you,” he admitted, trying to see what you were hiding. He snapped his attention back to you. “I got you these,” he smiled, handing over your favourite flowers. You looked dumb-struck. 

“Oh,” you said, blatantly surprised. “Well, thank you,” you smiled back at him. “How was your weekend?”

“You know how my weekend was, mi amour,” he shook his head. “How was your weekend?”

Again, dumb-struck. If this was the standard he’d actually set for his love life, he was pathetic. “Oh, well… It was good. I watched the race, watched Arthur’s race. Umm…” you thought for a moment. “I went to Maria’s baby shower. Looked around for Montessori's. Called my parents. Went for lunch with your mom,” you shrugged. “Pretty simple.” 

He nodded, the smile on his face never leaving. “That’s good. Seems relaxed.” 

“It was,” you shrugged. There was a silence. An awkward silence. He would have punched his past self in the face. How were things awkward with his own wife? “Have you eaten?” 

He shook his head. “N-no, not yet. Just… got a flight straight here.” 

You nodded, seemingly shocked by his being there. 

“What were you working on, there?” he pointed to the couch and whatever object you were trying to hide. You looked down. 

“It’s stupid,” you shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I care,” he assured you, taking your hand. “I want to see.”

You took a deep breath and picked up a half-finished quilt, the crochet needles still in. It was all of the cars on the grid, but the Ferrari had his number on it. “Just… like having something to do with my hands when I watch tv. It’s stupid, I know-”

“It’s wonderful,” he whispered, emotion catching in his throat. How could he neglect you for so long? His wonderful, creative, caring, loving, intelligent wife. “I think it’s wonderful.” 

“You do?” you questioned, your voice small. He nodded, his eyes clouding with tears. 

“I do,” he nodded, wiping his eyes. There was a silence and he wrapped an arm around you (as much as he could, the bump was in the way). “We’re going to be parents,” he whispered out. 

You nodded, a small smile on your face. “We are,” you were in quiet contemplation for a moment. “Do you want to see what I’ve done to the nursery so far?”

Another promise he’d broken, but alas, this was progress. You were here, you were talking, and you were close to him. He’d take whatever he could get from you. 

“I’d love to,” he smiled and took your hand as you led him to the nursery. You opened the door and inside was a sanctuary. Playmats, toys, a diaper changing table, etc. It was yellow, and overlooked Monaco bay, the wonderful sight it was now as the sun set. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the mini helmets of his on the windowsill. The little pockets of Ferrari merch. Odes to him. He could’ve cried. “I’m sorry,” he whispered out and your face fell. “I’m so sorry,” his voice cracked. 

You turned back to him.“Charles, what–”

“You never call me Charles,” he whispered, wiping his eyes. “It’s always Char, or Charlie, or love, or something else, but it’s never Charles. It’s too impersonal, remember?” He placed a hand on your cheek. He was referencing a night many years ago, when you said you’d only call him Char from then on. You were only friends then, yet he knew he was in love with you from that moment on. The way you smiled when you said it, the view of Mt. Fuji behind you, couldn’t compare. He just stared at you all night long. 

“I don’t have to call you Charles-” you offered and he let out a teary cough. 

He took a deep breath, gathering himself again. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he sniffled. “I want you to not want to. I want you to feel close to me again,” he admitted. “And I know that has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with you, but please baby, I can’t lose you.” 

“You haven’t-” you stressed, but he cut you off again. 

“When was the last time we went on a date that wasn’t a public event?” he asked. You were quiet. 

“When was the last time I did something nice for you before today?” 

You were quiet. 

“When was the last time we had sex?”

“I'm pregnant-” “So your libido should be heightened,” he sighed and you looked down at the floor again. “When was the last time you felt loved by me? Cared for by me?”

“Tonight,” you shrugged. “You liked the blanket. You didn’t think it was stupid.” 

“I don’t think anything you do is stupid,” he shook his head, his eyes focused on you. “But before then? When?” 

“Maybe Monaco last year? When you ran up to me at the barrier and kissed me in front of everyone,” you shrugged, acting like that hadn’t been the memory holding you together for the past 8 months. “When you said you won it for me and your dad and Jules.”

He sniffled again and nodded, though his heart was aching. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

You didn’t speak. You just leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Let’s get some food, yeah?” 

That didn’t leave much room for questioning. He followed you to the kitchen where you already had food cooking. Soup. Something comfortable and diet-approved as always. Catering everything to him. You sat across from each other and ate. 

“How has the pregnancy been for you?” he asked. 

`”We don’t have to get into that now-”

“I want to,” he pushed. “If you want to.” 

You breathed out. “It’s… difficult. I’m in pain quite a lot, but I’m really excited to meet her,” you smiled softly. “I’m pretty scared about doing the delivery on my own, but my mom and your mom said they could be there, so that’s nice. My parents are going to come and help out the week I’m due and stay with your mom for two weeks, so that should be good. They’ll come over to help me out during the day and any nights I can’t do it on my own, since you’ll be racing,” you listed it all off, as if it wasn’t his biggest failing that he couldn’t be there. “So yeah. Scared but excited. What about you?” 

He cleared his throat. “I’m excited too,” his voice was somber. “And I think I’d want to be with you in the delivery room… if you’d let me.”

“You don’t have to miss a race for me. I understand Charle- Char,” another knife in his heart. “I was just being dramatic and hormonal that day. Your career is important. You’re ambitious. It’s one of the things I love about you.” 

He shook his head. “I want to be there. I really want to be there.”

“I don’t think Ferrari would let you-”

“Fuck ferrari,” he scoffed. “You’re my wife! If they can’t understand me wanting to be there for the birth of my child then I think I might be on the wrong team. Bon sang, je ne suis pas un robot de course.” (fuck’s sake, I’m not a racing robot). 

You let out a small chuckle at how pressed he was getting. He stared back at you. 

“What?” he questioned, a smirk creeping onto his lips. 

“Nothing,” you shook your head, that small smile on your lips as you turned your attention back to your food. He shook his head and chuckled. “I missed you,” you admitted, the candle between you two lighting your face with a wonderful warm glow. 

“I missed you too,” he reached across the table, taking your hand. “And I’ll be there for you, I promise.” 

“Get it approved by Ferrari first,” ever the logical one. “Then we’ll talk about it,” you answered. “And this,” you signalled around you, and he knew you meant the whole night. Him caring. “Has to not just be a once-off, alright?” 

He nodded. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I promise.” 

Something about the way he said it made you believe him. You didn’t know if it terrified or exhilarated you. Either way, you had a long road to walk, but he would actually be there now, not just a figure in the distance. 

And that felt a little better than before.

navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

taglist:

@awritingtree @boherahpsody @janeh22 @dustie-faerie @anayaverse @buckybarnessweetheart @scriptedinkbyxim @ferrarisstrategy

rain delay kisses

a max verstappen x reader imagine

The first drop hits your cheek just as the national anthem fades. One, then another. Within seconds the sky gives in. Rain descends upon the track before the drivers can even walk off their marks. Officials scramble, teams drag equipment under tarps, and the inevitable announcement echoes over the speakers:

“Start delayed due to weather conditions. Expected minimum 30 minute delay.”

You're standing just outside the garage, barely under the overhang. The rain is relentless now, soaking the pit lane—ricocheting droplets bouncing off the tarmac like steam. But you don't move. You’re waiting. Looking for him. Waiting for him. You know in moments like this, race weekends where time together is sparse and sacred, he will coming looking for you.

You hear him before you see him. Distinctive voice dancing in the air somewhere to the left of you. He’s talking to someone. GP probably—about new tire tactics. You don’t turn around, he’ll see you soon enough.

Finally, once some agreement has been made, he steps towards the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, race suit unzipped to his waist. He spots you instantly, a flicker of something soft crossing his features.

Without a word, he walks over, tugging a team umbrella you didn’t notice before open. It’s barely big enough for two, but he angles it anyway, pulling you close by the wrist.

“You didn’t wait inside?” he asks, his voice quieter than the rain, but warmer with a tender love that has encompassed your past few months with him. Max has a way of making every moment together feel warm.

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to miss you.”

That gets the smile—the real one. Not the PR smile he slaps on. The one he only ever gives you when the world isn’t watching. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair off your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His fingertips linger there, brushing against your face so softly you can barely feel them.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The chaos blends into the background like white noise. Nothing exists but the two of you, just for this moment.

Then he leans in, slow and certain. His lips meet yours in a kiss that tastes like rain and adrenaline. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just right. Like he needs this—you—more than he needs the race right now. Faint drops of rain patter on your cheek.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“I think I like rain delays,” he whispers, a hint of a grin in his voice.

You laugh softly, your hands still tangled in the front of his race suit. “I think I do too.”

His hand is still on your wrist. Warm and constant

“C’mon, it’s cold,” he says, arm moving to wrap around your waist and tracing circles into the dip there, “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

I imagine this in the ‘slim pickins’ world post them being together for a little bit…

lucky kisses

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. charles leclerc x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

It starts with a nervous smile in Monaco and a soft kiss on the tip of Charles’s nose—just a little kiss for good luck. It becomes a habit. max version here

It starts in Monaco.

You’re leaning against the Ferrari garage wall, arms crossed and sunglasses on, trying not to look like you’re bursting with nerves. Charles is in his race suit. Half-zipped. Bouncing on his heels like he’s got Red Bull running through his veins.

He walks over, fiddling with his gloves, and gives you that crooked little smile—the one that melts you every time. His head tilts just slightly to the side. Butterflies still erupt in your stomach everytime he smiles like that. Even after months of dating.

“You nervous for me, chérie?” he teases, as if he isn’t just as stressed himself.

“I’m always nervous,” you reply honestly. You reach for his wrist, tug him closer to you.

He laughs and bumps his forehead against yours for a second. It’s all you need to press a soft kiss right on the tip of his nose, spontaneous and sweet.

“There,” you murmur. “For good luck.”

He blinks, surprised, but a cautious smile spreads across his face. “You think that’ll help?”

You shrug. “It felt right.”

Charles just grins, red tinting his cheeks. “Then I better win.”

He’s quiet for a moment, about to turn away towards the garage. He should go. But instead he turns back to you and whispers softly in your ear:

“Maybe I need just a bit more luck first.” 

The kiss he presses to your lips is soft, a feeling of complete devotion behind it. Then he’s gone. Being pulled away by engineers before you can even whisper goodbye to each other. 

He finishes second.

Not a win, but a clean race. A podium in his hometown. Smart overtakes. No mechanical failures. And—most importantly—a smile so wide it crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he spots you after the race.

He practically bounds into your arms the second he’s free from interviews, suit half-peeled off, hair flattened from the helmet, skin sticky from champagne, and absolutely glowing.

“P2,” he says breathlessly. “Not bad, huh?”

You grin, looping your arms around his neck. “I told you: my kisses are lucky.”

He kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then rests his forehead against yours and sighs contently.

“Next time, I’ll win.”

The next race, you’re sitting on the pit wall bench when he approaches you in full race kit, gloves tucked under his arm.

He says nothing—just stands in front of you and raises a brow, expectantly.

You blink up at him. “What?”

He leans in. Taps the bridge of his nose. “I believe you owe me something.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “Oh, we’re doing that again?”

“Chérie,” he says, deadly serious, “I need it. I promised you I’d win. The team says tire degradation will be bad. I’m starting P4. There’s no way I’m going out there without my good luck.”

You lean in, laugh breathily, and press a gentle kiss to his nose.

“There,” you say. “You're ready now.”

Charles closes his eyes like he’s soaking it in. “Mmh. Already feel faster.”

He opens his eyes again, lashes fluttering, and looks at you with that infuriating, devastating half-smile.

“You sure you don’t want to kiss the front wing too?” he teases. “Could use all the help we can get.”

You snort. “Tell the front wing to get its own girlfriend.”

Charles laughs, full and bright, and leans in for a quick kiss on your lips—just a brush, fleeting but grounding. Then he’s off, jogging toward the car with a kind of lightness in his step that hasn’t been there in a while.

This time, the race unfolds perfectly.

Lap after lap, Charles seems to move impossibly faster. He glides past his opponents with a practiced ease, pushes hard but stays smooth. The tires hold better than expected. The car responds like it’s alive, perfectly tuned to his every desire and move.

When the checkered flag waves, the timing screens flash his name first.

He wins.

You scream louder than anyone else in the garage. 

Later, on the podium, the crowd is roaring. Charles stands tall, champagne in hand, eyes scanning the sea of fans and cameras. Then, his gaze locks on you—your heart leaps.

With a mischievous grin, he taps the tip of his nose once—twice—then points directly at you. You're sure the internet will erupt in jokes and speculation about it later, but for now the moment is just between the two of you.

You press a kiss to your fingers and send it flying up to him.

That night, when you're wrapped in his arms and the soft hum of the city outside his bedroom window, you kiss the bridge of his nose again.

His eyes are still closed as you curl into his chest, his breath steady and slow. He holds your hand tight. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and certain.

“Don’t ever stop.”

And you won’t.

Because some things—like him—are forever.

requested by: @skz8riley (thanks for the request! i hope you enjoy!)

𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where netflix interviews you about your relationship with lando

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: you are in love - taylor swift

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The room hums with quiet anticipation as the Netflix production team makes their final adjustments. The bright white walls and minimalist décor give the space an almost clinical feel, but the warmth of the overhead lights makes it slightly more inviting. A few feet away, the interviewer shuffles through her notes, her well-rehearsed smile never faltering.

You sit in the plush white chair, Lando’s hoodie draped over your frame like a protective shield. You hadn’t meant to wear it—well, maybe you had. It had been an early morning, and in the rush to get ready, you grabbed the first thing that felt comfortable. Now, as the cameras adjust focus, you wonder if people will notice, if fans will recognize it from the countless Twitch streams and Instagram stories. They probably will.

The cameraman counts down from three with his fingers.

“And… rolling.”

The interviewer’s smile widens. “Alright, let’s get started.” She flips open her folder, her pen poised between her fingers. “You’ve been around the paddock for quite some time now. Fans have seen glimpses of you, but you’ve managed to stay relatively low-key despite being in a relationship with one of the most talked-about drivers on the grid. How has that been for you?”

You shift slightly in your seat, keeping your hands clasped together in your lap. “I don’t really think about it too much,” you admit. “I mean, I know people are curious, and I understand why, but I’m not here for the attention. I’m here for Lando.”

The interviewer tilts her head slightly. “That’s interesting because, whether you like it or not, you have become a figure in the F1 world. From being spotted in the McLaren garage to celebrating podiums with Lando, the cameras have taken notice.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that too.”

She flips to the next page of her notes. “Let’s go back to the beginning. When did this all start? How did you and Lando first meet?”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. It wasn’t like some dramatic love-at-first-sight thing. We were just… friends for a long time. It was always easy between us, you know?”

“Friends to lovers?”

“Yeah.” You nod, the memory of it still so vivid in your mind. “It just sort of happened over time. I don’t think there was ever a moment where we sat down and said, ‘Okay, we’re in love now.’ It was just us, and at some point, we realized we couldn’t imagine life any other way.”

The interviewer smiles. “That’s really sweet.” She glances at her notes again. “Now, Lando is obviously a very public figure. His fanbase is huge and passionate, and with that comes a lot of attention—not all of it positive. How do you handle being in that world?”

You take a slow breath, choosing your words carefully. “It can be overwhelming sometimes,” you admit. “I try not to let it get to me, but there are days when it’s harder than others. Some people are really supportive, but others…” You pause, debating how honest you want to be. “Let’s just say not everyone is kind.”

There’s a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Does that ever affect your relationship?”

You shake your head. “No. At the end of the day, I know Lando, and he knows me. That’s all that really matters. It’s easy to get caught up in the noise, but when we’re together, none of that exists.”

The interviewer leans forward slightly. “So, let’s talk about race day. You’ve been in the paddock for some of Lando’s biggest moments, including his first podium and some really close battles. What’s that like for you?”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling your heart rate pick up at the thought of those high-stakes races. “Stressful,” you say with a grin. “Really stressful. I trust him completely, but watching him go wheel-to-wheel at 300 km/h? Yeah, that’s terrifying.”

“I imagine it’s quite an emotional rollercoaster.”

“Oh, absolutely.” You nod. “There are days when he’s on top of the world, and there are days when it’s devastating. And you feel all of it with him.”

The interviewer watches you carefully. “And how do you support him through those tough days?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his hoodie. “I just remind him that one race doesn’t define him. He’s so hard on himself sometimes, and it’s easy for him to forget how incredible he is. So, I try to be the voice that tells him it’s okay to have bad days.”

She smiles. “That’s beautiful.” There’s a brief pause as she flips to the next question. “Now, fans have picked up on how he looks at you, how protective he is. There was even that one moment on Twitch where chat thought it was adorable how he made sure you were okay. Do you ever notice those things?”

Your cheeks warm slightly. “I mean, yeah, I notice,” you say with a soft laugh. “But that’s just him. He’s always been like that, even before we were together. It’s just who he is.”

The interviewer grins. “Well, fans love it. And speaking of fans, you’ve gained quite a few of your own. Do you ever think about that?”

You blink in surprise. “Not really.”

“Well, you should. People adore you.”

That makes you smile. “That’s nice to hear.”

She sets her notes aside. “Alright, last question—where do you see this going? The future?”

Your gaze flickers toward the door, where you know Lando is probably waiting just outside. Then, you smile, your answer coming easily.

“Wherever he goes, I’ll be right there with him.”

The cameraman signals that the recording is over. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The interviewer offers you a warm smile before thanking you for your time, and as soon as you step out of the interview room, Lando is there, leaning casually against the wall.

“How’d it go?” he asks, pushing off and slipping an arm around your waist.

“Not too bad.” You glance up at him. “They asked a lot about you, obviously.”

He smirks. “Well, of course. I am pretty great.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, he tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thanks for doing it,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not your thing.”

You lean into him. “It’s worth it for you.”

And as the cameras pack up behind you, fading into the background, you realize that no matter how many interviews come your way, no matter how bright the spotlight gets, this—being here with him—is what matters most.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[MEANS I CARE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: isack is entirely confused why his best friend is avoiding him. or in which you realised you're in love with your best friend.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: childhood friends to lovers, mostly angst, bits of fluff, a reader with dismissive avoidant attachment, reader struggles with her emotions, initial anger from confrontational!isack but overall caring!isack, cute love confession at the end! // poorly proof read as usual

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: isack hadjar x bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.2k

𝐀/𝐍: poured a bit of myself into this one! it's hard to tell from my writing, but i struggle with expressing my emotions and telling people i care for them. i've heard it's quite common for older sisters to have avoidant attachment issues so... i guess i check the box ◡̈ anyway, this one might be a tad bit dramatic but lmk what you think! ♡︎ // also miss mcrae's album has a lot of avoidant attachment!!

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You and Isack were opposites in every sense that mattered.

Where one would claim he was too expressive, you couldn't bring yourself to show you cared.

Where he was indecisive, you held all rationality.

And where he trusted freely, you locked yourself up.

But nevertheless, you had been childhood friends since he moved next door to you. Neither of you had a problem with the way you both acted. It was sort of like give and take: where you lacked, he made up for it and vice versa.

It never really mattered. At least that's what you thought anyways.

This year was different from every other. There would be no other like it. Because Isack was debuting as a Formula One driver. His life long dream. And you couldn't be anymore proud.

You didn't outright say it–you couldn't. You remember smiling when he told you and saying congratulations before Isack simply rolled his eyes and pulled you into a hug.

You remembered him thanking you when you pulled away, stomach churning at the lengthy hug. You were confused. Eyebrows furrowed, you asked why.

"For believing in me," he said with the most beautiful smile and the warmest brown eyes holding your own.

That was the defining moment... the moment you realised you were in love with your best friend.

There were signs. There were always signs.

Your extensive care for him and only him. The constant worry every time he went out on track. The small skip in your heart beat when he'd return home with your favourite ice cream. Your slight amusement when you'd pretend to be cross with him and he'd think you were being serious. The little trinkets he'd bring back from every race to put on the shelves in your bedroom. Or the way he lowered the volume of the TV before you'd even ask him to because he knew you didn't like it.

They were always there. But the line between best friends and whatever... it was so similar... so blurry. How could you've ever known?

But that day... it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over your head and reality had finally been opened to you.

You loved Isack. Not liked. Not admired. Not fancied. Loved. And you had been for years.

God it scared you. It terrified you.

People never said it to you but you knew how you were.

When you invested too much of yourself into one thing, you stopped it only moments later. You didn't want to stick around to see if something would be good. It was the assumption it would hurt. So if you could dismiss it before it even had the chance to... that's the only way you could ever relax.

You never understood how people did it. How you could give so much of yourself away. What happened when it all inevitably failed? Why wouldn't you protect yourself first? Why did you have to deal with the mess of emotions?

Loving Isack... it meant showing the most vulnerable sides of yourself. And it's not that he didn't know you. He was your best friend, of course he knew you. But that made it worse.

In your years of friendship, you had cried twice in front of him. And you hated it every single second of it. That he could see you break down. That you weren't the strong friend he normally relied on.

Loving Isack was going to fail.

You knew it.

You knew it when he crashed in the formation lap on Australia and it felt like a part of you had been ripped and torn into pieces when you saw him cry on the screens.

You knew it when he came to you, thought to be out of tears, but almost on his knees, hands immediately wrapping around you for a hug, asking you why this had happened to him and you couldn't do anything but apologise to him and tell him he'd come back stronger while you cried so silently.

When his parents thanked you for being there for Isack... fuck, you knew it would all backfire.

So you slowly stopped. Like you always did.

Fewer texts. Fewer jokes. More lies. Forcing yourself to do something–anything–else but care too much.

You hated it. You hated that it was bringing you some calm despite your body screaming at you.

It was getting difficult to keep it up. How many more times would you blamed it on the time zones? As if you hadn't memorised them the moment they came out. As if you hadn't been doing this his entire career.

But the small break after the Saudi Grand Prix meant Isack was back home. After you had missed your usual good luck text.

You had forgotten actually. You were in your room, studying quietly, unaware anyone would be home as your workaholic parents were out like normal.

Consequently, the thumps up your staircase were loud, almost deafening. Your ears perked up as the door of your bedroom went wide open.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Isack's shrill voice echoed in your bedroom, chest heaving as he stood in front of you, arms firmly to his side.

You turned from your desk. You eyed his attire briefly. The hoodie and sweatpants, the bags under his eyes... he'd probably just come from the airport. The one where you'd usually be waiting for him. "Excuse me?" You asked, throat dry from not speaking in hours.

Isack blinked, swallowing. He took a step forward to you, eyes flickering over you rapidly to see if you were okay. "Is something wrong? A-Are you sick? Are you stressed? Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

You could feel it. The tear in your heart growing while annoyance boiled under your skin. He didn't need to fix you. That was your job.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," you sighed out, standing from your desk before you walked to your shelves. You chewed on your lip, nervously eyeing the trinkets Isack had brought you.

You needed this conversation to be over before it went somewhere else.

"Putain de merde," Isack swore, running a hand through his hair. He walked to you again. "Like hell you don't... you don't talk to me for a week and avoid my calls and you don't know what I’m talking about? Like I'm crazy?" He asked with a small scoff.

You sucked in a sharp breath, turning to face him. "I told you with the time diff–"

A loud groan interrupted your sentence. Isack breathed slowly, fingers pressed on his nose bridge. "I swear to fucking God, if you mention that stupid fucking time difference again, I will lose my mind."

You stayed quiet. You weren't sure what to say. You wanted to peel out of your skin, you were so uncomfortable. You hated confrontation. Isack knew you hated confrontation. And yet...

Isack sighed quietly. He stepped closer to you, holding your hands with his gently. "Please, ma moitié. Please tell me what's wrong. Did I do something? Why... why won't you talk to me?"

Your eyes burned at the crack in his voice. Fuck, this sucked. You hated yourself for feeling like this. It was like it was on the tip of your tongue but you could never get it out.

"I..." you said shakily, forcing yourself to remove your burning hands from his while you pretended like you didn't see the hurt flash in his eyes, "It's nothing. Nothing is wrong."

"So it is something. Something has been bothering you. Since last year... since I told you about my seat... something's been wrong. What is it? What happened?" Isack queried softly, brown eyes searching yours so deeply for an answer.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Shit.

"You know you can tell me anything."

But I can't! You wanted to scream it. You just couldn't tell him.

"Isack, please... just– you know how I am. I'll deal with it, hmm?" You said, trying to muster up a smile.

He stared at you quietly and you were scared he was seeing too much of you. The debate in his eyes... the way he chewed his lip... he also couldn't tell if he should say it.

"You want to cry," he stated, making your eyes widen. "I can see it in your eyes. The redness. Your red cheeks. You want to say something so just say it! I'm worried for you."

"Stop saying things like that." You let out an exasperated groan. You brushed past him, clambering into his shoulder. "I don't understand how you do it," you murmured angrily more to yourself than him.

The tears were freely flowing down your cheeks before you knew it. You glared hard at your desk, eyes hot as though it would stop you from crying.

You couldn't see it but Isack could feel his heart breaking at the sight of your figure shaking. You could feel him gently lay his hand over your shoulder. "It's okay to cry," he mumbled, "I wish you wouldn't hide it."

You felt sick. Like your stomach was churning. It felt like his hand was leaving an imprint on you, searing you. Exhaustion was clouding your body. Exhaustion that had built up over the course of the past few weeks.

"I can't do it like you, Isack. I can't show I care. It's so hard. It's like I have to constantly fight myself," you quietly said, unable to bear this any longer.

"Hey," Isack murmured, hand travelling to your face to turn you to him. His eyes softened at your wet cheeks. Wiping them with the pads of his thumbs, he held your chin with his thumb. "It's okay. You don't have to do anything like me. Take your time. Do what you want when you want."

You breathed quietly while you stared at your best friend. He was right. It wasn't as easy as he made it sound, but you were so tired of feeling like crap. You focused on his encouraging smile and opened your mouth.

"I... you were right. I was avoiding you," you admitted, eyes falling to the floor in embarrassment. You could feel he wanted to say something but he stayed quiet, waiting for you. "I was avoiding you because I care."

Isack furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

You chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating how much you wanted to say... how much you could say. "Last year... when you told me you got your seat, you thanked me."

He nodded in agreement. "For believing in me. Because you always do," he murmured, his free hand rubbing your own softly, comforting you.

You smiled gently at his words before taking in a sharp intake of air. "It just made me think, well, realise that I'm in love with you. And I always have been," you breathed out, the weight slowly lifting off your shoulders.

You could see Isack's eyes slightly widen but you continued. "And that terrifies me, Isack. Because it means I care. I care a lot for you. And I'm scared that because I care, something will go wrong. I-I didn't mean to shut you out. It's not what I want. It's just all I know. So I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I'm dumping this on you when you don't feel the same way and–"

"Wait, wait, wait," Isack interjected, hands both reaching to hold your face gently. He held your eyes with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. "Who's says I don't feel the same way?"

You mouth felt dry, heart speeding. "I... You do?"

Isack smiled, laughing softly as he nodded. "I thought it was obvious. That maybe you just didn't feel the same way."

He watched a dark expression fall on your face. You were in that same dreadful space you had just been in. "Hey, ma moitié, what's wrong?"

Your eyes fell to his once again. "What if I can't love you enough?"

It sounded strange but he knew what you meant. Even with all your care... what if you couldn't show you loved him enough? What if you couldn't express it?

"Not possible," Isack retorted, casually shrugging.

"But I–"

"I see it," Isack firmly told you, quietening you easily. "I see it when you're at my races and you stand on the side, letting me go to my parents first. I see you and your camera taking pictures of us when you think I don't. I see your heart. I see all of it."

You blinked, eyes burning all over again. For the first time in forever, you stepped forward, hugging him tightly. "Je t’aime, Isack.

His arms wrapped around yours, holding you closer to him. Isack smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Je t’aime, ma moitié."

"Did you bring me any souvenirs?" You mumbled against his shoulders, sniffling slightly.

You could feel his body rumble with a chuckle. "Depends. did you even watch my race or were you busy 'sleeping?'"

You pulled away, making a face, guilt still swirling within you. "I did watch it. You know I watch it even when I'm mad at you," you pouted.

Isack grinned. "Then of course I did."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

PRESSED BETWEEN PAGES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever." - Lord Alfred Tennyson

ᝰ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: fluff!!! mention of one (1) fight, yuki is in love ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: turns out me and a have a shared favorite quote! i'm a big lover of the language of flowers so this one is special to me ꨄ︎ requested by @hello-car-fandom !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Yuki doesn’t say much when you change the flowers.

It happens quietly, usually on a Sunday. The kind of slow morning where the sky hangs low and the light in the apartment turns golden for no reason at all. Sometimes he’s just getting back from a run, shoes damp with dew, shirt clinging to his back. Sometimes he’s on the couch, scrolling through lap data, one leg tucked under him and his hair still damp from the shower.

You move through the room like it’s something sacred—plucking limp stems from glass jars, fingertips stained with water and wilting green. On the kitchen counter. By the window. Once, tucked inside a toothbrush cup by the bathroom sink.

You never make a big deal out of it. Just hum under your breath and hum again when the new bouquet unfurls its petals under the faucet. It’s the only way you really keep track of the seasons, you told him once, hands full of lilacs and eucalyptus. When you don’t have time to notice the air changing or the daylight shifting, you trust the florists to do it for you.

He listens to that in the back of his mind, files it away. Like how tulips mean spring. Daisies mean rain is coming. Marigolds mean you’re starting to sleep with the fan on again.

He never says anything when the old ones go. Just watches as you slide them from their vases, one by one, and lay them gently into the compost bin. The petals fall apart in your fingers sometimes, thin and papery. The stems bend too easily. They’ve softened with time.

But when you leave the room—off to take a call, or switch on the kettle, or pull laundry from the dryer—he moves.

Softly. Like it’s a secret. Like he’s doing something wrong, though it never really is.

He reaches into the bin, fingers threading through damp coffee grounds and orange peels until he finds the stems. Not all of them. Just one. Maybe two. The ones still holding their shape, even if their color has started to fade.

❀˖° THE TULIP - APRIL °˖❀

The front door creaks open with the soft click of a key turning too carefully, like he’s afraid to wake the walls.

Yuki drops his duffel bag quietly just inside, his shoulders stiff from the flight, neck aching from hours spent tilted awkwardly against the seat. Tokyo rain clings to the sleeves of his hoodie, tiny dark circles blooming where it soaked through.

He’s barely taken a step inside when he sees you—curled up on the couch, arms folded tight against your chest, knees drawn in like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. You’re asleep, mouth parted just slightly, hair falling across your cheek. The TV flickers with the low hum of some late-night rerun, casting moving shadows over the blanket tangled around your legs.

He moves quietly, kneeling beside the coffee table. That’s when he sees the bouquet—still wrapped in brown paper, tulip heads peeking shyly from the fold, pale pink and a little bruised around the edges.

The receipt is folded underneath it, timestamped from hours ago. You must have picked them up right after your shift. You must’ve waited.

Yuki swallows around something that tastes too much like guilt and gratitude and everything in between. He should wake you. He doesn’t.

Instead, he touches one of the tulips lightly, presses the soft edge of its petal between his fingers. He smiles, just a little. Then he stands, pads over to the kitchen, and pulls an old mug from the cupboard. Fills it halfway. Snips the stems like you always do.

By the time you stir awake, groggy and blinking through the television static, the tulips are standing tall in the center of the kitchen table, catching the soft, early light of dawn.

You don’t even notice the single tulip missing from the bunch.

But Yuki does. He presses it between the pages of an old notebook that night, the faintest scent of your waiting still clinging to its petals.

❀˖° THE DAISY - JUNE °˖❀

The clouds break with no warning.

One second it’s thick summer air, heavy with sun and the low buzz of heat, and the next it’s thunder cracking over the buildings and rain hitting the pavement like applause.

You don’t even flinch.

Yuki’s still drying his hair from a post-run shower when he hears the balcony door slide open. The curtain lifts with a gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet concrete and ozone.

When he walks into the living room, towel draped over his shoulders, he freezes at the sight of you—barefoot, already soaked, arms outstretched like you’re trying to catch the sky in your hands.

You laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed—spinning once on your heel like a kid. Your white T-shirt clings to your sides, and your hair sticks to your forehead in wet strands, but you don’t seem to care.

“It’s raining,” you say, like he hadn’t noticed.

“I can see that,” he replies, deadpan—but he doesn’t pull you back inside. He leans on the doorframe, watching you twirl barefoot on the slick tiles, lightning stitching its way across the clouds.

There’s a tiny jar by the railing with a single daisy, already sagging under the weight of the water. You must’ve grabbed it from the little garden box, some spontaneous, sunlit moment made permanent in glass.

He’ll take it inside later—after the sky clears, after you’ve come back in, dripping and radiant, tugging him by the wrist to dance with you in puddles.

That night, while you’re brushing your hair out, back turned to him in the mirror, he plucks the daisy from its jar and slips it between the pages of a half-filled journal.

Even months later, it still smells like summer rain.

❀˖° THE MARIGOLD - LATE AUGUST °˖❀

The silence after the argument feels like its own kind of noise.

Yuki sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. You’re in the kitchen, pretending to do dishes, though all he hears is water running and not much else.

Neither of you meant for it to go that far. The fight was stupid—about groceries, or maybe laundry, or maybe the way he sometimes shuts down when things get hard. You’d raised your voice. He’d left the room.

Now it’s sunset, and the apartment glows with that soft, golden hush that only comes once a day, like the light is trying to forgive everything it touches.

When you appear in the doorway, your expression isn’t angry anymore. You’re holding something in your hands—a marigold, still bright, pulled from the vase on the table.

You walk up to him slowly and offer it out, wordlessly.

He looks up, meets your eyes. Then he laughs—quiet and a little embarrassed—and takes the flower from you, twirling it once between his fingers.

“I was an ass,” he says.

“You were tired,” you reply. “So was I.”

He tugs you down beside him, your thigh pressed against his. The marigold rests between you on the bedspread, its orange glow catching the last of the sun.

Later, he pretends to be asleep while you make dinner. He slips the marigold into a folded napkin and places it gently in the spine of his notebook.

It smells like apologies and soft light and the feeling of coming home again.

Each flower is carefully flattened between the pages of an old notebook he keeps zipped up in the lining of his suitcase. He doesn't need to label them. He remembers. Which flower came from which Sunday. Which week you couldn’t sleep. Which day you laughed so hard you spilled water all over the counter.

Sometimes, he tucks one into his pocket before a flight or race weekend. It crumbles a little each time he does, but it’s still enough. Just a whisper of the color, the shape—of you.

You never notice.

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you started tying the stems with twine now, something softer and easier to unwind, like you’re giving permission. Like you’re saying, go on, take this one too.

And he does.

Quietly, always.

Takeout times

Request: nah, but this guy won our poll so.

Pairing: Husband!Max Verstappen x Wife!reader

Warnings: FLUFF BABYSSS

Summary: Max's little cuddles and meal time with his wife.

Notice: Yes, this is from @heyitspapayaontop. That is my main and where I post my fics, but I might consider writing here too. Thank you!

The buzz of the paddock was a distant hum, muffled behind the closed door of Verstappen’s driver room. FP1 had ended with solid data, a clean car, and a familiar shrug from Max—"The car feels good. A little understeer in turn five, but nothing crazy."

But now?

Now was the best part of the day.

You were curled up beside him on the small couch that barely fit two people—though neither of you minded the lack of space. It just meant you had to press in closer, which Max had happily taken advantage of the second the door clicked shut.

Chinese takeout containers were scattered across the little coffee table in front of you, your shared order scribbled with black marker and checkmarks. Max was lazily holding chopsticks in one hand, using them more to poke at his food than eat, while his other arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you tucked against him.

“I think the sesame chicken is yours,” he murmured, looking down at you with that quiet, sleepy smile he only ever gave you in these private moments.

“Mmm,” you hummed, reaching over and grabbing the box. “You say that like you didn’t already steal half of it.”

“I needed to test it. For quality control.”

You snorted. “You're such a liar, Verstappen.”

He leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple, breath warm as he whispered, “Yeah, but I’m your liar.”

You melted a little, leaning fully into him as your food momentarily became a forgotten background character to the warmth of his hoodie, the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek, and the smell of soy sauce lingering in the air.

Max nudged your chopsticks toward your mouth when he saw you zoning out. “You’ve gotta eat before FP2.”

“You mean you have to eat before FP2,” you corrected, grinning up at him.

“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “And if you don’t eat, I’ll just worry about you the whole time. Can’t win a session like that.”

You fed him a bite instead. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you love it.”

You did. Of course you did.

He pulled the blanket tighter over the two of you, the world outside the driver room utterly irrelevant. It didn’t matter that engineers were probably reviewing data or that fans were screaming just outside the barriers.

In here, it was just your husband, who was soft and silly and pressing absentminded kisses to your forehead as you shared spring rolls and small smiles.

“Five more minutes,” he murmured, eyes already fluttering shut. “Just five, and then I’ll go pretend I don’t wish I could just stay here with you.”

You kissed his jaw and curled deeper into his chest. “Five minutes,” you promised. “Or maybe ten.”

He didn’t argue.

A/N: HOPE YOU LIKES IT MY SHAYLAS. I know I'm on break but I had to add this for the weekend. there might be a silly part two but idk yet! sorry Abt it being so short, love you<3