Pairing: George Russell x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n)
Genre: Hurt-Comfort; angst...? fluff; George being neglected by mercedes
Summary: George doesn't mind sharing the spotlight. He just didn't expect to disappear from it entirely.
Avi's Radio📻: I just could not stop thinking of a hurt comfort George fic after the Spanish GP... so here it is! Btw, my ask box is open to any requests!!
Parc fermé is still loud when George steps out of the car, but it’s a different kind of loud now—less chaotic than the race, more like the world trying to remember how to breathe after holding its breath for an hour. His heartbeat is still too fast, adrenaline still sitting under his skin like electricity that hasn’t figured out where to go yet.
He pulls his helmet off in one smooth motion, hair flattened and damp at the edges, and for a second he just stands there, blinking like he’s adjusting to being a person again instead of a driver. His hands are still slightly shaking when he loosens his gloves, and he looks up at the timing screen once more like it might still change if he looks at it differently.
P2.
One hundred races.
It hits him in uneven waves instead of one clean feeling.
And then—
He hears her.
“GEORGE!”
It’s not a call. It’s an arrival.
She’s already running before he even turns fully, weaving through mechanics and officials like none of them exist in the same world she does right now, eyes locked on him with a kind of joy that looks almost too big to fit in her face.
He barely has time to brace himself before she hits him.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
Just completely.
Her arms wrap around his shoulders with such force that he almost laughs from the impact alone, stumbling back half a step as she presses into him like she’s been holding this moment in all day and it finally has somewhere to go.
“You—” she starts, breathless, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, eyes wide and shining in a way that makes his chest tighten without warning, “you just got P2 on your hundredth race. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you understand how cool that is?”
He laughs, still trying to catch up to her energy, hands settling instinctively at her waist like grounding himself.
“I mean,” he says, breath still uneven, “I was there, so I think I’ve got a rough idea.”
She shakes him slightly like she can’t contain it, smiling so hard it almost looks like it hurts.
“No, no, listen,” she insists, leaning in like she’s sharing classified information, “you are going to be unbearable about this for weeks.”
“Me?” he scoffs lightly. “I am extremely humble.”
She gives him a look immediately.
“You literally pointed at the timing screen.”
“I was acknowledging it respectfully.”
“That’s not what that was.”
He’s laughing properly now, not the controlled media kind, but the kind that comes out when someone else is so happy for you that it makes it impossible not to be pulled into it too.
And for a few seconds, it actually feels simple.
Like it’s just a good day.
He doesn’t think when he leans down and kisses her forehead, slow and familiar, and she goes quieter for half a second like the gesture lands somewhere deeper than either of them expected.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
The podium always feels like a different world.
Everything is sharper there—the lights brighter, the noise more structured, the emotions more performative even when they’re real. George stands on the middle step with a smile that he has perfected over years, the kind that looks effortless even when nothing about the moment is.
Champagne sticks to his skin. Cameras flash endlessly. The crowd roars in a way that feels distant and close at the same time.
Lewis is beside him, laughing like this is exactly where he belongs, energy effortless and full. Lando is somewhere nearby too, already being pulled into another version of celebration, another version of the day that will be remembered differently depending on who tells it.
George smiles through all of it.
Because that’s what he does.
Because it is a good day.
It is.
And yet—
There’s a moment, somewhere between the end of the ceremony and the beginning of everything else, where the structure breaks without anyone announcing it.
Lewis is gone first, swallowed by interviews. Lando disappears into a different crowd. The podium empties in a way that doesn’t feel abrupt, just gradual enough that George almost doesn’t notice it until it’s already happened.
He’s still standing there when most people have stopped looking.
Still holding the trophy.
Still smiling.
Just slightly less inside the moment than before.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
Hospitality is quieter, but not in a comforting way.
It’s the kind of quiet that is full of movement—people shifting between conversations, phones buzzing constantly, voices overlapping but never quite connecting. George moves through it the way he always does, greeting, thanking, acknowledging, because that is what the rhythm of these days requires.
“Good drive, George.”
“Thanks.”
“Solid result.”
“Appreciate it.”
Everything is familiar.
Everything is automatic.
At some point, he sets his trophy down on a table near the edge of the room, not because he decides to, but because his hands simply stop needing to hold it for a moment. No one reacts to it. No one looks at it for longer than a passing second.
It just sits there.
Like it belongs to the room more than to him.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
Toto arrives like he always does—efficient, composed, already thinking ahead like the present is just something passing through on its way to somewhere else.
“Tough race,” he says briefly, like it’s already been filed away in his mind.
George straightens slightly without meaning to, that automatic shift into composure clicking into place before he even thinks about it. “Yeah,” he replies after a beat, voice steady in that practiced way, “I think we made the most of it overall.”
A small nod from Toto.
“Good drive, George,” he adds, already half turning away as he says it.
And then he’s gone.
Not unkind.
Not cold.
Just… already somewhere else.
“Kimi, come here.”
The words are simple enough that they almost don’t register as anything more than movement.
George watches for a second longer than he means to, something tightening quietly in his chest before he forces it down again like it was never there in the first place.
“He’s busy,” he says under his breath without really meaning to say it out loud.
But no one hears it.
So it doesn’t matter.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
She finds him a few minutes later when everything has softened at the edges but still feels heavy underneath it all.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says gently, like she’s already seen this version of him before.
George glances at her, tired but still trying. “What thing?”
“The thing where you act like you’re fine,” she replies softly, “and if you say it enough times, everyone around you starts believing it before you even get a chance to figure out if it’s true.”
He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “I am fine.”
She doesn’t react immediately. Just looks at him, steady.
“George.”
“I am,” he repeats, a little quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince both of them at once.
A pause stretches between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
Eventually, his shoulders drop slightly, like something in him gives up the effort of holding everything in place.
“…I’m serious,” he adds, softer now.
“You’re lying,” she says, but there’s no edge to it, no frustration, just certainty.
And somehow that makes it harder to keep deflecting.
He looks away, jaw tightening faintly like he’s trying to organise something inside his head before it comes out wrong.
“It’s stupid,” he says after a moment.
“Then tell me the stupid thing,” she replies, like it’s the most natural response in the world.
That lands.
Not because it pushes him.
Because it doesn’t.
“I don’t know why it bothered me,” he admits finally, voice lower, less controlled, like he’s stopped filtering himself properly. “It shouldn’t have. I’m happy for Kimi, I am, and Lewis—he deserves everything, obviously, I know that.”
He pauses, swallowing once.
“It’s just… I thought maybe today would be my day for five minutes. That’s all.”
The silence after that isn’t empty.
It just feels too real to interrupt.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“You keep apologising for that,” she says, almost quietly.
He frowns slightly. “Apologising for what?”
“For wanting that,” she clarifies. “For feeling it. Like it needs to be justified before you’re allowed to have it at all.”
That makes him still.
“I didn’t—”
“You do,” she interrupts gently, not cutting him off, just finishing the thought for him. “Every time. Like you’re waiting for permission to want something that doesn’t hurt anyone.”
A pause.
“And you don’t need it.”
Something shifts in him—not fixed, not solved, just… loosened.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
Alex appears like he’s stepping into a conversation he absolutely refuses to understand the rules of.
“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he says.
She doesn’t look at him. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“Perfect,” Alex replies immediately. “I’ve never respected middle things in my life.”
Despite everything, George lets out a small laugh—quick, surprised, real enough that it breaks the tension just a little.
Lily follows behind Alex more quietly.
She doesn’t speak at first.
Just steps forward and pulls George into a hug like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that he needs one, no hesitation, no performance, just steady presence.
When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on his shoulders for a second longer than necessary.
“Happy hundred races,” she says simply, like it’s not a question or a celebration, just a fact she refuses to let get lost.
Then, softer:
“I’m proud of you. Don’t argue with me.”
He almost does.
But he doesn’t.
Alex clears his throat like he’s been waiting for his turn to emotionally disrupt the room.
“Toto is an idiot,” he says casually, like it’s a well-established fact of nature.
“Alex—” Lily starts immediately, already sighing.
“What?” he shrugs. “He is. If your own team forgets something like today, that’s not professionalism, that’s selective memory.”
George lets out another laugh—this one longer, warmer, like it actually stays instead of slipping away immediately.
Alex gestures vaguely, tone softening just a little.
“But you still did it,” he adds.
And that one lands differently.
George doesn’t want the celebration.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just… not at all.
And she understands without him needing to explain it properly.
So they leave.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
The restaurant is small in a way that feels almost accidental, like it wasn’t designed to be noticed at all, tucked away from the louder parts of Barcelona where everything still feels slightly too bright, slightly too fast. The kind of place where nothing expects you to perform, not the lighting, not the tables, not even the silence between conversations that drift in and out without meaning to be heard.
George sits down like his body is only just now realising it can stop bracing itself. It’s subtle, not dramatic, just a slow release in his shoulders, in the way his hands rest instead of hovering with tension he didn’t notice he was carrying.
The food comes without ceremony, simple, shared, unimportant in the way dinner becomes when it is no longer attached to anything larger than hunger. They eat without turning it into a moment, without needing it to be anything more than what it is, and for a while, that is enough.
At first, he moves slowly, like he’s still catching up to the idea that nothing here is being judged or watched or measured, but it passes quietly, almost unnoticed, into something more natural. Eventually, he starts eating properly again, like his body remembers what ease feels like when it isn’t being asked to justify itself.
At some point, he steals from her plate without thinking, like it’s instinct more than intention, and she notices immediately, of course she does, but she doesn’t call it out harshly.
“Thought it was just alright,” she says, tone light, like she’s letting him exist without interrupting him.
“I never said it was bad,” he replies too quickly, still not looking up properly, and that alone gives him away more than anything else.
“George,” she says again, softer this time, and something in him loosens at the sound of it, like the name itself is permission to stop holding so tightly.
“I’m hungry,” he adds, quieter, and this time it actually feels like him speaking instead of him managing himself.
After a while, they leave without deciding to make it a decision. The night outside is cooler, softer in the way cities become when they are no longer demanding attention, when even the lights feel less sharp. They walk without direction, not because there is anywhere to go, but because standing still feels heavier than moving.
His hand finds hers naturally, like it has done this before, like it will do it again, and neither of them comments on it because there is nothing to explain.
Somewhere along the walk, he speaks, voice lower now, less careful than earlier in the day, less like he’s filtering every word before it leaves him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, like it slips out before he can organise it into anything more structured.
She slows slightly beside him, not stopping him, just adjusting to him. “For what?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because she knows there is no single answer that will fit cleanly.
He looks down for a moment, then exhales. “I don’t know,” he admits, and there’s no attempt to fix it into something clearer than it is.
That earns a soft pause from her, not disappointment, not frustration, just understanding. “Exactly,” she says quietly, like that is enough on its own.
Later, back in the room, everything finally settles in a way the rest of the day never allowed it to. The air feels still instead of heavy, quiet instead of sharp. George comes out of the shower still slightly damp, hair messy, shoulders no longer carrying the same invisible weight they had been all day, and for a moment he just stands there like he’s recalibrating what it feels like to exist without expectation pressing against him.
Then he walks to her.
No hesitation. No explanation. No attempt to rebuild anything he spent the day carefully holding in place.
Just collapse.
She holds him immediately, steady and certain, like it is the most obvious thing in the world that this is where he is supposed to be.
After a while, her voice comes quietly into the space between them, soft enough that it feels like it belongs only there.
“Thank you for remembering,” he says.
She exhales slowly, like the words land somewhere deeper than everything else did today, and after a beat he answers just as quietly, almost like it’s the simplest truth he has all day.
“I did not remember,” she says.
A pause.
Then softer—
“I never forgot.”
Avi's Radio📻: So, how was it? Frankly speaking, this was my first attempt at angst or hurt comfort, and i have n idea how it turned out.
And sorry if the writing is inconsistent, it took me like 3 days to write.
Thank you for reading!!<3
Taglist:
If you want to be added or removed, just leave a comment or dm me!
@hereforfanfictionsfr @valeelavvale @maladaptive-anxiety @harrystyleskiwi9 @sonasarchive @yearnerray @sparksfromhell @velisa003 @gulaabjamun08
“I would love to, but I literally can’t,” you sighed softly, finally looking up from your laptop screen.
Oscar was stretched out across your couch, one arm tucked behind his head, completely at ease—like your apartment had quietly stopped being somewhere he visited and had simply become somewhere he existed.
The only reason you were sitting at the dining table instead of hiding away in your well-equipped home office was him. You'd migrated out without really thinking about it, laptop open in front of you, coffee slowly going cold beside it. You'd told yourself it was for the natural light. It was not for the natural light.
Half working. Half simply existing in the same room as him.
"I'm already behind on my tasks," you added more quietly, another email sliding into your inbox before you'd even finished reading the last one. Another issue. Another thing not working the way it was supposed to for one of your clients.
Your shoulders dropped slightly as you read it, the tension settling back in almost instantly—familiar, automatic. The particular brand of tired that came not from too little sleep but from too many things requiring your brain at the same time.
Oscar didn’t speak right away.
Didn't tell you to ignore it.
Didn't tell you to relax, which you appreciated, because the fastest way to make someone stop relaxing was to instruct them to relax.
He just watched you. Steady. Present. Like he was trying to understand what weighed on you without making you explain it.
“I know,” he said eventually. Quiet. Simple. No pressure in it.
That was the thing about him. He rarely tried to argue you out of your reality. He just stepped into it with you.
You let out a small breath, fingers hovering over your keyboard without actually typing anything.
"It's just this new client…" you started slowly, eyes still on the screen, half-reading, half-talking. "As soon as this settles, I'll stop feeling like I'm drowning and maybe upgrade to... barely surviving."
That earned the smallest laugh from the couch.
"I think I need another two weeks," you guessed, eyes moving across your project timeline instead. Campaign rollout. Product launch. Brand approvals. Content calendars.
It all blurred together eventually.
Oscar thought for a moment.
You went back to work.
Your inbox kept refreshing like it had its own agenda. One client wanting luxury but understated but also viral, another asking for timeless branding with TikTok relevance, which in your professional opinion was basically asking for a unicorn with a LinkedIn account.
You loved your job, and you were good at it—fast, precise, efficient. But onboarding a client this large always meant weeks of deep water. Luxury consulting came with impossible expectations, and when a client specifically requested you, it was flattering—but a responsibility that didn't ease until everything was running smoothly.
And with this one, it had been weeks already.
The Austrian and British GPs hadn't helped either. You'd known that even before they started. You'd gone anyway.
Of course you had.
“Then a summer vacation together.”
His voice suddenly sounded much closer than before.
Before you even looked up, you felt him. The warmth of him crossing the room. A familiar hand brushing lightly over your shoulder as he leaned down to press an absentminded kiss against your cheek — the kind that wasn't asking for anything, just leaving something behind.
Your eyes closed for half a second on instinct.
Then he pulled out the chair beside yours. The metal legs scraped softly across the floor as he sat down, close enough that your knees almost brushed. Close enough that his arm nearly touched yours, close enough that if he leaned even slightly, he could read your screen.
Not that it would mean anything to him.
You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the proximity. By how easily he filled the space next to you, like he'd calculated exactly how much room to take up and chosen all of it.
“Okay,” you nodded slowly.
“But like a proper vacation,” he said.
You turned your head a little toward him.
“Define proper.”
His mouth curved faintly, like he’d already thought about this more than he was admitting.
“Two weeks,” he said. “Just you and me. No work. No phones. No schedules.”
A beat.
"No one asking me about tyre degradation."
The corner of your mouth twitched.
"And no one emailing you because somebody suddenly decided beige is no longer the right shade of beige."
You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound escaped before you could stop it — easy and sudden, the kind that loosened something in your chest you hadn't realized was wound tight.
Oscar smiled immediately. Like that was all he'd been working toward for the last twenty minutes.
"There she is," he murmured, looking almost unfairly pleased with himself.
"That sounds illegal," you said, still smiling.
“It should be,” he replied, completely serious.
That earned a real smile from you this time.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, finally letting your hands fall away from the keyboard.
“No phones at all?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That’s not realistic.”
Oscar tilted his head.
"You say that like you're addicted to your phone."
"I am not—"
He raised a brow.
You stopped mid-sentence.
A pause during which you made several faces that did not help your case.
"…okay, I am mildly dependent on communication for survival, yes."
"Exactly," he said, satisfied in the way only someone who had been right and could prove it was ever satisfied.
You shook your head, but there was no real resistance in it anymore.
“And where would we even go?” you asked.
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze dropped briefly to your laptop, then back to you.
“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “Where no one needs anything from you.”
That landed differently. Not heavy—just soft. Like something inside your chest quietly loosened.
You looked at him for a moment. Actually looked at him.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said quietly.
Oscar nodded once.
"Yeah."
No performance. No persuasion. Just certainty — calm and complete, like he'd already decided and was simply waiting for you to arrive at the same place.
You exhaled slowly, turning back toward your screen. But not really seeing it anymore.
Two weeks. No work. No demands. No client who considered a slightly off-shade beige a five-alarm emergency. Just life, uninterrupted. Just you, uninterrupted.
It sounded impossible.
Which meant, in a way, it also sounded necessary.
"I can't just disappear for two weeks," you said automatically.
“Yes you can,” Oscar replied simply.
You glanced at him.
He was watching you like this wasn’t a debate he was trying to win. Like it had already been decided in his head—you just hadn't caught up yet.
“You’re looking at me like I’ve already agreed,” you muttered.
“Have you?” he asked.
You huffed a small laugh.
“I haven’t even checked my calendar.”
"Then check." He gestured toward the laptop with the calm authority of someone who had done the math and already knew the answer.
You rolled your eyes and reached for your laptop anyway — because that was easier than admitting he was right — and Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, content to watch you now instead of the screen. Patient in the particular way he was patient. Not restless. Not waiting for you to hurry. Just there.
You opened your calendar.
Scrolled.
Paused.
Two weeks right now while on-boarding a new client was insane. Logistically messy. Work-wise irresponsible.
And yet—
Nothing was actually on those exact dates that couldn't be moved.
That realization irritated you more than it should have. You'd been so prepared to have a very reasonable objection.
You glanced sideways at him.
He looked entirely too pleased for someone who hadn't said a single word since you started scrolling. He had the specific expression of a man who had done absolutely nothing and was somehow still winning.
“You planned this already,” you accused lightly.
“I suggested it,” he corrected.
“You suggested it with intent.”
“I always have intent.”
"That's either romantic or alarming."
"Can't it be both?"
That made you snort.
You closed the laptop halfway, exhaling.
Here's the expanded version with more detail, humor, and romantic depth woven throughout:
Not in Belgium – OP81
Pairing: Oliver Piastri x gf!Reader Part 39 to Let the Light in
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 1:21 ❁✿❀❁✿❀
"Come to Belgium with me."
"I would love to, but I literally can't," you sighed softly, finally looking up from your laptop screen.
Oscar was stretched out across your couch, one arm tucked behind his head, one sock half off his foot in a way that suggested he had started removing it and then simply lost interest. Completely at ease—like your apartment had quietly stopped being somewhere he visited and had simply become somewhere he existed. Like your throw pillows had rearranged themselves around him out of loyalty.
The only reason you were sitting at the dining table instead of hiding away in your well-equipped home office was him. You'd migrated out without really thinking about it, laptop open in front of you, coffee slowly going cold beside it. You'd told yourself it was for the natural light. It was not for the natural light.
Half working. Half simply existing in the same room as him.
Sometimes that was enough.
"I'm already behind on my tasks," you added more quietly, another email sliding into your inbox before you'd even finished reading the last one. Another issue. Another thing not working the way it was supposed to for one of your clients.
Your shoulders dropped slightly as you read it, the tension settling back in almost instantly—familiar, automatic. The particular brand of tired that came not from too little sleep but from too many things requiring your brain at the same time.
Oscar didn't speak right away.
Didn't tell you to ignore it.
Didn't tell you to relax, which you appreciated, because the fastest way to make someone stop relaxing was to instruct them to relax.
He just watched you. Steady. Present. Like he was trying to understand what weighed on you without making you explain it out loud. Like understanding quietly was its own form of kindness.
"I know," he said eventually. Quiet. Simple. No pressure in it.
That was the thing about him. He rarely tried to argue you out of your reality. He just stepped into it with you. Sat down in the middle of the mess without flinching, and somehow made it feel like it wasn't quite as heavy as it had been a moment before.
You let out a small breath, fingers hovering over your keyboard without actually typing anything.
"It's just this new client…" you started slowly, eyes still on the screen, half-reading, half-talking. "As soon as this settles, I'll stop feeling like I'm drowning and maybe upgrade to... barely surviving."
That earned the smallest laugh from the couch.
"I think I need another two weeks," you guessed, eyes moving across your project timeline instead. Campaign rollout. Product launch. Brand approvals. Content calendars that somehow kept multiplying overnight like they were breeding.
It all blurred together eventually.
Oscar thought for a moment.
You went back to work.
Your inbox kept refreshing like it had its own agenda and a personal vendetta against your blood pressure. One client wanting luxury but understated but also viral — a combination that made you want to take up something peaceful, like beekeeping. Another asking for timeless branding with TikTok relevance, which in your professional opinion was basically asking for a unicorn with a LinkedIn account and a monetised presence on three platforms.
You loved your job, and you were good at it — fast, precise, efficient in a way that made people assume you never felt the weight of it. But onboarding a client this large always meant weeks of deep water. Luxury consulting came with impossible expectations baked in, and when a client specifically requested you by name, it was flattering — genuinely — but a responsibility that sat differently on your shoulders than a standard brief. It didn't ease until everything was running smoothly, and until then you were the one absorbing every bump in the road.
And with this one, it had been weeks already.
The Austrian and British GPs hadn't helped either. You'd known that even before they started. You'd gone anyway.
Of course you had.
"Then a summer vacation together."
His voice suddenly sounded much closer than before.
Before you even looked up, you felt him. The warmth of him crossing the room. A familiar hand brushing lightly over your shoulder as he leaned down to press an absentminded kiss against your cheek — the kind that wasn't asking for anything, just leaving something behind.
Your eyes closed for half a second on instinct.
Then he pulled out the chair beside yours. The metal legs scraped softly across the floor as he sat down, close enough that your knees almost brushed. Close enough that his arm nearly touched yours, close enough that if he leaned even slightly, he could read your screen.
Not that any of it would mean anything to him. He could look directly at your project management dashboard and it would register as coloured boxes.
You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the proximity. By how easily he filled the space next to you, like he'd calculated exactly how much room to take up and chosen all of it.
"Okay," you nodded slowly.
"But like a proper vacation," he said.
You turned your head a little toward him.
"Define proper."
His mouth curved faintly, like he'd already thought about this more than he was letting on. Like proper had a whole itinerary attached to it that he'd been quietly assembling in his head.
"Two weeks," he said. "Just you and me. No work. No phones. No schedules."
A beat.
"No one asking me about tyre degradation."
The corner of your mouth twitched.
"And no one emailing you because somebody suddenly decided beige is no longer the right shade of beige."
You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound escaped before you could stop it — easy and sudden, the kind that loosened something in your chest you hadn't realized was wound tight.
Oscar smiled immediately. Like that was all he'd been working toward for the last twenty minutes.
"There she is," he murmured, looking almost unfairly pleased with himself.
"That sounds illegal," you said, still smiling.
"It should be," he replied, completely serious.
"Two weeks with no phone isn't a vacation, Oscar. It's a social experiment."
"It's called peace."
"It's called withdrawals."
He looked at you with an expression of deeply patient suffering.
"One phone. Between us. For emergencies only."
"That's not—"
"Whose name are we putting on it?"
You pressed your lips together to stop from laughing again. Failed. A short sound escaped anyway, and you looked away, shaking your head.
That earned a real smile from him this time, unhurried and warm, the kind he didn't perform for cameras.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, finally letting your hands fall away from the keyboard.
"No phones at all?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. "That's not realistic."
Oscar tilted his head.
"You say that like you're addicted to your phone."
"I am not—"
He raised a brow.
You stopped mid-sentence.
A pause during which you made several faces that did not help your case.
"…okay, I am mildly dependent on communication for survival, yes."
"Exactly," he said, satisfied in the way only someone who had been right and could prove it was ever satisfied.
You shook your head, but there was no real resistance in it anymore. Something had started loosening around the edges — the careful, held-together version of yourself that showed up to deadlines and client calls. This was what he did without trying. Made the walls feel optional.
"And where would we even go?" you asked.
Oscar didn't answer immediately.
His gaze dropped briefly to your laptop, then back to you.
"Somewhere quiet," he said. "Where no one needs anything from you."
That landed differently than anything else he'd said. Not heavy — just soft. Like something inside your chest quietly shifted over to make room for the idea.
You looked at him for a moment. Actually looked at him, the way you didn't always let yourself because sometimes looking at Oscar too directly felt like standing too close to a window on a bright day.
"You're really serious about this," you said quietly.
Oscar nodded once.
"Yeah."
No performance. No persuasion. Just certainty — calm and complete, like he'd already decided and was simply waiting for you to arrive at the same place.
You exhaled slowly, turning back toward your screen. But not really seeing it anymore.
Two weeks. No work. No demands. No client who considered a slightly off-shade beige a five-alarm emergency. Just life, uninterrupted. Just you, uninterrupted.
It sounded impossible.
Which meant, in a way, it also sounded necessary.
"I can't just disappear for two weeks," you said automatically — the words arriving before the thought did, assembled entirely from habit.
"Yes you can," Oscar replied simply.
You glanced at him.
He was watching you like this wasn't a debate he was trying to win. Like it had already been decided somewhere in his head and you were simply the last to receive the memo.
"You're looking at me like I've already agreed," you muttered.
"Have you?" he asked.
"I haven't even checked my calendar."
"Then check." He gestured toward the laptop with the calm authority of someone who had done the math and already knew the answer.
You rolled your eyes and reached for your laptop anyway — because that was easier than admitting he was right — and Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, content to watch you now instead of the screen. Patient in the particular way he was patient. Not restless. Not waiting for you to hurry. Just there.
You opened your calendar.
Scrolled.
Paused.
Scrolled again, slower this time, like a second pass might reveal the chaos you were certain was lurking somewhere.
Two weeks in mid-season was insane. Logistically messy. Work-wise irresponsible. The kind of thing your organized, scheduled, colour-coded brain did not typically entertain without at least a preliminary risk assessment.
And yet—
Nothing was actually on those exact dates that couldn't be moved.
That realization irritated you more than it should have. You'd been so prepared to have a very reasonable objection.
You glanced sideways at him.
He looked entirely too pleased for someone who hadn't said a single word since you started scrolling. He had the specific expression of a man who had done absolutely nothing and was somehow still winning.
"You planned this already," you accused lightly.
"I suggested it," he corrected.
"You suggested it with intent."
"I always have intent."
"That's either romantic or alarming."
"Can't it be both?"
That made you snort — a completely undignified sound that you decided to ignore entirely.
You closed the laptop halfway, exhaling.
"You're dangerous," you said.
"Because I want to take you on holiday?" he asked, eyebrows lifting like the concept was entirely innocent.
"Because you make it sound reasonable."
Oscar smiled faintly, then reached out, gently taking your hand off the table. His fingers slid between yours easily, familiar now in a way that still sometimes surprised you.
He shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"I just want time with you." he said quietly.
Just that.
The joke disappeared from the room, replaced by something quieter and harder to deflect. No punchline coming. No follow-up. Just the truth of it, sitting there between you.
You looked down at your joined hands for a moment.
Your thumb brushed against his.
Somewhere on the screen beside you, another email arrived.
Another problem.
Another deadline.
Another thing waiting to be solved.
And for the first time in weeks, you found yourself not caring quite as much.
Oscar watched you patiently. No pressure. No expectation. Just waiting — and somehow that was more persuasive than any argument he could have made.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, practical objections immediately began lining up. Work. Clients. Responsibilities. Every reason to say later.
But hadn't you spent enough years doing that already?
Waiting until things were calmer. Easier. Waiting until you'd earned rest. Waiting until you'd earned happiness.
Oscar squeezed your hand once.
Warm. Familiar. Real.
And before you could talk yourself out of it—
"Okay."
The word left your mouth so easily it almost surprised you.
Oscar blinked.
"Okay?"
You nodded once, a smile slowly appearing despite yourself.
"Okay."
For a second, he just stared. Then he broke into such an immediate, boyish grin that you actually laughed — the kind of grin that had nothing composed about it, that he absolutely would have tried to control if he'd had any warning.
"Don't look so shocked."
"I'm not shocked."
"Oscar."
"I'm a little shocked."
"Rude."
"You usually require at least three business days and a risk assessment."
"That's called being responsible."
"That's called opening Excel before making a personal decision."
"Excuse you. I have never done that."
Oscar looked at you with an expression that said, very clearly and without a single word: I have watched you do exactly that.
Before you could mount a defense — which would have been compelling and well-structured, for the record — his hand settled at your waist.
You narrowed your eyes immediately.
"Oscar—"
Too late.
With an ease that suggested he had been planning this since approximately the moment he sat down, he stood from his chair and pulled you with him. A surprised laugh escaped you as your hands landed automatically on his shoulders, and then he dropped back into the chair a second later — this time with you securely in his lap.
Your protest dissolved somewhere between the standing and the sitting.
Mostly because it was comfortable. Unreasonably comfortable. And because Oscar's arms settled around your waist like they were designed for exactly this purpose, which, increasingly, you suspected they were.
"There," he said, satisfied.
"That's not a solution."
"It is for me."
"I was in the middle of—"
"Being stressed," he supplied helpfully.
"Working."
"Both of those things, yes."
You shook your head, but the smile wouldn't leave. It had made itself at home on your face without asking permission, which was very on-brand for the situation.
The laptop sat forgotten on the table. Your inbox continued collecting problems somewhere behind you, each one patiently waiting its turn. For once, neither of you paid it any attention.
Oscar rested his chin against your shoulder. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a soft kiss against your temple — not dramatic, not performed. Just warm lips against your skin, affection so natural it felt almost unconscious. The kind of thing you didn't brace for. The kind of thing that landed before your defenses could catch up.
Then another.
Lingering a fraction longer this time.
You felt his smile there.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Your chest did something complicated and quiet.
"For agreeing?"
"Mhm."
You turned your head slightly, finding him already looking at you.
The excitement was still there.
Not loud. Not childish. Just genuine. Like the thought of two uninterrupted weeks with you was simply enough. No condition attached. No bigger reason needed.
A simple thing.
A dangerous thing.
The kind of thing you still weren't entirely used to — someone being this straightforwardly, unhurriedly happy because of you.
Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck.
"You know," you said softly, "most people would be excited about Belgium."
"I am excited about Belgium," he said.
A beat.
“I’m more excited about the vacation.”
You laughed quietly. “That’s objectively the wrong answer.”
“I stand by it.”
His arms tightened briefly around your waist, pulling you a little closer.
Oscar didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
His chin settled against your shoulder again, his breathing evening out little by little as the excitement gave way to something quieter.
Home.
Not a place.
Just this.
Just you.
For someone who spent most of his year living out of suitcases and hotel rooms, maybe that was why two weeks mattered so much. Not because of where you'd go or what you'd see. But because he'd get to wake up beside you every morning, and go to sleep knowing you'd still be there, and have nothing else that needed his attention in between.
And for a moment — surrounded by unanswered emails and half-finished tasks and every responsibility that would still be waiting for you later — you let yourself lean into him completely.
Not planning.
Not calculating.
Not preparing for what came next.
Just staying exactly where you were.
And judging by the way Oscar immediately settled his cheek against your shoulder like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of being anywhere else, he seemed perfectly content with that outcome too.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
And Oscar truly was excited for Belgium.
With good reason.
Notification after notification lit up your phone over the course of the weekend.
P1 in FP1.
Then again in FP2.
FP3 wasn't any different.
Every session seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly — the McLaren looking planted through Eau Rouge, Oscar somehow finding another few hundredths each time it mattered, like the car had simply decided to agree with him this weekend and was doing its absolute best to cooperate.
By Saturday afternoon your phone barely stopped vibrating, and your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen far more than your project timeline appreciated.
POLE POSITION.
A small, helpless laugh escaped you.
“Of course he’s on pole,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head as you tried—unsuccessfully—to refocus on the laptop balanced on your knees.
On track, he looked like he belonged there.
His race suit was unzipped just slightly to below his collarbone, white fireproofs visible underneath, damp with heat and effort. Sweat still clung to his temples and disappeared beneath the papaya collar, the late afternoon sun catching the faint flush across his cheeks. His hair was a mess under the team cap he’d already shoved back on, and his breathing was still just slightly uneven from the final flying lap.
Like the car hadn’t just obeyed him. Like it had responded.
Like it always did when he got it right.
"So far," Nico Rosberg smiled, beginning the post-qualifying interview with the easy warmth of someone who had been in exactly that car, in exactly that headspace, a long time ago and remembered it clearly. "I'd say this has probably been your strongest weekend of the season."
Oscar nodded immediately, a small smile still lingering as he lifted the mic.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “You could say that.”
Nico hummed. “Anything you changed this weekend?”
“Not really,” Oscar shook his head. “Everything’s just… working, I guess.”
A pause.
“Car feels good. Confidence is there. It’s all coming together.”
"So no lucky charm then?" Nico teased lightly, in the tone of a man who absolutely already thought there was a lucky charm.
Oscar almost answered too quickly. Almost shrugged it off with the kind of reflexive deflection he was very good at. Almost let the truth slip past his better judgment on a wave of adrenaline.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, with the exact measured evenness of someone who knew exactly what was being talked about.
Nico laughed. "Oh come on."
Oscar let out a short breath, already sensing where this was heading with the accuracy of someone who had been interviewed enough times to recognize a setup from the first sentence.
"I've seen the photos," Nico continued, in the tone of a prosecuting attorney who had already won. "So have about four million other people."
A faint smile broke through Oscar's attempt at neutrality.
"Right."
"So?" Nico leaned in just slightly, clearly enjoying himself. "Is she your lucky charm?"
There it was.
The question — simple, direct, sitting in the air between them with nowhere to go.
Oscar laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because laughing was easier than the three seconds he needed to decide what came next.
Did he want to say your name? Absolutely.
Did he want to tell the world, plainly, without hesitation, that you were his? Without question.
But not like this. Not here. Not in a post-qualifying interview with the cameras still rolling and you watching alone at home, without any warning, without the conversation you'd quietly agreed you'd have together first. Saying your name here would be taking something private and handing it to an audience before you'd even decided you were ready for one.
He wasn't careless with you.
Wasn't going to start now.
So instead, he chose the closest honest version of the truth — the one that didn't need a name to land.
"Yeah."
One word.
Simple.
Honest.
Nico's grin widened instantly.
“I knew it.”
Oscar huffed a laugh, rubbing briefly at the back of his neck.
“She’s here this weekend?” Nico pressed immediately.
Oscar shook his head once.
"No."
A pause — brief, considered.
"But…" His shoulders lifted in a loose shrug, the look of a man calculating how much trouble he was about to cause for himself on live television and deciding the answer was a manageable amount. "I've definitely got her luck with me."
A beat.
Then he looked directly into the camera and winked.
Casual. Infuriatingly unbothered.
Like he hadn’t just said something that would immediately set half the paddock on fire.
On your end of the screen, your cheeks burned immediately. Because that wink had a very specific address. You were the only person in this interaction who knew exactly where it was going, and somehow that made it worse. Or better. You were still deciding.
Nico’s expression shifted instantly—interest sharpening, already preparing to dig deeper—but before he could fire off another question, the segment timing cut in like a saving grace for Oscar.
“Alright, that’s all we’ve got time for!”
Relief, disguised as professionalism.
Oscar handed the microphone back with a polite nod, the faintest satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped away from the interview spot.
If Nico looked mildly betrayed by unfinished business, Oscar looked like a man who had narrowly escaped a trap.
But before Oscar could even properly breathe—before his mind could fully shift out of the tunnel-vision of the race and into whatever came next—Kimi was already there.
Grinning.
Too wide. Too knowing. The grin of someone who had been watching the interview from five meters away and had taken notes.
Oscar stepped back toward the parc fermé area where the other front-row qualifiers still lingered: Kimi in P2, Charles in P3, both of them still carrying that post-session electricity that made paddock conversations slightly louder and less filtered than usual.
Kimi tilted his head, eyes gleaming with the energy of someone who considered himself investigatively gifted.
"You almost said her name," he said.
He was wrong.
Oscar didn’t even need a second to know that. The adrenaline was still buzzing through his system, heart rate not quite back to baseline, thoughts still half in the car, half in the podium run—but he wouldn’t have said your name. Not here. Not like that. Not in a way that turned something private into paddock currency.
But Kimi looked far too pleased with himself to care about accuracy.
Charles only shook his head beside him, laughing under his breath at the younger driver’s confidence.
“You did go a bit red at the mention of her, though,” he pointed out, in the tone of someone contributing a fair and balanced observation.
Kimi’s head snapped toward him immediately.
“You know her?” he asked, eyes widening.
“Her?” Charles echoed, amusement flickering across his face.
Kimi gestured vaguely, as if the entire concept of subtlety was optional.
“His girl. The one he hid in Monaco,” he clarified, still not letting go of the near-miss from earlier in the season like it was a personal unfinished investigation.
Charles’ gaze drifted back toward Oscar now, eyebrows lifting slightly in silent question.
Oscar exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of resignation slipping in.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “He almost caught us during the Monaco GP.”
That made Charles laugh outright—because of course it did.
To him, it was funny in that detached, slightly chaotic way only someone who had lived through Monaco too many times could manage. But there was something else in it too: understanding. Not intrusive, not judgmental. Just awareness.
He knew exactly what it meant for you two to keep things quiet. Not as a game. Not as secrecy for drama. But as something carefully held back while you figured out how to exist properly before the world got involved.
Kimi, meanwhile, looked personally offended by how little scandal there actually was.
“So you’re just all pretending I didn’t almost solve it,” he muttered.
“You didn’t solve anything,” Charles said lightly.
“I was close.”
“You were guessing.”
"I was investigating," Kimi corrected, with the emphasis of someone who felt the distinction was important and underappreciated.
Oscar let out a short laugh at that, shaking his head as he finally started walking toward the garage.
"Keep investigating," he said over his shoulder. "Just maybe leave my personal life out of it."
And behind him, Kimi immediately followed.
“I’m very good at investigations.”
Charles sighed.
“I’m watching a child argue with a wall.”
Oscar didn't look back. But for the first time since stepping out of the car, something in his chest fully eased. Not the result of the session. Not the pole. Just the ordinary, grounding thought of you — still at home, still knee-deep in different colour palettes and impossible briefs, and completely untouched by all of this noise.
That, more than anything, stayed with him.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
oscarpiastri
Cirquit de Spa-Francorchamps • Fun (feat. Roses Gabor)
oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
Liked by f1fan300, op81, yourusername and 388’993 Other’s
f1updates 🚨 OSCAR PIASTRI POLE POSITION SPA-FRANCORCHAMPS 🚨
verstappendefender yeah yeah but did you see the WINK in the interview
user4829174 okay but can we talk about the wink. THE WINK. he looked directly into the camera and WINKED. that wink had a recipient. that wink had an address. that wink had a ZIP CODE
piastriobsessed THE ZIP CODE SENT ME
mclarengirlboss that wink was point-to-point delivery. tracked shipping. signature required upon arrival.
f1wags_updates wait wait wait is oscar piastri in a relationship???? asking for 4 million people
oscarpiastri @.f1wags_updates I don't know what you're talking about
f1wags_updates SIR.
user9918273 HE REPLIED WITH THE EXACT SAME THING HE SAID TO NICO
papayastan consistent king. he has ONE answer and he's sticking to it
kimianthonisen he absolutely has a girlfriend @.f1wags_updates I was standing right there
formulafemme "I've definitely got her luck with me" and then the wink. and then "I don't know what you're talking about." this man is performing plausible deniability while simultaneously CONFIRMING EVERYTHING
piastrifan2025 he's doing both things at once. he's confirmed it and denied it in the same breath. quantum girlfriend.
mclarenaccount the quantum girlfriend era of oscar piastri's career
user0019283 this is the funniest thing i've ever read in a formula 1 comment section
f1gossip why is no one trying to figure out who the girlfriend is. we have had TWO photos of oscar with a blonde girl in the last two months and nobody has done anything with this information
user8827364 wait what photos
f1gossip the one from the after ones during and after the monaco GP. blurry but it's there.
smoothoperatorf1 and lets not forget the pictures where he himself soft launched!!!
user8123 what if it's Lily. they dated. it was serious. things ended quietly. oscar never spoke about it publicly. what if they reconnected?
user0019283 oh we're doing this
user8827364 also lando would NOT be able to keep that secret. lando cannot keep any secret. if it were lily, lando would have accidentally confirmed it in a stream six months ago.
landnorris @.user8827364 I keep secrets
f1detective let's be for real, it's not her. lily is brunette. the girl in both photos is clearly blonde.
user8123 she could have dyed it
op81fan I'm going to sound nuts, but what if it's @.yourusername? he's been in her likes recently
mclarengirlboss it's not, be realistic
op81fan i mean, she's often in the paddock with Alex, maybe they've run into each other once and hit it off?
user9901827 wasn't she rumoured to be with kimi like three months ago though
op81fan that's exactly why it could make sense now! kimi confirmed his girlfriend last month and it's not her, so Y/N L/N was clearly available this whole time
user4829174 LMAOOO
smoothoperatorf1 okay I'll bite. Y/N IS blonde. the timeline does work. oscar has been in monaco basically all season between races.
mclarengirlboss she's a practical princess of monaco dating a formula 1 driver who grew up in melbourne. be serious.
formulafemme I mean he literally lives in monaco?? the overlap isn't that crazy??
mclarengirlboss ...okay fair but still
see all comments...
❁✿❀❁✿❀
"So," Nicole said, with the particular warmth of a woman who had been waiting patiently to ask this question for several weeks and had earned it, "when am I going to meet the beautiful Sol?"
Oscar paused mid-movement.
He had, genuinely, completely forgotten that he'd given his mother a paddock pass for the Spa weekend. In his defence, his brain had been occupied — mostly by you, and the holiday idea that kept surfacing at inconvenient moments, and the quiet, ongoing effort of being a Formula 1 driver at what was becoming a genuinely complicated point of a championship. So when Nicole had appeared in the McLaren motorhome on Thursday morning, perfectly composed and already greeting the engineers by name like she'd been there all season, his surprise had been immediate and very visible.
Slightly embarrassing for someone who drove a car at three hundred kilometres an hour for a living.
How do you forget your own mother? He'd asked himself this. He didn't have a satisfying answer.
He shrugged now, towel still in hand, drying his hair in the absent way of someone whose mind was only partially in the room. Freshly showered, back in a black T-shirt and loose shorts, the particular post-race quiet settling into his limbs — the kind that came after the adrenaline finally ran out and left everything feeling slightly slower and softer than usual.
"I was hoping she'd be here this weekend," Nicole admitted, more quietly. "It would've been nice to finally meet her properly."
Oscar's posture shifted — not defensive, just attentive. The way it always did when you came up in conversation.
"She's got a lot of work right now," he said easily. “End of quarter stuff. Deadlines. Meetings. You know how it is.”
Nicole nodded, though her eyes stayed on him.
She studied him properly then.
Not casually anymore.
Like a mother who had watched her child long enough to notice when something had shifted.
"And still," she added, voice lighter again, "you've been smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news every twenty minutes all weekend."
Oscar let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you don't," she replied smoothly, in the tone of a woman who knew exactly what she meant.
That earned her a reluctant smile. He dropped onto the couch next to her then, stretching his legs out in front of him, finally letting the adrenaline of the race weekend drain out of his system. Spa still lingered behind his eyes— heat, pressure, podium champagne, interviews—but underneath all of it, there was something else now.
Something softer.
Something that kept pulling his thoughts away mid-sentence.
Nicole tilted her head slightly.
“So?” she asked again, quieter this time. “What is she like?”
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he didn't know. He knew. He could have answered in any number of ways — practical, chronological, efficient. But everything that came to mind when he thought of you didn't quite fit those shapes.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the window of the motorhome, where the paddock buzzed on outside—busy, loud, relentless.
Then back to his mother.
“She’s calm,” he said finally. “But not in a quiet way. More like… steady. Like she makes everything feel less rushed without actually slowing anything down.”
Nicole nodded slightly, encouraging him without interrupting.
“And she notices everything,” he added. “Like things you don’t even realise you’re showing. It’s annoying sometimes.”
That made Nicole’s mouth twitch.
"But also good," he added quickly, because it was. Genuinely, unexpectedly good.
A beat.
“She remembers things people forget they said. And she listens like she actually wants to understand, not just reply.”
His voice softened a fraction without him noticing.
Nicole's expression changed subtly — not surprised. Just quietly noting something.
"That sounds like someone who makes you think," she said.
Oscar huffed a quiet laugh.
“She makes me stop thinking, actually.”
Nicole smiled — the warm, genuine kind that had nothing performative about it.
“Even better.”
Oscar glanced at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
"I am," she admitted, without an ounce of apology. "It's nice hearing you talk like this."
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not trying to control how it sounds.”
That landed a little deeper than expected.
Oscar looked away again, this time more thoughtful.
Outside, a mechanic laughed loudly somewhere down the corridor. A door slammed. Life continuing at full pace.
Inside, everything felt slightly slower.
Nicole leaned forward slightly, studying him again.
"I'm really proud of you," she said.
Oscar smiled, reflexive and small. "Thanks."
"I'm not talking about the weekend."
That made him look at her properly.
Nicole’s expression stayed gentle, but firm in the way only mothers could manage.
“I’m talking about her.”
A pause.
“She sounds good for you, Oz,” she said. “And I don’t just mean nice. I mean… good. Like she doesn’t make you smaller or louder. Just more yourself.”
Oscar didn’t answer straight away.
His thumb rubbed once against his own palm.
Then, quieter:
“Yeah,” he said. “She does that.”
Nicole’s smile softened.
“Then don’t mess it up.”
That finally made him laugh—properly this time, shaking his head.
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why I like her already.”
Summary : Your marriage with Aegon has a good influence on you both, Aegon changes his character to be better and you also feel the changes in him day by day.
Alicent’s screams echoed through the castle, filling the air with pain and tension. Inside her private chambers, the maester and midwives worked desperately to calm her, holding her trembling hands gently, trying to ease her pain so she could remain calm and bring her second child into the world safely.
“Calm down, Your Grace,” the maester said in a low, steady voice, though his eyes were filled with concern. “Take deep breaths. Your child will be born soon.”
Despite the comforting words, Alicent’s face betrayed the agony she was enduring. She bit her lip, stifling every scream, unwilling to show weakness in front of those around her. Yet, her body was betraying her, the pain growing more intense with every passing moment.
The midwives hurried to prepare everything needed, working as swiftly as possible to ensure the birth would go smoothly. They knew all too well, from past experience, how dangerous childbirth could be. No one could predict what might happen, especially with so much pressure surrounding the birth.
Alicent shivered, her eyes filled with anxiety—not just for herself, but for the child she carried. “I… I can’t,” her voice broke, barely a whisper. “What if something goes wrong? What if I lose this child?”
One of the midwives gently took her hand, offering reassurance. “Your Grace, you’ve been strong up until now. We will make sure everything goes well. Trust us.”
Yet, despite their reassuring words, fear still gripped Alicent’s heart. What if this was the end of it all?
The midwife checked on Alicent once more, her face focused and serious. “The baby is ready,” she said, her voice steady. "Your Grace, you need to push now. With all your strength.”
Alicent, her body trembling from the exertion and pain, nodded, gripping the sheets tightly as she gathered every ounce of strength left in her. She cried out as she pushed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The pain was unbearable, yet she forced herself to endure, driven by the knowledge that her child was so close to being born.
Moments later, the midwife’s voice rang out with relief, “A healthy girl, Your Grace. Your daughter is born safe and sound.”
Alicent let out a shaky breath, a sense of overwhelming relief flooding through her. The pain was still there, but the weight of it felt lighter now. She could hear the soft cries of her newborn, and for a moment, she felt like the world had lifted off her shoulders.
But then, to her shock, the midwife’s voice grew more urgent. “Wait… there’s more. Another one is coming.”
Alicent’s eyes widened with disbelief, her heart racing as the pain returned, even more intense than before. She hadn’t expected this. A second child? Another girl?
The midwives worked quickly, helping her to push once more, and soon, another baby girl was born. The room was filled with the cries of two healthy daughters, and Alicent was left in stunned silence, her body exhausted but filled with awe.
Two daughters. Twins.
She couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. The pain that had nearly broken her moments ago was now replaced with a mix of emotions—relief, joy, and a profound sense of love for these two little girls who had come into the world against all odds. But even as her heart swelled with love, the reality set in: she was the mother of two newborn daughters now, and life as she knew it had just changed forever.
You walk through the garden with your ladies-in-waiting by your side. The gentle rustling of leaves and the soft chirping of birds fill the air, creating a peaceful melody that makes the moment feel serene. The sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the path ahead.
Your hand rests on your growing belly, your fingers moving in slow, thoughtful circles. Every now and then, you glance down, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. There’s a quiet contentment in moments like this — when the world feels slower, calmer.
Your ladies-in-waiting walk close by, their light chatter filling the air. Occasionally, you join the conversation, sharing a laugh or offering a kind remark. You enjoy their company, especially on days like this when Aegon is away, training with Aemond on the practice field. The clang of steel on steel is distant, muffled by the trees and the gentle hum of the garden, but you know they’re there, locked in their familiar dance of blades and pride.
The scent of blooming flowers drifts past on the breeze, sweet and fresh. You pause for a moment to take it in, letting the soft fragrance fill your senses. The warmth of the sun on your skin, the steady movement of life within you, and the simple joy of being surrounded by beauty — it’s in moments like these that you feel at peace.
One of your ladies comments on the beauty of a nearby rose bush, its crimson petals so vivid they almost seem unreal. You nod in agreement, reaching out to gently touch a velvety petal. “It’s strong,” you muse softly, your eyes lingering on the bloom. “Even with thorns, it still flourishes.”
Your gaze shifts to your belly, your hand still resting protectively over it. You walk on, the sound of footsteps crunching softly on the path behind you. No matter the burdens that come with war, court politics, or the pressures of family, moments like these remind you of your own strength. For like the roses, you endure, you grow — and you will bloom in your own time.
You turn your head and see your mother, Queen Alicent, walking toward you with your twin sister, Helaena, by her side. The sight of them fills you with warmth, and a bright smile lights up your face. Without hesitation, you step forward to greet them.
“Mother,” you say fondly as you embrace her. Her arms wrap around you with the firm but gentle hold only a mother can give. For a moment, you feel like a child again, safe and secure in her embrace.
She pulls back slightly to look at you, her gaze immediately dropping to your growing belly. Concern flickers in her eyes as she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Are you feeling tired, my sweet girl?” she asks, her voice laced with both worry and affection.
You smile softly, shaking your head. “No, Mother, I’m well. The walk does me good,” you reply, resting a hand on your belly. “The babe is calm today, too.”
Alicent’s eyes soften with relief, and a small smile tugs at her lips. “Good,” she says, glancing down at your belly with quiet reverence. “Still, you mustn’t overexert yourself. Rest is just as important as strength.”
Helaena steps closer, her gaze distant but kind as she looks at you and then at your belly. “Dreams of wings and warmth,” she says softly, tilting her head as if listening to something only she can hear. Her words are strange, but they do not unsettle you. You’ve grown used to her cryptic musings, and sometimes, they carry truths no one else sees.
“Perhaps the little one dreams, too,” you say gently, and Helaena smiles, as if you’ve understood something important.
The three of you continue to walk together, side by side, surrounded by the soft hum of the garden. With each step, you feel lighter, knowing that, no matter the trials to come, you have the love of your family to steady you.
You sip your tea, savoring its warmth as you listen to your mother, Alicent, speak. Her voice is steady, carrying the calm authority of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating courts and crowns. Her knitting needles continue their soft, rhythmic clacking, each stitch carefully crafted with love for your unborn child.
Beside you, Helaena sits on the grass, her gaze distant yet filled with quiet wonder. Her hands are outstretched, her fingers delicate as a butterfly perches lightly on them. She tilts her head, watching it closely, her lips curling into a soft smile. The creature’s wings flutter slowly, catching the golden light of the sun, and for a moment, it seems as though the world around her has stilled to match her calm.
You watch her quietly, your eyes filled with affection and a touch of curiosity. Your twin sister has always seemed connected to things others could not see or understand. It’s no surprise to see her at peace with something as fleeting as a butterfly.
Your gaze lingers on her a little longer, thoughtful. It hasn’t been long since she was wed to Aemond, and the idea fills you with a quiet hope. Perhaps soon she, too, will have a child of her own. The thought of your children growing up together — cousins but also as close as siblings — warms your heart.
“She’s always been gentle with them,” Alicent says softly, following your gaze to Helaena. “Butterflies. Insects. Small, fragile things. She understands them in a way that most people don’t.” Her tone is wistful, almost proud.
“She’ll be a good mother,” you say with certainty, your eyes never leaving Helaena. She turns her head slightly as if hearing you, her gaze meeting yours for a moment. She smiles, soft but knowing, as if she’s already seen the future and agrees with you.
“And so will you,” Alicent adds, her voice warm but firm. She gives you a look filled with quiet pride and reassurance. Her hands never stop knitting, her fingers working with steady precision. “Both of you will be wonderful mothers. I have no doubt.”
You glance down at your belly, feeling the gentle, familiar shift of life inside you. The future is uncertain, filled with so many unknowns, but here in the warmth of the sun, with your mother’s love and your sister’s quiet magic, you feel a rare sense of peace.
For a little while longer, you stay there together, letting the world outside the garden fade away. It is enough to simply be here, surrounded by love, hope, and the promise of new life.
You hear a familiar voice calling your name, firm yet tinged with warmth. Your heart lifts instinctively, and you turn toward the sound. There, walking toward you, is Aegon. Beside him is Aemond, his steps measured and precise as always, his face a mask of quiet intensity.
Aegon’s silver hair catches the sunlight, still damp from washing away the sweat of training. It clings in loose strands around his face and neck, giving him a more relaxed, almost boyish appearance. His tunic is slightly wrinkled from exertion, and there’s a hint of lingering energy in his movements, the kind that comes after the thrill of combat.
He grins as he sees you, his violet eyes locked on yours with unmistakable fondness. “There you are,” he says, his voice lighter than usual, as if just seeing you has eased something in him. His gaze flickers briefly to your belly, and his grin softens into something more tender.
Aemond walks at his side, his expression calm but watchful as his single eye takes in the scene. His hair is still perfectly in place, not a strand out of line, though there’s a sheen of effort on his skin. His gaze shifts briefly to Helaena, who is still watching her butterfly with quiet fascination. His face remains impassive, but there’s a certain softness in the way he watches her.
Aegon closes the distance between you with easy strides, his eyes never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he crouches slightly, his hand moving instinctively to rest on your belly. His palm is warm through the fabric of your gown, and you feel the familiar comfort of his presence. “Did they give you any trouble today?” he asks playfully, as if the baby inside could somehow be mischievous already.
You chuckle softly, your hand covering his. “Not at all,” you reply, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Unlike you, I’m sure, causing trouble with your brother.”
Aegon raises a brow, pretending to look offended. “Training isn’t trouble,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s noble work.”
“Is that what you call it?” you tease, your smile widening.
Aemond lets out a quiet huff that might be a laugh, though he quickly schools his features into calm indifference. His gaze shifts to Alicent, offering her a small nod of respect before his eye drifts back to Helaena.
Aegon’s attention returns fully to you, his grin fading into something softer, more genuine. His thumb traces a gentle circle over your belly before his eyes flick back to yours. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly, so only you can hear. His words are simple, but they linger in the air between you, warming you more than the sun ever could.
You press your hand over his, holding it there for a moment longer. “And you look like you just wrestled a dragon,” you reply, raising a brow.
He laughs, the sound rich and familiar, like the sound of home. “If I did, I’d still win,” he quips, puffing out his chest slightly in jest.
“Of course you would,” you say, humoring him. “You’re Aegon the Conqueror reborn, are you not?”
“Don’t you forget it,” he replies with a wink, leaning in to press a quick, playful kiss to your temple before straightening up again.
The afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting golden light on all of you — Alicent with her knitting, Helaena with her butterfly, Aemond with his quiet watchfulness, and Aegon standing at your side, his hand still resting protectively over your growing belly. For a moment, it feels like the whole world is right here, bound together by love, family, and the quiet certainty that, no matter what lies ahead, you will face it together.
You sit comfortably on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the window, casting a warm light across the room. Aegon kneels before you, his face level with your growing belly. His silver hair falls loosely around his face, still slightly damp from his earlier training.
His hands rest gently on either side of your belly, his thumbs moving in small, absentminded circles. But it’s his voice that draws your attention. He’s speaking softly to the baby, his tone playful yet filled with a quiet tenderness that you rarely see in him.
“Are you being good for your mother?” he murmurs, his violet eyes focused entirely on the curve of your stomach. “No kicks today? Hm? You’re being kind, aren’t you? That’s good. Keep it that way.” He tilts his head, as if waiting for a response, his expression one of mock seriousness. “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll be causing trouble soon enough.”
You can’t help but smile at the sight of him like this — brought to his knees by something so small and unseen. His love is unmistakable in the way he gazes at your belly, in the way his voice softens just for the child he has yet to meet.
Your fingers move through his silver hair, slow and gentle. His hair is soft beneath your touch, and you brush it back from his face, letting your fingertips linger for a moment. He leans into the gesture, his eyes fluttering closed like a cat basking in warmth.
“You’ll spoil them before they’re even born,” you say softly, your voice full of quiet affection.
Aegon opens one eye, glancing up at you with a lopsided grin. “That’s my right as a father,” he replies, turning his face slightly so his cheek rests against your belly. He closes his eyes fully now, letting out a breath as if finally at peace. “Besides, they deserve it.”
You feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of your gown, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The weight of the crown, the whispers of court, the distant echoes of war — none of it matters here. It’s just the three of you. You, Aegon, and the life growing between you.
Your hand continues its slow, soothing motion through his hair, your heart full of love so strong it nearly aches. “Yes,” you whisper, your eyes soft with quiet joy. “They do.”
You glance down at Aegon, his head still resting against your belly, and you smile softly. “Come sit with me,” you say gently, your voice quiet but certain.
He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of curiosity before he nods. Rising to his feet, he moves onto the bed, sinking into the mattress beside you with a contented sigh. His presence is warm and steady, and the shift in the bed as he settles feels as familiar as the rise and fall of your own breath.
You lean into him, resting your head on his chest. His arm moves naturally around you, holding you close. His other hand settles instinctively on your belly from behind, his palm resting firmly but gently over the curve of it. His fingers move in slow, soothing strokes, tracing soft circles over the fabric of your gown. The motion is so tender, so careful, that it feels like a lullaby made of touch.
Your eyes flutter closed, your body relaxing fully against him. The rhythm of his breathing is steady beneath you, the strong, reliable thud of his heartbeat in your ear. His warmth surrounds you, and with every slow caress of his hand on your belly, you feel the weight of the day begin to melt away.
“You’re tired,” he murmurs quietly, his lips close to your temple. His voice is lower now, quieter, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the peace you’ve found together.
“Not anymore,” you reply softly, your eyes still closed, letting yourself sink further into the comfort of him. “Not like this.”
His chest rises beneath your cheek with a slow, deep breath. “Good,” he says, his hand never ceasing its gentle movement. “You should rest while you can. Soon, we’ll have another little troublemaker to chase after.”
You hum in response, too relaxed to argue, too content to think of anything but the warmth of him, the safety of this moment, and the quiet love that surrounds you. His hand remains on your belly, his touch steady, protective, and full of love.
For now, there is peace. And that is enough.
You lie on the bed with Aegon, your body nestled comfortably against his. His warmth surrounds you, a protective cocoon that makes you feel safer than any fortress ever could. His arm is draped over you, his hand resting on your belly with familiar ease. His fingers move slowly, tracing soft, rhythmic circles, as if he’s already trying to soothe the child within.
From behind you, you hear the quiet hum of a melody. It’s not a song you fully recognize — perhaps something from childhood or a tune he’s made up on the spot. It’s low and unpolished, but there’s a gentleness to it that makes your heart ache with love. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his voice a quiet vibration that seems to lull not just you, but the baby as well.
You place your hand over his, your fingers threading through his, stilling his movements for a moment. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles slowly, feeling every ridge and line as if to remind yourself that he is real, that this is real.
“I’m happy,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, as if speaking a truth that must be heard. Your eyes remain closed, your face relaxed in a rare moment of peace. “I’m happy that fate wasn’t so cruel to us.”
There’s a pause, a stillness in the air that follows your words. For a moment, you think he might not respond. But then, he squeezes your hand, his fingers curling tightly around yours.
“Fate is always cruel,” Aegon says softly, his voice close to your ear, rough but honest. “But even fate can be kind sometimes.” His hand moves again, resuming its slow, soothing strokes over your belly. “Maybe this is our kindness,” he adds, his voice quieter now, as though he’s speaking only to you and the little life growing between you.
You press his hand a little closer to your belly, letting him feel the quiet stillness there. “If it is, then I’ll cherish it,” you murmur, your voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’ll hold on to it, no matter what comes.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but the weight of his silence is as full as any vow. His hand never leaves your belly, and his melody continues, hummed low and soft like a promise only the three of you can hear.
The next day, the sun is gentle in the sky, its warmth softened by a cool breeze that rustles the leaves. You walk side by side with your sister, Helaena, along the stone path that winds through the garden. The scent of blooming flowers fills the air, and the distant hum of bees creates a soft, steady rhythm around you.
Helaena walks with her usual quiet grace, her eyes flitting from one flower to the next, as if each one holds a secret only she can hear. Her fingers brush lightly against the petals as she passes, her touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. You glance at her with a fond smile, your hands resting lightly on the curve of your belly.
She’s talking, her voice light and dreamy as she recounts a story about her “little friends” — her name for the insects and creatures she seems to understand better than anyone else.
“The spiders were weaving again last night,” she says softly, her gaze far away but her tone certain. “They made a pattern this time — not like the others. It looked like a wheel, turning slowly.” Her eyes flick toward you, clear and bright, as if to see if you understand. “Maybe it’s a sign of something coming.”
You raise a brow, tilting your head slightly. “A wheel, you say? Perhaps it’s a sign that time is always turning,” you suggest playfully, though you know Helaena’s words often have more weight than they first appear to.
She hums thoughtfully, gazing up at the sky as if seeking an answer among the clouds. “Wheels turn, but they also crush,” she murmurs quietly, her gaze distant again. Then, as if pulled back to the present, she looks at you with a small smile. “But not all of them. Some are just for spinning thread.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head at her musings. Her words often carry a weight you don’t fully understand, but you love them all the same. “Well, I prefer the ones that spin thread,” you say with a grin. “Less danger, more warmth.”
She giggles at that, her smile growing brighter. You both walk a little further, your steps slow and unhurried. You feel calm, at ease, like the world is smaller here in this garden, and only the two of you exist within it.
“I like spending time with you,” you admit after a while, turning to her with a gentle smile. “It feels… peaceful.”
Helaena looks at you with that same soft, knowing smile she always wears when she’s gazing at her butterflies. “Peace is rare,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “So we should hold it tight when it finds us."
Her words linger in the air like the scent of flowers, and you nod, letting her wisdom settle in your heart. The two of you continue your walk, side by side, two sisters sharing the quiet beauty of the garden and the rare, fleeting peace it brings.
Your shared laughter with Helaena is suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. You turn your head and see them — Aegon and Aemond — standing just at the edge of the garden path. Aegon’s expression is playful, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his lips, while Aemond remains his usual composed self, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his face calm but watchful.
They begin to walk toward you, each with his own distinct stride. Aegon moves with an easy, relaxed confidence, like a man who owns every space he walks into. His eyes are on you, filled with warmth and mischief, his grin growing wider with every step. Aemond’s pace is slower, more deliberate, his gaze flickering briefly to Helaena before returning to you and Aegon. Where Aegon moves with ease, Aemond moves with purpose.
You can’t help but smile at the sight of them. They are as different as night and day, but somehow, in this moment, they both seem so familiar, so perfectly them.
Aegon reaches you first. Without hesitation, he kneels before you, his violet eyes gazing up at you with unspoken affection. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. His hands gently press against your sides, his touch firm but tender, and then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your belly.
You feel the warmth of his lips through the fabric of your gown, and your heart swells with love so deep it feels like it could burst. Your fingers move to his hair, gently combing through the soft silver strands, and he tilts his head slightly, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing grounding him.
“Good morning to you too,” you say softly, your eyes shining with affection.
“Morning to both of you,” Aegon replies, his voice half-teasing, half-sincere as he presses another kiss to your belly. “And you,” he adds, speaking directly to the child inside, his tone playful. “I hope you weren’t giving your mother too much trouble today.”
Helaena giggles beside you, covering her mouth with her hand, while you simply shake your head in quiet amusement. “They’ve been kind,” you reply, resting your other hand on top of his. “Unlike their father.”
Aegon gasps in mock offense, looking up at you with wide eyes. “I am nothing if not kind,” he insists, his grin betraying his words.
“Kind, perhaps,” you say, raising an eyebrow, “but certainly not quiet.”
Aemond approaches at last, his gaze flickering between you, Aegon, and Helaena. His single eye lingers on Helaena for a moment longer, and though his face remains stoic, there is a subtle shift in his expression — something softer, gentler. He stands beside her, his hands still neatly behind his back, his posture as rigid as ever.
“Are we interrupting something?” Aemond asks, his voice smooth and even, though there’s a hint of dry humor in it. His gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still on his knees, shamelessly clinging to you like a lovesick fool.
“Only my moment of peace,” you reply, casting a playful glance at Aemond. “But I suppose I can forgive you both this time.”
Aegon rises slowly, still grinning, his hand slipping into yours. “Peace is overrated,” he says with a wink, tugging you gently closer to him. “But I’ll give you something better.”
He presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full of love.
“Better be good, then,” you reply, leaning your head briefly against his shoulder.
Helaena’s gaze shifts between all of you, her eyes distant but bright, as though she’s seeing something far beyond the present moment. “The wheel spins,” she says softly, her voice almost sing-song. “But for now, it’s at rest.”
Aemond glances at her, his brow furrowing just slightly, but he says nothing. Instead, he moves to stand beside her, his hands finally leaving their place behind his back to brush lightly against her arm. She doesn’t flinch, only glances at him with a small, knowing smile.
You close your eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the fresh air of the garden, the warmth of Aegon at your side, and the steady, grounding presence of family all around you. For now, the wheel is at rest, and you allow yourself to believe, just for a moment, that peace like this might last forever.
The four of you walk together along the garden path, the late morning sun filtering through the trees, casting dappled light across the ground. The air smells of fresh blooms and the faint, sweet scent of wildflowers carried by the breeze. Helaena walks ahead, her attention on a butterfly that flits just out of reach. Her gaze is full of quiet wonder, and Aemond stays close by her side, his single eye watchful as always. His steps are slow and measured, as if he’s guarding her every move without her even noticing.
You walk beside Aegon, his hand loosely clasping yours. Every so often, his thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, a silent gesture of affection. His other hand occasionally hovers near your waist, ready to catch you if you stumble, though you haven’t. You’re steady, even as the weight of your growing belly pulls at your balance.
It’s Aemond who breaks the quiet, his voice cutting through the soft hum of the garden. “Are you not tired?” he asks, glancing your way with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “Walking this much while carrying all that weight can’t be easy.”
His words are blunt, but there’s no malice in them — only quiet concern, the kind of care he rarely shows to anyone but Helaena. His eyes shift briefly to your belly before returning to your face, his expression cool but attentive.
You raise a brow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you calling me heavy, brother?” you tease lightly, glancing at him with playful eyes. “Careful, or I might think you’ve grown bold.”
Aegon lets out a short laugh, his grin wide and mischievous. “Careful, brother,” he says with mock seriousness, his voice full of amusement. “A pregnant woman’s wrath is no small thing.”
Helaena giggles softly ahead of you, her fingers brushing against the petals of a nearby flower. She doesn’t look back, but you can tell she’s listening. “He only says it because he cares,” she says in her usual dreamy tone, glancing toward Aemond with a small, knowing smile. “He’s gentler than he seems.”
Aemond’s gaze flickers to Helaena, his face softening just slightly, though his lips remain in a firm, straight line. He doesn’t deny it, nor does he look away from her. It’s rare to see him so unguarded, but with Helaena, he always seems to allow himself a little more room to be human.
You glance between them, warmth blooming in your chest. “I’m fine, Aemond,” you say softly, your voice more sincere this time. “A little weight is nothing I can’t bear.” Your hand comes to rest on your belly, your fingers gently stroking it. “Besides, I’m not alone in carrying it, am I?”
Aegon squeezes your hand, tilting his head toward you with a grin that’s a little softer than usual. “No, you’re not,” he says simply, his eyes filled with quiet affection.
Aemond watches the exchange in silence, his gaze sharp but thoughtful. He says nothing more, but his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than usual before he looks ahead once more. Perhaps it’s his way of showing he cares — not with words, but with watchful eyes and quiet presence.
The four of you continue walking together, the steady rhythm of your steps blending with the rustle of the leaves and the distant hum of insects. You feel safe here, surrounded by family. Even Aemond, with all his sharp edges, feels like a shield at your side.
“Tell me if you need to rest,” Aemond says quietly, his voice softer now, just loud enough for you to hear. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. But you understand him well enough to know that this, too, is his version of kindness.
“I will,” you reply just as softly, your heart warm with quiet gratitude.
You walk a little slower after that, but no one says a word about it. Aemond walks close enough now that his shadow overlaps yours, a silent promise that he will remain by your side, steady as ever.
From a distance, you spot your mother, Alicent, standing at the end of the corridor leading into the garden. Her figure is framed by the soft glow of the sun behind her, her green gown catching the light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. Her gaze is fixed on all of you, her eyes warm with quiet affection. There is a softness in her expression — not the queen, but simply a mother watching her children.
As she walks toward you, her steps are slow and measured, her presence calm but commanding as always. Her gaze moves over each of you in turn, taking in Helaena’s soft smile, Aemond’s ever-watchful stare, Aegon’s relaxed posture, and you — her child carrying another life within them. Her eyes linger on you just a moment longer, a gentle, almost wistful look crossing her face.
When she reaches you, she says nothing at first. Instead, she steps closer and places a hand on your belly, her palm warm and firm. Her fingers move in a slow, tender caress, her eyes following the motion as if she can feel the life stirring within you. Her lips curve into a soft smile, her love clear in the gesture.
“You’re doing well,” she says quietly, lifting her gaze to meet yours. Her voice is gentle, the kind of voice only a mother can have when speaking to her child. “You’re strong.”
Her words wrap around you like a cloak of warmth, and you nod, unable to do much else but smile back at her. “I learned from you,” you reply softly, and the look she gives you in return is one of pride, tinged with a hint of sadness.
Alicent turns next to Helaena, cupping her face in both hands with such care, as if afraid she might break. She presses a light kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than usual. Helaena leans into the touch with a soft hum, her eyes fluttering closed like a butterfly resting on a petal.
“My sweet girl,” Alicent whispers, brushing a strand of silver hair away from Helaena’s face. “I hope you are well today.”
“The butterflies are quiet today,” Helaena replies dreamily, her gaze distant but serene. “They’re just watching.”
Alicent smiles, her brow softening. “Then perhaps they’re giving you a moment of peace,” she says, her hands still resting lightly on Helaena’s cheeks before she finally lets her go.
Her eyes shift to her sons next. She steps forward, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Aemond with that familiar blend of love, exasperation, and expectation that only a mother can manage.
Her eyes settle on Aegon first. She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, at least,” she says, her tone bordering on teasing but still firm enough to make her point.
Aegon rolls his eyes but grins at her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t have you worrying about me every moment of the day, Mother,” he replies, his voice light and easy.
Her gaze softens, but she raises a brow at him, clearly unconvinced. “I will worry about you for as long as I live, Aegon,” she says simply, her voice unwavering. “That is a mother’s burden.”
He doesn’t reply, but you notice the slight shift in his stance, his smile faltering just a little as he lowers his gaze for a moment. His fingers tighten briefly around yours, a silent acknowledgment of her words.
Then Alicent turns to Aemond, her gaze settling on him with the same care but perhaps a touch more scrutiny. She looks him over carefully, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, the patch over his missing eye, and the stiff posture of his shoulders. She steps closer, tilting her head as if to study him more closely.
“You’re too tense,” she says softly, her eyes filled with quiet concern. “You carry too much on your shoulders, my son.” Her hand reaches up to rest on his arm, and though his posture doesn’t change, you see the subtle shift in his gaze. His eye flickers to her, his lips pressing into a firm line.
“I carry what I must,” he replies, his tone firm but not cold.
Alicent gazes at him for a long moment, her fingers still on his arm. “Even the strongest swords can break,” she says softly. Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.
Aemond doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t pull away either. His gaze lowers slightly, his jaw tightening, but he allows her to keep her hand where it is. It’s a small thing, but for Aemond, it means everything.
The moment lingers before Alicent finally steps back, her gaze sweeping over all four of you once more. Her face is calm, but there is a depth of love in her eyes that she does not speak aloud. She clasps her hands in front of her, looking at all of you as if trying to commit the image to memory.
“Stay together,” she says softly, her gaze steady and filled with quiet strength. “If nothing else, promise me you will stay together.”
Her words settle over all of you like a veil of quiet understanding. No one speaks right away, but you feel Aegon’s hand tighten around yours, a silent promise made without words. Helaena gazes at the sky, her lips moving in quiet repetition of something only she can hear. Aemond remains still, his eyes sharp but distant, as if her words have struck a place deep within him.
“We will, Mother,” you say, your voice steady and certain. You glance at each of them in turn — Helaena, Aemond, and Aegon. “We will.”
Alicent nods, her face softening with quiet relief. “Good,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “That is all I ask.”
Your mother, glances at you and Helaena with a soft smile, her eyes filled with quiet affection. “Come,” she says gently, reaching out a hand to each of you. “Join me for tea in my chambers. You’ve been walking long enough, and it will do you both good to rest for a while.”
Helaena tilts her head as if considering the offer, then nods with a small, content smile. “Tea sounds lovely,” she says softly, her gaze following a butterfly as it flutters past. “The butterflies are quiet today. Perhaps they’ll join us too.”
You smile at her, your heart warmed by the innocence of her words. Then you glance at Aegon and Aemond, who are exchanging glances with each other, clearly with different plans in mind.
Aegon tilts his head toward Aemond, his grin sly and full of mischief. “Shall we?” he asks, already turning on his heel.
Aemond raises a brow but doesn’t argue. His gaze shifts to you, observing you carefully before speaking. “We’ll visit the dragons,” he says, his tone even and calm, but there’s a certain edge of excitement there, the same glint in his eye that always appears when he’s thinking of Vhagar. “We won’t be long.”
You narrow your eyes at them both, already sensing the trouble they might stir. Placing a hand on your hip, you glance from Aegon to Aemond with mock seriousness. “Don’t do anything reckless,” you say firmly, your voice carrying the weight of a warning only a wife and sister can give. “I mean it. No wild tricks, no flying too high, and no testing each other’s patience in the air.”
Aegon turns to you with an exaggerated look of shock, his hand pressed to his chest as if you’d wounded him. “Reckless? Me? I’m the picture of caution, love,” he says with a grin so wide it’s clear he’s lying. “I’ll be as gentle as a breeze.”
You raise an unimpressed brow. “A storm breeze, perhaps.”
Aemond says nothing, but you catch the subtle flicker of amusement in his eye. He glances at Helaena for a moment, his face softening just slightly before his gaze shifts back to you. “We’ll be careful,” he says simply, his tone steady but sincere. “I give you my word.”
His promise reassures you far more than Aegon’s theatrics ever could. You nod, letting out a small breath of relief. “Good,” you reply, glancing at both of them. “See that you keep it.”
Aegon chuckles, already backing away toward the path that leads to the dragonpit. “We’ll return in one piece,” he says with a wink, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll bring you back something pretty.”
You give him a pointed look but say nothing more. Your gaze follows them as they walk away, Aegon’s strides loose and confident while Aemond’s are precise and deliberate. It’s always been like that with them — wildness and control, fire and steel. You shake your head, fondness and exasperation blending in your heart.
“Men and their dragons,” Helaena says softly beside you, her gaze faraway but her words sharp with understanding. “They think they control them, but it is always the other way around.”
You glance at her, surprised by the clarity in her words, but before you can say anything, your mother places a gentle hand on your arm. “Come, my loves,” Alicent says, her voice as soft as silk. “Let them chase their dragons. We have warmth, tea, and quiet waiting for us.”
With a nod, you take your mother’s hand, and together with Helaena, you follow her toward her chambers. The sun filters through the hall’s stained-glass windows, casting hues of green and gold on the stone floors. It feels peaceful here, far from the weight of thrones, dragons, and the burdens of duty.
As you walk, you glance over your shoulder one last time, watching the distant figures of Aegon and Aemond disappear toward the dragonpit. You sigh softly, hoping they’ll remember your words — but knowing them both, you suspect you’ll be hearing wild tales of their “careful” flight soon enough.
With your mother’s steady hand guiding you, you lower yourself carefully into the cushioned chair. Your belly makes the task more cumbersome than it once was, and you exhale deeply as you finally settle into the seat. The soft fabric cradles your back, and you lean into it with a sigh of relief, letting the weight ease from your body.
Your eyes close for a moment, savoring the comfort. The strain in your back lessens, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you allow yourself a moment of stillness. The quiet hum of the room, the distant chirping of birds outside the window, and the familiar scent of lavender all combine to create a perfect, peaceful atmosphere.
A soft laugh breaks that peace, but it’s not unwelcome. You open one eye to see your mother, Alicent, covering her mouth with delicate fingers, her gaze warm and amused. Helaena sits nearby, her own soft giggles bubbling up like a gentle stream. Her eyes are bright with mirth as she tilts her head, watching you with that quiet, knowing gaze she always seems to have.
“You look as though you’ve just conquered a battle,” Alicent says with a fond smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
You tilt your head toward her, too tired to do more than give a wry smile. “It feels like I have,” you reply, letting out another long breath. “The weight of victory sits heavily on me.” Your hand rests on your belly, giving it a small, affectionate rub.
Helaena’s giggles grow louder, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of her chair. “Victory grows with each day,” she says dreamily, her gaze shifting toward your belly as if she’s watching something only she can see. “Soon, it will shout its arrival to the world, and all will hear it.
Alicent raises her brows at her daughter’s words, though she doesn’t question them. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze softening as she reaches out to brush a lock of hair from your face. Her touch is gentle, her fingers cool against your warm skin.
“You’ve done well to carry them this far,” she says quietly, her voice full of pride and affection. “But you mustn’t bear everything alone. Let others ease the burden when you can.”
You nod, leaning your head back against the chair with a small, content smile. “I know, Mother,” you murmur, your eyes closing once more. “But it’s hard to let go when it feels like it’s mine alone to carry.”
Alicent sighs softly, her hand resting on your shoulder. “It is yours, but that doesn’t mean you must carry it without help,” she says, her voice steady, firm in the way only a mother’s voice can be. “Even queens have hands to hold them up.”
Her words settle into your heart, heavy but warm. You feel the weight of them, just as you feel the weight of your child growing within you. It is a burden, yes, but it is also a blessing. Perhaps, you think, those two things are often one and the same.
Silence falls over the room once more, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Helaena shifts in her seat, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. You peek at her from beneath your lashes, watching her lost in her own world. The sunlight catches on her silver hair, making her look almost otherworldly.
“Rest,” Alicent says softly, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “For as long as you can.”
You hum in agreement, letting your eyes fall shut again. Surrounded by your mother’s warmth and your sister’s quiet presence, you feel safe. You feel loved. And for a while, you let yourself simply exist in that moment of peace.
You open your eyes slowly, gazing at your mother. Her face is serene but lined with quiet worry, a look you have come to recognize as her mask of strength. Her fingers are busy smoothing the fabric of her gown, a habit she’s never been able to break when her thoughts are heavy.
“Mother,” you say softly, your voice low but clear. Her eyes shift to meet yours, and you hesitate for a moment before asking, “How is Father?"
For a brief second, something flickers in her eyes — sorrow, perhaps, or something close to it. She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her fingers still, clasping together tightly as she sits straighter in her chair.
“His health worsens by the day,” she admits quietly, her voice measured but undeniably tinged with sadness. “He remains in his bedchamber, too weak to rise. The maesters do what they can, but…” She trails off, shaking her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line.
You feel a tightness form in your chest, an ache that isn’t unfamiliar but still unwelcome. Your fingers curl gently over your belly, grounding yourself in the feeling of life growing within you.
“He was never… present,” you say, your voice softer now, thoughtful. Your eyes drift toward the window, where the sun filters in, golden and warm. “Not like you were, not like Grandfather.” You pause, letting the quiet between you fill with the unspoken truth. “But he is still my father.”
Alicent lifts her gaze to you then, her eyes glimmering with something you can’t quite name. There is no denial in her face, no attempt to correct your words. She knows them to be true, as you do.
“Yes,” she says softly, her voice carrying a weight of acceptance. “He is still your father.” Her gaze turns distant, her eyes focused on something far away. “He is a good man, though burdened by things beyond his control. He loves in his own way — not always as he should, but he does.”
You look down, running your thumb across the curve of your belly. The thought of Viserys lying in his bed, frail and silent, tugs at you in a way you did not expect. Memories flash in your mind — moments where he was there but distant, moments when his attention was elsewhere, moments when you wondered if he truly saw you at all. And yet, you still care. Because he is still your father.
“Will he… will he meet them?” you ask, your eyes shifting back to Alicent. Your hand presses more firmly against your belly, a silent hope stirring within you. “When they’re born?”
Alicent’s face softens with a tenderness that breaks past the mask of a queen. Her eyes meet yours with quiet understanding, her gaze lingering on your belly with the look of a mother who has carried this same hope before. She leans forward, placing her hand over yours, the warmth of her touch steady and grounding.
“I hope so,” she says, her voice as soft as silk but as strong as steel. “He would want to. If he is able, I will see to it.”
Her promise is gentle but firm, a vow made with the strength of a mother who has borne too much but still finds a way to bear more. You nod slowly, feeling a mixture of comfort and unease. Time is not a kindness, and you both know it.
The silence returns, but it is no longer so heavy. It is a shared understanding, a quiet acceptance of what is and what may be. Alicent’s hand remains over yours, her presence steady and constant, just as it always has been.
You glance at her, offering a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mother.”
Her eyes soften as she smiles back, her gaze filled with love. “Always, my dear,” she says, her voice a quiet promise. “Always.”
The warm atmosphere of the room is filled with the soft clinking of teacups and the gentle murmur of conversation. You sit comfortably, leaning back just enough to ease the strain on your back, a hand resting protectively over your growing belly. Helaena sits across from you, quietly humming a tune under her breath, her eyes tracking the slow, drifting flight of a butterfly just outside the window. Alicent sits beside you, her eyes focused on the delicate stitches of her embroidery.
You lift your teacup, the warmth of it seeping into your fingers as you continue to speak, telling your mother and Helaena a story from the gardens earlier in the week. You smile, eyes bright with fondness, your voice carrying the light cheerfulness that often fills moments like this.
But suddenly, it happens.
A sharp, tight pain grips your belly, sudden and fierce, like a cord being pulled too tightly around you. Your breath catches in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. The pain doesn’t release immediately, instead it lingers, pressing down on you with an unyielding weight.
Your words cut off mid-sentence, your voice faltering into silence. For a moment, no one notices. Helaena is still gazing at the butterfly, her fingers tapping lightly against her teacup. Alicent is focused on the delicate pattern she is stitching, her brow furrowed in concentration.
But then, the porcelain slips from your fingers.
The cup falls from your hand, hitting the edge of the table before shattering against the stone floor below. The sharp crack of the porcelain shattering echoes through the room, cutting through the gentle quiet like a sword through silk.
“Darling?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, urgent. Her embroidery is forgotten as her eyes snap to you, wide with concern. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she moves to your side.
You barely hear her. Your breath comes in shallow pants as your hands fly to your belly, fingers pressing against the fabric of your gown as if trying to soothe the sharp ache beneath. Your heart pounds in your chest, faster than it should, and for a moment, fear coils tightly in your mind.
“Something’s wrong,” you breathe, your voice strained and quiet. Your eyes dart to Alicent, wide and uncertain. “Mother, something’s—”
Alicent is already at your side, her hands firm but gentle as she grips your shoulders, grounding you with her presence. “Breathe, sweet girl,” she says firmly, though her eyes are wide with worry. “Look at me. Breathe. Slowly now.”
Helaena rises from her chair, her movements slower but no less filled with purpose. Her eyes aren’t filled with panic like your mother’s — no, hers are distant but aware. She steps forward, tilting her head slightly, her gaze falling on your belly. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she murmurs, so softly it’s almost to herself, “The storm presses before the dawn… but it will pass.”
Her words do little to calm the growing thrum of worry in your chest. Your breathing is shallow as you press a hand harder against your belly, hoping, praying, that the pain will fade. Your heart races as the ache slowly begins to ease, but it leaves you shaken. Your breaths come quicker than before, and Alicent kneels before you, her hands cupping your face to make you look at her.
“Is it still there?” she asks, her eyes searching yours with the precision of a mother who has lived through this before. “The pain — is it still there?”
You shake your head slowly, swallowing hard before you answer. “No,” you whisper, voice still tight with lingering fear. “It’s… it’s easing now.” Your breath shudders as you exhale, tears threatening to rise in your eyes. “But it was strong, Mother. It was so strong.”
Alicent’s lips press into a firm line, her eyes scanning your face as her hand moves down to your belly. Her fingers press gently against it, her movements careful but thorough. Her gaze sharpens with quiet focus, and for a moment, she is not simply your mother but the queen, the one who must remain calm when others falter.
“Likely a cramp,” she says softly but firmly, glancing up at you. “It can happen as you grow heavier, especially with how far along you are.” She squeezes your hand, her eyes steady as she adds, “But we won’t take risks. I’ll send for the maester.”
Helaena kneels beside you, her eyes still faraway but her hands gentle as she takes yours into her own. Her fingers are cool to the touch, her presence a soothing balm to the fear still lingering in your heart. She tilts her head, her gaze distant but kind.
“Safe,” she says softly, her gaze flickering to your belly before rising to meet your eyes. “You are safe, and so are they.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mix of relief and exhaustion washing over you. You nod slowly, leaning back into the chair once more, letting the tension leave your body with every slow breath you take.
“Yes,” you whisper, more to yourself than to them. “Safe.”
But as Alicent calls for the maester and Helaena stays close by your side, you can’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing on you. The ache may have passed, but the memory of it still lingers, a shadow at the edge of your mind. You press a hand to your belly again, feeling the warmth of life beneath your palm.
“Stay with me,” you whisper quietly to the child growing within you. “Please… stay with me.”
The pain returns with a vengeance, sharper and more relentless than before. It claws its way through your belly, pulling a scream from your lips that echoes through the room. Your body tenses as if every muscle is fighting against the force bearing down on you. Your breaths come in short, frantic gasps, and panic surges in your chest like a rising tide.
“Mother!” you cry out, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear and pain. Your hands clutch your belly, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your gown. Sweat beads on your brow, rolling down your temples as heat floods your body. “Mother, please!”
Alicent is already at your side. Her hands are steady as she cups your face, her eyes sharp with focus but filled with unwavering love. “I’m here, I’m here,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the fog of pain like a guiding light. Her hand moves to your back, supporting you as she leans in close. “Breathe, sweet girl. Look at me. Breathe.”
Her words anchor you, but it’s so hard to focus on anything but the searing ache that grips you. You try to follow her command, gasping in short, uneven breaths before forcing a deeper one. The air feels thick and heavy in your lungs, but you manage to draw it in, then out. In. Out. Just as she says.
Footsteps echo down the corridor, fast and urgent. The door swings open, and the maester enters with two midwives at his side. Their expressions are grim but purposeful. They’ve seen this before. They know what to do.
“Lay her down,” the maester commands, his voice calm but firm. The midwives move quickly, clearing space on the large bed. Alicent and Helaena help you rise from the chair, their hands steady and sure. Your legs feel like they might give out, but they don’t let you fall.
The moment you lie back on the bed, the pain crashes down again. Another scream tears from your throat as you grip the sheets beneath you, your body arching as the pressure builds. Your heart races, panic mixing with the overwhelming pain, but Alicent is there. Her hands grip yours tightly, her gaze locked onto yours.
“Look at me,” she says, her voice unwavering even as her eyes shine with worry. “You’re strong. You can do this. Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”
Tears prick your eyes as you try to listen to her, nodding weakly through the haze of agony. The maester presses a hand gently to your belly, his eyes narrowing with practiced precision.
“It is time,” he says, his gaze flicking to Alicent before returning to you. “The child is coming now. We must act quickly.”
“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse with strain. “No, it’s too soon—”
“It’s happening now, my lady,” the maester says firmly but not unkindly. “There is no stopping it. You must be brave.”
Terror wells up in your chest, but Alicent grips your face gently, her eyes filled with fierce determination. “You are brave,” she tells you, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “You were born to do this. I’m right here. I will not leave you.”
Helaena kneels by your other side, her distant, dreamlike gaze now clearer than before. Her eyes settle on you with surprising clarity. “A new song,” she murmurs, brushing a cool hand over your sweat-dampened brow. “It will be loud, but it will be beautiful.”
Her words bring you a small, flickering spark of calm, but it’s brief. The next contraction pulls a broken sob from your chest as you twist in pain. Your world narrows to nothing but the ache, the weight, and the unyielding pressure that refuses to ease.
“Push when you feel it,” the maester instructs. His voice is steady but insistent. “When the pain crests, you push. Do you understand?”
You nod weakly, your breath coming fast and shallow. Alicent’s fingers intertwine with yours, grounding you in the present. Her grip is strong, firm, and unwavering.
“You can do this,” she whispers, her voice close to your ear. “Push, my love. Push with everything you have."
The next wave of pain crashes over you, fiercer than anything you’ve ever known. You grit your teeth, crying out as you bear down with every ounce of strength left in you. Your whole body trembles from the effort, your breaths ragged and wild, but you push. You push because there is no other choice. You push because life demands it.
The room fills with the sounds of your labor — the grunts, the cries, the gasps for air. Alicent’s voice never wavers, her steady encouragement a thread that guides you through the storm. Helaena hums softly beside you, her quiet, lilting melody oddly soothing in the chaos.
Time becomes meaningless. Minutes, hours — you can’t tell the difference. All you know is the pain, the push, the desperate need to bring life into the world. Sweat drips from your brow, your body shaking with exhaustion. You feel like you have nothing left to give. But then—
“I see the head,” the maester says suddenly, his tone sharp with urgency. “Just one more push, my lady. One more, and they will be here.”
Your heart leaps, tears streaming down your face. You feel Alicent squeeze your hand tighter, her face inches from yours, her eyes fierce with pride.
“One more,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion. “Just one more. You can do this. You will do this.”
You nod, teeth clenched, every muscle in your body coiling like a spring. And with a guttural cry that shakes the very air around you, you give one final, desperate push. It feels like you are being torn apart, but then—
A sound.
A cry.
A sharp, piercing wail fills the room, cutting through the air like the first song of dawn. It’s high and loud, strong and alive. For a moment, all the pain fades into nothing. Your whole world stops, your breath catching in your chest. Tears fall freely down your face as you hear it.
The baby is crying.
“Well done, my lady,” the maester says softly, his hands cradling the tiny, wriggling child. “It’s a boy.”
Your chest shudders with a sob of relief, of joy, of exhaustion. You slump back against the pillows, your whole body weak and trembling. Your heart is so full it feels like it might burst.
The baby’s cry continues, strong and insistent, and moments later, he is placed in your arms. He is so small, so warm, his silver hair damp from the effort of entering the world. His eyes are squeezed shut as he wails, his tiny fists curling and uncurling in the air.
You gaze down at him, tears spilling from your eyes as you press a kiss to his forehead. “Hello, my love,” you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”
Alicent presses a kiss to the top of your head, her eyes shining with tears. “You did it,” she says, pride and love pouring from every word. “You did it, my darling girl.”
Helaena smiles softly, her gaze faraway once more. “His song is bright,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but certain. “A light in the storm.”
The maester remains close, his hands still working, his voice calling for the midwives to be ready for the afterbirth. But none of it matters. Not right now.
All you can see is your son. His tiny face scrunched in a cry, his little fingers curling toward you like he already knows you. Your heart swells with love so fierce it nearly undoes you. You press another kiss to his head, breathing him in, memorizing every inch of him.
“You’re safe,” you whisper, your voice thick with love. “You’re safe, little one. I’m here. I’m here.”
And for a moment, everything is still. The pain is gone. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him.
Your son.
The moment of peace is shattered as the pain returns, sharper and more intense than before. It steals the breath from your lungs, and your body tenses involuntarily. Your arms tighten around your newborn son, but the pain is too much — too sudden, too strong. You let out a choked gasp, your eyes wide with panic.
“Mother,” you rasp, your voice laced with both fear and disbelief. “Mother, it’s happening again—”
Alicent’s eyes snap to you, her face shifting from joy to alarm in an instant. She moves swiftly, her hands reaching for you. “Give him to me,” she says urgently but gently, her eyes locked on yours. “Give him to me, sweet girl. You need your strength.”
With shaking hands, you lift your son toward her, tears spilling down your cheeks. You press a kiss to his soft head before letting him go. The moment her arms take him, you feel the weight shift, but the pain does not ease.
“Maester!” Alicent calls sharply, her voice commanding and fierce. She cradles the baby close to her chest, swaying ever so slightly to soothe his cries. Her eyes are wild with concern as she looks from you to the maester.
The maester is already at your side, his face grim as he presses a hand against your belly. His eyes narrow in concentration, his mouth set in a firm line. His hands move with experienced precision, and for a heartbeat, the room falls silent save for the soft, fretful cries of your newborn son.
“You are carrying twins, my lady,” the maester says, his voice low but clear. His gaze meets yours, calm but firm. “There is another child yet to be born.”
The world spins. Your heart lurches in your chest as you stare at him, wide-eyed with shock. “What?” you breathe, the word barely more than a whisper. “No… no, I would have known.”
“It is rare, but it happens,” the maester says steadily. “But the child is coming now, and there is no time to waste.”
Tears blur your vision as a sob rises in your throat. Another child. Another child is coming. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and you shake your head as if denying it will make it untrue. “No, no, no,” you cry, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you. “Aegon. I need Aegon. Please — I need him here!”
Your gaze snaps to your mother, desperate and pleading. “Bring him back, Mother. Please.” Your voice cracks with the weight of it, raw with pain and fear. “I need him here. Please bring him back.”
Alicent’s face crumples with anguish. She hands the baby to one of the midwives with quick, careful hands, then rushes to your side. She kneels by you, cupping your face with both hands, her eyes swimming with emotion.
“I know, my sweet girl. I know,” she says, her voice trembling with barely contained sorrow. Her fingers stroke your damp hair away from your face, her forehead nearly pressed to yours. “But he’s still in the skies, riding Sunfyre. I sent a messenger, but he may not hear the call in time.”
Your heart twists in your chest, grief and fear mingling with the agony that wracks your body. You can barely think through the haze of pain. You feel as though you are being pulled apart from the inside, your body no longer your own.
“I need him,” you sob, your voice broken, raw, and filled with longing. “I need him here, Mother.”
Alicent presses her forehead to yours, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her grip on you tightens, her hands steady despite the trembling of her breath.
“You have me,” she whispers fiercely, her voice filled with the same strength she used when you were a child frightened by the storm. “You have me, and I will not leave you. You hear me? You are not alone. I’m here. I’m right here.”
Her voice cuts through the fog of fear, grounding you in the present. The next wave of pain strikes, and you cry out, your hands gripping Alicent’s arms with all the strength you can muster. She doesn’t flinch, holding you as steady as stone. Her presence is unyielding, a wall against the storm.
“Push, sweet girl,” she urges you, her voice low but firm. “You’ve done this once already. You can do it again. Push, and you will hold them both in your arms.”
Her words are a lifeline. You nod weakly, tears still streaming down your face. Your heart still aches for Aegon — for the warmth of his voice, his hand on yours, his whispered promises. But he is not here. Not now. And so you grip your mother’s arms like a lifeline and face the storm alone.
“Push,” the maester commands from below, his hands ready once more. “With the next pain, my lady, push as you did before.
You nod again, your breaths sharp and shallow. Alicent’s voice comes close to your ear, soft but unyielding.
“You are my daughter,” she says, her voice filled with fire and love. “You are stronger than you know. You will bring them into this world, and I will be here every step of the way.”
With a cry of pain and raw determination, you push.
Your body feels like it has been wrung dry of every last ounce of strength. Your breaths come in shallow, uneven gasps, each one a battle to draw in air. Every muscle aches, and your limbs feel heavier than stone. Your vision blurs with exhaustion and tears, but through it all, you hear it — the sound that makes it all worth it.
A cry. Sharp, loud, and strong.
The moment you hear it, a sob bursts from your chest, your body shaking as relief washes over you like a crashing wave. Tears stream down your face, mingling with the sweat on your brow. It’s over. It’s finally over.
“She’s here,” the maester says, his voice filled with quiet triumph. “A girl, my lady. A strong, healthy girl.”
Alicent releases a shaky breath beside you, her face crumpling with overwhelming relief. Her hands, still holding yours, squeeze tightly, her fingers trembling against your skin. She lets out a soft, broken laugh, her eyes filled with pride and love.
“You did it,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. “You did it, my brave girl.”
Your head lolls to the side, your body so heavy you can hardly move. You blink slowly, trying to clear your vision, trying to see her — your daughter. The maester wraps the small, squirming bundle in soft cloth before placing her in Alicent’s waiting arms.
Alicent gazes down at the child with wonder, her face soft and radiant in the glow of the moment. She sways gently, rocking the baby as she steps closer to you. Her eyes, still brimming with tears, turn to you with a look of such deep pride that it nearly undoes you.
“Look at her,” she says softly, her voice trembling with awe. She kneels beside the bed and holds the baby out to you. “Look at your daughter, my love.
With the last remnants of your strength, you lift your arms, hands shaking with exhaustion. Alicent carefully places the baby in your arms, adjusting the blankets to keep her warm. The moment you feel her weight against your chest, your heart swells so fiercely it feels like it might break.
She’s so small. Her tiny face is flushed pink, her eyes shut tight as she lets out a wailing cry. Her silver hair, damp and soft, clings to her head, a perfect mirror of your own Targaryen heritage. Her little fists wave in the air, so full of life, so full of fight.
Tears blur your vision once more as you stare down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it feels like it could break you. Your fingers brush over her cheek, and her skin is so soft, so warm. She hiccups mid-cry, her tiny lips quivering before settling into quiet whimpers. Her whole body fits against you like she was always meant to be there.
“Hello, sweet girl,” you whisper, your voice raw but filled with so much love it aches. You press your lips to her soft head, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent of new life. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”
Your tears drip onto her blanket, and you don’t bother to wipe them away. They’re tears of relief. Of joy. Of love. Your heart, already so full from your son’s birth, somehow makes room for her as well. It feels as though it might burst from how much you love them both.
Alicent’s hand rests on your head, her fingers threading gently through your damp hair. She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, her lips warm and soft. Her breath is warm against your skin as she whispers, “You’ve done something extraordinary, my sweet girl. You are a mother twice over now.”
Her words wash over you like sunlight after a storm. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of them fill you from head to toe. Her fingers trail down to brush against your cheek, gentle as a breeze.
“You are so strong,” Alicent says, her voice thick with emotion. “Stronger than I ever was.”
You let out a soft, broken laugh, too exhausted to do more. Your head rests against the pillow, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. The warmth of your daughter against your chest, the gentle weight of her, is the only thing keeping you anchored to the present.
“She’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice no more than a breath. “They’re both perfect.”
“Yes, they are,” Alicent replies, her voice full of love and pride. She smooths a hand over your hair again, her fingers cool against your burning skin. “Rest now, sweet girl. You’ve done enough. Rest.”
You nod weakly, still gazing down at your daughter. Her tiny eyes peek open for the briefest moment, and you see them — a soft shade of violet, clear and bright like amethysts. You press another kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there.
“Welcome to the world, little one,” you whisper, your voice heavy with love. “I will love you for all my days.”
The weight of exhaustion pulls at you, your body too spent to fight it. Your eyes grow heavy, and slowly, slowly, they close. You can still hear the gentle coos of your daughter and the soft hum of your mother’s voice as she soothes you both.
The world fades into warmth, love, and the knowledge that you have brought two lives into it. And as you slip into the quiet, you know that, somehow, everything will be alright.
The heavy thud of hurried footsteps echoes through the chamber. The door swings open with a force that makes it shudder against the wall. Aegon stands there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his silver hair disheveled from flight, still damp with sweat from the heat of Sunfyre’s back. His violet eyes are wild, darting around the room in search of you.
“Aegon,” Alicent says softly, turning her head toward him. She stands by your bedside, her arms cradling your newborn son against her chest. Her expression is one of quiet relief as she sees him. “You’re here.”
His gaze locks onto you, and his eyes soften with something raw and unspoken. Without a word, he strides forward, his steps quick but careful. His eyes scan every inch of you, taking in the sight of you lying on the bed, your face pale, your hair damp with sweat, your chest rising and falling slowly as you sleep. The exhaustion is clear on your face, but there is peace too.
He stops at the side of the bed, his breath still uneven from the rush to get here. His hand reaches out, fingers trembling slightly as he brushes your cheek. The warmth of his touch pulls you from the edge of sleep. Slowly, your eyes flutter open. For a moment, it takes you a second to realize who it is, but when you do, a soft smile pulls at your lips.
“Aegon,” you murmur, your voice weak but filled with so much love it makes his throat tighten.
“I’m here,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. His thumb strokes your cheek, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’m here now.”
Tears shimmer in his eyes, but he blinks them away, his jaw tightening as he tries to steady himself. His gaze shifts for a moment to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. Slowly, he looks back at you, confusion and wonder mingling on his face.
“Twins?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will break the fragile magic of the moment.
You nod slowly, still gazing at him, your eyes filled with exhaustion but also pride. “A boy and a girl,” you whisper, tilting your head just enough to glance toward the small crib beside the bed where your daughter lies peacefully, swaddled in soft blankets.
Aegon follows your gaze. His eyes land on the tiny, sleeping form of his daughter. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He stares as if the world has stopped, as if nothing else exists but that little girl lying there. His face shifts — shock, awe, disbelief, and then something far deeper.
He steps away from you, moving toward the crib with slow, cautious steps. His eyes are wide, unblinking, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he looks away. When he reaches the crib, he leans down, his breath shallow as he stares at her face. Her tiny mouth opens in a soft yawn, her little hands curling against the blankets.
“She’s so small,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. His fingers hover over her head, hesitant to touch, as if he fears he might hurt her. But slowly, carefully, he brushes a single finger against her cheek. She’s warm, so warm, and soft like nothing he’s ever felt before.
His breath shudders, and he presses his lips into a thin line to keep his emotions in check. But his shoulders shake once, and he releases a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He presses a hand over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed as he stares at her, overcome with something too big to name.
“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice filled with reverence. “She’s… she’s perfect.”
He stays there for a moment longer, just gazing at her as though he could memorize every inch of her face in that instant. Then, he pulls himself away, turning back to you. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks damp, but he doesn’t care. His gaze shifts to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. His son. His heir.
Alicent’s face softens as she looks at him. Her eyes are filled with understanding and love as she steps forward, tilting the child in her arms so Aegon can see him fully. His face is red with the aftershock of crying, his small fists waving in the air as if trying to fight off the world itself. His silver hair is messy atop his head, so much like Aegon’s own when he was born.
“Your son,” Alicent says gently, her voice thick with pride. She steps closer, lifting him toward Aegon. “Hold him, Aegon.”
He freezes for a moment, his eyes darting from his mother’s face to his son’s, panic flickering behind his gaze. “I— I don’t know if I can,” he says, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His hands flex nervously at his sides. “He’s so small. I—”
“You can,” Alicent cuts in softly but firmly, her eyes meeting his with all the quiet strength of a mother who has done this before. “You must.”
Aegon’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. Slowly, he reaches out his arms. Alicent carefully places the baby into his hands, guiding him until the small bundle is secure in his arms. The moment Aegon feels that little weight against his chest, everything else falls away. The panic, the doubt, the fear — it all vanishes.
His son shifts, letting out a small, sleepy sigh as he nuzzles into Aegon’s chest. Aegon lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening just a little as he cradles him closer. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, so full it feels like it might burst.
“Hey, little one,” Aegon whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. His lips curl into a trembling smile, his eyes locked on the baby’s face. “It’s me. I’m your father.”
The words feel strange and sacred on his tongue. Father. He’s a father. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead pressing against the baby’s head, breathing him in. “I’m here now,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m here, and I’ll never leave.”
He turns his head slowly, looking at you. His gaze is soft, his face raw with every emotion he’s ever tried to hide. There’s no mask now. No armor. Just him — just Aegon, looking at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely holding steady. He looks at you like you’ve given him the whole world. “Thank you for them. For… for everything.”
Tears well up in your eyes again, but you laugh softly, too tired to speak much. “Don’t thank me,” you say, your voice weak but full of love. “They’re yours too, Aegon.”
He stares at you for a moment longer, then sits on the edge of the bed, his son still cradled in his arms. He shifts closer, close enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long, quiet moment.
“Rest,” he whispers against your skin, his voice so gentle it almost breaks you. “I’ll stay with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, eyes closing once more, the warmth of his presence grounding you. You hear him humming softly, a quiet, soothing melody that lulls you into rest.
The last thing you feel is the warmth of his body pressed close to yours, the soft weight of your daughter at your side, and the steady rhythm of Aegon’s quiet song filling the air.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel safe. Truly safe.
The soft creak of the door opening pulls you from the haze of sleep. Your eyes flutter open slowly, your body still heavy with exhaustion but your mind already attuned to the sounds of the room. The quiet murmur of voices reaches your ears, familiar voices filled with warmth and curiosity.
You blink a few times, adjusting to the dim glow of the chamber. The sight that greets you makes your heart swell. Aegon is seated beside you on the bed, his back resting against the headboard, his gaze fixed intently on the two small bundles resting in his arms. His face is softer than you’ve ever seen it — calm, content, and utterly unguarded. The flickering firelight dances across his silver hair, and his violet eyes are filled with a tenderness that he so rarely shows.
He notices you stirring and glances down at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Look who’s finally awake,” he says softly, his voice full of affection.
Before you can reply, more movement draws your attention to the door. Helaena and Aemond step into the room, followed closely by your mother, Alicent. Helaena’s face lights up with a smile the moment she sees you, her eyes wide with excitement. She clasps her hands together, eyes flicking to the bundles in Aegon’s arms.
“You’re awake!” Helaena says brightly as she approaches. Her gaze is filled with wonder as she peeks over Aegon’s shoulder to get a better look at the twins. “Oh, they’re so tiny,” she whispers, her eyes filled with awe. She crouches slightly, tilting her head as if to get a better view. “They’re perfect.”
Aemond walks in with his usual measured grace, his eye cool but attentive as he surveys the scene. His gaze lands on you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile. His eye shifts to the children in Aegon’s arms, and he tilts his head, his gaze thoughtful.
“They’re strong,” he says simply, his voice low but firm. “They’ll grow to be fierce.”
Your mother steps forward, her eyes soft with maternal pride and love. She kneels at your bedside, her hand immediately reaching out to smooth the damp hair from your face. Her eyes, so filled with love, meet yours.
“How are you feeling, my love?” Alicent asks quietly, her voice full of concern. “You were so strong through it all.”
“I’m tired,” you admit, giving her a small smile, “but happy.” Your gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still staring at your children like they are the only things that matter in this world.
Alicent glances over her shoulder at them, her face filled with the same quiet joy. Her eyes flick back to you, a knowing look in her gaze. “Have you chosen names for them yet?” she asks, tilting her head in curiosity.
Helaena perks up at the question, leaning forward with an eager smile. “Yes, yes! Have you? I’ve been wondering what names you would give them.”
Aegon glances at you, and you can see the unspoken question in his eyes. This was a decision the two of you had discussed before but never finalized. But now, in this moment, it feels clear. The names feel right, as if they had been waiting all along for this moment.
You glance at him, nodding slowly, and he mirrors your smile.
“Our son will be named Jaehaerys,” you say softly, your eyes flicking to the boy cradled in Aegon’s right arm. His little face is scrunched in sleep, his silver hair sticking up in messy tufts. “For strength and wisdom.
Aegon nods, his lips twitching with approval. His gaze shifts to his daughter, his eyes warm with a quiet reverence. “And our daughter will be Jaehaera,” he says, his voice thick with affection. He glances at you, his gaze unwavering. “For her grace and fire.”
Helaena gasps softly, her eyes bright with joy. “Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” she repeats, her smile wide. “They sound like they belong in a song. Such strong names for such precious children.” She leans closer to the crib where Jaehaera sleeps peacefully. “She will be a dreamer, I think,” Helana says softly, her eyes distant but full of certainty. “Yes, a dreamer.”
Aemond raises a brow at that but says nothing. His gaze remains on the twins, his eyes sharp as if trying to read something in their faces.
Alicent breathes out a soft sigh, her smile growing wider. “They are beautiful names,” she says, brushing her hand over your hair once more. “Names worthy of them.” She looks up at Aegon, pride shining in her gaze. “You have a fine family, my son.”
Aegon shifts his gaze to his mother, his lips pressing into a firm line as he nods once. “Yes,” he says quietly, his eyes returning to the two small faces in his arms. His voice grows even softer. “I do.”
His eyes flick back to you, and he leans forward, his brow resting gently against yours. For a moment, it is just the two of you, breathing the same air, sharing the same quiet, overwhelming love for the family you’ve built together.
“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” he whispers, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “Our little dragons.”
Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @yazzzmints @hangmanscoming @giirlinblack
SUMMARY: Lando Norris taught Y/N that sometimes love isn't enough to overcome fear. Max Verstappen, however, seems determined to prove that love was never supposed to be so complicated.
After years of believing her place in the world made her impossible to choose, trusting someone who chooses her so easily might be the hardest thing she'll ever do.
WORD COUNT: 11K
NOTE: Hi! Thank you so much for all the love and support you've shown my Max stories. I have to admit he's one of my favorite drivers to write about, and I absolutely adored writing him in this one. I really hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed creating it. English isn't my first language, so you may come across some grammar or wording mistakes.
masterlist
The first time I realized there were people who were born in places different from mine, I was eight years old.
It wasn’t because someone explained it to me. It was because I overheard two of my grandmother’s neighbors talking while they played dominoes in her backyard.
“That little girl’s mother sends money from England, doesn’t she?” one of them asked in a raspy voice as she placed another tile on the table.
“She does.”
“Poor thing… Growing up without a father, and with her mother raising other people’s children instead of her own.” The woman took a long drag from her cigarette before continuing the game, as if she had just made the most ordinary comment in the world.
I kept drawing in the dirt with a stick, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. Children learn very early which conversations aren’t meant for them.
That night, while my grandmother peeled potatoes for dinner, I couldn’t keep the question to myself any longer.
“Grandma…”
She looked up for only a second.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Is it true that my mom takes care of other children in England?”
Her hands froze over the cutting board for a few seconds.
“Your mother works.”
“But… taking care of other children?”
“Yes.”
I lowered my eyes to the concrete floor. I remember staring at a tiny crack, unable to understand why such a simple answer hurt so much.
“Then why doesn’t she take care of me?” I whispered.
My grandmother didn’t answer. She simply set the knife aside, walked over to me, and gently stroked my hair with a rough hand, worn by years of hard work. Then she quietly returned to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.
As I grew older, I learned that some silences weigh far more than any answer ever could.
When I was twelve, the sweet woman who had raised me my entire life passed away.
Something inside me froze that day. Not even the hot cup of coffee one of our neighbors handed me made me feel anything.
The house was filled with people who, until that moment, had never bothered to show up, and suddenly everyone seemed to have an opinion about what should happen to me.
“She can’t stay here alone.”
“She’s still just a child.”
“Someone needs to call her mother.”
No one asked what I wanted. It was as if being twelve meant I had no right to make decisions about my own life.
Two days after the funeral, my mother arrived carrying a single small suitcase, making it painfully obvious she had no intention of staying for long.
“Tomorrow we’re going to take care of some paperwork,” she said. Those were the first words she spoke after settling into my grandmother’s bedroom.
“What are we going to do?” I asked quietly.
“We’re getting your documents ready. You’re coming back to England with me.” Her voice left no room for questions.
So I stayed silent and let the woman who had spent years away come back and rearrange my entire life.
When we arrived at the Norris family’s house, I finally understood why my mother had chosen to build a life here instead of coming back for me like she’d always promised.
The house was beautiful—bright, spotless, and full of life. It couldn’t have been more different from our little concrete home back in our country, which always felt dark and cold.
My mother showed me the bedroom we’d be sharing, and without another word, she left to begin her daily chores around the house.
I was alone. So I wandered outside into the enormous backyard. Everything felt so unfamiliar… so cold… so depressing.
Or maybe that was simply the way I saw the world now that my grandmother was gone.
My relationship with my mother had always been distant. While we lived in different countries, our conversations rarely lasted more than ten minutes. We spoke only about practical things, never about feelings. That’s why I didn’t trust her enough to tell her everything that was happening inside my head.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when a football ball slammed into my arm.
“Ow.” I immediately rubbed the sore spot.
When I looked up, I found myself staring at a green-eyed boy wearing an apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. Those were the only words I understood.
I didn’t speak English. To me, everything else sounded like an endless stream of meaningless sounds.
“I… don’t speak English,” I managed to say.
“Oh…” His eyes widened with understanding. “Lucía?”
He cradled his arms as if rocking a baby, and I quickly realized he was asking if I was Lucía’s daughter.
I simply nodded. I thought that would be the end of our interaction. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
First, he pointed at himself.
“Lando.”
Then he pointed at me.
“Y/N,” I replied.
His smile grew even wider, clearly pleased that we’d managed to communicate despite the language barrier.
He bent down, picked up the football ball that had been forgotten on the grass, and held it out toward me. Then he pointed his thumb toward a makeshift pitch a few yards away.
He was inviting me to play.
I wanted to say no. But the simple kindness of someone making such an effort to communicate with me, despite neither of us speaking the other’s language, awakened a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a very long time. So I said yes.
After that day, our friendship blossomed.
Lando was the one who practically taught me how to speak English, while I taught him bits and pieces of Spanish.
We spent countless afternoons playing on his PlayStation or running around the backyard whenever the sun was out. When my mother grounded me and refused to let me leave my room, he’d sneak candy under my bedroom door. Whenever he got into trouble, I’d do the same for him.
As the years passed, our little friendship slowly became something else. Somewhere along the way, the flame of love had ignited within my heart, and from the way Lando looked at me, I was certain that it burned just as intensely within his.
One ordinary afternoon, in the middle of one of our usual games, we shared our first kiss. It was shy, awkward, and over almost as quickly as it had begun.
Afterward, we avoided each other for days. Neither of us knew how we were supposed to act after crossing that line.
Eventually, though, we slipped back into our old routine. We depended on each other too much to let a single kiss ruin everything, so we quietly agreed to pretend it had never happened.
Until the day we crossed a line no friendship ever should.
We slept together for the first time.
The next morning, Lando tried to act like nothing had changed. He laughed, joked, and spoke to me exactly the way he always had.
But eventually, the weight of the question hanging between us—What are we now?—became too much for him to ignore.
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said quietly. “I never meant for this to happen. You mean so much to me, and I don’t want us holding onto hopes we both know can’t become reality… You know we can’t be together.”
As he spoke the most painful words my sixteen-year-old heart had ever heard, he couldn’t even bring himself to look me in the eye.
I simply nodded and forced a small smile. It hurt more than I could ever describe, but I understood. Someone like him—someone with endless opportunities, someone destined to conquer the world—could never be with someone like me.
The daughter of the housekeeper.
The years that followed were some of the hardest of my life. Lando threw himself completely into his racing career, and little by little, we stopped spending our days together.
At home, things weren’t any easier.
My mother became unbearable. To this day, I don’t know whether it was my teenage hormones or her constant need to control every aspect of my life, but every conversation between us turned into another argument.
By the time I turned eighteen, our relationship had reached the point of no return. One fight escalated until it became physical. So I packed the few clothes and belongings I owned, walked out of that house, and never looked back.
For the first time in years, I was ready to start over. Free from my mother’s control and free from the feelings that had kept my heart tied to Lando for far too long.
(…)
Eight long years had passed since that day.
Time had brought maturity with it, and I had managed to heal many of the wounds I’d carried inside me.
Life hadn’t become any easier after leaving the Norris household. I’d had to work incredibly hard just to support myself, and although I still hadn’t reached the goals I’d set for myself, I could finally say I was stable.
My relationship with my mother, while still complicated, had improved somewhat. At the very least, we could now have a conversation without arguing. Sometimes we even laughed together.
Things with Lando were much the same. Every now and then we’d call each other to ask how life was going, but that was the extent of it. I couldn’t even say we were friends anymore. We were simply two people who shared the nostalgia of the past we’d share together.
One ordinary Sunday, I was invited to the Norris house for a small lunch.
Lando was there with his new girlfriend, along with several of his friends.
Watching him be so affectionate with her made my stomach twist. I wasn’t in love with Lando anymore—that had been left in the past—but I couldn’t help mourning what we might have become if social class hadn’t mattered so much.
I was helping my mother clean up in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Since no one seemed to hear it from the backyard, I decided to answer the door myself.
“Good afternoon,” a blond man with striking blue eyes greeted me.
He looked strangely familiar.
“Hi. How can I help you?” I asked, studying his serious expression.
With that same curiosity, he began studying mine.
“Max! I thought you weren’t going to make it!” Lando’s cheerful voice broke the strange silence between us.
I looked back at the blond man, and suddenly his face clicked into place.
Max Verstappen.
Just like Lando, he was a Formula One driver.
I stepped aside to let him in. He gave me one last lingering glance before following Lando toward the backyard.
The afternoon passed without anything particularly remarkable happening.
Everything felt perfectly normal… Except for the fact that Max Verstappen kept looking at me.
We were all scattered around the garden. Lando’s girlfriend settled beside him on the outdoor sofa and intertwined her fingers with his the moment I walked over to set a few plates on the table. The gesture was far too deliberate to be accidental.
I chose to ignore it or at least, I tried to.
“So, what do you do for a living?” she suddenly asked me.
“I work as a dancer at a theater, and from time to time I also work at art exhibitions.”
I conveniently left out the job that actually occupied most of my time: working as a barista at a coffee shop.
“Really?” She smiled. It was a beautiful smile, but completely hollow. “That’s interesting. I honestly thought you’d still be working here with your mom.”
The silence that followed was almost imperceptible. But it was there. I could feel several pairs of eyes turning toward me. I took a slow breath before answering.
“No. I’ve been living on my own for years.”
“I see…” She took a sip of her drink. “I suppose growing up here must have opened a lot of doors for you.”
She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t said anything openly offensive. But every single person there understood exactly what she was implying.
That anything I’d achieved was because of the Norris family. Not because I’d earned it myself.
Lando opened his mouth.
“She got her job on her own—”
“I was only saying she’s been lucky,” his girlfriend interrupted with a flawless smile.
I didn’t want to stay there anymore.
I picked up my glass and announced that I was going to the kitchen for another drink before turning away, not giving anyone the chance to stop me.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, I had to take several deep breaths to keep my anger under control.
Who the fuck did that bitch think she was?
Who had given her the right to judge me like that?
I’d worked my ass off these past eight years to build a life for myself. No one had ever handed me anything on a silver platter… Like they most likely had with her.
Stupid bitch.
Stupid Lando.
A few years earlier, I probably would’ve destroyed her with a comeback so brutal everyone around us would’ve been clutching their pearls.
“You’re actually pretty nice, you know? If I were you, I wouldn’t have let that slide.” A deep, raspy voice pulled me out of my murderous thoughts.
I turned around to find Max filling a glass with water.
“Are you trying to start a fight?” I asked, crossing my arms as I looked at him with amusement.
Max simply shrugged.
“Only if you want to.” He took a sip of water as if he’d said nothing unusual.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Half disbelief, half amusement.
“I don’t think the Norris family—or my mother—would appreciate me starting a fight in their backyard.” I sighed. “So I’ll just stay in here until I calm down.”
“Then I’ll stay with you,” he decided, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs.
We talked about everything.
Anyone watching us would’ve assumed we’d known each other for years instead of having met barely an hour earlier.
He told me a little about his life, his racing career, and the end of the previous championship.
I told him about my home in my country and all the different jobs I worked.
“How do you manage to have three jobs?” he asked, frowning.
It genuinely seemed impossible for him to understand how anyone could take on that much responsibility.
“Well, I only work at the theater on Friday and Saturday nights,” I explained before taking a sip of my lemonade. “Sometimes Sundays too, if Monday’s a holiday. I only have rehearsals two evenings during the week, which leaves my weekdays free to work at the coffee shop. As for the art galleries, I only work whenever there’s an exhibition, usually on weekend mornings and afternoons.”
Max looked genuinely horrified. I couldn’t help laughing, it wasn’t the first time someone had looked at me that way.
“Trust me,” I said with a shrug, “it’s not as bad as it sounds. It helps knowing it’s only temporary. I’m saving as much money as I can, and once I have enough, I’ll find a job that isn’t nearly as demanding.”
After that, our conversation drifted toward lighter topics. Nothing serious or complicated.
The truth was, Max was an excellent conversationalist, and I found myself genuinely enjoying his company.
We talked until late into the night, until almost everyone had gone home and only the two of us—and a couple of others—remained in the garden.
When we finally said goodbye, it felt like we were old friends. In my mind, I told myself it would be the first and last time we’d ever see each other; but deep down my heart hoped there could be something more.
The next morning, the first person to question me was my mother, as always.
“Remember your place when it comes to men like them. They have money, power, and connections, and they look for women of the same caliber to be with. Don’t get your hopes up over nothing.”
With a disapproving frown, she made it very clear what she thought about how close Max and I had seemed the day before.
“I know that, Mom,” I replied, rolling my eyes as I stirred my bowl of oatmeal with my spoon.
“It didn’t look that way yesterday. Open your eyes, Y/N. You’re far too old not to realize that men like them only want a one-night stand with you.” My mother continued her lecture.
Before I could answer, Lando’s voice interrupted us.
“Can I steal her for a minute?” he asked my mother, nodding in my direction.
She picked up her coffee mug.
“I’m going upstairs to take care of a few things.” Without another word, she left the kitchen.
Lando walked over to the coffee maker, poured himself a cup, and took a slow sip. I simply watched him, trying to figure out what was going on inside his head.
“So…” he began, leaning against the counter. “What did you think of Max?”
Lando was so predictable that I almost laughed.
“I actually liked him.” I took another spoonful of oatmeal, deliberately leaving it at that.
Lando simply nodded and kept watching me.
“What?” I finally asked after a few moments of silence.
“He’s a good guy,” he said after a brief pause. “But…”He stopped, searching for the right words.
I gestured with my hand for him to continue.
“He can be very impulsive.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“When he wants something, he usually goes after it without thinking too much. And I don’t want you to get hurt.” He set his mug down and leaned against the kitchen island so we were face-to-face.
I rolled my eyes with a quiet sigh.
“Lando… you don’t have to worry, okay? I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been taking care of myself for practically my whole life, and I’m doing just fine.” I motioned toward myself as if presenting proof that I was perfectly alive and well.
Lando let out a long sigh.
“It’s just…” His voice softened. “You mean a lot to me. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I want your heart to stay safe.”
For a moment, I could see the sixteen-year-old boy I’d fallen in love with reflected in his eyes. The warmth in his gaze made my stomach twist. I swallowed discreetly before forcing a small smile.
“Don’t worry. We only had one conversation yesterday. It’s not like we’re going to get married.” A nervous laugh slipped from my lips.
(…)
A few days later, it was Tuesday.
Tuesdays were usually the most boring days at the coffee shop. It was always half empty, and time seemed to move painfully slowly. I was restocking one of the display cases when Elena, one of my coworkers, walked over to me.
“There’s someone at that table asking for you.”
She pointed her thumb toward a table tucked away in the corner, occupied by a man sitting with his back to us.
Confused, I made my way over. Customers almost never requested a specific server.
“Good morning. How can I hel—” The words died in my throat before I could finish.
The man looked up calmly and offered me an easy smile.
“Good morning.” His deep voice sent a shiver down my spine.
“Max?” I blurted out. “What are you doing here?” The disbelief in my voice was impossible to hide.
He slowly closed the menu.
“Having coffee.” He tilted his head ever so slightly “Isn’t that obvious?”
I stared at him for several seconds, completely dumbfounded. Shaking my head with a small laugh, I took his order and walked behind the counter to prepare it.
There was no way this was actually happening to me.
A few minutes later, I placed his drink in front of him, unable to hold back the question that had been bothering me.
“How did you find this place?”
“You told me where you worked.” He shrugged before taking his first sip.
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.” I frowned, folding my arms across my chest.
“You told me what neighborhood it was in,” he replied casually. “That was enough. There weren’t that many coffee shops around, so it wasn’t hard to find.”
He took another sip while looking at me over the rim of his cup.
He was lying. We weren’t close to downtown, but this wasn’t some hidden corner of the city either there were plenty of cafés around. There was no way he’d found this one that easily.
“So why did you come here?”
“Because I wanted coffee.” He shrugged like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
But that smile… There wasn’t a single innocent thing about it.
“I don’t believe you.” I narrowed my eyes.
“Fine.” He raised both hands in surrender. “I wanted to see you.”
He admitted it without hesitation. Without embarrassment. Without the slightest trace of shame. It was as if he’d just commented on the weather.
“You’re weird.” I laughed, mostly out of surprise.
“Why?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Because we barely know each other, and you’re doing… this.”
“Exactly.” He adjusted himself in his chair until he was sitting perfectly straight. “It’s hard to get to know someone if you never see them again.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. So I laughed once more and went back to work.
Even as I moved around the café, I could feel his eyes following me. He watched every movement carefully, and every time our eyes met, he’d give me the smallest smile.
“When are you finally leaving?” I asked, growing increasingly frustrated with his relentless staring.
“Wow.” A laugh escaped him. “Customer service isn’t exactly your strongest skill.”
When my expression didn’t change, he added,
“I’ll leave as soon as you give me your number.”
For a moment, I was speechless. The man had absolutely no shame.
“Does this little performance usually work on women?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve never tried it before.”
He said it so naturally that I found myself laughing again. It was impossible to tell when he was joking, but I had a feeling he wasn’t.
“Are you always this straightforward?”
“Yes.” He answered without the slightest hesitation.
“It’s a little intimidating.” Now it was my turn to admit something.
“Do you want me to stop?”
I studied him carefully. I expected a grin. A joke. Something. But there was nothing, he was simply waiting for my answer.
I slowly shook my head.
“No…” Then I caught myself. “Well… yes. I don’t know.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
“Make up your mind.”
“Don’t change the subject.” I pointed a finger at him.
“I’m not.” He defended himself immediately.
I sighed.
“Do you always get what you want?”
“No.” He paused to think. “But I can be very persistent.”
I couldn’t help but remember my mother’s words.
Men like them look for women from their own world.
Then I remembered Lando.
We can’t be together.
Two men from the same world, the same social standing. And yet, they seemed to speak completely different languages.
In the end, I gave him my number. Only so he’d finally leave me alone or at least, that’s what I told myself.
He stood up, took out his wallet, and paid for his coffee. Before leaving, he said with the same calmness he’d arrived with,
“See you in a few days.”
I watched him open the door and disappear before I could even think of a response. I stood there for several seconds, completely frozen.
Elena appeared behind me with the biggest grin on her face.
“Did that man just shamelessly flirt with you?”
I kept staring at the door, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
(…)
Sunday of that same week arrived with the usual chaos that came with exhibition days.
People drifted in and out of the gallery, the constant murmur of conversations about artists most of them barely knew, and the clinking of wine glasses every few minutes. It was exhausting, but it was also the only job where I never felt like I was pretending to be someone else.
Here, I wasn’t the daughter of a housekeeper. I wasn’t the barista who served coffee all week. I wasn’t the charming, flirtatious dancer.
Here, I was simply someone talking about something she loved.
I had just finished explaining one of the pieces when I excused myself from the group to get a glass of water.
“So this is where you disappear to on Sundays.” The voice made me turn around immediately.
For a split second, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.
But it wasn’t.
Max was standing beside one of the sculptures, his hands tucked into his pockets and wearing such a calm expression that it looked like he’d been waiting for me for quite a while.
I couldn’t help smiling.
“What are you doing here?”
His gaze wandered slowly around the gallery before settling back on me.
“I came to see you.” He said it with the same ease most people would use to say good afternoon. He didn’t even try to dress it up.
A strange warmth tightened in my chest.
I shook my head, somewhere between amused and bewildered. There was something deeply unusual about him.
He didn’t flirt the way other men did. He didn’t try to impress me. He simply showed up, like wanting to see me was reason enough.
I motioned for him to walk with me as I resumed my tour of the gallery.
For nearly an hour, he didn’t interrupt me once. He simply followed me with his hands in his pockets, listening to every explanation with an attentiveness that genuinely surprised me. Every now and then, he’d stop to study one of the paintings for a few moment. But somehow, his eyes always found their way back to me.
It was unsettling.
When the last group moved on to the next room, I let out a relieved breath.
“So?” I asked as I walked over to him. “What did you think?”
He studied the painting in front of him for a few seconds.
“I didn’t understand much of it.”
I laughed.
“I figured.”
“But I liked listening to you.” The answer caught me completely off guard.
“Why?”
This time, he didn’t answer immediately. He looked at me with that infuriating calmness that seemed to define everything he did.
“Because you’re different here.”
Almost instinctively, I looked around. He was right.
Here, I didn’t measure every word before I spoke, I didn’t worry about being judged, I simply existed.
“It’s the only place where I feel like I know exactly what I’m doing.”
He nodded, like my answer had confirmed something he’d already suspected.
We continued walking among the artwork.
The silence wasn’t awkward. With Max, it never seemed to be.
Until my eyes landed on a group of elegantly dressed women chatting over glasses of wine. They all looked like they belonged there.
Then I looked down at myself. I was wearing a simple black dress I’d bought on sale nearly two years earlier. I felt out of place.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing here with me.” The words escaped before I could stop them.
Max barely turned his head.
“I already told you.”
I slowly shook mine.
“No…” I swallowed. “I’m not the kind of woman men like you usually go for.”
I expected anything, a smile, a compliment, a ‘Don’t say that’. Instead, he simply frowned, like he was genuinely trying to understand what I meant.
“And what kind is that?”
A short laugh escaped me.
“Max…” I gestured around the gallery. “Look at them.”
He did. For several seconds, he watched the women talking nearby before looking back at me.
“What about them?”
I sighed.
It was difficult to explain something I’d believed since I was a teen.
“They belong in your world, I don’t. I spend my week serving coffee just to pay my rent. My mother spent half her life cleaning other people’s houses, and she’s still cleaning your friend’s house too. So I hope you can understand why it’s hard for me to believe that someone like you would show up at two of my jobs just because he wants to get to know me.”
The silence that followed was brief, much shorter than I expected.
“I don’t understand.” His answer was so firm that it completely disarmed me. “Because all of that seems important to you. Not to me.”
Something shifted inside my chest. All my life, I’d been taught that the differences between people were impossible to ignore, that sooner or later, they always outweighed everything else.
Lando had taught me that without ever having to say it aloud.
But Max… Max seemed incapable of understanding why we were even having this conversation.
“You’re used to making decisions for other people.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You’ve spent the last five minutes telling me what kind of woman I should like.” He took a single step closer, not enough to invade my space. Just enough to make sure I was listening. “And you still haven’t asked me what I want.”
I didn’t answer. Because, I didn’t have one.
A faint smile appeared on his face. The small one he seemed to reserve for only a handful of moments.
“It’s a lot simpler than you’re making it.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
He didn’t insist, didn’t try to convince me. He simply turned his attention to the next painting like we’d just been discussing something as ordinary as what he planned to have for dinner.
Oddly enough that was what unsettled me the most. Because while I’d spent my entire life turning the differences between us into an impossible mountain to climb, Max didn’t seem capable of seeing that the mountain even existed.
(…)
My third job was, by far, the hardest one to explain.
Everytime I told someone I danced at a late-night theater, they always gave me the same look. The look of people who assumed far too much without asking a single question.
Eventually, I stopped explaining.
The pay was good, I loved dancing, and no one had the right to decide what I did with my own body to make a living.
Friday performances were always sold out.
The theater transformed completely after nightfall. Warm lights replaced the starkness of the stage, and the air filled with the scent of perfume, alcohol, and makeup.
By then, I’d learned how to tell the difference between the customers who came for the performance and those who mistook a stage for an invitation.
I was adjusting the last garter on my stockings in front of the mirror when one of the dancers gave me a playful nudge.
“There’s a really handsome man asking for you.”
I laughed.
“Which one?”
“No… this one’s different.”
I peeked through the side of the courtain and nearly choked on my own saliva.
Max.
Sitting at a table near the stage with a glass of whiskey in front of him.
He was wearing an immaculate dark suit and observing the room with the same quiet calm he seemed to observe absolutely everything else with.
The moment our eyes met, he lifted his glass ever so slightly in greeting.
I shook my head, fighting back a smile.
He was officially a stalker.
I’d never been embarrassed to step onto that stage. Not because I was an exhibitionist. But because, over time, I’d learned that my body could be an artistic instrument instead of something I should be ashamed of.
The music began and he lights did the rest. For several minutes, I completely forgot Max was sitting in the audience. Until one of the choreographies had me walking almost the entire length of the runway.
As I passed his table, I looked at him.
He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t have that smug expression so many men wore when they walked into that place. He was simply watching me, like he was trying to memorize every movement.
And for some reason that look made me far more nervous than all the whistles coming from the rest of the room.
The show ended nearly an hour later and that was when everything went to hell.
I slipped a satin robe over my costume and stepped outside the dressing room to get some fresh air.
I hadn’t even finished closing the door behind me when a man stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
“You dance beautifully.”
I smiled politely.
“Thank you.” I tried to walk past him, but he stepped in front of me again.
“Are you always this hard to get?”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“Excuse me, I need to get back inside.”
This time, he grabbed my wrist hard.
“Five minutes. I’m just trying to talk to you.”
Before I could react, someone forcefully pulled his hand away from my arm.
“She said no.” Max’s voice was colder than I’d ever heard it before.
The man let out a drunken laugh.
“And who the hell are you?”
“The one telling you to let her go.”
There wasn’t any more conversation. Everything happened too fast.
One shove.
Then another.
Then the first punch.
And suddenly several people were trying to pull them apart while someone shouted for security.
“Max!”
It was useless, he didn’t even seem to hear me.
The last thing I saw before walking away was a chair flying through the air.
I turned around. Not because I didn’t care, but because I knew that kind of chaos far too well. I’d spent too many years watching men decide that violence could solve everything and I wasn’t about to stand there and watch another one. I ended up sitting on the curb in the parking lot.
I couldn’t even remember when I’d started crying.
My makeup had to be completely ruined. I was wearing false eyelashes, red lipstick, a sparkly dress underneath a satin robe and I was crying in a parking lot at two o’clock in the morning.
What a depressing picture.
I heard footsteps approaching, I didn’t bother looking up because I already knew who it was.
“If you’re here to explain why you got into that fight, don’t bother.”
A brief silence followed.
“Okay.”
I frowned slightly. I had been expecting an argument, not obedience.
“You’re not going to insist?”
“You said you didn’t want to hear it.”
I finally looked up.
Max’s lip was split open. The corner of his mouth was still bleeding, and a cut above his eyebrow had already begun to swell.
I sighed.
“You look like shit.”
He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand.
“He looks worse.”
I couldn’t help laughing through my tears.
“You’re an idiot.”
For the first time since he’d walked out of the theater he smiled.
He sat down beside me without saying a word. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. We simply listened to the distant sound of passing cars, until I was the one who finally broke the silence.
“So…” I looked over at him. “Did you win?”
He turned toward me.
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“At some point they stopped punching me and started holding me back with four guys.” He shrugged. “I guess that counts as a win.”
I burst into laughter. Completely inappropriate laughter.
He ended up laughing too.
Suddenly, all the drama from the last twenty minutes felt absurdly ridiculous. I wiped my tears away with the back of my hand.
“Now tell me.” I looked at him “Why did you do it?”
His expression turned serious again.
“Because he grabbed you.”
That was it, no speech, no heroic explanation. Just those four words.
Something shifted inside my chest. No one had ever reacted like that because of me, not even the people who’d actually had the right to.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be a burden to anyone.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.” He looked completely serious. “Just an observation.”
I laughed again. It was impossible to stay dramatic around him for very long.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m hungry.”
Max blinked.
“I want sushi.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s two in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Now?”
I nodded. He stared at me for a few seconds before standing up.
“Alright.”
“Seriously?” I hadn’t expected him to agree.
“Yeah.” He lifted his car keys “Let’s go get sushi.”
I followed him across the parking lot. Halfway to the car, he looked me up and down.
“Are you really going in dressed like that?”
I looked down. High heels, a satin robe over a sequined costume, and mascara streaked all the way to my chin.
I laughed.
Then I looked at him.
His suit was wrinkled, his lip was split open. There was dried blood on the collar of his shirt.
“And you?”
He shrugged.
“We make a pretty good pair.”
I completely agreed.
Half an hour later, we were sitting in a tiny all-night sushi restaurant.
The waitress looked at him, then at me, then back at both of us. Finally, she asked as casually as if nothing were unusual,
“Extra soy sauce?”
Max looked at me. I shrugged.
“Obviously.”
She nodded without asking a single question. I waited until she’d walked away before turning back to him.
“We just ordered sushi dressed like we walked out of a fight in a cabaret.”
Max opened the box of gyoza.
“Because we did walk out of a fight in a cabaret.”
That night I laughed until my stomach hurt.
(…)
After that chaotic night, an unusual calm settled over my life.
Max stopped showing up unexpectedly at my jobs, and as much as I hated to admit it, something inside me withered a little.
Every time the café door opened, my heart would race only to sink the moment I realized it wasn’t him.
I forced myself to forget about him and buried myself in work. It was obvious that, for him, I’d been nothing more than a brief distraction before returning to his real life.
Three weeks passed.
Then one night, while I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, my phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hi. How have you been?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Sorry I didn’t text you sooner. Somehow I lost your number.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I had to fight with this piece of crap technology just to get it back.
I frowned as I read the messages.
Who the hell was this?
ME: Hi, who is this?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Seriously? 🙄
ME: Well, if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be asking 😒
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I’m the love of your life and your future husband.
The smile I’d been missing for the past few weeks returned instantly. Like an idiot, I kicked my feet beneath my blankets before immediately saving his number to my contacts.
ME: Jacob Elordi?
MAX: He’s dating Kendall Jenner, so I doubt he’d be texting you something like that.
ME: A girl can dream 🥲
ME: How have you been, Max?
MAX: So you did know it was me. Does this mean you’re admitting that I really am the love of your life and your future husband?
ME: I’m admitting you’re the only lunatic I know who genuinely believes that’s possible 🙂↔️
MAX: Ha. Ha. Ha. 🤡
MAX: You’re hilarious 😒
MAX: But seriously, I’m sorry I didn’t text sooner. I really couldn’t find your contact.
ME: Don’t worry about it. Although I was starting to think you’d given up on me.
MAX: That’s not a word in my vocabulary. At least not when it comes to you.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the message. He had an incredible ability to send shivers down my spine without even trying. I knew that probably wasn’t a good thing, but I couldn’t help it.
MAX: I’m in Monaco. I had to come back because I have to spend a certain amount of time here every year. You know… taxes and all that.
ME: Yeah, it’s pretty much the same with Lando. I get it.
A couple of minutes passed without another message. I assumed that was the end of the conversation.
Then the three little typing dots appeared.
MAX: Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’d like to come spend a weekend with me. I know you have work and everything, but do you think you could get a few days off?
ME: Max… Work isn’t really the issue. It’s just I can’t exactly afford to pack my bags and fly to Monaco on a whim.
What the hell did he think? That I was rich? I worked three jobs, and even then, if I went two months without work, I’d probably end up homeless.
MAX: Y/N, please. You didn’t actually think I’d let you pay for any of it, did you? What kind of man would that make me? I’ll pay for everything, I just want you to come visit me and spend some time together, not make your life any harder.
ME: Don’t you think that’s a bit much? I can count on one hand how many times we’ve actually seen each other.
I tried to reason with him. Although I already had a pretty good idea of what his answer would be.
MAX: So? I already know your family, I know where you work. Why does it matter how many times we’ve seen each other?
ME: This is all happening way too fast.
MAX: Not at all. If it were up to me, we’d already be married. I’m just trying to move at your pace.
A laugh of complete disbelief escaped me.
This man was insane. But it was the kind of insanity that felt oddly refreshing. Being around him made me feel something I hadn’t experienced in years.
Comfort.
Joy.
A sense that maybe life didn’t always have to feel so heavy. I didn’t want to admit it, but I wanted more of that feeling.
The last few years of my life had felt like I was constantly one step away from falling apart. And somehow, Max felt like a breath of fresh air.
ME: You’re going to have to do a lot more than that. But, lucky for you I accept. So when’s the trip?
It was that very same weekend. Max didn’t want to waste any time or risk me changing my mind. Which, if I was being honest, I had almost done a couple of times.
When I arrived, Max picked me up in Nice, and from there we took a helicopter to Monaco.
Everything about it was completely new to me. I tried my best not to let my amazement show, but it was obvious Max noticed.
He just laughed every time.
It was Friday, and Max had a few media interviews to get through, so he introduced me to a woman who turned out to be a fashion stylist.
Yes.
Max had arranged an entire afternoon of shopping for me.
I wanted to refuse. It felt like this was far too much, but he hadn’t exactly given me a choice, considering the stylist was the one picking out everything and insisting I try it on.
If I tried on a thousand outfits that afternoon, I still think I’d be underestimating it. Once our shopping marathon was finally over, Max came to pick me up and took me back to his apartment.
The moment I walked through the door, I threw myself onto the bed with every intention of sleeping until the next morning.
Max, however had other plans. He practically forced me out of bed and told me to get ready because we were going out for dinner.
I ended up wearing one of the beautiful dresses he’d bought for me earlier that day.
Max looked incredibly handsome himself.
That night was wonderful.
We laughed and drank far too much. By the end of the night, Max decided it was smarter to leave his car in a parking garage.
The two of us practically stumbled all the way back to his apartment.
It must have been a ridiculous sight. Anyone watching us would’ve had no idea whether I was helping Max walk or if he was the one helping me.
On Saturday, we went to the casino.
On Sunday, we spent the afternoon on a yacht.
I felt like I was floating, completely relaxed. Without a single worry in my mind.
Max was the funniest, kindest man I’d ever met. Which was exactly why, on Sunday night, as I packed my suitcase to return to my complicated reality, the apartment felt like sadness itself had settled into it.
“I don’t want you to leave.” Max’s voice was barely above a whisper.
I turned to look at him. He was leaning against one of the bedroom walls, watching me.
“I don’t want to leave either.” My voice caught slightly “But I have to go back to work.”
The moment our eyes met, I had to look away. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold his gaze without bursting into tears.
Max walked over and sat down beside me on the bed.
“Stay this week.” His words came so easily that they sounded less like a suggestion than an inevitability “Take a few more vacation days. There’s still so much I want to show you.”
He smiled softly.
“You can go home next Sunday.”
I looked at him, trying to figure out whether he was joking. He wasn’t.
His face showed nothing but determination.
“Max…” I shook my head. “It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”
“It is.” He crossed his arms. “Unless you just don’t want to spend more time with me.”
Then he looked away with a deep frown, looking every bit like an offended child.
I almost laughed.
“No, that’s not it.” I reached over and took one of his hands. “I do want to stay with you.”
“Then stay.” His voice softened “Please.”
The way he asked completely melted my heart. After letting out the deepest sigh imaginable I gave in.
The smile that spread across Max’s face was so wide it looked like he’d just won the lottery.
I contacted all three of my jobs to let them know I’d be extending my vacation. Fortunately, none of them had a problem with it.
The days that followed were just as wonderful. We did everything. We wandered through Monaco without any real destination.
We visited a nearby town and spent the day sightseeing.
Every moment felt effortless, I felt like I was living inside a dream. But nothing in my life had ever stayed perfect for long, sooner or later reality always found me.
It was Thursday when Max asked me to accompany him to a charity dinner. The event didn’t allow media or unauthorized cameras, so he assured me that my presence wouldn’t attract much attention.
What neither of us had taken into account was that several of the other Formula One drivers would be there.
Including Lando.
Some time after we arrived, my eyes met another pair that I recognized instantly. Lando’s girlfriend, Marie.
The moment Marie recognized me, she raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. She let out a quiet laugh before leaning toward the man I immediately recognized as Lando and whispered something in his ear.
He turned sharply in my direction, but before our eyes could meet, I looked away.
Max had stepped aside to greet someone, so I forced myself to pay attention to the elegant older woman who had been talking nonstop for nearly five minutes about the venue’s décor. Out of politeness, I smiled a couple of times and made a few meaningless comments.
My heart was racing. I held onto my wine glass so tightly because I was terrified someone would notice my hands trembling.
When the woman finally excused herself, I nearly cried with grief. I didn’t want to be standing there alone.
I was about to go find Max again but that was the exact moment Lando decided to walk over.
“Out of all the places in the world…” His familiar accent caught me off guard. “I never expected to run into you here.”
I turned toward him and offered him a slightly shaky smile.
“It’s a small world.” I shrugged like it was nothing.
Marie appeared beside him wearing the same perfectly practiced smile.
“What a surprise to see you here.” Her eyes slowly traveled over my black lace dress. “I never imagined events like this were the kind of places someone like you would attend. No offense.”
She tilted her head ever so slightly. Not once did her smile leave her face.
Bitch.
“You’re right,” I replied at last. “I usually avoid places with fake people and events like this tend to be full of them.”
Lando covered a laugh with a fake cough. For the briefest moment, Marie’s smile lost some of its shine.
“Did I miss something?” Max’s calm voice interrupted us. His eyes moved from me to Lando and finally to Marie.
She smiled at him with that same rehearsed kindness.
“I was just telling Y/N that I was surprised to see her here.”
Max nodded once.
“I’m not.”
Marie blinked.
“You’re not?”
“No.” He picked up a glass from a passing server’s tray. “Wherever she is, the atmosphere usually gets a lot better.”
Heat rushed to my face.
Marie let out a short laugh.
“That’s very sweet.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” He answered with complete calm before taking a sip of his drink. “I was just saying what I think.”
As he spoke, his hand came to rest lightly against the small of my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Lando’s gaze immediately follow the movement.
“You came here together?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
I opened my mouth to answer but Max beat me to it.
“Yes.” He offered no further explanation.
“I had no idea you’d become this close.” Lando’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.
If I hadn’t spent half my teenage years watching him I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But I knew exactly what that gesture meant.
He was uncomfortable.
And somehow his discomfort became mine. I hated seeing him like that.
I shifted my weight and took another sip of my wine, hoping it would settle the knot in my stomach.
Apparently, Max noticed. Because without saying another word, he came up with an excuse to pull us away toward another part of the ballroom.
As we walked away I could still feel Lando’s eyes burning into the back of my neck.
(…)
The awkwardness disappeared as soon as we got back to Max’s apartment and our mouths found each other.
Our hands didn’t stay still for a single moment, and with some effort we managed to get out of our clothes.
Max bent me over the couch, pulled the thin fabric of my underwear aside to get better access to my wet pussy, and without much consideration, thrust into me hard. My eyes fell shut as I felt him hit the deepest part of me.
His thrusts were hard and rhythmic. The pleasure was so overwhelming that moans began spilling from his mouth, and with a quick movement, he gave my ass a hard slap.
That made me arch my back even more, and matching his rhythm, I began moving to meet every one of his thrusts.
At one point, I stopped lubricating and began to feel a slight burning sensation that drove me even crazier. My moans of pleasure grew louder, which made him lose himself in the pleasure even more.
We changed positions a couple of times until the pressure building inside me became too much, and I came hard.
A few more thrusts from Max, and he came too with a guttural sound. He spilled the result of his orgasm across my stomach.
It was the first time we’d had sex, and the son of a bitch had passed the test.
A while later, we were already in bed. Max was asleep beside me, but I couldn’t fall asleep.
My mind kept racing, and with a growing sense of concern, I replayed everything that had happened throughout the evening.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling restless. A few minutes later, my phone lit up with a text message.
From Lando.
LANDO: Can we talk?
LANDO: I’m outside Max’s building. Please come down.
My heart immediately began pounding. This couldn’t be happening.
I looked over at Max.
He was fast asleep, one arm stretched across my side of the bed, a faint crease between his brows like he somehow managed to overthink even in his sleep.
I let out a slow breath.
I grabbed a jacket, scribbled a quick note telling him I’d gone out for a walk, and took the elevator downstairs.
Lando was leaning against his car with his hands buried in his pockets. When he heard my footsteps, he looked up. For a moment neither of us spoke.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked at last.
A tired smile crossed his face.
“I guessed.”
We walked in silence until we reached the edge of the harbor. The lights from the yachts shimmered across the dark water.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked suddenly.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
Silence settled between us again. I knew this kind of silence far too well.
Lando’s silences were never empty, they were always filled with questions he didn’t know how to ask.
“So…” He finally looked at me. “What’s going on between you and Max?”
There it was.
I slipped my hands into my jacket pockets.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I slowly shook my head.
“We haven’t talked about it.”
“But you’re together.” He pressed a little harder.
“We’re spending time together.”
I watched his jaw tighten.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Maybe not to you.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“And to you?”
I lowered my gaze to the water.
The truth was I didn’t know how to answer. All I knew was that, with Max, I never felt the need to question where I belonged.
He simply made room for me.
“You don’t have to answer.” His voice was noticeably colder this time “I’m just trying to understand.”
I smiled sadly.
“Understand what?”
“What’s happening.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
His breathing changed ever so slightly.
It was barely noticeable. But it was enough for me to realize he was losing his composure.
“Do you like him?”
I didn’t answer.
“Y/N.”
“I don’t know.”
It was a lie. Of course I knew, I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
“So you do like him?”
I sighed.
“Lando…”
“Answer me.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
The silence stretched between us. Because he couldn’t answer that question without admitting something he’d spent years burying.
I slowly shook my head.
“You don’t have the right to ask me that.”
I watched his expression change.
“Why not?”
“You’re seriously asking me that?” A bitter laugh escaped me. I took a step toward him. “You have a girlfriend.”
Another step.
“And years ago, you made it painfully clear that there could never be anything between us.”
My voice remained calm.
That was the worst part. I didn’t even have to raise it anymore to remember how much it had hurt.
“Y/N…”
“No.” This time, I interrupted him “Do you know what the hardest part was?”
A knot tightened in my throat.
“It wasn’t losing you. It was spending years believing there was something about me that made me impossible to choose.”
The words poured out on their own. As if they’d been waiting years to be spoken.
“After that day, I started looking at everyone like they belonged to different worlds. I started believing there were doors meant for other people but never for me. That I could work twice as hard, push myself three times harder, and I’d still always be nothing more than the housekeeper’s daughter. Because the only man I’d ever fallen in love with taught me exactly that.”
Lando closed his eyes.
“I never wanted you to feel that way.”
“But you did.” My voice barely rose above a whisper.“And the worst part is I understood. I never hated you for choosing that path, because even I believed you were right.”
He swallowed hard.
“Things changed.”
“No.” I slowly shook my head. “They changed for you. I was the one who had to learn how to live with what you left behind.”
For several long seconds the only sound was the water lapping against the dock.
Then he spoke again.
“You think Max is different.”
I frowned.
“He is.”
A bitter smile appeared on his face.
“No, Y/N. He’s just more impulsive.”
A terrible feeling settled in my stomach.
“What do you mean?”
“When he gets bored, he’ll move on with his life, like everyone else. He’s not taking you seriously.”
My chest tightened.
“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”
He took a step closer.
“Do you honestly think a guy like Max Verstappen is planning to marry you?”
The question landed between us like a stone.
“Lando…”
“He takes you on trips, he buys you beautiful clothes, he brings you to events. Don’t you see it? For him, you’re…” He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “…an accessory.”
Something inside me shattered. But he still wasn’t finished.
“A pretty girl he can spoil for a while. His sugar baby.”
The slap echoed across the silent harbor. I didn’t think, it just happened.
Slowly, Lando lifted a hand to his cheek.
I struggled to catch my breath, tears blurred my vision.
“Never…” My voice broke. “Never degrade me like that again. Because if there’s anyone who knows how hard I fought to build the life I have it’s you.”
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.
“For years, I thought my last name was the problem, my mother, my money, my background. But tonight you proved something. The problem was never where I came from. The problem was that you never found the courage to choose me and now you’re trying to convince me that no one else ever could.”
I slowly shook my head.
“I don’t believe that anymore.” I turned around before he could answer.
I didn’t want to go back to the apartment. Not yet.
I needed to walk.
I needed the wind to remind me that I was still breathing. So I kept walking along the harbor without looking back while the tears washed away what little makeup I still had left.
I have no idea how long I walked.
The gentle sound of the water against the docks was the only thing keeping the chaos in my head from swallowing me whole.
My tears had dried a long time ago, but the weight in my chest hadn’t gone anywhere.
“I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes.” Max’s voice startled me.
He was walking toward me quickly, his hair completely disheveled and a hoodie hastily thrown over the T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in. He stopped in front of me and took a deep breath.
“What happened?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
“No.” His answer came immediately. “Don’t lie to me.”
I looked at him for a few seconds. I’d never seen him like this before.
He didn’t look angry, he looked scared.
“Y/N…” His voice softened. “What happened?”
The knot in my throat returned.
“I talked to Lando.”
I watched his jaw tighten. But he didn’t say a word, he simply waited.
“He texted me… so I went downstairs to talk to him.”
I told him everything. How Lando had come all the way to the building. How we’d walked along the harbor. How, at first, he’d only asked questions. Then I told him about the jealousy. About our teenage years together. About the way he’d rejected us before we’d ever really had a chance. About the argument we’d had that night and finally about the words that still echoed inside my head.
“His sugar baby.” I couldn’t repeat that part without my voice breaking.
Max stood perfectly still through my entire story. He didn’t interrupt me once, only after I’d finished did he finally speak.
“He said that to you?”
I nodded.
He let out a slow breath.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you’re not killing anyone.” A laugh escaped me through my tears.
“Alright.” He corrected himself with complete seriousness “Then I’m just going to break his nose.”
The image was so absurd that I laughed, for real this time.
He frowned slightly.
“I wasn’t joking.”
“I know.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“Please don’t.” I shook my head as I wiped my cheeks.
He sighed dramatically.
“You’re no fun.”
Silence settled between us again. Then he took a step closer.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“Did you actually believe him?”
I didn’t answer. Because part of me had. And, of course he knew it.
“Y/N…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you know what the very first thing I thought when I saw you?”
I slowly shook my head.
“That you were beautiful.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks.
“And then I thought you were far too smart to ever end up talking to me.”
I stared at him, completely confused. A small smile tugged at his lips.
“I was wrong about the second part.”
“Idiot.” I lightly punched his arm.
“A little.” His smile slowly faded. “But I never once minded how much money you had, where your mother was, where you worked. Not once.”
He took a slow breath before continuing.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t see everything you do. I do, I know you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met, I know you’ve spent years building your life on your own and I know nobody handed you anything.”
His voice remained calm. So calm that it hurt.
“What I don’t understand…” He paused. “…is why you still believe any of that makes you worth less.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Because for a long time It was true.”
“No.” His answer was immediate. “For a long time, people convinced you it was true. That’s not the same thing.”
The words hung between us. No one had ever put it that way before. I’d spent my entire life believing my insecurities were simply the logical consequence of my circumstances.
It had never occurred to me that they might also be a lie I’d heard too many times.
“Lando didn’t stop loving you because you were the housekeeper’s daughter.”
My head snapped up.
He continued before I could speak.
“He stopped fighting for you because he was afraid and fear always finds elegant excuses to hide behind, sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s family, sometimes it’s social class. But underneath, It’s still fear.”
My eyes filled with tears again.
Not because I was sad, because I felt relieved. For the first time someone had separated my worth from the choice Lando had made all those years ago.
“What if one day you’re afraid too?” The question came out so quietly I almost regretted asking it.
Max smiled. That same calm smile that somehow managed to frustrate me and comfort me at the exact same time.
“Of course I am.”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that answer.
“You are?”
“Terrified.”
“Of what?”
“That one day you’ll get tired of me.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
A disbelieving laugh escaped me.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged “But that fear doesn’t make me want to push you away. It makes me want to be closer to you.”
Something inside me finally gave way or maybe finally settled into place. I still wasn’t sure which.
“I’m not Lando.” His voice was quieter than ever. “And I’ll never ask you to make yourself smaller just to make my life easier. If this ever ends…” He pointed to himself “It’ll be because I did something wrong. Not because your last name is different from mine, not because your mother cleaned someone’s house and certainly…”
He shook his head, almost offended by the thought.
“…not because anyone thinks you can be bought with a dress or a trip. You’re not something that can be bought, you’re not a thing. You’re the woman I’m falling in love with.”
The world seemed to fall completely silent.
There was only him and me.
For years, I’d confused one man’s rejection with my worth as a woman.
I’d allowed a decision born from fear to define the way I saw myself and now, standing in front of me, was another man.
A man who came from that exact same world. But who had never once asked me to change who I was to make room for me in his life.
He had simply made room for me.
I smiled through my tears.
“I think you’re completely insane.”
“I already knew that.” A grin spread across his face.
I laughed, shaking my head.
“And for some reason I still don’t understand I think I’m starting to like all that insanity of yours.”
His eyes lit up instantly.
“Does that mean I can officially say I’m your future husband now?”
The laugh that burst from my lips echoed across the entire harbor.
For years I’d mistaken fear for reality. I’d believed love always came with conditions, with explanations, with sacrifices.
That night, I finally understood something. When someone truly wants to stay they stop looking for reasons to leave. And Lando’s decision had always spoken about his limits.
Never about mine.
(…)
Eight months later, I still found it absurd that anyone could call a paddock “home.”
And yet, there I was.
A cup of coffee in one hand, a paddock pass hanging around my neck, and a team radio that I understood absolutely nothing from, waiting for Max to finish the pre-qualifying engineering briefing.
One of the mechanics walked past me.
“Five more minutes.”
I nodded like that information had been meant for me. Leaning against one of the garage walls, I watched the organized chaos unfolding around me.
The first time I’d ever stepped into the paddock, I’d felt completely out of place.
Now I didn’t.
I still understood barely half the conversations about setup changes, tire degradation, or telemetry, but I’d stopped feeling like I needed to understand everything to deserve being there.
“Have you been waiting for long?” Max had just stepped out of the garage, zipping up the top half of his race suit as he walked toward me.
“Seven minutes.”
He glanced at his watch.
“It’s been nine.”
“I was giving you a little margin so you wouldn’t feel bad.”
“How thoughtful.” A quiet laugh escaped him.
He stopped in front of me and, without saying a word, took my coffee from my hands. He took a sip before casually handing it back.
“Thanks.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“That was my coffee.” I frowned.
“It’s our coffee now.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It worked.”
I rolled my eyes.
I’d learned that arguing with Max was an absolute waste of time. Not because he was always right, but because he never seemed interested in winning. He simply kept talking until the other person gave up.
One of the engineers appeared at the garage entrance.
“Max. Time to go.”
He lifted a hand to let him know he’d be there in a second. Before leaving, he turned back toward me.
“Where are you going to be?”
I looked at him, confused.
“Here.”
“Good.” He nodded once “That way I’ll know where to find you when I’m done.”
And then he was gone.
There was no kiss.
No I love you.
He didn’t even look back.
He simply disappeared into the crowd of engineers like it had never crossed his mind that, when he came back, I might be anywhere other than exactly where I’d said I’d be.
And I would be.
I smiled without realizing it. Sometimes I forgot there had once been a time when I believed love meant waiting for someone to find the courage to choose you.
With Max there had never been any waiting.
He had simply shown up.
First at a coffee shop, pretending he’d driven halfway across the city just because he wanted a cup of coffee.
Then at an art gallery, listening to me talk for hours about paintings he probably wouldn’t remember.
Later, sitting beside me on a curb at two in the morning with a split lip, like getting into a fight was the most natural ending to a first date.
And now I was the one showing up at racetracks.
Waiting for him among engines, radios, and stacks of tires, in a world that had once felt completely out of reach but had, little by little, made room for me.
I suppose, in the end we became each other’s favorite coincidence.
“Verstappen!” one of the mechanics shouted from inside the garage. “Move it! Your future wife isn’t going to do qualifying for you!”
Laughter immediately erupted from inside the garage.
I rolled my eyes automatically.
I didn’t even have to look to know exactly what expression Max had on his face.
Pure satisfaction.
I buried my face in my hands as I laughed.
For the first time since I was a little girl, the future no longer felt like a place I needed permission to enter.
Because, in the end, love hadn’t come into my life to give me a place in the world.
It had come to remind me that the place I belonged had always been mine.
Vacationing with Oscar was always relaxing. No need to go 200 mph or worry about being late to anywhere. No chaos, just calm and quiet. Well, that plan goes out the window when your boyfriend’s teammate decides he would love to go on vacation also. It was hard for you to tell him no. He gave you both sad eyes and non-stop begging.
It wasn’t that Lando wasn’t fun to be around. It was quite the opposite, actually. He was the definition of fun but also reckless. Every time you went out with him, there was a chance you either lost half of the things you came with or that you woke up in a place you didn’t remember ever seeing.
Which is why it was no shock that Lando convinced you guys to go clubbing. Claiming he needed to know what the club scene in this country was like. Unfortunately, you were like a moth to a flame when it came to nightlife. Enjoying getting dressed up, ordering as many drinks that were not on your tab, and drinking the night away.
Oscar, bless his soul, not only had to deal with one drunkie but two. It was amazing how he managed to keep you both in the same place all night and get you both back to the hotel suite in one piece.
One thing about you, as opposed to Lando, was that you could sober up and fast. After a shower and a few times emptying your stomach, your consciousness was clear enough to know what time it was, what day it was, and where you were. Conscious enough to do your nightly routine and pull Oscar in bed so he can be your warmer for the night.
However, that routine would soon be interrupted just as you were about to fall asleep, listening to Oscar’s steady heartbeat. There was a loud bang at your door, followed by a series of rapid bangs. Starling the two of you, Oscar let out a groan, already knowing it was Lando with a stupid question.
“Hey! I need help out here! I know you two are up!”
“You better get your ass up and handle that cuz if I have to get up, you and him won’t see the light of tomorrow.”
Sighing one more time, getting out of bed, Oscar trailed to the door, opening it to find Lando as he left him. Still in his club attire with a random pair of sunglasses on, and hair a mess. What was he even doing in the time you and Oscar were getting ready for bed?
“Oscar! Come, I need your help!” Before the Austrian could say anything, he was being pulled by a drunk British in the direction of the kitchen.
After a few minutes and quietness, Oscar came back into the room, but not before locking the door. Double-checking it was locked before climbing back in bed, wrapping his arm around your body, pulling you close.
“What was that about?” You hummed lowly, with no energy on the verge of sleep.
“Was wondering why the microwave wasn’t working……..It wasn’t plugged in.”
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader, andrea kimi antonelli x gf!fem!reader
summary: kimi has everything oscar has ever wanted. and oscar knows kimi doesn’t deserve any of it. not the praise. not the wins. and especially not you. so when the envy becomes too much, oscar decides he’ll take it all from him. every single last thing that makes kimi happy. even if that means taking you.
warnings: fluff, LOTS of angst, jealousy, established relationship, very innocent and slightly dumb reader, technically infidelity, toxic childhood!bf!kimi, gaslighting, arguing, yelling, manipulation, possessiveness, kimi disrespects reader a lot, kinda cunning!oscar?, 18+ (minors dni), teasing, p in v, unprotected sex, degradation, public sex, voyeurism, handjob, poor humour // poorly proof read as usual
word count: 12.3k
a/n: based on this request! first piece of my 6000 follower celebration!!! letting you know you may be triggered at many points of this fic and that's okay! 😬
Oscar Piastri had never really let anyone get under his skin. Early in life, he had learned the art of calm and composure. Underreaction had always been the silent winner. No one ever got to him. Nothing really pissed him off. He treated people fairly. He always thought that if he went by the books, one day he'd reap the rewards.
But very quickly into his Formula One career; he had learned that was not the truth. And nor was he as calm as he once thought he was.
In the very same time frame Osar was supposed to be receiving praise and getting race wins, came Kimi Antonelli. The monster rookie. The new Verstappen who replaced the Sir Lewis Hamilton's seat.
It wasn't like Oscar hadn't heard of him. He had always heard of him down the line. The kid in the Mercedes' junior line up. A racing prodigy. A sweet guy with all the Italian charm. When he heard Kimi was racing in F2, skipping the previous level, he had even thought of extending his hand. Sure, you couldn't be friends with everyone on track. But it didn't hurt to try.
But Oscar was sorely mistaken.
The ego-boosting headlines and the compliments had gotten to Kimi. He walked, no—he strode with pride. Innocent brown eyes filled with a disgusting shade of smugness that no driver could fathom. His lips in a constant curved smirk. Complaints and complaints on the tip of his tongue when nothing went his way. The coy downplay of his achievements at such as young eage. How easily he manipulated Toto and Susie to get what he wanted.
It was different kind of art. A sick, satrical version of it. How easy the Italian charm had faded away.
And always by his side was you. Kimi's pride and joy. His girlfriend of three years, always wrapped around his arm.
You... You were the worst part of it all.
Oscar had seen you like everyone else had. You were simply gorgeous. Oscar could never forget how slowly his head had turned when you had first entered the paddock. The double take he had taken along with everyone else, watching your every move.
Everything about you seemed perfect.
Your sparkly wide eyes. Pretty painted lips. Soft, boisterous laugh. Perfectly styled hair. Perfume that made all in your trail dizzy. You talked with your heart rather than your mind. You were a good person. Pure. Whole. Anyone could see that from a mile away.
It was then when Oscar had locked eyes with Kimi, spotting that smirk on his stupid face and that evil glint in those brown eyes. A look of acknowlegement. Yes. It was you next to him. Not next to Oscar. Not next to anyone else.
Oscar would never forget that very moment where Kimi's head had leaned down just a little, lips gliding over your ear to whisper something that made you laugh while his hand creeped down your waist, to your lower back and right over your ass. Fingers slightly while as he groped you shamelessly. And not a second later, his lips were on yours, kissing you deeply and messily, tongue out without any hurry. Like there weren't any cameras on him.
He remembered your flushed cheeks while you kissed Kimi back. Eyes a little wide with disbelief but still you had kissed him anyways, smile apparent on your face. Small hands reaching for his sleeves to brace yourself.
Then there was that mix of disgust and anger that rushed through Oscar's body. He genuinely couldn't believe it. How could anyone dating you treat you like that in public? Like you were a plaything. A trophy.
And that's how it had gone on for months. That superiority Kimi welded with you by his side. Making you sit on his lap at dinners, hands travelling carelessly under the short skirts and dresses he had gotten you. Interrupting interviews just to go and kiss you on the camera. Letting those videos of you and him in the nightclub get posted where you danced together.
And while it seemed like things were all sunshines and rainbows for the both of you, Oscar could see the truth for what it was. Kimi had no respect for you. In fact, he was horrible to you.
Because behind Kimi's handsy fingers and clingy mouth were the arguments in the quiet parts of the paddock. The ones where he would make your pretty eyes cry and then pretended to kiss them better. Where he constantly made you question yourself and belittled you in front of others. Then he'd let your eyes light up with the fake promises of a future together. He didn't really let you talk to anyone either unless it made him look good.
And you had no idea. Simply believing him with your heart. The epitome of 'love makes you blind.'
You were like an innocent lamb in the dirty hands of Kimi's.
It had gotten worse this season.
The consistent wins and praise had made Kimi delirious. If he was careless before, he had not a single inch of it in him any longer. With the whispers of a Championship-winning car and a talent one people wouldn't see for years, he was driven by the foundation of immature confidence.
Perhaps that's why Oscar had heard what he had heard in China. Seen what he had seen.
It was Lando, Oscar, and George conversing between the Mercedes and McLaren garages. Talking about the cars and whatnot while the paddock had finally become quiet after the race. Some teams were still in their debriefs, some packing up. The sun threatening to settle, orange mixed lightly into the air.
The conversation was coming to a swift end, Lando and George citing how they needed to grab their things from their hotel before they all met for the private flight back to Monaco. The two of them had barely walked away before Oscar had heard it.
A deep mewl in the air.
Oscar blinked, brows furrowed as he turned towards the Mercedes' garage. He couldn't see anyone nearby. The place empty with a majority of the team still in another debrief. He would've taken a step back and joined Lando but then he had heard it again.
"Oh fuck!"
Call it curiosity. But Oscar's legs seemed to move on their own, defying the rules of non-personnel entering the garage while he quietly walked onto enemy territory. It didn't take him long to navigate, the ins and outs similar to any other garage. The sounds became louder and louder with every step he took. Yet he couldn't quite discern them.
But when he did, it made his feet stop and his blood freeze.
He stood outside of Kimi's driver's room. It not just any sound coming into the air. It's yours. Hands imprinting onto the blurred iced-glass door, your shadowed figure could barely be made out. Your moans travelled through the glass with bare deviation from the lewd, deep slaps of skin echoing around what felt like his skull.
"Louder, belle. Let them hear who makes you feel this good," Kimi grunted shamelessly. "God, you're so pathetic. This turned on when anyone can hear you. You make a good whore, don't you?"
His chuckle was deep and mocking. And yet, your trembling moans merged into the air.
Oscar could hear it. Your sharp pants. Desperate and needy. "More," you begged. "Deeper."
Oscar blinked, breathing in deeply while he took a shaky step back. Fuck, this was so wrong. He could barely think with your sweet sounds tainted by Kimi's disgusting insults. It felt like he was watching a crime being committed.
The struggle grounded him for a few moments. Not willing to move. But the idea of you reaching any sort of end with Kimi made a thin layer of bile crawl up Oscar's throat. So he moved before he could hear it, feet quick and light.
He was sweating by the time he reached the McLaren suite, mind haywired, breath erratic while he tried to block out those sounds. That was a mistake, right? Something he had come across on pure accident. Yes. That was it. Kimi wasn't so vain that he'd just put you out there for anyone to listen to. That was an accident.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
But by the time Oscar had reached the private jet, he had once again been proven wrong. He was there, backpack slung across his back and suitcase rolling next to him as he arrived to find Lando and George waiting near the stairs of the plane.
Oscar raised a brow. "What are you guys waiting for? Shouldn't you be onboard?" He queried.
"I..." Lando said wordlessly, awkwardly looking over at George who looked slightly paler than usual. Neither of them could bring it up. The mere idea too shameful.
"What?" Oscar pressed, sighing when no response was given. He moved forward, pushing past them to get up the stairs. By the time he was through the door, it had become evident as to why those two were waiting outside.
"Oh fuck. That's it," Kimi's voice flew from the bathroom down the aisle.
Oscar's fingers instantly tightened around his suitcase. His stomach churned with disgust as his brain familiarised itself with the situation once again. The sounds of you against one another was far less muted this time. Your whimpers curling around Oscar's ears.
He couldn't tell what was worse. The fact that the plane hadn't even gotten off the ground yet or the fact Oscar wasn't the only one subjected to this. His coworkers down below. The staff of the plane awkwardly trying to resume their job. All while Kimi was burning your dignity to the floor.
"You gonna cum for me, belle? Yeah?"
Oscar's breath quickened as Kimi's voice tightened.
"Tell me, baby. Who makes you feel this good?"
Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, annoyance simmering in his blood.
"You. You do, Kimi," you sobbed, gasp heavenly with every push forward harsher than before. "Kimi, Kimi—I'm going to—"
A smug moan fell from his lips. "I know, I know. Everyone's going to know how good I make you feel, belle."
Oscar regretted staying this time. He should've left the moment he had realised. He shouldn't have stayed to hear the sinful draw out of your voice nor the useless wavering grunt of Kimi's. Then he wouldn't of seen Kimi coming out of the bathroom, still shifting his pants on tighter, adjusting his zip with you following behind him, red in the face.
Kimi breathed with a drop of sweat worked up on his brow. "Hey, Oscar," he greeted, tugging at his shirt without a inch of shame in the world. He looked past him, spotting the emptiness in the jet. "Are Lando and George still waiting? I'll go them, yeah? Takeoff's soon."
Oscar's lips curled in disgust as Kimi walked past him, shoulder bustling into his before Kimi's hand, still covered in the musk of sex, patted him. His brown eyes flickered to yours, now seated with the imprints of Kimi all over you. Purple on your neck, hands on your bare thigh, poorly hidden beneath your skirt. You were tainted with Kimi. He swallowed, meeting your flustered gaze.
You gave him a timid wave. "Hi, Oscar."
Oscar's breath caught. He was sure that was the first time he had heard his name fall from your lips. He enjoyed the way it rolled of your tongue. It sounded much better than Kimi's. He gave you a hesitant nod of acnknowledgement. He couldn't peel his eyes away from the shame beneath your kind expression. He could feel the judgement pouring from the staff in the cabin. Remember the awkward look on Lando and George's faces. And it was all because of Kimi.
Oscar hated Kimi. He hated that Kimi had everything he ever wanted. An easy fight for a title. The potential to win more races than he ever had in his rookie years. And you. He had you.
Oscar was going to beat Kimi. One way or another, he was going to beat the stupid smug smirk off that Italian face. He would take everything that he had away from him. Even if that something was you.
It was a brief glimpse Oscar had gotten from you. But that was all he needed to stop in his tracks. The sight of you in tears, cheeks flushed, and hidden in behind some corner of the Mercedes' suite. No. That just wouldn't do.
You sniffled, tip of your nose red as Oscar placed down a cup of freshly steamed hot chocolate and sat across you. With a tight, thankful smile, you held the burning cup between your fingers.
"A-Are you sure its okay for me to be here?" You asked, eyeing the unfamiliar shades of papaya around you.
Oscar watched you quietly, nodding unconsciously. He blinked as your eyes drifted to his. The tips of ears reddened as he had been caught. He cleared his throat, nodding more definitely. "Of course, it is. I couldn't possibly have just left you like that."
You swallowed tightly, cheeks pouring with heat once again as you thought about how Oscar had found you just sobbing away. The concern in his eyes had been surprising. You had never seen anything like it before. A part of you wished you had. In a different pair of brown eyes.
Oscar pursed his lips at the silence brewing in the air. He sucked in a sharp breath, leaning forward. "I know it's not my place but... is it Kimi?"
You looked down at the mention of your boyfriend before smiling much to Oscar's surprise. "It was my fault really. I made a mistake. I just thought..."
He raised a brow. "You thought?"
You chuckled softly, blinking through your sore eyes. "It sounds crazy now that I think about it. I thought he was cheating," you laughed a little deeper, sighing as you shook your head in disbelief. "There was the girl and— well. He was right. I was overreacting. I just really thought..."
The ache in Oscar's chest was unwelcome as your voice grew small and strained. He blinked at your sudden smile yet again. "I was stupid, wasn't I?" You sighed, taking a sip of your hot chocolate.
"No, you weren't."
Your eyes flew to Oscar, wide. Your heart thudded in your chest, fear growing like diseased vines. What did he mean by that?
"It's not stupid to ask questions. That's the least you deserve. It's your right," Oscar murmured gently, fingers curling to move the loose tresses in front of your face but stuck at his side.
You pulled your brows together. That's not what Kimi told you. He always said questions weren't important. Useless, really. That only stupid people ask and answer. That's why he acted the way he did in interviews—disruptive and indifferent. But what you were hearing now...
You tilted your head, curiosity swarming through your brain. "Can I ask you questions then?"
A gentle smile sprawled onto Oscar's face as he leaned back in his seat. "You can ask me anything you want, sweetheart."
He watched you hum almost silently. Like you were thinking of all the new options you could explore. And for a split second, he saw it. That sliver of excitement swirling in your eyes. The expanse of your pupils. And it made his breath catch.
"Do you believe in aliens?"
Amusement coursed through his veins. There was something so mundane about the question. Out of all the things you could have asked... But he pushed down the quirk of his lips. "In a world of unexplained things, I think there's room for aliens."
Your brows pulled again, doe-eyes looking at him for a second. Maybe a second too long. Long enough for Oscar's heart to test new unhealthy rthyhms. "That's the most media trained answer you could've given. Nice job."
Oscar blinked at your response, brown eyes watching you stand as you looked at the digital clock that counted sixty minutes to the start of the first free practice. Sixty minutes that required you to be near Kimi. He breathed slowly upon your small smile beaming.
"Thank you for... well, just thank you," you mumbled, scratching the back of your neck sheepishly. You turned on your heel before pausing, head tilting back to the brown eyes still on you. "Question. Do my eyes look puffy?"
Oscar could've remained seated and told you from where he sat. But he stood, taking those few closer steps near you. The world seemed to slow as he leaned in, inspecting your face from a careful distance. Or the lack of. It was silent for a brief moment. "No," he decided.
You swallowed, releasing the breath you had unintentionally been holding. You smiled lightly. "Good. Kimi doesn't like it when they are," you chuckled. "Okay. Bye, Oscar."
Oscar pressed his lips together, biting down the distaste lingering on his tongue as he bidded you goodbye. His turmoil seemed to linger even when you were gone. Every time he thought he couldn't hate Kimi anymore, you gave him one more reason to do so.
The crowd roared as usual. A fundamental noise that your ears had become used to as you stood beneath the podium and metres away from the finishing cars. It was Silverstone. Classical and traditional. Every driver's dream race to win. And Kimi had done it.
You stood between the neverending Mercedes' team, dolled in Kimi's jacket waiting for for him as he did his final few victory laps around the circuit, basking in the cheers and exclaims pouring from the stadium. Yet, he wasn't the first driver you saw. It was Oscar, cladded in papaya, and the claimer of P2. You watched him down the line, greeting his team. And for a moment, you expected him to sweep right past you.
But someone at Mercedes knew him a little better, pulling him aside with a handshake. And then those brown eyes flickered to you and over the teal and black clinging to your shoulder with an emotion unfamiliar to you. But a smile graced his face nevertheless. Boyish as usual, you noticed.
You returned the gesture. "Congrats on second," you said loudly, hands curling over the barricade.
"Thank you," Oscar breathed, hand dishevelling his sweat-ridden brown locks, lines of his balaclava etched into his slightly reddened face. “If only I had one more lap," he sighed tiredly, reminiscing the hundredths between his and Kimi's finishing times.
You pressed your lips together, smile hanging awkwardly. "Next time. I'm sure of it," you nodded astutely, brows pulled with firm belief.
A chuckle fell from his lips. Cute. His head tipped in agreement. "Yeah. Next time," he mumbled. He took a quick breath in. "I was wond—"
Oscar's words were quelled as the supporting shouts grew louder with Kimi's pull into parc fermé. You both silently watched him remove his steering wheel, topping the his car with his fists in the air triumphantly. His small jump off was smooth after every recent win. You felt his head glide towards you while he inched closer to the weighing scale. Nothing decipherable about those eyes behind the helmet.
Kimi didn't waste a second. Helmet and balacava off. Sponsor watch on. Marching towards the crowd of teal and black. Marching towards you. Aware of every lens following his every move. His stagnant gaze on you purposeful. Gait with a force so casual yet demanding.
Forceful enough for Oscar to take a step back as he watched Kimi's hand, the very one with the sponsor watch, fall to your face and bring his lips to yours. The grandstands and pools of fans around cheer as expected. The cameras zoom in hungrily, too blinded to see the quirk of Kimi's lips. Instead disguised as the loving boyfriend depicted across fanpages and headlines.
But Oscar could see it. He stood behind Kimi, jaw locked, teeth clenching so tightly the pain swells in his gums. He hadn't realised it until Sophie, his press officer, put her hand on his arm to attend the trackside interview, grounding him back to reality. He swallowed tightly, taking a slow breath in and out before turning on his heel, fingers curled tightly at his side.
With every step closer to the cameras and the waiting interviewer, Oscar couldn't shake the image of you two out of his head. This was the very same guy who had sent you crying just a few weeks ago, leaving Oscar to pick up the pieces. Who had the sheer audacity to make you feel like shit just for doubting him.
What a fucking asshole.
Monaco was not home for Oscar. It would never be. Nowhere near as comfortable and easy as Australia was. He preferred the scorching heats and casualness of the people around him. Not the sports cars or luxury yachts collecting dust on the Monégasque waters. This was well and truly just a perk of his job. Nothing more, nothing less.
But just when Oscar couldn't find anything happy about it, a walk outside to get his groceries left him finding you nearby, eyes glued to the clothing store nearby.
You blinked at the call of your name, tearing your eyes away to find a familiar mop of brown hair. The smile on your face was instant. You waved in a way that made his cheeks tighten. "What are you doing here?"
Oscar breathed in, looking around the streets he had become used to, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts. "Uh, I was going to get some groceries. How about you? Not in Italy. Well, obviously," he chuckled awkwardly.
Christ... was he always such a loser?
You grinned, nodding in agreement. "Kimi finally moved in so I came to help. Now... I'm shopping," you said, lifting your arm with the few shopping bags you had collected so far.
He suppressed his frown at the mention of Kimi's name. "So I guess I'll be seeing you around more often?" He queried, brows raised with hope.
"Yeah. I mean maybe. This place is a lot," you laughed softly, eyes tracing over the endless cars, stores, and yachts. This was definitely not Bologna or even Milan. Monaco was a in a league of its own.
Oscar nodded. "It's overwhelming at first," he agreed, swallowing tightly as a new thought popped into his mind. "I mean, if you don't mind, I could be your guide when you're here. You can give me your number. Call me when you're around."
You mulled over his offer, surprise light but evident on your face. You never really gave your number to anyone. Especially not any of the drivers—Kimi's rule. But Oscar was just being nice. It would probably be good too. That way you didn't have to bother Kimi.
"Sure," you said, hand reaching out to grab your phone. "Give yourself a miss call."
Oscar's eyes lit up, faint smile on his face as he punched in his number into your phone, letting the call linger briefly. Satisfied, he saved his name into your phone. Oscar :)
"Perfect," you breathed, eyes crinkling with a thankful glint as you pocketed your phone. "I'll let you get back to it then. I still have a few more places I wanna see."
Oscar tried not to let his disappointment show. You just got here. "If you wanted some company... I'm happy to join," he shrugged, hoping that was as casual as it was in his head.
Your eyes widened slightly. "Really?"
"Yeah, sure. I know a few places too," he nodded, unable to understand your shock. As if Kimi never joined you—oh who was he kidding? Of course that asshole didn't join you. And if he did, it would be for him.
You grinned. "Lead the way."
You pursed your lips, eyeing the skirt you hovered over yourself as you stood in front of the store's long mirror. It was a sparkly little thing. Silver. Small. Sequined. Your eyes flickered to Oscar's reflection, finding him standing nearby some rack (as if he hadn't been quietly watching you). “Oscar, can I ask you a question?"
Oscar raised a brow, swiftly moving away from the rack he had been pretending to rummage through. "You know you don't have to ask that every time, right? You can just ask," he grinned, inching closer to you.
"Oh," you pursed your lips, blinking blankly as the heat in your cheeks grew. "Right. Sorry," you smiled lightly, looking back at yourself in the mirror. "What do you think of this?" You asked, gesturing to the sparkly skirt dangling over the hanger.
He swallowed. It was pretty thing really. Made him imagine things he didn't want to imagine. But as he had watched you, he couldn't help notice the light in your eyes missing. Or the frown of your lips. He shrugged. "You don't seem to like it very much."
You fell silent for a moment, eyes slightly wide while you blinked. How Oscar knew that... you had no idea. You sucked in a sharp breath, staring at the skirt in the mirror with a small pout. "Kimi likes these things."
There it was. The perpetrator behind everything miserable and unbalanced in your life. Of course, Kimi liked these things like this. Short and tight. It was a way to claim you in all those parties and night clubs. One hand always on your exposed leg or on the curve of your ass as he practically screamed, "Look at me."
Oscar bit his lip, pushing away the rousing annoyance in his chest. "What do you like?"
The question was simple. Yet it seemed to leave you stumped. Doe eyes a bit dazed. Lips parted. Like you had never really given that much of a thought. And that only worsened the ache in his chest.
You tilted your head, directing your gaze behind Oscar. "I think that's pretty," you murmured, eyeing the semi-long white sundress nearby.
Oscar turned his head. With no sly comment or look of distaste you usually recieved, he stepped towards it, grabbing the hanger with ease before bringing it back to you. "Then wear it."
You pursed your lips, unsurely flickering over the dress. "But—"
"Just try it. You won't know if you don't try," Oscar said, firm yet gentle as he took your previous shopping bags slung on your arm and moved them to his. He pushed forward the dress again. "Go on."
He watched you swallow awkwardly, gingerly picking the dress out of his hand before drifting towards the fitting rooms. He followed after you, stopping when you suddenly turned back to face him.
"Will you wait for me?"
Oscar blinked. He hated how foreign the idea sounded to you. That you actually had to question it because your piece of shit boyfriend couldn't spare one second that wasn't for him.
He smiled warmly, not missing a beat to respond. "I'll be right here. Don't worry."
You nodded thankfully as he took a few steps back, taking a seat while he waited. And with every second the passed, Oscar couldn't help but think of it. The few times Kimi would come with you. Probably when the fans were out or along with the paps. How he'd probably walk around, not paying attention to you. Picking out clothes that he liked. Standing there, convincing you that you liked it as much as he did.
The clothes were just one example. Oscar was almost a hundred percent sure it was Kimi who had gotten you to publicise your socials to get more coverage. Every second post being a photo of you together where you looked happy and Kimi looked like presumptous asshole he was.
Had Oscar spent an unhealthy amount of time looking at your account? Yes. Maybe. But he couldn't help it. It was almost intuitional. The more he found to despise about Kimi, the more he seemed to sink deeper into the world that was you.
"Oscar?"
Oscar blinked, head lifting up as though he had been called by a siren. He found you peeking out of the curtain with a fretful smile. He raised his brows curiously. "Yeah?"
"Do you think you can help me with the strings? Or find someone who can? I can't really do them by myself," you chuckled awkwardly, cheeks slightly flushing.
He was standing on his feet when you called his name. Walking as you asked. Without as much of a fight or resistance you usually experienced, he had said yes.
You breathed in, feeling the narrow confinements of the fitting room become even smaller as Oscar entered. You pursed your lips, eyes darting between anything and Oscar in the mirror. "Just... those ones," you murmured, hovering over the two long strings sitting at your lower back.
Oscar held his breath in his lungs, fingers stretching and curling around the two attached pieces. He told himself he shouldn't look up as he looped each string. Because if he did, he was scared to see what he'd find. But he did.
He wasn't sure what fucked up his brain chemistry more. The heat radiating between your bodies from something a simple as a little knot. Or the brush his fingers over the fabric of your dress. Or perhaps the bob of your throat as you caught his eye. Like he made you nervous. And that thought alone made him warm all over.
He fastened the last knot, watching your breath hitch. "There," he said, voice gruff and strained while he committed the sinful cling of the fabric to your body to his memory.
He kept quiet, observing your eyes drift over yourself in the mirror. He saw it. That missing light. The small look of approval in the quirk of your lips. "Buy it," he simply said. "If you don't, I will."
Your lips parted with nothing quite to say as Oscar excused himself from the room, finally taking a breath of fresh air. His lungs burned as if he had denied the right to breathe with you, happy to let you suffocate him.
"Jesus Christ," Oscar muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He was so fucked.
You swallowed tightly as Kimi threw his phone in front of you, left open with a picture of you and Oscar talking outside the store yesterday. He stood in front of you, arms folded with an incredulous smile on his face. "I called you here to help me," he said chuckled, shaking his head. "I mean... I can't believe you thought I was cheating. How hypocritical can you get?"
You blinked, scatter of red creeping up your neck and cheeks instantly. "I... we were just talking, Kimi. I bumped into him on accident."
The scoff from his lips made your eyes sting. Not an ounce of trust rested in him as much as it did in you.
"Accident?" He questioned, raising his brows with amusement. "Nothing accidental about that prick. Don't think I haven't noticed him being around you more often. I mean come on, ___. Are you his girlfriend or mine?"
You frowned. "Of course, I'm your girlfriend, Kimi," you instantly said, not missing a beat to respond. "Why would you even ask that?"
Kimi tilted his head. "You're asking me that? Then don't do things that make me question you, belle," he grunted, jaw tight. He sucked in a breath when he spotted the thin shine over your eyes. He almost rolled his own. Of course. You couldn't go a conversation without crying.
"Why are you being so mean?" You murmured, eyes brimming with tears, tip of your nose beginning to flush.
After a moment a sigh fell from Kimi's lips. He stepped forward, hands holding you at either side of your arms. He leaned forward, meeting your gaze, brown eyes suddenly gentle. "I don't want to be. You just make it difficult, belle. You know I love you so much, yeah? Don't cry. I hate seeing you cry."
You blinked, feeling Kimi's lips gided over your eyelids briefly. For a moment you felt like your soul had separated from your body. Like you were watching yourself from another plane. You breathed in, sniffling quietly to yourself as he pulled away, thumb grazing your cheek.
"You understand, hmm?" He hummed, tucking your hair behind your ear.
You smiled tightly, giving him a nod. "I understand, Kimi. I won't do it again," you promised, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. "Ti amo."
Oscar hated clubs. There was nothing more uncomfortable for him as an introvert. The loud music, flashing lights, sweaty bodies, and an unhealthy amount of alcohol. All features of a nightmare he's had time and time again.
But he was here. Under the strobe lights, music vibrating throught the floor he stood on while his eyes searched through the dancing crowd. He was here because you were here. A small detail you had slipped into your texts with him recently. A night out with the drivers and their partners.
Lando spotted him first, surprise evident on his face as he came closer. He eyed the blue jeans and black polo shirt his teammate wore and chuckled. "Well this is out of the norm. I wonder why."
Lando wasn't as daft as some made him out to be. Of course, things were a lot easier when his usually composed and calm teammate was riled up by the simple mention of you. Oscar had made the mistake many other drivers had once made. Everyone had seen you once Kimi moved up racing categories. No one was going to deny it. You were a gorgeous girl with a pure heart. But you were young. And that was always risky territory. That fact you were Kimi's... it rubbed everyone the wrong way. Where as everyone saw you for what you were, Kimi saw you as the shiny trophy to put his on his arm.
But no one had tried to go against him. The effort against someone so cocky and arrgoant was tumultuous. Formula One was already bad enough as it was. The last thing any driver wanted was an extra target on his back when they raced.
But it seemed Oscar had willingly taken it up. And it ws going well. By sheer luck or pure talent, he had finally thwarted the neverending Mercedes domination and Kimi's winning reign. With a few race wins up his sleeve, Oscar loomed over the championship leader with a confidence Kimi would almost find familiar.
"Shut up," Oscar rolled his eyes at Lando, returning his gaze back to the crowd. There was no question as to who he was searching for. And he found you where he had expected. On Kimi's lap. His chin nestled into your shoulder, hand over your thigh while he talked to Ollie like you weren't there. And there you were again, dressed in the clothes that your fingers threatened to tug down.
Oscar watched silently as your lips dipped towards Kimi's ear, whispering something that made him nod and made him loosen his grip on you. His own feet moved across the club before he knew it. But he wasn't so obvious, blending with the crowd as you seemed to near the bathroom. At least from Kimi's angle. But from his, he could spot the right turn towards the stairs immediately.
The strobe lights turned red as Oscar walked up the stairs. The atmosphere up there, though still loud, seemed different. Slower and slurred. Crowded yet less chaotic. And in the mix of it all he found you. Sitting in an empty booth, head in your hands, resting on the table.
"You okay?"
You lifted your head at the voice, ears perked instinctively. You breathed a little more calmly when you realised who it was. "Oscar," you greeted with a small smile though you didn't hide your surprise. You watched him slide into the booth, sitting across you. "What are you doing here? This doesn't really seem like your scene."
Oscar rested his arms on the table. "Doesn't seem like yours either," he simply retorted. He grinned at your pursed lips and briefly stoic face. Like he had caught you in a lie.
You sucked in a sharp breath, leaning back into the booth. "It's not," you admitted with a sheepish nod. The sheer amount of eyes and people made you want to throw up. "But—"
"But Kimi likes it... right?" Oscar bitterly finished, brows raised.
You smiled lightly, nodding once again as your eyes drifted across the dancing crowd, swaying a bit more softer to the electric beat. "I came up here to breathe a little," you mumbled. "It's better than down there. He would've found me outside."
It was silent for a moment. Just Oscar watching quietly and you basking in something that didn't have Kimi's name scrawled all over it.
"Can I ask you a question?"
You blinked, peeling your gaze away from the scene and back to Oscar. You furrowed your brows. That was usually your line. But hearing it come from his mouth was humouring. You smiled lightly, gesturing for him to continue.
"Do you like to dance?" Oscar asked. It was a bold ask. One that made him regret it almost instantly. Lodge his breath in his throat as he waited.
You folded your arms, pondering over his question. "At home. Usually by myself. Kimi doesn't really enjoy it anymore," you sighed sadly, corners of your mouth frowning. You had tried asking once or twice. But the outcome was always the same. He was too busy or too weirded out.
Your eyes fell to the outsretched hand in front of you and then to the standing Oscar. You raised a brow.
"Let's dance then," he breathed.
You swallowed tightly, thinking back to the night just weeks ago where you and Kimi had argued about Oscar. About the promise you had made. You rubbed your lips together, looking at him fretfully as your stomach churned. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
Oscar tilted his head at you. "Stop thinking about Kimi and think for yourself. If you want to dance, then dance."
You should've kept your hand to yourself. You should've gone back downstairs. Whether it was those brown eyes staring back at you or the determination in Oscar's voice, you couldn't decide. But you gave him your hand and let him guide you to the floor.
It was a tight fit with the occassional bump of a shoulder or body nearby. Your eyes locked under the flashing red lights as you stood in front of each other. The music you could feel through your heels. For a moment, you do nothing. Just stare at each other.
"Do you even know how to dance?" You asked with a small but teasing smile, eyeing his frigid posture. He was like a frozen block of ice. Unable to move. Cautious of the surrounding movements. The awkward tipped grin on his face told you everything. And it made you laugh. Earnestly and genuinely.
Oscar bit the inside of his cheek, preventing him from smiling too hard when he felt the brush of your head fall against your chest. He watched as you lifted yourself up, amusement littered all over your face. Your hair dishevelled, tresses flying in different directions. Eyes sparkling under the lights. Smile beaming at him. And he could've sworn his heart stopped.
"They say to just feel the music. Move your body," you advised, brows scrunched like you were trying to remember.
He raised a brow. "They?" He repeated with a grin. "Who's 'they?'"
You pursed your lips, shrugging. "Club people. You learn a thing or two when you just sit there."
Oscar snorted. There was something unexplainably enjoyable when you became a little more loose-lipped without Kimi nearby. He cleared his throat. "So... you just move your body? That what you said?"
You nodded, beginning to move your hands. "I think if you imagine yourself like a fish it works better," you wiggled your brows, trailing your hands across your body to the beat thundering around you.
For a brief second, Oscar laughed. But the picture of a fish dancing died in his head quicker as the rhythm filtered through his ears and his eyes fell to you. The world instantly lingered in his head. Siren. That's what you reminded him of. Every twist and turn of your body making the movement of your hair seem like some art.
He wasn't sure when he himself had begun moving. The bob of his chin. The shuffle of his feet. But he couldn't call it dancing. It was more the appreciation of you in front of him. Admiring how lost you were for just a moment in time.
He couldn't believe it.
How could Kimi deny this? Deny you?
To not dance with you was a sin in itself. The mere idea of missing this bright smile of yours... his fear grew stronger.
The gap between you and Oscar had substantially gotten smaller. Like it was the natural order of things. Heat radiated from every angle possible, the air thick with sweat and something you couldn't quite pinpoint.
You hadn't realised how close you were till you felt the glide of Oscar's hand against the curve of your waist. Your gasp was soft and barely audible. But you could feel the small electric sparks running down your body. You flitted your eyes to Oscar hesitantly and it almost made you take a step back.
He was looking at you already.
Darkened brown eyes strained with red underneath the lights. His large hand pulled you a little closer, letting you see the traces of his moles and freckles. Feel the heat of his skin against yours. The press of his fingers. The scatter of his breath. Any closer it would be his pacing heartbeat.
Oscar looked... good.
More than good. Hot. He looked hot.
You breathed in as he turned your body, leaving your back pressed against his chest. His arm curled around your waist. You pulled your lip between your teeth when you felt his lower half press into you. Not forceful or insistent. Just there. Teasing. And for some godforsaken reason, you couldn't bring yourself to pull away.
You swallowed hard, feeling his breath skim past your ear. His lips rested close by.
"The dress... Kimi's choice?"
Your thighs pressed together at his tight voice. As though he was struggling. You didn't understand the extent of the heat unfurling in your stomach. You had never felt this way. Not even with Kimi.
You cleared your throat, nodding against him. "Hate it?" You asked, breath shaky when you felt the tip of his nose graze the column your neck. You could've sworn your knees melted when you felt his smile lines ghost your cheek, lips brushing against the curve of your ear.
Your eyes widened slightly as you faced him once again. His hand never left you, snug and comfortably around your waist. Your body burned as he rested his head against yours, brown eyes holding your gaze so carefully. So heavily.
"I was taught that if I don't have anything respectful to say, I shouldn't say it at all," Oscar breathed tightly, jaw half clenched.
It was no ordinary beat your heart followed. With large gaps and ample opportunity to miss as you tried to decipher what he was saying. But before you could, it was Oscar who stepped away.
You struggled to catch your breath, staring back at him with your doe-eyes and your stomach churning.
Oscar blinked, brown eyes raking over you for one last time that night. Because if he stayed here a second longer, he'd do something he couldn't. He smiled at you, tight yet warm. "You're a good dance teacher, ___."
You hadn't talked to Oscar since the club. You couldn't quite bring yourself to. Neither did Kimi really let you, keeping you by his side at all times.
You were confused. You still didn't have a full grasp on what had happened. One moment you were dancing and then the other you were... God, you had no idea. You could just feel him. Hear him. See him. For a moment, everything was just Oscar.
But things had dampened down since then. You ocassionally saw Oscar here and there. You'd look. But you never quite did much more than that. Especially as Kimi fought with Oscar on track. Both contenders for a championship. Both their first. It was like a cat and mouse game. If Kimi won once, it was Oscar's turn the next.
And today, Kimi had taken back that victory chainmail, standing on the podium with a smirk so wide, you almost hadn't recognised him. Nor the extra clingy behaviour as he came off of it, kissing you, hand on your waist, and showering you with sweet little comments.
But you supposed this was why.
To have you all pressed up in the men's bathroom with rushed urgency after his media duties and debriefing. Shorts and boxers slung low around his legs. You propped up against the sink, skirt bunched up. His head tucked into your shoulder, groans and grunts muffled. Hips moving into you with desperation and pleasure.
It seemed Kimi had it all planned out.
Except for one little thing.
The door cracked open.
You weren't sure what it was. Whether he had genuinely forgotten or he thought no one was actually going to walk by. And well, if they did, it was only his ass that was going to be seen.
But you couldn't have counted for the possibility of Oscar passing by and stopping, frozen in his tracks.
Your heart almost stopped right there and then. Your eyes stuck with the brown orbs staring right back at you. Your lips parted. Perhaps with the intention to stop Kimi. But you didn't. You didn't understand why you didn't.
You hadn't been wet for the past ten minutes but now the slick was beginning to pile up. The squelch of Kimi's cock driving into you, lewd and obscene.
"Oh fuck," Kimi swore into your skin. "You're getting so wet for me, belle," he panted, grunting as his teeth nibbled into your shoulder. "So fucking wet."
You could see the bob of Oscar's throat. Like a deer in headlights. He didn't move either. Instead the press of his teeth against his lip made you moan against Kimi's ear. The first sound you had made since you had gotten in here.
You focused on the betraying pull of Oscar's brows at the sweet sounds pouring from your mouth. How his fingers curled so tightly against his side. You wondered what he could see. how much of you he could see. The thought only made you clench tighter around Kimi's cock.
"Cazzo," Kimi hissed, hands digging into your hips. "Doesn't that feel so good, baby? Yeah? I'm making you feel so good," he groaned, pushing deeper into you. The sound of your skin against one another now escaped the bathroom with ease.
You choked on the air, hand falling to Kimi's brown curls while you eyed the flush of Oscar's skin. How dark his eyes were. How they fell to where you and Kimi met, enchanted. And for a moment, your breath matched his. Every heave of your chest... it was like he was guiding you just metres away.
You could barely comprehend the heat in your core. All you knew was it was messy. Juices running down your thighs. So wet a ring of white formed around Kimi's cock as he pushed in and out of you. The soft sounds tumbling from your throat uncontrollably as you watched Oscar's tongue swipe his bottom lip.
Oscar should have moved. Like he had done all the other times he had heard the both of you. But he could see it in your eyes. With every praise Kimi gave himself or you... the only thing turning you on right now was him.
His shorts, unexplainably tight around his more than obvious large bulge, only worsened as he watched your hand move between your and Kimi's bodies. Your eyes never moved off of him. His own lips quirking when your fingers pressed against your desperately sore bundle of nerves.
Because Kimi couldn't get you off.
Oscar could have laughed if it wasn't for the situation he was in. Or for the fact he could see this new pleasure so clearly on your face. Your brows furrowed tightly, teeth sinking into your lip, cheeks red, eyes dazed... he could tell. You were close.
Kimi seemed to be too. Speeding his hips up against yours. Still in his own little fantasy where he was the one making you feel so good. He came quick, stuttering against you with his lust-driven grunts. He was decent though, still moving for you.
Oscar had to give it to him. If Kimi hadn't continued and left you there to fend for yourself, it would've been him taking out his own cock and making sure you saw stars.
It was wrong. God, it was so wrong. You knew it. Oscar knew it. But you had never felt like this. So... good. Still the mix of shame and pleasure coursed through you simultaneously, hand gripping Kimi's brown curls while your fingers pressed and rubbed your clit breathlessly. This was it.
"That's it. Cum for me, belle."
But it wasn't it Kimi you were listening to. At least not directly.
Your hazed eyes capturing the small, encouraging nods of Oscar's head. His uneven silent breaths. And you can see his lips mouth the words.
Cum.
Cum.
Cum for me.
Oscar wanted to fall to his knees as he watched the peak of ecstasy hit you. You were seeing white. He could almost fucking feel it with how tight your body locked up, your lips parted in pure awe. But especially as you ensured your eyes were on him for every goddamn second.
Holy fuck.
Oscar had to step away. Any moment now it would be Kimi turning around. And this... whatever it was, would be over.
The walk to his driver's room was faster than anything he had ever done. He did his bare duties; strained smiles and nods. A brush past the few team members packing up. His door was locked in an instant, back pressed against the wall, and his hand under his waistband.
It was a wonder Oscar hadn't cum right there and then as he looked down at his cock, hung with urgency. His red tip leaked profusely, throbbing with a need he had never succumbed to before.
He had been careful in the past few months. Not to get wrapped up with your name on his lips and his hand on his cock. Because that journey would never go down well for him. But that night in the club... his hand on your waist and your ass against him... it had ruined him. He had gone home, jerking off like it was the first time he had ever felt someone this close to him.
But this... this was different. Oscar's brain was rushing. No. Overflowing with what he had just seen. And he couldn't get it out of his head. The way your breath caught when he had walked by. The honey-like sounds falling from your lips. The obscenely wet sounds coming from your cunt. And the most damning fact of all—you had kept going after you had seen him.
Oscar bit down into wrist, face contorted with pleasure, moans muffled as he fisted himself. His eyes and hips rolled with as much desperation as you had just shown. It was almost mimickable how wet he sounded, shaft and tip just doused in his neverending pre-cum.
He couldn't decide what set him off. The orgasmic bliss on your face or the knowing that it was him. Him that made you cum. Maybe not physically. But it was not Kimi and his idiocy. Your fingers and his presence... that was what had done it.
Oscar's body convulsed, hips stuttering as the pleasure climbed over him rapidly. His teeth clamped harder into his skin, spurts of hot cum coming out in long strings. Leaving his hands and shorts stained with the mess you had created.
Removing his wrist from his mouth, he breathed silently and hard, staring at the idle components of his driver's room.
Jesus. He might have been fucked before. But there was no going back after today.
You couldn't count how many times you had been like this recently. And by this, you meant curled up somewhere and in tears.
You had been a mess since Kimi's race. What you had done... that was so wrong on so many levels. There was no beating around the bush. You had cheated. One way or another.
And it was humiliating. Because that was probably the best you had ever felt in your life. But not because of your actual boyfriend, Kimi. But because of Oscar.
You had skipped as much races as you could without Kimi getting suspicious. You couldn't look at him without feeling ashamed. Nor could you look at Oscar. He had sent you texts. Too many of them. So you had blocked him and deleted his number.
But you couldn't get out of this one. You could see the questions brewing in Kimi's head when he had asked you if you were coming. And you had run out of excuses.
You thought it would be fine. That you could get through this weekend without any tears or any fights. But much to your disappointment, you were wrong.
Kimi's fixation with winning had turned into agitation now that Oscar was taking even bigger chunks of points out of his lead. He wasn't happy with the car's performance during practice. He had given the team hell after it. And when that wasn't enough, you were the next available target.
You had lost count of the type of things he had said to you in front of the team. How you weren't supportive enough. That you never stuck through with him like he did with you. How it was your fault that his car, which you had no connection to whatsoever, was bad. That you had somehow bewitched Oscar into being good.
The message was clear: it was your fault.
Humiliation didn't even cover it. Mortified was more like it. The awkward gazes of the team. The tears ramping up in your eyes. Your flushed cheeks. You hated it. And you hated it even more because it was your fault.
So you sat on the dry concrete in Belgium, between the awkward space of two team suites, head tucked into your knees as wave after wave of anger and embarrassment hit you. Your tears had partially died down, caught on your trousers and shirt.
Your jaw clenched as you glared at the concrete, chewing your lip anxiously. Why did you have to go screw this all up? You should have listened to Kimi. You should have never accepted that dance because then you would've never found Oscar like this. So good. So ugh... you wanted to scream at yourself.
"Hey, hey," a familiar voice echoed into the air, making the hairs on your body stand up. “What’s happened?"
You lifted your head slowly, reddened eyes meeting the concerned brown pair staring right back at you. It was Oscar, of course. Bent down, knees embedded onto the concrete and hands on the sides of your own knees. Your chest ached at the sight of him and yet the anger seemed to roar in your head when you thought about what you had done. You sighed almost annoyed, tilting your head back against the wall.
"Nothing. Just forget about it," you wiped your tear-stained cheeks with the back of your hand.
Oscar's brows mended together at your reaction. As if it was a crack in the perfect glass world you had been living in. "___, you know you don't have to be embarrassed around me—"
"This is embarrassing," you gritted out, hurt eyes drifting to him. "It's always embarrassing that you always finds me like this. Crying like some pathetic waste of space."
"No. That's not true," Oscar murmured, head shaking as he tucked your hair behind your ears. "Kimi should be the one that's embarrassed. Making you cry like this," he said, jaw twitching. He could only imagine what he had said to you. Piece of shit.
You chuckled dryly. "I'm a horrible girlfriend, Oscar. What I did that day... that's unforgiveable.,'" you whispered, eyes tearing up yet again. "I deserve this. It all makes sense now. The paddock was never boring. People don't talk to me because they know how bad I am."
Oscar almost wanted to laugh in disbelief. How bad you were? All you had done was dance a little and feel the best you had ever felt in your life. All you had done was live a little and here you were denouncing Kimi's actions like he had done no wrong.
"Sweetheart, people don't talk to you because of you. They don't talk to you because of Kimi. No one wants to tell you but I will," he swallowed the lump in his throat, chest sore at the sight of your reddened eyes.
You sniffled, confusion visible on your face. "What?"
"That Kimi doesn't deserve you."
Your brows furrowed, affronted in an instant. The memories seemed to hit you one after another. He was your first for everything. First kiss. First time. First boyfriend. First love. He was perfect, wasn't he? "That's not true. Kimi's—"
"An asshole," Oscar cut in firmly. "Someone who loves you doesn't hurt you. Someone who loves you doesn't make fake promises. Or put limits on how you act. Who you can see."
You shook your head. No. Your Kimi wasn't like that. "He's just protective—"
Oscar's hands moved to grab your face, holding your gaze so fiercely, for a moment you forgot to breathe. "___, someone who loves you doesn't make you question yourself."
You fell silent, not bothering to wipe the fresh tears spilling from your eyes. Your brows quivered and your stomach churning. Your heart echoed in your ears while your brain flashed between your altered memories.
It was like watching some sort of stained glass shatter right in front of your eyes. Your perfect Kimi no longer perfect.
"He wasn't like that at the start. I swear," you whispered, looking back at Oscar, lip trembling.
Oscar sucked in a sharp breath at the crack in your voice. Fuck. He sighed quietly, arms wrapping around you and bringing you to his chest, lips pressed to the side of your head. "I know, sweetheart. I know."
"Can you stop brainwashing my girlfriend?"
Oscar looked away from his trainer, conversation coming to a screeching halt. His eyes travelled around the room, ensuring it was still cladded in papaya. He smiled at Kimi. "Are you even allowed to be in here?" He raised a brow, folding his arms, leaning back in his seat.
Kimi tongued the inside of his cheek. He was sure he had never met anyone as obnoxious as Oscar Piastri. "Did you hear me? Stay away from my girlfriend. Or else," he glowered, jaw tight, turning on his foot.
"Or else what?" Oscar goaded, making the Italian stop dead in his tracks and his trainer sigh. He stood up from his chair, eyeing the figure in front of him with disgust. "Kimi, piece of advice. You should probably try treat your girlfriend better."
It was like something in Kimi had snapped. Turning around with such force, the air had bended as he stalked up to Oscar, his breath in his face. "Don't fucking tell me how to treat my own girl," he spat, chest heaving.
Oscar's mouth quirked. "You treat her like shit and come here acting like you don't," he chuckled, shaking his head, brown eyes hard with annoyance. "You don't deserve her. You don't deserve anything you have."
Kimi blinked, scrutinising the man in front of him before letting out a scoff. "I get what this is."
Oscar raised his brows, bored and tired. "Do you now?" He asked dryly, not so easily entertained by Kimi's smirk.
"You're jealous," Kimi deducted, smirk widening with every passing second as he thought back to the past year. His debut compared to Oscar's. "I'm so young and yet I have everything you were ever promised. The team. The car. The wins."
Oscar, the master of composure, remained stoic. Not a budge on his face to give him the true inkling—that he was right. That this was how it had started. But that wasn't going to be how it ended. "If that's all you can think about after treating her the way you do... you are exactly who I think you are," he muttered with distaste heavy on his tongue. "She's not yours, Kimi. She's her own person."
Kimi stood in front of him, unimpressed as his lips parted to retaliate. But Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice to a more inaudible frequency. "And even if she was yours, no honourable man would leave his girl to get off by herself," he murmured with a gentle smile, basking in the drop of Kimi's smirk.
Oscar patted Kimi's shoulder with feigned condolences, heading towards the exit of the McLaren suite. Leaving Kimi to stand by himself, pale in the face and sick to his stomach.
Kimi had crashed. it was horrible. Pieces of the car flying everywhere. The gasp of the crowd. The bang of his fist against the snapped halo. The replay was all you could think of as you finally made your way to the medical bay, eyes glossed with tears, stomach churning, and heart pacing erratically. You hadn't taken a breath until you opened the door, finding him sitting on the couch, icepack to his hand .
You sucked in a shaky breath, feet rushing before you could even think your hands flew to his face, frantically examining his entire body for something that maybe the doctor or nurse had missed. "Oh Kimi," you choked, tears spilling. "A-Are you okay? D-Do you want me to call anyone?"
A piece of your heart broke as Kimi slapped your hand away with his bandaged fist, icepack falling to the floor. He glared at you, disgust swarming in his eyes. "Don't do that. Don't pretend you care."
You kept your hand close to your chest, brows furrowed. "Kimi... what are you talking about? Of course, I care. I—"
"I crashed because of you."
You froze at his words. "W-What?"
He stood from the couch. He jammed his finger into your chest. "This is your fault," he gritted out, lip trembling with pure anger. " Oscar this. Oscar that. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar," he spat out.
"Kimi—"
"You might as well come out with it. Luring Oscar to mess with my championship. How could you do this to me? When I've been here for you since the very start?" Kimi exasperated, own eyes pricking with tears.
You swallowed the bile creeping up your throat as the tears seeped into your cheeks. You looked at him, repulsed and with your brows mended. Your skin ached where his finger landed, invisible bruises already forming. "You're really questioning my loyalty? Once. Only once did I ever question you. After all those signs... the looks to those other girls. I ignored it because I thought you really loved me. And I questioned you once and you ridiculed me. And you really think I did something as elaborate as tricking Oscar?"
"Who knows?" He heaved dryly. "You've changed, ___. Years ago, you would've stuck by me," Kimi hissed.
You chuckled despite the tears falling one after another. "I have been. Every single goddamn day. You’re the one who's changed, Kimi! I don't see the guy who stayed up all night outside my house to wish me happy birthday. Or protected me from the photographers. No. Now... with you it’s... it’s clubs. And parties. Cameras following our every move. You degrade me in front of your co-workers. Disrespect me in front of millions. You show me off like I'm some trophy and put me to the side when you don't need me."
"Right..." Kimi laughed bitterly, shaking his head with utter disbelief. "Oscar doesn't do that then?"
Your face burned with anger, lip twitching. How dare he...
"Well at least he doesn't make me cry!" You exclaimed with an exhausted sob, shoulders heavy and burdened. "That's all you ever do, Kimi. You make me cry, then you love me. You criticise me, then you love me. I do what you want and it's still never enough for you. I will never be enough."
And suddenly, you were young kids all over again. Facing each other outside of school under the blues skies and warm winds of Bologna. Your smile so bright for him, he promised never to make it go away. Eyes so full of light, he never wanted to see a single tear.
Kimi blinked, lips parting for a response but nothing ever came out. Just the croak of realisation as he stood in front of you, finally taking in your reddened eyes, tear stained cheeks, and flushed skin.
It was like a slap to the face.
That was his doing.
He had made you cry.
He had hurt you.
What had he done?
You wiped your cheeks hastily as he stepped forward, hand hesitantly reaching out. Your throat burned, raw and sore from yelling. "I'm done, Kimi. Don't call me. Or my parents. Don't come by my house," you sniffled, lip quivering with disgust. “I don't ever want to talk to you again."
Oscar had recognised your downbeat face in a heartbeat as you sat in the McLaren motorhome, in his room, waiting with a cup of hot chocolate in front of you. A familiar sight. But something was different. He could tell.
No longer could he see the awkward, nervous demeanour Kimi had elicited from you. Instead a frame of exhausted freedom in your sunken eyes. Tip of your nose red and cheeks flushed from crying.
Oscar could tell this would be the last time he'd ever let you cry.
He breathed in quietly, removing his cap as he took a seat next to you. For a brief moment, he didn't say anything. A minute of silence for what was gone. For all your efforts that had been disrespected in every manner.
"We don't have to talk about it," Oscar mumbled, grabbing your hand, frowning at your cold skin. Warming your hand gently, he took in another breath. "Or do anything. As long as you're happy, I'm happy."
You moved your eyes from the coffee table drearily to Oscar, your hand, and then back to him. "Can I ask you question?"
Oscar swallowed, nodding with a perfect ease. "Of course," he said softly.
"Would you ever make me cry?"
Not one second wasted to think when he already knew the answer. "Never," he breathed, moving to tuck your dishevelled hair behind your ear. "There is no world or universe where I could even fathom it."
You pursed your lips, searching his eyes, trying to understand the weight of his words. Waiting for a split second to see if you could find the lies you had ignored in Kimi. But you found none. Just his warm gaze and the feel of his hand on your cheek, resting.
The corners of Oscar's lips teetered. "Was that a good media trained answer?"
You couldn't help but laugh a little, chest just a bit lighter now. You nodded your head. "Nice job," you murmured teasingly, nudging him with your elbow.
Oscar smiled, boyish and gentle as his thumb grazed your cheek back and forth before tracing over the small crinkles near your eyes, raised from your own smile. His chest ached slightly. Happiness looked far better on you.
You watched Oscar's eyes dip, falling to your lips for a brief moment. A silent struggle he decided to shake away. You sucked in a quiet breath, gentle fingers raising to brush over his lips, making him freeze. Meeting those brown eyes, a new shade you had come to enjoy, you tilted your head up and leaned in, pressing your mouth to his briefly.
Oscar's breath caught and his pulse jumped as you pulled away a smidge, shy smile faint on your face. Without a second thought, he brought you right back to him, lips pressed against yours with a barely contained urgency. His nose knocked against yours, head tilting while he parted your mouth with a simple ease.
The air in your lungs seemed to burn, caught and stuck while your brain turned into mush. It had been a while since someone had kissed you like they had meant it. Not for any camera or audience. A moment just yours. Your breath to steal.
You shifted against him, feeling his hand move to your waist in an attempt to bring you closer. The soft noise from your throat made the both of you shudder. The thud against the couch was gentle as you fell on top of him, never quite parting. as though the taste of each other was all consuming.
Oscar begrudgingly pulled away, breath shaky as he rested his head against yours. He swallowed, trying to compose himself. A gentle laugh fell from his swollen lips, brown eyes flickering to you and your flushed cheeks. "I was supposed to take this slow," he sighed.
Your body shook lightly with an amused laughter. "You have all the time in the world to try," you teased. "I'm giving you my heart, Piastri. Don't screw it up."
Oscar softly blinked, smile slowly stretching onto his face. "I promise," he breathed, pressing a long kiss to the top of your cheek.
Radio silence. That all Kimi had heard from you. He had ignored your warnings. Called and called. Text after text to try and rectify his wrongs. But you had quickly blocked his number. And it wasn't the only gruelling problem in his life.
Kimi didn't know what was going on but he was losing. He was losing bad. Every race... it was like he was taking a thrashing. And each one from them coming from Oscar. From wins and podiums... he was stuck at the bottom of top ten towards the end of a season. His big point lead now heavily eaten into. His confidence on thin ice.
And it was all Oscar's fault.
It was driving Kimi crazy. Leaving him in tears. because nothing quelled his anger. No workout. No crash. Nothing. He was even beginning to hallucinate. Hoping to turn around in the paddock and see you nearby. Hearing echoes of your voice in the air. Anything to keep him sane.
But you weren't here. Because he had fucked up. because Oscar Piastri had decided to get in the way.
Here Kimi was. After all of it. Entering the paddock miserably for the third to last race of the season. One of the championship deciders. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep on the plane. Long hours spent in silence and with his brain.
He needed to head towards the Mercedes' suite for a morning brief. Pick up any instructions from the communiations team, maybe train a little before he went off to complete his media duties for the day.
His smile was tight and dull for the nearby cameras, hand hanging onto the bag slung over his shoulder. He walked with no extra pep or ego in his step. No cocky cadence that he once exhibited. Only with a sliver of hope that he could win. Even by a single point. Because suddenly the season he had been dying to start was the same one he was dying to be over.
Kimi's brows furrowed at the surprised looks of the photographers and people nearby. Their eyes travelling to the scene behind him, wide and cautious. He paused in his steps, body slowly turning to satiate his curiosity. But what he saw made his heart freeze and his blood run cold.
He blinked once. Twice. And another two more times.
But the sight never changed.
Kimi wasn't hallucinating. It was you.
For a second, Kimi's heart soared. A genuine smile threatening to spring onto his face. But as his eyes dropped down to your hand intertwined with another, he followed the arm to the familiar face of Oscar's and whatever happiness he had felt for a brief second had been smashed to smithereens.
He watched silently. Forced to do so, if anything. Watched as Oscar did the opposite of everything he ever did. Guiding you through the hoard of photographers and fans, keeping you close by as you both meet with Lando nearby. Watched as Oscar noticed your untied shoe and bent down to tie them without a second thought. Coming back up to give you a gentle kiss on your cheek as you enthusiastically engaged with his teammate.
Respectful and gentle with you. Fufilling all the promises Kimi had once made.
You looked unexplainably happy. Talking to someone that wasn't him. Someone that was no longer afraid to reciprocate any conversation with you.
For the first time in a while, Kimi could see the very same light in your eyes and your bright smile under these blue skies. None of which were for him. And it was like a stab to the heart.
But nothing worse than the smooth swivel of Oscar’s head, brown eyes meeting his as he smiled at him. Not a grin. Or smirk. A smile. Innocent and kind on the outside was the gesture. But the lingering stare emphasised it all.
It was official.
His wins.
His podiums.
His reputation.
His happiness.
His first love.
Oscar Piastri had stolen everything Kimi once had.
prompt: Nick Foligno drags Connor to see Hadestown after the Blackhawks get sent tickets, due to Connor's lack of knowledge about anything that doesn't surround hockey. What Connor didn't expect was to see you on stage, and to be utterly consumed.
pairing: Connor Bedard x theater f!reader
content: Hadestown references, theater vocab, awkward Connor, but he's also low key obsessed?, fluff
wc: 2.3k
a/n: is this niche? maybe. i've been so obsessed with the idea of Connor seeing a musical and falling in love with the female lead, so here we are. Also, I know Nick isn't captain anymore :((( I miss him though, so let's all pretend
Connor hadn’t been to many theater performances. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d even been to one. But when Nick texted to say that the Blackhawks had been sent a few tickets and invited to the show Hadestown at the CIBC Theater, Connor wasn’t sure it was an event he could get out of.
Nick was always going on about how shameful it was that Connor knew almost nothing about anything that didn’t somewhat resolve around hockey. It looked like the Blackhawks captain was finally getting his chance to show Connor some culture.
That was how he ended up just a few rows away from the stage, wearing navy dress pants and a black dress shirt. Nick sat to one side of him, flipping through his Playbill. Frank sat on the other, playing Block Blast on his phone as they waited for the show to begin.
“I still can’t believe they invited us,” Nick said, setting the program on his lap. “This show is supposed to be amazing.”
“What is it even about?” Connor asked, his fingers fidgeting. “Is it boring?”
“Dude, it’s Greek Mythology,” Nick rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you learn anything in school?”
“Like Percy Jackson?” Frank cut in, picking up his head from his game.
Nick rolled his eyes again.
A few moments later, the theater lights dimmed, and the show began.
And there you were, dressed in a ratty coat, ripped tights, and a black slip dress. Your skin seemed to glow, your hair pulled back to show your face.
Connor’s mouth parted.
You might have been the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen—until you started singing, and then he wasn’t sure how anything else could compare.
He was enraptured, leaning forward in his seat as your character fell in love with Orpheus. His eyes followed you as you moved about the stage. He found himself clenching his fists as the Fates ripped your coat from your body.
The way you moved on stage made everything else feel secondary.
When intermission began, he hadn’t yet taken his eyes off the stage, hoping to catch another glimpse of you.
“You good?” Frank asked, elbowing his best friend.
Connor blinked, shaking his head lightly. “That girl, the one playing… fuck, what’s her name?”
“Uh,” Frank scratched his head. “They’re all kinda hard to remember.”
“Eurydice.” Nick helped, giving both boys an annoyed look. “Honestly, it’s not that hard.”
“Yes,” Connor said quickly. “She’s incredible.”
Nick made a small sound like he was trying not to laugh.
Frank gave them both an odd look. “I mean, they’re all fine. I’m confused about-”
“Shut up, Frank,” both Connor and Nick muttered.
A few minutes later, the lights dimmed once more. Connor straightened in his seat, causing Nick to smirk.
He leaned over, “you think she’s more than incredible, don’t you?”
Connor didn’t take his eyes off the stage, fully prepared for the show to resume. He didn’t want to miss a second. “She’s beautiful.”
Nick hummed thoughtfully but wasn’t able to say anything else as the show began once more.
Just like before, Connor found himself lost in your performance. At one point, you were singing Eurydice’s solo, knelt at the front of the stage, pure pain and longing on your face. Your performance and voice alone seemed to transport Connor into a different world.
He sucked in a breath when you briefly made eye contact.
And then, at the end, when Orpheus turned and you were sent back to Hadestown, Connor had to blink rapidly to keep his eyes from tearing up.
During the curtain call, the audience rose to their feet, clapping thunderously. Nick had to pull Connor out of his trance, encouraging him to stand and clap as well. When you came to take your bow, your eyes locked with his once more, and you smiled softly. The theater's volume crescendoed as you bowed, your hair slipping into your face.
The light in your eyes at curtain call was something Connor had seen before in himself—after a goal, after a hat trick—but never quite like that.
The cast and crew disappeared backstage, the lights came on, the audience began to trickle out. But Connor was still standing there, staring at the wing you’d exited through.
“Someone is supposed to meet us here to give us a backstage tour,” Nick muttered, glancing at the email on his phone. “I’m not sure when, or–”
“We get to go backstage?” Connor finally tore his eyes from the stage to turn to Nick. “Do we get to meet them?”
“Down, boy,” Frank joked. “I’m pretty sure we’ll see some of the actors.”
A few moments later, the actor playing Orpheus, now dressed in street clothes, was weaving through the seats towards them.
“Hey guys,” he stuck his hand out for them to shake. “It’s an honor for you to be here. I’m a big fan.”
Nick and the actor exchanged a few pleasantries.
“I’m supposed to give you the tour. Originally it was gonna be someone else, but when I heard you guys would be here I volunteered to do it.” And with that, he led the three hockey players through the theater, through a set of doors, and into a hallway.
“I’ll show you the dressing rooms first. Most of the cast will still be here if you want to meet any,” the man said, giving them a smile.
Connor’s heart jumped into his throat, blood racing in his ears.
“Oh, Connor would love to meet–”
Connor elbowed Frank quickly, shooting him a glare.
The actor just smiled, glancing between the two of them.
He took them into a hallway beneath the stage where doors lined each side. He knocked on the first one, opening it and peering into the room beyond.
“Y/n? Do you wanna meet the Blackhawks players I was telling you about?”
“Yeah! Just one second…”
Connor stilled at the familiar voice. Because it was yours, he’d nearly memorized its sound from when you’d been performing.
A rustling sound was heard from your dressing room, and Connor felt like the hallway was shrinking.
Connor didn’t even realize he had stopped breathing until Nick shifted, bumping him lightly as if to say, don’t be an idiot.
A second later, you stepped into the doorway, a used makeup wipe in hand. You’d taken your hair down, and it tumbled freely down your back. You had changed from your costume into a pair of sweat pants and a matching tank top.
Without the stage makeup, without the distance of the stage between you and the audience, you looked real in a way that made Connor’s brain stutter.
And then your eyes landed on him.
It wasn’t dramatic. No spotlight, no music swell. Just you.
Just a pause, like you recognized something in him too.
“Oh,” you gave a small smile, your eyes finally moving off Connor to flick over Nick and Frank. But then they landed back on Connor, and your smile seemed to soften even further. “Hi.”
“They watched the show tonight,” the actor said, gesturing towards them.
Nick stepped forward, offering a hand towards you. “Hi, yeah, the show was great.”
You took his hand, shaking it with a smile. “I’m glad you liked it!”
Frank nodded. “Yeah, uh, really good.” At his words, your smile seemed to grow.
And then it was Connor’s turn. Connor didn’t move right away, his brain scrambling for something, anything. Nick’s brows pinched together, like he was begging Connor to say something normal.
But Connor’s attention was stuck on you, noticing how your voice felt softer off stage. More like you, and less like the character you had played.
Finally, Connor stepped forward, offering his hand. You gripped it immediately, eyes locking onto his, your hand soft yet firm in his.
And warm, so warm and all encompassing.
“Hi,” he said, and then immediately regretted it. Because it didn’t feel like enough for what he was trying to say.
Your touch was solid and centering, a sensation that was so at odds with the chaos in his chest. Up close, Connor could see the faint traces of makeup you had missed while wiping it off. Little pieces of Eurydice that he thought clung to your skin like stardust.
“Hi,” you echoed, like you were saying it specifically for him. And then, “I think I saw you.”
“You- you did?” Connor had never felt like such a bumbling idiot in his life.
Your smile widened. “Yeah. Three, maybe four, rows back? You were…” your eyebrows drew together as you thought of the word you wanted to use. Connor thought that it was adorable. “You were really focused.”
Behind him, Frank made a soft, strangled sound like he was trying to hold in his laughter.
Connor ignored him.
“I was,” he admitted.
That seemed to amuse you. Not in a mocking way–more like you were pleasantly surprised that someone would say something so honest.
Neither one of you had let go. Your hand still felt soft in his.
“I’m glad,” your smile was genuine. “It’s a long show, people don’t always stay with it.”
“I stayed with it,” Connor said immediately. Then, he flushed slightly at the intensity in which the words poured from his mouth.
Nick, watching the entire exchange unfold, cleared his throat like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You glanced at him briefly, then back to Connor.
“What did you think?”
Connor’s mouth opened and closed.
Because there were a lot of answers. He was blown away by the way you were able to sound when everything was falling apart, by the way that you had clung to every little bit of hope, even when it had been stripped away.
“I didn’t know people could do that,” he finally admitted.
You paused. “Do what?” Your voice was quiet, maybe even a little unsure.
Connor didn’t hesitate before saying, “make it feel like that.”
For a moment, everything around the two of you seemed to fall away. Neither one of you noticed the looks that Frank and Nick were shooting at each other, or how Orpheus’s actor had begun fidgeting with his sleeves, or the thud of the stage crew resetting the props.
You felt completely swallowed up in Connor’s gaze. Your eyes were the only things that Connor could look at.
Then, you smiled. “That’s kind of the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”
Connor’s ears warmed, his cheeks flushing. “It is?”
“Yeah,” you said simply. “Usually I get a “great show,” and then people leave.”
Connor frowned at that, like the idea didn’t sit right. “That’s… not enough.”
That made you laugh softly, eyes sparkling. “No?”
“Why don’t we continue the tour, and you guys can stay here and chat?” Nick finally cut in, popping the bubble that had grown around you and Connor.
Connor went to nod, and then looked at you, waiting. Your cheeks warmed when you realized he was checking to see if that was something you wanted.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” you nodded.
With amused glances–and a pointed look from Nick–the three disappeared down the hallway, leaving just you and Connor.
“Do you want to see my dressing room?” You asked tentatively, watching his face closely for any reaction.
Connor’s nod was immediate, causing your smile to bloom. You turned, pushing your way back through the door. Connor was at your back, eyes following you as you moved.
Inside the room, you had countless letters taped to the edges of your mirror. Letters from friends, tabloid reviews, fan mail. Things that helped give you confidence before you poured your heart out on stage.
The vanity was cluttered with makeup, a spare pair of tights, skin care, anything that you might need.
“This is where the magic happens,” you said jokingly, smiling at Connor in the mirror. He was looking around, really taking it all in.
You couldn't deny how handsome he was—broad shoulders, dark clothes, and eyes that seemed to take in every little thing.
Eyeing the letters on your mirror, Connor asked, “Do you still get nervous?”
“Of performing?”
He nodded.
“Every night.” The admission came easier than you expected. Because, if anything, it seemed like he would understand.
“Don’t you?” You returned, turning fully to look at him head on.
He didn’t shy away when he said, “every game.”
He got it—the way you gave pieces of yourself away every night to a room full of strangers and hoped they'd hold them gently. To the show, the music, the audience. It wasn’t so different than stepping onto the ice; how it felt like the approval of the entire city of Chicago sat on his shoulders.
Slowly, you stepped forward. “I could show you a few more musicals. If you wanted.”
Connor wasn’t able to take his eyes away from yours. “I’d like that.”
You grabbed your phone from the vanity, unlocking it and handing it over to him. “Add your number then.”
He typed in his number and name before handing it back.
Connor Bedard.
You grinned. “I guess I’ll have to pick a good one.”
“A good what?” Connor asked, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he looked down at you.
“A good musical. Can’t scare you off too soon.”
Connor laughed, the sound filling the small dressing room. Your cheeks warmed.
“Hey!” A shout was heard from the hallway, causing both of you to pause. It was Nick. “Connor! Are we leaving you here, or what?”
Connor glanced back at you. “You’ll text me?”
You nodded, a pretty blush filling your cheeks. “I will.”
Connor’s smile was more calm, reassured. “Good,” he said quietly, like he believed you.
And then he was slipping into the hallway, his heart racing in his chest. Somewhere behind him, you started humming one of the songs from the show.
when someone leaks that oscar piastri is a young father, oscar feels like his whole world is about to cave in as he tries to protect you and your daughter.
oscar piastri x f!reader ୨୧ warnings : language, fan culture, tabloids/hate comments, invasion of privacy ୨୧ note : n e ways– oscar gave me baby fever so enjoy 😅 if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
📅 august 30, 2025
deuxmoi an insider has just leaked exclusive photos and information of formula one driver, oscar piastri, stating that him and long-time girlfriend, y/n, have been parents since 2022. the pictures provided have been revealed to come from y/n's private instagram that reportedly only close family and friends follow.
the insider states that while they can't give away too many details, they confirmed that their daughter's name starts with an 'r'.
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user WHOA WTF OSCAR'S A DAD???? THIS WAS NOT ON MY BINGO LIST
user not them covering the kid's face with a koala cause oscar is australian 😭😭 why is that actually kind of cute
user someone is about to lose their job 😬 hope the quick cash was worth it
user all those jokes about us calling yn mother and HERE SHE WAS AN ACTUAL MOTHER THE WHOLE TIME
user omggggg that picture of oscar with baby r is literally the cutest thing in the world
user he looks so young in it too 🥺
user so apparently oscar's stroke game is just too good huh 🤨
user sorry we doubt you king 😔
user have they never heard of protection??? seriously how could someone with a career like oscar's be so careless 🙄
user at least deuxmoi covered the kid's face...
user wowow wtf is wrong with people???
user what kind of person would expose something like this????
user clearly someone without anything better to do
user no offense... but i doubt oscar does any parenting with how often he's probably gone
user just say oscar isn't your favorite driver and move along 😪
user maybe yn should be more careful on who she lets follow her private account and this wouldn't have happened 🙄 typically pick me wag behavior
user hey!! your comment is a little unnecessary, not yn's fault someone she thought she would trust decided to leak the photos
f1gossipupdates oscar piastri talks about recent rumors of him being a father.
🎙️ : so, oscar– first off congratulations on the win
OP : thank you 🙂
🎙️ : secondly, we have to ask about the recent rumors that have come out this weekend. would you like to make any statement about them?
OP : umm, i mean nothing really to say except that my family's privacy has clearly been invaded. my daughter has nothing to do with racing, and i plan to keep it that way. she's still growing into her own person and i would like to keep her out of the spotlight until she is able to decide whether she wants to be seen or not. the pictures going around were taken from my girlfriend's private instagram that she uses to share those pictures with long-distance friends and family, so quite disheartening to see them being used to 'expose' our daughter.
View all 1,283 comments
user OH HE'S MAD MAD GUYS
user can you blame him though 😭 someone literally just exposed the biggest secret of his life during his wdc title fight 😭😭 i would be pissed too
user he handled that better than i would have honestly
user not saying he wouldn't be but oscar seems like a great dad so i hope fans respect his daughter's privacy
user kind of weird that she got pregnant and oscar didn’t marry her 🤨 cause he def gives the vibe of marrying his gf if he knocked her up
user frrrrrrr maybe he didn’t marry her so it would be easier to leave her if he wanted 🤣🤣
user i wonder what their baby's name is???
user heard some theories it might be rosé or reba but no one knows for sure and i doubt we'll ever find out
ynln and oscarpiastri updated their stories !
📅 december 7, 2025
clip #1 — baby piastri spotted running to oscar after the race
the clip is taken from the grandstand, zooming in on oscar as he's standing in parc fermé trying to cooldown from the race he just finished.
that's when the camera catches oscar turning his head and large smile breaking out onto his features as he's kneeling. that's when a tiny body jumps into his arms and he stands to his full height, hugging his daughter close to him. you are then seen coming up to join oscar and your daughter, the australian driver holding one arm out so that you could join in on the hug.
the clip zooms in even more to catch oscar kissing you sweetly on the lips before he's kissing your daughter on her cheek as she smiles brightly at him.
💬 comments :
👤 : oh those are HIS girls
👤 : oscar didn't win the championship but he sure won the family lottery
👤 : still hate that someone went and leaked baby r's existence before oscar and yn was ready, but i'm glad it didn't stop them from bringing her to the last race
👤 : i agree... i think oscar really enjoys having yn and their daughter at the races with him
👤 : BABY R WAS AT THE RACE 😱 NOT A THREE YEAR OLD GOING TO MORE F1 RACES THAN ANY OF US EVERY WILL 😭 life is truly unfair mannnnnn 😭😭
📅 december 25, 2026
🔒 privyn rowen told oscar every room needed a tree🎄 so guess what every room got 😂
View 92 comments
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️
nicolepiastri she's getting so big 🤧 can't wait to see you guys soon
hattiepiastri still can't believe oscar made literally the cutest baby everr
oscarpiastri thanks 😑
lando lmaoooo why is she making that last face 😂
privyn oscar made a lame joke and she wasn't impressed
ediepiastri glad to see you and ro putting some whimsy into oscar's life 😆 it was very much needed
privyn can never have too much whimsy is what ro says 😆
📅 march 29, 2026
ynln godzilla was r's favorite thing from japan 🇯🇵🗼
View all 82,203 comments
oscarpiastri taking home a trophy and several godzilla action figures
ynln i'm afraid japan unlocked a new obsession 🤭
user STOP THATS SO CUTE– r being so cute and obsessed with godzilla is literally so adorable
user glad to see oscar and yn letting r explore different interests!
lando cutest godzilla lover i know
haasf1team hope she liked our livery this weekend then 🙌
ynln she was obsessed with it! thank you for letting us come by to see it 🖤 hope ollie is okay ❤️
olliebearman a little bruised but i'm good!
user the cherry blossom emoji to cover r's face is very on brand for this japan dump
user little r coloring in hospitality 🤧🤧 she seems so well behaved
user oscar is so boring cause he gave all the potential personality to his daughter
user OMG I SAW THEM WALKING AROUND THE PADDOCK ON SATURDAY!!! YN AND R WERE VISITING SOME OF THE OTHER WAGS
user ohhhhhhh they took r to japan 🥺🥺 seems like she had a good time too
clip #2 – oscar was joined by his daughter during his post-race interview
"uh, yeah, pace was really good today. very happy with the results. turns out we're not so bad when we actually start a race."
both oscar and the interview laugh a little bit. the sky sport's interview is about to ask another question, when oscar suddenly looks down. the camera just barely catches the top part of a tiny head now standing in front of oscar before arms were also appearing, gently patting oscar's stomach.
"daddy up," the microphone just barely catches and oscar can't bother to hide the smile on his face as he looks down at his daughter. then without a second thought, oscar leans down and picks the small girl up. him holding rowen on his hip as she immediately rests her head on his shoulder – clearly content with being held.
"hope you don't mind someone joining us," oscar says as he fixes his daughter's sweater.
"would you say your daughter was a good luck charm for this race?"
"probably, but i wish her good luck would have kicked in back in australia," oscar laughs looking from the camera to rowen. "either way, p2 is a great result for the team, so i'm glad i was able to start and finish this one."
rowen is caught watching as her father talks into the red and blue microphone. her bright eyes then looking towards the microphone and seemingly curious about it.
"daddy, what's that?" she interrupts him, leaning forward to where her tiny fingers just barely grazed the microphone.
"it's a microphone, baby, they use it so people watching on tv can hear me," he explains softly, his hand coming up to gently move her hand away.
💬 comments :
👤 : STOP SHE'S SO CUTE I LOVE BABY R SO MUCH 🥺🥺
👤 : oh that little girl has oscar wrapped around her finger. i've never seen oscar look this soft before
👤 : "i wish her good luck would have kicked in back in australia" OSCAR STOPPPPP 😭😭😭 IM SCREAMING
👤 : i love how oscar doesn't ask where she came from and just picks her up without thinking 😂😂😂😂
👤 : using this as future evidence when haters try to say that oscar doesn't care for his daughter
📅 april 26, 2026
oscar81updates oscar talks about baby r in recent interview and what it was like becoming a young parent in his recent interview.
🎙️ : so, it's been a year since it was revealed you have a daughter. you had her at a young age, what was that like? having to juggle going from f2 to f1 while also learning how to change diapers.
🐨 : it was definitely something i struggled with learning how to do, but more so learning how to juggle being a racer and a dad. me and my girlfriend we both struggled i think, and there were times i thought i was failing the both of them. but y/n was always there to pick me up even when she was exhausted. i'm thankful that my parents really helped us in the first year. they really helped me grow more confident in being both a loving dad and partner; i was able to be there for y/n like she was for me.
🎙️ : how does your daughter feel about you being an f1 driver? does she realize what you do and why you are constantly leaving?
🐨 : umm, she knows i drive a really fast car. she's always had that kind of understanding, we have pictures of my car along with my old helmets all over the house, so she's grown up with seeing the f1 cars. when she was about two, she was obsessed with the little hot wheels cars, and so i was constantly buying them whenever i went to a new country for her. she still plays with them, we got her one of the race tracks – the one with the shark – and she played the hell out of it.
at the very beginning when she was like one and half to two years old, she was always very distraught when i left. she would burst into tears whenever she seen my suitcase by the door. i remember she even took her first steps towards my suitcase, not me or y/n, because she wanted to push it away *laughs* it very cute and we were both shocked. but now she does much better with me leaving, i always tell her that i'll call her and to watch me on tv. obviously, she still has her moments where she throws full tantrums, but she's four so it doesn't surprise me and usually me holding her and rocking her gets her to stop.
🎙️ : i bet you've almost missed your flights cause of that!
🐨 : oh, one thousand percent, but i wouldn't trade it for the world. i hate leaving knowing that she's crying. it really messes with me.
🎙️ : has she been to any races?
🐨 : yeah, she’s been to a few. we don’t take her to a lot just because it can be a lot for someone so young. we didn’t start taking her to any until 2024, and that was only a handful. she’s been to the australian one for the past three years. she’s been to the british and monaco one, and we also took her to abu dhabi last year.
🎙️ : i remember seeing the clips of your daughter running up to you after the race.
🐨 : *laughs* yeah, seeing her run to me kind of just… i felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. and i knew that even if i wasn’t world champion, i was still champion to her — as cheesy as that sounds, and i wouldn’t change it for the world.
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user dad!oscar is my fav genre of oscar 🤧
user he may not be my favorite driver but i have mad respect for him and how he's able to balance such a crazy life
user so glad he's more comfortable talking about his daughter now 🥺 you can really tell how much love he has for her
user like that's HIS baby
user omg r being obsessed with hot wheels is so cute and them even getting her one of the tracks too STOPPPPPPPP
user so being obsessed with cars is just a piastri thing then 😂😂 bless y/n's heart for now having two car obsessed people lmaooooo
user still can't wrap my head around oscar being a dad 😵💫😵💫 certified dilf if you ask me
📅 may 9, 2026
oscar81updates oscar was spotted attending his daughter's dance recital in monaco last night and also posted an update of r in her recital outfit.
View all 2,390 comments
user oh he looks so proud of her 🥺🥺🥺
user this just confirms that oscar was always meant to be a girl dad
user dude grew up with three younger sisters, it would have been weird if he WASN'T a girl dad lmao
user i heard the dance recital was for mother's day which i think makes it even sweeter, so glad he was able to go see her dance
user i love that he's slowly posting just a little bit of r here and there
user glad he can trust us 🤧
user NO ONE RUIN THIS FOR US GUYS I SWEAR TO GOD
user 2026 is the year of girl dad!oscar and i'm LIVING for it
user oscar living in peace now that he doesn't have to worry about winning a championship with that tractor mclaren like to call a car
user he literally looks so happy to be there watching his daughter
user normalize not recording celebrities in public esp when they are at private events or with their kids 😭😭
📅 may 10, 2026
oscarpiastri happy mother's day to the love of my life and the one who always keeps me steady and sane. every year i grow more and more thankful to you, my dear y/n, and i know i'm not usually good with words, but i hope you know how much i truly adore and love you.
i remember when we first started dating you asked me if i believed in soulmates, and i told you no. and i didn't. but i realize that even if i didn't believe in them at the time, you were always my soulmate. my other half. the mother of my daughter, my precious world. last year was a crazy whirlwind for us and i'm glad we got through the storm together.
i love you so much, y/n 🧡
View all 213,389 comments
ynln oh oscar 🥺 you are literally so sweet and i love you so much
lando happy mother's day y/n! oscar would literally be a chicken without its head if it wasn't for you and little r 😂
mclarenf1 happy mother's day y/n 🧡🧡
user can't believe we got sappy oscar before gta6
user omg i literally can't 🥹🥹 the different photos throughout the year has me SOBBING
user such a beautiful family!
user omg that first slide is from the originally ones that were leaked!!
user oscar reclaiming that picture from the loser who leaked it to begin with 🙂↕️🙂↕️
user the mixture of pics of yn by herself and with r are so sweet 🥹 she's literally so gorg
user oscar pulling such a pretty girl just isn't fair 😤😤
f1atelier photos are just placeholders! yn doesn't have an actual faceclaim please imagine yourself or whoever you want in these pictures! thanks.
Pairing: Lando Norris x Lacie Campbell (Original Character)
Summary:
Oscar expected a normal MTC tour.
He did not expect Lando Norris to suddenly reveal fluency in sign language, a year-long hidden relationship, and the fact that Oscar apparently has a sign name that involves an adorable marsupial.
Meanwhile, Lando just wants to go home to his girlfriend and tell her about the kid who made his whole day.
Warnings and Notes:
Lando's curse for the week... We are keeping it fair till the line.
Also this is my first time trying to write deaf/hard of hearing characters. All my research came from Reddit, Google, Youtube and Tiktok in that order. I tried my best but if you have any idea of how to make it better, tell me!
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble about all my ideas and has an unending patience for me and to @leodette, who was very proud for not making this 10k +😂
The McLaren Technology Centre was usually loud in a way people didn’t notice.
Machines. Air vents. Boots on tile. Laughter echoing off glass.
Today, though, someone did notice.
The little boy—maybe eight, maybe nine—flinched when a cart rolled past with a metallic rattle. The sound hit him too sharply, too suddenly, and his shoulder jerked like someone had pinched a nerve. His mother crouched beside him, voice soft, hands hovering but not touching.
“Do you want to take it out?” she asked, slow and clear.
The boy nodded and pulled his cochlear implant off in one smooth motion.
Oscar Piastri watched the whole exchange with sympathetic confusion, standing beside Zak Brown and a comms intern holding an “I LOVE MCL35” sign that had far too many glitter stickers.
Zak clapped his hands loudly—too loudly, honestly—and cheerfully declared:
“Right! Who’s ready to meet the drivers?”
The boy did not react.
His parents smiled politely.
Oscar panicked internally.
He leaned toward Zak.
“Uh—should we…? Like… write it down?”
Before Zak could answer, a voice appeared beside them:
“I’ve got it.”
Oscar turned—and nearly fell over.
Because Lando Norris—chaotic gremlin, avoider of mornings, man who once forgot his own passport at Heathrow—was already walking toward the family, hands lifted.
And then he signed.
Fluid. Confident. Natural.
“Hi. I’m Lando,” he said, at the same time, as his hands were making the handshape for L, followed by 4 tapped against his shoulder—a name sign. “What is your name?”
The boy’s face lit up like someone had turned the world’s happiest floodlights on.
He signed back—quickly, excited—and Lando laughed, real and warm.
Oscar blinked.
Zak blinked.
The comms intern’s jaw hit the floor loud enough to be heard from the next department.
“What is happening,” Oscar whispered.
Lando turned to the parents next, signing as he spoke out loud—slightly slower now, synced with his hands.
“It gets loud in here sometimes. Milo can take a break whenever he needs. No pressure.”
The mother smiled in a way that was part relief, part disbelief.
“You sign very well,” she said aloud.
Lando shrugged modestly. “My girlfriend’s deaf,” he said easily. “She signs sometimes, lip-reads when she’s tired. I learned so we could talk the way she felt most comfortable all the time.”
THAT got Oscar’s attention.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend?!
Lando--secret-relationship-Norris? Since when?!
But Lando was still talking, casual as if announcing he bought a new hoodie.
“She has a cochlear implant, too. She has fun covers for it—custom stuff. One with my blob helmet design. Makes it feel hers, you know?”
The dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your girlfriend wears a cochlear implant?”
“Yep,” Lando replies, still signing to the boy so he could follow. “She also has a sticker for it in Papaya Orange, obviously.”
Milo perked up at the colour sign.
Orange.
Bold. Visible. Proud.
Lando crouched to eye level, expression soft.
Do you like racing? he signed, as he said it aloud at the same time.
The boy nodded so vigorously the implant almost slipped from his fingers.
Lando grinned.
“Me too.”
He guided him to the simulator, letting him press buttons, pick the track—Monza—because every child instinctively loves chaos.
At one point, the room got loud again—laughter, wheels moving, an espresso machine hissing—but Lando didn’t push him to reinsert the implant. He just stayed beside him, signing commentary and jokes as the sim loaded, patient and natural like he’d done it a thousand times.
Oscar slowly approached, eyes still wide.
“When,” he whispered, “did you learn sign language?”
Lando shrugged again like this was normal, everyday, nothing special.
“A while ago.”
“That’s not—” Oscar gestured helplessly. “Mate, you just casually— fluent.”
“Takes practice,” Lando said lightly, not looking away from the kid.
Oscar stared.
“You have a girlfriend.”
Lando blinked slowly.
“Yes, Oscar.”
“And she’s real.”
“…yes?”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
Lando finally looked over, lips twitching.
“I didn’t tell you because you’d make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You’re absolutely making it weird.”
Oscar folded his arms, affronted.
“I think I’m being very calm.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m processing.”
Lando? the boy signed suddenly, tapping his arm.
Lando paused and signed back.
Yes?
The boy lifted his implant, hesitated—then signed:
Do you think… I can drive a car like you one day?
Lando didn’t smile.
Not immediately.
He sat with the question, watching it, respecting it.
Then he reached out, tapped the boy’s shoulder—same place as his own name sign.
You already can. The world just needs to catch up.
The boy’s grin was galaxies.
Oscar swallowed the lump in his throat.
Zak muttered, “I’m going to cry and I hate that.”
When the family finally left—with photos, simulator videos, and one (1) papaya helmet sticker Lando dug out of his bag—the place felt quieter.
Not silent.
Just softer.
Oscar bumped Lando’s shoulder.
“She must be special.”
Lando didn’t answer for a long second.
Then, quietly:
“She is.”
And Oscar—finally, finally—smiled.
“Good. So,” Oscar began, voice careful, “when were you planning to tell me you’re secretly fluent in sign language?”
Lando tilted his head. “When it came up.”
“It came up just now!”
“Yep.”
“And the girlfriend.”
“Yep.”
Oscar inhaled through his nose like he was meditating.
Or trying not to shake Lando.
They started walking toward the office when a voice called:
“WAIT.”
An intern — approached breathlessly, phone in hand. “Um—Lando? The family said something before leaving. They said to tell you they’re so grateful and that Oscar’s sign name is perfect.”
Oscar froze.
“…My what?”
Lando stopped walking.
Silence.
Not the awkward kind — the oh no kind.
Oscar slowly turned toward him.
“Explain.”
Lando scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere except Oscar’s face.
“Okay so… sign names are kind of a cultural thing. They aren’t just initials — they mean something about the person. You don’t choose them, someone in the Deaf community gives them to you. Usually after they know you.”
Oscar stared.
“Someone named me something?”
“Yep.”
“Who?”
Lando mumbled.
“What?”
“My girlfriend.”
Oscar blinked rapidly. “She gave me one? We have never met!”
Lando shrugged as if this were entirely logical.
“You’re important to me. So she came up with one.”
Oscar stared.
“What is it.”
Lando bit his lip to hold back a smile.
Oscar narrowed his eyes.
“Lando.”
“Koala.” Lando blurted.
Oscar froze.
“Excuse me?”
Lando quickly clarified by signing it — hands curled like hooked paws that tap at his chest.
“Because you’re Australian,” he added weakly.
Oscar stared harder.
“Do I look like a koala?”
“I mean… a little?”
“A little?”
“Like a cute koala!” Lando insisted, voice rising defensively. “Not like… didgeridoo kung-fu drop-bear koala. Just—tiny and clingy.”
“Clingy?”
“You hang off me sometimes?”
Oscar sputtered. “I hang off you because you steal my chair!”
“It’s because you love me.”
“OI—”
Lando signed the motion again, slower.
O + koala.
“It’s cute,” Lando insisted. “She picks sign names based on personality. She was very proud of this one.”
Oscar crossed his arms. “So she’s met me exactly zero times, and she has decided I’m an adorable marsupial.”
“Yes.”
“…I’m fine with that actually.”
Lando snorted. “You’re impossible.”
Oscar bumped his shoulder, calmer now.
“How long have you two been together?”
Lando hesitated — but not from uncertainty.
From wanting to protect something precious.
“A year and a bit,” he said softly. “We’ve been… keeping it ours, y’know?”
Oscar’s expression softened instantly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I get that.”
They reached the simulator bay again — now quiet, the lights dimmed.
Oscar tilted his head.
“So… what’s hers?”
Lando smiled, slow and entirely love-drunk.
“Fingerspell L for Lacie, then”—he held both hands in an open position and moved them upwards while twisting his wrists —“the sign for sparkle. Because she lights up when she laughs.”
Oscar’s face did something embarrassing and soft.
“That’s disgustingly romantic.”
***
Their flat in Monaco was dark when Lando slipped the key into the lock.
Dark, and quiet.
He shut the door behind him gently, instinctively, even though nobody else in the whole world would bother. Hard habits from years of learning her rhythms.
Lacie was curled up on the sofa under a blanket, lamp casting warm gold across her hair. Her cochlear implant sat on the coffee table beside a cup of tea that had gone lukewarm.
She was reading — which meant she hadn’t heard him come in.
Lando smiled and walked into her line of sight, slow enough not to startle her. When she looked up, her eyes softened, bright even without sound.
He mouthed:
Hi, Lacie.
(And signed a tiny hello wave, just for extra.)
She closed her book, tucking a finger in the pages to hold her place, and watched his lips carefully.
“Long day?” she guessed with a little grin.
Lando dropped onto the sofa beside her, legs folding automatically toward her.
He exaggerated his mouth movements just slightly — the way she preferred when she was tired.
“You have no idea,” he said, resting his head against the back cushion.
She glanced toward the implant but didn’t reach for it. Some nights she wanted silence. Wanted the world off. He never pressured her otherwise.
“What happened?” she asked, and Lando saw her eyes flick to his mouth mid-sentence, tracking every shape.
“We had visitors,” he said. “A family. The winner of that MTC tour contest. Their son was deaf.”
Lacie straightened, interest sparking.
“And?”
“And—” He laughed under his breath. “He was amazing. His name is Milo. Smart. Curious. Loved the simulator. And when it got too loud, he took his implant out. Just like that.” He mimed the motion. “Everybody panicked except him.”
Her smile was slow, proud.
“Good. He knew what he needed.”
“That’s what I told him.”
Lando’s voice softened without him meaning to.
“It was really nice. Talking to Milo. Seeing him light up.”
Lacie’s gaze drifted, warm and thoughtful. “You helped him feel safe.”
“I hope so.”
There was a pause — comfortable, grounding — and then Lacie nudged him gently with her foot.
“Did you show off?” she teased, lips shaping each syllable clearly.
He feigned offense.
“I’m always cool and subtle, thank you very much.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched. “Oscar told you to tell me that?”
He snorted.
“Oscar nearly had a breakdown because he learned I have a secret girlfriend. Apparently that’s shocking information.”
Lacie laughed — silent, but sparkling through her whole face.
“And,” Lando continued, smiling at the memory, “he found out you gave him a sign name.”
Lacie froze.
“What did he say?” she mouthed cautiously.
“That he’s ‘fine with being an adorable marsupial.’ His exact words.”
She hid her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Oh my God. He wasn’t supposed to know that!”
“Well.” Lando poked her knee. “He does. And he loves it.”
She peeked at him through her fingers.
“Maybe I’ll teach him how to sign koala properly.”
Lando melted a little at how she lifted her chin when she felt proud.
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear — slow, asking permission without words — and she leaned into the touch.
“He asked if you were real,” Lando said quietly. “And I told him yes.”
Lacie’s features softened, something gentle and grateful.
“And what did you say when he asked if you were serious about me?”
Lando blinked once.
He hadn’t told her that part.
So he just signed it.
Always.
Her breath caught — a tiny visible hitch — before she cupped his cheek and drew him closer.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
“I want to know about him.”
So Lando told her — about the boy’s bright grin, the papaya sticker, the hopeful question.
And Lacie listened — truly listened — with her eyes and with the quiet space she always made for him.
When he was done, she mouthed:
“He’ll remember that forever.”
“I will too,” Lando replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She snuggled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder, content even without sound.
Lando wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line, he had learned that love didn’t always need noise.
Summary: After a year of being entirely invisible in Kimi Antonelli’s fast-paced racing world, you finally choose to walk away. It takes losing you completely for Kimi to realize he took your love for granted, sparking a quiet, months-long journey to slowly earn back your trust.
Requested: Yes/ @sinistersnakey
Word count: 6245
Masterlist
The two weeks leading up to the Tuesday date passed in a quiet, agonizingly slow blur. In the past, two weeks in the world of Formula One would have flown by in a chaotic flash of flights, engine debriefs, and media obligations. But for Kimi, every single day felt like an eternity. He was counting down the hours, the minutes, the literal seconds until he could get back on a plane to London.
True to his word, Kimi had begun the difficult process of restructuring his entire life. It had not been met with immediate enthusiasm by his management team or the Mercedes board. When he walked into the engineering office in Brackley the morning after his brief visit to your gallery, his face was set in a determined expression that his team principal, Toto Wolff, recognized all too well. It was the look Kimi wore right before he executed a high stakes overtaking maneuver on a wet track.
“I need to adjust my schedule for the rest of the season and next year,” Kimi had said, sitting down in the high backed leather chair across from Toto. He did not beat around the bush. He did not offer excuses. “I am doing the mandatory PR events, the ones explicitly stated in my driver contract. But the extra promotional filming, the voluntary sponsor dinners, the weekend appearances during the breaks, I am pulling out of them. I need my time back.”
Toto had looked at him over the rim of his glasses, a mixture of surprise and calculating assessment in his eyes. “Kimi, you are a rookie stepping into one of the most high profile seats on the grid. This sport demands your entire existence. Sponsors pay millions to have a piece of your time. Why the sudden boundary.”
“Because my entire existence belongs to me, not just to the team,” Kimi had replied, his voice steady, carrying a maturity that had been completely absent just five months prior. “And because I lost the most important person in my life by giving everything to this paddock and leaving nothing for her. I will not make that mistake again. I will drive my heart out on the track, I will give you every ounce of my focus when I am in the garage, but the moment the engineering debrief ends, my time is mine. If the team cannot accept that, then we need to re-evaluate our future together.”
It was a massive gamble, a declaration that could have severely damaged his standing with the team. But Kimi did not care. The fear of losing a racing seat paled in comparison to the absolute, hollow terror he felt when he looked at the empty space in his life where you used to be. To his relief, Toto had slowly nodded, a faint, respectful smile touching his lips. “It takes most drivers ten years and a bitter divorce to realize what you have just realized, Kimi. If you keep delivering on track, I will make sure the board respects your boundaries.”
While Kimi was fighting for his boundaries in team boardrooms, you were fighting a completely different battle within yourself in the quiet streets of Richmond.
The initial shock of seeing him stand in your gallery, dripping wet from the rain and holding a paper cup of coffee, had faded into a deep, underlying anxiety. You had agreed to a date. You had reached out your hand and let his fingers close around yours, feeling that familiar, electric warmth that had once been your entire universe. But the moment the door closed behind him and he walked away to catch his flight to Stuttgart, the old ghosts had come rushing back into the empty space of your mind.
You sat on the small sofa in your flat, looking out at the golden autumn leaves falling outside your window. Your chest felt tight. You loved Kimi, you had never stopped loving him, even when you gathered the courage to pack your bags and walk out of his life. But love was no longer the issue. The issue was trust, a fragile, glass structure that had been systematically shattered over twelve months of constant neglect.
Could a person truly change in five months. You knew he had sent the gifts, you knew he had written the letters, and you knew he had skipped a simulator session just to see you for twenty minutes. It was beautiful, it was everything you had ever wanted, but a small, cynical voice in the back of your mind kept whispering, what happens when the pressure builds again. What happens when he is in the middle of a world championship fight and the team tells him he has no choice. Will you become invisible all over again.
Your fingers traced the edge of the framed sketch of the Thames he had sent you from Monza. You had hung it up in your hallway, a daily reminder of his persistence. But every time you looked at it, you felt a wave of caution. You had built a safe, peaceful life in Richmond. You had your job at the gallery, your quiet mornings, your predictable routines. To let Kimi back in meant opening the door to the storm, and you weren't entirely sure if your foundation was strong enough to withstand it a second time.
The Tuesday of the date arrived with a crisp, clear sky, a rare break from the endless autumn rain that had been plaguing London. Kimi had texted you the night before, his message short, polite, and completely devoid of the demanding tone he used to have when his schedule dictated your life.
“Hi, Y/N. I hope your week is going well. I will be at your flat at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Please do not worry about dressing up, just wear whatever makes you feel comfortable. I am looking forward to seeing you. Kimi.”
You spent an hour standing in front of your wardrobe, your heart beating in a frantic, nervous rhythm. In the past, preparing for an evening with Kimi meant finding the perfect outfit that would fit into a high end restaurant or look good if a stray photographer caught you walking out of a hotel. You used to stress over your hair, your makeup, your shoes, constantly trying to match the polished, high profile image of the world he lived in.
This time, you chose a pair of comfortable blue jeans, a thick, cream colored oversized knit sweater, and your favorite worn in leather boots. You pulled your hair back into a loose, low clip, leaving a few strands to frame your face. You applied minimal makeup, looking at yourself in the mirror. You didn't look like a driver's girlfriend anymore. You looked like yourself. Y/N.
At exactly one o'clock, the buzzer to your apartment rang. Your stomach did a violent flip. You took a deep breath, pressing the button to let him into the building, and stood by the door, your hands tucked into the pockets of your jeans to hide the slight trembling of your fingers.
A knock sounded on the wood. You turned the handle and opened the door.
Kimi stood in the hallway, and for a second, neither of you said a word. He was wearing a simple gray hoodie under a dark denim jacket, black trousers, and white sneakers. He looked incredibly young, his curls slightly unruly from the autumn wind outside, his dark eyes wide and full of an intense, nervous vulnerability. In his hands, he wasn't holding a massive bouquet of grand flowers, instead, he held a small, brown paper bag from a local bakery you had mentioned in passing during a phone call two years ago, a bakery in a tiny village outside Bologna that made your favorite traditional Italian cookies.
“Hi, Y/N,” he said softly, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Hi, Kimi,” you replied, stepping aside to let him enter. “You flew to Italy just to get these cookies.”
Kimi walked into the small hallway, placing the paper bag carefully on the console table. He turned to face you, rubbing the back of his neck. “My mother helped me get them. I told her I was seeing you today, and she said if I did not bring your favorite things, I should not bother coming back to Italy at all.”
A small, genuine laugh escaped your lips, the tension in your shoulders breaking just a fraction. Kimi’s eyes brightened at the sound, a look of profound relief washing over his face.
“They smell amazing,” you said, nodding toward the bag. “Thank you, Kimi. That was really sweet.”
“It is just a small thing,” he said quietly, his eyes locked onto yours. He didn't make a move to hug you or touch you, he stayed exactly where he was, respecting the physical distance you had established. “You look beautiful, Y/N. The sweater looks very comfortable.”
“Thank you,” you said, grabbing your coat from the hook by the door. “So, where are we going. You told me not to dress up, so I am assuming we are not going to a Michelin star restaurant in Mayfair.”
“No Mayfair today,” Kimi said, shaking his head with a small smile. He opened the door for you, stepping out into the hallway first. “I took your advice from your letters. We are staying right here in Richmond. I rented a small rowboat by the river, and then I thought we could walk through the park. Just... normal things.”
As you walked down the stairs of your building and out into the crisp afternoon air, you noticed a distinct absence. Usually, when Kimi traveled anywhere, there was a black Mercedes van waiting with tinted windows, a driver standing at attention, and a member of his management team hovering nearby with a phone in hand. Today, there was nothing. Just the quiet street, the rustling leaves, and Kimi walking closely by your side, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
“No driver,” you asked, looking around the empty street.
“No driver,” Kimi confirmed, shaking his head. “I took the train from central London. I wanted to come alone. No team, no managers, no schedules. Just me.”
The walk down to the river Thames was quiet. The autumn wind was cool, blowing the golden leaves across the pavement. Kimi walked on the outside of the pavement, a protective instinct that he had always possessed but one that felt different now, more deliberate, more focused entirely on you rather than looking over his shoulder to see if anyone recognized him.
When you reached the riverbank, the small wooden rowboats were tied neatly to the dock, bobbing gently on the dark, calm water. The elderly man who managed the rentals handed Kimi a pair of wooden oars, looking at the young athlete with absolutely no recognition. To the old man, Kimi was just another young guy taking his girl out for an afternoon on the water.
Kimi stepped into the boat first, the wood creaking under his weight. He stabilized himself, then turned around, extending his hand up toward you.
You hesitated for a split second, looking down at his open palm. The old instinct to pull away, to protect yourself from the eventual hurt, flared up in your chest. Kimi noticed the hesitation. He did not rush you, he did not sigh with impatience as he used to when you took too long to get ready or get into a car. He simply kept his hand steady, his eyes soft and patient, silently telling you that he would wait for as long as you needed.
You took a breath, letting your hand slide into his. His fingers closed gently around yours, providing a solid, grounding support as you stepped down into the boat. The boat rocked slightly, and your instinct made you step closer to him, your shoulder brushing against his chest for a brief second before you sat down on the wooden bench at the stern. Kimi let go of your hand smoothly, sitting across from you at the oars.
With a few practiced, surprisingly strong strokes, Kimi pushed the boat away from the dock and out into the middle of the river. The sound of the city seemed to fade away, replaced by the rhythmic, soothing splash of the oars cutting through the water and the distant cry of swans swimming near the bank.
“You are surprisingly good at this,” you noted, watching the fluid, easy movement of his shoulders as he rowed.
Kimi laughed, a soft, boyish sound that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. “It is just physics, Y/N. Equal and opposite reactions. But do not tell my trainer, he thinks I only do cardio on a stationary bike.”
You smiled, leaning your arms against the side of the boat, looking out at the beautiful houses that lined the Richmond riverbank. For a few minutes, a comfortable silence settled between you. But as the silence stretched, the weight of the past months began to press heavily on your chest. You looked back at Kimi, his face relaxed, his focus entirely on you as he rowed against the gentle current.
“Kimi,” you said softly, your voice breaking the quiet harmony of the river.
“Yes, Y/N,” he replied, slowing his strokes, letting the boat drift slowly under the shadow of a large weeping willow tree.
“I need to be honest with you,” you said, looking down at your lap, your fingers twisting the fabric of your sweater. “Standing here with you, it feels nice. It feels like old times. But I am scared. I am really scared.”
Kimi stopped rowing entirely, resting the oars across his lap. He leaned forward, his dark eyes full of an intense, unwavering seriousness. “Tell me, please. I want to know everything you are feeling.”
“When I left that night,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as the memory resurfaced. “It wasn't just because I was angry about you being late. It was because I realized that I had completely disappeared. I had built my entire existence around waiting for you, around making sure your life was perfect, and I had nothing left for myself. Now, I have a life. I have a job I love, I have peace, I have an identity. And when I look at you, part of me wants to run back to you, but a bigger part of me is terrified that the moment things get busy for you again, you will just put me back in that box in the corner.”
You looked up, meeting his eyes, your own filling with unshed tears. “I don't trust that this is permanent, Kimi. I don't trust that you won't change your mind the moment the next season starts and the team demands your entire life again. I can't survive going through that a second time. I can't stretch myself a million miles for someone who might just forget I am there.”
Kimi listened to every single word, his face pale, his jaw clenched as if he was physically absorbing the pain your words carried. He did not try to interrupt you. He did not try to defend himself or point out the things he had done over the last five months to prove his change. He just sat there, letting you voice your fears, validating every single ounce of your trauma.
“You are right to feel that way, Y/N,” Kimi said, his voice thick with emotion, his accent heavy in his throat. “I broke your trust. I broke it a hundred times over a year, and I know I cannot fix it with one conversation or a few letters. I was stupid. I thought that because you loved me, you would always be there, no matter how little I gave you. I treated you like a trophy I had already won, something I could just leave on the shelf until I had time to look at it.”
He reached out, his hand resting on the wooden seat between you, close to your knee but not touching you, leaving the choice entirely up to you. “I am not asking you to trust me today, Y/N. I know that is impossible. Trust is not a switch you can just turn on. It is a track you have to build, lap by lap, corner by corner. I am just asking you to let me build it. Let me show you, next week, next month, next year, that when the pressure comes, I will choose you. If the team tells me I have to attend a dinner, and you tell me you need me home because you had a bad day at the gallery, I will tell the team to find someone else. I have already started doing it, and I will keep doing it.”
A single tear rolled down your cheek, and this time, Kimi slowly reached across the small distance, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from your skin. His touch was incredibly soft, hesitant, as if he was afraid you would pull away. You didn't. You leaned into his hand just a fraction, closing your eyes as the warmth of his skin grounded you.
“I do not want you to give up your life in Richmond, Y/N,” Kimi continued, his voice barely a whisper as he kept his hand against your cheek. “I do not want you to come back to my apartment and wait for me. I want to come here. I want to learn about the artists you love, I want to know the names of the people you work with, I want to buy you coffee at eight thirty every morning when I am in London. I want to be a part of your world, not force you into mine.”
You opened your eyes, looking at him through your lashes. The honesty in his face was absolute. There was no media training in his expression, no polished PR lines. This was just Kimi, the boy who used to hold your hand under the table when he was too nervous to speak to the engineers, the boy who had promised to love you before the world found out how fast he could drive.
“It is going to be very slow, Kimi,” you warned him, your voice steadying. “I am going to doubt you. I am going to get anxious when your phone rings. I am going to need space sometimes when it feels like too much.”
“Then I will go as slow as you want,” Kimi said, a beautiful, genuine smile breaking across his face, his dark eyes shining with a sudden, brilliant hope. “If we take ten years just to get back to where we were, I will wait. I am not running anywhere anymore, Y/N. I am right here.”
After Kimi rowed the boat back to the dock, his hand securely guiding you back onto the solid ground of the riverbank, the atmosphere between the two of you had shifted. The heavy, suffocating elephant in the room had been acknowledged and dismantled, leaving behind a clean, empty canvas where the two of you could finally begin to paint something new.
“Are you hungry,” Kimi asked, looking up at the sky, which was beginning to turn a soft, golden orange as the afternoon began to transition into evening.
“A little,” you admitted, pulling your coat tighter around your chest as the wind picked up. “But no fancy restaurants. I mean it, Kimi.”
“I promise, no fancy restaurants,” he laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “There is a small, quiet pub near the edge of the park. I checked it online before I came. They have a fireplace, and they do not allow loud music. It is very cozy. Would you like to go there.”
“That sounds perfect,” you smiled.
The walk to the pub took you through the edge of Richmond Park. The ancient oak trees stood tall against the fading light, their leaves forming a thick, crunchy carpet of red and gold beneath your boots. As you walked along the gravel path, Kimi’s hand brushed against yours once, twice, a hesitant, accidental rhythm.
On the third brush, you didn't pull your hand away. You let your fingers loosen, and Kimi, noticing the silent invitation, slowly slid his fingers between yours. His hand was warm, larger than yours, his calloused palm a familiar comfort that immediately sent a wave of calm through your chest. He didn't squeeze tightly, he just held your hand gently, matching his stride perfectly to yours, no longer rushing ahead as he used to do when he was consumed by his own thoughts.
The pub was exactly as he had described. It was a historic brick building with low wooden ceilings, the air thick with the comforting scent of burning wood and roasted food. A large, brick fireplace crackled in the corner, throwing a warm, dancing amber glow over the leather armchairs nearby. The place was relatively quiet, occupied only by a few locals reading newspapers or chatting in hushed tones.
Kimi led you to a small table right by the fireplace, pulling out the wooden chair for you before hanging up your coats. When he sat down across from you, the firelight illuminated his features, casting soft shadows across his sharp jawline and highlighting the gentle, content look in his dark eyes.
A waitress approached the table, handing you two menus. Kimi looked at you, an inquiring look on his face. “Would you like a glass of wine, Y/N. Or some tea.”
“Tea sounds amazing right now, it is getting freezing outside,” you said, smiling at the waitress. “English breakfast, please, with a bit of milk.”
“And for me, just a chamomile tea, please,” Kimi told the waitress, handing back the menus after you both decided on a couple of simple pub dishes.
You looked at him, raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Chamomile tea. Who are you and what have you done with Kimi Antonelli. Usually you are drinking double espressos or those terrible electrolyte drinks your trainer gives you.”
Kimi laughed, a soft, flush appearing on his cheeks as he leaned his forearms on the table. “My trainer would probably have a heart attack if he saw me drinking chamomile tea at five in the afternoon. But I am trying to cut down on caffeine. I realized that my mind was always racing, always spinning at ten thousand RPM, even when I was sitting on the couch with you. I want to learn how to slow down. I want to be fully present here, with you. Caffeine does not help with that.”
The admission touched something deep inside you. It showed that his transformation wasn't just about changing his external schedule, it was an internal restructuring. He was actively trying to change the frantic, hyper focused wiring of his brain that had made him so successful on track but so destructive to his personal life.
When the tea arrived, the hot steam rising between you, Kimi carefully poured the milk into your cup, exactly the amount you liked, a tiny detail he had observed over years of living together. He pushed the cup toward you, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Tell me about your job at the gallery, Y/N,” he said, his tone full of a genuine, eager curiosity that you hadn't heard in years. “The letters you wrote, you mentioned an exhibition for local artists. How did it go.”
For the next hour, you talked. Truly talked. You told him about the local painter who used recycled materials, about the chaotic setup morning where one of the frames had cracked and you had to fix it with superglue twenty minutes before the doors opened, and about the quiet satisfaction you felt when a local family bought their very first piece of art from your gallery.
Kimi listened to every single word as if you were explaining the master telemetry data for a championship winning car. He didn't look at his phone once. In fact, when you first sat down, you had watched him take his phone out of his pocket, switch it to completely silent, and drop it deep into his jacket bag across the room on the coat hook. He asked questions, he laughed at your jokes, and he offered insightful, quiet comments that showed he was fully processing everything you said.
In the past, conversations between you had always been a monologue about his world. You would listen to him complain about tire degradation, about the pressure from the media, or about the setup issues with the front wing. You had been his sounding board, his emotional dumpster where he could leave all his racing stress before going to sleep. Your life, your interests, had always been a brief afterthought, a quick, how was your day, before he moved back to his own topics.
To have him sitting across from you, the fire crackling beside you, focused entirely on the small details of your life in Richmond, felt surreal. It was a slow, beautiful burn of healing, a realization that you were finally being allowed to occupy equal space in the relationship.
“What about you,” you asked tentatively, taking a sip of your tea as the waitress cleared your empty plates. “How are things with the car. The season is ending soon.”
Kimi smiled, a relaxed, easy expression. “The car is okay. We have some upgrades coming for Austin and Brazil, but honestly, Y/N, I do not care as much about the results right now. I mean, I want to win, I am a racing driver, it is in my blood. But when I am on the grid now, I do not feel that terrible, suffocating anxiety anymore. I used to think that if I failed on track, my whole life would be over because I had nothing else. But when you left, I realized that I had already failed at the most important thing. Now, when I drive, it is just a job. A job I love, but just a job. My real life is what happens when I get off the plane.”
He reached across the table, his fingers lightly brushing against the sleeve of your sweater. “Next week, the team is flying to Austin for the US Grand Prix. Usually, I would fly out on Monday morning to do sponsor events all week. But because of the new boundaries in my contract, I am not flying out until Wednesday evening. I have two full days off next week.”
He paused, his eyes searching yours with a hesitant, hopeful look. “I was wondering... if you are not too busy at the gallery, if I could come back down to Richmond on Monday. We do not have to do anything grand. I can just help you cook dinner, or we can watch a movie. I just want to spend a normal Monday with you.”
Your heart gave a soft, warm thud against your ribs. A normal Monday. In the past, a Monday during a race week was a sacred, untouchable thing for Kimi. He would be locked in his room, studying track maps, or running simulator loops until his hands were raw. To offer to spend a Monday with you, just cooking dinner in your flat, was a massive testament to how much he was willing to redefine his priorities.
But the old anxiety, the lingering trust issues, flared up slightly. “Kimi, are you sure your engineers won't call you. Are you sure Toto won't find out and get angry.”
Kimi’s expression didn't harden, he didn't get defensive as he used to when you questioned his commitments. Instead, he reached out, taking your hand fully into his, squeezing your fingers with a reassuring, solid warmth.
“Toto already knows,” Kimi said softly, his voice full of an absolute, unshakeable certainty. “I told him that Monday belongs to the most important person in my world. He told me to give you his best regards. The engineers have my email if there is an absolute emergency, but my phone will be on silent, in the kitchen drawer, just like it is right now. I am building the track, Y/N. Corner by corner. Let me show you on Monday.”
You looked down at your joined hands, the firelight reflecting off his skin. The trust wasn't fully restored, you still felt a small knot of caution in your stomach, a reminder of the tears you had cried in the dark apartment months ago. But as you looked at Kimi, at his honest eyes, his relaxed shoulders, and his total willingness to take things at your pace, you realized that the knot was loosening, slowly but surely, replacing itself with the beautiful, tentative hope of a brand new beginning.
“Okay,” you said softly, looking up to meet his radiant, relieved smile. “You can come over on Monday, Kimi. But you are the one doing the cooking. I want to see if your Italian skills extend to the kitchen.”
Kimi let out a joyful, breathless laugh, his eyes shining with a sudden, brilliant happiness that lit up the entire room. He squeezed your hand gently, leaning forward over the table, his devotion entirely yours.
“I will make you the best pasta you have ever tasted in your life, Y/N,” he promised, his voice rich with conviction. “I will do everything for you, from now on. I promise.”
The fire continued to crackle quietly in the corner, throwing its warm, protective glow over the two of you as the night deepened outside. The desert that had separated you for a million miles had finally been crossed, not by you stretching yourself to the moon, but by Kimi turning around and walking every single mile back to where you stood, ready to start all over again, one slow, careful step at a time.
The kitchen in your Richmond flat was warm, filled with the rich, savory aroma of simmering tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil. It was Monday afternoon, and for the past hour, you had been sitting on the counter with a glass of water, watching Kimi move around your small kitchen with a focused intensity that was usually reserved for the racetrack.
He wore a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his curls pushed back by a headband to keep them out of his face. He was currently rolling out fresh pasta dough on your floured countertop, his forearms flexing with the effort. Every few minutes, he would look over at you, offering a quick, brilliant smile just to make sure you were still there, as if he was still terrified you might vanish if he blinked for too long.
True to his word, the moment he walked through your door at noon, he had walked straight to the kitchen drawer, pulled his phone out of his pocket, clicked it onto completely silent, and dropped it inside, sliding the drawer shut with a definitive click.
“See,” he had said, turning to you with an earnest expression. “It is gone. No distractions today, Y/N. I am all yours.”
Watching him now, dusting flour off his hands and carefully cutting the dough into long, even strands of fettuccine, you felt a strange, fluttering mix of warmth and caution in your chest. It was beautiful, it was everything you had ever wanted from him during those long, lonely months in your old apartment. But the quiet, protective wall you had built around your heart was still standing, keeping you from fully throwing yourself back into his arms. You were letting him in, corner by corner, but your trust was still a fragile thing.
“You are very quiet today, Y/N,” Kimi said softly, breaking the silence as he dropped the fresh pasta into a pot of boiling water. He walked over to where you sat on the counter, standing between your knees and reaching up to gently rest his hands on either side of your waist. His touch was hesitant, always giving you space to pull away if you felt uncomfortable. You didn't pull away. Instead, you let your hands rest on his shoulders, feeling the solid, familiar warmth of his body.
“I am just thinking,” you admitted, looking down at the flour smudged on his cheek. You reached out with your thumb, gently wiping it away. “It just feels a little surreal, Kimi. Having you here on a Monday during a race week. Part of me is still waiting for your phone to ring, or for a manager to knock on the door and tell you that there has been a change of plans.”
Kimi’s eyes softened, a look of quiet sorrow passing through them before he leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “I know,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “I know I gave you every reason to expect that. But I am right here. The car is in Brackley, the team is in Germany, and I am in Richmond with you. I am not going anywhere.”
The dinner was spectacular. You sat at your small dining table, the autumn wind howling outside the window while you ate the fresh pasta and talked about completely ordinary things. He didn't mention lap times, throttle percentages, or his expectations for the race in Austin. Instead, he asked about the new local artist you were showcasing at the gallery, listened to you complain about a leaky pipe in your bathroom, and laughed when you told him about a regular customer who always tried to negotiate the price of paintings by offering homemade jam in exchange.
When he left that night to catch his late flight to the United States, he didn't rush out the door. He stood in your hallway, holding you close in a long, quiet hug, his nose buried in your hair.
“I will text you when I land,” he murmured against your skin. “And I will call you every night before I go to sleep, no matter what time it is over there. Take care of yourself, Y/N.”
Three months passed in a steady, careful rhythm of time skips, a slow burn of rebuilding what had been broken.
Kimi kept every single promise. During the United States Grand Prix, his phone calls arrived at exactly ten o'clock your time, every single evening. You would sit in your bed, your laptop open, watching his face on the screen. He looked exhausted from the track sessions, but the moment you answered, his eyes would light up, and he would spend an hour asking about your day before even mentioning a single thing about his racing.
In November, during the brief gap before the final flyaway races, he flew back to London just for a single weekend. He didn't ask you to come to his hotel in the city, instead, he took the train down to Richmond, staying in a small local bed and breakfast down the street from your flat. He spent the entire Saturday helping you reorganize the storage room at the art gallery, lifting heavy boxes of frames and sweeping the floors without a single complaint, completely content just to exist in your orbit.
Slowly, the tight, anxious knot in your stomach began to unravel. You started to laugh more easily around him. You found yourself looking forward to his texts, and you even began to watch the races on Sunday afternoons again, no longer with a feeling of bitter resentment, but with a quiet, blossoming pride as you watched him stand on the podium, knowing that the moment he stepped off the stage, his first text would be to you.
By the time the winter break arrived in December, the wall around your heart had significantly lowered. One evening, while walking through a beautifully lit winter market in central London, his hand tightly holding yours inside his coat pocket, you looked up at his radiant smile and realized that you were ready. You trusted him again. Not blindly, like before, but with a deep, mature confidence born from months of his absolute consistency.
“Kimi,” you said, stopping by a small stall selling hot chocolate.
“Yes, Y/N,” he asked, turning to face you, his cheeks flushed red from the winter cold.
“I think... I think I want us to be official again,” you said softly, your heart pounding a familiar, happy rhythm against your ribs. “I want to be your girlfriend again.”
Kimi stared at you for a split second, his breath catching in his throat. Then, a joyous, breathtaking smile broke across his face. He didn't care about the crowded market or the people walking past, he threw his arms around your waist, lifting you completely off your feet and spinning you around as a bubbly, ecstatic laugh escaped his lips.
“Really,” he gasped, setting you down but keeping his hands locked behind your back, his eyes shining with tears of sheer relief. “You mean it, Y/N. You trust me again.”
“I mean it,” you smiled, reaching up to cup his face. “You earned it, Kimi. Every single bit of it.”
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in January, a few weeks before the frantic madness of the new season's car launches and pre-season testing was set to begin. You were at Kimi’s apartment in London, the same apartment you had walked out of months ago. But today, the atmosphere was completely different. The space felt warm, lived in, filled with your things alongside his.
You were curled up on the large sofa, wearing one of his old racing hoodies, a book resting in your lap. Kimi had been sitting beside you, his head resting on your shoulder as he mindlessly stroked your arm, completely relaxed.
“I am going to take a quick shower,” Kimi said, kissing your cheek before standing up from the sofa. “Do you want to watch a movie when I come out.”
“That sounds perfect,” you smiled, watching him walk down the hallway toward the bathroom.
A few minutes passed. The faint sound of the shower running began to echo from the bathroom, creating a soothing, familiar background noise. You turned the page of your book, completely at peace.
Then, a sudden, sharp sound cut through the quiet apartment.
*Bing.*
You froze. The sound had come from the coffee table right in front of you. You looked down. Kimi had left his phone face up on the glass table. The screen was illuminated, a new text message banner glowing brightly in the dim light of the living room.
Your eyes locked onto the screen. You didn't mean to read it, but from where you were sitting, the words were completely visible. It was a message from his manager.
*“Emergency meeting with Toto and the main engine sponsors at the hotel downtown. They need you there in thirty minutes, Kimi. It’s crucial for the new contract structure. Car is waiting outside.”*
In an instant, the air was knocked right out of your lungs.
It was as if a trapdoor had opened beneath your feet, plunging you directly back into the dark, suffocating memories of the previous year. The peaceful, warm apartment seemed to vanish, replaced by the ghost of that three in the morning silence. Your heart began to hammer violently against your ribs, a wild, panicked rhythm that made your ears ring.
Your mind began to sprint down a terrifying, familiar track. *This is it,* the panicked voice in your head screamed. *This is exactly how it always starts. It’s an emergency. It’s crucial. It’s Toto. He’s going to go. He has to go. He’s a driver, of course he’s going to choose them. He’s going to run out the door, leave you sitting on this couch alone, and by midnight, you’ll be the invisible girl all over again. The last six months were just a temporary illusion because it was the off-season. The moment the real pressure starts, you are always the one who gets pushed aside.*
Your hands began to shake uncontrollably, the book sliding off your lap and hitting the floor with a dull thud. You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms tight around yourself, trying to stop the violent trembling of your body. You couldn't breathe. The oxygen felt thick, heavy, completely trapped in your throat. You were trapped in a flashback of your own heartbreak, the fragile trust you had spent months building shattering into a million pieces inside your mind in a matter of seconds.
The bathroom door opened, a cloud of warm steam spilling out into the hallway. Kimi stepped out, towel drying his damp curls, a carefree, relaxed smile on his face.
“The water was amazing, Y/N, you should—”
Kimi stopped dead in his tracks the moment he stepped into the living room.
His eyes locked onto your form curled into a tight, trembling ball on the sofa. He saw your pale face, your wide, terrified eyes staring blankly at the coffee table, and the violent shaking of your shoulders. The relaxed, happy expression vanished from his face instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic.
He dropped the towel carelessly to the floor, rushing across the room and dropping to his knees right in front of the sofa.
“Y/N,” Kimi gasped, his voice cracking with fear. He reached his hands out, but stopped a millimeter away from your skin, afraid of startling you. “Y/N, hey, look at me. Look at my eyes. What is happening. Are you hurt. Are you having a panic attack. Tell me what to do, please, tell me how to help you.”
You couldn't speak. Your jaw was locked, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. You slowly, with a trembling finger, pointed at the phone sitting on the glass table.
Kimi’s brow furrowed in confusion. He reached over, grabbing the phone and looking at the screen. He read the text message from his manager, and the moment his eyes processed the words, a look of profound, agonizing realization washed over his features. He understood instantly. He saw the trapdoor you had just fallen through, and he realized that the ghosts of his past mistakes had just come back to torture you.
“Oh, God,” Kimi whispered, his own face turning pale. He threw the phone carelessly across the room, letting it clatter loudly against the hardwood floor near the kitchen, completely dismissing it. He turned back to you, his eyes desperate, full of a fierce, unyielding determination.
“Y/N, listen to me,” he said, his voice loud and clear, trying to cut through the panic ringing in your ears. He gently, firmly took your shaking hands into his, squeezing them tightly to ground you. “I am not going. Do you hear me. Look at my eyes, Y/N. Look at me. I am not going anywhere.”
“He... he said it’s crucial,” you choked out, a single, agonizing sob finally breaking through your locked throat, tears pouring down your cheeks. “He said the car... the car is outside, Kimi. You always go. You always choose them. The moment they call, you leave me in the dark.”
“No, no, no,” Kimi cried, his own eyes filling with hot tears as he watched your heartbreak unfold right in front of him. He scrambled up onto the sofa, pulling your trembling body directly into his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around you, locking you against his warmth, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “I am not leaving this couch. I do not care if Toto is downstairs himself. I do not care if the sponsors cancel the contract. I do not care about the car outside. I am right here. I am staying right here with you.”
He was trembling too, a violent panic of his own taking over his body. He was absolutely terrified that he had just ruined everything, that his world was about to go dark all over again because of a stray text message.
“I am sorry, I am so sorry,” Kimi mumbled frantically against your skin, his grip tightening around you as if he could physically shield you from the painful memories. “I did the wrong thing, I should have turned the phone completely off before I went to the shower. It is my fault, Y/N, please don't leave me, please don't go back to the desert. I am not that boy anymore, I promise you, I swear on my life, I am choosing you. I am staying right here.”
You held onto his t-shirt, burying your face in his chest as the violent sobs racked your body. You cried for the year of loneliness, you cried for the girl who had sat alone in the dark waiting for midnight, and you cried for the absolute terror you had just felt.
But as you lay there, tucked securely against his chest, you began to hear the frantic, rapid beating of his heart beneath your ear. You felt the tight, unyielding strength of his arms around you, completely refusing to let you go. You looked up slightly, through your blurred vision, and saw the tears spilling over his eyelashes, his face twisted in a look of absolute, desperate devotion.
He hadn't even hesitated. He hadn't asked for five minutes to call his manager back. He hadn't tried to explain why the meeting was important. He had literally thrown his phone across the room into the kitchen and climbed onto the sofa to hold you.
The realizations hit you like a wave of pure, healing warmth, washing away the cold panic in an instant.
He had changed. He really, truly had changed. The boy who used to prioritize a factory call over your tears was completely gone. Sitting in front of you was a man who was willing to let his entire career burn to the ground just to make sure you felt safe on a Sunday afternoon.
The violent shaking of your shoulders began to slow down, your breath gradually returning to a normal, steady rhythm. You reached your hands up, gently cupping his wet cheeks, using your thumbs to wipe away his tears.
“Kimi,” you whispered softly, your voice still shaky but carrying a sudden, deep calm. “Kimi, look at me.”
Kimi blinked through his tears, his dark eyes wide and terrified, looking like a little boy who was expecting a punishment. “Are you... are you okay. Do you want me to leave so you can breathe. I can sleep at a hotel, Y/N, whatever you need, just please do not hate me.”
“I don't hate you,” you said, a small, watery smile breaking through your tears. You leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, feeling him instantly melt against your touch, a long, shaky sigh of relief escaping his chest. “I don't hate you at all. I am sorry I panicked. I just... my brain went straight back to last year.”
“You do not have to apologize,” Kimi said fiercely, grabbing your hands and kissing your knuckles over and over again. “Never apologize for that. I gave you that trauma, Y/N. It is my job to help you carry it until it goes away. But I need you to know, with absolute certainty, that I am not going to that meeting. I am staying right here on this sofa with my girlfriend, and we are going to watch a movie.”
You let out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his chest. The final, lingering shards of doubt inside your heart completely dissolved, replaced by a profound, unshakeable sense of security. You were safe. You were chosen. You were his priority.
“Okay,” you murmured, snuggling deeper into his side, letting him wrap his arms around you again. “Let's watch a movie.”
The weeks and months that followed that Sunday afternoon were a beautiful, golden blur of absolute fluff and new beginnings.
The text message incident had been the final, ultimate test of your relationship, and Kimi had passed it with flying colors. The next morning, Toto Wolff had actually called Kimi directly, not to scold him, but to check on him. Kimi had simply told him, *“Y/N needed me last night, so I stayed home. I am ready for the engineering briefings today.”* Toto had merely chuckled and told him he would see him at the factory, completely validating the boundaries Kimi had fought so hard to establish.
With the arrival of February came the official launch of the new Mercedes car. For the first time in over a year, Kimi asked you to come with him to the factory for the reveal event. You had hesitated at first, but Kimi had smiled, taking your hand. *“You are not going to sit in the back of a room, Y/N. You are coming as my partner. I want you by my side.”*
And he meant it. When you walked into the brightly lit auditorium at Brackley, surrounded by flashing cameras, journalists, and high profile team executives, Kimi kept his hand firmly locked with yours. When the team photographers asked him to step forward for a solo picture with the new car, he did, but the moment the flash stopped, his eyes instantly scanned the crowd until they found yours, offering a quick wink before walking straight back to where you stood, introducing you proudly to every corporate sponsor and board member who approached him.
You weren't invisible anymore. You were an essential, celebrated part of his life, and everyone in the paddock knew it.
By the time the season opener in Bahrain arrived in March, the transition was complete. You didn't travel to every single race, you kept your peaceful life and your beloved job at the art gallery in Richmond, a decision that Kimi supported with absolute enthusiasm. But when you did choose to fly out to a race, like the European season opener in Imola, the experience was entirely different.
It was a beautiful, warm Sunday afternoon in Italy. Kimi had just driven a flawless race, securing a spectacular second place podium finish in front of his home crowd. The paddock was a chaotic zoo of shouting fans, media personnel, and celebrating team members.
You were standing in the back of the Mercedes hospitality building, watching the podium ceremony on the big screen, your heart swelling with an intense, pure pride as you watched him spray the champagne, a beautiful, radiant smile on his face.
The moment the ceremony ended, you expected the usual routine, the two hours of media interviews, the sponsor greetings, and the long debriefs that would leave you waiting until midnight. You sat down at a table, pulling out your book, preparing yourself for the wait.
But less than twenty minutes later, the glass doors of the hospitality building slid open.
You looked up, and your jaw dropped.
Kimi walked into the room, still wearing his white racing undershirt, his fire suit tied around his waist, his hair completely soaked from the champagne and sweat. He hadn't even changed into his team media kit. He had skipped the immediate TV pens, leaving his manager to rearrange the schedule, and had run straight back to the hospitality unit.
His dark eyes scanned the room, ignoring the engineers and guests who were shouting congratulations at him, until they locked onto you. A brilliant, breathless smile broke across his face.
“Y/N,” he breathed, rushing across the room toward your table.
You stood up, a joyful laugh escaping your lips. “Kimi, what are you doing here. You have media, you have to go to the pen.”
“They can wait ten minutes,” Kimi said, his voice full of an absolute, unshakeable happiness. He reached you, throwing his arms around your waist and pulling you tightly against his chest, completely ignoring the fact that he was damp and covered in champagne. He buried his face in your neck, lifting you slightly off the floor as a deep, content sigh escaped his lips.
“I wanted to see you first,” he murmured against your skin, his hands rubbing comfortingly against your back. “I wanted to tell you that I love you, and that I drove every single lap out there thinking about coming back to this room to see your smile.”
You wrapped your arms tight around his shoulders, holding him close, the sweet, sharp scent of victory champagne filling your senses. You looked around the bright, bustling room, then back at the boy who held you as if you were the only person in the entire universe.
The desert was completely gone. The moon was no longer a distant, unreachable place. You were standing right in the center of his world, wrapped in the quiet, steady warmth of a love that would never, ever take you for granted again.
“I love you too, Kimi,” you whispered, leaning up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. “Go do your interviews. I'll be right here waiting for you.”
“Ten minutes,” he promised, kissing you one more time before reluctantly letting you go, his eyes full of a deep, beautiful devotion. “And then we are going home.”
Heyyyyy, can I get an oneshot of Oscar with a reader that is very motherly? Like when they walk around the paddock children always seek her out and she can be seen holding a baby or talking to young fans? Thank you!
The magnet effect
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: none, pure fluff, comfort, paddock domesticity
Summary: Navigating a chaotic race weekend becomes a lot sweeter as Oscar watches you naturally gravitate toward every young fan and child in the paddock, proving to be the ultimate comforting anchor in his high-speed world.
Requested: Yes/ anon
Word count: 3744
Author’s note: Hope you love this sweet, motherly reader! Oscar being a soft boyfriend is my absolute favorite thing to write.
You can find my masterlist pinned on my profile!!
The morning air in the paddock is always a mix of high-tension energy and the sharp, clean scent of pristine tarmac and expensive fuel. Mechanics are already moving with that practiced, brisk efficiency of theirs, wheeling tire stacks and carrying carbon fiber components between the hospitality units and the garages.
Oscar walks a half step behind you, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his team kit. He has that quiet, focused look he always gets on a race weekend, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings but softened by the fact that you are right there beside him.
You have your canvas tote bag over one shoulder, filled with the usual assortment of essentials, hair ties, lip balm, a couple of stray sharpies, and always, without fail, a few loose stickers or small trinkets you picked up along the way.
Before you even reach the McLaren hospitality entrance, the first shift happens. It is a subtle thing, but Oscar notices it immediately because he always notices how people react to you.
A small boy, no older than four, has broken away from his father’s grip near the barriers. The kid is wearing a miniature orange cap that sits way too low on his ears, forcing him to tilt his whole head back just to see where he is going. He stumbles slightly on the uneven edge of the hospitality decking, his little sneaker catching on the wood.
You do not even hesitate. Your pace changes instantly, a natural, fluid transition from walking with your partner to dropping down on one knee right in front of the toddler.
“Whoa there, buddy,” you say, your voice dropping into that warm, grounded tone that seems to instantly lower the blood pressure of anyone within a five foot radius. You catch his small shoulders with steady hands, preventing the inevitable scraped knee. “Big steps on the wood, okay?”
The boy blinks, his wide eyes looking at you, then up at Oscar, then back to you. The lower lip that had been trembling a second ago settles.
“My hat fell,” the boy mutters, pointing a chubby finger toward the ground where the oversized cap now lies.
“I see it,” you say, picking it up and dusting off the front panel with your palm. Instead of just handing it back, you place it gently back on his head, adjusting the plastic snap at the back so it actually fits him properly. “There you go. Now you can see the cars properly. What is your name?”
“Leo,” he says, his voice small but no longer frightened.
“Well, Leo, you have a very cool hat. You should go show your dad before he thinks you joined a pit crew.” You give his shoulder a gentle, encouraging pat, directing him back toward his frantic looking father who is already jogging over with an apologetic expression.
Oscar stands a few feet back, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He keeps his hands in his pockets, but his shoulders relax a fraction more. This is your element, and watching you navigate it is one of his favorite parts of a race weekend.
The father offers a quick, breathless thank you, pulling Leo back toward the main path, and you stand up, smoothing down your trousers with a casual flick of your wrists.
“You are like a magnet,” Oscar says softly as you step back up to his side. His voice is a low, gentle rumble, carrying that dry, affectionate undertone he reserves just for you. “They see you from a mile away.”
“He just tripped, Oscar,” you say, smiling up at him and slipping your hand into his crook of his elbow as you resume your walk. “The cap was blinding him.”
“It is not just the cap,” Oscar replies, his thumb coming up to brush briefly against the back of your hand before he remembers they are in full view of the cameras. He keeps his posture professional, but his eyes stay warm. “It is a regular occurrence. I am convinced you have some sort of signal only people under the age of seven can detect.”
You laugh, the sound light and easy, cutting through the low hum of the paddock generators. “Maybe I do. It is a very specific superpower.”
As you enter the McLaren hospitality area, the environment changes to one of controlled chaos. Engineers are huddled over laptops at the high tables, plates of half eaten scrambled eggs sitting beside binders of telemetry data. Team guests are beginning to filter in, holding lattes and looking slightly overwhelmed by the sheer scale of everything.
Kim, one of the communications managers, spots Oscar and immediately starts walking over with a tablet held against her chest. She looks slightly flustered, her headset slipping off one ear.
“Oscar, good morning. We have the engineering briefing in ten, and then the media pen at eleven. Oh, and the digital team wants five minutes for a quick TikTok thing if we can squeeze it in,” Kim says, her eyes darting over her schedule before she looks up and notices you. Her expression instantly softens, her shoulders dropping about two inches. “Hi, morning. Sorry, it is a bit of a mad house today.”
“Good morning, Kim,” you say, offering her a calm, reassuring smile. “Do you need a hand with anything? You look like you have about four different things happening at once.”
“I am fine, just, the hospitality manager’s daughter is here today because her childcare fell through, and she is currently trying to color on the back of the media schedules,” Kim admits, letting out a small, tired laugh. “We are trying to keep her contained in the back office, but she is a bit of an escape artist.”
You glance at Oscar, who gives you a knowing, highly amused look. He knows exactly what is about to happen.
“Go do your briefing,” you tell him, reaching out to pat his arm. “I will go see if I can help keep the peace in the back.”
“Do not let them recruit you into the strategy team,” Oscar jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “They need all the help they can get, but I need you back by lunch.”
“Deal,” you say.
You follow Kim toward the private offices at the back of the hospitality building. Inside, sitting on a swivel chair that is entirely too big for her, is a little girl of about three or four, clutching a purple crayon like a weapon. Her mother, the hospitality manager, is frantically typing on a laptop while trying to keep a stack of menus out of reach of the crayon.
“Hi,” you say softly, stepping into the room and closing the door quietly behind you to shut out the noise of the main floor.
The little girl stops her frantic scribbling and looks up, her dark eyes wide and suspicious. Her mother looks up too, her face flushed with stress.
“Oh, you do not have to be in here,” the mother says quickly, starting to stand up. “I am so sorry, she is usually much better than this, it is just a chaotic morning.”
“Please, sit,” you say, walking over with a gentle wave of your hand. “I have plenty of time before Oscar needs me for anything. What is her name?”
“Maya,” the mother says, sinking back into her chair with a sigh of relief.
You drop down to your knees beside the low coffee table where Maya has set up her operations. You do not immediately reach for her or her crayons. Instead, you just lean your forearms on the edge of the table, bringing yourself down to her eye level.
“That is a very bright purple, Maya,” you say, pointing to the streak on the scrap paper. “Are you drawing a car?”
Maya looks at the paper, then at you, then slowly shakes her head. “No. It is a dinosaur.”
“A purple dinosaur,” you say, nodding with serious appreciation. “That is the best kind. Do you have a green one? I think purple dinosaurs usually like to eat green leaves.”
Within two minutes, you are sitting cross legged on the carpet, completely unbothered by the dust or the fact that your trousers might get wrinkled. Maya has abandoned her giant swivel chair and is now leaning heavily against your side, her small arm pressing against yours as she holds out a yellow crayon for you to use.
You take it, carefully adding a very questionable looking tree to the corner of her drawing.
This is how Oscar finds you an hour later. The engineering briefing has run long, his mind full of tire degradation data and aerodynamic balances, but the moment he opens the door to the back office, the tension in his neck dissolves.
You are still on the floor, but Maya is no longer coloring. She has grown tired, her small head resting against your shoulder, her thumb tucked loosely near her mouth as she drifts off to sleep. You are holding her with a practiced, easy familiarity, one of your hands resting gently on her back, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against her spine. You are speaking in low, murmuring tones to her mother, who is finally smiling properly.
Oscar stays in the doorway for a second, just taking the sight in. There is something so incredibly grounded about you, something that completely cuts through the artificial, high speed world of Formula One. You do not care about the branding, the sponsors, or the lap times. You care about the people, especially the little ones who find themselves lost in the shuffle.
You look up as the door clicks, your eyes meeting Oscar’s. You do not move, not wanting to wake the sleeping child against you, but your smile is instantaneous and warm.
“Hey,” you mouth silently.
Oscar steps into the room, closing the door behind him with almost surgical precision so it does not make a sound. He walks over and crouches down beside you, his long legs bent as he hovers over the floor. He looks at Maya, then looks at you, his eyes incredibly soft.
“Rough crowd?” he whispers, his voice barely a breath.
“Very demanding,” you whisper back, your eyes crinkling. “She insisted the dinosaur needed a house. My architectural skills were severely questioned.”
The hospitality manager looks up from her laptop, smiling warmly at Oscar. “She has been an absolute lifesaver, Oscar. Truly. I actually got the lunch menus printed because of her.”
“She has that effect,” Oscar says, his eyes never really leaving your face. He reaches out, his large hand coming down to rest briefly on your knee, a steady, warm pressure. “Are you ready for lunch? The media pen is done, I have about forty five minutes before the next meeting.”
“I need to carefully extract myself,” you murmur, looking down at Maya.
With the practiced skill of someone who has done this a hundred times, you slide your arms out from under the little girl, transferring her weight onto the soft cushion of the office sofa that her mother has quickly prepared with a jacket. Maya stirs slightly, letting out a little huff of air, but settles back down into a deep sleep.
You stand up, stretching your back slightly, and Oscar is right there, his hand coming to the small of your back to steady you as you find your footing after sitting on the floor for so long.
“Thanks again,” the mother says quietly as you head toward the door.
“Anytime,” you say, turning to give her a final wave. “Good luck with the lunch rush.”
Once you are out in the corridor, away from the quiet room, Oscar lets his hand drop from your back, but he stays close, his shoulder brushing against yours as you walk toward the driver rooms.
“You are going to have a fan club of toddlers by the end of the season,” he says, his voice full of that quiet amusement. “They will be protesting outside the garage if you do not spend enough time with them.”
“They are just honest,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Adults in this paddock always want something, or they are stressed about lap times. Kids just want to know if you can draw a dinosaur. It is refreshing.”
“I can draw a dinosaur,” Oscar says, his face completely serious, though his eyes are dancing. “It is a bit blocky, looks more like a box on wheels, but the intent is there.”
“I will have to test you on that later,” you say, laughing.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of track activity. You watch the practice session from the back of the garage, the noise of the V6 turbo hybrid engines splitting the air every time Oscar leaves the pit lane. You wear your noise cancelling headphones, watching the timing screens with a focused eye, but even here, your attention shifts when you notice the family of one of the team’s mechanics standing in the viewing gallery.
The mechanic’s wife is holding a baby who looks to be about six months old, trying to keep the heavy ear defenders on the infant’s head while also keeping an eye on the garage monitors. The baby is squirming, clearly unhappy with the tight fit of the headphones and the vibration of the environment.
During a red flag period, when the cars are sitting stationary in the garage and the mechanics are swarming around them, you slip away from your spot behind the engineers. You walk up the short steps to the viewing area, approaching the mother with a warm, open posture.
“Hi,” you say, your voice raised just enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the garage. “I am Y/N. Do you want me to hold him for a minute so you can get a drink or adjust your headset? It is loud in here.”
The woman looks surprised, then incredibly grateful. “Oh, are you sure? He is a bit heavy, and he has been drooling a lot.”
“I do not mind at all,” you say, already reaching out your arms in that universal, welcoming gesture.
The baby transfers to your arms smoothly. You nestle him against your chest, one hand automatically coming up to support his heavy, unsteady head while your other arm forms a secure seat beneath his bottom. You begin that instinctual, rhythmic swaying motion that all natural caretakers do, your hips moving side to side in a gentle, calming cadence.
The baby stops squirming almost instantly. He blinks up at you, a big glob of drool bubbling on his bottom lip, his little hands clutching at the fabric of your team shirt. You do not care about the drool. You just look down at him, smiling, making soft, clicking noises with your tongue that are completely drowned out by the garage noise but seem to resonate with him anyway.
Down in the pit box, Oscar is sitting in his car, his visor up as his engineers discuss a change to the front wing flap angle. He is listening to Tom over the radio, nodding along, but his eyes naturally drift to the rearview mirror on the garage wall, which gives him a clear view of the hospitality and viewing deck behind him.
He sees you. He sees you swaying with the baby, your face lit up with that pure, uncomplicated kindness that first drew him to you. He watches the way you effortlessly handle the infant, how completely at ease you look, how the mother next to you is finally taking a deep breath and drinking from a water bottle.
“Oscar, you happy with that balance shift for the next run?” Tom’s voice cracks through his earpiece.
Oscar blinks, tearing his eyes away from the mirror. “Yeah. Yeah, Tom. Sounds good. Let us try it.”
His heart feels a little full, a little heavy in the best possible way. In a world where everything is measured in milliseconds, where pressure is a constant weight on his chest, you are his anchor. And seeing how much love you have to give, how naturally it pours out of you to anyone who needs it, makes him feel like the luckiest guy in the pit lane.
When the practice session ends and the media duties are finally concluded for the day, the sun is beginning to set over the circuit, casting long, golden shadows across the paddock. The crowd has thinned out, leaving mostly team personnel and a few lingering guests who have VIP passes.
Oscar is walking back from the engineering room, his race suit tied around his waist, the white fireproof undershirt clinging to his shoulders. He looks a little tired, the physical toll of pulling high G forces for two hours showing in the slight slump of his shoulders.
He finds you near the exit of the paddock, standing by the team barriers. You are not alone, of course.
A young girl, maybe seven or eight years old, is standing on the other side of the fence. She is wearing a McLaren shirt that is much too big for her, her hair tied in two messy pigtails. She is holding a large black notebook and a silver marker, looking up at you with absolute adoration.
“And then my dad said we could come to the track because it was my birthday,” the girl is saying, her words tumbling out in a fast, excited rush. “And I saw Oscar on the TV, and he is my favorite because he is really fast and he does not yell on the radio.”
You are leaning against the barrier, your chin resting on your hands, listening to her with total concentration as if she is the most important person in the world. “He is very quiet on the radio, is he not? Sometimes I think he is falling asleep out there, but he assures me he is just focused.”
The girl giggles, covering her mouth with her notebook.
“Did you have a good birthday?” you ask, your voice soft.
“The best,” she says. “But I did not get to see him up close.”
“Well,” you say, your eyes shifting past her shoulder to spot Oscar approaching. A brilliant, knowing smile breaks across your face. “Look who just decided to show up. Perfect timing.”
The girl turns around, her eyes widening to the size of saucers as Oscar stops a few feet away. He looks at you first, receiving that silent, encouraging nod you always give him, before he steps up to the barrier.
“Hi there,” Oscar says, his voice gentle. He offers the little girl a warm smile, the tiredness instantly vanishing from his eyes. “Did I hear someone say it is their birthday?”
The girl nods quickly, suddenly struck dumb by the reality of her favorite driver standing right in front of her. She holds out the notebook with trembling hands.
“Happy birthday,” Oscar says, taking the notebook and the marker. He signs his name carefully across the blank page, adding a little 81 inside a circle just below it. He looks up at her, capping the pen. “Are you having a good weekend?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Y/N told me you are focused, not asleep.”
Oscar lets out a soft laugh, his eyes darting to you with a mixture of amusement and mock betrayal. “Did she? Well, she is right. Most of the time. Sometimes I am thinking about what I want for dinner.”
The girl giggles again, the tension breaking completely.
You reach into your tote bag, your fingers rummaging around until you find what you are looking for. You pull out a small, metallic McLaren logo pin, something you had acquired from the marketing office earlier in the week.
“Here,” you say, leaning over the barrier and pinning it gently to the collar of her oversized shirt. “A little extra birthday present. Now you are officially part of the team.”
The girl looks down at the pin, her face lighting up with pure, unadulterated joy. “Thank you!”
Her mother, who had been standing a few paces back to give her daughter space, steps forward now, thanking both of you profusely. You chat with the mother for another minute, asking how their travel was and making sure they know the best grandstand spots for the support races the next morning, while Oscar stands beside you, his arm casually coming around your waist, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of your trousers.
It is a quiet, domestic gesture in the middle of a public space, but it feels completely natural.
When the family finally walks away, the little girl turning back to wave three separate times, you let out a long breath, leaning your weight back against Oscar’s chest.
“You are exhausting, you know that?” Oscar murmurs into your hair, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head for a brief second. “I am the one who drove fifty laps today, but you are the one who did a full shift of public relations, childcare, and emotional support.”
“I love it,” you say, turning around in the circle of his arm to face him. You reach up, your fingers smoothing down a stray lock of hair that has escaped his usual neat style. “They are so sweet, Oscar. It reminds you that this whole circus is actually supposed to be fun.”
“You remind me of that every day,” he says softly.
He looks down at you, his dark eyes steady and filled with a deep, unshakeable affection. He does not say the words out loud, not here where someone could be watching with a camera, but the way his hand tightens slightly around your waist speaks volumes.
“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the exit where the team cars are parked. “Let us get out of here. I think you have earned a proper dinner, and I promise not to make you draw any dinosaurs until at least tomorrow morning.”
“You still owe me that drawing,” you remind him, falling into step beside him as you walk out of the paddock gates together, the sky turning a deep, twilight purple above you.
“I know,” Oscar says, a small, content smile on his face. “I have been practicing in my head during the long runs. It is going to be a masterpiece.”
Hey queen, can I request a blurb of Lewis and a reader that is loved by everyone in the paddock including fans, no matter what team they support the reader has somehow made them fall in love with them. Remember to take care of yourself and take breaks ❤️❤️
The paddock sweetheart
Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: none, pure fluff, comfort, paddock family dynamics, fake results
Summary: Navigating the high-stakes world of Ferrari alongside Lewis, you find yourself becoming the unexpected darling of the entire F1 grid, capturing the hearts of rivals, rookies, and fans alike during a magical weekend in Monaco.
Requested: Yes/ Anon
Word count: 6142
Author’s note: Hope you love this sweet Monaco weekend, let me know your favorite driver interaction in the comments, xx
The morning sun in Monaco always seemed to hit the harbor at an angle that made everything look like a movie set. The water was a sharp, brilliant blue, and the yachts lined up against the concrete docks were so white they practically hurt your eyes. You sat on the edge of the small terrace attached to the back of the Ferrari hospitality building, a warm porcelain mug of coffee held between both of your hands. The paddock was already alive with the sharp, rhythmic buzz of wheel guns, the distant shout of mechanics, and the low, heavy rumble of engines being fired up for morning checks.
It was your second year fully traveling with Lewis, but this year felt entirely different. The deep, familiar silver and black of his old garage had been replaced by a sea of bright, unapologetic scarlet. Seeing him in red was still a bit of a shock to the system when you looked at him first thing in the morning, but the team had welcomed both of you with open arms. Well, more than open arms. They had treated you like royalty from the exact moment you stepped through the turnstiles at pre-season testing.
A shadow fell over your table, and you looked up to see Charles Leclerc sliding into the plastic chair opposite you. He was already wearing his red team polo, his hair slightly damp from a morning shower, looking remarkably awake for eight o clock on a Thursday.
“Good morning, y/n,” Charles said, his voice carrying that soft, melodic Monégasque lilt. He reached over without asking and plucked a small piece of pastry from the plate in front of you, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Please tell me you brought some of those biscuits from London this weekend. The ones with the chocolate on the bottom. My trainer says I cannot have them, but if you give them to me, he cannot argue with you.”
You laughed, leaning back against your chair. “I might have a packet or two hidden in my suitcase, Charles. But if Andrea comes looking for me, I am telling him it was your idea.”
“Deal,” Charles smiled, leaning his elbows on the table. “Lewis is still in the engineering room. They are arguing about the front wing endplates again. He has been there since seven. I think he forgets to breathe sometimes when he is looking at telemetry.”
“He does,” a deep, familiar voice rumbled from behind you.
You turned your head as a pair of strong, tattooed arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind. Lewis leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your neck, his freshly braided hair brushing against your cheek. He smelled like hotel soap, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of the garage. He looked tired around the eyes, but the moment he looked down at you, his face softened completely.
“Morning, beautiful,” Lewis murmured, pulling up a third chair to sit close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. He reached out and took a sip directly from your coffee mug, sighing as the caffeine hit him. “Charles, stop trying to steal my girlfriend’s biscuits. Go find your own.”
“She likes me better anyway, Lewis,” Charles teased, though he stood up, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder. “I have to go do a media brief for Canal Plus. Y/n, come by the garage later, okay? My mother is coming this afternoon and she specifically asked if you were going to be here.”
“Tell her I will be there by lunch,” you called out as Charles waved and walked away, disappearing into the red-clad crowd of mechanics moving through the hospitality area.
Lewis watched him go, then turned his full attention back to you. His hand slid into yours under the table, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles over the back of your knuckles. “Did you sleep alright? The boats in the harbor were making so much noise last light with those parties.”
“I slept fine, Lewis,” you smiled, using your free hand to smooth down a stray hair near his temple. “You are the one who looks like you need another three hours of sleep. Are the balances that bad?”
“Just trying to get the car to rotate the way I want in the low-speed corners,” he admitted, his eyes drifting over the paddock for a second before coming back to you. “It is Monaco. If we do not get the front end working perfectly on Thursday, Saturday is going to be a nightmare. But enough about the car. Are you coming to the fan stage with me later?”
“If you want me to,” you said.
“I always want you there,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he saved just for you. “Besides, the fans miss you. I saw a sign outside the main gates this morning that had your name on it instead of mine.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “That was probably just one person, Lewis.”
“It was not,” he insisted, a proud little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “They love you, y/n. The whole place loves you.”
It was an undeniable truth that you still had a hard time wrapping your head around. You did not work in motorsport. You did not have a background in engineering, public relations, or management. You were simply Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend, there to support him through the grueling twenty-four race season. Yet, over the last two years, you had somehow become a fixture of the paddock that everyone, from the highest-paid drivers to the people washing the tires, seemed to protect.
When Lewis made the earth-shattering announcement that he was leaving Mercedes for Ferrari, the internet had gone into a frenzy. But amid all the talk of contracts, championships, and legacies, there had been an overwhelming wave of social media posts from fans of every single team saying the exact same thing, we do not care what car Lewis drives, as long as y/n is still in the paddock.
After Lewis went back to his engineering meeting, you decided to take a walk down the pit lane before the support races started and the track went hot. The Monaco pit lane was notoriously narrow, cramped, and chaotic, but this early in the morning, it had a strange, industrial peace to it.
As you walked past the Alpine garage, Pierre Gasly caught sight of you from inside the back of the garage. He immediately dropped the tire pressure gauge he was holding and jogged out into the pit lane, a massive grin on his face.
“Y/n!” Pierre cried, wrapping you in a quick, enthusiastic hug. “You are finally here! I was looking for you in Miami but Lewis said you had to stay home for work.”
“I had a huge project to finish, Pierre,” you laughed, hugging him back. “But I am here for the whole European leg now. How is the car looking?”
Pierre made a comical grimace, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling of the garage. “Ah, you know. It is a tractor, but it is a pretty tractor for Monaco. Listen, Kika and I are doing dinner tomorrow night at that little place up by the casino. You must come. Tell Lewis he can come too if he promises not to talk about tyre degradation for one evening.”
“I will hold him to that,” you promised.
Continuing down the pit lane, you passed the Mercedes garage. It felt strange not seeing Lewis’ number forty-four sitting above the door, but the atmosphere inside still felt familiar. George Russell was standing near the front scales, talking in hushed tones to his race engineer. When he saw you walking past, his eyes lit up and he broke off his conversation mid-sentence, stepping across the yellow line into the pit lane.
“Y/n, thank goodness,” George said, adjusting his white team overalls. “Can you please go into our hospitality and tell Toto that his new diet plan for the team is a disaster? He has banned the chocolate croissants from the morning hospitality buffet. We are living like prisoners.”
“George, you are a professional athlete,” you teased, though you reached out to give his arm a friendly squeeze. “I am sure you can survive without a pastry for one weekend.”
“I cannot,” George said with utter seriousness. “But seriously, how are you? How is the red suits treating you?”
“They are wonderful, George. Very loud, very passionate, but wonderful.”
“Good,” George smiled softly, his expression turning genuine. “We miss you around here, you know. It is too quiet without you popping in to steal our energy drinks.”
Before you could reply, a loud, energetic shout echoed from the adjacent garage. Williams had occupied the space right next to them, and standing there, leaning against the pit wall with a massive, goofy grin, was Carlos Sainz.
“Look who it is!” Carlos shouted, throwing his arms wide open. “The star of the paddock! Come here, y/n!”
You walked over to him, and Carlos lifted you completely off your feet in a massive bear hug, swinging you around slightly before setting you down. He looked incredibly striking in his new blue Williams kit, though it was still a bit odd to see him out of Ferrari red.
“Carlos! How are you adjusting?” you asked, looking at his new overalls.
“It is fantastic, really,” Carlos said, his dark eyes shining with that familiar warmth. “The team is amazing. James is a genius. But I miss my favorite person to argue with about football. Have you been watching the matches?”
“Every single one,” you said. “And your team looks terrible right now, Carlos.”
Carlos clutched his chest as if he had been shot, looking over at George for support. “Do you hear this, George? She comes to my new garage just to break my heart. Unbelievable.”
“She is right, mate,” George chimed in, laughing as he stepped back toward his car.
While you were laughing with Carlos, a younger, slightly built teenager walked out from the back of the Mercedes garage. It was Kimi Antonelli, the young Italian rookie who had been handed the monumental task of filling Lewis Hamilton’s shoes at Mercedes. He looked incredibly young, his curls slightly unruly, and his eyes wide as he took in the sheer scale of the Monaco event. He looked nervous, his hands fidgeting with the zippers of his race suit.
When Kimi saw you standing with Carlos, he slowed down, looking a bit shy, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to intrude. You noticed his hesitation immediately. Breaking away from Carlos for a moment, you walked over to the young Italian with a warm, welcoming smile.
“Hi, Kimi,” you said gently.
Kimi blinked, a flush of pink rising to his cheeks as he realized you knew his name. “Ah, hello, y/n. I did not think you would know who I am.”
“Of course I know who you are,” you said, reaching out to pat his shoulder reassuringly. “You are doing an incredible job. Taking over that seat is not easy, but everyone can see how talented you are. How are you holding up with the pressure this weekend?”
Kimi let out a small, relieved breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. “It is a lot, you know? Monaco is so narrow. The walls feel very close. And the media, they keep asking me if I am going to be the next Lewis.”
“Do not listen to them,” you told him firmly, looking directly into his eyes. “You do not need to be the next Lewis. You just need to be Kimi. Lewis thinks you are brilliant, you know. He told me himself that Mercedes chose the right person.”
Kimi’s face lit up with a mixture of awe and pure relief. “He said that? Really?”
“He did,” you lied slightly, though you knew Lewis genuinely respected the kid’s speed. “If you ever feel overwhelmed or just need a quiet place to escape the cameras, you can always come find me in the Ferrari motorhome. We have excellent pasta, and I will make sure nobody bothers you.”
“Thank you, y/n,” Kimi said, his voice full of genuine gratitude. “That means a lot. Truly.”
Carlos watched the exchange from a few feet away, a soft, knowing smile on his face. When Kimi walked back into his garage looking significantly more confident, Carlos leaned closer to you. “You see? This is what I mean. You have been a Ferrari person for five minutes, and you are already adopting the Mercedes children. You are too good for this paddock, y/n.”
“I just want everyone to be happy, Carlos,” you said softly.
“Which is exactly why everyone loves you,” Carlos replied, giving your shoulder a final squeeze before heading toward his engineering station.
By the time lunch rolled around, the paddock was packed to capacity with VIPs, celebrities, and special guests. Walking through the crowded paths between the massive motorhomes was usually a challenge for the drivers, who required teams of security guards just to move ten feet. For you, it was a completely different experience. Every few steps, a hand would wave from a hospitality balcony, or a mechanic from a rival team would stop to say hello.
You made your way back to Ferrari, where Charles’ mother, Pascale, was already waiting for you at one of the corner tables. She stood up immediately, wrapping you in a warm, motherly hug that smelled of expensive lavender perfume.
“Y/n, ma chérie,” Pascale said, pulling back to look at you. “You look beautiful. Come, sit down. I have been waiting to talk to you. Charles tells me nothing about his life, so I have to ask you instead.”
You spent the next hour chatting with her, laughing as she shared embarrassing stories of Charles as a young karting driver. To the rest of the world, Charles Leclerc was the golden boy of Monaco, a racing superstar. To Pascale, and through her to you, he was just a boy who used to cry when he lost his favorite pair of racing gloves.
While you were talking, a group of fans leaning over the paddock fence near the Ferrari entrance caught your attention. They were holding up a massive, hand-painted banner. It didn't have the famous prancing horse on it, nor did it have Lewis’ or Charles’ numbers. Instead, it was painted in a bright, cheerful yellow, and written in big, bold block letters were the words, y/n fan club official paddock chapter.
Pascale followed your gaze and let out a soft laugh. “You see that? They adore you. I have never seen anything like it in all my years coming to these tracks. Usually, the fans only care about the men in the cars.”
“I do not understand it, Pascale,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed. “I am just here because of Lewis.”
“No,” Pascale said gently, reaching across the table to cover your hand with hers. “You are here because you bring a piece of humanity to a place that is often very cold and very corporate. Look at these boys, y/n. They are under so much pressure. They have millions of dollars, millions of fans, but very few people they can just talk to without a camera in their face. You treat them like real people. The fans see that, and the drivers need that.”
Her words stayed with you long after lunch ended.
As the afternoon approached, the tension in the paddock began to ramp up. Free Practice Two was about to start, and the relaxed atmosphere of the morning melted away, replaced by the intense, hyper-focused energy of a race weekend.
You walked into the Ferrari garage, putting on a pair of heavy noise-canceling headphones to protect your ears from the deafening scream of the engines. The garage was a masterpiece of organized chaos. Dozens of mechanics in red fire suits moved with surgical precision around the two cars.
Lewis was already sitting in his car, his helmet on, his dark visor down. He looked like a machine, completely locked into his own world. You walked over to the side of his cockpit, standing just clear of the mechanics working on the front suspension. Even with his visor down, you knew the exact moment his eyes found you.
He reached up with a gloved hand, holding it out over the edge of the carbon fiber cockpit. You stepped closer, placing your hand in his. He squeezed your fingers tightly, a silent, deeply grounded communication between the two of you amidst the noise and the pressure. You leaned down slightly, nodding at him, letting him know you were right there. He nodded back once, a sharp, determined movement, before releasing your hand to grip the steering wheel.
For the next hour, you stood at the back of the garage, watching the timing screens. Monaco was all about confidence, and Lewis was building it lap by lap. His name moved up the leaderboard, trading fastest sectors with Charles and Oscar Piastri in the McLaren. Every time he went purple in a sector, the garage would erupt in a subtle, coordinated rustle of excitement.
When the session ended and the cars rolled back into the pit lane, Lewis ended up second fastest, a mere three hundredths of a second behind Charles. It was a perfect result for a Friday, showing that the Scuderia had the pace to fight for pole position.
Once Lewis was out of the car and deep into his post-session debrief with his engineers, you decided to slip out of the back of the garage to get some fresh air. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across the harbor.
As you walked past the Red Bull hospitality unit, you ran into Max Verstappen. He was walking with his trainer, looking thoroughly annoyed after a difficult session where he had complained loudly over the radio about the car bouncing over the curbs.
When Max saw you, however, the hard, aggressive scowl on his face instantly vanished. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring his trainer who kept walking for a few steps before realizing his driver had disappeared.
“Hey, y/n,” Max said, his voice surprisingly soft compared to his usual curt tone during media sessions.
“Hi, Max,” you smiled, stopping to talk to him. “Tough session out there?”
“The car is a complete nightmare on these bumps,” Max grumbled, though there was no real heat in it now. “It feels like a go-kart with no suspension. I think my spine is two centimeters shorter than it was this morning.”
“Well, if you need some real food to recover, come over to Ferrari,” you joked. “I can steal some pasta from Charles’ personal stash for you.”
Max let out a rare, genuine laugh, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do not say that too loud, or Christian will think I am trying to sign a contract with them. But thank you. How are you enjoying the red? It suits you better than Lewis, I think.”
“Do not let him hear you say that,” you giggled.
“He knows I am faster anyway,” Max teased, waving his hand as he started to walk backward toward his team building. “See you tomorrow, y/n. Make sure you don't let Lewis eat too much pasta, he needs to stay light for the hills.”
You shook your head, smiling as you continued your walk. It was almost absurd how easily you could transition from comforting a nervous rookie like Kimi to joking around with a multiple-time world champion like Max. To you, they weren't icons or brands, they were just the boys who lived in this strange, traveling circus that you happened to share with them.
The next day, Saturday, was the day that truly mattered in Monaco. Qualifying was everything. The energy in the paddock had shifted from intense to downright suffocating. Nobody was laughing today. Drivers walked with their heads down, hoods pulled up, music blasting through their headphones to block out the noise.
You spent the morning trying to keep Lewis as calm as possible. You made him tea, helped him manage his media schedule, and sat quietly with him in his private driver room while he listened to his pre-race playlists. You didn't talk about apexes, tyre temperatures, or track evolution. Instead, you talked about the house you wanted to look at in the English countryside, and what kind of dog you should get when the season ended.
When it was time for Qualifying, you took your spot at the back of the garage, your heart hammering against your ribs. The twenty minutes of Q1 and Q2 were a blur of tension, but both Ferrari cars made it through to Q3 without any major issues.
The final ten minutes of Q3 were nothing short of spectacular. The atmosphere in Monaco during a shootout for pole position was unlike anything else in sports. The fans lining the grandstands and the yachts were screaming, their voices echoing off the rock walls of the principality.
On the final flying laps, Charles set a blistering time, putting himself provisionally on pole. A few seconds later, Lewis crossed the line. The timing screen flashed. Number forty-four moved into second place, just a tenth of a second behind his teammate. A Ferrari front row lockout for the Monaco Grand Prix.
The garage exploded into a frenzy of cheering, mechanics throwing their arms around each other, high-fiving and shouting in a mix of Italian and English. You let out a breath you felt like you had been holding for two days, a massive smile breaking across your face.
When Lewis came back to the pit lane, he jumped out of the car and immediately went over to celebrate with Charles and the team. After the official television interviews and the FIA press conference, he finally made his way back into the private engineering area behind the garage.
He was completely drenched in sweat, his hair wild, his face flushed with adrenaline. The moment he saw you standing by the door, he didn't care about the cameras, the engineers, or the team bosses. He strode straight over to you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into a fierce, sweaty hug.
“Front row, babe,” he whispered into your ear, his voice thick with emotion. “Front row in Monaco.”
“You were amazing, Lewis,” you said, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, ignoring the dampness of his race suit. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your hips. “I could hear the crowd on the cool-down lap. They were waving those yellow signs for you again. I think you have more fans here than Charles does, and this is his home race.”
“Oh, stop it,” you blushed, hitting his chest playfully. “Go take a shower, you smell like a burnt tire.”
“A fast burnt tire,” he corrected with a wink before heading toward the drivers area.
Sunday morning arrived with a clear sky and an underlying current of absolute electricity. The Monaco Grand Prix was the jewel in the crown of Formula One, and today, the paddock was a veritable red carpet of global stardom. Actors, musicians, and legendary athletes walked the narrow paths, but as you walked from the hotel to the track beside Lewis, the attention of the crowd lining the fences remained firmly fixed on the two of you.
When you reached the paddock entrance, a massive group of fans screamed your name. Lewis stopped, turning to you with a smile. “Go ahead, go say hi. We have a few minutes before I have the drivers parade.”
You walked over to the catch fencing, where hundreds of fans were pushed against the metal barriers. Many of them were wearing Ferrari red, but there were McLaren oranges, Red Bull blues, and Mercedes greens mixed in.
“Y/n! Y/n! Can you sign my hat?” a young girl shouted, pushing a bright orange Lando Norris cap through the gap in the fence.
“Of course,” you smiled, taking the marker from her hand. As you signed the brim, you looked up at her. “Are you excited for the race?”
“Yes! I hope Lando wins, but if he cannot, I want Lewis to win for you!” the girl said excitedly.
An older man wearing a classic Michael Schumacher Ferrari shirt reached out, offering you a beautiful, small bouquet of local Monaco roses. “For you, y/n. Thank you for making our Lewis so happy. We are glad to have you in the Ferrari family.”
You felt a lump form in your throat at the sheer, unprompted kindness of these strangers. “Thank you so much. That is beautiful.”
You spent ten minutes talking to the fans, signing autographs, and taking photos. Lewis stood a few feet back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. He didn't care that they were taking up time that could be spent on media. He just loved seeing how much joy you brought to the people who supported him.
The race itself was a masterclass in tension. From the start, Charles and Lewis managed to maintain their positions into Turn One, entering Saint Devote in perfect formation. For seventy-eight laps, the red cars controlled the pace of the Grand Prix.
Monaco was famously difficult for overtaking, but that didn't mean it was easy. One wrong move, one millimeter too close to the barriers at the Swimming Pool or Casino Square, and the race would be over. You stood in the garage, your fingers tightly clenched together, watching the telemetry screens with a tightness in your chest.
In the final laps, Max Verstappen made a late charge on fresher tires, closing the gap to Lewis to under half a second. Every time they passed the pit wall, the roar of the engines was deafening, the pressure inside the garage thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Two laps to go, Lewis, you are doing great, keep the focus,” his race engineer said over the radio, his voice remarkably calm.
“Tires are dropping off, but I have got this,” Lewis replied, his voice strained but steady.
When the checkered flag finally waved, it was Charles Leclerc who crossed the line first to win his home race, with Lewis Hamilton crossing the line right behind him in second place. The garage erupted. It was a perfect, historic Sunday for Scuderia Ferrari.
You broke out into a massive smile, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as you watched the mechanics leap onto the pit wall pit signaling boards, cheering and waving their flags.
The podium ceremony was a beautiful chaos of red confetti, spraying champagne, and the booming notes of the Italian national anthem echoing across the harbor. You stood in the crowded pit lane below the podium, tucked in among the Ferrari mechanics.
As Lewis stood on the second step of the podium, his trophy held high above his head, his eyes searched the massive crowd below. When he found you, his smile widened. He lowered the trophy slightly, pointing it directly at you, acknowledging that this achievement belonged to you just as much as it did to him.
After the podium, the celebrations moved back to the Ferrari motorhome. The entire building was packed to capacity, champagne flowing freely, music blasting from the speakers.
You were standing near the drinks station, holding a glass of sparkling water, when Lando Norris walked into the Ferrari hospitality area. He was still in his McLaren race suit, his hair messy from his helmet, looking exhausted but happy after finishing fourth. He didn't look at the team bosses or the sponsors. He walked straight over to you.
“Y/n,” Lando said, a tired grin on his face. “Please tell me you have some of that proper British food hidden in here. The food on our side is all healthy vegetables and I am starving.”
“Lando, you just drove a brilliant race,” you laughed, reaching behind the counter to grab a secret plate of mini sliders the catering staff had saved for you. “Here. Do not let Oscar see you, or he will want some too.”
“You are a lifesaver,” Lando said, taking a massive bite of a slider. “Seriously, y/n, great job this weekend. Lewis drove out of his skin to keep Max back. I think he wanted to make sure he got on the podium for you.”
“He did it for the team, Lando,” you said modestly.
“No, trust me, he did it for you,” Lando insisted, giving you a quick, affectionate squeeze around the shoulders. “We all know who really runs this paddock.”
As the night began to wind down, the loud music faded into a mellow, relaxed playlist. The celebrities had left for the exclusive yacht parties, leaving only the core group of drivers, mechanics, and close friends in the hospitality area.
Lewis had finally changed out of his race suit into a comfortable black linen shirt and trousers. He looked incredibly relaxed, the weight of the weekend completely lifted from his shoulders. He walked over to where you were sitting on the low lounge sofa near the balcony, sitting down beside you and immediately pulling you into his side.
You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. Outside, the lights of Monaco reflected off the calm water of the harbor, the boats gently rocking in the evening breeze.
Charles walked over, holding two glasses of champagne, handing one to Lewis and a glass of juice to you. He sat down on the armrest of the sofa, looking incredibly content.
“We did it, Lewis,” Charles said softly, clinking his glass against Lewis’. “A perfect weekend.”
“A perfect weekend, mate,” Lewis agreed, taking a sip. “You drove beautifully. Your dad would be so proud of you today, Charles.”
Charles’ eyes softened, a faint, emotional smile touching his lips. “Thank you, Lewis. That means a lot coming from you.” He turned his gaze to you, his expression turning warm. “And thank you, y/n. For everything you do. For keeping this old man calm on Saturday, and for making sure my mom had someone to talk to today.”
“I didn't do anything, Charles,” you murmured, leaning closer into Lewis.
“You do everything just by being here,” Lewis said down to you, his voice thick with a deep, quiet sincerity. He leaned down, pressing a long, tender kiss to the top of your head. “Every driver in this paddock wishes they had what I have, y/n. They are all envious of me, not because of the championships or the car, but because I have you by my side.”
You looked up at him, meeting his dark, beautiful eyes. In this fast-paced, high-stakes world where everything was measured in milliseconds and millions of dollars, you had found a quiet, immovable sanctuary in his arms. And as you looked around the room, seeing Carlos laughing with George near the door, Pierre waving at you from across the room, and young Kimi Antonelli giving you a shy, respectful wave before he left, you realized that you hadn't just found a home with Lewis. You had found a home with an entire family that extended far beyond the boundaries of any racing team.
“I love you, Lewis,” you whispered against his neck.
“I love you more, y/n,” he murmured back, tightening his grip around you as the stars shone brightly over the quiet harbor of Monaco.
Summary: At only 21 years old, you have to navigate being a race engineer for Isack Hadjar while his teammate hates you or love you. You aren't really sure.
Max hated you.
You were Isack Hadjar’s race engineer replacement for the rest of the season when his main race engineer had to take a break for family issues.
And the Red Bull driver hated you for a reason you couldn’t understand.
—--
It started in the pre-season when you were simply backing Richard Wood. You were following him everywhere with your little notebook and your heels which often made people laugh.
“She doesn’t have it in her.” A pit lane crew said once you walk past him. You ignored him like you ignored every other insult thrown at you.
“She’ll crumple under the pressure in seconds.”
“She’s too young.” Those were Max’s words and he made sure you heard them well. You refused to acknowledge him but it did hurt more than the others.
You were just trying to do your job.
You tried to keep your head high and just work, work, work. You asked Woody a million questions, worked until 2am and rewatched some old race in which the strategy was perfect to understand them clearly.
Australia was a disaster to say the least, Hadjar didn’t finish and you couldn’t help but blame yourself. It was a hard weekend for redbull and it felt as if everyone was blaming you.
In China, you and Richard worked on the strategy for hours, just trying to find something that would make the car finish.
You made a last minute change that helped Hadjar finish a place higher and you wanted to tear up of happiness. It was your first real call that actually helped a driver. When he saw the checkered flag for the first time this season, you hugged Richard while Max Verstappen was watching from afar.
He barely finished in Australia and wasn’t able to complete the China race. But he wasn’t able to tear his eyes off from you, your shaking hands when you would request a risky call and your smile when it worked.
After the race, you got up while shoving all your notebooks into your backpack, trying to make sure it all fit.
“You’re learning fast.” Your engineer says. “You’re making better calls now.”
“Thanks Woody.” You smile and make your way to GP.
You always tried to get the perspective of him after every race. He was a smart man and you had so much respect for him as an engineer.
“Hey Y/N !” He smiles at you, inviting you to sit down in front of him. “You were great out there today, you should be proud.”
“Thanks GP.” You said while getting all your notes out and explaining them to him to get his opinion on a few of your calls but also Woody’s one.
Being a good engineer was understanding your driver and your car but also every other car that was around him during that exact moment. Everything could influence everything.
It took two hours for you to understand all of his opinions and the plan he had for Max. You even managed to get in a few of your opinions to him that he actually approved.
Max watched for more time that he would admit. He hated you but god your smile was addicting, and the passion for strategy was evident in your eyes. Your hands were gesturing and your eyes focused on GP and his computer for two hours without ever looking bored.
Maybe Max hated how passionate you were about something so complicated. Maybe he was jealous that at such a young age, you understood F1 race strategy when it took him years to understand what GP was asking of him.
He never dared talk to you, he always told himself it was because you were working for another driver. Always told himself it was because he didn’t care at all for you or about you even.
—--
Richard Wood was out for the Canadian GrandPrix. You learned it only a few days out and you were made the main engineer by him. He had a family emergency and wasn’t able to answer calls and texts for at least a few months.
You had a panic attack when you first heard it.
At 21 years old, you weren't ready to be the only voice the driver would hear during his race. You weren’t ready to make the strategy alone, or basically alone.
You barely slept, passing every hour you possibly could in the Redbull garage. The strategy was ready at 5 in the morning of raceday which wasn’t ideal but it was all that you could provide.
Your eyes were begging to close but you simply took a shower and drove to the paddock. You needed to prove yourself and this was a gold occasion to do so.
You prayed while driving to anyone that this would work, that this strategy would not be a disaster and that you wouldn’t look like an absolute fool in front of thousands.
Max watched you during media day, sprint and qualifying.
He watched your anxious self that was always pacing around. Watch how you almost cried when Hadjar went to the third qualification. Watch how shaky you were minutes before your driver entered his car.
He didn’t comment and you didn’t even notice his eyes always following you around.
He had the right to watch, right ?
You were making noise around the paddock being not alone the youngest ever race engineer but also the first woman who would do it. The media loved to talk so much, you had to delete social media for that weekend so you would not lose your mind at their stupid and sexist comments.
You were able to talk to Isack before the race and then you put the headset on and muscle memory kicked in.
The race was doing fine and your voice was steadier every time you talked. The pit stops were going according to plan and Isack was driving fabulously.
He secured P5 and the shock was so intense that you simply stared at the computer in front of you for minutes before realizing that you didn’t mess it all up. You were alive, your driver was alive and in points.
Life was great.
The noise around you was quieter but the media never really stopped.
Max secured P3 which means that he had more media to do than Isack. You had the television opened in front of you while debriefing with GP the race when a question catched both of your attention.
“Max, do you believe that Isack could’ve podium if his race engineer wasn’t a woman ?” The question was shocking because no one dared to actually speak about the criticism you received. Every insult was quiet, every insult was always on the internet so people could hide their face.
“I am not answering this question.” His voice was stern, his expression neutral. “She did an amazing job at making sure that Isack was competing at the highest level he could and I’m tired of seeing narrative online bashing on her when she is doing something no one else ever did or could do.”
He lowered the microphone, signaling to the journalist that his answer was done and final.
You watched and listened from GP’s office.
“I thought he hated me.” You simply said, looking at the engineer in front of you.
“I thought he hated you too, I guess we were both wrong sweetie.”
—--
You were now preparing for the race in Monaco but you had a little task to do before anything else.
You entered Redbull garage but this time, you walked over to Max’s side.
“Do you know where Verstappen is ?” You questioned the first person you saw.
“Probably in his room.” The mechanic answered, you smiled and walked over there.
“Max ?” You knocked on his door.
He opened the door and just stared at you.
“Hi ! I just wanted to thank you for defending me in the media.” You were looking him in the eyes trying to look confident enough, but you were rambling and there was no denying it. “It was really sweet and I respected you for defending women in F1.”
You saw Max's mouth open to answer you and immediately turned around and left. Your walk was closer to a run and that left Max completely shocked, mouth opened.
You locked yourself into Richard's office that was temporarily yours and immediately buried yourself in work to forget the interaction.
What did you even think of trying to thank a four time world champion.
—--
Max went to the only person he could trust in the paddock for advice, Lewis Hamilton.
He entered the Ferrari garage and walked to him without wasting any time.
“I have a question but you need to keep your mouth shut about it after, okay ?”
“Yeah sure mate, what is it ?” Lewis was smiling but he knew that privacy was important. He wouldn’t do that to Max.
“If a woman came to thank you for something you did but after she talked, she didn't even let you time to say something before she left so fast it looked like she was running in heels.” He explains, fully serious. “Is that a sign that she hates me ?”
“I mean, the fact that she thanked you is a really good sign but she left so.” Lewis thinks for a while which only stresses Max more. “I would say just from that moment, that she maybe likes you but she’s nervous for sure mate. I mean you are intimating for sure.”
Max nods his head, soaking the information in. He was never really good at reading people’s emotions or their body language. “Thank you Lewis, I needed that.”
Max gets up and hugs Lewis quickly. He needed to find a way to confirm that you liked him so he could ask you out.
He wasn’t normally shy but you were, and if he didn’t want to do one thing was to scare you.
—--
Your race strategy was done and admirable for Monaco and you were definitely comfortable talking to Isack at any time now.
You watched qualification next to your new assistant and validated everything with GP. Nothing was perfect or as good as Woody but the progress could be seen by a blind.
You watched the whole race, commenting often and offering support through the radio. You had tears in your eyes when he crossed the finish line third.
You had just helped your first driver podium and you couldn’t feel prouder. You watched the podium with the whole team and cheered so loud when his name was pronounced.
The celebration was intense and you finished absolutely drenched in champagne. Your hair was clinging to your shirt and you needed water as you entered the garage to find anything to drink that had no alcohol.
You didn’t even have time to take a few sips of your water that you were face to face with Max. Your eyes met his and you smiled.
“Hi”
“Hi yourself, smart girl.” The praise slipped through his lips like it was normal, like it was a nickname that you always had.
You fumble the water bottle because of those stupid, attractive words. “I’m sorry for your race, the car just never really was there.”
“It happens.”
You nod your head and it simply felt as if you were too much in the room. “I won’t bother you much more, I just needed some water.” You laugh awkwardly, not knowing how else to fill the silence.
“You don’t bother me Y/N.” He said it so calmly, so confidently.
Your brain froze and for the second time, you turned around and left. For a smart woman, you definitely couldn’t read the room at all.
Maybe you didn’t run this time, but the urgency was definitely the same and Max saw it without needing the help of Hamilton.
“A win is a win.” He whispered to himself.
—--
When you walked in the paddock for preparation in Barcelona, you had a bouquet of lilies on your desk with a note.
You're doing great, don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise - Verstappen
You simply glued the note to your computer and started working.
The media pressure around you had finally started to calm down and people were now used to seeing your face in every meeting.
You weren’t the young intern anymore, you were indispensable.
Max still watched you with as much admiration but now you were holding back the eye contact and smiling back. The only thing that your brain knew how to do without messing up lately.
And before Isack climbed in his car, you had your usual check up with him and good luck speech.
But you also stopped in front of Max’s car and patted his helmet.
“Good luck out there.” You simply said, tapping his helmet three times.
“Good luck, smart girl.” He said and closed his visor up with a click.
You walked away to sit down next to your crew and tested the radio sound.
Your mind was focused on the racing ahead but your heart was the one racing in your chest. You were in too deep now.
—--
After the race and the P6 by Hadjar that was respectable, you started packing your things and cleaning up your desk.
It was late and you were tired to say the least. A knock on your door and then the door opening could be heard and that made you turn around.
You faced Verstappen who had changed and looked ready to leave.
“Where are you going after this ?“ He questioned.
“What are you talking about ?” Those words left before you could realize how rude they may sound, but you were confused.
“Sorry, my jet is leaving in a few hours and maybe you would like a lift to Monaco instead of the public plane.” He explains it like it should be obvious, like he is proposing to you a cup of coffee and not a private lift back home to you in a jet.
“I wouldn’t want to bother.” That answer was automatic, you never wanted to be of too much in someone’s plan.
“Then I invite you as my friend there, please.” He insists, begging with his blue eyes.
“When is the plane leaving ?”
“In four hours, smart girl.” He answers finally with a smile once he understands you’ll be there.
“Fine but you are paying my taxi Verstappen.” You giggle out, putting on your heavy backpack full of paper and reports on your back, ready to leave.
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
—--
After that, you were clearly friends with him. He bought you coffee every morning, lifted you to the paddock back and forth and you would always tap his helmet before every race.
You call it habit, he called it luck.
The pressure to perform as not only a race engineer but also a woman was always there but the weight wasn’t so heavy on your shoulders anymore.
Or maybe the weight didn’t change but your shoulders did.
Your analysis of every situation was doing better and you were even able to give a few tips to GP in which you teased him about for days. You were comfortable around him but around anyone in a Redbull uniform now.
It all changed in Madrid in which Max Verstappen not only won but Isack Hadjar also secured P2 making it a 1-2 Redbull podium.
It was also Isack's highest place yet this season with you as his engineer.
Redbull Racing team decided that you were the one deserving of the constructor award during the podium ceremony even when you declined it multiple times.
You climbed to your small step up and cried when your national anthem was sung. You thought of all the people that doubted you, you thought of the times in which you doubted yourself to do this.
The ceremony was like in slow motion, they handed you your trophy and you lifted it in the air to the cheers of the crowd. This was a win for you but also for every woman watching.
The champagne got everywhere and Max decided to target you as you laughed trying to spray it towards someone at least.
You hugged Isack so hard he couldn’t breath and smile with all your teeth for the pictures.
Those memories would never leave your head as you stepped down and walked away, following the drivers.
Max waited to walk you to your office as he shuffled your champagne wet hair.
“You are great out there, you know.” He pronounces with pride.
“Thank you Maxie.”
Max didn’t hesitate, not anymore.
“Is this okay ?” He asked just to confirm he wasn’t imagining things.
“Please”
It didn’t take much for Max’s lips to be on yours in a hungry, passionate kiss.
His hands were in your hairs, yours were on his neck trying to pull him impossibly closer. He broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.
“Can you go on a date with me Y/N ?” He asks, looking straight at you and ignoring all the flashing camera sounds.
You were still in front of a big crowd but neither his or your ears could hear anything other than your ragged breathing and his begging voice.
summary: max finally introduces you to Lily and his cats, expecting nerves and chaos but when they adore you instantly, he realizes you already feel like home.
word count: 847
requested: yes / no
authors note: i totally forgot about max’s dog while writing this
max had been nervous all day, which was saying something considering he drove at 200 km/h for a living. he’d introduced you to his friends, family and even his team but this felt different. more important. more personal. today, he was bringing you home. not just to his apartment, but to his little world he kept tucked away from everything else. his daughter, lily. his cats. the parts of himself he didn’t let many people see.
“you’re overthinking it” you teased from the passenger seat of his audi rs6 abt, noticing how tightly his hands gripped the wheel.
max huffed out a laugh, glancing over at you. “i’m not.”
“you are.”
he sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching “okay. maybe a little.”
that made you smile, reaching over to rest your hand on his thigh. “it’s going to be fine.”
but max wasn’t worried about you. not really. he knew you were gentle, patient and warm in ways he wasn’t always sure how to be. what worried him was lily. she was only one — unpredictable, clingy and at the centre of his entire universe and his cats? jimmy, sassy and donatello were somehow even more judgemental.
if they liked you, max thought, maybe this could really be something.
—
the second the apartment door opened, chaos greeted you. jimmy was the first one there, weaving around max’s legs before spotting you and freezing. sassy sat a little further back, watching like she was assessing your soul. donatello, the youngest, came barreling forward with zero hesitation, rubbing against your ankles.
“well” you laughed softly, crouching down to let him sniff your hand. “hi to you too”
max blinked. donatello didn’t warm up to anyone that quickly.
then came the tiny patter of feet, bare on the hardwood floors of the apartment.
“dada!”
max’s face softened instantly as lily waddled into the room, tiny curls bouncing as she launched herself toward him. he scooped her up with ease, pressing a kiss to her cheek before glancing at you.
“and this” he said quietly, almost cautiously “is lily”
your heart melted immediately. she stared at you with wide curious eyes, little fingers gripping max’s shirt. for a moment, max held his breath waiting to see if she’d hide or cry.
instead, lily leaned towards you. you smiled, holding your hands out. “hi, lily.” to max’s complete shock, she let you take her.
and just like that, she settled against you like she’d known you forever.
max stood there, staring.
his daughter, who usually took forever to warm up to new people, was resting her head on your shoulder, playing with the necklace around your neck while donatello circled your feet and Jimmy cautiously came closer. even sassy, who hated everyone, jumped up onto the couch beside you.
“you’ve got to be kidding me” max muttered.
you looked up, laughing “what?”
“she doesn’t do that.”
“do what?”
“like people.”
lily giggled at something, tiny hands reaching for your hair and you laughed with her, careful and gentle as you shifted her onto your lap. jimmy jumped beside you, letting you scratch behind his ears, while Donatello batted at lily’s little sock. even sassy, curled up against your leg.
max just stood in the doorway, completely stunned. it was like watching the most important parts of his life fit together without effort.
—
later that evening, max found you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, lily in front of you with her toys scattered everywhere while the cats lazily stretched around you. you were helping lily stack little blocks, clapping softly every time she knocked them over, laughing like it was the greatest thing in the world.
lily squealed happily, reaching for you again.
jimmy was asleep in your lap, sassy had claimed your foot, donatello was trying to steal one of lily’s plushies and max… max felt something in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time.
home.
he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.
you looked up eventually, smiling “what?” he shook his head, smiling to himself “nothing.”
but it wasn’t nothing.
because for the first time in a long time, max could picture it, coming home after race weekends and seeing this. you. lily. the cats. warmth. chaos. love.
a future.
he crossed the room and sat beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple while lily instantly crawled into his lap.
“you know” he murmured against your skin, “i was worried today.” you turned to him, surprised “why?”
his fingers brushed lily’s back as he smiled softly “because if they didn’t like you…”
he glanced at the cats sprawled all over you, then at lily, who was half asleep in his lap.
“…i’d have a problem.”
you laughed, nudging him.
but max only pulled you closer, looking at the picture you all made together and with lily safe between you, cats piled around your legs, and your hand tangled in his, max realized something terrifyingly simple.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Violet Graves (Original Character)
Summary:
Lando Norris has a very reasonable theory: Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend, Violet, is probably going to murder him.
Evidence includes the black clothes, the braids, the lace parasol, the unsettling hobbies, and the snake named Belladonna.
Oscar insists she’s just shy.
Lando remains unconvinced.
Warnings and Notes: Lando is an unreliable narrator in this 😂 Also, I have plans tomorrow, so I have no clue when I could upload it, hence why you get it now.
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and entertains all of my ideas 😂
Reason 8: Violet’s unsettling hobbies
Violet had hobbies.
This should have been good.
Healthy, even.
People were supposed to have hobbies. Lando had hobbies. Golf. Streaming. Annoying Oscar. Accidentally agreeing to Quadrant ideas that later became his problem. Perfectly normal things.
Violet’s hobbies were not normal.
Violet pressed flowers.
That sounded normal at first.
Sweet, even.
Until Lando found out that half the flowers she pressed were poisonous.
“Vi likes botany,” Oscar said, like this was supposed to be comforting.
“She pressed foxglove in a book.”
“It’s pretty.”
“It can stop your heart.”
“So can your driving sometimes.”
“That was unnecessary.”
Violet also embroidered.
Again, normal in theory.
Except she embroidered tiny skulls onto tote bags, black flowers onto handkerchiefs, and once, horrifyingly, a tiny anatomically correct heart onto the sleeve of one of Oscar’s hoodies.
Oscar loved it.
Of course Oscar loved it.
Oscar walked into the McLaren garage wearing it like Violet had stitched his name into the stars.
Lando pointed at the sleeve. “Is that a heart?”
Oscar looked down. “Yeah.”
“Like a Valentine heart?”
“No.”
“No,” Lando said slowly, staring at the little red embroidered organ. “Of course not.”
“Vi made it.”
“I gathered.”
“She said it suited me.”
Lando stared at him.
Oscar stared back.
“Mate,” Lando said, “your girlfriend embroidered an organ on your clothes and said it suited you.”
Oscar’s face softened. “Yeah.”
Lando turned away. “You’re beyond help.”
Then there was the taxidermy.
Not real taxidermy, Violet insisted.
Ethical taxidermy.
Which, according to her, meant she only collected things that had already died naturally.
According to Lando, that did not make it better.
It made it sound like she had terms and conditions.
He found this out at Oscar’s apartment.
Obviously.
Because Oscar’s apartment had slowly become less Oscar’s apartment and more Violet’s tasteful little gothic nature museum.
There were pressed flowers in frames.
Antique books.
Black candles.
A tiny cabinet full of bones.
Bones.
Lando had stopped in front of it and gone completely still.
Oscar, carrying drinks from the kitchen, said, “Don’t be weird.”
Lando pointed. “There are bones in your living room.”
“They’re Vi’s.”
“That does not help.”
“They’re cleaned.”
“Again. Not helping.”
Violet appeared beside them silently, because of course she did, and looked at the cabinet.
“They’re mostly from owl pellets,” she said softly.
Lando stared at her.
Violet looked back.
Oscar took a sip of water like this was a normal evening.
“Owl pellets,” Lando repeated.
Violet nodded. “Owls can’t digest bones and fur properly, so they regurgitate them.”
There was a pause.
Lando slowly turned to Oscar.
Oscar looked at him.
“Your girlfriend collects owl vomit bones.”
Violet’s eyes widened.
Oscar closed his eyes.
“I clean them first,” Violet said quickly.
“Oh,” Lando said. “Brilliant. That fixes everything.”
Violet’s mouth twitched.
Lando pointed at her. “Don’t laugh. This is deeply concerning.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re doing it silently.”
“She does that,” Oscar said fondly.
“Stop being fond about owl vomit bones!”
Violet laughed then. A real little laugh.
Oscar looked delighted.
Lando looked at the cabinet again and decided there were some battles he would simply never win.
And then there were the books.
The books were a separate category of concern.
Violet’s books had titles like:
Victorian Mourning Rituals.
Poisonous Plants of Europe.
The Social History of Death.
Witchcraft, Women, and Medicine.
Funerary Jewellery and Memory.
Oscar said she liked history.
Lando said there were better historical periods to enjoy.
“Has she considered the Romans?” Lando asked once.
Oscar looked up. “They killed a lot of people.”
“Fine. The Renaissance.”
“Also a lot of death.”
“The moon landing.”
Oscar stared at him. “That’s not a period.”
“It has less embalming.”
Violet, sitting beside Oscar with a cup of tea, whispered, “Not necessarily.”
Lando went cold.
Oscar started laughing.
“No,” Lando said immediately. “No. I don’t want to know. Keep your moon embalming facts to yourself.”
Violet smiled into her tea.
That was the other problem with her hobbies.
They gave her facts.
Terrible facts. Unsettling facts. Facts nobody had asked for.
You could say something innocent, like, “I hate the smell of almonds,” and Violet would softly explain that bitter almonds were historically associated with cyanide.
You could mention wedding rings, and Violet would tell you about mourning jewellery made from human hair.
You could say, “That flower is pretty,” and Violet would say, “It can cause paralysis.”
Always gently. Always politely. Like she was offering someone a biscuit.
Lando began to fear educational conversations.
One afternoon, he found her sitting in hospitality with a small embroidery hoop, carefully stitching something black and delicate onto fabric.
Lando approached with caution.
“What are you making?”
Violet looked up. “A moth.”
Lando relaxed slightly. “Oh. That’s nice.”
“A death’s-head hawkmoth.”
Lando stopped relaxing.
Oscar, without looking up, said, “Don’t start.”
“It has death in the name.”
“It’s a moth.”
“It has a skull on its back.”
“It didn’t choose that.”
Violet looked down at the embroidery. “I think it’s beautiful.”
Lando opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Because she said it softly, with such genuine affection, and suddenly the whole thing became annoying again.
Because yes, it was unsettling.
But Violet did not like these things because they were creepy.
Not really.
She liked fragile things. Forgotten things. Misunderstood things. Things people looked at once and decided were ugly or frightening or morbid before they bothered to understand them.
Poisonous flowers.
Snakes.
Moths.
Old mourning jewellery.
Tiny bones cleaned carefully and placed in glass jars.
Oscar.
Actually, that one made sense.
Lando looked at Oscar, who was sitting beside Violet, entirely comfortable in the middle of her gothic little ecosystem.
Oscar had one hand resting near hers on the table. Not touching, exactly. Just close enough that Violet could hook her little finger around his whenever she wanted.
She did.
Oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckle.
***
Reason 9: Oscar was brainwashed
Reason 9 was the most disturbing reason of all.
Oscar was brainwashed.
There was no other explanation.
Lando had considered the evidence carefully, as any reasonable person would.
Oscar Piastri, who reacted to most things with the emotional intensity of a printer loading paper, had become soft.
Not generally.
Not in public.
Not with Lando, obviously, because Lando was apparently not worthy of gentleness despite being charming, funny, and essential to team morale.
But with Violet?
Oscar was gone.
Completely.
Tragically.
Embarrassingly gone.
He smiled at his phone.
He saved her the quiet seat in every room.
He carried her black tote bag without complaint, even though it had a tiny embroidered skull on it and made him look like an unwilling assistant in a gothic bakery.
He knew exactly how she liked her tea.
He could tell, from one tiny glance, when she was overwhelmed.
He listened when she whispered.
He leaned down so she didn’t have to speak louder.
He did not even blink when Belladonna was mentioned at the dinner table, which Lando thought was a very clear sign that Oscar’s survival instincts had been tampered with.
“He’s under her spell,” Lando told Max Fewtrell very seriously.
Max, who had unfortunately met Violet and decided she was “nice, actually,” did not look concerned enough.
“Maybe he just loves her.”
Lando stared at him.
“That’s what I said.”
“No,” Max said. “You said brainwashed.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“It is when she owns a snake named Belladonna.”
Max considered that. “Fair.”
Exactly.
Exactly.
But then the situation got worse.
Because Lando found the ring.
Not on purpose.
That was important.
He was not snooping.
He was not.
Oscar had asked him to grab a charger from his backpack. Those were the words Oscar had used. Can you grab my charger? It’s in the front pocket.
A normal request.
A teammate request.
A request that did not, in any reasonable world, suggest that Lando Norris would end up holding evidence of Oscar Piastri’s complete and irreversible emotional destruction.
The backpack was in Oscar’s driver room.
The charger was not in the front pocket.
Which was typical Oscar, because for someone who acted like a very organised spreadsheet, he was terrible at knowing where his own things were.
Lando opened the side pocket.
Nothing.
He opened the bigger pocket.
Still no charger.
He opened the smaller zipped pocket inside the bigger pocket, because at this point he was committed and also slightly annoyed.
There was no charger.
There was, however, a small velvet box.
Black velvet.
Of course.
Lando froze.
“No,” he whispered.
The box sat there innocently.
Too innocently.
Lando looked at the door.
Then back at the box.
He was not snooping.
He was investigating.
There was a difference.
Also, Oscar had put it in a backpack pocket and then sent Lando into the backpack unsupervised, which was practically entrapment.
Lando picked up the box.
It was heavy in his palm.
Not very heavy. Just heavy enough to feel ominous.
Like a cursed object.
Like something Violet would own.
“Oh no,” Lando whispered.
He opened it.
Then immediately shut it again.
Then opened it again, because his brain needed confirmation that it had not invented what it had just seen.
Inside was a ring.
An antique ring.
Not a normal shiny modern ring from a jewellery shop with clean lighting and champagne and sales assistants who said things like timeless elegance.
No.
This ring looked like it had a history.
A backstory.
A potential haunting.
It was Victorian-looking, all delicate gold scrollwork and tiny old-fashioned details, with little pale stones around the outside like stars caught in metal. But in the centre, where Lando assumed something normal was supposed to be — a diamond, a sapphire, maybe some romantic pastel thing — there was a black diamond.
A black diamond.
Deep and glossy and dark, catching the light like a secret.
Lando stared at it.
Then he stared harder.
Then, very calmly, he said, “Oscar Piastri, what the actual fuck.”
Behind him, Oscar said, “That is not the charger.”
Lando screamed.
Not a controlled exhale.
A scream.
The box nearly left his hand.
Oscar crossed the room in three long steps and caught Lando’s wrist before the ring could become a very expensive tragedy.
“Careful,” Oscar said sharply.
Lando clutched the box to his chest. “You appeared silently.”
“I walked in.”
“You and Violet are becoming one person and I hate it.”
Oscar’s eyes dropped to the box.
His face changed.
Not much.
But enough.
He reached out.
Lando held the box away from him.
“No.”
Oscar blinked. “Lando.”
“No. Explain yourself.”
“It’s a ring.”
“It’s a Victorian death ring.”
“It is not a death ring.”
“It has a black diamond in the middle.”
Oscar’s ears went slightly pink.
Oh.
Oh, Lando hated that.
“I changed the centre stone,” Oscar said.
Lando stared.
“You changed the centre stone.”
“Yes.”
“To a black diamond.”
“Yes.”
“On an antique Victorian ring.”
Oscar nodded.
Lando inhaled slowly.
“Right,” he said. “Right. Of course. Obviously. Why would you propose with something normal when you could give Wednesday Addams a ring that looks like it was pried from the hand of a tragic widow?”
Oscar’s expression went flat, but his ears were still pink.
“Vi will like it.”
That was the problem.
She would.
Violet would like it.
Violet would probably look at this alarming little piece of jewellery with its old gold and its black diamond heart and its faint air of moonlit inheritance drama, and she would go completely soft.
Worse, she would probably cry.
Silently.
Into Oscar’s shoulder.
And Oscar would look at her like he had personally been entrusted with the last fragile thing in the world.
Lando suddenly felt ill.
“You’re proposing,” he said.
Oscar was quiet.
Then, very simply, “Yeah.”
Lando looked at him.
Oscar Piastri, standing in his driver room in McLaren kit, looking infuriatingly calm except for the pink at the tips of his ears and the way his eyes kept flicking back to the ring box like he needed to make sure it was still there.
“You’re proposing,” Lando repeated.
“Yes.”
“To Violet.”
Oscar gave him a look. “Yes, Lando.”
“With this.”
“Yes.”
“A Victorian ring.”
“Yes.”
“With a black diamond.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “You’ve covered the important details.”
Lando sank down onto the little sofa.
He still held the ring box.
Oscar did not take it from him immediately, which meant he was either very trusting or very stupid.
Possibly both.
“You are brainwashed,” Lando said faintly.
Oscar sighed. “I am not brainwashed.”
“You bought an antique gothic proposal ring for your girlfriend who owns a snake named Belladonna.”
“I didn’t buy it because of the snake.”
“That is not the defence you think it is.”
Oscar sat down beside him.
Carefully, he took the ring box from Lando’s hand.
Lando let him, mostly because Oscar was looking at the ring in a way that made jokes feel slightly more difficult.
Annoyingly.
“It was originally an old mine cut diamond,” Oscar said, quieter now.
Lando blinked. “You know ring facts?”
Oscar ignored that. “It was pretty, but it didn’t feel like her.”
“Right, because it wasn’t ominous enough.”
Oscar gave him a sideways look.
Lando shut up.
For once.
Oscar opened the box again.
The black diamond caught the light.
“It’s old,” Oscar said. “Not perfect. The setting’s a bit unusual. The jeweller said some people wouldn’t like that because it’s not symmetrical enough.”
Lando looked at him.
Oscar’s thumb rested against the edge of the box.
“But Violet likes things with history,” he continued. “And she likes things that other people think are strange before they bother looking properly.”
Oh.
No.
Lando hated this.
He hated Oscar’s soft voice. He hated the stupid ring. He hated that it suited Violet. He hated that Oscar had clearly thought about this for longer than he had ever thought about anything Lando said to him.
“I thought about getting something modern,” Oscar said. “Something easy. But she wouldn’t want easy.”
Lando swallowed.
“She’d want haunted,” he said, because he needed to say something.
Oscar’s mouth curved.
“Probably.”
“And the black diamond?”
Oscar’s eyes stayed on the ring.
“She likes black,” he said.
“Yes, Oscar, we’ve all noticed.”
“And she doesn’t like being looked at too directly. Big bright diamonds felt wrong.”
Lando went quiet.
Oscar turned the box slightly, making the stone flash darkly under the light.
“This felt like her,” he said. “Soft around the edges. Strong in the middle.”
(Oh, come on. Come on.)
That was illegal.
Oscar was not allowed to say things like that.
Oscar was supposed to be emotionally constipated and deadpan and slightly annoying. He was not supposed to sit there holding an antique Victorian engagement ring with a black diamond and say things like soft around the edges, strong in the middle about his terrifying gothic girlfriend.
Lando rubbed both hands over his face.
“You are so gone,” he said.
Oscar did not deny it.
That was worse.
He simply looked at the ring for another second, then closed the box.
“I know.”
Lando froze.
Oscar did not look at him.
His ears were pink again.
Lando stared.
“You know?”
Oscar shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah.”
“You admit it?”
“I’m not brainwashed.”
“But you’re in love.”
Oscar was silent.
Then, very softly, “Yeah.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
No, this was becoming sincere.
Lando did not do well with sincere. He could mock. He could tease. He could turn anything into a joke and then pretend the joke had not revealed something deeply emotional. But Oscar saying yeah like that, quiet and certain and not even embarrassed enough to hide from it properly, was a problem.
A serious one.
Lando looked away first.
Obviously.
He had to preserve himself.
“Disgusting,” he muttered.
Oscar huffed a laugh.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Oscar said.
Lando turned back to him, offended. “Do I look like someone who would ruin your proposal?”
Oscar just looked at him.
“That is hurtful.”
“You told three people when I changed shampoo.”
“It smelled different.”
“Lando.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Lando said. “Obviously.”
Oscar studied him for a second.
Then nodded.
Lando sat back, unsettled.
The ring sat between them in its black velvet box like a tiny gothic bomb.
“When?” Lando asked.
Oscar hesitated.
“Soon.”
“Soon?”
“After the triple-header. She hates big scenes, so not anywhere public. Not at a race. Not around cameras.”
Lando nodded slowly.
That made sense.
Violet would probably dissolve into the floor if Oscar proposed in front of people.
Or summon fog.
Either.
“I thought at home,” Oscar said. “After dinner. Just us.”
“Just you, Violet, and the snake named after poison.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Belladonna will be in her enclosure.”
“That’s not the same as not being present.”
“She’s family.”
Lando pointed at him. “That remains concerning.”
Oscar smiled down at the ring box.
Idiot.
Complete idiot.
Brainwashed idiot.
And the worst part was that Lando could see it now.
Not the proposal exactly, because that felt private in a way even his imagination hesitated to intrude upon.
But the shape of it.
Violet in Oscar’s apartment, probably wearing black, probably barefoot, probably with her braids loose or half undone after a long day. Oscar making tea because Oscar always made tea when Violet seemed nervous. The quiet of it. The softness of it. Oscar, who could barely perform romance for a camera to save his life, kneeling down in their living room with an antique ring that looked like it belonged in one of Violet’s gothic novels.
Violet would go still.
Completely still.
Then her eyes would fill.
Then she would say his name in that tiny voice, like she could not believe someone had chosen her so precisely.
And Oscar would say something low and simple and devastating, because apparently he had that ability when it came to her.
Something like, It was always going to be you.
Lando groaned.
Oscar looked at him. “What?”
“I just imagined it.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“Then stop.”
“I can’t. It’s in my head now. You’re going to propose with a haunted ring and she’s going to cry and you’re going to look at her like that.”
Oscar frowned. “Like what?”
“Like she’s the softest thing in the world even when she’s reading about corpse flowers.”
Oscar looked down at the box.
His face softened.
“That,” Lando said, pointing. “Exactly that. Stop it.”
Oscar did not stop it.
Obviously.
Because he was useless.
Then, because apparently the universe had decided Lando had not suffered enough, the door opened.
Violet appeared.
Silently.
Of course.
Both Oscar and Lando jolted.
Oscar snapped the ring box shut so fast the little click sounded like a gunshot.
Violet stopped in the doorway.
She was wearing black, obviously. A long black skirt, black cardigan, black boots. Her braids were tied with little ribbons, and she held her skull tote bag against her side.
Her eyes moved from Oscar to Lando.
Then to Oscar’s hand.
Then back up.
“Is everything okay?” she asked softly.
Lando’s soul left his body.
Oscar, somehow, remained calm.
“Yes,” he said.
Lando nodded too quickly. “Yep. Normal. Very normal. We were just talking about chargers.”
Violet blinked.
Oscar slowly turned his head toward him.
Lando smiled.
Badly.
“Chargers,” Violet repeated.
“Yes,” Lando said. “Phone chargers. Electrical. Very modern. Not Victorian at all.”
Oscar closed his eyes.
Violet’s brows drew together.
Lando wanted to throw himself into the harbour.
Oscar stood, sliding the box into his pocket with a smoothness that frankly suggested he had been practicing hiding evidence from his terrifying girlfriend.
“Lando couldn’t find my charger,” Oscar said.
That, at least, was technically true.
Violet looked at Lando.
Lando looked at Violet.
For once, she did not look like a murder suspect.
She looked suspicious.
Which was fair.
Because Lando was acting like a man who had just been caught holding an engagement ring with a black diamond in a driver's room.
Which he had.
Violet tilted her head.
Lando panicked.
“I’m going to go,” he said.
Oscar said, “Good.”
Rude.
Violet stepped slightly aside to let him pass.
As Lando moved by her, she said softly, “Bye, Lando.”
He stopped.
Looked at her.
Black clothes. Braids. Pale face. Big dark eyes. Glossy black nails. Skull tote bag. Probably a book about death in there somewhere. Probably vegan snacks. Probably the emotional centre of Oscar’s entire universe.
Still suspicious.
Objectively.
But not dangerous.
Not to Oscar.
And maybe not to Lando either.
“Bye, Violet,” he said.
Then, because he had no self-preservation and possibly never had, he added, “Nice ribbons.”
Violet’s eyes widened.
Her hand lifted to one braid.
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks went pink.
Oscar looked at Lando.
Not smug.
Not annoyed.
Grateful.
Again.
Absolutely unbearable.
Lando pointed at him. “Don’t.”
Oscar’s mouth curved. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“Occasionally I do that.”
Violet made a tiny sound into her sleeve.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “You two deserve each other.”
Oscar looked at Violet.
Violet looked at Oscar.
And there it was again.
That stupid, quiet, obvious love.
Lando left before it could become worse.
But after that, Reason 9 changed.
Because yes, Oscar was brainwashed.
Or in love.
Whatever.
But Violet was not exactly escaping unharmed either.
Violet, who barely spoke to anyone else, spoke to Oscar like words were something she had been saving just for him.
Violet, who moved silently through rooms like a ghost trying not to disturb the living, always drifted toward Oscar.
Violet, who hid behind her sleeves and her braids and sometimes, absurdly, her black lace parasol, looked at Oscar like he was the safest place in the world.
And Oscar was planning to propose to her with a ring that understood her.
That was the part that kept bothering Lando.
Not because it was weird.
Although it was weird.
The black diamond was insane.
The antique Victorian setting was insane.
The fact that Belladonna would probably witness the proposal from her enclosure like a tiny scaly chaperone was insane.
But the ring was not random.
Oscar had looked at Violet — really looked at her — and chosen something strange and old and dark and delicate, because anything else would have been wrong.
That was harder to make fun of.
Lando still tried.
Obviously.
But it was harder.
One evening, after a long day at the track, Lando found them in the quiet corner of McLaren hospitality.
Oscar was sitting on one of the sofas, hoodie sleeves pushed up, phone abandoned beside him. Violet was tucked into his side, black skirt folded neatly over her knees, one braid falling across Oscar’s shoulder like it had decided to live there.
She was reading.
Oscar was not.
Oscar was just sitting there, perfectly still, one hand resting loosely over Violet’s, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes over her knuckles.
Lando stopped in the doorway.
Neither of them noticed him.
That was unusual, because Violet noticed everything.
But her head was slightly bowed, her face softer than Lando had ever seen it, and Oscar was looking at her like the rest of the world had gone quiet for once.
Violet turned a page.
Oscar looked down. “Good?”
She nodded.
Then, after a moment, she tilted the book slightly so he could see the paragraph.
Oscar read it.
His eyebrows drew together. “That’s grim, Vi.”
Violet’s mouth twitched. “You say that about all my books.”
“Because all your books are grim.”
“They’re interesting.”
“They’re grim and interesting.”
She leaned a little more into him. “You still listen.”
Oscar’s face softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Violet looked up at him.
And there it was.
The thing Lando had been trying very hard not to look at directly.
Love.
Not creepy gothic brainwashing.
Not snake-related enchantment.
Not whatever parasol-based spell Lando had originally suspected.
Just love.
Quiet and obvious and deeply inconvenient.
Violet looked at Oscar like he had found her in a world too loud for her and decided to lower his voice instead of asking her to be different.
Oscar looked at Violet like she had handed him all her sharp, strange, shadowy pieces and he had found every single one worth holding.
It was disgusting.
It was beautiful.
Lando hated it.
Mostly because he suddenly felt like an idiot.
A charming idiot, but still.
He cleared his throat.
Oscar looked up first.
His face immediately flattened into its usual public setting, which was rude because Lando had just witnessed softness and now Oscar was trying to pretend he was furniture again.
Violet looked up too.
For once, Lando did not feel like she was assessing his organs.
She looked nervous.
Not ominous.
Just nervous.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Lando looked at her.
Black clothes. Braids. Pale face. Big dark eyes. Glossy black nails. Book probably about death. Snake owner. Parasol enthusiast. Silent walker. Vegan gummy bear refuser.
Still suspicious.
Objectively.
But not dangerous.
Not to Oscar.
Maybe not to Lando either.
“Hi,” Lando said.
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Why are you standing there like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve had a thought.”
“I have thoughts.”
“Occasionally.”
Violet made a tiny sound into her sleeve.
Lando pointed at her. “See? That. You’re getting meaner.”
Her eyes widened.
Oscar smiled. “She is.”
“I’m not,” Violet whispered.
“You are,” Lando said. “Quietly. It’s very unsettling.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then, to Lando’s complete horror, she looked almost pleased.
Oscar looked at her like he wanted to wrap her in a blanket and give her the moon.
Lando groaned. “Oh, for god’s sake.”
“What?” Oscar asked.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Sitting there all brainwashed.”
Oscar blinked. “Brainwashed.”
“By love.”
Violet went very still.
Oscar’s ears went pink.
Excellent.
Finally.
A reaction.
Lando folded his arms. “Don’t deny it.”
Oscar looked away.
Which was Oscar for screaming.
Violet looked down at her book, cheeks turning pink beneath the black curtain of her braids.
Lando stared between them.
“Oh my god,” he said. “You’re both useless.”
Oscar muttered, “Shut up.”
“No. I won’t. I’ve been living in fear for months.”
“Of Violet?”
“Yes.”
Violet looked up, stricken. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
And there it was again.
That softness.
That awful, earnest little voice.
Lando immediately felt like a monster.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, not like— I mean, yes, technically, but not in a bad way.”
Oscar stared at him. “How is that not in a bad way?”
“Because it was funny.”
“To whom?”
“To me, mostly.”
Violet blinked.
Then, very quietly, “I thought you didn’t like me.”
Oh.
Lando froze.
Oscar’s expression shifted.
Not angry.
Exactly.
But protective.
Very protective.
Lando swallowed.
“No,” he said. “No, I like you.”
Violet looked surprised.
Painfully surprised.
Which made Lando want to walk into the sea.
“I do,” he said, because apparently this was happening now. “You’re just… terrifying.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
Oscar closed his eyes.
Lando rushed on. “But in a good way. Mostly. Like a small, polite ghost. With baking skills. And alarming books.”
Violet stared at him.
Then her mouth twitched.
“You think I’m a ghost?”
“A polite one.”
She looked down, smiling now. “That’s nice.”
“It was not meant to be nice.”
“It still is.”
Oscar opened his eyes and looked at Lando with the most unbearable expression he had ever worn.
Grateful.
Lando could handle smug Oscar. He could handle sarcastic Oscar. He could handle blank Oscar, annoyed Oscar, and emotionally unavailable Oscar.
He could not handle grateful Oscar.
Absolutely not.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Lando said immediately.
Oscar’s mouth curved. “Like what?”
“Like I’ve done something good.”
“You have.”
“Stop.”
Violet looked between them, still pink, still smiling a little.
Then she reached for Oscar’s hand.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Her fingers slipped around his.
Oscar turned his hand immediately and held on.
Like it was instinct.
Like breathing.
Lando watched them.
And suddenly the whole evidence board in his head rearranged itself.
The black clothes were not mourning clothes. They were armour.
The braids were not sinister. They were comfort.
The parasol was not a funeral accessory. It was something to hold when the world was too bright.
The silence was not judgement. It was shyness.
Belladonna was not foreshadowing. She was a rescued snake with a strong name.
The unsettling hobbies were not murder preparation. They were Violet loving strange, fragile, misunderstood things because maybe she knew what that felt like.
And Oscar?
Oscar was not brainwashed.
Oscar was in love.
Completely.
Stupidly.
Quietly.
Hopelessly in love.
And Violet loved him too.
That was obvious now.
In the way she looked for him first in every room.
In the way she relaxed when his hand touched her back.
In the way she saved her best sentences for him.
In the way she trusted him to understand the words she did not say out loud.
In the way Oscar’s whole world seemed to narrow down to making sure Violet never had to become louder than she wanted to be.
Lando hated how romantic that was.
He hated it so much he had to sit down.
Oscar watched him warily. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”
“You two,” Lando said. “You’re in love.”
Oscar stared.
Violet turned scarlet.
Lando pointed at them. “Disgusting.”
Oscar looked down at their joined hands.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Yeah.”
Violet looked at him.
Oscar looked back.
For one second, neither of them seemed to remember Lando existed.
Their hands stayed tangled together.
Violet’s eyes were wide and soft.
Oscar’s face was open in a way Lando almost never saw.
Then Violet whispered, “Yeah?”
Oscar’s thumb moved over her knuckles.
“Yeah.”
Oh.
Oh, that was private.
Lando stood up so fast the sofa squeaked.
“Right,” he said loudly. “I’m leaving before you start being emotionally sincere at each other.”
Oscar did not look away from Violet. “Bye, Lando.”
“Unbelievable. Months of concern for your safety and this is the thanks I get.”
Violet looked at him then.
She was still blushing, but she smiled.
A real smile.
Small, shy, and entirely un-haunting.
“Bye, Lando.”
He paused.
Then sighed.
“Bye, Violet.”
He made it three steps before turning back.
“For the record,” he said, “if you ever do murder him, I will still tell Netflix I saw the signs.”
Violet’s smile widened.
Oscar groaned.
“I won’t,” Violet said softly.
Lando narrowed his eyes.
Then she added, “Probably.”
Oscar dropped his head.
Lando pointed at her. “See? This is why the list exists.”
But he was smiling when he said it.
And Violet was smiling too.
Oscar looked between them like he could not decide whether to be annoyed or happy.
He settled, unfortunately, on happy.
Lando left before it got worse.
That night, he opened the evidence file one last time.
Reason 9: Oscar was brainwashed.
He stared at it.
Then deleted brainwashed and rewrote it.
Reason 9: Oscar was in love.
Supporting evidence:
One, Oscar smiled at Violet like an idiot.
Two, Oscar understood Violet’s silence better than most people understood full speeches.
Three, Oscar carried her skull tote bag in public without complaint.
Four, Oscar considered Belladonna part of the family, which remained concerning.
Five, Oscar looked at Violet like she was the softest thing in the world, even when she was reading about Victorian funerals.
Six, Violet looked at Oscar like he made the world less frightening.
Seven, Violet loved him too.
Lando stopped typing.
Then added the final footnote.
Additional note: Maybe I am going to survive after all.
He considered that.
Then added:
Further note: Still do not eat any unlabelled brownies without checking if they are vegan or cursed.
And finally:
Further further note: Violet is not going to murder me.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Violet Graves (Original Character)
Summary:
Lando Norris has a very reasonable theory: Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend, Violet, is probably going to murder him.
Evidence includes the black clothes, the braids, the lace parasol, the unsettling hobbies, and the snake named Belladonna.
Oscar insists she’s just shy.
Lando remains unconvinced.
Warnings and Notes: Lando is an unreliable narrator in this 😂 Also, I have plans tomorrow, so I have no clue when I could upload it, hence why you get it now.
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and entertains all of my ideas 😂
Lando Norris was not a dramatic person.
This was, admittedly, a statement that several people in his life might have disputed. Loudly. With evidence. Possibly with screenshots.
But Lando knew the truth.
He was observant.
He was intuitive.
He was, in many ways, a man of science.
And science told him that Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend was going to murder him one day.
Her name was Violet, which Lando thought was, frankly, false advertising.
Violet sounded like someone who wore floral dresses and had a favourite kind of tea.
Violet sounded like someone who owned pastel dresses and called people darling. Violet sounded like a girl who pressed flowers into books and maybe had an aesthetically pleasing Pinterest.
A person named Violet should have been soft and floral and maybe owned a lot of cardigans.
Oscar’s Violet looked like Wednesday Addams had grown up, discovered Formula One, and decided the paddock was where she wanted to start her reign of psychological terror.
(Her surname was Graves. That was not false advertising. She was going to put Lando into a grave, mark his words.)
Not Oscar.
Him.
Lando.
Specifically.
Probably in a very artistic, emotionally detached way that would somehow involve candlelight, a handwritten note, and possibly a Victorian mourning veil.
Lando had evidence.
So much evidence, actually, that he had started a note in his phone titled:
REASONS VIOLET PIASTRI? IS PROBABLY PLANNING MY DEATH
The question mark was because he didn’t actually know if she was going to become Violet Piastri one day, but Oscar looked at her like a man who had already picked out a mortgage, three children’s names, and a preferred matching pension plan, so Lando felt it was sensible to prepare.
(Lando had woken up multiple times at three in the morning and typed “signs someone is planning to murder you” into Google, which had not been as helpful as he had hoped. Mostly because the internet seemed to think he was the problem. Lando was NOT the problem.)
***
Reason 1: Violet Only Wore Black
Violet only wore black.
And Lando did not mean that in the normal way.
Not fashionable black.
Not model-off-duty black.
Not “I forgot to do laundry and this was the only hoodie that didn’t smell like airport lounge” black.
No.
Violet wore black like she had signed a lifelong contract with the concept of mourning.
Black boots. Black tights. Black skirts. Black jumpers. Black coats, even when the weather was warm enough that Lando personally considered passing away from heatstroke. Black ribbons tied neatly at the ends of her braids. Black nail polish, always perfect, always glossy, always sharp-looking in a way that made Lando suspect she could probably use her pinky finger as a weapon.
Sometimes there was lace involved.
That was when things became properly alarming.
Lando was not saying lace was inherently threatening.
He respected lace. Lace had its place. On dresses, on fancy tablecloths, probably on things he didn’t understand but had been told were fashion.
But when Violet wore black lace, with her hair braided down her back and her face completely unreadable, she looked less like Oscar’s girlfriend and more like someone who had personally attended Edgar Allan Poe’s funeral and judged the catering.
Harshly.
Once, because Lando had no survival instincts despite frequently accusing Oscar of the same thing, he had asked, very casually, “Does Violet own anything that isn’t black?”
Oscar had been eating a banana at the time, standing in the McLaren garage with his race suit half-undone and the unbothered expression of a man who had never once considered that his girlfriend looked like she belonged in a haunted oil painting.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“She has a dark grey cardigan.”
Lando stared at him.
“That does not help.”
“She likes black.”
“Serial killers also like patterns, Oscar.”
Oscar blinked. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Oscar continued eating his banana.
Lando continued fearing for his future.
The thing was, Oscar said it like it was simple. Like Violet liking black was the same as Oscar liking plain rice, or Lando liking hoodies, or Zak liking ways to put them in front of cameras when they were already spiritually deceased.
She likes black.
That was it.
End of discussion.
Except it was not the end of discussion, because Lando had eyes.
He had eyes and instincts and a deep appreciation for not being murdered by a girl who looked like she had an excellent working knowledge of Victorian poisons.
In Monaco, he once saw Violet wearing dark grey.
Not black.
Dark grey.
Lando had almost stopped walking.
It had been outside Oscar’s apartment building, early afternoon, the sun bouncing off the pavement and making everything look aggressively expensive. Violet had been standing beside Oscar, one hand tucked into the sleeve of her cardigan, her black hair in two neat braids, her expression soft in a way Lando rarely saw because usually she looked at him like she was trying to decide whether he was worth haunting.
The cardigan was grey.
A deep charcoal grey, admittedly, but still.
Grey.
Lando had opened his mouth to say something. Something helpful. Something kind. Something like, “Wow, branching out,” or “Look at you, embracing colour,” or possibly, “Congratulations on the personal growth.”
Before he could get a single syllable out, Oscar glanced sideways at him.
Not dramatically.
Oscar was not dramatic.
Oscar merely turned his head half an inch and gave Lando a look.
A warning look.
A very clear, very Australian, very Oscar look that said: don’t be annoying.
Which was rich.
Rich, coming from Oscar Piastri.
Oscar Piastri, who had brought a haunted Victorian doll of a girlfriend into Lando’s life and then expected him to behave normally about it.
Lando closed his mouth.
Violet looked between them, eyebrows drawing together slightly.
“What?” she asked, very quietly.
“Nothing,” Oscar said immediately.
“Nothing,” Lando echoed, because he wanted to survive the afternoon.
Violet blinked at them.
Lando tried not to flinch.
That was another thing.
The blinking.
Or lack thereof.
“She’s not haunted,” Oscar said one afternoon, without looking up from his phone.
Lando froze.
They were sitting in McLaren hospitality, waiting for a briefing neither of them particularly wanted to attend. Lando was slumped in his chair, Oscar was doing something on his phone with the expression of someone answering emails at gunpoint, and Violet was across the room beside the coffee station.
She was silently stirring a black coffee.
Black coffee.
Obviously.
She was wearing a black dress with long sleeves and a collar that made her look like she had strict opinions about candlelight. Her black-painted nails tapped once against the side of the cup. Her face was blank in a way Lando usually associated with people who either knew where bodies were buried or had buried them personally and were now at peace with it.
“I didn’t say she was haunted,” Lando said carefully.
Oscar looked up at him.
“You were staring at her like you think she crawled out of a well.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was observing.”
“You were staring.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not when you’re doing it like that.”
Lando leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Oscar.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re going to say something weird about Violet.”
Lando sat back, offended. “It is not weird to be concerned.”
Oscar’s face did not change. “Concerned about what?”
Lando glanced across the room.
Violet lifted her coffee cup with both hands. She did not look at anyone. She did not speak to anyone. She simply stood there in her black dress, black boots, black braids, and black nail polish, existing like a person who had been summoned by a séance but was trying to be polite about it.
Lando lowered his voice further. “She doesn’t blink.”
Oscar sighed.
It was not a normal sigh.
It was Oscar’s Lando is being Lando again sigh, which Lando found deeply unfair because this was not him being difficult. This was him being vigilant. There was a difference, and one day, when the inevitable true crime documentary came out, everyone would regret not appreciating him.
“She blinks,” Oscar said.
“Not enough.”
“She blinks a normal amount.”
“She blinks when you look at her.”
“Yes, Lando. That’s usually how eyes work.”
“No, listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“You are not. You’re doing that thing where your face looks like a wall.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Exactly.”
Oscar finally put his phone down.
This, Lando felt, was progress.
“Oscar,” Lando whispered, “your girlfriend looks like she knows Latin curses.”
Oscar stared at him for several seconds.
Then, very calmly, he said, “She took French at school.”
“THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT BETTER!”
Reason 2: Violet had braids
Violet had braids.
Two of them.
Dark, glossy, perfectly neat braids that fell over her shoulders like they had been arranged by someone with both excellent hand-eye coordination and a worrying amount of patience.
Lando did not trust people with that much patience.
Especially not when they wore black every day and had the resting expression of a girl who had once been asked to smile more and had responded by placing a hex on an entire bloodline.
The braids were important.
The braids were not a small detail.
The braids completed the whole thing.
Because without the braids, Violet might have simply been a quiet goth girl with a fondness for black clothes and unsettling jewellery. Still worrying, obviously, but manageable. Lando had met goth people before. He was modern. He was open-minded. He was not here to judge anyone’s aesthetic choices, except privately and with Oscar, who deserved it.
But with the braids?
With the two perfectly even, dark braids?
Violet looked exactly like Wednesday Addams if Wednesday Addams had grown up, moved to Monaco, and started dating a Formula One driver for reasons Lando did not understand and frankly did not trust.
She had the entire Wednesday Addams thing down.
Pale face. Big dark eyes. Straight posture. No unnecessary smiling. The general air of someone who had never once been surprised by thunder.
And the braids.
Always the braids.
Sometimes they were tied with black ribbons.
Sometimes they were tied with tiny black bows.
Once, at a race weekend, Lando had seen her with one braid pulled over her shoulder while she read a book in the back of the McLaren garage, and he had become convinced she was waiting for someone to wrong her so she could calmly add their name to a list.
“Vi’s reading Jane Austen,” Oscar had said when Lando mentioned this.
“That makes it worse,” Lando had whispered.
“How does that make it worse?”
“Because it means she understands social manipulation.”
Oscar had stared at him for a long time.
Then he had gone back to eating his pasta.
Which was typical.
The first time Lando met Violet, Oscar had brought her into the garage like it was normal.
Like it was casual.
Like he was not introducing McLaren to a woman who looked like she had stepped out of a haunted dollhouse after successfully overthrowing its previous owner.
It had been one of those afternoons where the garage was loud and hot and everyone was moving around with headsets and tablets and purposeful expressions. Lando had been minding his own business, which was rare and should have been rewarded, when Oscar appeared beside him.
With her.
“This is Violet,” Oscar said.
Just like that.
No warning.
No preparation.
No quick text beforehand saying, by the way, my girlfriend looks like a Victorian child ghost but don’t worry, she’s very nice.
Nothing.
Lando turned.
Violet stood beside Oscar in a black dress, black boots, black nail polish, and two perfect braids. Her hands were clasped in front of her. Her posture was immaculate. Her face was calm.
Too calm.
Lando looked at Violet.
Violet looked at Lando.
Violet blinked once.
Lando immediately forgot every human greeting he had ever learned.
“Hello,” she said quietly.
Very quietly.
Softly, even.
Which, again, should not have made things worse.
But it did.
Because it was not a nervous hello. It was not a cheerful hello. It was a quiet, level, very composed hello, delivered by someone who looked like she could win a staring contest with a porcelain doll.
Lando opened his mouth.
His brain, which usually had no issue producing words whether or not anyone wanted them, gave up completely.
“Please don’t kill me,” he said.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Not long in a normal awkward way.
Long in a the grandfather clock has stopped ticking way.
Oscar slowly turned his head.
Not toward Violet.
Toward Lando.
His face was blank, but Lando knew Oscar well enough to read the silence. It said: why are you like this?
Violet tilted her head.
Just slightly.
The braids moved with her.
Lando’s soul briefly attempted to leave his body.
Then he laughed, because obviously he had meant it as a joke. Mostly.
(About sixty percent as a joke. Maybe fifty-five.)
“Sorry,” Lando said quickly. “That was— I mean, obviously, you’re not— I just meant— You know. Because of the…” He made a vague gesture toward her entire person, immediately realised that was worse, and lowered his hand. “Aesthetic.”
Oscar closed his eyes.
Violet looked down at herself. Then back at Lando. Her mouth moved.
Not into a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of a smile had considered visiting and then decided the commute was too much.
“I’ll try not to,” she said.
Lando stared.
Oscar made a small strangled noise beside her.
Violet looked at him. “Was that wrong?”
Oscar pressed his lips together.
“No,” he said, and his voice sounded suspiciously tight. “No, that was perfect.”
Perfect? Perfect?
Lando looked between them, horrified.
That was not reassuring. That was not something a normal person said.
That was exactly the kind of thing a future murderer said so they could claim plausible deniability later.
I said I’d try not to. I never promised.
Lando could see it already. He could see the true crime documentary. He could see the badly lit reenactment. He could see himself played by someone much shorter and less handsome, saying, “Please don’t kill me,” while the narrator said ominously, But the warning signs had been there from the very beginning.
***
Reason 3: Violet didn’t make a sound
Violet appeared silently.
All the time.
You would be standing there, minding your business, maybe eating grapes from the hospitality fridge even though you weren’t entirely sure they were meant for drivers, and suddenly she would be beside you.
No footsteps.
No greeting.
No warning.
Just there.
The first time it happened, Lando had made a noise that he would later describe as a controlled exhale and that Oscar described as “a scream.”
“I didn’t scream,” Lando insisted.
“You absolutely screamed,” Oscar said.
“It was surprise.”
“It was very high-pitched.”
Violet, who had been standing there holding a tote bag with a small embroidered skull on it, had looked at Lando with wide dark eyes.
Then, very softly, she said, “Sorry.”
And then she disappeared behind Oscar.
Literally behind him. Like a shadow retreating behind a larger, more Australian shadow.
Oscar had put a hand lightly against her back, murmured something Lando couldn’t hear, and Violet had nodded without looking at anyone.
Lando watched this exchange with narrowed eyes.
Because yes, maybe she seemed shy.
Maybe.
But assassins could also be shy.
***
Reason 4: Violet didn’t talk
Violet didn’t talk.
Well.
That was not strictly true.
She talked to Oscar.
Of course she talked to Oscar.
Oscar got the soft Violet. The quiet little smiles. The murmured comments. The hand curled around his wrist. The way she leaned into his side when she thought nobody was looking. The way she tugged lightly on his sleeve when she wanted to leave somewhere crowded, and Oscar immediately looked down at her like she had just handed him secret state intelligence.
With Oscar, she was apparently capable of full sentences.
With everyone else?
Nothing.
Just silence.
Heavy, atmospheric silence.
(The kind of silence that made Lando feel like he was being evaluated for weaknesses.)
He had tried to be friendly.
He really had.
Contrary to what Oscar said, Lando was very good with people. He was charming. He was funny. He was approachable. He could make conversation with almost anyone if given enough caffeine and the promise that there would be no surprise marketing content involved.
But Violet was different. Violet didn’t give him anything.
No nervous rambling. No awkward small talk. No fake laugh. No polite paddock chatter about the weather or travel or how busy the weekend had been.
She simply existed.
Quietly. Watching. Occasionally blinking. (Like a very pretty crow.)
Oscar insisted she talked all the time.
Lando had literally never seen evidence of this.
“She talks,” Oscar said one afternoon, sounding deeply tired already.
Lando pointed across the garage.
Violet was sitting in the corner, all in black, her braids falling over her shoulders, a book balanced neatly in her lap. She had been there for nearly twenty minutes and had not said a single word to anyone. Someone from comms had offered her a drink. Violet had smiled politely, shaken her head, and returned to reading.
No sound. No words. Just a tiny smile and the immediate restoration of silence.
“She has not spoken more than 3 sentences today,” Lando said.
“She doesn’t know them.”
“She knows you.”
“Yes.”
“And me.”
Oscar looked at him.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “She knows me.”
“She knows of you.”
“That is worse.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched.
Lando did not appreciate that.
He glanced back at Violet.
She was not scrolling.
Not texting.
Not pretending to be busy on her phone like a normal person avoiding social interaction.
She was reading.
An actual physical book.
The cover was black.
Of course it was.
Lando, because he was brave and also very bad at leaving things alone, walked over.
Oscar looked up immediately. “Lando.”
“What?”
“Don’t be weird.”
“I am never weird.”
Oscar’s silence was offensive.
Lando ignored him and stopped in front of Violet.
Violet looked up slowly.
Her eyes were large and dark and calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that made Lando feel like she had known he was coming for three minutes and had already prepared six possible outcomes.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Violet said softly.
Progress.
Good.
Words had happened.
Lando gestured at the book. “What are you reading?”
Violet blinked.
Then she looked down at the book, as if surprised anyone had asked.
For one second, her face changed.
Not much. It never changed much. But there was a tiny flicker of uncertainty there, her fingers tightening on the edge of the cover.
Then she held it up.
The title was something about Victorian funerary customs.
Lando stared at it.
Victorian.
Funerary.
Customs.
Of course.
Of course Oscar’s silent girlfriend was sitting in the McLaren garage reading about old funeral traditions like that was a normal way to spend a Thursday.
Lando looked at Violet.
Violet looked at Lando.
The silence stretched.
Lando nodded once.
“Cool,” he said.
Then he turned around and walked away.
Oscar watched him return.
“What did you do?”
“I asked what she was reading.”
“And?”
“You’re going to be found dead one day,” Lando said, sitting down heavily, “and I’m going to have to tell the Netflix cameras that I saw the signs.”
Oscar sighed. “Vi is just shy.”
“Oscar, she looks at me like she’s deciding which one of my organs to harvest first.”
“She doesn’t.”
“She does.”
“She told me yesterday she thinks you’re funny.”
Lando paused.
He did not like that.
Somehow, that was worse.
“She said that?”
Oscar nodded.
“Out loud?”
“Yes.”
“With words?”
“Yes, Lando.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
Lando leaned back in his chair, unsettled.
Because that was the truly disturbing part.
Violet did talk to Oscar.
Lando had seen it.
Not often. Not directly. But enough to know Oscar was not lying.
Violet was silent around everyone else, all stillness and black lace and watchful eyes, but with Oscar, something unlocked.
Oscar would say something completely normal, like, “Do you want tea?” and Violet would look up at him with the softest expression Lando had ever seen on another human person.
Her whole face changed.
The corners of her mouth lifted.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Her eyes warmed.
She would lean toward him like a plant toward sunlight.
And then she would say, “Yes, please,” in the tiniest voice imaginable.
Oscar would smile back at her.
Oscar Piastri.
Smiling.
Like an idiot.
Like a man unaware that love had compromised his survival instincts.
Then Violet would take his hand, and Oscar would let her tangle their fingers together, and Lando would stand there watching in horror because apparently the haunted doll had a favourite person and it was his teammate.
His stupid, emotionally constipated, Australian teammate.
It was terrible.
It was also, unfortunately, fascinating.
Because Oscar understood her.
That was the annoying thing.
Violet could say almost nothing, and Oscar would still know what she meant.
If she looked at the door twice, Oscar would say, “Do you want to go?”
If she touched the inside of his wrist, Oscar would shift closer.
If someone asked Violet a question and she went very still, Oscar would answer smoothly, not over her exactly, but around her, giving her space to join in if she wanted and an exit if she didn’t.
Lando hated how good he was at it.
Mostly because Oscar was terrible at so many other things.
Media banter. Showing enthusiasm on command. Understanding memes quickly enough. Pretending he cared about whatever nonsense Lando had sent him at two in the morning.
But Violet?
Oscar read her like telemetry.
One tiny change in expression, and he knew.
It was disgusting.
One afternoon, Lando watched Violet drift closer to Oscar during a particularly crowded sponsor event. She did not say anything. She just appeared at his side and touched two fingers lightly to his sleeve.
Oscar turned instantly.
Not eventually.
Not after finishing his sentence.
Instantly.
His eyes dropped to her face, and his voice went quieter.
“Too loud?”
Violet nodded once.
Oscar looked at the McLaren staff member they had been talking to. “We’ll be back in a minute.”
Then he put a hand lightly at Violet’s back and guided her out.
No fuss.
No explanation.
No making her ask twice.
Lando watched them go.
Then he looked at the comms person beside him.
The comms person sighed dreamily. “They’re so sweet.”
Lando pointed toward the door. “She didn’t even say anything.”
“And he understood her.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“That’s romantic.”
“That’s surveillance.”
The comms person looked at him strangely.
Lando took a canapé and left.
***
Reason 5: Violet carried a black lace parasol
Violet carried a black lace parasol in the sun.
A parasol.
Not sunglasses.
Not a cap.
Not one of those little handheld fans people bought at tourist shops and then abandoned after five minutes because they realised they were more effort than they were worth.
A parasol.
A black lace parasol.
In the paddock.
In broad daylight.
Lando had seen a lot of things in Formula One. He had seen grown men nearly cry over tyre degradation. He had seen engineers argue with printers. He had seen Daniel Ricciardo commit psychological warfare with nothing but a grin and a well-timed compliment. He had seen Max Verstappen eat an amount of tomato soup that made him question human biology.
But nothing had prepared him for the sight of Oscar’s girlfriend walking through the Monaco paddock beneath a black lace parasol like she was waiting for a funeral procession to begin.
It was sunny. Beautiful, even. One of those annoyingly perfect Monaco afternoons where the sea glittered, everyone’s sunglasses cost more than Lando’s first kart, and the paddock looked like someone had spilled money across a harbour and called it a sport.
And there was Violet.
All in black.
Braids over her shoulders.
Black boots.
Black dress.
Black nail polish.
And the parasol.
Open above her head, lace casting little shadow patterns over her face.
Lando stopped walking so abruptly that a McLaren media assistant nearly walked into the back of him.
“What,” he said.
Oscar, beside him, glanced up from his phone. “What?”
Lando lifted a hand and pointed across the paddock.
He did not mean to point.
Pointing was rude.
But sometimes survival instincts overruled manners.
Oscar followed his gaze.
Violet was standing near the edge of the walkway, half-shielded from the sun, speaking very softly to one of the hospitality staff. Or, at least, Lando assumed she was speaking. Her mouth moved slightly. The staff member leaned in. Violet gestured once with one black-painted hand, delicate and careful, like she was either explaining where to find the coffee machine or issuing instructions for a séance.
Oscar’s face softened.
Obviously.
Because Oscar had no sense of self-preservation.
“She brought the parasol,” he said, sounding pleased.
“The parasol,” Lando repeated.
“Yeah.”
“You say that like that’s a normal sentence.”
“It is.”
“It absolutely is not.”
Oscar looked at him. “It’s for skin protection.”
Lando turned slowly. “Skin protection?”
“She burns easily.”
“She looks like she’s waiting for a funeral procession to start.”
Oscar sighed. “Lando.”
“She looks like she knows where bodies are buried.”
Lando leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Exactly. That’s how she gets away with it.”
Oscar’s expression flattened.
It was his I regret introducing you to people face.
Lando knew it well.
“She rescues injured hedgehogs,” Oscar said.
“Classic cover.”
“And kittens.”
“Even more classic.”
“She cried when a three-legged dog got adopted.”
Lando paused.
That information did not fit neatly into the evidence file.
He disliked that.
“How do you know it wasn’t a performance?” he asked.
Oscar blinked.
Then he very slowly put his phone into his pocket, like he needed both hands free to process the idiocy in front of him.
“Because she cried into my hoodie for twenty minutes.”
Lando opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Oscar lifted an eyebrow.
Lando changed strategy.
“She carried a black lace parasol while doing it?”
“No.”
“Would have helped my case.”
“You don’t have a case. You have anxiety and too much access to horror films.”
“I have evidence.”
Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lando felt no sympathy. Oscar had brought this into their lives. Oscar had chosen to date a woman who looked like she had strong opinions about moonlight and revenge. Oscar could not now complain that Lando was reacting appropriately.
Someone had to be vigilant.
Because nobody else seemed to understand the threat level.
Zak thought Violet was “lovely.”
This was alarming on several levels, mainly because Zak was a businessman and therefore should have been trained to recognise danger in human form. Instead, he had met Violet once, watched her quietly thank a catering assistant for finding oat milk, and declared her delightful.
Andrea thought she was “very polite.”
Which, again, was exactly what people said about mysterious women in black right before discovering the locked room in the east wing.
“She is very respectful,” Andrea had said, with the calm confidence of a man who had never once considered that politeness could be weaponised.
“She doesn’t speak above a whisper,” Lando said.
“Some people are quiet.”
“Some people are haunted.”
Andrea had smiled, because apparently everyone had decided to be useless.
Max had met Violet once and immediately declared her “adorable.”
Adorable.
Max Verstappen.
Four-time world champion. Professional menace. Man who could detect weakness in a braking zone from three postcodes away.
Adorable.
Lando had stared at him. “Are you serious?”
Max shrugged. “She reminds me of a cat.”
“That is not helping!”
But the most damning betrayal had come from Nicole Piastri.
Oscar’s mum loved her.
Loved her.
Lando had thought Nicole would understand. Nicole was sensible. Warm. Kind. Sharp in the way mothers were sharp, where they could see everything and politely not mention half of it until exactly the worst moment.
Surely Nicole would take one look at Violet’s black lace parasol and wonder whether her son had accidentally become a boyfriend to a haunted governess.
Instead, Nicole took one look at Violet and melted.
Absolutely melted.
It happened in the McLaren garage.
Violet had been standing beside Oscar, one hand holding the folded parasol against her chest, the other tucked into the sleeve of her black cardigan. She looked nervous, which Lando only recognised in hindsight because at the time he had mistaken her stillness for quiet pre-murder composure.
Nicole came in with Chris, bright-faced and happy to see Oscar, and Oscar immediately did that thing where he became slightly less of a robot in the presence of his family.
“Mum,” he said, “this is Violet.”
Violet went very still.
Not murder-still, maybe.
More like someone had turned the volume of the world up too loud and she was trying to remember how her hands worked.
“Hello,” she said softly. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
Nicole’s face did the thing mothers’ faces did when they had decided someone was to be adopted immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Nicole said, and hugged her.
Hugged her.
Without warning.
Lando, watching from a few metres away, genuinely feared for Nicole’s safety.
Violet froze for half a second.
Her eyes went wide.
The parasol was trapped between them.
Oscar shifted, just a little, like he was about to step in if Violet needed rescuing.
But then Violet carefully — very carefully — lifted one arm and hugged Nicole back.
It was stiff at first.
Awkward.
Painfully gentle.
Like she was not used to human affection and might accidentally break someone’s ribs if she got the angle wrong.
Nicole squeezed her anyway.
Violet blinked very fast over Nicole’s shoulder.
Oscar’s face softened so dramatically that Lando wanted to file a complaint.
Everyone cooed.
The mechanics. The media people. Oscar’s dad. Possibly a passing FIA official.
Lando watched from behind a stack of tyres.
Not hiding.
Observing.
There was a difference.
“Mate,” Oscar said, appearing beside him.
Lando nearly died.
“Jesus Christ.”
Oscar looked at him, then at the tyres, then back at him.
“Are you hiding from my girlfriend?”
“No.”
“You are literally crouching.”
“I dropped something.”
“What?”
“My survival instinct.”
Oscar stared at him.
Lando stared back.
Oscar was not holding the parasol, but Lando felt the parasol’s presence looming over them spiritually.
After a long moment, Oscar said, “Violet thinks you don’t like her.”
Lando straightened so fast he nearly hit his head on the tyre rack.
“What?”
Oscar’s expression shifted.
Only slightly.
But Lando knew him. Oscar was not laughing now.
“She thinks you avoid her because you don’t like her.”
Lando looked past him.
Violet was still with Nicole, though the hug had ended. Nicole was holding both of Violet’s hands now, talking animatedly. Violet was listening with her head slightly bowed, cheeks pink, looking entirely overwhelmed and entirely pleased.
The parasol was folded neatly against her arm.
For some reason, Lando felt bad.
Which was irritating, because he had been having a very good time being correct.
“I don’t dislike her,” Lando said.
Oscar’s eyebrow moved.
“I don’t,” Lando insisted.
“You hide behind tyres when she’s around.”
“I avoid her because I think she’s going to kill me.”
Oscar’s face did something complicated.
Mostly, it looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh and slightly trying not to be annoyed and a tiny bit fond despite himself.
“That’s not better,” he said.
“It’s honest.”
“It’s insane.”
“It’s a valid fear.”
“She bakes, Lando. She doesn’t plot your murder.”
Lando narrowed his eyes. “What does she bake?”
Oscar sighed. “Biscuits. Cakes. Brownies.”
“Black ones?”
Oscar stared at him.
“With poison in them?” Lando clarified.
“No, Lando.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I eat them,” Oscar said, with exaggerated patience. “And I am still alive.”
“Exactly. Maybe she’s building your tolerance.”
Oscar pressed his lips together.
It was his little almost-smile. The one he did when he was trying to remain the mature, sensible one in the conversation, which Lando found deeply offensive because Oscar was younger than him and therefore had no right.
“She is not building my tolerance to poison, Lando.”
***
Reason 6: Belladonna
Belladonna.
That was the snake.
The snake.
Oscar’s girlfriend had a snake named Belladonna, and somehow, somehow, everyone expected Lando to behave normally about this information.
(He would not. He could not.)
There were certain things a person could reasonably be asked to accept in life. Flight delays. Media days. Zak Brown appearing with a camera crew and saying, “This’ll be fun,” when it absolutely would not be fun. Oscar Piastri answering heartfelt questions with the emotional range of a toaster.
But Oscar’s girlfriend owning a snake named after a poisonous plant?
No.
That was not something Lando could simply absorb and move on from.
He had found out during what had, until that moment, been a very normal conversation.
A boring conversation, even.
They had been sitting in the McLaren motorhome between sessions. Oscar was in the chair opposite him, scrolling through his phone, one ankle crossed over his knee, face doing that blank Australian thing where he looked like he was thinking about nothing but was probably cataloguing tyre data or silently judging someone’s sandwich choices.
Lando was bored.
This was often when problems began.
Oscar’s phone buzzed.
Oscar looked down.
And then his face changed.
Not dramatically. Oscar’s face did not do dramatic things unless someone had asked him to film TikTok content after a bad qualifying.
But it changed enough.
His mouth softened. His eyes warmed. The corners of his lips moved in a way that was almost a smile, which, for Oscar, was basically him standing on a balcony during a thunderstorm and declaring undying love.
Lando noticed immediately.
Obviously.
“What’s she saying?”
Oscar tilted the phone away. “Nothing.”
“You smiled.”
“So?”
“So that means it’s either about your girlfriend or food.”
Oscar ignored him.
Which meant Lando was right.
Lando leaned farther over the table. “Is she sending you nudes?”
Oscar finally looked up.
Slowly.
With the exhausted expression of a man who had been teammates with Lando Norris for too long and had begun to wonder whether early retirement might actually be peaceful.
“No,” Oscar said.
Lando wiggled his eyebrows.
Oscar’s expression went flatter.
“She sent me a picture of Belladonna.”
Lando froze.
He did not know why he froze.
At that point, he did not yet know what Belladonna was. It could have been anything. A dress. A book. A bakery. A weirdly named candle. Violet seemed like the sort of person who owned candles called things like Mourning Mist or Widow’s Breath.
But something in Oscar’s tone was wrong.
Fond.
Too fond.
Suspiciously fond.
Lando narrowed his eyes.
“…Who is Belladonna?”
Oscar’s face softened again.
“Her snake.”
Lando stared at him.
Oscar stared back.
The room went silent.
Not actually silent. Somewhere nearby, someone was talking into a headset. There was the low hum of machinery, the distant clatter of catering, a laugh from one of the engineers.
But to Lando, everything stopped.
The world narrowed down to Oscar Piastri sitting across from him, holding a phone, looking far too relaxed for a man who had just revealed that his girlfriend had a snake.
“Her what?” Lando asked.
“Her snake,” Oscar repeated.
As if that was normal.
As if that was information you could simply drop into conversation without a warning siren, a safety briefing, and possibly a priest.
Lando slowly sat back in his chair.
“Your girlfriend has a snake.”
“Yes.”
“Named Belladonna.”
“Yes.”
“As in the poisonous plant?”
Oscar shrugged. “She thought it was pretty.”
Lando opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
This was rare enough that Oscar should have been more concerned.
“She named her snake after poison, Oscar!”
“She’s not poisonous,” Oscar said. “She’s a ball python.”
“I don’t care what kind of pasta she is.”
Oscar blinked. “Python.”
“Whatever.”
“She’s harmless!”
“That is exactly what someone says before the snake eats their neighbour!”
“Ball pythons don’t eat people.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Oscar sighed.
Deeply.
Annoyingly.
Like Lando was the unreasonable one in this situation.
Then he went back to looking at the photo.
The photo.
Of the snake.
The snake named Belladonna.
Lando stared at him in disbelief. “You’re just going back to the picture?”
“She’s cute.”
“The snake?”
“Yes.”
“The snake named after poison?”
“Yes.”
“You think the snake is cute?”
Oscar turned the phone around.
Lando flinched.
He did not mean to flinch. He was brave in many circumstances. He drove Formula One cars for a living. He had gone wheel-to-wheel with Max Verstappen. He had survived British weather, Twitch chat, and Daniel Ricciardo’s impulse control.
But he was not emotionally prepared for a snake photo.
On the screen was a dark, patterned snake curled around Violet’s wrist.
Only Violet’s hand and forearm were visible. Black sleeve. Black nails. Snake.
Of course.
The snake’s little head was resting near Violet’s thumb, and its tongue was flicking out.
Lando recoiled.
Oscar frowned. “What?”
“It’s looking at me.”
“It’s a photo.”
“It knows.”
“It absolutely does not know.”
“You don’t know what snakes know.”
“I know they don’t understand phone cameras.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
Oscar stared.
Lando stared back.
Oscar turned the phone back toward himself. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“No,” Lando said, pointing at him. “No, this is a perfectly normal reaction. Your girlfriend owns a snake called Belladonna. That is not a pet. That is foreshadowing.”
“Vi rescued her.”
Lando paused.
He hated when Oscar provided context that made things inconvenient.
“She what?”
“Rescued her,” Oscar said. “Belladonna belonged to someone who couldn’t care for her properly. Violet took her in.”
Lando narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like something a villain says in Act One to make you sympathise with the snake.”
“She was underweight.”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
Oscar looked up. “Do what?”
“Make the snake sad.”
“She was.”
“I don’t want sad snake lore.”
“She had mites.”
“Oscar.”
“She’s much better now.”
Lando pressed both hands over his face.
This was a nightmare.
A snake named Belladonna was bad enough. A rescue snake named Belladonna with a tragic backstory was much worse. Now Lando could not even fully commit to being against her, because apparently she had overcome adversity.
Like a tiny scaly protagonist.
Lando hated his life.
***
Reason 7: Violet didn’t like Sweets
Violet didn’t like sweets.
This, to Lando, was one of the most alarming things about her.
Not the black clothes. Not the braids. Not the black lace parasol. Not even Belladonna, the snake named after poison.
(Well. Maybe Belladonna.)
But the sweets thing was high on the list.
Because Violet refused sweets with the same calm politeness she used for everything else, which somehow made it worse.
Lando had offered her a gummy bear once.
A perfectly normal, friendly, non-threatening gummy bear.
Violet looked at it. Then at him. Then she said, very softly, “No, thank you.”
Lando stared.
“You don’t want one?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
Oscar, without looking up from his phone, said, “Lando.”
“What? I’m asking.”
“She said no.”
“Yes, but she said no to a gummy bear.”
Violet’s cheeks went slightly pink. “I’m okay.”
That was not an explanation.
That was an evasion.
Lando slowly withdrew the gummy bear.
Oscar glanced up then, his expression already flat with warning.
“Don’t,” he said.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re making your thinking face.”
“I don’t have a thinking face.”
“You have several, and this is the stupidest one.”
Lando ignored him and looked at Violet, who was sitting beside Oscar in her black dress, hands folded neatly in her lap, looking like she had never once experienced the joy of eating Haribo in an airport at midnight.
“You don’t like sweets?” Lando asked.
Violet hesitated. “Not really.”
Lando looked at Oscar.
Oscar shrugged. “Vi doesn’t really eat them.”
Lando sat back.
Right.
Of course.
Of course Oscar’s girlfriend didn’t like sweets.
Of course she wore black and had a snake and rejected gummy bears.
“She bakes,” Oscar added, as if that helped.
Lando pointed at him. “That makes it weirder.”
“How?”
“She bakes sweets but doesn’t eat them.”
“They’re not all sweets.”
“What does that even mean?”
Oscar looked at Violet. Violet looked at Oscar.
Something silent passed between them.
Lando hated when they did that.
It felt like being excluded from a secret club where the membership requirements were emotional repression and gothic accessories.
“Vi makes really good lemon biscuits,” Oscar said.
“I know,” Lando said. “I ate twelve.”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s not the point.”
Violet’s mouth twitched.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “See, she finds this funny.”
Violet looked down, smiling into her sleeve.
Later, Lando caught Oscar eating one of Violet’s brownies and immediately pointed at him.
“Aha.”
Oscar paused mid-bite. “What?”
“She does eat sweets. You said she doesn’t.”
“This is mine.”
“She baked them.”
“Yes.”
“For you.”
“Yes.”
“But she doesn’t eat them?”
Oscar blinked. “No.”
Lando leaned closer. “Why?”
Oscar stared at him for several seconds.
Then he said, very slowly, “Because they have eggs and butter in them.”
Lando stared back.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Oscar waited. Lando waited.
The information floated between them.
Then Lando said, “And?”
Oscar closed his eyes.
From across the room, Violet made a tiny sound.
Lando looked over.
She was laughing silently into her hands.
Oscar sighed. “Vi is vegan, mate.”
Lando froze. “Oh.”
Violet’s shoulders shook harder.
Oscar looked at him with deep, personal disappointment.
Lando cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said. “That would explain the gummy bear.”
If you are taking requests , I really like the team green and team black concept ( Yandere?) especially now with the new season ! With Reader being like Baelor Targaryen. Charming, charismatic , expected to be heir? You cand ecide if male or female . BUT let's end it with R in battle or something like a trial of the Seven where when her / his helmet is taken off ...just like Baelor. Reader did a noble thing to delay the war between them or something and suddenly their favourite / person they love ..... ( Especially Alocent?Rhaenyra? Etc you pick )
I'm making the reader Rhaenyra's older sister (^∧^) something like her not having any children, so once she dies, Rhaenyra is made heir and the war happens
♱ The eldest child of King Viserys and Queen Aemma, you are made heir shortly after your birth, even before your sister is born. Rhaenyra isn't much younger than you, but you take to looking after her as though she were a little duckling.
Your childhood is filled with small council meetings, learning the art of politics even as your father was known to be quite bad at it. You became quite the gentle and charismatic young lady, and while it may have been unusual for a woman to inherit the Iron Throne, many agreed that you would do well by the Realm once your father was gone.
♱ You worried for Rhaenyra, as she hardly had any companions other than Syrax. When she finally finds a friend in the lady Alicent Hightower, you cannot help but tag along with them in your sparse free time. It was always nice to forget politics and duty and just see your sister enjoy herself. Alicent was so sweet, always showing interest in you as a person, rather than the future queen.
Everything is peaceful, despite your uncle and others striving for power.
So, when your mother dies giving birth to your only brother, you watch as everything seems to fall apart.
♱ It is a decision many disagreed with, but even after Aegon is born, your father refuses to move your position. Always the heir to the throne, even as you gain three younger brothers in the coming years.
Rhaenyra is loyal to you, a certain admiration for her elder sister always present. You faced struggles, as every woman did, but you never felt truly alone. Your enjoyment of life was something Alicent seemed to envy, even as the years continued on.
♱ With your father's failing health, it opened chances for people to squirm their way into the royal families business. Ever the protective sister, you defend Rhaenyra and her children with every waking breath. You love your family, and that included Alicent and her children.
Everyone could tell that Jace, Luke, and Joff were illegitimate. They were no Velaryon's, but a dragon must defend their own.
♱ Alicent would argue that your death was directly Rhaenyra's fault. If it had not been for her selfish choice in taking a lover other than her husband, you would not have had to vouch for their claims. Ser Vaemond would not have battled you, and you would not have had to be honorable and fight him without Vermithor by your side.
Rhaenyra would never admit to any wrong doing, and you never expected her to.
You loved your nephews, so you fight for their honor.
♱ Spear in hand, you fight valiantly alongside your stallion, and you are victorious in the end. Ser Vaemond lands one blow to your helm, but you impale him with your long weapon, and House Targaryen is once again victorious.
It is only when Rhaenyra helps you take your helmet off that you feel something is off.
The certain pressure of an incoming migraine was what it had felt like, but one the metal is lifted you feel everything go hazy as you hear Rhaenyra gasp sharply.
Your death is swift, your body falls to the floor, your brain visible from the gash in your head.
♱ You, heir to the throne, as strong as you were, had died quickly and without much pain. Despite this, your death spells the end of any peace that may have been salvaged between the Blacks and Greens.
Alicent becomes bitterly angry, while Rhaenyra is swallowed by her grief. Your father dies just a day later, and the succession is hazy. Having no children of your own, your immediate successor could only be one of two people.
Rhaenyra or Aegon.
♱ Both sides loved you. Your memory is burned away by death and cruelty, and both sides blame each other.
You would have hated what came of your beloved family, but your wants and desires died with you as your blood dripped on the stone floor. All that remains is poisonous love and memory.
"Erm well actually it's unrealistic for the reader to be a daughter 🤓☝️" erm well actually idc
