I'm Cordelia and I write fanfictions just about any man (or woman) I find attractive. My current hyperfixations are F1 and The Pitt but I can also feel my Harry Potter obsession coming back with the resurgence of dracotok. I'm also in high school (of age I promise), so if I don't post that often it's because of school and exams. English is not my first language!! I can speak five different languages so spare me some mercy, please. Some of my fanfictions are going to be dark, some not, so read what you like and at your own risk.
My hobbies include music, sailing and reading. I'm currently reading Sunrise on the Reaping, so NO SPOILERS. (It has taken me over a year to read it, though. I've been reading more school books than actual books as of late...) I'm personally more of a humanities girl, so my The Pitt stories will have insane inaccuracies. I'll try my best, though. My mom is nurse so I can ask her. I've always liked writing, so this is more a passion project for me. And also I never seem to find the right fanfictions for me to read before bed, so I just thought, why not do it myself. I'm also autistic, so if there's a lot of details about a random subject, enjoy. I'll post my masterlist down below once I've created a list about who I want to write about. Also, as a disclaimer, I don't write fanfictions about different character ships, but some stories are inspired by them. Some stories have x reader, some an OC, I haven't decided yet. Anyways, enjoy!
Summary: Oscar's win in China means nothing when you're still trapped in your golden cage.
Themes: dark!Oscar, Zak Brown's daughter!reader, reader dating Lando, stalking, age gap (19&24), toxic!Oscar, jealous!Oscar, obsessive!Oscar, delusional!Oscar, possessive!Oscar, Max being a menace
Notes: I highkey miss seeing him on the podium. McLaren, LOCK IN. I saw an edit on TikTok of the 2025 Chinese Grand Prix with this song in the background and I thought it fit so well. You guys have to bare with me on the slow burn, okay? I promise it's going to get sooo good and nasty soon.
Theme Song:
---
Thursday, March 20th 2025, 3.15 p.m.
That familiar exhausted look of yours looks down at your phone. He left you alone again. He's too busy for you. He only has time for you when the cameras are looking.
I don't really know what the point of media days are. I get that it helps build momentum for the upcoming race weekend but it's the same every Thursday. Journalists asking me how I feel going into the weekend, a never-ending cycle of rumours that some drivers have to deal with and games for good PR. And like I don't already get enough of him, I have to act like Lando's best friend again. I don't hate media days, I just find them useless.
I just got finished with my last interview. My PR manager knows I'm not one to charm the journalists, so thankfully she doesn't book me a lot of interviews on media day. Lando's still busy, which gives me an opening to come and talk to you.
This time you're sitting in McLaren hospitality, on the balcony. You're drinking your usual iced coffee, only this time with no Tim Tams available. You look beautiful once again. This time you're wearing red. I think I'm getting the pattern now. "I like the idea of matching your outfit to the flag of the host country, yet I still think blue fits you the best." I think I'm getting the hang of starting a conversation with you. I catch another glimpse of your phone and you're reading the news again. You're bored, just like I expected.
You put your phone down, looking up at me and your face immediately lights up. "Jesus, Oscar you scared me. You can't sneak up behind my back like that. But I do appreciate the comment." I sit on the chair next to you, taking off my cap.
"I thought you had schoolwork to do." I texted you in the morning, asking whether you wanted to grab a cup of coffee with me before the day fully starts. You had liked the idea but said you were busy with college. "Oh, I do. But I think I'll do it tomorrow, or Saturday. I'm too tired today and I can't really think straight. This is my third cup of coffee today and I'm still eagerly waiting for a nap to take once Lando gets back." You sip on your drink and sigh.
"Arrived late last night?" I ask, pretty much already knowing the answer to the question. You nod, taking off your sunglasses. "I really wanted to grab that coffee with you but I barely slept. I'm sorry, Oscar." I don't think I've ever heard Lando say that you slept in or that you'll be watching from home. You're there every single race weekend since Miami 2024. Even on days when you've been sick. Sometimes I even wonder if you have time for college at all.
"Why didn't you sleep in? You're clearly tired." I don't mean to offend, you look amazing but there's a reason why you're wearing shades. "I couldn't. Lando wants me to follow his schedule, so that I can be there for him when he needs me. I even had to change to online classes so that I could travel with him." Yup, that explains it. I think my hate for Lando grows stronger every day. That narcissistic asshole wants your life to revolve around him, of course he does. "So, you're like a full-time WAG, huh? What about when you need him?" I may be an introverted person but at least I know how to choose my words carefully.
You start to actually think about what I said. You don't even have to say anything and I already know the answer. He's not there for you when you need him. He's not there for you now, he wasn't there for you last Sunday and he won't be there for you in the future. You don't say anything for a minute, you just think. "Well, if all that a WAG does is sit around, looking pretty while actually bored, then I'm not sure it's for me." I nod, looking into your eyes. I want you to know I'm listening. That I will always stop and listen. "Then what do you want?"
You think hard again. This little conversation we are having might be small but it's going to have an impact on your relationship with Lando. You're going to want to start chasing your own dreams, leave him and then come to me once you realise how much of a better choice I am than him. "I don't really know. Something in F1 would be nice. I mean, this is basically my home. I think, maybe I'd like to be a strategist. I could replace the current Ferrari strategists and go save their team." There's a genuine smile on your face. One I haven't seen since we last talked.
"I think you'd be a great strategist. I might consider joining Ferrari if they hired you." I would actually join Ferrari in a heartbeat if they offered me a seat. Not because they have a good car but because I would do anything to get out of McLaren into a fairer team.
"Thank you, Oscar." We look at each other for a minute, just smiling. Something in the air shifted, I can tell. It's like you realised something. However, that sweet moment is interrupted by the golden boy, Lando Norris.
He hugs you from behind, kissing you all over your face and neck. My smile drops and I want to puke again. "I missed you so much, baby. I'm so glad you're still where I left you." Lando helps you stand up, stealing a sip of your coffee. Then he pretends to notice me, although I know he saw me before he interrupted. "Oh, hi mate. Didn't see you there. You excited for the weekend?" I fake a smile, dabbing him up only because I don't want to leave him hanging, as attempting as it sounds. "Yes, I am. It'll be good." Lando pats me on the shoulder and then turns to you.
"Babe, we should go. Your dad's looking for us. I think he said something about visiting Disneyland before dinner. I'll see you at the restaurant, Osc!" He says as he takes you away.
You don't seem too pleased with the idea of Disneyland. I would let you take that nap. I would let you sleep in. I would let you be free if it meant that you come back to me at the end of the day. But there you are, still trapped in that little golden cage they have you in. As I watch him grip your waist while walking out of the paddock, I keep thinking about how long it would take to bring Lando down. How many times can I win, place better than him, lead the championship until he's at his breaking point. When does he get jealous and show you his real side? I don't want him to hurt you but you need to come crawling to me.
---
Sunday, March 23rd 2025, 5.05 p.m.
P1. My first win of the season. Lando was 9 seconds behind. God, it felt good to beat him. You were the first person he went to after the race. He was looking for comfort from you. Over the months I've noticed a pattern. When he loses, you're the first person he seeks out, but when he wins, you're the last. I would invite you to the podium to celebrate with me. You'd be the first person I seek out after every race. Well, I already do.
I notice the small smiles you give me after each session. After free practice, qualifying, sprint, race. You seek me out, too. He got you first this time. You were the one to kiss him. A reassuring kiss. Something he never gave you. Because he doesn't listen to you. He doesn't know how you truly feel. He doesn't know you at all. I bet he thinks you being his is enough for you. It seems to be enough for him.
As I stand on the podium, my mind keeps going to you and so do my eyes. It's not right. You being his. You look so out of place when you're under his arm. I should be the one kissing you, holding you, fucking you. However, in order to get that, I have to work. I have to be subtle and patient. I have to be everything that he isn't. Luckily, that won't need much work.
---
9.45 p.m.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I don't know, I just think it sounds fun and it would be nice to have it as kind of like my thing."
"Your thing? Baby, I'm not sure you would like it. I wouldn't. I mean, it would take your time away from me and the life we have. Besides, you already have your tennis lessons and college. Have you talked to your dad about it?"
"No, not yet."
"Good. I don't think you should. You would hate it, I promise. All the race data, engineering, statistics, it's boring. I envy you for being able to just sit around all day, looking pretty drinking your mocktails and your only job being to support me. I don't want that to go away. We're good like this. Why fix something that's not broken?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I knew you two were in your room. I knew you'd discuss the idea with him. I wanted to break in and punch him. But instead, I had to turn back to my room after hearing footsteps approaching the door.
I could see you and Lando from the peephole. You were dressed up, heading for the after party. You were wearing a short blue dress. It reminded me that I have to get ready, too. I might not be the one hosting it, but I'm the winner, so I kind of have to go. However, it's all worth it if you're there.
---
Monday, March 17th 2025, 1.15 a.m.
His arms were barely around you all night. Only when he remembered to drink water did he come to you. Max was the one keeping you company. He asked you about your life and he was genuinely interested. He even asked about your opinions on Red Bull's strategy during the race and how you thought they could improve for Japan. I couldn't help but feel jealous seeing you smile at him and laughing at his jokes. I don't feel jealous when you're with Lando because all I feel for him is pure hatred. But seeing you so cosy with Max awakened something different in me that I couldn't ignore.
I never thought of myself as someone who gets jealous easily. However, Max is charismatic, older, more experienced and recently broke up with his long-term girlfriend. He's probably had his eye on you for a while. He's not really an impulsive person unless he's frustrated. Too bad I'm stuck singing Hotel California with drunken Lando acting like we're best friends.
As Max left for a short moment, you turned your head toward me and Lando. We made eye contact and you smiled. At that moment I wished the world would stop moving. I knew the short blue dress was for me to see. I knew you thought about me, day and night, just like I think about you. I'm just waiting for you to admit it.
---
3.40 p.m.
I'm surprised I'm not that hungover today. I didn't really drink much anyway. Thankfully the flight between Shanghai and Suzuka isn't long. I briefed the weekend with Mark before we both went back to our own business. Him listening to music and pretty much sleeping the entire flight, and me stalking your socials again.
Looks like the lights of Shanghai shone on McLaren this weekend ;)
Your post was a series of photos you took over the weekend. Photos of your outfits, Shanghai, food, Lando. But what caught my eye was the photo of two drinks, in a nightclub with a man's hand holding the other. It wasn't Lando's. It was Max's. I could see the Tag Heuer watch on his wrist. And then I saw it.
Liked by maxverstappen1
You're messy, I see. Lando was drunk enough that night that he definitely believed you if you told him it was him. But anyone crazy enough would figure out sooner or later that it's not him. And some of Lando's fans are a bit interesting.
Let's hope they shine bright enough to reach Suzuka ;)
I want to laugh. Lando's more oblivious than I thought, commenting that. I put my phone down, looking out of the window and pondering. Max probably thinks about you the way I do. And what makes pursuing you more thrilling for him is that you're already taken. Oh, how he enjoys taking from other people. I don't know the full story to him and Kelly breaking up, but if I could guess, he most likely got bored. Now, I'll have to keep an eye on him, too.
But I wouldn't worry too much. I know you wait for me to come and save you. I just have a few races to win before Lando lets go of you. And when that day comes, I'll be there for you before Max can even hear the news. And I'll hold and console you until you finally admit how much you really love me. Just a few more races, sweetheart.
Summary: George meets his new rookie teammate for the first time and is convinced that they're destined to be together.
Themes: dark!George, rookie!reader, Leclerc!reader, stalking, stealing, George being delusional and obsessive, naive!reader, age gap (18&27), possessive thoughts, toxic!George, unreliable narrator!George, kidnapping (hinting), jealous!George
Notes: What the absolute fuck was the Monaco GP this year? There isn't nearly enough dark George Russell fics, so I had to take matters into my own hands. Can you guys tell I miss the 2025 F1 season? Also, I had a strep throat scare and turns out it was just a cold, yay!! I also started work yesterday and I already hate being employed.
Theme song:
---
'Cause I'd be a fool
To ever leave you, dear
And a fool, I'd never be
You are my destiny
It was clear the moment I met you that you would be mine. It was destiny, my dear. Charles Leclerc's beautiful little sister becoming my teammate. He had kept you so well hidden that I didn't believe him when he talked about you. And rightfully so, as I've come to know you. The gorgeous young protégé. God really took his time making you and I'll forever be grateful for that.
However, you were also heavily protected by your brothers. Which, I understand completely. I wouldn't want anyone to ever hurt you. Unfortunately the world is full of cruel people who would. That's why you're here, safe in my house, safe with me. Your brothers couldn't possibly protect you and provide for you like I do.
I know how scared you must be right now. I know it's not the most ideal situation for you to be in. Locked up in my penthouse, your phone taken and no one coming to get you. But don't worry, you're right where you belong. You're meant to be here, meant to be with me. All you have to do is calm down and listen to me like the good girl I know you are. Let me explain to you how perfect we are together. Then, you'll understand, darling.
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February 18th 2025 - F1 75 LIVE
It was a great evening. The O2 arena filled with fans, drivers young and old, it was amazing. And you were amazing. You were nervous, of course. It was your first year in Formula 1, you were just in F3. Yet still, you impressed the fans not just with your witty jokes but also with your beauty.
Your dress unintentionally matched mine, black and white. You were the fan favourite after that evening, there was no doubt about it. The people were excited to see you race, to see what the youngest Leclerc had to offer. I remember how you stuck by my side that night. It was endearing, you seeking comfort and guidance from me.
I learned a lot about you that night. You're not much of a drinker but you do smoke. Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher are your idols. Your freckles are spread perfectly across your face. You love being called "darling". And you look really good on my arm. Jack Whitehall even called it out, saying that if we weren't teammates we could be mistaken for a couple. We both laughed at it, I had to because Charles wasn't.
Jack shouldn't have said that because he gave me an idea. We look so great together. I saw it, I'm sure everyone did. I finally found someone who would be the cherry on top in my life. You're the kind of woman I've always wanted. Obviously, you have your flaws but they're nothing I can't fix. I could already imagine having it all with you. A penthouse in Monaco, two healthy children, a few championships on my shelf, a Mercedes-Benz and you as my wife, happy and doting. Together we are perfection. I know you see it, too. I know you do, darling.
When I drove you back to the hotel, I was sure of it. You were going to be mine. There were just a few obstacles to take care of before that. Your brothers and your little dreams. You wanted to win the championship one day, I had no doubt you would. But sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the people we love, right darling?
I'm sorry I got a little off track, I just had to make sure you understand. I probably already mentioned how beautiful you looked that night. You told me then how you loved my hair and my intimidatingly blue eyes. You told me I'm a real gentleman. "A rarity in this world." I was very flattered. You had a crush on me, I could tell. I didn't call it out, I didn't want to embarrass you. However, I did feed into it. Why wouldn't I? You were already mine. I was just waiting for you to realise it. When I walked you back to your room, I lingered there for longer than necessary. I left when you were all ready for bed and your phone was in my pocket.
You should really be more careful with your belongings, darling. Your password was quite easy to guess, your birthday. There were some lovely photos of you in your camera roll, you should've posted them. And the texts between you and your ex? It's time to let go, I'm here now. It's brilliant the amount of information I learned about you all because of your phone.
You were so panicked, searching for your phone from everywhere. I felt bad, you having to waste your time like this. Toto bought you a new one quite fast. By all means it was important, our job does include a lot of phone calls. However, I preferred you without your phone. Those two days you spent without it, your attention was on me. Whenever you weren't on the sim or in work meetings, you'd hang out with me. I had a great time, and I know you did too. Which is why I'm not giving you your phone back. Sorry, darling. It kept you distracted from what's more important, me.
---
Sunday, March 16th 2025, 6.05 p.m.
On the podium in Australia. Not a bad way to start the season. And you were right on my tail. P4 and only 2 seconds away. Everyone was so proud of you. Toto, Charles, Max, me. You were happy. But you asked about Oscar. I saw the look on your face when I told you he finished 9th. Why would you be worried about him? Why would you want him to win? That's when I knew your sympathy would be a problem. Of course, it's a great trait to have, but you're supposed to feel it only for me. When I lose. Not when Oscar loses, or Max, or anyone else you call your "friend".
I could sense you wanted to go comfort him. The way your eyes moved so naturally towards Oscar. I had to keep you distracted, so I sprayed you with some champagne when I noticed the cameras were moving toward us. It did light you up. I walked with you to the Mercedes motorhome, my arm around your shoulders while you wiped some champagne off your face. I could've held you like that forever. It's a good thing now I get to, whenever I want.
---
Monday, March 17th 2025, 1.15 a.m.
Your dress was short. If you had asked me, I would've never allowed you to wear it to the after party. But you didn't, so there we were. You were singing along to the music with Lando. He was looking at you like you were dessert. I would've come to save you if Max hadn't been talking to me about the new regulations for next season. The more you drank the closer Lando got. Until eventually you were dancing skin to skin. I couldn't look at it anymore.
You smiled when I approached you. I knew you wanted me to come and save you from him. I took your waist in my arm and told you that I should help you back to the hotel. You didn't want to go but I insisted. Lando said something but I couldn't bother to listen to him.
I knew you were drunk with the way you went quiet in the taxi. Alcohol has a way of making you tired. You leaned your head on my shoulder so naturally. I couldn't help but feel proud of myself for making you feel so safe. For being such a good teammate.
I helped you change into more comfortable clothes. It was quite intimate in a way. I made sure you were safe and sound in bed. I stayed until you fell asleep. You look so beautiful when you sleep, darling. I'm so glad that now only I get to see you like that. I wish I could erase the memory of you sleeping from your ex's mind. From any man's mind who's had you before me.
Now that I had the chance, I had to give myself a little room tour. You keep things so organised, I adore that. You packed only what you needed. The more I looked around the more I fell in love with you. You make the perfect wife. But that dress was an imperfection I had to get rid of. I know you loved it, but I have to admit it felt good watching it burn in the fireplace.
---
Let me help you with those ropes, darling. I know they're hurting you but I had to. You were fighting me so much. I'm so glad you've calmed down, dear. You can fight all you want but you know that nothing will help. These doors will still be locked at the end of the day. I should get you a glass of water, you need it. You should get some sleep, too. And don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. You're safe here, where you belong. You're my wife, now. You should let your husband do his job and provide for you. I'll tell you more tomorrow. Now, stop struggling and drink your water.
Summary: Oscar gets sick of being the second driver.
Themes: dark!Oscar, Zak Brown's daughter!reader, reader dating Lando, stalking, age gap (19&24), toxic!Oscar, jealous!Oscar, obsessive!Oscar, possessive!Oscar, just Oscar being a nonchalant menace on and off track, Oscar lowkey being delusional
Notes: I've had this delicious treat of an idea brewing in my head for a while now. Then I read Devil In Disguise by feralf1girlie and I was inspired. I have been craving a dark fic with Oscar but these people have not been providing me with enough. (I have read every single one of them here on Tumblr, I need dark Oscar that much.) I also wanted to try something new with adding theme songs to my fics. I always listen to music when I write, and some songs just fit some fics I write. Anyway, enjoy!!
Theme song:
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Meet the daughter of McLaren Racing CEO Zak Brown, the 19-year-old paddock princess
Raised by the gated communities of Los Angeles, she has made a name for herself on TikTok and Instagram, sharing her everyday life in between college and the F1 grid.
Fans especially love the glimpses she gives to her relationship with McLaren golden boy Lando Norris, whom she has been dating since 2024.
"I love my girl, she's been there since the beginning." Says a very lovestruck Lando Norris in an interview after his first race win in F1.
"I obviously wouldn't be here if it wasn't for my dad. He's done so much for me and my family, and I'll forever be grateful for that."
Brown answers to a question about her father's role in her success. Many call the young college student the IT girl of the F1 WAGs, or over in the States, an American sweetheart. Nevertheless, she has proved herself-
I can't even finish reading the article. American sweetheart. Golden boy. It's all perfect, isn't it? It's written in the stars. I eye the rest of the article. No mention of your success beyond social media. They fail to mention how well you do in business school or overall how much there is to you as a person. Instead, it's just question after question about Lando, about being a WAG, about being perfect. And all of the tens of other articles I've read about you say the same things. To them you are nothing but Lando Norris's girlfriend. To me you are everything.
I turn my phone off as it's already late. I have to wake up early tomorrow, the flight to Australia leaves at 9. A brand new season awaits. I have a feeling it'll be better this time. That somehow and in someway everything will change.
And I'll get to see you again. I barely saw you all off-season. You rarely come to Woking and I only catch glimpses of you in your posts. And even the posts aren't always about you. It's mainly about Lando now. I still remember when you used to share your study notes on TikTok. You were so excited about them too. Now you mainly share mydays spent with Lando in Monaco.
God, I hate him. I know hate is a strong word but it's true. He truly is the golden boy. I hate him when he wins, when he scores more points than me, when McLaren favours him in strategies, when I'm reminded constantly how you belong to him. I especially hate him when his arm is wrapped around you, when he kisses you, when he fucks you.
Lando doesn't deserve you. He doesn't understand you. He doesn't see your needs, he doesn't look for you in big crowds, he only dates you because you make him look good. Fuck that. I don't want to watch him undermine you again this season. You deserve someone better. Me. I'm better. And I intend to save you from his dirty hands. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of Lando, of Zak, of papaya rules. I'm sick of not having you where I want you. You belong with me. By my side. Where you'll be safe, looked after, noticed and all mine.
---
Sunday, March 16th 2025, 2.00 p.m.
The paddock is chaotic. An hour before the first race of the season. Everyone is in a hurry, including Lando. He left you sitting there out of the way and out of sight. But I see you. I see how well your dress fits you, how you sip on your coffee and how you scroll on your phone to try and hide the loneliness etched on your face. Lando might not have time for you but I do. I would stop the world if you needed me.
I make sure Lando's not anywhere near before I approach you. I'm not really sure what to say but if I want things to change I have to do something. "You should try that with Tim Tams. It tastes like heaven." You look from your phone, your wide eyes lighting up when you see me. I catch a glimpse of your phone, you're reading the news. Something you only do when you're bored.
"Oh yeah? Well, then I have to try. You excited for the race? It's your home race, right?" You put your phone down, your sweet American accent rolling off your tongue. I nod, giving you all my attention. "I am. I hope it goes better than last year."
"I hope so, too. You deserve to win." You're sincere. Yet I'm not good at taking compliments, so I change the topic. "Thank you. I appreciate it. And you? Are you excited to watch Lando?" I notice your smile slightly dropping. It's a question you're asked every race weekend. You nod lazily. "Yeah, I guess I am. He's very confident and thinks he's going to win." You glimpse at your phone, like you don't like me asking about him. It sort of confirmed my suspicions.
"You look beautiful. Blue's really your colour." You look away briefly, the small red hue on your cheeks. "Thank you, Oscar. You don't look too bad either." I could admire your face for ages. It's definitely brighter now that we're not talking about Lando. You'd make a great model. It's something Lando and Zak have been trying to make you do. But I know you don't want it. You hate the cameras and the media. Ironic, considering some might count you as an influencer.
Before I can say anything, Zak's hand is on my shoulder and his suffocatingly loud voice comes from behind me. "Hey, y'all. Listen, I hate to interrupt your little conversation but sweetie, Lando wants to see you before the race starts and Oscar, I think I heard Mark looking for you." You pick up your drink, taking a last sip before Zak guides you away from me. "He needs to see his lucky charm before the race."
Lucky charm. Of course Lando calls you that. Not only do you make him look good, you also bring him luck. I stand there for a minute. I can still slightly smell your sweet vanilla perfume. And the cup you left still has some iced coffee left on it. I turn around to see Mark actually there, talking with my race engineer, Tom. As much as I want to linger on the moment I just had with you, I have to focus on the race if I want to win.
---
2.45 p.m.
The Australian national anthem has been heard, cars are on the grid and there's 15 minutes before the race starts. I'm putting on my headset when I notice you with Lando. You're next to the pit wall, his hand around your waist as he kisses you all over your face. You're laughing. It makes me sick. Zak says something to Lando and he finally puts his headgear on. He kisses you one last time before putting on his balaclava and heading to the grid.
You go to sit next to your father on the pit wall. If this was any other team, you'd be sitting in the garage with the rest of the guests. But this is McLaren, and because Lando Norris wanted you to sit on the pit wall where he could hear your reassuring voice if he needed to, they made space for you. God forbid I asked something like that, I'd get crucified.
---
5.30 p.m.
And Lando Norris wins the first race of the season!!!
P9. Fucking P9 in my home race. That's worse than last year. Two points I'll do nothing with. Even Lance Stroll placed higher than me. And of course, the golden boy won. That's what they were going for. Fucking papaya rules. The media is relentless. And what's even worse is that I see him with you again, celebrating. He's all sweaty and sticky with champagne, and he's kissing you everywhere again. The cameras love it. You're surrounded by them.
I know you hate it. I know how trapped you must feel. I'd take you somewhere quiet. I'd take a shower first before showering you with kisses. I'd get you that Melbourne iced coffee with Tim Tams, and then later, I would take you out to dinner where we can celebrate. No loud crowds, no big cameras, and no Lando.
Lando gets you and I get a pat on the shoulder. "Great race, right Osc?" Lando walks over to me with that stupidly wide grin. We shake hands and I pretend to smile. "Of course." I want to punch that fucking grin off his face. Another pat on the shoulder and you're out of sight again. I guess Lando doesn't need his lucky charm now that he won.
---
9.15 p.m.
I'm back in my hotel room, packing up my stuff for the flight to Shanghai tomorrow. I plan to be there early to practice. I might have failed today but next Sunday is a brand new day. Unlike him, I learn from my mistakes.
There's a knock on my door and I go to open it. It's most likely Mark, trying to reassure me again. But to my surprise it's you. You're standing there with a packet of Tim Tams and a Ben&Jerry's ice cream. You don't look like you're going to a party. Instead, you're wearing PJs. "You were right about trying the coffee with Tim Tams, it was heavenly."
I smile almost instantly. You remembered. I let you in, closing the door behind you. "You're not going to the party?" I ask, taking the chance to check you out. "No, I didn't want to go. I don't like loud music."
You turn around, handing me the biscuits and ice cream. "I thought this might cheer you up. I know Tim Tams are your favourite and who doesn't like Ben&Jerry's." I thank you, taking them and setting them on the table. You look around my room, seeing my half packed bags and ask me if I'm already leaving.
I nod, picking up a shirt I was folding before you knocked. "Yeah, I have no reason to stay here for longer. I've already said goodbye to my family. And besides, I could really use the extra days in Shanghai to just think and practice." You sit down on the bed, watching me continue packing. There's a moment of silence that you break.
"I wish I could go with you. But Lando likes to wait until Wednesday morning for departure. I hate it because then I don't get a day off before the race weekend starts. I don't know how he handles it." I can tell it bothers you. I've seen the exhaustion on your face many times before.
"You should speak to him about it then." I try my best to give you advice. In reality, I want to tell you to leave him and to come with me instead. You shake your head. "He knows. He's just sacrificed so much for me and I can't ask for too much. My dad says that I have to make sacrifices too to make it work." Oh, fuck him. I don't think Lando's had to sacrifice anything a day in his life. Everything's always been handed to him on a silver platter.
"I know I'm being dramatic but sometimes it feels like I'm not allowed to have a life outside of him. Like ever since Lando was signed into McLaren it was written in the contract that I'm his. Dad doesn't even ask about how my studies are going anymore. He just asks how Lando's doing, if our relationship's going smooth or then he talks about new PR opportunities for me and Lando. We're going to be on Hot Ones next month." You chuckle, humourless. I don't really know what to say. I suppose I wasn't ready for you to open up to me. I still appreciate it. It means you trust me. And your trust is obviously something I need if I'm going to make you mine.
"I'm sorry for making you listen to my problems." You apologise while standing up. I shake my head. "It's alright. I'm here if you need me. Always. I promise I understand more than I let on." You hug me. Our first hug. You feel so soft and smell so good. I don't want to let go. You let me go, smiling. You've washed off your makeup. I didn't even notice.
"Thank you, Oscar. Now, eat up your ice cream before it melts. I'll see you in Shanghai." I open the door for you, something Lando does only when the cameras are on. "See you, sweetheart." The same red hue appears on your cheeks. I make you blush. I have to be flattered. I close the door, looking from the peephole at you. You stand there for a second before getting the elevator back to your floor.
---
1.00 a.m.
Lando's first win in Australia! So proud of you, baby.
It's a photo of Lando kissing you after the podium. You look so beautiful. All the comments are loving it.
What a dream couple!
Life straight from a movie!
The paddock's IT couple!
You weren't happy with him. You couldn't be. You wouldn't have complained to me if you were. You'd be so happy with me. I would give you the world. I would listen to you, shield you, celebrate you. You have no idea how much I would sacrifice for you, darling.
This season will be different. The WDC will be mine, and I'll be holding your waist, kissing you, marking you as all mine. And next year I'll have a seat at Red Bull or Mercedes, away from papaya rules and the hands of Lando Norris and Zak Brown. It'll be the perfect love story. You're the princess in the castle and I'm the knight. Sooner or later, you'll finally belong to me. Just have some patience, darling. Your saviour is coming soon.
Themes: dark!Max, piquet!reader, toxic!Max, naive!reader, female!reader, college student!reader, youngest piquet!reader, possessive thoughts, jealousy, stalking, age gap (18&26), domestic abuse (NOT ROMANTICISING), controlling behaviour, manipulation, unhealthy obsession, Kelly being sort of insane, Checo is an abuser in this
Notes: So incredibly sorry for the very late update on this series, you guys have no idea how crazy May was for me. But I've come back with so many ideas guys it's insane. Like I'm writing day and night, my brain is moving faster than my fingers can type. I can't wait for you guys to see my new Oscar Piastri fic.
---
Fuck.
"Excuse me?" Kelly said, getting out of bed, clearly very angry. I barely get a word out when she already starts yelling. "Her? My little sister? You've been fucking her?!" I try to calm her down while putting my clothes back on. "No, I haven't. It was an honest mistake, Kelly, considering she lives in my house and you two look alike. I promise we aren't fucking." She laughs in my face, picking up her stuff with barely handled rage.
"I find that hard to believe. I see how you look at her. Like you want to fuck her." She storms out of the bedroom and I go after her. I have to. If she goes around saying that, my entire plan is fucked. "Kelly, calm down. There's nothing going on between me and her! She's dating Checo and I'm dating you, neither of us would ever do that."
She turns around, scoffing. "Oh, she would. The moment that slut gets attention from a man, she's after him. But she's young and hot, so you fail to see what kind of whore she is!" I've never in my life hit a woman, until today. It wasn't hard enough to leave a scar, but at least it shut her up.
"Don't fucking talk about her like that." You could hear a pin drop in this silence. Kelly's looking at me like I just killed her family. I've been told I look like an angry bull when I'm mad. Maybe that's why I tend to push people away after a bad race.
I get closer to her, not touching her, just close enough that she gets the point. "I have a lot of respect for you, Kelly. You love your family and you love me, but the way you talk about your own sister is unacceptable. She's kind, forgiving, polite, humble, she never asks for too much, she considers everyone and puts their needs above her own. I could go on about her but I think you understand." I don't yell. My voice is controlled and calm but firm. However, I don't think she gets it.
"No, I don't understand. Why is she so fucking special? She's spoiled rotten and so naive it hurts to watch! She's nothing but a pain in the ass! But of course, you're fucking her, are you not? God, she must be really good in bed if she has you talking about her like that. Where do you think she learned it from? Checo? Why her, huh? Why her and not me?!" She's angrier than I thought she would be. This time I restrain myself from hurting her. I don't want to be an abuser.
"Because she's not you! She's everything that you're not. That's why!" Now I do yell. I have to get my point across. I don't want to have to say the same things over and over again. Kelly's frustrated and I can see she's about to fight again. God, how she loves that. Fighting, it's her favourite hobby. But thankfully my phone rings, saving me from her wrath.
The moment I see your name pop up on my screen, I know I have to answer as soon as possible. I will always have time for you. I turn to go to my bedroom for privacy and Kelly shouts something about you that I don't fully even register. All I can hear is your panicked voice from across the line. Once I hear you in distress, everything else fades away.
"Max, can you come pick me up, please?" You sound like a deer that just got hit by a car.
"Sweetheart, what happened?" You don't want to talk about it. You just beg me to come and get you. My keys are already in my hand and I'm putting on my shoes. You end the call once I reassure you that I'm coming. Kelly's still standing in the kitchen when I'm leaving. She's texting someone, I can't tell who. I don't want to pick up a fight, so instead I tell her: "Your sister needs me. While I'm gone, I'd like you to pack up your shit and get the fuck out of my house."
I don't wait for her to talk back. I turn around and slam the door on my way to you.
---
I never thought you'd ever lie to me. But this time you did. You told me you were in class, but instead you were out with Checo on his yacht. You were crying and you basically ran into my arms. You didn't want to talk about it. I said you didn't have to. But I saw Checo from the distance. I saw how drunk he was. I had a feeling this had something to do with him.
Kelly kept calling you, texting you. She called you names, told you to fuck off. It made you cry even more, you were so confused. And I felt bad for screwing up so hard. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to break up with Kelly on a nice dinner, with peace. But when I was fucking Kelly, I could only think of you. And then I moaned your name, and that's when things got complicated.
I told you to ignore her and you kept asking me what was going on. Eventually, I took your phone away and turned it off. I had to stop in an alleyway to calm you down. I agree it wasn't the best spot but I had to stop somewhere.
You fought when I pulled you in my arms but it did calm you down after a minute. I let you cry it out. I've been waiting for something like this. You crying in my arms and letting me take care of you. You look so beautiful even when you're a mess. When you finally calmed down, I explained it all to you.
"I broke up with Kelly and she thinks it's because of you." It's not exactly a lie. I just left out the part where she thinks we're fucking. "She's just jealous of you, that's why. She feels threatened by you. I'm glad you weren't there to hear what she said about you. I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
You asked question after question and I answered each one. I had to tell you what to believe. I know it sounds bad but I have to fix what I broke. And the result has to be you with me forever. I wipe the last of your tears. "I broke up with her because we just weren't a good fit for each other. Always fighting, you know how it is. Now, tell me what happened with Checo."
You hesitate, like you know how I'll react. "Well... He was drinking a lot. And obviously you can't drink and drive, even at sea. I kept telling him about it, and I took some of his beer away. He grew more frustrated over time and eventually he uhm... He hit me." Shit. I hold you a little tighter. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from him." I say, and you immediately tell me it's not my fault.
We sit there in silence, you in my arms, for a long moment. I'm angry at Checo, at Kelly, at myself. I hate Checo for hitting you, hypocritical of me, I know. But it's not just that. I've hated him since Azerbaijan 2023. I hate Kelly for speaking like that of you. For using me for my money and fame, at least that's how it has felt like these past 4 years. And I hate myself for not being able to stick to the plan. For screwing this up. Except maybe it's not that bad after all.
Kelly will tell everyone who passes her way that me and you are fucking, although we're not. She'll tell your family, and your family will turn against you. They'll obviously believe her. And once those rumours start circling in Monaco, they'll end up at your college campus. Your friends will hear of them, not knowing who to believe. And then you'll come running to me. Because I'm always here when you need me. Max is here to take care of you, schatje. You don't need anyone else. Only me.
---
To my surprise, my apartment isn't trashed to bits when we get home. Kelly actually did pack up all her stuff, leaving mine untouched. That is until I saw your room. Some of your favourite clothes torn up, birthday presents broken, all the signs of Kelly releasing her anger on you.
You pick it all up, trying to fix what you can. You're on the verge of tears doing it. Some of these things meant a lot to you, so I understand. I just don't get why Kelly is angry at you and not me. I was the one who screwed up. I wouldn't mind if she tore up my clothes and broke all my trophies. I'd just buy new clothes and win more.
You're holding the PJ set Kelly got you for Christmas. It's ripped apart, smeared with what I assume to be makeup. You can't hold your tears anymore. I do what's only instinct to me now: hold you and let you cry it out. "Don't worry, I can buy you some new clothes. I can get you anything you need." You refuse, trying to explain the emotional value some of these things that Kelly broke had to you but I insist.
I cup your face, wiping away your tears and your hair from your face. "I know, sweetheart, I know. It's been a long day. Why don't you take a nap? I'll get you some ice cream after." You're exhausted, it's clear. You nod and get up. "You can sleep on my bed for now. I'll sort your room out." You cling onto me for a minute. "Thank you, Max. You've been so kind to me." I kiss your temple. "Anything for you."
I make sure you're comfortable on my bed. I close the curtains and leave the door slightly ajar, just so I could still keep an eye on you. I could really use a cigarette. I don't smoke but today's an exception.
The view from my balcony reminds me of work. Imola's next on the calendar. I'm not sure if you'd want to come with this time, considering Checo's still my teammate. I find myself thinking of the conversation I had with Jos. I did break up with Kelly, now what? I hate asking for help or advice but now I could really use some. I need options and someone who understands me.
I call Gianpiero. He answers almost instantly. "Max, hi. How are you?" I can tell he's been working, he sounds like he was interrupted. "GP, I'm good, thanks. Listen, I sort of need some help. I was wondering if you could help me?"
"Yes, of course, anything you need, mate. What's going on?"
I take a drag of my cigarette before answering, trying to figure out how to word it. "It's about Piquet's youngest. And Checo. You know they've been dating for a few months now, and well, today he hit her. And to add to that, I broke up with Kelly and she's blaming her sister for it."
There's a brief silence before GP answers. "Oh, that's not good. Is she okay? I knew it was questionable for him to be dating her but I didn't think he would hurt her. But I do have to say that you breaking up with Kelly was a long time coming. I'm so sorry that all of this is happening. What can I do?" I run my hand through my hair, trying to figure out what to do. "Well, Imola's next week, and I don't think I can leave her alone here in Monaco. She's kind of a mess right now. But then again, Checo will be there and I can't be by her side all the time. Could you keep an eye on her, keep her some company maybe and make sure Checo doesn't get too close? Nor Kelly if she happens to be there."
"Yes, of course. I'll be happy to. She can sit on the pit wall with me. Tell her I'm sorry for all this. I'll try to cheer her up." I sigh in relief. "Thanks, GP. You have no idea how much this means to me." I take one last drag of my cigarette before dumping it on the ashtray. We say goodbye and hang up.
I check up on you, watching you from the doorway. You're in deep sleep, you clearly needed this nap. It's all coming together. A few more months of waiting, of planning until you're fully mine. Maybe you could already be mine before the end of the season. I find myself thinking of our future. Of you being by my side in every race, cheering me on when I win. And the children we'll have. I was thinking two boys and a girl. And when I become a team principal of my own F1 team, we'll grow old together in Monaco. I could show you the world, even the parts that F1 hasn't reached yet. But for now, I have to stay focused. The train already got off track, I got lucky it's still going in the same destination.
Summary: You had enough of being Toto's maid and so he makes his intentions clear.
Themes: rookie!reader, Mercedes!reader, dark!Toto, age gap (20&54), problematic power dynamics, divorced!Toto, abuse of power, female!reader, possessive!Toto, this is a dark fic!!!
Notes: Finally I had some time to write for Toto. The past two months has been crazy, I'm actually surprised I made it out alive. But also some good news, FINLAND WON THE MEN'S IIHF WORLDS!!!!!RAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS A MILE?!!!!!(I'm a hockey fan in case you can't tell)
---
Thursday, April 23rd 19.30
Three weeks, two days, 19 hours and 30 minutes. That's how long I managed to be his little maid. Cleaning his dishes, doing his laundry, making him dinner, babysitting his kid... I was tired of it. All that time I could've used on the simulator or with friends, I was instead forced to scrub his floors. I wasn't even getting paid. It was like torture. But the final straw was how he treated me when his ex-wife Susie came to pick up Jack.
---
We had just finished dinner and Jack was watching TV while Toto was making a phone call in his office. I was doing the dishes when I heard the doorbell ring. Toto didn't tell me he was expecting anyone, so it came to me as a surprise to see his ex-wife Susie standing behind the door. I suppose Toto hadn't told her about me as she looked surprised to see me as well.
"Hi, I'm here to pick up Jack." She said as she entered the apartment. I close the door behind her as Jack runs to the foyer from the living room, greeting his mother.
"You must be Susie." I greet her, shaking her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming today." I know she recognises me. Why wouldn't she? I'm the first woman in F1. "Well, I didn't expect you to." I can tell she's confused and honestly so am I. Before either of us have a chance to say another word, Toto appears in the room.
"You came early." His deep accented voice comes from behind me. His hand pulls me closer by my waist and stays there. I try to play it cool even though my head is full of questions. Susie nods, holding Jack in her arms. "I thought you had to leave for Miami today."
"Plans changed. We leave on Saturday." Toto looks at Susie and Susie looks at me with a knowing look. It's like she knows something I don't. Toto's hand on my waist tightens. There's a very clear tension in the air that I can't name. It's not sexual but it's also not anger. "So you just wanted to show off your new plaything, huh?" I don't even want to know how ridiculous my face looks after hearing Susie say that.
"I know you like power play, but I never thought you'd stoop so low as to date your own driver." She continues and I want to laugh and cry at the same time. I am literally speechless, I don't even want to look at Toto. He glares at Susie, pulling me closer. I can feel my face redden with embarrassment. "Get out." I would probably cry if Toto ever talked to me that way. But instead Susie smirks, takes Jack's bag and walks out of the house with him.
I wave goodbye to Jack, but once that door closes I turn to Toto, embarrassment and panic on my face. "What the fuck is she talking about?" Toto sighs and pinches his nose. "Calm down." I chuckle, taking off my apron and throw it at him. "Fuck this and fuck you. I've had enough. I'm your driver, not your fucking maid!" He catches the apron, approaching me until he eventually has me backed up against the counter.
He grabs my hands that keep pushing him. "I knew you wouldn't like this, which is exactly why I made you do this." I want to say something but he silences me with gripping my wrists tighter. "I wanted to teach you that losing is not an option for you. It's either independence or scrubbing my floors. You have to earn your seat at the table." I've heard those words hundreds of times before. I know I have to work. "Well, you made something pretty obvious for me very fucking clear. But what Susie said-"
"Forget what she said. Her opinion, her voice, it doesn't matter anymore. The only role she plays in my life is that she's the mother of my child." He releases my wrists from his grip. Instead, he looks at me from head to toe, grabbing my waist again, looking deep into my eyes. "You're mine, sweetheart. Mein Engel. I gave you this seat. Your wins and losses affect me. You keep wondering what's going on, why I act like this. You really should've read that contract fully before signing." He cups my face, whispering to me now. "Lucky for me, you're so easily blinded by money." He chuckles, kissing my temple. "Easier than I thought." He whispers, mainly to himself.
I feel stupid. He's right. I am naive. I've never been the type to read the terms and conditions on anything, but I really should have read that fucking contract. I thought I was crazy and just delusional about the way he's been acting. But he's admitting it.
I can feel his breath on my neck. His hand on my waist, the other one caressing my hair. "You smell like heaven. Look like you're from there, too." He looks at me for a long moment. Then he leans down and kisses me. Really kisses me. Relentlessly, like I'd run away. I don't think I've ever been kissed like that in my life. He pulls me closer and I can feel how hard he is. When he pulls away I feel like a warm blanket has just been ripped from me. He leans down again, only this time to whisper in my ear.
"Now, go home. Unless you want everyone to think you slept your way into Formula 1." He has that patronising look on his face. At least that's what it feels like. He has that power over me and he knows it, and abuses it. He lets me go, taking a step back. He watches my every step as I grab my bag and head for the door.
"Spend some more time on the simulator. I'll see you in Miami. And have a good night, mein Engel."
I'm starting to hate that nickname. I don't feel like an angel. I don't say anything as I leave. I feel all the possible emotions one can have. Anger, embarrassment, stupidity, you name it. But one thing I'm sure of: I will find that contract, read it and try to make sense of whatever the fuck is going on.
---
It probably would've been wiser to read the contract after Miami. Now I'm left with more unanswered questions.
...agrees to be the property of team principal Torger Wolff.
I stare at the letters on the perfectly white paper like they're suddenly going to change. My bedroom looks like a raccoon visited. The clock strikes 2 in the morning. I couldn't sleep knowing the contract was somewhere. I'm supposed to wake up at 6. The flight to Miami leaves at 8. The jet lag is going to be hell. Especially knowing I can't sleep on the plane.
I consider calling George and asking about his contract. Maybe it's the same. I decide not to. It could be awkward. I can't tell Mika either. He would make me give up my seat. He would probably never allow me near the Mercedes garage again. I understand it, but F1 is my dream. Has been since I was 12. I can't give it up because of one man.
I go back to bed, trying to get some sleep. Out of instinct I open my phone and scroll on Instagram. Max's latest post pops up on my feed. Him in the 24h Nürbürgring. It hits me then how I can get out of this. I have to impress Red Bull Racing somehow. Yes, their car is a bit shit now, but I still have to try. A seat at Red Bull, next to Max Verstappen... It's tempting. If I want to stay in F1, this is my chance.
Toto's words echo in my head. Unless you want everyone to think you slept your way into F1. I have a lot of respect for Toto. He's the epitome of the rags to riches story and his dedication to F1 is admirable. But he confuses me. He defends me from misogynistic journalists, lets me celebrate my wins, spoils me, etc. But when we're alone it's different. I won't deny that I didn't like him kissing me. He's handsome, rich, a gentleman and takes care of his kids. Everything I have ever wanted in a man. Yet he's also 34 years older than me and my boss. And Susie mentioning him liking power play... Is this some kind of fantasy for him? One sentence in a contract definitely doesn't explain it all. I have to talk with Susie. I have to find out as much as I can about Toto.
I put my phone down, trying to get some sleep. After about 20 minutes I give up. I get up and head to my simulator. I could use this time to practice for Miami. I don't want to have to scrub floors again. I put on my headphones and open Spotify. If any song gives me a confidence boost, it's Rallikansa by JVG. It reminds me of home, of Finland. I could really use a summer night at home. I need something to take my mind off Toto.
You enter the paddock by accident, leave one man behind on purpose, and are gently gathered into another’s orbit instead.
Based off the song Devil in Disguise by Marino
pairing: dark!Oscar Piastri x Reader
no faceclaim + no use of y/n
warnings: manipulation, subtle coercion, fuckboi lando (everything is pretty subtle/implied)
length: 14,788
tags: naive reader, homie hopping but not really, abuse dressed up as care and control
ꜰᴇʀᴀʟ ʀᴀᴅɪᴏ: good lord this one's a monster! took me over 3 hours just to edit and get to where I want it, let alone the hours I spent writing. Now, obviously this one is a bit different. I don't think Lando or Oscar would ever actually act like this (duh). I basically saw the edits with Oscar as the Devil set to Devil in Disguise and this is what came out. I don't detail out any explicit abuse but make no mistake, Oscar is definitely an abuser in this. Manipulation and coercion is still abuse. Be safe, don't read if this will trigger you!
masterlist
The paddock is louder than you expect. Not in volume exactly but in texture, the layered sounds of rolling tyre racks and shouted instructions. The air is warm already despite the early hour, smelling faintly of rubber and fuel and expensive coffee.
You trail behind Lando at first, distracted by how effortlessly he moves through it all: people greeting him by name, hands clapping his shoulder, laughter blooming and fading as he passes. At some point he glances back at you with that easy grin. He scoops up your hand to give it a quick squeeze and says he needs to head in early for meetings, that you’ll be fine, just hang around, he’ll come find you.
It doesn’t feel like abandonment. Not then. You nod, smile, tell him you’ll see him later, and he’s already gone, swallowed up by papaya shirts and headsets and the steady, purposeful tide of people who know exactly where they’re meant to be.
You linger for a moment, suddenly overly aware of yourself. Your dress feels slightly too delicate for this place, the bag in your hand heavy with wealth you don’t know how to wear. Lando bought it for you just before you flew out. It was some luxury brand, all buttery leather and too small to hold more than a few credit cards and a lip gloss. You adjust it, feeling the stitching between your fingers. A tangible reminder that this is the world you’ve stepped into, that Lando is making sure you belong.
Taking a deep breath, you start walking, trying to look like you know where you’re going even as you’re jostled this way and that. The paddock is a maze of “staff only” “no media” and “team escort required” signs that have you turned around. Equipment carts rattle past close enough that you have to press yourself against a barrier to let them through.
Someone shouts a warning you don’t quite catch. You turn too late, sidestep sharply to avoid cart piled high with equipment. Your heel catches on the uneven ground, your fingers losing their grip on the beautiful bag as it slips from your arm and hits the concrete with a dull, expensive thud.
You swear under your breath, heart skittering, the noise and movement around you suddenly too much. However, before you can bend to retrieve Lando’s gift, a figure kneels gracefully. He rescues the bag from the asphalt, turning it over in his hands as if inspecting it for damage before holding it out to you.
“Here,” he says. His words are calm, warm, accented in a way that feels softer than Lando’s voice. “I don’t think anything fell out.”
Heart still beating fast, you take it gratefully, hooking your arm through the impractically small handles.
“Thank you so much,” you say, a little breathless. You look up.
He’s taller than you thought he’d be, dark hair neatly combed back. His McLaren team kit is immaculate, not a thread out of place, his expression polite and open. Deep brown eyes stare steady into yours without being intrusive, like he’s giving you space even as he stands right in front of you. He waits until your bag is secure on your arm before continuing, fingers lingering outstretched just long enough to make sure you’ve got it.
“Thank you,” you repeat, embarrassment heating your cheeks as you laugh at yourself. “I’m not usually this clumsy, I swear.”
He smiles, small and genuine. The corner of his mouth dimples a little. “First paddock?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“A bit,” he admits easily. “It’s chaos if you’re not used to it.”
You adjust the strap on your arm, suddenly conscious of how close he is, how unhurried he seems in a place where everyone else is moving at speed. “I’m meeting someone,” you add, as if you need to justify yourself. “Or, I was. I think I’ve lost him.”
He glances past you briefly, scanning the flow of people, then looks back. “Who are you looking for?”
Realizing that he clearly works for Lando’s team and may be able to help you, you perk up a little.
“Lando Norris? He drives for McLaren. Which you know, of course.”
You stumble over your words a little, face reddening further, but the man doesn’t tease you or roll his eyes. In fact, he doesn’t react at all past a mild flicker of recognition.
“Right,” he says. “He’ll be in the garage already. I’m heading that way, if you want to walk with me.”
There’s no pressure in the offer, no raised eyebrow or teasing tone, just a statement of fact, simple and easy. You nod before you can overthink it, grateful. Falling into step beside him as he sets off at an pace that naturally matches yours, you find yourself surprised at how easily he weaves through the crowds and keeps you at his side the whole time.
“I’m Oscar,” he adds after a moment.
You tell him your name, and he repeats it once, quietly, like he’s filing it away.
As you walk he points things out, explaining why certain areas are blocked off, who’s allowed where, why everyone seems so tense even though the race is hours away. When you ask basic questions he doesn’t make fun of you or dismiss you, he answers them.
You’re a nervous talker and the paddock had you stressed out even before Lando left you alone, so you find yourself telling Oscar about yourself. How you were taking a gap year after graduating university, how you were traveling around the world, and you’d met Lando at a party and he’d invited you to watch the race. You left out the several weeks you’d spent together, mostly in bed.
Oscar listens when you speak, really listens, eyes flicking between your face and your path through the paddock. The attention isn’t suffocating, but purposeful and steady. A solid, reliable presence, not a looming one.
The McLaren garage comes into view. It’s a bright, purposeful pocket of movement and sound, orange and black and silver gleaming under the lights, engineers clustered in tight knots, voices clipped and focused. Lando is there already. He’s changed into his fireproofs, race suit unzipped to the waist. A headset rests over his curls and he’s listening closely to someone speaking through it, eyes sharp. A completely different person than the man you woke up next to in the hotel this morning.
He looks up when he spots you, his face breaking into that lopsided grin, arm lifting in a quick wave, and for a moment your chest warms at the sight of him.
Oscar slows beside you.
“There you go,” he says quietly, as if he’s handing you back something that was never really his to hold. “He’s in work mode now.”
You nod, suddenly aware of the shift in atmosphere, of how close you are to the edge of something you don’t quite understand yet. You don’t get a chance to thank your rescuer once more. As you step toward Lando, Oscar peels away, moving in the opposite direction, slipping past the bustle with the same unhurried ease you’ve already come to associate with him.
You turn to watch him go.
On the far wall, his name is printed in clean, bold lettering. OSCAR PIASTRI. Beneath it, a banner with his face, composed and serious, eyes fixed forward like he’s already thinking several laps ahead. People greet him as he crosses the garage, hands clapping his shoulder, voices dropping into something deferential, and it hits you all at once, sharp and flushing, that he isn’t just some McLaren employee. Not just some nice guy who picked up your bag.
He’s important. Powerful in ways that don’t need to announce themselves. And still he spoke to you like you mattered. Like you belonged there. Like you were worth his time.
Lando’s arm slips around your waist, pulling you in close, his body warm and familiar, his attention already fractured as he presses his fingers into your hip and turns back toward his engineer mid-sentence. Even like this, even with his hand firm on you, there’s a sense of distance to him. You often get the feeling he exists just beyond your reach, even when you’re lying beside him in the dark.
You glance once more toward the other side of the garage, where Oscar has disappeared into the flow of people, his name still steady on the wall, unmissable now that you know to look.
Something settles in your chest, quiet and unfamiliar, as the engines begin to fire and the day surges forward around you.
By the time the cars roll out onto the grid the garage has tightened around itself, every movement sharper, every voice more deliberate. You take the place you’ve been guided to, out of the way but close enough to feel present, watching Lando climb into the car with an easy familiarity that still feels slightly unreal. He doesn’t look back, visor already down, hands moving with practiced certainty, and you don’t take it personally. This is the part of him that belongs to the track, not to anyone else. You’re just excited to be here at all.
The start is loud and confusing and fast.
You follow what you can on the screens, piecing together the story in fragments. Rain comes and goes, leaving the track spotty with water. Contact, yellow flags, Safety Cars. You learn quickly which moments matter by the way the people around you tense or relax, by the sharp intake of breath when Lando’s name flickers on the timing tower, stubbornly clinging to the top. You cheer when others cheer, feel your pulse spike when the camera finds his car threading through spray, and let yourself enjoy the simple thrill of watching someone you’re quickly beginning to care about do something extraordinary.
When the checkered flag falls, the garage explodes.
Sound and motion blur together, hands in the air, laughter breaking loose, relief spilling out in waves. You smile, clap, step back as people surge forward. You don’t know where to go or what’s next so you settle back onto the stool you’d been given and turn your eyes to the monitors.
You watch him on the cooldown lap, fist raised from the cockpit, then on the screen in parc fermé: helmet pulled off, hair damp, grin wide and bright. You wait through the cooldown room, the podium ceremony, the champagne spraying everywhere while he laughs and cheers and soaks it in. You don’t feel jealous watching him celebrate without you. This is his world, and you’re still learning where you fit in it.
The garage quiets and refills and quiets again.
You accept a bottle of water from someone you don’t know, lean against a barrier, scroll idly on your phone and then put it away, content to wait. You’re not in love with him. You know that. But you like him, more than you probably should, and there’s a small hope for more. You let yourself dream that, given enough time — enough shared weekends and small moments — something might grow into place between you. He’s never promised you anything. You’ve never asked him to. The tenuous link between the two of you existed mostly in hotel rooms on liquor-drenched nights, but who could blame a girl for trying?
When he finally returns it’s without fanfare.
He steps back into the garage, race suit half unzipped, energy still humming under his skin, eyes scanning the space as he walks. They land on you and pause, just for a fraction of a second, before his smile widens and he crosses the remaining distance, hands warm and familiar as he pulls you into him.
“There you are,” he says lightly, like you’re exactly where he expected you to be. Like he’d been looking for you. It warms you more than you’d expected.
He guides you away from the open front of the garage, into a quieter pocket behind the equipment where the noise softens and the cameras can’t reach. He talks, animated now, replaying the race in bursts, laughing at himself, reliving the moments that mattered to him, punctuating his words with quick kisses. You listen, nodding, smiling, letting yourself be carried along by his excitement, savoring each brush of his lips.
It feels good to be here, in this narrow space of celebration that exists just for the two of you, out of sight and out of reach. You let yourself believe that this is how things start: slowly, unevenly, with patience and hope doing most of the work.
Around you the garage begins to reset, the night already moving on, but you stay where you are. Content to wait a little longer, convinced that time is on your side.
The week between races passes in a blur of movement for you as you hop between places on your way to the next race. Trains and planes and unfamiliar cities slide past in a soft-focus rush, your days filled with museums and long walks and cafés where you linger over coffee just because you can. You text Lando from everywhere, small snapshots of your life that feel intimate in their ordinariness, and he responds quickly, often more than you expect.
Lan: miss u already
Lan: its way too quiet without u here
You smile at that, thumb hovering for a moment before replying.
You’ll survive
I’m sure you’re not exactly bored
A few minutes pass.
Lan: yeah but its different
Lan: bed feels massive without u
Lan: cant sleep properly 🙁
You read the messages again, warmth blooming low in your chest, imagining him sprawled across hotel sheets, phone glowing in the dark, thinking about you. You tell yourself it means something, that he wouldn’t say it if it didn’t.
The texts continue like that all week, little pulses of attention threaded between his meetings and gym sessions and media days.
Lan: simulator all day
Lan: pr bullshit tomorrow
Lan: miss having u around while I do this shit
The texts are sweet. They make your heartrate jump when your phone lights up. A quiet notification brings a smile to your lips before you even see his name.
But when you arrive in Shanghai and slip back into his orbit it’s like stepping into a room where the furniture has been rearranged while you were gone. He greets you with an easy kiss that sets your pulse racing and a firm arm around your waist, but almost immediately he’s pulled away again. Phone buzzing, someone calling his name, a meeting he forgot to mention. You trail after him through the paddock, smiling politely, watching him perform like a badge of honor. The sweetness sours in your stomach as you drift behind the cloud of papaya-clad staff that surround him at all times.
It feels less like he wants you with him and more like he wants you to see him, to witness how full his life is, how important he is, how much is happening all the time.
You don’t resent it. Not exactly. You just quietly adjust yourself around it.
On Friday, with Lando tied up in a meeting that’s already run long, you find yourself lingering near the garages, unsure where to stand without being in the way. You spot Oscar first, leaning against a barrier, talking with an engineer. His posture is relaxed, attention focused. When he notices you his face lights up with recognition, an easy smile breaking across his features. The engineer heads back to the garage.
“Hey,” he says, stepping toward you. “You survived Melbourne.”
“Barely,” you joke, then grow a little more earnest. “I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out. I never really got the chance.”
He waves it off. “No problem at all. It can be a bit overwhelming your first time.”
You fall into conversation easily, the noise of the paddock humming around you as he asks about your recent travels. He listens in that attentive way you remember, never glancing over your shoulder to see who else might be watching, never rushing you along. You tell him about getting lost in a market earlier that morning, about how different everything feels here compared to Australia, and he laughs softly, sharing a story of his own first races on the calendar.
It feels… normal. Comfortable. Two people talking because they’re each interested in what the other has to say, not because it serves a purpose.
Lando appears midway through a sentence, sliding an arm around your waist without breaking stride, breathless and bright-eyed from whatever meeting he’s escaped.
“Oh,” he says, grin widening when he clocks Oscar. He speaks to his teammate, not you. “I see you’ve met my friend.”
The word lands lightly, tossed off without thought, and you feel something in your expression falter before you can catch it, a small, private sting at the way your connection is reduced to something casual, incidental. You smooth it over quickly: smiling, nodding, but Oscar sees it. His gaze flicks to your face for half a beat longer than necessary, something sharpening behind his eyes before he looks back at Lando.
“Yeah,” Oscar says evenly. “We’ve met.”
The three of you stand together for a few minutes, chatting easily. Lando talks about the track, about setup and expectations, about how confident he’s feeling this weekend. Now familiar with his monologues, and absorbing information about F1 simply though proximity to Lando, you listen attentively and nod along. He’s relaxed, expansive, utterly unguarded, and it’s clear he doesn’t feel threatened by Oscar’s presence at all. The idea that you might look elsewhere simply doesn’t occur to him, and you don’t. While his eyes slide over your face, scan the crowds around the three of you, or focus on Oscar, yours remain fixed on him.
Oscar stays mostly quiet, offering the occasional comment, asking the occasional question, his attention drifting back to you when Lando’s focus shifts away. When the conversation breaks and Lando is pulled away again, already halfway gone as he promises to find you later, Oscar lingers.
“Good to see you again,” he says. There’s an intensity to it that’s somehow quiet and gently forceful. You can tell he really means it, and you’re just as sincere when you reply.
“You too, Oscar.”
As he walks away you watch him go; that same unhurried confidence in his step. You can’t quite shake the feeling that something subtle has shifted. Not dramatically, not yet, but enough that you’re suddenly aware of the space you occupy between two very different kinds of gravity.
— — —
Race day in Shanghai feels different from Melbourne, heavier somehow. The air is thick with humidity and anticipation, the paddock already buzzing hours before the cars leave the garage. Sweat beads at your hairline and trickles down the groove of your spine. With the assistance of a harried McLaren employee you find your place again, tucked just out of the way. Watching Lando slip into race mode with practiced ease feels like watching his hand slip out of yours. The transformation when he puts on the helmet still throws you.
Then he flashes you a quick smile, his eyes crinkling in the gap of the helmet before he clicks the visor down. It’s a small thing, but your face flares red and you can’t stop the smile that splits your face.
The race unfolds faster than you expect.
This time you understand more of it — the rhythm starting to make sense — the way tension coils and releases with each lap. You watch the timing tower obsessively, eyes flicking between names, heart jumping every time positions shuffle. When Oscar takes the lead, it’s clean and decisive, no chaos, no drama, just control, and you feel a spark of excitement you don’t bother suppressing.
You cheer without thinking.
It’s instinctive, a soft laugh leaving you as his name holds steady at the top, pride blooming in a way that surprises you. You tell yourself it’s just appreciation for a good drive, for, someone who was kind to you when he didn’t have to be. Still, when the checkered flag falls and the garage erupts again your applause is earnest, your smile unguarded.
Oscar climbs out of the car to a roar of noise and movement, helmet coming off as he’s guided toward parc fermé. You spot him later, threading his way between the podium and the media pen, champagne still clinging to his hair, expression bright but composed. As he passes, he slows just slightly, half a step out of the rush, eyes flicking to you.
“Enjoy the race?” he asks, voice warm, almost casual, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Very much,” you reply, meaning it, returning the smile.
He nods once, like that’s enough, then he’s gone again — swallowed by cameras and microphones and expectation, leaving behind the faintest echo of the moment, small but impossible to shake.
Lando finishes second.
It’s a good result, everyone says so, and you agree, clapping and smiling and telling him so when he finally makes his way back to you hours later. The adrenaline has burned down into something quieter and sharper. He wraps his arms around you immediately this time, pulling you close, holding you a little tighter than usual, chin tucked against your shoulder.
“Should’ve had him,” he mutters, voice low, more to you than anyone else.
“You drove great,” you say softly, hand sliding up and down his back. “It was still amazing.”
He hums, noncommittal, arms tightening again, like he needs the reassurance to sink in. There’s an edge to him now, a restless energy that follows him through the rest of the evening.
That night, he doesn’t disappear.
He stays with you, pressed close on the hotel bed, phone ignored, attention fixed on you in a way that feels deliberate. He complains about the race, about the media questions, about how frustrating it is to come so close, and you listen, murmuring reassurances, fingers tracing slow patterns against his arm. He kisses you like he’s grounding himself, like he’s reminding himself where he belongs. You let him, happy to be the one he reaches for when the shine wears off.
You tell yourself it’s normal. That everyone needs comfort sometimes. That it means something that he wants yours.
After he’s worked off that extra, anxious energy and his bare skin is pressed into yours, he nuzzles his nose into your neck. You giggle, ticklish, and he chuckles. It’s a rumble you can feel more than hear. He presses himself to you.
“Saw you cheering for Osc,” he says, words muffled by your hair and his lips on your skin.
Immediately some of the comfortable, happy energy bleeds from your body.
“Well, yeah,” you say, fingers threading through his curls. “He’s your teammate, right?”
You can feel Lando’s arms tighten around you a little.
“Don’t want you to cheer for him.”
It’s said lightly, and when he raises his head there’s such a dramatic pout on his face that you can’t help but burst out laughing.
“Oh yeah?” you tease, eyes sparkling as you look at the adorably grumpy man laying half on top of you. “Not allowed to cheer for anyone else, just you?”
“Just me!”
Lando’s pout transforms into a lopsided grin. You roll your eyes, grab his face with both your hands, and pull him in. All thoughts of Oscar and who to cheer for melt away as his tongue pushes into your mouth.
As you fall asleep beside him, his arm heavy across your waist, his breathing evening out against your back, you feel a quiet sense of pride settle in your chest. You’re the one he comes to when he’s unsettled, the one he needs when things don’t go exactly his way. He wants you to cheer for him, just him.
You don’t question why it takes a win that isn’t his to make him hold you like this.
— — —
Suzuka feels sharper than Shanghai. Cleaner, somehow, the paddock set against a backdrop of green and steel and the constant low hum of anticipation. Lando is in a good mood almost immediately, energized by the circuit, by the way people talk about it like it separates the serious drivers from everyone else. He talks more this weekend, laughs louder, keeps you close in small, public ways: a hand at your lower back, fingers laced through yours as he walks. Still no kisses where the cameras can see, no explanation to the media, but you’re content to bask in his attentions.
Oscar, when you see him, is the same as ever. Polite, attentive, easy to talk to. You congratulate him again, almost sheepishly, for Shanghai, and he shrugs it off with a smile.
“Good weekend all around,” he says. “You enjoying it so far?”
You are. You tell him that and he listens like it matters, asks what you like about this place, nods thoughtfully when you admit you don’t fully understand the track but love the atmosphere anyway. It feels uncomplicated, which is becoming rare.
Lando finds you mid-conversation and immediately slots himself between you and the rest of the world, arm draped casually over your shoulders.
“Oi,” he says, bright and satisfied. “Ready to watch me beat him this time?”
“Of course,” you reply immediately. It’s the right answer, Lando gives you a look that sends a thrill down your spine and brings to mind passionate nights you’ve shared in the past.
Oscar smiles, unbothered. “We’ll see.”
The race itself is tense in a quieter way than the last two.
Max is untouchable, out front almost from the start, carving through the corners with ruthless precision. Behind him Lando and Oscar fight: hard, clean, close enough that you find yourself holding your breath more than once as positions threaten to swap. When Lando finally finishes ahead of Oscar, second to Max’s first, he’s visibly pleased, a sharp edge of triumph in his grin when he pulls you into him afterward.
“See?” he says, breathless, buzzing. “Told you.”
You laugh, congratulate him, tell him how good it was, how intense it looked. He soaks it up, basking in the praise, replaying the moments where he edged Oscar out, lingering on them just a little longer than necessary. It doesn’t feel mean. It feels… pointed.
As he talks to his engineers your eyes drift across the garage and catch Max watching you.
He stands a little apart, helmet already off, expression unreadable, gaze flicking between you and Lando before settling on you properly. There’s no smile, no invitation, just a brief moment of acknowledgment. You nod once, small and sincere, a quiet congratulations offered without words. He inclines his head in return, almost imperceptibly, then turns away.
Oscar passes by not long after, meeting your eyes with a calm smile that doesn’t quite reach the corners. “Good race,” he says, to both you and Lando, who’d reappeared at your side.
“You too,” you reply, meaning it, even as Lando squeezes your waist possessively, already half-lost in his own momentum.
Later, when things quiet down, Oscar finds you again near the edge of the paddock, away from the noise.
“Next one’s Bahrain,” he says lightly. “Very different vibe.”
“I’ll brace myself,” you joke.
He smiles at that, soft and genuine. “You’re doing better than most people on their third race.”
You feel strangely seen by that, by the fact that he’s noticed how much you’re taking in, how quickly you’re adapting. When he leaves it’s unremarkable, uncharged, just another easy conversation filed away.
But as you walk back to Lando, who’s already deep in conversation about what he’ll do differently next time, you realize that Suzuka has shifted something again. Not dramatically, just enough to sharpen the contrast between the way Lando wants to be admired and the way Oscar simply… pays attention.
You don’t name it.
Not yet.
— — —
Bahrain arrives like heat pressed flat against the skin, the paddock humming with it even after the sun slips below the horizon, floodlights bleaching the circuit into something unreal. The air smells different here: sand and fuel and hot brakes, and by now you’ve learned where to stand without being told, how to keep out of the way while still feeling close enough to matter.
Oscar is everywhere this weekend.
Not literally, not in the way Lando is, bouncing between meetings and cameras and engineers with restless energy, but in a quieter, steadier sense. You notice him in the margins, in the way people part for him, in the way his name carries weight when it’s spoken over the radios. When he wins, leading from the front with calm authority, it feels earned in a way that settles deep rather than flaring bright.
You don’t cheer but you do clap, smile, feel that same uncomplicated pride bloom again, and when he finally threads his way back through the garage after the podium and the media, he slows when he reaches you.
“Survived the heat?” he asks, voice warm, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners.
“Barely,” you say, laughing. “I don’t know how you do it in the car.”
“Conditioning,” he replies, then shrugs. “And a lot of complaining afterwards. And ice baths.”
You wince compassionately.
“That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“It’s not great,” he laughs, then glances over his shoulder toward someone clearly waiting for him. He takes a half step to them, then looks back at you. “You sticking around for the rest of the weekend?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I think so.”
“Good,” he says simply, like it’s a statement of fact rather than preference.
It’s only a minute, maybe two, but it lingers long after he’s gone again, purposeful stride resuming as if he hasn’t just paused the world to check in with you.
Lando doesn’t mention it. Not directly.
But later, when you try to touch his arm as he watches the screens replay the race, he shrugs you off lightly, distracted, eyes sharp with frustration.
“Just tired,” he says when you ask. “Long day.”
That night he pulls you close in bed, needy and restless, murmuring about how he hates losing ground, how everything feels harder all of a sudden. You soothe him, press kisses into his shoulder, tell him it’s still early in the season, that he’s doing great.
You fall asleep thinking that this is what it means to be steady for someone, even when they don’t return it right away.
— — —
Saudi Arabia feels faster, if that’s even possible. The circuit is coiled tight next to the Red Sea, walls flashing past in a blur of light and shadow. There’s a constant undercurrent of tension here, the sense that everything is happening just a fraction too quickly, and it bleeds into Lando almost immediately. He speaks in half sentences, disappears in the middle of conversations, and when he touches you it’s with jerky, aborted movements while his mind is a million miles away.
Oscar wins again.
It’s decisive, dramatic, the kind of drive people will talk about later, and you find yourself leaning forward. Throughout the race your heart is racing, you’re fully invested. Now you understand enough to care, enough to know how impressive the Australian is. When he finally climbs out of the car, flushed and grinning, the garage buzzing around him, he looks towards your seat instinctively, as if he expects you to be there.
This time he doesn’t pause or slow down, he stops properly. Turns to face you.
“Crazy one,” he says, shaking his head. “That start was… a lot.”
“I was holding my breath,” you admit. “The whole time.”
He laughs softly at that, glancing at the screens, then back at you. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”
“Depends,” he says, thoughtful. “It can get under your skin.”
Someone calls his name. He acknowledges them with a nod but doesn’t move right away, staying with you for a few beats longer, asking about your trip, about what you’re planning next. You tell him you’re thinking of staying on through Miami, and something like approval flickers across his face.
Lando appears mid-conversation, mood already sour, jaw tight as he presses a kiss to your cheek without looking at you.
“We’re late,” he says. Not angry. Just clipped.
Oscar steps back smoothly. “Good race,” he says to Lando, neutral.
Lando nods, barely registers it.
That night is difficult.
Lando alternates between pulling you close and pushing you away, complaining about penalties and mistakes, snapping when you offer comfort, then immediately apologizing, asking you not to leave. You stay. Of course you do. But something in you is beginning to ache, a low, persistent weariness that doesn’t fade when morning comes.
— — —
Miami is loud in a distinctly American way: all color and music and spectacle, the paddock crowded with celebrities and sponsors and people who seem only half-aware that there’s a race happening at all. It’s overwhelming, dazzling, and by now you’re tired enough that the shine feels abrasive rather than exciting.
Oscar wins again.
This time, it feels inevitable.
When he finally makes his way back into the garage, he doesn’t just pause. He comes to you, pulls up a chair beside where you’re sitting, tablet tucked under his arm.
“Want to see something?” he asks.
You blink, surprised. “Am I allowed to?”
He smiles. “Probably not. But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
You both don’t acknowledge the ever present cameras that peer down at you like beady-eyed birds.
He sets the tablet between you, explaining patiently as he scrolls through graphs and lines and numbers that don’t mean much to you at first. He breaks it down slowly, relating it back to moments you remember watching. His free hand moves, jostling the tablet as he ties the numbers back to the way the car behaved through certain corners, why he made specific calls.
You pay attention and ask questions. He answers them all, never condescending, never rushed, even though you can see people waiting for him, hovering just out of earshot.
“This bit here,” he says, pointing, “that’s where it really came together.”
You nod, absorbing it, absorbing him, the deliberate choice he’s making to be here, with you, now.
Lando doesn’t show up until much later.
When he does, he’s curt, distracted, barely acknowledges the two of you together before pulling you aside, mood sharp and unsettled.
“Why are you always hanging around him?” he snaps, then immediately softens, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You don’t know how to respond anymore.
That night he wants you desperately, clings to you like you’re the only solid thing in a weekend that’s slipping away from him. You let him, even as exhaustion settles into your bones, even as a quiet part of you wonders why comfort always seems to flow in one direction.
As you lie awake beside him, Miami’s neon glow bleeding through the curtains you think about Oscar sitting next to you, explaining telemetry he didn’t have time to explain, choosing you over obligations he could have cited easily.
You don’t draw conclusions.
But the pattern is starting to feel impossible to ignore.
— — —
Imola feels older than the rest of the calendar, heavy with history and expectation. The paddock is tucked into greenery that seems to press in close, as if the landscape itself is watching. There’s a seriousness to the place that settles over everyone, a quiet intensity that sharpens edges and strips away some of the performative gloss that’s followed the season so far.
Max wins.
It’s decisive and unmistakable, a drive that feels inevitable once it’s underway, the kind that leaves very little room for argument. You watch it unfold with a strange mix of detachment and awe, aware now of what you’re seeing, aware enough to appreciate the control it takes. When the checkered flag falls, the garage reactions are muted compared to previous weekends, respectful rather than explosive, and you find yourself standing a little apart, hands folded around your phone, absorbing it all.
Max appears not long after, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, expression sharp and satisfied in a way that doesn’t bother pretending to be anything else. He moves through the paddock like he owns the space, and when he passes in front of the McLaren garage, in front of you, he stops.
Actually stops.
“Well,” he says, eyes flicking over you, mouth quirking. “Guess it’s my turn now.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Your turn?”
He gestures vaguely with one hand, smirk deepening. “Telemetry tutorial. Seems to be popular these days.” His gaze cuts briefly toward Oscar, who stands a short distance away, watching without comment, then back to you. “Thought I’d check if I get the same privilege now that I’ve won.”
It’s teasing, unmistakably flirtatious, but there’s no heat behind it, no intent to follow through. It’s a provocation, clean and sharp, meant to draw a reaction.
And it does.
Lando is there almost immediately, arm sliding around your waist with unnecessary force, fingers digging in just a fraction too hard.
“She’s good,” he says, tone bright but brittle. “I’ve got her covered.”
Max laughs, low and unapologetic. “I bet you do. Relax. Wasn’t planning on stealing her.”
“Didn’t say you were,” Lando replies, jaw tight, even as he pulls you closer, an embrace that feels more declarative than affectionate. Your hip aches under the pressure of his fingers.
Max’s eyes flick to you once more, something like amusement passing through them. “Good race anyway,” he says, already turning away. “Enjoy the rest of the weekend.”
He leaves without another glance, satisfied, you suspect, with the disruption he’s caused.
Lando doesn’t let go right away. He talks too loudly about the race, about strategy, about how close it all was, as if volume might reclaim some lost ground. Then someone calls his name, insistent, and he’s pulled away mid-sentence, already pivoting back into driver mode, leaving you exactly where you were.
Oscar approaches quietly.
“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle, eyes searching your face without prying.
Absentmindedly rubbing the spot Lando had held, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah. I think so.”
He nods, accepting that without question. “That was… a lot.”
You smile faintly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Max is a good guy. Just intense. And Dutch. Very Dutch.”
This makes you laugh.
He stays with you for a moment, not filling the space unnecessarily, just standing there, presence steady and grounding. “If you ever want to understand more about the racing,” he says lightly, “the offer’s still open. Telemetry included.”
You smile, surprised by it, tension easing from your shoulders. “I might take you up on that.”
“I’ll be around,” he says, sincere, then adds, “And for what it’s worth, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
The words land softly but firmly, a quiet absolution you didn’t realize you needed.
When he leaves there’s no lingering glance, no claim staked, just a gentle check-in before returning to his responsibilities. You watch him go, appreciating the care he took not to make things worse, the respect woven into every interaction.
When Lando returns later, sheepish and overcompensating, you don’t mention Max. You don’t mention Oscar either. But something has shifted again, subtly but unmistakably, and as Imola settles into memory, you realize how much you value the moments where someone sees you not as an extension of themselves, but as a person worth checking on.
— — —
Monaco wraps itself around the weekend like a promise, sunlit and impossibly polished, the paddock tucked between water and stone and money so old it barely feels like it needs to announce itself.
Everything here is heightened, sharper, more visible, and Lando thrives in it. He wins with authority, threading the car through narrow streets like it’s second nature, controlled and unchallenged, the kind of victory that looks effortless from the outside and feels monumental from within.
You watch it unfold with a wide, genuine smile that never leaves your face.
When the race ends the celebration is immediate and overwhelming, champagne and cheers and cameras everywhere. Lando finds you quickly enough, arms slinging around your shoulders, pressing a sweaty, champagne-sticky kiss to your lips that’s warm and celebratory but unfocused, his attention already splitting in too many directions.
“We did it,” he says, breathless, laughing, as if you were part of the machinery that got him there.
You laugh too, congratulate him, tell him how incredible it was, how proud you are, and he beams at that, soaking it in for a moment before his phone buzzes again, before someone calls his name from across the garage.
“I’m gonna go out tonight,” he says easily, like it’s already decided. “Jimmy’z. Just for a bit. You should rest, yeah? Long day.”
The words land lightly, almost kindly. He kisses you again, quick and distracted, promises he’ll see you later, and then he’s gone, swept up into the afterglow of his own success. It feels like he takes all the oxygen with him, leaving you gasping and dizzy. Right, he wanted to celebrate with his friends. Of course, that made sense. And you had been telling him how tired you were from the intense travel schedule. He was just looking out for you.
Back at the hotel, Monaco feels quieter, the marble floors cool beneath your feet, the lobby hushed in that expensive, deliberate way. You change into something comfortable and make your way to the bar, telling yourself you’ll have one drink, maybe two, just enough to unwind and wait. The bartender slides a glass toward you without much conversation and you settle onto a stool, the low hum of conversation and clink of glassware filling the space around you.
Time stretches.
An hour passes. Then another.
You scroll through your phone idly at first, answering a message from a friend back home, liking a photo you don’t really care about, until muscle memory takes over and you tap into Instagram. Stories load one after another, bright and loud and impossible to miss.
Lando, shirt unbuttoned, laughing as music pulses around him.
Lando, dancing, arms slung around shoulders you don’t recognize.
A flash of manicured nails resting against his collarbone, a face pressed close to his ear.
Nothing definitive. Nothing you couldn’t explain away if you wanted to.
You set the phone face down on the bar, fingers curling around your glass, telling yourself not to overreact, reminding yourself of everything you already know. You aren’t his girlfriend. He’s never said you were. You’ve never asked him to be anything he isn’t.
Still, the room feels suddenly too quiet, the weight of the day crashing in all at once, pride and hope collapsing into something heavier and harder to swallow. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, staring at the reflection of the lights in your drink.
The door opens behind you.
You don’t look up at first, assuming it’s just another late arrival to the hotel, another blur of suits and dresses filtering in from the night outside. Then a familiar voice cuts gently through the low murmur of the bar.
“Jack and coke please, mate.”
You turn.
Oscar leans on the bar a few steps away, jacket slung loosely over his arm, hair slightly out of place, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes bright in a way that suggests celebration without excess. He looks… relaxed, in a way you’ve never quite seen him before.
He spots you properly then, surprise flickering across his face before softening into something warmer.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, already moving closer.
You smile, small but genuine. “Me neither.”
He pulls out the stool beside yours and sits, setting his jacket aside, the bartender already returning with his drink. Oscar thanks him then turns back to you, attention settling fully in a way that feels almost startling after the noise of the day.
“Long one,” he says lightly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything, the space between you filled with the quiet clink of glassware and the soft hum of Monaco at night. Oscar glances at your untouched drink, then back at your face, something thoughtful crossing his expression.
“You okay?” he asks, gentle, not prying.
You hesitate, then shrug, the truth pressing close to the surface even if you don’t quite voice it. “Just… tired, I think.”
He studies you for a second longer, then nods, accepting that for now. “Fair.”
He lifts his glass when it arrives, takes a small sip, then sets it down again, turning fully toward you.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” he says, quietly sincere.
And for the first time all evening, the tightness in your chest eases, just a little, as you realize you don’t have to wait alone anymore.
For a while, you talk about nothing at all.
About how strange Monaco feels at night when the crowds thin out, about how the water looks almost black from the harbor, about how tired you are in a way sleep doesn’t really fix. Oscar listens without interrupting, nodding along, his body angled toward you, forearms resting loosely on the bar as if he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
Eventually, the words you’ve been holding back press too hard to ignore.
“It’s stupid,” you say, staring into your glass. “I know what this is. I’m not confused about that.”
Oscar doesn’t rush to reassure you. He waits. Neither of you need to say Lando’s name.
“It’s just,” you continue, voice quieter now, “when it’s good, it’s really good. When he includes me. When he remembers to check if I’m okay. When he lets me feel like I belong there with him.” You laugh softly, humorless. “Sometimes it’s the tiniest things. A hand on my back. Asking if I want to sit in on something. Remembering I’m there at all.”
Oscar’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens, attention deepening.
“And then?” he asks gently.
“And then he disappears,” you say, the words tumbling out easier now that you’ve started. “Or he’s cold. Or he needs me desperately and then pushes me away the second he feels better. One minute he’s telling me he can’t sleep without me, the next he’s acting like I’m an afterthought.” You swallow. “I feel like I’m constantly trying to catch up to where I thought we were. And I know we haven’t been…I don’t know. Seeing each other very long. Or whatever it is. But I do care about him, and sometimes I think he really cares about me, too.”
You glance at him, bracing yourself for judgment, for advice you didn’t ask for.
He gives you neither.
“That sounds exhausting,” he says simply.
It hits harder than any platitude could have. You have to swallow the lump of emotion in your throat.
“It is,” you admit. “I keep telling myself it’s just the season, just pressure, just timing. And maybe it is. But it’s starting to feel like I’m always adjusting myself to fit whatever version of him shows up that day.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “I really hoped tonight would be different.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, then relaxes again. He doesn’t speak right away.
“He won,” you say, as if that explains everything. “I thought… I don’t know. That I’d be there. He knows I love clubbing and dancing and watching him DJ. I thought we’d celebrate together. Not—” You trail off, reaching for your phone almost without thinking.
You unlock it, scroll back to the stories you’d already seen, hand shaking just slightly as you angle the screen toward him. “I know this doesn’t mean anything,” you start to say, words rushing, defensive, “people always post stuff out of context, and—”
Your feed refreshes.
The image loads clean and cruel.
Lando, unmistakable, pressed close to a woman who looks like she stepped straight out of a magazine. Her dress glitters under club lights, her arm slung easily around his neck. His hand rests low on her waist, familiar and possessive, his head bent toward her as he smiles at something she’s saying, expression open and unguarded in a way you recognize too well.
Your sentence dies in your throat.
Oscar doesn’t react immediately. He doesn’t curse or scoff or even sigh.
He reaches out calmly, gently, and lifts the phone from your hands.
“Hey,” he says softly, not unkind. He turns it off with a practiced motion and sets it face down on the bar between you. “You don’t need to keep looking at that.”
You blink, eyes stinging, embarrassed by the sudden rush of it all. “I know we’re not—” you start.
He shakes his head, just slightly. “That’s not the point.”
He hesitates for a moment, then rests his hand over yours, light enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. You don’t.
“Whatever the label is,” he says carefully, “it shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t feel small because someone else is inconsistent.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I keep wondering if I’m asking for too much.”
Oscar meets your eyes, steady and certain. “You’re not.”
“Someone being busy,” he continues, measured, “or under pressure, or figuring themselves out, that’s one thing. But none of that gives them the right to make you question your worth.” His thumb brushes once, almost absentmindedly, against the back of your hand. “That part isn’t negotiable.”
You stare at the bar, the reflection of lights blurring together. “I don’t think he does it on purpose.”
“I don’t think he does either,” Oscar says, honest. “But intent doesn’t change impact.”
The words settle between you, heavy but grounding.
“You deserve to be celebrated,” he adds quietly. “Not just tolerated only when it’s convenient.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The bar hums on around you, glasses clinking, laughter drifting in from somewhere deeper in the hotel, life continuing as if nothing has shifted at all.
But something has.
Oscar’s hand stays where it is, warm and steady, not demanding anything, not trying to fix you, just there. And for the first time all weekend, you feel seen without feeling pulled apart in the process.
“Thank you,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper.
He squeezes your hand once, gentle. “Anytime.”
You tell him you’re busy like it’s nothing.
Something came up, you say, casual and light, already moving through the words before doubt can catch you. You don’t elaborate. You don’t apologize. You don’t ask if that’s okay.
There’s a pause. He tilts his head, looking for all the world like a confused puppy as he stands in the doorway of your shared hotel room, bags packed and slung over his shoulder.
“Oh,” Lando says eventually. “Okay.”
He doesn’t push. That’s what surprises you most. He just sighs a little, the sound familiar now, halfway between a pout and a plea. “I’ll miss you though. Paddock’s gonna feel weird without you.”
You smile at that, softer than you mean to. “You’ll be fine. Go win or something.”
He laughs, relieved, like you’ve let him off the hook. “I’ll try.”
Sunday comes and goes without you ever setting foot near a garage.
Instead, you spend the morning wandering Monaco’s narrow streets with a small group of tourists you met by accident, sipping coffee in the sun, listening to a guide talk about old stone walls and forgotten scandals. You taste wine in the afternoon, let strangers tell you stories about their lives, laugh easily, freely, in a way you haven’t in weeks. There’s no timing tower, no radios crackling updates into your ear, no one tugging at your attention from five different directions. You don’t watch live, but your phone still lights up with news notifications when the chequered flag falls. You text him immediately.
P2 is still massive. You drove so well.
The reply comes back as quickly as you could expect.
Lan: thanks
Lan: wish u were here though
Lan: could really use a cuddle rn
You hesitate, phone warm in your hand, old instincts tugging at you to fold: to book a car, to show up and make everything easier.
You don’t.
I know
I’ll see you soon, yeah?
There’s a longer gap before he replies this time.
Lan: yeah
Lan: soon
You post a photo later that evening. Golden light spilling over a vineyard terrace, your glass half full, your smile unguarded. It feels indulgent, choosing yourself like this, and for once you don’t overthink it.
A notification pops up a little while later.
Oscar has replied to your story.
Looks like a good way to spend a Sunday. Glad you’re enjoying it.
That’s all.
No emoji. No implication. Just a simple acknowledgment that lands somewhere warm in your chest. You type out a reply, thank him, then delete it and leave it at a heart instead, content to let it be exactly what it is.
— — —
There are two weeks between Spain and Canada.
Lando comes back to Monaco like a returning tide, familiar and comforting His schedule being suddenly lighter means his attention is easier to hold. He takes you out on his yacht one afternoon, the water glittering around you, music low and lazy as you drift just offshore. He pours you wine, laughs easily, listens when you talk.
Really listens. No drifting attention, those beautiful blue-green eyes stay fixed on you, his fingers tracing patterns over your skin while you talk.
He touches you without rushing, without needing anything from you beyond your presence. He asks what you did while he was gone, what you liked best, what you’d want to do next. It feels different. Calmer. Like something has settled into place at last. Like maybe this could be something real.
The nights are easy too, soft and unhurried, his phone forgotten more often than not, his body warm and relaxed beside yours. He tells you he missed you. Not like a complaint this time, but like a realization. You believe him. You want to. You let yourself think that maybe your absence mattered. That stepping back showed him what he’d been taking for granted. That this, finally, is what balance feels like.
For a week, it almost convinces you.
By the time he leaves for Canada, kissing you goodbye with a promise to see you soon, you’re lighter than you’ve been in months, hope tucked carefully back into your chest.
You don’t see the storm yet.
But somewhere, not far away, Oscar is paying attention.
And patience, you’re learning, has a very long memory.
Montreal hums with a restless energy that seeps into everything, the circuit wrapped in green and water and expectation. Lando clings to you when you arrive, restless and needy in a distracted way, fingers hooking into your belt loop as if anchoring himself, kissing you mid-thought before pulling away again to talk strategy with someone. He tells you he needs you this weekend, that he’s glad you’re here, and you let yourself settle into the familiar rhythm of waiting for him to land fully.
He never quite does.
The race is brutal.
It falls apart quickly, tension snapping instead of stretching. When the collision happens it feels unreal, the kind of moment that makes the garage go silent in a way that’s heavier than noise. P18 blinks up on the screen, merciless and final, and Oscar’s name is threaded into the explanation like a fault line no one wants to touch.
Lando comes back furious.
He doesn’t slam anything, doesn’t shout in the way you’d expect. It’s worse than that. His anger is sharp and scattered, looking for somewhere to land, and when his eyes find you, it settles.
“Why are you even here?” he snaps, words coming too fast to catch. “You weren’t there in Spain, and now suddenly you are, hovering around like this is helping.”
Your stomach drops. “I just wanted to—”
“And you always need something,” he continues, pacing, running a hand through his hair. “Attention, reassurance, whatever. I can’t do this right now.”
It’s not logical, it doesn’t add up. The accusations contradict each other, spiral, collide, but the force of them is real, and it leaves you standing there, stunned, trying to understand how you became the outlet for a frustration that has nothing to do with you.
“Just...don’t come back to the hotel tonight,” he says finally, already turning away. “I need space. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He’s gone before you can respond.
The noise of the garage rushes back in around you, but it feels distant, muffled, like you’re underwater. You just barely manage to get yourself out of the way with shaky steps before you sink down where you are, knees folding, back pressing against a stack of equipment as the tears come in hot, humiliating waves. You hide your face in your hands, breath hitching, trying to make yourself smaller, quieter. You were too much. You always were.
You don’t hear footsteps.
You only notice the absence of urgency when someone stops in front of you and doesn’t immediately speak.
Oscar crouches down to your level, slow, deliberate, as if he’s all the time in the world.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You look up, eyes burning, vision blurred. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush. He just waits until you can breathe again.
For a moment, he doesn’t touch you at all.
Then, carefully, he offers you his sleeve — something neutral, something you can take or not take without feeling trapped. When you clutch at it instinctively, he stays still, solid.
“That was rough,” he says quietly.
Not unacceptable.
Not wrong.
Just… seen.
You shake your head, words tangling. “I shouldn’t have— I don’t know why I—”
He lets you trail off.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, not dismissive, not absolving anyone, simply allowing the moment to exist. His presence is steady, grounding, a calm counterpoint to the chaos still buzzing through the garage.
You breathe. Slowly. Then again.
Only then does he shift closer, one hand settling lightly between your shoulder blades, warm through the fabric of your clothes, anchoring without enclosing. It’s intimate, but not possessive. Comfort first. Always comfort.
“You don’t have to explain anything right now,” he says. “Just sit for a minute.”
You do.
He stays with you, blocking nothing, demanding nothing, his attention entirely yours in a way that feels almost startling after weeks of fragmentation. He doesn’t ask what Lando said. He doesn’t push you to recount it. He lets the quiet do the work.
After a while, he murmurs, “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere a bit calmer.”
Not should.
Not I want.
Just let’s.
He helps you to your feet with a hand at your elbow, then keeps that hand there as he guides you away from the worst of the noise, pace matched to yours, never pulling, never rushing. When you falter, he adjusts without comment, stepping slightly closer, his presence widening to shield you from the world without cutting you off from it.
As you walk, he doesn’t tell you what to feel.
He doesn’t tell you what to do.
But something in him has shifted — not outwardly dramatic, not visible to anyone else. A quiet recalibration, a release of restraint that feels less like a snap and more like a lock clicking into place.
He will be there now.
Every time.
Without fail.
And later, much later — when you look back — you’ll realize this was the moment the devil stopped waiting to be invited to intervene.
He didn’t need to say a word. He just never planned on leaving your side again.
Oscar doesn’t ask where you’re staying.
He simply tells the driver the hotel name, voice calm and low, hand hovering at your back as if ready to steady you but never actually touching unless you lean into him first. The ride is quiet, city lights blurring past the windows, your exhaustion settling in now that there’s nothing left to hold up.
At the hotel, you try to protest when he asks for a new room.
“I don’t need— I’ll be fine,” you say, embarrassment threading through the tears you’re still trying not to cry again.
He shakes his head gently, already signing the slip. “Just in case.”
He walks you up to the room, waits while you unlock the door, glances inside to make sure it’s clean and quiet and yours. He doesn’t step over the threshold.
“Get some rest,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You hesitate, words crowding your throat, but he doesn’t give you space to apologize or explain or promise anything you don’t have the energy to mean. He just nods once, reassuring, and turns away.
You close the door behind you and finally let yourself fall apart.
An hour later, there’s a knock.
You drag yourself up, wipe at your face, open the door to a room service cart and a polite smile. A pot of tea, steam curling up gently. A slice of chocolate cake, glossy and indulgent. A covered dish you recognize immediately.
Mac and cheese.
Your knees nearly give out.
You sign for it, bring it in, and sit on the edge of the bed staring at the spread like it might disappear if you blink. Weeks ago, somewhere between races, you’d mentioned it offhandedly while talking to Oscar, laughing about how it was childish but comforting and always made you feel better when things got overwhelming.
You don’t remember when you said it.
Oscar did.
You cry as you eat, quiet, messy tears dripping onto the hotel napkin as you drink the tea and let the warmth settle into you. By the time the plate is empty, the sharpest edges of the night have dulled, and you crawl into bed, exhaustion pulling you under before you can think too hard about what it all means.
The next morning, you brace yourself.
You shower, dress, and walk down the hallway to Lando’s room with a knot in your stomach, rehearsing what you’ll say, how you’ll act, how you’ll keep it light and reasonable. You knock once.
No answer.
You knock again, harder this time, then slide your keycard in.
The room is empty.
The bed is stripped. The closet bare. No charger, no bag, no sign he slept there at all. Your chest tightens painfully as the realization sinks in.
He’s gone.
No text. No missed call. No explanation.
You pack your things slowly, hands shaking, folding clothes you’d assumed you’d be wearing for him, stuffing everything back into your suitcase like you’re erasing evidence you ever existed. By the time you finish, you feel hollowed out, moving on autopilot as you roll your bag toward the elevator.
The lobby is bright and quiet, sunlight spilling across polished floors. Oscar is there.
He looks up as you approach, expression softening immediately. “Morning,” he says. “How did you sleep?”
You manage a smile. “Okay. Better than I expected. Thank you.”
He studies your face for a second longer than polite, not fooled by the answer, then nods. “And how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Just… figuring things out.”
He lets the silence stretch, waits you out.
You exhale. “I don’t really know where I’m going next,” you admit. “I thought I’d be here for a bit.”
He hums thoughtfully, like the idea has just occurred to him. “Well. We’ve got two weeks before Austria.”
You look up, surprised.
“I was thinking of heading out early,” he continues casually. “Clear my head. Get some training in. If you wanted to come along… no pressure. Just thought I’d offer.”
Your first instinct is to say no. To insist you don’t want to be a burden, that you’ll figure something else out, that Lando probably just needs time to cool off.
But you’re tired. And the thought of not being alone is suddenly more appealing than pride.
“That might be nice,” you say softly.
Oscar’s smile is immediate but contained, like he’s careful not to show too much. “Yeah? Alright.”
He takes your bag without asking, already turning toward the desk to adjust his booking, pulling his phone out to make a few quick calls. You don’t notice the way his movements are efficient, practiced, like this is something he’s already prepared for. You don’t see the way he steps aside to quietly rearrange his schedule, flights shifting, plans dissolving without hesitation.
By the time he turns back to you, it all looks effortless.
“Let’s get you a coffee,” he says. “We’ve got time.”
You nod, following him across the lobby, relief and uncertainty tangling together in your chest.
You don’t know that he’d been waiting there for nearly an hour.
You don’t know that the moment you agreed, everything else became secondary.
All you know is that someone is walking beside you now, steady and present, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you’re chasing anything at all.
— — —
Austria arrives softly.
Green hills, cool air, mornings that feel clean in a way Monaco never does. Oscar keeps things deliberately unhurried, as if there’s no rush to define anything, as if the space between Canada and the next race is simply something to be inhabited rather than filled.
He gives you choices.
Always choices.
“Do you want to sleep in,” he asks the first morning, tone easy, “or should we go for a walk before it gets busy?”
You pick the walk, because it sounds nice, because he’s already lacing his shoes when he asks.
Later, when you pause at the door, jacket half on, he steps closer without comment and helps you into it, fingers brushing your shoulders only briefly, like it’s instinctive rather than intentional. He never asks permission for small things like that. He just assumes care will be accepted.
You never turn it down.
Breakfast is unremarkable and perfect: a quiet café overlooking rolling hills, Oscar seated across from you, listening while you talk about nothing in particular. He doesn’t check his phone. When it buzzes, he flips it face down without looking.
The days slip by in a rhythm that feels deceptively natural. Hikes and museums, long drives through countryside that looks unreal, dinners that feel intentional without ever being formal. Oscar walks half a step behind you on narrow streets, close enough that you know he’s there without ever crowding you. At night, he makes sure you’re settled into your room before retreating to his own next door, a quiet goodnight murmured like it’s a boundary he refuses to test.
It messes with you.
Lando used to barge into your space, collapse into your bed, pull you into him like an afterthought or a necessity depending on the day. Oscar does none of that. He leaves you wanting without ever touching. He’s such a gentleman that you start to tease him about being raised by butlers and royalty, that he was destined for a throne of some sort rather than racing. He always just smiled, patient and amused.
When you get dressed for dinner one night, heels in hand, Oscar pauses when he sees you fumbling with the strap.
“Here,” he says, already kneeling.
You protest, flustered. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he replies easily, fastening the buckle with practiced care. His hands are warm, steady, never lingering longer than necessary. When he looks up, it’s just to check you’re balanced before standing. You feel dizzy at the sight of him on one knee in front of you, fingers resting on your ankle, soft hair flopping over his forehead.
“Ready?” he asks, as if nothing about the moment was intimate at all. You have to catch your breath before you reply.
The contrast starts to gnaw at you.
You talk about Lando sometimes. Not in detail. Just fragments. Oscar never prompts, never asks leading questions. He lets you bring him up on your own, listens without judgment, without defense.
“Maybe he just needed space,” you say one afternoon, staring out over a valley, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup.
“Maybe,” Oscar agrees calmly.
No reassurance. No contradiction. Just enough room for doubt to breathe.
When you hesitate over plans, he reframes.
“We could stay in tonight,” he’ll say, “or there’s that little place by the river you liked.”
You go to the restaurant by the river.
“We could fly to the track tomorrow,” he offers another time, casual, “or drive, take the long route through the mountains.”
You take the long route.
Each decision feels like yours. Each one moves you exactly where he wants you.
You don’t notice when you stop checking your phone so often. When Lando’s name slips further down your notifications, unanswered not out of spite but because you’re busy because something else has filled the space. Oscar never comments on it. He never asks if you’ve heard from him. He doesn’t need to.
At night, alone in your room, you lie awake thinking about the way Oscar looks at you when you talk, how he never interrupts, how his attention never fractures. You think about the care woven into every interaction, the restraint, the patience.
Life settles into something gentle enough that you stop bracing for impact.
Austria gives you room to breathe, and Oscar seems to understand exactly how much space to offer, never crowding you, never leaving you alone long enough for your thoughts to spiral. He asks what you want to do in the mornings as if it’s an idle question, already holding two options loosely between his fingers.
“We could head into town,” he says one afternoon, glancing toward the window where the hills roll away into green, “or there’s a trail just outside the village. Supposed to be quiet.”
You choose the trail. You like to choose the quieter option lately, the one that feels like it belongs to you. Noise and liquor and dancing was Lando, but the fresh air and peace and solitude was Oscar.
Somewhere between the trees on the trail you finally text Lando.
I came to Austria early.
Your thumb hovers as you consider whether to soften it.
If you want to talk, I’m here.
The message sends. The little checkmark appears almost immediately.
Seen.
Nothing else.
You stare at the screen longer than you mean to, chest tightening, the familiar ache blooming sharp and quick. Oscar notices without asking. He doesn’t look at your phone. He just slows his pace a fraction so you don’t have to rush to keep up.
That night, he takes you to dinner.
It’s nothing extravagant, just a small place tucked into the hillside, wooden tables worn smooth by centuries of use, candles flickering softly as the sun dips low. Oscar orders wine he says is local, explains the menu patiently, makes sure you eat something before pouring you a second glass. The knot in your chest loosens, just a little, the ache dulled by warmth and good food and the easy way conversation flows when you don’t feel like you’re performing.
After dinner, as you linger over the last of the wine, he gestures toward the view. “That looks nice,” he says casually. “Mind if we get a photo?”
You don’t even hesitate.
You frame it instinctively: the hills stretching out beneath the darkening sky, two half-drunk glasses angled to catch the dying light, everything soft and golden and private. No faces. Just a moment. You post it with a simple caption and don’t think twice.
A few minutes later, your phone buzzes.
Lando: who are u with?
Something in you stiffens — not fear, not guilt, but irritation sharp enough to surprise you.
You don’t get to ask me that. You lost that right when you left me in Canada.
There’s a pause. Then another message.
Lando: thats not fair
Lando: i was angry. u know how i get
For once, you don’t rush to soothe him.
Oscar is talking about the wine, about how the hills change color in different seasons, his voice a steady presence beside you. You let yourself lean into it, into the quiet satisfaction of having said what you needed to say.
Later, after you sample more wine than you should, you find your laughter coming easier. The night’s edges blur just enough that the hurt starts to slip sideways instead of cutting straight through you. You feel raw and honest and unguarded in a way you haven’t in weeks.
You tell Oscar he’s handsome. That he’s kind. That he’s everything Lando isn’t.
He just smiles, small and unreadable, and hands you a glass of water.
“Let’s get you home,” he says gently.
You stumble a little on the way back, and he steadies you without hesitation, hands always correct, always respectful, even when you find yourself wishing — traitorous and fleeting — that they wouldn’t be. He settles you into bed with practiced care, tucks the covers around you, leaves water and painkillers on the nightstand.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He leaves before you can say anything else.
You wake with a pounding headache and only fragments of the night before, the warmth of wine and the sound of your own laughter echoing faintly without context. Whatever you said, if you said too much, Oscar gives no sign of it. He treats you exactly the same, attentive and easy, offering coffee and suggesting a slow morning.
The messages from Lando come and go.
Anger.
Criticism.
Apologies.
Promises.
Each time your phone buzzes, Oscar is already there with something else.
“There’s a bookstore in town,” he mentions one morning, almost offhand. “Built in the 1500s. Might be interesting.”
Another day, it’s a local concert. Then, a pie shop he’s heard about, only open a few hours a day, supposedly worth the trip. None of it feels like distraction. It feels like living.
The gaps between your replies to Lando stretch longer. Minutes become hours. Hours become whole afternoons you forget to check your phone at all.
You don’t notice when the ache fades.
You don’t notice when peace starts to feel normal.
You don’t notice when the spell tightens, thread by careful thread, until Oscar’s presence feels less like a choice and more like the place you belong.
And because he never asks for anything, never takes more than you offer, you never once think to question where, exactly, you’re being led.
Race week approaches and the anxiety creeps in quietly. You feel it in the mornings first, that tightness in your chest when you wake up and remember where you are, what’s coming, who you’ll have to see. Oscar notices before you say anything.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he says one evening, not accusatory, just observant, as you sit across from each other with half-finished plates between you.
“I’m fine,” you reply automatically, then sigh. “I just… I didn’t think this part through.”
He tilts his head slightly. “The weekend?”
You nod. “Seeing him again. I don’t know what that’s going to feel like.”
Oscar considers that for a moment, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass. “You don’t have to come,” he says easily. “If you’re not up for it.”
The relief that flares is immediate, followed almost instantly by something sharper. Embarrassment. Defiance.
“I don’t want to hide,” you say. “That feels worse.”
He nods, as if you’ve confirmed something rather than revealed it. “That makes sense.”
There’s a pause. Then, carefully: “You could come for part of it. Stay where it’s quieter. Let people see you’re around. Sometimes that helps… reframe things.”
You frown slightly. “Reframe?”
“Well,” he continues, gentle, reasonable, “it’s easy for people to forget what they don’t see. Doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
Something about that lands. You straighten a little.
“I don’t want him thinking I just disappeared,” you say. “Like I was never really part of it.”
Oscar meets your eyes. “Then don’t disappear.”
He doesn’t say for him.
He doesn’t say for me.
He just lets the idea sit there, clean and obvious.
“Alright,” you say finally. “I’ll come.”
Oscar smiles, small and pleased. “Good. We’ll go together.”
— — —
Race morning is all movement and controlled chaos, the paddock already alive by the time you arrive. Oscar walks beside you, close enough that you feel anchored, his hand hovering near your back without ever settling there, guiding without directing. People greet him as you pass; some glance at you, curious but not intrusive.
Max spots you first.
He lifts an eyebrow, gaze flicking from you to Oscar, lingering just long enough to clock the difference. Oscar nods to him, polite and unreadable. Max’s mouth twitches, something amused passing through his expression before he looks away again.
“You okay?” Oscar murmurs.
“Yeah,” you say, surprised to realize it’s true.
He leads you into McLaren hospitality, settles you at a table with a view of the pit lane, returns moments later with a coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
“I’ve got a couple things to take care of,” he says. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates, then adds, softer, “I’ll be back later.”
When he leaves, the warmth he leaves behind is almost disorienting, like stepping out of sunlight and still feeling it on your skin.
Lando walks in minutes later.
He stops short when he sees you, blinking like he’s entered the wrong hospitality suite.
“Oh,” he says. “You came.”
You lift your coffee, take a sip, buy yourself a second. “Yeah. Turns out I actually quite like F1.”
He laughs, reflexive. “Told you it’d get under your skin.”
“Maybe,” you say, noncommittal.
He shifts, trying something else, leaning a hip against the table. “Good timing, then. Big day. You’ll get to see me win.”
Normally, that would’ve worked. Normally, you’d smile, tease him, let him pull you into his orbit again.
Instead, you just hum softly and take another sip.
The silence stretches.
“…Right,” he says, smile faltering just a fraction. “Well. Glad you’re here.”
You nod. “Me too.”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to solve a problem he didn’t realize existed, then straightens. “I’ll see you later, then?”
You make a small, noncommittal sound, eyes drifting back to the pit lane.
He leaves looking unsettled.
You don’t watch him go. You’re too busy thinking about the coffee, about the way Oscar always remembers.
The race is intense, but you barely register the details. When the checkered flag falls and Oscar takes the win, the hospitality suite erupts, noise and movement and adrenaline crashing together. You cheer: unashamed, unrestricted.
You’re still standing with a breathless smile when you feel someone step into the room.
Oscar.
He looks flushed and exhilarated, smile brighter than you’ve ever seen it, and this time he doesn’t stop short. He comes all the way to you.
“There you are,” he says, warmth threaded through every syllable. “You stayed.”
“Of course I did,” you reply, breathless, grinning. “You were incredible.”
He laughs softly, eyes searching your face. “That means a lot.”
He doesn’t step away. He doesn’t check behind him. He stays right there, presence solid and undeniable.
When Lando arrives moments later, looking for you with that familiar mix of frustration and need, he stops dead.
Oscar is already there.
Already with you.
Not moving.
Lando opens his mouth, then closes it again, recalibrating. “Hey,” he says finally.
Oscar turns just enough to acknowledge him, one arm still casually resting along the back of your chair, not touching you but not retreating either.
“Good race,” Oscar says calmly.
You meet Lando’s eyes over the rim of your cup.
For the first time, he looks unsure of where he fits.
And Oscar, quiet and composed, doesn’t give him an opening.
Lando stops just short of the table, glancing between you and Oscar, recalibrating with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite land.
“Hey, mate,” he says, forcing a laugh as he reaches for your wrist, not quite touching. “Mind if I steal her? You can’t win everything today.”
The joke hangs there, thin and uncomfortable.
Neither you nor Oscar laugh. Neither of you move.
Oscar’s smile sharpens, losing all warmth as his eyes flick to Lando’s hand and then back to his face.
“We’ll see about that,” he says evenly.
The words are quiet. Measured. Final.
Lando’s laugh dies in his throat. He turns to you instead, expression shifting, something raw and unguarded breaking through the bravado.
“Can we talk?” he asks, voice lower now. “Please.”
You hesitate.
It’s long enough that the noise of the room rushes back in around you, long enough that you’re aware of Oscar beside you, steady and silent. You glance up at him, searching his face for… something. Reassurance, maybe. Or permission.
His expression is unreadable, but he nods once.
“I’ll be back,” you say quietly.
“Take your time,” Oscar replies, calm and unpressured.
You follow Lando out into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
He starts talking immediately.
“I don’t get this,” he says, pacing a step, then turning back to you. “You were fine. We were fine. And now suddenly you’re here with him and—” He runs a hand through his hair, agitation buzzing off him in waves. “Are you dating him?”
“No,” you say simply.
He blinks. “No?”
“We’re friends,” you continue. “He’s been… kind.”
Lando frowns, genuinely confused. “I’m kind,” he says, like he’s trying to solve an equation that isn’t adding up.
You sigh, tired in a way that has nothing to do with jet lag. “Sometimes,” you say gently. “When it suits you.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, frustration flaring. “Look, I just— come back to the hotel with me,” he blurts. “We’ll talk it out. Like we always do.”
The words hit differently now.
“I’d rather not,” you say, voice cool, controlled. “I prefer my own hotel rooms. It’s nice not having to worry about being kicked out based on race results.”
The jab lands. You see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his mouth twists, hurt flashing briefly before he masks it with indignation.
“That’s not fair,” he snaps.
“Neither was Canada,” you reply quietly.
There’s nothing left to say.
You turn and walk back into the hospitality suite without waiting for him to follow. Oscar is exactly where you left him.
His gaze lifts immediately when he sees you, scanning your face with something close to concern, eyes flicking over you as if checking for damage you might not even know you’re carrying. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him, because his expression softens.
“There you are,” he says.
You step closer without thinking, relief blooming warm and fast in your chest. This time, when he moves, it’s not incidental.
Oscar slips an arm around your waist.
The contact is light but deliberate, the weight of it grounding, protective, unmistakable. You freeze for half a second, then relax into it, the warmth spreading through you like you’ve just downed a shot of something strong. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted this until it happens.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His thumb presses lightly at your side, reassuring, and he doesn’t move away. Neither do you. You find yourself standing closer, leaning in just a fraction, as if you’ve been invited and accepted all at once.
It feels like comfort.
It feels like safety.
It feels like home.
You don’t question the timing. You don’t question why this happens now, why it comes after the choice you made, why the reward feels so perfectly calibrated.
All you know is that Oscar is here, solid and present, and for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you’re waiting to be chosen.
You already have been.
— — —
By the time the new season starts everyone knows your face.
Not your name, exactly, that stays secondary. Softened by headlines and captions, exposure controlled by strict McLaren guidelines, but your presence is inescapable. You're always there now, just behind Oscar’s shoulder, stepping out of black cars and into paddocks with practiced ease. You never walk alone. There is always someone with you, a McLaren staff member at a respectful distance, badge visible, eyes sweeping the crowd both inside and outside the paddock limits.
It’s for your comfort, they say.
For your safety.
Those who’ve been around long enough recognize the shape of it anyway.
Max clocks it immediately, the first time he sees you again. The way you're guided, not pushed, but never deviating from the path set before you. The way you wait for Oscar without seeming to notice you're on pause. He lifts an eyebrow, mouth twitching downwards, then looks away. Whatever this is, it isn’t his business.
Lando doesn’t look at you at all.
When he does have to pass you in a corridor or a hospitality suite it’s with the careful politeness reserved for exes and ghosts. There’s a moment early in the season where he lingers, like he might say something, then thinks better of it. You never notice. Or, if you do, you don't register it as important.
You're busy. Oscar needs you, and he never makes you feel redundant or unwanted.
Your phone is quieter now. Oscar helped with that, early on, gently explaining how vicious people could be, how invasive, how unkind. He suggested filters. Then passwords. Then, eventually, someone else managing it entirely.
“You don’t need to see that stuff,” he’d said. “None of it’s real.”
You’d agreed, relieved.
You wear his things openly now.
A thin gold bracelet with a subtle papaya accent and the number “81”. A delicate necklace with his initials worked into the clasp at the back of your neck, visible if you know where to look. Subtle, elegant, but unmissable. The paddock notices. The other drivers’ partners notice more than anyone. They whisper behind designer sunglasses and manicured hands when you pass by, your McLaren attendant half a step behind you at all times.
No one pulls you aside for quiet conversations. Media maintains a healthy distance.
No one invites you anywhere without checking with Oscar first. He usually already has plans with you.
You stay within the circle Oscar draws around you, surrounded by people he trusts. People who smile at you warmly, never stand too close, and never ask questions that might make you uncomfortable. It feels safe. It feels curated. You don't question a thing, why would you?
Oscar wins the championship the way he does everything else: calmly, efficiently, without spectacle. There are cheers and champagne and cameras, but he doesn’t rush for you. He waits until the noise settles, until the moment belongs to him alone, and walks over. When he kisses you his fingers curl into your hair just a tad too tightly and his lips taste like sweat and champagne. It's perfect.
The proposal doesn’t happen on the grid but a week later, at the McLaren Gala.
You wear something soft and elegant that you woke up to find hanging on the door of yours and Oscar's hotel room. It fits you perfectly, neckline high, skirt flowing around your legs, your shoulders covered with floating sections of fabric. Your hair is pinned back just enough that your necklace catches the light.
Oscar stands at the podium, composed, thanked and celebrated by the company he’s led to glory. You watch from the front table, hands folded neatly in your lap, heart fluttering with pride and tears shining in your eyes.
When he calls your name it takes you a moment to realize he means now.
The room turns. Cameras lift. Lando goes very still.
Oscar steps down, mic in one hand, his free palm outreached towards you. He smiles in that small, private way he reserves just for you.
“This,” he says evenly, voice carrying, “felt like the right place. With the people who’ve supported me. Who’ve built this with me.”
He doesn’t get on one knee. He doesn’t need to.
He asks anyway.
There’s no hesitation. No doubt. Of course you say yes.
Applause erupts. Flashbulbs go wild. Oscar pulls you close, kisses you gently, possessively, his hand settling at your waist like it’s always belonged there.
You feel dizzy with happiness. Chosen. Secure. So very lucky.
As the night swells around you, Oscar rests his forehead briefly against yours, breath warm at your ear.
“You’ll never have to leave my side again,” he murmurs, so quietly no one else can hear.
Hi, guys! Sorry for my inactivity, I've been so incredibly busy it's insane. I've had a lot of schoolwork and I recently went through a family crisis that I had to take a little time off for. But on the bright side, summer holiday starts on Friday, which means I'll have plenty of time to write. I do have work, but it's part-time, so I will have time for writing. Tomorrow is my final exam of this academic year, English, which is the easiest subject for me. I promise you will get updates on your favourite fanfics by Sunday EET, if not earlier. A new part to the Toto Wolff series is on the works and I think I'll start writing a new part of the Max Verstappen series in the upcoming days. Thank you for your patience and good luck with finals!! Summer is right around the corner!!!💞🌻🌞
Summary: The weeks go by and Max is starting to follow through with his plan to have you all to himself.
Themes: dark!Max, piquet!reader, toxic!Max, naive!reader, female!reader, college student!reader, youngest piquet!reader, possessive thoughts, jealousy, stalking, age gap (18&26), weird!checo, controlling behaviour, unhealthy obsession, madmax, jos verstappen makes an appearance
Notes: Finally something is happening in this series!!! Only 5 more weeks until summer break when I'll actually have time to write more. My history homework and math test is currently waiting for me as I am writing this... I'm sorry, but I do not give a shit about the Roman Empire or trigonometry. Anyway, enjoy!!
---
The weeks passed by and it was suddenly March. To you they were filled with studying, making new friends and dating Checo. To me it was torture. You were barely home. You spent the weekdays at college and the weekends either at clubs or under Checo's arm in the paddock. And when you were home you stayed in your room, either studying or talking to him.
I spent so many nights worried about where you were, only to hear you come home in the middle of the night giggling with him, thinking I wasn't home. I never made it clear I was, I didn't want to ruin your night. But hearing you two fucking wasn't easy. And what made it worse was having to share podiums with him every weekend. That grin that he gave you everytime, I wanted to wipe it off his face. It was getting enough. I had to do something before it was too late. And after a shit race in Australia, it was the perfect time to put my plan into action.
---
You had stayed home this time. You had a few exams to study for, a reason that wasn't good enough for Checo. It was clear he didn't like you being at university. He told me after Saudi Arabia that he wanted you to stay with him everywhere he went. "She looks good on my arm. And my fans love her. She'd be the perfect wife if she wasn't so stubborn about getting a career." He had said. It took everything for me to not punch him in the face. But instead I agreed with him like a good teammate does.
The moment I open the door, the smell of booze and cigarettes hit me. I look around the apartment; empty beer cans, ashtrays with dumped out cigarettes and items not where they're supposed to be. Shit. Of course you threw a party. If this had been any other day, I would've let you off the hook and just told you to clean up. But I had just had a shitty race weekend, so I was not in the right mood for this.
I take my bags to my bedroom. I notice your bedroom door being open. You're not there, but I hear the water run in the bathroom. I go to sit in the living room, waiting for you to be done with your shower and then I'd confront you. I stand up once I see you and I can see the caught look on your face when you notice me. You enter the living room with shy steps, I can tell you know what's coming. I can smell the sweet scent of your shampoo and your fresh clothes fitting you well like they always do. It's honestly making me a bit irritated how perfect you always look. I'd like to see you all messy after I've-.
"Did I give you permission to throw a party?" I see the nervousness in your eyes. "No. I didn't think I had to." I want to laugh at how stupid you sound. Kelly's clearly been enough of an influence in your life, 'cause you sound just like her. "You're grounded." I know it sounds ridiculous but you laughing at me doesn't make me any less annoyed. "You can't ground me, I'm an adult. I-"
"You live under my roof, I pay to take care of you so that you can focus on your studies. The one fucking thing I expect from you is for you to follow my fucking rules!" That silences you. I've never yelled at you before and I do feel a bit bad, but I have to make you listen. I can't have you turn out like Kelly. "You're not leaving this house unless it's for college or when I have a race weekend. You clearly can't be trusted to be alone." You're not happy. I didn't think you would be. "And you're not hanging out with Checo or your new friends for a while." That one makes you speak up.
"What the fuck did Checo do? Or my friends? Look, Max, this was my fault, I'm sorry." What didn't he do? "He's a bad influence and so are your friends. I mean, look at this mess. When did you start smoking? And Checo's spoiling you too much, turning you into a brat who thinks she doesn't have to ask for permission for anything." I pick up the ashtray from the coffee table, noticing the lipstick stains on them. "Max, you're being mean." I put the ashtray down and look at you. I know I'm being mean. I'm tired and annoyed and a bit mad too. "Give me your phone." I hold out my hand towards you. "What?" I step closer to you, grabbing your hand a bit too hard. "Give me your fucking phone."
Once I see you take it out I grab it immediately. I hold it in front of your face. "Three months. Three months without your phone, without Checo and without your fucking friends." I notice the tears forming in your eyes. You look scared. I probably look like an angry bull. I let go of your arm and you walk back into your room. I can hear your breath hitching as you do so. Making you cry wasn't my intention but it's necessary. I have to be firm with you. The comfort's over. Me knowing that you're mine isn't enough. You have to understand it too. And it starts by you staying home, close to me.
---
You spent the first two weeks pretty much sulking. You didn't speak to me, refused to be in the same room. You had snuck off to Checo's after classes on the first day. You thought I wouldn't notice if you came home a few hours late, but I know your schedule. We had gotten into an argument about it which ended up in you slamming your bedroom door shut and crying once again.
I had put an AirTag in your bag while you were sleeping, and I caught you trying to sneak off to Checo's again. You were stubborn, but after three weeks you stopped fighting. I guess you finally realised it's no use. You got to see Checo during race weekends and I got the displeasure of sharing the podium with him a few more times. I saw the way you clung onto him and it made me think that maybe I made a mistake. All I've done is made you seek him out more. I've made him seem like the hero.
Kelly had laughed and said, "I told you so. You'll be done living with her soon." I ignored her, but what really surprised me was my Dad.
We were on the plane back home after China and you were sleeping on the seat next to me. "You're being too harsh on her." Jos remarked, sitting opposite me. He has never really talked about you, even when you moved in with me. "You keep up with this, she'll run off." He senses my confusion and continues, "You want her to be yours? Then don't scare her. Right now she's just running straight into that asshole's arms. Trust her, give her some freedom. Once she trusts you that's when you move." Is he talking from experience? "I know how you're feeling, son. I know what kind of thoughts you're having. I felt the same way about your mother. But I fucked it up. I fucked up because I was an asshole who didn't know what to do with those feelings and thoughts." Jos takes a sip of his drink, looking at you before looking back at me. "Don't do the same mistakes I did. Maybe start with breaking up with Kelly first?"
That was one of the rare moments my Dad's opened up to me, given me advice. Apparently it's a Verstappen gene, feeling this strongly about the women we love. Maybe a psychologist should look into it. But as much as I hate to admit it, Jos is right. I have to ease up on you. Give you some freedom. Make you trust me. And I do have to break up with Kelly.
---
Once we got back home, I asked you to sit down and talk with me. And although you were tired, you still did.
"I'm sorry for being so harsh." It took me a hot minute to apologise. I'm not good at admitting I was wrong. I give you your phone back, hoping you won't notice that I went through all your texts. I had to, for your safety. "You can have your phone back, but I still want you to come straight back here after classes, okay?" Seeing you nod calmed me down a bit. "I'm just worried, you know. You're my girlfriend's little sister and I'm supposed to keep you safe. And it makes me nervous when you're so close to Checo all the time."
You put your phone in your pocket, looking at me with your brows furrowed. "What do you mean?" I take a deep breath before answering. "Well, Checo's not exactly a great guy. I've known him for a long time, longer than you. He's done some questionable things. Like cheating on his wife. I just don't want you getting your heart broken." I can see some denial on your face. "He wouldn't do that to me, though." I shake my head. "No, of course not. I just thought you should know." Without thinking, I take your hand into mine. "Just promise me if something happens, you come to me."
You hesitate but you nod. When I let go of your hand, you hugged me. "Thank you." You whispered and I pat your head in response. I wanted to keep holding you like that. You're a lot safer in my arms than Checo's. Or any guy's for that matter. And yes, I felt bad lying to you about Checo cheating on his wife, but I had to do it. Like Jos said, I had to make you trust me.
---
A few days passed and Kelly came over with Penelope. We spent a few days together and you were happy to see Penelope again. I had spent it pretty much planning on how to break up with Kelly, without it being messy. A task I knew would be impossible.
You were in class and Penelope was out with my Mum. I had planned to break up with Kelly the next day, but I fucked it up when I accidentally moaned your name while fucking her.
Summary: The first night shift as a recently graduated nurse with dad's best friend.
Themes: dad's best friend!jack, robby's daughter!OC, nurse!OC, age gap (21&50), problematic power dynamics, typical ER stuff, medical BULLSHIT (I do not work in the field, sorry!)
Notes: This was the most voted on in my poll, so here you guys go. Also, I haven't finished season 1 of The Pitt yet, so some things might not add up. My life is really crazy right now, so I'm sorry for a late update. Has not been proofread! I am lazy. I am so horny for this man it's concerning. You guys already know I looove slow burns, so this one will be a series.
Friday, 20 June 2025, 6.40 p.m. - Eliana Robinavitch
I walk in to the ER with my headphones on. Tragedy by Bee Gees playing in my ears, ironic considering the ER is where most tragedies happen. I try to ignore what's going on around me, only saying hi to Dana as I walk past the chaos to the locker room. I put on my scrubs and say goodbye to my headphones before I put them inside my locker. I won't be seeing them for the next 12 hours.
I look at my watch. 6.55 p.m. I have five minutes time to breathe. I look at myself from the mirror. I finally got my badge after waiting for two weeks. Nurse Eliana Robinavitch it finally reads. Santos has been making fun of me for my old badge enough times. They mixed up me and my dad, so I was running around the ER with Nurse Michael Robinavitch written on my chest. I'm glad I won't have to do much explaining to patients anymore.
I take a deep breath before walking out of the locker room into the trenches. I've been working in the Pitt for two weeks now, so I'm still getting used to stuff. Today's my first night shift. Unlike my dad, I'm a night animal, which became abundantly clear when I accidentally fell asleep for a good hour during work last week. Dad wasn't happy with me but he let it pass. I'm honestly glad to be working the night shift. I could use some time away from my dad. I still live at home, so seeing him at work too can be a bit too much.
I go read the board, checking to see what patients I should take. "Cherry picking again?" My dad's voice comes from behind me. I glance at hime before looking back at the board. "Is that so wrong?" He chuckles at my answer, approaching to stand next to me. "Would you rather start your first night shift with a 75-year-old man with hemorrhoids in triage or with a 26-year-old woman with a headache that could possibly be a tumor?" He asks like this is a fun car game. But humor's the coping mechanism of the Robinavitchs, so I answer. "Well, the first one sounds disgusting and the second depressing. I think I'll choose the second one."
I put on some hand sanitizer, checking the patient's room. "Room 9. Jack's there to take care of you, don't worry." My dad pats me on the shoulder. "You'll do fine, kid. I just hope this isn't you trying to avoid me." Of course he'd take it personally. "Not avoiding you, dad. I'm just growing up. It's time to leave the nest, you know." I shrug my shoulder as I leave. "Have a great shift, nurse Robby!" He calls out after me. God, it's like he's trying to embarrass me. "It's nurse Ellie! God." I turn to give him the finger before entering my new patient's room.
Jack turns around as he hears someone entering the room. I'm still rubbing the last bit of hand sanitizer when we make eye contact. "Eliana. It's good to see you." I smile at him as he greets me. "It's good to see you too, Dr. Abbot." Even though I've known Jack all my life, it feels wrong to call him by his first name at work. "I hear you decided to join the dark side?" He keeps chatting as he's reading the patient's medical history on the computer. "Well, you've heard correctly, considering you're my new boss." I put on gloves, approaching the patient. Jack turns towards me. "Got tired of your old man, huh?" He smirks at me when I don't answer.
"Good evening, Ms. Holloway. I'm nurse Eliana Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Ellie. Is there anything I could do to help you? Are you experiencing any more pains?" I introduce myself to the patient, Jack filling me in with her medical history and the reason she's here. A strong headache that caused her to lose her eyesight momentarily. Head CT taken, waiting for results. She requests some more pain killers and I give her one.
Jesse comes in with the CT scans and gives them to Jack. He says hi to me before he leaves and I say hi back. I definitely haven't had a crush on him since my first day here. Jack shows me the scans and it's what we feared, a brain tumor. What a great way to start a shift.
Jack tells her the news and discusses the possibilities with Ms. Holloway as I set up an IV drip for her. After calls made to her family, they arrive and me and Jack leave them alone for some time to process the news.
"I should've just taken the 75-year-old man with hemorrhoids. I hate being there when people find out they're dying." I rub hand sanitizer on my hands as we walk towards the nurses' station. "There's still a chance she could live." I look up at Jack, my usual pessimism taking over. "The tumor's big and has clearly been there for a while. You know she's done for." I look at the board, Jack still looking at me, almost observing me. "What?" I ask. I've already picked my next patient and with the way this shift is starting I don't want to hear someone reprimand me. "You have your father's eyes." He responds. "Took you long enough to notice." I sigh and walk past him. Although I can't see it, I know Jack turned around to look at me. He's done that a lot recently. Looked at me, observed me. Paid me attention. I don't know what to make of it. It's not making me uncomfortable but it's also Jack. My dad's best friend. The man I've been fantazising of since I was 17. I'm just delusional. My dad probably just asked him to keep an eye on me.
---
Saturday, 21 June 2025, 2.34 a.m. - Jack Abbot
I found you in the break room, eating your lunch. It was unusually quiet in the Pitt, meaning that soon enough we'd all be busy. You were scrolling on your phone while eating, barely noticing me. I took that as a chance to watch you. You really did have Robby's eyes. Those big, sad brown eyes looked up at me. "You need something?" You asked mid bite. "No, I don't. Just came to check on you." I answer, opening the fridge.
"I'm fine. You don't need to check on me. I'm not a patient." The same lies I've heard a thousand times before. You and Robby are both great at dismissing your feelings. Like father like daughter. "Are you sure? Three deaths so far, one being a child. It's not easy." I close the fridge, opening a Coke can. "Well, life's not easy." I know it bothers you, but I also know that you don't want to "bother" others with your feelings. I've watched you grow up, I can read you like a book. But I also know that now's not the time to ask you to open up.
I pass you the Coke can. "Your blood sugar's low. Drink up." You glare at me but still take the can. You check your monitor and of course I was right. "God, you're more overbearing than my dad." I sit down across from you. "Don't want you to die, sweetheart." It's true. You came close to death once a few years ago.
You were spending the night at your friend's when you were still in high school, around 17-years-old. Your friend had brought you to the ER due to you having a seizure. I treated you, got you back to normal. You got diagnosed with type 1 diabetes that same night. I didn't leave your side until Robby came. And even then I didn't want to leave. Robby told me that night that if something happened to you and he couldn't be there, he'd want me to take care of you. Ever since that night I've taken it as my duty to look after you.
Jesse walks in and you immediately set your phone down. Your smile widens as he starts talking to you and sits down next to you. I see what's going on. I'm not sure I like it. Jesse's so much older than you. You should be with someone more... I cut off my own thought. My jaw hurts slightly from me clenching it. I pretend to remember a patient just to have an excuse to walk out of the room. I find the nearest bathroom, taking a deep breath. Am I getting jealous of Jesse? No. Why the fuck would I get jealous? You're my best friend's daughter. I have no reason to get jealous. I take a good look at myself in the mirror. Get your shit together, Abbot.
---
Saturday, 21 June 2025, 7.18 a.m. - Eliana Robinavitch
The rest of the shift was chaos as usual. A heart attack, car accident, an infected leg... So many more cases I could list but I honestly just want to forget. And four deaths overall, more than usual. I'm sitting outside, exhausted and waiting on Jack. He offered me a ride home. I already debriefed the night with Dad. Besides the chaos I still managed to drink at least two cups of Dunkin with Shen and catch up on the latest day shift gossip with Diaz.
Jack finally leaves the Pitt. I follow him to the car, jumping in the front seat. All I want is to put on my headphones and disappear from the world for a moment, but I feel that'd be rude to Jack considering he's offering me a ride.
We drive in silence for a moment until he breaks it. "How was your first night shift?" We stop at a red light. "Could've been worse. At least it wasn't as bad as my first day in the Pitt." He smiles, remembering it. "Yeah, I don't think anything can beat that. It's not usually as tragic as it was tonight. I'm sorry you had to go through that." I look at him, the morning sun making his freckles stand out. "It's my job to go through that." He glances at me before driving again with the lights turning green. "I know, but still. This job isn't for everyone. And you did great. Especially with the tapeworm kid. I can't believe a mother would do that to her little girl." I go back to looking out of the window.
All I got from that case was a reminder of my own mother. One I never got to know because she decided to leave when I was eight. She was also obsessed with my looks when I was younger. If she had stayed longer I wouldn't have been surprised if she fed me a tapeworm as well. Sometimes it feels like Jack can read my thoughts because the next thing he says is, "Everything alright, sweetheart?" I nod, feeling the sun on my face. "I'm fine."
The rest of the drive is in comfortable silence. I can see him stealing a few glances at me from time to time. I do it too, so I guess we're both guilty. He stops in front of the townhouse Dad and I live in. I sit there for a minute, breathing. I turn my head to look at him. "Thank you for the ride, Jack." He smiles, placing his hand on my shoulder. "Anything for you, sweetheart." I give him a tired smile before stepping out of the car, his hand lingering on my shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. He watches me getting inside my house, something he always does. A safety measure he calls it.
I take a shower, change my clothes and immediately get under my sheets. Every limb hurts and my eyelids can barely stay open. Out of habit I pick up my phone. Jack and Jesse's both sent me a message. Jack's reads, "See you on Monday, kiddo." Being too tired to respond I react to it with a thumbs up. Jesse on the other hand invited me out for a drink tonight. I might just go. But for now, I need sleep. I put my phone down and as I'm about to fall asleep I can't stop thinking about Jack. Him checking up on me all night, making sure I'm safe when a patient was being agressive, his hand lingering on my shoulder... Is an old crush making a resurgence? Jesse does look a bit like Jack. Both are around 50 with salt and pepper hair... Shit.
Okay, so I've been writing my Toto Wolff and Max Verstappen series now and I have a lot of other ideas in my head about different drivers and other universes I'd like to write about. I've been watching a lot of The Pitt lately to fill the hole that this month break from F1 has left, so I think I'd like to write about those sexy doctors next. But what would you guys like?
What would you like to read next?
Max & Checo x Christian Horner's daughter
F1 driver (could make it a series about each driver, maybe) x Princess of Monaco
dark!Oscar x Zak Brown's daughter
Jack Abbot x Robby's daughter (inspired by tiktok)
Jesse Van Horn & Brendon Park love triangle? x nurse reader
Themes: rookie!reader, Mercedes!reader, dark!Toto, age gap (20&54), problematic power dynamics, divorced!Toto, abuse of power, female!reader, mention of reader having daddy issues,
Notes: Okay, I'm starting to think that maybe an OC would be better for this series. Would that be okay with you guys? Or do you prefer reader? Please, let me know. Also, sorry for the wait, I've had a busy week.
---
Japanese Grand Prix 2026
Sunday, March 29th, 15:05
"She's a rookie, what did you expect?" "Rookie luck ran off." "She's not cut out for this."
"How do you feel taking the spot of a more skilled man?"
I look at the journalist in front of me, disbelief on my face. I wanted to scream. One bad race and I get treated like I'm the first person ever to make a mistake. All I did was speed up at the wrong time which caused me to slip off the track and hit the wall. I didn't finish the race. The weekend started off so well, too. I was in the top five during Free Practices and got P3 in qualifying. I'm starting to get superstitious. I walk off the interview, muttering fuck you underneath my breath.
I walk past Toto, not daring to look at him. I'm too disappointed in myself, I can't face his disappointment right now. Bono, my race engineer, taps me on the shoulder, trying to comfort me, but I manage to slip away to my room. I slam the door shut, feeling my throat tighten as I try to calm down. I only get a few minutes alone before someone knocks on the door. "Please open the door, sweetheart." It's Mika. I open the door to let him in.
Mika closes the door behind him before bringing me to a warm hug. "It could have gone worse. The only thing that's important is that you're alive with no injuries. There was quite a lot of G forces in that hit." I nod, wiping away the tears that got away. "I know, but the fucking journalists aren't helping." I sit down on the couch, frustrated. "Yes, I heard what happened. Toto's currently talking with the journalist." Mika sits down next to me, putting a comforting hand around my shoulder.
"Don't be too hard on yourself. One bad race doesn't mean you're a bad driver. You've already made history and it's only your third race in F1. The first woman in F1, the first driver to get a podium on their debut race, and the first driver to win their second race. I don't think you understand how great that is." Mika always knows what to say. He knows me better than I know myself. I'm very self-aware that I'm hard on myself. My achievements have been the only way I've gotten attention from my father, so it stayed.
It feels like Mika can read my thoughts because he says, "You don't have to prove to him that you deserve love. You have so many people in your life to give you that for free." Of course he had to say that. I let out a small chuckle before I start crying. He comforts me until I've calmed down. "Now, listen to some music, do something to calm yourself down. When you're ready, come watch the rest of the race with us, okay?" I nod, wiping my tears. He taps me on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you, kid." He then leaves me alone. I pick up my headphones, putting on my pre-race playlist to get back in a good mood. With Bahrain and Saudi Arabia cancelled, I'll have enough time to get back to my feet before Miami.
---
Friday, April 3rd, 13:15
Oscar had won, Charles was second and George third. Looks like Ferrari's not the only team to fight against this season. McLaren's doing pretty good when Lando and Oscar actually get to race. If Mercedes hadn't offered me a seat in F1, I would've gone to McLaren as a reserve driver. I wanted to go to McLaren, but I knew I deserved better. Mika, Ayrton Senna, Alain Prost, all of my idols were at McLaren, of course I wanted to join. But Mercedes saw my worth and knew I wasn't meant to be just a reserve.
Toto had kept me close to him when I finally joined him and Bono to watch the rest of the race. My eyes were still red from crying, so obviously the cameras were pointed at me. Apparently, Toto kicked the journalist out. It caused a fuss in the media after the race, but I was grateful. "You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like him." He had said, his hand wrapped around me. All this touching, as if we were Whittaker and Robby from The Pitt.
I'm doing my makeup, getting ready to go have lunch with some friends, when the phone rings. It's Toto. I don't really want to answer. I've been trying to avoid him, scared I'm going to lose my seat after Japan. I let it ring for a few more seconds before answering. "Toto, hi."
"Hello. I need you to come over. Now." He says, his voice stern. Shit, shit, shit. "I really can't, I'm sorry. I'm meeting my friends in an hour." I reply, hoping that he'll let me go. "You want to keep your seat?" I freeze. "Yes." "Then you cancel with your friends and come over. I will text you the address." He hangs up. This is what I've been nervous about for the past few days. What he said at Brackley has been ringing in my head ever since I hit that wall. "Anywhere below the top five? You're the one paying the price." I still don't know what he means by that, but I guess I'm about to find out.
---
Thankfully Monaco's a walkable city because the drivers would've been annoyed with how many U-turns I made trying to find Toto's apartment. I should've learned more French before I moved here. I finally find the right building and enter. I press the button in the elevator to the top floor. This man really loves the top floor. I step out to be met with an empty hallway with only one door. Of course he owns a penthouse. I gather my courage for a minute before pressing the doorbell. He opens it almost immediately.
He lets me in without a word. His penthouse is massive and clean. Everything's organised neatly and it weirdly looks like what I imagined Toto lives in. "This way." Toto places his hand on my lower back, guiding me from the hallway towards the kitchen.
I'm a bit surprised to see his son, Jack, in there. I know that Toto divorced about a year ago and that he has a son from his marriage with Susie. But I've never met Jack, so I wonder why I'm meeting him now. "Jack, this is the woman I've been telling you about." Toto introduces me to his son. "Hi." I smile at Jack, not really knowing what else to say. I'm kind of awkward with children.
"Is she my new nanny?" He asks. What? I look up at Toto and see him nodding at Jack. Toto notices my confusion. "Jack, would you mind leaving us to talk for a minute?" Jack complies, taking his colouring book and crayons with him.
I turn to Toto, really confused. "His new nanny? What the fuck is going on, Toto?" He strokes my arms like he's trying to calm me down. "I told you the rules. Anywhere below the top five and you pay the price. I doubt I need to remind you what happened last Sunday, do I?" I sigh, annoyed. "So, I have one bad weekend and now I'm your son's new nanny? You can't take care of your own son? He has a mother, doesn't he?" I don't think I've ever been this pissed off and offended in my life. I would've never thought for Toto of all people to be this sexist.
"Hey, calm down. Of course he has a mother, but me and my ex-wife are both busy people. The weeks I have him she can't take care of him unless it's an emergency. Your only responsibility is to make sure there's food on the table and that the house is clean. And maybe try to get to know him." I scoff, backing up. "So, you want me to be your new maid? You could just fucking hire one. My job is to drive, not cook and clean."
He grabs me by the shoulders, holding me close to him with a tight grip. He leans down to whisper in my ear. "If you want to keep your seat, you do as I fucking tell you to. Every weekday, from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. until the next race week. You should've read your contract better." He straightens up, taking the apron from the kitchen counter and giving it to me. "Now, come on. Jack and I haven't had lunch yet."
He leaves the kitchen, leaving me standing there. I want to cry. I'm frustrated and disappointed at the same time. I'm angry at myself, for being so naive. I knew the contract was too good to be true, I don't know why I didn't read it to the end. I'm also angry at Toto. Why is he doing this? Is this to humiliate me? To remind me that I'm just a woman? Miami feels like an eternity away.
I guess it could be worse. It could be a lot worse, actually. Atleast I've done this before. I worked as a housemaid for some time as a teenager to pay off some of the costs of my career choice. Maybe he knows that and that's why he's making me do this. This could be a chance to figure out what exactly he knows. I could really use a punching bag right now. But instead I put on the apron and open the cook book.
Summary: You're all moved in with Max, getting to know Monaco and trying to make new friends before the winter semester starts. Meanwhile Max is busy making sure you're comfortable.
Themes: dead dove do not eat, dark!Max, piquet!reader, toxic!Max, naive!reader, female!reader, college student!reader, possessive thoughts, jealousy, stalking, age gap (18&26), checo, reader & max love triangle (not according to max), controlling behaviour, unhealthy obsession, male masturbation, daddy kink, weird!checo
Notes: Sorry if you've been waiting impatiently for part two, I just finished my first week of school in to the final study period of the year, so I was busy. I did not expect so many people to like the previous part, so here y'all go. I love writing these so much, thank you for giving me a reason to. Max is acting kind of devious in this one... He's really praying for Checo's downfall. I did not proofread this at all, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. And yes I did write that part when I was horny, what about it?
---
You moved in with me in December. A few days before the FIA Awards Ceremony. The room next to mine became yours. Only the small hallway separated us. You were closer now. Some day you'd be sleeping soundly in the same bed as me, where I could hold you. Then it would be perfect. But for now, Kelly occupied that spot. And I can't rush it, no matter how much I'd love to have you now. It's going to be messy when that day finally arrives, but it'll be even messier if it happened now. I have to make you trust me. You have to be comfortable.
---
December 31st, 2023, 11:35 a.m.
You look beautiful, although you're unaware of it. We flew back to Monaco last night after spending Christmas in Brazil. We came home late, around two a.m., and the first thing you did was take a shower and then you went straight to bed. You're wearing the PJ set Kelly got you for Christmas. It looks pretty on you. I gave you tickets to see your favourite artist. You were so cheerful about it. So thankful. I knew it was your favourite present. I could admire you for ages, but once I hear Kelly get out of the shower, I have to move away from your bedroom door.
We're going to a NYE party tonight. You begged to come, implying that you wanted to make new friends. I didn't think it was a great idea. Almost all of Monaco would be there. Other F1 drivers, tennis players, mainly people who lived here for the low taxes. Charles most likely being the only local there. I know most of them, how they love to flirt and forget. I don't want that to happen to you. You're sweet and naive. You'll believe every word someone who seems nice tells you. Which makes you an easy victim for them. But I knew I couldn't keep you isolated, at least not yet. You had to make friends. So I let you come. Kelly hadn't liked the idea, said she was tired of babysitting you. I told her you were an adult now, capable of looking after yourself. And you are. I just provide you with extra help.
An hour later, you're finally up. I'm in the living room, scrolling on my phone when you walk in the kitchen. The kitchen and the living room are connected, so I can see you easily. Kelly's out with her friends, spending my money, I assume. Penelope's spending New Year's at her dad's, so currently, it's just us. "Good morning, schatje." I greet you as you walk in. "Good morning." You yawn, your hair a bit messy and still clearly jet-lagged. You make yourself breakfast and then come sit with me on the couch, turning the TV on. The things I would do to you, if only I could.
Your phone rings and you pick it up, sipping on your coffee. It's a text from Checo. I pretend not to have seen it and turn my gaze towards the TV. I can see you smiling, even blushing. I clench my jaw. How could he make you smile? How could he be making you happy? Soon it'll be over. He's going to show you why his wife divorced him. It'll be painful, but I'll be there. I'll show you why only I can make you truly happy.
"Checo's going to be at the party." You say, smiling ear to ear as you put your phone down. "I'm so excited. He's all I've been able to think about. But don't tell him." I force myself to smile back. "Don't worry about it, schatje. I won't." You chug down the rest of your coffee before standing up. "I have to pick out what to wear." You go back to your room, leaving your phone.
I pick it up, making sure you're not anywhere near before opening it. I've known your passcode for a few weeks now. You love to trust that the people around you aren't going to look through it. How you were wrong. The first thing I do is check your messages with Checo. He's really not trying to hide how much he knows you like him, huh. The selfies he sends you, calling you by Spanish pet names, the over three hour video calls... Irritation runs through me. Could even be anger. He even called himself your daddy. Huh. Is that something you like? Age play? Guess you learn something new every day.
I put down your phone before I throw it against the wall. I run my hands through my hair, trying to calm myself down from the burning jealousy I feel. It's not easy seeing you so infatuated with someone else when you're supposed to be mine. You are mine. It'll just take some time before you finally accept it. I take the pillow you sat next to. It still smells like you. And it's making me hard. Thank God, I have multiple bathrooms in this penthouse. I take the pillow and walk to the bathroom farthest away from the bedrooms. I have to get off.
As I'm fucking the pillow, I can't help but think about how it would feel to fuck you. To finally get to touch you, hold you, manhandle you. I come to the idea of marking you, claiming you. Of you screaming my name, calling me daddy. I grab a tissue, cleaning myself and the pillow up. I would take such good care of you afterwards. You'd deserve it, after taking all of me.
---
You're sitting in the backseat. You're wearing a dress too short. I wanted to make you change, but because I want my plan to work out, I couldn't. I have to give you some freedom for now. I glance at you occasionally from the rearview mirror. A dangerous game to play with Kelly sitting in the passenger seat. You're smiling at your phone, probably texting Checo. I speed up a little, lost in my thoughts.
Everyone's going to be staring at you, ogling you. They'll have dirty thoughts about what's mine. I don't care if you resist, I'll get you home tonight. I can't stand the idea of you waking up in a random's bed. I want you safe, at home, where I can protect you. I stop in front of the club, making sure the spot is easy to find. You walk in front of Kelly and I to the club. I notice your legs speeding up a bit when walking up the stairs. After the bouncer, I take one last glance at you before you disappear in to the club, on your way to find Checo.
Considering I'm the driver, I don't drink. And besides, I have to be sober to take care of you when you're drunk. I barely see you all night. But when I do, you're with Checo. I want to wipe that stupid grin off his fucking face. It's like he wants you drunk out of your mind. I know Checo wouldn't hurt anyone, at least not while sober. But he's had a few drinks and he's with you. A beautiful, young and naive woman.
You get to your feet from the table you're sitting by with Checo and some of his friends. Your steps are unstable and Checo gets up, helping you towards the bathrooms. I stand up immediately. Thankfully Kelly's dancing with her friends, because she wouldn't like what I'm about to do next.
I can hear Checo's voice inside the women's bathroom, talking to you. I almost burst open the door, finding you under Checo's arm as he cradles your face. You both look at me, caught off guard. "Max. What are you doing here?" Checo asks in that same, annoyingly polite tone. I ignore him, looking at you and your condition. Your hair's a little messy, but overall you look fine. But with the way you're gripping the sink, I know you're drunk. "We're going home." I say, my voice still calm but assertive. You look at me, disappointed. Checo answers for you. "She doesn't want to." I close my eyes for a second to calm down before looking at Checo. "I didn't ask." I go to grab you, but he stops me, standing in front of you. "I'll take care of her, okay? She's fine." I have never wanted to punch a man so much as I do now. Instead, I shove him, grabbing you by the waist. "And again. We're going home." You hold on to me as I walk out of the club with you.
You've clearly had too much to drink. You're barely awake. I help you inside the car. As I buckle my own seatbelt, I think about Kelly still inside the club. She'll be fine. I can't leave you alone now. It's better she yell at me tomorrow hungover than now drunk. And a night without her in the house would be nice. We could finally get some alone time.
---
You rush to the bathroom as we get home. I keep your hair away from your face as you throw up what your liver couldn't take. Once you're done I clean you up. I help you wash off your makeup, brush your teeth, change your ridiculously short dress into some comfortable pyjamas. I get you a fresh glass of water and a paracetamol for the headache I know you'll wake up with tomorrow. You're so exhausted you're almost immediately asleep when I tuck you in. "Thank you, Max." You mutter before falling asleep and I can't help but smile. I lightly brush my knuckles against your warm cheek. You look like a sleeping angel. I could watch you like this for hours. I run my other hand through your hair, petting your head as I lean in. I can still smell your perfume. I kiss your temple before whispering in your ear. "You're safe with me now, schatje. Only me." I sit by your bed, watching you sleep for a few hours, until sleep starts catching up to me as well. I make sure you're comfortable before leaving your room, keeping the door slightly ajar as I do.
What I said is true. Checo can't keep you safe no matter how much he tries. He doesn't understand what kind of protection and love you need. I'm the only one who understands you. I'm the only one who's perfect for you. It won't be long now, schatje, until we can finally be together. Then, you'll see it.
