[vibeswithdivs]

daddy duties call - MV1

It was just another lazy Sunday in your Monaco apartment.

You had laundry going in the background, your hair up in a loose bun, and one eye on the clock as you stirred pasta on the stove. A warm breeze fluttered the curtains, sunlight painting soft streaks of gold across the floor. Somewhere in the other room, Max’s unmistakable voice floated through the halls — sharp, focused, laughing occasionally — his sim racing session clearly in full swing.

And then there was your daughter.

Ten months old. Mischief in a onesie.

Your little firecracker who had only recently discovered the art of crawling and now wielded it like a superpower. You’d set her down on the playmat with her favorite stuffed lion, but her eyes had tracked Max the second he slipped into the sim room.

And now?

She was gone.

You peeked around the corner, holding the wooden spoon in one hand.

There she was.

Tiny, determined, dragging herself over the carpet like a soldier on a mission, her soft baby babble echoing off the walls as she zeroed in on her dad like he was the finish line.

Max, oblivious, was mid-race, headset on, fingers dancing across the wheel, muttering something about tire temps.

And then—

Her little hands reached his chair.

You held your breath as she grabbed one of the wheel legs and, with a surprising burst of strength and a squeaky grunt, stood up.

All on her own.

Your heart swelled. “Oh my god,” you whispered, wiping your hands on a dish towel and tiptoeing toward the door, unwilling to interrupt the moment.

Max must have felt the shift, because he glanced down — and immediately froze.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“Wait, guys—hold on,” he said into the mic, laughing. “We’ve got a situation here.”

He took off one side of the headset and turned fully in his seat. “Baby girl, what are you doing over here, huh?” His voice melted into that soft, boyish tone he only used with her.

She squealed, one chubby hand smacking the wheel leg triumphantly.

Max chuckled, reached down, and gently scooped her up into his arms.

“Look at you standing like a big girl,” he murmured, bouncing her slightly on his knee as she wiggled and cooed, fascinated by all the buttons and lights.

On the headset, you could still hear the guys calling out.

“Yo Max, put the mic closer! Let us talk to the little Verstappen!”

“Yeah man, she’s a future champ!”

Max grinned and tilted his mic toward her. “Alright, alright, she’s on. Don’t scare her though.”

One of the guys’ voices came through, exaggeratedly high-pitched. “Hiii, little baby! Say something for us!”

Your daughter blinked.

Then babbled something completely incoherent, slapping her hands against Max’s chest.

Everyone laughed.

Max kissed the top of her head, muttering, “That’s my girl.”

Then—just as he reached for his headset again—she looked up at him, eyes wide and curious, mouth sticky with drool, and suddenly let out a very clear, “Dada.”

Max froze.

Absolutely. Froze.

“What did you just say?” he whispered, pulling her back a little so he could see her face.

“Dada!” she squealed again, like it was the funniest word in the world.

On the headset: chaos.

“WAIT WHAT—DID SHE JUST—”

“No way, she said dada!!”

“Yo Max, that’s on stream! That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen—someone clip it!”

Max was just staring at her now, eyes wide, like she’d just handed him a world championship trophy.

He laughed, disbelieving, then looked toward the door where you stood, hands over your mouth in shock.

“She just—” he said, stunned. “She said dada. Like, actually said it.”

“She really did,” you whispered, eyes glossy.

He turned back to your daughter, eyes sparkling with pride. “Do it again. Come on, one more time. Say it for me, baby. Say ‘dada’.”

She blinked, then smacked her lips. “Dada!”

Max whooped — loud, unfiltered joy bursting out of him as he hugged her tightly to his chest.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, voice thick with emotion. “You are so getting a new car when you’re sixteen.”

Laughter burst through your chest. “She won’t even remember this!”

“I will,” Max said, grinning, still holding her close.

Back on the stream, his friends were still laughing, teasing, one of them joking, “That baby just made more people cry than Max did winning Zandvoort.”

Max rolled his eyes but smiled, lifting his daughter’s tiny hand and making her do a wave at the mic.

“Alright, future world champion is logging off,” he said. “Daddy duties call.”

As he clicked out of the race, your daughter gave another sleepy babble, resting her head on his chest.

Max turned toward you, his voice quieter now. “She said dada, babe.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I saw the whole thing.”

He got up, walking toward you with his whole heart in his arms. You wrapped one hand around his waist, the other gently brushing your daughter’s soft curls.

“You’re both gonna make me cry,” you murmured.

He kissed your forehead, then hers.

“Best Sunday of my life,” he said. “No podium could top this.”

And you believed him.

Because the way he looked at her — with so much wonder and awe, like he couldn’t believe she was real — told you everything.

Max Verstappen: world champion, sim god, and now… official dada.

[vibeswithdivs]

who spoke to you like that - MV1

You didn’t even bother taking off your shoes when you stepped inside the apartment. The door clicked softly behind you, muffled by the weight pressing against your chest. The usual comfort of being home — of warm lights, soft furniture, and Max’s quiet presence — barely touched you. Your bag slid off your shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Max was on the sofa, laptop balanced on one thigh, remote in the other. He looked up the second you walked in.

And frowned.

“Hey,” he said carefully. “You’re back early.”

You nodded. Tried to smile.

“Just… got tired.”

He watched you. Really watched. His eyes followed every detail — your stiff posture, the way your fingers trembled slightly as you undid your wristwatch, the lack of usual chatter you came home with.

He closed the laptop without a sound.

“Something happened,” he said.

You shook your head too fast. “No. Just a bad day.”

He stood, and his socked feet were nearly silent as he approached. His height always made him seem intimidating to others — sharp lines, broad shoulders, intense stare. But to you, it was the safest place in the world. And yet… even that didn’t soothe you tonight.

Max gently touched your elbow. “What kind of bad?”

“The kind I want to forget,” you said softly.

You made for the bedroom, hoping to bury your face in a pillow until the tightness in your chest left. But Max followed, quiet as ever — patient, but not backing off. You could feel it: the tension in him coiling tighter with every second you stayed silent.

He hated not knowing. Not because he was nosey, but because when something hurt you, he felt it.

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the edge of the blanket. He stood across from you, arms crossed, jaw ticking.

“You’re not okay,” he said, voice lower now. “So don’t pretend.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “It’s not a big deal.”

Max scoffed. “You walked in like someone knocked the air out of you.”

You glanced up. Your throat burned. “Someone kind of did.”

That made him still.

He lowered himself in front of you, crouching so he could look at you straight on. His hands rested on your knees.

“Who?”

You shook your head. “Please, Max…”

“Who.”

The way he said it — steady, restrained, but with an edge of fire — made your stomach flutter and your throat tighten all over again.

You blinked fast, but your eyes betrayed you, filling too quickly.

You never cried in front of people. Not even when you got hurt. But now the tears spilled, quiet and unannounced, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

Max’s hands moved immediately — one to your cheek, thumb brushing gently, the other to your waist, grounding you. His expression darkened, but not at you. Never at you.

“I can’t handle someone hurting you and me not knowing who the hell it is,” he murmured.

You sucked in a shaky breath.

“One of the guys at work. A colleague. I… I thought he was decent. We worked closely. Talked every day.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

“But today,” you whispered, “I disagreed with him during a meeting. Something small. And after, when no one was around, he just—snapped. Said I shouldn’t push him. That he doesn’t like people ‘getting on his nerves’ and if I keep it up, I’ll see his nasty side.”

Max didn’t move.

Your voice shook harder now. “He was so aggressive. Like not shouting exactly, but… the way he spoke — the tone — I just froze. I couldn’t say anything. He looked like he meant it.”

Max’s entire body went rigid.

“I don’t even remember how I got through the rest of the day. I felt like everyone was looking at me like I did something wrong.”

When your voice cracked, Max moved instinctively. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest, holding your head to his shoulder. You buried your face there, trembling, hating that a single moment could unravel you like this.

“I get scared when people shout,” you admitted softly against him. “I know I shouldn’t be, but it just—sticks.”

Max’s fingers tightened against your back.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “It’s not your fault someone’s a damn coward.”

You nodded into his chest.

“I reported it,” you added, voice barely audible. “To HR. Sent them everything. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t just let it go.”

Max pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His voice was quieter now — dangerous quiet.

“What’s his name?”

You blinked. “Max…”

He stood up so fast you barely had time to react. He crossed the room, grabbed his phone, and snatched his car keys from the dresser. His expression was unreadable — a storm behind ice.

“Max, wait—what are you doing?”

“I’m going to remind him what nasty looks like,” he said flatly.

“Max!”

You chased him into the hallway, grabbing at his arm. “You can’t just barge into my office and pick a fight!”

“The hell I can’t,” he snapped, eyes blazing. “He threatened you. He made you cry. And you think I’m just going to sit here and let that slide?”

You tried to steady your breath. His protectiveness wasn’t new. But this — this fury — was another level.

You stepped in front of the door, blocking him with your whole body even if he could move you like a feather.

“Please,” you said. “Please don’t go. I already reported it. HR is involved now. He’ll be held accountable.”

Max stared at you, chest rising and falling rapidly, like he’d just come off the track after a fight for P1. His knuckles were white around his phone.

“I get it,” you said gently. “You want to protect me. But if you go storming in there, I’ll get dragged into it. It’ll become a bigger mess.”

His eyes flickered.

“Then tell me what you want me to do,” he said, softer now, but still seething. “Because I swear to God, if I see that guy—”

“I want you to stay,” you whispered. “Just stay here. With me. I don’t want to be scared anymore. And you’re the only thing that makes it stop.”

That cracked something in him.

He dropped the keys on the table with a metallic clatter and pulled you into his arms again. His hold wasn’t gentle this time — it was fierce, possessive, like he needed to feel your heartbeat to calm his own.

“You should’ve called me the moment it happened,” he murmured into your hair.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“I am in it,” he snapped, then softened immediately. “I’m in everything with you. Whether you like it or not.”

You let out a shaky laugh against his shirt.

“I’m serious,” he said, drawing back enough to tilt your chin up. “If that bastard so much as looks at you wrong again, I don’t care what protocol HR follows. I’ll make sure he never walks into your office again.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I’ll be smart. But he won’t forget it.”

You knew he meant it.

Max Verstappen wasn’t the kind of man who made empty threats. But he wasn’t reckless either. If he promised you something — safety, peace, protection — he’d do it in a way that left no room for interpretation.

He would be your calm and your fire.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Lie down with me.”

You nodded, eyes heavy, heart lighter.

He helped you into bed and wrapped himself around you — arms like a fortress, heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

[vibeswithdivs]

But I do mind - MV1

The sun was relentless overhead, casting golden gleams off the tarmac and bouncing off the team garages in shimmering waves. You clutched your Red Bull cap a little tighter, your heart thudding as you looked around the paddock like a child let loose in her dream. Mechanics buzzed past in a blur, cameras clicked, tires rolled, and somewhere in the far-off distance, an engine roared to life — that distinct, gravelly sound that made your chest vibrate.

You had been lucky. Really lucky.

Your older brother had won two paddock passes through some online contest and insisted you take one. He’d told you to have fun, take pictures, and — “if you see Max, please get an autograph for me.” It was the one thing he’d asked. You had nodded, not knowing if you’d even spot the elusive world champion among the sea of VIPs, engineers, and helmeted drivers.

And yet… there he was.

Max Verstappen stood not ten feet from you, his arms folded over his Red Bull polo, talking to one of the engineers. Tall, unmistakable, and completely untouchable. His expression was unreadable, as usual — calm, cool, but with that subtle edge of intensity. You’d seen it in interviews, in post-race conferences. He didn’t entertain nonsense. He didn’t tolerate being interrupted. And he most certainly didn’t like being treated like a celebrity.

Still, your feet moved.

“Max?”

Your voice came out smaller than you’d hoped — airy, almost childlike, drowned slightly by the nearby pitstop drill. But he heard you. He turned.

His blue eyes landed on you, sharp, piercing, calculating — the same way they probably scanned telemetry data or a racing line.

“I—I’m sorry to bother you,” you stammered, forcing yourself not to look down. You raised your hand, showing him the Red Bull cap with his number stitched on the side. “My brother is a huge fan of yours. If you don’t mind… can I get your autograph for him?”

There was a pause.

Then he blinked slowly. His jaw ticked ever so slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched — but not into a smile.

“I do mind,” he said flatly.

Your stomach dropped.

Your smile vanished before it fully formed. “Oh,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand. “Okay. I’m… sorry for disturbing you.”

You turned, cheeks burning, already swallowing the sting behind your eyes. Stupid. You should’ve known better. This was his work zone. He didn’t owe anyone a smile or signature.

“Wait.”

The word was gruff, short. You weren’t even sure he’d meant to say it aloud. You turned your head just slightly, and in that moment, you caught it — the way his eyes were no longer cold. Something had changed. The intensity was still there, but now it flickered with something else. Curiosity. Confusion, even.

Your cap was still dangling from your fingers when he stepped closer. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask. He simply took the cap gently from your hand, pulled a black marker from the Red Bull team member beside him, and scribbled his name — quick, efficient, but not careless. Then, without glancing back at the guy, he muttered, “Bring her to the garage.”

You blinked.

“W-what?”

The Red Bull staffer gave a small, almost amused shrug and gestured for you to follow.

You hurried after them, half dazed. Max said nothing as he led the way, but you caught the slight crease between his brows, the subtle glance he kept throwing over his shoulder — like he was still trying to figure you out. Like he hadn’t meant to snap, but didn’t quite know how to undo it the usual way. So instead… he was showing you.

The garage was a world of its own. Cooler, shaded, a little quieter — but still pulsing with life. Two cars stood like sleeping beasts, half-dismantled, their bodywork gleaming under the overhead lights. Mechanics moved with laser-sharp focus, adjusting wings, checking sensors. You stood back, feeling like you’d accidentally stepped into a painting you weren’t meant to touch.

Max leaned against a tall silver table and finally looked at you again.

“You always look like that?” he asked, nodding at you — or maybe your expression.

“Like what?”

He tilted his head, not quite smirking but close. “Like a puppy that just got left outside in the rain.”

You flushed. “Sorry. I just… I didn’t want to bother you. It was for my brother, and I thought I could just ask and leave. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t bother me.”

“But you said—”

He scratched the back of his neck, gaze darting sideways. “Yeah. I say things sometimes.” Another pause. “Bluntly.”

That felt like an apology. Or at least the Max Verstappen version of one.

You bit your lip to hide your smile. “Well… thank you. For this.” You raised the cap now resting in your hands, fingers gently tracing the ink of his signature. “He’s going to cry, by the way.”

“I’ve made grown men cry before,” he said, deadpan. Then, softer, “Not for good reasons.”

You laughed — a soft, surprised sound — and that seemed to please him. His expression relaxed a little more.

“You’re not from here?” he asked.

“No. I’m visiting. From India.”

“And you like Formula One?”

“I love it,” you said earnestly. “I used to sit with my dad and brother on the couch every race Sunday. They were always cheering for different teams, arguing.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “And now you’re here.”

“I can’t believe it either.”

Max was quiet for a beat, his hand still resting lightly on the table edge. Then he asked, “You want to sit in the car?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

His brow lifted slightly, like he couldn’t understand why anyone would doubt him.

“Okay,” you breathed, and followed his nod toward one of the engineers, who brought over a step stool and motioned you to the open cockpit of the RB.

You climbed in slowly, nerves tingling, the seat hugging your sides like it had been molded for a different world. The steering wheel was impossibly complicated, buttons and dials like a spaceship console.

Max walked over and crouched beside you. “It’s not as easy as it looks on TV, huh?”

“No,” you whispered, half awed. “How do you even remember what each button does?”

He gave a tiny shrug. “Muscle memory. And instinct.”

“And you trust yourself that much?”

This time, he didn’t look away.

“I have to.”

You stared at him, the corners of your lips pulling into a smile. “That’s kind of cool.”

Max tilted his head again, that unreadable gaze softening just slightly — like your words had settled somewhere deeper than he’d expected.

When you stepped down from the car, he offered you a hand. You took it. Firm, warm, steady.

You didn’t let go right away. And neither did he.

The garage thrummed with controlled chaos. Torque wrenches clicked in rhythm, laptops beeped softly with streams of data, and the faint scent of fuel clung to the air like a second skin. You stood just outside the main pit lane area, still holding the Red Bull cap he’d signed — a signature that felt less like ink and more like the beginning of something surreal.

Max hadn’t said much after helping you down from the car. But he didn’t walk away either.

He’d looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he’d turned to one of the engineers nearby — a tall guy in his early 30s with a headset slung around his neck and grease smudged on his forearm.

“Show her around,” Max said simply.

The engineer blinked. “You mean… like—”

“The garage. The setup. Everything. Not PR-polished. The real stuff.”

The man nodded slowly, clearly trying not to look too surprised. You, meanwhile, blinked up at Max, unsure if you’d misheard.

But Max didn’t look at you this time. He was already walking off, arms crossed again, jaw tight — like he was annoyed at himself for caring too much. Or maybe for caring at all.

Still, he glanced over his shoulder once — just once — as if to check that you were following.

You were.

It turned out the engineer’s name was Nico, and he had a soft spot for fans who genuinely cared. “You’re not like the others,” he said after a few minutes. “Most come in here for selfies and TikToks. You’re just… watching everything.”

You smiled. “I’ve always wanted to know how it really works. Like what happens beyond the camera angles and commentary.”

He beamed. “Then you’re in the right place.”

Nico took his time, explaining everything from tire temperature sensors to pit lane protocols. He even let you hold one of the steering wheels used for testing — twice as heavy as you expected.

You soaked in every word, every sound, every smell. You kept sneaking glances toward Max, even when you told yourself not to.

He was different here. Not the guarded, distant figure you’d seen in interviews. Here, he was alive — focused, commanding without raising his voice, completely in his element. The mechanics didn’t hover nervously around him. They trusted him. He didn’t say much, but when he did, they listened. The way he moved between the car and telemetry screen, the way he nodded once and entire groups shifted direction — it was the quiet authority of someone who didn’t have to prove anything.

And yet, he still kept glancing back.

You caught him once, mid-conversation with his race engineer. His eyes slid to you — quick but unmistakable. Like he was making sure you were still there. Like something about your presence grounded him, or maybe unsettled him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

You looked away quickly, pretending to be focused on the tire sets lined up against the wall.

But your face was warm for a long time after.

As race hour crept closer, the garage shifted gears. The relaxed energy turned razor-sharp. Radios crackled with updates. The car was checked and re-checked, the crew slipping into their roles with military precision. Every sound became urgent. Every movement had a rhythm.

You took a step back, instinctively knowing this part wasn’t for guests.

That’s when Max walked past you — not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the air shift.

His suit was already zipped up to his neck, his fireproofs smooth under the white-and-blue livery. His gloves hung loose in his hand. He didn’t stop walking. But as he passed, he glanced at you again. This time, he didn’t look away.

His lips curved — not a smile exactly, but a twitch of something softer.

Then, just before he turned to head toward the car, he leaned slightly toward you and said, voice low:

“Watch from here y/n. Best view.”

You nodded, caught off guard by how your name sounded in his accent — because somehow, he’d asked Nico and remembered it. The butterflies in your chest decided to take off all at once.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

You watched as he climbed into the car, calm and methodical. The engineers swarmed around him, clipping in harnesses, plugging in data cables, checking tire blankets. But Max? He sat perfectly still, eyes closed for a second, then opened again — sharp, clear, and entirely focused.

Just before his helmet came down, he looked up one last time.

At you.

Not the cameras, not the engineers — you.

Your breath caught.

Because for a second, his expression softened.

And for that tiny, fragile moment, you weren’t just a fan in a garage full of blinking lights and carbon fiber. You were someone in his world.

And he wanted you to see him like this — just before the storm.

The roar of engines built in the distance. Mechanics scrambled back to their marks, and the air trembled with anticipation. You stayed where he told you — close enough to see everything but out of the chaos.

When Max peeled out of the garage, the sound shook your ribs. You watched the blur of his car disappear down the pit lane, heart pounding like it was racing, too.

Nico returned, grinning. “You alright?”

“I think so,” you whispered.

“He never does that, you know,” he added casually, eyes flicking to where the RB had vanished. “Bring someone in. Let them see this side.”

You looked at him, startled. “Really?”

“Really. Max doesn’t let distractions in here.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you just looked down at your cap again — the one now cradled against your chest like it meant more than just a fan souvenir.

Because it did.

Because somehow, Max Verstappen — the fastest man in the world, the one who didn’t like being bothered, the one who said “I do mind” — had made sure you stayed.

[vibeswithdivs]

you don’t mess around - OP81

If you had to describe your job in three words, they’d be: pressure, precision, and absolutely no room for mistakes.

You managed the money that kept McLaren running. Not in the sense of counting coins in a dusty room — no, you lived in digital dashboards and currency exposure spreadsheets. On any given day, you could tell someone how much was in the Swiss account, how the yen was affecting the Singapore deal, and whether a facility payment was going to clear before a supplier had a panic attack.

The job was about timing. Liquidity. Predicting the unpredictable and safeguarding the team’s future — all while juggling numbers with razor-sharp accuracy.

Which is why when a race car driver wandered into your high-stakes, number-heavy corner of the building on a calm Wednesday morning, you stared at him like he’d stepped into a Bond film by mistake.

He paused just inside the glass doors — tall, hoodie-clad, faintly windblown from the chilly British air outside — and looked around with a furrowed brow.

Definitely lost.

Your colleagues peeked over their screens, some wide-eyed, others frozen mid-email. In this room, the loudest thing was usually someone’s keyboard when they were panicking before a deadline.

You were about to go back to calculating rolling cash positions when he spotted you.

He smiled.

It wasn’t a polite PR-smile. It was curious. Warm. Maybe a little amused.

“This definitely isn’t Aerodynamics,” he said, glancing around.

You took your hand off your mouse and leaned back slightly in your chair. “Unless they’ve suddenly decided to start hedging foreign currency risk, no — you’re a few wrong turns deep.”

He took a cautious step in. “It’s… quiet in here.”

You tilted your head. “Not when the dollar drops half a percent during a five-million-pound contract negotiation.”

He grinned at that. “Sounds intense.”

You offered a thin smile. “That’s one word for it.”

There was a beat. Then he added, “I’m supposed to be meeting Zak, but I think I took a wrong left somewhere between partnerships and… whatever room had seventeen monitors and no windows.”

You stood, brushing off your skirt. “You’re about four corridors off course and six floors deep into stress.”

He looked around. “Well, if I’m going to get lost, at least I ended up somewhere interesting.”

You blinked at him. “You’re the first person to say that about this room. Ever.”

He gave a half-grin, toeing one foot on the floor like he was trying to kill time. “So what do you actually do in here?”

You pointed to your screen, where a live dashboard showed inflows, outflows, and forecasts across multiple international entities. “See that? That’s how much is available in five different currencies to fund race weekend logistics without breaking any laws or overdraft limits.”

Oscar leaned slightly forward, genuinely intrigued. “And you just… know how to do that?”

“I know how to make sure no one gets a call from legal,” you said, turning your gaze back to him. “Including you.”

He laughed, a genuine, caught-off-guard sound. “Wow. You guys are the quiet enforcers.”

“Quiet, precise, and very well-documented,” you replied smoothly. “We don’t leave fingerprints — just audit trails.”

That earned a low whistle. “You don’t mess around.”

“No, but people sometimes think we do — right up until they want to order a new hospitality suite and we say, ‘not unless you want to explain that to Finance.’”

He looked impressed. “Duly noted.”

Another colleague passed behind you, giving Oscar a side-eye like he was a Martian. You cleared your throat and took a step forward, suddenly feeling aware of just how much of the room was pretending not to eavesdrop.

“You’re Oscar,” you said, a little more grounded now.

“And you are…?”

“Y/N,” you replied. “I work in… let’s call it future-proofing.”

That made him pause. “I like that.”

“It sounds less terrifying than ‘I manage the operational cash forecasts for a multimillion-pound motorsport empire,’” you added with a wink.

He smirked. “A motorsport empire, huh?”

“You guys play chess with tires. I play chess with the economy.”

He laughed again, and the sound of it — relaxed, amused, intrigued — felt like a weird sort of reward after a morning spent reviewing intercompany transfers.

“You actually like this stuff?” he asked, pointing at your screen.

You tilted your head. “You like driving into a corner at 200kph hoping your grip calculations are right?”

“…Fair.”

At that moment, a harried admin appeared behind him. “Oscar! There you are — Zak’s been waiting—”

Oscar turned slightly but didn’t move. “Got a little sidetracked.”

The admin blinked at you, surprised. You offered a tight-lipped smile and a “don’t you dare start” eyebrow raise before turning back to him.

“Back to the track?” you asked lightly.

“Back to pretending I know what my engineer is talking about.”

You smiled, unexpectedly. “Fake it till you podium.”

He chuckled. “Hey, Y/N?”

You raised a brow.

“I’m glad I got lost,” he said. “Most detours don’t come with financial sass and a global cash position overview.”

“Flirting with the girl who can freeze team spending is bold,” you replied, smirking.

He shrugged, taking a few steps toward the door. “I’ve raced in Monaco. I like high-risk strategies.”

Before leaving, he turned back over his shoulder, grin softening into something more sincere. “I’ll come back. But next time, I’ll bring coffee. You seem like you don’t take sugar, but I’ll gamble.”

You blinked, not used to someone reading you that quickly.

“…Black. No sugar,” you said after a beat.

He pointed, victorious. “Knew it.”

And with that, he slipped out of the room — leaving behind a trail of confusion, amusement, and a string of open-mouthed stares from your colleagues.

You sat down, turned back to your screen, and tried — very unsuccessfully — to remember what currency hedge you were working on.

But all your brain could supply was: He got your coffee order right.

And maybe… just maybe… some risks were worth taking.

[vibeswithdivs]

three hours! - OP81

You didn’t plan on introducing Oscar to Bollywood that night.

Really, you didn’t.

It started innocently: a grey sky, the hum of lazy rain, and the sheer novelty of both of you being home at the same time during a break in the season. The two of you had declared it a “no-F1” day — no telemetry data, no sim practice, no McLaren group chats, and definitely no talk of brake balance. Just snacks, cuddles, and “whatever movie you want, love.”

You should’ve known what that meant.

You were already halfway through prepping your popcorn when Oscar leaned into the kitchen with a mischievous smile.

“So,” he said, arms crossed, one brow raised. “Do I finally get to see what all the dramatic musical fuss is about?”

You paused, spice tin in one hand, your eyes narrowing. “You mean Bollywood?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But like… a real one. Not just clips you send me at 2 a.m. of that Shah guy running through the rain yelling someone’s name.”

“Shah guy?!” you gasped, spinning to face him. “Oscar James Piastri! That’s Shah Rukh Khan. The king. The legend. The—”

He took a slow step back, grinning. “And I’ve summoned the demon.”

You made him sit through a full trailer lineup before you even picked the film. Each one was followed by his increasingly dramatic reactions:

“Wait, is this a mafia film or a romance?”

“Is he actually crying because she made tea for someone else?”

“Was that a dream sequence in a hospital corridor?”

After several deeply emotional decisions — and a coin toss — you finally settled on Kal Ho Naa Ho. You knew it was the one. Love triangle. Soul-wrenching twist. SRK at his absolute, dimpled peak.

Oscar flopped on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and a suspicious look on his face. “Three hours?”

You kissed the top of his head. “Worth every minute.”

The movie began. And slowly, it began to happen.

At first, Oscar looked skeptical. You’d warned him about the singing, but that didn’t stop him from blinking at the first burst of a full-on street number like it was an ambush.

“Wait—why is everyone dancing in sync? Do they all know this choreo? Are they possessed?”

You giggled. “It’s called Bollywood logic, babe. Just go with it.”

He shot you a look. “I thought Formula 1 had complex rules.”

But you caught the smirk he tried to hide when SRK entered in slow motion, wind in his hair, sunglasses glinting like destiny had just walked into a café.

“You’re smiling,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

“I’m not,” he replied, eyes fixed on the screen. “I’m… just appreciating cinematography.”

By the first hour mark, Oscar was in deep.

He leaned forward during every café scene, popcorn long forgotten. He asked an unreasonable number of questions:

“So she hates him, but she’ll obviously fall for him, right?”

“The guy with the guitar—he’s too nice. That’s a red flag.”

“Why is the grandma always yelling? I like her.”

He read every subtitle with religious focus, mouthing some of the Hindi words under his breath with comical pronunciation.

“Tum theek ho?” he whispered seriously at one point.

You raised an eyebrow. “You just asked if I’m okay.”

He nodded proudly. “Character immersion.”

You snorted into your chai.

The emotional turning point hit him like DRS through Eau Rouge.

The moment Aman starts coughing more frequently, a frown appeared between Oscar’s brows. When Aman hides his medical file, Oscar sat up straighter. And when the real twist unfurled — the truth of Aman’s terminal illness — Oscar dropped the popcorn bowl in slow motion.

It clattered on the carpet, kernels flying everywhere. He didn’t even flinch.

“Wait… WHAT?!” His voice cracked. “He’s DYING?”

You placed a hand on his thigh, both in comfort and to stop yourself from laughing. “Yes.”

“And he’s been matchmaking them this whole time?” he asked, voice raising with each word. “HE’S SACRIFICING HIMSELF FOR HER HAPPINESS?”

You gave him a pitying nod. “Shah Rukh doesn’t do half-measures.”

Oscar turned back to the screen like it had personally betrayed him. His hand clutched your arm now. “This is a violation. I didn’t sign up to feel this much today.”

“Oh no,” you whispered. “He’s bonded.”

By the end, Oscar was gone.

Silent. Wide-eyed. Face slightly crumpled.

As Aman made his final monologue — that devastating mix of warmth, love, and goodbye — Oscar looked as though he’d just been told he’d DNFed in the last lap of Monaco.

He made a strange little noise when the final funeral shot faded to white.

You turned to him slowly, trying not to giggle. “You okay there?”

He turned to you, tear tracks on his cheeks, voice hoarse. “I feel like I aged ten years.”

You handed him a tissue. “Congratulations. You’re now a certified Bollywood fan.”

He blinked, dazed. “How do people watch this more than once? How do you survive this?”

You curled into his side, smug and cozy. “You build emotional resilience. And chai. Lots of chai.”

He glanced down at you, a bit of awe in his expression. “You’ve really been watching these your whole life?”

You nodded. “I grew up with them. They’re part of my soul.”

He wiped at his face, still sniffling. “I’m starting to think your soul is made of heartbreak and really good music.”

You beamed. “Exactly.”

Later that night, Oscar came up behind you while you were brushing your teeth, arms slipping around your waist.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice serious.

You raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “Okay…?”

“That song.” He pointed a finger like he was accusing the toothpaste. “The one in the wedding scene.”

You blinked. “Maahi Ve?”

“Yeah. That’s been stuck in my head for two hours,” he said. “It’s haunting me. Why do I like it so much?!”

You giggled. “Welcome to your villain origin story.”

He squinted at you. “Do people… dance to it?”

You blinked back at him. “Yes?”

“Like at weddings?”

You nodded slowly. “Yes?”

His lips twitched. “Teach me.”

You stared at him. “Now?”

He folded his arms, competitive fire in his eyes. “I learned Monaco’s sector three layout in twenty minutes. I can learn a Bollywood hook step.”

You threw your head back laughing. “Oscar Piastri, are you seriously asking for a Bollywood dance lesson at midnight?”

He grinned. “If I’m going down this rabbit hole, I’m going all in.”

And you did. Right there in your pajamas, in the middle of the living room, you taught a Formula 1 driver the basics of a Bollywood wedding dance. He was stiff, missed most of the beats, and almost knocked over a lamp with his elbow.

But when he got it right and you high-fived him with pure joy, he smiled so wide it rivaled the actual Maahi Ve sequence.

As the clock ticked past 2 a.m., you were both collapsed on the sofa again, tangled in blankets, hearts full.

Oscar turned to you, head on your shoulder. “You know…”

“Mmm?”

“I didn’t think I’d like it. I thought it would be cheesy and over-the-top.”

You waited.

He looked up at you, quiet and honest. “But it was… real. Like, so real. The kind of story that actually stays with you.”

You kissed his forehead gently. “That’s Bollywood. It sneaks up on you.”

He nodded. “Okay. One condition.”

“What?”

“You pick the next one,” he said, already opening the Bollywood playlist on your TV. “But I want dancing. More dancing.”

You laughed, heart full. “Deal. For you, maybe even Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge next.”

He raised a hand solemnly. “As long as I don’t have to wear tight white pants.”

“No promises,” you smirked.

[vibeswithdivs]

you dork - OP81

It had been over eight hours since the race ended.

You knew that because you’d rewatched the post-race interviews three times, counted two full cycles of the dryer, and checked your phone at least thirty-four times, give or take. You weren’t one to overthink — usually. But today felt different.

Oscar had won.

And not just won, but swept it. Controlled the race with the kind of quiet precision that always made your chest ache with pride. He’d been smiling on the podium, champagne soaking his fire suit, curls matted to his forehead. He’d looked calm. Steady. Golden under the lights.

But after that? Radio silence.

No post-race text. No selfie from the cooldown room. No “just landed, talk soon” message from the tarmac like he usually sent before flying out. Not even a little heart emoji.

You tried not to spiral. Maybe his phone died. Maybe his schedule was tighter than usual. Maybe he just crashed on the plane.

But that didn’t stop your mind from racing.

So here you were, long after midnight, folding laundry to stay busy, the hum of the dryer filling the quiet corners of your apartment. You wore one of his old hoodies — sleeves tugged past your hands, the fabric smelling faintly of cedarwood and the detergent he always used when you were back in his place. Your playlist was on shuffle, volume low. The air felt heavy with that nervous stillness only people in love understood — when nothing had technically gone wrong, but your gut whispered otherwise.

You picked up one of his t-shirts — the navy one he always wore under his race suit — and pressed it to your chest for a moment, your arms wrapped around yourself.

“I’m being ridiculous,” you muttered aloud, dropping it into the folded pile.

You didn’t hear the door unlock.

You didn’t hear footsteps.

You did, however, feel the sudden presence behind you — a weight of silence far too close — and just as you turned, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

You screamed.

Not just a startled yelp — a full-body, I’m-being-kidnapped kind of shriek that echoed off the kitchen walls. You stumbled forward, almost dropping the laundry basket, spinning on your heel with your hand already flying toward—

Oscar.

Standing there, arms half-raised, a startled look on his face, mouth already halfway through an apology.

“God—Oscar!”

He winced. “Okay, okay, I deserved that.”

“Are you insane?! You don’t just—” You clutched your chest, heart thundering. “You don’t sneak up on people like that when it’s pitch-black and no one’s heard from you for hours!”

His expression immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t text me. At all.”

“I know.” He dropped his bag by the couch, stepping forward slowly like he was approaching a spooked deer. “I turned off my phone to sleep on the flight, and then we got delayed on the runway. I just… I wanted to surprise you.”

You were still frozen, hands slightly trembling, adrenaline high. But then — your eyes traced the details. His soft grey hoodie. The carry-on bag he always used. Hair flattened from headphones. The bags under his eyes.

And then it hit you like a wave — the kind of quiet relief that makes your knees weak.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I’m home,” he echoed, stepping close enough to pull you in.

This time, when his arms wrapped around you, you didn’t flinch. You collapsed into him instead, burying your face in his chest, clutching handfuls of hoodie fabric like it might vanish if you let go.

“I thought—” your voice cracked. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m sorry, love.” His voice was low, the apology real. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

You nodded against him, still not letting go.

He pressed a kiss into your hair, one hand gently rubbing your back in slow circles. “I missed you.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know. I’m never doing a surprise visit again.”

“You say that now,” you muttered.

He chuckled, and the vibration of it through your chest finally loosened the tight knot of worry inside you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You really thought sneaking in like a serial killer was romantic?”

“I had a key,” he said defensively.

“Oh, well, that makes it totally fine,” you deadpanned.

His lips twitched, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I brought snacks?”

You sighed and rested your head against him again. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I get that a lot.”

After a long pause, he murmured, “Were you folding laundry in my shirt?”

“No.”

He glanced down. “That’s literally my race tee from Austria.”

“Coincidence.”

He smiled and gently swayed you both side to side. “God, I missed this. All of this. Even you accusing me of crimes I didn’t commit.”

You looked up at him with a glare. “You broke into my house like a raccoon.”

“An adorable raccoon with good intentions.”

You bit back a laugh, finally exhaling the tension that had gripped you all night. “You dork.”

“I love you too.”

That stopped you.

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the ease of his voice — not dramatic, not grand, just matter-of-fact, like it had always been true.

You smiled, shy and slow. “I love you more.”

Oscar brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “I thought about this moment the whole flight home.”

“What, the part where I nearly sock you in the face?”

“No,” he grinned. “The part where I hold you like this. And breathe again.”

You melted then, fully, completely. No more fear. No more what-ifs. Just Oscar, in your living room, smelling like airport coffee and victory, arms around you like home.

You didn’t move for a while.

Eventually, he helped you finish folding the laundry — sort of. Mostly, he sat beside you, making fun of your folding technique and draping socks over your head until you threatened to tickle him.

Then you ended up on the couch, tangled in blankets, watching reruns of the very race he’d won, Oscar making commentary like a sarcastic broadcaster while you curled into his side.

And when you finally drifted off — warm, safe, loved — it was to the sound of his heart beating steadily beneath your ear.

He was home.

He was yours.

[vibeswithdivs]

player two

The suitcase thudded onto your hallway floor with a soft oof from your little brother. He wiped his shoes carefully, scanning the apartment with wide, curious eyes. “This is actually… nicer than I thought.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean—” he shrugged, brushing curls out of his eyes, “—for a small city flat, it’s kinda cozy.”

Before you could defend your beloved kitchen nook or the string lights above the couch, Oscar walked out of the bedroom in sweats and a hoodie, soft curls still slightly damp from a recent shower. He offered a small smile and a wave.

“Hey, man,” he said gently. “You must be the famous little brother I’ve heard about.”

Your brother blinked. Then blinked again.

“…You’re Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar chuckled. “Last time I checked.”

Your brother turned to you with an expression that practically screamed Are you kidding me right now? and then back to Oscar like he was trying not to combust. “I, uh—hi.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be weird.”

Oscar smiled and extended his hand. “Come on, let’s get your stuff sorted. I made up the futon in the study. Hope that works?”

Your brother looked from Oscar to the hallway, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s… really cool. Thanks.”

And just like that, the gears began turning.

Over the next two days, Oscar surprised you in the smallest, most specific ways — not with grand gestures, but by how carefully he navigated around your brother’s teenage awkwardness. He asked about the video games your brother liked. Let him choose the Friday night pizza toppings (even when that meant pineapple and chili flakes). He even adjusted the thermostat when your brother muttered that it felt a bit cold — quietly, without fuss.

It was subtle, seamless. And yet you saw all of it.

Oscar wasn’t just being polite. He was folding your brother into the rhythm of your shared space like it was instinct.

And then Saturday evening came, wrapped in the sound of soft rain outside and leftover Chinese boxes on the coffee table. You emerged from a hot shower, wrapped in a fluffy towel and half-damp hair, when the sound of laughter echoed down the hallway — loud, crackling, and familiar.

You padded toward the living room, socked feet whispering over the hardwood floor.

The first thing you saw was your brother on the edge of the couch, clutching a controller like his life depended on it. His whole body leaned forward, eyes narrowed at the TV screen in full F1 racing glory.

Oscar sat beside him, one leg tucked under the other, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, mirroring your brother’s position like they were in sync without knowing it.

“No, no, no—go wide! GO WIDE!” your brother shouted.

“I am going wide, you little gremlin!” Oscar shot back, laughing, his voice raised in mock-panic.

“You’re P5! Come on! That McLaren’s got more in it—”

“I will yeet this car off the track just to take you with me—”

“No you won’t, you’re too competitive.”

“Says the twelve-year-old with a vendetta against Charles’ virtual avatar!”

“I’m thirteen!” your brother shrieked.

You stood quietly in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, heart swelling.

It was silly. Just a game, just a living room, just two people who weren’t meant to fit together so easily — and yet they did. Oscar glanced sideways at your brother when he cracked a joke, mirroring his laugh like it came naturally. Your brother elbowed him like they’d known each other for years, and not just seventy-two hours.

You watched Oscar’s hand ruffle your brother’s hair playfully, drawing an exaggerated ugh from him.

Oscar grinned. “It’s part of the bonding process. You’ll live.”

You moved closer, curling up into the armchair with a blanket draped over your shoulders, still unnoticed. You didn’t speak. Just watched the two of them banter and race and argue about cornering speeds like they’d been doing this for weeks.

Your brother threw his arms in the air after winning one round. “Let’s goooo! Player One still reigns supreme!”

Oscar leaned back, mock-offended. “I let you win.”

“You did not!”

“I was being a gracious host.”

“You spun out in Sector 2!”

Oscar shrugged. “Because I was too busy carrying the emotional weight of this household.”

Your brother doubled over laughing.

And somewhere between their snarky jabs and exaggerated race commentary, Oscar looked up — just for a second — and found your eyes.

Something in his smile softened.

He didn’t say anything. He just gave you a look that said, I see you. I know this means everything to you. And it means everything to me too, because it’s yours.

Later, after your brother had shuffled off to bed with sleepy protests and half-finished snack crumbs on his hoodie, you found Oscar in the kitchen, rinsing two empty water glasses.

You wrapped your arms around his middle from behind, pressing your cheek into the warmth of his back.

“You two were loud.”

He chuckled. “That kid’s a menace on the track. He brake-checked me like a pro.”

“He likes you.”

“I like him too.”

You felt his hand cover yours over his ribs.

“Thanks for not making it weird,” you whispered.

Oscar turned around, arms coming to rest around your waist, gentle and loose. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“You made him feel safe.”

Oscar looked at you, long and soft, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I made space for your world. That’s not a chore — it’s a privilege.”

You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the smell of laundry soap and leftover garlic noodles and something warm that had nothing to do with temperature.

“You looked really hot when you beat him at Silverstone, by the way,” you murmured.

Oscar chuckled. “Tell him that tomorrow. Might humble him.”

You grinned. “He’s a teenage boy. Humbling him will take divine intervention.”

“Then it’s a good thing I drive like a god.”

You snorted against his hoodie. “Okay, Player Two.”

Oscar kissed the top of your head. “Always, if it means being part of your team.”

[vibeswithdivs]

what did my face say!

The hotel room was quiet, bathed in that strange late-afternoon light that made everything look soft around the edges. Your hoodie sleeves were pulled halfway over your hands, fingers fidgeting with the hem as you stared at the muted television. You weren’t watching it — not really. Some random cooking show played in the background, but all you could think about was how off everything felt.

Nothing was particularly wrong. But also, everything kind of was.

It was one of those days where your body didn’t feel like yours. Where your skin felt too tight, your thoughts too loud, and even the weight of your own clothes annoyed you. You didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be touched — but also wanted someone to hold you until the noise dulled.

You scowled at the TV chef piping frosting too perfectly onto a cake. “Show off,” you muttered.

“Talking to the buttercream lady again?”

You turned slowly toward the voice.

Oscar leaned against the bedroom doorframe, damp curls tousled from the shower, sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding a glass of water like he didn’t know whether to drink it or offer it to you. His eyes flicked over your face once, quick but full of knowing. The kind of glance that had started replacing a thousand questions.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What?”

He blinked. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did. With your face.”

Oscar fought a smile. “What did my face say?”

“That I’m being dramatic.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said gently, walking toward you, placing his glass down on the table. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go down for dinner.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused near the bed, waiting for your next move.

You wrapped your arms around your knees and pouted.

Oscar scratched the back of his neck, watching you like you were a temperamental kitten who might bite him for blinking too loud.

“Do you want… snacks?”

“No.”

“A movie?”

“No.”

He crouched beside you slowly, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Do you want to hit me with a pillow?”

“…Maybe later.”

He smiled, patient, quiet.

You looked at him. Really looked. At the slight wetness still clinging to his collarbone, the way his shoulders looked broad and warm and solid in his hoodie, the tiny dimple barely there when he smiled like this — not smug, not amused, just soft. Soft and here.

You took a breath. “I want cuddles.”

He blinked. “Okay.”

“No — like right now.” Your voice cracked just a little. “Oscar, I’m being serious. Come cuddle me. Right now or I’ll cry. I’m not joking.”

He stood immediately, climbing onto the bed like you’d pressed an emergency button. “Okay, okay, hang on,” he said, voice hushed as he pulled back the comforter and tucked himself behind you. “Don’t panic — cuddle protocol initiated.”

You flopped onto your side with a dramatic huff, facing away from him, like turning your back made it easier to pretend you weren’t being needy. You felt his hand hover behind your waist for a moment, tentative.

“Can I…?”

You nodded, and he slipped his arm around you slowly, his chest curving against your spine like a puzzle piece. His palm settled over your stomach, grounding and steady, fingers splaying out as if to say, You’re here. I’ve got you.

You let out a tiny, strangled noise. “Thank you.”

Oscar pressed his face gently into the back of your shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me for cuddles, babe.”

Your voice was muffled by the pillow. “You do if you’re being difficult.”

“I’m not.”

“You were going to make me go out.”

He kissed the curve of your shoulder. “Fair. I repent.”

For a while, the room was just the sound of your breathing and the occasional shift of bedsheets as he adjusted behind you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your stomach, then dipped down to brush against your waist — a barely-there motion, like he was checking to see if you’d let him stay.

You let him.

“Tell me stuff,” you mumbled eventually, eyes half-shut.

“Stuff?”

“Yeah.”

He shifted a little closer, voice low against your ear. “Like how much I love your dramatic hoodie days?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Don’t call it that.”

“Okay. Your… majestic moods.”

You snorted.

Oscar smiled against your shoulder. “You want sweet stuff or funny stuff?”

“Both.”

“Alright.” He kissed the back of your head. “You know when you pretend you don’t care about anything but then you see a dog on the street and your whole soul leaves your body?”

“That’s fake news,” you mumbled.

“You squealed at a dachshund last week. It was wearing a bow tie.”

“That’s a valid exception.”

He chuckled. “And you always steal my hoodie drawstrings when you’re sleepy.”

“They’re fun to tug.”

“And you hum when you eat noodles.”

You turned slightly in his arms. “You’re listing my crimes?”

“I’m listing your adorableness, actually.”

You huffed. “Same thing.”

Oscar tucked a curl behind your ear. “You always act like you’re this cool, composed media professional — but then you stub your toe and sulk for twenty minutes.”

“I do not sulk.”

“You also babble when you’re sleepy. Like you are right now.”

“I am not babbling.”

“You’re going to deny the ‘pasta has feelings’ monologue from last night?”

“…That was philosophical,” you whispered.

He laughed, soft and warm, forehead resting gently against your temple now. His breath tickled your skin, and it felt so unfair how easy he made everything feel. How your mood started to dissolve like sugar the longer he touched you without asking you to change or fix yourself.

“I don’t like being irritable,” you whispered after a long silence. “I just feel… tired and achy and weird and touchy and not even I know what I want.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to snap.”

“You didn’t,” he said instantly. “And even if you did, I’d still be here. Still tucking you into the crook of my neck.”

You exhaled slowly. “I love your neck.”

He smiled. “I know.”

“You smell like soap and home.”

“You smell like coconut conditioner and chaos.”

You giggled, hiding your face in his chest. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

He started rubbing slow, soothing circles into your hip with his thumb, the motion hypnotic. “Better?” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes fluttering.

And then, suddenly — “Do you think the moon ever gets lonely?”

Oscar blinked. “That’s… not where I thought this was going.”

“Just wondering.”

“I think… no. I think she’s too busy watching over us.”

You smiled. “That was poetic.”

“I dabble.”

Silence stretched again — easy, content.

And then your voice piped up, small and sleep-slurred. “Can we stay like this forever?”

He tightened his hold around your waist. “Yeah. We can.”

And even if the world spun too fast tomorrow, or the cameras flashed too bright, or your skin felt too tight again — this moment was a little universe of its own. Just you, wrapped in arms that understood without demanding, and Oscar, patient and steady and yours.

You mumbled one last thing before sleep pulled you under.

“Thank you for loving me… even when I’m annoying.”

Oscar kissed your hairline, smiling like he’d just been handed his favorite trophy.

“Especially then.”

[vibeswithdivs]

careful what you wish for

You weren’t used to feeling nervous in the paddock anymore.

After months of brushing shoulders with world champions and surviving the chaos of double-header weekends, you’d learned to blend in. Ferrari red felt like skin now, the heavy lanyard around your neck more like a comfort blanket than a badge. You could walk through media zones with your eyes closed and predict post-race interviews before they happened. You’d seen it all.

But this was new.

This time, nerves curled in your stomach like ribbon — not because of the race or strategy changes — but because of what was about to happen behind the motorhome doors.

Oscar had asked you the night before, almost shyly, voice soft over the hum of your late-night FaceTime. “They’re flying in early. I’d… like you to meet them.”

You’d blinked. “Your parents?”

He nodded.

And now here you were, standing outside the McLaren hospitality suite with your palms slightly clammy and your heart tucked somewhere between your throat and ribs.

Oscar stood beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, expression calm but fond.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” you whispered, eyes flitting toward the doorway.

He chuckled under his breath. “You’re acting like I’m dragging you to your doom.”

“I just—what if they don’t like me?”

“They will,” he said, nudging you gently. “They already do. And anyway, my mum’s been bugging me about meeting you for weeks.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bugging you?”

“I got three separate texts last weekend that just said: ‘We’ll be watching for her on the broadcast.’”

Your cheeks warmed. “You told them I was—”

“I told them I liked someone,” he interrupted, smiling. “And that she’s very good at her job. And that she gets this world in a way most people don’t.”

You felt the nerves loosen slightly, your heart tugging at the corners.

He touched your wrist, a quiet kind of reassurance, and then pushed the door open with a gentle, “Ready?”

You weren’t. But you went anyway.

The McLaren lounge was bustling — staff weaving in and out, a few PR girls at the far end chatting near the espresso machine. But he led you through it, straight to a quieter corner near the window where two people sat with easy posture and matching smiles.

His mum was the first to notice you — short hair pushed behind her ears, eyes sparkling behind thin-framed glasses. She lit up instantly.

“Oh my goodness—finally!”

Before you could say a word, she was already standing, arms out.

You were wrapped into a hug that smelled like rose lotion and peppermint tea. She squeezed you once, then pulled back and held you at arm’s length.

“You are even more beautiful in person,” she said.

You blinked, heat flooding your face. “Oh—I… thank you, Mrs. Piastri—”

“Please,” she laughed. “Absolutely not. Just call me Nicole. Otherwise I’ll feel like I’m a hundred years old.”

Oscar’s dad stood next, extending a hand. “Chris. Lovely to meet you. You work with Ferrari?”

You nodded, offering your hand. “Yes. Media and communications.”

“Smart. You’re the one keeping Charles from oversharing on camera, then,” he said, deadpan.

Oscar stifled a snort behind you.

“I try my best,” you replied, grinning.

Nicole looped her arm through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come sit with us. Tell me everything about you. Where are you from? What made you join F1? Do you eat breakfast or just survive off espresso like the rest of the paddock?”

You laughed, surprised at how quickly you relaxed into the conversation. The nerves still fluttered, but softer now — like butterfly wings instead of a storm.

Oscar sat beside you, his knee brushing yours gently under the table, quiet but warm. He let you speak, only chiming in occasionally, clearly happy to let his mum run the show.

Chris listened attentively, occasionally chiming in with thoughtful questions. You found yourself laughing more than you expected — telling stories of the first time Charles left his mic on during a media day or the time Carlos tried to prank the social team and got caught on his own GoPro.

“Oh, I like her,” Nicole whispered to Oscar, not quietly at all.

“I know,” he murmured back.

And for the first time, you saw it.

This wasn’t just meeting the parents. This was being folded into something. A life. A family. A piece of him he hadn’t shared with anyone else.

The rest of the day passed in gentle waves. You sat with them during FP2, shoulder to shoulder in the grandstand seats McLaren had arranged. Oscar came and went — debriefs, press calls — but each time he passed by, he glanced toward you. Not to check in. Just… to see.

That night, you were all seated at a small restaurant outside the circuit — the kind with dim lighting and menus printed on thick recycled paper. Oscar’s arm rested behind your chair, and he kept tracing slow, absent-minded patterns on your shoulder while his mum told you about his childhood obsession with Hot Wheels.

“You should’ve seen him,” she said. “Little Oscar lining up cars by colour and team and demanding a full commentary every time we played. Even at age six, he’d complain about tyre degradation.”

Chris snorted. “Once he made me watch him restart a race because I didn’t say ‘lights out and away we go’ with enough enthusiasm.”

Oscar looked mildly horrified. “Alright, that’s enough childhood trauma for one dinner.”

You giggled, resting your hand on his knee.

“It’s okay,” you whispered to him. “I like knowing all the embarrassing bits.”

He grinned. “Careful what you wish for.”

Sunday came like a wave — all engine rumble and electric air.

You sat beside Nicole in the grandstand, both of you brimming with nervous energy. Chris stood behind you, arms crossed, eyes sharp as the formation lap began.

Oscar was starting P2. The air buzzed with possibility.

And then the lights went out.

It was a battle — a real one. Every lap had you on edge, hands curled into the seat, heart climbing higher with every second. You didn’t know when you started shouting. When Nicole grabbed your hand in a silent squeeze. When Chris muttered, “Come on, son.”

But on the final lap, when Oscar overtook in a perfectly timed move into Turn 4 — clean, ruthless, brilliant — the entire section around you erupted.

And when he crossed the line in first, you were already on your feet, screaming into the sky.

Nicole hugged you so tightly your feet left the ground. Chris was pumping his fist like a teenager. And when the cameras swung toward the grandstand, Oscar looked straight toward your section.

Right at you.

He saw you — hair wind-swept, cheeks flushed, hands clasped in disbelief — standing beside his mum like you belonged there.

On the podium, when the champagne sprayed and the national anthem played, he kept looking.

At you.

And you knew — deep in your bones — that he didn’t just win today.

He shared it.

With you.

[vibeswithdivs]

study me?

The soft hum of the ceiling fan circled overhead, gentle and rhythmic, barely louder than the open window that let in the evening breeze. Somewhere outside, the city was winding down — car horns distant, people quieter, the day folding in on itself like laundry at the end of a Sunday.

You sat cross-legged on the edge of the hotel bed, a borrowed t-shirt hanging low on your shoulder — one of Oscar’s — and a microfiber towel still wrapped around your head like a soft turban. Your fingers were paused over your toiletries bag, eyes flicking between the tiny array of bottles you’d packed and the stubborn ache crawling up the back of your neck.

It had been a long day. Not the bad kind — just the quiet, slow-draining sort that leaves your body asking for softness. You wanted clean sheets and a warm hoodie. You wanted peppermint tea. You wanted someone to take care of you, just for a few minutes.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to be that someone.

Oscar’s voice floated from the small kitchenette near the window, muffled slightly. “Babe, are you still alive in there?”

You gave a lazy groan.

He peeked his head around the corner, eyes landing on you instantly. “Still battling the towel, I see.”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

Oscar grinned — that quiet, lopsided kind of grin he saved for these off-grid moments when the world wasn’t watching. He was already in his sweatpants, curls slightly damp, sleeves pushed to his forearms as he padded over with two mugs in hand.

“Tea,” he declared, holding one out to you.

“Did you put honey in it?”

“Would I dare not?”

You took it from him, nudging his hip gently with your knee as he sat beside you. The bed dipped under his weight, and his body heat instantly curled around you like a second blanket.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sipped. He watched you over the rim of his mug.

Then, your shoulders slumped forward with a tiny huff. “I don’t want to do my hair.”

Oscar looked down at the towel. “You have to?”

“If I don’t, I’ll wake up with a bird’s nest. Or worse — a bird’s nest with frizz.”

He blinked at you. “Is that… a level in your hair hierarchy?”

“Yes,” you said solemnly. “And it’s brutal.”

He laughed softly, setting his mug on the nightstand.

“Can I help?” he asked.

You snorted. “You want to help with this?” You tugged the towel off dramatically and let your damp curls fall out, heavy and wild and sticking in every possible direction. “This is a commitment. This is war.”

Oscar stared at your hair like it was a challenge issued directly to him.

“I like your hair,” he said, like that was enough.

And maybe it was.

You raised an eyebrow, cautious. “You sure? There’s leave-in conditioner involved. And a wide-tooth comb. And—”

“I’m in,” he said, standing.

You blinked. “You don’t even know what ‘plopping’ is.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m a fast learner. And I’m very coachable.”

You giggled despite yourself. “Okay. Let me get my stuff.”

Five minutes later, you sat in front of him on the floor, back to the bed, your knees tucked up as you sorted through your curly-hair arsenal. Oscar sat cross-legged behind you, sleeves pushed higher, a look of comically intense focus on his face.

“Okay,” you said, holding up the conditioner. “First step. This goes in everywhere. Then we detangle.”

He took the bottle from you like it was a sacred object, squirted a generous amount into his palm, and hesitated.

“Do I just… go for it?”

“Gently,” you said, half-laughing. “I’m not a horse.”

He spread the cream through his hands and began working through your curls, slowly and carefully. His fingers started at the ends, just like you’d taught him, curling around each section like they were made of glass. You felt the weight of his hands as they combed through, the gentle tug of knots giving way under his touch.

The room was quiet. Just the soft drag of fingers through hair, your own breath slowing as you relaxed under the feeling.

“I didn’t think you’d be so good at this,” you murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

Oscar chuckled. “You underestimate how much I study you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Study me?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, rubbing the cream into another section. “I mean, I watch you do this all the time. Plus, I like your curls. They’re kinda… you.”

Your throat caught for a second.

“Also,” he added with a sheepish grin, “I’ve watched a few videos.”

You blinked, twisting around. “You what?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “That time in Monaco, when you said your diffuser broke and your curls were being annoying? I looked up a few curly-hair tutorials that night. Just in case.”

Your heart squeezed like someone had taken it between their palms and held it gently.

“Oscar…”

“I just wanted to understand,” he said simply. “You spend so much time taking care of it. It’s part of you. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

You turned back around, suddenly shy.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Comb time.”

He took the wide-tooth comb from your hand. “Same thing?”

“Start at the ends, work up.”

He did, slow and careful, the plastic slipping through your damp strands with small snags here and there. When he hit a knot, he didn’t yank. He paused, used his fingers first, untangling with a kind of quiet patience that surprised you.

At one point, your head dropped forward, eyes closed.

His fingers moved through your curls like they belonged there — gentle, focused, reverent.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

Then you whispered, “You’re really good at this.”

Oscar hummed. “Might change careers. Start a curly hair spa. No talking, just detangling.”

You laughed softly, the kind of laugh that curved inward, warm and sleepy.

When he finally finished, he set the comb aside and ran his fingers through one last section, twisting a curl gently and letting it spring back.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

You turned around slowly to face him.

Your curls were soft and springy now, damp ringlets framing your face in loose coils. He reached up and brushed one back, letting his thumb trail along your temple.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For caring. For learning. For being… you.”

Oscar’s eyes searched yours.

And then, very gently, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. A warm, lingering kiss that said I’m here. I see you. I love every tangled bit of you.

Your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt.

“I’m gonna do your hair next,” you whispered into his chest.

He laughed. “It’s all yours. Though fair warning — my curls are high maintenance.”

You looked up at him.

“I think I can handle them.”

He smiled, pulling you closer, your curls brushing against his jaw, soft and full and untamed — like love, like trust, like the quiet kind of devotion that grows when no one’s looking.

[vibeswithdivs]

my soul just left my body

pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader

You adjusted your seat for the fifth time, trying to look confident despite the sweat forming at your temples. The steering wheel in your hands felt heavier than it should’ve. It wasn’t even your first time in a car — technically. But sitting behind the wheel with Oscar in the passenger seat, eyes on you and grin already forming, made everything feel new and disorienting.

“Alright, coach,” you muttered, shooting him a sideways glance. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I would never,” Oscar said, crossing his heart with two fingers and tilting his head, curls brushing his forehead. “Not unless you reverse into a cow.”

You groaned, laughing under your breath. “That happened once. And it was a buffalo. And I was twelve.”

He pressed his lips together, holding back a laugh, clearly already entertained. “Alright, alright. No buffaloes today. Just you, me, and the open road.”

You looked ahead. The narrow, empty road stretched out between golden fields and low hills, kissed by the setting sun. Birds skimmed the horizon lazily. It was peaceful out here — too peaceful for the storm inside your chest.

Oscar shifted to face you. “Okay. First things first — foot on the brake, then start the engine.”

You followed his instructions, heart thudding as the engine hummed to life. He smiled, proud already, which made your stomach flutter unreasonably. “Good. Now… gear into drive.”

You did as he said, though your hand trembled slightly.

Oscar noticed. His hand reached out, steadying yours gently. “Hey. You’re alright. I’m not going to let anything happen.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You trust me with a whole car?”

He chuckled. “I trust you with my heart. A car’s nothing.”

That made you freeze for a second — not from fear. From the weight of his words. He’d said it so casually, but his gaze held something quieter, warmer, like he meant it entirely. You let out a soft exhale and focused on the road again.

Slowly, the car began to roll forward. You gripped the wheel tightly, probably too tightly.

“Loosen up a little,” he said gently, reaching over to place his hand lightly on your forearm. “You don’t have to fight it. Just… feel it. Like dancing.”

You snorted. “I suck at dancing.”

“That’s why I lead,” he said, smirking.

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “You’re very full of yourself.”

“You’re very easy to fall in love with.”

Your breath hitched, and you prayed the car wouldn’t lurch. It didn’t — somehow. Maybe because he reached over and adjusted the AC, completely unaware of how his words were making your insides melt like butter in the summer heat.

Fifteen minutes in, and you were finally driving at a slow but steady pace. The tension in your shoulders was easing. Your confidence was building — until a squirrel darted across the road and you slammed the brakes hard, both of you jerking forward in your seats.

You gasped. “I’m so sorry—did I—did we hit it?!”

Oscar looked behind. The squirrel had already scampered into the bushes.

“No,” he said, eyes wide. “But my soul just left my body for a second.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your hand flying to your chest. “I panicked.”

He grinned. “You braked. That’s all that matters. Nice reflexes.”

You turned to him, narrowed your eyes. “You enjoyed that.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I enjoyed not dying, thank you very much.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully, and he caught your hand mid-push, intertwining his fingers with yours before resting them between you. It was warm and grounding. You didn’t want to let go.

“Want to switch seats and drive back?” you asked quietly, not quite ready to end the moment.

Oscar shook his head. “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

“Really?”

He leaned over slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re better than fine.”

With his fingers still loosely laced with yours, you started driving again. It wasn’t perfect — the turns were wide, your foot hovered uncertainly over the brake half the time, and once you mistook the wipers for indicators — but he never once made you feel silly. He laughed with you, explained things patiently, and kept sneaking glances at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

But you did. You always noticed.

At one point, as you turned onto a broader road lined with trees on both sides, golden leaves fluttering in the breeze, he reached over and tucked a stray curl behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re biting your lip again,” he said softly.

You hadn’t realised. “Bad habit.”

“It’s cute.”

You glanced at him. “You’re very distracting.”

He smiled lazily. “You’re very pretty when you drive.”

You nearly missed the next turn.

Later, when the sun dipped lower and painted the sky in streaks of orange and lavender, you pulled over near a wooden fence overlooking a meadow. You turned off the engine and let the quiet settle around you. Crickets chirped somewhere in the grass. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and dust.

Oscar was watching you with that familiar, unreadable softness in his gaze.

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just… proud of you.”

A shy smile curled at your lips. “I didn’t crash.”

“You didn’t.” He leaned closer. “You conquered your fear.”

You didn’t reply immediately. You just watched the last sliver of sun dip below the hills. Then, barely louder than a whisper, you said, “I think I just needed someone to believe I could.”

Oscar shifted closer until his knee bumped yours. “I always do.”

There was a pause — the kind that hummed with something warm and unspoken. And then he kissed you, slow and tender, with the kind of calm assurance that made the world go quiet.

His hand slid behind your neck, his thumb grazing your jaw, and yours reached for his collar, grounding yourself in the feeling of him — all warm skin and sunlight and home.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and smiling, he whispered against your lips, “So… want to try reverse parking next?”

You groaned, dropping your forehead to his chest. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

He laughed, kissing the top of your head. “Fine. We’ll just stay here.”

You nodded, arms looping around his waist, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your cheek. “Yeah. Let’s stay here a little longer.”

[vibeswithdivs]

Which one should I post first (all are for OP81)

study me

careful what you wish for

player two

my soul just left my body

what did my face say

Voting ended onMay 20, 2025

[vibeswithdivs]

your heart cracked open

It started like any other race weekend morning — the air tight with tension, the scent of rubber and espresso blending into a familiar, high-octane buzz. The media swarm was already clustering around the garages, microphones angled like weapons, and engineers clicked through telemetry like surgeons preparing for a delicate operation.

Oscar Piastri was where he always was — calm, composed, back straight in his chair while the mechanics zipped up his race suit. One headphone in, listening to pre-race comms. The other off, always just enough in the moment. Always aware.

Until someone said your name.

His head snapped up — not sharply, but enough that the nearby McLaren comms tech glanced sideways.

“She’s okay now,” someone was murmuring behind the hospitality tent. Not loud. Not panicked. Just barely a whisper carried on wind.

Oscar stood up without saying anything.

The kind of movement that made heads turn — not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. It was silent. Intentional. Heavy.

“What happened?” he asked the nearest McLaren staffer — someone from comms who looked caught off guard.

“I—I think she fainted?” the guy stammered. “Medical took her to the paddock unit, she—uh—she collapsed. They’re saying it was exhaustion but—”

Oscar was already walking away.

Not striding. Not storming. But with that kind of gravity that makes a person seem taller, sharper, dangerous in a way they normally aren’t.

His name was called once over the radio. Then again.

Ignored.

People were turning now — mechanics pausing, drivers going quiet, camera crews lowering their lenses as the ripple moved through the paddock. Oscar Piastri, the one who didn’t raise his voice. The one who barely flinched when things went wrong on track. The one who was a wall of quiet calculation… was moving.

He reached the medical unit doors just as Carlos and Lando were stepping out.

Their expressions changed the second they saw him.

“She’s inside,” Lando started to say, but Oscar’s jaw was already clenched.

Carlos reached out, a hand on his arm. “Mate, she’s alright now. She was just—”

“What happened?” Oscar asked, but it didn’t sound like a question. It was too sharp. Too low. Like he was barely keeping something under the surface.

“Just exhaustion,” Carlos said quickly. “She hadn’t eaten all morning, they think it’s a mix of stress and heat. But she’s okay.”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t move from the closed door behind them.

“Why didn’t anyone call me?” he asked, and this time there was a tremor in the air.

Lando shifted uncomfortably. “We didn’t—she didn’t want to make a scene. She told the medics not to—”

Oscar turned away from them and pushed through the doors.

Inside, you sat on a narrow cot, IV in your arm, color slowly returning to your cheeks. A medic hovered beside you with a clipboard. You were mid-sentence, laughing softly at something they’d said, trying to pretend this wasn’t a big deal.

And then the door opened.

Oscar.

You froze, lips parted in surprise. “Oscar—”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” he asked.

You blinked. “I didn’t want to worry you, I—”

“You collapsed.”

He wasn’t yelling. Not really. But something in his voice cracked around the edges. Like a dam giving way, the pressure too much for someone who’d spent his whole career learning to hold it all in.

“I didn’t want you to leave pre-race briefing,” you said softly.

“Screw briefing,” he snapped. “You were on the ground. You—” He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, pacing once like he didn’t trust himself to stand still. “You’re in here with an IV, and I was ten meters away with no idea.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

A long pause stretched between you.

Then quieter, barely above a whisper: “You scared the hell out of me.”

Your heart cracked open.

You reached for his hand, and after a second’s hesitation, he sank down into the chair beside you. His grip was tight. Not rough — but desperate. Grounding.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

Outside the door, the world kept moving.

But inside this room, time slowed. Oscar bowed his head, resting his forehead against your knuckles. The tension in his shoulders trembled once, like something had slipped loose from the inside.

You brushed your thumb over his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“I don’t care about the race,” he muttered. “Not if you’re not okay.”

You blinked back tears. “That’s not fair to you.”

“Neither is pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

The door creaked open behind him — a nurse leaning in to check vitals. Oscar stood quickly, backing away so she could work, but he didn’t let go of your hand.

Not even when more people came in.

Not even when the door opened again and someone from McLaren stuck their head in to remind him he had ten minutes before the pitwalk started.

“I’m staying,” he said simply.

The team rep blinked. “Oscar, Zak—”

“I said I’m staying.”

And with that, he closed the door.

He looked back at you.

His expression was the same one he wore when overtaking at 300 km/h — quiet, precise, full of focus. But this time it wasn’t adrenaline behind his eyes.

It was fear.

And something deeper.

Something close to love.

You squeezed his hand again. “I promise I’ll be okay.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he said.

And this time, when he sat beside you again, he didn’t let go.

[vibeswithdivs]

Red and Papaya

Pairing: Reader x Oscar Piastri

You weren’t supposed to be on that side of the paddock.

It was only your third week in the role, and you’d been sent to deliver a last-minute hard drive to one of the F1 TV crews. You didn’t know the shortcut you took would slice right past the McLaren garage—and you certainly didn’t expect to see him.

Oscar Piastri.

He wasn’t surrounded by people or walking with purpose like most of the grid. He was leaning against the side of the garage, one hand resting loosely on a crate, the other tugging at the edge of the gloves stuffed into his race suit. His helmet sat on the ground beside him. He looked up briefly, not even at you—just toward the noise of a mechanic calling out behind you.

That one second, though. It felt like gravity bent around it.

The world didn’t go silent like people say in clichés. Instead, everything sharpened—the warmth of the sun on your neck, the sharp scent of rubber and oil in the air, the crackling static of pit radios nearby. And yet, your whole focus tunneled in on the way he blinked slowly, like he existed in a quieter frequency. Like stillness clung to him on purpose.

He was just standing there. But something in your chest fluttered so hard it felt like a ripple across your ribs.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t smile. You kept walking, heart racing.

But that image stayed with you like the aftertaste of something sweet and unexpected. That night, in the silence of your hotel room, you caught yourself replaying it—his posture, the calm in his features, the light in his eyes.

You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that it did.

Oscar didn’t notice you that day.

But few weeks later, in Imola, he did.

He had just wrapped up an interview and was walking past the Ferrari hospitality area when he heard something that made him turn his head without thinking—your laugh.

It was warm and messy and unfiltered, and it caught him off guard. It wasn’t performative, not one of those polite chuckles drivers were used to hearing. No, this was real. A burst of joy that filled the space around it like sunshine through clouds.

And then he saw you.

You were filming a challenge video with Charles and Carlos—something ridiculous involving guessing baby pictures and impersonations. You were kneeling in front of the camera setup, laughing so hard you had to brace yourself on the seat behind you when Charles pointed at Carlos and yelled, “That’s definitely not me!”

Your hair was loose, wind-messed. There was marker smudged on your wrist. You were smiling like you forgot the world was watching.

Oscar should’ve kept walking. But for some reason, he didn’t—not for a moment.

There was something in the way you glowed around the edges, like you weren’t trying to be seen. Just someone quietly in love with their job. Someone soft at the core, even surrounded by the chaos of a race weekend.

He didn’t know your name. But that moment rooted itself in his chest with quiet certainty.

And after that, he started noticing you. Not often. Just enough to recognize the shape of your presence—your voice in the background of press conferences, your laugh echoing faintly from behind the media pens.

It wasn’t a crush. Not exactly.

It was a curiosity that warmed into something gentler, deeper, every time he caught himself hoping to see you again.

It wasn’t until Spain that the universe finally conspired to put you in the same frame.

The paddock is full of near-misses, brief glances, lingering what-ifs. You’re on opposite ends of the spectrum—different teams, different rhythms, different obligations. You weren’t expecting a story. You weren’t even sure there was one. But then came Friday at the Spanish Grand Prix, and everything changed.

You were standing beside Charles, just behind the media pen barrier, both of you waiting for Oscar to wrap up his one-on-one with a Sky Sports reporter before Charles’s turn came.

The sun was relentless, casting a hot glare across the grid. You shaded your eyes with one hand, absently scrolling through your phone with the other, half-listening to the interview while making mental notes for Ferrari’s post-session brief.

Charles was unbothered, casually sipping water and leaning against the barrier. You noticed he kept smirking every time Oscar glanced over, which happened more than once. You ignored it.

“Didn’t realize you were so fascinating,” Charles murmured with a teasing grin.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not. He’s probably just bored.”

Oscar was answering something about tire degradation and long runs, completely unbothered as always. His tone was cool but polite, fingers resting lightly on his hips. A breeze lifted the edges of his race suit and flapped the mic flags on the reporters’ mics.

Then it happened.

A sound, sudden and sharp—a metallic clink from above.

It was stupidly quick. A loose scaffolding clamp, rusted and unstable, snapped free from the camera rig above Oscar. You saw it before anyone else did—just a small, silver blur falling far too fast toward where he stood.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your phone hit the ground. You pushed off from the barrier, shoving past a startled camera operator and lunging forward. Oscar looked up at the exact moment you collided with him—your hands hitting his chest, knocking him sideways just enough for the chunk of metal to miss him and crash onto the concrete where his head had been seconds earlier.

Gasps rang out. Someone swore. The camera operator yelled for a medic even though no one was hurt.

You were breathless. So was Oscar.

His hands had come up instinctively to catch you, one gripping your upper arm, the other braced against your back as you leaned into him. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. He looked at you—not past you, not through you—but at you. Directly.

“Are you okay?” you breathed.

“I should be asking you that.” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge of surprise in it now. “You just tackled me.”

“You were about to get brained by half a light rig.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close. “Fair point.”

You felt it then—that flutter again. The same one from weeks ago. But louder now. Stronger.

Oscar’s fingers lingered at your side a moment too long before he slowly let go. You pulled back, flustered, brushing dust from your sleeves.

Charles sidled in behind you with a smug grin. “Didn’t know Ferrari trained you for combat rescues.”

“Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, cheeks on fire.

Oscar straightened, glancing at the wreckage. Then at you.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time. Sincere. “That could’ve been…”

“Yeah.” You gave a small smile. “Try not to stand under falling things next time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

[vibeswithdivs]

The wrath of tangles

pairing: max verstappen x curly hair reader

The soft hum of the heater filled the cozy apartment, contrasting with the chill of winter pressing against the windows. You sat cross-legged on the couch, your curls spilling over your shoulders in their usual unruly glory. It had been a long day, and though you were tired, the thought of doing your nightly hair care routine made you groan.

Max sat beside you, his long legs stretched out and an easy grin playing on his lips as he scrolled through his phone.

He glanced at you, noticing the way your fingers tugged halfheartedly at a strand of your hair. “What’s the sigh for?” he teased, setting his phone aside. “That wasn’t the sigh of someone relaxing.”

You huffed dramatically, shooting him a mock glare. “It’s my hair. I love it, but it’s a lot of work. And I’m just… tired.”

Max smirked, leaning back into the couch cushions. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. You wake up looking like a Disney princess, curls everywhere.” He reached out, gently tugging on a loose curl that bounced back into place. “See? Magic.”

You laughed, swatting his hand away. “It’s not magic—it’s hours of detangling, washing, conditioning, and praying it behaves.”

He tilted his head, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hours, huh? I guess I should be flattered that you go through all that effort for me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t do it for you, Verstappen.”

Max leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a playful whisper. “Liar.”

Before you could retort, he suddenly sat up straight. “Alright, tonight’s your lucky night. I’m helping.”

“Helping?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You barely know how to brush your own hair.”

“True,” he admitted with a shrug, “but I’m a fast learner. Besides, how hard can it be?”

You bit back a laugh, shaking your head. “You say that now, but you’ve never faced the wrath of tangles.”

Max stood, clapping his hands together as if preparing for a challenge. “Bring it on. I’ve dealt with high-speed crashes and pit lane chaos—I can handle your curls.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with your favorite leave-in conditioner and wide-tooth comb in hand. “Alright, princess,” he said, settling behind you on the couch. “Let’s do this.”

You couldn’t stop the blush creeping up your cheeks as he positioned himself, his hands hovering uncertainly over your hair. “Are you sure about this?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, gently placing his hands on your shoulders to turn you back around. “I’m serious. Sit still and trust me.”

His fingers sank into your curls, and you felt him pause. “Wow,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Your hair is so soft.”

You laughed softly. “That’s the conditioner talking.”

He worked cautiously at first, separating your curls with an almost scientific precision. But as he grew more confident, you could feel the care in his movements—the way his fingers massaged your scalp as he worked the product through your hair, the way he paused to untangle a particularly stubborn knot without pulling too hard.

“This is kind of fun,” Max said after a while, his voice light. “It’s like working on a masterpiece. You’re my canvas.”

“A canvas that fights back,” you joked, wincing slightly as he hit another tangle.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, his fingers slowing. “Does that hurt?”

You shook your head. “No, you’re fine. Just be gentle.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I’m always gentle with you.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you were grateful he couldn’t see the way your cheeks flushed. You tried to focus on the soothing rhythm of his hands instead, letting yourself relax against him.

After what felt like an eternity, Max leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “There. I think I nailed it.”

You reached up to touch your hair, surprised by how soft and defined your curls felt. “Not bad for a first-timer,” you admitted, glancing over your shoulder to see him beaming with pride.

“Not bad?” he echoed, feigning offense.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, Verstappen. You’ve earned yourself a medal.”

Max grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple. “No medal needed. Seeing you smile is reward enough.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you turned to face him fully. “Thank you,” you said softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. “For this—for everything.”

He caught your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Always,” he said simply, his voice full of warmth.

The two of you sat like that for a while, the winter night wrapping around you like a blanket. You leaned into him, your curls brushing against his cheek as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone teasing again, “I think I might have a future as a hairdresser.”

You snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Max laughed, pulling you closer. “Fine. But I’m serious—I’ll help you with this whenever you need. Just say the word.”

You looked up at him, your heart full. “I will,” you promised, resting your head against his chest. And for the first time all day, you felt completely at ease.

[vibeswithdivs]

Papa Verstappen, Master of Pit Stops

Max Verstappen

The house was blanketed in silence, the kind of quiet that only came after a long, exhausting day. You had finally managed to crawl into bed, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The winter break had been anything but restful, with a three-month-old baby girl demanding every ounce of your energy. But now, for the first time that day, you’d stolen a few precious minutes of sleep, cocooned in the warmth of your duvet, with dreams tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

In the corner of the house, Max sat at his sim-racing setup, his brow furrowed in concentration as he maneuvered his virtual car around the track. The hum of the simulator and the occasional clack of buttons punctuated the stillness. He had spent the evening taking over as much as he could—soothing the baby, feeding her a bottle, and giving you a break—but even Max Verstappen needed a little time to unwind.

That peace shattered when a wail pierced through the house. The baby was awake, her cries echoing down the hallway and slicing through the stillness. Max froze for a moment, his hands pausing mid-turn on the wheel. He glanced at the baby monitor beside him, where the tiny figure of his daughter was flailing in her crib.

Max didn’t wait for you to get up. “I’ve got it,” he called out, already slipping off his headphones.

You mumbled something in response, too exhausted to argue, and sank back into the bed. Max hurried down the hallway, his sock-clad feet silent on the wooden floor, and entered the nursery. His daughter’s cries grew louder as he approached, her tiny fists clenched and her face scrunched up in frustration.

“Hey, kleine meisje,” Max said softly, his voice warm and affectionate despite the chaos. He bent over the crib, gently scooping her up into his arms. “What’s wrong, hmm? You didn’t like that Daddy was racing? You wanted some attention?”

He swayed on his feet, cradling her close as he tried to soothe her. The cries subsided into hiccupy sobs, her big blue eyes—so much like his own—blinking up at him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his heart melting at how tiny and fragile she felt in his arms.

But then the crying started up again, loud and insistent, and Max frowned. “Okay, okay. I hear you. Let’s figure this out.” He carried her over to the changing table, his movements careful as he laid her down. “Is it your tummy? No, you just ate. Hmm… Or maybe you’re too warm?”

He checked her swaddle, loosening it slightly. That didn’t help. He picked her up again, bouncing her gently as he tried to think. “I’m not great at this detective stuff, you know,” he said, his voice light and teasing despite his growing concern. “Mama’s the expert. I’m just the backup crew.”

The baby didn’t seem impressed with his self-deprecating humor, her cries persisting at full volume. Max frowned, running a hand through his messy hair. Then, like a lightbulb switching on, he remembered something you had said earlier in the day about diaper changes. He glanced at her tiny bottom, noticing the telltale bulk of a full diaper.

“Is that it?” he asked, his voice rising in playful excitement. “Do you need a pit stop? Papa’s got you, don’t worry.”

But as he set her back down on the changing table and reached for the diaper bag, a new wave of uncertainty hit him. He stared at the tabs and folds of the diaper, his confidence faltering. “Okay, this looks… complicated,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. His daughter let out another wail, as if to say, Hurry up!

Max grabbed his phone and quickly searched, “How to change a diaper.” He clicked on the first YouTube video he found, balancing the phone on the edge of the changing table. The cheerful voice of a parenting vlogger filled the room, explaining the process step by step.

“See?” Max said, glancing at his daughter as he unfastened the old diaper. “We’re learning together. You’ll thank me for this someday when you’re not sitting in a wet diaper anymore.” His tone was playful, and he leaned down to nuzzle her cheek for good measure. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

The baby quieted a little at his soft voice, watching him with wide, curious eyes. Max followed the instructions meticulously, wiping her clean and slipping a fresh diaper under her. He fumbled with the adhesive tabs for a moment, muttering under his breath, “How do they make these look so easy in the video?”

Finally, he fastened the diaper snugly and lifted her into his arms with a triumphant grin. “Done! Papa Verstappen, master of pit stops!” He kissed her on the forehead again, rocking her gently. “You can stop crying now, okay? That was a world-champion-level diaper change.”

As if on cue, the baby’s cries softened into tiny hiccups, her eyes drooping as she relaxed against him. Max chuckled softly, a wave of relief washing over him. He walked her around the nursery, humming a lullaby he vaguely remembered from his own childhood.

When she finally drifted off to sleep, Max stood there for a moment, marveling at the tiny bundle in his arms. The late-night exhaustion, the interrupted sim race, the frantic diaper change—it was all worth it for this. He laid her back down in the crib, tucking her in carefully before tiptoeing out of the room.

Back in the bedroom, he found you half-awake, propped up on one elbow and blinking groggily. “Everything okay?” you asked, your voice thick with sleep.

“Perfect,” Max said, climbing into bed beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. “Our little girl just needed a fresh diaper. We worked it out.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you murmured, already drifting back to sleep.

Max pressed a kiss to your hair, his heart full. “Anything for my girls,” he whispered, holding you close as the house finally settled into peace once more.

[vibeswithdivs]

He’s more patient than he looks

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

The hum of conversation filled the Red Bull Racing headquarters as employees bustled about with an energy that was almost infectious. Engineers huddled over laptops, mechanics leaned against tool racks with grease-streaked hands, and the faint smell of coffee lingered in the air. It was a world that thrummed with purpose, speed, and precision—qualities that the newcomer sitting at her desk felt slightly out of sync with.

You can do this, she told herself for the hundredth time that day.

Being a social media manager for one of the most prominent teams in Formula 1 was a dream job. Yet, as she stared at the screen, where a half-finished tweet about race day statistics blinked back at her, that dream felt a lot more like a free-fall. She wasn’t just crafting posts about breakfast specials or gym memberships anymore—she was managing the online presence of an entire racing empire.

And, truthfully, she was floundering.

“Morning!”

The cheerful voice made her jump, and she turned to see her colleague, Sophie, leaning over her cubicle wall with a grin. “How’s the newbie settling in?” Sophie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh… good!” she replied quickly, pasting on a smile that she hoped masked her nerves.

Sophie tilted her head, unconvinced. “You’ve been staring at that screen for an hour, and the only thing you’ve posted today is a retweet from Pirelli. Do you need help?”

“No, I’m just—” She paused, biting her lip. “I don’t even know what half these terms mean. DRS, power unit, undercut… it’s like everyone here is speaking a different language.”

Sophie’s face softened. “It is a different language,” she said with a chuckle. “Give it time. It’s only your first week. You’ll get the hang of it. And if you’re still lost, you’ve got plenty of people to ask.”

“Like who?”

“Like me,” Sophie said with a wink. “Or, if you’re feeling brave, you could ask the drivers. Max and Checo are usually good sports about answering questions.”

“Right,” she said, laughing nervously. “Because it’s totally normal to walk up to Max Verstappen and ask him to explain tire degradation.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sophie replied with a grin. “He’s more patient than he looks.”

She didn’t expect to test Sophie’s theory quite so soon. Later that afternoon, while she was setting up her phone to record a behind-the-scenes video in the garage, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Need help?”

She turned, almost dropping her phone when she saw Max Verstappen standing there, dressed in his Red Bull team kit and holding a bottle of water. His blue eyes were bright with curiosity, and his expression was disarmingly friendly.

“Uh… no! I mean, yes. Maybe?” she stammered, fumbling with the tripod. “Sorry, I’m still figuring all this out.”

Max chuckled, setting his water down on a nearby workbench. “Don’t worry about it. What are you trying to do?”

“I’m supposed to get some footage of the engineers prepping your car, but I can’t get the angle right, and—” She broke off, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “It’s my first week. I’m still getting the hang of everything.”

“You’re doing fine,” Max said, his tone reassuring as he stepped closer. “Here, let me see.”

She handed him the phone, watching as he adjusted the tripod with practiced ease. He crouched slightly, angling the camera until it perfectly captured the scene in the garage.

“Like this?” he asked, stepping back to let her check.

She stared at the screen in amazement. “That’s… perfect. How did you do that so quickly?”

“Years of media obligations,” he said with a shrug. “You pick up a thing or two.”

She smiled, feeling some of her nervousness ebb away. “Thanks, Max.”

“No problem,” he replied, picking up his water bottle. “And if you ever need help with anything else—questions, technical stuff, whatever—just ask. It’s better than guessing.”

Max wasn’t kidding. Over the next few weeks, she found herself turning to him more often than she expected, and he answered every question with surprising patience.

“What’s a DRS zone?” she asked one afternoon during a lunch break.

“It’s where we can open the rear wing to go faster,” Max explained, demonstrating with his hands. “But only in certain areas and under certain conditions. You know, to make overtaking easier.”

“And what’s an undercut?” she asked the next day while filming a promo video in the paddock.

Max smirked. “That’s when you pit earlier than the car ahead of you to get fresher tires and gain track position. But timing is everything. If you mess it up, it doesn’t work.”

“Right,” she said, nodding along even though she still felt a bit lost.

Max seemed to notice her confusion because he added, “It’s like beating someone to the front of the line at a concert by taking a shortcut. Make sense?”

“Ahh,” she said, grinning. “That actually helps.”

With Max’s encouragement, her confidence grew. She started experimenting with different content ideas, from quirky Instagram stories to polished YouTube vlogs. Her colleagues noticed the change, offering praise and feedback that bolstered her even further.

But it was Max’s quiet support that made the biggest difference. He never made her feel stupid for asking questions or stumbling over her words, and his humor often turned stressful moments into something lighter.

One evening, as she sat in the media center editing a race weekend highlight reel, Max walked by and paused to watch over her shoulder.

“Not bad,” he said, nodding at the screen.

“‘Not bad’?” she repeated, turning to him with a mock glare.

He grinned. “Okay, fine. It’s great. But you missed the part where I overtook Checo in Turn 3. That was the best move of the race.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. “I’ll add it to the blooper reel.”

“Bloopers?” he said, pretending to look offended. “That was pure talent.”

She shook her head, unable to suppress her smile. “You’re impossible, Verstappen.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” he said, his tone softening. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

By the time the season reached its midpoint, she felt like she’d finally found her footing. The fast-paced world of Formula 1 no longer felt overwhelming; instead, it felt exhilarating.

One evening, after a particularly successful social media campaign, she found herself standing on the balcony of the team’s hospitality unit, watching the sun set over the paddock. Max joined her a few minutes later, leaning against the railing with a relaxed smile.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Always,” she replied with a chuckle. “But I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“I’d say you’re more than getting the hang of it,” Max said. “You’ve been killing it lately. Everyone’s noticed.”

She glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “Really?”

“Really,” he said, meeting her gaze. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve made this job your own. You’ve brought something new to the team. It’s good.”

Her chest swelled with gratitude, and she looked down, trying to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. “Thanks, Max. For everything. I don’t think I would’ve survived my first month without you.”

He chuckled, reaching out to nudge her shoulder playfully. “Anytime. You’re part of the team now, and we take care of our own. Even if you still ask a million questions.”

She laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Get used to it, Verstappen. I’ve got plenty more where those came from.”

Max smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Bring it on.”