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The roar of the engines had long faded, replaced by the hushed tones of post-race analysis drifting from the TV. Ben sat curled on the plush hotel sofa, a half-empty mug of tea growing cool beside him, his gaze fixed on the screen. He watched Lewis, his boyfriend, in the mandatory interviews, a tight, controlled expression on his face. P7. Not bad for anyone else, but for Lewis, for them, it felt like a defeat. A bad strategy call, an unfortunate pit stop, and a car that just wasn’t cooperating- it had been one of those days.

Ben’s heart ached watching him. He knew how much Lewis poured into every race, every lap. The disappointment would be a heavy cloak, and Ben wished he could reach through the screen, pull him off that hot track, and just hold him.

A click of the keycard broke the silence. Ben sprang up, meeting Lewis just inside the door. Lewis looked utterly drained, his shoulders slumped, his racing suit still on but unzipped halfway. His eyes, usually so bright, were clouded with frustration.

“Hey,” Ben said softly, reaching out to gently touch Lewis’s arm.

Lewis offered a tired, almost imperceptible smile. “Hey, B. Long day.”

“I saw,” Ben replied, his thumb stroking the fabric of the race suit. “Go get that off. Shower. I’ll order something for us, and then… cuddles?” He offered, his voice a soft invitation.

Lewis nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Cuddles sound perfect.”

While Lewis was in the shower, Ben quickly tidied up, dimmed the lights, and ordered a simple, comforting meal from room service - Lewis’s favorite pasta and a fresh salad. He changed into his softest sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, preparing for his designated role as human blanket. Being a bit shorter than Lewis, Ben fit perfectly against his side or tucked under his chin.

The bathroom door eventually opened, and Lewis emerged, wrapped in a thick hotel robe, his usually impeccable styled hair damp and loose around his face. The hot water seemed to have washed away some of the track’s grime, but the day’s stress still clung to him. He looked younger, more vulnerable, without the armor of his race gear and public persona.

Ben patted the spot beside him on the sofa. “Come here.”

Lewis didn’t hesitate. He sank onto the cushions, letting out a heavy sigh as Ben immediately shuffled closer, tucking himself against Lewis’s side. Ben’s arms slipped around Lewis’s waist, and Lewis’s arm came around Ben’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest. Ben rested his head on Lewis’s shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart. The scent of Lewis’s familiar shower gel and his own comforting warmth enveloped them both.

They didn’t speak. Ben just held him, letting his presence be a silent anchor. He felt the tension in Lewis’s body slowly start to ease, muscle by muscle. Lewis’s fingers gently stroked Ben’s hair, a soothing, repetitive motion.

After a while, Lewis mumbled, his voice a low rumble against Ben’s ear, “Today was just… ugh.”

Ben squeezed him gently. “I know, baby. I saw. But it’s done now. You did your best. You always do.”

Lewis signed again, a bit softer this time. “It just feels like… not enough.”

“It’s always enough for me,” Ben whispered, nuzzling into his neck. “And for everyone who loves you. One race, even a tough one, doesn’t change anything. You’re still Lewis. My Lewis.”

He felt Lewis’s grip tighten, pulling him even closer until there was no space left between them. Lewis rested his chin on Ben’s head, inhaling deeply. “You’re the best, B,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Exactly what I needed.”

The room service arrived, but they didn’t move immediately. They just stayed there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the quiet comfort of their embrace slowly healing the sting of a bad race. For Lewis, in Ben’s arms, the roar of the crowd and the disappointment of the day faded into the background. Here, in their hotel room, with Ben, was where he found his true home comfort.

The final race of the season was over, but the atmosphere at the annual FIA Gala was just as charged as any Grand Prix. The event was a celebration of the years achievements, and for the first time, Alex was there as Oliver’s official date. The invitation had come as a soft gesture of commitment, a quiet question that Alex had answered with an emphatic “Yes.”

He felt a nervous flutter in his stomach as their car pulled up to the red carpet. Flashes from a hundred cameras erupted instantly, a deafening strobe light illuminating the night. This was different kind of pressure from the pit lane chaos he was used to. This was the world watching.

Oliver, looking impossibly handsome in a sharp tuxedo, squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Ready?” he murmured, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“As I’ll ever be,” Alex replied, taking a deep breath.

They stepped out together, and the already intense camera flashes seemed to multiply. As a photographer, Alex had always been on the other side of this, a ghost behind the lens. Now, he was the subject. He felt Oliver’s hand move to the small of his back, a simple, comforting touch that grounded him.

They walked the gauntlet of press, stopping for a few photos. The moment was surreal, a blur of shouts, flashing lights, and the hum of a hundred conversations. Alex instinctively knew how to pose, his body used to the angles, but this time his focus was entirely on Oliver. Oliver’s smile was genuine, not the practice, press-friendly one, but the real one that Alex had fallen in love with.

One photo, in particular, was the one that would break the internet. It was taken by an old colleague of Alex’s. Oliver had looked at the camera for a moment, then turned his gaze to Alex, his smile growing as he pulled him a little closer. Alex had smiled back, an unspoken joy passing between them. The photographer didn’t need to say a word; he just knew he had the shot.

Later that night, after the ceremony, after the after-party, and after a quiet, celebration drink in their hotel room, Oliver posted the photo

@oliverbearman posted a photo

675,876 likes

@oliverbearman: A different kind of podium. Thank you for an amazing season, and for standing by my side.

@pandabear and 654 other likes 700 comments

Comments:

@landonorris: So that’s the secret was for. You guys win.

@charles_leclerc: We all know. Congrats, boys!

@georgrussell: Official! So happy for you two. Best couple on the grid.

@f1: What a duo. Congrats, Oliver!

@lewishamilton: Love to see it, mate. Wishing you both all the best.

@f1fanpage_1: THEY’RE OFFICIAL!!! MY OLIEX HEART IS EXPLODING!!!

@user47382: Look at the way he looks at him. I’m crying.

@snapshotsbyalex: My favorite view. Always.❤️

↬@oliverbearman: @snapshotbyalex mine too.

The world saw the photo, and the comments and news articles poured in, confirming what had been a quiet, beautiful journey for months. The reactions were overwhelmingly positive, filled with support and happiness.

But for Alex, the most important moment wasn’t on the red carpet, or in the headlines, or in the thousands of likes. It was an hour later, curled up with Oliver on a couch, the lights of Monaco glittering outside their window.

“Happy?” Alex whispered.

Oliver turned his head to look at him, and in his eyes, Alex saw a reflection of his own feelings. A quiet, certain contentment.

“More than,” Oliver murmured, pulling him closer. “This feels like the best win of my life.”

And Alex knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that their story had just begun.

The next race was in Monaco, but Oliver’s texts weren’t about racing lines or strategy.

@oliverbearman: I’m stuck here for a few days before the pre-race stuff starts. I found this little cafe with a rooftop garden. It’s got a perfect view of the harbor. You up for a bit of exploring? Could be good for your portfolio.

Alex smiled, the phone warm in his hand. He knew Oliver didn’t really need a photographer for his portfolio; he was just looking for a reason to spend more time together. And Alex, without a second’s hesitation, said yes.

Their day in Monaco wasn’t about the glitz and glamour of the Grand Prix. It was about finding the quiet coners. They wandered through narrow, winding streets, discovered tiny bakeries, and laughed as they tried to take a perfect selfie that didn’t just show Oliver’s famously sharp jawline. It was easy. Effortless. Alex found himself getting lost in conversation, forgotten that this was the F1 driver Oliver Bearman, and not just Ollie, the charming guy who loved bad puns and had an infectious laugh.

As the sun began to set, they found a secluded spot overlooking the marina, with the fading light casting a warm glow on the yachts. Alex, completely absorbed in the moment, didn’t even realize he had taken a candid photo of Oliver leaning against a stone wall, watching the boats.

later that evening, as he was editing photos, he decided to post it.

@snapshotsbyalex posted a photo

343,465 likes

@snapshotsbyalex: A different kind of view. Monaco 2025.

@cutepatato and 342 other likes 276 comments

Comments:

@f1: The calm before the chaos!

@landonorris: Okay okay I see you mate. Looking sharp, @oliverbearman😉

↬@oliverbearman: @landonorris shut it.

@alexalbon: 👀

@georgrussell: Who's the photographer? Oh wait...

↬@snapshotsbyalex: @georgerussell you know it

@f1_memes_daily: My man is off the grid and looking good doing it!

@user_23: This photo is so soft. I love it!

@f2_obbsessed:Alex’s photos of Oliver are different… they’re more personal.

That last comment caught Alex’s eye. He felt a nervous jolt. Were they becoming too obvious? Just as he was debating the thought, his phone buzzed with a message from Oliver.

@oliverbearman: That’s my favorite picture from me. Ever.

Alex’s heart did that little flutter-kick again. He replied with a simple, “I’m glad you like it.”

Oliver’s next message wasn’t a question, but a direct, confident move that left no room for doubt.

@oliverbearman: We should do this again. No cameras, no work. Just us. A proper date. What do you say, Alex?

Alex’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Yes.

The next day, a simple photo popped up on Oliver’s feed. It was just a black and white shot of his racing gloves, casually placed on a table. But the caption, and the comments that followed, told a much bigger story.

@oliverbearman posted a photo

467,654 likes

@oliverbearman: Ready for a big weekend.

@carlover34 and 543 other likes 456 comments

Comments:

@landonorris: What is this. A soft launch?

↬@oliverbearman: @landonorris What do you mean? They’re my gloves.

@charles_leclerc: What did you do to my boy, Alex?

↬@snapshotsbyalex: @charles_leclerc 😇

@f1fan_updates: OMG. I can’t breathe. That “shush “ emoji and Alex’s comment…

@georgerussell: Took you long enough, mate. Happy for you two!

@carlossainz: @oliverbearman you are a romantic now?

@f1gossip: confirmed, Oliver Bearman is officially with photographer Alex… our sources say…

@user_09: My Oliex heart is full!!

Alex and Oliver didn’t have to post a big announcement. They didn’t need a press release or a hashtag campaign. The &1 word, from its top drivers to the most dedicated fans, knew.

Later that night, as Alex lay in bed, Oliver called him. “Did you see?” He asked, a laugh in his voice. “Lando won’t leave me alone.”

“I saw,” Alex said, smiling. “Seems like the secret’s out.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Oliver said softly. “It’s not a secret to me, and not a secret to you. And that’s all that matters.”

Alex knew, as he listened to Oliver’s voice, that this was the start of something real. And navigating the public eye, the comments, and the speculation suddenly didn’t feel so daunting, as long as he had Oliver right beside him.

The flash of Alex’s camera was a familiar presence at every F1 race. He wasn’t just a fan with good lens; he was an official paddock photographer, and his work was known for its raw, unfiltered emotion. He captured the triumph in a drivers eyes, the quiet contemplation before a race, and the pure, unadulterated chaos of a pit stop.

His personal Instagram, @snapshotsbyalexofficial, was a testament to his passion. It was a curated collection of candid moments, behind-the-scenes glimpse, and the occasional artsy shot of a sunset over the track. It was there, admits the likes and comments, that he first started to notice the little red heart from a very specific account: @oliverbearmanofficial.

It began with a few likes on his most popular posts. Then, it became a regular occurrence. Alex would post a photo of a Ferrari driver celebrating, and within minutes, a notification would pop up: “@oliverbearmanofficial liked your post.”

The first DM came after a particularly grueling race in Silverstone. Alex had posted a photo he was proud of: a close-up of a lone tire, smudged with rubber.

@snapshotsbyalexofficial posted

Captions: Sometimes, the most beautiful moments are the ones you almost miss. Silverstone, you were brutal and beautiful all at once.

comments:

@user12: How did you get this shot. ↝@snapshotsbyalexofficial: @user12 A very quick hand and a bit of luck.

@f1fan: The story behind the finished line. Amazing shot!

@ferrarifan: Love this perspective. Great work.

@user32: This is proper art. Insane.

@f1fanatic22: Alex your photos are seriously on another level!!!

Alex’s heart did a little flutter-kick. The comments from drivers were becoming more frequent, but the first DM came from Oliver, a little while after the post went live.

@oliverbearmanofficial: mate, that shot of the tire is sick. How’d you get it?

Alex messaged back, a little star-struck but trying to play it cool. They chatted for a few days, the conversation flowing easily from photography techniques to what it’s like to be an F1 driver. Oliver was charming, funny, and surprisingly, Dow-to-earth.

Their first real-life meeting was in the Ferrari hospitality area. Alex was grabbing a coffee, and Oliver, spotting him from a distance, walked over with a wide, genuine smile.

“Alex, right?” he said, extending a hand. “Oliver. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The handshake lingered a moment longer than necessary. Their conversation was even better in person. They talked about everything from their shared love of old movies to the best places to get a decent cup of tea in different countries. The hours flew by, and Alex found himself feeling a warmth he hadn’t expected.

Soon, their Instagram activity changed. It wasn’t just about liking posts anymore. It was a playful game of comments.

@snapshotsbyalexofficial: posted

Caption: The quiet before the storm. A few minutes before the race.

Comments:

@oliverbearmanofficial: Tell me you got a good shot of my helmet too . I’m feeling photogenic today 😉

↝@snapshotsbyalexofficial: @oliverbearmanofficial Mate, every helmet is photogenic in my hands.

@charles_leclarcofficial: Not a bad shot, I suppose! Thanks, Alex.

↝@snapshotsbyalexofficial: Always a pleasure!

@formula1updstes: So handsome even in his helmet! Great photo as always Alex!

The “cute” peaked on a rare, quiet weekend. Oliver, on a break between races, messaged Alex.

@oliverbearmanofficial: Fancy a walk? I’ve seen this cool cafe i want to try, and i could use someone to tell me if my flat white is photogenic enough.

Alex, of course, said yes. The walk was filled with easy laughter, shared stories, and the quiet comfort of being with someone who just got him. As they sat at the cafe, Oliver, with a sly grin, handed Alex his phone.

“Here,” he said. “You’re the photographer. You take the picture.

Alex took a photo of Oliver, his face lit up with a brilliant, happy smile. He knew, with a certainty that settled in his chest, that this was his favorite photo he had ever taken. It wasn’t a racing car, or a Grand Prix moment , or a famous driver. It was just Oliver, smiling at him.

Later that evening, Oliver posted the photos on his Instagram story. He didn’t tag Alex, but he didn’t need to. The caption was simple, and it made Alex’s heart feel like it might burst.

@oliverbearmanofficial: posted

story Caption: best flat white, even better company.

Story Views and Comments:

@charles_leclerc: Who’s the lucky company, Ollie?😉

@pierregaslyofficial: Careful there, mate, don’t let the coffee go to your head!

@landonorrisofficial: Ooh , mysterious! Spill the tea! 🍵

@alexalbonnofficial: Looks like someone’s having a good off-week!

@f1fanpage_1: OMG is this a soft launch?! 👀

@oliverbearman_officialfanclub: He looks so happy!☺️

@user47382: Who took the pic? It’s really good!

@user85: Enjoy the break, Oliver!

And for Alex, seeing those comments, especially the teasing ones from Oliver’s fellow drivers, made the moment even sweeter. It felt like their connection, though still new, was subtly entering the world.

I hope you guys enjoy it

The wind that whipped across Dale was not just cold; it was thick with the dust of battle and sharp scents of spilled blood. Arrows sang past your ears like angry hornets, each one a grim reminder of how close death was. You, Aerion, were just another Mirkwood archer in the throng, your fingers aching from nocking and releasing, your eyes scanning the battlefield for the next threat.

But your gaze kept finding its way back to him. King Thranduil, perched regally atop his great elk, seemed untouchable in the midst of this slaughter. The chaos didn’t touch him. The terror didn’t mar his flawless composure. He was a beacon of cold, unyielding power, and in that moment, as you watched him deliver a final, detached order, a wave of resentment surged through you. The lives lost here were just numbers to him. Just a means to an end.

A roar from a nearby orc pulled your attention back to the fight. You drew your next arrow, the wood cold and smooth against your fingertips. With a sharp exhale, you let the arrow fly. Just as you nocked your next shot, the ground beneath you gave way with a sickening lurch. An orc’s blade had severed a root, creating a sudden fissure in the earth, and you lost your footing, tumbling backward.

A searing pain exploded in your leg as you hit the ground. A shard of jagged rock pierced your calf, a brutal, blinding flash of white-hot agony. Suddenly, a shadow fell over you. It was Thranduil. He had dismounted his elk, his face a mask of cold fury as he cut down an orc that had been closing in. He turned to you, his flawless expression replaced by something you have never seen before-a flicker of concern in the depths of his eyes.

“You are a fool, archer,” he said, his voice cutting through the sounds of war like ice, “to fall so easily in my sight.”

The king’s words stung more than the wound. You tried to push yourself up, but a low groan escaped you. Without a word, he knelt beside you, his cool, long fingers brushing against your skin as he pushed aside the blood-soaked fabric of your trousers. He spread a poultice over the jagged wound, and a sense of calm, like a soothing balm, spread from his touch up your leg. He was a healer, not just a king. It was an unexpected revelation.

“Stay,” he commanded, his eyes meeting yours, a silent, powerful demand. He rose with the same fluid grace with which he knelt, giving a curt nod to a passing patrol of elven guards who helped you from the front line.

You were led into a large, canvas tent that served as a makeshift infirmary. Hours later, after the battle had quieted, a familiar figure appeared in the tent entrance. He looked different now, away from the front line- his armor smudged with dust and his hair slightly disheveled. Thranduil stood there, his gaze fixed solely on you . He walked over and sat on the edge of the cot beside you , a silent king and a wounded archer.

Your voice was a low, rough whisper. “Why did you do that?” you asked, your voice thick with emotion. “Why did you stop? Why did you help me?”

Thranduil’s gaze intensified. “The battle is a symphony of chaos, Aerion,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Every part must play its role. Your skill is… exceptional. It would have been a waste to allow an orc to end it.” His fingers brushed against the bandage on your leg. “Besides,” he added, his voice now barely a breath, “I do not think I could have watched you fall.”

The words fell from your lips before you could stop them. “Why?” you whispered. “Why could you not think of watching me fall?”

Thranduil’s expression lost its regal edge, replaced bby a quiet, weary sorrow. “I have commanded armies for millennia,” he said. “I have seen the bravest of my people perish in fire and shadow. I have felt nothing. Not for decades.” His eyes fixed on yours. “But you… your fire burns differently, archer. Your spirit, your defiance… it is a light I did not realize I had come to depend upon. I do not know why, only that the thought of that light being extinguished… it stirred a fear in me I had forgotten I could feel.”

He lifted his hand from your leg and gently cupped your cheek. The shock stole the breath from your lungs, followed swiftly by a wave of disbelief. The warmth from his hand on your skin spread through your entire body, a soft, soothing flame that chased away the lingering chill of the battlefield.

You closed your eyes and leaned into his hand, a small, involuntary moment of acceptance. Thranduil’s breath hitched. His other hand found its way to the nape of your neck, his fingers gentle as they cradled you. He leaned in closer, his forehead reasting againts yours.

“I have not felt such a thing in a very, very long time,” he murmured, his voice a low, raw sound that only you could hear.

The air around you seemed to shimmer, the battle a distant, forgotten dream. In this small quiet pocket of the infirmary, amidst the suffering and the sorrow, a new kind of warmth had been kindled between a king and an archer.

I have books on Wattpad if anyone wants to read, my username is frodology.

And I take request, if someone wants me to write a book or oneshots.