HEY everyone! I'm backkkk! I'm gonna change my username and set up my account with new theme and then I'll get back to business (update and stuff)! Sorry it took a while, I had some big changes in my life for these past few months π₯²π€
Also, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! Can't for 2026 season to start! <3
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why are we forgetting that fanfic writers write whatever they want to read because they write for themselves and are just kind enough to share their hours of hard work with us to read for free?
donβt like something? donβt read them
realizing you donβt like what youβre reading? click that back button
not understanding why there are so many fics about x and not enough about y? read the beginning of this post, βfanfic writers write whatever they want to read because they write for themselvesβ
wanting more fics about y? then you write fics about that thing you want to read for yourself the way others write fanfics about things they want to read for themselves. thatβs the point of fanfiction
fandoms become more toxic when we think we have the right to shit on fanfic writers just because what they write for themselves isnβt to our personal liking. so hereβs the thing, itβs not to your liking because they didnβt write it for you.
Part 2 of Aren't You Tired? will be up soon! And then I can start drafting for Who's That Pretty Girl?
Let's pray that this week would be less hectic than last week... I hate adulting for real π
And I also want to drop my ex!Charles x reader x Oscar unwritten-fic-idea that I have in mind too... So, you'll see it soon (unwritten for now because I'll write that in the future after I'm done with my other project) π
π β¦ Summary: You two were fighting and then you texted him a question.... It was supposed to be a harmless question but they took it to the wrong way.
π«β¦ Genre: Fluff, drama (not serious though), a bit angst (for Oscar one), slightly comedy (?)
π₯¦β¦ Warning: Not really but... Mention of fight and argument. POOR translation on some of them. TYPO. LOTS OF TYPO. And poor grammar. English is NOT my first language.
I'm calling this whole category as my "Fresh Market" because the prompt will be different (a.k.a "fresh") everytime! πππππ«ππ₯ππ π₯¦πππ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
β Live Streamingβ Interactive Chatβ Private Showsβ HD Qualityβ Free Actions
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
i absolutely hate McLaren they are the worst team when it comes to treating their drivers Oscar deserves better and i will stand by it, anyways here is a fic
The Singapore Grand Prix was over, but Oscar hadnβt even looked at the podium.
The final laps had been chaos an endless sequence of βhold position,β strategic confusion, biased pit calls, and moments where he could feel the team favoring someone else.
Every overtake, every corner, every ounce of effort had been undermined by decisions he couldnβt control.
And now, exhausted and hollow, he only wanted one thing: you.
The moment the checkered flag waved, he made a beeline toward you.
No words, no hesitations just raw, desperate need for grounding.
He wrapped you in his arms as though holding onto you was the only thing keeping him upright. You felt the tremor of his exhaustion through him: the mental strain, the physical strain, the cumulative weight of a season that had never fully seen him.
βItβs okay,β you whispered, pressing your cheek against his damp hair.
βIβm here. Iβve got you.β
He clung to you, shaking slightly, and for the first time since the race started, he allowed himself to collapse just a little emotionally, physically.
He didnβt let go.
He couldnβt.
And you didnβt let him.
When the taxi brought you back to the hotel, you didnβt even ask questions.
You guided him into the room, past the glowing lights of the city below, past the faint echo of the cheering fans outside.
βCome on,β you murmured.
βLetβs get you cleaned up.β
He didnβt resist.
He simply followed, silent and trembling, letting you lead him to the bathroom.
The shower was already warm, steam curling around you both.
You stepped in first, letting the water fall over your shoulders, and then guided him gently into the spray.
βLean into me,β you said softly, holding him close. βLet me help you release it all, even if itβs just for a moment.β
His shoulders were stiff, muscles knotted from tension and the relentless push of the track.
You ran your fingers through his damp hair, massaging his scalp slowly, carefully.
Every stroke, every small circle on his shoulders, every gentle press along his back was a silent promise : he didnβt have to carry this alone.
βYouβve been holding so much,β you whispered, letting your hands move over his arms and shoulders. βAll season, every raceβ¦ and tonightβ¦ I know. I see it.β
He exhaled shakily, burying his face in your neck, leaning into your hands as if the simple contact could remove the exhaustion lodged deep in his bones.
βI canβtβ¦ I canβt stop trying,β he murmured, voice breaking.
βI give everything, and itβs never enough.β
βYouβre enough,β you replied, pressing a kiss to his damp hair.
βYouβve always been enough.
You just needed a safe place to be reminded of it.β
For a long while, you guided him, massaging, washing, letting the warm water rinse away the sweat and the tension, the adrenaline and heartbreak.
He trembled slightly under your touch, not from desire, but from the sheer relief of letting someone care for him without judgment.
You reminded him in small gestures brushing hair from his forehead, rubbing circles into his shoulders, letting him exhale that he could finally just be.
When the shower ended both of you being wrapped in towels you led him to the bed.
He didnβt hesitate; he collapsed onto it, resting his head in your lap.
You played with his damp hair, your fingers threading into the strands, while his hands found yours, squeezing gently.
His eyes were heavy with fatigue and residual frustration, but in the quiet, he started to let it out.
βI hate them,β he muttered, voice muffled against your leg.
βAll seasonβ¦ every radio call, every strategy, every favorβ¦ itβs like they donβt even see me.β
βI know,β you whispered, running your thumb along his temple.
βI know. But youβre seen here, Osc. Youβre safe here. Youβre loved.β
He exhaled again, a shaky, weighty breath.
βI justβ¦ I want to beβ¦ I want to be enough.β
βYou are,β you said softly. βEvery lap, every corner, every effort youβve given I see it all. And I love you for it. Always.β
His fingers played gently with yours, threading through them as your hands continued to move through his hair.
His other hand found its way to your shoulders, rubbing tiny circles into you, grounding you just as much as you had grounded him.
You let yourself lean into him, letting him care for you while still holding you safe.
The tension in your shoulders softened under his touch, the tightness in your chest easing as you realized you didnβt have to be strong right now either.
βYouβve carried so much for me,β he whispered, voice breaking again.
βLet meβ¦ let me hold you this time.β
You closed your eyes, leaning into him fully.
βYouβre already holding me,β you admitted, letting him stroke your hair, knead your shoulders, press small comforting kisses to your temple.
βI feel safe with you.β
Minutes passed like hours.
You didnβt speak; you didnβt need to.
Your fingers played with each otherβs hair, your hands moved in gentle, reassuring motions.
He murmured complaints about the team, the season, the unfairness and you listened, letting him vent, letting him release the weight he had carried for so long.
Eventually, the room grew quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing and the warmth of two bodies holding each other.
His head stayed in your lap, your hands threading through his hair.
He exhaled long, deep breaths, finally allowing himself to feel relief, to let go.
You pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, whispering,
βAlways together. No matter what.β
He nuzzled closer, sighing into your legs. βAlways,β he murmured.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered.
The race, the bias, the chaos of the season it could all wait.
Ferrari:Β Things will get better!Β
Lewis and Charles:
Ferrari:Β Okay, maybe they wonβt.Β
Ferrari:Β But they will be terrible in new and interesting ways!
Sorry it took way longer than I expected! But anyway.... I also just edited all of the previous part by adding the previous and the next chapter on each so you can move back and forth to each chapter easily!
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language. Forgive me for any typo(s), grammatical errors, and such.
This is RAW and not read proof.
It is also my very first fanfiction. So kinda nervous over here. Have some mercy on me, please.
β Summary: You're being forced to watch F1 in Italy with your gay best friend who's obsessed with F1. When the camera man filmed you on big screen, everyone was dying to know who you are. And by everyone it means EVERYONE. Yes, including all the drivers and people behind it.
β Genre: slice of life, fluff, comedy (maybe?), non f1 fan!reader.
β WARNING: nothing except for my English and grammar, BAD and POOR translation, mention of y/n, female!reader and/or reader is using feminine pronouns, semi headcanons, slightly mention of kpop, and some Original Characters (OC) for the storyline!
"This whole thing is killing me," you say, throwing your phone to the bed.
It's 7PM right now and you and Emir just finished packing for tomorrow. You sigh and lie yourself next to Emir. It was a fun day, you enjoyed the day with Emir. Minus the part when you had four mental breakdowns.
"Wrap it up, girlie. We're flying back home tomorrow morning. Stop stressing yourself."
"How could I not?! Everyone is looking for me! I feel terrorized!" you exclaim.
Emir scoffs at your words and rolls himself closer to you. "By the way, what are you gonna do?" He points at your phone.
"What?" You raise your eyebrows and tilt your head.
"George Russell!"
"Who? And what about him?" you ask, looking genuinely confused.
"The F1 driver, for God's sake!" Emir rolls his eyes. At this point you believe that he is tired of you.
"Well, I'm sorry I don't know him, okay!" you reply, defending yourself.
"Yeah, whatever. What will you do?"
"I don't know. Should I block him?"
Emir's eyes widen in shock. "Are you freaking crazy?! Don't! Just accept his follow request!"
"And let him violated my privacy? No, thank you."
"Have I told you that you're dramatic as fuck?" Emir says flatly.
"Why would I accept his follow request anyway?" you ask, ignoring his words.
"Just because. I mean come on, give that poor boy a chance! As I said earlier, it wouldn't hurt to be his or their friend, you know. It's not like they'll DM you or something. It's just being mutuals on social media, you know."
"Ugh... I don't know. I'm not so keen on the idea of him being one of my follower."
"Oh come on! What's so hurt being mutuals with a celebrity, anyways?"
You stare at him, unsure what to say anymore. You get what he means, but at the same time it's also a risk to let someone THAT famous into your 'social media life', right?
"I'll think about it," you answer finally. Emir groans but he didn't push you anymore.
"And we still don't have her name yet," Lando says. He sounds like he just had a really bad day. Well, maybe he did.
All of them gathers again one last time before some of them fly back home in an hour. If people see their face right now, they'll think they're just exhausted from the race yesterday... When in fact it's all just their mood.
"Alright guys, as we promised earlier today, maybe we should just give up. I don't like to say that word, but for this case, we should," Fernando says. His eyes looking at the younger guys in front of him one by one.
"I can't believe we really have nothing about her at all. Like, at all!" Gabriel exclaims, he runs his fingers to his hair.
Fernando can feel his lips twitching "Are you aware that you sound that desperate, huh?"
"Maybe because I am?" Gabriel answers.
Fernando shakes his head. "What a child," he mutters under his breath.
"Let me just do one more thing before we really stop it," George says, breaking the attention to him.
He pulls his phone from his pocket. Everyone is looking at him confused.
"What kind of more damage you'll do, mate?" Lewis say, walking at George and peeking at his phone.
"You'll see." George smirks.
Lewis chuckles at George and shakes his head. "Mate, you're such a troublemaker."
"I am not a troublemaker, I'm just a hard worker and full of effort. Trust me. I won't cause any trouble, just a little bit of chaos."
Emir puts his phone on the table with his front camera recording you who sit next to him. The screen is showing your bare face with your hair down looking slightly messy but still presentable. You're wearing your black tanktop with your reading glasses. Emir's shoulder peeking a little bit, touching your shoulder.
"Is this recording already?" You furrow your eyebrows and nudge his shoulder. Emir nods his head.
"Oh. Okay."
You keep a straight face, staring at yourself, don't know how to start this. Not going to lie, you find this cringe because clearly you've never done it before. Of course! Like you're just a normal person after all.
Emir kicks your feet softly, hinting you to talk as the video is already twenty seconds in.
"Ummm... Hi?" You wave a little, smiling awkwardly.
"So... Ummm... My name is y/n and I'm just... A girl. A woman. Not a famous one, clearly. And not an influencer or celebrity either. Just... A woman. The normal one," you say. Sound awkward, but that's because it is.
You inhale slowly and continue. "And yes, I am that girl on the big screen at the F1 race yesterday."
You pause and exhale. Trying to arrange words in your head.
"And I realized that the video of me on the big screen went viral. In which, I don't know how and why, but it did." You press your lips and smile like a awkward polite cat.
"And I just want to say, sorry? I mean like, sorry for all the chaos, I guess? I actually don't know what am I apologizing for, but somehow it feels right to say it... So just get along with it." You can hear Emir stifles a laugh.
You scratch your head, confused on what to say next.
"Also, thank you for all the compliments... And judgementsβyes, I read them all. So what?βlike, thank you. It made me laugh. The judgements, I mean. And the compliments were so sweet. Bless your hearts, really."
You play with your fingers under the table, trying to calm yourself a bit. "But yeah, I see some people made a theory about me being a 'local influencer', a rising actress, a model? And vice versa... I'm flattered. But, I'm sorry to break it to you... I'm just a corporate slave and a victim of capitalism. Like, I'm literally nobody. And about my outfit? I happen to love fashion. Like, deeply into fashion. And to be in Italy and not be fashionable? That's... A crime... In my dictionary, at least." You chuckle awkwardly, again.
"So yeah... I'm here just to clarify that and some other things that I found weird and I won't say it because those theories are way too crazy. But yeah... There you go. I hope this video clears everything up.
"And yes, this video is uploaded on my best friend's Instagram, because my account is private and I don't plan and won't make it public either." You pull Emir to the screen. He smiles and quickly waving to the camera before pulling himself back.
"But yeah, you guys can stop hunting me down. Please. Por favor. I don't expect things to go this huge, but since it happened and I cannot do anything about it. But now I'm asking you guys kindly to stop. Please. Hehehe. Thank youβ"
As you're about to end the video, Emir clears his throat loudly. You glance at him before you sigh.
"And oh! Last but not least, one more confession; I am not an F1 fan. I came to the race because my best friend right here begged me to accompany him. I am just his plus one. Sorry to let you guys down. But at the same time, what do you expect from me anyway? I'm just a stranger. And also, I heard someone or some people is looking for me? But yeah, you know who you areβif you're watching thisβbut hi, hello!
"Ummm... I think that's all. But yeah. Bye guys!" You wave one last time before turning off the camera.
"You can shoot me in the head now. I can't take this anymore, that's embarrassing as hell. I could NEVER be an influencer!" you say and passing the phone to Emir.
"Do you want me to edit it?" Emir asks. You look at him and shake your head.
"There's nothing to edit. What do you want to edit anyway?"
"I don't know, add filters or make a thumbnail? So it look professional," he teases you. You punch his shoulder.
"Oh, shut up! Go upload it and sleep. We have to wake up early and I don't want you to wake up late."
"Okay, mom."
Emir chuckles and start typing the caption before finally upload the video. To be honest, he's as scared as you are. He don't want to see any bad comments about you because he cares a lot about you. He knows you said that those mean comments made you laugh, but at the same time he knows how some people could be really mean. But he just hope people would be kind to you.
Emir looks at you who's moving in your position trying to sleep, before he sighs softly and locks his phone.
And before both of you know, the video broke the internet the next morning.
The before and after. *P.s.: I'm sorry that I have to put a slight visualization, it's for the media only! :''')
One of the good thing about having a private jet is you can just fly anytime. No rush. Stress free.
Some of the drivers who plans to fly back tonight decided to delay their flights until a little bit past midnight because George convinced them to stay a little longer.
They're now hanging out in George's suite room. Everything was calm, everyone is busy with their phones and the rookies are playing poker on the floor.
George closes this book he found at the coffee table and pulls out his phone.
It's like as if it's a movie or coincidence is working greatly tonight, the moment he unlocks his phone and goes straight to Instagram app, his notification is flooding with people tagging him on a video.
George licks his lip and presses on the video. His volume is up and the room is quite, once he plays the video, a soft, feminine, and soothing voice start filling the room.
A smirk appears on George's face and it turns into a smile. A big wide smile when he sees the face on his screen. Although the lighting in the video is not as bright, but he can clearly see your face. A face of someone that he's been looking for all day.
"Who's that, George?" Alex asks. George don't even realized that everyone is staring at him.
George looks up at them. He's grinning like a little child as he shows his phone screen to everyone.
"Found her! I found our girl!"
And with that, everyone runs towards him, trying to grab his phone like maniacs. George stands up. "Mate, calm down! You can see the video by yourself! I'll send the link to our group chat."
Without wasting any more second, everyone grabs their own phone. Sounds of notifications popping up. Charles' hands is shaking, Lando keeps swallowing his saliva like he's afraid he'll choke on them, and Max with his serious face is staring at the screen like as if he just received a penalty letter from FIA.
"Is this recording?"
Again, like as if they're in a drama, your voice comes out from every single phone in the room, filling the air.
Nico's mouth is open like he can't believe what he's seeing. Fernando is rubbing his chin while watching your video in amusement. Oscar is biting his cheek trying not to smile as wide as George because he doesn't want to look like an idiot. Alex holds his phone with his two hands like he's afraid he's going to hurt you through the screen.
Ollie is giggling softly. Kimi who sits next to him is blushing like crazy; his ears are red, his neck is red, his face is red. Gabriel is smirking. Franco covers his mouth with his two hands like a little girl. Lance is smiling and sometimes he's glancing at others quickly to make sure nobody is looking at him smiling like a loserβwhich nobody is looking at himβand Liam is muttering 'Oh my goodness' so many time with his low voice.
"Holy shit, she's so pretty!" Yuki shouts, not too loud but loud enough to make the others glares at him and shush him like as if they're in a library.
Pierre is squeezing Esteban's arm and Esteban doesn't seem to be bothered by it because he's also squeezing Pierre's jacket. Isack is not even blinking because he doesn't want to waste any second missing your face. Carlos is smiling and repeating the part when you're smiling awkwardly like a polite cat so many times. And Lewis' eyes is gleaming and his smile is growing as he watch the video.
"I heard someone or some people is looking for me? But yeah, you know who you areβif you're watching thisβbut hi, hello!"
And when everyone finally reach to the last part, that part.....
"Hello!"
"Hi!"
Everyone literally answers from their screen. Like a fool. A bunch of desperate fools. Some of them even waves their hands like as if you could see them.
And when the video ends, the emptiness is too loud, too suffocating. All of them looking at one another. Like they're making sure that it's okay to be this fool. After looking at each other and smiling widely, they're all rewatching the video. Again and again.
Hi! This took a little longer to update since I have to edit and create those fake social media. But I'm happy with this chapter! I'm giggling and kicking my feet like a fool (it's so good to imagining things y'all) π
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No updates for Who's That Pretty Girl? yet because this weekend I'm fully booked (for personal stuff), but I have this one storyline in my mind for the past week about ex-bf!Charles x famous-producer-soon-to-be-pop-star!reader x Oscar.
But I'm a bit hesitant to write it because this story won't be good on Charles' side and definitely some slandering here and there abt CharlesxAlexandra too.... But not like too much since the story is about YOU.
But idk you guys.... Should I just go for it or y'all will keell me for making CL "the bad guy" (implied semi micro cheating, suspicious af) π€§π€§π€§
Summary : You never expected your job to turn into a daily sparring match with George Russell, but somehow it didβhalf rivalry, half banter, all undercut with something you canβt quite name. Between stolen moments in the chaos of your favourite parking spot and the stubborn games you both refuse to quit, the line between teasing and something more starts to blur.
β£ George Russell x Fem reader (no use of y/n)
β£ Word count : 7.1k
β£ A/N : I'm writing this after finishing my turn for my project presentation HAHAHA. I also planned to write a short story with OC Characters, what do u think?
MY MASTERLIST
The parking lot was never much to look at. The asphalt was cracked in spiderweb patterns, as if the earth had grown tired of supporting all the cars that weighed it down. Faded white lines tried to maintain order but were losing the battle to time and weather.
In the rainy season, puddles gathered like shallow lakes, and in the dry heat, dust settled in every crevice. Most people chose their spots at random every morning, drifting between whatever was available, but not you. You had a claimβnot legal, not official, but a claim nonetheless. Third row, fifth space from the left, beneath the weary shade of a spindly tree. It wasn't glamorous, but it was yours.
The spot had history. You'd parked there throughΒ late nights and early mornings, in the monsoon when you sprinted inside under your umbrella, and in blistering sunshine when you left the windows cracked open just to avoid suffocating.
The tree had once dropped a branch on your hood and left a dent that insurance refused to cover. You forgave it anyway. This was your territory. Everyone in the office knew.
Which was why, on that particular Tuesday morning, your foot slammed on the brake as if you'd seen a ghost. Because someoneβsome strangerβwas in your spot.
Not just any stranger.
A sleek black Mercedes sat gleaming in the sunlight, parked with a confidence that suggested it didn't worry about petty things like citations or tow warnings. The car looked less like it had been driven and more like it had rolled directly off the showroom floor that morningβpaint shining, chrome sharp enough to blind, tires slick with polish.
Even the air around it seemed cleaner, as if dust refused to risk dulling its finish.
But the car wasn't what made your hands lock around the steering wheel. It was the man leaning against the driver's side door, one ankle crossed over the other, attention half-buried in his phone. He didn't just look like he belonged thereβhe looked like he belonged everywhere.
George.
Not "George the Janitor," not "George with the nerdy comments." George Russell. Formula One's golden boy, poster child of speed and precision, the man whose face you'd seen on billboards, screens, and headlines whether you'd wanted to or not.
He had the kind of public life that was inescapable; tuxedos on magazine covers, helmets in victory photos, smug little smiles that sponsors seemed to eat up. And now, absurdly, impossiblyβhe was standing in your parking spot, scrolling his phone like the lot, the building, the city, maybe even the whole damn world, already belonged to him.
Your boss's words flickered at the back of your mind, uncomfortably sharp.
"He'll be dropping by this week," he had said casually yesterday afternoon, as if announcing a plumber's visit. "Might use our office for a bit, some personal business. Just...don't be surprised if you see him around."
You hadn't asked who he was. You'd been buried in deadlines, nodding absently, assuming some client, some consultant, some random high-profile visitor you'd never interact with. Now, with your bumper inches from a car worth more than your salary times five, you understood exactly who he was.
And apparently, fate had decided your first meeting wouldn't be in the safety of your boss's office, but right here, in the middle of the battlefield you'd defended with passive-aggressive ferocity for weeks.
He looked up then, sensing the weight of your stare. His eyes met yours through the windshield, cool and steady, like he'd known all along this was how it would happen. And for the first time in a very long time, you weren't sure whether to put your car in parkβor reverse and run.
You parked two rows away, killing the engine harder than necessary, and sat for a moment just staring at him. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he didn't know. But deep in your chest you already felt it: the primal flare of possessiveness. This was your space, and he had no right.
By the time you got out of your car, George had looked up. Even behind dark sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his attention sweep over you. He smiledβa small, amused tilt of his lips, like someone who'd just stumbled onto a private joke.
Β Β Β "Excuse me," you said, pointing accusingly at the asphalt. "You're in my spot."
Β Β Β He looked up slowly, like a cat disturbed from its nap. His smile tilted in amusement. "Good morning to you, too."
Β Β Β "I'm serious." You jabbed your finger at the faded line beneath his car. "This is my spot."
Β Β Β "Is it?" He pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing eyes that were as sharp and blue as the racing suits you'd seen him in on TV. "Because unless I'm missing something, I don't see your name painted on it."
Β Β Β Your jaw tightened. "Everyone knows it's mine. I've parked here for years."
Β Β Β "Then maybe everyone should've told me." He folded his arms, leaning back against the hood as if he intended to stay there all day. "Look, it's shady, close to the entrance, good visibilityβwhat can I say? I've got an eye for the best line."
"Best line?" You scoffed. "This isn't a racetrack, it's a parking lot."
Β Β Β He chuckled, low and maddeningly smooth. "Still all about strategy."
Β Β Β You stared at him, incredulous. Of all the places for him to wedge himself into your life, it had to be here, in the one corner of the world you thought was safe from celebrity nonsense. "Don't you have a valet? Or a private garage? Or a... helipad?"
Β Β Β George shrugged. "I like this spot." That made him grin, a flash of white teeth against sun-kissed skin. "Tell you whatβnext time, get here earlier. Problem solved."
Β Β Β The infuriating part was how calm he was, how clearly entertained he seemed by your outrage. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because nothing you could say would puncture that smug smile. Instead you spun on your heel and stalked away, muttering about arrogant rich men and their terrible taste in real estate.
Β Β Β The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, sheer determination pushing you out the door. You skipped your coffee run, chewed a stale granola bar instead, and drove with one mission in mind: reclaim what was yours.
But when you turned into the lot, your heart sank.
Β Β Β The Mercedes was already there. Parked perfectly within the lines, gleaming smugly under the morning light. But George himself was nowhere to be seen.
Β Β Β You parked nearby, fuming, and as you walked past his car, you noticed a rectangle of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper.
Β Β Β Curiosity prickled. Against your better judgment, you plucked it free and read the neat, slanted handwriting:
Pole position goes to me. Better luck tomorrow.
Β Β Β Your mouth dropped open. He had left you a note. On his windshield. Like he knew you'd storm past, like he'd staged this entire thing just to needle you.
Β Β Β You crumpled the note into your pocket, cheeks hot, and muttered, "Unbelievable."
Β Β Β This time, two notes fluttered in the breeze beneath his wipers. You yanked the first free:
Track limits exceeded. Five-second penalty.
Your scowl deepened. The second note was even worse:
A champion always defends their territory.
Β Β Β You could almost hear his voice in those words, amused and cocky. You shoved the papers into your bag and marched inside, telling yourself you were not going to play his game.
Β Β Β But by Friday, it was impossible to deny. It was a game. His gameβand somehow, yours too.
Another note appeared, crisp and mocking:
Unsportsmanlike conduct. Black flag.
Then another the following week:
Oversteer detected. Recommend adjustments.
And another:
Pit stop needed: you look exhausted.
Β Β Β That last one made you laugh, loud and unguarded, before you caught yourself. You glanced around to make sure no one had noticed, then quickly folded the note and slid it into your bag with the others. You told yourself you'd throw them away later, but you didn't. You couldn't. They were ridiculous, childish, infuriatingβand addictive.
Β Β Β Every morning, as you rounded the corner into the lot, your pulse picked up with a strange anticipation. Would he be there in person this time, leaning against his car with that unbearable grin? Or would it just be the Mercedes, silent and smug, with another neatly folded note waiting for you to find?
You hated that you looked forward to finding out.
Β Β Β By the third week, the notes weren't enough anymore.
Β Β Β You'd gotten used to peeling his smug little messages from his windshieldβphrases that sounded like racing commentary but felt aimed directly at you, every word dripping with taunt and tease.
Β Β Β At first you saved them only to remind yourself how much he annoyed you, but somehow they ended up tucked neatly in your desk drawer at work. You weren't sure when they'd gone from "evidence of his crimes" to something closer to a secret collection.
But the morning battles were starting to feel like more than paper games.
Β Β Β On the next Monday, you arrived determined to beat him, only to find the space blocked off with two bright orange traffic cones. Not standard cones eitherβthese were stamped with the logo of one of his sponsors. You gawked at them in disbelief, then spotted the folded note taped to one:
Practice session in progress. Please observe track limits.
Β Β Β Your laugh was sharp and disbelieving. He'd actually staged the parking lot like it was a circuit. Rolling your eyes, you got out, dragged both cones aside, and parked anyway. But you left the note behind, pinned beneath your windshield wiper like a trophy.
Β Β Β The next day, he struck again. When you arrived, the space was emptyβfor a moment you thought you'd wonβuntil you saw the chalk outline scrawled across the asphalt. A white rectangle drawn neatly inside the faded lines, with the words George's Pit Box scribbled in bold letters across the top.
He wasn't even there. Just the outline, waiting for you like graffiti.
Β Β Β You muttered curses under your breath, parked two spaces over, and spent the entire walk to the building rehearsing the scathing speech you'd give him the next time you saw his smug face.
That time came sooner than expected.
Β Β Β By the Wednesday of the third week, when you swung into the lot, George was already there, perched casually on the hood of his Mercedes. He had no sunglasses this time, just tousled hair and that infuriating smile like he'd been expecting you all along.
"Morning," he drawled, lifting a coffee cup in lazy salute.
Β Β Β "Morning?" you repeated, throwing your hands up. "Are you serious? Cones? Chalk outlines? What's next, a pit crew to wave me away with flags?"
"Not a bad idea," he mused. "I'll see what I can do."
Β Β Β You glared at him, heart hammering faster than you wanted to admit. "Why are you even doing this? You could park anywhere. You probably have ten garages. Why here?"
Β Β Β He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle. "Why not here?"
"Because it's my spot."
"Exactly." His grin widened. "That's why it's fun."
Β Β Β You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because what could you possibly say to that? He was toying with you, and worse, he knew you'd keep playing.
Β Β Β "You're irresistible ," you muttered, brushing past him toward the building. But as you walked away, you swore you heard him chuckle under his breath, and it left a heat in your chest you couldn't quite name.
Thursday morning was your turn.
Β Β Β You arrived before dawn, when the lot was still shrouded in the grey light of morning. You parked triumphantly in your spot, pulled a sheet of paper from your bag, and scribbled a message in bold black marker before taping it to your windshield:
Reserved for actual hard-working people. Celebrity drivers can find valet service elsewhere.
Β Β Β When you returned in the evening, the note was gone. But on Friday, George was back, his Mercedes shining in your space, and a fresh sheet of paper waited under his wiper:
Correction: reserved for people who can parallel park without crying.
Β Β Β You gasped out a laugh despite yourself, looking around quickly to make sure no one had seen. He was infuriating. He was relentless. Andβif you were being honestβhe was funny.
Β Β Β One rainy morning, you arrived to find him already there, standing under an umbrella beside his car. The storm had left the lot slick and shining, puddles scattered like landmines. You hesitated at the edge of your row, wondering if you should just park elsewhere and avoid him, but something about the sight of him waiting made your feet move forward.
"You're early," you said, tugging your jacket tighter against the rain.
Β Β Β "So are you." His grin was crooked, boyish, softened by the drizzle beading on his hair. "Getting competitive, are we?"
You rolled your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."
Β Β Β But the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward.
Β Β Β For the first time, he didn't gloat. He just smiled back, quiet and easy, and for a moment the storm around you seemed to fade.
Β Β Β It happened on a Friday, the kind of Friday where everything already felt like too much. You'd overslept, spilled coffee down your shirt, and barely made it to the lot with five minutes to spare before you'd be late. And then, as if the universe wanted to mock you before you reached room, your car gave a sickening wheeze in the highway . You tried again. The engine coughed once, shuddered, and fell silent.
Β Β Β You sat there gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against the leather, breathing in the faint smell of burnt oil. Of course this would happen. You were debating whether to slam your head against the horn out of sheer frustration when a knock on the window startled you.
Β Β Β George stopped his car at the side, leaning down just enough to peer inside, a faintly smug expression plastered on his annoyingly handsome face. He gestured for you to roll the window down.
Β Β Β "Need a push?" he asked when you complied, his voice amused but not unkind. "Or should I call my pit crew?"
Β Β Β "Don't you dare," you groaned, covering your eyes with one hand. "I'll never live that down."
Β Β Β "Relax," he said, straightening up. "I won't tell anyone. Scout's honor." He circled to the front of your car, lifted the hood with an ease that suggested he'd done this before, and peered inside. "Although," he admitted after a beat, "I'm very good at driving cars, not fixing them."
Β Β Β You leaned out your window. "So you're saying all that money and not a clue what to do with a dead battery?"
Β Β Β He smirked, unbothered. "I could probably change a tire. Beyond that... you'll have to settle for me looking useful while you call a tow truck."
Β Β Β Despite yourself, you laughed. He stayed there with you, leaning against the side of your car like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Β Β Β When the tow finally came, he lingered still, insisting on waiting until you were sorted. It wasn't something he had to do. It wasn't part of the game. And for a moment, you didn't quite know what to make of it.
Β Β Β The tow truck driver strapped your poor car onto the flatbed with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. You stood off to the side, arms crossed, rain still damp in your hair from earlier and a sinking sense of defeat in your stomach.
Β Β Β It wasn't just the inconvenience of losing your car; it was the humiliation of George, of all people, standing nearby with his arms casually folded, watching it happen like some smug witness to your downfall.
Β Β Β When the driver finally waved you over to sign the papers, George stepped closer. "Where's home?" he asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
Β Β Β "You can't exactly Uber from here. And I'm not letting you walk." His tone was matter-of-fact, the kind of confidence that didn't leave much room for argument. He gestured with his keys, already moving toward his car. "Come on. I'll drive you."
Β Β Β The idea of being trapped in a car with himβthe same man you'd spent weeks trading petty windshield notes withβwas absurd. And yet, when you glanced at the retreating taillights of the tow truck and the empty space where your car had been, you realized you didn't have many other options. With a sigh that was meant to sound annoyed, you followed.
Β Β Β His car was pristine inside, of course. Sleek leather, faintly smelling of cologne, with little hints of luxury you'd only ever glimpsed in magazines. Sliding into the passenger seat felt almost surreal, like stepping into a different world entirely.
Β Β Β You tugged the seatbelt across your chest, trying not to stare at the way he adjusted the mirrors with casual precision.
"You don't have toβ" you started.
"I know," he cut in smoothly, glancing over with that faint smirk. "I want to."
Β Β Β The engine purred to life beneath your feet, quieter than you expected, controlled power wrapped in elegance. For a man who made his living taking corners at terrifying speeds, George drove the streets with almost exaggerated patience, one hand resting lightly on the wheel. You found yourself studying the lines of his profile, the way his focus softened outside the track, how he seemed strangely normal.
Β Β Β The silence stretched for a moment before he broke it. "So," he said lightly, "do I get to know why you're so determined to fight me over that spot every morning?"
Β Β Β Β You shot him a look. "Do I get to know why a millionaire F1 driver refuses to use valet?"
Β Β Β You turned your gaze toward the window, hoping he wouldn't notice the warmth crawling up your neck. Because the truth was, you felt the same. And maybe, sitting there in his too-perfect car with the city rolling by, you realized that the war you'd been fighting wasn't really about a parking spot anymore.
Β Β Β George pulled smoothly up to the curb outside your building, easing the car into park with the same fluid motion he did everything.
Β Β Β For a moment, you just sat there, the quiet hum of the engine filling the silence. It felt oddly reluctant, as though the moment shouldn't end yet.
Β Β Β "Thanks," you said finally, unbuckling your seatbelt. Your voice sounded too small in the polished interior.
Β Β Β He glanced over at you, one hand still resting casually on the wheel. "Anytime." There was no tease in his tone this time, no sly smile or smirk. Just a simple sincerity that caught you off guard.
Β Β Β You stepped out, the night air cooler than you expected, brushing damp against your skin. He stayed in the car, window rolled down, watching as you slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way to the door.
Β Β Β You told yourself it was normal courtesy, that he was just waiting to see you safely inside. And yet... you could feel his gaze on you, steady and unhurried, like he wasn't ready to leave either.
Β Β Β At the door, you hesitated. The keys were already in your hand, but something made you glance back. He was still there, resting his arm along the window frame, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth like he'd been caught in a thought.
"What?" you asked, voice carrying softly across the quiet street.
Β Β Β His smile deepened, subtle but warm. "Nothing. Just... you're different when you're not glaring at me over a parking space."
Β Β Β You snorted, but the sound came out too soft, too fond. "Don't get used to it."
Β Β Β "Too late," he said simply. Then, with a little tap to the wheel, he added, "Goodnight," before easing the car back into motion, taillights glowing red as they disappeared down the street.
Β Β Β You stood there for a long moment, keys slack in your hand, the warmth of his words lingering heavier than they should have.
Β Β Β The next day was heavy with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and promised a storm. By the time you left the building, the sky had cracked open, unleashing a torrent that blurred the edges of everything into silver. The parking lot shimmered with puddles, each step out of the doorway met with a roar of rain so thick it was like a curtain you couldn't see through.
Β Β Β You hovered just inside the entryway, clutching your bag to your chest, glaring out at the storm as if sheer willpower might make it stop. You hadn't brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn'tβyour morning had been rushed again, distracted by thoughts you wouldn't admit even to yourself.
Β Β Β Now you were stranded, the downpour hammering the pavement like it meant to keep you there all night.
"Forgot yours too?"
Β Β Β The voice made you jump, though you knew it instantly. George slipped in beside you, shaking droplets from his hair, his jacket plastered damp against his shoulders. His grin was lopsided, boyish despite the water dripping off his jaw. He lookedβannoyinglyβlike someone caught in an advert for cologne, the kind that made everything, even getting drenched, look glamorous.
Β Β Β You folded your arms. "I wasn't planning on the sky declaring war."
Β Β Β "Rookie mistake," he teased, echoing his words from yesterday, and then he leaned against the wall with casual ease, watching the sheets of rain. "We could wait it out."
Β Β Β You tilted your head, squinting through the downpour. "And how long do you think that'll take?"
Β Β Β He glanced at you sidelong, a spark of challenge in his eyes. "Or... we could run for it."
Β Β Β You laughed, short and incredulous. "Through that? You'd drown."
Β Β Β "Not if I'm faster than the rain." His grin widened, infuriatingly sure of himself. "Come on, it'll be fun."
Β Β Β Something in his tone tugged at you, the way he said it like he wasn't just talking about running. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding. "Fine. But if I slip and break my neck, I'm haunting you."
"You'd make a very charming ghost," he said lightly, already holding the door for you.
Β Β Β And then you were both out in itβsprinting across the lot, splashing through ankle-deep puddles, the storm drenching you in seconds. Your bag thudded against your side, your shoes squeaked with every step, and yet you couldn't stop laughing, the sound breaking free without your permission.
Β Β Β He laughed too, loud and unguarded, glancing at you as if thisβthis chaos, this shared absurdityβwas worth more than any victory on a track.
Β Β Β By the time you ducked under the overhang near the cars, you were breathless, hair plastered to your cheeks, clothes sticking in uncomfortable places. You pressed your back to the wall, trying to catch your breath. George leaned beside you, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders shaking faintly with residual laughter.
Β Β Β "Worth it," he said simply, voice low and certain, as if the storm had washed away every layer of his usual bravado.
And for once, you didn't argue.
Β Β Β You only stood there with him, listening to the rain hammer the world into silence, the two of you caught in a moment that felt suspended outside of time.
Β Β Β The morning after the storm, you half expected another sarcastic note plastered to George's windshieldβsomething about how you'd almost drowned or how your running form needed improvement. You were braced for it, rehearsing comebacks in your head as you crossed the lot.
Β Β Β But when you reached your pigeon hole at lunchtime, you stopped short. There was a folded square of paper.
You pulled it free, scanning the handwriting that had become so familiar:
George was easy to spot, tucked in a corner booth, long legs stretched out comfortably as though he owned the place. A coffee already sat in front of him, and across the table was a second cup, steam curling into the air. He looked up as you approached, a faint smile breaking across his face.
"Didn't think you'd come," he said, voice low but carrying just enough smugness to keep you on familiar ground.
You slid into the seat opposite, deliberately casual. "I almost didn't. But free coffee is free coffee."
He chuckled, nudging the cup toward you. "Figured I owed you. After all, you did brave a hurricane on my ridiculous suggestion."
"So," you said after a sip, "is this where you confess that you've secretly been enjoying all this?"
His eyes gleamed, amused but steady. "Confess? That makes it sound like a crime."
"You know what I mean."
He leaned back, studying you with a calm that made you shift in your seat. "Maybe I like starting my mornings with a fight I can't win."
You snorted, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself. "Can't win? Please. You've stolen that spot more times than I can count."
"Maybe," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "But it's not about winning, is it?"
The words hung there, heavier than they should have, settling between you with the weight of something unspoken. You broke eye contact first, focusing instead on the swirl of steam rising from your coffee. Still, you couldn't quite shake the warmth threading through you, stronger than the drink in your hands.
For once, neither of you needed to fill the silence. It was enough just to sit there, across from each other, sharing something that wasn't quite rivalry anymore.
The truce didn't erase the rivalry. You still left notes, he still claimed the spot when he could, but something subtle had shifted. The barbs weren't sharpened knives anymore β they were inside jokes, carved into paper and windshield wipers.
And then came the days when the rivalry wasn't even the point.
One evening, the rain came down heavy again. You were packing up to leave the office when George appeared at the doorway, car keys in hand.
"You're not seriously walking home in this, are you?"
You arched an eyebrow. "What's it to you?"
"Get in the car," he said simply, holding the door open.
The ride was quiet, but not awkward. The wipers kept time against the silence, the faint hum of the engine filling the spaces where banter used to be. At a red light, he glanced over. "You always hum when you're thinking."
You blinked. "I do not."
"You do," he said, grinning, eyes flicking back to the road. "Been hearing it for weeks."
That was the first time you realized: he'd been paying attention. Not just to the notes, not just to the battles for asphalt β but to you.
The realization sank in slowly, like water finding cracks in stone. It didn't hit you in some cinematic moment of clarity, no lightning strike or swelling music. It was quieter, trickier, a steady reshaping of your days until you barely recognized your own routines.
You used to glance at the lot in the mornings with the sharp-eyed defensiveness of a soldier scanning enemy lines. But lately, your first thought wasn't Is my spot taken? It was "Is he here?"
You scanned for the gleam of his Mercedes before you even turned in. You noticed how the sun caught the edges of its polished paint, how it looked like it belonged in a different world than your battered sedan β and how you didn't care, not anymore.
The notes on your desk and windshield had stopped being jokes weeks ago. You told yourself you kept them for the humor, for the ridiculousness of your back-and-forth. But on bad days, when your inbox felt like a collapsing avalanche and the clock seemed stuck at noon, you'd find your fingers brushing over one of his folded scraps, rereading some dumb jab about "civilized rules of warfare" or his messy attempt at drawing a crown to mark his "victory." And somehow, that was enough to get you through.
You caught yourself watching him in meetings too, though you never admitted it out loud. George never looked like he belonged in your office's gray-carpeted, coffee-stained world. He carried too much ease, too much polish, even when he wasn't trying. But then his gaze would cut across the table β swift, deliberate, like a secret meant only for you β and your pulse would skip, tightening your chest in a way no rival ever could.
And when you saw him laughing with someone else β a fellow team member, maybe, or one of the assistants who lingered too long in his orbit β you felt it, a tug sharp enough to leave you restless. You didn't want to name it. Didn't want to admit that it had stopped being a game long ago. This wasn't about parking anymore. And the thought of that β of wanting something so dangerous, so fleeting β terrified you more than losing the spot ever had.
Which was why, when he stopped you outside the lot one evening, you froze.
He looked different in the fading light, not just the usual clean-cut edges and precise posture but softer, more human. His hands were shoved into his pockets, shoulders drawn tight in a way that made your breath catch. George Russell wasn't supposed to look nervous. But right then, he did.
"You're going to say no if I don't ask now," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. "And I can't leave without asking."
You blinked. "Leave?"
He nodded once. "A few more days. Then I'm back to Monaco." The word landed like a weight between you, heavier than you'd prepared for. He took a breath, met your eyes, and held them like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "So... have dinner with me. Just once. No parking spots, no notes. Just... us."
The world seemed to tilt, narrowing to just him, just the way the light caught the edges of his face, just the quiet thrum of fear and hope tangled in your chest. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Because this wasn't a game anymore. It was a beginningβor an ending.
And either way, you weren't sure your heart was ready.
The restaurant wasn't the kind of place you expected him to choose. No velvet curtains or champagne towers, no glittering chandeliers announcing wealth. It was tucked into a quiet side street, lit with warm amber bulbs strung overhead and the faint murmur of jazz from an old speaker in the corner. The tables were close enough to feel cozy, but not cramped, each one dressed with nothing more than a flickering candle and a little glass vase of wildflowers.
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Somehow, you'd imagined cameras waiting by the door, flashbulbs ready, menus lined with prices that would make your bank account weep. But hereβit felt almost...normal.
George caught the look on your face as he pulled out your chair. "Not what you expected?"
You arched a brow, trying to cover your relief with teasing. "No gold-leaf steaks? No seven-course tasting menus?"
He gave a low laugh as he sat across from you. "I get enough of that circus. Thought you'd prefer somewhere we can actually talk."
You studied him across the candlelight, surprised at how easily he said it. Talk. As though that was the point of all this. As though this wasn't just a fleeting distraction before he disappeared back into a world you couldn't follow.
Menus opened, orders placed, the quiet hum of the place wrapped around you. It wasn't silenceβnever silence with him. He leaned in when he spoke, not loud, but close enough that it felt conspiratorial, like the two of you were sharing something no one else could. He teased you about how seriously you'd guarded the parking spot.
You countered with the number of ridiculous doodles you still had tucked away in your drawer. He admitted, with that maddening little half-smile, that he'd practiced folding paper airplanes just to deliver one of his notes.
And somewhere between the bread basket and the first glass of wine, the banter softened.
He asked about your work, not idly, but with a genuine curiosity that disarmed you. He listenedβreally listenedβas you explained the grind, the constant tug-of-war between deadlines and ambition. His questions weren't filler; they cut sharp, thoughtful, drawing out truths you hadn't realized you wanted to share.
In return, he spoke about the roadβnot in glossy magazine terms, but raw and unvarnished. The exhaustion of back-to-back flights, the pressure that clung to every performance, the constant noise of people wanting a piece of him. "It's funny," he said at one point, swirling his glass absentmindedly, "you'd think the track is the loudest place in the world. But the quiet afterwards...that's worse."
Something in your chest tugged at that. You weren't supposed to understand, not really. But you did. The way silence could press in, heavy with all the things unsaid.
By the time the main course arrived, the world outside the little glow of your table felt distant, irrelevant. It was just him and you, laughter spilling too easily, stories overlapping, smiles that lingered a beat too long.
And beneath it all, a question you didn't dare voice: what happens when this night ends?
The plates had been cleared, the last of the wine low in your glasses, and still neither of you made a move to leave. The candle burned down to a stub between you, its little flame bending and bowing every time the door opened to the street outside.
George leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely, studying you with an intensity that made you shift in your seat. Not the look of a man calculating a race or a win, but of someone memorizing. You fiddled with the stem of your glass, uncomfortable under the weight of it.
"What?" you asked finally, trying for lightness.
He didn't smile. Not at first. "I'm trying to figure out when this stopped being about the parking spot."
Your breath caught. He'd said it so plainly, like it wasn't the thing you'd been avoiding naming for weeks.
You laughed weakly, eyes dropping to your hands. "Maybe when you started folding origami with your insults?"
That earned a smile, quick and crooked. But then he sobered again, tilting his head slightly as though he could see through every defense you'd ever built. "For me, it was earlier. I don't know the exact day, but... I remember sitting in my car, waiting, just to see your reaction when you found another note. That's when I knew I wasn't playing fair anymore."
You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. "And you kept parking there becauseβwhat? You liked annoying me?"
"Yes," he said, but then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping softer. "And no. At first, it was just fun, a game. But then it became the only part of my day that didn't feel...scripted. No cameras, no handlers, no one telling me how to smile. Just you. Just your glare, your notes, your stubborn little victories. It made me feelβ" He broke off, searching for the right word. "Human, I guess."
The honesty in his voice left you unmoored. You weren't supposed to matter like that. He wasn't supposed to matter like this. And yet, here you were.
You took a breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I thought I hated it at first. You stealing my spot, getting under my skin. But then... I caught myself looking for your car. Even when you weren't there. I'd get to work and it felt wrong if you hadn't left something ridiculous on my windshield. And when you did..." You gave a small, helpless shrug. "My day felt lighter."
The silence that followed was thick, not uncomfortable but weighted, like the air itself recognized what you'd just admitted.
His eyes softened. "So it wasn't just me."
You shook your head. "No. Not just you."
He exhaled slowly, as if the admission had been a risk he wasn't sure would pay off. Then he leaned closer, close enough that the table between you felt suddenly too narrow. "I'm leaving in a few days," he said quietly. The words landed like stones in your chest. "I can't change that. But I couldn't leave without telling you that thisβ" he gestured lightly between you "βhas been the best part of my time here."
Your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he could hear it.
And for the first time since this strange, absurd rivalry began, you realized how terrifying it felt to want someone who was already halfway gone.
The ride back was quiet at first, but not in a bad way. The hum of George's Mercedes filled the silence, a low, steady sound that matched the faint drizzle still slicking the streets. The city outside was mutedβstreetlights blurring against wet pavement, headlights of passing cars smeared into streaks of white and gold.
You sat angled slightly toward the window, watching the rain glide across the glass, though your thoughts were anything but calm. Dinner replayed itself in snippets: the warmth of candlelight, the way George's laugh seemed to settle in your bones, the confession that had tumbled out of you when you weren't expecting it.
Every time the memory surfaced, heat crept up your neck.
George drove like he did everything elseβsmooth, controlled, like the road bent to his will. Yet there was something softer about him now. He wasn't the man fighting for tenths of a second, wasn't the name on billboards. He was the man who had left notes on your windshield, who had sat across from you with quiet vulnerability, who was glancing at you every so often like he wanted to memorize the way you looked sitting there in the passenger seat.
"You're quiet," he said finally, breaking the spell of the wipers against glass.
You swallowed, still facing the window. "So are you."
"I'm driving," he said, though his voice held a smile. Then, after a pause: "Are you regretting it?"
That pulled your gaze back to him. His eyes stayed on the road, but you caught the tension in his jaw, the careful way his hands tightened on the wheel. For a man who seemed so untouchable in every other part of his life, it was startling to see the nerves laid bare.
"No," you said, soft but certain. "Not for a second."
His shoulders loosened a little, the smallest exhale escaping him. "Good. Because I'd hate to think this was one-sided."
Your heart kicked at your ribs. The car turned onto your street too soon, the world narrowing to the familiar row of houses, the warm glow of your porch light. You weren't ready for the night to end, but endings didn't wait for readiness.
George pulled up in front of your place and shifted the car into park. Neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the rain whispering against the windshield.
"This is the part where I'm supposed to say goodnight," he murmured, finally turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between restraint and want.
Your throat tightened. "Supposed to," you echoed.
He laughed under his breath, then leaned an elbow against the steering wheel, tilting his body a little closer. "You have no idea how badly I don't want to."
You could feel the space between you shrink, magnetic and inevitable. The air was charged with everything unsaidβthe rivalry that had started as nothing, the slow unraveling into something that mattered far too much, the truth that he was leaving soon and this moment might have to last longer than it should.
When he kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It was deliberate, the kind of kiss that unfolded slowly, with the weight of all the times you hadn't let yourself touch him before. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and steady, while yours found the front of his jacket, gripping lightly as though to anchor yourself.
The world outside ceased to exist. No rain, no ticking engine, no looming goodbye. Just the press of his mouth against yours, the quiet catch of his breath when you kissed him back, the way every piece of you seemed to realign under his touch.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little unevenly. His voice was a whisper. "Now I really don't want to go."
You smiled, shaky but real. "Then don't. Just... stay here a little longer."
And he did. The car idled at the curb, the two of you suspended in that fragile, perfect bubble of almost-goodbye that felt like the beginning of something bigger instead.
Hi guys! While I'm writing the next chapter for Who's That Pretty Girl? I'll start taking request too from now!
BUT only fake chats or smau (because it's easier). No smut (because I'm bad at it, sorry!). I plan to drop the first short and quick smau tomorrow! But you can drop a request if you have any! π«Ά
And as for now, I'll be accepting request for 2025 grid only (except for LS, because of personal reason π)
And oh, feel free to ask me questions or if you want to talk to me, I'm here! :)
πππ¬οΈ~ RACING HEARTS SERIES ~ποΈποΈπ¨
Episode # 3 (Pt.1)
: { First Impressions Pt1 }
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Synopsis:
Your first impressions leaves the grid boys wanting to get to know you more. Your whole being is endearing with your personality being just as lovely as your appearance.
Pairings:
Various F1 Grid x You
Warnings:
None / just more of the grid simping / Fluffyyyyy
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If you haven't read the past chapters l suggest reading it to avoid any confusion as it is a direct continuation of the previous chapters:))
Chapter #1
Chapter #2
Happy Reading!
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Blinking slowly, you kept your eyes low, as though you were walking a tightropeβone wobbly step after anotherβas you crept toward the grid boys. The weight of their gazes pressed against your skin like heat lamps. Each stare was sharp, searing, stripping you down to your nerves. Part of you wanted to bolt, but another partβ¦ wanted to bask in it. Because this was it. This was your moment. Claiming your place among legends.
Your eyes found him first. Fernando Alonso.
You remembered it vividly: watching him win his first Grand Prix while you were barely out of diapers. 2005 had been a lifetime ago, but his world championship was etched into your memory. Your older brother in his oversized Renault shirt, screaming at the TV, leaping with joyβ¦ while you sat in your high chair, too little to understand. You didnβt know it then, but the man your brother idolized would one day be your teammate on the track.
Tucked in your back pocket was a brand-new black marker, its ink still juicy and untouched. Youβd bought it yesterday, already knowing that the very first thing youβd do as a Formula 1 driver would be to ask Alonso for his signature. A small token to the child inside you.
You reached for it now, fingers trembling, and made your way to him.
The rest of the grid still watched, breathless. Hoping. Wishing. Praying youβd approach them first. Some of them groaned inwardly as you passed them by β annoyed, jealous β while others tilted their heads, tracking you with hungry eyes. But Alonso, sharp and amused, simply wanted to witness what came next.
β much to their disappointment β it was him you approached first.
Like a knife through an apple, your voice sliced the silence, soft and sweet and almost fragile:
βIβm a big fan, Mr. Alonso. Could you maybe sign my hat?β
The shy little sentence being left in the air for a few short seconds as the grid boys stared in your direction. Alonso, meanwhile, nearly choked back a laugh β not at you, but at the sea of murderous jealousy he spotted behind you. The so-called old rookieβs lips curled into a smug smile being thrown over your shoulder at them. He then looked down at you declaring himself as your grid father right on the spot after seeing the innocence and admiration you held for him.
βOh yeahh, sure thingβ he wheezed, taking your Porsche hat from your head. He plucked the marker from your hand as he looked over your shoulder at the others, his expression smug as he signed his name across the brim. βYou know,β he teased, voice just loud enough for the room to hear, βI can already tell youβre going to be trouble for some of us.β
You giggled nervously, not realizing his words werenβt about your racing at all β but about the storm of feelings he could see brewing in the drivers behind you. Rookies blushed pink; others averted their eyes, well aware Alonso was calling them out without saying their names.
When he finished, Alonso handed back your hatβ¦ and instinctively, he patted your head. The gesture hit you like a time machine β you were six years old again, your fatherβs hand comforting you before your first kart race. The flood of nostalgia almost made your knees weak. Clutching the signed cap to your chest, your squeal bubbled out before you could stop it.
βOhhh, frick yes! My brother is gonna be so damn jealousββ
The unfiltered outburst sent a ripple of laughter through the grid. The switch from shy reverence to giddy little sister was endearing, and their chuckles broke the tension coiled in your shoulders. their amusement only doubled over by your awkward giggle as you realized how childlike youβd just sounded. With cheeks hot, you smiled as the warmth of their amusement softened the room.
Alonso, ever the uncle figure, rested a hand on your shoulder again. His expression softened as he hummed low, βDonβt be shy. On behalf of everyone hereβ¦ welcome to the grid.β
Your throat tightened at his sincerity. For the first time that day, you felt like you belonged.
When you looked back at the others, you didnβt just glance this time β you met their gazes. Every pair of eyes held something different: curiosity, acceptance, fascination. Some sparkled with rivalry, some with warmth, but none with malice. Still, the realization hit you hard. They werenβt just comrades β they were enemies. Rivals. Predators on track. And now, so were you.
The realization made your pulse quicken, but this time it didnβt paralyze you. It lit you up. Yes, you reminded yourself, youβre not just here to be a fan. Youβre here to race.
Straightening, you squared your shoulders, the timid smile on your lips slowly sharpening into a smirk. Your eyes, once wide with the gaze of a starstruck fan, lowered into something hungrier, sharper. A predatorβs gaze.
You were ready to devour them.
The whiplash was palpable. One moment you were a shy goddess, the next you were fire incarnate. A hush of awe rippled through the roomβolder drivers grinning knowingly, younger ones shifting uncomfortably under your stare. In a blink, your smirk melted back into polite sweetness, as though nothing had happened. But the message was clear: there was thunder behind your soft exterior.
The first hand you reached for was Maxβs.
Maxβs eyes glinted with familiarity, he was the first to fully process the change in your demeanor. As the dutchman stared at you his gaze narrowed as if he were trying to understand a sentence in a book on philosophy. Then he saw it, that look, that hunger that flashed on your face. The 4 time world champion was very familiar with the almost animalistic hunger to win and he saw that exact yearning appear just before you grasped his hand. Call him a damn masochist but this made him miles more eager battle you on track, nothing like a hard earned win, he thought to himself as he eagerly imagined several ways of how youβd drive against him on track. A smug tilt to his smile. Now a lot more invested in your whole presence after your sudden show of confidence.
You werenβt just a pretty face, you had bite. He just hoped you wouldnβt whimper back once you got a taste of his driving. As he grabbed onto your hand, he felt the roughness of your palm, a tall tale sign of your time practicing. Years of steering wheel friction against them giving it that roughness, it didnβt match your soft appearance at all, juxtaposed your delicate almost doll-like features it was almost jarring. But he found it absolutely lovely. βCanβt wait to see what youβve got out thereβ the man sending you a smile that held nothing but pure intrigue and curiosity. Staring into his eyes almost left you both in a lock like two magnets finally clicking together, before it started to get electrifying the other Red Bull driver in the room sneaked his way beside you.
Yuki being the shorter male struggled to place his elbow on his RB teammatesβ shoulder as he jumped into your view. The endearing action causing you to huff out a surprised chuckle. His eyes were crescents as he smiled brightly at you. βHiiii! Iβm Yuki! Nice to meet you!β The bite sized male quickly snatching your hand from Maxβs grasp, said male grunting in response at his teammates sudden action, leaving him staring at his now empty hand, knowing Max he tried to act unbothered but he already missed the feeling of your smaller palm in his he just wouldnβt admit it.
With your hand now in his, Yuki then began enthusiastically shaking it up and down. The whole ordeal was just wholesome, feeling your lips trying to mimic his incredibly bright smile, his bubbly nature affecting you greatly as you chirped out a response to his greeting βItβs lovely to meet you too Yuki!!β as if it were even possible the Japanese manβs smile grew wider his eyes crinkling even more as you finally direct your attention to him, he then cheered out βFinally a normal sized Human by my side on the grid, thank you for not being freakishly tall!!β Huffing out an agreement you giggled βwhy yes Yuki, I Certainly need a fellow soldier in our war against the vertically gifted!!!!β Your personality started leaking out by the second, many of the drivers wheezing at the silly statement, many of them also noting that youβre most certainly gonna be a menace with Yuki, several of them kind of excited about witnessing the fun sized duo.
Speaking of vertically gifted Albono and George are up next both approaching after Yukiβs introduction. As they stopped in-front of you, a shadow suddenly engulfed your entire being with the two giants completely blocking the suns reach on you. The Williams driver and Mercedes driver towered over you. The two best friends grinning at you like two mischievous kids. Alex jokingly elbowing George in the gut so he could greet you before the Brit, he grasped your hand with a comforting grip, he then leaned down and kissed your hand and turned up his accent ten fold as he joked out βNice to meet you madam, it is an AAAbsolute PUhh-lleasure meeting you on this fine dayβ as the sentence left his mouth he cringed slightly at the persona he decided to greet you with, but was pleasantly surprised when you matched his energy with a just as over-the-top curtsy and thickly accented β-βWhy yes Good sir it is an absolute joy to be sharing such an enthralling introduction with youβ as you failed to stifle your giggles while replying to him, Alex let out a deep laugh as a toothy grin quickly appeared on his face. Looking towards George saying βI like her alreadyβ.
Impatient for his turn George quickly pushed Alex out of the way, the Brit then goes to cradle your palm in between his hands as he tried his best to turn up his chivalrous tenor hoping to swoon you with his prince-like (or so heβs been told) quality, could you blame the man you were absolutely a princess in his eyes, he definitely felt the need to be your knight the moment he saw you on the live stream. Offering you a gentle smile he professed βlovely to meet you my dear, if you ever need anything donβt hesitate to find me I will always have time to be at your serviceβ before you could reply with a polite nod and smile, somewhere in the room Max then wheezed into his closed fist perched against his mouth βtalk about try hardββ some drivers look away holding their laughs while the annoyed Brit sends a glare towards the Dutchman, as you giggle lightly at the antics of the frenemies, it brought back Georgeβs attention to you, you then smile sweetly looking up at him βIβll keep that in mind thank you Georgeβ as you placed your vacant hand on-top of his hands that still surrounded your other palm, doing this made him hyper aware of just how nice your hand felt on his, he just prayed that this wouldnβt fuck him up during the race later. As Alex looked towards his friends face he quickly stifled a laugh barely getting the words out βyou look like a tomato Georgieβ as the Brit quickly snapped out of it throwing out curses at his friend.
Isaack and Liam stood close together both of them making eye contact, as if saying βif you go I goβ. Slowly approaching you as the the Merc and Williams duo got lost in their bickering. Isack tapped you on your shoulder as he started his greeting βhi, can I just saβ-β ,Feeling the tap you turned quickly the action causing your hair to accidentally brush against Isacksβ cheek. The French driver stuttering from the feeling of your silky strands and the sweet smell of your shampoo so close to him. Noticing what happened you gasped lightly, your hand quickly raised, touching his cheek as if to check for any damage, despite it just being your hair that lightly grazed it. Your touch was the final blow completely causing the poor rookie to blank. Liam noticing his teammates dilemma was quick to take over (mentally cursing his teammates luck) βoh ummβ he was trying to say that weβre super excited to be starting our formula one debut with youβ as he gave you a cute smile. Hearing this your eyes sparkled as you seconded βOh yes!!!β As you quickly grab his hand startling him, your small grasp making him feel several degrees warmer βitβs an honor being a rookie with you guys!!!, hereβs to a great start to our careers!β (And this is the story of how Racing Bulls team became public enemy no.1)
Jack noticing that the two other rookies interaction with you was coming to a close, he swiftly grabbed onto Francoβs arm, the latter startled by the action was left sputtering incoherent mutters as he was still preparing a script in his head to greet you with, before he knew it he was face to face with you. Jack ever the sweetheart he was greeted you with a contagious smile as the other alpine driver beside him stood rigid and awkward. You and Jack fell easily into conversation, quickly exchanging thoughts on what your most excited to experience while on the paddock, if you squint you could see flowers springing around you and Jack, as you gripped his hand to shake it the Australian couldnβt help but feel like heβs held your hand before, like itβs meant to be there almost convinced that you must be a lover from a past life, leaving him to be lost in a daze, you quickly turn your attention to Franco noticing his awkward stance. You reach out slowly to him, offering your hand to shake waiting for him to come to you, knowing to take things slow as you were quite familiar with being awkward yourself, thinking of the many times where youβd wish someone would take things slow with you.
The moment you made eye contact with him, his heart stutter in his chest. Franco was a silent guy, it was just the way he was, he was so used to the comments of harsh critiques on the way he acted, calling him out from not being more like-able. But the moment you looked at him it was nothing but care and understanding, like you knew exactly what he felt. Yes you were pretty but your kindness just as enchanting, your introverted personality helped you find immediate connection with him and that brought solace to him knowing that heβd found a safe space in the grid, he grabbed your hand and gave it a squeeze, and you gave one right back, your grip firm as if trying to tell him that it will be okay. He thought to himself as he walked away, he just met you and he feels like years of trust have already been shared.
Quickly declaring himself next to meet you was Mr. Smooth Operator. As Carlos went to introduce himself he couldnβt help but follow your eye sight which was directed just above his eyes instead of his actual pupils. You couldnβt help it his hair was just as lovely as it looked on TV, if anything it looked even better in real lifeβ-Mentally checked in your head was a bucket list and admittedly touching his hair was definitely on said list. Still failing to meet his eyes the confused Spaniard curiously asked βis there something on my head?β Your eyes widen realizing that youβve been staring at the softness that crowned his scalp, causing you to suddenly blurt out βSorry- you just have really nice hair, I wanna touch itβ the moment the phrase left your mouth you panicked, ββUH SORRy- that was weird it was just a joke I totally donβt want to touch your hairβ uh- I mean no its not that your hair isnβt nice actually itβs the opposite your hair is just so niceββ
A hearty laugh leaves the Williams driver, completely endeared by your rambling, cutting you off Carlos lightly places his hands on your smaller shoulders, assuring you βitβs fine CariΓ±o, sure you can touch my hair Iβll even share with you my hair product if you want-β Smooth operator was indeed smooth with his operation as he crouched down to your shorter level. He then gently took your hand in his and laid it at the top of his head, allowing you to slightly comb your fingers through the strands of his hair, delicately afraid that youβd hurt him in some way, Carlos sighed softly at the feelingβ he could get used to this, he thought to himself mentally, your cheeks bloomed with pink as you stared at the handsome racer whoβs eyes were closed in bliss. Meanwhile the rest of the grid collectively sharing the same thoughts (darn you Carlos and your smooth operator ways-)
β-End of Part Oneβ-
Donβt worry this is just part one of this chapter :DD Ferrari duo, papaya duo, Kimi, Ollie, Gab, and Pierre will be in the next part! Plus the drivers I missed (aka Ocon n Lance, n Hulk gonna be Unc number two ^^)
Had to make it two parts for episode 3 focusing on first impressions //as it was getting a tad bit long didnβt want it to be overwhelming ^^
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Authors Note:
Hi guys sorry this took kinda long things came up, but I hope it was worth the wait some way or another, Iβll try to start dishing out these chapters plus other stories faster, they just end up being such long chapters, lemme know if you guys want me to cut down on the word count :)) thanks again for the patience!!!!
xoxo- Victoria
PS: sometimes I simp for the car, like theyβd be so fine as humans (send help)
Taglist: @lottie810 @malphaspeverii
(Just comment or message me if you wanna be added to the taglist :))
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language. Forgive me for any typo(s), grammatical errors, and such.
This is RAW and not read proof.
It is also my very first fanfiction. So kinda nervous over here. Have some mercy on me, please.
β Summary: You're being forced to watch F1 in Italy with your gay best friend who's obsessed with F1. When the camera man filmed you on big screen, everyone was dying to know who you are. And by everyone it means EVERYONE. Yes, including all the drivers and people behind it.
β Genre: slice of life, fluff, comedy (maybe?), non f1 fan!reader.
β WARNING: nothing except for my English and grammar, BAD and POOR translation, mention of y/n, female!reader and/or reader is using feminine pronouns, semi headcanons, slightly mention of kpop, and some Original Characters (OC) for the storyline!
George clicks on the user emirnotemir since it's not private and he starts to scroll all of his tweets. Now, this might make him sounds like a creep, but hey, he's just a normal curious guy. People says that curiosity kills the cat, but to George, satisfaction will bring it back.
There's not much he can find actually. This emirnotemir account mostly tweets about fashion, retweeting F1 and F1 fan account tweets, his hatred towards FIA (which made George laugh for good) and his interactions with his friends especially with the user oatmilked.
George sighs when he clicked that username because the account is private. The display name being 'military wife' doesn't help either, and who the hell is Jaehyun in the bio?
So George short 'stalking' session ends up with nothing. He even scrolled back to the user emirnotemir, but unfortunately out of 10,3K tweets that he made, not once he mention the name of the user oatmilked when they interact.
George stares at his phone screen that's now showing the profile account of the user oatmilked, he sighs again and then decided to end the stalking session, not knowing that his thumb accidentally clicked on the follow buttonβwhich it means he just sent a follow requestβwhen he wants to lock his phone.
George gets up and shoves his phone to his pocket before joining Max and Pierre to play air hockey, not realizing what kind of mental damage he just gave you.
"Go. I'll wait here," you say to Emir and push him to the changing room.
After breakfast and a short mental breakdown from that guy named George Russell who tweeted something about you earlier, you and Emir took a bus ride to this area that's known to have a lot of small but good stores.
As you sit yourself on the sofa of the store that you and Emir stumbled upon, you hear a notification sound from your phone.
Your eyes widen in shock and your mouth is hanging open as you see the new notification.
Your brain is still processing what you just saw that you didn't realize Emir is standing in front of you. "What do you think?" he asks.
"This is bad."
"Wait, really? I thought this shirt looks good on me," Emir huffs. You blink several times and shake your head. "I'm not talking about your shirt. Wait, I think I'm gonna puke." You cover your mouth as you shut your eyes.
Emir looks at you confused. "Are you okay?" He touches your shoulder. You shake your head and hand him your phone.
"What? Who do you want me to call?"
"No. Look at the notification!" You massage your temple. Now you look completely stressed out.
Emir presses the lock button and immediately his jaw drops.
"What the hell?!" He shrieks. He looks completely flabbergasted. He then looks at you in pity. "Ar... Are... Are you okay?" he asks.
You look up at him, your hands is covering your mouth. You shake your head. "I'm having my second mental breakdown right now. Do you have water?"
Emir sighs and gives you your water bottle that you always bring with you.
"I don't know that he's THAT curious about you, girl. Damn."
"How the hell did he find my account?!" you exclaim, chugging your water.
"Could it be because our friends tagged your account so many times?"
"No... No... They didn't say anything about it, though. All of their tweets didn't say anything about me being that girl, Em."
Emir presses his lips. "Well, you know... People tend to make connections and theories. And it's not that hard to do, you know? Maybe he found a theory and cracked the code."
You groan. You can feel a headache is coming.
"And if I don't accept his follow request, you, as an F1 fan, will you consider me rude?"
"Well, if I don't know you and if I don't love you, I'd say that you just insulted the whole fandom. But since I love you and you're my best friend, I'd say that it's okay, I guess," he answers. You glare at him.
"You're so annoying!"
"Just saying! Anyone would kill to experience this! This is like wattpad stories and tumblr fictions comes true, you know!"
You chuckle at his response and push him. "I need ibuprofen, though. Give me one," you say and stick your hand out at him.
He rolls his eyes and grabs his medicine box. "What will you do without me, huh?"
"So George, did you find anything about her? I saw your last tweet. What do you mean by 'noticing'?" Alex asks.
All of them is hanging out in the game room now. Some of them will fly back to Monaco later in the evening, so this is their 'last group meeting' before they go back to their own schedule and before they see each other again in Baku.
George shakes his head. Some of the drivers can't even hide the disappointments in their eyes when they see George shaking his head.
"There are some accounts that kept tagging the same two usernames in my tweet in which I found kind of weird because they tagged them multiple times and their tweets seemed like they're teasing or something. But when I checkedβmore like stalked, I admitβthose account, one is a private account and one is not, one of the account didn't tweet anything about coming to the race. Although it seems like they're a fan, but they didn't tweet anything about being in Monza.
"And as I said, one of the account is private and they don't put their name on the display name. So I found nothing, really," he tells and they sighs as the response.
"What are their usernames?" Yuki asks, pulling his phone from his pocket.
"The one that I stalked is emirnotemir and the private one is oatmilked with -ed at the end."
Some of them, well mostly the rookies, starts typing on their phones, searching the two accounts.
"Wait! The user oatmilked is a fan of Jaehyun! Although, I'm not sure which Jaehyun, since there are a lot of Jaehyuns," Yuki exclaims. The others looks at him with their eyebrows furrowed.
"Yeah... About him, who is Jaehyun?" George asks.
"I believe he is a k-pop idol. But I don't know from which group, because I know there are a lot of them with the same name," Yuki replies and they still stares at him dumbfounded.
Gabriel blinks, still don't get it. "I still don't understand."
Yuki waves his hands. "Aahh, forget it!" He rolls his eyes.
*P.s.: read the tweet from the bottom to the top. Left to right = latest to oldest.
"Well, I just stalked the other one and yes, I can't find anything about the race yesterday. But tweet that says 'Crazy week, indeed' is a bit suspicious now. Especially when he tweet that after retweeting George's tweet," Isack says, still scrolling. "And yes, he and the username oatmilked seems really close," he continues.
"And look at his reply on this tweet! It's kind of weird, no?" Isack shows his screen to George. The others immediately leans in to see it too.
"Yeah, no context and just that," Pierre nods. Everyone also hums, agreeing.
Lewis who's been quiet the whole time suddenly laughs. Everyone turns at him.
"I'm sorry lads, but I just realized that all of us looks like either a group of detective wannabes or a bunch of curious cats," Lewis says, finishing his laugh.
Hearing that makes everyone turns red. They didn't realize that they do sounds like a bunch of teenagers who are curious about this new girl in school or something.
Lando scratches his head, looks embarrassed. "This doesn't make us creepy, right?"
Fernando shakes his head. "Nah... Just completely desperate and a bit pathetic. Which is true, no?" he says, sipping his water.
"Now that you said it, I really can't believe us doing all of this for a random girl in a race yesterday. We are F1 drivers, what are we doing?" Max mutters, sounds completely confused to himself as well.
"I don't know about you guys, but to my defense, she's so pretty and attractive. My curiosity is valid," Charles says while raising his point finger.
"Hermano, I believe that is the only reason why we are all doing this. You're not the only one." Carlos smirks and shakes his head.
After few hours of shoppingβonce you calmed down and your short mental breakdown is over, of courseβyou and Emir decided to take a rest in this restaurant nearby. Lunch time is almost over, so luckily the restaurant is not as packed.
"Where do you think we should go to find Milan's shoes? That Adidas shoes is kinda hard to find," you ask, putting down your sunglasses.
"Mmm, there are some other places we haven't visited yet. Let's go there after this," Emir answers as he opens his phone.
Emir scrolls down his social media while waiting for the foods. "Do you know that people are still looking for you?"
"What is it again?" You groan. You rest your head on the table.
"Nah, they're still talking about you... You know, curious. Some even says that you're probably a hidden WAG."
You pucker your lips and you furrow your eyebrows. "What is a WAG?"
"Wife and Girlfriend."
"Is that an actual term?" You tilt your head.
Emir nods. "Usually for athletes, though."
You roll your eyes and huff. "Seriously? Bruh, this sport is not real."
"Hey, stop it! You've been insulting F1 since yesterday, do not make me insult your k-pop thingy back!" Emir protests, kicking your feet under the table.
"Sorry, okay!" You raise your hands in defeat.
Emir just rolls his eyes and back on his phone.
"HA! Look at this! You're really a celebrity now!" Emir slaps your arm and shoves his phone onto your face.
"Please, not again!" you groan and grab his phone.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL Fβ"
Emir immediately covers your mouth before you could finish your words. He glares at you. "We're in a restaurant, stupid! Mind your words!" He grits his teeth.
You push his hand away. "Seriously?! That's scary as hell, Em! I feel like I'm being watched!"
"Oh, come on! They didn't mention our specific location and look at her last sentence! They wanted to say hi but they knew you'd be scared. They're actually nice and careful." Emir shrugs his shoulders. "You always love making friends with strangers, remember? You always love it when they compliments your outfit," he adds.
You blow the strands of hair that fell in front of your face. "Well, I do! I still do! But not like this! I love making new friends with people who share the same likings as I do. And in this case? I don't. I don't like F1. And can you imagine what kind of things that people would say once they know that I'm not even an F1 fan but I'm getting all of this attention? And to make it even worse from all the drivers too?"
You take a deep breath and let it out softly.
"It would be unfair, you know? For all of the other fans. I'm a fan too, remember? And I'd be pissed as hell if my bias didn't notice me but they noticed someone who's not even a fan of them."
Emir sighs and smiles softly at you. He ruffles your hair. "You're being worried of things that don't even happen yet, Y/n."
"Yes, that would be totally unfair. But, you didn't ask for all of this. It's out of your control. People are the one who started this. Not you. If they want to blame, they should blame that cameraman. And please, do not compare F1 fandom to k-pop fandom. It's different. Although, I know and I believe there are some annoying and way too obsessed F1 fans out there just like k-pop fans too, but F1 is more... Chill? I guess. Annoying and jealous fans are in every single fandom, they cannot be avoided. But the normal ones? There are a lot too!"
"Ugh... I know... But I'm just scared, because I don't know what F1 fans are like."
"Oh girl, no need to worry about them!"
"But this is still stressing me out."
"I know and that's completely valid. If you're really disturbed by all of this, you should say something still. Like, let them know that you're not a public figure like they think you are and kindly tell them to stop hunting you down."
You nod at his suggestion. "Well, I guess I could do that."
"But you know what? If F1 drivers wants to be your friend or at least be on your mutual list, just let them be."
You raise your eyebrow at him. "Are you crazy?"
"I mean, come on! It wouldn't hurt to be their friends? It's not like as if you guys will meet or whatsoever? Just be mutuals. On social media. Most of them lives in Monaco and none of them live in Edinburgh. So, you're safe."
"That's still a bad idea, you know."
"I say IF. If they're really curious about you and genuinely want to know you."
You nod your head and sigh. "Yeah... If... I hope they don't, though."
Emir just chuckles. "Now, don't be all negative and anxious. You're gonna ruin my vibes!"
As you and Emir walking down the street while talking about some fashion stuff, you point your fingers to a gelato shop across the street.
"Gelato!" You shout excitedly. You drag Emir to that gelato shop and wait behind a woman with her little daughter.
"What flavor do you want? It says you can pick two." You nudge Emir and point at the menu board.
While you and Emir busy deciding which flavor to choose, suddenly two girls approach you and Emir and stands next to you.
"Hi."
You glance to the side and look at the two girls that you assume is around your age too. Or maybe slightly younger than you.
"Umm... Yeah?" you ask and smile at them.
"I'm sorry if we sound creepy or if we scare you, we don't mean to... But if you don't mind me asking, are you that girl on F1 big screen yesterday?" one of the girl asks. They look nervous and anxious. Your smile slightly fade away.
Emir is holding his laugh, glancing at you and nudges your arm.
You press your lips and scratch the bridge of your nose. You take a deep breath and let it out with a faint chuckle. "Well... That would be me. Hahaha. Hello."
"Oh my gosh! It's really you!" they shrieks happily, slightly jumps in joy.
You flinch a little and blink few times.
"I'm sorry we didn't mean to scare you! And if you're worried, no, we didn't follow you around! We saw you walking across here from that shop," the girl says, pointing at the store right next to the gelato shop.
You just nod your head. Well, this is awkward for you.
"Ummm, what's you name?" one of them asks. You press your lips again, looking hesitant to answer it.
The other girl shakes her head and say, "you know what? You don't have to answer that. We get it if you're uncomfortable. It must be scary to have all of the attention out of the sudden!"
You smile wide. It reach your eyes. You feel relieved.
"I'm sorry. It's just a bit too much, you know. But um, I mean, I can tell you my name, but if you can do me a favor, please do not share it," you say, feeling bad for some reason.
"No, no! It's fine! But umm, can we take a picture with you? I mean, George is looking for you and I believe all of the other drivers too. We just want to mock them for meeting you first. If you don't mind us upload it too, of course!" They stares at you with hope in their eyes like as i you're some kind of their inspiration or something.
You look at Emir, silently asking him. And he just nods his head one time, signaling that it's fine.
You sigh softly and then nod. "Sure. But if you want to upload it or tell people about our meeting, can you do that few hours after this? You know... For safety."
The two girls immediately nods their heads. "Of course! Don't worry about it! I'll upload it later at night!"
"Okay, cool! Thank you for your understanding," you reply. The girls just smiles and nods.
"Here, let me take the pictures of you guys!" Emir says as one of them handed him her phone.
"Thank you... Are you guys couple?" one of them asks.
You look at her in horror. "Me? And him? No, no! He's my best friend and he's gay and happily in love with his boyfriend."
The two girls nods and smiles at Emir. "Oh my gosh! How cute!"
Emir laughs. "Thanks, darling! Now, come on let's take a picture!"
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Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language. Forgive me for any typo(s), grammatical errors, and such.
This is RAW and not read proof.
It is also my very first fanfiction. So kinda nervous over here. Have some mercy on me, please.
β Summary: You're being forced to watch F1 in Italy with your gay best friend who's obsessed with F1. When the camera man filmed you on big screen, everyone was dying to know who you are. And by everyone it means EVERYONE. Yes, including all the drivers and people behind it.
β Genre: slice of life, fluff, comedy (maybe?), non f1 fan!reader.
β WARNING: nothing except for my English and grammar, BAD and POOR translation, mention of y/n, female!reader and/or reader is using feminine pronouns, semi headcanons, slightly mention of kpop, and some Original Characters (OC) for the storyline!
It's currently 8AM, the sun is out, it seems like it's gonna be another sunny day, which you don't mind at all, and you're sitting on the floor while doing your make up peacefully. As you're applying your blush on, Emir helps you blowing your hair.
"You know, for someone who is going viral right now, you're pretty calm," Emir says.
You sigh and snap your head to face him. "Do you really have to remind me that this early? I'm trying to forget it!"
"Girl, I have to constantly remind you that! What are you going to do about it?"
You furrow your eyebrows, totally confused by his question.
"What do you mean, what I'm gonna do about it? NOTHING! I'm doing NOTHING!"
Emir gasps at your answer. His mouth is wide open like you just insult him. "Excuse you?! All of the F1 drivers knows your existence and you're not doing anything about it?!"
You huff and shake your head.
"Like I said last night, I'm not interested and I couldn't care less," you mutter as you get up.
"But-" you shush him immediately as you pose in front of him. "How do I look? How's my outfit?"
Emir glares at you. "You look beautiful and your outfit is on point. Can we go now? I'm hungry and desperately need my coffee."
All of the drivers is staring at George who's sitting and sipping on his cup of tea calmly like he didn't do anything.
"Must be hell to be your PR team," Lewis chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. George just shrugs his shoulder, clearly do not care at all.
"Toto didn't say anything after you did that?" Max asks him.
George raises his phone in the air. "No message!"
All of them just shakes their head. Some is smiling and giggling, the others just sighs as the leans back.
"If we get her name by the end of this day, you're the MVP, George!" Isack grins at him.
George just smirks. But then the smirk didn't last long.
"But, what if you scare her? The fact that it's the next day and we still don't know her name, it means that she's keeping her identity. What if we scare her?" Ollie says.
And that's when the room fell silent. Everyone is staring at the rookie.
Ollie scratches his head. "I mean like, you know... Well, I was just saying."
Lewis smiles softly. "Nah, you make a good point, buddy. But then again, the buzz hasn't stopped since yesterday, even after the race was over. Also, George's tweet sounds a lot more playful rather than serious. I believe everyone see it as a mere joke."
Ollie nods at his response, so does the others. They seem relieved after hearing Lewis' answer.
"Let's just make a deal, then. If by the end of the day we still don't get her name, we should just accept it and move on. Let's respect her privacy," Fernando says.
The silence fills the air for almost a whole minute as everyone is lost in thought. Lewis then breaks it as the first person to agree.
"Sure. Let's do that," he nods.
George is slightly pouting but then nods. "Okay, I guess."
Although some seem a bit hesitant, but then they're all agree in the end.
"Tissue, please," you ask Emir. As he sips his iced vanilla latte, he gives you some tissues. You mutter a thank you and wipe your mouth.
"Where do you want to go after this?" you stir your iced matcha latte, eyeing him.
Last night, you told him to make an itinerary for today. It's his trip, so you just let him.
"Yo! What's going on with my notifications? Why is everyone tagging me and you?"
You look at him confused. "What do you mean?"
You grab your phone on the table and when you open it, your mouth is open wide.
"GIRL?!" Emir exclaims and then laughs at you. He touches your chin up. Making your mouth shut.
"Who the hell is George Russell?!"
Emir sighs. "I literally told you about him last night? He's an F1 driver! For Mercedes! Remember?"
You purse your lips into an 'O' and you nod your head. "Oh."
Emir chuckles and shakes his head. "Damn, all of the F1 drivers really want to know who you are."
"Bruh, what is F1 even about? And respectfully? They're all not real. Why are they curious over a random girl?" You tilt your head in confusion.
"Babe, you don't forbid a bunch of hot and talented men to be curious about the prettiest woman in Monza GP yesterday? That's rude!" Emir slaps your hand playfully.
"If they're k-pop idols, the whole world would eat them alive and then their career is done." You shake your head and grab your matcha latte and sip it.
"And that's why they're better than k-pop idols, darling!" Emir winks at you. You roll your eyes.
"Whatever!" you reply lazily. You glance back to your phone and reply some of your friends tweet. Not all of it, because your friends tagged you and Emir a lot and multiple times.
Breakfast time is over. Some of the drivers back to their rooms, some of them are hanging out by the pool, some just roaming around, and the rest are hanging out in a game room, enjoying the air conditioner.
George is sitting on the sofa in the game room, scrolling his notifications tab to see if there's anyone kindly drop your name out of pity to him.
So far? No luck, until his eyes caught some of the tweets that tagged the same two usernames multiple times. In a speed of light, George reads those tweets that tagged user oatmilked and emirnotemir.