I really am a fiend for dark romance because I just had an idea for Dark!Oscar x Logan
Oscar is so nervous and worried. Logan just got let go by Williams and he doesn't want the driver to leave him. So ofcourse, he takes his worries to his Dad, Max Verstappen.
When Max listened to Oscar's worries, He gave him advice. "Oscar, do you want to know how I got Charles?" Oscar nods vigorously. Max explains how he first made Charles desperate. When it was still 2018, there was a rule where an omega can only join the motorsport if they are already mated. So Max used it to his advantage. He destroyed every possible date Charles had, and threatened all potential mates Charles had. Until Charles called him, begging to be mated because he wanted to continue racing. And well, it would've been rude of Max to say no.
"But that can't work with my situation! Logan is already out of the sport, and I can't do anything to make him desperate enough!" Max chuckles at Oscar's little outburst. "Schat, did you forget? Unmated Omegas over the age of 25 are auctioned in Monaco. So how desperate would he be if he can't mate with an Alpha before the end of next year?" Everything clicks in Oscar's brain, a plan already forming in his head.
Max watches the gears turn in his son's head, a proud grin on his face. After all, his son was basically following in his footsteps.
Like father, Like son, he supposes.
It's been a while since I gave you an ask Love you Nina!!!! ❤️💙❤️
Hi @charles-ver5tappen ❤️💙
Ahhhh Charlesssss so happy to see you again!! Hope you're been doing well, missed youuuuu 🥹💓
This is going to be such a darkly devious (and unintentionally hilarious) AU because Max helping his baby boy plot and scheme to ensnare Logan and make sure the Omega never leaves his side?? Ahh it's so nostalgic that it causes Max to ask for a little role play session later that night so he and Charles reenact their first time together 🥰
Max teaching Oscar to manipulate the law to his advantage and capitalize on the fact that Logan, even as a temporary resident of Monaco, would be forced to participate in the same auction all the other unmated Omegas are required to enter once they turn 25? Cinema. Wonderfully nefarious and beautifully depraved cinema!!
Oscar sets this plan into motion by inviting Logan over to his grid parents house for dinner. He knows how isolated Logan's been since he entered F1 (and okay, Oscar was partially to blame for this...because he's been scaring off any Alpha or Beta who tried to approach Logan for the last two years) and frames this dinner as a "warm, family occasion."
Logan is vulnerable, heartbroken, and without any close friends or family nearby.
Well, no close friends or family except Oscar.
And the Alpha decides that his original plan of a long, slow courtship was just plain stupid. He should've done what his grid dad did years ago and take his destiny into his own two hands. After all, it wasn't like Oscar was going to allow Logan to date anyone else so why not just speed along the relationship by the locking the Omega down and letting the world know Logan Hunter Sargeant is 500% taken?
Oscar requests their private chef tailor the menu to Logan's tastes and asks his grid mama to choose table decor that evokes sunshine, ocean waves, and an endless summer. Charles can only coo at his baby's thoughtfulness—in truth, he's so happy that his and Max's grid pup has finally decided to go after his true love, full send, no hesitation.
Charles remembers his own courtship and how his Alpha was so devoted, attentive, and adoring...the exact same way Max is now ❤️🔥 an Omega should be pampered and doted on, they should be protected by their Alpha. They should be provided for and kept safe and happy.
And Charles can't wait to show Logan just how beautiful life can be once he's mated to Oscar.
Oscar watches, heart in his throat as Logan finally arrives. He's dressed in a simple long sleeved white cashmere sweater and a sky blue satin skirt with sequined floral appliqué on the sides. A skirt that Oscar instantly recognizes because it's the same skirt he gave Logan last year.
On his birthday.
Logan, his perfect, sweet Omega, is holding out a tray of freshly baked lemon bars (with candied lemons on top) and a bouquet of pink roses.
Oscar's heart is ready to explode with love as Charles sweeps him up in a tight hug while Max proudly claps Oscar's shoulder. "You chose well, son." His low, raspy voice is full of praise.
Oscar's chest puffs out with joy and pride. "I know, dad." He beams at Logan, whose now rosy-cheeked from all of Charles's compliments. "I'm going to get Logan to stay over." He adds. "Can you um, can you shut off the water in the third guest bedroom? The one that's next to mine?"
Max gives him a knowing smile. "Getting your Omega to use your shower on the first night? Bold move, kanjer."
"Logan's shy. He won't want to inconvenience anyone but his weakness is a hot shower or a long bath." Oscar explains as he and his dad stand to the side, watching as Logan hands the bouquet to Charles before moving to set down the lemon bars on the dining room table. "I only have four months before the auction. And I want Logan to ask."
Max glances down at his son. "Ask?"
He nods. "I want Logan to ask me to mate him. And then I want to give him everything."
He feels his father kiss the top of his head. "I'm proud of you, schat. And I can't wait to finally become a grandfather."
Oscar smiles, moving to embrace Logan after the Omega begins to fidget by the dining table. "Logie," Oscar opens his arms wide—
And feels elation wash over him with the Omega tumbles into his arms without hesitation.
Trust.
Logan trusts Oscar will catch him.
And Oscar will—from now on, he'll protect Logan and give him the world.
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——From Ch.8 of Mr. Piastri, a WIP landoscar p&p au
Lando had not asked for the rain.
It had begun half an hour ago as a modest patter, the sort of thing one could ignore—but had since worked itself into a deluge, a slight upon the library windows so insistent he could only take it as personal. Beyond the panes, the gardens had dissolved into a formless blur of greens and greys: Nature, apparently, had grown weary of distinction and chosen instead to indulge in a fit of the picturesque.
Lando stood fixed before the towering shelves, his gaze traversing their heights with a frequency that betrayed less an interest in their contents than a profound reluctance to acknowledge the room’s only other occupant.
“Blast,” he breathed, the utterance escaping him with the faintest hiss. The outward expression of a spirit caught in that most painful of geometries: the acute angle between pride and necessity.
Mr. Piastri had arranged himself with rather conspicuous ease within the recess of the window seat, where the grey light fell upon him in a manner so deliberately painterly that one might have supposed him posed there by an artist with a taste for moral allegory. The brow composed, the jaw defined, the studious tranquillity so entirely self-contained as to provoke, in a breast less guarded than Lando’s own, the most unaccountable sentiment of reluctant admiration. His book lay open in his hands; his eyes were fixed upon its pages with an intensity that might have convinced any ordinary observer of his profound absorption.
Lando, however, had noted—with the particular acuity that mortification often lends—that not a single page had been turned in the space of ten minutes.
Whether this stillness signalled a depth of thought too great for bodily motion, or merely a studied indifference to the gentleman struggling with his own consequence a mere ten feet distant, Lando could not with certainty determine. He had his suspicions.
“The third step of the ladder possesses a slight instability. I mention it only as a precaution, lest its discovery should come at an inopportune moment.”
Lando started—a flinch of the shoulder, quickly mastered, though the colour did rise up his neck.
“I should recommend skipping it altogether,” the speaker continued, so consumed by his volume that he had not so much as raised an eye to deliver his warning. “or, if you must, placing your weight with the most scrupulous caution. A sprained ankle, I fear, would deprive the assembly most cruelly of your thoughts upon agricultural reform this Friday.”
With his hand yet hovering near the aforesaid ladder—paused in the very act of testing its treachery—Lando found himself arrested midway between vexation and a sensation he could scarcely own to himself, though it bore all the troubling warmth of fondness.
“Do you make it a habit, sir,” he returned, “to fuss over the hazards of every household you enter? Or is it only those which might befall me that earn your particular vigilance?”
“Merely an observation,” replied Piastri, at last condescending to look up. “The book you seek is upon the table behind you. I have done with it.”
The Marlowe.
“You read poetry?” Lando asked, and was vexed again, this time at his own tongue, which had betrayed a surprise he ought by rights to have concealed. “I had understood your library to consist of agricultural treatises and account books, and your attention confined to the same.”
A movement of Piastri’s eyebrow—so slight as to be scarcely perceptible, yet invested with the force of a considered set-down.
“Your assumption regarding my habits of reading,” said he, “appears to be as thoroughly researched as your theories on estate management, Mr. Norris.”
Lando retrieved the volume with a hand that strove for composure, his intention being to remove himself to a distant chair; to establish, by such means, a more decorous distance from this strange and charged atmosphere. Yet politeness would not suffer him to quit the scene without acknowledgment.
“…My thanks.” He said stiffly.
“You are entirely welcome,” came the reply, delivered with a gravity that might have passed for sincerity in one less acquainted with Mr. Piastri’s habits. “The ladder, I am sure, joins me in this sentiment.”
Lando turned away, retreating to a window-seat at the far end of the library, where the afternoon light fell in another slanted column. He opened the book with a deliberate casualness— his thoughts were wholly given to poetry, after all; and not at all to the gentleman still seated across the room. He flipped through the pages, anticipating, perhaps, some bland pastoral verse, or moral instruction of the sort that might be safely discussed over tea.
A bookmark of dark green ribbon fluttered to the floor.
He bent to retrieve it, but his eyes were already arrested—held fast by the lines that lay open before him. His hand froze midway to the fallen marker.
Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,
A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
A brow for love to banquet royally;
And such as knew he was a man, would say,
‘Leander, thou art made for amorous play:
Why art thou not in love, and loved of all?
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.’
The verse seemed to pulse upon the page, each line a deliberate provocation. Yet it was no fault of the eyes, no common confusion of the letters, that made the words appear so restless—the meaning itself would not sit still. Lando read it once, and then again, as though by repetition he might render it less devastatingly plain.
He took up the ribbon at last, his fingers brushing against the fine silk. In one corner, worked in thread so delicate it might have been spun from air, were two unmistakable initials:
O.P.
His hand trembled slightly as he traced the margin downward to the next stanza, also marked with a faint pencil line, so light it might have been accidental. Yet he knew it was not. Nothing Mr. Oscar Piastri did was without design.
His body was as straight as Circe’s wand;
Jove might have sipped out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpassed
The white of Pelops’ shoulder...
The volume grew suddenly heavy in his grasp. Or perhaps it was his arm that had lost its strength, his pulse that had grown too loud in his own ears, and in the midst of this confusion of the senses he became acutely aware— of the precise number of paces that separated him from the window seat, of the quality of silence that reigned there.
Of the subtle shift of Mr. Piastri’s position in his chair.
…I could tell ye
How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly,
And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path, with many a curious dint,
That runs along his back...
“You were in search of Ovid,” came that voice, measured and low. “Third shelf. Though I suspect you have discovered something rather more… modern.”
Lando did not turn. He could not, for the moment, trust his countenance to any audience.
“Modern?” he echoed, with a creditable attempt at lightness. “I had understood the piece to be of some antiquity.”
“The poem, yes. The passage selected, however,” said Piastri, and there was a calculated pause, “would appear to be of more recent interest.”
Lando turned slowly, as though the movement itself might grant him time to compose himself. He expected to find Piastri defensive. Wearing that familiar mask of cool dismissal, perhaps, with which he was accustomed to parry unwelcome intimacy. Instead, the gentleman sat perfectly still, one delicate finger tracing the spine of his own book in a slow, absent rhythm—the only sign of some internal agitation, though his face betrayed nothing but a kind of watchful patience.
“You marked this passage.” It was not an inquiry.
“I did.” No hesitation. No evasion. The finger continued its idle path along the leather binding, a motion that seemed almost hypnotic in its regularity.
“For my discovery.”
“Indeed.”
And then came the look—intense was not near strong enough a word to describe what passed across Mr. Piastri’s features and settled in those brown eyes, which now fixed upon Lando’s with an expression of terrible calm. He might have been a man awaiting a verdict; or perhaps a man who had already calculated the odds of every possible outcome, and found any of them preferable to continuing the pretense.
“…You have professed to find all such stuff frivolous.”
The words came rougher than Lando wished. Something flickered in the set of Piastri’s mouth, the suppression of a smile or the tightening of a more complicated sentiment.
“I believe I stated a distaste for melodrama,” he corrected, each syllable precise as a cut from a surgeon’s knife. His breath, Lando could not help but observe, was not quite so steady as his voice would suggest—a quickening in the rise and fall of his chest, visible only to one who had, perhaps, spent more time observing such particulars than was strictly prudent.
“This is Marlowe. It is… a classic.”
“This is Leander,” Lando countered, and he lifted the volume slightly. The green ribbon dangled from his fingers, its embroidered initials catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate—
“‘Made for amorous play.’”
The silence that followed was of that species which expands to fill every corner of a room, pressing against the walls and the high shelves and the very lungs of the men who stood within it. Mr. Piastri’s finger ceased its tracing. His hand fell still upon the book, and for a long moment, he merely regarded Lando with that same unwavering gaze, as though he were a puzzle whose solution had been known to him from the first, yet whose revelation he was content to postpone.
The clock upon the mantel ticked. Once. Twice.
“You have read it, then.”
Lando’s throat had grown unaccountably dry. He swallowed, and the motion seemed to draw Piastri’s gaze to his neck—a glance so fleeting it might have been accidental, had the circumstances permitted any belief in accident.
“I have read it,” Lando replied, and was vexed to hear how breathless he sounded. “Though I confess myself uncertain of the lesson you intended to convey by it. Unless you mean to suggest that agricultural reform is but a poor substitute for the pleasures of the flesh.”
A dangerous light entered Piastri’s eyes. “I should never be so bold as to offer lessons, Mr. Norris,” said he, and now he rose from his chair— all elegant limbs and deliberate motion until he stood at his full height, his gaze now level with Lando’s own. “I merely thought it a passage of some literary merit, which you might appreciate.”
“You thought I might appreciate being compared to Leander.”
“I thought,” said Piastri, taking a single step forward, closing the distance between them to something near impropriety, “that you might appreciate knowing I had thought of you at all.”
The book hung loose in Lando’s fingers. He could feel the warmth of Piastri’s proximity, could see the faint colour that had risen in those usually impassive cheeks, could count the individual lashes that framed those dark, observant eyes. The afternoon light slanted between them, casting long shadows across the library floor.
The clock ticked on.
Lando’s heart, however, had set up a rhythm in his breast that seemed altogether too loud for the quiet of the library; surely Piastri must hear it, must be counting the beats as Lando himself was counting them, each one marking the distance yet remaining.
“Mr. Piastri,” he began, and found he had no notion how the sentence was to end.
“Mr. Norris,” came the reply, soft and low, with just the ghost of a smile, playing at the corners of the thin line that passed for a mouth.
It was at this precarious moment wherein the very air seemed to hold its breath, that the library door swung open with an enthusiasm altogether ungoverned and, one might venture, providentially ill-timed.
“There you are!” exclaimed Mr. Leclerc, whose entrance announces itself not merely through the aperture of a door but through every corner of a room, as though the very atmosphere were obliged to make way for his good-natured, French-accented vigour. “I have been searching the whole of the ground floor, and Mr. Verstappen declared he had seen you both retreating this way an age ago, and I said to him, ‘What possible business can they have in the library when the morning is so fine?’—though of course it is not fine now, but it was then, and—”
He stopped.
“Oh,” said Mr. Leclerc, with rather less conviction. “I say. Am I interrupting?”
The question, posed with such innocent bewilderment, landed in silence of a quality which no amount of cheerful volubility could quite fail to recognise. Mr. Piastri withdrew—not hastily, for nothing Mr. Piastri did was ever hasty, but with a measured step that restored a more decorous distance between himself and Lando. His countenance had settled into its accustomed mask of polite reserve.
“Not at all,” said Piastri. “Mr. Norris was merely acquainting himself with the library’s collection. I was offering my assistance.”
Mr. Leclerc’s burrowed brow cleared at once. “Ah, capital! Then you shall be of assistance to me too— I am told there is a particular volume on engineering that you recommended to Mr. Verstappen some days past, and I am determined to find it before the afternoon is out, though I confess the arrangement of these shelves defeats me entirely. You have a way with these things—you always know exactly where everything is kept.”
He beamed at Piastri with the uncomplicated warmth of a man who had never, in the whole course of his life, found himself in a situation he could not readily interpret. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him.
“But no— no. I collect it is not upon this floor at all. Arthur mentioned something of his having moved it to the study last Michaelmas. How foolish of me. I shall go up directly.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “You will not abandon the library entirely, I hope? Piastri, you will keep Norris company until I come back?”
“If Mr. Norris has no objection.”
“None whatsoever.”
“Excellent!” Mr. Leclerc beamed again, apparently satisfied that all was in perfect order. “I shall not be above a quarter of an hour. Mr. Verstappen has noted the return of that excellent seed-cake—he was quite insistent that we wait for the full party, the thoughtful creature, and I cannot bring myself to disappoint him…”
And with that, he was gone—the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
The ribbon slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor once more, settling at their feet as if a challenge neither of them seemed willing to take up.
Mr. Piastri was the first to break—a distinction, perhaps, which he bore with little satisfaction, for though it was he who moved, it was with the air of a man compelled rather than willing. Crossing to the window, he placed himself before the streaming glass with his back half-turned.
"The weather appears to be clearing."
It did nothing of the sort. The rain continued its melancholy descent with the same steady determination it had maintained all afternoon; the clouds hung as low and as grey as ever; and the light, if anything, had dimmed to the shade of pewter which precedes a heavier fall.
"Piastri—"
"You would do well, sir, to rejoin the company." He did not turn from the window, and for a moment, his reflection in the glass—watchful, suspended between the gathering dusk and the warm-lit room behind—offered a vision all but spectral. "Lest our mutual absence grow ripe for remark."
But Lando, whose eyes of late had become so painfully attuned to every shade of Mr. Piastri’s bearing, had already perceived the faint tremor in the fingers that curled against the polished wood. The rigid line of his back, where the elegant fall of his coat could not quite conceal the tension that held him upright.
“The poem.”he murmured. “Hero and Leander. It speaks of—”
“I am perfectly acquainted with the subject.” The interruption came swift, near fierce, cutting through the quiet with a precision that spoke of a matter weighed, considered, and set aside many times before. Piastri’s dark eyes would not meet Lando’s own. “Forbidden desire. A love that dares not breathe its name. The swimmer who drowned in seeking what lay beyond his reach.”
"A rather pessimistic choice," Lando managed, though his throat had grown curiously constricted.
"Realistic." came the reply, almost inaudible beneath the patter of rain against the glass. Then, softer still— so soft that had Lando not been standing so near, it might have escaped him entirely, in a voice that seemed to cost its owner no small effort:
"But you will note I marked the passage concerning Leander's beauty, and not his demise."
The admission fell like a stone dropped from a great height. Lando felt the impact of it through his whole frame, his pulse set racing and his thoughts scattering like startled birds.
"Is he," he asked, and his voice was scarcely his own, so stripped was it of all artifice—"what you desire?"
Mr. Piastri’s laugh was but a breath, and one in which no mirth resided. His reflection stood still within the glass, and very beautiful, in the grey light.
“What I desire has never been of consequence.”
Lando took up the ribbon. He set the book again upon the table, with that gentleness one reserves for objects both precious and perilous—such as might sear the fingers if held overlong, or vanish beyond recovery if once laid down.
He turned his gaze upon the gentleman before him: a man whose austere profile he had observed, time and again, in drawing-room and dining-room, at assembly and upon the street; who now stood at the window with his eyes fixed upon some middle distance that might have been the garden, or might have been the past, or might have been any one of a thousand futures that would never come to pass.
He crossed the final distance until his own reflection swam beside Mr. Piastri's in the darkened glass; and he could mark, with a clarity that pain itself could not have exceeded, how the shoulders had drawn up towards the ears, how the fingers had tightened upon the ledge until the knuckles stood pale as marble.
"And if I were to tell you that your desires are of the greatest consequence to him?"
Mr. Piastri did not move. He did not speak. Lando was seized by the singular fancy that the gentleman had altogether ceased to draw breath.
“Oscar,” he said, and watched the other man’s eyelids flutter shut.
The rain traced its rivulets down the pane. Somewhere in the depths of the house, the clock struck the quarter-hour, with that particular melancholy resonance which clocks assume when they are heard in moments of high sentiment.
Then Mr. Piastri turned.
And when his eyes opened fully, there was such a look of startled hope as one might behold in a traveller— who, having abandoned all expectation of shelter, finds a light burning in the window nonetheless. A thing he had forgotten he might be given, a thing he scarcely knew how to receive. For the first time, Lando could not help but think him remarkably young.
🌞 day version: max v and oscar, two of the company’s most talented devs, are put together on a project to launch a new product in a timeframe that other people have said is “impossible”. the whole team expects fireworks, but it turns out the two of them are just really good at their jobs. they have a brutally efficient 30 minute daily standup with the team and everyone works super hard but smart and it’s clinically excellent. like. the industry has never seen such a painless and efficient build before. also they are the most aggressive demonstrators of end of day clean desk policy. oscar only has a single potted plant on his. max has only pictures of his two cats in minimal black photo frames. they both use wet wipes aggressively.
🌚 after dark version:
the same thing, but lando and charles start to get jealous about the time max and oscar are spending together. to the point where other people notice and comment. and also oscar and max talk in unintelligible programming shorthand and have too many in jokes. so then, after hours, oscar and max discuss what they should do about this. having run through waterfall scenarios and decision trees of all possible options, both of them blurt out, at exactly the same time:
I'm back again about the 10 year challenge (Yeah I fear I'm back already)
So obviously the gossip grid post would have instantly become a media sensation and the Rosberg-hamilton pack are really just trying to ignore it as best as they can and they make it approximately 1 race before Lewis snaps.
Maybe its a press conference and the planners had the bright idea to put Charles Lewis and Max on together and every question is about their family instead of their racing and lewis snaps worse than he ever has on live television
And when he gets home that evening he just collapses into Nicos arms. He'd done his best to keep his family safe and here the Internet was taking a carelesd slip up and turning it into the next big story
And maybe that small mistake lead to baby no3 and thats what made lewis snap in yhat oress conference so all he can bear to do that evening is hold his babies close and press gentle kisses to the barely their bump
Nico however has never seen Lewis this just downbeaten and decides the next time he's working with sky to (After clearance with sky sports) basically lecture the fans about respect for the drivers private lives. And when lewis sees the clip? He's never been prouder of his omega and if nico wasn't already having their 3rd baby? well he defienetly would be after that night (The kids were with their uncle seb because he demanded niece and nephew time)
I fear this is a little all over the place but the main thing is extremely protective Lewis who's being burnt out by how persistent the reporters are wgen he just wants to look after his family and Nico sees this and decides the world needs a lesson in respect 😌
-🍓
Hi 🍓 Anon!
10 year challenge (Brocedes version): Part 1
Ohhh 🍓 Anon!! 😭🥹 This is too precious!! Nico taking the reins and basically deciding to call out all the nosy, intrusive "journalists" after the disastrous "joint trio interview" where Lewis, Max, and Charles were treated like reality show stars instead of professional athletes?? Hell yes!
Do not ever underestimate Nico's mama bear instincts and the ferocity with which he'll protect and defend his pups!! I'm picturing this particular moment in the interview is the powder keg that causes Nico to intervene and give everyone a verbal bitchslap on what constitutes proper interview questions and methodology:
Event: First presser ahead of the Dutch GP at the Zandvoort Circuit
Panel:
Lewis Hamilton - Ferrari
Charles Leclerc - Ferrari
Max Verstappen - Red Bull Racing
Q&A Session:
Q: And this is a question for Charles. Hi Charles, I hope you're well. Based the new information that's come to light concerning you and your relationships, does it ever worry you that the victories you've achieved may be due to familial connections instead of on track performance?
C. Leclerc: What do you mean by that?
M. Verstappen: Charles's performance on track is due to his skill and hard work, not anything else.
Q: My apologies, I should have clarified—what I mean to say is, does it ever concern you that your poles and P1 trophies may be attributed to your mate and father-in-law taking it easy on you?
C. Leclerc: You want me to answer?
Q: If you can.
C. Leclerc: I think you should start watching more races. Because if you think, for even one moment, that my Max or my father-in-law would ever give me an advantage on track, then you are blind and stupid. On track, the only thing that matters is performance. Family ties are irrelevant. We fight for every single pole, every single lap, and every single podium. I trust them to do their best and they trust me to do the same.
M. Verstappen: And if you think my Charlie would still be with me if I ever "took it easy" on him, then you're even dumber than you look. Charles would have driven me off track, yanked off my helmet, and slapped me in front of the world if I dared to slow down by even a fraction of a second.
L. Hamilton: If you think I have so little respect for Charles Leclerc, the racer and athlete, then I suggest you reconsider your career in sports journalism. Because I trust every driver on track to battle me at the limit, to push me harder and faster because that's what Formula One is. We are the pinnacle of Motorsport and to even assume a single driver would give another driver the advantage is just...I don't even know what to call it.
M. Verstappen: Idiocy.
Moderator: Alright, Mr. Verstappen. We can move on. Next question.
Q: Hi Lewis, Lorna McHale from the BBC. Shifting the topic, I do wonder if you can touch on the 2021 title fight with your son, Max? At the time, I think your wife had just given birth to your son, Emil, and you were experiencing some trouble later in the season. Do you think your divided priorities and scattered attention was the reason for your decline in performance?
M. Verstappen: You fucking—how dare you try and blame my brother for anything that happened in 2021. It was a goddamn title fight and my dad put everything on track, you fucking—
L. Hamilton: That's enough, Max.
M. Verstappen: But dad—
C. Leclerc: Maxie, come here. Let dad handle it, ouais?
L. Hamilton: Hi Lorna. You've certainly painted a fantastical scenario of 2021. I admit, it's a stressful time—Max and I gave everything in that title fight, right down to the wire at Abu Dhabi. We were rivals on track but we respected one another immensely as athletes and as professionals. When I was on track, my sole focus and attention was on the race. When I was off track, my sole focus and attention was with my family. That's all there is to it.
Q: I'm sorry Lewis, but you didn't answer my question.
L. Hamilton: Because the rest of your question doesn't pertain to racing.
Q: Forgive me, but I think it does. You have to admit, your wife being hospitalized early in the season must have been distracting and on top of that, you came home every day to a chaotic household with a toddler, a newborn, two grid pups, and madness. You can't tell me that didn't affect your mental state and performance on track.
L. Hamilton: You will not speak about my wife or my family like that again. They are not up for discussion. Our private life is just that—private. And I don't care if you want to poke and prod me about mistakes I've made on track or arguments I've had with my race engineer or my team. But you will never speak about those months my wife spent in the hospital after giving birth to our boy. I've let you fuc—vultures attack my family for this entire goddamn panel and you know what, I'm drawing the line here. You either talk about the race and the updates to the car or you keep your mouth shut. My family is not a reality show for you to watch and gawk over. If you can't respect that, then get out. Now.
Moderator: Mr. Hamilton—
[L. Hamilton rises from the couch and storms out of the interview without glancing back.]
The room is left is stunned silence (the livestream is still going on) as fans everywhere watch as the usually controlled and PR perfect Sir Lewis Hamilton slams the door and leaves the interview with no apologies or explanations.
No one knows that Lewis drove right to his hotel and practically dove into his mate's arms the second he saw Nico dozing in his nest. Lewis feels like a failure as he buries his face in the crook of his wife's neck, apologizing over and over for being foolish and reckless—for exposing their beautiful family to the public and realizing too late what's happened.
Nico soothes him, stroking his hair and kissing his temple.
Because really, it wasn't Lewis's fault—Nico was the one who was horny, impatient, and needy for his Alpha. Nico was the one who wrapped his legs around Lewis's waist and ground his wet, sopping cunt against his husband's growing bulge until Lewis snapped and fucked him right there, in a shadowed corner of the paddock.
He feels his Alpha rest his large hand on Nico's barely there bump. He's two months along, their third pup having been conceived during that frantic, rushed coupling after the Barcelona Grand Prix. Nico had felt dizzy and nauseous for weeks after Austria but neither of them thought he could be pregnant.
Nico was 41 years old and after the difficulty of Emil's birth, both he and Lewis had quietly realized they may never have another pup again.
But then—
This little miracle came along. Nico gathered the courage to take a pregnancy test with Charles and Ollie holding his hands.
Pregnant.
He and Lewis had been overjoyed, their entire family piling into Nico's nest for cuddles and scenting and kissing their mama's still flat belly. Lewis had become even more protective of his wife and family, particularly as this latest pregnancy had Nico exhausted most of the time.
Lewis wanted his mate and pups to live peacefully, without the constant scrutiny that came with being a celebrity in the limelight. But with the leaked video clip, that all became impossible.
And now, the Alpha exhales, it was affecting their professional lives too. It infuriated him that anyone would think they weren't capable of battling hard on track just because it was revealed Max was his grid pup and Charles was his son-in-law. It wasn't fair to his pups and it made a mockery of Formula One and all the dedication that went into it.
Nico listens to his Alpha's frustrations, never interrupting, and softly kissing him in between the anger and hurt. They fall asleep intertwined in each other and wake up to find Max and Charles cuddled together in their nest, protecting their family.
And that's when Nico decides enough is enough.
He sweeps into the paddock in a flowing, ankle length summer blue halter-neck dress. Backless. The airy chiffon creates a graceful silhouette, making Nico's every movement flow like water. On his feet Nico wears dainty slingback sandals interwoven with a pink calla lily, an adorable birthday gift from his sweet Ollie last month.
Nico has a microphone in hand, determination in his eyes, and a Tinkerbell sticker on the back of his left hand. A little "miss you mama" present from Lina. (Nico promised they would have a big tea party with papa and her brothers right after media day and Lina could take photos with her vintage Leica 35mm camera.)
When he arrives at the panel, all the other commentators have fanned themselves out, giving Nico the center seat.
He doesn't hesitate—our fearless mama bear sits himself down, brings the mic up to his lips, and simply states: "Before we begin, I'd like to issue a small statement regarding professionalism in Motorsport." Nico makes direct eye contact with the large camera in front of him, gaze unflinching.
Because his family has been treated like circus animals for the last few weeks.
Because people are unable to realize that they have been a family for nearly ten years now and during that entire time, they have raced professionally and passionately. There was no need to expose their personal life to the world.
F1 was booming, viewership was rising, and the Rosberg-Hamilton pack was tucked away, safe and protected and out of the public eye.
"If you can't engage with the sport and ask intelligent questions pertaining to the races, the teams, and the technical improvements, then you are not a journalist. If you're only here to dissect the personal lives of drivers and their family, then I suggest you turn to the Real Housewives. Not Formula One. Thank you."
Mic drop (figuratively).
And in Lewis's trailer, as he watches his mate lift his head high and chide the world for making a mockery of their family, the Alpha lets out a loud, eager growl of approval.
Oh he is going to ravish his little love until Nico is boneless, tear-stained, and stuffed full with his Alpha's knot.
