#please request

TOO MANY RERECORDINGS. or, that is what it felt like as you waited outside the studio. well, saying that might’ve been a little dramatic, because it really wasn’t that bad getting to watch your boyfriend do what he loved! but, you certainly did not love sitting on a leather couch counting down each second until your boyfriend finished recordings,

so, every so often, you’d rise up to get a better look at his face, pure emotion flooding his expression. the passion he felt radiating off the walls and into your heart. benito never failed to make you proud.

but, now, even from where you’re sitting, (comfortably splayed across the couch) you can tell mr. bad bunny is frustrated with his music. unfortunately for all, the show must go on, he has to record again and he has to keep fixing his mistakes.

you could hear a faint spanish conversation to his producer, and the clink of his headphones being placed in their spot. then, the door opens and a sulky benito comes walking out.

“hola.” you calmly spoke.

“hola. estoy cansado.” he mumbled.

he then lowered himself next to you, reaching his arms out to bring you into his lap. you accepted his embrace, and swung your leg around his torso, bracketing his legs. then, you wrapped your arms around his neck, giving him a soft kiss, melting him instantly. you leave a hand on his cheek, with your thumb tracing his lower lip.

“¿quieres hablar de ello?” you whispered to him, trying to lift his mood.

“no, ahora mismo no,” he replied, closing his eyes and leaning into your palm.

“solo quiero acostarme aquí por un minuto.” he breathed.

you gently rest your head on his shoulder, and rub reassuring patterns onto his back. slowly, his breathing evens and you can feel him falling asleep. a gentle snore reverberates through the small room. it feels like the true definition of peaceful.

until, that is, benito’s producer taps on the glass window. you glance backwards slowly in order to not wake your boyfriend. the producer mouths “cinco minutos.” and you give him a lazy nod.

you shift your arm from benito’s neck to have both palms on his face, gently lifting it from your shoulder. you rub your thumbs across his cheeks, his eyes softly flutter open. a lazy grin peeks its way onto his face as his arms snake around your hips.

“hora de levantarse.” you murmur lovingly.

a loud groan rumbles from inside him, “noo, un poco más, por favor.” a pouting lip juts itself outwards.

you sweetly tug at his curls, running your fingers through them. “lo siento, no es mi elección.” you reply as you carefully shift off of him, his grip on your waist sadly loosens. his face is decorated with an anguished expression.

“voy a terminar esto muy rápido, lo prometo.” he assures you.

moments like this reminded you how lucky you were. when the world got the perfectionist behind the mic, you got the man who just wanted to be with you.

seeing him happy again made you realize nothing else in the world really mattered. and being here, with him, made everything else fade away.

─────────── ୨୧ ────────────

Oscar: “No, you’re just using it as another excuse to tell everyone that your F1 dad is better than my F1 dad.”

You: “Because it’s true?”

Oscar: “Charles is literally more stable than Lewis!”

You: “LEWIS HAMILTON IS A SEVEN-TIME WORLD CHAMPION!”

You’re half yelling, half laughing—Oscar’s already got an arm wrapped around your waist, trying to pull you away from the mic, and your hand’s gripping it like it’s the last Vegemite sandwich on the grid.

The reporters don’t even know who to point their cameras at anymore.

Behind the cameras, you can feel the entire press bullpen and half the paddock watching you both like it’s a live reality show.

Because, to be fair—it kind of is.

🗓 Flashback: Three Years Ago – Your Rookie Season

You weren’t even halfway through your first season when Lewis Hamilton, legend himself, declared during an interview that he was “adopting” you.

“I’m claiming them,” Lewis had said, laughing, after watching one of your onboard overtakes at Silverstone. “They’ve got guts—and I respect that. I’ll be mentoring them from now on.”

You nearly dropped your water bottle when you saw the clip. You hadn’t even met Lewis Hamilton properly yet.

That changed by the next race weekend.

You’d been folded into Mercedes’ hospitality tent like you were their new long-lost kid, Lewis always calling you “champ” and giving you little tips in the paddock—everything from tire temps to how to stay calm when the media swarmed.

It became a thing. Everyone called you “Hamilton’s kid.”

You didn’t mind.

Oscar teased you, of course. “Getting adopted already? Show-off.”

You’d shrugged. “Jealous?”

“…maybe.”

📍Present Day – 2025 Season, Media Day, Silverstone

“So how’s it feel,” Oscar says smugly, still clutching the other end of the mic, “knowing that your dad has, like, 50 dogs and still hasn’t named one after you?”

You gape. “Okay—first of all? Rude. Second? He has four dogs, not 50. And third—he DID name one of his racing sim setups after me, so.”

Oscar scoffs. “Charles named an entire boat after me.”

“Did he really?”

“Yes.”

“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

“Ask Arthur, he helped paint it!”

Around you, the rest of the 2025 F1 grid starts trickling into the press bullpen.

You hear Kimi Antonelli mutter to Ollie Bearman, “Are they always like this?”

Ollie shrugs, sipping an energy drink. “I think it’s an Aussie thing. It’s either this or threatening each other with magpies.”

Lando Norris, leaning on the interview backdrop, watches you both with an amused expression. “This is why I never wanted kids.”

George Russell snorts. “They’re not your kids, mate.”

“They act like it. I can feel the secondhand embarrassment.”

🎙️Media Day Questions: Unhinged Edition

A journalist cautiously clears their throat.

“Um, for both of you—how did this ‘dad debate’ even start?”

Oscar answers before you can.

“They did,” he says, gesturing at you with faux betrayal. “They said Hamilton was a better F1 dad because he gives motivational speeches.”

You: “You said Charles taught you how to make espresso! How does that even help on track?!”

Oscar: “Caffeine helps everything!”

You both start arguing again—this time about whose “adoptive dad” gives better pre-race advice.

Lewis: “Visualize the win. Channel your energy. Remember why you race.”

Charles: “Don’t crash. Also, remember to eat.”

“I rest my case,” Oscar deadpans.

📹 CUT TO: Team Principals Watching From Afar

Fred Vasseur (Ferrari): “Why are my drivers always involved in the chaos?”

Toto Wolff (Mercedes): “They’re not fighting. They’re bonding.”

Christian Horner (Red Bull): “Are we sure they’re not dating?”

Andrea Stella (McLaren): “They’re literally just Australians.”

📷 Social Media Highlights

@F1MemesDaily: 📸 Screenshot of you and Oscar in mid-squabble, both holding the mic like it’s Excalibur. caption: When you and your best friend get adopted by two different GOATs and suddenly you’re enemies. 😭 #DadWars #F1Family

@PaddockGossip: Image of Charles and Lewis casually chatting while their “kids” bicker behind them. caption: Meanwhile the dads don’t have a clue their children are fighting for their honor. #CharlesTheCoolDad #LewisTheSupportiveDad

@OscarPiastriFans: “he’s smiling so much around Y/N 😭 the comfort level >>>”

🎮 Post-Interview Debrief: Simulator Lounge

You and Oscar are lying upside down on the bean bags in the McLaren sim room, exhausted from the attention.

“I think Kimi thought we were gonna physically fight,” you say.

Oscar chuckles. “Honestly, I almost wanted to. You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

He tosses a pillow at you. “Unfortunately.”

There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable.

You: “Hey. Thanks for being cool with all this.”

Oscar raises a brow. “All what?”

You wave vaguely. “The whole media mess. The fake family stuff. People always assuming we’re, like… competing for attention.”

He turns his head toward you.

“Hey. You’re my best mate. I’m never competing with you.”

You grin. “Unless we’re arguing about our F1 dads.”

Oscar smirks. “Then it’s on.”

🥇 Bonus Scene: Actual Dads Weigh In

Later that day, you find yourself sitting between Charles and Lewis during a press dinner.

Charles: “So. I heard you and Oscar have been debating our parental merits.”

You blink. “It’s just jokes—”

Lewis interrupts with a warm laugh. “I heard I lost.”

Charles smirks. “Don’t worry, Lewis. I offered them a croissant. They switched sides halfway through.”

You groan. “Traitors, both of you.”

Lewis leans in. “But seriously, Y/N. I’m proud of you. Whether you claim me as your paddock dad or not.”

Charles nods. “Same for Oscar.”

And for a moment, the chaos of media day melts away.

You’re just a couple of kids who made it to F1.

Raised by legends.

And still figuring it all out—one ridiculous interview at a time.

Daisuke: he's been waiting for this ALL DAY!

This pre tulpar au 😣

Ruining his orgasms:(

Worshipping every part of you

Anya! : sneaking off to be naughty together

She loves your body

Sucking her fingers

Scissoring

Curly: teasing your pretty pussy + this^^

He's just so big:(

This is how he fucks:

Swansea: plain and simple

Ride his face

Teasing you:(

69

Jimmy: fucking you till you drool

B-b-backshots..

Idk what to title this..

Then he looked up.

Directly at you.

"Okay," he said, resting his hands on the shelf, leaning in just enough to enter your peripheral awareness. "Be honest with me."

You kept your eyes on the stack of tapes you were aligning. "That depends on the question."

He grinned. You could hear it. "Do you actually like doing this, or are you being held hostage by extremely boring movies?"

"I like doing this," you answered with a frown, no hesitation.

That seemed to surprise him.

"Seriously?"

"Yes." You slid a tape into place, straightened the row, then finally looked up.

"I prefer systems," you added. "This place has multiple."

"Alphabetical?"

"Primary system, yes."

His grin widened. "There are secondary systems?"

You pushed your glasses up your nose. "Genre subdivisions. Release year. Director clustering in select sections."

"…Director clustering," he repeated, like he had just discovered a new language. "That's - wow."

"You asked," you mumbled with a shrug of your shoulders.

"I did, yeah, I just didn't expect a whole dissertation."

After that, he started asking more questions.

Not all at once. Not aggressively.

Just… consistently.

Like he had decided you were worth figuring out.

"You don't just memorize this stuff, right?" he asked one afternoon, watching you reshelve returns with precise, practiced movements.

"I do."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

He followed you down the aisle, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes flicking between you and the shelves.

"That's insane."

"It is efficient."

"No, it's cool."

You paused.

That was not the expected response. Most people found it strange. Intimidating.

Excessive.

You turned slightly, studying him.

"You mean that?"

"Yeah," he said easily. "Why wouldn't I?"

You didn't have an answer for that.

So you logged it.

You began to anticipate him. That was the first real shift.

Before, you observed.

Now, you predicted.

Tuesdays, yes.

Thursdays, usually.

Saturdays?

Variable, but increasing probability.

You found yourself glancing at the door when the bell rang.

Not every time.

Just… more than statistically necessary.

And then...

You started setting things aside.

Not physically. You weren't going to violate store policy.

But mentally.

He would like this.

This too.

This definitely.

"Alright, Oracle," Eddie said, dropping a tape onto the counter one evening. "Hit me."

You glanced down at it curiously, a brow raised at the title.

Say Anything.

You blinked.

"…That is a romantic drama."

"Yeah," he said. "Branching out."

You studied him carefully. "Your previous selections indicate a preference for horror and fantasy."

"…Did you just profile me?" he asked, delighted.

"Yes."

"That is awesome."

You blinked at that.

Most people didn't react positively to being analyzed.

Eddie Munson, apparently, was not most people.

You hesitated.

He smiled, softer this time.

"Anyway," he added, tapping the tape, "I heard this one's good."

"It is," you said simply.

A beat passed quietly.

Then, before you could stop yourself -

"The boombox scene is widely considered culturally significant."

His eyebrows shot up. "There's a boombox scene?"

"Yes."

"…Alright, now I'm definitely watching it." He nodded with a calm excitement.

He didn't return it on time.

"You're late," you said the next time he came in.

"I know," he said, completely unbothered.

"You have additional fees because of this."

"Worth it."

You frowned slightly, processing. "…Did you like it?"

He leaned on the counter, closer than usual.

"Yeah," he said. "I did."

"Why?"

He tilted his head. "You want, like… a full analysis?"

You nodded, typing him up on the computer.

He smiled like that was the best possible answer you could've given.

"Alright," he said. "I think it's about… not being able to say what you feel until it's almost too late."

You stilled, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Like, you know something matters, but you don't -" he gestured vaguely, searching for the words, "- you don't say it. And then suddenly it's this huge thing and you're like, 'oh, crap, I should've just -'"

"- Communicated earlier," you finished for him with an understanding nod.

"Yeah," he said, pointing at you. "That."

You adjusted your glasses, making them sit more comfortably on your nose, your face flushing hot without a reason you could explain.

"That is a common narrative structure," you said, a little too quickly.

"Yeah," he said, quieter now. "Still hits, though."

After that, something shifted.

Subtle.

Difficult to quantify.

He stopped wandering the store as much. Started coming straight to the counter.

Started staying longer than he should.

It was distracting, almost.

"Okay, serious question," he said one slow evening, drumming his rings against the counter. "Do you ever get tired of being right all the time?"

"I am not right all the time," you denied, confused at his approach.

"You're right most of the time." He hummed, liking his chances.

"That is not a verified statistic."

"It is in my experience."

You considered that. "…Then you have too little experience to prove your theory."

He laughed. "Yeah, probably."

A pause.

Then, softer.

"You ever get tired of it, though?" He tilted his head, playing with his fingers.

A nervous habit you had picked up on during his visits.

You didn't answer immediately.

Because the real answer wasn't simple.

"Yes," you said finally. "It can be… isolating."

He nodded, like he understood that without needing it explained.

"Yeah," he said. "I get that."

You looked at him curiously. "You do?"

"Yeah," he said. "Not because of smartness though... different reasons, same outcome, I guess."

You logged that. Carefully.

The first time he didn't show up, you told yourself it didn't matter.

Patterns fluctuated. Variables changed.

It was normal.

The second time you checked the door every time the bell rang.

The third time, however -

You made an error.

Misfiled a tape.

You didn't notice until later.

That bothered you more than it should have.

When he finally came back, it was a Thursday.

Lower energy. Quieter.

"Hey, genius." He said, lacking his usual loud spark.

It made you nervous, to say the least.

"You deviated from your established pattern," you said.

He blinked. "Wow, no 'hi,' just straight to the guilt trip."

"It is not a guilt trip. It is an observation," you fought.

He smiled faintly. "Miss me?"

The question was clearly a joke.

You answered it anyway, quickly, "Yes."

He froze.

You froze.

There was a pause, long and stretched thin.

"…Oh," he said.

You adjusted your glasses, pulse uneven as you swallowed.

"That was a factual response, I wasn't raised to be a liar," you clarified.

"Yeah," he said, a little breathless. "No, I - yeah. Got that."

After that, everything became… sharper.

More defined. More dangerous.

You noticed the way he looked at you.

Not casually. Not curiously.

Intentionally.

You noticed how close he stood.

How often your hands brushed when passing tapes.

How neither of you pulled away immediately.

You noticed yourself thinking about him outside of work.

That was the most concerning variable.

"Alright," Eddie said one night, quieter than usual. "I have a theory."

You stilled. "That sounds dangerous."

"Yeah, but it's good. I promise." He said, placing a hand over his chest like he was vowing a scout's honour.

You nodded once. "Proceed."

He leaned on the counter, mirroring the way he had that first day, but this time, there was no distance in it. No casual detachment.

Just intent.

"I think you don't say things," he said.

You frowned. "I communicate regularly."

"No, I mean -" he exhaled, pushing his hair back, suddenly nervous, "- important things."

You went very still. "That is a broad category."

"Yeah," he spoke uncertainly, "I know."

A pause.

Then, softer -

"I think you wait until you're sure, but sometimes… you don't get to be sure first."

Your heart rate spiked.

"But that wouldn't be efficient." You furrowed your brows, deep in thought as you thought over his words.

"No," he said, a small smile pulling at his mouth. "It's not."

Silence settled between you.

Heavy. Charged.

Familiar, now.

You thought about Say Anything.

About what he had said.

About what you hadn't.

"So, I've reached a solution." He sighed, standing up straighter.

"A solution?" You questioned quietly, trying to think about where he's going.

His hands tightened slightly on the counter.

"Well, truth be told," he said carefully, "that I'm not here for the movies."

"No?" You mumbled, pressing your lips together, your eyes drifting away from him.

"No." He continued, becoming fidgety in his place. "That my primary motivation is… well... you."

"Me?" You asked again, quieter.

You pushed your glasses up, buying yourself half a second more, your thoughts scrambling to reorganize into something usable. Something logical.

"Yes, you," he confirmed, firmer this time, even if his hands were still restless against the counter. "You, and your weird little systems, and the way you talk about movies like they're… I don't know, like they actually matter."

"They do matter," you insisted automatically.

"I know," he corrected himself quickly, almost smiling. "That's what I'm saying. You make them matter more."

You swallowed.

"That is… not a conventional reason to repeatedly visit a video store," you tried again, clinging to structure.

"Yeah, well," he huffed, a nervous laugh slipping out, "I'm not exactly a conventional guy."

A pause.

Then, before he could stop himself -

"I like you."

Your brain stopped. Completely.

No immediate categorization. No response ready. No pre-constructed sentence to fall back on.

Just silence.

"I -" you started, then stopped, your fingers curling slightly against the counter.

Eddie immediately shook his head. "- No, no, hey - you don't have to say anything, I just - I wanted to say something, you know, before I don't say it and then regret it later."

Another pause settled between you.

He was waiting.

You were… trying.

"I am experiencing difficulty," you admitted finally, your voice quieter than usual.

"With… rejecting me?" he asked, attempting humor, though it didn't fully land.

"With responding!" you corrected quickly. "Your statement introduced multiple variables I had not adequately prepared for."

"Yeah," he chuckled, nodding slowly. "That sounds like me."

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

"I have noticed changes in my own behavior," you started, carefully choosing each word. "Specifically, an increased awareness of your presence within this environment."

Eddie's expression softened, but he stayed quiet.

"I anticipate your visits," you continued. "I have also observed a negative response to your absence."

He let out a quiet breath at that, like something in his chest loosened.

"I do not find your presence disruptive," you added. "Which is… statistically unusual, all the while... pleasant."

That made him smile, just slightly.

You hesitated again.

"I have feelings," you stated, slower now, less certain, "that may resemble… interest."

"…Resemble interest?" he parroted, blinking as he looked at you.

"Yes."

A beat passed.

"…Are you trying to say you like me too?" he asked, a little more carefully this time, a sly smirk etching onto his lips.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, your shoulders dropping just slightly.

"…Yes," you said, almost defeated. "That is the simplified interpretation."

There was a moment of complete silence before Eddie broke into a grin so wide it was almost disbelieving.

"Holy shit," he breathed, running a hand through his hair. "You do?"

"Yes." You rolled your eyes with an amused huff.

"You actually do?"

"Yes, I have already confirmed that," you said, a little flustered now.

"I just -" he laughed softly, shaking his head, "I didn't think you'd say it like that."

"H-how else would I say it?" you frowned, stuttering despite your wishes to stay calm.

"I don't know, like - 'Eddie, I like you'?"

You considered that for a moment. "…That does seem more direct."

"Yeah, it does," he agreed casually.

"Well... I like you, Eddie," you spoke finally, ignoring the heat blossoming onto your cheeks.

This time, it came out simpler.

Less structured.

More real.

And that?

That seemed to hit him harder, his grin softening into something warmer, something steadier.

"Yeah?" he licked his lips. "I really, really like you too."

You adjusted your glasses again, though your hands were steadier now.

"This outcome is… preferable."

Eddie laughed, shaking his head.

"Jesus," he said, still smiling at you like he couldn't quite believe this was real. "You're unbelievable."

"Unbelievable as in...?"

"Yep," he said softly. "Still my favourite thing about you."

You squinted, trying to find the answer to your question, finding none, but he didn't let you speak, not yet.

"So," he said, rocking back on his heels, grin returning, "now what?"

You hesitated, rolling the question around in your mind.

That… was a good question.

"I am unsure," you admitted shortly, shrugging in defeat, reaching up to scratch your neck.

"Cool," he said easily. "We can figure it out!"

You nodded once, smiling sheepishly up at him. "That sounds acceptable."