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f1daydreamers · 3 months

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𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐬 [𝐌𝐕𝟏]

gif credits: @overtake

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Summary: Seeing your boyfriend play with his nephews stirs emotions inside of you. While it may be the first time you and Max have acknowledged it, it may also be the last.

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, like one mention of alcohol, mentions of an unknown future, parenthood, lmk if I've missed anything!

Word Count: 1.0k words (3 mins reading time avg)

...

The sun dipped below the Monaco skyline, its rays streaming through the expansive windows of the apartment you shared with Max.

In celebration of his successful '23 season, you both agreed that throwing a rather modest dinner would be the perfect way to bring everyone together after a demanding year.

You'd dumped the last of the dirty plates into the sink, thanking Vic as she was already some steps ahead of you, cloth and disinfectant spray in hand as she wiped down the table.

Casting a quick glance around, you confirmed the absence of any stray cutlery, leaving only everyone's respective cups.

However, both your mind and your movements abruptly hit pause, as if your heart had taken the reins, softening at the sight of your boyfriend playing with his nephews, attentively listening to every word they were saying, whether it was meaningful or mere babble.

You smiled as Luka got up and wrapped his small arms around Max's neck, his hand rubbing up and down his little back.

Your eyes even threatened to well up a bit at the wholesome scene. As you brought your fingers up to your face, Max's gaze lifted to meet yours.

You fake-coughed, pretending to shield your mouth, averting your eyes and busying yourself, desperately trying to regain your previously lost train of thoughts.

Max couldn't help softly smiling to himself, but his moment of retrospect was interrupted by a few taps on his cheek from his nephew, who was determined to recapture his uncle's attention.

…

As the evening progressed on, you constantly found your mind plagued with thoughts that unravelled a potential future with him, one that included the laughter and chaos of children.

Yet, a persistent counterargument resounded in your thoughts, reminding you that neither would be ready, both still traversing the barely begun stages of real adulthood.

The internal conflict tugged at your emotions, creating a fine line between the yearning for a future adorned with parenthood and the sober acknowledgment of the unadorned present. As the dinner gradually transitioned into an intimate gathering with hushed conversations among the group that remained, you politely excused yourself.

Max's arm, once comfortably wrapped around your body, now gracefully descended onto the sofa behind you. With your hand placed flat on his thigh, you leveraged yourself up, slipping out of his gentle grasp.

He let maybe five, ten minutes pass by, granting you some alone time should you have needed it.

But eventually, he placed his beer bottle on to the corner table, crossing the lounge before pushing open and then shutting one of the doors to the apartment balcony.

Lost in thought, your mind had barely registered the sound, your body jolting when his hand pressed into the slight dip of your waist.

You sighed when you recognised the touch a few seconds later, turning your head to meet Max's rather sympathetic eyes.

"Sorry," he quietly apologised. You shook your head, dismissing the need for one. Turning to face him, you wrapped both your arms around his torso, gently resting your head against his chest - a hug he warmly welcomed.

"Want to tell me what's going on in that big brain of yours?" He asked, and you could practically sense the smile creeping onto his lips. He had an uncanny knack for knowing when you needed to unload your thoughts, and his intuition was always eerily accurate. You sighed, feeling his grip on you loosen as you pulled away. Leaning against the railing behind you, Max took one step closer, then another. Pursing your lips, you realised how pathetic this may possibly sound when vocalised. "Just watching you with your sister's kids. It got me thinking, I guess."

Your boyfriend already had a strong inkling as to where this was heading, but he patiently granted you the time and space to elaborate.

He arched an eyebrow. "Thinking about what?"

You lightly shrugged, pressing your bottom lip up to your top. You hesitated for a moment before the next words left your mouth.

"You know, family and stuff. Kids."

Max studied your face for a moment. "Kids, huh?" He said with a knowing smile.

You avoided eye contact, answering with a simple, "I don't know."

He chuckled softly. "Is 'I don't know' code for 'I do know but I'm scared to share my answer' because you think I don't know mine?"

Caught off guard, you silently cursed that eerie sixth sense of his, tensing as you looked up into his eyes. They were light, despite the depth of the topic.

You frowned. "Well, do you.. want children, I mean?"

There was a warmth in his gaze, one that offered you comfort. He looked over your face, his shoulders slumped as if the walls of undiscussed territory had crumbled without much of a fight.

"With you, yeah."

Your frown deepened, but this time, a different emotion flickered in your eyes.

His admission was unexpected, and a pleasant shock washed over you. The corners of your lips twitched as surprise softened into a tender smile. For a moment, your gaze lingered on his face, searching for any sign of jest or hesitation, but you didn't find any.

"If you're ready, then so am I." He added.

And just like that, the hours you spent wrestling with your own thoughts now dissipated into the evening breeze. You held back the surge of emotions within you, searching for the right words.

"Really?" you managed, but not without a quiet sob escaping at the end.

Max chuckled, rolling his eyes as he pulled you into him, embracing you for the second time tonight.

"So fragile," he teased, and you smiled despite the tears streaming down your face.

"Shut up," you retorted, your voice a mixture of laughter and tears.

There was a moment's quiet before your boyfriend spoke. "On second thought, why do I need a baby when I've got one right here?"

It was your turn to roll your eyes now, your voice muffled as you tried to argue.

"Babies cry a lot more."

"Hmm, between you and a newborn? I'd say it's pretty even."

You lightly slapped Max's stomach with your hand; his laughter eventually melting into a warm smile, and he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

...

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f1daydreamers · 6 months

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𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐑𝐮𝐧 [𝐌𝐕𝟏]

gif credits: @overtake

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Summary: Being caught in the rain without an umbrella isn't fun, but when you're with Max? Fuck it.

Warnings: literally fluff and a tad bit of argumentative banter?

Word Count: 1.1k words (4 mins reading time avg)

…

As you set your glass down, Max straightened in his chair. There was a restless energy radiating from him, a clear sign that he was ready to leave.

"Finished?" He inquired with a subtle hum, and you responded with a silent nod.

With grace, you retrieved your bag from the ground, rising from your seat and tucking the chair neatly back in place. The waiter, ever vigilant, collected your empty plates, and you extended your gratitude with a smile.

As you both made your way toward the exit, you acknowledged the doorman with a gracious thank you, and he obligingly held the door open for you.

However, the moment you stepped out but still shaded by the awning above, the heavens burst open, drenching the world with an unrelenting downpour.

Goosebumps instantly formed on your arms, and you shivered, the chill creeping down your body.

Max shoved his wallet back into his jacket pocket, his gaze shifting to meet your eyes as your head turned in his direction.

"M, the umbrella," you mentioned casually, expectant in your tone.

Max quirked an eyebrow. "What umbrella?" Your head swiveled entirely to face him, a glimmer of hope that his apparent confusion was part of a playful ruse.

"Very funny," you muttered, attempting a strained grin.

"What's funny?" Max inquired, genuinely perplexed by your reaction.

With an audible sigh of exasperation, you pointed skyward for emphasis. "Max, you do know what an umbrella is right?"

"Babe, I don't know what umbrella you're talking about." Max's bewilderment was written all over his furrowed brows and the slight tilt of his head, as if an invisible umbrella had eluded his understanding.

You replied as calmly as you could, "what do you mean? The umbrella, our umbrella." Unfortunately, the perplexed expression on your boyfriend's face remained unchanged, and another gust of harsh wind ruffled your body.

"I didn't bring our umbrella," Max confessed, his brows furrowing as he patted down his jacket pockets, searching for the missing item.

You crossed your arms, a mix of irritation and disappointment etched across your face. "I told you to bring the umbrella."

Max's shoulders slumped, and he withdrew his hand from his pocket, his expression reflecting regret. "No, you said you were bringing the umbrella."

Your frustration gave way to a puzzled expression as you uncrossed your arms, "I said to bring the umbrella, not that I was bringing the umbrella."

There was a brief pause, during which Max's regretful expression slowly transformed into one of realisation. He replayed the conversation in his mind and finally spoke up.

"Oh, you did say that, didn't you?" He admitted with a sheepish grin, his hand absentmindedly rubbing his neck.

"Yeah," you replied with a sigh, deciding that there was no use in getting mad now.

Max took a step closer, draping his arm around your shoulder, and you couldn't help but smile at the small gesture of warmth it gave.

"We could get a taxi," you looked up at his suggestion and scoffed. "The apartment's literally down the road."

Looking around, you pursed your lips. "We can wait here for a bit, maybe the rain will let up."

Max nodded, and you leaned your head on his shoulder as he sqeezed his arm tighter around your body. But after a few minutes of waiting, the rain showed no signs of stopping, so you both exchanged a resigned look.

Max's lips curled into a grin as his hold on you loosened, pulling his jacket off of his arms and resting it on your shoulders.

"You know what, babe? Fuck it. Let's make a run for it."

You raised an eyebrow, amused by his sudden enthusiasm. "Are you insane?" Max wasn't one to refrain from sharing his weird and wonderful thoughts but this one kinda had you thinking a few screws had loosened.

His expression remained determined. "Come on. We can't stay here forever."

His proposal filled you with a mix of excitement and trepidation, but you'd be lying if you said he didn't have a point.

"Fine, but if I go down, I'm taking you with me." He smiled and extended his hand out to you.

"Deal." You chuckled, shaking his hand before he intertwined them together. As you both left the relative shelter of the awning, the relentless downpour immediately drenched you to the bone.

Your footsteps echoed through the empty, rain-slicked streets, a symphony of splashing and laughter in the otherwise silent night.

Max held your hand firmly, not letting go for a second, as if the strength of his grip could keep you both upright on the slippery pavement. His shirt stuck to his frame, and water streamed from the ends of his tousled hair.

Your clothes were heavy and clinging to your skin. Your laughter, mingling with Max's along with some curse words, echoed through the empty streets as you both raced toward your apartment complex.

By the time you reached the entrance of your apartment complex, Max pulled open the door and shut it quickly behind you.

Your hearts were racing, and you were both completely soaked. Water dripped from your hair, and you could feel it running down your skin.

Max let go of your hand, standing in the lobby of the building, panting and dripping wet. "Well, that was fun," Max said with a grin, his eyes light as he messed with his hair.

You couldn't help but smile back, your heart still pounding with exhilaration. “Yeah, fun."

With a shared chuckle, you both headed for the elevator, leaving a trail of raindrops behind you which the cleaner would probably resent you for in the morning.

He pressed the button for your floor, and the doors shut. The confined space felt cosy and intimate, and you couldn't help but meet Max's gaze with a knowing smile.

He brushed a strand of wet hair from your face, his touch gentle and tender, despite the fact that both of you were absolutely soaking.

His grin widened as you shivered, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. The taste of rainwater on your lips was sweet and refreshing, you smiled as he pulled away.

He didn't move far though, "you know," his whispering voice a little husky, "we should probably get out of these wet clothes."

You met his suggestion with a glint in your eyes. "You think? And whose idea was it to go running in the rain, hmm?"

Max laughed, a deep and hearty sound that filled the elevator. "Alright, alright, it was a team decision."

You hummed and he leaned in again, kissing you a couple more times as the elevator made its ascent.

When it finally reached your floor, you reluctantly pulled away from your boyfriend, knowing that you needed to get out and change into dry clothes.

"Next time, bring the umbrella please," you said, your smile lingering.

Max's eyes sparkled with mischief as he responded, "After that? I'm never bringing it again."

...

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f1daydreamers · 6 months

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and let the history books name joe biden, rishi sunak, justin trudeau, emmanuel macron, ursula von der leyen and every other world leader who did not step in to prevent the genocide of palestine as cold-blooded murderers. may they face a shred of the immeasurable pain and suffering they allowed to be committed against 2.2. million innocent lives.

#free palestine #palestine #i support palestine

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f1daydreamers · 9 months

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𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏]

gif credits: @u-u-piastri81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Summary: Oscar is a visitor at your first art exhibition – not exactly his scene – but it's one that he contributed to financially to help you out, an upcoming artist he's taken a bit of a liking to.

Warnings: criticism but not always constructive, fluff, Reader and Oscar being cute, this man in a suit (audience may faint from the gifs), angst, maybe Oscar is a little out of character but I just upped his rizz by a solid 20% because I love him but he's way too shy to do any of this methinks :)

A/N: I know nothing about this profession icl but I got major black tie and exclusive event vibes from the gifs so this is what came out of it. I did a ton of research to make sure it wasn't too unrealistic but experience beats knowledge so if you guys read any things that need some correction, lmk!

Yeah, I never expected this to be so long but once I got to writing, I couldn't stop so hey, enjoy!

Word Count: 4.6k words (17 mins reading time avg)

…

Safe to say, this wasn’t Oscar’s scene.

Standing among collectors, art enthusiasts, curators, and industry professionals meant feeling a little out of place was a tad understated.

But he wanted to be here tonight. Of course, being invited is one thing but accepting the invitation comes with a whole new world of formalities he hadn’t prepared for.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, busy greeting and socialising with what looked like a few critics and journalists.

The notebooks in their hands were a dead giveaway but your hand drumming on your leg was another. You were anxious.

Oscar took a sip of his drink, the one he was offered when he received an entry pass coming through the venues' doors. He knew how much this evening meant to you, both in the months of planning and the dreams that preceded it.

Initially, the idea seemed farfetched, but as you dove straight into creating the collection, photographing it, staying up late to create statements that wholly captured the essence of your creative process, the once exciting prospect of submitting it to a gallery felt somewhat dissatisfying.

In a few conversations with Oscar, you’d shared your aspirations of seeing your portfolio bask in the limelight. However, the reality of organising a self-funded exhibition in a rented space would blow your budget out of the water.

You don’t know at what point but he’d made the decision to donate a significant sum of money to your artist fund, covering a major portion of the exhibition's expenses.

It helped you realise all those curious questions about possible venues, dates, and basic costs weren’t just to fuel his enthusiasm, but to sincerely offer his support.

You were grateful beyond what words could describe, and the least you could do was ask him to be here today.

You were nervous partially because you had critics and community leaders alike wandering around the space, conversing about your work you’d spent years dedicating blood, sweat and tears to.

But you were also nervous because he was here tonight.

Even if you’d drawn a squiggly line on a blank canvas, Oscar would marvel at it like it was the most beautiful thing on this planet, but tonight was when he was finally seeing your work in all its completion.

He brought your vision to life and the last thing you wanted to do was make him think his investment was a waste.

Last you’d checked, you hadn’t seen his brown wavy hair anywhere around the venue, his innocent smile playing on your mind even when you were entranced in conversation with fellow artists.

You stepped in front of a painting no one else currently seemed to be trained on, focusing on inhaling and exhaling your breaths, fidgeting with your fingers by your sides.

Tonight, was the most important day of your career by a mile.

“Excuse me.” Someone spoke up behind you and you inhaled a deep breath before whisking around to greet them. But your eyes grew soft, and your smile grew amicably at the man glancing downwards back at you.

“Do you know where I could find the host of the evening?” He asked, his smile mirroring yours, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass.

"Oscar," you breathed out, and the F1 driver had to force himself to disregard the palpable sense of relief that accompanied the utterance of his name.

The way it effortlessly rolled off your tongue, it left him wanting to hear you say it repeatedly.

“You made it.” He nodded his head, “I did.” Initially, he had doubts about attending, but considering the venue was conveniently located close to his hotel near Silverstone and his flight to Budapest wasn't until Monday evening, he managed to find the time to come.

You drew in a breath, "you look good." Your compliment was genuine, whenever you'd met up with Oscar or came across photos on Instagram, he was either in racing gear or in casual outfits. To see him in a suit was different. A good different.

"Thanks. Pretty sure I should be counting my breaths though." You chuckle as he looks down at himself, the shirt was a little smaller than he would've liked.

A testament to how life in Formula 1 was like and that his neck size had grown exponentially.

"Each one could be your last," you joked, adding on and he nodded.

"Exactly." His laugh culminated into a final chuckle, melting into a warm smile.

When you looked away, seeing the waiters you'd hired tonight refilling cups as people wandered around, Oscar took the opportunity to let his eyes drag over your figure.

"You look beautiful," his compliment drew a smile from you.

You briefly cast your gaze downward before lifting it to his chest then finally up to his eyes. "Thank you, Oscar."

He responded only with a curt nod; his eyes trained on your face before he tore them away to have a look around him.

"How's it going?"

You hummed, thinking about your answer. "It's okay. There's a few paintings that are getting lots of attention, others a little less."

"Did you expect that?" He asked and you reasoned, you knew when you began this collection that people would naturally gravitate more towards some pieces anyway, that's the advice you were given everywhere you went.

"Yeah, I'd be lying if I said I didn't." Oscar took a sip of some liquid courage before pointing at the painting you'd just been standing in front of with the rim of his glass.

"I like this one." You turned as he took steps towards it, his shoulder grazing yours. "This is the last one." You mentioned as he skimmed over the statements planted on the wall next to the artwork.

"I think it's an elderly couple, and the mirrors all around them are portals into a specific memory of their relationship." He said undisputedly. You look up at him, your mouth parting slightly in surprise.

"Yeah, how did you figure that out so quickly?"

"It's almost like you were brainstorming ideas to me on call a few months ago." You scoff, rolling your eyes but ultimately impressed by his memory.

He hadn't spoken much during that phone call, so you'd assumed he wasn't paying much attention to your endless rambles.

"I never realised you were actually listening." You softly said and Oscar turned his head to look at you.

"Every word." He reassured, and a warm feeling encompassed your chest at his affirmation.

His gaze traced over the painting once more. While he had never hesitated to express his belief in your talent, seeing your artwork displayed in such a way stirred a whirlwind of emotions inside of him.

He was proud of you and excited for you, knowing that you had undertaken this journey for your own sake, garnering an array of artistic admirers. It's no mean feat to organise an event like this, take a risk so early on in your career.

"I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you." You snap him out of his thoughts, turning your body towards him, standing a few feet away.

Oscar mimicked your movements, turning so he was facing you, and placed his now empty glass on a bar tray that a waiter had extended to him, refusing a refill.

"Why do you think you need to repay me? Remember, it was a donation." He said matter-of-factly. You let out a sigh.

Despite his repeated assurances that he expected nothing in return, you couldn't shake off the feeling of indebtedness that lingered in your thoughts.

You found yourself dwelling on the late-night conversations, wondering if your eagerness to discuss your plans had inadvertently conveyed desperation.

Your gaze drops and without hesitation, he reaches his hand out and gently slots it into yours, his thumb caressing over your skin in a soothing gesture. Your heart skips a beat or two, the warmth of his hand was relieving.

"This is the best way you can repay me. Living the dream." He smiles and you nod, finally lifting your eyes to meet his. His voice was a calming anchor amid your thoughts.

"I'll never forget how you made it possible though," a small smile graced your lips, and he let out a chuckle.

"Yeah, you never miss a chance to mention it," he quipped, his eyes dancing with amusement. You playfully rolled your eyes, a good-natured sigh escaping you as you did.

Oscar's hand retreated to his side, and a subtle longing for his touch flickered within you. Nevertheless, you mask it with a smile that grew as you exchanged a couple more jokes.

...

He courteously held the door ajar, giving a nod to a man entering the bathroom who appeared to appreciate the gesture. Letting the door close behind him, Oscar took out his phone to check the time.

Absentmindedly, he began scrolling through his notifications: a mix of sports updates, a message from his mum, one from Mark. Yet, none seemed particularly urgent.

Just as he was about to tap on one of the notifications, his attention was drawn upward to the sound of your voice.

You were engaged in conversation with a man, his journal held in his hands, and sunglasses perched atop his head. Oscar's gaze briefly went back to his phone screen; he made no overt effort to eavesdrop.

Despite this, fragments of your conversation found their way to his ears anyway.

"I must say, your work is quite disappointing. The lack of technical skill is evident in every piece." Oscar's eyebrows furrow as he observes openly, a marked departure from his earlier disinterested demeanour.

You clear your throat as you try to collect yourself, bringing your fingers up to your mouth to hide your quivering lip.

You had previously cautioned yourself that not everyone will like your work, but experiencing such candid criticism directly was far more destructive than you could have expected.

"Um, okay. What sort of things did you not like about it?" You asked, trying to find some sort of valuable insight from such a respected critic in your community.

"The colours are garish and clash horribly. It's clear that you have no understanding of colour theory or composition." You nod, gathering some form of strength to just take his words on the chin but you were failing rather miserably. Your stomach was sinking, and your eyes were watering slowly.

"It's a shame that your efforts have resulted in such subpar creations." Your jaw tightens and as you scramble for the right words to respond with in your mind, a hand presses into your lower back from behind.

"Excuse me. I want to purchase a piece, but I can't seem to find your sales assistant." The accent is unmistakable, and you muster a smile as you turn to face him.

"I'll help you." Your voice is unsteady, your emotions deflated.

"Thank you," Oscar responds, though his gaze carries a hint of concern. He moves to follow you but before he can do so, the critic extends his hand to grasp his arm, waiting until he's certain you're out of earshot.

"Coming from a collector, don't bother." He smirks, his conviction clear. Yet, the F1 driver's face remains impassive.

"Sorry, I don't remember asking you. Now, if you don't mind." He looks down at the grip on his arm, his fist clenching by his side. The critic seems taken aback at the blank expression looking back at him, devoid of any gratefulness.

He swallows before loosening his grip.

Oscar rounds the pillar just as you press down on the handle to the fire door exit at the distant end.

He contemplates whether he should grant you some space, but he wonders if doing so will only make matters worse.

Pausing briefly, he contemplates his choices before deciding to make his way toward the fire exit anyway. His hand firmly grasps the handle, and he proceeds to push open the door.

With your back turned towards him, you're unaware of his presence. Your palms are pressed against your face as a means of stifling your sniffles hence the closing of the door registers faintly, the sound hardly penetrating your thoughts.

It's only when the crunching of gravel beneath someone's shoes reaches your ears that you realise you're no longer alone. But oddly, you know there's only one person who it could be.

The combination of embarrassment, distress, and sheer exhaustion was what left you feeling so overwhelmingly emotional.

Aware that you don't want Oscar to witness you in this state, you quickly swipe at your cheeks, hastily erasing any traces of tears from your face.

You whisk around, smiling up at him and nodding your head. "I'm good Os. It's not always going to be a perfect score, right?" His heart swells at the nickname you called him, very few people did so, but hearing it from you felt special in a way.

"He's a dick," the F1 driver bluntly responds, his tone carrying a hint of anger.

You chuckle softly, but the sigh that follows is slightly shaky. A wave of heaviness crashes over you again as the critic's hurtful words echo in your mind, your stomach sinking in response.

Oscar picks up on the shift of emotion and his eyes soften at your teary and lowering expression.

Without a word, he opens his arms and pulls you into an embrace. You don't resist; instead, you bury your face in his shoulder, your shoulders trembling as silent tears escape your eyes.

His arms encircle you tightly, offering a comforting refuge as your emotions spill over again.

His chest rises and falls with each steady breath, the rhythm providing you with some comfort despite how irritated you're getting at yourself for letting one conversation bother you this much.

As he holds you, his chest aches both for your vulnerability and the anger he feels towards the critic who provoked it. You reluctantly pull away after a minute or so, a mixture of gratitude and sadness in your eyes.

But in the moment, you can't help but feel that the money he donated for the exhibition might have gone to waste, that your efforts fell short.

Disappointing your clients is business but disappointing him felt personal, he was the reason you even had a chance to do this, and it'd turned out horribly.

"I let you down," you say quietly, and Oscar's eyebrows knit together as he studies your expression.

"How? Every piece I love, Y/N." He responds, placing his hand on your forearm, his touch warm. It sends a flurry of goosebumps over your skin which you're sure he would've picked up on considering his attention to detail.

He positions his index finger under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes which you do. Your legs suddenly feel like they're incapable of keeping you upright, your face warming under his gaze.

"You didn't let me down." He whispers.

Oscar's concern remains palpable as his hand doesn't fall back to his side. His eyes hold a depth of emotion, the colours in his eyes becoming more distinct.

The connection that you can sense increases, and it's as if the unspoken understanding between you becomes more profound in that moment.

His cologne surrounds you but it's his gaze that flickers to your lips, a fleeting but unmistakable gesture. You realise that he's leaning in closer and there's a fraction of a second when it feels like the world around you fades.

The possibility of his lips meeting yours feels tantalisingly close.

But just as the moment deepens, you're both interrupted by one of the assistants, their voice breaking through the charged atmosphere.

"Sorry," the assistant interjects, sounding somewhat hurried. "There're a few clients waiting to speak with you Y/N."

Oscar slowly pulls back; he tucks in his bottom lip between his teeth and his expression shifts from one of intimacy to one of polite neutrality.

He offers you a subtle smile, the connection lingering between you even as the assistant's words redirect your attention.

"Of course," you reply, your voice steady despite quite the hurricane of emotions storming inside of you. You look to the assistant, ready to face the responsibilities of the exhibition once again. As you move away, you steal a glance at him, his gaze locked onto you for a moment longer before he nods.

That damned connection between you and Oscar remains, but now only punctuated by unspoken possibilities.

...

"Thank you, ma'am." you say with a warm smile as the elderly woman clasps your hand, offering kind words about your artwork while draping her shawl over her shoulders.

Once she'd left, you looked around to see if there was anyone else remaining in the space. Oscar had left a while ago considering he was on a flight tomorrow to Budapest.

Though a tinge of disappointment lingered within you, you understood and bid him goodnight.

You wrapped up a little later than you would've liked, a couple of your pieces had sold so you had to coordinate transport for them.

For the remaining few, you'd wrapped them up, gathered the papers for each one before loading them into the van to have them delivered back to your studio.

Oscar eventually made it back to the space he'd rented on Airbnb, staying in a hotel for a week definitely wasn't something he was fond of doing, a neatly packaged box of takeout planted on the small table.

He threw the crumpled paper bag into the bin and settled onto the couch, his phone in hand. He opened Instagram, scrolling through his feed to pass the time it'd take for him to get sleepy.

As he tapped through the stories, your profile picture caught his eye. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he watched it whole. The familiar scenes of the exhibition unfolded before him – videos capturing the venue, the artwork.

His gaze lingered on the art as if he hadn't been there tonight, his mind wandering into the world you had created. It wasn't just the work itself that interested him; it was the glimpse they offered into your mind, your perspective, and the emotions you poured into your work.

The admiration he felt for your creativity was intertwined with the growing fondness he was developing for you as a person.

Once you'd reached home, you dropped on to the couch with a sigh of relief that the day was done.

So, when your phone started vibrating besides you, you groaned and brought it up to your ear, not bothering to take a look at the caller ID.

"Y/N," you closed your eyes and waited for the other person to respond. They stuttered first before speaking up, "should I - should I reply with my name, or do we just get into the conversation?"

You lightly gasped, chuckling and straightening up on the couch. "Oscar, sorry. I'm still in work mode I think." You rubbed your forehead and the F1 driver poked through his food with a fork on the other end.

"No harm done. You back from the venue?" He asked and you stretched your legs out in front of you, fiddling with the hem of your dress.

"Yeah, only just. Perfect timing, Piastri." He smiled at your response, "I pride myself in that."

"I'm sure you do." You joked teasingly and fell back on the couch again. The similar onset of warmth and goosebumps from earlier bubbled up again inside of you.

"I thought you would've knocked out by now." Oscar hums, swallowing his food as he traps his phone between his ear and shoulder, throwing the now empty box on to the coffee table in front of him.

"Yeah well, I needed to eat. Luckily for me, there was a long queue at every takeaway place tonight." He retorted sarcastically and you scoffed, "typical London."

He agreed wordlessly before shifting his body horizontally, propping his head up on the armrest, his legs splaying over the leather sofa.

"What did you end up getting?" He made a humming sound as he reached for the receipt he'd tossed carelessly aside, bringing it up to eye level.

"Caribbean chicken curry." He said slowly, squinting to read the half-printed letters. Your stomach rumbling beneath you helped you remember that you too hadn't eaten for majority of the day. Your last meal was breakfast with a few snacks you always have on hand.

"Sounds good. I'd kill for some chicken curry right now." You mumble and Oscar's head turns to look up at the clock hung on the wall above the television.

"How 'bout I bring some?" He asks nonchalantly and your heart skips, you stutter in your response, glancing at the digital clock blinking at you from the corner table.

"You'd do that?" You say, a little more high-pitched than you would've preferred.

He smiles, refraining to say something corny. "Yeah, well I mean it's not my bedtime for another hour so..." He trails off thus leaving you to make the decision.

You don't even care about the food anymore, your stomach is doing somersaults from the mere thought of seeing him twice in one day.

"Only if it's alright with you. If you need to sleep, please sleep." You insist and there's a pause, you could swear you hear keys jangling on the other end of the phone before Oscar confirms.

"I'll be there in a bit."

...

You're changed into some slightly more flattering pyjamas than your regular animated giraffe ones when you hear a knock on your door. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you walk the length of the hallway and reach for the doorknob.

Giving it a couple of moments, you open the door to find Oscar standing there, a warm smile on his face that mirrors your own feelings.

He's holding a paper bag up and you smile, "my saviour. Come in."

He slides past you, toeing his trainers off and pushing them up to the wall so they weren't in the direct pathway, allowing you to lead him into the living room.

He places the bag on to your wooden dining table and you sigh in delight, the smell of the food faintly wafting out of it.

"How much do I owe you?" He shakes his head, letting you take the box out of the bag.

"Only your eternal gratitude," he replies, his lips curving into a smile as he takes in the sight of your light expression, your eyes lit with appreciation.

"You already have that." You chuckle.

Eventually, you begin eating, all the while holding a conversation. With each passing minute, a subtle worry creeps in - that he might decide to leave soon. Not that you're against him getting his rest, but your own enjoyment of his company is growing stronger by the second.

The idea of the evening ending prematurely becomes less and less appealing. The warmth of his presence, the humour in his words, the hesitance you initially felt about him leaving transformed into a silent plea for him to stay, at least a little longer.

"I'm going to go up and use the bathroom, head over to the couch, make yourself comfortable." You insist and Oscar nods. His feelings he was aware of when he reached back to his place had tripled since he'd got here.

His leg had been bouncing the entire duration he'd been talking, he was nervous but albeit not understandably. He'd visited your place a few times now, he'd known you for nearly a year.

Nothing about the fluttery sensation in his belly, the excitement prior to seeing you, the attraction, the thoughtfulness, made any sense to him.

But at the same time, they made perfect sense. He likes you. A whole lot.

Realising he was getting a bit warm, he pulled the hoodie over his neck to reveal just a plain white tee underneath.

Tossing it on to the dining room chair he was previously sat on, he plops on to the couch, bringing the calf of his right leg up to rest on the knee of his left, his arm outstretching on the back of the couch.

You eventually return, having brushed your teeth since the aftertaste of the curry wasn’t a very pleasant one in your mouth.

“Do you piss for that long?" Oscar asks curiously, locking his phone and sliding it on to the table.

You scoff and feign offence as you sit next to him just a few inches away. "I don't actually, even if I did, what's it to you?" You tease and he shrugs, his lower arm draping off the couch casually, his fingertips brushing close to your shoulder.

"I was bored," he admits, his explanation falling a bit flat.

You raise an eyebrow, a mockingly sympathetic expression on your face. "Poor Oscar, suffering from boredom in my humble abode. My heart aches for you." He smirks, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head at your antics.

His eyes sparkle with amusement, "Well, I must say your empathy is truly heartwarming."

"That's just me, a paragon of compassion," you quip, a mischievous glint in your eyes. His proximity has your heart racing, and you're acutely aware of the playful tension that's building between you.

He tilts his head, his gaze holding yours as he leans in slightly. "You know, I was half expecting you to beg for my forgiveness."

You roll your eyes, your gaze locked on to his, you didn't mean for them to glance down to his lips, but it didn't skip past his notice either.

Your heart was hammering in your chest and the silence that followed afterwards definitely gave Oscar enough time to be able to pick up on it.

"Please forgive me Oscar, please?" You reduce your words to a whisper and he smiles, refusing to waste another second and he instantly ducks his head to catch your lips in a fervent kiss.

His actions catch you off guard, the sensation electrifying and sending a jolt of surprise through your system.

Your thoughts scatter as the world seems to narrow down to the point of contact between your lips. The kiss is eager and filled with a mixture of longing and curiosity, as if both of you have been dancing around this moment for far too long.

Your heart continues racing, and time feels suspended as his touch sends shivers up and down your spine.

The sudden intimacy of it all is exhilarating, and you find yourself responding without hesitation, your fingers instinctively finding their way to his arm, your body moving a fraction closer to his.

A soft moan escapes you, and Oscar slides his hand beneath your top, pressing his palm against your waist. A squeeze of your skin hints at you to move back slightly, creating the room needed for him to push you down on to your back.

Your lips detach for a moment as he positions himself over you, lowering his head seconds later to press them together again.

His face was level with yours when he eventually pulled away to catch his breath, and let you catch yours, his arm propping him up besides your head.

"Isn't it your bedtime?" He chuckles softly, his fingers toying with a few strands of your hair.

"I'll just have to use the plane's naptime feature." You laugh, bringing your hand up to push his hair out of his eyes.

His gaze flickers across your face, capturing the traces of your faint smile lines and the tiny beauty mark adorning your skin.

He leans in, planting a tender kiss on the mole. Meanwhile, your fingertips journey to the nape of his neck, exploring the contours of his hair.

He grins boyishly when he picks his head up again. "I think I could stay here forever," he admits, his voice a soft confession.

You playfully raise an eyebrow. "Oh really? What if the plane's naptime feature gets jealous?"

He chuckles, a low, melodious sound. "Well, I guess it'll just have to deal with a bit of competition," he remarks before his lips find yours once again.

...

Masterlist

#oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri oneshot #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 fanfic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #formula one #formula one x reader #f1 #f1 fic #f1 x reader #mclaren #formula 1 #f1 2023 #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri imagine #formula one imagine

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f1daydreamers · 9 months

Text

WHY HAVE I NEVER SEEN THESE?!???!!!

#lance stroll #aston martin #so cute #i’m in love #he’s gorgeous #i’m gonna cry

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f1daydreamers · 9 months

Text

𝐀 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 [𝐋𝐒𝟏𝟖] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖

photo credits: Pinterest

Pairing: Lance Stroll × Fem!Reader

Summary: Asking the driver of the team you work for to attend a wedding with you as your fake date is possibly one of the dumbest ideas you've had ever.. but also one of the best.

Warnings: angst, Reader being very torn, lots of obliviousness, fluff, emosh, implies smut but none of it, little bit of back and forth but issa good ending ofc :')

Word Count: 4.1k words (15 mins reading time avg)

…

"What is it?"

Tom crosses his arms over his chest, glancing back at Lance and eyeing him suspiciously through the car door window.

He's occupied with his phone but his foot is tapping impatiently against the floor mat in the car.

"Now would be a great time to spit it out," you regain his attention through gritted teeth. Your patience was wearing thin, you had somewhere to be and your ex was holding you up frustratingly slowly.

He lets out a sigh, his eyes darting over your face. He seems on edge.

"I was on Instagram yesterday," his gaze fell to the concrete pavement underfoot and you shrug.

"Congratulations." You retort sarcastically and Tom brings one foot forward towards you, "did you really think nothing was going to come of it?"

You furrow your brows, "come out of what?"

He tuts, finding your stubbornness to read between the lines all the more familiar from when you used to date.

"You and Lance on a 'romantic getaway', maybe you've fooled everyone else but you haven't fooled the press." He air-quoted with his fingers and you felt like the wind had knocked the breath out of your lungs.

"I-I don't see your point." You raise a subconscious barrier, certainly overcome with the realisation that agreeing to speak to him was a big mistake.

Your jaw clenches and you resist the urge to look around you, as if you were going to find a camera blinking back.

"It got online, Y/N. Started from Daisy's Instagram story to the most trending topic on Twitter." He explains, with a level of smugness in his voice that you can't help squinting your eyes at.

He caught you in a lie, but right now, that was the least of your worries.

Fists form by your sides and panic begins settling into your chest. "And how did it get on Twitter in the first place?" The distaste in your tone when you bit back was surely evident.

Bit by bit, you start to feel a sense of chaos enveloping you, like you've somehow misplaced the capacity to hold everything together.

He shrugs mutely but the quirk of his lip makes you think he had a bigger part to play in this fuck-up disguised as a Monday morning.

As your gaze falls, you avoid meeting his eyes again, even when he nudges your arm to recover your waning attention. Detached, you're occupied in crafting a plan to get through the remaining six hours you have left with Lance.

Once that time is up, you'll be free from any scrutiny, whether it be from the media or your family, and finally be done with him.

With all of this.

...

You shouldn't have been so disengaged but you couldn't help it, your thumb endlessly scrolling through Twitter, confirming what Tom had been telling you earlier.

You'd seen only one or two tweets unrelated to the topic since you opened the app a few minutes ago.

You swallow, locking your phone and looking up from your lap. You try to involve yourself in your siblings' conversation but fail miserably, your wandering mind not allowing you to do such a thing as ignore this mess.

Lance is laughing at a video Kevin is showing him, and you wonder if he's seen anything about it yet.

He'd been on his phone in the car after your conversation with your ex had ended, and the object had been with him ever since. You were at the very least surprised nobody had even messaged him yet.

Unless he was playing dumb.

"Y/N, what time you heading out?" Your mind is in a bit of a scramble when your mother perks up with a question, meeting her eyes, you can't help but stutter.

Lance steps in.

"8 o'clock. We're both heading back to the factory." You're grateful but he eyes you questionably, you've had tougher questions than that come at you this weekend.

He smiles at the irony but you don't return it, looking away.

His eyebrows knit together and he presumes whatever your ex had told you was what'd gotten you in a distant mood, he makes a mental note to ask you about it later.

You can feel his eyes trained on you until your brother whisks him away into another conversation.

...

The ride back home's quiet, with the radio airing fresh songs whose lyrics you're not entirely familiar with. However, their tunes are infectious, prompting your fingers to rhythmically tap along.

Lance fidgets with the leather material of the steering wheel, glancing at you every now and again.

After a while, he stretches his hand to the volume knob, reducing it. You sigh inwardly, knowing that he'd picked up on your subdued mood at breakfast, which meant the upcoming conversation was quite a predictable one.

"What did your ex want to tell you?" Lance asks, his voice curious. You press your lips together, absently twisting your cuff bangle around your wrist.

"Nothing." Perhaps if you avoided the topic for long enough, he'd drop it and choose to never touch on it again.

"You spoke for a while. He didn't say anything?" He persisted.

"Has Grace reached out to you?" You pivot away from his previous question by planting another in its place about the team's communications manager.

Lance seems confused as to why it's relevant to the conversation but answers nonetheless.

"Grace? No. Why would she?" You shake your head, not commenting further as you try to muster up a plan and the courage to tell him the truth.

You desperately hoped to avoid his anger, not wanting to sow any seeds of regret in his mind about joining you this weekend.

It's almost comical how rapidly things have unravelled since this morning.

As Lance parks a few feet away from your open driveway, you swiftly step out of the car, leaving him to catch up.

He manages to close the car door just as you round the gate, moving briskly to ascend the patio steps.

He jogs to try and keep with you, skipping the middle step and succeeding when his fingers wrap tightly around your wrist, keeping you from reaching into your bag for the house key.

"Y/N, what's bothering you?" He asks curtly.

Your jaw tightens, the conversation with your ex was replaying in your mind like a relentless torture, preventing you from forgetting it no matter how desperately you wanted to.

An uncertain feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, and you release a shaky breath, deciding to be straightforward.

"He said that-" Your words hang unfinished as you glance up at the front door swinging open. Your sister looks up from her phone, holding a plastic bottle in her other hand.

"Looks like you didn't manage to beat the traffic after all, huh?" She quips, tucking her phone into her jean pocket.

Her gaze shifts between the two of you, a hint of suspicion in her eyes, focusing momentarily on Lance's hand wrapped around your wrist.

He eases it, and Daisy casually tosses the plastic bottle into the recycling bin.

You offer an awkward smile. "Yeah, must be lunchtime at work," you explain. Daisy nods, stepping aside to allow you and Lance to pass before closing the door behind her.

"I'm going to get back to packing," you add, slipping off your flats and hopping onto the first step of the staircase.

You notice Daisy raising her finger at Lance, and you swiftly intervene, "Dais, he didn't do anything." You assert and she lowers her finger back to her side.

Despite being younger, she's remarkably swift to defend her siblings whenever necessary, often disregarding external opinions, even if those opinions are attempting to correct her misjudgement.

"Better not have," she mutters, giving Lance a once-over before heading off to the kitchen.

You release a sigh as the door creaks shut, avoiding his lingering gaze and resuming your retreat up to your bedroom to finish off packing your suitcase.

...

You delicately place your rings back into the small gaps amidst the cushions of the jewellery box, your throat tightening as the sound of Lance adjusting his gym bag reaches your ears from the distant corner of the room.

Silence hung between you both ever since he ascended the stairs a few minutes after you had entered your room.

Passing a hand through his hair, he looked up at you while you zipped up the jewellery box. You shifted to the opposite side of the bed, unlatching your closed suitcase then bending down to retrieve the laundry basket, placing it on to the bed with a gentle plop.

"Can you please talk to me? Tell me the truth or even tell me a lie, but just say something," he implores. Your shoulders slumping as you methodically fold your clean laundry into your suitcase, your actions momentarily faltering.

His voice carried a note of pleading, and your continued silence only reinforced the notion that something was wrong. It went beyond the subdued atmosphere during breakfast and the unrelated question in the car.

“The press knows, Lance.” You say firmly.

"What?" he responds, though he clearly heard every word.

You observe the shift in his expression, the gentleness giving way to a hardened look. Your words momentarily escape you, leaving you with an urge to resume folding, using it as a feeble distraction.

“What do you mean the press knows?” He says concisely and you shut your eyes, your gaze facing downward.

“About this, us, I don’t know.” your voice wavers as you try to explain..

“He told you that?” No name was mentioned but the contempt in his voice gives room for enough assumption to be made.

“Yes,” you confirm quietly.

“Of course he did.” He mutters under his breath but you hear it anyway. Your eyebrows knit together subtly, “what do you mean?”

He locks eyes with you, and if you said that the chill in his gaze didn't give you a slight shiver of intimidation, you'd be lying.

“What did I ask you when he showed up at the door? I asked you why you were still bothering with him?” He stresses breathily, overwhelmed by the situation.

“I told you it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know this is what he’d tell me.” You counter.

“He probably had a part to play in it,” Lance assumes and you shake your head, “there’s nothing to gain. With Tom, it’s all talk. Going to the press just - it doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t need to make sense, how is he conveniently the only one who knows about it?” He lowers his voice and you blink, averting your gaze. He had a point.

“I’ll talk to Grace, this’ll be fixed.” You try to assure him, picking your phone up from the bedside table.

“By doing what, telling everyone this was a lie?” He bristles and a twinge of pain overcomes your chest.

“Guess that was the whole point anyway.” he grinds out the last part of his sentence in a harsh whisper, his jaw clenching. You stiffen, his words carry a sting with them.

The realisation of the situation hits you, what he had mentioned to your mother about the challenges of maintaining a relationship in the public eye had practically come to fruition.

Though a relationship was far from what you had.

“This was all fake, wasn’t it?” you murmur, directing the question more towards yourself than the man standing before you.

"What?" He asks, having caught only a faint mumble escaping your lips. You shake your head, swallowing your words, focused on not letting them slip out again.

…

“Okay, yeah, we’re uh, we’re on our way soon.” You conclude the call, a small sense of relief washing over you after speaking to Grace.

She'd appeared relatively composed despite you having explained the situation to her in an undeniable panic.

You slide the phone face down on to the counter in the bathroom, leaning your head on the door, hoping that no one needed to relieve themselves in the next five minutes it would probably take for you to process your own thoughts.

You wince a touch as you recall the words that last fell from Lance’s mouth.

A lie was what it was, but it was strangely intense hearing it tumble from his lips.

Considering the feelings you only recently and barely had admitted to yourself and him, the weight of all of that felt as if it was coming down on you now.

But the bandage around your knee, the burden of responsibility, the dancing, the kisses, the way his gaze held you. Him. They all form as a defence argument inside your mind as you rattle through the weekend, it can't all have been fake.

You carelessly yearn for the weekend's routine – his presence, sharing laughter over the words he adopted from your uncle, the pushes into the swimming pool, the undeniable escalation of tension between you.

You realised it yesterday, though you never wanted to admit it. When his lips gravitated towards yours and his grip on your waist tightened, you realised.

You realised you’re in love with Lance Stroll. How irresponsible.

...

You quickly wipe away the tear sliding down your cheek, stealing a glance at the taxi driver who thankfully remained oblivious. You were a few minutes away from the factory, Grace emailed you this morning to call you in for a PR meeting but the topic of it was naturally foreseeable.

You hadn't yet managed to build up enough courage to text Lance, thank him for the days he wasted away to fabricate a relationship, despite it not lasting long. By the time you'd arrived back at your apartment, your sister had left you a few messages, screenshots of her Twitter feed.

She had reluctantly agreed not to inform your parents. The situation was already fraught with complexity, and having your parents involved would only make matters worse.

You offer a small, not overly enthusiastic smile as you step into the meeting room and catch sight of Lance, Grace, and the familiar members of the communications department all awaiting your arrival.

While Grace briefed everyone on the purpose of the meeting, the only faces that didn't register surprise were yours, hers, and his. You kept your gaze directed downward, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, your expression revealing nothing.

"Y/N, you mentioned you had something to share," Grace prompts, and you lift your gaze, nodding slightly. You take a moment to gauge the atmosphere in the room before you begin speaking.

"Yeah, thank you. I just wanted to say I'm uh I'm sorry for this. Perhaps I was being reckless for not thinking about the damage it might do beforehand, it was only supposed to be a simple favour." You admit, accompanied by a nervous smile.

Lance glances at you, his hands diving deeper into his pockets, inadvertently tearing apart the tissues crammed within them with his fingers.

You couldn't find any faults in their strategy to handle the potential public backlash, though at the moment, there wasn't much of it. However, Grace didn't omit the fact that the fallout could arise if indirect communication between the team and the fans was completely severed.

Several team members chimed in, contributing potential pros and cons to each of the strategies Grace had outlined. After around an hour of deliberation, with back-and-fourths aplenty, the group finally settled on the most suitable course of action.

“Lance, anything to add?” He broke his gaze away and looked up at the manager, “no. Sounds good.”

You acknowledge the fact that he seems entirely disinterested in what was happening in front of him but for good reason. You were the one who dragged him into this so in turn, it seemed unfair that he was one who had to bear the consequences of dealing with it as well.

When the meeting wrapped up, Grace allowed everyone to leave the room but you. You hoped this wouldn’t be a reprimand but you can’t deny that you had been holding a faint expectation of one.

“Y/N, I’m not that old,” your eyebrows draw together in confusion and she continues, “but I can pick up on a few things every now and again.”

You struggle to maintain the conversation, your lips parting as you respond, "I-I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm certain this past weekend has been quite eventful, full of surprises," she emphasises, and perhaps you're leaning on the side of obliviousness because you still can't quite grasp the significance of her words.

Seemingly filled with riddles, you couldn't help but think.

“There’s a way that this entire situation could be fixed before we’d even have to step in.” Grace concedes, her words leaving a weighty impression on you, their meaning gradually becoming clearer as her sentences unfold.

“I see the way he looks at you,” she confesses quietly and you swallow.

Your gaze drops and her eyes narrow, “what is it that you’re not telling me?” Her attention to detail leaves you slightly frustrated, yet you can't help but acknowledge that it's this very trait which helps her excel at her job.

You waver in your decision, but you'd been carrying this weight within you for nearly a week. Thus, when the words begin to spill out of your mouth, you don't feel any remorse for your lack of restraint.

“He told me it was a lie. How can I tell someone who told me this was practically bullshit that I lo-” You cut yourself off, the words catching in your throat as you shift uneasily on your feet, feeling tears well up in your eyes.

"Do one better. Tell him the truth."

...

The Friday morning, two days after your brief conversation with Grace left you realising that she was right. The words you needed to express couldn't linger unsaid any longer. They had been gnawing at you, a constant replay of Lance's words echoing in your mind.

She appeared rather pleased that you chose to heed her suggestion when you approached her in the office. With her help, you managed to secure permission from the chief engineer, granting you the opportunity to visit the pit garage during track time at Silverstone.

Deciding to give him some time for his laps, you instead opted to stand on the balcony directly above the track, taking in the view. As you watched, nerves arose again upon seeing the engineers guide his car back into the garage.

It takes you a bit of time to reach the garage, as it's quite a distance to cover. However, the absence of crowds and the limited presence of other teams in the paddock make your journey a little quicker. You glance around his section of the garage, trying to spot him, but it's him who spots you first.

His smile wavers, and his ongoing conversation with an engineer comes to an abrupt stop. His race suit hangs around his waist, and his helmet rests on the counter behind him.

Navigating past a couple of engineers, you approach him, and he moves toward you with measured steps. His gaze roves across your features, seeking clues about your unexpected presence, but your expression reveals little beyond a gentle demeanour.

You take a breath through your nose, forcing a smile to greet him instead of merely gazing in silence. It's the first time you've been in such close proximity to him since the wedding day, a time that holds positive memories for a change.

"I, uh," your words falter in your throat, and you clench your jaw in an attempt to gather yourself. He remains silent, admiring.

“Do you have a minute?” You ask, a little quieter. He nods curtly, prompting you to follow him, probably to a place that wasn’t full of engineers and various personnel.

You allow him to guide you into what appears to be a communal drivers' room, presumably accessible to any driver in need. Once you're inside, he shuts the door behind you.

The confined space of the room doesn't escape your notice, but you choose not to focus on it. Instead, you concentrate on gathering your words.

Eventually, the only thing that does manage to come out is, “was it all a lie?” You ask in a whisper, though audible enough for him to hear.

Lance lifts his eyebrows in surprise, clearly not anticipating the direction that the conversation has taken. It seems your question caught him off guard.

As he remains silent, you interpret his lack of response as an invitation to elaborate on what you're asking, “what you said. There being something between us.”

He approaches you in the small space, his lips parting as he searches for the right words. “You know it wasn’t a lie.” You exhale a quiet sigh of relief, the similar emotions you’d been feeling the night on the dance floor stirring within you again.

It was a warm feeling. A comforting one.

His presence evokes memories of that night at the club, a feeling of protection enveloping you as if he were a shield of safety. However, the current proximity feels incomplete, lacking his touch on any part of your body – not around your waist, not on your arms, nor on your hips.

Perhaps, after pulling him into your mess, you deserved this sense of deprivation, as if it were a consequence of your own actions.

Several moments pass in silence within the room, a lapse in time that you're only drawn out of when he places his hand on your neck, his thumb gently tracing your jawline.

The touch pulls you back to the present, and his gaze moves from your eyes to your lips, his intention clear.

“I think I might go crazy if I don’t tell you this in the next ten seconds,” you breathily admit and Lance’s eyebrow quirks up in curiosity.

“Want me to start counting?” You scoff, a small smile tugging at your lips as you shake your head. His lack of seriousness manages to alleviate the tension slightly, making the impending conversation a touch more manageable.

"I, uh," you stutter, and he senses your nervousness, granting you a bit more time even though the ten seconds were swiftly ticking away.

"I'm in love with you," you blurt out, and a slight smile tugs at the corner of his lips. His gaze locks onto yours, the tension between you escalating threefold more than the time you had left things unresolved by the swimming pool all those days ago.

"I, uh, I didn't quite catch that," he replies and your eyes narrow. You tilt your head, offering him a silent caution. He grins, "what?"

"Don't. Don't make me do it again," you warn him playfully. A soft chuckle escapes his lips, and you can't help but smile in response.

"Why? Did you not mean to say-" Refusing to let him complete his sentence, you fist his shirt in your hand and pull him towards you. Your lips crash together in a fervent kiss, and he yields to your lead as you guide him backward until his back meets the wooden cupboard.

His hands tenderly cradle your cheeks before sliding down to your waist, drawing you closer to him. You succumb to the sensation of his touch, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top. The warmth of his palm against your bare skin rekindles a familiar sensation within you, one you had sorely missed.

A soft moan escapes your lips as his hand exerts pressure on your skin. "Lance," you murmur against his lips, pulling back slightly, but only by a few inches. His hand shifts to your back, preventing you from retreating any further.

Guilt washes over you as you come to the realisation that you could have had this moment much earlier. "I wish I had listened to you. I wish I hadn't heard him out," you confess, whispering.

"Hey," he murmurs, his touch gentle as he traces over the skin you only ever want him to touch. His gaze meets yours, and his eyes reflect a desire that you're certain he had kept hidden until now.

“I’m way too fucking in love with you to give a shit about that.. prick.” You chuckle softly, but his gaze remains fixed on you.

"I'd offer to take you out to dinner, but that seems like too small a repayment now," he says, and you blink, acutely attuned to his words.

“What do you have in mind?” Your fingers gently threading through his hair as your hand settles at the back of his neck.

"A few things," he replies, his smile warm and suggestive.

He continues and you blush when you feel his thumb fiddling with the band of your bra. “Just me and you, what do you say to another weekend away?”

...

A/N: AND THAT IS A WRAP! Seriously though, thank you all so much for your support during this lil mini-series, it’s truly been so motivating <33 I’ll be hard at work writing again after a lil break so this is a reminder to make you sure you take care of yourself too, and put yourself first!!

Mwah, love you all loads ;)

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f1daydreamers · 10 months

Text

𝐀 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 [𝐋𝐒𝟏𝟖] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟕

photo credits: Pinterest

Pairing: Lance Stroll x Fem!Reader

Summary: Asking the driver of the team you work for to attend a wedding with you as your fake date is possibly one of the dumbest ideas you've had ever.. but also one of the best.

Warnings: exes ugh, lots of fluff, lotta kissing, some angst but more towards the end, cliffhanger cause ik y'all hate me already :D brief mentions of alcohol, please tell me if I have missed anything!!

Word Count: 3.1k words (11 mins reading time avg)

…

"Well played," Thomas slid past you with a remark as you stood amongst a group of relatives who were mostly conversing between themselves.

You turned your head to acknowledge him, obviously knowing he was referring to the kiss he'd seen you and Lance share earlier.

As the memory resurfaced, you couldn't help but suppress a smile while recalling it.

Subconsciously, your finger gravitated towards your lips, etching into your mind the unforgettable sensation of his lips melding seamlessly with yours, akin to the completion of a long-lost puzzle.

Maybe you began to daydream a little, staring at the hardwood floor when your aunt shook your shoulder. "I called you twice, had too much to drink?" She asked, though smiling through the question.

"Sorry Aunt Mel, what did you need?" She waved you off, "nothing. Your boyfriend's looking for you, dear."

"My boy… oh my boyfriend. Um, where is he?" you stammered, your aunt studying your face with a hint of suspicion, as if contemplating the extent of your alcohol consumption tonight.

"Last I saw him, he was by the chocolate fountain. You need me to go with you?" You shook your head despite the fact it wasn't very convincing, handing her your empty wine glass and wandering off.

Maybe you were rubbing your head or the nape of your neck when you spotted a familiar tall man with a tucked in shirt.

You reached for his arm but pulled away at the last second when you realised it was somebody else. "Sorry Unc-"

Before you allowed yourself to finish the sentence, you whisked around when you felt someone's presence right on your back. They steadied you with their hands on your arms, but a warm smile encompassed your lips when you realised who it was.

"018!" You exclaimed excitedly.

He scoffed, it was a running joke between his team that the 018 number would be used when Lance was either running late or wasn't anywhere to be found minutes before an important event, which had happened a few times too many.

When he eventually showed up, usually his team of mechanics which now had extended to any personnel who so happened to be present either by accident or not, would shout it out.

He never knew the backstory to it, just always played along, dishing out a few quick slaps on his engineers' arms before running off to fulfil his contractual obligations.

"Oh so now you know about that too?" He questioned, his hands sliding down your arms to meet your hands.

You tilted your head, reducing your otherwise beaming smile to an innocent one. You glance down at your intertwining hands before responding.

"Well, it's hard not to when the entire garage shouts it out for the whole paddock to hear." You explained.

"Is that so?" You nod curtly, biting back a laugh. He leaned forward and you decide to help him out, tip-toeing to meet his lips in the middle.

His right hand gently rests on your jawline. When you broke away, you rested both of your hands on his chest.

"Technically, we have a whole weekend to make up for. You know, for the sake of acting." He says, a subtle thrill in his voice like a whisper of excitement, one barely perceptible but undeniably present.

You hum agreeingly, tucking your bottom lip in between your two rows of teeth.

...

"Okay, that is so not what happened!" You burst into laughter as Daisy makes a genuine attempt to swat your cousin's head, playfully aiming to embarrass her with his exaggerated rendition of a story that your sister insists is nowhere near the truth.

"Why do we believe anything Dais says, you said you were giving up sugar three weeks ago and today the only thing I saw you cosying up to was the dessert stand."

Your dad nearly choked on his water just as everyone laughed again, recalling the heartfelt speech your sister gave about the perils of unhealthy eating.

While you obviously agreed with her message, the notion of practicing what you preach was never one of her exemplary mottos and this was one example of many.

"Okay, leave me alone! I held that up for a whole week and then I got my period so was it really my fault?" You smiled, shaking your head.

After some time, you decided to retreat from the living room as the various relatives who had gathered after the wedding started to head home.

With a sense of anticipation for your leave tomorrow evening, you bid them your goodbyes, realising that you wouldn't have another chance to see them before your departure.

You guess Lance was being your moral support with an occasional squeeze on the shoulder. The formality of goodbyes always stirred up emotions within you, especially when the uncertainty of the next meeting loomed large.

You made an internal vow to meet with them again over the summer, just as you had promised yourself in previous years. Yet, deep down, you couldn't ignore the fact that those plans often fell short of their intended course.

"You okay?" Lance asked, concern lacing his words. You gave a nod in response, avoiding his gaze and discreetly pressing your finger to the inner corner of your eye, collecting the tear that lingered, on the verge of spilling over.

After you bid goodnight to your parents, you and Lance finally retreated into your bedroom for the final time this weekend.

You flicked the light switch on as the F1 driver removed the tie hanging around his neck, having undone it the moment you left the venue anyway.

You picked at your false lashes, already feeling the weight on your eyes lighten a little when you simultaneously peeled them off and stuck them back on to their packaging.

Maybe half an hour had passed when you'd wrapped up your time in the bathroom, relieved to change out of your dress and remove the makeup that had adorned your face.

Despite not consuming much alcohol tonight, you had an inkling that tomorrow morning would greet you with a headache, or at the very least, some discomfort.

As you entered the room, you noticed Lance sitting on the air mattress, perceiving your hesitance upon seeing him there. He looked devilishly handsome even after a full night of dancing, drinking and socialising. You wanted to despise him for it, but how could you despise someone so perfect?

"What?" he inquired, breaking your momentary trance as you snapped back into reality and proceeded to hang your dress behind the door.

"Nothing," you replied, the sound of the door clicking shut marked your decision to face him. Though you attempted to dismiss the notion, Lance wasn't willing to let it go so easily.

With a faint but lopsided smile, he spoke up, "You gave me a look." You rolled your eyes, briefly glancing at the time displayed on your phone before reaching down to plug it into the charging cable.

“No. I didn’t.” You persisted.

"You tryna gaslight me right now?" You scoff, turning your head to see him beginning to stand up, you tried to ignore the rush of beats in your chest but it was his fault he had that stupid mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I'm not. I didn't give you a look. It's been a long day." You tore your eyes away from him.

"Has it?" You could sense he was moving closer but you didn’t dare look, trying to occupy yourself with the items scattered messily on your nightstand from the rush of leaving this morning.

“See, now you’re not looking at me.” You sigh unsteadily, finding his teasing intolerable for someone so attractive.

“Maybe I don’t want to look at you.” You turn your head in his general direction, emphasising your point but Lance only chuckled.

A momentary silence enveloped the room, and remnants of the wedding flooded your mind. You vividly recalled the instance when you found him near the chocolate fountain, guided by your Aunt Mel's directions.

Before, his chest only loomed behind you, but now you were certain that he was intentionally getting that much closer.

The palms of his hands feathered over your shoulders before pressing into them. His touch sent a surge of electricity through your entire being, awakening every nerve ending as if it were a cascade of fireworks illuminating the sky.

His voice barely above a whisper, emerged rather as a raspy murmur, "You don't want to look at me?"

“Maybe,” you reply, your head spinning as you attempt to make sense of his hands caressing your shoulders for any reason other than the one your heart was about to burst out of your chest for. Your fingers fiddled with the medication packet in an attempt to distract yourself.

“You sure?” You’re rendered speechless, his pelvis brushing against you. One of his hands remain atop of your shoulder, but you can feel every little tap, every little rub against your arm when he slides his other downwards.

It brushes against the fabric of your pajamas before finding its place, squeezing somewhere between the curve in your waist and your hip.

Perhaps you were being irrational or imagining a scenario beyond the realm of possibility, even in your wildest dreams. So when you start to turn towards him, Lance had already accepted your response.

Practically speeding up the process and turning you so you were facing him completely, he guides his other hand directly parallel to the other and uses the force he has over you physically, and the one you were allowing him from sheer vulnerability, to rotate your bodies.

You had your back turned towards the bed, feeling his hands firmly planted on either side of you, the intense contact driving you to the brink, yet you refused to lose yourself. You fought hard to remain grounded in the present moment, even when his head lowered to capture your lips in a kiss.

The cloud of uncertainty between you two dissipates, as if a wall had crumbled, giving way to an intense desire. Lance boldly encroaches on your personal space while you glide your hands up his chest and around his neck. With a firm press, his body collides with yours, causing both of you to stumble backward.

You find yourself collapsing onto the bed, and Lance positions himself on top of you, his body weight supported by his arm next to your head. With tenderness, you raise your hands to his face and gently cradle his cheeks in your palms, engaging him in a kiss.

The unraveling of his self-control is captivating as his hands glide over your neck, waist, and thigh with a benign caress. The kiss is fiery, possessing a rawness that contrasts with the smoothness of his lips.

As Lance's mouth leaves yours, planting softer kisses on your neck, a sharp pain shoots through your knee. You make an effort to conceal the burning sensation, but your body tenses involuntarily. His lips detach from your skin, his attention now focused on your discomfort.

“M’sorry.” You breathe out, frustrated and shut your eyes in annoyance.

"It's okay. Your knee?" Lance's concerned voice reaches your ears, and you give a single nod in response. The warmth of his body against yours lessens as he readjusts his position. Turning your head towards him, you can't help but wonder what's unfolding in his mind.

Lance exhales deeply as he pushes himself up and away from your body, running a hand through his hair. "Must've been from all that dancing," he remarks. You manage a weak chuckle, he was probably right.

You raise a hand to your forehead, realising you haven't experienced such feelings coursing through your body like this in years. The expectancy, nerves, and excitement intertwine, building up to a breaking point, like a taut spring ready to release its tension.. or snap in half.

Thoughts of self-doubt creep into your mind, wondering how pathetic and weak he might perceive you to be. As you withdraw your hand from your forehead, you notice him rising to his feet.

"Lance," you instinctively call out, though unsure of what you want to say next. Sitting up, you lock eyes with him, but a sudden pause overtakes you. Your lips part slightly, as if hoping it'll hasten your currently blank thought process.

“Yeah?” He prods you on further, but all that can leave your mouth is, “thank you.”

“For uh for this weekend. I guess you did really well.” He laughs, nodding his head.

As he makes his way around the bed to return to his air mattress, you reach up to the side of your neck where Lance left a particularly distinct kiss. Your fingers delicately graze over the tender patch of skin, feeling a lingering warmth.

Without another moment's notice, Lance switches off the light, plunging the room into darkness. A pang of sadness wells up in your chest, if only you had concealed your pain instead of openly admitting to it.

After a few minutes of silence, you lift yourself up to rest against your pillow, wincing slightly at the discomfort in your joint. Lifting the blanket, you slide beneath it, crossing your arms underneath the cover to try and warm yourself.

You search for something else to say, hesitant to fall asleep on these terms. The bed dips on the other side and you can't help but wonder what he might do next, or if he'll do anything at all. The uncertainty hangs in the air, intensifying the uneasiness inside of you.

For a brief moment, you feel a tinge of disappointment but it quickly fades when his hand slides under your top, traversing over your stomach, drawing him closer to you.

In a pleasant surprise, you turn your body to face him, and a smile spreads across your face when you catch the familiar glint in his eyes.

“You need to get it checked out,” he advises.

“I will,” you reply, sliding a touch closer to him.

Lance’s hand glides along the ridge in your hip, before moving to rest on your thigh. He presses his lips against the line where your scalp meets your forehead as you tuck your head in between the curve of his jaw and neck.

"Back home tomorrow," he whispers, and a bittersweet feeling settles in your stomach. It's ironic how, at the beginning, you wished for this weekend to be over, but now, almost 72 hours later, you find yourself yearning for the opposite.

His warmth comforts you the best it can, and you hum to assure him that you heard what he said. As the tiredness from the day weighs on you, sleep gradually takes over, and you find yourself succumbing to its embrace in the safety of his arms.

…

Your brows pull inwards when you awaken to the sound of a loud knock on your door. Lance isn't beside you, and you assume he must've already left to grab his morning coffee, considerately letting you sleep in.

"What?" you mumble, your words partially muffled by the pillow mushed into half of your face.

Your sister opens it, brushing her hair with one hand and the other waving you up. Like that was sufficient enough motivation to make you want to leave your bed.

“Dad's treating us all to this breakfast place ‘cause you’re leaving today so.. you’ve got 10 minutes to get ready.” You groan but have no option to argue when Daisy’s already gone by the time you blink both of your eyes open.

You feel like shit and you definitely look like shit when you force yourself to get up and out of bed, usually that takes you 10 minutes alone so you mentally applaud yourself for doing it so quickly.

You hurry downstairs once you’ve completed the tasks compiled from basic human hygiene, meeting only Lance in the kitchen, leaned against the counter with phone in hand.

“Where is everyone?” He looks up, rather obviously checks you out then meets your eyes with a bright smile.

Your chest warms, and maybe your face tints red a little, but you smile back at him. “They went ahead, said to meet them there.”

You hum, “I always wondered where I got my impatience from.” He chuckles as he slides past you, letting you pull your flats on before opening the door.

As soon as you catch sight of Tom across the way, a perplexed expression washes over you, causing a brief blink and a subtle parting of your lips.

“Y/N,” he looks past Lance and the F1 driver looks back at you puzzled, wondering if this was a planned meet-up. The bewilderment on your face answers the question for him.

“You need to go,” you say before the man in front of you gets a chance to.

“I just want to talk,” Tom says, watching you desperately. “Come on.”

As Lance takes a step closer to him, you swallow sceptically. You were aware that his tolerance for your ex had been dwindling throughout the entire weekend, but now wasn't the opportune moment to witness him reach his breaking point.

"What the hell do you want to talk about now?" you ask, your voice unsteady.

Tom again looks around him to meet your eyes, “five minutes of your time is too much?”

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Lance says warningly. You reach for his hand to tug him backwards which you succeed in, though not without a questionable look.

With a firm tone, you remind him, "you had your five minutes at the wedding." Despite your reminder, Tom takes a step closer, maintaining a cautious distance to avoid provoking the man fixed between the two of you.

Insisting fervently, he presses on, "you're going to want to hear this. I promise." The desperation in his eyes becomes apparent, and you hate that the urge to hear him suddenly overcomes you. Being your ex meant he was still masterfully able to draw you in somehow.

“Wait by the gate,” he nods at your instruction and you turn your body to meet Lance’s. “Just get the car started?”

"You've gotta be kidding. Why are you still bothering with him?" Lance probes, searching your face for an explanation. With a sigh, you mentally admit your inability to provide a good enough answer.

“I’m just going to hear what he has to say. It doesn’t mean anything.” You rationalise, your eyes growing soft and Lance can’t help but understand where you’re coming from.

Maybe granting him the chance to express whatever he wanted to say is a debt you feel obliged to fulfil.

“I’ll wait in the car,” you mutter a thank you in return, watching as he creaks the door open to walk through it.

He glares at Tom as he walks past, bordering on a push, and unlocks the car. He settles into the driver's seat and your ex waits for you where you told him to.

With a heavy sigh, you approach him, his face still adorned with a palpable sense of desperation that shows no signs of fading.

“What is it?”

…

Part 8

Masterlist

I am posting this at 4:47am in the morning :') The writer's block is REAL!! Thank you so much for your patience, I love you so so much! One part left :(

274 notes · View notes

f1daydreamers · 10 months

Text

𝐀 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 [𝐋𝐒𝟏𝟖] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟔

photo credits: Pinterest

Pairing: Lance Stroll × Fem!Reader

Summary: Asking the driver of the team you work for to attend a wedding with you as your fake date is possibly one of the dumbest ideas you've had ever.. but also one of the best.

Warnings: angst, lottssss of fluff cause u guys deserve some, lots of mentions of alcohol, basically a party lmao

A/N: I’ve got ideas for a mini-series with Lando and one-shots with Max but I need to finish this off before I get carried away elsewhere!! ALSO, super sorry for the late update but it’s been a hectic last few weeks with weddings (summers are BUSY) but yep, finally dialled down and ready to post!

Listen to 'Ho Hey' by The Lumineers during the dancing part, it's such a feel good song :')

Word Count: 3.4k words (12 mins reading time avg)

…

"Ow." You say monotonously as Lance rewraps the elastic bandage, then loosens it amidst your very nonchalant way of expressing agitation.

"The bruising's little better, you just gotta try and keep it straight." You nod, turning your attention to your sister who slid her chicken off of her fork by her teeth.

Lance turned to face his body forward again, tugging the sleeves of his blazer down. He watched as you directed your gaze towards your knee, carefully adjusting the bandage a couple of inches higher to prevent any itchiness.

"Can't believe you hurt it the day of the wedding." You shrug, fiddling with the hem of your dress and stretching your leg out, being careful as to not collide it with someone else's foot beneath the table.

"Just my luck," you settled on an answer and took a sip from your wine glass which desperately needed refilling if you wanted to let the thoughts of your damned knee waft out of your mind.

As if on cue, the waiter who was serving your group tonight popped open and poured a few inches of content from a fresh bottle into your glass. You refrained from asking him to hand you the entire thing. Once he'd began tending to someone else, you spared no moment in taking another sip, though this one was much longer than the previous one.

It didn't slip your notice how Lance leaned in, his words laced with a faint concern.

"You do know alcohol slows your healing down." You only give him a side eye, your lips touching the rim of the glass. Maybe you paused for a brief moment to register what he'd told you, but it didn't matter because you resumed consumption of the liquid seconds later.

He chuckled, shaking his head. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something else but his eyebrows raised in attention as his head whisked to meet your brother.

"Try some of the sushi mate," he prodded hospitably, but Lance brought a hand to his stomach, "I'm not a fan of it. I'm sure it's been well-made but I've tried it a few times in the past."

"Ah." He paused before your mum cut in, she was dabbing her napkin to either side of her lips. "Y/N, you should've told us. I would've asked for something else to be made." You really wanted to roll your eyes, she definitely wouldn't have. In fact, had she known, she probably would've asked for just seafood to be made.

"No harm done." Lance smiled, seeing the impatience with your mom already bubbling up evidently on your face. "Do you cook?" Your mother didn't stop there though as she recaptured his attention.

"I do sometimes, yes." His response took you by surprise, you'd never pegged him as the cooking type. Yet, the revelation only added to his allure in your mind.

"What, tea and toast?" She covered with a laugh though you knew it was a subtle dig, it didn't seem to occur to the man besides you as he only breathily laughed with her, assuming lightheartedness but there was nothing lighthearted about her.

"He can make plenty of things." You added, injecting a touch of seriousness into the conversation. Lance's eyes briefly flickered towards you, his eyebrows furrowing in a slight downward motion.

"Oh?" She sounded surprised, he was quick in interjecting to downplay the sudden admittance. "Y/N's hyping me up," he smiled then continued, "um no a-a couple of things sure. Just practical stuff."

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, noting his growing nervousness as he struggled to comprehend the atmosphere surrounding the conversation. You could sense the tension in the air, a feeling that lingered.

Releasing a sigh, you made a conscious effort to ease the growing awkwardness, forcing a smile as you lifted your gaze once again. "A man of many talents," you commented, aiming to lighten the mood.

Lance smiled at your compliment, remaining modest as he nodded appreciatively in your direction. It was evident that he was grateful you didn't let your mother's remarks affect your mood.

...

A few of the guests were beginning to leave the dinner table, the party now beginning to bleed on to the dance floor. You were slouched in your chair, going through your Instagram when Lance stood up.

"Where you going?" You asked him, though soon to be regretting it when his smile widened. "To dance. And you're coming with me."

Your eyes widen in horror, "I don't- no. I-" He doesn't let you finish your sentence, already tugging your hand up as you slide your phone flat on to the dinner table.

"My knee." You say in a matter-of-fact tone but you know it's not nearly as bad as it was earlier, the compression doing wonders for it.

Lance sees right through your lies because his grip on your hand doesn't loosen, "I'll be careful." You quickly join the assumption that he wanted to dance with you, not just have you up there to lessen his own embarrassment.

"I-" He tuts, "come on."

"Go have fun Y/N. It's not like this opportunity'll come 'round again." Your aunt wags her eyebrows suggestively, and Lance tilts his head towards her, wordlessly agreeing with the cheeky grin on his lips still very much prominent.

"You've definitely had more to drink than I have." He laughs, successfully helping you stand up and guiding you to the dance floor. He moved to the rhythm of the music, already grooving as he walked.

Suddenly, he tugged on your hand, causing you to turn towards him. Your eyes locked as his gaze swept over your body before returning to meet yours. With a playful smirk, he lifted your hand and drew you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist.

As the beat pulsated through the air, he began to shimmy his shoulders, a glint in his eyes. A smile adorned his lips when you instinctively started swaying your hips, matching his energy.

"I don't know where I belong, I don't know where I went wrong, but I can write a song," Lance sang along with the words, his voice as silky as butter. Oblivious to the effect he was having on you, he seamlessly continued on to the chorus, his energy contagious and captivating. You struggled to keep up with the whirlwind of feelings surging through your veins.

A genuine smile graced your lips as Lance playfully tried to engage you in the dance, guiding your arms and encouraging any movement. Laughter bubbles forth as he effortlessly twists you every which way. In the midst of the moment, the encounter with your mother fades into insignificance, and any lingering irritation dissipates.

You're overwhelmed with appreciation for the lengths your 'boyfriend' is willing to go to keep up an appearance.

Lance extends his arm, spinning you around before pulling you close, your bodies meeting. Your forearms align with his chest, and his hands firmly hold yours against his body as he continues to sing.

The lyrics escape his lips, "I belong with you, you belong with me, you're my sweetheart," and in that moment, everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you entwined in a dance that feels like pure magic.

You're already breathing a little heavier after the song had ended, beads of sweat trickling down your forehead but the man who'd constantly been spinning and twirling you around looked effortlessly handsome still. The perks of being fit, you supposed.

"I love this song." You listened a little closer then laughed when Lance began singing again, but messed up the lyrics a little.

"It's a beautiful night, we're looking for something stu- dumb to do." The note way off-key meant you couldn't help but chuckle, finding his imperfection endearing. Your head naturally found its place nestled in the dip of his collarbone as he joined in with your laughter.

Moments later, you lifted your head, resuming the dance with him. Once the chorus had begun, he quickly found his rhythm, the music guiding his movements flawlessly.

As the DJ continued to spin songs perfectly suited for a lively and exuberant wedding reception, a few guests eventually broke off from the floor to take a break or grab another drink.

However, you and Lance showed no signs of faltering. Fuelled by the atmosphere, you both remained in sync, undeterred by the fact that it'd been a while you'd been dancing. The music seemed to invigorate you, carrying you both through the night as you danced with unwavering enthusiasm, creating sparks of energy and joy on the dance floor.

As you settle onto a stool by the bar, your now sister-in-law taps you on the shoulder, holding a drink filled with clear liquid in her hand. Leaning down to ensure you hear her, she whispers, "you guys look great together."

Despite mustering a smile, a sour feeling comes over you. On one hand, it feels amazing that you and Lance have managed to convince everyone of your relationship, but you know it's not real. Your feelings for him are genuine, but he remains your colleague and friend — nothing more.

"I don't know how much it means coming from me, but he seems like a really good guy." You look up to meet her gaze, she tugs her dress closer to her legs to sit on the stool opposite you. "Can you tell my mom that?" She smiles, remaining cautious but you understood why. That is her mother-in-law now.

"I don't get the ex thing. The way you look at Lance, I don't know, you never looked at Thomas that way." She leans in to add convincingly, she was only dating your brother during the brief time you were seeing your ex, but the fact that she sees right through you makes you wonder just how obvious your attraction really is. To Lance especially.

You smile appreciatively nevertheless, at least someone's in your corner.

When you feel a presence come up behind you, you don't hold back a grimace when Thomas steps forward. You mouth 'save yourself' to your sister-in-law who chuckles, giving you a small hug before being whisked away by your brother, her husband, as he invites her to dance.

He takes her spot on the stool and you move to get up but he grabs your arm, "five minutes." You shrug his grip off of you and sit back down, pushing your stool a little back to maintain some distance. "Two."

"You're not serious about the F1 bloke, are ya?" You sigh, wiping the tip of your nose with your thumb to catch the tiny drop of sweat.

"I don't have to explain my life choices to you but just so you know, yes, I am serious about him." You state as if it should be clear, although maybe it was. In another reality far from this one, nobody would bring their partner to a family wedding unless they were truly committed to them.

"I know he's not your boyfriend, Y/N," Tom stares at you intently as he finishes his sentence, clearly anticipating any change in your demeanor or facial expression, causing you to suppress any visible reaction. But you're quite certain that your internal organs momentarily ceased functioning.

"What're you on about?" You question him.

He scoffs, as if you're just prolonging the inevitable truth. "At best, he's a friend. There's no way that dude's your boyfriend." You want to ask him how he caught on but didn't know how to word it so you chuckle instead, albeit a little nervously.

"You're funny." You say bitterly but Tom shrugs, a smirk on his lips, oozing confidence and surety in what he was saying as if he was aware this wasn't alcohol talking but the facts he'd built up since this weekend began.

"Come on. The air mattress in your bedroom, obviously has been slept in. On top of that, I haven't even seen you kiss the guy, just hugs and hand holding. People manage that with their mates."

You're beginning to get angry and you wonder if the two minutes you'd allowed him had grown to pass, "perving on my bedroom are we?" You suggest disgustingly through gritted teeth and Tom rolls his eyes, knowing you were stalling to gather a possible answer.

"I went to the bathroom, door was wide open. It's not like you tried to hide it." The smugness in his voice made you want to slap him but out of the corner of your eye, you saw your sister-in-law tap Lance's arm and point in your direction. You hid the relief washing over you, and swallowed your words.

"I couldn't give a shit about how you feel about my relationship." The anxiousness settling into the pit of your stomach caused you to feel a little nauseous.

"Mm-hmm, 'relationship'," he says, using air quotes with his fingers as he takes his hand off of his glass, followed by a playful wink directed at you. The feeling of nausea grows stronger, but you distract yourself when Lance places his hand on the small of your back.

Without wasting another moment, Tom leaves when Lance glares at him, leaving the two of you alone. He immediately redirects his attention towards you, his gaze fixed, wordlessly asking if you're okay.

"He knows," your voice shakes as you meet his eyes.

"Who?" He asks.

"Tom. He - figured it out. He knows we're not dating, he knows about the extra mattress in my room, he knows." You find yourself repeating, your mind in a frenzy as you whisper whatever you recall of the situation to the man currently hovering over you.

Your eyes glance behind Lance's body as you watch your ex go over to Kevin, interesting him in a conversation that you have no doubt is about his recent discovery.

"He's going to tell my brother, he's going to tell everyone-" You cut yourself off when Lance pushes his hand into your back, forcing you to meet his eyes again. Though this is not the time for it, the contact causes somersaults to erupt in your body.

"No he's not. He's not going to do anything, don't let him fuck with you." He reassures you, advising you to try and forget the encounter but it's all that is playing on your mind. You can't have him unwrap this entire weekend like a present waiting to be opened and showcased to everyone.

"Come on, it's the slow dance." You huff, finding right now a pretty stupid time to join your date for a dance. He sensed your hesitation, pulling you up by the hand much like he did a while ago.

"Isn't now a good as time as ever to convince everyone we are in love?"

You think about his question for a while then realise he had a point, you nod and let him guide you back to the dance floor, in a crowd full of many other couples doing the same thing.

You interlock your fingers around his neck, his hands finding their rightful places on either sides of your waist. You both begin to sway and you can see Tom standing just off of the floor, his eyes obviously trained on you and the F1 driver.

Lance looks down into your eyes to break your concentration, there was a subtle softness in them that you knew you could only claim as your own.

"What if he does tell everyone?" You whisper to him but he only smiles, contrasting you massively. One thing that differed between you was the lack of anxiousness in him and the load of it inside of you.

"A mattress can easily be explained, and he has nothing to prove that we're not dating." You swallow, remembering the other point Tom made in the short conversation.

"H-he said we haven't-" Lance's eyebrows furrow as your speech falters so you decide to rephrase it. "We only hug and stuff, to him couples do more than that."

"And to you?" You meet his lingering gaze, "what?"

His eyes fall to overlook your expression before catching your stare again, "what do you think couples do?" You subtly shrug when Lance tugs you closer to him. "I-I don't know. Traditional couple stuff." You curve around the obvious answer and he chuckles, nodding his head.

His eyes flicker to your lips and you could swear your heart skipped a beat, or maybe multiple beats. Your heart was fluttering vigorously within your chest, its rhythmic pounding so intense that you wondered if Lance could hear it if he focused hard enough.

You gazed at him, momentarily lost in admiration without any specific thoughts occupying your mind.

He observed you attentively, analysing you with deep contemplation. There was obviously something playing about his mind, but you couldn't decipher it, he'd never been one to read easily. He tucked in his bottom lip.

No words were exchanged but your chest was conveying more than enough, just as Lance's was. His emotions seemed to be a mix of nervousness, anxiety, and perhaps even panic. He couldn't understand why, this would only be a justifiable favour.

His gaze again shifted from your eyes to your lips, and the agitation in your body reached such a level that you felt your ribs may explode from the sheer feeling pent up inside of you. Raw emotions surged, unearthing feelings that perhaps you hadn't been sure about before. They were springing to life, blooming ever so confidently.

But so were you, every new sensation coursing through your veins made you feel alive, but frightened you too. It was powerful, overwhelming and a sensation that had never quite been matched with previous boyfriends.

You noticed the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. In response, you leaned in closer. You didn't want him to retreat from this proximity, despite the anxiousness gripping you.

You couldn't help but wonder the potential consequences that could arise. Any platonic friendship you'd built up until this point would be shattered. Lance sensed your distraction and squeezed your waist in response, "how's the knee doing?"

You sigh out an unsteady breath, "g-good." Your gaze was darting between his eyes, barely formulating a clear response to his question, obviously lacking confidence. You knew the song was only a couple of moments away from ending, though there was no countdown, everything felt perfect enough for it to happen now.

Your face began to warm up, "I-I'm not the only one who's having all these feelings, am I?" You asked ambiguously, half-fearing his response.

Lance knew exactly what you meant, it seemed a little inconclusive to make assumptions on such an open-ended question but the breathless look on your face and the glint in your eyes both served as hints.

"No," the ends of his lips curve slightly into a smile, only to serve as assurance that he wasn't answering for convenience but because he was telling the truth and he too was sick of having to hide it.

Lance moved maybe a centimetre or an inch closer to you, his proximity was so close that the tip of his nose brushed against yours, causing your eyelids to flutter. His hands slid slowly from either sides of your waist to your back, interlinking.

Your lips parted instinctively, your mind becoming clouded, and any trace of logic vanishing from your thoughts.

His bottom lip skimmed over your top one and you could've sworn your body had turned into jelly, you could feel him smile faintly before his mouth closed around yours. For a moment, neither you or Lance breathed.

Perhaps to give the other ample time to process this was really happening. A blush crept on to your cheeks, his lips began to move, enticing you to join him in an illusive dance.

You released a content sigh through your nose which only offered Lance more assurance, continuing to kiss you with eagerness you didn't know he had. You toyed with a few strands on the back of his head, gently tugging at his neck to urge him closer.

He hummed in response, happily complying with your unspoken command. You pulled away to catch your breath, he allowed you to step impossibly closer to him as people began curving you to go back to their seats as the next song began.

You took the minute you had to appreciate just how good he looked, his eyes light, his lips pink, and his fair skin glowing even under the DJ's overhead spotlights.

You met his lips again, remaining there for a few seconds before he moved against them, kissing you a few times. "God, you're amazing." He whispered when you detached for the final time, blushing but making no effort to conceal it anymore.

...

Part 7

Masterlist

Two more parts to go!

Taglist: @fantasticbouquetwitchsthings @topguncultleader @spicyclover @amirahart @softiecaro @alilstressyandlotdepressy @eugene-emt-roe @e-lisa-bettan @strolleclercs @jjsprobablywrong @carmelita-holland @flowerchild-96 @rd14 @honethatty12 @gaslysainz @pierre-gasssllyy @lestappenloverr @secretlyangrymagazine @chiliwhore @mentallyunstablebish @mcmuppet @xscorpioxmoon @ferrariloverr @rivivie @starkeyellow @vanillascreams @tororossoseb-blog @hiphopdancer101universe @hc-dutch @love4lando @chonkybonky @angstyeighteen @natasharomanoffisbaebby @little-angel-07 @voidskywxlker @vildetry-06 @sharllec @aundercover @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @spicyclover @mloyer @alesainz @hockey-racing-fubol @cinnamonroll2003 @honeyric3 @nikki01234 @purplephantomwolf @mindflay3r @ttzjune @xitsyaiizax @dylylylylyly @junhuilvrrr @f1-hyperfixation

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f1daydreamers · 10 months

Text

𝐀 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 [𝐋𝐒𝟏𝟖] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

photo credits: Pinterest

Pairing: Lance Stroll × Fem!Reader

Summary: Asking the driver of the team you work for to attend a wedding with you as your fake date is possibly one of the dumbest ideas you've had ever.. but also one of the best.

Warnings: injury, one bed trope but actually no catfishing this time lols, mentions of exes, lotttta feels, yep that's it methinks :)

A/N: I'm going to start wrapping this up in the next few chapters, phew, it's been a journey but there's still a while to go :D Thank you for the support, the likes, the reposts, it all means so much and doesn't go unnoticed!

Please don't be silent readers, I always want to hear your thoughts :)

Word Count: 3.1k words (11 mins reading time avg)

…

You had been restlessly shifting and unable to fall asleep for nearly an hour. The clock blinked, taunting you as the minutes seemed to drag on.

Rather than persisting in unsuccessful attempts to find comfort in the sheets of your bed, you swung your legs over and picked yourself up, firmly placing both feet on the floor.

After a moment, you managed to stand up, slightly unsteady as you slipped your feet into your slippers and maneuvered around the bed's edges to reach the door.

Glancing back at Lance, who was deeply immersed in sleep, you opened the door rather hesitantly, taking care as to not disturb him. You left the door slightly cracked open, walking over to the bathroom.

As the light from the hallway seeped through said crack in the door, the F1 driver roused from his slumber, disturbed by the sudden brightness shining on to his eyes. He rolled over to the other side, seeking a respite from it.

Half-awake now, he distinctly heard a faucet begin running in the otherwise silent house, lifting only his head to turn and squint at your empty bed.

His head lazily sank back on to the pillow. He held on to the hope that when you returned, you would close the door anyway, allowing him to roll back over to his preferred side, finding his current one rather uncomfortable.

As if on cue, the door creaked open. However, the expected sound of the door clicking shut did not follow, causing him to groan inwardly.

Lance contemplated whether to get up himself, but instead, reasoned that his preferred course of action would entail zero movement.

“Y/N?” His voice croaked out, a given at this time of night.

You hummed, not using your words. “Could you close the door? The light.. y’know. M’sorry.”

“Sure,” you mumbled, retracing your steps and pushing the palm of your hand into the door until you felt it click shut.

As you fumbled around in the darkness, attempting to locate the edge of the bed, a sharp pang of pain shot through your shin when it unexpectedly collided with the bedpost.

“Ow, motherfu..” You gasped out as quietly as you could, leaning down to rub the aching area. You hissed through your teeth when you struggled to straighten it.

“You okay?” You heard Lance ask, his voice heavy and laced with grogginess. “Yep.” You breathed out, but it came out sounding like a cry for help instead.

You found yourself hopping on one leg in an effort to reach the edge of the bed and eventually sat down, wincing in discomfort.

He shifted his body back to his original side, noticing you sitting upright at the opposite end of the bed, with your head lowered.

He removed the covers over his legs and slowly got up from the air mattress; in his defence, he tried to do it as quickly as his current state would allow him. “Is that how you sleep? Worrying.”

You exhaled through your nose at the sound of his deeper than usual voice, pulling your feet towards you as he walked over to turn the lamp on. “Elbow? Leg? Head?”

“Yes, they’re all body parts, well done.” He breathily scoffed, the mattress dipping as he took a seat. “Which one? I heard the thud.”

You met his eyes for a brief moment, then pointed at your right knee. “May I?” He tilted his chin towards your leg and you could swear that blood was rushing to your face, you swallowed then nodded.

Lance rested his weight on to his knee, tentatively reaching for the hem of your loose pajama trousers and continuing to fold them up until he reached the part you’d pointed at a moment ago.

He gestured for you to hold the rolled up hem as he assessed your knee with concerned eyes. His focus held a certain charm, yet you forced yourself to interpret it as mere kindness, intentionally avoiding reading too much into the situation. He’s an F1 driver, he’ll know what to be looking for if you had bruised it at all.

His thumb stretched the skin on your knee, and he tried hard to ignore the goosebumps that arose on your leg following the contact.

“It’s swelling up, how bad does it hurt?”

Your heart began beating stupidly faster when his eyes glanced up to meet your gaze. “Uh, not much. Just when I straighten it, it’s a little painful.”

“Alright, let me get an ice pack. It should help reduce the swelling a little.” You felt his breath fan over your skin and you covered your leg again shortly after he rose up.

Before you had room to disagree, he was already halfway out of the door and heading downstairs.

The lingering scent of his cologne, a blend of petrichor and wood, filled the room, even hours after he had sprayed it on. You’d grown oddly accustomed to the fragrance, finding it.. comforting? As if it belonged, had a home here.

You looked up when he slipped back inside of the room minutes later. “Got some frozen peas, no ice packs. Should do the trick though.” He countered, whispering. He wrapped it in the tea towel he’d also stolen from the kitchen.

“You need help lying down?” You shook your head and shoved both fists into your mattress to hoist yourself further on to the bed but struggled to lift your leg. Lance spared no moment when he saw the muted pain on your face, promptly positioning his hand under your calf.

“Take it slow.” He advised, resting it on the bed, you again felt your heart flutter at how careful he was being.

He sat near your knee, placing the bag of frozen peas on it and you flinched from the sudden coldness. After a brief moment of silence, you spoke up.

"I'm sorry for waking you up," you apologised.

“It’s alright,” he assured you, smiling a little. “You owe me twice now, anything I want remember?” A blush crept onto your cheeks as you pressed your lips together, averting your gaze from his infectious smile.

"You say that like you’ve made your mind up already," you remarked, a hint of curiosity in your tone.

He shrugged, repositioning the frozen pack on your skin. "I have a few ideas. Just need to narrow them down to two.”

The smile never left his face and you rolled your eyes, “gotta clean the bathroom too I bet.” He laughed, still refusing to give away what he was thinking.

"Thanks for doing this." He dismissed your gratitude with a wave of his hand. He was getting tired of sitting upright and thus gestured for you to scoot over.

You did so eventually, he laid besides you but with a noticeable distance between your bodies. His upper back was leaned on the headboard, "I'll stay for 20 minutes or so then take the.. peas off."

You smiled, mumbling a small "okay."

Eventually, you both got lost in talking. While the conversations weren't profoundly intricate, they revolved around light subjects such as work and the dreadful next few days here.

Amidst it all, you found yourself laughing at one of Lance's numerous stories, often requiring you to press a hand against your mouth to suppress the bursts of laughter.

He moves to sit up and remove the bag of peas from your knee, turning to set it on your bedside table with the towel included. "You should keep it elevated." He mumbles and runs his tongue along his bottom lip, then stands up to grab the pillows from his air mattress.

He comes back over before you can really understand what he's doing, positioning them so they're below your calf, keeping your leg raised. "Lance, you don't have pillows anymore."

"Good for the spine." You scoff, "and for psychos." He pulls the duvet over you, bidding you a goodnight but you reach for his hand to stop him from walking away. You wrap it around his fingers, and he could swear his heart overlooked a beat.

"Don't be ridiculous. Take them back. Or better yet-", You pause before you finish your sentence and Lance's head turns but not enough to meet your lingering stare.

"Stay. I- I could use the company."

He swallows the words stuck in his throat, his fingers twitching against yours and he smiles a nervous smile. "I usually go on a few dates before the bed territory gets crossed." He turns to look at you and you retract your fingers from his.

You chuckle, "it's up to you."

"Only because you asked so nicely." He remarked. With a nervous swallow, you can't help but question why you're subjecting yourself to this internal turmoil.

The sensible thing to do would be to ignore these feelings until the weekend concludes and revert back to the way things were, colleagues with a tenuous friendship. Yet, contrary to that, you find yourself seizing every opportunity to grow closer to him.

Lance climbs into the bed after turning the lamp off, faffing with his pillow before plopping his head on to it. You extend half of your duvet to him and he pulls it just so it covers his legs. He bends his arm behind his head and eventually closes his eyes.

You turn your head towards him, though his features are no longer clearly discernible in the dim lighting. However, the sky taking on a deep blue hue, rather than being pitch black, helps you in outlining the contours of his nose, his jawline, his cheeks.

You eventually succumb to the dreariness washing over you, the frantic beating of your heart slowing. You ponder in a hazy manner about the eventual time that you have to revert back to a mere professional relationship with Lance Stroll, considering the infatuation that now you're a captive of.

Each gentle touch from him quickens your heartbeat, and every glance he casts your way sends your head into a whirlwind. His smile occupies your thoughts relentlessly, even in his absence. His scent is like a combination of rosewood and aftershave, you cosy up to it as if its the last one you'll ever smell.

You close your eyes, a light smile painted on your lips.

...

You woke up the following morning to find your head resting on his forearm, inches away from where it connected with his shoulder, your hand flat on his chest. You were laying on your side and you held your breath when you tilted your squinted gaze up to see his peaceful state.

You didn't want to wake him up, you wanted to relish this moment and appreciate it as if it was real. As if this unspoken connection the two of you shared was laid out in the open and no longer a secret caged by your ribs, consuming your heart.

You shut your eyes again when Lance stirred, pretending you were asleep to anticipate his reaction when he realised what was happening, or what had happened. You vaguely remember having quite a bit of distance between yourself and him when you fell asleep.

He brought his free hand up to rub his eyes, inhaling a deep breath through his nose then exhaling seconds later as his consciousness caught up with him. Your hand followed a similar rhythm, mirroring the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His fingers rested atop of yours as he came to terms with what was happening, blinking a few times then wincing in discomfort at the tenseness of his upper arm. He didn't know how long you'd been laying on it but it was certainly throbbing. He folded his arm to relieve some of the tension, his hand lightly skimming the exposed skin under the hem of your top, tracing circles with the pad of his thumb on your waist.

His touch caused your body to instantly tense up, stirring a whirlwind of emotions within you. The simple act of singular motions on your skin ignited a storm of chaos.

He didn't mean to stare but he couldn't help it either. Under the morning sun, the soft contours of your shut eyes, the curves of your cheeks and the bump on your nose wasn't something Lance could openly admire without arousing your curiousity.

You hummed, knowing if you continued on with your eyes closed, you'd fall back asleep again. Your ears perked at a distant door squeaking open in the hallway, telling you it was nearing breakfast time. You slowly looked up to see Lance's head turned to his phone, he was scrolling through his notifications he'd recieved while he was asleep.

You didn't know if he thought you were still asleep, but when you slid your hand off of his chest to bring it to your head, swiping some of the sweat you'd gathered during the night off of your forehead, he set his phone down.

"Morning," he greeted you, his eyes a little puffy and a prominent wrinkle between his brows, yet still a grin on those pink lips.

"Good mornin'", you returned his greeting.

"Can I just-", he began but you took the hint when he removed his hand from your skin, picking his forearm up so your head was at a slight level. "Oh, sorry." He curved his arm around then stretched it out in front of him, satisifed when some life returned to it.

You rolled over to the other side, taking your phone off charge to check it in case you'd missed anything. You climbed out of the covers eventually, standing up but you quickly were forced down again when the limbs in your leg had instantly turned into jelly.

Lance chuckled behind you, "forget what happened last night?"

"Ah, I thought it had gotten better." You answered truthfully, you didn't have time to worry about this. Your brother was getting married today and you were supposed to be heading to the venue soon to get ready with your sister.

"I'll just have to wrap a bandage around it, my dress will cover it anyway."

...

The rest of the morning went by in a blur. Kevin is eagerly awaiting for his bride to come down the aisle in all of her glory, you'd seen her earlier and she was halfway through her hair and makeup, you couldn't imagine just how beautiful she'd look now.

You're sat at the front sandwiched between your mother and sister who are constantly looking over their shoulders, being unable to contain their excitement but annoyingly, all that is running through your mind is the enchanting smile, the playful eyes, and the wonderfully sculpted body belonging to Lance Stroll.

The atmosphere filled with a harmonious symphony of piano melodies, delighting everyone present. The guests rose from their seats, eagerly acknowledging her arrival, their smiles reflecting the grace she exuded.

As you observed, a smile formed on your lips in response to the tears welling up in your brother's eyes. He wasn't known for displaying emotions openly, making this moment particularly special in ways that perhaps you couldn't comprehend right now.

You take a deep breath as she leaves her father's arms and joins him at the altar.

You hadn't seen Lance since this morning but you knew you had to mask indifference towards him romantically while simulataneously pretending he was the man you were in love with. It really didn't seem difficult but the shortness of breath and the butterflies in your stomach you were experiencing every breathing moment he was near you was not helping your case.

You casually turn your head to try and catch sight of him but you can't place his princely brown hair anywhere in the crowd of people on the other side of the venue hall.

As the celebrant starts the ceremony script, you nonchalantly continued scanning the surroundings in search of him. The inability to spot him raises doubts in your mind - did he choose not to attend? You were confident that he had received an invitation, extended by the groom who had developed a fraternal fondness for him during the dinner rehearsal.

You find yourself wishing he'd given you a heads-up about his absence, or at the very least, informed you that he was contemplating it. However, in an instant, your emotions undergo a sudden shift as your wandering eyes lock onto an attractive face. A smile graces his features as he watches you smile back at him, assuming a grin of a lovesick girlfriend.

He was dressed in a black suit with his top button undone, his hair slightly neater than when he woke up beside you this morning. Seeing him in formal attire is a new sight. And he undeniably looks good.

You tear your eyes away at the light slap on your thigh from your mom, telling you to keep your head forward for the photographer.

Following her instructions, you shift your gaze from the bridesmaids to the groomsmen, eventually fixing your eyes on Thomas, the final member in the line of five. He was filling in for one of Kev's absent friends. He grins at you, causing you to quickly avert your gaze back to the bride and groom.

A wave of nausea washes over you as your eyes meet his, and you can't help but dread the remainder of the day that lies ahead. The mere possibility of encountering him multiple times fills you with frustration. He has always had a way of getting on your nerves, but that feeling had only intensified since your return.

As the ceremony concludes and the guests rise to applaud the newlyweds, you feel your posture falter, weakening from your knee. Your jaw clenches, and you make an effort to conceal the pained expression on your face, mindful of the photographers who are swiftly capturing as many photos as possible.

The last thing you wanted was to appear constipated in your brother's wedding photo album.

Kevin and his newly-wedded wife dashed down the aisle, with confetti bursting in the air and cheers resounding from the crowd. You instinctively bend your leg, trying to relieve some pressure, but as the pain radiates through the area around the bruise, you can't help but release a sharp breath.

Lance hops out of his row, crossing the aisle as the guests began mixing to head to the reception. He slides his hand around your waist to allow you to lean your weight on him when he nears you, having read the distressed expression on your face.

"You good?" he asks with genuine concern, his face hovering close to yours as he leans in to get a better look at you.

"Mm-hmm." You hum out, not having much to say that he wouldn't figure out anyway. You couldn't quite decipher which facet of his current cautiousness was an act that he was revealing to you, and you couldn't help but seriously contemplate why he hadn't pursued a career in acting, considering his ability to portray such emotions convincingly.

"Come on, let's find you somewhere to sit."

...

Part 6

Masterlist

Comment if you want to be tagged in the next part :)

Taglist: @fantasticbouquetwitchsthings @topguncultleader @spicyclover @amirahart @softiecaro @alilstressyandlotdepressy @eugene-emt-roe @e-lisa-bettan @strolleclercs @jjsprobablywrong @carmelita-holland @flowerchild-96 @rd14 @honethatty12 @keonminshea @pierre-gasssllyy @lestappenloverr @secretlyangrymagazine @chiliwhore @mentallyunstablebish @mcmuppet @xscorpioxmoon @ferrariloverr @rivivie @starkeyellow @vanillascreams @tororossoseb-blog @hiphopdancer101universe @hc-dutch @love4lando @chonkybonky @angstyeighteen @natasharomanoffisbaebby @little-angel-07 @voidskywxlker @vildetry-06 @sharllec @aundercover @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @spicyclover @mloyer @alesainz @hockey-racing-fubol @cinnamonroll2003 @honeyric3 @nikki01234

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