léa

[angeenrose]

✦ 𓏻 𝓁𝑒́𝒶 ’ 𝓽rash 𝓽he 𝓹loy, 𝓽urn 𝓶yself 𝓽o 𝓪 𝓹oster 𝓫oy

[angeenrose]

Kimi x Hockey player reader. She has like black cat energy????

kimi antonelli x fem!reader — formula for ice

warnings : hockey au, hockeyplayer!reader, grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, mild swearing, kissing, name calling, fluff, angst

word count : 3.2k , masterlist, a/n : i love hockey so this was super fun to write! :)

the ice is the only place you don't have to be anyone.

you're the last one off, same as always. still in full gear. shins, elbows, the jersey clinging to your back. you rake the pucks into a pile yourself because you don't trust anyone else to get it right. the zamboni’s already rumbling in the corner, the kid driving it giving you the look. come on, lady. but you fire one more into the empty net anyway. for the sound. not some pimpled faced rink attendant, not your coach, not the thin air in this swiss facility that makes everyone else wheeze after twenty minutes.

you step off, stick in one hand, helmet in the other. gloves stuffed under your arm. that's when you see him. leaning against the boards. mercedes jacket. dark curly hair still flat frim his helmet from whatever sim session or physio torture they had him doing upstairs. he's pretending to check his phone but you've been watched enough to know when someone's watching.

you walk right past.

"hey, you play for the—"

"yep." you don't slow down.

a beat. then footsteps. he's following.

"sorry, i just— i saw the drills you were running. the crossover stuff with the puck. it's, uh. i've never seen someone do it that fast in person."

you glance back. just your eyes. he stops walking. his face is open in a way you don't trust yet. earnest. brown eyes that haven't learned to hide anything.

"i'm kimi," he says.

"i know who you are."

you keep walking.

the recovery room is supposed to be empty this time of day. you've got the routine mapped. compression boots, cold plunge, out before the triathletes descend and start comparing heart rate zones.

but when you push through the door, there he is again. icing his shoulder. same mercedes jacket, now draped over the chair next to him.

you don't acknowledge him. you take the station across the room. slide into the boots. close your eyes.

"did i do something?"

his voice is closer than you expected. you open your eyes. he's standing there. not crowding. he left space. but he's standing there.

"no."

"okay." he waits. "so you're just like this."

"like what."

"like..." he gestures vaguely at you, at the boots, at the way you've positioned yourself facing the door. "like you're waiting for someone to give you a reason to leave."

"maybe i don't owe strangers conversation."

he nods. doesn't flinch. "fair."

and then he goes back to his station like the exchange cost him nothing. like your sharp edges didn't cut the way they're supposed to.

you watch him for three seconds before you realize you're doing it. he catches you. he smiles, just the corner of his mouth.

you look away first. you hate that you look away first.

the third time, it's the cafeteria. you're alone at a table near the window, working through a plate of chicken and rice that tastes like the facility's nutritionist has never met a spice. snow's coming down outside. heavy. the kind that grounds helicopters and rearranges travel plans.

a tray slides onto the table across from you.

you look up. kimi sits down like he's not asking permission. he's in a hoodie now, hair still damp from the shower, and he's got pasta. of course he's got pasta.

"this seat's taken," you say.

"by who?"

"my peace and quiet."

"mio dio." he twirls linguine around his fork. doesn't look at you. "you really don't care, do you?"

"about?"

"who i am."

you set your fork down. "did that work on the last five people?"

"it's not a line." he meets your eyes. holds. "i'm just saying. it's different."

"different bores me."

"then what doesn't?"

the question lands differently than he probably meant it to. sits between you on the table like something physical.

you don't answer. but you don't tell him to leave, either.

snow keeps falling. he eats his pasta. you go back to your chicken. somewhere in the quiet, something shifts. small, barely detectable, like ice cracking under pressure long before it gives.

he's still there when you finish eating. still there when you stand up with your tray.

"you skate tomorrow?" he asks.

"every day."

"what time?"

you pause. tray in your hands. looking down at this kid. he's younger than you, you realize. nineteen. famous since twelve. still asking questions like the answer might hurt him.

"why?"

he shrugs. "i want to watch again."

"you don't skate."

"how do you know?"

"because if you did, you'd be rehabbing something else."

that gets a real laugh. short. surprised out of him.

"six a.m," you say. not sure why you're saying it. "don't be late."

you walk away before he can respond. before you can take it back. behind you, you hear his fork scrape the plate. then his voice, quiet but not quiet enough:

"cazzo."

you almost smile.

almost.

morning comes cold and dark the way swiss mornings do. the kind of cold that lives in your bones before you've even left your room.

you're on the ice at 5:47. not because he's coming. you're always early. routine is the only religion you subscribe to. skates laced tight. stick tape fresh. the rink lights hum overhead, that fluorescent buzz that sounds like focus.

you run your warm up anyway. crossovers. edge work. puck control through the cones you set up yourself.

at 5:58, the rink door opens. a gust of cold air. then footsteps on the rubber flooring. then silence. you don't turn around.

he doesn't say anything. doesn't call out. just takes a seat in the front row of the bleachers. you can hear the metal bench creak under him, hear the shuffle of a coat, the rip of a coffee cup lid.

you run your drills. harder than usual, faster. you snap a wrister bardown and the sound cracks through the empty rink like a gunshot. the puck drops. you don't chase it.

you skate to the boards. he's sitting there, elbows on his knees, coffee in both hands. hair unstyled. eyes still a little puffy. he definitely doesn't wake up at 5 am normally.

"you came," you say.

"you said six."

"most people don't listen."

"i'm not most people." he says it without arrogance. like a fact. like tire temperature data.

you lean your stick against the boards and pull your helmet off. your hair is damp. the cold hits your scalp.

"did you understand anything you just watched?"

"no," he says. grins. "it looked incredible, though."

"you're easy to impress."

"no." he holds your gaze. "i'm really not."

you go back to center ice. you don't invite him down. don't explain what you're doing. but after ten minutes, you skate over again, and this time you toss a puck over the glass. it lands in his lap.

"if you're going to watch," you say, "catch."

he fumbles it. drops his coffee lid. swears in italian.

you don't laugh. but it's close.

he's waiting outside the locker room when you come out. showered. hair wet. hoodie pulled up. he's leaning against the wall like he's been there a while.

"you're still here," you say.

"is that a problem?"

you consider the question longer than he probably expects. "no."

he falls into step beside you. you don't slow down. he doesn't seem to mind.

"you're not what i expected," he says.

"what did you expect?"

"someone who wanted me to watch."

"and you?"

"i don't get to watch often." he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "usually i'm the one being watched."

that lands. you know what that's like.

"is that why you came?" you ask. "to be the one watching?"

"no." he looks at you. direct. "i came because you're interesting."

"interesting is a low bar."

"not for me."

the cafeteria is quiet this early. steam rising off the coffee urns. the same nutritionally optimized breakfast options. you grab a plate. so does he.

he sits across from you again. no hesitation this time. like it's a rule now. like this is something you do.

"you don't let people in," he says.

it's not a question.

"do i need to?"

"no." he spreads butter on a roll he definitely shouldn't be eating during training. "but it's lonely. i know what that's like."

you stop chewing for a second. just a second. the mask slips.

"everyone wants something from you," you say quietly. "fans. coaches. agents. media. they want a piece."

"and you don't have enough pieces."

"no." you meet his eyes. "i don't."

he nods. doesn't rush to fill the silence. doesn't try to fix it.

"you're not what i expected either," you say.

"what did you expect?"

"a formula one driver."

"and?"

"someone who talks about himself."

kimi laughs. that same surprised laugh from the cafeteria yesterday. "i could. i just don't think you'd care."

"i wouldn't."

"see?" he gestures with the roll. "why waste it."

it's not a line. it's not a move. it's just... true.

you look at him. this kid with his messy hair and his terrible coffee lid technique and his eyes that don't know how to hide. nineteen. famous. earnest to a fault.

and you think.. dangerous. not the kind of dangerous you're used to. not fast corners or high sticks or men who think your no is a negotiation. the kind that makes you want to stay.

"i skate at six every morning," you say. "you can come back."

"can i?"

"don't make me say it twice."

he smiles. full. bright. the kind of smile that rearranges a room.

"okay," he says.

"okay," you say.

and you eat breakfast with him while the snow keeps falling outside but something's different. a hairline crack. a door left ajar. you don't name it. you don't have to. he'll be there tomorrow. and you'll let him.

for now, that's enough.

three months.

that's how long he's been showing up. six am. front row. same coffee cup. same terrible lid technique. he still hasn't learned.

you don't talk about it. the consistency. the way he's rearranged his training schedule. you overheard his trainer bitching about it in the hall. early mornings don't agree with him. but he's there. every time.

you run your drills. he watches. after, he walks you to the recovery room. sometimes you eat breakfast together. sometimes he makes you laugh and you pretend he didn't.

you've learned things. not because you asked. because he offers them in pieces. a story about his sister, a race he lost, the way his dad still calls him after every session. he talks with his hands. he swears in italian when he drops things. he's terrible at hiding when something's bothering him.

you're very good at it.

today is different. you feel it before you see it. the air in the rink is the same. cold, fluorescent, yours. but something's off. you're ten minutes into drills before you realize what.

he's not in the bleachers.

you miss a pass. just a fraction. puck skips off your blade.

stupid.

you reset. run it again. harder. you don't look at the door. you don't check the time. you don't care.

the session goes long. forty five minutes. an hour. you're soaked through your jersey, breath coming hard, and he's still not there.

you tell yourself you're not counting.

he finds you in the cafeteria. slides into his seat. his seat. apparently, the one across from you that's been his for twelve weeks — with a cup of coffee he didn't bring from the rink. his hair is different. styled. he's wearing a shirt with a collar.

"you weren't there," you say.

it comes out before you can stop it. flat. accusing.

kimi tilts his head. "you noticed."

"hard not to. it was quiet."

"quiet is good, no? you like quiet."

you stab a piece of chicken. don't answer.

"i had a thing," he says. "media. they flew someone in last night. i couldn't—" he stops. leans forward. "wait. were you waiting for me?"

"no."

"mio dio. you were."

"i was skating. same thing i do every morning. you're the one who—"

"you looked at the door."

you freeze.

"six times," he says. "i counted. you think i don't notice things?"

"you weren't even there."

that smile. the corner of his mouth. "i was watching from the hallway."

heat climbs your neck. you crush it down.

"that's creepy."

"that's curiosity." he leans back. "you missed me."

"i missed the quiet."

"you just said it was quiet."

you open your mouth. close it. he's got you. the bastards got you, and he knows it, and he's not even being smug about it. just watching you with those brown eyes that still haven't learned to hide anything.

"you're insufferable," you say.

"you're stubborn."

"i'm realistic."

"about what?"

the question lands hard. sits there. you don't have an answer. or you do, and you're not giving it to him.

the facility empties out in the afternoons. most athletes are done by four. you stay late. you always have. running through tape in the film room, working on your shot in the dryland area.

today he finds you there too. you're firing pucks into the shooting tarp. the rhythm steadies you. wind up. release. the slap of rubber on canvas. over and over.

he leans in the doorway. doesn't say anything. doesn't come in.

"you're hovering," you say.

"i'm giving you space."

"same thing."

a pause. then footsteps. he doesn't stop at a safe distance. he walks right up, close enough that you can smell whatever soap he uses, something clean and a little sharp.

you keep shooting.

"i have to leave," he says.

your rhythm breaks. just for a beat. you catch it, cover it, fire again.

"when?"

"three days. testing in barcelona."

"okay."

"okay?" he steps closer. "that's all?"

"what do you want me to say?"

he doesn't answer. you wind up. release. the puck hits the tarp harder than necessary.

"you've been here three months," you say. still not looking at him. "you knew you'd leave eventually."

"i didn't know i'd—" he stops. swallows the rest.

you turn. he's closer than you realized. two feet. maybe less. his face is doing something complicated. that openness you don't trust, turned up too high. like he's trying to say something and fighting it at the same time.

"you'd what," you say.

"nothing."

"kimi."

he looks at you. really looks. and for a second you see it. the thing neither of you has said. the thing that's been building in all those early mornings, all those breakfasts, all those walks down the same hallway to the same recovery room.

it terrifies you.

"you should go pack," you say.

"i haven't finished—"

"you should go."

something shutters in his face. he nods. steps back. once. twice.

"yeah," he says. "okay."

he leaves. you fire the puck so hard it bounces off the tarp and nearly hits you on the rebound.

you don't move.

the next two days, he doesn't come to the rink. you tell yourself it's fine. it's better. you've got drills to run. a season to prep for. you don't need some formula one driver with his earnest eyes and his pasta and his questions that land too close to the bone.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

on the third day, his last day, you're in the recovery room. compression boots. eyes closed. the usual.

the door opens. you know it's him before you look. the way the air shifts. the particular tread of someone who's spent his whole life in racing shoes.

"hi," he says.

you open your eyes. he's in his mercedes jacket. hair unstyled. he looks like he didn't sleep.

"you weren't at the rink," you say.

"you told me to go pack."

"i didn't mean—" you stop. breathe. "i didn't mean stop coming."

he walks over. sits in the chair next to you. not across the room this time, right next to you.

"you're very hard to know," he says.

"i know."

"i'm not complaining."

"you should."

"why?"

you don't answer. can't. the words are there, right behind your teeth, but you've spent so long not saying them that they've calcified. kimi leans forward. elbows on his knees. hands clasped.

"i like you," he says.

simple. direct. the way he says everything. no game. no angle.

"i know it's inconvenient," he continues. "i know you don't— i know it's not easy for you. but i'm leaving tomorrow, and i need to say it, because if i don't, i'll spend two weeks in spain thinking about the look on your face when you're concentrating, and the way you tape your stick, and how you've never once asked me for anything, and i'll go insane."

he exhales.

"so. i like you. that's it. you don't have to say it back."

silence. the compression boots hum. somewhere down the hall, a door closes.

you pull the boots off. stand up. he watches you. waiting. his face is open. always open. but there's something underneath now. fear, maybe. or hope. with him, they look the same.

"you're an idiot," you say.

"i know."

"you fly to twelve countries a year."

"i know."

"you're nineteen."

"i know."

"you don't even skate."

"i'm learning."

that stops you.

"what?"

he pulls out his phone. shows you a calendar. tuesday afternoons. skating lesson. coach marie.

"i started two weeks ago," he says. "i fell six times the first day. i have bruises on my— never mind. the point is."

he stands. puts the phone away.

"the point is i'm trying. and you won't meet me halfway. and that's okay. i'm not asking you to be different. i'm just asking you to—"

"stop."

he stops. you look at him. this kid. this stupid, earnest, ridiculous kid who learned to skate for you. who woke up at five in the morning for three months. who's been watching you run drills and asking nothing in return.

the thing behind your ribs cracks open.

"i like you too," you say.

quiet. barely there. the hardest thing you've ever said.

kimi stares.

“what?”

"don't make me say it again."

"you like me."

"i said don't—"

he kisses you.

it's not smooth. he catches the corner of your mouth at first, and you're both off balance, and his hands don't know where to land. your waist, then your shoulder, then your face. like he's been thinking about this for three months and forgot to plan the logistics.

you grab the front of his jacket and pull him closer. fix the angle. fix everything.

he makes a sound against your mouth. surprised, grateful, something in italian you don't catch, and you kiss him harder because you don't know how to say it any other way.

when you break apart, he's smiling. that bright, room rearranging smile.

"you like me," he says again.

"you're going to be insufferable about this."

"completamente." completely.

you shove his shoulder. he doesn't move.

"i still have to leave tomorrow," he says.

"i know."

"and you'll still be here."

"i know."

he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers are warm. a little unsteady.

"i'll come back," he says.

"you'd better."

"six am. front row."

"learn to catch first."

he laughs. that surprised, real laugh.

and you. you, with your sharp edges and your guarded heart and your inability to say anything that matters. you almost smile.

almost.

outside, the snow starts falling again. softer this time. the kind that sticks.

he'll be gone tomorrow. but not yet. not yet.

[angeenrose]

omg girl youre so underrated your writing is SO GOOD??? im so in love 🥹

MWAHHH ILYSMMM!! im sososo glad u like them🫶🫶

[angeenrose]

omg i finally found someone else who's into the same 2 fandoms!! my worlds are colliding 🫶🫶

also, if i'm not mistaken, did you have a blog before this one with boyliife content? (there are a lot if lea's on here, but i remember talking to one in particular who deactivated 😔)

anyways, i hope you're doing well and are excited for rommulas mini tour and return of f1 soon

( ੭ ˘ ³˘)੭‎°｡⋆♡‧₊˚

OHEMGEE YAYYY! our worlds are actually colliding i never find people who are into both of the same fandoms 🫶🫶

and nooo, ive never had another account that posted actual content before this one!! this is my first blog where i’ve actually started posting stuff, so you might be thinking of someone else🥹

but i hope you’re doing well too!! and i’m so excited for rommulas mini tour even tho I CANT GO💔💔 but i will be excited to watch all the videos on tiktok about it (and cry cuz i couldnt be there) and im sososo excited for f1 coming back soon!!

[angeenrose]

since you were asking for requests,,, could you please write something (with smut) about kimi and his girlfriend going on vacation together for the first time, based on all the yacht pictures? maybe they can’t keep their hands off each other and it’s super playful and fun, but also super romantic and sweet? tysm in advance ♡

kimi antonelli x fem!reader — stupid blue

warnings : smut, fluff, kissing, breast/nipple sucking, teasing, aftercare, body worship, sharing food/pasta kiss, alcohol mention

word count : 2.2k, masterlist, a/n : tank u gais for all the requests but pls check who i write for before requesting!☺️

the mediterranean was stupid blue. that was the only word for it.

kimi leaned against the yacht's railing, shirt somewhere between the deck and the cabin, skin already going gold in the afternoon light. the water off the amalfi coast didn't even look real. postcard blue, glass blue, the kind of blue that made your eyes ache.

he wasn't looking at the water.

you stretched on the lounger, one leg bent, the other trailing off the edge. your bikini was white. you'd picked it in positano two days ago, held it up in the shop with a look that made him buy three things you didn't even try on just to keep you smiling.

"you're staring," you said without opening your eyes.

"yeah."

"you're supposed to say you were admiring the view."

"the view's better over here."

you cracked one eye open. smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. "that was smooth."

"i've been practicing."

"on who?"

kimi pushed off the railing. two steps and he was at the lounger, dropping onto the end of it, your feet finding his lap like they belonged there. "on you. in my head. for like six hours on the flight."

"six hours of hypothetical game?"

"its like sim racing but for talking to my girlfriend."

you laughed. the real one, the one that crinkled your nose. the sound of it still did something stupid to his chest, even after eight months.

he rubbed his thumb along the arch of your foot. you made a small sound, head tipping back.

"this is obscene," you murmured.

"what is?"

"all of it. the boat. the water. you looking like that."

"like what?"

"like you know exactly what you're doing."

kimi's hand stilled. "i genuinely don't."

that got your eyes open. both of them. you studied his face the way you did, like you were reading something nobody else bothered to look for. then you sat up, swung your legs off his lap, and leaned in.

the kiss started soft. then it wasn't.

your hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the curls at his nape. he made a sound against your mouth. something between a sigh and a groan and pulled you closer, half onto his lap, the lounger creaking under the shift of weight.

"kimi."

"hm?"

"we're on a boat."

"i noticed."

"with a crew."

he pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes. his were darker now. "they're at lunch. i checked."

"you checked."

"twenty minutes ago. before you came up."

your eyebrows lifted. "you were planning this."

"i was hoping." his hand traced up your spine, light, barely there. you shivered despite the heat. "theres a difference."

you kissed him again. harder this time. your teeth caught his lower lip and he gasped. actually gasped. and then you were grinning against his mouth, that grin he felt in your bones.

"inside," you said. "now.”

the cabin was cool. dark. the blinds threw lines of light across the bed.

you walked backward, pulling him by the hand, and he followed you like you were the only fixed point in the room. maybe you were.

the back of your knees hit the bed. you sat. kimi stood between your legs, looking down at you, breathing like he'd been holding it for a while.

"hi," you said.

"hi."

"you're nervous."

"no i’m not."

"you're doing the thing with your hands."

he looked down. his fingers were fidgeting at his sides. he made them stop. "shut up."

"make me."

so he did. he kissed you and bore you back onto the bed, the white comforter cool under the blast of the air conditioning, your skin warm where his hands found your waist, your ribs, the curve of your hip. his mouth left yours and tracked down. jaw, throat, the hollow between your collarbones where your pulse beat fast and visible.

"you're so—" he started, then lost the words somewhere in the salt taste of your skin.

"so what?"

"i don't know. just. so."

you laughed, breathless. "poetry. reaaaal poetry, antonelli."

he lifted his head. his curls were a mess. his lips were pink. he looked wrecked already.

"i’m not good at talking."

"you're good at other things."

his eyes flickered. something shifted in his expression. the shy kid from bologna giving way to something hungrier. "yeah?"

"yeah."

he reached behind you. fingers found the tie of your bikini top. hesitated .

"can i—"

"god, yes."

the top came loose. the white fabric fell away. for a second he just looked the way he looked at telemetry data, like he was memorizing everything, cataloguing, planning.

then his mouth was on your breast and you stopped thinking.

his tongue circled your nipple, slow, deliberate. your back arched. your hands fisted in his hair. he made a low sound, satisfaction, maybe, or hunger and switched to the other side, giving it the same attention, the same unhurried precision.

"you've done this before," you managed.

"not with you."

the words landed somewhere deep in your stomach. you pulled his mouth back to yours, kissed him messy and open, and your hand slid down between you to palm him through his shorts. he was hard. the shape of him made your breath catch.

he broke the kiss. forehead against yours. breathing ragged. "if you do that i’m not going to last."

"who says you need to last?"

"i want to—" he swallowed. "i want to do this right."

"kimi." you cupped his face. made him look at you. "it’s me."

something in his expression cracked open. relief. want. something softer underneath both.

he kissed you once, gentle, and then moved down your body.

his fingers hooked into the sides of your bikini bottoms. you lifted your hips. he pulled them off, slow, and then his shoulders were pushing your thighs apart and his mouth was on you.

you gasped.

the first stroke of his tongue was tentative, learning, mapping and then he found the rhythm and you stopped being able to form words. your hands twisted in the sheets. hus name came out of your mouth in pieces.

he worked your clit in slow circles, then faster, then slow again, pulling back every time your hips started to lift. teasing. deliberate. the quiet, focused intensity he brought to everything, aimed entirely at you.

"kimi, please—"

he looked up. chin slick. eyes dark. "please what?"

"i need you inside me."

he crawled back up your body, kissing his way. hip, ribs, breast, throat, and when he settled between your legs, the weight of him, the heat of him, you could have cried from how much you wanted it.

"condom," he said, and the word was rough, barely english.

"bag. side pocket."

he reached over you, the stretch of his body against yours pulling a sound from both of you. found it. sat back on his heels to roll it on, and you watched him concentration in his brow, the way his hands trembled slightly.

"you're shaking."

"i know." he met your eyes. almost shy again. "i really, really like you."

you pulled him down. kissed him hard. "i really, really like you too. now please—"

he pushed inside.

the sound you made was nothing like speech.

he moved slow at first, finding the angle, watching your face for every flicker of pleasure. his forehead dropped to yours. his breath came in rough exhales, warm against your lips.

"you feel—" he couldn't finish.

"yeah," you breathed. "yeah."

he picked up the pace. the bed creaked. the boat rocked gently beneath you. the mediterranean doing its own lazy rhythm under the hull. your legs wrapped around his waist. your bodies found the same cadence, the same desperate push and pull.

you were close and he could tell by the way your breathing changed, the way your nails dug into his back.

"come on," he murmured, rough, right against your ear. "come on, baby. i’ve got you."

you shattered. your body clenched around him and his name broke out of your throat and you were gone. somewhere bright and weightless, somewhere beyond the cabin and the boat and the whole stupid blue sea.

he followed a beat later. his rhythm faltered, his whole body went rigid, and he buried his face in your neck with a sound that was almost wounded.

you lay there. the air conditioning hummed. the boat swayed. somewhere above deck, a crew member's footsteps crossed from port to starboard.

kimi lifted his head. his curls were plastered to his forehead. his eyes were the softest you'd ever seen them.

he pulled out gently, kissed your forehead, and disappeared into the en suite. came back with a warm washcloth. actually warm, he'd waited for the water and cleaned you up with the same careful focus he gave everything.

then he flopped onto the bed beside you and pulled you against his chest.

"i’m never going back to racing," he said into your hair.

"you have a race in two weeks."

"cancelled. i live here now. on this boat. with you."

"mercedes might have thoughts about that."

"toto will understand."

you snorted. "toto will absolutely not understand."

kimi's chest shook with silent laughter. his arms tightened around you. outside, the sun was beginning its slow drop toward the water, turning the blue to gold.

dinner on the rooftop deck. the highest point of the yacht. Just teak underfoot, two chairs, a low table, and the whole tyrrhenian sea hammered flat and gold. the sun was sinking. slow. showy. the kind of sunset that looked fake.

two plates of spaghetti alle vongole. steam curling into the warm air. candles in glass holders at the center of the table. the crew had vanished again.

"you asked them to leave?”

kimi shrugged, already twirling pasta. "i asked them to leave."

"very presumptuous."

"hopeful." He grinned. "there’s a difference."

you wound spaghetti around your fork. he watched. that cataloguing attention, like you were telemetry.

"you're staring."

"you're eating spaghetti. it's very distracting."

the wind caught your laugh. the sky ran its colors. gold to amber, amber to rose. kimi pulled his chair flush against yours. knee to knee. his hand finding your thigh beneath the table.

"look," he said.

you looked. the sun touched the water. the sea swallowed it inch by inch. for a second neither of you spoke just breath and salt and the low creak of the hull.

"it's stupid," he said, "how much i don't want this week to end."

you turned. he wasn't looking at the sunset. he was looking at you.

"kimi."

"hm?"

you held up a single strand of spaghetti. one end caught between your lips. eyebrows raised.

his expression did a full three act play. confusion. recognition. then something warm and helpless.

"no."

"please? it would be cute!."

"fine..”

he was already leaning in.

he lips closed around the other end. you both bit. chewed. met in the middle.

the kiss was salty. buttery. wine and the sea and him. his hand came up to your jaw. held. lingered. the spaghetti was gone and he was still kissing you. soft, sweet, the kind of kiss that wasn't going anywhere on purpose.

you pulled back. his eyes stayed shut for a beat too long.

"worth it!" he murmured.

you poked his chest. "told you."

his eyes opened. im the dying light they were nearly black. "again."

"there's still pasta on the plate."

"one more."

so you did it again. and maybe a third time. and by the fourth kiss the spaghetti was forgotten entirely and the sunset was finishing itself without an audience.

he pulled back, breath uneven. his thumb traced your cheekbone.

"tell me something i don't know," you said.

"about what?"

"anything. you."

he thought. the candles flickered. the sky bruised purple at the edges.

"when i was twelve," he said, "i used to fall asleep watching onboard footage. not even races. just.. laps. the sound of the engine. i'd put my headphones on and my mom would find me in the morning with them still in."

"that's the least surprising thing you've ever told me."

"it's not the fact. It's—" he paused. "i still do it. before every race. same videos from 2016. i don't know why."

you turned your hand under his. laced your fingers.

"because it still feels the same," you said. "the wanting."

he looked at you.

"yeah," he said. "exactly ."

later. the cabin again. the bed turned down, sheets crisp and white.

kimi was already under the covers, one arm folded behind his head, watching you brush your hair out in the bathroom doorway. his eyes were heavy lidded. soft with exhaustion.

"what?" you said.

"nothing."

"you're doing the staring thing again."

"can't help it."

you crossed the room. climbed in beside him. the sheets were cool. he was warm. he turned onto his side and pulled you against him, chest to back, his face pressed into the curve of your shoulder.

"thank you," he said, muffled.

"for what?"

"for coming. for — this. all of it."

you pulled his arm tighter around you. his breath slowed. evened out. his body went heavy and loose against yours.

the moon laid a silver stripe across the water. the boat rocked. gentle. rhythmic. like a lullaby.

you closed your eyes.

the mediterranean kept moving under you, carrying you both into the dark.

[angeenrose]

kimi x bonnington!reader ?

kimi x bonnington!reader — sector times & secret meetings

warnings : secret relationship, fear of getting caught, physical intimacy, undressing, sexual content, panic, anxiety, implied professional sabotage, alcohol mentions

word count : 2.8k, masterlist, a/n : hai i hope dis is good

the text comes in at 2:14 a.m.

“don't wake him.”

you read it three times before the screen dims. doesn't need to. you know what it means. hotel, room 417, door unlocked.

your father's room is three doors down.

you pad barefoot down the corridor in hotel slippers, past 413, past the do not disturb tag swinging from your dad's door handle. the carpet swallows your footsteps. the air hums with industrial ac and the ghost of room service.

417.

you knock once. soft. knuckle on wood. the door opens before your hand drops.

kimi stands there in a hoodie and joggers, hair still damp from a shower, eyes dark and bright at the same time. nineteen years old and already carrying the weight of silver arrows on his shoulders.

he doesn't say anything. just pulls you inside. the door clicks shut.

"you're insane," you whisper. "he's three rooms down."

"i know." his hands find your waist. "that's why i texted."

"that makes no sense."

he grins. it transforms his face. the reserved thing the cameras catch vanishes, and there's just him. the nineteen year old who still laughs at stupid memes and drinks too much espresso. "you came."

you hate that he's right.

they started three months ago. silverstone. you'd been standing at the back of the garage, trying to stay invisible, which was the usual move when your father was the most senior engineer on the grid and you just wanted to watch cars without forty people asking if you were "bono's little girl."

kimi had found you anyway.

he'd walked past, doubled back, and asked in that careful english with the italian edge: "you are bono's daughter."

not a question.

"unfortunately."

the laugh he gave you. surprised, genuine, cracked something open.

they talked for twelve minutes. you learned he missed his mother's cooking, that he still got nervous before qualifying, that he hated the taste of champagne but loved the ritual of the podium. he learned you were studying architecture, that you'd grown up in brackley, that your father told every boyfriend you'd ever had that he could "make a body disappear."

"that is a problem," kimi had said, deadpan.

"tell me about it."

"i will be careful."

you'd thought he meant careful with you. you should have known better.

now his mouth is on your neck and careful is the last word you'd use.

"kimi—"

"hm?"

"if he finds out— "

"he is asleep." lips against your collarbone. "he had two glasses of wine at dinner. i watched."

"you watched my father drink wine?"

"i watch everything."

you push him back. not far. just enough to see his face. "that's terrifying."

"racing driver." he shrugs. “we are observant.”

"observe less then."

he doesn't. his hands slide under your t-shirt, palms warm and dry. the hoodie comes off. the joggers. you memorize the geography of him. the lean muscle of a boy who trains four hours a day, the faint tan line at his neck

"you are staring," he says.

"you're worth staring at."

something flickers across his face. that vulnerability he hides so well, the one that reminds you he's still a teenager in a sport full of men. you kiss him before it can settle.

the bed is too small for two people who are trying to be quiet.

every creak of the mattress registers like a gunshot. every breath feels amplified. you bite your lip until it hurts, and kimi watches you with something between adoration and amusement, one hand braced against the headboard.

"you are very loud," he murmurs. "for someone who is hiding."

"i'm not— "

"you are breathing like you ran a marathon."

"whose fault is that?"

he smiles. doesn't answer. moves instead.

you arch into him and the headboard taps the wall. tap, tap. and you both freeze like teenagers caught in a headlight.

silence.

nothing from next door.

kimi exhales. "okay. maybe we go slower."

"maybe we stop."

"no." the word comes fast. too fast. he softens it with a kiss to your shoulder. "not stopping. just... careful."

"careful" is kimi antonelli sliding his hand between your thighs with the same precision he uses on a steering wheel. "careful" is you gasping into his pillow while he murmurs italian words you don't understand but feel anyway. "careful" is neither of you being careful at all.

afterward, you lie in the dark with your head on his chest.

"you should go back," he says. "before morning."

"i know."

neither of you moves.

"kimi?"

"hm."

"does my dad... does he ever talk about me? on race weekends?"

kimi's hand stills on your back. "sometimes. he says you are the only thing more important than the car."

you close your eyes. "great."

"era già difficile prima," kimi says quietly. "it was already difficult before." his chest rises and falls. "now it is impossible."

"difficult how?"

"he watches everything i do. every lap time. every mistake." a pause. "every time i look at the garage."

you prop yourself on one elbow. "do you look at the garage a lot?"

"only when you are in it."

you should feel afraid. what you feel instead is reckless and warm and terrifyingly permanent.

you leave at 4:47 a.m.

the corridor is empty. the do not disturb still hangs from 413. you make it back to your room without seeing a single soul, and when you check your phone there's already a text waiting

“domani. same time.”

you don't answer.

you don't need to.

morning comes too fast. team briefing at eight. you're not required because you're not team, but you go anyway, sitting in the back with a coffee and a face that says nothing happened.

your father is already at the front, tablet in hand, pulling up data.

kimi walks in at 8:02. hoodie. damp hair. eyes that find yours for exactly half a second.

bono looks up. "nice of you to join us, kimi."

"sorry. slept badly."

your father's expression doesn't change. but something in the silence that follows — the way his eyes flick from kimi to you and back — makes your stomach drop.

"right," bono says. "let's start with turn three."

and you know. youjust don't know when.

you don't see him until dinner.

the team takes over a corner of the hotel restaurant. engineers, mechanics, pr people. your father at the center, tablet still glowing. kimi at the far end, picking at a plate of pasta like it owes him money.

you sit three seats down from your dad. safe distance. kimi doesn't look at you. not once.

it's the not looking that does it. the deliberate way his eyes slide past your chair. the way he laughs at something his performance coach says. too loud, too easy. performance laughing.

you stab a cherry tomato.

your father glances over. "you okay?"

"fine."

"you're murdering that tomato."

you set the fork down.

after dinner, the lobby. team members drift toward the elevators in twos and threes.

you hang back. tie your shoe. retie it.

kimi walks past with his trainer. doesn't slow. but his hand brushes the small of your back a half second, less, and keeps moving.

your skin stays warm for an hour.

the text comes at 11:52.

“now. bring coffee”

you type back: “it's almost midnight”

“so bring two”

he's still awake when you get there. laptop open, telemetry glowing. you can see the traces. throttle, brake, steering angle

"you're working."

"i am pretending to work." he pulls you inside. "in case someone knocks."

"who knocks at midnight?"

a beat. "your father."

the coffee cups go on the desk.

"what happened this morning," you say. "at the briefing. he looked at you."

"i know."

"then he looked at me."

"i know."

"kimi—“

he pulls you onto the bed. not like last night, slower now. deliberate. his back against the headboard, you between his legs, his arms around your waist.

"i have a plan," he says.

"a plan?”

"for if he finds out."

your stomach clenches. "and that plan is?"

"i tell him the truth. that i am not playing with you. that this is real." his chin rests on your shoulder. "and then i run very fast."

a laugh escapes you. you didn't expect it.

"you think he'd hurt you?"

"i think he would make my life very difficult. wrong strategy calls. bad tyre choices." kimi's voice drops, mock-serious. "suddenly i am on a three stop in monaco."

"you're an idiot."

"an idiot who likes his daughter." his arms tighten. "so i take the risk."

they don't have sex. they talk instead.

his family in bologna, his mother's gnocchi, his father's impossible standards. your architecture program, the studio at 3 a.m., the professor who said your designs were "too emotional."

"i like emotional," kimi says.

"you would."

"my car is emotional. she tells me things."

"what does she tell you?"

"when i push too hard. when i am scared." his thumb traces circles on your hip. "when i am thinking about something else."

"like what?"

"you."

you turn in his arms. "that's a terrible line."

"it is not a line. i missed a braking point at turn seven in fp2. your father asked what happened. i said understeer."

"what was it really?"

"you had walked past the garage. in that blue dress."

you remember the dress. remember choosing it because it made you feel invisible. navy, shapeless, aggressively forgettable.

kimi noticed.

the knock comes at 1:17 a.m.

three raps. sharp. professional.

you freeze.

kimi's hand clamps over your mouth before you can gasp. not hard. just present.

"kimi?” the voice through the door. your father's voice.

bono.

"kimi, you awake? need to go over the sector two data before morning."

kimi's eyes meet yours. wide. calculating.

"one second," he calls. his voice steady. incredibly steady.

he pulls you off the bed. points to the bathroom. you move. silent, barefoot and close the door just as you hear the hotel room door open.

the bathroom. you're in the bathroom. lights off. heart hammering.

your coffee cup is on the desk. both coffee cups. still warm.

please don't notice the coffee cups.

"you're working?" bono's voice through the door. muffled now.

"can't sleep. thought i'd look at the data."

"good man. that's what i like to hear."

silence. you imagine your father standing there. scanning the room, the bed, the desk with its two cups.

"someone else here?"

your blood stops.

"what?" kimi's voice. still steady.

"two coffees."

"i drink a lot of coffee."

a pause. a long one.

"right." your father's tone unreadable. "well. sector two. your entry speed at turn eight — "

the conversation shifts. data. entry speeds. exit speeds. the familiar rhythm of engineer and driver.

you don't breathe for six minutes.

when the door finally clicks shut and kimi opens the bathroom, you're sitting on the edge of the tub. knees drawn up.

"he's gone."

"did he know?"

kimi leans against the doorframe. his composure cracks. "i don't know."

"the cups. he saw the cups."

"i said i was expecting my trainer."

"you don't drink coffee with your trainer."

"i meant i was expecting him. not that the coffee was for him."

you stare. "that's... actually plausible."

"i think fast." he offers a hand. pulls you up. "but we cannot do this again. not here. not during a race weekend."

"i know."

"i will find another way."

"what other way?"

he doesn't answer. just kisses your forehead. a gentleness that undoes you and walks you to the door.

you're in the corridor at 1:41 a.m.

the do not disturb still hangs from 413.

but the door is slightly ajar and the light is on inside.

you freeze.

the corridor stretches in both directions. empty. silent except for the hum of the ice machine two floors down. your own door is six steps away.

the light from 413 cuts a thin blade across the carpet.

you could keep walking. pretend you didn't see. crawl into bed and wait for whatever comes in the morning.

instead you knock.

soft. just like 417.

"come in."

your father's voice. not angry. not tired. just... flat.

he's sitting in the armchair by the window. tablet dark on the side table. hotel robe. bare feet. two glasses on the desk. one empty, one with a finger of whiskey left.

he doesn't look up when you enter.

"close the door."

you do.

"sit."

the edge of the bed. the same position you'd been in twelve minutes ago, across the hall, kimi's hand on your back.

silence.

bono swirls the whiskey. doesn't drink it.

"how long?"

"dad—“

"how long."

you close your eyes. "three months."

a sound escapes him. not a laugh, not a sigh. something in between. he sets the glass down.

"silverstone."

not a question.

"how did you—"

"i'm an engineer." he finally looks at you. his eyes are tired in a way you've never seen before. "i read data. i look at patterns. i notice when my driver suddenly develops an interest in the back of the garage."

your face burns.

"and when my daughter starts showing up at every race weekend. even the flyaways." he picks up the glass. puts it down again. "you hate flyaways."

"i wanted to support you."

"you wanted to support kimi."

you don't deny it.

bono stands. walks to the window. the city spreads out below. lights, highways, the distant dark of the sea.

"he's my driver."

"i know."

"my responsibility. if this goes wrong— "

"it won't."

"it already has." he turns. "you're sneaking around hotel rooms at two in the morning. you're hiding in bathrooms while i talk about sector times. that's not a relationship. that's an incident waiting to happen."

you flinch.

"do you love him?"

the question lands like a punch.

"i—" you stop. start again. "i don't know. it's been three months."

"three months of hiding."

"yes."

"and you still don't know."

"i know i don't want to stop."

bono holds your gaze. something shifts in his face. the engineer's mask cracking just slightly.

"sit down."

"i am sitting."

"i meant-" he gestures toward the door. toward the hallway. toward 417. "go get him."

"what?"

"he's probably panicking. go get him. both of you. here."

you don't move.

"now, please."

kimi opens the door before you knock. he's pale. phone in hand. hair a mess.

"your father— "

"i know."

"he knows?"

"i know." you grab his wrist. "he wants to talk to us. both of us."

the color that drains from kimi's face would be almost funny in any other circumstance.

"is he going to kill me?"

"probably not."

"that is not reassuring."

"come on."

they sit on the edge of the bed. side by side. kimi's knee is bouncing, a nervous tic you've never seen before, not even before qualifying.

bono stands in front of them. arms crossed.

"i'm going to say this once."

kimi's knee stops.

"you are a good kid." bono's voice is quiet. measured. "you're the most talented driver i've worked with in twenty-two years. you show up early. you do the work. you don't complain. you listen." a pause. "mostly."

kimi opens his mouth. closes it.

"but." the word hangs. "if you hurt my daughter, if you make her cry, if you break her trust, if you do anything that makes me regret this conversation, i will make your life hell."

silence.

"wrong strategy calls," kimi says quietly.

bono blinks.

"bad tyre choices. three stop in monaco."

a beat. then bono's mouth twitches.

"she told you about that."

"i came up with it."

the twitch becomes something else. not quite a smile. but close.

"you're not funny, kimi."

"i am a little funny."

bono sits down. heavy. the armchair creaks under him.

"no more sneaking around. if you're together, you're together. no hiding. no bathroom escapes. no two coffee cups at one in the morning."

"we're sorry," you say.

"no, you're not."

you almost laugh. he's right.

"does the team know?" bono asks.

"no one," kimi says. "only us."

"keep it that way. at least until the season's done. the media will make a circus of it. ‘bono's daughter, the rookie driver.’ it's a distraction neither of you need."

he looks at you.

"and i need to know you're okay. actually okay.”

"i'm okay."

"you're sure?"

"dad." you stand. cross to him. kiss his cheek. "i'm sure."

bono exhales. looks at kimi.

"take care of her."

"i will."

"i mean it."

kimi meets his eyes. doesn't flinch. doesn't blink.

"i know you do. and i will."

the walk back to 417 is different. slower.

kimi's hand finds yours in the corridor. doesn't let go.

"your father," he says, "is terrifying."

"i told you."

"more terrifying than a wet track at spa."

"higher compliment doesn't exist."

he stops outside his door. pulls you close.

"your room or mine?"

"yours. i left my slippers."

he grins.

"leave them again tomorrow."

[angeenrose]

omg guys PLEASE give me requests i literally have no idea what to write abt 😭😭💔💔💔😭

[angeenrose]

thank u gais for 100 followers 🥹🥹

[angeenrose]

charles leclerc x fem!reader — bf!charles headcannons (sfw & nsfw)

warnings : smut, oral sex (m receiving and f receiving), dirty talk, possessive behavior, jealousy, emotional withdrawal, unprotected sex

word count : 1.1k, masterlist, a/n : my apologies for posting sm smut im having tm fun writing it 😭😭😭

bf!charles who learns your coffee order by the second week and never gets it wrong. not in a performative way. he just pays attention. on race weekends he'll have it waiting in his driver's room before you even wake up, still hot, exactly how you take it. doesn't mention it. just slides it toward you when you walk in.

bf!charles who is embarrassingly bad at texting back during race weekends but will call you the second he's out of debrief.

voice low, tired, still in his fireproofs.

"tell me something normal," he says.

he means: ground me. remind me there's a world outside this paddock.

bf!charles who plays piano when he can't sleep. you'll wake up at 3 a.m. to something soft drifting from the living room half a melody, something he's working out. he doesn't notice you leaning in the doorway. his shoulders are loose for the first time all week.

the monaco apartment is all dark except for the lamp over the piano. he's in sweatpants, barefoot, hair unstyled. the piece is slow. minor key. you don't recognize it.

his hands pause. "did i wake you?"

"keep playing."

he does. you sit on the floor with your back against the couch and close your eyes.

bf!charles who gets quiet after bad races. not cold, just somewhere else. don't push. sit next to him. let him find his way back. he always does, and when he surfaces he'll pull you into him like you're the first solid thing he's felt in hours.

bf!charles who is surprisingly clingy in private. hand on your thigh under every dinner table. arm hooked around your waist while he brushes his teeth. he'll be half asleep and still reach for you, fingers finding the hem of your shirt, palm flattening against your stomach like he needs the contact to settle.

bf!charles who teaches you to drive stick in an empty parking lot outside.

“clutch first, then gas. slowly. voilà, like that."

he's a terrible backseat driver anywhere else, but when he's teaching? zen.

bf!charles who gets jealous but won't say it. he just goes quiet. jaw a little tighter. finds you later with a hand on the small of your back that's more possessive than usual. if you ask, he'll deny it. if you push, he'll say, "i don't like sharing your attention." says it like it's a fact. like commenting on the weather.

the party is loud and someone, you didn't catch his name, has been talking to you for too long. funny guy. keeps touching your arm.

charles materializes at your elbow. doesn't interrupt. just stands there, sipping his drink, and the guy trails off mid sentence.

later, in the car: "you did that on purpose."

“did what?" innocent. dimples showing.

bf!charles who is a menace in the morning. wakes up early, disgustingly cheerful, already been for a run. you're still half dead, face in the pillow, and he's sitting on the edge of the bed pressing cold fingers to the back of your neck just to watch you squeal.

bf!charles who calls you “mon cœur” when he's feeling soft and “bébé” when he's teasing but when he's inside you, it's always your name. never anything else.

bf!charles who is vocal in bed but not loud. low, breathless, right against your ear. filthy in french when he's close. words you only half understand but feel anyway, the shape of them in his mouth, the way his voice cracks on the last syllable.

bf!charles who eats pussy like he's got something to prove. slow at first. almost reverent. kissing the inside of your thighs before he even gets close to where you want him. committed. patient. he learns you by sound and response, what makes you gasp, what makes you grab his hair, what makes you go silent and still. he'll stay there until your legs shake and then he'll keep going.

his shoulders are between your thighs. you can't see his face. you can feel his stubble, his breath, the flat of his tongue.

"charles—"

he hums against you. doesn't stop. one hand splayed over your hip to hold you down, thumb stroking the bone there like you're something breakable.

you’re not being handled like something breakable.

"right there?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, mouth shiny.

“yes, don't stop, don't—“

bf!charles who gets hard from going down on you. every time. you'll reach for him after and he's already there, aching, a damp spot on his boxers. "that's what you do to me," he says. almost accusatory. like you should take responsibility.

bf!charles who loves when you go down on him but has trouble letting go of control. he'll try to stay quiet, jaw clenched, one hand fisted in the sheets. then you'll do something with your tongue and his hips will jerk and he'll breathe "putain" through his teeth. after, he pulls you up and kisses you deep, doesn't care where your mouth's been.

the lights are low. he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and you're on your knees between his. his hand is in your hair. not pushing. just… there. fingers threading through, catching lightly.

"regarde-moi," he says. look at me. his accent thickens when he's turned on.

you look up. his pupils are blown. the eye contact nearly undoes him. you see it happen, see his mouth go slack.

"merde."

bf!charles who runs hot. literally. you'll wake up sweating under the duvet because he radiates heat like a furnace. great in winter. in monaco summers it's a war crime. he thinks it's hilarious.

bf!charles who remembers everything. the name of your childhood pet. your mom's birthday. that thing you mentioned once three months ago about a book you wanted to read. it shows up on the nightstand, no note, no fanfare.

bf!charles who is fiercely protective of your privacy. won't post you without asking. shuts down interview questions about his personal life with that polite, impenetrable smile. his world is loud and fast and always watching. you're the quiet thing that's just his.

bf!charles who fucks like he qualifies. precise, intense, a little obsessive about getting it right. he pays attention to what works. adjusts. tries again. afterward he's the softest version of himself, forehead pressed to yours, still breathing hard, asking if you're okay like the answer matters more than anything.

bf!charles who can't keep his hands off you on yachts. something about the sun and the salt and your skin. he'll find you on the deck and pull you below, fingers already working at the ties of your swimsuit. "we have guests," you say. "they'll survive," he says. his mouth is on your neck before the door clicks shut.

[angeenrose]

kimi antonelli x fem!reader — pre-race ritual (nsfw)

warnings : smut, breast focus, oral breast contact, motorboating, manual stimulation, over the clothes grinding, p in v, fluff and emotional intimacy, established relationship, light pinning, mild language, not proofread

word count : 2.4k, masterlist, a/n : hai another smut fic..

he’s supposed to be sleeping. race tomorrow. fourteenth on the grid, not where he wants to be.. you felt the tension radiating off him all through dinner, the way he pushed pasta around his plate, the silence heavier than any words.

when you got back to the hotel, he'd kicked off his shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the wall for five minutes straight.

now it's past midnight. the city hums outside the window. some circuit city, interchangeable, all floodlights and distant traffic. you're propped against the headboard in one of his mercedes tees. he's beside you, on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"you need to sleep," you say.

"i know."

"so sleep."

"can't." he rolls onto his side, facing you. his curls are a mess against the pillow. in the dark, his eyes are all pupil. "my head is... loud."

you reach over, thread your fingers through his hair. he leans into it like a cat, eyes half closing. then open again. on you. specifically, lower.

"kimi."

"i’m not-" he groans, presses his face into the pillow. muffled: "i wasn't trying to."

“you were”

he lifts his head. caught. that pink flush creeping up from his collar, the one the cameras never catch because he's too composed in public. never with you.

"maybe i was."

"maybe?"

"okay." hs sits up, cross legged now, facing you. "okay. i've been thinking about them all day. qualifying was shit and all i could think about was coming back here and-“ he gestures vaguely at your chest, then drops his hands. "this is stupid. you're trying to help me sleep and i’m being a- "

"kimi."

"—a horny teenager, which i am, technically, but-“

"kimi."

he stops.

"come here."

he doesn't need telling twice. he crawls across the bed, settles between your legs, and drops his forehead directly onto your sternum. the weight of him presses you into the pillows. his arms snake around your waist.

"this okay?" muffled against the cotton of your shirt.

"more than okay."

"good." he nuzzles into you. not subtle. not trying to be. his nose drags along the curve of your left breast, and when he exhales, the heat seeps through the fabric. "because i really, really need this tonight."

you feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders. his grip tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, and then his face is buried between your tits like it's the only place on earth that makes sense.

"i love them," he says. doesn’t lift his head. doesn’t stop pressing his face into you. "i love you, but i also.. really love them."

"i know you do."

"you don't understand." he shifts, mouth now dragging along the neckline of your shirt. "before a race. after. in the car. our of the car. i’m supposed to be thinking about tire degradation and i’m thinking about your tits."

"that’s probably not in the mercedes playbook."

"toto would kill me." he laughs. real this time, a puff of warm air against your skin. then his voice drops. "worth it."

he hand finds the hem of your shirt. hesitates.

"can i?”

"since when do you ask?"

"since always. i’m polite."

"take it off, kimi."

the shirt goes over your head. before it even hits the floor, his face is back where it belongs. no barrier now, bare skin to bare skin. the sound he makes is half groan, half relief, like he's been holding his breath all day and finally gets to exhale.

"mmmm." buried deep in the valley between your breasts, voice vibrating against your ribs. "better. so much better."

his hands cup both sides of your ribcage and he pushes your tits together around his face. drowns himself in them. his curls tickle your chin. his nose presses into your sternum and he breathes. long, slow inhales, like he's trying to memorize the scent of your skin.

"you're ridiculous," you say, but you're already arching into him.

"i’m stressed." mouth moving against the inner curve of your right breast now. "this is therapeutic."

"is that what we're calling it?"

"medical reasons. doctor said." his tongue drags across your nipple and you gasp. he grins against your skin, you can feel it. "see? healing."

"i didn't make a sound."

"you made a sound."

"shut up."

his mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard, and this time you definitely make a sound.

kimi lifts his head just enough to look at you. his lips are wet. his eyes are glossy, half lidded, drugged on you. "i could stay here forever," he says. "just... here. face in your tits. nothing else. don’t need to race. don’t need to win. just this."

"you don't mean that."

"no." he presses a kiss to the swell of your breast. "but i almost do."

he switches sides. mouth on your right nipple now, hand working your left. thumb rolling slow circles while his tongue does something filthy. his hips shift against the mattress. he’s hard. you feel him pressing against your thigh through his boxers.

"you're thinking about the race tomorrow," you say. it comes out breathier than intended.

"momentarily forgot there was one." he doesn't stop, now alternating. mouth left, hand right, then switching, finding a rhythm that makes your hips rise. "remind me. is it important?"

"only your entire career."

"career. right." he drags his mouth from your nipple down to the underside of your breast, kissing the soft skin there, the spot he knows makes you shiver. "this is more important."

"kimi-"

"i’m serious." he stops. lifts his head. the playfulness drops and it's just him. 19 years old, the weight of mercedes on his shoulders, looking at you like you're the only safe harbor. "you’re more important. this, us. whatever happens tomorrow, i come back to this. to you."

your chest tightens. he sees it in your face and his ears go pink.

“too much?"

"not enough."

he smiles. the real one, the shy one, the one that makes the internet lose its mind. then he buries his face back in your tits and groans.

"cazzo. i love them. i love them so much it's embarrassing."

"it’s not embarrassing."

"i wrote 'boobies' in my notebook today instead of brake bias."

"you did not."

"swear on my mother." he’s laughing into your cleavage. "engineer asked to see my notes and i had to pretend i dropped the page."

you laugh. deep, real, the kind that shakes your chest, which makes him groan again because now your tits are moving against his face.

"do that again," he says.

"what, laugh?"

"yes. laugh, breathe, anything. i want to feel them move."

"andrea kimi antonelli, you have a problem."

"i have a solution." he pushes your breasts together and motorboats you. not ironically, not as a joke, but with genuine, desperate enthusiasm, groaning into your skin like he's being paid for it.

your laugh turns into a moan.

"there." he surfaces, curls wild, eyes bright. "now i can sleep."

"you’re not sleeping. you just woke something up."

he glances down at your chest, then back up. "yeah. i can see that."

"not what i meant."

his grin goes crooked. one hand slides down your stomach. fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. "tell me what you meant."

"you have a race tomorrow."

"it’s one a.m baby. i’m already fucked." he presses a kiss between your breasts. "might as well be fucked properly."

the word properly lands in your stomach and spreads heat downward.

"kimi."

"tell me to stop and i’ll stop." his fingers trace lower, just brushing. "tell me you don't want this and i’ll roll over and stare at the ceiling for three more hours."

you don't say stop.

"thought so." another kiss, lower this time, moving down your stomach. "now let me thank you properly for being the best pre-race ritual i’ve ever had."

he rolls onto his side, pulls you with him so you're facing each other. his hand finds your hip, thumb tracing lazy circles.

"you're still hard."

"i'm a teenage boy. i'm always hard." he presses a kiss to your forehead. but something shifts. his hips roll, just barely, against your thigh. involuntary. his breath catches.

"kimi."

"what?" playing innocent. his hand sliding lower, over the curve of your ass.

"you said you didn't need anything."

"i lied."

he kisses you. deep this time, tongue sliding against yours, and you taste yourself on him. his hips grind forward. his cock presses against your hip through his boxers, hot even through the cotton.

"i need everything," he says against your mouth. "i need you."

"then take me."

he doesn't need to be told twice.

the boxers go. he kicks them off with none of the grace of a formula one driver, all elbows and urgency, and then he's naked above you and his cock is pressed against your stomach and he's already leaking.

"look what you do to me." his voice is wrecked. "i haven't even touched you yet."

"you literally just had your mouth on me for ten minutes."

"doesn't count. i mean-" he rolls his hips, cock sliding against your belly, leaving a wet trail. "this, us, together."

"so together me."

his laugh breaks into a groan as your hand finds him. you wrap your fingers around his length and he drops his forehead to your shoulder.

"cazzo.."

"good?"

"so good. too good. i'm not gonna-" he's already thrusting into your hand, shallow little movements. "i'm not gonna last if you keep doing that."

"maybe i want you not to last."

"no." he pulls back, catches your wrist, pins it above your head. his eyes are wild. "no. i want to be inside you. i've been thinking about it all day. i'm not wasting it on your hand."

"romantic."

"honest." he settles between your legs. the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and you both inhale at the same time. "tell me you want this."

"i want this."

"tell me you want me."

"i want you, kimi."

"fuck." he stays there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. his whole body is trembling. "give me a second. give me a second or i swear to god i'll come."

"it's okay if you-"

"it's not." his eyes open. dark. determined. "you deserve better than okay. you deserve—" he pulls out, just an inch, and the drag of it makes you gasp. "—everything."

he finds a rhythm. not fast. not desperate. deep, grinding strokes that press him against your cervix and hold there, like he's memorizing the shape of you from the inside.

"you feel-" he can't finish the sentence. his mouth is on your neck, open and gasping. his hips roll in slow circles. "i can't- i don't have words for how you feel."

"show me instead."

he does. his pace quickens. his hand finds your clit, thumb working in messy circles that don't match his thrusts but somehow make it better, the chaos of it, the raw wanting of it.

"you're close," he says. not asking.

"yes."

"good. good. come for me. come on my cock. i want to feel it."

his voice breaks on the last word. his hips stutter. he's holding back, you can feel it, every muscle in his body wound tight.

"kimi. let go."

"not until you-"

"i'm there. i'm right there-"

he drives into you. once. twice. on the third thrust your orgasm hits and you clench around him and he cries out, actually cries out, and then he's coming too, buried deep, hips jerking through it, your name falling from his mouth like a litany.

he collapses on top of you. his full weight. you take it.

for a long moment the only sound is breathing. his heart pounds against your ribs. the city hums outside the window.

then he lifts his head. his curls are plastered to his forehead. his eyes are glassy and dazed and so, so young.

"wow."

"wow?"

"i don't have better words. i failed english." he grins. lazy. fucked out. "wow is all i've got."

"wow works."

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to your collarbone. "wow. wowowow. i'm gonna say it all night."

"you're supposed to be sleeping."

"i just had sex with the most beautiful person on earth. sleep is not happening." he pulls out, slow, and you both wince at the loss. he flops onto his back, tugs you against his side. his hand finds your breast. just resting there. not sexual. proprietary.

"personal space," you murmur.

"don't know her."

"kimi."

"look." he turns his head on the pillow to face you. "you're my girlfriend. these are my tits now. i've imprinted on them like a baby duck."

"that's not how imprinting works."

"it's how italian imprinting works. very special. molto romantico."

you laugh. your chest shakes. he watches your breasts move with the kind of reverence most people reserve for sunsets.

"you're staring."

"i'm appreciating." his thumb traces the curve of your nipple. "there's a difference."

"is there?"

"massive difference. huge. gigantic. other words that also describe your—"

you elbow him. he laughs, catches your arm, pulls you closer.

"okay, okay. i'm done." a pause. "for now."

the silence settles. comfortable. his fingers trace patterns on your shoulder.

"i feel better," he says quietly. "about tomorrow. whatever happens."

"you're gonna be great."

"maybe. maybe not." he shrugs. the bravado is gone again. just him, nineteen, figuring it out. "but i'm okay with either. because i have this."

he gestures between you. vague. encompassing everything.

“post nut clarity,” you say

he snorts. "don't call it that."

"what should i call it?"

"love." his ears go pink. "or whatever."

"or whatever," you repeat, smiling.

"shut up." he buries his face in your chest. his voice is muffled. "go to sleep. you're the one who was nagging about sleep."

"i don't nag."

"you nag lovingly."

"that's not a thing."

"it's a thing. i'm making it a thing." he yawns. his body finally, finally goes heavy. "goodnight. ti amo. don't steal the covers."

"ti amo anch'io."

he smiles against your skin.

outside, the city hums. inside, the boy who carries mercedes on his shoulders is just a boy, breathing slow, face pressed where it belongs.

the next day kimi won the race.

[angeenrose]

lewis hamilton x fem!reader — cockwarming (mdni)

warnings : cockwarming (duh), teasing, praise kink, pet names, p in v, not proofread, use of y/n

word count : 1.7k, masterlist, a/n : first smut fic BAI I HATE DIS..

earlier, his mouth was on your neck. earlier, his hand was between your thighs.

the movie had been playing for maybe ten minutes before he turned the sound off. didn't ask. just muted it and looked at you.

"c'mere."

you straddled him. his hands found your waist, your ribs, the hem of your shirt. his mouth dragged along your jaw. lazy, unhurried, like he had nowhere in the world to be but here.

when his fingers slipped under the waistband of your shorts, you exhaled.

"yeah?"

not even a question. a confirmation. you nodded.

"tell me."

"yes."

he pushed your shorts down. didn't take them off but just enough room to work. his fingers found you wet. slick already.

"fuck," he breathed. "how long?"

"i dunno.."

"been sitting here wet for me." not a question. his middle finger dragged through your folds, slow. "and you didn't say anything."

"you were watching the movie."

he laughed. quiet, a single exhale. his lips brushed your ear. "i wasn't watching the movie."

his finger circled your clit. once. twice. your hips jerked.

"ah." his other hand clamped your hip. "don't move."

"lew-“

"mhm."

"i want—"

"i know what you want."

he pulled his hand out. brought his fingers to his mouth. licked them clean while holding your gaze.

"you want me inside you."

you couldn't speak.

"say it."

"i want you inside me."

he nodded slow. reached down. unbuttoned his jeans. his cock sprang free. hard, thick, already leaking at the tip.

"you can have it," he said. "on one condition."

your stomach dropped.

"what condition?”

"you don't move."

"what?"

"you sit on my cock." his hand found your clit again. one wet finger, tracing maddening circles. "and you stay still. keep me warm. that's it."

his finger pressed down. your whole body thrummed.

"no fucking," he said. "no grinding. no chasing it."

circle. press. circle.

"just this," he murmured. "just me inside you. still."

"for how long?"

"until i say so."

his finger left your clit. you almost whined. almost.

"deal?"

you looked at him. his braids pulled back, the dark ink curling up his neck from his collarbone, the way his chest rose and fell like he was the calm one here. he wasn't.

"deal."

something flickered behind his eyes.

he lined himself up. let you sink down on your own time. inch by inch. the stretch burning sweet, until your hips met his.

you both stopped breathing.

"there," he whispered. "right there."

his hands settled on your hips.

"now stay."

that was twenty minutes ago.

his hotel suite at 1 a.m. the tv's on but the sound's off. the dim light flicked across the bed, across his bare chest, across the dark ink of the tattoos sleeving his arms, his shoulders, the compass on his chest.

you're in his lap. have been for twenty minutes.

his cock is inside you. thick, warm, still. hasn't moved since you sank down onto him. that was the deal.

lewis’s head rests against the back of the bed. eyes half lidded in that way that makes it impossible to tell if he's about to fall asleep or about to ruin you.

his hands sit loose on your hips. not guiding. not pressing. just there.

"feel good?" his voice is low. gravelly. the first words in ten minutes.

you nod.

"tell me."

the word lands low in your stomach. his thumb traces a slow circle on your hip bone. no urgency. he's got nowhere to be until the next grand prix, and that's a week away.

you try to shift. just a little, just to feel the friction. and his hands tighten.

"nah." soft. almost kind. "stay still, love."

his accent curls around the word. you've heard him use it in interviews, in press conferences, but never like this. private, just for you, spoken into the inch of air between your mouths.

your cunt clenches around him involuntarily. he exhales through his nose. the closest thing to a reaction lew will give up for free.

"that's it," he murmurs. "just that."

the tv flickers. some movie neither of you are watching.

his thumb keeps moving. that slow, absent circle. his cock doesn't. you can feel every inch of him. the heat. the pulse. the way he fills you completely without doing anything at all.

"lew."

"mhm."

"can i—"

"no."

not harsh. just final. the kind of no that makes your stomach drop and your clit throb at the same time. he tilts his head forward. looks at you properly.

"you said you wanted to keep me warm." his voice is almost conversational. "so keep me warm."

you breathe. he doesn't.

"i like you like this," he says. "right here. full of me. not going anywhere."

his thumb stops circling. presses down.

"can you do that for me, sweetheart? just sit here. just this."

his eyes on you. dark. patient. expecting an answer.

"y/n."

the name pulls you back.

"yeah," you breathe. "i can do that."

"good girl."

he doesn't move. doesn't thrust up into you, doesn't reward you with friction. just those two words, low and warm, and the way his hands relax again on your hips.

the movie keeps playing. some action thing, cars and explosions in total silence. lewis glances at it briefly. then back at you.

"you're clenching again."

"i know."

"good." he says it like a secret. "don't stop."

the minutes stretch. your thighs start to ache from holding position. every tiny adjustment makes you aware of him inside you. the full length, the slight curve, the way your body keeps trying to pull him deeper even though there's nowhere deeper to go.

he notices everything. the shift of your weight. the catch in your breath. the way your nipples have tightened against his chest.

"you're doing so well," he says.

his voice has gone softer. there's something in it now that wasn't there before. something unguarded, something that sounds like gratitude.

he lifts one hand. tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. the gesture is so gentle it hurts.

"nobody's ever done this for me before."

his thumb traces the shell of your ear, down to your jaw.

"just stayed."

the word lands. stays.

"you're always moving," you say. "racing.. flying.. doing interviews..”

"mm." his eyes search your face. "not right now."

his hand cups your jaw. his cock twitches inside you. the first movement, involuntary, and you both feel it. his jaw tightens.

"sorry."

"don't be."

"i'm—" he almost laughs. almost. a ghost of it at the corner of his mouth. "you feel really fucking good."

"then do something about it."

his thumb presses against your bottom lip. "when i'm ready."

that's when you realize. this isn't about denial for him. it's about control. about holding something still in a life that never stops. about you, warm and patient, wanting him and waiting anyway.

you understand him better in this moment than you ever have.

"take your time," you say.

something flickers behind his eyes. he pulls you closer. not to fuck you, just to hold you. your chest against his. his face in the crook of your neck.

"thank you," he murmurs into your skin.

his cock stays buried inside you. still. warm. yours. and you stay.

his breathing changes first. slower. deeper. his face still buried in your neck, but something's shifted. his hands on your back, fingers splayed, pressing you closer.

then his hips move. barely. a half inch. the smallest roll.

your gasp is sharp in the quiet room.

"there it is," he murmurs against your throat. "that sound."

he does it again. another small roll. another. finding a rhythm that's barely a rhythm. slow, deliberate, like he's relearning your body from the inside.

"lew-"

"i know, love." his lips drag up the column of your neck. "i've got you."

his hands slide down to your ass. he grips. lifts you. just an inch, and pulls you back down onto his cock.

your moan cracks the silence.

"thaaat's it." his voice has changed. gone is the patient, measured control. something hungrier underneath now. "let me hear you."

he thrusts up into you. slow. deep. every inch deliberate.

"you've been so good for me." thrust. "so patient." thrust. "been sat here feeling you clench around me for half an hour."

his forehead presses to yours.

"you deserve this."

his thumb finds your clit. the contact is electric. you've been aching, untouched, for so long that the first circle makes your thighs shake.

"look at me."

you do. his eyes are dark. focused. the way he looks at a corner he's about to take at two hundred miles an hour. total clarity, no hesitation.

"i want to feel you come on my cock."

his thumb works your clit in firm, steady circles. his hips keep that same slow rhythm. deep, unhurried, filling you completely every time.

"can you do that, sweetheart?"

"yes,"

"yes what?"

"yes, lew."

"good girl."

his pace doesn't quicken. that's the thing that destroys you. he doesn't rush. doesn't chase. just keeps fucking you slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit with the same maddening patience he used to tease you earlier.

the buildup is unbearable. heat coiling low in your stomach. your thighs trembling. your cunt fluttering around him with every thrust.

"feel that?" his voice is rough now. straining. "feel how tight you're getting?"

you can't answer. can barely breathe.

"come for me."

his thumb presses down harder.

"now, y/n."

it breaks over you. waves of heat. your body clenching around him, pulsing, and he groans. a real sound, unguarded, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

"that's it. fuuuuck. that's—"

he doesn't finish the sentence. his hips stutter. his rhythm finally unraveling as he spills inside you, hot and thick, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"fucking hell."

he breathes against your skin. his hands still gripping your ass like he's afraid you'll disappear. the tv flickers. the bed creaks. outside, a siren passes somewhere far away.

he lifts his head. looks at you.

"i was gonna wait longer."

"was that supposed to be punishment?"

a smile. a real one. "for you or me?"

you laugh. he kisses you. slow, soft, nothing like the way he just fucked you.

his cock is still inside you. softening. neither of you moves.

"next time," he says, "i'll make you wait an hour."

"next time?"

he tilts his head.

"that a problem?"

"no..”

"good." he kisses your forehead. "now stay. just a little longer."

[angeenrose]

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ photographer ۪ ֹ ᮫

❝ photographer ❞ — rommulas x fem!reader

you were just supposed to take his photos. that was it. a simple favor that turned into late night studio sessions, random phone calls, inside jokes, and somehow becoming the person he always wanted around. between the cameras, the rumors, and everyone online trying to figure out what was really going on, you and rommulas slowly became something neither of you expected. maybe you were never just his photographer.

warnings : smau + written parts, photographer!reader, use of y/n, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, dating rumors, social media drama, smoking, marijuana/weed use, getting high, pet names, flirting, mild language, mentions of fame and fan speculation, not proofread, spelling mistakes and grammar mistakes throughout, photos used in the smau are from pinterest and do not belong to me

word count: 2.5k , masterlist , a/n : first fic of my man roman AYYY i acc like this one😗😗 UGH SORRY FOR BEING SUPER INACTIVE 🙁🙁 i promise ill get back on track SOON💔💔

you never expected photography to become your fulltime thing.

it started as a hobby. bringing your camera everywhere, taking random pictures of your friends, editing them until three in the morning because you swore they could look just a little better. eventually, people started asking if you could shoot for them. then their friends asked. then strangers.

before you knew it, your camera roll was filled with concert shots, behind the scenes moments, and promo pictures for local artists.

most of your work came from word of mouth. which was exactly how you ended up getting a text that would change everything.

…just not yet.

the first thing you noticed about roman was that he was quieter than you expected.

not in a bad way. just… calmer.

you had talked for maybe five minutes over text, but texting someone and actually meeting them were two completely different things.

you stood outside the location you picked for the shoot, camera hanging from your shoulder as you checked your settings for the third time.

a few minutes later, you saw him walking over.

“hey, you’re y/n, right?”

you looked up and smiled.

“yeah. you’re roman?”

he laughed a little. “yeah. sorry, i’m not late, am i?”

“no, you’re good. i got here early.”

“of course you did,” he joked. “photographer thing?”

you laughed. “maybe.”

the awkwardness disappeared pretty quickly after that.

at first, it was just you telling him where to stand and how to pose. but after a while, you both started joking around between pictures.

“wait, don’t move,” you said, lifting your camera.

roman looked over. “what?”

“the lighting is actually perfect right now.”

a small smile appeared on his face.

“you say that every five minutes.”

“because every five minutes you somehow look better in the lighting.”

you immediately realized what you said and looked back at your camera.

“for the pictures.”

roman laughed.

“yeah, yeah. for the pictures.”

by the end of the shoot, you had taken way more photos than you planned..

rommulas

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rommulas 📸 yourusername

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user1 fire

user2 whos the girl he tagged?

⤷ user3 dude are you stupid

⤷ user4 thats the girl who took the photos dumbass

user5 photographer ate down

⤷ user6 right??

user7 finally some good pics

⤷ user8 ???

⤷ user9 all his pics are good wdym

yourusername 😁😁 ♡ by author

⤷ user10 please reply to my dm i love these photos

⤷ user11 YOU ATE W THESE😍😍

a few days later, you finally gave in.

“food sounds great :)”

roman’s reply came less than a minute later.

“bet. i’ll pick you up at 6?”

you almost brought your camera out of habit.

almost.

but it stayed on your bedroom floor. 

when you got into his car, roman looked over and laughed.

“no camera today?”

“you invited me to eat, not work.”

“good,” he smiled, pulling away from the curb. “i would’ve felt bad making you work again.”

the drive was easy. music played quietly while the two of you talked about everything except photography.

how you got into editing, his favorite artists, the worst fast food places.

by the time your food came, the conversation barely stopped. neither of you noticed how late it had gotten until the restaurant started emptying.

when he dropped you off, you reached for the door handle.

“thanks for the food.”

“anytime.”

you smiled.

“don’t say that unless you actually mean it.”

roman grinned.

“i do!”

the second shoot felt… easier.

you didn’t spend twenty minutes wondering how to start a conversation this time. roman opened the passenger door before you even had the chance to text him that you’d arrived.

“you made it.”

“you sound surprised.”

“a little.”

you rolled your eyes. “i’m five minutes early.”

“exactly.”

you laughed, grabbing your camera from the backseat.

“where are we shooting?”

he opened the apartment door before stepping outside onto the landing.

“we’re just shooting here?”

“yeah.”

you glanced toward the outdoor staircase that wrapped around the side of the building.

“…okay.”

then your eyes landed on him.

“…do you have to be shirtless?”

roman looked down at himself before looking back at you.

“for the pictures?”

“yes, for the pictures.”

he thought about it for a second.

“i guess not.”

without another word, he disappeared back inside. a few seconds later, he came back out, shrugging on a jacket.

“better?”

you lifted your camera with a small smile.

“much.”

“happy now?”

“very.”

“good.”

“now stand on the stairs.”

“yes ma’am.”

the shoot started almost immediately.

“look over here.”

click.

“chin up a little.”

click.

“hold that.”

click.

after a while, you lowered your camera.

“can i be honest?”

roman looked over.

“you listen way better than most people i shoot.”

“that’s because i don’t know what i’m doing.”

“exactly. everyone else thinks they do.”

he laughed.

“i’ll take that as a compliment.”

“it was.”

by the end of the shoot, you’d taken more photos than either of you planned.

“send me your favorites,” he said as you packed your camera away.

“i’ll send all of them.”

“nah.”

he looked back at you.

“you always know which ones are the best.”

for some reason, that compliment stuck with you the entire drive home.

rommulas

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rommulas 📸 yourusername

user1 FOLLOW ME BACK PLS ILY

user2 so beautiful

user3 GRACIE ABRAMS WHO?

user4 hes so fine i wish his music was good

⤷ user5 his music is good?

⤷ user4 ok no me importa

yourusername 😙😙😙

⤷ rommulas 🤓

nate_sib wait tell your photographer to hmu

⤷ nate_sib need her to shoot me next

⤷ nate_sib i mean shoot photos dont actually shoot me yourusername

⤷ yourusername wasnt planning on shooting you lmao

⤷ user9 LMAO

user6 same photographer as last time?

⤷ user7 hes not gonna get a new one everytime dimwit

user8 omg roman😍

the studio is a converted warehouse. you walk in and it's just… them. roman sprawled on a white tiger striped couch. nate on the floor building something out of empty red bull cans. jonah hunched over a laptop playing some pixel game. ryan drumming on his thighs with unsharpened pencils. hollis sees you first.

"yo."

roman's face loosens. "you actually came."

"you said you were bored."

"i lied. it's way worse than bored. it's thursday."

someone laughs. you're still by the door like you're waiting for a call time that doesn't exist.

an hour passes. then two. nobody's watching the clock. nate and ryan argue about a producer you've never heard of. hollis tells a story about a music video shoot in joshua tree that went sideways. jonah makes everyone watch a replay of his game.

you pull out your camera. not the big one for work, the compact one. nobody poses. nobody notices. nate mid argument, hands up. hollis caught ranting about something. ryan upside down on the couch. click. click. click.

roman keeps glancing at you. not checking on you but checking with you. are you laughing? are you in? 

around eleven he pushes off the couch. "you. come here."

he leads you to a writing room. piano shoved against one wall, whiteboard covered in half erased lyrics, two beanbag chairs. you sit. the beanbag swallows you and roman grins.

"graceful."

"shut up."

he pulls a tin from his hoodie and rolls with the kind of precision that says practice, tongue at the corner of his mouth. lights it. passes it.

the smoke settles in.

twenty minutes later everything is funny. not regular funny but the kind where roman can't remember the word "microwave" and calls it "the spinny heat box" and you have to put your head between your knees because you're laughing so hard you can't breathe.

he's on the floor now. somehow. you don't remember him getting off the beanbag. his back's against the piano and he's looking at you with red rimmed eyes and a smile too loose to be cool.

"you're different," he says.

"what does that mean?"

"i don't know. i'm high."

"so am i."

"ooo! that rhymed!” he let out a giggle

you take more photos. the low light makes everything look like a memory before it's finished. roman at the piano playing three chords over and over. roman rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. roman caught mid word.

"you always do that?"

"do what?"

"shoot everything."

"habit."

"nah." he shakes his head slow, the way people do when the weed makes every thought feel profound. "it's different. the stuff you take. you're not making me look good. you're making me look like me." you don't know what to say. so you don't say anything.

back in the main room the chaos has leveled out. jonah's asleep on the couch with his laptop on his chest. hollis and nate are messing with a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out. ryan's making a sandwich with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

roman tries to snap his fingers at something nate says and misses. tries again. stares at his hand like it betrayed him. "my fingers are broken!”

"your fingers are not broken."

"they're not snapping! that's broken."

"that's you being high."

he slowly turns to you and pouts "hmph."

you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. at some point roman gets up to get water and walks directly into the doorframe. stops. puts both hands on it. "this door is narrower than it was before."

"doors don't shrink."

"this one did."

he apologizes to the door. actually says “my bad” to the wood. you have to sit down.

three in the morning. you realize it the way you realize you've been in the sun too long. all at once, too late. your phone says 3:17 am. you were supposed to leave at ten.

"shit."

roman looks over. "what?”

"it's three."

"yeah?"

"i was supposed to leave at ten."

"so?"

"so i've been here for.." you do the math, which takes longer than it should. "seven hours."

the corner of his mouth twitches. "what, you got somewhere better to be?"

no. that's the thing. you don't. 

you're packing your camera when he appears next to you. hands in his hoodie pocket. shoulders loose.

"send me those."

"which ones?"

"all of 'em."

"even the blurry ones?"

"especially the blurry ones."

you look at him. he's not joking. or maybe he is? but it's the kind of joke that's also something else.

"okay."

he nods. once. twice. then he does something with his mouth that's almost a smile and turns back toward the couch.

you walk out into cold air that smells like taco trucks and smoke. behind you, through the warehouse door, someone laughs. the music kicks back on. the night keeps going without you.

your phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since you woke up.

mentions. follow requests. messages from people you hadn’t spoken to in months asking if you were “dating that rapper.”

you dropped your phone onto your bed with a groan. a few seconds later, it lit up again.

roman.

you almost didn’t answer. the second your phone lit up with roman calling, you already knew what it was about.

“…hello?”

“you mad?”

you let out a laugh.

“that’s how you’re starting this?”

“i’m asking.”

“i’m not mad.”

“you sounded mad.”

“i’m stressed.”

there was a pause.

“my bad.”

you leaned back against your headboard.

“roman.”

“yeah?”

“i’m serious. your fans are terrifying.”

he laughed quietly.

“they’re not usually this bad.”

“one of them found my photography account from four years ago.”

“…okay.”

“and another one somehow knew what café i was at this morning.”

“…okay, yeah. that’s weird.”

“see?”

he sighed.

“i didn’t think posting one picture would turn into all this.”

“i know.”

another silence settled between you.

“if you want me to stop posting you,” he said, “i will.”

you thought about it.

“i don’t want you to.”

“…you sure?”

“yeah.”

“then what do you want?”

you smiled to yourself.

“a warning next time.”

he laughed.

“deal.”

the conversation drifted away from the rumors after that. 

you talked about music. about photography. about absolutely nothing.

when you finally looked at the time, nearly an hour had passed.

“…i was supposed to be editing.”

roman laughed.

“my fault.”

“it is.”

“you’ll survive.”

“…maybe.”

“call me when you finish.”

you frowned.

“why?”

“don’t know.”

“…okay.”

after the call ended, you stared at your phone for a second. somehow, without either of you noticing… talking to roman had become part of your routine.

a few weeks passed.

somehow, seeing roman went from being something you planned for to something that just… happened.

you shot more photos for him, met more people through him, and before you knew it, your camera roll was filled with blurry late night memories, studio sessions, and candid pictures no one else had.

work had turned into friendship. friendship had started becoming something neither of you wanted to put a name to.

when paleta finally dropped, roman invited a small group of friends back to his apartment to celebrate.

it wasn’t anything huge, just music playing through the speakers, food scattered across the kitchen counter, people laughing from the balcony, and everyone congratulating him on the release.

you spent most of the night taking pictures out of habit, even after roman told you to “put the camera down for once.”

hours later, the apartment slowly emptied. one by one, everyone headed home until it was just the two of you cleaning up empty cups and paper plates.

“they finally left,” roman laughed.

“you sound disappointed.”

“i’m not.”

you looked over. he was already looking at you.

“…what?”

“nothing.”

“roman.”

he looked down at the cup in his hand before letting out a quiet laugh.

“i’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks.”

the room suddenly felt a lot quieter.

“say what?”

he rubbed the back of his neck.

“i don’t think i invited you tonight because of the release.”

you frowned slightly.

“…then why?”

he smiled nervously.

“because i wanted you here.”

he took a breath.

“and i think i’ve wanted you around for a lot longer than i’ve admitted to myself.”

for a second, neither of them moved. all the jokes, the late nights, the random calls, the photoshoots that turned into hanging out.

everything that had slowly brought them here finally caught up with them.

roman smiled.

“so…”

“so?”

“i guess this is the part where i admit i’ve liked you for a while.”

y/n laughed softly.

“you’re only admitting that now?”

“i was trying to be cool.”

“you failed.”

“yeah, i know.”

the two of them laughed, and somehow that made everything feel less scary.

then roman leaned in. 

the kiss was everything neither of them had said out loud.

all the late nights, the studio sessions, the random calls, the way roman always found an excuse to have you around, it all led to this.

when you finally pulled away, you both just looked at each other for a second. then you glanced over. towards your camera.

roman immediately noticed.

“no.”

you looked back at him.

“what?”

“don’t.”

you tried not to laugh.

“roman.”

“i know that look.”

“it’s a good moment.”

“we just kissed.”

“exactly.”

he stared at you.

“you want to take a picture?”

“yes.”

“right now?”

“yes.”

he shook his head, laughing.

“you’re actually insane.”

“please.”

he looked at you for a few seconds before sighing.

“fine. but you’re not turning this into a whole photoshoot.”

“i won’t.”

you grabbed your camera from the table and sat back down beside him on the couch. roman looked at the camera, then back at you.

“this is the most you thing ever.”

“just trust me.”

you lifted the camera. instead of posing, he leaned closer again, both of you laughing because the whole thing was so ridiculous.

then he kissed you again.

you held the camera up with one hand.

flash.

the photo captured the exact moment. the two of you on the couch, caught between laughing and kissing, completely unaware of anything else around you.

you lowered the camera and looked at the screen. for once, you didn’t immediately criticize the lighting or the angle.

you just smiled.

roman looked over.

“what?”

“i love this one.”

he looked at the photo, then at you.

“yeah.”

a small smile appeared on his face.

“me too.”

[angeenrose]

ꗯ𓈒˙ ׁ𓏼 the chemistry between us ٍ݂݂݂݂ഒ

❝ the chemistry between us ❞ — oscar piastri x fem!reader

chemistry was supposed to be your worst class. instead, it introduced you to the one person who somehow made balancing equations a little less impossible. what starts as a mandatory tutoring arrangement turns into late afternoons, shared snacks, quiet conversations, and the realization that maybe the best chemistry wasn’t happening in the classroom after all.

warnings : fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, academic stress, tutoring, teasing, kissing, happy ending, use of y/n, not proofread

word count: 6.9k , masterlist , a/n : HAIIII im sosososo sorry for being so inactive omgg work has been kicking my ASS😭😭😭

if there was one class you could erase from your schedule entirely, it would have been chemistry.

it wasn’t because you hated mrs. harper. if anything, she was probably one of the nicest teachers at your school. she stayed after school to answer questions, explained things more than once without making anyone feel stupid, and somehow managed to keep twenty eight teenagers from setting the lab tables on fire every thursday. she did everything a good teacher was supposed to do. chemistry just refused to make sense to you.

it didn’t matter how neatly you copied your notes or how many times you rewrote the textbook definitions onto flashcards. you’d sit down convinced you finally understood ionic bonds, only for the next lesson to introduce something completely different that somehow expected you to remember everything from the week before. by the time class ended, your notebook usually contained more question marks than actual answers.

today wasn’t proving to be any different.

mrs. harper had spent the last fifteen minutes walking everyone through balancing chemical equations, writing each step across the whiteboard while the class copied it down. around you, pencils moved almost nonstop. every now and then someone would raise a hand to ask a question, she’d answer it, and the room would settle back into the quiet rhythm of writing.

you on the other hand, had been staring at question six for so long that the numbers were starting to blur together.

you erased your answer for what felt like the tenth time before giving up completely, dropping your pencil onto the desk with a sigh you hoped nobody heard.

“everything alright back there?”

your head snapped up.

mrs. harper was looking directly at you.

the twenty seven other students immediately became very interested in their worksheets.

“…yeah.”

she smiled in that way teachers always did when they knew you weren’t telling the truth.

“are you sure?”

you glanced back down at the paper. “i just don’t know how to do this one.”

“which part?”

“all of it.”

a couple of quiet laughs came from somewhere behind you.

your face warmed.

mrs. harper didn’t laugh. instead, she walked over to your desk, resting one hand against the edge of the table before looking over your work. “you’ve got the first step right.”

“i do?”

“you do.”

“then why does everything after that look wrong?”

“because you skipped something here.” she pointed to one line before moving her finger farther down the page. “and once this is wrong, everything underneath it ends up wrong too.”

you stared at the worksheet for another few seconds.

“…i still don’t get it.”

“that’s alright,” she said gently. “we’ll go over it again.”

you nodded, even though you felt awful.

you weren’t the kind of student who ignored homework or slept through class. if anything, you probably spent more time studying chemistry than any other subject. somehow, it never seemed to matter.

mrs. harper gave your shoulder a reassuring pat before returning to the front of the room.

“can anyone tell me what coefficient should go here?”

before you’d even looked back up, someone answered.

“three.”

of course.

oscar piastri.

you turned your head just enough to see him sitting two rows over by the windows, exactly where he always sat. his notebook was open beside him, every page filled with impossibly neat handwriting that looked more like it had been printed than written during class. unlike the rest of you, who were still halfway through the worksheet, he’d already finished it and was absentmindedly spinning his pencil between his fingers while mrs. harper checked his answer.

“correct,” she said. “can you explain why?”

without sounding even remotely nervous, oscar launched into an explanation that somehow made perfect sense to everyone except you.

you tried listening, really! but by the end of it, you were somehow even more confused than before.

when the bell finally rang, chairs scraped across the floor as everyone packed up in a hurry. conversations filled the room almost instantly, people already talking about weekend plans while shoving books into backpacks.

you did the same, slipping your unfinished worksheet into a folder before standing.

“have a good weekend, everyone,” mrs. harper called after the class.

you offered a quick goodbye on your way out, already deciding that tonight would probably involve another two hours of chemistry videos you still wouldn’t understand.

unfortunately, monday arrived anyway.

the test had felt impossible.

you’d left three questions blank, guessed on at least four more, and walked out of the classroom with that horrible feeling that no amount of wishing was going to change the grade waiting for you.

now the papers sat in a neat stack on mrs. harper’s desk.

one by one, names were called.

students walked up.

some came back smiling, others folded their papers before anyone else could see the score.

“oscar.”

he stood, accepted his test with a quiet, “thanks,” and headed back toward his seat.

someone leaned over from the next desk.

“what’d you get?”

“one hundred.”

“seriously?”

he looked down at the paper for a second.

“…i would’ve been more surprised if i didn’t.”

the guy stared at him.

“that’s actually insane.”

oscar only shrugged before putting the test inside his binder as if getting perfect scores was the least interesting part of his day.

you looked away before he noticed you staring.

a minute later :

“y/n.”

your stomach dropped.

the bright red 58% in the corner practically mocked you before you’d even reached your desk again.

you didn’t need to read the corrections to know you’d done badly.

you’d done badly last quiz, and the one before that, and somehow, despite all the studying you’d forced yourself through over the weekend, you’d managed to do badly again.

the rest of the lesson passed in a blur of answer sheets, corrections, and explanations you desperately tried to follow. every time mrs. harper solved a problem on the board, you understood it while she was explaining it. the second you looked back at your own paper, it was like your brain had reset.

by the time the dismissal bell echoed through the classroom, most students were already halfway out the door.

you had just zipped your backpack shut when mrs. harper looked up from her desk.

“y/n? could you stay for a moment?”

you stopped.

before you could answer, she added,

“and oscar, if you wouldn’t mind staying as well.”

your eyebrows pulled together.

across the room, oscar paused halfway through putting on his backpack. for the first time all semester, the two of you looked at each other with the exact same expression.

the classroom emptied slowly until the loud conversations and footsteps in the hallway faded into the background. the once crowded room felt strangely quiet with only the three of you left inside, the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows and stretching across the desks.

you stood beside your chair, fingers loosely wrapped around the strap of your backpack, while oscar remained near his desk with one hand resting on the back of his chair. neither of you said anything. there wasn’t really anything to say. you had barely spoken to each other before today, and now you were both standing there because your chemistry teacher had apparently decided something involving the two of you was a good idea.

mrs. harper finished organizing the papers on her desk before looking up.

“i’ll get straight to the point,” she said. “y/n, your test results aren’t where they need to be.”

you looked down.

“i know.”

“i know you know,” she replied, not unkindly. “and that’s exactly why i wanted to talk to you. you’re putting in the effort. i can see that. but something about the way you’re studying isn’t helping you actually understand the material.”

you nodded quietly.

she wasn’t wrong, which somehow made it worse.

“i was thinking,” she continued, glancing toward oscar, “that you might benefit from working with someone who approaches the subject differently.”

you already knew where this was going before she even said it.

“no.”

both mrs. harper and oscar looked at you.

you immediately regretted saying it out loud.

“i mean…” you corrected yourself, clearing your throat. “i just don’t think—“

“that it would help?” mrs. harper asked.

“that it would be necessary.”

oscar raised his eyebrows slightly.

“interesting choice of words considering the 58%.”

you turned toward him.

“did you just insult my grade?”

“i was pointing out a fact.”

“you made it sound worse.”

“i didn’t know that was possible.”

you stared at him. he stared back. and for a second, you couldn’t tell if he was actually being rude or if that was just how he talked.

mrs. harper cleared her throat.

“as entertaining as this is, my decision has already been made.”

you looked back at her.

“your decision?”

“oscar will be helping you with chemistry after school.”

oscar’s expression changed immediately.

“wait, what?”

you almost smiled because, apparently, you weren’t the only one who hated this idea.

mrs. harper folded her arms.

“twice a week.”

“i have homework too.”

“so does y/n.”

“exactly.”

“and yet somehow, i think you’ll both survive.”

oscar looked like he was trying very hard to come up with a reasonable argument.

you honestly admired the effort.

“doesn’t the school have a tutoring program?”

“it does.”

“then why-”

“because i think you’re a good fit.”

he paused.

“why?”

mrs. harper looked at him like she couldn’t believe he was asking.

“because you’re patient.”

you almost laughed.

oscar looked offended.

“i’m not sure everyone would agree with that.”

“i don’t need everyone to agree with it.”

there was a small silence, then mrs. harper turned to you.

“and y/n, before you argue, this isn’t a punishment.”

you opened your mouth. then immediately closed it.

“i just think you need someone who can explain things in a way that makes sense to you.”

you looked down at the floor. you hated admitting it, but you were tired of struggling. tired of feeling like everyone else understood something that you couldn’t.

“…okay.”

oscar looked over. you looked back at him.

“don’t look so happy.”

“i don’t.”

“you do.”

“i really don’t.”

“you do.”

mrs. harper sighed, although there was a small smile on her face.

“wonderful. i’m glad you’ve both reached this level of enthusiasm.”

you didn’t think either of you looked enthusiastic.

“i’ll email your parents with the details,” she continued. “you can figure out a schedule together.”

you pulled out your phone when she gave you oscar’s number.

for a few seconds, you just stared at the contact screen.

oscar piastri. it felt weird seeing his name there.

you had known who he was, obviously. everyone did. but there was a difference between recognizing someone in class and actually having their number.

you typed out the first message before you could overthink it.

you : hi. this is y/n. for the chemistry thing.

you immediately regretted how awkward it sounded.

a response came less than a minute later.

oscar: i know

you frowned.

you : okay

oscar: what?

you: nothing

a few seconds passed.

oscar: we need to figure out a day

you looked at your schedule.

you: tuesday and thursday work

oscar: okay

you waited. nothing else came.

you stared at the screen.

you : that’s it?

oscar: what else would there be?

you couldn’t help it. you laughed quietly.

it wasn’t because he was funny exactly. it was more because he was so unintentionally strange.

you : idk maybe “great, see you then.”

oscar: great, see you then.

you rolled your eyes.

you: you are impossible.

oscar: we’ve spoken for five minutes

oscar: ill see you tuesday.

you looked at the message for a second longer than you meant to. you weren’t sure why.

maybe because you expected him to be worse. maybe because everyone always described oscar piastri as this serious, untouchable person who only cared about grades, and somehow he was just… normal.

annoying, maybe. but normal.

tuesday afternoon arrived before you were ready.

you had spent most of the day convincing yourself that the tutoring session wasn’t a big deal.

it was just chemistry. just two hours. just oscar helping you understand something you couldn’t figure out on your own.

except now you were standing in front of your bedroom mirror, wondering if your room looked too messy. which was ridiculous.

he was coming over to study, not inspect your room.

still, you moved a few things around anyway.

your desk was cleared except for your chemistry notebook, textbook, and a few pens. the pile of clothes you had forgotten about was moved into your closet. your bed was made, even though nobody was sitting on it.

when the doorbell rang, you froze for a second.

your mom called from downstairs.

“i’ll get it!”

“no i’ll-”

too late. you heard the front door open.

a few seconds later, your mom’s voice carried up the stairs.

“you must be oscar!”

there was a pause. then his voice.

“yeah. hi.”

you walked out of your room and down the stairs.

oscar stood near the doorway with his backpack over one shoulder, looking exactly like he did at school. neat uniform, messy hair, the same calm expression that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

your mom smiled.

“come in! y/n’s just upstairs.”

“thank you.”

he stepped inside and took his shoes off without being asked.

you noticed that for some reason.

“hey,” you said.

he looked up.

“hey.”

there was an awkward pause. then he lifted his backpack slightly.

“ready?”

you looked toward the stairs.

“as ready as someone can be for chemistry!!”

he chuckled at your sarcasm.

“okay, okay. lets just go.”

oscar followed you upstairs.

your bedroom suddenly felt a lot smaller with someone else standing in it.

you weren’t sure why. it wasn’t like people had never been in your room before. your friends came over all the time, and your cousins practically treated it like their own whenever they visited. but oscar wasn’t either of those things. he was someone you’d only exchanged a handful of conversations with, and now he was standing awkwardly in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was actually supposed to come in.

“you can come in,” you said, noticing he hadn’t moved.

“i know.”

“…then why are you just standing there?”

he glanced around the room before looking back at you.

“i didn’t want to assume.”

you stepped aside so he could walk in.

he looked around for a moment, not in an obvious way, but enough that you caught him taking everything in. your bookshelf was overflowing because you’d run out of room months ago, little polaroids were taped around your mirror, and your desk sat beneath the window covered in neatly stacked notebooks, highlighters, and a candle you always forgot to light. your room wasn’t spotless, but it wasn’t messy either. it looked lived in.

his eyes landed on the giant pink bear sitting in the corner.

“…does that thing have a name?”

you blinked.

“what?”

“the bear.”

you looked over at it.

“…no?”

“really?”

“why would i name it?”

he shrugged.

“most people do.”

you crossed your arms.

“how would you know?”

“i have cousins.”

“…oh.”

he nodded once.

“they name everything.”

you looked at the bear again.

“…well, mine don’t.”

“seems a little unfair.”

you let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. it surprised both of you.

oscar looked almost as caught off guard as you felt.

“are we actually talking about my stuffed bear right now?”

“it was the first thing i noticed.”

“that is deeply embarrassing.”

“for you, maybe.”

you rolled your eyes, walking over to your desk before pulling out the second chair you’d borrowed from downstairs. “sit.”

he set his backpack beside the chair before taking out a binder that looked far too organized to belong to an actual high school student.

every divider had a label, every paper was hole punched, nothing was folded.

you stared.

“…you’re one of those people.”

he looked up.

“what people?”

“the organized ones.”

“it’s called using a binder.”

“mine looks like it survived a natural disaster.”

“i noticed.”

you gasped dramatically.

“you’ve seen my binder?”

“you dropped it last week.”

“…i forgot that happened.”

“i didn’t.”

you frowned at him.

“you’re kind of annoying.”

“i’ve heard.”

“do you care?”

“not particularly.”

you couldn’t tell if he was joking. that was starting to become a pattern..

he opened your chemistry textbook and pulled your most recent test closer.

“alright.”

his voice shifted ever so slightly. less conversational. more focused.

“show me how you got question four.”

you looked at the paper.

“…i guessed.”

“okay.”

“that’s it?”

“what?”

“you’re not gonna tell me guessing was a bad idea?”

he looked at you for a second.

“i think the fifty eight already did that.”

“you know what?” you said, pointing a pen at him. “you are funny.”

he looked genuinely confused.

“i wasn’t trying to be.”

“exactly.”

he ignored that.

“question four.”

with an exaggerated sigh, you picked up your pencil and started working through the problem. you explained every step the way you’d been taught, speaking more to the paper than to him because you were already expecting him to tell you it was wrong.

he didn’t interrupt once. he waited until you finished before saying, “that’s where it went wrong.”

you looked up.

“where?”

he pointed to the middle of your work.

“right there.”

“…that’s the part i was confident about.”

“i know.”

“how?”

“because you stopped checking your work after that.”

you blinked.

“…i did?”

“yeah.”

he slid his own notebook toward you.

“look.”

his handwriting was so neat it almost annoyed you.

he’d solved the exact same problem, but instead of skipping from one step to the next the way you had, he’d written every tiny calculation in between.

you compared the two pages.

“…that’s a lot more writing.”

“it’s also the right answer.”

you looked back down.

“…oh.”

“you keep doing things in your head.”

“because it’s faster.”

“not if you get them wrong.”

you hated that he had a point.

he picked up his pencil.

“let’s try another one.”

the next problem wasn’t any easier. or the one after that.

every time you thought you understood something, he’d ask another question that made you realize you were only memorizing steps instead of understanding why they worked.

after almost forty minutes, you dropped your pencil onto the desk.

“my brain hurts.”

“good.”

you stared at him.

“good?”

“it means you’re thinking.”

“that’s evil.”

“a little.”

before you could answer, there was a knock on your bedroom door.

your mom leaned inside carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“thought you two might want a break.”

you smiled immediately.

“thanks, mom.”

she set everything down on your desk before looking at oscar.

“help yourself, sweetheart.”

oscar smiled politely.

“thank you.”

“don’t let her convince you she can’t do chemistry,” your mom said, pointing toward you. “she says she can’t do math either, then comes home with an A every semester.”

“mom.”

“what?”

“you’re embarrassing me.”

“a mother’s job.”

you buried your face in your hands while she laughed to herself and walked back downstairs.

the room was quiet for a second.

“…she seems nice.”

you looked up.

“she is.”

he reached for one of the cookies.

“she also seems right.”

“about what?”

“you being dramatic.”

your jaw dropped.

“you’ve known me for, like, an hour.”

“an hour was enough.”

you grabbed a cookie and threw it at him.

it bounced off his shoulder before landing harmlessly in his lap.

he looked down at it. then back at you.

“hey! that was a perfectly good cookie!”

you stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter.

“you’re joking.”

“what?”

“i just threw a cookie at you..”

“exactly!”

“and your first concern is the cookie?”

he looked down at it again before picking it up from his lap.

“it’s still perfectly fine.”

before you could stop him, he took a bite.

you blinked.

“…you’re actually eating it.”

he looked at you while chewing.

“why wouldn’t i?”

“because i threw it at you.”

“it’s still good.”

“you’re weird.”

“i’ve heard.”

you laughed under your breath, shaking your head before reaching for your drink again.

“i don’t know how you’ve managed to survive this long.”

“good decision making.”

“i don’t think eating a cookie that’s been launched across someone’s bedroom counts as good decision making.”

he took another bite.

“agree to disagree.”

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

for the first time since he’d walked into your house, the silence between the two of you wasn’t awkward. it settled naturally while you both finished your drinks, broken only by the occasional page turning or the sound of him closing one of his binders. you hadn’t expected the afternoon to be enjoyable. honestly, you’d spent most of the school day dreading it, but somewhere between arguing over chemistry problems and throwing baked goods at each other, it had become… tolerable.

oscar set the empty mug beside the plate and glanced back at your notebook.

“ready?”

“no.”

“good.”

you frowned.

“why is that good?”

“because if you were ready, i’d assume you weren’t paying attention.”

“you’re annoying.”

“probably.”

you picked your pencil back up with the enthusiasm of someone being forced into manual labor.

“what are we doing now?”

“the problems you skipped.”

“…there’s a reason i skipped them.”

“i know.”

“they’re hard.”

“they’re not.”

“they are to me.”

he didn’t answer straight away. instead, he pulled the worksheet closer and looked over the questions for a few seconds.

“they’re unfamiliar,” he said. “that’s different.”

you looked at him.

“what?”

“you keep calling yourself bad at chemistry.”

“because i am.”

“no.”

you actually laughed.

“oscar, i got a fifty eight.”

“yeah.”

“that’s bad.”

“your grade is bad. that doesn’t automatically mean you’re bad at chemistry.”

you frowned.

“how does that make any sense?”

“because every time i ask you why something works, you know the idea. then you rush through the calculations, skip steps, convince yourself you’re wrong, erase half your work, and start over.”

he tapped your pencil lightly against the desk.

“that’s not a chemistry problem.”

you didn’t know what to say. nobody had ever put it like that before.

every teacher you’d had simply told you to study more, practice more, pay closer attention. none of them had actually watched how you worked.

“…try number eight,” he said.

this time, you didn’t argue.

you worked through it slowly, forcing yourself to write every step instead of trying to do everything in your head. once or twice your hand hovered over the eraser, but you stopped yourself before using it.

when you finally reached the answer, you pushed the paper toward him.

he read over it carefully. your stomach twisted.

“well?”

he circled one line near the middle.

“this is wrong.”

your shoulders dropped.

“but…”

“because you copied the coefficient incorrectly.”

he pointed farther down the page.

“everything after that is right.”

you blinked.

“…wait.”

“if you’d copied this number correctly, you would’ve gotten the right answer.”

you looked back and forth between your work and his.

he was right.

you hadn’t misunderstood the question. you’d copied one number wrong.

“…that’s the closest i’ve gotten all week.”

“exactly.”

you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face.

“i almost got it.”

“you did almost get it.”

he reached for another blank sheet of paper.

“do it one more time.”

“right now?”

“while it’s still fresh.”

you sighed dramatically, but there wasn’t any real annoyance behind it anymore.

“you’re lucky you’re good at explaining things.”

“i know.”

“wow.”

“what?”

“that sounded so confident.”

he shrugged.

“it’s true.”

“you’re humble too.”

“i try.”

“no, you don’t.”

“…fair.”

by the time you finished the problem again, the answer matched his exactly.

you checked it once. then twice. then looked up at him.

“…i did it.”

“you did.”

“without guessing.”

“without guessing.”

you leaned back in your chair, grinning despite yourself.

“i haven’t gotten one completely right by myself in forever.”

“get used to it.”

you narrowed your eyes.

“that sounded suspiciously motivational.”

he looked mildly offended.

“don’t accuse me of that.”

you laughed again.

“i knew you had one in you.”

“don’t expect another.”

the clock on your nightstand read almost half past six. oscar followed your gaze before closing his binder.

“we should probably stop there.”

“already?”

he looked surprised.

“i thought your brain hurt.”

“it does.”

“then?”

you hesitated.

“…i don’t know.”

the truth was, the afternoon had gone by much faster than you’d expected. chemistry still wasn’t your favorite subject. it probably never would be.

but for the first time in a long time, you left your desk feeling like you might actually be able to pass the next test.

by the time thursday rolled around, you weren’t nearly as nervous as you’d been two days earlier.

that didn’t mean you were excited. it just meant you no longer felt like you were about to embarrass yourself for two straight hours.

you had chemistry first thing that morning, and for once, you weren’t completely lost.

mrs. harper wrote three practice problems across the board before asking everyone to solve them independently. you stared at the first one for a few seconds, instinctively reaching for your eraser.

then you stopped.

write everything down.

you could practically hear oscar saying it.

instead of trying to solve half of it in your head, you wrote every step, no matter how obvious it seemed. it took longer than everyone else around you, but when mrs. harper began walking around the room checking answers, she paused beside your desk.

“much better.”

you looked up.

“really?”

she nodded, tapping your paper lightly.

“you only made one mistake.”

your eyes widened.

“one?”

“and it was just arithmetic.”

before you could respond, she moved on to the next desk.

you couldn’t help smiling to yourself.

it wasn’t perfect. it wasn’t even close. but it was better.

when class ended, you were stuffing your notebook into your backpack when someone stopped beside your desk.

“how’d it go?”

you looked up.

oscar had one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack, waiting. you glanced back down at your worksheet.

“apparently i only got one thing wrong.”

“that’s good.”

“mrs. harper said it was just arithmetic.”

he gave a small nod, like that confirmed something he’d already expected.

“told you.”

you frowned.

“you literally never said that.”

“i implied it.”

“…that’s not the same thing.”

“close enough.”

you laughed quietly before slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“your definition of “close enough” is concerning.”

“your definition of studying is concerning.”

“wow.”

“what?”

“i was trying to be nice.”

“i noticed.”

you walked out of the classroom together, only realizing halfway down the hallway that you were still talking.

usually, the second class ended, everyone split off in different directions.

you headed toward the student center and oscar usually disappeared toward the science building. today, neither of you seemed to notice until you reached the intersection where your paths split.

he stopped first.

“…i’m going the other way.”

you blinked.

“oh.”

there was a brief, awkward pause.

“see you later?”

“yeah.”

“four?”

he nodded once before turning the opposite direction.

you watched him walk away for a second before shaking your head at yourself. you’d known him for less than two weeks.

why had that interaction felt so… normal?

at exactly four o’clock, there was a knock on your front door.

when you opened it, oscar was standing there with his backpack over one shoulder and a paper bag in his hand.

you looked at the bag.

“…what’s that?”

“food.”

“…i can see that.”

he held it up slightly.

“i stopped on the way.”

“for yourself?”

he looked at you for a second.

“i got two.”

you stared.

“…you got me food?”

“don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not making it weird.”

“you are.”

you stepped aside to let him in.

“what’d you get?”

he handed you the smaller bag.

“a grilled cheese.”

your eyebrows lifted.

“how did you know i like grilled cheese?”

“you told your mom on tuesday.”

“…i did?”

“yeah.”

you tried to remember. somewhere between chemistry, cookies, and your mom asking if either of you wanted anything from the kitchen, you must’ve mentioned it without thinking.

“…you remembered?”

he shrugged as he took his shoes off.

“it wasn’t hard.”

you looked down at the warm paper bag in your hands for a second before following him upstairs. once everything was spread across your desk again, the two of you ate before opening a single notebook.

“this is definitely a better start than last time,” you said.

“because of the food?”

“because i’m less likely to cry over chemical equations.”

he took another bite of his sandwich.

“that’s encouraging.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know.”

you smiled to yourself.

the conversation came easier now.

there were still quiet moments, but they didn’t feel like they needed to be filled immediately. instead of sitting in uncomfortable silence, the room felt… peaceful.

after finishing your food, you gathered up the wrappers while oscar opened your chemistry notebook.

“before we start,” he said, “did you do the practice questions i left?”

“…maybe.”

he looked up.

“‘maybe’ isn’t an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

he held his hand out.

“notebook.”

you sighed dramatically before sliding it across the desk.

he flipped through a few pages.

“…you actually did them.”

you folded your arms.

“you sound surprised.”

“a little.”

“rude.”

“i’m being honest.”

“you could’ve lied.”

“why would i do that?”

“to spare my feelings.”

he looked back down at the notebook.

“…your feelings survived.”

you couldn’t even argue with that.

he was right. again.

and somehow, that annoyed you a lot less than it had during the first session.

oscar spent the next hour going through the practice questions one by one. this time, he barely had to explain the concepts. instead, he caught tiny mistakes before they became bigger ones.

“what’d you do there?” he asked, tapping the middle of your page.

you looked down.

“…i skipped a step.”

“why?”

“because i thought i could do it in my head.”

“and?”

“…i could not.”

“correct.”

you rolled your eyes.

“you enjoy being right way too much.”

“i don’t enjoy it.”

“you smile every time.”

“i do not.”

“you do.”

he didn’t bother arguing this time. instead, he reached over, circled one number with his pencil, and slid the notebook back toward you.

“fix that.”

you stared at it.

“…that’s the only thing?”

“yeah.”

you changed the number, looked over the rest of your work, then pushed it back across the desk.

he read through it once. twice. then closed the notebook.

“…that’s it.”

you frowned.

“…that’s it?”

“you’re done.”

“no im not.”

“you are.”

you glanced at the clock on your nightstand.

five fifteen.

you blinked.

“…wait.”

last session, you’d barely finished half the worksheet by six-thirty. today, you’d worked through every practice problem in a little over an hour.

“…there has to be something else.”

oscar leaned back in his chair.

“there isn’t.”

“check again.”

“i did.”

“one more time.”

he looked at you for a second before opening the notebook again with exaggerated seriousness.

he slowly flipped through every page. paused. nodded thoughtfully. closed it again.

“…still done.”

you laughed.

“you’re so annoying.”

“i’ve heard.”

“from me.”

“mostly.”

you leaned back in your chair with a sigh that sounded more relieved than tired.

“…i thought i was gonna fail this class.”

“you still might.”

your head snapped toward him.

“oscar.”

“i’m kidding…mostly.”

you grabbed one of the throw pillows from your bed and tossed it at him. he caught it against his chest almost effortlessly.

“…violence again?”

“don’t push it.”

he set the pillow on the floor beside him.

“noted.”

for the first time since he’d started coming over, neither of you reached for another worksheet.

the desk stayed exactly as it was.

open notebooks. scattered pencils. empty paper bags from dinner.

the late afternoon sun had shifted lower, filling your room with warm light that made everything feel slower somehow.

“…so,” you said after a minute.

“so?”

“what do you actually do when you’re not making my life miserable with chemistry?”

he looked genuinely confused.

“this isn’t making your life miserable.”

“agree to disagree.”

“…fair.”

you smiled.

“seriously.”

he thought for a second.

“i race.”

“…race?”

“go karts.”

your eyebrows lifted.

“like… competitively?”

“since i was little.”

“why have i never heard about this?”

he shrugged.

“i don’t really talk about it.”

“why not?”

“doesn’t usually come up.”

“i feel like “i race go-karts competitively” comes up more often than you think.”

“apparently not.”

you laughed quietly.

“okay… that’s actually kind of cool.”

“kind of?”

“don’t get cocky.”

he nodded once.

“too late.”

you shook your head.

“what about you?”

“what about me?”

“what do you do?”

you looked toward the ceiling for a second.

“i bake.”

“…really?”

“yeah.”

“like… cookies?”

“cookies, brownies, cupcakes… anything, really.”

he looked over at the now mostly empty plate sitting on your desk.

“…did you make those?”

you nodded.

“…i thought your mom did.”

“wow.”

“what?”

“those were my cookies.”

he looked back at the plate.

“…they were good.”

you tried very hard not to smile.

“thank you.”

there was a brief silence.

then he added, almost absentmindedly,

“…that explains why you got offended when i called them perfectly good cookies.”

you laughed so hard you nearly knocked your pencil case onto the floor.

“that joke took you two hours.”

“worth it.”

“absolutely not.”

“i think it was.”

you were still laughing when your phone buzzed on the desk. you glanced down at the screen. one of your friends.

“where are you??? everyone went to dinner lol”

you looked at the time.

six forty eight.

“…no way.”

oscar followed your gaze to the clock.

“what?”

“you’ve been here for almost three hours.”

he blinked.

“…huh.”

“we finished studying, like… an hour and a half ago.”

“…yeah.”

neither of you had noticed.

you’d just… kept talking.

about classes. favorite movies. music. the professor who somehow made an eight a.m. lecture feel even earlier. the café on campus with terrible coffee but amazing muffins.

none of it had anything to do with chemistry.

you looked back at him.

“…i should probably answer that.”

“probably.”

instead, neither of you moved. there was another few seconds of comfortable silence before oscar finally stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“…i should go.”

“yeah.”

you walked him downstairs, still talking about some ridiculous story he’d told you involving one of his roommates nearly setting off the smoke alarm trying to cook pasta.

when you reached the front door, he slipped his shoes back on and adjusted the strap of his backpack.

“same time tuesday?”

you smiled.

“yeah.”

he gave a small nod.

“see you then.”

“drive safe.”

“…i walked.”

you covered your face with one hand.

“right.”

“i’ll… walk safely.”

you laughed.

“please do.”

a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“goodnight.”

“night oscar.”

after he left, you closed the door and leaned against it for a second. you’d started this whole tutoring arrangement convinced it was going to be the longest, most awkward few weeks of your life.

instead, you’d somehow spent nearly three hours with him…

and wished he’d stayed a little longer.

tuesday afternoons had quietly become your favorite part of the week.

you didn’t realize it until halfway through your sociology lecture when you caught yourself checking the time.

3:18.

forty two more minutes.

you frowned at yourself.

why are you counting down?

it was just a study session. the same one you’d had every tuesday and thursday for the past month.

except… it didn’t really feel like just a study session anymore.

your phone buzzed as you walked out of class.

oscar: need anything from the café?

you smiled before you could stop yourself.

you: are you offering?

oscar: depends

you: on?

oscar: whether you’re asking for six drinks

you: i was only gonna ask for five

three dots appeared almost immediately

oscar: manageable.

a minute later,

oscar: what do you want?

you sent him your order before slipping your phone into your pocket. you’d stopped thinking it was strange that the two of you texted outside of chemistry.

at first, it had only been things like “what chapters are on the quiz?” or “don’t forget your calculator.”

now half your conversations had nothing to do with class.

when you got back to your house, there was already a knock at the door.

you opened it. oscar held up a drink carrier.

“delivery.”

you took yours.

“thank you.”

“don’t mention it.”

he stepped inside, slipped his shoes off without thinking, and walked toward the stairs.

you blinked.

“…you didn’t even ask where my room was.”

he stopped halfway up the first step.

“…i know where it is.”

“mhm.”

“i’ve been here eight times.”

“whatever!”

he wasn’t wrong. still… it was strange seeing someone move through your house so naturally.

he greeted your mom on the way upstairs.

“hi.”

“hi sweetheart,” she answered from the kitchen. “there are brownies on the counter if either of you want them.”

“thanks.”

he reached over, grabbed the plate without even asking, and carried it upstairs. you stared after him. your mom looked over at you.

“…what?”

“nothing.”

she smiled to herself.

“mhm.”

by the time you got to your room, oscar had already set the brownies on your desk and pulled his binder out.

he looked up.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“oscar.. don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“where you say “nothing” but clearly mean something.”

you sat down across from him.

“i just think it’s funny.”

“what is?”

“you’re comfortable here.”

he looked around the room.

“…shouldn’t i be?”

“well…”

you thought about it.

“…yeah.”

he nodded once.

you opened your notebook.

“you’re still annoying.”

“consistency is important.”

“for chemistry?”

“for everything.”

you laughed under your breath.

“that might be the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“probably.”

instead of starting immediately, you reached for one of the brownies and broke it in half. without really thinking, you held one piece out toward him.

he took it with a quiet, “thanks,” before opening your notebook to the next chapter.

the exchange was so automatic that neither of you acknowledged it. you didn’t think about it until almost ten minutes later.

when did sharing food stop being awkward?

an hour passed. then another.

“you’re done.”

you looked up.

“what?”

“you’re done.”

he turned your notebook around so it was facing you. every answer had a small checkmark beside it.

“…seriously?”

he nodded.

“you didn’t need my help for most of that.”

you looked down at the page, reading over your own work. for the first time all semester, it actually made sense. a laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“i actually understand it.”

“yeah.”

“that’s… kind of insane.”

“oscar?”

“hm?”

“…thank you.”

he smiled, softer than usual.

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“yes, i do.”

you closed your notebook, letting your hands rest on top of it.

“i would’ve failed this class without you.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“you would’ve figured it out eventually.”

“maybe.”

you looked at him for a second before smiling.

“…i’m glad i didn’t have to.”

the room fell quiet. the rain tapped gently against the window, and neither of you made any move to pack up.

after a moment, you glanced at the untouched chemistry book sitting between you.

“…i don’t think we’ve actually been studying for the last twenty minutes.”

“nope.”

“we’ve been talking.”

“yep.”

you let out a small laugh.

“you know what’s weird?”

“what?”

“i used to count down the minutes until these sessions were over.”

he looked at you.

“now i kind of wish they were longer.”

his expression changed ever so slightly.

“me too.”

your heart skipped.

“…really?”

he nodded once.

“i stopped coming because of chemistry a while ago.”

you looked down at your hands.

“…then why did you keep coming?”

he didn’t answer immediately.instead, he watched you for a long moment before saying quietly,

“…because i liked spending time with you.”

you looked back up. for once, there wasn’t a dry comment waiting to ruin the moment.

you smiled before you could stop yourself.

“…i was hoping you’d say that.”

“yeah?”

“i kept making extra cookies because i knew you’d eat them.”

a quiet laugh escaped him.

“…i knew they weren’t all for your mom.”

“shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

you shook your head, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“i think i’ve liked you for a while.”

he held your gaze.

“…i think i’ve liked you longer.”

before you had time to overthink it, you leaned forward.

he met you halfway.

the kiss was hesitant at first, both of you smiling into it almost immediately because it felt strangely impossible that this was finally happening.

when you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his for a second, laughing quietly.

“…all of this because i couldn’t pass chemistry.”

he smiled.

“best failing grade i’ve ever seen.”

you laughed again before kissing him once more, a little more confidently this time.

when you finally pulled back, you looked over at the notebook still sitting open on the desk.

“guess we’re done studying.”

he glanced at the page covered in neat equations and checkmarks before looking back at you.

“…yeah.”

he reached over and closed the notebook.

“i think we passed.”

[angeenrose]

hello I am new in your blog and read your oscar fic it is very good but I think it is like copy of one writer I follow for many month now, they also write one story for oscar and it is same like yours. I will mention their name it's @imthebadguyyy and I just think I should ask so sorry no disrespect meant. My English not very good but I ask because both stories are very nice but I think they are same story no?

hii!! tysm for reading my oscar fic, i really appreciate that.🥹 ive actually never seen the person u mentioned blog before, and ive never read any of their oscar fics. i don’t really read fanfics in general because i’m usually very busy, so when i do have free time i normally spend it writing instead. all of my ideas come from my own brainstorming, and i would never intentionally copy another writers work. if there happen to be similarities, i think thats just bc there are only so many scenarios people can come up with in the same fandom. it’s definitely never something i’d do on purpose. thank you for bringing it up so respectfully. :)

[angeenrose]

♡ after the checkered flag⌣ೇ

❝ after the checkered flag ❞ — alex albon x fem!reader

the cameras caught the crash. the interviews caught the apologies. but they never caught what happened after alex came home. after a race that ended far too soon, all he wanted was someone who loved him beyond the results.

warnings : fluff, comfort, post race crash, emotional vulnerability, self blame, guilt, brief mentions of not eating after a stressful event, media/interview scenes, soft relationship moments, lots of reassurance, happy ending.

word count: 2.1k , masterlist , a/n : first aa23 fic hallo hallo… IM SOOO DEVASTATED😭😭😭😭 FRANCE IS OUT OF THE WORLD CUP NOOOOO MON PAYSSSSSSS😭😭😭😭 but on the bright side… timmy tim was at the game..? 😅

the first thing you noticed was how different alex sounded.

not from the radio, not from anything dramatic, just from the way he answered questions afterward.

because during the race, he had still sounded like himself.

focused. calm. determined.

the kind of calm that only came when alex was completely locked in.

you were sitting on the couch at home, your laptop open beside you, the race playing across the television. you had been watching the entire weekend, but sunday had felt different. you knew how much alex wanted a good result. you knew how much work went into every single race weekend, especially when things hadn’t been going perfectly.

and for a while, it actually looked like things might finally come together.

the commentators had noticed it too.

“alex albon has been having a really strong recovery drive today,” one of them said as the camera followed his car through the circuit.

“he’s been patient. he hasn’t rushed anything, and that’s really important here.”

you smiled slightly at the screen, because that was alex. even when things were difficult, he never stopped fighting.

the timing screen showed him moving up one position, then another.

the kind of drive where you could tell the driver was working for every single metre.

then the radio came through.

“alex, pace is looking good. tyres are holding up better than expected.”

there was a short pause before his reply.

“yeah, car feels better now. just trying to keep it clean.”

you smiled at that. because he always said things like that.

keep it clean. stay patient. keep pushing.

the commentators continued talking about his progress, mentioning how important this result could be for him and the team.

and then, almost instantly, everything changed.

it happened so quickly that you barely processed it.

one second, alex was going through the corner. the next, the car stepped out.

the camera followed him as he fought with the steering wheel, trying to catch it.

but there was nowhere to go.

the impact came before anyone had time to react.

“alex albon is into the wall!”

the entire broadcast seemed to go quiet for a second.

“that’s a heavy impact! and that is such a shame because he was having a really strong race!”

you sat forward.

“alex…”

the replay showed it again. you hated watching replays.

not because you thought he wasn’t okay. you knew modern cars were built to protect the drivers.

but because you knew what it meant. you knew how badly he wanted that result.

then the radio played.

“alex, confirm you’re okay.”

there was a pause. you held your breath.

“yeah. yeah, i’m okay.”

his voice was calm. too calm.

“just… frustrated.”

the engineer responded immediately.

“copy. take your time. we’ll talk when you’re back.”

alex didn’t answer straight away.

then:

“alright. sorry.”

your heart sank.

because even after everything, his first instinct was to apologize.

the engineer’s voice softened.

“alex, don’t worry about that.”

but the damage was already done. the race was over.

the rest of the broadcast felt strange because the excitement had disappeared.

the cameras showed alex getting out of the car and walking away, and although he looked physically fine, you could see it.

the disappointment. the way his shoulders sat slightly lower. the way he looked back at the car for just a second before continuing.

the commentators spoke carefully.

“a really difficult moment for alex albon.”

“he’ll be disappointed. he had worked his way into a good position and looked like he had a chance at a strong finish.”

you knew exactly what they meant.

because alex cared. he cared about every lap. every person in the garage. every person who stayed late working on the car.

and that was always the hardest part. it was never just about him.

the post race interview was the part you hated the most. not because you didn’t want to hear him. because you knew he would do what he always did.

he would be professional. he would be polite. he would answer every question. even when he was upset.

alex stood in front of the cameras, still wearing his team clothes, his expression controlled.

the interviewer smiled.

“alex, firstly, are you okay after that incident?”

alex nodded.

“yeah, i’m okay. physically everything’s fine.”

“can you talk us through what happened?”

he looked down briefly before answering.

“i think i just lost the rear. i was pushing, obviously, because we were in a good position and the car was feeling better than it had earlier in the weekend.”

he paused.

“but these things happen.”

you frowned slightly. because you knew that tone. the one where he was trying to convince himself as much as everyone else.

the interviewer continued.

“it looks like you were having a really strong recovery drive before the incident. Is that what makes this one more frustrating?”

alex gave a small nod.

“yeah, definitely.”

he looked toward the ground for a moment.

“because when you’re fighting like that, when you feel like you’re making progress, it’s obviously disappointing when it ends that way.”

the interviewer asked about the team, and that was when alex’s expression changed slightly.

“i think.. the team deserves better.”

you could hear the sincerity in his voice.

“everyone works incredibly hard. everyone back at the factory, everyone here. you want to give them a good result.”

he swallowed.

“so yeah, it’s frustrating.”

the interviewer thanked him and wished him well. alex smiled politely.

the cameras cut away and immediately, the smile disappeared.

later that evening, you watched the clips again. not because you wanted to make yourself upset.

just because you knew him. you knew that after something like this, alex would probably tell everyone he was fine.

he would joke, he would say it was just one race, he would tell people they would move on, and maybe eventually he would.

but tonight? you knew tonight would be different.

your phone lit up.

alex: leaving now

you stared at the message. then another one appeared.

alex: sorry i messed up 2day

you immediately typed back.

you: alex, dont apologize.

a few seconds passed.

alex: i know. sorry. i js hate days like this.

you looked at the screen for a moment. because there it was. the thing he didn’t say in front of the cameras. the thing he only admitted when he wasn’t surrounded by everyone else.

you typed:

you: come home. we’ll talk when you want to.

and for the first time all day, his reply came quickly.

alex: okay ❤️

and you knew that when he walked through the door, he wouldn’t be the driver everyone saw on television.

he would just be alex.

by the time alex got back to the hotel, it was late enough that the city outside the window had started to quiet down.

the kind of quiet that only came after a race weekend.

after the noise, after the cameras, after hundreds of people asking the same questions over and over again.

you were sitting on the edge of the bed when you heard the door unlock.

you didn’t immediately say anything. you just looked up.

alex stepped inside, his bag hanging from one shoulder, his expression tired.

not angry, not upset in a way that anyone else would notice. he’s just tired.

he closed the door behind him and stood there for a second.

“hey,” he said quietly.

“hi.”

he gave you a small smile, but you could tell it was forced.

“how was your evening?” he asked.

you raised your eyebrows slightly.

“alex.”

he looked away.

“what?”

“you crashed out of a race you were fighting so hard in, did an interview where you tried to convince everyone you were fine, and now you’re asking me how my evening was?”

a small laugh escaped him.

barely there.

“okay, when you say it like that…”

“because it’s true.”

he dropped his bag near the door and sighed.

“i’m okay.”

you gave him a look.

“are you?”

he opened his mouth. then closed it.

because he knew you too well to lie.

“not really.”

and that was the first honest thing he’d said all day.

you opened your arms slightly and just like earlier, he didn’t hesitate.

alex walked over and sat beside you, leaning into you. his head rested against your shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him.

for a while, neither of you spoke. you just let him breathe.

you could feel the tension slowly leaving him.

“i hate that,” he finally whispered.

“what?”

“that i know everyone’s going to say it’s okay, but it doesn’t feel okay.”

you ran your hand slowly through his hair.

“yeah.”

he looked up slightly.

“yeah?”

“it’s okay to be upset.”

he looked back down.

“i just feel stupid.”

“why?”

“because it was my mistake.”

you stayed quiet for a moment, not because you didn’t know what to say but because you wanted to say the right thing.

“alex.”

“hm?”

“you know what i saw today?”

he didn’t answer.

“i saw someone fighting for every position. I saw someone who didn’t give up even when the weekend wasn’t going his way.”

he stayed quiet.

“i saw someone who cared so much about his team that his first reaction after a crash was apologizing.”

his fingers moved slightly against your hand.

“that’s not stupid.”

alex looked away.

“it feels like i let them down.”

you shook your head.

“you didn’t.”

“you weren’t there.”

“no, but i watched.”

he looked at you.

“and i know you.”

you smiled softly.

“you think everyone is disappointed because you care so much. bu i promise you, the people who know you aren’t looking at one mistake.”

he swallowed.

“i wish my brain worked like that.”

you smiled a little.

“yeah, i know.”

“rude.”

“true.”

that got a tiny laugh out of him. and you smiled because you had missed that.

the real one. not the interview smile. not the media smile.

his.

after a while, alex changed into something more comfortable and came back to sit beside you.

the room was quiet. the race was still everywhere.

on his phone, on the television, online. but neither of you turned any of it on.

he didn’t need another reminder.

“did you eat?” you asked.

he looked guilty. you immediately noticed.

“alex.”

“what?”

“did you?”

he hesitated.

“not really.”

you sighed.

“of course you didn’t.”

“i was busy.”

“you were busy forgetting food existed?”

“exactly.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

“i ordered something.”

“you did?”

“yeah.”

he looked at you.

“how do you always know?”

“because you’re predictable.”

“i am not.”

“you are.”

“name one thing.”

“after a bad race, you don’t eat, you replay everything in your head, and you tell everyone you’re fine.”

alex stared at you.

then quietly said:

“okay, maybe a little predictable.”

“thank you.”

he shook his head.

“you’re impossible.”

“and you love me.”

he smiled.

“yeah.”

later, after he’d eaten and finally stopped checking the race results, the two of you ended up sitting on the bed.

alex was quieter now. not the heavy silence from earlier. a comfortable one.

his head rested in your lap while you played with his hair. you looked down at him.

“better?”

he thought about it.

“a little.”

“good.”

“still annoyed.”

“okay.”

“still think i should’ve done better.”

you sighed softly.

“alex.”

“i know.”

“no, listen.”

he looked up.

“you’re allowed to want more from yourself. that’s part of why you’re good.”

his expression softened.

“but?”

“but you can’t only be proud of yourself when things go perfectly.”

he didn’t say anything. because he knew you were right.

“you’re still the same person after a bad race.”

you brushed his hair back.

“you’re still talented. you’re still hardworking. you’re still someone people are proud of.”

his eyes softened.

“you really believe that?”

“always.”

he looked down again.

“i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

you smiled.

“probably forget to eat after every race.”

“okay, that’s fair.”

you laughed quietly.

the movie you put on ended up being mostly background noise. because neither of you were paying attention.

alex was too comfortable. too tired.

you noticed the exact moment he fell asleep.

one second he was quietly commenting on the movie.

the next, his breathing had evened out. his hand was still holding yours.

you looked down at him. and it was strange.

because millions of people had watched him today.

they watched him drive, they watched him fight, they watched him crash, they watched the interviews afterward. but none of them saw this.

the quiet moments. the tired smile. the way he relaxed when he finally didn’t have to be “alex albon, formula one driver.”

he was just alex.

you pulled the blanket over him carefully. tomorrow, the headlines would still exist. people would still talk about the crash. the result wouldn’t magically change.

but tonight, none of that mattered. tonight, he was safe.

and he didn’t have to be anything more than himself.

[angeenrose]

♡ after the checkered flag⌣ೇ

❝ after the checkered flag ❞ — alex albon x fem!reader

the cameras caught the crash. the interviews caught the apologies. but they never caught what happened after alex came home. after a race that ended far too soon, all he wanted was someone who loved him beyond the results.

warnings : fluff, comfort, post race crash, emotional vulnerability, self blame, guilt, brief mentions of not eating after a stressful event, media/interview scenes, soft relationship moments, lots of reassurance, happy ending.

word count: 2.1k , masterlist , a/n : first aa23 fic hallo hallo… IM SOOO DEVASTATED😭😭😭😭 FRANCE IS OUT OF THE WORLD CUP NOOOOO MON PAYSSSSSSS😭😭😭😭 but on the bright side… timmy tim was at the game..? 😅

the first thing you noticed was how different alex sounded.

not from the radio, not from anything dramatic, just from the way he answered questions afterward.

because during the race, he had still sounded like himself.

focused. calm. determined.

the kind of calm that only came when alex was completely locked in.

you were sitting on the couch at home, your laptop open beside you, the race playing across the television. you had been watching the entire weekend, but sunday had felt different. you knew how much alex wanted a good result. you knew how much work went into every single race weekend, especially when things hadn’t been going perfectly.

and for a while, it actually looked like things might finally come together.

the commentators had noticed it too.

“alex albon has been having a really strong recovery drive today,” one of them said as the camera followed his car through the circuit.

“he’s been patient. he hasn’t rushed anything, and that’s really important here.”

you smiled slightly at the screen, because that was alex. even when things were difficult, he never stopped fighting.

the timing screen showed him moving up one position, then another.

the kind of drive where you could tell the driver was working for every single metre.

then the radio came through.

“alex, pace is looking good. tyres are holding up better than expected.”

there was a short pause before his reply.

“yeah, car feels better now. just trying to keep it clean.”

you smiled at that. because he always said things like that.

keep it clean. stay patient. keep pushing.

the commentators continued talking about his progress, mentioning how important this result could be for him and the team.

and then, almost instantly, everything changed.

it happened so quickly that you barely processed it.

one second, alex was going through the corner. the next, the car stepped out.

the camera followed him as he fought with the steering wheel, trying to catch it.

but there was nowhere to go.

the impact came before anyone had time to react.

“alex albon is into the wall!”

the entire broadcast seemed to go quiet for a second.

“that’s a heavy impact! and that is such a shame because he was having a really strong race!”

you sat forward.

“alex…”

the replay showed it again. you hated watching replays.

not because you thought he wasn’t okay. you knew modern cars were built to protect the drivers.

but because you knew what it meant. you knew how badly he wanted that result.

then the radio played.

“alex, confirm you’re okay.”

there was a pause. you held your breath.

“yeah. yeah, i’m okay.”

his voice was calm. too calm.

“just… frustrated.”

the engineer responded immediately.

“copy. take your time. we’ll talk when you’re back.”

alex didn’t answer straight away.

then:

“alright. sorry.”

your heart sank.

because even after everything, his first instinct was to apologize.

the engineer’s voice softened.

“alex, don’t worry about that.”

but the damage was already done. the race was over.

the rest of the broadcast felt strange because the excitement had disappeared.

the cameras showed alex getting out of the car and walking away, and although he looked physically fine, you could see it.

the disappointment. the way his shoulders sat slightly lower. the way he looked back at the car for just a second before continuing.

the commentators spoke carefully.

“a really difficult moment for alex albon.”

“he’ll be disappointed. he had worked his way into a good position and looked like he had a chance at a strong finish.”

you knew exactly what they meant.

because alex cared. he cared about every lap. every person in the garage. every person who stayed late working on the car.

and that was always the hardest part. it was never just about him.

the post race interview was the part you hated the most. not because you didn’t want to hear him. because you knew he would do what he always did.

he would be professional. he would be polite. he would answer every question. even when he was upset.

alex stood in front of the cameras, still wearing his team clothes, his expression controlled.

the interviewer smiled.

“alex, firstly, are you okay after that incident?”

alex nodded.

“yeah, i’m okay. physically everything’s fine.”

“can you talk us through what happened?”

he looked down briefly before answering.

“i think i just lost the rear. i was pushing, obviously, because we were in a good position and the car was feeling better than it had earlier in the weekend.”

he paused.

“but these things happen.”

you frowned slightly. because you knew that tone. the one where he was trying to convince himself as much as everyone else.

the interviewer continued.

“it looks like you were having a really strong recovery drive before the incident. Is that what makes this one more frustrating?”

alex gave a small nod.

“yeah, definitely.”

he looked toward the ground for a moment.

“because when you’re fighting like that, when you feel like you’re making progress, it’s obviously disappointing when it ends that way.”

the interviewer asked about the team, and that was when alex’s expression changed slightly.

“i think.. the team deserves better.”

you could hear the sincerity in his voice.

“everyone works incredibly hard. everyone back at the factory, everyone here. you want to give them a good result.”

he swallowed.

“so yeah, it’s frustrating.”

the interviewer thanked him and wished him well. alex smiled politely.

the cameras cut away and immediately, the smile disappeared.

later that evening, you watched the clips again. not because you wanted to make yourself upset.

just because you knew him. you knew that after something like this, alex would probably tell everyone he was fine.

he would joke, he would say it was just one race, he would tell people they would move on, and maybe eventually he would.

but tonight? you knew tonight would be different.

your phone lit up.

alex: leaving now

you stared at the message. then another one appeared.

alex: sorry i messed up 2day

you immediately typed back.

you: alex, dont apologize.

a few seconds passed.

alex: i know. sorry. i js hate days like this.

you looked at the screen for a moment. because there it was. the thing he didn’t say in front of the cameras. the thing he only admitted when he wasn’t surrounded by everyone else.

you typed:

you: come home. we’ll talk when you want to.

and for the first time all day, his reply came quickly.

alex: okay ❤️

and you knew that when he walked through the door, he wouldn’t be the driver everyone saw on television.

he would just be alex.

by the time alex got back to the hotel, it was late enough that the city outside the window had started to quiet down.

the kind of quiet that only came after a race weekend.

after the noise, after the cameras, after hundreds of people asking the same questions over and over again.

you were sitting on the edge of the bed when you heard the door unlock.

you didn’t immediately say anything. you just looked up.

alex stepped inside, his bag hanging from one shoulder, his expression tired.

not angry, not upset in a way that anyone else would notice. he’s just tired.

he closed the door behind him and stood there for a second.

“hey,” he said quietly.

“hi.”

he gave you a small smile, but you could tell it was forced.

“how was your evening?” he asked.

you raised your eyebrows slightly.

“alex.”

he looked away.

“what?”

“you crashed out of a race you were fighting so hard in, did an interview where you tried to convince everyone you were fine, and now you’re asking me how my evening was?”

a small laugh escaped him.

barely there.

“okay, when you say it like that…”

“because it’s true.”

he dropped his bag near the door and sighed.

“i’m okay.”

you gave him a look.

“are you?”

he opened his mouth. then closed it.

because he knew you too well to lie.

“not really.”

and that was the first honest thing he’d said all day.

you opened your arms slightly and just like earlier, he didn’t hesitate.

alex walked over and sat beside you, leaning into you. his head rested against your shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him.

for a while, neither of you spoke. you just let him breathe.

you could feel the tension slowly leaving him.

“i hate that,” he finally whispered.

“what?”

“that i know everyone’s going to say it’s okay, but it doesn’t feel okay.”

you ran your hand slowly through his hair.

“yeah.”

he looked up slightly.

“yeah?”

“it’s okay to be upset.”

he looked back down.

“i just feel stupid.”

“why?”

“because it was my mistake.”

you stayed quiet for a moment, not because you didn’t know what to say but because you wanted to say the right thing.

“alex.”

“hm?”

“you know what i saw today?”

he didn’t answer.

“i saw someone fighting for every position. I saw someone who didn’t give up even when the weekend wasn’t going his way.”

he stayed quiet.

“i saw someone who cared so much about his team that his first reaction after a crash was apologizing.”

his fingers moved slightly against your hand.

“that’s not stupid.”

alex looked away.

“it feels like i let them down.”

you shook your head.

“you didn’t.”

“you weren’t there.”

“no, but i watched.”

he looked at you.

“and i know you.”

you smiled softly.

“you think everyone is disappointed because you care so much. bu i promise you, the people who know you aren’t looking at one mistake.”

he swallowed.

“i wish my brain worked like that.”

you smiled a little.

“yeah, i know.”

“rude.”

“true.”

that got a tiny laugh out of him. and you smiled because you had missed that.

the real one. not the interview smile. not the media smile.

his.

after a while, alex changed into something more comfortable and came back to sit beside you.

the room was quiet. the race was still everywhere.

on his phone, on the television, online. but neither of you turned any of it on.

he didn’t need another reminder.

“did you eat?” you asked.

he looked guilty. you immediately noticed.

“alex.”

“what?”

“did you?”

he hesitated.

“not really.”

you sighed.

“of course you didn’t.”

“i was busy.”

“you were busy forgetting food existed?”

“exactly.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

“i ordered something.”

“you did?”

“yeah.”

he looked at you.

“how do you always know?”

“because you’re predictable.”

“i am not.”

“you are.”

“name one thing.”

“after a bad race, you don’t eat, you replay everything in your head, and you tell everyone you’re fine.”

alex stared at you.

then quietly said:

“okay, maybe a little predictable.”

“thank you.”

he shook his head.

“you’re impossible.”

“and you love me.”

he smiled.

“yeah.”

later, after he’d eaten and finally stopped checking the race results, the two of you ended up sitting on the bed.

alex was quieter now. not the heavy silence from earlier. a comfortable one.

his head rested in your lap while you played with his hair. you looked down at him.

“better?”

he thought about it.

“a little.”

“good.”

“still annoyed.”

“okay.”

“still think i should’ve done better.”

you sighed softly.

“alex.”

“i know.”

“no, listen.”

he looked up.

“you’re allowed to want more from yourself. that’s part of why you’re good.”

his expression softened.

“but?”

“but you can’t only be proud of yourself when things go perfectly.”

he didn’t say anything. because he knew you were right.

“you’re still the same person after a bad race.”

you brushed his hair back.

“you’re still talented. you’re still hardworking. you’re still someone people are proud of.”

his eyes softened.

“you really believe that?”

“always.”

he looked down again.

“i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

you smiled.

“probably forget to eat after every race.”

“okay, that’s fair.”

you laughed quietly.

the movie you put on ended up being mostly background noise. because neither of you were paying attention.

alex was too comfortable. too tired.

you noticed the exact moment he fell asleep.

one second he was quietly commenting on the movie.

the next, his breathing had evened out. his hand was still holding yours.

you looked down at him. and it was strange.

because millions of people had watched him today.

they watched him drive, they watched him fight, they watched him crash, they watched the interviews afterward. but none of them saw this.

the quiet moments. the tired smile. the way he relaxed when he finally didn’t have to be “alex albon, formula one driver.”

he was just alex.

you pulled the blanket over him carefully. tomorrow, the headlines would still exist. people would still talk about the crash. the result wouldn’t magically change.

but tonight, none of that mattered. tonight, he was safe.

and he didn’t have to be anything more than himself.

[angeenrose]

ꗯ𓈒˙ ׁ𓏼 days with you ٍ݂݂݂݂ഒ

❝ days with you ❞ — charles leclerc x fem!reader

a quiet day away from the chaos of formula one. just charles, the ocean, and the little moments that remind you why you love him. a yacht day filled with teasing, laughter, and the kind of memories that don’t need anything extravagant to feel special.

warnings : fluff, established relationship, yacht date, soft charles, playful teasing, romantic moments, use of y/n, not proofread

word count: 814 , masterlist , a/n : i hope this makes up for my last post.🥹

i knew charles had something planned the second he told me to be ready early.

normally, on his days off, he liked sleeping in whenever he could. formula one schedules were exhausting enough that any extra hour of rest was something he never took for granted.

so when he texted me be ready at nine. “don’t be late”, i immediately knew something was happening.

when i arrived at the marina, he was already there. of course he was.

charles was standing near the yacht with a coffee in one hand and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, looking way too pleased with himself.

“you’re smiling,” i said as i walked closer.

he looked at me.

“what?”

“you have that look.”

“what look?”

“the one where you planned something and you’re waiting for me to notice.”

he tried to hide his smile. he failed.

“maybe i’m just happy to see you.”

“that’s suspiciously sweet.”

“i can’t be nice?”

“you can. i’m just surprised.”

he laughed and walked over to take my bag from me.

“good morning to you too.”

“good morning.”

“you missed me?”

“i saw you two days ago.”

“that didn’t answer my question.”

i smiled.

“maybe.”

“maybe?”

“okay, yes.”

that was all he needed to hear. he smiled like i had just given him the biggest compliment in the world.

sometimes charles was funny like that.

he could win races in front of thousands of people and still get ridiculously happy over the smallest things.

the day started exactly how i wanted it to.

slow.

we sat outside while the yacht moved along the coast, talking about everything and nothing. charles told me random stories, most of which i was convinced he had already told me before.

“you’ve definitely said this story already,” i told him.

he looked offended.

“i have not.”

“charles, you literally told me this last month.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“yes, you did.”

he thought about it for a second.

“okay, maybe i did.”

i laughed.

“you’re impossible.”

“but you still listen.”

“unfortunately.”

“that means you love me.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“i think it is.”

later, when we stopped in the middle of the water, charles immediately looked at me.

i knew that look.

“no.”

he raised his eyebrows.

“i didn’t even say anything.”

“you didn’t have to.”

“you know me too well.”

“because i know you’re about to tell me to jump in.”

a small smile appeared on his face.

“maybe.”

“charles.”

“come on.”

“the water is cold.”

“it’s not that bad.”

“you’re saying that because you’re already planning on getting in.”

“exactly.”

i stared at him.

“that’s not helping your argument.”

he laughed, holding his hand out.

“trust me.”

i looked at his hand for a second before taking it.

“if you splash me, i’m leaving.”

“you’re on a yacht in the middle of the ocean.”

“i’ll figure it out.”

“sure you will.”

and, obviously, he splashed me.

i didn’t even have to look at him.

“charles.”

he was already laughing.

“what?”

“you promised.”

“i said i wouldn’t.”

“you literally did.”

“i changed my mind.”

“you’re terrible.”

“but you’re smiling.”

i hated that he was right.

the rest of the afternoon was spent exactly how a day off should be.

we swam, we argued over music, i stole his sunglasses. he pretended to be annoyed even though he didn’t actually care.

“you know those are mine, right?” he said.

i adjusted them on my face.

“they look better on me.”

“that’s not the point.”

“it kind of is.”

he shook his head, laughing.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you like me anyway.”

“yeah.”

the answer came so easily that it caught me off guard.

he didn’t even hesitate.

“yeah, i do.”

and suddenly, making fun of him felt a lot harder.

by the time the sun started going down, we were both tired from swimming.

i was wearing one of his shirts over my swimsuit because the wind had picked up, and charles had immediately given it to me without even thinking.

“you know i’m keeping this, right?” i asked.

he looked over.

“i know.”

“you’re not going to ask for it back?”

“no.”

“why?”

he smiled.

“because i like seeing you wear it.”

i looked away, trying not to smile too much.

“that was smooth.”

“i wasn’t trying to be.”

“that’s worse.”

he laughed quietly.

we sat together at the front of the yacht as we headed back, my head resting against his shoulder while he held my hand.

for once, he wasn’t checking his phone. he wasn’t thinking about the next race. he wasn’t worrying about anything. he was just there. with me.

“today was nice,” i said softly.

charles squeezed my hand.

“yeah.”

“we should do this more often.”

he looked down at me.

“definitely.”

and i believed him.

because with charles, even the simplest days somehow became the ones i remembered the most.