summer love. a hundred percent. heās the guy you see over on the beach, at the bar ā stealing glances at each other, at the yacht docks, somehow every place your family planned to go. heās got āold moneyā screaming everywhere he goes, that stupidly handsome versace sunglasses as well. always in your eyesight but never too close to share a drink. until you bumped into him at the grocery store, in your hoodie and shorts that were too short, sending men into quarrels if you were even wearing one; he offered to pay for you since it was getting late and walked you back. conversation flowed, even if you had to explain aspects of life his money solved before he had a chance, it was natural. and when you guys laughed at the obvious that you were staying in the same hotelā¦he invited you over to his suite.
Jenson loves everything about it except the fact that youāre forbidden. So sweet, so innocent, so easy to break..the feeling of wanting to own you. The pregnant tension in the air, lingering between the scent of his expensive cologne you only hope you can see the glimpse of the bottle somewhere in his bedroom- bathroom, says something about the situation youāre both in.
He loves the way the term ādarlingā rolls off his tongue so naturally, so smooth. Nothing about it feels so wrong, or so right. The way he canāt tear his eyes away from the skirt youāre wearing, hoping he could just snatch you away like a thief to a glimmering diamond.
Everything about the way you blush whenever heās commentating for sky sports, the way you stammered over your words when he asks you a simple yes or no question.
a/n: itās been a long time coming since I wrote a long fic. oops. this one is dedicated to mark the dilf webber and his godly jawline, alcohol, and brocedes if you squint. annoyingly rich people. AGE GAP!! (obviously) xoxo
Mark Alan Webber. A nice, authentic Aussie, one with the sharpest jawlines on ā and off ā the grid, Red Bullās fallen star, your fatherās best old friendā¦and your one night stand.
Maybe just ignore the last one.
To be fair, you didnāt know who he was, or how much it meant to your fatherā¦not that he knew of it. Youād suppose they used to be boys together. Hell, they mightāve even been dumb teenage dirtbags together, drinking and doing stupid things preadolescents did. Maybe until things spiraled and got out of hand ā too unfortunate before they even got to reach their manhood together.
That included missing out on countless important once-in-a-lifetime events. One being a convivial, Melbourne wedding, an abrupt career in F1, and particularly when you, the little sweetheart, were born.
But that was a story your father cleared his throat and changed the topic anytime you asked about the pictures sitting on top of very fireplace in your living room ā the one that was rarely lit anymore.
Something about that it wasnāt important or that they were just old friends.
Not that it got you wondering or intrigued or anythingā¦
ā
And then thereās you, a daughter of a millionaire, born and raised in Melbourne, sweeter than honey, but, oh, stings harder than any white, middle-aged man could ever imagine.
Been the normal girl in school, nothing much, shared a first kiss under a normal street lamp on the walk home just to be broken up the very next week because you were too good for him. fucking, dick.
Nothing much happened, your grades were fine, got your girls with you, lost some along the way, and definitely got your heart broken ā but it was still beating. Until you graduated, your parents decided to ship their only and loveliest flower abroad, to Monaco to be exact.
Perhaps ABBA was right if you aspired to win a fortune in a distant land ā or find a rich, young man, ready to sweep you off your feet and marry you like a good, conservative husband.
People were rich. And by rich from a millionaire daughter meant ārich.ā Their everyday outfits would be manyās finest night of their lives. Wearing Birkin bags like they were the cheaper knock offs, a Ferrari as their day drive and a Bugatti for their night drives.
Of course you knew āwhy Monaco?ā Connections, connections, and connections. Easy. Right?
You could go to class and the next thing you knew might be that your classmate is in line for the Monegasque throne, or the next F2 champion, you just never know.
So you did what any rich and struggling university student would do in their right mind ā to Monte Carlo, you headed. Drunk out of your mind after your finals in some random, luxurious, expensive club was the perfect way to end a semester.
Until you found a comfort in an accent close to your home ā and heart, you did not look twice before falling into his arms (literally).
āYou look familiarāā you shouted into his ear, not sure if the booming music or your voice would deafen him first.
āDo I?ā he smiled back, lines showing the proof of experiences ā perhaps it was the shadows or the blinding lights of the club. Those eyes explored you from top to bottom, a Mary Jane and a white knee-high sock. Adorable. āIs that your pickup line, sweetheart?ā
āI swear, itās notāā giving him the classic, innocent, doe eyes any guy would drop anything for. And he was fucking around and finding out that he was, indeed, one of them. āIām telling the truthhā yāknow what? Just forget itāā
āIāll sure try, Sunshine.ā
It was just something about the way you clung onto his baby blue buttoned up, hair tied in two little innocent braids, and light pink bows attached to the ends. He wouldāve lied if he said he didnāt remember his pants being a little tight that night. Hoping heāll catch your name and maybe something moreā¦
Of course, you didnāt know that.
All those memories played back like an old movie that was badly cut together, choppy and jumpy. Some parts thrown in the trash, never to be retrieved or revived again ā all thanks to the alcohol in your system.
You remembered him sharing his name while keeping his rough and hot hand on your lower back, it was Mark Debber? Max? Mark Webber. Enlightening you that he used to be a race driver, Red Bull, Formula 1 ā and it was obvious that you lived in Monte Carlo. And maybe if the alcohol in your system wouldnāt drown out the fact that your dad mentioned something about stupid Formula 1 driver; maybe you wouldāve had to recollected something.
And donāt get me wrong, you know a lot about things, it was just a littleā¦inexperienced in his eyes.
Something he could definitely take care of.
āSo whatcha doing in Monte Carlo?ā He smiled. Tucking that strand of flyaway.
āStudying.ā You hiccuped the alcohol, and he gave you the look.
āAnd this.ā
Mark was, without a doubt, an Aussie with that smooth silly Australian accent, and the way he bent down his ear to your mouth ā ready to listen and do anything else to you like a good man.
āA driver, huh? So youāre rich?ā giggling like a girl whose got a crush on her high school senior, maybe also while wrapping your arms around his neck ā reaching it just by your tippy toes.
Amused, Mark let out a laugh as he invited you into his embrace, cute. āYou like āem rich, hm?ā
āI like them experiencedā¦ā you corrected him, stupid crowd pushing you two closer.
āThen youāll like me.ā
ā
Thank God your period came normal that month. Suck that, teenage pregnancy. All you knew you woke up in a surprisingly well-kept hotel room, dressed in a baby blue buttoned up definitely too big for you andā¦nothing more. Just your short, white dress from last night neatly hung up across the bed ā staring and judging at you with its sparkly sequins reflecting the sunlight from the window.
He ran you a hot bath, dolled you up, shared his Vegemite on toasts, and dropped you off with his white Porsche a block away from your shared apartment āand it took a lot of convincing.
āHoney, are you listening?ā a grape plucked in her mouth.
A hot Christmas back at Melbourne and a good night sleep were the only things you looked forward to between the lectures, caffeine doses, and assignments in Monaco. Things do come true if you wish hard enough, and if you have a private jet.
It wasnāt like paying thousand of dollars to be seated in a sweaty crowd just to see your favorite speck of metallic Formula 1 engine ā and a surprisingly hot driver ā zoomed past you in 0.01 second. Fun, isnāt it?
And your father wouldnāt approve of such waste.
You were back in the seaside mansion, the deck overlooking the calm beach and a subtle crash on the beach every one-and-half a second, if you count. It called for a glass of lemonade and some weak liquor in your motherās fancy blown glass sitting between the two of you.
āYes?ā¦no, I wasnāt.ā You sighed, blowing the hair strand away. Stating the obvious, āBusiness dinner?ā
āYes and no. Networking dinners,ā she plucked another grape into her mouth and one followed into yours. āYouāre going to follow alongāā
āAnd behave well, got it? I got it.ā
Softening, her eyes traveled up to your eyes; placing her free hand on top of yours, āThank you baby.ā
You smiled, leaning into her touch. At the ripe age of twenty-one, youāre still snuggling into her like the baby you were. āWhy arenāt you coming?ā Snapping your head back.
āBusy.ā your mother defended herself, pinching your nose softly. āAnd I know youāll be a treat to have.ā
If you were correct, and most of the time you were, your mother never left your dadās side. Never. They were the ride or die, especially when it comes to businessā¦and what not.
They were the it couple, if only youād wish someone as mature, levelheaded, and emotionally intelligent as your father would be lucky for you to haveā¦
ā
Mary Jane is your best friend, and so is tights, mini skirts, and old men. Basically what you wore tonight, on a dimly lit cruise, following your father like a lost puppy ā maybe not so lost once you pinpointed where the cruise bar was.
āCan Iāā
āLater, darling.ā Cutting you short, he whispered. Knowing his girl so well, maybe too well that he knew how much you appreciated a nice glass of whatever the bartender would offer. āHoney, do you remember theā¦the picture on the fireplace?ā
You nodded in acknowledgment, āMy 5th birthday?ā
āNo, the other one,ā he glanced at you, sending a nod of greeting to someone behind your shoulder.
You tried to think, head tilting subconsciously along the process. āThe one where you were younger? what was his nameā¦right, you never told me what was hisāā
āMarkāā
āEvening,ā said the third voice. Dark hair, tall frame, GMT Rolex, and that so familiar Tom Ford somewhere along his collarbone.
Mark Fucking Webber. He stood right there, just mere inches away from your fatherās face ā hand tucked away into his smooth black slacks, one cocooning his glass of whiskey.
hi guys, know Iāve been gone for a whileā¦but Iām clearing out my wips, since I know Iām not gonna finish them anyway. so why let them be a waste and rot in my drafts.
they are not perfect or done, obviously. but enjoy!!
ā shifter!osc, angst, lovie dovey ending?? thatās all š¹
What would you do if you see a poor lil ginger cat following on your heels? A, be a meanie and leave him alone. B, take him back.
Obviously you had to choose B.
Never being a cat person, grown up with doggos all your life, you just really donāt know how to interact with one. Sure, youād give them little pats and allāand clicking your tongue discreetly to see how far you can get it to follow. But this one was justā¦different.
āHiāā you cooed. āAre you hurt, baby?ā
The ginger and cream colored cat let out a friendly-meowing squeak, seeing that it had successfully gotten your attention. He skipped up to you, and sat down at your feet, tilting his head a set of large brown eyes staring back to you.
Adorable.
So you ended up kneeling on the concrete floor, getting weird looks from passersby. Only for them to realize it was a cat, then it was socially acceptable.
āPoor you,ā you cooed as you nervously plucked the twigs and dust away, not really sure how to interact with a cat without getting a scratch.
āFuckāI am not a cat person,ā you mumbled to yourself. āCan I pick you up, little guy?ā
Soon enough you did manage to get ahold of the ginger in your hands, realizing itās a boy. His little ears pinned themselves down, resting his forehead on your chest, and a loud, soft, almost-purring-like meow came from him.
He wasnāt hurt, just a little filthy.
And if he had to guess, he would assume you werenāt a cat person, with the way you were holding him. But heād appreciate the cuddles every now and then.
There was no collar, no tags to be found. But he was fairly too clean for a stray. And maybe just a little too well behaved.
After a moment of quiet cuddling with the ginger baby, you figured his owner would be looking for him soon enough. Or maybe his mother would come and get the youngster soon.
But would you be so mean and leave him alone?
āLook, if you come with meā¦Iāllā¦umā¦post you somewhere so they can get you back?ā He was settled back down on the hard concrete floor, only wanting to see if he would even follow you home.
It also would be cruel to take him back without a little cat-consentā¦right?
The cat sat himself down, and looked at you, considering your offer. He let his tail flick around the floor, smacking the ground a few times as he thought about your words.
He padded after you, and jumped back up, stretching his bean paws against your leg, as if asking you to pick him back up again.
He wanted up. He wanted attention. He was a needy little bastard.
ā
āMake yourself at homeā¦wellā no scratching my couchāā you warned as you set the feline down, taking off your coat.
The cat followed a few steps behind you, but when you went into the kitchenāhe started to explore.
He climbed up your couch and sniffed around, as cats do, finding your throw pillow a little too inciting. He promised he wasnāt going to do anything to mess up your place, but he was just a cat.
And cats do sniff.
Just when you set out a bowl out of water in the floor, he hopped down from the couch and started to drink, almost desperately lapping the water upā almost like a man parched in the desert.
Watching the ginger feline was almost entertaining, lying yourself on the floorā getting the same eye-level as the cat.
āOkay, your nameā¦ā you tapped your chin.
The cat stopped drinking, and looked over at you. His brown eyes followed you as you laid back on the ground, watching you almost curiously. Figuring you out.
He meowed at your words, as if asking you to āgo on.ā
āHow isā¦Daniel? Lucas?ā
The cat sat back on his haunches, and tipped his head to the side. Judging you for the names youād chosen. He let out a soft but slightly rude sounding noise, clearly disagreeing with your choices.
āOkay, thatās a ānoāā¦what aboutā¦erā¦Pumpkin?ā
He made the same noise, but this time it was louder. Definitely didnāt like the sound of that one. He gave you a displeased look, as if telling you to pick something ācooler.ā
āWell? I canāt read your mind, mister,ā you scoffed lightheartedly. āGinger?ā
Another huff from the cat and a tail smack on the floor.
At this point, you might just well give up.
ā
āHereās the bathroomā¦forā¦your businessāā
So there you were, touring the cat around, hoping you werenāt going crazy. Not with the way the cat seemed to act/look/respond like it understood what youāve said.
āAndā you, only the foot of the bed is allowed.ā
You explained, crawling under the covers. Followed by āGingerā as he jumped up onto your bed. He sat at your feet, and curled up against them, watching you as you got comfy.
A very polite little guy.
Heād let out a soft, almost human sounding sigh, and seemed to settle down. Kneading the bedding once or twice just to get comfy. And occasionally would be peeking his eyes openā just to mak sure you were still there. Only to be seeing you patting the space next to your waist.
āFineā just here. No more.ā
His eyes widened as you patted at the empty space in the middle of the bed. The cat waited a moment, as if he was expecting some kind of trap. Then quickly started to make his way up the foot of the bed.
You could only guess how much comfort a few inches difference can make of a spot. But, hey, he was just a polite little fella.
You grunted as you got out the bed, fetching him a small blanket you kept in your closet.
āIf you get cold.ā
He looked down at the offered blanketāinspecting it closelyābefore pushing his head under it, and starting to burrow. He didnāt seem too cold, but he liked it.
His head poked back out from under the blanket. From under the soft material, his eyes darted up to you, waiting to see if youād get comfortable again.
ā
You woke up, feeling something heavy on your stomach. Figured it was Ginger that moved during the night, so you reached down to pet it. Expecting to feel a layer of hair, but instead you felt what felt fleshy.
When you glanced down, instead of a small cat, you saw a manās hand resting on your stomach, attached to a muscular arm.
This was not Ginger.
āWhat the fuck?ā You groaned, pushing yourself further to the edge of the bedā rubbing your eyes like it would help you wake up from this dream.
The hand on your stomach shifted, letting out a soft groan at his swollen lips. āā¦What?ā
You had to shift away from him, crawling off the bed. Pressing your back against the wall behind.
āWho are you?ānoāHow did you get into my room?ā
The owner of the hand sat up, and pushed himself into an upright position. He had quite obvious bedheadā mussed up hair sticking in several directions.
And Oh. My. God. This guy was kinda ripped.
āI...ā he said, rubbing a hand over his face, still trying to shake off his drowsiness. āIā¦ā he was at a loss for words, as he looked around dumbfounded, trying to process what just happened.
āYou what?āWhat did you do to Ginger?ā
āI am Ginger.ā He defended himself, his voice going high with a hint of an Australian accent. Squinting his eyes as he saw that you didnāt believe it.
āNo? Youāre clearly not a catāI am calling the copsāā
āNo! Waitā!ā He put his pale, strong hand out to stop you from doing so. Running his hand through his head as the seconds ticked by quickly, trying to find the right way to explain.
āOk, lookāI know itās a lot, but let me explain first, I just need you to calm down, yeah?ā
āI have a fucking man in my bedāone that I donāt knowā how am I supposed to know that you wonāt jump and kill me. Also.ā You breathed.
āYouāre claiming that youāre a cat.ā
āLook, justāā he began, as he ran his hand through his mussed up bed hair, trying to flatten it down. āI am a shifterāā
Oh.
āRight..ā You shouldāve known.
āIām sorryāfuck. I shouldāve just left you thereā Iām so sorryāā
ā
āCan it be permanent?ā
The doctor gave Oscar a sympathetic look, his eyebrows raising at the question.
He had seen a lot of cat shifters before, lots of hopeless casesāsome of them, and Oscarās question wasnāt the first time he had heard the same phrase.
āYou want to remain in a human body permanently, Mr. Piastri?ā He repeated, humming softly as he went over the patientās history.
The Australian nodded.
āWellā¦I must tell you. Some shifters have had success in taking medication to help them remain in their human form longerā¦ā He started, seeing the youngster was willing to try. āWe can work on a dose and letās see if it gets you any results,ā he added, writing down on the prescription.
āYeah, Iāll try itāā
ā
āYou forgot this at my place?ā
That snapped Oscar back into reality. Right. He had a casual dinner planned with you at his place. After his surprisingly pleasant interaction with you that morning, he was stuck.
Sure, it was full of you investigating him with all of the shiftersā fun facts and myths. But he handled it professionally. Yes, heās somewhat conscious in the cat body. No, he canāt really help but to give into the cat instincts.
He needed to climb things, and meow, and rub his face against you, and what not. And, no, his parents are not shifters. Was that all of the questions?
Oscar would often found himself at your place, then vice versa. Just enjoying each otherās company, really.
Not to mention that one time you visited at the āwrongā moment, greeting you in his all-glorious feline state. Even that. You were still nice enough to stick around with a fussy cat.
Oh, and you brought him a lot of cat treats.
Right, the dinner.
āWhat?ā
āI think itās yours,ā you repeated, pushing a pill bottle prescribed with his name across the counter:
Shifting Suppressants Suppress transformation into animal form. Take twice a day.
He quickly reached out for it. āOh, right, thanksāā
āWhy?ā You stopped him.
Sure, you werenāt in the place to talk about what medication he should be taking, but canāt a friend look out for each other? It was painfully obvious that he had gone from āpaleā to almost a ātwilight-paleā this past month, and donāt make you get started on his under eyes.
āOscā¦I donāt wanna be pushy, butā¦I donāt think itās good for you.ā
You can see his face turning just a touch of guilty. And he would argue that the pills were helping with lessening his shifting.
āā¦I just wanna stay like this, Yn.ā
It wasnāt the whole truth, he didnāt want to be like this because he preferred it.
He wanted this so he could feel normal. Just being able to be there and do something for youā not a helpless ginger cat. He had spent a good portion of his life transforming butā he was afraid you wouldnāt even want a cat around for the rest of your life.
āI want to be a human when youāre aroundā it makes me happy this wayāā
āOh, Oscāā
You frowned admiringly, rounding the kitchen counter to capture his hand. āI like you as a cat, I like you as a human. I donāt careā Youāre stillā¦you to me.ā
āReally?ā
āYeah, I meanāI donāt want to kiss a cat, but I still want to cuddle and spend timeā even if you canāt talk.
But Iād still like to kiss a human, for sure.ā
āā¦You mean it?ā
āFuck, yes, I doāā
āThatās good to know,ā he smiled softly.
The next thing you knew, he was finding the courage to tug on your laced hands, closing the gap between your lips. His hand traced your jaw in all the perfect places, tugging your chin closer so he can pepper soft kisses all over your lips.
Pulling away with a cheeky smile.
āYou make me want to overdose, yāknow?ā
Hey people, long time no see. š¹š¹ HOW ARE YALL doinggg
Anyways, interacting anyway would be appreciated and, as always, todayās a good day to take care of yaself. xoxoās
I love young Fernando!! But, as a writer, I feel like I don't know the character that well to the point of writing for him yet. Buttt if youād be helpful in yapping about him Iāll be happy to listen always!! š«¶
dilf mark and pregnant reader PLEASE maybe mark feeling a little insecure bc he's going to be an old dad but reader calms him down
One thing about Mark was that he was never a stranger to voicing his feelings. Donāt even mention the glass smash in multi-21. But you knew he could never do it to you ā not even when you asked him to lay his frustration on you.
Mark was the most gentle giant with you ā even more gentle when you announced that your nightly activities were consequential. A baby, to be precise.
āMark?ā
Lately youāve noticed your partner dazing off frequently. Maybe itās because of age or was that a menās thing? To be fair, heās entering his silver fox era and youāre not complaining. Not when he brushed you with those overgrown stubbles.
He snapped back to reality. āYes? Oh, honey.ā
āMark. Look at me,ā you begged, coming down on the couch next to him. He better not get your pregnant hormones acting up again. āWhatās wrong?ā
āOh itās nothing, sweetheart. Are you okay? Letās get you two a warm bath? A treat? We could goāā
āThereās never ānothingā with you when itās this obvious,ā you quipped.
He sighed.
āIāve been thinkingā¦No. I love you and this bean, so much. What if Iāmā¦not gonna here.ā He grabbed your hands and kissed them.
āIām getting old.ā
Oh.
āMark, look,ā you sighed and cradled his cheeks. āYouāre not going anywhere, Iām not letting you. He or she will have the best dad ever and youāre going to be the one. Alright? ā¦No matter if your knees give up when they want an uppie, orā¦when you got mistaken as their grandpa when you pick them up in high school.ā
āHoney.ā
āSince you wanted a reality check,ā you smiled into the kiss.
āThank you.ā He quietly smiled and kissed the bump as well.
