For Research Purposes - P1 | OB87
Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Reader
Tropes: Competence Kink, "Strictly Professional" Hookups, The Muse, friends with benefits to Lovers, He Falls First, afraid of commitment reader
WARNING: Explicit sexual content, dom!Ollie, sub!reader, praise kink, kinky
Summary: Writer’s block is a career-killer, but Ollie Bearman might be the cure. When F1's youngest star catches you stressing over the biomechanics of a sex scene in the Paddock Club, he doesn't just laugh, but he offers to become your "Technical Consultant."
It starts as a joke. Then it becomes an arrangement that turns into a friends with benefits situation: You write the scenes, he helps act them out. No feelings and no attachments. But as you travel the world pretending to be his guest, you realize the dashing lead in your novel is sounding less like a character and more like the boy who's currently fucking your brains out in a hotel room in Hungary.
A/N: MY First Ollie Fic!! and My first smut series (don't worry, I'll put in the title which chapters have smut so you guys can skip it if you want to! I hope this recieves the same love as my Oscar series! Enjoy guy, and please do comment your reactions! I love reading them and I love interacting with you guys. SML <3
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The cursor was blinking as if it were mocking you. It was a rhythmic, pixelated taunt pulsating against the white background of your word processor.
BLINK. You’re a fraud. BLINK. This is trash. BLINK. Everyone is going to find out who you are.
You groaned, dropping your forehead onto the cool mahogany of your desk with a dull thud.
To the rest of the world, you were Scarlet Sinclaire. You were the New York Times bestselling author of the Court of Immortals series, the queen of the contemporary slow burn, the woman who single-handedly made "finance bros" seem appealing again. You had money, a stunning apartment in Kensington with floor-to-ceiling windows, and rows of expensive wine that were part of your weekly grocery trips to Tesco.
But right now, you were just a woman in sweatpants trying to figure out how to write a smut scene that didn't sound like an instruction manual for assembling IKEA furniture.
“What am I doing?" you muttered into the wood. "It’s worse than vanilla. It’s… just plain boing.”
You lifted your head, staring accusingly at the screen. The problem wasn't the vocabulary. You knew all the words. The problem was the source material. You were writing about earth-shattering, soul-consuming passion, but the last time you had felt anything remotely resembling a "spark" was when you accidentally touched a faulty toaster six months ago.
You were dry—figuratively, creatively, and pitifully. It had been nearly two years since you’d let anyone close enough to be a distraction, let alone an inspiration. You were selling fantasies to millions of women while your own libido was currently in a coma, gathering dust in the attic of your mind. How were you supposed to write about the heat of a lover's touch when you could barely remember what it felt like to be held without a deadline attached?
Your phone buzzed. It was your agent, Martha. You didn't even have to look. She had a sixth sense for when you were spiraling. You picked it up, putting it on speaker.
"I can hear you frowning, darling," Martha’s voice clipped through the air, sharp and brisk. "How is Chapter Four coming along? The deadline is in three weeks."
"It’s terrible. The male lead is…too polite. How can you even write a consent scene without him sounding like fucking Siri?" You sat up, running a hand through your messy hair. "I’ve lost it. The spark is gone. I’m retiring to the countryside."
"You need a change of scenery," Martha said immediately. "You’ve been cooped up in that sterile apartment for two months, smelling nothing but scented candles and despair. Aren’t you currently writing about racers? Or trying to?" She paused for dramatic effect. "I think you need… Alpha male energy."
You rolled your eyes. "Please don't say that phrase ever again."
"I’m serious. Listen, I have a pass. One of my corporate clients dropped out last minute. It’s for the Paddock Club at Silverstone. This weekend."
"Formula One?" You scoffed. "Martha, I don't care about cars. I don't even drive. I Uber to Waitrose."
"It’s not about the cars, sweetie. It’s about the atmosphere. It’s expensive, it’s loud, and the place is crawling with men who have God complexes and necks the size of tree trunks. It is literally what you are writing about. Go and drink free champagne. Try to soak up the testosterone and write something filthy."
She hung up before you could say no.
Thirty-six hours later, you realized that Martha had neglected to mention one thing: The Paddock Club was essentially a nightclub for people who owned yachts and threw money away like it's nothing.
Silverstone was an assault on the senses. The air smelled of burnt rubber and jet fuel. The noise was a physical weight—a screaming, high-pitched whine of engines that vibrated in your chest cavity.
You felt ridiculously out of place. You were wearing your "Scarlet Sinclaire armor,”a sharp black blazer, oversized sunglasses, and red lipstick, but you felt like an imposter among the influencers taking selfies with their lanyards and the corporate executives talking about profit margins.
You clutched your laptop to your chest like a shield, weaving through the crowd of the hospitality suite.
A sudden wave of existential confusion washed over you. Why were you actually here? Was this really the plan? To stand in a room full of strangers and hope that the sheer proximity to testosterone and high-octane fuel would magically jumpstart your writing career? It felt ridiculous. You were a writer of fantasies, a creature of solitude and silence, now drifting through a sea of people who lived life in the fast lane while you struggled to even get up in time for breakfast. Clearly, you didn't belong in this world.
But you were here anyway, because what if Martha was right? What if you couldn’t write about risk and passion anymore because you’d curated a life that was perfectly, painfully safe? You had become so good at controlling every narrative that you’d forgotten how to live a messy, unedited life. You needed a shock to the system. You needed to feel something real, even if it was just the bass of an engine rattling your teeth.
You grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray, downed half of it for liquid courage, and scanned the room for the one thing you desperately needed: a corner.
There. Tucked away behind a decorative fern and a display of a Pirelli tire, there was a small, high-top table. It was relatively secluded from the main bar.
You practically dove for it. You set up your station: Laptop open. Champagne refilled. Sunglasses perched on your head.
Okay. Alpha energy, you told yourself. Channel the noise. Channel the speed.
You opened your manuscript. The cursor blinked.
"Okay," you whispered to yourself, staring at the scene where your racing protagonist, Sebastian, was supposed to be ravishing the heroine from her passenger seat. "Mechanically… how does that work?"
You tilted your head, visualizing the anatomy. "If his leg is there... and her leg is there... the hip rotation would have to be at least forty-five degrees..."
You started typing, then backspaced furiously.
"No, that’s physically impossible unless she’s a Cirque du Soleil performer." You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Maybe if he lifts the left leg? But the angle of entry is all wrong..."
"Downforce issues?” The voice was sudden, British, and sounded amused.
You jumped, nearly knocking over your champagne flute. You looked up to find a boy…no, a young man, sliding into the empty chair opposite you.
He didn't look like the corporate types. He was wearing a team kit, and he looked utterly exhausted. His hair was a bit messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and he had the kind of face that was almost too boyish for the intense set of his jaw.
He slumped slightly in the high-top seat, exhaling a long breath, clearly hiding from the same crowd you were.
"You look like you’re doing math," he gestured vaguely to your intense frown and the screen. "Muttering about angles. Assuming you're an engineer stressing about the rear wing setup?"
You stared at him. He had nice eyes. Tired, but still bright.
"No," you said, your voice flat. "I'm trying to figure out if a human leg can mechanically bend that way without snapping a hamstring."
The boy blinked. The amusement in his eyes sharpened into confusion. "I... beg your pardon?”
As the words left your mouth, the fog of writer's block suddenly lifted, replaced by the cold, hard slap of reality.
You stopped mid-gesture. The realization crashed over you like a bucket of ice water. You were a fool. A complete, utter idiot. You had just revealed your filthy hobby to a stranger in the middle of the most exclusive sporting event in the world.
Panic surged. You tried to slam the laptop shut, your fingers fumbling for the lid, desperate to hide the evidence of your shame before he could see exactly what kind of angles you were actually calculating.
He stared at you for a beat, his lips twitching in amusement. His gaze was on your screen before you could cover it… You knew, at that moment, he had read it
on the screen, in bold, 12-point Times New Roman, was the sentence: ‘Sebastian's hand slid under her skirt, pushing it up over her thighs from the driver’s seat. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh as he murmured, “Are you just going to stare, sweetheart?”
Beside it was a note in bold red color: ‘How does one reach over to finger someone in the passenger seat?’
He fucking read it. You saw his eyes scan the text.
You waited for the ground to swallow you whole. You waited for the disgust or the awkward cough.
Instead, he snorted. It started as a chuckle, and then he threw his head back and laughed properly—a genuine, bright sound that cut through the pretentious hum of the Paddock Club.
"Right," he said, leaning forward, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Definitely not a rear wing issue, then."
You felt the heat rise in your neck, but strangely, you didn't close the laptop. “I am mortified. Please pretend you did not see that.”
"I can see that," he grinned. The smile transformed his face, taking him from tired to charming heartbreaker in 0.2 seconds. "I think you're overthinking the physics. Usually, in the... heat of the moment... people tend to be surprisingly flexible. The adrenaline helps."
You raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of your champagne to hide your smile. "Speaking from experience?"
"Speaking as someone who lives his life at 200 miles per hour and maybe a little bit of experience," he countered smoothly with a smirk on his face. He glanced at his watch and sighed. The fatigue washed back over him instantly. "My engineer’s going to be looking for me. I think I’ve successfully hidden from the reporters for about ten minutes too long.”
He stood up, pushing the chair back. He looked at you one last time, his gaze lingering on your flustered face.
“Y/N," you wouldn’t want him to search you up, so you just said your real name.
"Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He turned to leave, taking a step toward the door, then paused. He looked back over his shoulder and winked. “Don’t think too hard on bending, wouldn’t want you to accidentally pull a hamstring or something."
You sat there, stunned, watching him disappear into the crowd of VIPs.
Who the fuck is this Ollie guy?
You minimized your document and opened Google, and typed in F1 Ollie.
The first result popped up immediately.
Oliver Bearman. Formula 1 Driver.
You clicked on the image. It was him. In a racing suit, holding a helmet, looking intense and focused—a stark contrast to the boy who had just given you advice on sex positions.
You looked back at your screen, at the stagnant, boring dialogue of your racer.
"Well," you whispered to your empty champagne glass. "That was certainly interesting."
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