[charlewiss]

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my name's carla (she/her pronouns) and this is my main blog, dedicated to f1 (mainly) -although there may be some f3 content too! (franco colapinto enthusiast)

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[tsunodaradio]

watch this be the wrong thing ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “say thank you, oscar.” (or: unbeknownst to you, the person you’ve been sexting might just be somebody you know.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 5.7k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp-ish, soft dom!oscar, sexting, guided masturbation [f], oral [m], praise & degradation, p in v. title from (and fic inspired by) gracie abrams’ risk. commissioned!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

To cut him some slack, he had been honest from the very beginning.

You joined the app on a Friday. Not a rock-bottom Friday. Not a tipsy one, either. Just—a Friday. Grey sky, lukewarm coffee, inbox full of half-asks and ghostings. The app was called Velour. Marketed as ‘the thinking person’s thirst trap.’ A place for people who allegedly read books before they fucked. Where bios quoted Rilke and still managed to ask what color your panties were.

He had no face, no name. Just ‘O.’

A location that blinked Melbourne like a dare, and five black-and-white photos that managed to say everything and nothing at once. Cropped close. A mouth, a hand, the outline of a shoulder. A pair of thighs in compression shorts that frankly should have been illegal. You’d stared too long at that one. There was no context or caption, only the unspoken promise of ruin.

You told yourself you were there for amusement. For attention you could throw away. You uploaded one photo. Jaw turned, mouth parted, collarbone exposed. Let them wonder. Your bio read: said i wouldn’t do it. look at me now. 

Then you swiped. And swiped. And swiped. Until you found him. 

You hovered on the profile longer than you meant to. He had athlete written all over him—but in the subtle way. The kind that didn’t need to shout. The kind that let the shape of a thigh do the heavy lifting.

You matched in under an hour.

He messaged first. 

O: You look like you'd break hearts for sport.

You: only on weekends.

O: Lucky it’s Friday, then.

The rhythm established itself fast. Snark edged with suggestion. A kind of conversational sparring that hummed beneath your skin. He was quick. Dry. Almost too confident, but not in the overcompensating way. In the way of someone who knew what they looked like when they made you come.

O: What are you wearing?

You: what makes you think I’m wearing anything?

O: God, you’re going to be a problem.

You: that’s the hope.

You asked once, joking, if he was some kind of model. He wrote:

O: Not professionally. But people look.

So, yes. He never lied.

It’s partly on you. You never asked for a face. The not-knowing made it worse. Better. More dangerous. Your imagination filled in the blanks with reckless confidence. His voice, when he finally sent a voice note, was low. Smooth. A little amused, a little deliberate.

“Say please,” he’d said in jest, and you replayed it a couple of times in the dead of the night.

You hadn’t swiped on anyone since. Not once. Not when you were bored. Not even when he took twelve hours to reply and you told yourself you didn’t care. The messages became a fixture. A heartbeat.

You’d catch yourself reading and rereading his replies like they were scripture. One hand between your legs. One word in your mouth. You never told him how far he’d gotten under your skin. He never asked.

You should have known.

Maybe not at first. Not in the beginning, when it was all thigh pictures and veiled threats and that smirking voice note that made your knees go warm. But later. Somewhere between the third and fourth night he sent you a recording at two in the morning, voice dipped low and rough with sleep—or maybe just want.

“Touch yourself,” he had murmured. A rasp. Something peeled open. “Slowly. I want you aching first.”

And you did it. God, you did it. Hand slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts like muscle memory, breath catching as you recorded something back—a whispered thank you, half a whimper. A photo, too. Of the aftermath. Of what he could reduce you to. 

You’d never been this person before. Not with strangers. Not even with the ones who weren’t strangers. But something about O made it feel less transactional. 

It wasn’t just about the sex. He told you little things in the witching hours, when neither of you could sleep and your phones became lifelines.

O: Had a girl once. Didn’t work out.

You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have to. The way he wrote it told you enough. And more: 

O: Got a place in Melbourne. Not there much.

You: why not?

O: Work. Travel. Same old.

He never said what he did. You didn’t ask. 

There were nights he’d vanish. You’d tell yourself not to care. You’d go to the gym, go to sleep, try to fuck someone else and never follow through. And then he’d reappear with a two-minute audio clip that would leave you soaked and shaking.

You remember one in particular. The voice, deeper than usual. Accent thicker. Like he’d stopped pretending to be anonymous.

“Good girl,” he said after you sent him a recording of your own. Barely a whisper, just the sound of your breathing, your fingers, his name almost slipping out. “That’s it. Bet you’re so fucking wet right now. You always are for me.”

You should have known.

But you were sleep-deprived. Starved. Touch-drunk on someone you’d never seen, never held, and yet felt like you already knew.

Three days later, he asked if you wanted to meet.

O: You still up?

You: always for you.

O: Meet me. Tomorrow night. Your side of the city.

You: you sure you want to break the spell?

O: I want to see you fall apart in person.

You stared at the screen for a long time. Your mouth dry. Your legs already aching. You typed and deleted three different versions of yes before you landed on a simple thumbs up.

He sent a location pin as a reply. 

A restaurant. Not far. Not loud. Expensive enough to say this wasn’t just about sex, but discreet enough for you to wonder what you were getting into. 

You charged your phone. Shaved everything. Told yourself this was just another night. That you wouldn’t be disappointed, wouldn’t be shocked. That he could be some balding tech bro or a failed actor or worse, and you’d still survive it.

But deep down, you knew.

Maybe not the whole truth. You knew, instead, that this would ruin you one way or another. 

On the day of, you see him before he sees you. Or maybe he sees you first and just pretends he doesn’t. Either way, there’s a lag. A beat suspended between knowing and not-knowing. Then he walks over.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Sunglasses, even though it’s dark inside and no one here gives a shit. Dressed like a man trying very hard not to be looked at, which, of course, makes everyone look twice.

He takes the seat across from you.

You stare.

Not at the mouth, which you’ve imagined. Not at the hands, which you’ve dreamt of. Not even at the jaw, sharp and familiar. No.

The eyes.

That’s what does it.

You exhale. Slow. Controlled. “You’re joking.”

He lifts the menu. “Hi to you too.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m really not.”

“Oscar Piastri?” you say it low, like a curse. He flinches anyway.

“Technically,” he says, adjusting his cap, “I never told you I wasn’t.”

You scoff. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Oh, fuck off with that.”

“Did I ever give you a fake name?”

“No,” you admit. “Just a letter. Like a Bond villain.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Did I lie about where I live?”

“No.”

“Did I say I wasn’t Australian?”

You fold your arms. “So that’s the bar, then? You didn’t technically lie, so everything’s fair game?”

He sets the menu down. His hands are steady. “I didn’t lie,” he repeats, quieter now. More serious. “I just didn’t say everything.”

Your gaze narrows. “And what, exactly, were you omitting?”

He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like it's obvious. “That I’m me.”

“You are,” you agree flatly. “Which is exactly the problem.”

He tilts his head, a mockery of innocence. “How do you know who I am?”

“Don’t bullshit me like that,” you huff. 

“I’m not bullshitting anyone.”

“You drive for McLaren. You’re on billboards. You’re on TikTok. You're on the back of some guy's hoodie literally right now,” you say, jerking your chin toward a fan near the bar. “I live in this country. Everyone either wants to marry you or throw eggs at your car."

He smiles, crooked. “And you?”

You pick up your water glass. Raise it halfway to your mouth.

He watches. Waiting.

“Do you love me or hate me?” he rephrases. 

You sip. Let the silence stretch. Let it smolder.

He doesn’t know, you think. He doesn’t realize he’s already made you come four times with just his voice. Doesn’t realize you still keep one of the recordings saved under a boring filename, like MeetingNotes.mp3, so no one ever asks.

You swallow. Set the glass down gently. “Ask me again after dessert.”

His grin sharpens. He leans forward, arms braced on the table, voice low and amused. “If dessert’s anything like your last voice note,” he stage-whispers, “we’re both fucked."

You just smile in response. A little cruel. A little inviting.

Dinner is—annoyingly perfect.

The food is forgettable. The conversation, less so.

Oscar is better in person than you want him to be. Wry. Self-contained. Polite, but not boring. He orders sparkling water and something seared. You get pasta you won’t finish. He doesn’t talk about the car, or the team, or what it’s like to be twenty-something and publicly dissected. 

Instead, he tells you about the time he forgot his passport before a flight to Singapore, about a hotel in Japan where the toilet kept playing jazz, about how he once learned to cook for his ex and now only knows how to make three elaborate dishes he no longer eats.

Sometimes, when he hits the punchline, his voice dips. A cadence that slides lower, smooths out. The accent thickens. Familiar. Unmistakable.

It hits you like a bruise. He’s used that voice on you. You grip the stem of your glass a little tighter, and he notices. 

“You’re staring,” he says lightly, not looking up from his plate.

You arch a brow. “So are you.”

He shrugs, barely containing a smile. “Only fair.”

The rest of the meal passes in rhythm. You say something cutting. He volleys it back. There’s a pulse beneath every word. You can feel it in your knee bouncing under the table. In the way he keeps adjusting his sleeves, his watch, the angle of his posture.

Then, without ceremony, he calls for the bill.

It arrives like a closing chapter. No questions asked. No pretense. The decision already made.

He walks you to the curb with one hand in his pocket and the other brushing yours just enough to make your pulse trip. He doesn’t ask where you’re both heading. 

Neither of you speak on the cab ride. Tension coils in the silence, warm and anticipatory. Your thighs press together. His knee bumps yours once and neither of you moves away. He watches the city roll by. You watch the reflection of his jaw in the window.

By the time you get to your building, you’re drowning in it. Want. Nerves. That stupid, low ache he used to pull from you with nothing but a breath in your ear.

He follows you up without asking. You unlock your door with hands that only barely shake. Step aside.

He enters like he’s been here before, like he owns it. Maybe he does. A little.

You close the door behind you. Lean your back against it. Heart banging like it wants out. Oscar turns. Looks at you. Doesn’t move.

“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, voice too steady, “or just stand there like a fucking statue?”

His mouth curves. Slow. Measured. “Was waiting for the invitation.”

You walk toward him with something sharper than grace. Hunger dressed in confidence. He doesn't step back, but doesn't reach first.

You kiss him like it costs you.

Because it does.

Oscar kisses you like he’s starving.

Because he is.

Your hands find his jaw. His neck. The hair at the back of his head. His grip lands on your waist, then your hips, then your ass. He pulls you closer, and it’s like gravity itself rearranges.

You already know he’s going to be your favorite mistake.

The bedroom is darker than you left it.

Oscar doesn’t ask to be led. He walks in like he knows the way—flicks the light on low, toes off his shoes, rolls up his sleeves. You pause in the doorway. He glances back.

“Are you going to hover there all night, or…”

You arch a brow. “Or?”

Oscar grins. It’s lazy and confident, the way you’ve seen in those Instagram reels where he’s being sprayed with champagne. “Or you can come show me how grateful you are I didn’t bail.”

You scoff, but your feet move anyway.

He reaches for you halfway across the room, tugging you close by the waist. Hands hot and steady. When his mouth brushes yours again, it’s rougher. His tongue dips in like he owns the space. Like he’s checking if it’s still his.

You pull back just enough to speak. “You think you’re cocky enough for both of us?” you breathe. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” That damned accent. Uncut. All bite and heat now, slinking down your spine. “You haven’t seen cocky yet.”

He kisses you again. Deeper this time. His teeth scrape your bottom lip, and your knees nearly buckle. His hand slides between your legs, cupping through your clothes. You have to bite back a groan. 

He freezes. Pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth. “Christ. You’re soaked.”

Your face heats. You go to swat his hand away, but he catches your wrist, fingers curling around it tight. Not painful. Commanding. “Don’t.”

The word lands like a struck match.

You glare up at him. “Don’t what?”

He steps back, dragging you with him until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then he lets go. “Lie back,” he commands. 

You don’t move.

He tilts his head. Patient. Dangerous. “C’mon. You know how this goes,” he says. “I’ve heard you. Watched you.”

Your throat tightens. Heat curls, low and shaming. “You want me to—”

“Touch yourself, yeah.”

He says it like a challenge. Like a dare. Like he already knows you’re going to.

You hesitate. Try to find some footing in wit. Pride. Something. “Bit arrogant, aren’t you?”

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug, then steps back and lowers himself into your desk chair, spreading his thighs like he’s settling in for a show. That stupid fucking hoodie still on. That face calm, unreadable, but eyes already locked to your hands.

“Not arrogance if I’m right.”

You sit. Slowly. Let the silence drag.

His tone softens. Just a notch. “You want to stop, say it. I’ll go.”

You don’t.

You stretch out against the mattress, spine arching, one hand brushing up under your dress. Slowly. Testing.

His breath catches. Just barely. But it counts.

You pull your dress up. The air bites at the wet heat between your thighs. He sees it. Sees all of you now, bare and hesitant and trembling despite the attitude.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Attagirl.”

You flush hard.

His voice, when it comes again, is the same one from the recordings.

Low. Measured. Laced with that accent that makes you ache in places you didn’t know could ache. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask. It tells. Demands. Wraps around your spine and pulls.

“Start slow,” he says. “Middle finger first. You know where.”

You hesitate. Maybe on principle. Maybe out of spite. His gaze doesn’t waver.

You part your thighs, breath trembling, and slip your hand between them. Skin already flushed, hypersensitive. One touch and you’re jolting like you’ve been struck. There’s too much heat. Too much memory. Too much of him already lodged inside your head.

The way he looks at you like you’re art and ammunition at once. Something precious. Something dangerous. His to admire. His to detonate.

He leans back in your chair—your chair—and makes it his. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Casual dominance wrapped in a stupid McLaren jacket. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, just above a whisper, just enough to sting. “Now pull those pretty little panties to the side, yeah?” 

You slide your finger through the slick heat pooling between your thighs, pressing in just enough to tease. Not enough to satisfy. Not yet. You arch, a quiet curse slipping through clenched teeth. You can feel your heartbeat everywhere.

“God,” you hiss. “Please—”

He cuts you off with a look that’s amused, stern, and fucking devastating. “Don’t beg. Not yet,” he says. “You’re the one who got yourself off without me all this time. Show me how.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You glare instead, but your hand doesn’t stop moving. Faster now, the slick sound of it filling the room.

Shame and arousal knot together. Coiling.

Oscar’s next command slices through the air like a whip. “Two fingers.”

You obey. You hate that you do. You love that he knows you will. You slide in a second finger, walls clenching around the stretch, breath catching in your throat. You’re wetter than you thought possible—your body a traitor, your pride fraying at the seams.

The sounds you’re making now are shameless. Gasps. Moans. Pleas that you swallow back before they fall.

Oscar watches like a critic. Like he’s appraising a performance he commissioned.

“Fuck, look at you,” he drawls. “Dripping all over your sheets like a filthy little thing.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, shivering from the inside out.

“Open your eyes,” he snaps. “I want you watching me while you fall apart.”

You listen. And you’re close now—so close your legs twitch from the tension, the ache curling under your skin like fire. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and Oscar takes it as a sign to dole out his next order. 

“Faster. Come on,” he prompts. “Fuck yourself like you mean it.”

You don’t think. You just do. Obeying the voice that’s ruined you so many times before. Your wrist strains and your body trembles; everything else disappears.

He tilts his head, that cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Need my cock already?”

You whimper. It escapes you before you can bite it back. Your wrist stutters. You wince.

His eyes flash, sharp. “Keep going. I didn’t say stop.”

“Oscar—”

“You’re so greedy, aren't you? Want me to do all the work,” he taunts. “Want to lie there, all needy and wet, and be ruined. But you can do this. You’ve done it before.”

You’re a breath away now. A single exhale from breaking. Everything inside you is wound tight and aching for release. A sob crawls out from the back of your throat as you go back to pumping your fingers into your sopping cunt, trying to chase pleasure for the man coaxing you towards it. 

Oscar softens, just slightly. Just enough to make it worse. 

“Good girl. Come for me,” he says. “Come just like you did the night I told you to come on your fingers and thank me after."

And you do.

It hits like a wave—sudden and brutal. Your whole body locks, jerks, shatters around your own hand. You sob his name. Mouth open, eyes wide. Locked on his.

You’re still twitching when he lunges.

Oscar’s mouth catches yours mid-breath, swallowing your shudder. It’s not gentle. It’s selfish. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tastes like claiming and salt and the bruised edge of your own name.

You gasp into it, and he’s already over you, under you, everywhere. All teeth and hands and heat. Fingers slick from your own body. Tongue pressing past your lips as if he owns the next breath you’ll take.

Clothes disappear in pieces. Dress shoved up, then off. His shirt peeled from his skin. Fingers catching in your straps, tugging them down your arms. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then bites the underside of your. Your hips squirm as he presses a thigh between them, pinning you down, rolling against you. It’s clumsy, chaotic, intimate in a way that feels dangerous.

“Fuck,” he hisses into your mouth. “I’ve thought about this. So many times. You like this part, don’t you? Being spread out. Slick. Shaking. Waiting for someone to make you come again.”

You try to speak, but he steals your answer with another kiss. Deep, consuming. He doesn’t let you come down. He only keeps pushing, talking, layering heat over heat until your mind goes foggy with it.

“You know what got me off the hardest? The idea of your fingers deep inside, while I talked you through it. And you were doing it. Weren’t you? Playing along like a good little whore. Sending me photos. Moaning my name like you knew it already.”

His hand slides down your side, grazing your breast, your ribs, the trembling dip of your waist. He palms your thigh, pushes it open wider.

“Oh my God,” you manage to choke out, just as he moves back to strip away his clothes. 

Shirt, pants, briefs. It’s almost clinical, the way he undresses. Efficient. No hesitation. No shame.

And then he’s there. Gloriously there. Pale cock standing at attention, with an angry red tip leaking like a faucet. 

You blink. You stammer.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. Hard and flushed and heavy, thick veins along the shaft. And it’s—bigger than expected. Realer than you let yourself imagine.

Your breath catches. Your thighs tense.

He notices. Oscar’s voice drops, losing some of its edge. It’s not gone, but it’s muted. Softer. Measured.

“You alright?” he asks, cocking his head. There’s a gentleness to his eyes that makes your heart ache and your clit throb. “You can tap out. I mean it. I won’t be mad.”

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs are wet. You nod, then, realizing you need to say something out loud, you whisper, “I want this. Want you.” 

The moment stretches. A beat. A breath. His hand brushes your knee, the gesture grounding. Patient.

His smile returns. Slow. Wolfish. “Good,” he hums, “because I’m going to ruin you.”

He crawls back over you, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not pushing in. Yet.

“Gonna fuck you slow first,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Make you feel every inch. Then I’ll fuck you the way I’ve been thinking about since the first time you sent me that little audio message. You remember? All breathless, whispering thank you like you were praying.”

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts forward.

“Thought about you with your legs spread, touching yourself just like I told you to. Thought about bending you over this bed, and making you say please until you cried.”

You do. You remember too well.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “Say thank you, Oscar.”

Somehow, you manage to choke it out. “Thank you, Oscar,” you whimper. 

Finally, finally, he begins to press his tip in. It’s a stretch that borders on unbearable. His jaw clenches. Your mouth falls open. Nails scrape along his shoulder blades, searching for purchase.

He groans into your neck. “That’s it. Let me in. Let me fuck you open.”

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Only feel the drag of him, the weight of it, the way he fills you up.

Oscar braces a hand beside your head, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunts. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

You arch. He presses deeper, and deeper, until there’s nothing left between you but the slow, obscene drag of his cock inside your cunt. There’s the sound of your own breathing, ragged and real.

There’s the knowledge—shared and silent—that there’s no going back from this.

He finds a rhythm quickly. Like he’s been mapping it in his head for months. Maybe longer.

Each thrust is deliberate, brutal in its consistency. It’s as if he’s trying to etch himself into the softest part of you, and he is. You know he is. You feel it. Over and over. A litany in motion. Sharp hips, sharp tongue, sharp wit. The shape of him inside you becoming a kind of prayer.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps, breath hot against your throat. “Fucked open. Finally where you belong.”

It’s filthy. Cruel. Exactly what you thought you wanted. Your body flinches. Tighter around him. Unintended. A tell. The smallest betrayal.

His hips stutter mid-thrust. He watches you, eyes narrowing, brain ticking. Calculating. When he smiles knowingly, it’s the kind that feels like danger wearing a soft edge. Something mean with manners.

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Is that what does it for you? Not when I call you my little whore, but when I say you look good?”

You glare, trying to keep your dignity intact, your breath steady. “Fuck you.” 

“I am fucking you, pretty girl.” 

You clench down again. Oscar chuckles breathlessly, the sound low and mean.  “There it is again,” he murmurs, rolling his hips slowly, the grind unbearably deep. “Tight little squeeze. Your pussy’s telling on you, darling.” 

You hate him. You don’t. You want him. You want more. Want it mean, want it sweet, want it all at once. Contradictions melting in your gut.

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. Tender. Too tender. A cruel kind of affection. It makes your stomach turn in the best way. “You’re perfect, you know that?” he whispers in a tone that borders affection. 

Your body sings. It sings around him. Like a lock clicking open. Like truth breaking skin.

Oscar makes a low sound in his throat, equal parts reverence and smugness. The sound of discovery. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, suddenly gentle in voice but not in pace. His hips are snapping hard. “You want to be worshipped? Want me to treat you like a princess?” 

You want to scoff. You can’t. Your pride’s still here, somewhere, buried under want. But your thighs are trembling.

You’re panting. Clutching. Tethering yourself to whatever's left. Oscar’s right there, relentless. Praising you like a prayer whispered between thrusts. As if every compliment earns him another inch.

“So tight. So fucking perfect.”

“You’re taking me so well. Never felt anything like this.” 

“You were made for me, baby. You’re—hng—sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.” 

Your orgasm builds again. Tangled. Tense. Threatening to snap.

He sees it. Feels it. The way your body contracts. The small, high-pitched sounds spilling from you. The way your hand grips his bicep like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

“Not yet,” he says, a command. “Stay right there. Want to feel you fall apart. Want to watch it happen.” 

He slows, the bastard. His pace turns into deep, dragging thrusts that leave you gasping. He draws it out until it hurts—the pleasure of it all. Until you’re clawing at him, not to escape, but to survive.

“That’s it,” he breathes, brushing his mouth against your jaw. “My good girl. Always so good for me.”

You’re on the edge. Hanging by a thread. Every nerve ending tuned to him, to this.

You just look up at him—eyes wide, mouth parted, vulnerable in the worst way. The best way. “Can’t hold it back,” you whine. “Oscar, ‘m gonna come.” 

“Do it,” he relents, voice going impossibly soft as he hits that spot inside you. The one that has you seeing stars. “Good girls deserve to milk me dry.” 

He doesn’t stop when you start to fall apart.

If anything, he leans into it. Presses harder, deeper. Riding the tension as it breaks, then crests again, then splinters entirely. Your body spasms beneath him, dragged mercilessly through the folds of pleasure, like he’s determined to wring you out. Thorough, precise, and just a little cruel.

You’re gasping. Boneless. Trying to anchor yourself to anything real, anything solid, and finding only him. His hand on your hip, his chest against yours, his mouth, half-sharp, half-sweet, pressing whatever it wants into your skin.

“That’s it. That’s it,” he says, breath unsteady but voice still maddeningly in control. “Look at you. Look what I do to you.”

He slows, but not because he needs to. Because he likes watching you twitch. He lets you linger in that overstimulated afterglow, lets the echoes settle before pulling them forward again.

You think that’s it. That he’ll fold you against his chest, that his mouth will find the shell of your ear and whisper something soft, foolish, post-coital.

But no. Oscar lifts his head. Reaches to brush your hair from your eyes with the back of his fingers as if it’s some gentle courtesy, not a prelude.

“Still good for me to get what I want?”

His voice is not tentative. Instead, it lies in wait. The kind of question that’s already half-answered.

You nod.

“Use your words.”

You swallow. Find breath.

“Yes.”

A corner of his lip tugs upward. Something hungry flashes in it. Then he moves—rising off you with that lithe, economical grace, hands guiding your hips as he shifts the angle, presses your thighs apart again.

Rougher, now. Faster. His control returns in the shape of momentum. Your body, pliant and bruised with bliss, meets each thrust like instinct, like muscle memory. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t want him to stop. You want to be unmade properly. To see what he looks like when he breaks, too.

When he pulls out, you chase the loss. He catches your chin between his fingers, leans in with eyes that are just a little darker than earlier. “Mouth.” 

You blink, then nod, repositioning with something close to desperation. Knees beneath you. Lips parting.

He slides in with a groan that cracks somewhere at the edges, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other tightening in your hair. “Fuuuck. Just like that.” 

You hum, or try to. He shudders, thrusts just hard enough to hit his tip in the back of your throat a couple of times. Your eyes water at the feel of it, but he’s already gracefully at the end of his rope. 

When he finishes—hard and fast, hips twitching, voice fractured into a curse and your name—it feels less like an ending and more like something earned. Like gravity finally catching up to the fall.

He stays there a moment longer. Fingers softening. Breathing out your name like it tastes good in his mouth.

He pulls out after a moment too long. He’s still catching his breath when he sees it: his release, smeared at the corner of your mouth. Glossing your bottom lip. A thin, obscene line trailing down your chin like spilled sin. 

You’re blinking up at him, fucked-out and glassy-eyed, still breathing through parted lips. And it ruins him. Just absolutely levels him.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans hoarsely, reverently. “You look—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way his hand runs over his face, like he’s trying to scrub the image from his mind and failing gloriously.

He kisses you, then, but not with hunger. It’s something slower instead. Grounded. His thumb catches the mess at your lip, and he hums when you let him wipe it away. He’s tasting himself, tasting you. Taking it all in.

There’s something almost delicate about it, which would be surprising if you didn’t already feel like the floor had dropped out from under you somewhere between his praise and the way he came undone in your mouth.

He pulls back with an exhale. Presses his forehead against yours. Murmurs, “Where do you keep your towels?”

You’re brain is still just a little too foggy to process. “What?” 

“Towels,” Oscar repeats, nudging your nose with his. “Or wet wipes. Or a cloth. Just—anything that won’t make me feel like I’m letting you marinate in me.”

You bark out a laugh. “Didn’t realize you were the aftercare type.”

“I’m not a monster,” he deadpans, dragging a hand through his hair as he sits up. The movement pulls every line of his body into view. Long, clean limbs. Defined stomach. The faint blush of exertion still clinging to his skin. You stare. You don’t mean to.

Your eyes follow the flex of his back as he stands. The easy confidence in the way he moves across your space like he’s lived in it. Like he belongs. He doesn’t. That’s the problem.

You rattle off a drawer, a shelf, the hallway linen closet. He listens, nods, and disappears from view.

And that’s when your mind begins to spiral.

Because you just fucked Oscar Piastri. 

Let him talk you through your orgasm. Let him ruin you, mouth and body and everything soft in between. Let him see you like this—open, loud, desperate.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He’s a goddamn risk. You know that. You’ve heard the warning signs. The drowning metaphors. The stories that end in fire. But you did it anyway. Jumped, swam, sank. Let him into your bed, your life. 

It doesn’t have to mean anything, you reason. It could be a one-off. 

But then—

Oscar comes back. Warm cloth in one hand, clean towel in the other. He settles beside you, nudging your legs open gently so he can clean you up without asking. It’s matter-of-fact. Unflinching. Weirdly intimate.

He says nothing at first; he only takes care of you like he means it. Then, as he pulls the blanket up around you both, he kisses your shoulder and murmurs, low and cocky: “Give me twenty minutes, and then we can go again.” 

You laugh. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it, warmth spreading across your chest like sunlight you weren’t expecting. Dangerous. Disarming.

You press your face into the pillow and mutter, “Asshole.”

He grins against your skin. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t promise anything else. But he wraps an arm around your waist like maybe he’s not done with you. Not even close.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself hoping he’s telling the truth.

Maybe it’s too soon to say it.

But God, you might just love—the risk. Not him. Surely not him.

Right? ⛐

box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.

[acrosstobear]

oscarpiastri Reckon I’ll go with the Santa hat again this year

[slowestlap]

mclaren: P1 in the Gingerbread Grand Prix goes to Oscar Piastri 😆🍭

[everythingne]

Little Miss Wingwoman - LN4

With baby Verstappen-Piquet on the way, Penelope's nanny needs a place to move into as she becomes an almost full time employee of the family. No better place than Lando's spare bedroom, only a few floors down from her job, right?

warnings/notes: none particularly? this might be like five parts or two parts, im not sure yet :D!

Penelope's plan to get her two favorite people to fall in love begins to fall into place.

See, Penelope was smart. Kelly made sure she was creative and book smart while Max made sure she had the confidence to speak her mind. Penelope got all she wanted, within reason, spoiled just enough, worked for what she had to. Danced, played, sang, baked... she was kid, but she was smart. She could do it all herself if she wasn't a huge momma and daddy's girl. (Bonus-daddy's girl? She hadn't worked out the wording on that one yet.)

But, on the busy days, you visited.

Taking a summer gig to nanny in your last years of school, you didn't expect to be placed within the Verstappen-Piquet household. Two days in, you never wanted to leave, and Penelope--so so young back then, had refused to let you go. Now, a few years later, you traveled around with the family when needed. Most of the time, staying back to look over the apartment and the cats while they went around.

You were more so an extra set of hands for Kelly, someone who could run and get groceries before dinner, run Penelope to and from practices or accompany her to weekends with her father (the Kyvat's adored you as well), or someone who could stay back with Penelope for date nights or take her out for nights in.

After a few years of steady rhythm, everything was shaken up with baby Verstappen-Piquet on the horizon. A lot of changes needing to be made to prepare for the child, especially the further along Kelly was getting--appointments and classes and errands. A set of helping hands, especially when Max had to go off for work, was almost necessary.

But it was impossible to find apartments in Monaco on your budget. And with the spare room you had been using turning to a nursery for the little bugger coming along, you didn't have the luxury of sleeping in your employers home much longer.

And so, the hunt began.

Penelope had heard the news from Max, offhandedly mentioning it to Daniel during a padel game. The Australian didn't have space for you, as much as he'd grown to love your presence. A week later, he'd run into Charles while out getting dinner with P, and asked if he or Alexandra knew anywhere while Penelope pretended to be distracted by Leo. A week after that, Kelly had gone out to lunch with a bunch of her friends in the and discussed it openly.

A month in, Lando visited to watch Penelope while Kelly and Max went off to a doctor's appointment. Usually, you would stop by, but you were off on an early holiday vacation with family. The way Lando joked with Max, the easy smile on his lips, the awkward stumbles and laughter through his words... it was just like you could be.

Then, when Max asks, Lando mentions having a spare room he'd have to clean out. And the way Lando smiles when Penelope makes her way over to give him a hug, promising Max he'll keep her in line while the two of them are gone makes an idea flare in Penelope's head.

Lando needed a roommate, and you needed a place to stay. So, obviously, you were an absolutely perfect pair, right? It wasn't a new idea to her, you and Lando had met a few times over the course of the years you'd watched her. Mainly for short moments at whatever grand prix she'd begged you to come to, and the two of you seemed to get along...

And, she thinks you're both single. So, Penelope enacted stage one of her master wing(wo)man plan: getting you to move in with Lando.

While Penelope was scheming, browsing through YouTube for videos full of cutesy RomCom ideas, Lando was saying goodbye to Max and Kelly--wishing them luck, and then shutting the door behind him. He made quick work of sneaking a popcorn bag out of his backpack, popping it in the microwave while he scrolled through the countless movies on their smart TV--finding the perfect one for Penelope to watch.

The girl was engrossed, headphones shoved over her ears, watching a 'my top ten romantic moments in movies' compilation, but the smell of buttery goodness made her lift her head.

Lando smiles, holding out a bowl for her, "Too busy watching that for some old fashioned Disney?"

Glancing to the screen, Frozen 2 was paused on the opening screen, and Penelope tutted, "This came out in 2019."

"But thats like forever ago. Were you even born yet?" Lando smirks and Penelope takes the bowl from him with a scowl, but obliges to sit next to him on the couch, putting her iPad away for now, as Lando started the movie up.

But as Elsa is working to tame the Nøkk, Penelope lets out a soft sigh. Popcorn gone, and interest ruined. She wants to get back to studying. She has all winter break to make this love story happen, and with Lando and Max possibly going back for testing as early as January 3rd, she needs to act fast.

Lando glances over from where he's been idly answering emails between watching the movie, his own bowl empty. Penelope pouts while watching the movie, and he hums, looking at her.

"You're not even watching the coolest scene," Lando chimed softly, remembering the countless times little Mila would screech at the TV when she was really young. Penelope just huffed again, and he found himself curiously laying his head on his palm, "isn't this your favorite part?"

"No." Penelope deadpans, sighing again and dramatically slides off the couch onto her back and groans. She knows its a bit overkill, but its also Lando. He was a bit dramatic too. Penelope ends up closing her eyes for more drama as Sassy jumps off the couch and sniffs her head before trying to sneak a bite of corn kernels.

Lando reaches out and waves Sassy away, earning him a hiss and a sulk from the bengal as she stalks off to a far corner in the room. He slides the rest of his way out of the chair, hovering by Penelope's side before asking softly,

"What'sa matter, P?"

Penelope blinks open one eye at his approach, muttering, "The horse thing is Yn's favorite part of the movie."

"Yn?" Lando pops down on the floor next to her, pausing the movie on the TV, "is she one of your friends from dance?

"No, Yn is my nanny." Penelope sits up, a mischievous thought entering her mind, "but she doesn't have a place to live, so she's not my nanny now. Because she can't live in Monaco."

"Oh, that's a shame. D'ya miss her?" Lando asks softly and Penelope nods, leaning over to grab her iPad, pulling up a photo of the two of them squished together into the camera. Lando's smile tells Penelope all she needs to know, obviously he's totally in love with her, that's why he's grinning like that.

"That's a cute photo, P." Lando says. Jackpot. Shifting to lay on his stomach, Lando shuts his laptop on the couch and Penelope spends the rest of their three hour time talking non-stop about you to Lando. Practically making you sound like a damn angel rebirthed onto this Earth, shoving photos of you in his face, giggling like a mad man whenever he asks a question.

Penelope makes sure to have him follow your Instagram, grinning like a madwoman when he agrees to do so. When Max and Kelly come back, Lando stays for dinner, where Kelly informs Penelope you'll be visiting for a few days to do some apartment hunting.

Max seems to remember Lando lives alone and asks once more.

"I could clean the room out if she needs it," Lando says a bit more enthusiastically now. Penelope pats herself on the back as he says, "When Yn gets here, she can come over and take a look--just, just--just remind me to clean up. It's a bit messy."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you, mate." Max grins and Lando sheepishly tries to defend himself while Kelly watches with a small smile, looking over to where Penelope eagerly grins.

A few days later, you fly in to Monaco. When the Verstappen-Piquet family stops by to visit, you greet them with tight hugs. Maneuvering around your big suitcase laying on the floor, you surprise Max and Kelly with a gift of a few baby items as well as some other much needed items for the couple. Namely, a gift card to Penelope's favorite store, which Max prompty hands back to you with the words, "she'd prefer shopping with her older 'sister'" tossed over his shoulder. The two don't stay long, having a flight to catch to the FIA Awards ceremony. So, Penelope stays in your hotel room while Max and Kelly go off, and you give her free reign to do whatever she wishes.

It only takes about ten minutes into you two being alone for Penelope to ask about the apartment search, almost bursting at the seams with a sense of excitement thats rare--even for her.

"Who told you that?" You spin around to poke your head out of the doorway, hands on your hips. You've spent the last twenty minutes trying to organize the tiny bathroom counter to fit most of your cosmetics and other items for the next few weeks you'd be staying here.

"I heard Maxie talking about it." Penelope looks up with big eyes, emphasizing her sad tone, "You aren't gonna live with us anymore?"

Sighing softly, you make your way across the room, sitting down next to a pouting Penelope on the bed, snatching her bottom lip between your fingers and lightly pulling it to make her giggle and roll away as you call, "keep your mouth like that and your face will freeze there forever!"

"It's gonna stay like this because I'm mad!" She groans, forcing back her smile and giggles, and sitting up and crossing her arms. Now overkill pouting to get her point across, "You aren't gonna live with me!"

"P, I don't fit in your place anymore." You sigh softly, laying across the bed and holding out an arm so the child can crawl over to lay against your side, "we gotta make room for the baby."

"We have to change everything for the baby!" Comes the sharp reply you were expecting. Max had warned you Penelope seemed a little snippy recently. While excited to have a little brother or sister, it was obvious Penelope was also feeling left out.

"Penelope," You soothe, rolling onto your side to prop your head up on a hand, "babies are a big change and unlike you and me, they can't take care of themselves. That's why your Momma and Max have to do all these classes, and appointments and everything. They've gotta make sure they're ready for the little thing."

"But the baby isn't even here yet and it's ruining everything!" Penelope laments, curling into your side, "Momma doesn't play anymore, Max is always busy moving stuff around, we haven't even had a movie night recently because Momma's been so tired!"

"I'm sorry, baby." You sigh. Totally unknowingly feeding right into Penelope's carefully laid trap, "you're allowed to be upset, but you have to also understand this is what has to happen."

"Will it go back to normal when the baby gets here?" Penelope looks up and you give her a little shrug, running a hand through her hair,

"Not for a while, baby."

"Can we go back to normal? Even if you don't live with us anymore?" Penelope sits up now, dragging you to join her and you smile, lifting her up to sit right on your lap as you fix up her unruly hair--another sign of Kelly's growing baby bump, the lack of Penelope hair-dos.

"We'll always be the same, and I'm looking at staying nearby. It'll be an adjustment but it won't be awful." You smile, tucking her hair up into a braid, securing it with a little bow at the end, "Wanna go get something to eat? Max gave me back the babysitting allowance card..."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"Please!" Penelope gasps, standing up off your lap and jumping off the bed to grab her bag. A little stuffed cat Jelly Cat bag you think hearing Lando had snagged on a trip recently for the little girl. It's cute, and Penelope smiles when she sees you eyeing it.

"Lando got me this!" She proudly exclaims, holding it up as you slip on your shoes.

"Yeah?" You ask, walking to the door as Penelope bounces behind you, grinning wide enough her cheeks puff up, "you two seem to get along."

"He's really cool! You guys could be friends," Penelope laments, dragging you out of the hotel room once you have your shoes, jacket, and purse securely fastened for her little rollercoaster of a personality, "He thinks you're pretty."

Which, isn't exactly true, but it makes your face warm enough for Penelope as you step into the chilly air.

"Well, thats very kind of him," is your reply as you turn towards the coastline, hosting Penelope up into your arms so you don't have to worry about the curious five year old scurrying off.

You end up at one of Penelope's favorites, Costadoro Social. The place is downright adorable, and you manage to snag a window table. While you order, Penelope gets out only the best pages from her sticker book for the both of you to put together. Once you're both settled in, sandwiches and drinks (yours a coffee and hers a hot chocolate), the crowd mills out of the building. Leaving you and a somewhat familiar couple off in a corner, a third chair at their table yanked out like it's expecting someone to swing by.

As you two start on some winter scene in this very exact ticker book, Penelope rattles off countless stories to you about the weekend in Abu Dhabi. When she gasps, asking to show you the stickers she gave to Lando, you notice the curly headed man at the other table peeks over before turning to his girlfriend to ask something.

She shrugs, and the bell dings on the entry door. The woman behind the counter cheerily greeting the newcomer as you look down to where Penelope proudly shows you a picture Kelly had taken with her and Lando, showing off his stickers.

"They made him go fast and win," Penelope happily says, settling back in her seat. You nod, of course it was the stickers. Not because Lando was a professional, but Penelope looks smug like she'd been the reason for the McLaren WCC, so you let it slide. It's cute.

A Laufey cover of 'I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm' begins to play as you pull out your phone to show Penelope your mothers cats back home, as well as some other photos of the short trip back home.

The man at the table stands, walking over, and the motion catches Penelope's watchful eye as the two men give a short hug to one another--wishing happy holidays. You set your phone down, looking over as you sip your drink, and the dimpled smile of one of the men catches your eye.

He's cute.

He turns, as if feeling your gaze, and before you can jerk back he grins widely, "Hey Pen!"

"Lando!" Penelope squeaks, wiggling out of her chair and bounding over to give him a hug. The two share quick pleasantries and an introduction to Lando's friends--Max and Pietra, before Penelope gasps and runs over to you, "Lando, it's Yn!"

You stand at the mention of your name, hustling over with a sheepish smile as Penelope grabs your hand and drags you over like she'll die if she doesn't get the chance to.

"Hi," you squeak, shaking his awaiting hand, "It's nice to meet you, Penelope talks about you a lot."

His cheeks are rosy as you shake his hand, and a tiny grin pokes at Lando's lips as he nods, "she talks about you a lot, too."

"I told you she was pretty!" Penelope chimes, making Max nearly snort out his coffee while Pietra laughs softly. You and Lando are a bit closer to mortified at Penelope's insistence, and you manage to get her to say goodbye so the group can enjoy their lunch together since she does have dance rehearsal soon.

About two hours or so later, you get back to Max and Kelly's post rehearsal. And while Penelope curls up all about tuckered out from running amuck down the shopping districts, learning new ballet moves, and endlessly mentioning Lando like a lovesick teenager, you pull up your phone and scroll through your feed as Penelope fights off a nap.

It's due time for an Instagram post anyways.

liked by maxverstappen, kellypiquet, landonorris, and others...

yourusername: back home for the holidays <3

kellypiquet: the absolute best!

user: YESS YN AND PENELOPE CONTENT WILL RETURN

user2: omg that DRESS i need

⤷ yourusername: its an innika choo dress but im not sure if they're even open anymore :( kelly got it for me for my birthday last yr!!

⤷ user2: OMG THANK U ill keep an eye out!!!

maxverstappen: so thats why theres beads all over the carpet?

⤷ yourusername: i wasnt the cat who decided to try and eat them (jimmy)

⤷ maxverstappen: unsurprising

lilymhe: omg !!! we need to meet up! alex and i have been dying to update you on The Lore

⤷ yourusername: please!! ive been dying to see you guys again :(!!

user3: SO CUTE!!

user4: i would die to be living ur life yn

landonorris: penelope seems to keep you busy

⤷ yourusername: you saw her shenanigans today, it only gets worse

⤷ alexalbon: lando what r u doing

⤷ landonorris: ???????

⤷ maxverstappen: 👁️

⤷ landonorris: ???!!!!

You're halfway through helping Penelope with wrapping a christmas present for her dance teacher when Max knocks on the doorway. You turn around, standing when he beckons you over.

"How's Kelly?" You ask softly, knowing she's trying to sleep off a bout of morning sickness. Max shrugs, sipping his Red Bull.

"A bit ill, but she seems to be getting better. Penelope's fine?"

You nod, looking back as Penelope crosses her arms and scowls at all the options for the bow she could put on the bag.

"Lando's cleaned his apartment, finally," Max watches Penelope with a soft look, before turning to you and leaning on the wall with a tired yawn. He's still adjusting from the season, and the early sun dipping behind the buildings wasn't helping his sleep cycle.

"You should go over, take a little tour." Max hums, "You deserve a break from watching P all day."

"It's quite literally what you pay me to do, Max." You laugh softly, but with a few more pushes of insistence you finally agree. He shoots Lando a text to let him know you're on your way down as you grab a pair of Uggs you wear indoors, and your keys so you don't get locked out.

The elevator ride down is short, and you walk into the warm hallway to see Lando down the hall peeking out. He smiles at your approach and holds open the door for you.

"Nice to see you again," He chimes as you enter. It's been about a week since you've seen him, now teetering close to Christmas, and you smile at him.

"Nice to see you too, Lando." You hum, and he brings you to the spare room. It's spacious, with a big window that looks over the entire Monaco bay. You're drawn to it like a moth to a flame, it's perfect. Everything you could've dreamed of and more. Lando makes sure to show you the ensuite bathroom and large closet.

Everything feels too good to be true, so you quickly ask, "How much would you want me to pay you in rent?"

"Rent?" Lando pauses in the kitchen where he'd offered to get you a soda from his sparse fridge. He shakes his head, leaning on the counter and taking a sip of his water bottle, "Max told me your budgets quite small. I figured I could pay rent and you could pay like... utility?"

"That's gotta be like a quarter of what you pay for this place, Lando. I have a good amount saved up!" You protest and he shakes his head, a tiny smile on his lips.

"Listen, you're honestly doing me a favor. You probably know how to make a house a proper functioning home. I barely know how to not burn leftovers when I reheat them." He chides himself and you break into a tiny laugh, missing the way his face gets rosy at your giggles, "I need a bit of help making this place look... homey. And Max told me you'd be good at that."

"So I'm helping you learn to adult to pay my rent?" You ask and your bluntness makes Lando flush as he rubs the back of his neck and looks down with a shrug.

"If that's okay..?"

"I mean... I'd like to pay, but if you wanna do it this way, fine... But if I end up staying here for a long time, you have to let me help with rent." You hold a hand out like this will seal the deal and Lando grins, his embarrassment forgotten as he darts over to happily shake your hand. You try to ignore how warm his hands are against your cold ones.

"Welcome home, then--oh! I have a spare key for you!" He tries to flash you a charming smile, but the excited expression taking over just makes his face go through far too many expressions in a row. You can't help but laugh, looking around the bare but clearly well loved apartment.

It could use some work, sure, but thats your job now... you suppose.

general tag (open!)

@d3kstar @justalittlejess (jess ur on here now enjoy LMAO)

series specific tag (open!)

@nikfigueiredo

[charlesvteen]

what do f1 fans do when there's no f1 because what the flip dude

[princemick]

— Melissa Broder in “Problem Area” from Last Sext

[userhamilton]

[emchantearchive]

mistletoe meetings | d. ricciardo

merry smutmas - day 1: mistletoe

warnings: 18+ content, pwp/porn with plot, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), light praise kink, slight cliche fluff part-way through.

w.c. 3.5k

the cold-white christmas lights twinkled against the frosted windows of the cozy chalet, casting a glow over the party inside. the air buzzed with laughter and the occasional sound of a beer cap being popped off the glass bottle. the host had outdone themselves; garlands of greenery lined the mantelpiece, candles flickered on every surface, and the star of the show was the 7ft tall christmas tree. 

admittedly you hadn’t planned to come to the party tonight, but a persuasive friend insisted this would be the christmas party, and you wouldn’t want to miss it. 

the sound of a deep, easy laugh broke your train of thought, and you turned in the direction it came from. a man you hadn’t seen before was leaned against a counter, holding his beer with his other hand, his face glowing with amusement at something the person in front of him had said. his curls framed his face, and his smile was so genuine it seemed to light up the space around him. 

your heart skipped a beat when his gaze suddenly moved onto you. it was brief, nothing major, but it was enough to send a light blush onto your face. you turned your face down, the lip of the bottle suddenly became fascinating. 

“looking at someone?” your friend teased, magically appearing at your side. jesus. 

“no,” you replied a little too quickly, the warmth on your cheeks becoming hotter. 

your friend smirked knowingly at you, “riiight,” she dragged out, rolling her eyes. “well he’s single, but you don’t care about that so..”

the way you perked up wasn’t at all subtle, made obvious by your friend snicker at your reaction. 

before you could tell her off, a burst of gasps came from around the kitchen. you both turned to see two people caught under a mistletoe, looking at each other bewildered. there were cheers, and a few ‘you know the rules!!’ shouted, in case they had tried to walk off. 

it took them a moment, but everyone cheered when the two leaned in to kiss each other. your friendly smiled at the sight, but you rolled your eyes. 

“remind me to avoid that doorway,” you spoke up, causing your friend to give you a gentle nudge as she shook her head. 

“nuh-uh!” she scoffed, winking at you. “it’s a christmas party, and some fun! plus, i think i know someone you’d like to be under it with,” she raised her brows, causing you to glare at her. 

you made a mental note to avoid that doorway at all costs, reminding yourself every time you were near it. 

though as the night wore on, and despite your best efforts to avoid the kitchen, it was almost impossible. especially when your bottle was empty, and you needed another. if you were fast enough, you were sure you’d be able to avoid walking under the mistletoe with someone. 

you continuously looked left and right as you neared the kitchen, making sure nobody was heading for there at the same time as you. however, you were so caught up that you didn’t see the man standing at the entrance of the kitchen. 

“woah there,” a deep voice spoke, holding you by the shoulders after you had walked into his chest. “careful where you’re walking.”

you glanced up startled and— oh, there he was. 

the man from earlier, with the loud laugh and bright smile was right in front of you. and the signature smile was on his face once again, and one could argue it was wider this time. the scent of his cologne filled your nose, captivating you in a trance as you stared up at him. his curls were a little messier now, and his cheeks were a little pinker from his alcohol consumption. 

“sorry! shit, i’m sorry. i clearly wasn’t..“ you started to ramble, but you trailed off when you noticed his gaze wasn’t on you anymore. you followed it up and shit. 

the mistletoe. hanging right above the two of you. 

“oh,” you muttered with a gulp. your eyes moved back to daniel’s face, and he was already looking at you with a light smirk. 

“looks like we’ve got ourselves in a little situation,” he spoke up, one of the hands on your shoulders giving it a squeeze, as the other had his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin. 

daniel could see the nervous look in your eyes, and he gave you a wink. “hey, i’m not going to traumatise you with my technique,” he laughed lightly, moving his face closer to your own. as soon as his lips were hovering yours, he muttered a “promise,” before closing the gap. 

the kiss was over quicker than you anticipated, and you couldn’t believe it but— you craved a longer one. his soft, plump lips felt amazing against yours, and the tease of his tongue running against them was a pleasant surprise. 

“see? harmless,” he said, pulling away with a pleased expression. he extended his hand out, with a “the name’s daniel, by the way,” dropping from his lips. 

you shook his hand in return, giving him your name. he repeated it softly with a soft squeeze to your hand before he let go. 

“well, i’ll see you around,” he grinned, nodding before he brushed past you and back into the crowd of the lively party. 

you finally exhaled, not realising you had been holding your breath for so long. 

the next time you saw him, it was almost too coincidental to be true. a cliche, some might say. 

you had moved to a quieter corner of the party, chatting with the friend you had came to the party with. you zoned out of the conversation when daniel entered your vision, a grin on his face as he walked towards you. 

“there you are! my mistletoe buddy,” he laughed, chasing a small giggle to escape you. you seen your friend gawking in your peripheral vision and oops, you hadn’t told her about it. well, at least she knew now. 

“funny seeing you here,” you smiled with a raised brow, and daniel gave you a small shrug. 

“well, i’d say it’s funnier for that guy up there,” he told you, causing you to frown in confusion. you looked up and— shit, really?

another mistletoe. there it was— a fresh sprig of mistletoe hung directly above you. 

“now, you know it’s a tradition,” he winked, making you pout at him. you tried to jest, muttering how traditions were made to be broken, but daniel shook his head. “nope, they’re made to be honoured.”

you rolled your eyes at him, taking a step closer. daniel took a step closer too, his hand moving to cup your cheek, tilting your head up towards him. 

“pucker up, buttercup,” he muttered, making you burst into a fit of giggles as you pulled away. “huh— what?”

“really? pucker up, buttercup?” you laughed, and daniel started laughing along too.

“hey! i’m trying to ease the tension,” he muttered, pulling you back in to him again, his thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek softly. 

the kiss was a little longer this time, daniel tilting his head after a few seconds to get a better angle, trying to memorise your lips. he cheekily nipped at your bottom lip, a surprised but soft whine escaping you before daniel pulled away. he didn’t pull away fully though, leaning in and placing a chaste peck on your lips before stepping back. 

“well, you know what they say,” he says as he licks his lips, eyeing you up. you tilt your head, beckoning him to go on. 

“third time’s the charm, right?” he winks, taking a few steps back. “and lucky for you, three’s my lucky number,” he finished, before doing a 180 and delving back into the crowd. 

“so, when were you going to tell me about this?” your friend exclaims, after struggling to stay silent the full time. 

and then, it wasn’t long before fate— or the host’s mischievous decorations— brought you together again. admittedly you were trying to leave the party unnoticed, slipping into the back hallway towards the coat rack, when daniel rounded the corner. 

“going somewhere?” he asked, causing you to jump on the spot, head turning to him. you let out an exhale when you seeing it was only him, your body becoming less tense. 

“well i was— shit nevermind,” you mumble, knowing there was no point lying now you were caught. “it’s getting late, i was going to head.”

“well, not before one last kiss i’d hope,” he let out, voice pitching up at the end. you looked up and your body slumped when you seen the mistletoe above you, again.  

“how does this keep happening?” you ask,  half laughing but half seriously asking— because how?

“hey, i told you three was my lucky number. maybe the universe wants to show you,” he teased, walking to your side. 

you bit your lip at how close he got so quickly, his cologne once again filling your nostrils and hypnotising you with thoughts of daniel and only daniel. 

“maybe.. maybe it is,” you mumbled, taking one more step before there was no more space. your noses were right in front of one another, and you could feel daniel’s hot breath against you. his gaze flicked to your mouth before returning back to your eyes. 

“will you let me show you?” he asked, voice barely a whisper. you didn’t even respond, closing the gap between you both instantly. 

this kiss wasn’t short or playful like the other two had been, this one was different. this one truly meant something. it deepened quickly, daniel’s hand moving to your waist as he pulled your front against his own. you lost yourself in the kiss, his lips moving against yours with such ease and confidence that your knees started to feel weak. 

when you finally pulled apart, daniel’s head rested gently upon your own, his breath warm against your cheek. 

“don’t leave yet,” he muttered, his voice husky. “stay, and i’ll show you a good time. i know you haven’t had one tonight,” he finished, licking his lips. 

you pondered for a few moments, before you gave in and nodded. “okay, okay. i’ll stay,” you agreed, cheeks heating up at the smile he gave you. 

“let’s start with getting out this hallway, hm?” he winked, reaching out for your hand and taking it. 

daniel guided you further into the back, head dipping into rooms to make sure they weren’t already occupied. thankfully, it didn’t take him too long to find a free room, and he stood to the side to allow you to enter first. 

“much better,” he mumbled, locking the bedroom door before turning round to see you. you were perched on the end of the bed, staring up at him and keeping your gaze on him as he slowly stalked towards you. 

daniel’s hand moved to your hair, gently pushing it back, with a little force so that your head tilted back along with it. “you’re gorgeous,” he broke the silence, causing your cheeks to blossom with warmth. “i wasn’t expecting to meet anyone here tonight, and then i bumped into you. and admittedly, i was hoping we’d keep meeting under that mistletoe.”

you giggled and shook your head, moving your head to the side, but daniel’s hand slid down to catch you by the cheek, making you look at him. “don’t hide that pretty face from me,” he let out quietly. 

daniel’s thumb brushed against your cheek again, the touch warm and deliberate. his eyes searched yours momentarily, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch. slowly, he leaned in so his lips were hovering your own. 

when he kissed you, it was soft and unhurried, now that he finally had you to himself. his lips moved against yours with gentle confidence, his hand still cradling your cheek as he did so. you melted into him, your hands finding their way to the fabric of his sweater, curling into the wooly fabric as you pulled him closer. 

“you’re incredible,” he murmured between kisses, his words making your cheeks burn hotter. his other hand slid to your ass, sliding his arm under to lift you further up onto the bed. the pressure of his lips and the way his tongue teased you sent heat right to your core. 

as your bodies grew closer, the world outside the room disappeared entirely. there was nobody else, no christmas party— just daniel. just daniel with his scratchy stubble, warm hands, and his soft, heart-shaped lips. 

when you pulled back for the first time, you moved so your head was against the pillows, titled right back. daniel moved accordingly. legs at either side of you as he leaned in to place a soft kiss on your lips. 

“i can’t stop looking at you,” he admitted lowly, eyes mapping your body. “you’re so beautiful, sweetheart.”

his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, but that wasn’t the only reason. daniel moved onto your neck now that you had given him easy access, placing wet kisses all against your skin.  your eyes fluttered shut, soft breathe escaping you as he continued to give your neck the attention it needed. 

his hands trailed down your body slowly, fingers running in different directions before they all ended at the same destination; the hem of your sweater. daniel placed one last kiss to your neck before he pulled back, and you tilted your head round to see him. 

“can i?” he asked softly, gently tugging on the hem to give you an idea on what he was talking about. you agreed of course, nodding as you lifted your arms up, allowing daniel to get your sweater off with ease. 

his eyes raked over you, resting on your chest for the most part but they trailed down your stomach, eyeing the clothed area that was his final goal. he placed a soft kiss on your stomach, before leaving a trail of them upwards and the final one was placed upon your sternum. 

suddenly, his hands were on each of your breasts, pushing them closer to his face as he littered kisses over each of them. he started with your right, soft lips running over it as he placed the lightest kisses over your skin, moving up towards your nipple before he placed a soft, teasing kiss atop it, moving to your left breast. 

you shined whined out at the light tease, but you had no reason to fear, as he took a different approach with your left breast. the kisses were a little harsher, there were more biting this time around, and when he trailed his tongue up to your nipple, he swirled his tongue around it in a circle before sucking on it gently. 

the moan you let out in return was satisfying enough for him, and he pulled back to watch your flushed face. his hands squeezed your breasts softly, and daniel admired you as you writhed at the pleasure that coursed through your body. 

“perfect.. you’re so perfect,” he told you, thumbs running across your hardened nipples gently. “i can’t believe you’ve been hiding from me all my life.”

you flushed at the praise, but tried to distract yourself with helping daniel pull off his own sweater. it took a moment to get off his head, his curls bouncing around from the roughhousing which made you both giggle. you only had a short moment to admire his chest, and eye his prominent happy trail before daniel’s lips were back on yours. 

daniel unloosened his belt, throwing it off to the side as he slid his trousers off, and while he done that you got your bottom half undressed too. when you both met again face-to-face on the bed, you were both stark naked, yet your eyes were still glued to each other. 

he moved closer, his nose rubbing against your own before he placed a soft kiss against your lips. “i want to make you feel so good, sweetheart.”

your hands moved to his head, fingers threading through his curls and tugging them gently. his lips landed on yours again, kissing you softly, delicately— as if you’d break, otherwise. 

“i need you danny,” you mutter as you pull away, giving him a pleading look. “please make me feel good,” you tell him, placing a kiss on the corner of his lips.

daniel doesn’t need to be told twice, positioning his cock so that his tip was nudging at your entrance. he looked up to you, one last time to silently ask ‘is this okay?’ and when you nodded, he was given the go ahead. 

daniel pushed himself into you slowly, stretching you out on his thick cock. you couldn’t help the string of moans that escaped you as he pushed further into you, filling you up with just him. 

his eyes wondered to yours, light worry sparking in them. “you alright?” he asks, waiting until you reply before he dares to move. 

it takes you a moment as you gulp before letting out a deep exhale through your nose, trying to get used to his size. “yeah i’m… i’m okay,” you confirm, giving him a soft smile to reassure him. 

daniel began to move slowly, but not in a teasing way— moreso in a way to make sure you were alright, and could get used to his size at a steady pace. daniel’s head fell forward, forehead resting against yours as he thrusted in and out of you. 

your whines and pants only spurred him on, and he had to hold himself back from going faster. you could tell he was holding back too, so you grabbed his face to pull him in for a kiss. “please danny, move faster,” you asked desperately, and how could he deny you?

daniel done so as soon as the words left your mouth, speeding up his pace just like you requested. daniel couldn’t stop himself from moving his head back to your neck, kissing over the skin as he breathed in your intoxicating scent. he groaned lowly after he inhaled, teeth sinking into the skin of your neck. 

“you— fuck, you feel so good,” he mutters into your neck, nose pressed deeply against it as if he was entranced by the scent of you. “and you’re so beautiful. you’re perfect, and i can’t believe we just met,” he continues, kissing your neck and trailing it up your chin, moving to place a passionate kiss on your lips. “got so much lost time to make up on baby, and i’m going to be in you for most of it.”

daniel’s words were hypnotising, the deep grumble of his low accented voice, as well as the power of his words had you inching closer to the edge. you thrusted your hips up against him, desperate to feel more of him— all of him. 

“please danny— shit.. need you, need this,” you plead, arms moving around his shoulders so your nails could scrape down his tanned, toned back. 

“come on then sweetheart,” he encouraged you, forehead resting against yours again as he started to thrust into you faster, feeling himself get closer too. “finish for me, show me how much tonight has meant to you,” he whispered, lips crashing onto yours one last time before your orgasm came coursing through you. 

your body trembled as you couldn’t do anything but moan, and whine out daniel’s name. your hips continued to buck up as you rode out your orgasm, and that only pushed daniel towards his own. the movements, the sight of you, the pleas falling from your mouth— it was all too much for daniel to keep it together. 

daniel is a smart man, he pulls out just before the coil snaps for him. his hand wraps around his aching, bright red cock, stroking it up and down to help him with his orgasm. you’re still in a daze from your own, but through hooded eyes you watch daniel rutting into his own hand, head tiled right back as the cum came out of his cock, slicking up his hand just nicely. 

after daniel’s was over, he slumped forward and fell onto the bed beside you. he turned to you, admiring you despite the flushed cheeks, messy hair and panting chest. he moved his hand— the clean one, obviously— up to your face, pulling you in to give you one last soft kiss. 

“you’re absolutely amazing sweetheart,” he told you again, voice hoarse from the noises he had been making just moments before. “and i’m serious when i say i want to see you again, and make up for lost time. i’m drawn to you baby, won’t be able to stop thinking about you.”

you giggle at daniel’s words, nodding and moving your face to kiss the palm of his hand that held your cheek. 

“i’d like that too, danny.”

smutmas taglist: @lilorose25 @thenotoriouserg @a-distantdreamer @leclercsluvs @fat-meh @wintxr-widow @amirahart <3

[ummick]

mick schumacher during the lead-up to the 24 hours of le mans - june 11, 2024 📷 alexander trienitz / imago

[oscarcito]

you can tell he’s gone gone bc he’s 😉

[comraderoscoes]

[princemick]

snacks

[wejustvibing]

what’s this dad behavior

[userbearman]

ollie bearman at sky sport's rookies track guide segment — mexico grand prix 2023

[rb19]

[monacoprince]