i agree
hello vonnie
cherry valley forever
Misplaced Lens Cap

No title available
i don't do bad sauce passes
Show & Tell

Love Begins

Product Placement

izzy's playlists!
wallacepolsom
Acquired Stardust

blake kathryn
almost home

Andulka

tannertan36
KIROKAZE

pixel skylines
ojovivo

Discoholic 🪩

if i look back, i am lost
seen from United States

seen from Norway
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Peru
seen from United States
seen from Singapore

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from Singapore

seen from Mexico
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
@cryingsobbingthrowingup
i agree
I love love love your kid fics. I would love a fic where reader has a kid and is dating a driver (anyone tbh but my fav is Oscar) and they’re watching Cinderella and the kid asks why step parents get such a bad rep bc her step dad is awesome and it’s the first time that the kid has EVER referred to him as a parent and it’s sweet and fluffy and cute!
Again I love your work so much!
A Different Kind Of Cinderella Story
Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Oscar joins you and your daughter for movie night, and Cinderella turns unexpectedly emotional when she casually calls him her “step dad” for the first time — a tiny slip that leaves him soft, stunned, and completely in love with the little family he’s found.
Warning: cuteness overload 🥺
Moonlight Radio: tysm 🫶🏻, this was so adorable, I hope u like it!
PATREON: Exclusive Content
ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜱ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ♡
not loudly enough - part one (max verstappen x reader)
🏁 pairing: max verstappen x f!reader. 🏁 word count: 27.4k total. this part: 9.8k. 🏁 genres/warnings: co-workers to lovers to strangers. set between 2024 - 2026 season, creative liberties with race outcomes so bear with. reader is a performance engineer. no smut but implied sex/sexual references. fwb/secret relationship, both are toxic in their own way. they are in LOVE and it ruins everything, just two emotionally intelligent people still failing to communicate properly. right person wrong time. sprinkle of jealousy, fear of vulnerability, this does not have a happy ending. brief mention of a crash (but its minor and very minor injury), max genuinely believes there is nothing underneath the driver worth loving and reader thinks nobody sees her beyond being a female in motorsport. reader insert but no use of y/n. 🏁summary: you were never just casual. two years of almost-conversations, hotel rooms, and loving each other in every way except the one that mattered most. he loved you quietly. you just needed him to do it out loud. 🏁 author notes: this is my first max fic outside my bridgerton series and ive been thinking about it non-stop, it was a joy to write him. it's very loosely based on one of my fave songs gethsemane by sleep tolken (i highly recommend listening to it for the full fic effect) there is a lot of rain in this fic so pls ignore that (it just seemed fitting for all the sad), also pretend Laurent was tp since 2024 and it does not have a happy ending, you have been warned. also i'm so sorry this is a two part-er, tumblrs block limit hates me and i just cannot shut up <3
read part two here.
not loudly enough - part two (max verstappen x reader)
🏁pairing: max verstappen x f!reader. 🏁 word count: 27.4k total. this part: 17.6k. 🏁 genres/warnings: co-workers to lovers to strangers. set between 2024 - 2026 season, creative liberties with race outcomes so bear with. reader is a performance engineer. no smut but implied sex/sexual references. fwb/secret relationship, both are toxic in their own way. they are in LOVE and it ruins everything, just two emotionally intelligent people still failing to communicate properly. right person wrong time. sprinkle of jealousy, fear of vulnerability, this does not have a happy ending. brief mention of a crash (but its minor and very minor injury), max genuinely believes there is nothing underneath the driver worth loving and reader thinks nobody sees her beyond being a female in motorsport. reader insert but no use of y/n. 🏁summary: you were never just casual. two years of almost-conversations, hotel rooms, and loving each other in every way except the one that mattered most.he loved you quietly. you just needed him to do it out loud. 🏁 author notes: very loosely based on gethsemane by sleep tolken and again i'm so sorry this is a two part-er <3
read part one here.
oscat - op81
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
You struggle to get your key in the door while balancing groceries and a very vocal cardboard box. When you finally manage to stumble into the apartment, Oscar looks up from his laptop, then does a double-take.
"What," he says slowly, "is that noise?"
The box meows in response.
"Funny story," you begin, setting down the groceries. "Remember how you said I shouldn't go grocery shopping when hungry because I make impulsive decisions?"
"YN."
You open the box carefully, and a small orange cat pokes its head out, looking around curiously.
"What is that?"
"Our cat!"
"Our what?"
"His name is Oscat!"
jealous much? - f1 drivers text au
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. When you'r f1 driver gets jealous for absolutely no reason. pairing: f!reader x f1!boyfriend genre: contains spicy texts but mostly fluff drivers mentioned: cl16, ln1, ka12, ob87, mv3, op81 this has been sitting in my drafts before i made my tumblr so enjoy!! .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
𝓜EDDLE 𝓐BOUT
oscar piastri x f!reader (6.8k)
─── 𝔀arnings ⌗ smut 18+ (sex to get even, semi public sex, slight dom/sub dynamics, blowjobs, handjob, fingering, minimal praise kink, kinda mean and condescending dom!oscar, dry humping, reader grinds on the table, sex on a desk, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), some very light degredation i think ... not beta'ed sorry)
𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞? - 𝐨𝐩𝟖𝟏
oscar piastri x reader₊⊹ smau
how you communicate with your boyfriend using his own memes
note: just a little fun one in between the two longer fics i'm working on :) definitely feel like oscar would just be so used to you talking to him in memes that he's not even a little phased by it lol. hope you guys enjoy this one! warnings : swearing, implied/referenced sex
・ ⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・
・ ⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・ ⋆ ・ ⠄⠂⋆ ・
not something to hide|2
Part 1 | Part 2
———
he doesn’t sleep that night, not even for a minute, just lies there staring at the ceiling with everything replaying on a loop he can’t shut off, your voice when you said it, the way it didn’t even sound angry anymore, just tired and hurt, like something in you had already given up, and that’s the part that gets to him the most because he can handle anger, he can argue back, defend himself, explain, but that quiet kind of disappointment? he has no idea what to do with that, and now it’s all he can see when he closes his eyes
he keeps going back to the exact moment he said her name, like if he rewinds it enough times he can somehow stop himself, choose different words, keep everything from breaking the way it did, but it doesn’t work like that and he knows it, so instead he’s left with the weight of it, the realization that it wasn’t just one mistake, it was everything leading up to it, everything he ignored, everything he justified under “protecting you” without ever actually asking how it felt on your side
because he did think he was protecting you
that’s the part that makes this worse, he wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was trying to avoid exactly this kind of situation, people knowing too much, saying too much, dragging you into something you didn’t ask for, he’s seen it happen before, seen how quickly things can turn ugly, how people can go from supportive to invasive in seconds, and the idea of that being directed at you made him pull back instinctively, keep things quieter, more controlled, more… contained
but lying there, with nothing to distract him, he finally admits the part he’s been avoiding too
it wasn’t just about you
it was about him too, about control, about not wanting something real in his life to become something public that he couldn’t manage, because once it’s out there, it’s not just his anymore, people have opinions, expectations, narratives they build on their own, and that terrified him more than he ever said out loud
so he kept you slightly separate, told himself it was safer that way, better that way
and never once stopped to think that from your perspective it might feel like he was pushing you away
like he was embarrassed of you
that thought alone makes his chest tighten, because that was never it, not even close, if anything it was the opposite, you mattered too much, which is exactly why he handled it so badly
by morning he knows he can’t just sit with it, can’t wait and hope it somehow fixes itself, so he goes to you, even if there’s a chance you won’t want to see him, even if there’s a chance he’s already too late
standing outside your door feels worse than anything he’s done on track, worse than any pressure he’s used to, because this actually matters in a way nothing else does, and when you open it, looking at him with that same guarded expression, he feels it all over again
“i know you probably don’t want to see me,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, rough from not sleeping, “but i need to explain, properly this time”
you don’t shut the door, and that’s enough for him to keep going
“what i said yesterday… about her,” he continues, forcing himself to say it even though it feels awful, “that was wrong, completely wrong, and i’m not going to try and downplay it, you didn’t deserve that, not even a little bit”
you stay quiet, just watching him, waiting
“i wasn’t thinking,” he admits, running a hand through his hair, “i felt like everything was slipping and i said the first thing that came to mind to defend myself, and it was careless and stupid and i hate that that’s what came out when i was talking to you”
he takes a small breath before continuing, because this part matters just as much
“but the rest of it, i need you to understand where i was coming from, not because it excuses anything, but because i don’t want you thinking i was ever ashamed of you”
there’s a flicker of something in your expression at that, and he steps a little closer, careful
“i’ve seen what people can be like,” he says, more steady now, more honest than he’s been before, “i’ve seen how they treat people who get pulled into this world, how quickly things can turn, and i didn’t want that for you, i didn’t want you dealing with all of that just because you’re with me”
you cross your arms slightly, still guarded, “you should’ve told me that instead of just shutting me out”
“i know,” he says immediately, nodding, “i know, and that’s on me, i handled it badly, i thought if i kept things quieter it would be enough, but i didn’t think about how that would feel for you”
he pauses, then adds, softer, “i didn’t realize i was making you feel like something i didn’t want people to see”
that lands, you can tell it does, but it doesn’t fix it, not even close
“i understand what you’re saying,” you tell him after a moment, and his chest lifts slightly at that, “i really do
he nods quickly, hopeful for half a second
“but that doesn’t change how it felt,” you continue, and that hope drops just as fast
he exhales slowly, bracing himself
“it’s not just what you said about your ex,” you go on, your voice calm but firm, “even if that was the worst part, it’s everything before that, the way you kept me at a distance, the way i had to ask for space in your life instead of just being part of it”
he looks down for a second, jaw tightening, because hearing it like that makes it impossible to defend
“i started feeling like i had to tone myself down around you,” you admit, quieter now, “like loving you the way i do was too much”
“it wasn’t too much,” he says immediately, looking back up, “it was never too much, i just…i didn’t handle it right”
“no, you didn’t,” you agree softly, and there’s no anger in it, which somehow hurts more, “and that’s not something that just goes away because you explained it now”
he nods slowly, because he knows you’re right, even if he hates it
“so what do i do?” he asks, more honest than anything else, “because i don’t want to lose you over this”
you take a breath, like you’ve been thinking about this longer than just today
“you don’t get me back just because you’re sorry,” you say, meeting his eyes, “and i’m not saying that to punish you, i’m saying it because i can’t just ignore how this made me feel”
that lands exactly how it’s supposed to, heavy and real
“i’m not asking you to ignore it,” he says quickly, “i just….i need a chance to fix it”
“you have a chance,” you tell him, “but that doesn’t mean we’re back together”
the words hit harder than he expects, even though he probably should’ve seen them coming
“so i just… what, wait?” there’s a slight edge of panic in his voice now he can’t fully hide
“you show me,” you correct gently, “you show me that you understand what went wrong, that you’re not just reacting because you’re scared of losing me, but because you actually get it now”
he nods, even if the idea of not having you fully there anymore feels wrong in a way he can’t explain
“and you don’t rush me,” you add, “you don’t decide when i should be over it”
“i won’t,” he says immediately, “i won’t rush you, i just…i’ll do whatever it takes”
“that’s exactly it,” you reply, “i don’t want you to do whatever it takes, i want you to actually mean it”
he stops for a second at that, because there’s a difference, and he knows it
“i do mean it,” he says, quieter now, more grounded, “i just need to prove it to you”
there’s a long pause, and then you nod, just slightly
“then prove it”
it’s not forgiveness, not even close, but it’s not the end either
and that’s enough for him to hold onto it
———
after that, nothing is easy
he doesn’t get to fall back into old habits, doesn’t get the comfort of knowing where he stands with you, everything feels uncertain and that’s something he hates, something he’s never been good at dealing with, but he forces himself to sit with it because this is the consequence of what he did
he starts small, consistent, not overwhelming you, not trying to force closeness back too quickly, just showing up, checking in, being there without expecting anything in return
and it’s hard, harder than he thought it would be, because he notices every difference
the way you don’t reach for him automatically anymore
the way there’s that small pause before you respond sometimes
the way you keep just enough distance that he can feel it constantly
and he doesn’t complain about it, doesn’t make it your problem
he just takes it
because he knows he’s the reason it’s there
he starts being more open too, not in a way that feels forced, but enough that it’s clear he’s not hiding you anymore, mentioning you when it comes up, not dodging it, not redirecting, letting people know you’re part of his life without acting like it’s something that needs to be kept separate
and when he asks you to come to a race, he does it differently this time
“you can say no,” he says, almost careful with it, “i’ll understand if you’re not ready”
you hesitate, and he prepares himself for that, for the possibility that it’s too soon
but then you nod, slow, unsure
“okay”
it’s not excitement, not like before, but it’s something
and when you’re there, he makes sure it’s different, not performative, not over the top, just… present, he checks in, includes you, doesn’t leave you feeling like you’re on the outside looking in, and when people notice, when attention shifts slightly, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t retreat like he used to
he stays
with you
it doesn’t fix everything instantly, of course it doesn’t, you’re still careful, still holding a part of yourself back, and he feels it every time, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t try to rush you into being what you were before
because he understands now
that version of things is something he has to earn back
not something he gets just because he wants it
and slowly, very slowly, you start meeting him halfway again
not all at once, not dramatically, just in small moments
your hand brushing his and not pulling away
your shoulder leaning into his for a second longer than necessary
your guard slipping just enough for him to see that he’s not completely shut out
and he holds onto those moments carefully, doesn’t make them bigger than they are, doesn’t scare them off
because this time, he’s not trying to control how things look
he’s just trying to make sure you never feel like something he has to hide ever again
even if it takes longer than he wants
even if he has to sit in the uncertainty for as long as you need
because losing you once was enough to show him exactly what’s at stake
and he’s not making the same mistake twice
———
Hi! Can you write about reader and driver George Russell slowly drifting apart because he’s focusing more on driving, and when reader confronts him it leads to a big argument that causes them to separate for a while
Please let it be angst with a happy ending!! thanks so much
The only thing that mattered
Pairing: George Russell x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: angst, happy ending, no actual race calendar
Summary: when the pressure of a Formula 1 championship threatens his dreams, Mercedes driver George Russell rejects the one person who supports him. Facing isolation and a friend’s harsh reality check, he must confront his arrogance to save his relationship.
Requested: Yes/anon
Requests open
Word count: 2298
Author’s note: i really hope i wrote it as you imagined it, if not let me know and i can change it. If you have any other requests feel free to send them over, i finished school and have all day to write, xx.
Masterlist
The shift in the Mercedes garage wasn’t a sudden explosion; it was a slow, agonizing freeze. At the start of the season, the energy surrounding George had been electric. He had been entirely convinced that this was his definitive year. The car was a masterpiece of carbon fiber and aerodynamic genius, the winter simulator data had been flawless, and the World Drivers' Championship felt less like a distant dream and more like an impending inevitability. He had tasted the front of the grid before, but this time, he believed he held all the cards.
But Formula 1 rarely follows a script.
Instead of George leading the silver arrows to glory, it was Kimi, his younger, deceptively quiet teammate who hit the ground running. Week after week, the rookie displayed a terrifyingly calm composure, stringing together flawless weekends, maximizing tyre life, and quietly sitting at the top of the standings.
The pressure turned George inward. The easy smiles, the shared post-race dinners, and the quiet moments of connection between the two of you were systematically replaced by data logs, extra hours in the engineering room, and a hyper-fixation on closing the gap. You became a background character in a life you used to co-author, watching him slip behind a wall of telemetry and unyielding obsession.
It started with small things. A dinner reservation pushed back an hour because he needed to run one more simulation stint. A missed phone call during a mid-week break because he was huddled with his track engineer trying to understand where Kimi was finding two-tenths of a second in sector two.
By the time the European leg of the season was in full swing, the drift had become a chasm. When you traveled with him to the races, your presence felt less like a sanctuary for him and more like a box he had to tick. In the motorhome, he would sit with his iPad glued to his face, his thumb flicking through throttle application graphs while you tried to tell him about your week.
"George?" you had asked one evening in Silverstone, holding two cups of tea. "Are you even listening?"
"Yeah, yeah. Two-tenths," he murmured, not looking up. "If I just adjust the differential shape for turn three, I can match his rotation."
You set the tea down, the warmth escaping from the mugs just as it had evaporated from your relationship. He wasn't just fighting Kimi on the track; he was fighting a ghost of his own expectations. He had been so sure the team was his, the car was his, and the title was his. Seeing a teenager take it from him was fracturing his ego, and you were the one taking the collateral damage.
The confrontation finally happened in the sterile, cramped confines of his driver's room after a grueling qualifying session in Hungary. Kimi had claimed pole position by a mere five-hundredths of a second. George was starting P3, his face a mask of barely suppressed rage as he tore off his racing balaclava.
You closed the heavy door behind you, the muffled roar of the paddock crowd fading into a tense silence.
"George, we need to talk. Right now," you said, your voice steady but carrying the weight of months of neglect. "You've been completely gone for weeks. Even when you're sitting right next to me, you aren't here. I know the championship is slipping away, but you're letting us slip away too."
George didn't look up immediately. He unzipped his race suit, letting it hang around his waist, his expression hardened by exhaustion and defensive pride.
"I am trying to win a world title," he said, his voice dangerously low, clipped and sharp. "Do you have any idea what the pressure is like right now? Kimi is capitalizing on every single mistake I make. The garage is shifting focus. I don't have the luxury of switching off and playing happy couples."
The words stung, but you held your ground. "I'm not asking you to switch off. I have never asked you to sacrifice your career. I'm asking you to remember that I am a human being who loves you. I'm your partner, George, not just a fixture in your hospitality suite. We haven't had a real conversation since Monaco. I'm living with a ghost."
George snapped. The frustration of the telemetry, the pressure from the media, and his own self-doubt culminated in a harsh, defensive roar.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have come this weekend!" he shouted, turning to face you fully, his eyes dark with anger. "If all you're going to do is demand my attention and drag me down when I'm trying to save my season, then why are you even here? I need focus. I don't need you holding me back!"
The silence that followed was deafening. The accusation hung in the air like poison. The realization that he viewed your love and presence as a burden, as something holding him back, was the final break.
You didn't yell back. You didn't cry. You simply looked at him, seeing a stranger in a racing suit.
"Okay," you whispered.
You picked up your handbag, walked past him without a second glance, and left the motorhome. You caught the first flight back to London that night, leaving your paddock pass on the kitchen counter of his apartment before packing a bag of your own things and moving into a hotel. You needed air. You needed to breathe without the suffocating weight of his ambition.
Three weeks passed. The summer break arrived, but the radio silence between you remained absolute. George plunged deeper into his isolation, convincing himself that the space was exactly what he needed. He told himself you were being unreasonable, that you didn't understand the brutal sacrifice required to be an F1 champion. He was convinced he was the victim of bad timing.
He was sitting in a secluded corner of a quiet cafe in Monaco, staring blankly at his laptop, when Alex Albon dropped into the seat directly across from him. Alex didn't have his usual easygoing, mischievous grin. He looked at George with a blunt, disappointed seriousness.
"You look like hell, mate," Alex said, skipping the pleasantries.
"Just training hard for Spa," George muttered, closing a spreadsheet of sector times. "Trying to clear my head."
Alex leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. "Where is she, George?"
George stiffened, knowing exactly who 'she' referred to. "We're taking some time apart. She was putting too much pressure on me during race weeks. I need to focus on catching Kimi. It was getting distracting."
Alex let out a sharp, disbelief filled laugh, shaking his head.
"Are you completely blind, or are you just choosing to be an idiot? Pressure? She has been your absolute rock for years. Who stood in the back of the garage when you were stuck at Williams, cheering for P15? Who handled your mood swings when strategies ruined your races? She protected you from the circus. And the moment the car isn't handing you wins on a silver platter, you push away the only person who actually cares about George the human being, not George the Mercedes driver."
George opened his mouth to defend himself, but Alex cut him off, his tone dropping into a fierce, protective gravity.
"Kimi isn't beating you because you have a relationship, George. He's beating you because he's driving better right now. You think you’re being some ruthless, cold-blooded champion by cutting people off, but you’re just being selfish. You took the one person who gave you unconditional safety and you threw them away because you couldn't handle losing. Don't ruin your life outside the paddock trying to prove a point to a garage that will replace you the second you stop driving fast."
Alex stood up, leaving his untouched coffee on the table. "Fix it. Because if you don't, you're going to win or lose that title completely alone. And trust me, a trophy doesn't keep you warm at night."
As Alex walked away, the carefully constructed wall of justification in George's mind completely shattered. The arrogance washed away, leaving behind a cold, hollow dread. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through your chat history. He looked at the messages from a month ago, words of encouragement, reminders to eat, expressions of love, all met with single-word replies or completely ignored.
He hadn't been focused. He had been cruel.
Winning you back wasn't going to be achieved with a flashy grand gesture, a bouquet of roses delivered by a courier, or a public apology. You had completely disengaged, changing your routine, protecting your peace after being discarded.
When George finally showed up at your new apartment building two weeks later, he didn't call ahead. He stood outside in the pouring rain, waiting for hours until you returned from work. When you saw him, his usual immaculate posture was gone. He looked completely defeated, his hair soaked, standing with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"Can I please just have five minutes?" he asked, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of his usual media-trained eloquence. "You don't even have to let me inside. Just let me speak."
You hesitated, looking at the genuine remorse etching lines into his face. You nodded slowly, stepping under the small awning of the building, keeping your distance.
"I am so deeply sorry," George began, his chest heaving. "Alex told me what a fool I was, but the truth is, I already knew it. The second I walked into an empty apartment, I knew it. I let the paranoia of losing get to my head. I looked at the championship slipping away and I panicked, and I took all my anger, my insecurity, and my failure out on the one person who deserved it least. You aren't a distraction. You're the only thing that makes all of this worth it. I don't expect you to forgive me today. I just... I needed you to know that I see what I did. I see how horribly I treated you."
You looked at him, feeling the familiar pull of affection, but the hurt was still too fresh.
"I'm glad you see it, George," you said quietly. "But apologies don't fix the fact that you threw me away when things got tough. I can't just jump back into being your emotional cushion. I need time to see if you're actually changing, or if you're just lonely because the racing season is on a break."
"I'll give you all the time you need," he promised desperately. "Whatever it takes."
He kept his word. Over the next month, George didn't smother you. He didn't bombard your phone with texts demanding answers. Instead, he showed up consistently, quietly, and entirely on your terms.
He sent small things—a specific book you had mentioned wanting to read, a coffee from your favorite local shop delivered to your office desk with no note attached other than his initials.
He flew back to London on a Tuesday night between back-to-back flyaway races just to sit with you on a park bench for forty-five minutes, completely forbidding any talk of motorsport or his career.
He listened. For the first time in a year, he asked about your day, your goals, and your feelings, actively dismantling the selfish barrier he had built.
By the time the autumn races arrived, Kimi had mathematically secured a massive point lead, making George's title hopes impossible for the year. But strangely, George didn't look broken. The desperate, angry edge to his demeanor had vanished. He was driving with a fluid, relaxed freedom again, securing clean podiums, but his mind was entirely focused on a different kind of victory.
On a quiet Friday evening during a rare off-week, your phone rang. It was George. His voice wasn't tense or hurried; it sounded grounded, warm, and nervous.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi, George," you replied, leaning back against your kitchen counter.
"I was wondering..." he paused, clearing his throat. "If you're free this Friday, would you allow me to take you out? A proper date. No paddock passes, no PR teams, no discussing tyre degradation or team strategy. Just... a first date. I want to start from absolute zero. No expectations. Just me trying to earn a chance to know you again."
You listened to the humility in his voice—the complete absence of the driver persona. This was the boy from Norfolk who had captured your heart before the world knew his name.
"Okay," you agreed softly, a small smile finally breaking through your caution. "A first date. But you're picking the place, and your phone stays in the glove box of the car the entire night."
"Deal," he said, a breath of pure relief escaping his lips. "I'll see you at seven."
That Friday, when he arrived at your door, he wasn't dressed in team kit or high-end designer gear meant for paddock arrivals. He wore a simple knit sweater and jeans. He didn't reach out to kiss you or hold your hand right away, entirely respecting the boundaries you had established over the painful weeks apart.
He took you to a small, unassuming, dimly lit Italian restaurant tucked away in a corner of London where no one recognized him. As you sat across from each other, navigating the familiar but cautious territory of a new beginning, the conversation flowed naturally. The laughter returned, slow at first, then filling the space between you until the coldness of the past months completely melted away.
For George, looking at you across the candlelit table, the championship standings faded into absolute insignificance. He had lost the world title, but as your hand tentatively slid across the white tablecloth to rest over his, he knew he had won back the only thing that actually mattered.
When you close the door - mv3
𖤓 He left you waiting. For three years. For birthdays and promises and "I'll call you"s that never came. Then he missed your birthday for a sponsor dinner and you stopped waiting. A year later, he shows up at your door. He says he loves you. He says he's sorry. He says he'll wait. You have to decide if some doors are worth opening again.
𖤓 max verstappen x fem!reader, angst, ambiguous ending, emotional unavailability
𖤓 warnings: being someone's second choice, a year of silence, one door, no happy ending (but also no sad ending? it's just… an ending)
𖤓 wc: 8,000
𖤓 note: my first time writing for max so pls be nice to me!! idk what to call this genre either. it's not fluff, it's not really sad, it's just… that feeling when someone finally shows up and you don't know if it's too late or if you're just too tired to find out.
𖤓 listen to: "the night we met" by lord huron while reading this or "exile" by taylor swift ft. bon iver. or just sit in silence and feel things. i'm not your mum.
Abu Dhabi at the end of the season smells like champagne and regret.
You've been here before. Too many times. Standing in the shadow of the podium, watching him celebrate, watching him forget you exist until the cameras turn off and the crowd thins and he remembers that you're still here. Still waiting. Still stupid enough to believe that this time might be different.
The paddock is emptying out. Trucks are being loaded. Engineers are saying goodbye, slapping each other on the back, promising to see each other in a few weeks for winter testing. Everyone is tired. Everyone is ready to go home.
You don't know where home is anymore.
Max finds you in the back hallway of the paddock, his driver's room already packed up, his flight already scheduled, his eyes already somewhere else. He's still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, his fireproofs clinging to his chest. There's champagne in his hair. There's a medal around his neck.
He looks like everything you've ever wanted and everything you've learned not to need.
"You're leaving," you say. It's not a question.
"Early flight." He rubs the back of his neck. "You know how it is."
You know how it is. You've always known how it is. There's always a flight, a race, a simulator session, a sponsor dinner, a thousand things that matter more than you. And you've always understood. You've always been the easy one. The one who doesn't make a fuss. The one who smiles and says "it's fine" and means it less every time.
"Okay," you say. "Safe flight."
He hesitates. For half a second, something flickers across his face — guilt, maybe. Or recognition. Or just exhaustion.
"I'll call you," he says.
You nod.
You've heard that before too.
The thing about Max is that he's not cruel.
That's what makes it so hard.
If he were cruel, you could hate him. If he forgot your birthday, if he snapped at you, if he made you feel small on purpose — you could walk away and never look back. But he doesn't do any of that. He remembers your birthday. He sends flowers. He texts you after every race — good race, sorry I was busy, thinking of you.
He's not cruel.
He's just not there.
And there's a difference, you're learning. A person can be kind and still leave you hollow. A person can mean well and still make you feel like you're disappearing. A person can love you — or something like it — and still never choose you first.
You met Max three years ago, at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were working for a hospitality company, the kind of job that put you in rooms with important people and expected you to smile and pour champagne and not exist too loudly. He was already a world champion. Already a name. Already the kind of person who walked into a room and sucked all the air out of it.
You didn't expect him to notice you.
But he did.
He asked for your number. Called you the next day. Showed up at your apartment with takeaway and a story about a simulator session that had gone wrong. He was awkward in the way that very famous people sometimes are — unsure how to be normal, unsure how to exist in a space where no one wanted anything from him.
You liked that about him. The awkwardness. The way he looked at you like you were the first person who'd treated him like a person in months.
"You're different," he said, that first night. "You don't want anything from me."
You laughed. "I don't know what I'd even want."
He smiled. It was small and private and it made your chest hurt.
"Exactly," he said.
The first year was easy.
Or maybe it wasn't easy — maybe you just didn't notice the cracks because you were too busy falling. He was attentive. He made time. He flew you to races, introduced you to his family, let you wear his jacket in the garage when the air conditioning was too cold.
You thought you were building something.
You didn't realize you were just… fitting into his life. Not building together. Just existing in the spaces he left empty.
The first time he canceled on you, it was for a sponsor dinner. You understood. Of course you understood. He was a world champion. He had obligations. You weren't going to be the girlfriend who complained about that.
"Next time," he said. "I promise."
You believed him.
The second time was a simulator session. Urgent, last-minute, something about setup changes. He sounded stressed on the phone, distracted, already halfway out the door.
"It's fine," you said. "Go."
"You're the best," he said. "I'll make it up to you."
He never did.
Not because he forgot — Max doesn't forget things. But because there was always something else. Another race. Another obligation. Another person who needed him more than you did.
And you let it happen. You let yourself become small. You stopped asking for things because asking felt like begging, and you refused to beg anyone to love you.
The second year was harder.
You started noticing things. The way he'd check his phone during dinner. The way he'd say "I love you" like it was punctuation, not poetry. The way he'd hold you at night but his mind was already somewhere else — already in the next race, the next season, the next thing he had to win.
You tried to talk to him about it.
"Are we okay?" you asked, one night in Monaco, after a race you'd watched from the garage, standing in the corner where no one would ask you to move.
He looked up from his phone. "What do you mean?"
"Us. I feel like… I don't know. Like I'm not a priority."
He put his phone down. His face was open, confused, genuinely trying to understand.
"Of course you're a priority," he said.
"Then why do I feel like I'm always waiting for you?"
He didn't have an answer.
Neither did you.
The almosts started to pile up.
Almost stayed for dinner. Almost called when he said he would. Almost chose you over a sponsor dinner, a media day, a flight he could have taken later.
You started keeping track without meaning to. A mental list. Evidence, maybe, for a case you didn't want to win.
Abu Dhabi, Year 2: He left the afterparty early to walk you back to your hotel. You thought maybe — but then his phone rang, and he took the call, and you walked the rest of the way alone.
Monaco, Year 2: You were crying in his driver's room after a bad race — not his, yours. Something at work, something stupid, something you should have been able to handle. He held you for exactly three minutes. Then he had to go to a meeting.
Spa, Year 2: He said "I love you" first. For the first time. You were standing in the rain, umbrella broken, both of you soaked. He kissed your forehead and said it like it was easy. You said it back. You meant it. You're still not sure if he did.
The thing you never told anyone — not your friends, not your family, not even yourself on the nights you couldn't sleep — was that you were scared of being easy to leave.
Because Max had left people before. Not cruelly. Not dramatically. He just… moved on. Outgrew them. Forgot to call. And you saw yourself in their faces sometimes — the old friends who didn't come to races anymore, the exes no one mentioned, the people who had loved him and been loved back, briefly, before becoming someone he used to know.
You didn't want to be someone he used to know.
So you stayed small. You stayed quiet. You stayed.
And he kept not noticing.
The betrayal wasn't dramatic.
That's what made it hurt.
It was your birthday. You'd been together for two years. You'd spent both birthdays with him — the first in Monaco, takeaway and a cake he'd clearly bought that morning, the second in the paddock, quick and rushed and forgotten the second the race started.
This year, you'd made plans. Nothing big. Just dinner. Just the two of you. He'd promised.
"I'll be there," he said, three days before. "I cleared my schedule."
You believed him. Because you always believed him. Because hope was a disease and you'd stopped trying to cure it.
The day came. You put on a dress. You lit candles. You waited.
He texted at 7:42 PM.
So sorry. Something came up. Rain check?
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone screen glowed in the dark of your apartment. The candles flickered. The food got cold.
Something came up.
You didn't ask what. You didn't want to know. You didn't want to hear about a meeting, a call, a crisis that mattered more than you. You didn't want to be understanding anymore.
You texted back: Okay.
Just that. Okay.
He didn't respond.
The next morning, you scrolled through Instagram and saw a story. Max, at a restaurant, with some people you didn't recognize. Laughing. Drinking. Looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
Something came up.
You turned off your phone. You went back to bed. You didn't cry — you were too tired for crying. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling something inside you shift.
Not break. Not snap. Just… shift.
Like a door closing. Quietly. Without drama.
You didn't confront him.
That's what surprised you. A year ago, you would have called. Would have asked for an explanation, a justification, a reason to keep believing. You would have fought for him.
But you were tired. So tired. And somewhere along the way, you'd stopped believing that fighting meant anything to someone who never had to fight for you.
He called three days later. You let it ring.
He texted: You okay? Haven't heard from you.
You typed: I'm fine. Just busy.
You didn't send it.
You deleted it and put your phone in a drawer and went for a walk. The city was cold. Your breath fogged in front of you. You walked until your feet hurt and then you walked some more.
You thought about the last three years. The almosts. The cancellations. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who laughed too loud, who asked for what she wanted, who didn't know how to make herself smaller because she'd never had to.
You wondered if you could find her again.
You didn't break up with him.
That's the other thing you never told anyone. There was no conversation, no tearful goodbye, no moment of closure. You just… stopped reaching. And he didn't notice.
Or maybe he did notice. Maybe he felt the distance and chose not to close it. Maybe he was relieved — relieved that you'd finally stopped expecting things from him, finally stopped being someone who needed to be chosen.
You'll never know.
Because you stopped asking.
The messages slowed. The calls stopped. His name appeared on your phone less and less. And then, one day, you realized you hadn't spoken in three weeks.
You didn't call.
Neither did he.
The year without him was strange.
Not bad. Not good. Just… different. You had to relearn how to exist without waiting. Without checking your phone. Without planning your schedule around someone who never showed up.
Your friends noticed the change.
"You seem lighter," one of them said, six months in. "Like you're not holding your breath anymore."
You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath.
But you had. For years. Waiting for him to choose you, to show up, to prove that you mattered as much as the races and the trophies and the endless parade of obligations. Waiting for him to look at you and see something worth staying for.
You stopped waiting.
You started living. Small things at first — coffee with friends, a new hobby, a trip you'd been putting off. Then bigger things. A new job. A new apartment. A new understanding of what you deserved.
You thought about him less.
Not never. Just… less. He'd appear in your mind sometimes — at night, when you couldn't sleep, or in moments that reminded you of him. A song. A scent. A sunset that looked like the one in Monaco.
But the ache was duller now. An old wound, not a fresh one.
You started to think you might be okay.
He texted you eleven months after your birthday.
Out of nowhere. No context. Just your name.
Hey.
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone felt heavy in your hand. Your heart did something stupid — something that felt like hope, even after everything.
You didn't respond.
Not because you were angry. Not because you didn't want to. Because you didn't know what to say. Hey felt like too much and not enough. Hey felt like the beginning of something you weren't sure you wanted to start.
Hey felt like him, after all this time, still not knowing how to show up properly.
You put your phone down. You went back to your life.
He didn't text again.
He showed up at your door on a Tuesday.
No warning. No text. Just a knock, steady and insistent, the kind of knock that said I'm not leaving until you answer.
You looked through the peephole and felt your stomach drop.
Max.
He looked different. Thinner, maybe. More tired. His hair was longer, curling at the edges. He was wearing a hoodie you didn't recognize and jeans that looked like he'd slept in them.
You opened the door.
"Hey," he said.
His voice was hoarse. Like he'd been rehearsing what to say and still hadn't figured it out.
"Hey," you said back.
The silence stretched. He shifted his weight. Stuffed his hands in his pockets. Pulled them out again.
"Can I come in?"
You should have said no. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to say no. He left. He didn't call. He missed your birthday and didn't even remember to apologize. He let you disappear from his life and didn't come looking until now, a year later, when it was convenient for him.
But there was something in his face — something small and scared and unfamiliar — that made you step aside.
"Okay," you said.
He walked in. Looked around. Your new apartment, your new life, the spaces you'd filled without him.
"It's different," he said.
"Yeah."
"Good different."
"Yeah."
He stopped in the middle of your living room. Turned to face you. His hands were shaking. You'd never seen Max's hands shake before. They were always steady — on the wheel, on the podium, on the rare occasions he'd touched you.
"I fucked up," he said.
You waited.
"I know I fucked up. I know I —" He stopped. Rubbed his face. "I don't have an excuse. I don't have a reason. I just… I didn't know how to —"
He stopped again.
You didn't help him. You just stood there, arms crossed, watching him struggle.
"I thought about you every day," he said finally. "Every single day. And I still didn't call. I don't know why. I don't — I'm not good at this."
"Good at what?"
"Being… there. Being present. Being someone who stays."
The words hung in the air.
You thought about the last three years. The cancellations. The almosts. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room. The way he'd let you.
"Why now?" you asked.
He looked at you. Really looked. Like he was trying to memorize your face.
"Because I can't —" He exhaled. "I can't keep pretending I don't care. I can't keep pretending you don't matter. You matter. You've always mattered. I'm just —"
He stopped.
"You're just what?"
He didn't answer.
You waited.
He sat on your couch.
You stayed standing.
He looked up at you, and for a moment, he looked young. Not like a world champion. Not like someone who'd won everything there was to win. Just someone who didn't know how to say what he meant.
"I was scared," he said.
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of this. Of how much I —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never been good at letting people in. You know that. You've always known that."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know."
"It's been a year, Max."
"I know."
"You didn't call. You didn't text. You didn't show up to my birthday and you didn't even —"
"I know."
You stopped. Took a breath.
"Why are you here?"
He looked at his hands. Then at you. Then back at his hands.
"I miss you," he said.
The words were quiet. Barely audible. Like he was confessing something he'd never said out loud.
"I miss you," he said again. "I miss the way you laugh. I miss the way you'd roll your eyes at me when I talked too much about racing. I miss falling asleep next to you. I miss waking up and knowing you were there."
You didn't say anything.
"I miss you," he said. "And I don't know how to — I don't know if I deserve to ask for another chance. I probably don't. But I can't — I can't keep living like this. Pretending I'm fine when I'm not. Pretending I don't think about you every single day."
You thought about the year you'd spent learning to live without him. The nights you'd cried. The mornings you'd woken up reaching for someone who wasn't there. The moment you'd finally stopped checking your phone for his name.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who waited, who hoped, who believed that if she just loved him enough, he'd learn to stay.
She was still in there somewhere. Fainter now. But still there.
"What do you want from me?" you asked.
He looked at you. His eyes were wet.
"Everything," he said. "I want everything. I want — I should have said it before. I should have said it a hundred times. I love you. I love you and I'm sorry and I don't — I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know."
The silence was heavy.
You could feel yourself at a crossroads. One path led back to him — to the familiar ache, the waiting, the hoping. The other led forward — alone, but whole. Not healed, maybe. But not bleeding anymore.
You thought about the door you'd closed in your chest a year ago. The one you'd locked and bolted and told yourself you'd never open again.
He was asking you to open it.
"I love you," he said again. "I've always loved you. I just didn't know how to show it."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And you made your choice.
"Okay," you said.
He blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay. You said what you needed to say."
He waited. Hoping, maybe, for more.
You didn't give it to him.
"I'm not going to tell you it's fine," you said. "Because it's not. You hurt me. You left. You didn't call. And I spent a year learning how to live without you."
"I know."
"I don't know if I can go back to the way things were."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
He stood up. Walked toward you. Stopped a few feet away — close enough to touch, far enough to give you space.
"I'm asking for a chance," he said. "Not to fix things. Not to pretend the last year didn't happen. Just… a chance. To show up. To try."
You thought about it.
You thought about the almosts. The cancellations. The birthday you spent alone. The way he'd let you disappear without a fight.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who would have said yes without thinking. The one who would have opened her arms and let him back in and pretended the last year didn't hurt.
She wasn't gone. But she wasn't in charge anymore.
"I need to think," you said.
He nodded. "Okay."
"That's not a yes."
"I know."
"That's not a no either."
He nodded again. "I know."
You walked to the door. Held it open.
He walked toward you. Paused in the doorway. Looked at you with an expression you couldn't name — hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
"I'll wait," he said. "However long it takes. I'll wait."
You didn't answer.
He stepped through the door.
You closed it behind him.
You didn't lock it.
You didn't open it either.
You stood there, hand on the wood, listening to his footsteps fade. They stopped halfway down the hall. He was waiting. Giving you time. Giving you space.
You could open the door. You could call him back. You could let him in and see what happened.
Or you could walk away. Go to bed. Wake up tomorrow and keep living the life you'd built without him.
You didn't know which choice was right.
Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Maybe that was the point.
You took your hand off the door. Walked to your bedroom. Sat on the edge of your bed and stared at the wall.
In the hallway, you heard him exhale.
Then footsteps. Fading. Fainter. Gone.
You didn't know if he'd come back.
You didn't know if you wanted him to.
You lay down. Pulled the covers up to your chin. Stared at the ceiling.
The apartment was quiet.
The door was closed.
And somewhere, in the space between what you'd lost and what you might still find, you let yourself breathe.
SIX MONTHS LATER
You're at a coffee shop when you see him.
Not Max. Someone who looks like him. Same build, same jaw, same way of moving through a room like he owned it.
Your heart does something stupid.
Then you realize it's not him, and your heart settles.
You order your coffee. You sit by the window. You watch people walk by.
Your phone buzzes.
A text. From a number you haven't saved but still recognize.
I'm in town. Can we talk?
You stare at the screen.
The coffee grows cold.
You think about the door. The hallway. The way he'd said "I'll wait" like he meant it.
You think about the girl you used to be. The girl who waited. The girl who hoped.
You think about the person you are now.
You type: Maybe.
You don't send it.
You delete it.
You type: When?
You stare at the word.
Then you delete that too.
You put your phone in your pocket. Drink your cold coffee. Watch the rain start to fall.
He doesn't text again.
Neither do you.
The door is still closed.
You're the one who decides if it opens.
TELLING F1 BOYFRIEND YOU'RE READY FOR YOUR FIRST TIME
( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ let’s talk )
★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ★ : genre :: mature crack; fluff
©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.
★ : a/n :: ignore the typos, comments, thoughts and reblogs are appreciated! i got a request for this :") but i lost the ask. anyway hi!! how is everyone
Lando’s Luna pt 1
❤︎ |5,7k| Summary: Lando and Y/n are fated mates and meet in the paddock. Their connection is strong but Lando’s alpha instincts are difficult to control.
Kinder bars and Kisses
Summary ━━━━━ Lando gets his wisdom teeth removed and is being a baby about it. Luckily he’s got y/n to feed him kinder bars and give him kisses.
just you ✶ ln1 (18+)
after the disastrous race that was the canadian gp, lando tells you that he doesn't want any comfort – just you.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.9k ୨୧ warnings : language, SMUT (oral, püssydrunk!lando, overstimulation (a little bit), cöckwarming, semi-public), nicknames (princess) ୨୧ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series.
the hotel door clicked shut with a small, trembling force as lando closed it behind him. the ride back to the hotel was tense and quiet. you could tell his team was sitting on the edge as lando refused to talk after his media duties had concluded.
you're honestly surprised he was able to have such a smile on his face after a disaster of race you all had just witnessed. but you knew lando just needed a moment. you figured a nice shower together and some time in bed would be enough to bring him back down from the hurricane that was currently rolling around in his head.
Till Death Do us Part | One of Two
Pairing: lando norris x wedding planner!reader
Description: You're planning the wedding of the decade—Max Fewtrell and Pietra Pilão's summer celebration at Villa d'Este on Lake Como. Forty-seven page vision documents, destination logistics, and a bride who knows exactly what she wants. You can handle it. What you can't handle is their best man: Lando Norris, fresh off a breakup, he's arrogant, he's relentless, he doesn't take no for an answer, and he's decided that making your job harder is his new favorite pastime. You just want to execute the perfect wedding, he simply just wants you.
Genre: wedding planner x best man, he's down bad immediately, all of the tropes, "are you single?" on first meeting, why are we soooo horny, rom-com meets porn, unresolved ending, ANGST, cheeky norris
Notes: um, idk, sorry ive been mia for months, hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it!
WC: 17.5k
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.