rizzo the rat you have to stop. your baseball cap too classic. your letterman jacket too cunt. your blinding lights by the weeknd cover too perfect. your swag is too tboy...rizzo the rat they'll kill you.
fanfiction etiquette is practically nonexistent nowadays because why are YOUUU monetizing your fanfiction and putting it behind a paywall??? this is clearly some of yall’s first fandom i need anne rice to rise from her grave and smack some sense into yall
summary: there are many different types of love languages and yours happens to be being mean to your boyfriend and his is being freaky, the fanbase isn’t sure what to make of it
warnings: sexual innuendos
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maxverstappen1
liked by yourusername, lando, danielriccardo and others
maxverstappen1 we didn’t get married in vegas sadly
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yourusername you look like a dumbass, a cute and sexy one but a dumbass nonetheless
maxverstappen3 thank you :D
yourusername weirdo
maxverstappen3 i like it when you’re mean to me schat it’s literally so hot like
yourusername wow i really am dating a weirdo who likes ts
maxverstappen3 literally hard rn btw
user1 max always being so sweet and kind and nice to yn and then she’s just out here calling him names like eww
user2 hey so it’s their relationship and not every relationship has to be overly sweet and lovey dovey people’s love language can differ
danielriccardo literally had to lock the two of you in a room just so your wouldn’t get married but then y’all started making a baby
yourusername well you should’ve just let us get married
maxverstappen1 we could’ve been mr and mrs verstappen ln right now if it wasn’t for you
danielriccardo well sorry for wanting my friends to have a proper wedding and not one officiated by an elvis impersonator
maxverstappen1 well that might just be the reason you’ll become an uncle soon lol
yourusername yeah max and i were a little slow (drunk) that night iykyk
danielriccardo should’ve just let y’all get married
user3 max casually mentioning that yn might be pregnant is crazy work btw
user4 i hope not he deserves a better girl than someone who almost always keeps insulting him
lando the two of you sicken me ( in a bad way btw) i’m tired of y’all
yourusername then don’t hangout with us for the free food lano
maxverstappen1 what she said because she’s always right
lando you two are too freaky for me to handle it’s pule inducing
yourusername again refer to my too comment child
maxverstappen1 you’re so hot when you’re yelling at other schat
yourusername ditch training and come to be rn
maxverstappen1 yes ma’am
lando ew
user5 yn making us all aware that max has a degrading kink is so fucking funny to me like media training who?
user6 it’s not cute it’s annoying but you crazy yn stans will always defend and like ewwwwwww
user7 love how lando is yn and max’ practice child who hates it when his parents get all touchy
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yourusername
liked by maxverstappen1, kikagomes, danielriccardo and others
yourusername me and the idiot i chose to date 🎀
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user1 since you’re always calling him an idiot you clearly don’t want him i’ll treat him better come to me maxie
yourusername um first of all no and if you feel this way don’t interact with my posts second of all blocked
maxverstappen1 i like it when she calls me an idiot so random person you don’t get to say anything to her
user2 love how both max and yn basically told this prrson to fuck off like yass you go
maxverstappen1 forever your idiot schat and forever glad you chose to date me
yourusername as you should be my love! that night fs was one of the weirdest of my life but it gave me you and that’s what matters
maxverstappen1 your car was just a piece of metal i remember and yet you wouldn’t take anyone’s help and i was so mesmerized
yourusername awww 🥰 that’s so sweet that you remember that even if i looked like crap
maxverstappen1 nonsense you could never look like crap schat
yourusername whatever you say idiot
user3 i want whatever max and yn have! like ik some of you bitches be calling them toxic but they’re literally the realest couple and i will always stand by this
danieleiccardo you’re drinking?!?!? why?!?!
yourusername why do you have a problem with me drinking bro that’s not nice
maxverstappen1 yeah danny why do you have a problem with her drinking
danielriccardo because you guys were literally hinting to a pregnancy on the last post and we don’t live in the eighties anymore!!
yourusername ohhh rightt… well we don’t really have any comfirmation yet
maxverstappen1 besides this photo is like a couple weeks old
user4 i was just thinking about how yn might be having a baby and then danny brought it up and max and yn still managed to not tell us anything
user5 probably because people on this app as crazy enough at is and they probs don’t want people wishing ill upon them
kikagomes you look ethereal in the first picture i’m in love!!
yourusername ahh thank you!!! i was doing a photoshoot lol
user6 “she’s so mean why is she with max” meanwhile her being the best person and gf ever… YN THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU
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maxverstappen1
liked by yourusername, danielriccardo, charles_leclerc and others
maxverstappen1 what winning off track looks like
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user1 yn in the first slide omg!!! that’s so fucking hot wtf wtf i’m in live with her at this point
yourusername my favourite idiot ever
maxverstappen1 and being that is my most favourite job ever because i get to win it everyday
yourusername sometimes you make it really hard for me to be mean to you babe
maxverstappen1 you just make me hard
yourusername okay idiot whatever
maxverstappen1 hawttt
user2 i love how yn is always kinda mean to max and all it does is make him hard and he just says
user3 no no real! i media training is scared of max and yn and i love that for them
lando i feel victimized every time i come across your posts like that is more of yn than i ever wanted to see
maxverstappen1 okay i’ll block you and cancle all of your padel sessions then ig because clearly that’s what you want
lando i did not even say that stop twisting my words omg
yourusername no no lando you’ve made it ceey clear that you hate us and our love it’s ok we can part ways now
lando why are you guys targeting me like this guys come on
maxverstappen1 i love doing this
yourusername no lando don’t be sad we still love you dw
lando :)
user4 yn being nicer to lando than to max is so fucking funny to me
user5 she’s like lando’s annoying big sister and he’s her annoying little brother and i love that
danielriccardo you guys are like the weirdest couple ever but my favourite smhw
maxverstappen1 because we’re not boring and lovey dovey we’re mean and freaky
yourusername you left me alone in bed so you could reply to danny you idiot
maxverstappen1 sorry schat but i needed you to yell at me to feel something
danielriccardo okay im going to leave you guys alone
yourusername at this rate we’ll have max jr soon enough
PAIRING: oscar piastri x mercedes!f1 driver!fem!reader
SUMMARY: it's 2025. and your 'new year, new me' is about your debut as the first woman in formula one in over thirty years. busy with moving and training, you aren't focused on the past. but things seem to take a turn when hattie relays some new information about a good old friend.
WARNINGS: fluff, angst, sexism (ik it's so early srry), f1 politics, poor humour, bad engineering takes, mention of crashing and injuries
A/N: here it is!! the first chapter. it's a bit tame but i want you to get a feel for the reader! the slowburn will be slowburning if yk what i mean! i'm so excited ngl. anyways, enjoy!! ♡︎
🏎️ masterlist | ⚽️ masterlist | 🦋 heart of chambers
People often asked you, "Why racing?"
Why not anything else?
At first, a part of you wondered, "Isn't it obvious?"
The thrill of going over three hundred kilometres per hour while your organs basically lifted inside your body and you learned how to hold your breath with a force that was almost eight times your weight... what wasn't exciting about that?
But then you thought about it. You thought back to when you were four years old, standing outside your auntie's garage, warm sun beating down on you, your stubby fingers wrapped around your small rabbit plushie. You were in a daze, entranced at the small flickers of sparks coming from her car as she leaned over the open hood. You had no idea what she was doing.
You watched with big eyes as she leaned back up, body turning towards over you, flicking open the visor of her mask. She waved you down, beckoning you to come over. So, you did, clutching your plushie tightly. She smiled at you, removing her thick gloves before grabbing you by the waist, hoisting you into her lap.
"You wanna see something cool?" She queried, waggling her brows at you.
You pursed your lips, nodding slowly. You carefully followed her finger pointing to the large dark hunk of metal near the centre of the car. “This,” she murmured, tresses of her hair tickling your cheek as she shifted, "is the heart of a car."
"The heart?" You queried slowly, eyeing the boxy figure with a tilted head.
She nodded, "It's called the engine. It turns the heat from the gas into a force that pushes its wheels," she explained, grinning at the lost look on your face. She hummed, pulling on a thoughtful expression before moving her finger to your chest, resting the digit slightly to the left of your sternum. "Just like how your heart gives you blood to move."
You pursed your lips, still looking at this so called 'engine,' unable to take your eyes off of it. You didn’t understand much of what you were looking at. But one thing was for sure, it was intricate, even if you didn't know it. Complex yet simple. A function and a purpose.
It was simply beautiful.
And that was the birth of your love for racing. An engine.
It developed, of course. As years passed, you learned how it worked, how they were made, the different types. The moment it clicked, however, was two years later when your aunt had brought you to a karting track. She explained the engine to you again and by the time you had put a foot on the pedal nearby, you were off. And the newfound love for the wind in your hair, the slight force against your body as you turned, and the hum in your chest as you overtook other kids had begun.
And now your answer to that question was, "The life an engine brings."
The decision to race for the rest of your life wasn’t particularly easy. As a child, you didn't know what that particular sacrifice meant. But your aunt had looked at those medals and trophies you had collated from karting and said, "Become someone."
That had birthed your dream.
The first woman to ever win a Formula One championship.
There were times you had thought it was a stupid goddamn dream. In a room almost full of boys, it was a struggle. Every remark from journalists that asked, "Can you really make it?" or "Aren't you too emotional for this sport?" It made you question yourself.
But as you stood on the stage, in 2024, at the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony and held that Formula Two Championship trophy for the second time with a signed contract with Mercedes, you swore to yourself you stand here again. No matter how long it took.
You were in your newly furnished apartment, courtesy of your team and Mercedes. The morning sun still beamed through your windows and over the multitude of boxes you had yet to unpack. With your legs folded on your sheet-covered couch, you snorted at the video Isack had sent you, a video of him managing to slip in the gym.
"Are you not supposed to be training with Alia?" A voice queried from the kitchen, belonging to your beloved your full-time co-manager and begrudgingly part-time publicist, Catherine. She had been organising your upcoming schedule for the following year, seeing as you had been done with post-season training for two weeks now.
Your first course of action hadn't been anything relaxing. You were in Monaco because that was something F1 drivers did apparently; evade capitalism.
You still couldn't believe it.
You. A Formula One driver.
You had pinched yourselves one too many times to see if this was real. And it was. You were here. And you were one step closer to it all.
You tipped your head back onto the couch, staring at Catherine blankly from an unbecoming position. "I'm hiding from her," you sighed, putting your phone down to the side. "She's mentioned this high protein oatmeal thing and honestly, if I look at another single grain of that shit, I will projectile vomit."
Alia was the sweetest person you had ever met. Kind-hearted, optimistic, and never a quitter. She also happened to be your personal trainer. Yay!
Catherine rolled her eyes, spinning the pen in her hand between her fingers. "You're going to need it for this season, you know," she murmured, writing down yet another event you probably had to attend to. Your social media had been rapidly increasing over the past few years, but they had been going through the roof ever since your seat had been announced. Mounds of brands and people had been reaching out to you. And for almost all of them you couldn't care less.
There was only one thing you cared about. Well, two if you counted your goal. You had promised yourself that you would never ever lose yourself. You knew where you came from. You knew where you stood. Those values belonged to you.
"I know. I've been doing it for two years now," you huffed, recalling exactly when Alia had decided to up your training and turn the line between athlete and monster paper thin. The trainings had gotten harder, the weights heavier, the force levels higher than anything the younger drivers were experiencing. And for someone who loathed working out, it was a lot.
“Well then can you use your energy to unpack? I can see the future from here. It'll be pre-season, and you'll still have your trophies in this box,” Catherine grumbled, pointing her pen at the box that had 'trophiesssss' written over it.
You groaned, falling on the side of your body, letting the couch embrace you. "Why can't I just have a dad who has an old apartment in Monaco?" You sighed, voice muffled.
"One, because not everyone's Ollie. And secondly, your parents pretty much orphaned you and thirdly, you’d send your poor aunt into cardiac arrest."
You glared at her lightly, cheek smashed into the couch. You leaned up with a strained huff, arms pushing yourself up. "You should be happy I didn't record that," you sassed back, narrowed eyes flickering the familiar name sprawled across the screen of your phone. You grunted, fully moving to sit straight before swiping right.
"Auntie!" You chorused, wide smile painting your face.
"Hey, sweetie. How's Monaco treating you? Better than Australia?"
You snorted to yourself. "Well, I'm no Monégasque princess but the reception did a whole welcoming and everything. I have a gift basket with chocolate worth more than six months' pay," you chuckled.
"Ah," she murmured, the grin evident in her voice. "The best kind, huh?"
You hummed, letting a small minute of silence fall over the both of you. It was mostly comfortable but slightly unnerving. As if reality was beginning to hit you. You were in Monaco. Alone. Without her. The only person you had found constant support and care in.
"I wish you were here," you whispered, catching the sympathetic smile from Catherine across you.
"I wish I could," she responded with a small sigh. "But with the kids and the wedding—"
"I know, I know," you quickly interjected. "I don't want to take that away from you. I'm so happy for you. And I can't wait to be there."
Your auntie, who you both thought would never get married and have kids, was currently doing both. Pregnant with twins and with a July wedding this year. You could never ask her to come to Monaco with you. The idea was terrifying on its own. But you were fine. You were 'adulting' or whatever that meant. This... This was nothing compared to what you had gone through to get here.
"I'm gonna have to go, sweetie. But just keep updating me, yeah? Let me know you're okay, hmm?"
You smiled gently, nodding even though she couldn’t see. "I will. You as well, okay. Down to every kick," you huffed.
You could hear your auntie laugh, agreeing before she hung up. You sighed quietly, quiet waves of your apartment echoing back to you, body resting into the couch before leaning up straight, hands resting onto your thighs. “Okay. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding from Alia, you groaned, standing up.
Catherine gave you a knowing glance, spotting your tense expression in seconds. "Don't push it. It'll be you telling Jenson why you're in hospital with a sprained leg, not me."
"Yeah, yeah," you chuckled quietly, grabbing your gym bag that you had packed earlier in the morning. The smile on your face slowly dropped as you left your apartment, a gnawing ache low in your heart. You blinked, shaking your head to yourself, fingers tightening on the strap.
It would be okay.
You were here now. A Mercedes Formula One driver. The person who replaced the Sir Lewis Hamilton.
Pressure? Pfft... what pressure?
Nothing could deter you now.
You sighed as you came to a stop in midst of Monaco, chest heaving harshly as you tried to catch your breath, heart beating in your ears while sweat dripped from your skin. The crisp winter air did little to cool you down from your run. You looked at your wrist, eyes skimming over your heart rate and the kilometres. You grunted at the double digits. You hated running with an absurd profound passion.
You furrowed your brows as another familiar name sprawled across your watch, eliciting a grin to curve into your face.
Hattie Piastri.
Yes, the Hattie Piastri that so happened to be Oscar Piastri's, your co-worker, younger sister. A long time friend of yours. Hattie, that is. Her brother... well, a joint trouble occasionally attached to her hip.
You still remembered your first meeting. Clayton South, Australia. 2011. You were seven. She was nine. He was ten.
It was still sunny this time of year, the Aussie rays somewhat tame compared to its peak. Trees littered the edges of the barricaded track while light poles loomed in strategically placed spots, providing the support to those dedicated even in the depths of the night. Kids around your age, or boys, were sprawled near the entrance of the track and the smell of fuel and asphalt lingered in the air.
Your aunt who had mostly kept her hands on your shoulders to stop you from running around had finally let go, falling into a conversation with some nearby parents. So, you took the chance, creeping towards the empty karts that had been calling your name the moment you laid eyes on them. You weren't alone in your endeavours. All the other kids had done the same.
Silently edging towards the bright coloured kart, you bent down lightly, your racing gear crumpling as you did. Eyeing the chassis, you looked at the engine offset to the right of the kart, covered various materials.
You smiled to yourself lightly, eyes big and wide. The heart.
"Are you racing?" A small voice queried to the side of you, making you stand back up, turning your head to a light-brown haired boy and a similarly faced girl next to him.
You tilted your head to the girl who had asked the question and nodded silently, making eyes grow large with excitement. You blinked as she squealed, hands clapping quickly before she grabbed your shoulders and shook you. "A girl driver! Isn't that so cool, Osc?"
Your eyes swiftly swept to the boy. His hair was a bit clipped; cheeks slightly flushed in the way that was natural. His eyes simmered with a calmness beyond you. Nothing you could really decipher at the age of seven. He clearly had some experience, a few years old than you.
You knew boys his age. You had met them before. Some quiet, some loud. But all with the same question: how could a girl race?
And you braced that same judgement with a cold face. But to your surprise, you didn't need it. Not when the boy nodded, not with any particular interest, but he did. "It's cool," he agreed.
You bit back the guarded comment you had rested on the tip of your tongue, blinking blankly at him. You could hear the inflictions in his tone. No sneer or amusement. He genuinely thought it was cool you were racing.
Huh... interesting.
Your eyes flew to the hand stretched out in front of you before flickering to the girl with your brow raised. "I'm Hattie! And this is my brother Oscar! He races, obviously," she exclaimed, pointing at the same gear you were both wearing. She grinned at you, "Do you want to be friends?"
Somewhat shocked at her directness, you found yourself returning the gesture, shaking her hand. A friend. You hadn't had one of those before. At least not really. But when you took a few glimpses of the bleak track, you thought you’d need one. You parted your lips. "I'm ___."
"___," Hattie sounded out before nodding as she retracted her hand. She pursed her lips, energy still thrumming within her. "Is this your first time racing like Oscar?"
You blinked again in surprise, eyes drifting to her now slightly embarrassed brother, reddened ears a dead giveaway. This was his first time? By the looks of him, you thought he had already done a few years.
"I raced radio-controlled cars before," Oscar explained briefly, making you nod in understanding and intrigue. RC cars, huh? You supposed everyone had to start from somewhere.
"This is my second year," you simply said. “Placed second in the Rookies' title,” you huffed with distaste, still miffed with the results of last year.
Both Hattie and Oscar's eyes widened. In awe or shock, you had no idea. But his sister turned to him with raised brows. "You better thank me for this friendship."
He rolled his eyes while you snorted, the conversation becoming lighter with every passing second. And as the three of you got to know each other in this short time, you engaged obliviously, unaware of the small request your aunt had made to their parents just a few metres away.
"So that's your little one?" Nicole asked gently, looking at your small seven-year-old figure from afar, eyes instantly softening.
Your aunt nodded, fondly smiling at the sight of you. She had just learned that your new friends' father, Chris Piastri, was the founder and owner of HP Tuners. And as selfish as it was, she needed to leverage this friendship if she wanted to support your racing career.
She cleared her throat lightly, looking the two parents with a small plea. She was going to be honest. That was the least she could do. "I'm not her mother, though," she smiled tightly, catching the surprise on their faces. "Her parents... they're not around anymore. It's tough taking care of her by myself. I'm still young, you know. But God, she loves racing."
Nicole could hear the exasperation in her voice. See the stress engrained on your aunt's face; eyebags creased with poor sleep and cheeks hollow from a lack of eating on time. Then she looked over to you interacting with her own children, clearly a bit wary and timid, closer to the kart than Oscar or Hattie. But she could see it too just as her husband did. The thrum of happiness in your movements. Like you had finally achieved something.
"I... I don't know if this is too much to ask," your aunt looked at the two parents, taking in a quick breath. "But do you mind keeping an eye on her with Oscar? I just... I can't always be here with her. I still need to get the funds and everything... I... God, I know this sounds strange but—"
"—Consider it done," Chris interrupted with a warm smile as Nicole nodded frantically in agreement. He wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulder, both sporting a soft and gentle expression.
Your aunt swallowed thickly. "I'm not just talking about this year. Her career—"
"We understand," Nicole murmured with consoling smile, reaching out to grab your aunt's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. She looked over at you again, finding you explaining some parts of the kart to Hattie. She laughed quietly to herself. "Now she's our daughter too."
Yes. That was how you first met Hattie and Oscar. The former which you had practically been stuck with all your life now. Your second emergency number (the first was your aunt, always. The person who knew you in and out. And yes, as dramatic as it was and as apprehensive as you were from the start, you would indeed take a bullet for her.
You picked up her call, her voice instantly whirring through the headphones in your ears. "You bitch! Why didn't you pick up my call twenty minutes ago," she grumbled.
You rolled your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. "Hello to you to," you dryly retorted, eyeing the evening reflection on the Monaco waters. Even though it was a cold January, the water still screamed summer. "And for your information, twenty minutes ago, I was going to commemorate by gravestone with 'death by squats.'"
"And you say I'm dramatic," Hattie snorted, shuffling in her bed.
You squinted at your watch, eyes widening. "Why are you calling me at three in the morning? Dude, go to sleep," you huffed, taking some time to stretch your arms and legs.
"Well, this couldn't wait till the morning. And I definitely can't text you this," she exclaimed on the other side.
You hummed in amusement. "What was so important then, hmm?" You queried, wincing at the burn in your legs, fingers digging into the excruciating ache in your thighs, rubbing some harsh pressure to dull the pain. Goddamn, squats.
"Oscar and Lily broke up."
For a moment, your fingers paused and your body stilled at those words. You knitted your brows together, pursing your lips before you took another small breath. "You know it's not April Fools yet, right?" You huffed, voice tight.
"Trust me," Hattie muttered on the phone. "I'm well aware."
You blinked slowly, trying to process what had just been said to you. You moved your dingers from your thigh, opting to take a seat on a nearby bench. "Seriously?" You queried in disbelief, folding your legs into one another.
"Yup," she said, emphasising the last syllable. “Happened in December apparently but he told us today. He didn't say why but I know they were just coming to seven years as well.”
You frowned. That was strange. How could seven years of a relationship just end like that? Lily and Oscar... they were made out of the love stories you and Hattie had read about. High school sweethearts that had transcended the limited survival rate of your formative years. Caring and sweet. Logical and rationale. Devoted and cherished. Perfect for each other.
Breaking up had never been in their vocabulary. It just didn't make any sense.
"He must be pretty torn up about it," you murmured quietly, chewing on your lip.
Hattie nodded even though you couldn't see it. "It sucks," she agreed, albeit with a small chirp and a linger of curiosity.
You scrunched your brows at the sound, an odd feeling resurfacing in your chest and you think you knew why. "Hattie... you better have not called for the reason I think you did. I've moved on and I think it's time you did too."
"But he's your first love!" She groaned, slumping into her bed in defeat.
Another strange thing that had come with befriending Hattie and racing with her brother: a stupid emotion called love. And yes, love. No, you hadn't liked him. You loved him.
When it had happened... you were exactly quite sure. But there had been signs. There had always been signs.
Two years after you had met Oscar, you were ten. You had won the CIK Stars of Karting for Rookies last year and this year he had been leading the title. You had become closer friends, seeing each other often at the Oakleigh Go Kart Racing Club, training and practicing.
You had come to enjoy Oscar's company for the lack of Hattie's who only came in the weekends because she wasn't as interested in this as the both of you were, naturally. You gave each other advice, you had lunch, you sulked, and he listened. He had gotten a mentor that he convinced to help you as well because he wanted it to be equal between you two. You made bets on the fastest time, happy when you won and complained when you lost. That had become the new routine for you.
And then one afternoon, something strange had happened. Your kart had crashed after a few laps, rendering it useless until your aunt had come and fixed it, dubbed as your own mechanic. But you were so upset. Because some older boy had purposely hit you with his kart, snapping your king pin and tearing your nose cone as you were sent flying into the tyre barricades. You weren’t just upset, you were fuming. You hadn't told anyone because no one would've believed you. It was your word against his, leaving you sitting in some gravel once your kart was brought back, grovelling.
And about ten minutes later, Oscar had come by, standing over you, blocking the sun from your view. You told him to go away but he stayed, ever mature for a thirteen-year-old. Then he sat next to you, watching with you as one of the instructors had marched over to that boy, reprimanding him in a way you would never forget. Confused, you turned to your friend. But the small smile on his face had told you everything you needed to know.
Oscar had told on him for you.
A part of you was thankful, of course. But another part of you... your heart... it had strangely skipped a beat. Because something about the kindness of this boy under the warm sun made you happy. You supposed that was friendship and nothing more.
Then you were twelve. You had won more karting titles, most of them against Oscar. You had signed with Mercedes Junior team. But now Oscar and you were visiting from a boarding school in England. You still had no idea how your aunt had been convinced to let you go, but Toto had had done it. You supposed it was a no-brainer after being awarded a sports scholarship. Oscar’s father accompanied the both of you, leaving Hattie, Edie, and Mae under the care of your aunt and their mother.
Hertford Heath was a small, quaint place in England with few people. All you really knew was Oscar. You were happy you could even convince the principal to study a few years above your grade level otherwise you would've been left entirely alone. And you weren't particularly good with alone either.
You had made some fond memories. Most of which had been Oscar sneaking to your dorm in the middle of the night, asking if you wanted to come play cricket with him and his friends. Only one day, when he was a wicketkeeper and you were batting, your bat had wacked him in the head on accident. In your defence, Oscar had been far too close to you instead of the stump.
That night, you had snuck Oscar into your room, entirely regretful as you grabbed the communal first aid kit and begun attending to the small gash on the side of his head. You couldn't count how many times you had apologised. He was calm about it. Of course, he was. At least until he saw you tearing up. He had felt so bad the only thing he could do was hug you.
And you were so startled, you hadn't realised how comforting it was to hug Oscar. To memorise his new deodorant or the warmth of his skin. It wasn’t till you pulled away that his brows furrowed at the sight of your flushed face. He thought you had caught a cold. So, he tucked you to bed, wishing you goodnight, unaware of your furiously beating heart.
Everything had changed at fourteen. See while your crush had only worsened for Oscar, he had found himself someone else. A girl in your class. Lily. He had been gushing about her for almost a year now, going on and on about how pretty and smart she was. But he was far too shy to ask her out. But after one of the final cricket matches against another school, he had gotten the courage to do it. Naturally, she had said yes.
You were sad, of course. But what could you do? She was older, prettier, and smart. And you supposed he couldn't help it. Just like how you couldn’t. Maybe he'd see you like that some other day.
Seventeen, God, things had gotten so much worse. You and Oscar had both graduated and both made your junior formulae debuts in the last few years. Mark Webber had taken him under his wing, and you had somehow gotten Jenson Button to manager you. You... you were claiming podiums left and right. Oscar? Not so much.
Yet he was the one receiving private tests for different teams and you weren't. He was the one who could afford a seat in Formula Three this year and you couldn't.
You should've been angry with Oscar. And in a way you were. With so many championships under your belt, how could you have not been asked by any team? Was it really all because you were a girl? How many more sponsorships would you have to gather to advance your career?
But you had also come to a point where you could barely look at him in the eye, afraid he'd see your feelings. He was still with Lily, now three years into their relationship. They were so steady and strong... all you could do was fall deeper and deeper. The gravity of the situation was so baffling that you just had to tell Hattie. And it was her who had made you realise it.
You were in love with Oscar.
Then came along nineteen. With the backing of Jenson and Toto and the nickname of 'the most unparalleled driver since Max Verstappen,' you had finally gotten your first shot at Formula Two after winning the F3 title last year, going on to win it twice in a row next year. Oscar, on the other hand, had done all of that and attained a seat in Formula one.
You were proud, naturally. Even if your stats had been better, you knew he deserved this chance too. You couldn't undermine him. He was talented like you were. The only difference between you and him were the extra zeroes in his father's account.
You had also come to a difficult decision this year. With increasing talks of a possible seat in Formula One, you needed to abolish your feelings for Oscar. If you kept this up, you would find yourself in an impossible position if you were on the same grid. And you weren't willing to compromise the sacrifices you and your aunt had made to get you there over your feelings. Besides, what was the point? He wasn't going to choose you. He had never seen you the way you had seen him. Not when he had been with Lily for five years now.
Yes... you were moving on.
Fast forward to 2025, you were going to be twenty-one. You couldn't say you weren't close friends with Oscar. But things had changed since then. You had become distant. The only natural course to take when the both of you had inevitably become busy. Your friend groups had changed and suddenly, Oscar wasn't you're only friend in this sport. Isack, Dorianne, Ollie, and Paul... you had found new people to cherish.
It was odd. You were only a category apart, but it felt like you were worlds apart. Only giving each other an occasional smile in the paddock when you saw each other. A sore reminder of what you knew deep down: you weren't ten, twelve, or fourteen anymore. You didn't have time for family dinners or lunches. Nor any time to just sit down and talk like you used to. Heck, you had been in Monaco for two weeks and you hadn't even met him yet.
And it wasn't just him. Things had been similar with Hattie who was still in Aussie. The only difference was that you were pretty sure nothing could separate the both of you. That's why she was calling you at three in the morning about her brother.
You sighed, watching the sun set over the waters. “Hattie, you know the most I can do is comfort him as a friend. And that's only if he wants to. He barely talks to me these days. So that chapter of my life is closed. Finished.”
"But—"
"No nothing," you grumbled, taking a deep breath in. "Now go get some sleep before you call me complaining."
Pre-season testing had officially begun in Sakhir and in some way, it was liberating to finally do something that hadn't been down in Brackley. Something more... official. You always wondered what it would be like to wear your uniform in Formula One. Truth be told, it probably wasn’t different to anyone.
But Isack and Ollie could tell.
It was the way you carried yourself in the warm wind and down the paddock, tresses of your hair copping the dust around you as you walked in with a wide smile, a present for the dozens of photographers and cameramen waiting for you. Or the way the teal trims of your shirt shined under the sun. Even the air felt different. Like a fresh new start.
That was the result of winning. Isack could still remember when a journalist had asked you how you had kept such a long winning streak over your career. Always on the podium and never crashing. If you were out of a race, it was always someone else's fault. Because you had been claimed as one of the safest drivers on the grid.
The truth was in the performance clause in every contract you had ever signed. You didn't have the money for these seats. You weren't made of it, and your aunt was a mechanic in university debt. So, the sponsors took a gamble. They paid as long as you were in the top three of the championship. Failure to achieve it meant a lost seat and a healthy fee to pay. So, the motivation to win was endless.
But to win itself was motivation enough. You always thought about it. The payoff. People often spent more time creating a goal and worrying about how they would achieve it. But it was amazing what one could achieve if they only thought about the end result. For you if was never about 'if' but 'when.'
When you signed for an F1 seat, would you turn to your aunt and find her in happy tears? You had indeed, claiming she was crying like a whale or something.
When you won the championship, what would the air feel like? Would it be the same? Or would it be crisper? Fresher with the smell of victory and history changing?
Those thoughts itself were enough to keep you on track. Because only you could win for yourself.
“Is anyone else absolutely shitting themselves?” You quietly queried as you arrived to your closest friends with raised brow, shifting on your feet nervously.
Isack heaved, nodding in agreement. "I had to pinch myself four times this morning to make sure this wasn't a dream," he huffed, folding his arms in disbelief. "My mum wouldn't let me leave the hotel without kissing my cheek like fifty times," he grumbled, half disgusted.
You and Ollie snorted, shaking your head at him. A mama's boy at its very core.
"To be honest, I'm scared this is all a dream and I'm going to wake up naked in the middle of a random street," Ollie confessed, sucking in a sharp breath.
You knitted your brows, pursing your lips in confusion. "I'm not commenting on that," you muttered, receiving a nod from the French Algerian next to you. You grinned at the pointed look on Ollie's face, about to tease him when you felt a familiar tap on your shoulder.
You grimaced, turning to find Catherine give you a very feigned smile that screamed 'F1 driver responsibilities await!'
"But I just got here," you moaned, head tilting back in annoyance.
“Yeah, not falling for that. You two as well,” Catherine pointed at Ollie and Isack whose faces fell as quickly as yours. "Let's get driving."
You hadn't actually talked to Oscar until the power had gone out in Sakhir. Sure, you had tossed him a smile during the briefing but between Fernando and Lewis trying father you, you hadn't gotten the opportunity to do so. But when the lights had gone out, racing had been suspended. And after finding yourself impressing the entire live audience with a quick nap in the darkened garage, you ventured out into the paddock to grab a quick drink from the hospitality suite.
But then Laura Winters had dragged you into a brief interview. And across you, on the other side, was Oscar, who had also taken a trip out of the garage. So, you stood in front of the camera with a small smile and some coffee in one hand and a microphone in the other.
“Okay, so quick summary while the lights are out. ___ you're currently second fastest out of the cars and Oscar; you're a bit further down. We know it’s pre-seasoning testing and it's probably too early to say but how are you two finding the car?” Laura asked, wide smile beaming as she turned to you.
You blinked, breathing in, corners of your mouth already grinning. "Well, I'm hoping to be the fastest by the end of today. But yeah," you nodded, flickering your eyes between Laura and the camera. "The car's not too bad. I think we’ve picked up on some of the weaknesses we found in the post-season test and I’m hoping that’ll continue to improve as we continue. To be honest, I'm just excited to be here. I love Sakhir."
Oscar quietly smiled at your answer. It was so like you to say that. He pressed his lips, seeing the camera turn to him in his peripheral. He cleared his throat, bringing the microphone closer to him. “Yeah, the car seems pretty familiar to last year, but I can tell its advancements are working. I think the weather is a bit strange—cold for Bahrain so it's a bit tough to tell.”
Laura nodded at his answer, speaking up again. “Aside from the familiarity of the cars, how do you both feel being on the same grid again? It’s been quite a few years since this last happened. What? Two or three?”
"Five," you almost immediately answered, knowing it practically off by heart. Yes, it had been five years since you and Oscar raced together. Almost half a decade where your career paths, despite being the same, had split off into their own journeys.
"Five years. That's very long. Oscar, do you have any advice to ___ on her first season?"
Oscar hummed, soft chuckles falling from his lips, leaving the sound echoing your chest. "Knowing her," he peeked a gentle grin at you. "She probably won't need any advice. I'm pretty sure she was born to win."
You swallowed briefly, smiling lightly at his words. Oscar was always like that to you. Praising no matter what. You shrugged at the compliment, nudging the figure to your right. "What can I say, Laura? I'm just too darn good."
That elicited a laugh from the crew. Laura heaved, shaking her head. She had been used to your antics ever since the commentator team had enlisted you as their intern last year, leaving you doing trackside when you weren't racing in Formula 2. "Okay, I'm going to leave you two before I get into any further trouble. Hopefully the power comes back, and testing gets started soon!"
Both you and Oscar handed back the microphones, giving your thanks to the crew as you left together, not with any particular direction or destination in mind. You walked side by side, quiet, keenly aware of the many eyes on the both of you but also basking in the awkward tension. All these years without constant contact had turned you into strangers. Strangers who knew almost everything about each other.
You took a small glance at him, spotting the etches of worry and stress miles away. You parted your lips to say something, but he had beat you to it.
He turned to you with a grin. "You're good out there. I mean you always have been," he murmured.
Your breath caught at his words. ‘Always’ as in the time you had spent together on track. You gave him a tight smile. "Thanks," you responded, eyes darting around the paddock, greeting the mass amount of fans you had gained since your signing.
You cleared your throat, spotting the entrance of the Mercedes garage nearby. You tilted your head towards Oscar, chewing your lip as you mulled over your choice of words. What sounded normal and like something an old friend would say? Back then, you’d probably know. But now… you had lost that rhythm.
"Listen… for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Lily. Hattie told me, just so you know."
Oscar kissed his teeth with his tongue, nodding along. "I would’ve told you," he said, flickering those brown eyes to you. "But with everything going on…"
"I get it," you replied, even though you really didn’t. Had you become so estranged he couldn’t reach out to you?
You sucked in a sharp breath, giving another tight smile as you slowed your steps, reaching the garage while he still had a few metres to reach his. "Well, if you need anyone to talk to…. You know you can talk to me, right? It’s understandable if it’s hard. Saying goodbye to almost seven years… it’s not easy."
Oscar blinked at your words. Like he hadn’t even considered talking to you. Or finding any help from you. And for some reason, that hurt, setting of an aching flare in your chest. It shouldn’t have but it did. Because you would’ve helped him in a heartbeat. No matter what.
He finally settled on a smile. It was earnest and slightly relieved. A faint mask of the boyish grin you had once fawned over. "Sure."
you can have it (ilya rozanov x shane hollander x fem!reader) (part four—finale)
summary: bunny does her best to say goodbye
uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.
♡ if you want it (part one)
♡ if you still want it (part two)
♡ if you need it (part three)
♡ the shane x ilya collection
tags: p in v, use of “good girl,” voyeurism, oral (m!receiving), angst at the end (the whole ex bf thing will make sense with the prequel fics) but honestly not really because they’re all fine with it!
*note: SHANE IS GAY AS FUCK!! like he’s still gay. he has no romantic feelings for Bunny, they are simply fucking around. he cares for her as a friend and is simply attracted to their sexual desire for each other. that’s it. let people fuck around sometimes. if anything, he gets off more at the idea of ilya watching them fuck/watching ilya fuck her (voyeurism king) than he does actually fucking her lol. sorry, that’s how it goes sometimes. also I don’t really like this fic but like. oh well.
may. montreal.
#24 🏒: *sent attachment* (6:52 pm)
made me think of you :) (6:52 pm)
🐇: lol (10:28 pm)
“‘Lol?’ What the fuck?”
“She is busy, Hollander.”
“Yeah, but it’s been, like…weeks. She just keeps saying ‘lol.’”
“You sent picture of a bunny with glasses, it was not even funny. She is being nice.”
Shane glares at the pixelated picture of his boyfriend in his hand. Ilya’s eyes scan his screen, a white glow illuminating his face as he remains on the screenshot Shane sent him.
The text he sent Bunny, regrettably, was not that funny. But he just needed something to say to her, something to get her to reply. It feels like they haven’t talked in weeks. Not really, not about things that mattered.
“Do you think she’s mad at me or something?” Shane leans back into the hotel headboard, adjusting the glasses on his nose.
Ilya sighs, and there’s a crisp rustling that makes Shane flinch. Ilya reappears with his eyes dead-set on Shane now, the white glow gone and replaced by the soft yellow illumination of lamplight. He’s in bed, back home in Ottawa. The glimmer of his gold chain glints along his chest, settled where the cross lays between his pecs.
“I do not know, did you leave her naked again?”
Shane’s face hardens into complete disapproval, and Ilya snickers to soften the blow.
“Kidding, I am kidding—“
“Don’t even joke about that, Ilya.”
“I won’t, I am sorry. She is not mad at you, she is just busy.”
Shane sighs, tucking his free arm up to fold over his equally bare chest. His eyes bounce down to Ilya’s frame, just nipples-up free to him on the screen. He misses him. Desperately, achingly. The hotel beds are cold and lonely and he misses their shared mornings, the breakfasts and coffee and morning runs.
He misses feeling Bunny’s soft body wriggling between them.
“Has she been texting you back?” Shane asks.
Ilya shrugs, adjusting against his pillows. He pulls his lips down into an unbothered frown, and Shane suddenly hopes the answer is ‘no.’
“Not much. We have not really talked since few weeks ago, when we played Toronto.”
He sniffs, and Shane swallows noisily. “Oh yeah? When was that?”
The corner of Ilya’s lip curls upward. “You remember.”
april. toronto.
“Oh, fuck.”
Ilya’s breath came in harsh puffs through tight teeth, chest rising and falling with an uneven pulse. Nothing like the steady, slapping thrusts that had Bunny scrambling for solid ground. Her fingers ached around fistfuls of the comforter, mouth dropped open to emit drool and drag it over the bed with every writhe of her body. The noises leaving her were inhuman. She could feel the blood in her head, rushing and rising like bread in the oven. She could barely breathe, could feel every nerve in her body screaming. It was so fucking hot in that room.
“Fuck, you guys are so fucking hot.”
It came from across the room, Shane’s voice a little muffled and full of static. He had his thumb over the speaker, a little preoccupied with where his other hand was, working slow and languid over his throbbing cock. He felt like he’d been staring at the screen for so long that the rest of the room faded away, a vignette around the bright glow of Bunny and Ilya going at it like animals.
She wondered what he looked like right now, but her head felt like a leaden weight on her neck. She imagined his cheeks all pink at the top, a rosy glow behind his freckles. His pouty mouth parted to release soft, shallow breaths. Those broad shoulders flexed, his stiff biceps bulging, the gentle shake of the screen every time he—
“Let him see you, dorogoya,” Ilya gritted, and breath whooshed through Bunny like a slap when he yanked her up.
The tight fist in her hair moved quickly, fingers pressed into her cheeks to squish her lips together. She whimpered, the flesh over her ass rippling into her hips with every slam of Ilya behind her. It took a few blinks for her to register, to find the screen and the man on it across the room. Ilya’s phone was propped against a stack of books on Bunny’s dresser, and Shane filled the expanse of the screen like a god.
It made Bunny clench around Ilya like a vice.
“She loves to be a fucking slut for you, Hollander.”
Shane moaned, head tipping against the pillows behind him for just a minute before he picked it back up, blinking blearily at the sight of Ilya slowing down. Deep, long, bed-rocking grinds against Bunny’s ass.
“Fuckkk,” she whined, eyes pinching shut.
“Don’t you love that Bunny?” Ilya asked, using his grip on her face to pull her head aside, urging her focus back on him.
Her brows furrowed, her thoughts coming like electrical sparks. She could barely keep herself up, her arms quaking, palms sore against the mattress. She was on the precipice, wobbling over that razor-thin edge with barely any strength—
“Tell me, Bunny,” Shane commanded, and his voice was so soft and low she almost worried she had imagined it.
Ilya eased up on her cheeks, fingers loosening just enough to grip her jaw instead, the gentle pressure of his fingers propping her up enough to bring her back to somewhat-stasis. She sucked in a sharp breath and felt a tear trickle down her cheek when she blinked at the pixelated Shane across from her.
“I l-love when I’m your slut.”
They didn’t ask who she meant, because they knew she was speaking to them both. From the time she opened the door and Ilya dropped his pants—and their naked bodies writhed and twisted and humped together before Shane’s dark, watching gaze—to the moment Ilya shimmied back into his clothes and kissed her goodbye, Bunny belonged to both of them. Even if Shane couldn’t be here physically this time.
“Fuck, good girl,” Shane sighed, catching his lip between his teeth as he quickened his strokes over his cock.
Ilya hummed, pinning Bunny flat to the bed with one sharp thrust of his hips. He fell against her, a heavy mass almost swallowing her whole. He reared back just enough to brace the bed with one hand and pin her head down—fingers buried in her hair—with the other.
He leaned down enough to let his mouth brush her ear and mimicked in a deep, Russian drawl:
“Good girl.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Shane murmurs sheepishly, rubbing at his collarbone absently.
Ilya can see the start of a pink flush creeping over the other boy’s neck and it makes him grin. He slips a little further down the bed and under the covers, reaching for the growing tent in his boxers.
“What about you? When you saw her last month?”
“What about it?”
“Did you make her mad then?”
“What?” Shane furrows his brow, zipping up straight. “No. She definitely was not mad.”
Ilya laughs and it comes out breathy, a gust of muffled static in the speaker. And then his voice follows, so gravely and low that it rumbles through Shane excitingly. “No, it did not seem that way.”
april. ontario.
“I’ve never understood this movie.”
Her head sat comfortably on Shane’s chest, legs tucked up on the couch with her knees along his lap. He had one hand on her leg, aimlessly, the other still holding the remote. His brows were furrowed, mouth drawn poutingly at the television.
“You’re the one who put it on.”
“I thought you liked it.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I saw you watching it on Instagram.”
Bunny lifted her head, unable to help the smile that laced her mouth upward. He felt her gaze, the heat of her softness beside him practically radiating, but the throb of shame that filled him pulsed almost too loudly.
“You watch my Instagram.”
She knew he did. She saw his account pop up in her watch count every day, the verified mark and the @ shanehollander24 never something she’d get used to seeing so casually on her page. Ilya rarely ever watched her stories, never liked her posts even after all these years. Shane peered on her life like an old friend.
It made saying no to him that much harder, and when he called and asked if she’d stop by while he was in town, she could only play hard to get for an hour or so before she gave in.
But no sex, she promised herself. We’ll just hang out as friends.
“Yeah, I mean…sometimes,” Shane murmured.
Bunny dropped her head back on his chest again, drawing her hand over the firm surface of his stomach. He wound his arm around her shoulders, kept his hand unassumingly along her back. She couldn’t stop smiling.
And one glance at his pants—the loose-fitted cotton Nikes in that whorish grey he knows she likes—led Bunny to believe that her “no sex” promise might be broken.
It started with his fingers, sliding along her back, tracing her spine. Then his mouth, kissing her head, letting out soft, trembling pants. The tent over his crotch grew taller, restricted by the cock pressing up against it. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch it.
And when she could no longer fight the urge, and she let her fingers skate over the hardness beneath the soft grey cotton, Shane moaned so loudly it broke any delusion that she might withhold. It broke any restraint Shane might have had.
His hand was in her hair, guiding their mouths together, tongues sliding and licking messily. He shot up on his knees, angling so he could drop her on the cushion, hoisting one leg over his hip. The hardness pressed into her core and pulled forth a small gasp.
It took a matter of moments for them to undress, for his fingers to find their way inside of her. He nearly split the leather under his hand with the pressure of his grip, clutching the cushion beside her head. His fingers were not quite skilled, were still searching and wandering and figuring their way out, but it was the hunger in which he pleasured her, the way in which he watched her that mattered most. The heavy, lustful gaze that pinned her down, and the shallow, wanton breaths that fanned her face.
She gripped his shoulders when their mouths met again, teeth sinking into his bottom lip when she came. He groaned at the slight sting, hard cock dragging over her thigh.
And then she was scrambling to the floor, knees scraping over carpet to place her mouth over his cock. He threw his head back against the couch with a huff of breath, hands gathering her hair, holding her head.
“Fuck, Bunny,” he whined. “So fucking good.”
The only thought that bothered to form while she worked her mouth over him was: Ilya.
Shane felt for his phone somewhere within in the mess of the couch, and when he found it he swiped the camera open to a clear view of Bunny.
“Ilya…will wanna…see this,” he panted, finger trembling over the red ‘record’ button.
He captured all the sloppy, wet noises of Bunny’s mouth and all the heavy gasps and huffs behind the screen. 4K clarity of the moment Shane pulled her off by her hair and she stuck her tongue out, and his release painted her mouth and the lenses of the glasses she wore (just for him).
And when she used his guest room shower, Shane watched the video back with flames in his cheeks.
Jane: *sent attachment* (2:36 pm)
Delete that immediately. (2:36 pm)
Lily: no chance (7:13 pm)
“I have a game in Toronto next week, I will talk to her then,” Ilya says.
Shane nods. “Okay. I just don’t want things to be weird between us, you know?”
“So do not make it weird.”
Shane narrows his eyes at his boyfriend, who lifts one corner of his mouth handsomely. “I’m gonna hang up on you.”
“Mm, not before I see you, dorogoy. Been thinking about it all day.”
It’s the way he practically whines—a little downturn of his mouth into something like a pout—that has Shane grinning.
“Well, I wanna see you, too.”
Ilya kicks at the blankets frantically, hooking one hand into the band of his boxers. “I thought you would never ask.”
♡ ♡ ♡
may. toronto.
What remained of winter was lonely for Bunny. The boys spent it alternating cities and finding moments of alone time when they could. She was happy to squeeze in when they wanted, when they called. But when they didn’t, she found herself lingering in her living room, all alone in a Metros sweatshirt or a pair of plaid pants.
She sent countless ‘sorry, can’t :/‘ texts to her friends with no excuse to give except Theodore in her lap and a longing in her chest the size of the Canada. The photograph of her and Ilya on the fridge became painful, and she slipped it in a shoebox the other day. They were too young, too sweet, and she remembered all too well what she believed when that picture was taken.
This means something to him, too.
It wasn’t that she still believed that. She could see the love and adoration pulsing between Ilya and Shane with crystal clarity, and whatever feelings she harbored for Ilya dwindled years ago.
But didn’t she deserve that, too? From someone—anyone? A person to be loved by, wholly and singularly. Occasional threesome be damned, there was only person each man loved and it was each other.
So, when the texts came, she didn’t answer them. She let them marinate in her notifications, sent short, uninterested replies if any. It pained her to see Shane’s bubble appear and disappear in what she could only assume was confusion. Just as painful was to watch Ilya’s phone call go to voicemail on her countertop. His contact photo was still the shirtless mirror selfie he sent her half a decade ago from a hotel in a foreign city. He looked like the epitome of a Masshole and the younger Bunny (who sent a shameless bra and panty-clad photo back) loved it.
But what was the point?
It was a glass of white wine and her ex boyfriend’s one a.m dm that did it.
benoitbeau13: Hey, I know it’s been a while. Not sure if you’re still in the Toronto area, but would love to catch up sometime.
She found herself typing her reply before she could find an Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander-shaped excuse not to.
Hey, yes I am :) I’d love to.
♡ ♡ ♡
An episode of Sex and the City hums through the apartment as Bunny bends before the bathroom mirror, plucking a pesky eyebrow hair. She’ there, precariously separating tiny hairs, when the front door rattles with a harsh pounding. The tweezers clatter into the sink when she flinches.
“Coming!”
Benoit, a friend, her mom dropping by unexpectedly: all perfectly reasonable ideas as to who stood on the other side of the door. But when she swings it open, the last person Bunny expects to see is the very man standing there: Ilya.
“Oh,” she chirps, eyes comically round.
Ilya pulls off the doorway, hands reaching for her shoulders immediately. “Hello, Bunny.”
He pulls her in for two sharp kisses, one smacked on each cheek. Her hand braces his side, firm muscle under the flap of a clean leather jacket.
She lets her lips pucker into soft air kisses back. “Hi?”
“I can come in, yes?”
He breezes past her into the apartment, taking in the space as though he’s never seen it before. She nudges the door closed behind him and watches him wander into the kitchen. He grins upon the television glowing with the vulgar happenings of Samantha Jones.
“You are watching porn. You missed us so much?”
She snorts, rushing to grab the remote and shut it off. “I’m getting ready to go out, actually. Why are you…here?”
The click of her heels attracts his attention, and Ilya watches her saunter back into the bathroom. She reappears moments later with a makeup bag in hand and he takes a moment to finally look at her, instead of whatever he seemed to be searching for before. A black dress hugs the shape of her with little to the imagination, but with every intention of definition. Her skin shimmers gorgeously, her eyes darker than usual. How he remembered her to look when they were younger, all dolled up and on the town.
“You look beautiful.”
She pauses, eyes sliding his way as she retrieves the black purse sitting on the coffee table. “Thank you. I have a dinner.”
“Mm, yes.”
He knows what he’s looking for the minute he finds it, but it’s still disappointing to see.
The Toronto fucking Maple Leafs cap thrown on the armchair in the corner. The bright blue sack of crap just sitting there. Ilya doesn’t need to pick it up, but he does—and it’s just as he suspected.
#13. Benoit fucking Beau.
“What the fuck is this?”
Bunny whirls around and freezes when she sees the cap held by the adjustable snap—like a rodent by the tail—in Ilya’s hand.
Oh. That.
“Uh—“
“Tell me you are not back with this…this fucking guy,” he sputters, motioning toward the cap with an open hand.
“Ilya—“
“—With Brad?”
“His name is not Brad,” Bunny deadpans, eyes rolling as she opens the clasp of her purse and retrieves a tube of lipgloss.
Ilya knows what his name is. He knows that almost ten years ago, he punched #13 at a night out after the game, and that the very woman before him thanked him for it. She called the guy unfortunate, and smiled when she said it.
How did she get back to here?
“Tell me you are not back with that idiot, Bunny.”
A heart shaped mirror sits in her palm and she busies herself with peering into it, running a glossy brush over her top lip. The flesh begins to shimmer in the low lamplight.
They let the silence settle for a while. She waits for him to correct himself, to readjust and set the hat down, apologize. He waits for her to put the mirror down and look him in the eye, and promise she’s not that dumb.
When neither get what they want, Bunny sighs and snaps the mirror shut.
“We’re reconnecting.”
The Russian’s brows raise to an extreme level, creasing his brow in a deep line. She avoids the look by sitting on the edge of the couch and adjusting the strap of her heel.
“You are joking, yes?”
It feels like an admonishment and she tries not to let it cut her. She fiddles with her earring, searching around for something else to do while she waits this out.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because he is a fucking idiot! And shit at hockey. I am good at hockey.” Ilya shrugs absently, tossing the cap on the chair again.
Bunny rolls her eyes again and stands from the couch. “Well, you have someone, Ilya.”
He watches her walk into the kitchen and haul the fridge door open with such force the condiments rattle. He scoops Theodore from his spot at his feet, holding him against his shoulder as he follows Bunny.
“What does that mean?”
The bottle of wine is properly chilled but already half gone. The stopper comes free with a resounding, hollow pop. Bunny takes a sip from the mouth of it and Ilya sets the cat down on one of the island chairs.
Bunny wipes at her mouth with her thumb and with ruined lipgloss, gives Ilya a look that withers. “You have Shane, Ilya. And he has you. Who do I have?”
His arms cross, leather creaking under muscle. His eyes bounce around the room for a moment, unseeing, and he gives another shrug.
“You have me.”
She huffs, wriggling the stopper back into the neck of the wine bottle. “I never had you.”
It slices Ilya expertly. A precise, clean cut. He watches the back of her head when she turns to put the wine in the fridge, her shoulders when she slams it closed. The way she avoids him, won’t look at him, won’t even come close. Suddenly their years are catching up to him. He’s never known Bunny to be like this—closed off, quiet. Maybe it was even worse than Shane thought. Maybe she wasn’t mad at either of them, but something far, far worse.
She was done.
“So you are with Brad so that you…are not lonely.”
Bunny turns, one hand bracing the marble counter separating her and Ilya. Her eyes are downturned when they meet his.
“I’m with Benoit because we like each other. He wants me, and it feels good to be wanted. Doesn’t it?”
There’s a cluster of freckles near Shane’s right eye and it crinkles up when he smiles. He laughs at Ilya’s jokes even when they aren’t that funny. They have a routine, a life, a love. If someone were to ask Ilya what the one thing he could not live without was, Shane’s name would fall from his mouth.
Ilya drops his arms and exhales. “Okay.”
The soft, monosyllabic phrase is a balm over Bunny’s aches. Her heels hurry in quick clicks over the floor, and then she’s falling into him. He folds his arms over her shoulders, tucking her into his chest as closely as he can. He fits his head over hers, cheek pressed to her hair. Her arms are tight around his middle, cheek to chest.
The warm, bittersweet embrace of old friends.
“He’s different now, I promise,” she offers softly. “You know I’m careful.”
Ilya nods. “I know. He is still shit at hockey, though.”
She laughs and it skips through him like a stone over water. Their bodies begin to tilt back and forth in a stunted rhythm. But it’s soothing. It’s sweet.
“You’re not mad at me?”
Ilya could almost laugh at the irony. The boy in Montreal who winged over the phone and the girl home in Toronto were made in the same vein. Ilya always had a soft spot for whatever they were made of.
“No, dorogoya. You should be happy, you deserve it.”
“This feels so silly,” Bunny laughs, but he feels her hold tighten. “We were just…”
“Lovers?”
“Well…”
“Fuck buddies?”
“I guess.”
Their laughter melds together into something gushy. He pulls back enough to kiss the top of her head, hands lifting to hold her face. His thumbs press under her cheekbones, palms warm and rough against her skin.
“Call us when he starts to bore you.”
She rolls her eyes, but his mouth is only a half smile and she knows he means it. “…okay, Ilya.”
He dips down slowly, a painful trek to the very surface of her mouth. Their lips brush gently, a whisper of flesh on flesh—before he lets them touch completely, pressing together in delicate firmness. Bunny closes her eyes and promises to commit this to a very nice memory. Something to think back on when she inevitably misses him, and wonders how he’s doing.
Ilya mirrors her, eyes fluttering shut as he lets his tongue dart out and slip between her lips. But there are no mashing mouths and twisting heads. No greedy hands and heavy pants, or the burning need for more.
There is only this kiss, tender and sweet and fueled by years of history.
They pull away, and their eyes blink open together. She smiles, running a finger below his eye along his cheekbone.
“I mean it,” he murmurs.
She nods. “I know.”
Ilya inhales sharply, and she knows by the square of his shoulders that he’ll be leaving soon. His breath comes with a waft of her perfume, and he’s grateful she found her scent and stuck with it all those years ago. A single breath brings him back to twenty-one years old, when they haunted hotel rooms and the world seemed new.
He pats her cheek gently and takes a wide step away. “Okay.”
“Let me tell him,” she calls after him, taking much smaller steps behind him toward the door.
Ilya turns, eyes darting to the Metros schedule on her refrigerator, an Ottawa schedule held up by magnets beside it. The photograph of them was gone. But in its place was still the promise of something. The promise that she’d be watching, no matter what.
“Okay. Maybe do not mention Brad—“
“—his name is not Brad—“
“—Hollander hates Toronto even more than me.”
She rolls her eyes, and they sparkle with unshed tears, held at bay carefully. She wonders if Shane will care, at the end of the day. If he’ll miss her, the way she’ll miss him and the softness of his eyes.
She knows he’ll ask to stay friends, that they don’t need the benefits. But she needs a clean break. She needs a life of her own, just as Ilya and Shane do. They deserve that, too.
In the doorway, Bunny and Ilya linger equally. She keeps the door ajar just enough for her head to fit through, to prevent Theodore from escaping after Ilya. And the Russian tucks his hands in his pockets and nods once, a tuck of his chin toward his chest.
“Goodbye, Bunny.”
She touches her temple to the door. “Bye, Ilya.”
His walk to the elevator is slow, aimless. He lets his feet sway, his shoulder bump into the wall beside another apartment door. He watches the welcome mats change, the numbers grow smaller. He hits the down button with his knuckle and steps onto the dimly lit elevator silently.
He leans back against the railing and exhales, fishing his phone out of his back pocket.
Jane: Tell Bunny I said hi! :) (7:55 pm)
Ilya crafts his response before he can think too hard. Carefully tacked-out letters with slow-moving fingers.
Lily: she was not home (8:45 pm)
♡ ♡ ♡
It’s past midnight when she gets home and she has two missed calls from Shane.
His contact name, the glaringly obvious to all but the oblivious ‘#24’ looms in the back of her mind as she washes her face free of the night’s makeup. As she steps out of her dress and eyes the pair of plaid pants in the hamper. The Raiders t-shirt balled up and thrown in the back of her closet. The Metros sweatshirt under it. They lost their respective Ilya and Shane scents long ago, but reminders of them come like phantoms when the items are resting on her body.
But she keeps them there, in the darkness of the closet. She pulls a college t-shirt on instead, feet bare as she slides into bed. It’s there, as she nestles against a stack of pillows along the headboard, that she picks up her phone and clicks on Shane’s contact.
The dial tone sends her heart sailing to her throat. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he chirps.
Bunny swallows, tugging the blanket over her bare legs. “Hey.”
“Just a sec.”
There’s a hollow clang, a set of hurried, echoed steps, and the jingle of keys. Another thunk as a door shuts. She pictures Shane entering his apartment, the sleek windows and modern light fixtures. She only visited the Montreal estate once months ago.
“Okay,” he breathes, a rush of air that crackles in the speaker. “Sorry, just got home.”
“That’s okay.” Bunny toys with a loose thread in the hem of the top sheet.
“Ilya said he stopped by but you weren’t home.”
She blinks, lifting her gaze to peer out at the half-curtained window. The night is an inky blue, bejeweled by the warm lights of the city buildings around her. Ilya’s mouth on ber own, their soft, murmured goodbyes, a set of blue eyes blinking their silent departure—had it all only been a few hours ago? Was it really so permanent, that moment in time?
“Uh, yeah. I was out.”
There’s a pause that hums absently. Like the blinding lights at the dentist. The silence feels just as clinical.
“Oh.”
Bunny twists her finger in the sheet. “I, um…met someone.”
“Oh.” This time when he says it, it’s bright and alert. It’s written in bold and underlined in red in her head.
Bunny is saved from trying to muster a reply when Shane speaks again.
“Wow, um. No, that’s good. Obviously we don’t…yeah, that’s good.”
She exhales softly, a little shudder warbling from her chest. “He plays for Toronto.”
He scoffs loudly through the line and she cracks a smile. It’s relieving, the ease that suddenly nestles between them. Like that first time, when her tongue touched him and their eyes caught in a fire of desire and a promise of intimacy. A shared and strange intimacy that became addicting, confusing, painful.
She reminds herself of this as she waits for his voice to reappear.
“Toronto, blech,” he groans, a blazing display of disgust.
“I know, I know. But he’s nice.” She giggles, and a tear slips down her cheek.
She swats it away with a jolt.
“Well, he better be,” Shane murmurs, and there’s a metallic clank on his end.
She wonders what he’s doing, which room he’s standing in, what he’s looking at. She wonders if he’s in his typical post-game hoodie, if he’s already shucked off his sneakers by the door. She wonders if he’s already called Ilya to say goodnight.
“Otherwise, I’d have to…kick his ass.”
That gets another laugh out of her, and it makes her heart swell when he joins in softly. The soft slurp over the line leads her to think of a can of ginger ale and a lopsided smile around the metallic mouth of it.
“You’d do that for me?”
“Fuck yeah.”
Bunny shimmies down against the pillows, slipping further under the covers. They come up to her shoulders now, tucked under her chin.
“I saw that fight with Scott Hunter a few years ago, you’re definitely scrappy.”
That makes him snicker, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip to hold back another grin. She twists in the bed, wrapping the blankets around her.
“Yeah, well…this is it then? Not even gonna say hi when I’m beating your boyfriend’s ass—“
“Shane—“
“—on the ice, obviously.”
Breathing around a laugh makes her sound like she’s choking, but Shane is grinning on the other end and doesn’t care. He’ll miss her voice.
“I’ll say hi,” she promises. “But our clothes will be on.”
He hums. “Shame.”
She squeezes her legs together and sighs. “Shane.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s for the best.”
“…yeah.”
“You love him.”
“I do,” he says immediately, and it’s colored with truth. A warm, honeyed truth.
“And that’s enough.”
In his apartment in Montreal, Shane sinks into the armchair by the fireplace. He hoists one leg over the other and peers out into the window, where the night is still. Ilya’s asleep in Ottawa, conked out on his stomach most likely. Shane sent him a goodnight text anyway, something to make him smile in the morning.
served with: oscar piastri x bff!fem!reader
chef's notes: Oscar was never supposed to be the one she loved quietly, patiently, and without expectations. He was her best friend first—the person who felt like home no matter how far life took them. Some soulmates meet at the wrong time. Some loves arrive too little, too late—and still change you forever.
client name: @ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-stuff
ynuser
liked by oscarpiastri, friend1, friend2 and others
ynuser some people feel like home, no matter how far you go
user1 this pic has LORE and you can’t convince me otherwise
lando why does this look like a romcom screenshot
user2 nah because the way he looks at you?????
user3 platonic my ass
user4 they’ve been attached at the hip for YEARS btw
charles_leclerc cute 🤍 liked by oscarpiastri
user5 tell me why this feels intimate
user6 🚨 this is NOT how best friends sit 🚨
user7 if they don’t end up together I don’t believe in love
user8 this is giving “right person, wrong timing”
oscarpiastri always home with you 🤍 liked by ynuser
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replies:
a - username home race osc >>>>>
b - username he’s extra soft this week omg
c - username someone’s feeling sentimental 👀
d - username this tweet feels personal for some reason
e - username australia really said main character energy
f - username 🤍??? yeah okay interesting choice of emoji sir
g - username why does this feel like it’s about a person not a place
h - username welcome home king 🇦🇺
charles leclerc - username enjoy it 🤍 liked by oscarpiastri
i - username he always tweets like this when he’s in his feelings
j - username this is giving “thinking about someone I shouldn’t”
Y/N :)) - username 🤍 liked by oscarpiastri
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f1gossipdaily
liked by user1, user2, user3 and others
f1gossipdaily Oscar Piastri spotted in Melbourne with mystery woman 👀
user1 HELLO???? since WHEN
user2 okay but she’s stunning ngl
user3 he does NOT take just anyone out in public like this
user4 this is NOT a soft launch this is a HARD launch
user5 that’s not a friend walk I fear
user6 he looks different with her… softer??
user7 so we’re just gonna ignore how he never got papped like this before
user8 good for him honestly, he deserves happiness
user9 I THOUGHT HE WAS SINGLE SINGLE
user10 lowkey thought he and that one girl were a thing
user11 this feels like the beginning of the end of something
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INCOMING CALL, OSC 🧡 - 1:12 a.m.
You stare at the screen longer than you should. Then you answer.
You: Hey.
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the whole day.
Oscar: Thank you for picking up. I know I said I’d be gentle.
You hum. Noncommittal.
Oscar: Melbourne feels… loud tonight. Everything’s moving fast and I just— I needed something familiar.
You close your eyes.
You: Am I familiar, or am I convenient?
Silence. Not the awkward kind. The honest one.
Oscar: You’re… safe. With you I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it figured out.
Your fingers curl into the sheets.
You: That’s dangerous territory, Osc.
He laughs softly. No humor in it.
Oscar: I know. That’s why I almost didn’t call.
Almost.
You: She seems nice.
A beat.
Oscar: She is. She makes sense.
There it is again. That word.
You: Do I… make sense?
He doesn’t answer right away. And that tells you everything.
Oscar (quiet): You make me feel things I don’t have time to untangle.
Your throat tightens.
You: Then maybe you shouldn’t call me when it’s late.
Another breath. Slower now.
Oscar: I don’t think I’m strong enough for that yet.
Neither of you hangs up. The call stretches. Breathing. City noise. Shared history filling the gaps. Finally—
You: Osc?
Oscar: Yeah?
You: If you ever ask me to stay… I don’t know if I’ll be able to say no.
That’s the line. The one neither of you should’ve crossed. He swallows.
Oscar: I won’t. I promise.
You both know promises mean very little this late at night.
CALL ENDED - 2:04 a.m.
Your phone feels heavier than before.
And somewhere across the city, Oscar stares at the ceiling, knowing he just confirmed the thing he’s been avoiding: He’s falling in love too late.
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oscarpiastri
liked by gfuser, ynuser, lando and others
oscarpiastri forever starts now 🤍
user1 ENGAGED??? oh he really said plot twist
user2 THE RING 😭😭😭 congratulations!!
user3 he looks so calm… like he finally chose peace
user4 when you know, you KNOW 🤍
lando happy for you mate ❤️
charles_leclerc congrats to you both 🤍
user5 this feels surreal idk why
user6 okay but why does this feel bittersweet
user7 from mystery woman to FIANCÉE real quick
user8 lowkey thought this would be different
user9 am I the only one who feels sad for no reason???
user10 this man really said “settling down era”
ynuser 🤍
user1 oh this one hurts actually
user2 yeah… this feels loaded
gummygunk
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
