𝓜 ✿︎

♫︎ 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒊 𝒅𝒐? 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

[honeybeeh1ve]

WELCOME TO MY ACCOUNT 🐚🤍

my name's maeve, I write sometimes

I mostly just use this account to read fics loll but I've been trying to get more into writing feel free to request anything stranger things, f1, or marvel related !!

currently spiderman & f1 pilled 🤍

everyone is welcomed on here just don't be rude or weird!!

fandoms: stranger things, f1, olivia rodrigo, marvel, new girl + more

MY FICS:

GUNS AREN'T JUST FOR SHOOTING | RONANCE:

summary: robin and nancy have some..fun with her gun

EXPECTATIONS | OLLIE BEARMAN X READER SMAU: COMING SOON

summary: what happens when you get asked about your celebrity crush while promoting your new song?

dividers: suupersonic & strangergraphics

[stzrgirl4norris]

if you can't beat them, join them - LN4

Lando Norris x Reader (smau)

summary: a silly little nickname from Lando's friends created chaos on a fan base

based on this request

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊

lando's instagram

liked by yourinstagram, quadrant, keeganpalmer and 3,947,293 others

lando retiring from cars. only skateboards now.

view all comments

maxverstappen1 Maybe you'll have a chance now 😂

> user max ended his ass > user max is only here for the roasting > lando just wanting to get rid off the real competition i see 🥱

yourinstagram i'm just glad you're coming back home in one piece 🙏

> lando i mean... barely > keeganpalmer i wouldn't return paps to you only with half his limbs > yourinstagram keeganpalmer would you stop with those weird ass nicknames?? > keeganpalmer yourinstagram i'll think about it

keeganpalmer i think you should stick to the cars

> lando yeah cause my teacher fucking sucks > keeganpalmer sure...

user SKATER BOY LANDO 🥵🥵🥵🥵

user so how many times do we think he listened to skater boy by avril lavigne??

> user like ten thousand times

quadrant best video ever coming soon

> user are we going to see lando falling?? > quadrant no spoilers (yes) 🤫

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, yourbff and 293,499 others

yourinstagram special night with cartier ❄️ making me feel the most beautiful ever!

view all comments

user raw next question

user born to ride or whatever lana del rey said

user i have nothing appropriate to say

user rock, paper, DEFINITELY scissor

lando something's off... oh it's just my pants don't worry!

> user LANDO STOP > user someone take his phone away > user pr nightmare boyfriend > maxfewtrell the things i would do to unsee this > yourinstagram babe pr is going to eat you alive...

keeganpalmer hot mams!!!😂🔥

> user the fact that he calls lando paps and yn mams > user yeah this couple has a daddy kink for sure > yourinstagram keegan you are going to pay for this

yourbff face card no cash no credit

alexandrasaintmleux beautiful girl!! 💗

user mom is cooking

liked by keeganpalmer, maxfewtrell, yourinstagram and 4,293,222 others

lando caught in a cool guy competition😎

view all comments

maxfewtrell in which both of you are losing btw

> lando your jealousy is sooooo pathetic

keeganpalmer hot paps 🔥🔥

> user every time keegan calls lando paps a fanfic writing bitch gets horny > user tumblr is about to lose their minds > user getting ready to like every single daddy smut out there

yourinstagram 🖤

> keeganpalmer yes mams comment!🙏🙏🙏 > yourinstagram at this point you're just doing it to annoy me > keeganpalmer is it working?? > user idk i'm so confused here

user legs are divorcing

user two bad bitches at. the. same. damn. time

user omg these comments are scaring me

> yourinstagram for real

user and i'll be there for him... with open legs... and an open mouth

user i'm so chill 🫠

user raw aw aw aw aw or whatever lady gaga said

user born to ride, forced to scroll

*twitch chat* user i feel so sorry for yn lol user i don't know how this started but i hope it never ends user the fact that lando does absolutely nothing about it user miss girl is so done with them

keeganpalmer added to their story

"me reading yn's instagram comments and twitter knowing i just created chaos"

liked by lando, yourbff, ynfanpage and 1,933,293 others

yourinstagram 🌅 (i am ready and armed for the mommy comments)

view all comments

user mommy? sorry- mommy? sorry- mom-

user and the crowd is.... moving their phones to their left hands

> lando yeah no leave right now > yourinstagram oh my god

user dinner is ready *i say as i lay on the table*

kikagomes my whole jaw just dropped😍😍😍

keeganpalmer your comment section is scaring me

> yourinstagram i wonder who's fault is that > user don't act like you didn't start it > user the ammount of mommy comments here > keeganpalmer i apologize yourinstagram

lando how do you expect us to stop calling you mams when you post this????!!!!!!!

> yourinstagram i don't! at this point i want you to keep going! > user pr nightmare girlfriend > user i feel like i'm violating their privacy

yourbff CHOKED ON MY WATER

user JESUS THAT WOMAN

user scrolling feels like a divorce

user the internet is wild

[bee2124]

When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔

I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔

[oscnoopy]

𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 - 𝐥𝐧𝟏

lando norris x best friend/fwb!reader₊⊹ smau + written

it seems like everyone in the world knows that lando is in love with you, except the man himself.

note: anon requested yearning fwb lando and i had to provide! there's no set timeframe for this one but could definitely be read as before lando got his first win 🤷‍♂️ the smut was a bit tough to write but i hope you guys enjoy anyway :) kind of bullied max and alex a bit in this one, couldn't help myself hehe word count: 3.8k warnings : smut (18+ mdni), oral (f receiving), semi public sex (on a phone call, lando's drivers room), unprotected sex, exhibitionism?, swearing, a few kms jokes fc: multiple

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

yourusername just posted

liked by lando, riabish, and others

yourusername: life lately

view all comments:

user: MAX LMAOOOO lilyzneimer: We need to get together again soon ❤️ yourusername: PLEASE i miss you </3 user: yn posting with lando wearing a quadrant hat is this a hint at something?? quadrant: 🤫🤫🤫 lando: 😍😍😍 ⤷user: u are not subtle big guy  ⤷user: we know you want her just admit it 🎤 comment liked by maxfewtrell lilymhe: just one chance, please ⤷yourusername: i would give u a thousand chances babygirl ⤷alex_albon: GO AWAY I HATE YOU. ⤷lilymhe: lets use our inside voices, alexander. ⤷yourusername: point and laugh everybody, point and laugh user: lando in that tight black shirt is it hot in here or is it just me 🥵 comment liked by author maxfewtrell: You are always doing me dirty bro ⤷yourusername: you do it to yourself man rebeccadonaldson: Stunning 🥰💞 ⤷yourusername: thats u becca <333 user: if her and lando aren’t dating then why are all the wags in her comments 🤔

view story replies:

lando: Youre replacing me? ↳yourusername: never

maxfewtrell: What am I chopped liver? ↳yourusername: sorry do i know u? ↳maxfewtrell: I see how it is

user: crying at these questions you’re asking alex i know he hates you ↳yourusername: he does

user: wait i’m obsessed with this duo! lando who?

lilymhe: please keep him i don’t want him back ↳yourusername: HELL NOOO ↳yourusername: i’m already sick of this guy! ↳lilymhe: he read your message over my shoulder and now he’s crying 😕 ↳yourusername: alex if ur reading this cry harder

—

you fall back onto the bed, gasping a few breaths as your legs twitch from the orgasm that just racked your body. lando pulls out and flops down on his back next to you, turning to grab his phone off the nightstand. you roll over, resting your head on his chest and tangling your bare legs with his. he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer and rubbing your back. you're both silent for a moment still trying to catch your breath from the workout you'd just finished. you look up at lando as he responds to some unanswered text and admire the man. his cheeks pink, face flushed. his curls are all over the place, some sticking to his forehead from sweat. you're sure you look the same, always leaving this man’s bed looking a mess. 

you run your hand along lando’s chest, tracing the bite marks and light bruises you'd left. as you do, you cheekily pinch one of his nipples and he yelps, dropping his phone and slapping your hand away. you laugh at his reaction, reaching your hand up to attempt to do it again but lando doesn't let you. he flips your position, forcing you flat on your back with him hovering over you. he has a playful glare on his face, holding your wrists above your head and against the bed. 

“how would you like it if i did that to you, huh?” he pauses, thinking about his question. “nevermind, i know you'd like it.”

“you know me so well, baby” you beam up at him, parting your legs so he fits more easily between them. you try to get him to release your wrists but he doesn't budge, his grip too strong. “let me go, you menace.”

“fine.” he leans down and bites at one of your tits before releasing your hands, you moan at the sharp pain. “now we're even.”

“asshole.” 

“you love me.”

“mhmm.” you hum in response, agreeing with his words. lando, as always, is unable to realize you're serious no matter how many times you try to let him know you want more than your current arrangement. you've been in love with this man for ages, just waiting for him to open his eyes and see it. what is the most confusing to you is that you know he has feelings for you, more than just friendship or lust. he's so fucking obvious about it, but you don't know if he's scared to admit it to you or if he's even admitted it to himself yet. 

stuck in your head, you don't notice lando making his way down your body, placing kisses as he goes. it's when he's finally between your legs, pressing a kiss to your thigh, that you pay attention to him again. you groan, knowing exactly what he wants.

“nooo…i don't think i can come again.” you try to squeeze your legs shut but his big head is in the way. “i’ll die.”

“you don't have to come again, just let me taste you.” he pleads, looking up from between your legs, eyes wide and desperate. you're so weak to his gaze, tossing your head back and spreading your legs further for him. 

“yeah, alright.” he dives right in at your compliance, so eager to get his mouth on you. lando holds your leg open with one hand, pressing you flat into the bed. with the other hand he slides two fingers between your folds, already dripping from when he fucked your earlier. you're leaking a mix of your own juices and lando’s cum, and he pushes it back in, making a squelching noise. he puts his mouth on your clit, sucking as he fingers you. you let out a whimper at the feeling, still so sensitive from before. you reach a hand down, tangling it in his hair, yanking his head back so you can see his eyes. he looks at you, dazed, his mind clearly focused on one thing. 

he moans at the taste of you on his tongue, closing his eyes. he uses his thick fingers to spread your wetness along your folds, dipping down to eat his cum out of you. the sounds he's making are filthy, slurping up your cum and spitting on your clit using his thumb to massage the sensitive nub. 

while the man is preoccupied eating you, you decide it's the perfect time to bring up what he's been avoiding, hoping he'll be distracted enough to not brush you off this time.

“lando…” you brush a few curls off of his face, tilting his head to look up at you without making him remove his mouth. “i wanted to ask you something.”

he hums in reply, eyes unfocused as he continues licking and sucking your clit. this probably won't work but you've tried so many different times to approach this conversation and nothing has worked so you might as well give it a shot.

“do you ever- ah,” your question is interrupted when his fingers reach that spot inside of you, causing you to flinch and moan. you gather your thoughts, trying again. “do you ever think about, um, being more than this? like the- ah, the friends with benefits thing?”

he lets out a questioning sound from between your thighs, not stopping his ministrations. you're not even sure he understands what you're trying to say at this point, too far gone worshiping your pussy. you use your grip on his hair to pull his head up, forcing him to remove his mouth and finally pay attention to your words.

“lando, i'm trying to say that i’m in-” you're cut off by your phone vibrating loudly against the nightstand. you groan out loud, you thought this time would finally be it. the moment is broken and lando sits up from between your legs, resting his hands on your thighs. you lay there for a minute, letting the phone ring, thinking about what you did in a past life to have this kind of luck.

“aren't you going to answer that?” lando nods at your phone, using the back of his hand to wipe your juices from his face. 

“ugh, i guess so.” you pick up the phone and see that it's max calling and roll your eyes. you answer the call, because for some reason instead of giving up when you let it ring for a while, he kept calling. “mate, what do you want? i'm kind of busy.”

“when are you going to be done, we're sick of waiting for you.” max sounds pissy on the line, clearly prepared to bitch at you over your lateness. “and tell lando i said hi.”

“hi max.” lando waves at the phone like an idiot, as if max can see him. while you're busy chatting with max, aka getting yelled at for your lack of time management skills, lando takes the opportunity to finish what he started. his cock is hard and throbbing when he rubs it between your slick folds, using a hand to press it down, sliding through your wetness. you smother a moan at the feeling of his cock rubbing on you, not wanting max to hear. you glare at lando, trying to signal him to stop what he's doing, but he ignores you. with his cock sufficiently lubed up, he pushes into your entrance. he slides in easily, your hole already stretched, and fits snugly inside you. you have to cover your mouth to keep in your sounds as max rants at you over the phone. you're about to try and find a way to hang up on your friend but lando stops you, shaking his head and mouthing at you not to end the call. 

lando pulls out of you almost completely and pushes back into you, hard, stealing the air from your lungs. you can feel him in your throat, his cock big and thick as it pounds in and out of you. he presses a hand down on your stomach, slamming into you over and over. the intensity of his movement has you sliding up the bed, your head almost hitting the headboard. you reach a hand up and behind you, pressing it against the wood to stop from sliding up too far. 

“i just think it's a little disrespectful, yn. you said you'd join and i even told the stream you'd be here. they're mad at me for lying, don't you feel bad?” max’s words go in one ear and out the other, you couldn't listen to him if you tried, too overwhelmed by the feeling of lando filling you up. you feel yourself getting close when he starts rubbing on your clit, your walls tightening around his cock. lando increases the speed of his thrusts, pounding in and out of your pussy. you can't stop yourself from letting out a loud moan as you let go, lando joining you, groaning when he releases his cum inside you, pulling out and watching as it oozes out of you.

max is silent on the phone for a moment, you and lando’s combined breathing definitely audible on his side of the call.

“are you two seriously fucking right now? you are SO LUCKY i’m muted on stream. i can’t believe this! the audacity of yo-” max’s voice is cut off when lando grabs the phone and hangs up on the man, tossing the device onto the bed and leaning his head down on your chest, putting his full weight on top of you. 

“he's not going to shut up about that.” you warn lando, already thinking about how annoying max will be about what you just did.

“worth it.” 

—

view story replies:

user: LIKKEEEE user: lmao max looking like he’s lando’s dad here 😂😂

lilymhe: what do i get for liking ↳yourusername: A BIG OLE KISS ↳lilymhe: LETS GOOOOOOO

user: 3rd wheeling nortrell ↳yourusername: always

mclarenf1: Please don’t run over our driver, we need him ↳yourusername: what about max ↳mclarenf1: Not our monkey not our circus

yourusername just posted

liked by lilyzneimer, lando, and others

yourusername: girls night 🩷✨@.lilyzneimer @.lilymhe

view all comments:

lilyzneimer: 🍸🪩💋 lando: Holy shit comment deleted by author lando: Youre so fucking hot comment deleted by author  lando: AWOOOOGAAAAAAAAAAA comment deleted by author user: uh lando are you good man ⤷user: deleting the comments like we didn’t see them LMAOOO ⤷user: down horrendous alex_albon: We were supposed to watch Marley & Me ⤷lilymhe: don’t pretend you didn’t go and watch it with george when i cancelled on you 🙄 ⤷alex_albon: That did not happen ⤷georgerussell63: Don’t lie to her, Alexander ⤷yourusername: exposed by ur girlfriend AND ur boyfriend LOL

yourusername just posted

liked by lando and others

yourusername: best part of family vacation is when all my aunties ask when i’m going to get married and have kids 🙄

view all comments:

user: need to know where the bikini is from neowwww user: SO PRETTYYYY lando: You can post on instagram but not pick up the phone :( ⤷yourusername: omg call me you loser user: caption is SO real user: ok but when are you going to get married and have kids ⤷yourusername: when someone puts a ring on it babe ⤷user: @.lando GET TO WORK

view story replies:

lando: I miss you ↳lando: Come home ↳lando: Im lonely without you ↳lando: Pretty girl ↳lando: Cant wait to see you again :(((

yourusername just posted

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, and others

yourusername: thinking of a career change 🧐

view all comments:

user: yn make a post without lando in it challenge FAILED ⤷yourusername: mind your business bro  lando: so that’s why my pitstop lasted six seconds ⤷yourusename: i can think of something else that only lasted six seconds ⤷user: WHAT DID SHE SAAAAAYYYY ⤷user: hello??? yn come back what does that mean??? ⤷user: guys relax, she’s totally talking about vine… ⤷user: sure bud mclarenf1: We love having you in the garage 🫶 ⤷yourusername: does this mean you’ll give me a job? ⤷mclarenf1:…We will get back to you on that user: lando’s hands holy shit ⤷user: the veins got damn maxfewtrell: Stick to your day job mate ⤷yourusername: like u could do better 🖕

—

you manage to extricate yourself from the pit crew member’s flirting, explaining that you have somewhere to be. he lets you go but not before asking for your number. 

“sorry, i don’t have a phone.” you shrug at the man, quickly walking away. he tries to call out to you again but you ignore him. 

you make your way to the mclaren team hub, trying to calm your nerves. you try not to worry too much about why lando wants to speak to you. deep down you hope he’s finally pulled his head out of his ass and realized that he wants to be with you. the way he reacted to you entertaining some stranger’s flirting has your hopes high for a positive outcome to this conversation.

you scan your pass at the hospitality doors, squeezing past a handful of vip guests oohing and ahhing at the motorhome’s interior. thankfully, no one stops you on your way up to lando’s room. you take the stairs two at a time, trying to seem casual but you’re definitely rushing. the excitement is mixing with anxiety and you send out a little prayer that this goes the way you want.

you knock on the tinted black door with a white #4 on it, rocking back on your feet, waiting for lando to answer. you don’t have to wait long, you hear lando trip over something and swear before he opens the door, smiling awkwardly at you.

“hey, yn.” he waves you into the room, shutting the door behind you. “um, just sit wherever.”

you take a seat on the sofa bed, twisting your hands in your lap. lando locks the door and closes the blinds, blocking out the outside world. he turns to you, running a hand through his curls and letting out a sigh. instead of sitting next to you like you’d expected, he grabs a chair from the desk and sits across from you. 

“um, so what did you want to talk about?” you try to get the conversation started and lando groans, covering his face with his hands. “or not?”

“no, sorry. give me a second.” lando rubs his hands over his eyes before putting them behind his head and leaning back in the chair. “i need to tell you something.”

“alright?” you’re so anxious, you need him to just get on with it. “nothing bad, is it?”

“no, no. i mean i hope not.” he leans forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and looks at you, holding your gaze. “yn…i think i’m in love with you.” 

you just blink at the man, eyes wide, and he stares back at you. at your silence, he continues speaking.

“i think i have been for a long time but i was too scared to do anything about it. i thought if we were hooking up but still friends, it would be enough for me.” he gets up, moving to sit next to you on the couch, grabbing your hands in his and you turn to look at him. “i’ve wanted you for so long, yn.”

“uh...” you don’t know what to say, speechless at his confession. you’d hoped this would happen but now you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“please, please, yn. tell me you feel the same.” lando grips your hands tighter, his eyes pleading at you. “tell me this wasn’t a mistake.”

“lando…” your brain finally starts working, and you pull your hands from his, moving to sit on his lap and grabbing his face with your hands. “you idiot.”

“wha-” you don’t give him the chance to reply, leaning forward and kissing him hard. he melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist as you straddle his lap. you pull back from the kiss, staring into his blue green eyes, your own glimmering with tears. 

“i have been waiting for this moment for so long, lando.” you lean in for another quick kiss, leaning back in his arms. “i tried to tell you so many times that i wanted more, but you kept brushing me off.”

“fuck. i’m so fucking stupid.” lando laughs in relief, tilting his head forward and bumping your forehead. “so you love me?”

“of course i do, dummy. so much.” he leans in to kiss you again and it quickly becomes heated. lando licks into your mouth, hands sliding underneath your shirt and rubbing up your sides. a hand reaches up and grabs one of your tits, causing you to moan into his mouth. you run your hand through his hair, yanking his head back and he groans, looking up at you. “say it again.”

“i love you” he’s breathless when he says the words, the look in his eyes full of love. “i love you, yn.”

you go back in for another kiss, reaching down to pull up lando’s team kit, only breaking the kiss so that he can take the shirt off. you pull back from his mouth, kissing up his neck and lando moans. he tightens his grip on your waist and smoothly switches your positions, putting you flat on your back on the sofa bed. his gold chain hanging down as he hovers above you. he kisses you deeply before sitting back above you and pulling your shirt up over your head, removing your bra as well. 

“god, you’re so fucking beautiful.” he grabs your tits in your hands, leaning down to kiss and bite at them. “all mine, yeah?”

“all yours, lan.” you moan at the feeling of his mouth on you, moving your hands to his waistband, attempting to unbutton his jeans. he lets go of you, standing up to take off his pants, moving to take off your skirt and panties before he gets back on top of you. you both moan at the feeling of skin on skin, his cock already hard, warm and throbbing as it brushes against your stomach. 

you spread your legs for lando when he slips a hand between them and he groans when he feels how wet you already are. he starts to lean his head down to where your thighs are parted, clearly wanting to eat you out, but you put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. 

“lando, i need you to fuck me. now.” 

“shit, yeah okay.” he slicks his cock up with your wetness, rubbing your clit a few times, before moving to push the tip into your hole. you’re tight from the lack of foreplay and lando groans as he forces himself inside you. “fuck baby, you feel so fucking good.”

fully seated inside you, lando gives you a few moments to adjust, leaning forward to kiss your neck and lips. you run a hand down his back, feeling so full. all you can think is lando, lando, lando. 

“yeah, say my name baby.” you’re already so far gone, you didn’t realize you were speaking out loud. lando leans back up, holding your hips and pulling out of you all the way before pushing back in. you moan loudly at the feeling, your walls squeezing around him. “love this fucking pussy.”

he pounds into you over and over, you swear you can feel him in your throat. neither of you try to control your volume, your moans echoing in the room. you hope these walls are soundproof but you’re so lost in the feeling of lando’s cock filling you up, you don’t even care if someone hears. let them hear, let them know how good lando makes you feel. 

lando’s cock slips out of you from how wet you are and you whine at the sudden emptiness. he coos at you, leaning down and holding your cheek in his hand. you look up at him, tears in your eyes from how good he’s fucking you. he smiles at you, eyes full of love. “my pretty girl. can’t believe you love me.”

“love you more than anything.” you lean up to kiss him and he pushes his cock back into your pussy, sliding in easily from your wetness. he picks up his pace, pounding in and out of you harder than ever. you can feel yourself getting close, your walls tightening around him and he groans at the feeling. “ah- please cum inside me, lando. please, please.”

“fuck, yeah. anything you want, baby.” he speeds up his thrusts, rubbing circles on your clit to get you to cum before him. you moan, feeling yourself peaking, and lando is right there with you. you tense at the wave of pleasure overcoming you, holding lando close, tucking your face into his neck, breathing heavily. he groans as he lets go, cum filling you up. he grinds his cum deeper inside you, before pulling out and watching as it drips out of you. “holy shit.”

“yeah,” you sigh, trying to catch your breath, holding lando in your arms. you’re both covered in sweat, panting from the exertion. “i love you so much, lando.”

he lifts his head from your chest, beaming at you. “i’ll never get tired of hearing that.”

“i’ll never stop saying it.”

—

view story replies:

lando: I LOVE YOUUU ↳lando: MY GIRLL ↳lando: FUCK THE WIN I GOT YOU ↳yourusername: love u lan <3

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

[formulafantassies]

Cancelled ᰔ OP81 It's a Good Thing I Like My Drivers Cancelled

Warnings: Fake dating relationship between reader & Oscar

Word Count: 1.3k

Title: Taylor Swift: Cancelled

A part of the series ‘Cancelled’  ⤷ Part 1 | Series Masterlist

By the time Oscar’s name had become synonymous with the word controversy, you’d already spent six years learning how to make F1 drivers look like they had their lives together. 

It was a strange profession, working for Formula One—only when you thought about it for too long. 

You could spend an entire morning preparing a driver for a twenty-minute interview, carefully explaining which questions were likely to be asked, which subjects should be avoided and how to redirect anything particularly invasive, only for a journalist to ask one completely unexpected question and watch everything you’d prepared disappear in the space of three seconds. 

You had learnt how to not panic—or just panic internally. 

And that was probably the most valuable skill you’d developed since entering the circus. 

Knowing how to remain calm while everyone around you was losing their minds. F1 was very good at producing situations that made people lose their minds. You have seen championship leaders collapse under the pressure, teammates turn on one another, sponsors threaten to withdraw mid-season and drivers to say one thing wrong in an interview, only for the whole world to take it out of proportion. 

You’d started your career in motorsport communications while you still believed working in F1 would be glamorous. You’d quickly learnt otherwise. The paddock wasn’t always champagne showers and private hospitality suites. It was five-thirty alarms in an unfamiliar hotel room, frantic Whatsapp messages at midnight, unread emails and long periods of time away from family and friends. 

But beneath it all…you loved it. 

You’d worked your way through the junior categories before eventually finding yourself a place in Formula One. Pretty much working your ranks next to those boys you now call friends. And by the time you’d established yourself, you had developed a reputation for being the person teams called when something had gone horribly wrong. Mainly because you were the only one they listened to. 

That’s why you never questioned it when McLaren’s PR representative, Laura invited you along to a meeting on Monday morning. The glass walls of the MCU were anything but private, but regardless people never peered in as they walked past—it was like their eyes permanently faced forward. Maybe there was a DO NOT LOOK panel you’d missed when you walked in this morning, or maybe it was because they knew what was coming. 

“We want you to know this isn’t our usual…way of working.” Laura awkwardly passed an enclosed folder over the table. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.” 

You peeled open the plastic covering, big, bold lettering revealing the plan. 

OSCAR PIASTRI: PR AND PUBLIC PERSONA RE-ESTABLISHMENT 

“You need my help with Oscar?” You looked up, Laura and her intern, Ryan, staring back at you. 

They exchanged a knowing look before returning to face you. “Sort of–” 

You drew your eyebrows together, your eyes gazing back to the folder. Your fingers turned the page as Laura continued to speak. 

“Oscar has become a bit of a problem–” 

Photos and articles of Oscar littered the folder. The altercation in the nightclub. A photo of him with a questionable amount of shot glasses. His car crash in Monaco. 

“–I think that’s an understatement.” You finished. Laura just nodded. 

She leant over and turned the final page, revealing their PR plan. You looked at the page, then to her, then back at the page again. 

“I’m sorry…I don’t think I’ve read that correctly,” you laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You want someone to be his girlfriend?” 

“Not someone,” Ryan chewed at his fingernails. “We want you to be his girlfriend.” 

The laugh shot from your stomach, the type of laugh that comes from within the deepest pits of your soul. Except, they didn’t laugh with you. Instead, they sat there in silence, a straight line smile looking at you with something close to sympathy. 

“I assume you’ve seen the coverage,” Laura finally said. 

You nodded, your laugh quickly faltering. “It’s kind of hard not to.” 

“That’s why we need you. We need you to help turn his reputation around.” She walked round to the front of the desk, perching herself on the mahogany wood, her legs crossed as her heels pointed towards you. Her expensive shoes mocking you as she clasped her hands together. 

“It would be a year in total, a lot more money involved.” She turned to another page, the grand total of what they were offering to pretend to be Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend. It was enough. Enough to buy a place in Monaco, maybe even a nice car, a reliable one, and maybe your dream handbag. Or two. 

You swallowed, loud. “But I work in F1. I don’t know if–” 

“–it’s all been handled,” Ryan interjected. “We’ve spoken to your managers, they understand the severity of the situation and would rather us handle Oscar by any means necessary.” 

All you could do was nod. “Right. Okay.” 

The room fell silent for a moment, the only sounds were the chatter from staff around the MCU.

Finally, you found the words again. “What does Oscar have to say about all this?” 

The pair of them looked at each other in unison again, like a pair of telepathic twins who knew something you didn’t. 

“He’s…mulling it over currently.” Laura stated, bobbing her head from side to side. “Take the evening to think it over. I know it’s a lot to take in but you’re the only person we trust with this.” 

You nodded, closing the folder shut with a final clap. “When do I need to tell you?” 

“1pm tomorrow is when we meet with our CEO. We need to tell him our plan to save Mr Piastri’s reputation; so ideally by 12pm the latest.” 

The walk back to the car felt a lot heavier than the walk in there. The weight of the folder on your lap on the drive home felt like he was burning a hole through your thighs.

The evening drew by in short waves. You ate your dinner in silence, each folk-full feeling less appetising than the next. That orange folder mocking you from the hallway dresser. You thought about saying no, it would’ve been an easy no. But then you thought about the money—not your finest thought but it was enough to sort your debts and everything else in between. 

You’d spent the night scrolling through social media. Not yours. His. Oscar’s. You’d seen the photos that his social media manager had tried to post covering his web of drunken-antics but the comments spelt the situation out very clearly. 

The glow from your phone had started to light up the room. You hadn’t realised it got dark until your notifications chimed with a new email. 

CONTRACT OF EMPLOYMENT: MCLAREN RACING X OSCAR PIASTRI 

The subject line mocked you as you tapped the banner. “Great,” you whispered as you read the contents of the contract. It included basic boilerplate stuff, things that were common when you were working in motorsport. An NDA and a five-point plan for Oscar and your ‘relationship’. 

Establish relationship between parties X and O

Rebuild public persona and reinstate sponsors trust 

Create an acceptable and believable relationship between both parties

Ensure reputation has been restored and is stable

Establish amicable break-up between both parties and maintain ‘friendship’ 

Your fingers had begun signing the tiny dotted line before your brain had a chance to catch up. You squiggled your signature across the document, hesitating slightly before reaching across the screen and hitting the glowing send button. It wooshed quickly, the noise echoing across your bedroom. 

You set your phone down on your bedside table, pulling the charging cable across as your phone turned green. 

That was it. You’d agreed to an even greater circus than the one you signed up to at 19. One that meant your career and reputation was coined to being a driver’s girlfriend. One whose reputation was circling the toilet. 

And it was your job to try and salvage it.

[cheftsunoda]

𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 — ka12

kimi antonelli x !bearman popstar reader (smau/written)

you don’t hear the rumors at first. but then ollie calls. he doesn’t say hello—just breathes your name in that overprotective twin way that tells you something is wrong. and suddenly the lights feel too bright. the world too quiet. because he’s seen the photos. and so has everyone else. and before you can even speak, before you can explain, before you can cry—hector posts his statement. “mutual.” “nothing but love.”

you stare at the words until they blur. and somewhere across the world, kimi sees them too. he’s in his driver's room when he opens twitter to the post and his stomach sinks, because he knows how much you loved that boy. he knows how hard you tried. he knows what this kind of hurt feels like.

he types are you okay? deletes it. types i’m here if you need me. deletes it again.

a simple text finally makes its way to you and somehow, it’s the first thing all day that makes you exhale. you don’t know it yet—not standing under the stadium lights, not blinking back the sting of a public heartbreak—but this is the moment something shifts. kimi won’t push. he won’t rush. he won’t try to fix you. he’ll just be there.

and somewhere between broken pieces and rebuilding, between late night calls and soft laughter, between the girl you were with hector and the girl you’re becoming again—you’ll fall for him. slowly. naturally. unexpectedly.

but for now, all the world knows is that at midnight, you drop your new single, and everyone finally understands: you’ve got anything but love for the boy who hurt you—and a future you don’t see yet with the one who never would.

fc : shanaeden_ on ig (+ used one pic of tate for paparazzi purposes) a/n: hi hi hi! got so inspired after tate dropped the deluxe that i needed to create SOMETHING. and i just used hector bc i needed someone out of the f1 world to be the bad guy for the ficccc. (and everyone wanted more kimi)

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

celebgossiproomx

3,450,000 likes.

celebgossiproomx : after weeks of whispers, sources finally confirm that global pop sensation yn and elche right-back hector fort have ended their relationship after a year together. according to statements from hector and his team, the split was “mutual” with “nothing but love” between the two — and he claims to have already “moved on.”

but fans are not convinced 👀 hector has been spotted multiple times with different women while yn has been busy performing sold out shows across the world and supporting her twin brother ollie at recent f1 races. yn has remained completely silent on the breakup, as it seems she is focusing on her tour and family… but the internet is waiting for her side of the story — and if history tells us anything, she doesn’t stay quiet for long.

—

view 150,000 other comments.

username007 : oh he def cheated and his team is trying to cover his ass rn. im so sorry yn

liked by celebgossiproomx and 1,234,000 others.

username010 : he said “nothing but love” but was that before or after he was photographed with mystery girl #4???

liked by celebgossiproomx

username090 : yn hasn’t said a WORD. this is either very bad or we’re getting the greatest breakup anthem of the decade.

username101 : the only man in her life she needs is her twin. thank you and goodnight

liked by celebgossiproomx

username0007 : remember when she said “i write best when i’m heartbroken” ??? guys we’re about to EAT.

username089 : i am waiting for little, innocent, cute ollie to rip this man to shreds.

olliebearman : mutual breakup? you mean the breakup my sister didn't even know about? he is a fucking cheater. he will say anything to cover his own ass.

this comment has been deleted.

↳ celebgossiproomx : ohhhh ollie. we saw that...hector has some explaining to do 👀

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

You still remember the way he held you that morning.

It was two weeks before the tour, sunlight spilling through the thin curtains of your shared apartment in Barcelona. The sheets were warm, tangled around your legs, and Hector was lying beside you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of tenderness that used to melt you instantly.

“You know,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your temple, “I hate that you have to leave again.”

You smiled, because he always said that. “It’s only six weeks, love. I’ll be back for a few days in between shows. And you’ll come to the last stop, remember?”

He nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know. I just… miss you even before you go.”

You laughed quietly, tracing the tattoo on his forearm. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

“I’m allowed to,” he murmured, rolling you onto your back so he could hover above you, eyes warm. “I’m in love with you.”

Your chest tightened, the good kind, the kind that made everything feel slow and dreamy. “I love you too.”

He kissed you then—soft, unhurried, sweet. The kind of kiss that promised futures you both said you wanted. Houses. Kids. Summers in England with your family. Winters in Spain with his.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered against your lips. “Always.”

You believed him.

God, you believed him.

The memory dissolves the same moment a speaker cracks onstage, snapping you back into the present. Soundcheck. Your dancers waiting for your cue. Your mind locked on the melody rather than the ache blooming in your chest.

You’re halfway through the chorus when your stage manager rushes over, mouthing, “Your phone keeps ringing.”

You wipe sweat from your brow, confused. “Who is it?”

He shrugs. “Your brother. About ten times.”

A chill hits your spine. Ollie never calls you repeatedly unless something is wrong. You jog offstage, grab your phone, and immediately see the missed calls—twelve of them. You call back. He picks up before it can ring once.

“YN?”

His voice is tight. Panicked. Breathless.

Your stomach drops. “Ollie? Hey, what’s going on?”

He hesitates. That alone terrifies you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally breathes out. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Hector broke up?”

Your heart stops. Actually stops.

“What?” you whisper. “Ollie… what are you talking about?”

“You didn’t…?” He exhales sharply, and you can hear him pacing. “YN, he posted a statement. He—he said the breakup was mutual. And that he’s moved on. And there’s nothing but love between you two.”

Every word hits like a punch to the ribs. Breakup. Mutual. Moved on. The room tilts.

“Ollie,” you say, voice breaking, “I didn’t break up with him. We didn’t break up. I—what?”

Your twin goes silent, and that hurts even more. He’s trying to figure out how to say the next part. You already know you won’t like it.

Then gently, heartbreakingly: “There are pictures, YN. Many. He’s been seen with… someone.”

Your throat tightens, breath shaking. You grip the edge of the makeup table to stay upright.

“Oh,” you manage. “Okay.”

“No. Not okay.” Ollie’s voice cracks with protective anger. “Listen, I’m flying out. I’ll get the first plane. I don’t care about training, I don’t care about anything, I’m not leaving you alone—”

“No,” you whisper. “Ollie, no. You have a big weekend ahead of you. Prep. You can’t drop everything. I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” he fires back, voice thick. “You don’t have to be okay for me.”

Your eyes burn. You swallow hard. “I just… I need to be by myself right now. Please.”

He hates it. You can hear it. But finally, softly: “I love you. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will,” you say, lying. “Love you.”

When the call ends, the backstage hallway feels too narrow, too echoing, too much. You slip into your dressing room, lock the door, and let yourself fall apart. You sink to the floor, hands trembling, trying to breathe through the betrayal you never saw coming. The heartbreak you never prepared for. The humiliation of the world knowing before you did.

You cry once—quiet, fast, messy. And then… you shut it down. You stand. You adjust your mic pack. You redo your eyeliner. You look at yourself in the mirror and say, “The show goes on.”

Because that’s what you do. You survive publicly and break privately. The show is a blur. Lights. Screams. Sweat. Choreography. Forced smiles. Your chest aches through every lyric—especially the love songs. You want to crumble, but autopilot carries you through the final bow.

When you step offstage, you don’t go to the car. You don’t go to the hotel. You go to the studio your assistant scrambled to book for you.

The second the engineer turns on the vocal booth light, something in your chest snaps open. The lyrics spill out of you like they were waiting.

My dad hates you, my dog hates you, my brothers hate you… and I do too…

Your voice shakes, then steadies. You write like the words are dragging themselves out of your veins. You record like it’s the only way to breathe.

Halfway through the second verse, your phone buzzes. You don’t expect to look. But you do.

Are you alright?

Your chest softens—actually softens—for the first time all day. Kimi Antonelli. Quiet. Steady. Gentle in ways people don’t see. Someone who has always felt like safety without ever trying.

You call him before you can overthink it.

He answers instantly.

“YN?”

His voice is so soft you almost cry again.

“Can you…” You swallow. “Can you just talk? I don’t care about what. I just need—something.”

“I can,” he says immediately. “I’m here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

And you do. You breathe. You let his voice ground you. You let yourself feel held without anyone actually touching you.

He asks nothing. He judges nothing. He just stays. And for a moment, the world is quiet enough to survive.

When the demo is half finished, exhaustion hits you like a wave. You head back to your hotel, hoodie pulled over your head, security guiding you through back entrances.

When you open your room door, you stop short. There are flowers everywhere.

A bright orange bouquet from Ollie and Alicia, with a note in Alicia’s handwriting: “We love you. He didn’t deserve you.”

A gentle, elegant bouquet from your parents: “We’re here. Always. — Mum & Dad”

You sit on the edge of the bed, surrounded by petals and comfort and reminders that you’re not as alone as you feel. Your phone buzzes once more. Kimi again.

Text me when you get some sleep, please. I want to know you’re okay.

You smile. Just a little. Just enough. Because something in your life is breaking apart— but the people you love know exactly how to stitch it up.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

You wake up the next morning with the kind of emptiness that sits in your bones before your brain even wakes up.

Your phone is on the nightstand, buzzing every few seconds—notifications, calls, tags, news alerts, trending topics. You don’t touch it. You don’t even look at the screen. You know exactly what’s waiting there, and you don’t have the strength for it yet.

Your assistant, Claire, taps lightly on the door before slipping inside. She takes one look at you—swollen eyes, hoodie pulled over your head, blanket cocooned around you—and her expression softens.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “How are you feeling?”

You stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “I don’t want to look at social media.”

“Good. Don’t.” She sits on the corner of the bed. “What do you want to do today? I’ll handle anything you need.”

You breathe in. Then out. Then say, very simply: “Nothing.”

Claire nods, not pushing. “And… do you want me to handle the public for now?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. I’ll handle it myself.”

And you will. Not with statements, not with interviews, not with PR-approved speeches. You’ll do it the only way you know how— with a song that wounds exactly the way you were wounded.

You spend the next five hours in the studio, hair tied back, oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, pen tapping against your notebook as you finish line after line.

Every lyric feels like a pulse you’re reclaiming. Every harmony feels like stitching yourself back together. Every scream-sung line of the bridge feels like armored healing.

When you record the final chorus, the engineer looks at you through the glass, eyes wide. “You sure you want it that raw?”

“Yes.”

Because heartbreak isn’t pretty—and you refuse to pretend it is. When it’s done, you grab your phone for the first time all morning and type into the team group chat.

I need a simple studio, good lighting, minimal props, four dancers who can learn choreo fast, and availability in the next three hours. We’re filming a music video.

Your phone floods with pings.

Wait—A music video for what?

WHAT DID YOU DO

Don’t play with me. Are we getting the heartbreak track??

You grin, just a little.

You’ll hear it when I get there.

Before you leave, you scroll to the name you want to see most.

Kimi. You don’t hesitate. You call. He picks up instantly—like he was waiting for it.

“YN,” he says softly, morning-raspy voice sending a warm flutter through your stomach. “You slept?”

“A little,” you answer. “I… just wanted to tell you I’m okay. And I finished the song.”

His breath catches—not dramatic, just a tiny, instinctive sound of someone who cares too much.

“Can I hear?” he asks.

You put him on speaker, play the rough mix. It’s raw and sharp and vicious in the most gorgeous way. You don’t say anything while it plays. Neither does he. When the song ends, there’s silence for a moment.

Then Kimi says, in the softest, most Kimi way imaginable: “That was… really good. Like, scary good. He’s probably crying somewhere.”

You laugh—an actual laugh, the first real one since the world collapsed.

“Is that your version of cheering me on?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Should I try again?”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “No. That was perfect.”

A beat. Then, shy but earnest: “I’m proud of you, YN.”

Your throat tightens, but not with sadness this time— with something warm and new blooming in a place that had been all ache yesterday.

“Thank you, Kimi,” you whisper.

The space your team rents is small but perfect—stark walls, dark lighting, reflective flooring. The dancers arrive within an hour, and your choreographer is already crafting fast, sharp, sultry movements to match the chorus.

You pull on a tiny white two piece. Your makeup is darker than usual—smoky, sharp, powerful.

Claire looks at you and murmurs, “This is revenge served hot.”

You grin. “Good.”

The cameras roll. The lights shift red. The bass thumps through your body as you mouth the words into the lens:

Tryna step on my neck, I'm tryna step in Jimmy Choo's The shit your punk ass does for views

You run your hand down your neck. You throw your head back. You dance like you’ve shed the last pieces of who you were with Hector.

You’re not heartbroken in the video. You’re dangerous.

By the last shot—knees against the floor, breathless under a spotlight—you know exactly what this video will do. It won’t just break the internet. It’ll bury him.

You don’t post a teaser. You don’t announce anything. At 11:58 PM, you get nervous. At 11:59 PM, you nearly pull the plug. But at 12:00 AM, the song goes live. The video goes live. The world explodes. Your phone rings exactly two minutes after midnight. You answer before it hits the second ring.

Ollie screams. Alicia screams even louder.

“YOU DID NOT—” “ARE YOU CRAZY—” “WHAT THE HELL YN MN BEARMAN—” “OH MY GOD I’M SO PROUD OF YOU—” “YOU ATE HIM UP—LIKE LITERALLY ATE HIM—” “THIS IS YOUR BEST SONG EVER—”

You laugh into the phone, cheeks aching, heart suddenly feeling lighter than it has in days.

“I guess the world knows how I feel now,” you say.

Alicia fake-sobs. “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU JUST DROPPED THAT WITHOUT WARNING, YOU MENACE.”

Ollie sounds like he’s smiling. “I love you. And I’m so proud of you. Hector deserved worse.”

You smile, eyes warm. “I love you both.”

You fall into bed, exhaustion finally hitting you all at once. Your phone buzzes. It’s Kimi.

Just listened. Again. You sound strong. Like yourself. (Also… the video… wow.) Sleep well, YN. I’m really glad you’re okay.

You stare at the message a long moment, warmth slipping into the cracks still healing. You type back:

Goodnight, Kimi. Thank you for today. And… for being you.

He replies almost instantly— as if he’d been waiting.

Always.

Your heartbeat stumbles. Soft. Steady. Growing. You fall asleep feeling… not whole yet, but no longer shattered. Not alone. Not unloved. And definitely not done.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

yourusername

liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, alexandrasaintmleux and 9,700,000 others.

yourusername : surprise song to celebrate the surprise breakup! anything but love available everywhere ! x

—

user has limited comments on this post.

olliebearman : i have created 20 + fake twitter accounts to tweet this song to him

liked by yourusername

↳ isackhadjar : oh i've just been tweeting from my main account. oops.

liked by yourusername

kimi.antonelli : così orgoglioso di te 😻

liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux : his loss<3 you are soooooo 🔥

liked by yourusername

haasf1team : WE HATE HIM TOO!!!!!!🙋🏻‍♀️

liked by yourusername

olliebearman : heavy on my dad and my brothers hate you. thomas and dad were contacting every etsy witch in existence this morning

liked by yourusername

flavy.barla : im OBSSESSED with you 💕

liked by yourusername

yourmanager : made the song in less than 12 hours and broke several records ALREADY.

liked by yourusername, olliebearman, kimi.antonelli and lando

alicia_torriani : ATE DOWN. i am so proud<3

liked by yourusername

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

celebgossiproomx

5,800,000 likes.

celebgossiproomx : YN’s surprise single “Anything But Love” just went live, and let’s be honest… this is not a breakup song — this is a demolition. And yes, the title alone is a direct hit at Hector’s statement last week claiming they had “nothing but love” between them. Clearly… she disagrees.

From the first verse, YN makes it extremely clear that someone has been lying — and it wasn’t her. Fans are already dissecting lyrics like: “Tryna step on my neck, I’m tryna step in Jimmy Choo’s / The shit your punk ass does for views” and “My dad hates you, my dog hates you, my brothers hate you and I do too”

which, by the way, Ollie has been reposting everywhere like it’s his full-time job. He even liked several edits using that lyric before accidentally drawing blood on a gossip account.

Speaking of which — yes, the deleted comment is real. After a gossip page posted about the “mutual breakup,” Ollie swooped in with:

“mutual breakup? you mean the breakup my sister didn’t even know about? he is a f**king cheater. he will say anything to cover his own ass.”

Deleted within minutes… but screenshots live forever. And he wasn’t the only one supporting her. Within half an hour of release, Kimi Antonelli, Lando Norris, Lily Muni He, Alexandra Saint Mleux, Isack Hadjar, and even Charles Leclerc reposted the song to their stories.

Hector, the entirety of the internet is expecting an explanation.

-

user has disabled comments on this post.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

a few weeks later...

It’s been three weeks since Anything But Love detonated across the internet, and somehow, the noise still hasn’t died down. But you have. Quietly. Slowly. In the smallest, most human ways.

A little less shaking when your phone lights up. A little more laughter when Kimi calls. A little more sleep. A little more you.

So when Ollie asks — softly, tentatively — “Come to Barcelona if you feel up for it. It might help. I miss you.”

…you say yes. You need family. You need normal. You need a break from being the girl who dropped the biggest breakup anthem of the year. And Spain has always been kind to you. Most of it at least.

Your jet lands just as the sky bleeds into navy blue, the runway lights blinking like tired stars. You keep everything discreet — no posts, no PR, no team announcement. Only one person knows you’re here.

And when you walk into your hotel suite, the air still warm from the summer evening, there’s a knock almost immediately.

You open the door before you even speak.

Kimi.

A little breathless. A little flushed from rushing. Holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers like he wasn’t sure if it was too much, but brought them anyway.

“Hi,” he says softly — the kind of soft that reaches straight into your ribcage.

You breathe out for what feels like the first time all day.

He steps forward, arms lifting instinctively, and you melt right into him as if your body has been waiting for this exact shape, this exact calm. His hug is warm, steady, grounding — everything your last three weeks weren’t.

“You’re here,” he says into your hair, relief threaded through his voice.

“I’m here,” you whisper back.

And somehow that moment — just being held — feels like coming up for air.

You end up on the balcony, night breeze brushing your skin, Barcelona glowing gold beneath you. Kimi leans back in the chair beside yours, legs stretched out, posture relaxed in that very-Kimi way, but his eyes soft and focused only on you.

You talk about nothing important at first — the flight, how rehearsals are going, how he’s been preparing for the weekend. He listens like it’s the only thing happening in the world.

And then his voice goes quieter.

“You look tired,” he says gently.

“I am.”

It’s the truth. All of it. Unpolished and real in a way you only let yourself be around him now.

He nudges your knee with his.

“I’m glad you came.”

You smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You don’t tell him that he’s the reason this trip doesn’t feel terrifying. You don’t have to. The way he looks at you says he already knows.

The moment is peaceful until your door slams open so hard it rattles the frame.

“YN!?”

You jump — Kimi doesn’t, because of course he doesn’t — and then there’s a blur of curls and long limbs sprinting across your suite.

“Ollie—?!” you barely get out before he crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly your feet leave the ground.

“YOU’RE HERE? You’re ACTUALLY here?”

He sounds half ecstatic, half offended you didn’t burst into the paddock with confetti cannons.

You laugh into his shoulder. “I literally got here an hour ago!”

He pulls back just enough to pout dramatically at you. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say. And then, suspicious, “How did you know?”

Ollie releases you slowly… then grins.

“Dad’s tracking your jet.”

You stare. Kimi snorts. Of course David Bearman is monitoring your whereabouts like a CIA parent.

“I swear I told him to stop doing that,” you mutter.

“Yeah, well,” Ollie flops onto the outdoor sofa, “he doesn’t listen. Anyway, I’m glad. I tried to get to you before anyone else.”

He gestures between you and Kimi with a mischievous eyebrow raise that Kimi deliberately ignores.

Minutes stretch into hours. The city hums beneath you. Warm wind tangles through your hair.

You sit on the balcony floor, your back against the railing, knees pulled up. Ollie sprawls on a lounge chair, long legs everywhere. Kimi sits beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours every so often like he’s making sure you haven’t drifted too far away.

You talk about everything and nothing — Ollie’s last sim session,the disaster of Hector trying to “reach out” twice, the ridiculous edits fans keep making, what the weekend will look like.

You laugh more than you expected to. You feel lighter than you have in weeks. At some point, you lean your head against Kimi’s shoulder — just for a moment — and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t tense. Just sits there, steady and warm and quietly yours in a way that isn’t official but feels just as true.

Ollie watches it happen with the softest, least twin-coded smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re actually coming to the race, right?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. I think I need this.”

He beams. “Good. Because I need you.”

And unexpectedly — beautifully — you feel needed. Wanted. Safe.

You don’t realize you’ve been smiling the whole time until Kimi nudges your hand lightly against his knee and murmurs,

“Welcome back.”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

You wake up peacefully. No buzzing phone. No notifications burning holes in your screen. No headlines with your name in all caps.

Just sunlight warming your sheets, the smell of fresh air drifting in from the balcony, and the soft hum of Barcelona waking up.

You breathe. Deeply. Fully. And then someone slams into the door.

“YN OPEN UP—THOMAS, MOVE—I SHARED THE WOMB WITH HER—”

Before you can even sit up, Ollie and Thomas tumble into your room like two golden retrievers who learned how to operate a keycard.

Ollie jumps onto the bed. Thomas—taller than you remember, but still baby-faced—launches himself right after.

“GOOD MORNING!” they yell in unison, absolutely feral.

“Jesus Christ—” you wheeze under the weight of teenage limbs, “Have you two ever heard of knocking?”

Thomas wraps his arms around your middle and squeezes. “I haven’t seen you in forever. You’re not allowed to complain.”

You melt immediately. You’ve always had such a soft spot for him.

He pulls back, cheeks pink. “You look pretty even when you’re asleep.”

Ollie rolls his eyes. “Okay, shut up. Stop trying to be the favorite sibling.”

You laugh, pulling them both closer.

Ollie nudges his head onto your shoulder. “Room service is on the way. I ordered, like, half the menu.”

“Please tell me you used your card.”

Ollie smirks. “Nope. Dad’s.”

Thomas cackles. “Dad’s gonna KILL you.”

“Worth it,” Ollie grins.

Breakfast arrives—pancakes, churros, fruit, bacon, the works—and the three of you sprawl out across your king-sized bed like you’re ten years old again.

Cartoons play on the TV. Thomas steals half your pancakes. Ollie keeps trying to spoon-feed you fruit like he’s your caretaker. You threaten to beat both of them with a pillow.

It’s loud, messy, comfortable. A pocket of childhood in the middle of chaos. And for a moment, you forget about the world outside this room.

Eventually, you kick them out so you can get dressed.

You choose something simple but bold—a red dress that fits like confidence, even if you’re still piecing yours back together.

You accessorize lightly. A touch of gloss. Loose waves. No theatrics. Just you.

You snap a picture and send it to Kimi:

Does this look okay for today?

You expect a text back. Instead, your phone starts ringing.

You answer, confused. “Kimi?”

He doesn’t waste a second.

“You look beautiful.”

Just like that. Soft. Steady. Sure. No hesitation, no overthinking.

Heat flushes across your cheeks.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Red suits you.”

You end up smiling like an idiot at the screen.

“Thank you, Kimi.”

Any other guy would have made it weird. But not him. Never him.

You arrive with Ollie and Thomas flanking you like two personal bodyguards as the press immediately fires questions your way.

“YN, any comments about Hector—” “Is Anything But Love about—” “How are you feeling—”

Thomas, literal child, hisses at one of them. Ollie physically blocks another camera with his hand. You don’t answer a single question. Inside Haas hospitality, chaos meets you instantly.

Your mum, dad, Amalie, and Alicia all bolt toward you at once.

Your mum nearly knocks you over with the hug. Your dad keeps a hand on your cheek. Amalie cries into your arm. Alicia squeezes you so tightly you squeak.

It’s chaotic. And warm. And so needed.

“Baby, we missed you so much,” your mum murmurs.

“You look good,” your dad says gruffly, which is Bearman-speak for I was worried sick.

Alicia loops her arm through yours.

“You’re not allowed to leave us ever again.”

You laugh, but your eyes burn. Home. You feel home.

Ollie heads off for qualifying prep, leaving you with Alicia and Amalie.

The three of you wander through the paddock, taking pictures, catching up, laughing. Cameras flash, but you feel insulated by the people around you.

Until a voice stops you cold.

“YN.”

Everything inside you freezes.

Hector.

He’s standing a few feet away, invited by a sponsor, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes searching your face with a familiarity he no longer has the right to claim.

Alicia tenses instantly. Amalie moves closer to your side.

He lifts a hand. “Can we talk? Alone.”

Alicia steps forward like she’s ready to fight. “I don’t think—”

“It’s fine,” you whisper, even though you don’t believe it. “It’ll be one minute.”

Alicia’s jaw clenches, but she nods and takes Amalie back toward hospitality.

And suddenly it’s just you and him. He steps closer. Too close.

“You dropped that song about me?” he scoffs. “You think that’s fair?”

Your stomach twists.

“You announced a breakup I didn’t know existed,” you say quietly.

His jaw tightens. “Oh, please. You were never around. What did you expect? This is your fault. The touring. The fame. You made this relationship impossible.”

Each word hits like a bruise. He lifts his hand like he’s about to make another point— But he never gets the chance. Because someone steps between you.

“Kimi?” Hector snaps.

“What the hell are you—”

“You’re done.” Kimi’s voice is calm, cold, terrifying in its clarity.

He stands taller. Broader. Between you and Hector like a shield.

“You don’t talk to her. You don’t raise your voice at her. And you don’t blame her for your mistakes.”

Hector scoffs. “Oh, what—are you her guard dog now?”

Kimi doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink.

“She doesn’t owe you anything,” he says simply.

Then he turns to you, voice softening instantly.

“Come on.”

He places a warm, protective hand on your back and guides you away. Every touch is careful, like he’s making sure you don’t shatter.

Fans with cameras notice. Of course they do.

You don’t even make it to his motorhome before the tears spill.

Inside, the door shuts behind you, and Kimi pulls you gently into his chest. You sink into him immediately, fists curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“He said—it was my fault—” you choke out.

Kimi’s arms wrap around you, solid and steady.

“It wasn’t,” he murmurs into your hair.

“It wasn’t. Not even close.”

He presses a quiet kiss to the top of your head.

“You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You cry until the pressure in your chest loosens and your breathing evens out.

And he stays. Holding. Calming. There.

A knock on the door breaks the silence.

“YN?” Ollie’s voice cracks. “Can I come in?”

You let out a small "yes" and the door opens. Ollie rushes in and immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you away from Kimi and into his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Alicia told me what happened. Dad and I already had him removed from the paddock. You won’t see him again. Not this weekend. Not ever.”

Your chest breaks open again — but this time from relief. Ollie holds you tighter. Behind him, Kimi stands quiet, hands still open as if ready to steady you again. Ollie meets his eyes over your shoulder and mouths: Thank you.

Kimi gives the smallest nod.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

The paddock is still buzzing with post-race adrenaline—mechanics running, reporters shouting, teams celebrating or sulking. But you slip away from all of it. The sun is low, gold and sleepy, turning the pit lane into something warm instead of metallic.

You climb up onto the pit wall, legs dangling over the edge, notebook open on your lap. Your pen moves slowly, half-formed lyrics and broken phrases littering the page. You hum a melody under your breath, soft enough to be a secret.

For the first time all weekend, you breathe without feeling the weight of a camera on your skin. A few minutes pass. Then— You hear footsteps. Quiet ones. You don’t look up. You don’t have to.

Kimi sits beside you without a word, dropping down onto the pit wall like he belongs there next to you—like it’s the most natural place he could be.

He doesn’t ask what you’re writing. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even try to fill the silence. He just sits there. Close enough that your shoulders touch, warm enough to settle the restlessness in your chest.

Your melody floats between you, and without thinking, Kimi’s arm slides around your back. Gentle. Protective. Inviting. You lean into him. Head on his shoulder. Eyes on your notebook.

And for a moment, you feel weightless. That’s when two blur figures come running by. Whispers. Snickering. The sound of a camera shutter. You look up just in time to see Ollie and Thomas. Running. Laughing. Holding up their phones like paparazzi.

Ollie calls out, “Don’t worry, I’ll pick the cutest one to post!”

Thomas adds, “I’m sending this to Mum!”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

Kimi actually laughs. A quiet, warm rumble in his chest that you feel beneath your cheek.

“They’re never going to let us live this down,” you sigh.

“I don’t mind,” he says softly.

Your heart does something traitorous.

The silence returns, but it’s different now—softer, charged in the best way. You close your notebook, fingers brushing the edges of the pages, and Kimi traces slow circles along your back with his thumb.

“YN,” he says quietly, eyes still forward, as if he’s afraid to spook the moment.

“I’m… heading to Italy tomorrow. Before the next race. Just a few days to rest.”

A beat passes. Then, with a nervous little breath: “I thought… maybe you’d want to come with me?”

You turn to him, surprised.

“To Italy?”

He nods. “Somewhere quiet. No cameras. No press. Just… space. I think it would be good for you.”

He doesn’t say I want you there, but it hangs in the air all the same.

Your answer is immediate.

“Yes. I want to go.”

Kimi’s eyes flicker with something warm. Maybe relief. Maybe happiness. Something tender.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Good.”

Now you’re curled up on a private jet flying toward Italy—toward quiet, toward peace, toward something new.

Kimi claimed the window seat and didn’t even bother hiding the way he motioned for you to sit beside him.

Your legs are draped over his lap, comfortably tangled. He rests one hand on your shin, thumb brushing slow, gentle patterns across your skin—completely subconscious, completely natural.

You’re working on your laptop, tweaking a melody, adjusting a line of lyrics you wrote on the pit wall. Every once in a while you hum something under your breath, and without fail, Kimi pauses whatever he’s doing to listen.

“You like that part?” you ask, noticing him stare.

He nods. “It sounds incredible”

You blush, pretending to refocus on your screen. Outside the window, the sky is lavender and fading into night. Inside the cabin, it’s quiet. Warm. Safe.

Every few minutes, Kimi adjusts his hand on your leg—sliding a little higher, squeezing gently, tracing a new pattern—never crossing a line, but making it very clear he doesn’t want to let go.

You stretch your toes toward his hip, nudging him playfully. He smirks, cheeks flushed, trying to hide it behind a dismissive shake of his head.

But you see it. The softness. The fondness. The way his eyes flick toward you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you say quietly, voice barely above the hum of the jet.

Kimi looks at you—really looks at you.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, thumb brushing one last soft circle on your leg. “I wanted you here.”

Your chest finally doesn’t feel heavy. It feels hopeful. You might be falling. Slowly. Softly.

And this time… you’re falling into arms that won’t let you break.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

yourusername

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yourusername : italia, ti amo<3 🇮🇹🍝❤️

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⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

kimi.antonelli

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kimi.antonelli : little rest and relaxation before canada!

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⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

The first morning in Bologna feels like a completely different world.

The sun pours into the wide stone courtyard of the home — all soft gold and warm terracotta, with flowering vines curling along the old balcony railings and the faint scent of citrus from the orchard just beyond the back terrace. It’s quiet here in the way that makes your shoulders drop, the way your pulse settles. Kimi watches your reaction the moment you step inside, keys still in his hand, smile already tugging at his mouth.

“Welcome home,” he says quietly — and it does feel like a kind of home, even if it’s temporary.

He’s planned the entire day, of course he has. Kimi isn’t showy about his affection, but when he loves someone, he pours into them through actions. There’s a note stuck to the fridge with magnets, written in his messy handwriting:

– breakfast in the garden – walk to the market – surprise (no peeking) – nap time because someone never sleeps enough – dinner in the city

You laugh, the exhaustion of the last few weeks melting off you. “A surprise?”

He shrugs, smug. “Several.”

Breakfast is outside, under a set of stone arches draped in wisteria. He made sure espresso and almond pastries were there when you arrived, he insists you sit while he plates everything, then pushes a strand of hair out of your face before sitting beside you. It’s peaceful… almost unreal after everything that’s happened.

Then it’s onto the narrow cobblestone streets of Bologna. Kimi keeps a hand lightly on your lower back as you weave through the weekend crowds — protective without being overwhelming, grounding without being possessive. He buys you fresh flowers from a stall run by an elderly woman who winks at him as if she knows exactly what’s going on. He buys you gelato afterwards, even though it’s barely noon. Strawberry for you, pistachio for him.

The surprise is a private tour of a tiny old music shop tucked between two brick alleys. The owner leads you upstairs to an attic full of vintage instruments — guitars, strange little keyboards, even a dusty accordion. You light up immediately, and Kimi pretends he’s not watching you with the softest, most adoring expression he’s ever worn. You test out a battered, beautifully warm-sounding acoustic guitar, humming a melody you started writing back in Spain. Kimi closes his eyes and listens as if it’s a privilege.

Later, you both nap on the couch back at the house — or, rather, you attempt to work on your notebook and end up falling asleep halfway through a lyric. Kimi drapes a blanket over both of you, pulling you into his side. For the first time in weeks, your entire body relaxes.

That night, he takes you into the heart of the city — old cobblestones shining under the streetlamps, people laughing from balconies, warm summer air soft on your skin. The restaurant is tiny, candlelit, tucked inside a side street only locals know. The waiters greet Kimi by name.

“Regular?” one of them asks.

“Something special,” Kimi answers, and his eyes flick toward you.

The table is small, round, set with white linen and a single candle. He sits close to you, his knee brushing yours, and orders for both of you in Italian — low, confident, familiar.

Dish after dish arrives: tortellini in brodo, truffle tagliatelle, ricotta-stuffed ravioli with lemon zest. He insists you try every single one, cutting little bites with his fork, lifting them to your mouth with a soft, “Here. You’ll like this one.”

And you do, because he knows you better than you realized.

There’s laughter — the kind that feels light instead of forced. There are lingering glances, his fingers brushing yours across the table, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. It feels intimate, safe… something blooming.

When you walk home afterwards, he keeps you close, thumb brushing the back of your hand even though he hasn’t fully taken it yet.

Back at the house, the guest room is made up beautifully — crisp sheets, fresh flowers on the bedside table, soft lighting. He sets your suitcase inside, clears his throat, and gives you a small, gentle smile.

“I’ll let you get ready for bed,” he says, starting to step back.

“Stay,” you say instinctively, quietly. Vulnerable. “Please.”

Kimi pauses like the air has been knocked out of him. Then he nods — slow, warm, heart-meltingly soft.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”

You turn around so he can unzip your dress, and he does so with careful, steady hands — not rushed, not suggestive, just tender. His fingers skim your spine, slow enough to make your breath catch but safe enough to make you feel grounded.

You change into one of his shirts — it hangs off you perfectly — and when you climb into bed, he follows without hesitation. He pulls you into his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm secure around your waist.

Neither of you speak for a long time. There’s only the hum of the quiet house, the soft rhythm of his breathing, the warmth between you in the dark.

Eventually, he presses a light kiss to your forehead — gentle, reverent.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut, and murmur back:

“Goodnight, Kimi.”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

For once, you wake up without alarms, without jet lag, without stress snapping you back into reality. There is only warmth — the warmth of sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the warmth of Kimi wrapped around you.

You’re still tangled together, exactly how you fell asleep. His arm is under your head, his other arm is draped over your waist, holding you close. Your legs are intertwined under the sheets. His breathing is slow, steady, deep — the kind of sleep he only seems to get when he’s at home.

You shift a little, and his arm tightens instinctively.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your hair, voice low and rough with sleep.

You smile. “You said the same thing an hour ago.”

“I meant it then,” he says, eyes still closed, “and I mean it now.”

You stay like that for a long time — a long, long time — because neither of you want to be the one to break the moment. You feel safe here, held like this, like nothing outside that room can touch you.

Eventually, your stomach growls loud enough that Kimi cracks one eye open and huffs a sleepy laugh.

“Okay. Breakfast.”

But he doesn’t let go right away. He presses a kiss to your forehead first, slow and warm, before finally releasing you.

The kitchen is bright morning gold, the stone floors cool beneath your bare feet. You’re wearing his shirt again, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from sleep. Kimi’s hair is even messier, sticking out in ways that make you laugh every time he turns his head.

You stand at the stove making eggs while he cuts fruit beside you, close enough that his hip keeps brushing yours.

“Wanna hear something?” you ask softly, unlocking your phone.

He nods immediately — that soft, private smile reserved only for you. “Always.”

You play him a demo from the new album — one you recorded in a moment of vulnerability, something gentle and raw. The melody floats through the kitchen, and you glance up at him nervously.

Instead of commenting, he steps behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. He sways you lightly, moving with the rhythm. His chin rests on your shoulder. Your breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just holds you and dances with you in the kitchen while your voice fills the room.

It’s slow. It’s intimate. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed.

When the song ends, he turns you around. His fingers trail down your arms until he’s holding your hands.

“That one’s my new favorite,” he says softly. “You sound like an angel.”

After breakfast, he packs a bag — sunscreen, towels, water, snacks, a spare hoodie for you even though it’s warm, because he’s thoughtful like that. You pack the picnic from the night before.

The beach is quiet, tucked away behind a line of rocky cliffs. The sand is warm, the sea a deep, sparkling blue.

You lay together on your towels, your head on his chest, his fingers brushing up and down your arm. He hums occasionally — off-key, but adorable — as you draw little shapes on his skin.

Eventually, he pulls you up and toward the water.

“It’ll be cold,” you protest.

He smirks. “I’ll keep you warm.”

And he does — once you’re waist-deep, he wraps his arms around you from behind, lifting you slightly as the waves move around you. You lean back against him, chilled by the water but warmed by him.

At one point he turns you around and you wrap your arms around his neck. He holds you at the waist, pulling you close, your legs brushing under the surface. He smiles at you — really smiles — and you feel your heart trip over itself.

It is easy. Effortless. Safe.

You return to shore and dry off, then settle on the blanket together as the sun softens to orange and pink. You eat the picnic you made — fruit, pastries, sandwiches — talking quietly about everything and nothing.

At some point you fall silent, staring at the horizon.

Kimi immediately notices. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

His whole body stills. He shifts, giving you his full attention. “Of what?”

“Of getting hurt again,” you whisper. “Of trusting the wrong person. Of… losing myself the way I did before.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush you. He just lets you speak.

“But…” you continue, voice barely above a breath, “I know you would never do that. I know you. And that scares me too.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

“Because I—” you exhale shakily, “—I’m starting to care about you. Really care. And I don’t want to be broken again.”

There’s a beat. Then another. And then he blurts it out — too fast, too honest, too raw to be anything but true:

“I love you.”

Your breath catches.

He looks almost startled by his own words, then steadies himself.

“I love you,” he repeats, softer now. “Way too much to ever hurt you. Way too much to even think about it.”

He lifts a hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“You don’t have to be scared with me.”

You lean into his touch without meaning to.

“Kimi…”

He moves closer, so close you feel his breath against your lips.

“Can I—”

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other around your waist, pulling you into him as if he’s been holding back for weeks. The kiss is slow — god, so slow — warm and tender and full of everything he hasn’t said until now.

You feel safe. Wanted. Cherished.

When you finally pull back, foreheads touching, he whispers: “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You smile — soft, breathless, certain. “Do it again.”

And he does. Again and again, until the sun disappears and the stars blink awake above you.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

The house is quiet except for the gentle hum of the ocean outside. The sky is deep blue, nearly black, stars scattered like glitter over the water. The windows are open, and warm night air drifts into the living room where you and Kimi are curled together on the couch.

You’re tucked against him, your legs across his lap, his hand resting on your thigh as if it belongs there. He’s wearing a loose white t-shirt, hair messy from the day, eyes soft as he watches the waves hit the rocks below.

It feels like a bubble — a perfect, secluded, golden bubble — and tomorrow you both have to fly back into the noise and chaos of racing, music, cameras, people. But right now? It’s just the two of you.

Kimi’s fingers draw slow circles on your leg. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “I… have something to show you.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You shift off his lap just enough to reach your laptop, then settle right back against him, thigh pressed to thigh. His arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders.

You take a breath and open your files. “I’ve been working on something.”

The screen fills with a timeline — audio, video clips, color-coding. Kimi leans in closer, curiosity soft on his face. You hit play.

A gentle guitar line begins.

When you smiled at me

Something changed in my brain chemistry

A love felt infinitely

was my heart's remedy

Your voice fills the room, soft and dreamy and honest.

On the screen, a video clip plays — shaky phone footage of him in the kitchen, hair sticking up, wearing an apron he definitely stole from his mother. He’s plating breakfast with ridiculous concentration. You filmed it while trying not to laugh.

Kimi freezes, then looks at you with a shocked little smile.

The next clip is of you both dancing in the kitchen, his arms around your waist, your head tipped back laughing at something he whispered. Then it cuts to the beach — him lifting you out of the water, you clinging to his shoulders, both of you smiling like you haven’t smiled in a very long time.

Heaven on earth may fade away But you and I are forever to stay in love…

You feel him exhale — one slow, shaky breath. His thumb brushes your upper arm.

The video shifts to a sunset shot you set up with your tripod: the two of you lying on the blanket, his hand in your hair, your head on his chest. You didn’t even know you were smiling that much.

'Cause I don't care about much anymore It’s just us…

Kimi is completely silent. And you’re suddenly terrified.

Touring the entire world? Sure. Performing at the grammy's? Easy. But showing someone the song you wrote about them — the confession hidden in lyrics, in melody, in every clip?

It feels like handing him your heart. The video ends on a clip you almost didn’t include — you kissing on the beach, just silhouettes against a pink sky. The audio fades into the last line:

You and I are forever to stay in love…

You close the laptop slowly. For a moment, all you hear is the ocean. You don’t look at him at first. You just play with the zipper on his hoodie, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever release it,” you say. “I can keep it just for us. Or… or I can put it on the album. Or just drop it as a single. Whatever you want. It’s yours as much as it’s mine.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Kimi takes the laptop out of your hands, sets it aside carefully, and turns your body toward him fully.

His voice is low. Steady. But full of emotion in a way you’ve never heard from him.

“I love it.” He swallows. “I love you.”

Your breath catches. He cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek. “And I want the whole world to know that you’re mine. That I’m yours. That it’s us.”

The words hit you like warmth.

You blink up at him, breath trembling. “You’re sure? Once I put this out there, people will talk. A lot.”

He nods without hesitation. “Let them. I want them to know how happy you look in with me.” He leans closer, forehead resting against yours. “I want them to know what you make me feel.”

Your heart melts.

You whisper, “Okay. Then we’ll share it.”

Kimi kisses you — not rushed or heated, but slow, deep, full. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you onto his lap again.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathless, he murmurs:

“It’s just us.”

Your smile is small and emotional. “It’s just us.”

You curl into him as the laptop plays the instrumental softly in the background — your voice humming under the sound of waves outside. His arms circle around you, holding you against his chest.

And for the rest of the night, you don’t talk about the flight, the cameras, the world waiting outside.

You just stay there, wrapped in him, wrapped in Italy, wrapped in something that feels beautifully, terrifyingly like forever.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

kimi.antonelli

🎵 it's just us - yn

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kimi.antonelli : mine forever ♾️🤍

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f1gossipgirls

1,345,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : i knew bearnelli was real...just not in this way. SO HAPPY FOR KIMI AND YN!!!!!!

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The air is crisp and cool when you and Kimi step out of the car — hand in hand, sunglasses on, matching soft smiles that could power the entire paddock. Cameras flash instantly. Reporters shout. Fans SCREAM.

Kimi’s hand is warm in yours, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles in that sweet, grounding way he always does. He leans in, murmuring just for you:

“You okay?”

You nod, smiling. “Perfect.”

He smiles back — the smile that started everything in Italy — and presses a kiss to your temple right as the photographers get the shot of the century.

You can already imagine the headlines. You don’t get two full steps into the paddock before chaos hits.

“OI!”

Ollie and Thomas come barreling toward you both. Thomas jumps in front of Kimi, arms crossed, trying to look intimidating despite being sixteen and built like a string bean.

Ollie squints at Kimi suspiciously. “So. You’re dating my sister.”

Kimi lifts a brow. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” Ollie grumbles, "So I’m allowed to interrogate you.”

“You’ve known him since we were kids,” you argue with a laugh.

“I CAN STILL INTERROGATE HIM.”

Thomas nods aggressively. “Yeah. Don’t hurt her. Or we’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Kimi asks, amused.

Thomas opens his mouth. No words come out. He looks to Ollie for help.

Ollie shrugs. “I dunno. Punch you? Cry? Tell Dad?”

You burst out laughing. Kimi does too, shaking his head.

“Noted,” he says gently. “And don’t worry. I won’t hurt her.”

Ollie’s fake-tough facade cracks into a grin. He claps Kimi on the shoulder. “Good. Because I’ve been silently rooting for this since like 2022.”

“Knew it,” you mutter.

The boys check the time and realize they need to go get ready. Kimi pulls closer, fingers curling lightly under your chin as he gives you a soft, quick kiss — one you immediately feel in your stomach.

“Good luck,” you whisper.

Ollie fake-gags behind you. “DISGUSTING. NO PDA IN FRONT OF ME.”

“Shut up,” you and Kimi say in unison.

He gives your waist one last squeeze before heading off with Ollie, talking strategy like he hadn’t just melted you five seconds ago.

You meet Alicia, your mum, and Amalie just outside Haas hospitality. They’re waiting with the biggest knowing smiles on their faces.

Mum pulls you into a mother-crush-hug. “Sweetheart, you look glowing.”

Alicia grabs your hands, bouncing. “TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

Amalie is practically vibrating. “Did he kiss you this morning? Has he said he loves you? Do you think you’ll—”

“AMALIE,” you laugh, “one question at a time!”

But you spill. Every detail you haven’t told them yet — the beach, the dancing, the cooking, the song, the soft moments. All of it.

Your mum wipes her eyes. “He sounds like he adores you.”

“He does,” you say, cheeks warm. “And I… really adore him, too.”

Alicia hugs you tight. “I’m so happy you got something so good after everything.”

You all stand together in the garage as the lights go out — your heart racing as the cars roar into Turn 1.

Lap after lap, your nerves get worse. Alicia clutches your arm. Terri has an arm around both you and Amalie. And the screen flashes:

P2 — KIMI ANTONELLI P3 — OLLIE BEARMAN

You scream. You swear. You pray. You don’t breathe for the last five laps.

And then— checkered flag securing both positions for the race.

You and the girls lose it completely — shouting, hugging, jumping. You’re shaking with adrenaline and pride.

Before you can even find your breath, two familiar suits appear in front of you.

Kimi and Ollie run straight into you — helmets halfway off, half-laughing, half-crying — and drag you into the tightest three-person hug imaginable. You’re crushed between your twin and your boyfriend, and you’ve never felt more safe or more loved.

You kiss the side of Kimi’s cheek. Ollie squeezes you so hard you squeal.

You stand with your family — Terri, David, Amalie, Alicia — all arms linked, all emotional wrecks. Your dad wraps both you and Alicia in a huge hug as tears slip down your cheeks.

You look up at the podium. Kimi catches your eye immediately. Ollie waves dramatically. They look so happy. So proud. So perfect up there together — the two boys who’ve carried you through everything.

When the champagne sprays, they both point down at you, laughing, and your family cheers like it’s the most magical moment in the world. Because it is.

The post race chaos dies down hours later, and you finally collapse onto the plush hotel bed with Kimi curled around you from behind. His arm is snug around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You were amazing today,” you whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”

His lips brush your neck. “I’m proud of you too.”

You smile, turning your head to kiss him softly. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

He blushes — blushes — and hides his face in your shoulder. “Stop.”

You laugh and stroke his hair.

For a moment, the world is quiet again, like Italy all over.

Then— back returns the storm that is Oliver Bearman.

“HELLOOOO?” Ollie shouts, stumbling into the room.

You jolt upright. “Ollie! What are you doing?!”

“There you are!” he beams. “We’re going OUT. I already told the Haas boys and some Ferrari guys and Alicia said she’s coming and Esteban said he’ll cry if you don’t come.”

Kimi groans softly into your shoulder. “Ollie…”

“NOPE. UP. BOTH OF YOU.” Ollie marches across the room and rips the blanket away. “Come party with your podium boys.”

You and Kimi look at each other — exhausted, happy, and completely in love.

You sigh dramatically. “Fine. One drink.”

“FIVE DRINKS,” Ollie corrects.

Kimi stands, laces his fingers through yours, and kisses your temple before whispering:

“This is your fault. You raised him.”

And you smile back, heart full, as the three of you head out into the Montreal night — Together. Happy. Healing. And finally, finally, whole.

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[2koolsthings]

ugh why is there only like smut of spiderman bnd can we write some fluff or maybe some angst i get tired of being horny all the time

[katsreading]

Crush - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

You've worked with Oscar Piastri for a few years now, and sure, he's always been cute, but when you accidentally end up watching a TikTok edit of him? Suddenly you can barely think straight around him (some might call it a crush heeheeeheheeh)

Warnings: 18+ content, dirty talk, praise, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, biting, Oscar Piastri smokes a CIGARETTE (REAL), barely proofread.

Word Count: 6.8k

Note: It's hereee!!! I'm super happy with this one, pls go watch and support the creator who made the tiktok edit of oscar to crush bc that was truly inspired. anyways not sure i'll ever be able to listen to this song again without feeling a bit insane about oscar. Had to loop the new fred again song to finish this, so maybe give that a stream too when ur done. Here she is, i hope u guys love her !!!

You’re one of those strong advocates for separating business and pleasure. You don’t get into discussions about the hottest drivers on the grid, don’t out all night drinking when the team celebrates. Don’t crush on your colleagues. That’s always been your rule.

Well. Maybe not always. You can vaguely remember some particularly messy nights out with the restaurant staff at your shitty minimum wage waitressing job. But, since you left hospitality, you’ve been strict with your rules, and especially since you started working at McLaren. McLaren has always been your dream job, so you’ve got no plans to mess that up any time soon.

When Hailey, a friend from school, started working at McLaren, you almost pretended not to know her. But then she’d managed to convince you that since you were on different teams—you being an engineer and her being a social media manager—it didn’t really count. Which is how you ended up here, two years into being best friends, sat out by the lake on a breezy September Friday, eating lunch and complaining about having to do your jobs.

“I think I have the hardest job in the world ever,” you sigh, stretching out on the wooden bench you and Hailey have claimed as your own, tilting your head backwards dramatically as you take a drag from your cigarette.

She doesn’t reply, just raises an eyebrow and takes a bite of her sandwich, waiting for you to continue, which she knows you will because she’s had to deal with years of this exact complaint.

“I do manual labour,” you continue, flexing a bicep. “It’s inhumane.”

She scoffs. “You do spreadsheets. Sometimes there’s a wrench in the room.”

You wave your cigarette around dramatically. “I’m so stressed, I’ve had to turn to smoking!”

She plucks it from your hand, takes a drag, then hands it back to you with an eyebrow raised.

You sit up and glare at her, offended. “Okay, like you’re one to talk. I’d love your job. You just scroll on TikTok all day.”

Hailey lets out a strangled gasp, loud enough to make a few approaching ducks scatter away. “How dare you,” she says, wiping her hands on a stray napkin. “You wouldn’t last an hour scrolling on the McLaren TikTok feed.”

“You talk like you’re traumatised or something.”

“I am!” She exclaims, throwing her hands out, nearly losing half her sandwich to the lake. “There’s some scary stuff on there. Stuff that has to live in my brain forever.”

You laugh and shake your head, cracking open the can of coke you’ve been thinking about all day. Whilst you’re distracted by that, she leans across and plucks your phone from your lap, fingers quickly moving to open TikTok. You should probably make a note to change your password, which she has clearly memorised. A few taps later, she thrusts your phone back towards you, now logged into the McLaren official account.

“Before you go to bed tonight,” she says, leaning back against the bench, “scroll on the for you page for an hour. Just one hour, then you can come back to me and admit you were wrong.”

You laugh again. “So you’re giving me homework now? To prove your point?”

“Do it, and you won’t be laughing tomorrow, I promise you.”

She goes back to her sandwich, grumbling under her breath about ‘edits that haunt her dreams’, and you finish your lunch still giggling, and completely unconvinced that her job could possibly be that haunting.

That night, before you fall asleep, you do exactly as you were told; you snuggle into your blankets, roll onto your side, and open up TikTok. You manage to scroll through a few normal videos—interview clips, race wins, promotional content from other teams—before you come across your first thirst edit, a shot of Charles Leclerc shirtless in an ice bath. You scroll past it quickly, beginning to understand what Hailey might have been talking about.

Thankfully, there’s not too many after that, and you become pretty good at predicting which videos are about to turn into sexy shots and skip them before they have the chance to. Approaching the thirty-minute mark, you let out a yawn, feeling your eyes flutter closed, and somewhere in between clips of Liam Lawson and Isack Hajdar, you find yourself nodding off.

When you wake up the next morning, it takes you a little while to realise what happened. You fell asleep, of course, with your phone still open. Now, it repeats a song you don’t quite recognise, the singer’s voice low and dreamy as she pulls you from sleep.

Your hand skims across the bed, searching for where your phone has ended up. When you find it, wedged under your pillow, you try to focus on the video, blinking sleep from your eyes. The video plays once.

Then twice.

Then a third time.

The fourth time, something clicks inside your groggy morning brain, and you realise what exactly you’re sat watching, and you’re hit by a wave of horror. It’s quick cuts of Oscar Piastri, then slow zooms, shots of his hands as he takes his gloves off, his fireproofs clinging to him as he’s sprayed with champagne, his fingers tapping idly on his leg in an interview.

You shriek and throw your phone against the bed like it’s the problem and not the entire internet and everyone who’s ever used it.  You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub, hard, in a pathetic attempt to scrub your mind of what you just watched.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t watch a TikTok thirst edit of your colleague, Oscar Piastri.

And you definitely, definitely did not enjoy it.

Over the weekend, you do not think about that video. For more than, like, an hour.

Maybe two.

You think you’re maybe being a bit normal about it, when a text pings through from Hailey, and your brain is suddenly back on Oscar’s hands.

‘Ready to eat your words yet?’

You’re pretty sure you’re ready to eat a car, or something.

You type out your reply straight away. ‘You are our strongest soldier. I’m so sorry.’

She doesn’t respond to that, just laugh reacts to it, and clearly reads your mind that you’ve been through some deep trauma already and definitely don’t need her to rub her win in your face.

And that’s exactly why you two are friends.

After that interaction, it feels like the video starts to loop in your brain again. But then you distract yourself, starting with an ice-cold shower and ending with a deep clean of your flat, followed by a major session of online shopping while on FaceTime with your sister.

By the time Monday rolls around, the video has completely erased itself from your mind.

Clearly the universe is on your side in this situation, because you then don’t see Oscar all week. Of course, it could also have something to do with the fact that it’s a race week, and he flies out several days before you do, choosing to sleep in your own bed as often as possible.

Either way, you keep your head down, focusing on your work, and the video doesn’t cross your mind again.

Until Friday morning, when you’re in the paddock, in a blisteringly hot country, where the humid air makes you feel disgusting and sticky even just sitting still. You thought you’d be productive, getting in early enough that you can fire off a series of reports before your manager chases you about them, and you are, for about an hour. You’ve got your headphones on, fingers flying against the keyboard, pausing only to sip your overpriced iced coffee. You’re feeling pretty good, despite the sweatiness.

You don’t realise there’s anyone else in the room, until Hailey is pulling out your headphones, a sharp shriek escaping you. She laughs, handing your headphones back to you.

“Damn, girl. You’re locked in.”

You nod, gesturing to the file open on your laptop. “You know how people get about reports on race weekends. Thought I’d get everything out the way first thing while it’s quiet in here.”

“Totally,” she replies, gesturing to the empty room. “That’s why I’m here too. Do you mind if we do some quick filming, or do you need it silent in here?”

You frown, blinking at her, the bright fluorescent lights above you making you squint a little. “Film? Like, me?”

She barks out a laugh. “No, stupid. I’m getting some clips of Oscar for the socials.”

“Oh,” you say, a little bit too quickly, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, that’s fine. That’s okay, I can work with noise.”

You absolutely cannot work with noise. Or, at least not with this noise. This presence, which you could feel even if you weren’t looking.

But you are looking. In fact, fifteen minutes later, when you’re meant to be finishing off a graph, you’re outright staring at Oscar’s every move. The camera is angled on him as he circles the car, and you’re so transfixed you forget you’re even mean to be pretending to type. He’s just holding the wheel, but your eyes trace the length of his forearm, and the way the muscle there shifts every time he changes his grip.

There’s a thin line of sweat at the bend of his elbow, glinting under the harsh light, and when he pushes the wheel slightly forward you can see the veins rise under the smooth tan of his arm.

As he talks, you realise you’re following the movement of his lips, but not actually registering anything he says to Hailey.

You try to go back to your work, but you quickly catch yourself staring again, at his hands, as he turns the steering wheel. He runs a finger along its curved edge, voice steady as he continues to explain the purpose of the various different buttons and switches littered across the wheel. You sip your coffee, trying to regain your focus, but the ice in it has melted and gone watery in the time you’ve been staring. Before you can get yourself in a bad mood over the coffee, Hailey’s voice cuts through the air.

“What do you think? Should we cut that bit down for TikTok?” she asks, looking at you expectantly.

You freeze mid-sip, realising you’ve missed the entire question. “Uh… What? Sorry?”

If Hailey notices why you’re so distracted, she doesn’t say anything, instead sighing dramatically, and turning back to Oscar, muttering something about you having your head stuck in your laptop. You feel your face heat even more, and you finally drag your eyes back to your work, spending the rest of the day hidden behind the screen.

By Saturday, you’re actually grateful for how busy you are, running numbers and sending emails until the icons on your screen blur together as one, because it means your brain has precisely zero free seconds to wander to the topic of Oscar Piastri’s infuriatingly hot self.

Even when you see him briefly after qualifying, helmet under his arm and hair damp and curling against his forehead, there’s only time for him to flash you a grin and ask how your day’s going.

And you, determined not to let your brain win, to reply with a vague mumble of something that might be polite if said with a smile, but definitely feels a bit harsh when paired with the straight expression on your face.

“I’m busy, sorry.”

He shrugs at you, then disappears off into the crowd behind him.

That evening, after you’ve showered and changed out of the McLaren branded clothes you’ve been sweating in all day, you decide you actually deserve a glass of rosé for all the hard work you’ve done.

You find a quiet corner of the hotel bar and settle yourself into a booth. Apparently, in this moment, the universe decides you’ve had enough peace, because you’re halfway through your first sip when the seat next to you shifts, and Oscar drops into it completely uninvited.

“I was just going to take this upstairs,” you say quickly, hoping that he’ll take the hint and leave you alone.

Either he doesn’t get what you’re saying, or he chooses to ignore it. “That’s alright,” he says, setting his beer on the table. “You can get another one to take upstairs after you’ve had this one with me.”

You try to think of another way to excuse yourself, but you come up with nothing. So, you decide that one drink with Oscar Piastri might not be the worst possible way to end your day.

“Should you be drinking?” you ask, pointing to his pint, an eyebrow raised.

“A bit of beer has never killed anyone.”

“I’m actually pretty sure beer has definitely killed at least one person.” You shoot back.

“Okay, a beer has never killed me.” He says, clinking his glass against yours before taking another sip.

Though it hurts to admit it, you have quite a bit of fun chatting to Oscar. He’s easy to talk to in a way you didn’t expect, slipping in comments that make you choke on your wine because they’re bold enough to catch you off guard but not quite enough to mean anything.

When you finish your wine, you’re no longer completely desperate to escape, but you excuse yourself nonetheless.

You plan to go out for a quick cigarette. You don’t plan for Oscar to follow you, which he does.

You step out into the evening air, the light breeze a sharp contrast to the unrelenting heat of the day. You shiver a little, not dressed for cool weather at all.

You pull a cigarette from the pack in your pocket and hold it between your lips as you root around for your lighter, a shitty neon green Bic that barely works on the best of days. You side eye Oscar a little as you do this, because what’s he about to do, stand and watch you have a smoke break before bed?

You can’t fully contain your shock, when Oscar shuffles around in his pockets for a second, before pulling out a pouch of tobacco and a crumpled stack of rolling papers.

You stare at him, lips parted in a gasp.

And there they are again—his hands, quick and precise, rolling the paper and tobacco without thought.

“Those are bad for you, you know?” he says, as you struggle with your lighter, a pathetic spark against the cool evening breeze.

You raise an eyebrow and nod towards the neat roll between his fingers. “I’m an engineer. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a driver,” he replies, before plucking the lighter from your hand and proceeding to light his own cigarette. He takes a drag, leaving his eyes on yours as he does.

When this makes you roll your eyes, he leans in close, letting smoke curl between you, and angles the burning tip towards your mouth.

Your pulse catches for a second, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face as you inhale, lighting your cigarette against his.

Suddenly you’re grateful for the breeze against your now-flushed skin.

The next day is, again, mercilessly hot, in that way that settles on your skin and refuses to shift, no matter how much water you drink or how many times you wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. You’re completely exhausted before the race has even started, but somehow Oscar looks cool as a cucumber as he gets into his race gear, laser focused on the task ahead of him.

You almost forget how to stand when he offers you a water bottle, like he’s noticed how much you need it. Like he’s been paying attention to you.

You take it, fingers brushing against his, and it’s ridiculous and a little bit embarrassing, the way your stomach ties itself in knots over such a tiny sliver of contact. He smirks, ever so slightly, like maybe he noticed, and maybe he’s going to make a comment. When he says, quietly, just loud enough for you to hear it over the roar of business around you, “Careful, wouldn’t want you passing out on me,” you’re not sure if you want to roll your eyes or bury yourself alive. Maybe both.

Later, when Lando stands on the top step of the podium, and Oscar stands next to him in second, spraying him with champagne, you try to pretend you’re not disappointed. A win for McLaren is what you should be rooting for, no matter the driver. And you’ve never picked favourites before, so why now?

Everyone piles out the door together, mutters of club names spreading through the crowd like wildfire, people continuing to cheer for Lando and pat him on the back as they pass him.

You plan to slip away quietly, and head back to the hotel, letting the whole team celebrate without you. The parties, the drama, they’re not really your scene.

You’re not expecting to arrive back at the hotel at the same time as Oscar, and you’re certainly not expecting him to convince you to stay with him for a drink again. But he does.

“Hey,” he says, as he catches up to you with ease, walking through the grand main entrance to the hotel.

“Why aren’t you out with the rest of the team?” you ask, a mix of genuine curiosity and frustration that your plan to sit alone has been crashed.

“I could ask you the same question.” He replies.

“I don’t really feel like celebrating tonight,” you say, hoping that’s enough of an answer to make him back off.

 He tilts his head towards the bar, soft light glinting off empty glasses stacked behind it, and lets a glimmer of something shine through his voice, when he says, “Me neither. Why don’t we drown our sorrows together?”

And even though all the sane parts of your body are screaming at you to remember your rules, your only set of rules, the part of you that’s warm and fuzzy when Oscar looks at you like that takes over, and replies, “Why not?” and lets him lead you to a table in the corner of the room.

He pulls your chair out for you, like a complete gentleman, then returns from the bar with a bottle of champagne.

“This feels like a celebration, not a pity party,” you say, eyeing up the bottle. That thing definitely came with a hefty price tag.

“Well,” he replies. “I still got second place.”

You laugh, and let him pour you a glass. Which becomes two glasses, then three, because he’s making you giggle, then blush, and way his fingertips brush against yours on the table makes you want to stay sat with him forever.

But you manage to convince yourself to stand up when the bottle is done. Owing to the huge bowl of pasta you wolfed down at the paddock, you’re not drunk. If you were, you might have suggested a second bottle. Instead, you tell Oscar you should head to bed.

He doesn’t stop you. In fact, he agrees that it’s been a long day, and he should probably head off too.

So that’s how you end up in the lift together, unbearably aware of just how small the space is, surrounded by the sound of Oscar’s breath, and the feeling of him right next to you, arm brushing against yours as he pushes the close door button.

The seconds stretch out, daring you to move, to do anything. By the time the button dings softly at floor 3, you’re desperate to get out.

“This is my floor,” you say, without turning to look at him. He doesn’t reply.

The doors open, and a part of you hopes there will be someone stood on the other side, to force the two of you apart, and shatter the building tension between you. When there isn’t, and all you’re greeted with is an empty hallway, you swallow hard and step out.

You don’t turn back, but you wait for the doors to close, for the knowledge that he’s gone and you can breathe again. A light thud tells you they have closed, and you’re about to walk away, when they open again, and Oscar’s hand is on yours, pulling you back to him.

He presses you against the wall, foreheads touching, and his breath is hot against your mouth when he mutters, “tell me you don’t want this.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You barely even breathe. And it’s the answer he’s been waiting for, because then his lips are crashing against yours, in one messy, breathless movement.

Oscar’s tongue licks into your mouth, exploring freely as the lift doors close behind you. He tastes like champagne, and you almost laugh when he grinds his hips against yours, because how can somebody who was so restrained thirty seconds ago be so impatient now?

A soft ding tells you you’re at Oscar’s floor. He breaks away from the kiss first, but leaves his body pressed against you, lips brushing across yours as he parts them to breathe. His doe-eyes meet yours, and there’s something softer about them now, more pleading, like the teasing façade of the past few days has crumbled to the ground, leaving just raw, desperate want.

Something shifts, as the doors open, because suddenly this is real and you’re not just kissing in the lift like drunk teenagers, you’re letting Oscar snake his arm around your waist—grip firm like he’s done this a thousand times before—and guide you down the hall to his bedroom.

When he removes his hand from your waist to fumble for his room key, you actually feel yourself lean into him with a gasp, chasing the skin-to-skin contact. He notices, and his hands are back on you the second the door is open, settling right at the bottom of your McLaren shirt, which has started to rise up, revealing a strip of bare skin. You shudder slightly as his fingers brush against you, thumbs digging into the soft, exposed flesh.

His teeth graze your lips, then his tongue follows, pressing his mouth against yours again, in a wet, pleading kiss.

He pulls you backwards into his room, flush against him as he walks. Your eyes are closed, tongue memorising the shape of his mouth, as he guides you both straight across his room. You feel him kick his shoes off somewhere around the middle of the room, and you copy him, grateful you’re wearing a pair that slip off without tripping you over.

The back of Oscar’s knees hit the bed, and he sinks down onto it, pulling you forwards still so you’re straddling him fully. His hands grab your ass, adjusting you in his lap, and you finally break apart, giggling as he puts you where he wants you.

One of your hands holds his waist, and the other steadies you, soft against the back of his neck. You study his face, a grin tugging at his lips as he looks back at you.

His lips are flushed and wet from kissing you, and his eyes glassy with that same concentrated desperation you saw earlier. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to its centre. Your other hand still cupped around the back of his neck, you tighten your grip on him as you shift in his lap, ass pressing against his now fully erect cock.

He exhales sharply, and digs his fingers into your side, but doesn’t stop you, as you begin to grind against him. There’s too many layers between the two of you, the friction not quite enough, but you continue to tease him with the pressure, chasing another sharp gasp with each movement.

Your movements continuing, Oscar tugs at the hem of your shirt. You pause to let him pull it over your head. He doesn’t waste any time, removing your bra straight away, and then his mouth is on your tit like he needs it to survive.

He grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin, humming in pleasure when you groan into his neck. His hand works your other breast, fingernails scraping against you softly before rolling your nipple between two fingers.

Then it’s your turn to grab at his shirt, hands sliding up underneath it, thumbs tracing the soft definition of abs you find there. He’s surprisingly solid, you think, despite how skinny he looks.

You feel his thigh muscles flex through his trousers, and it’s almost embarrassing how insane it makes you feel.

After you pull his shirt over his head, Oscar’s hair is a little ruffled. You throw his shirt to one side and kiss him again, softly.

The kiss doesn’t last long though, because you shift just a bit too hard, and Oscar grunts out a moan, lifting you to your feet.

Before you can fully register what’s happening, he flips you round, so he’s in front of you, and you’re stood facing him, back to the bed.

He pulls your trousers down, pushing you down onto the bed when he’s got them past your ass. When your trousers are gone, he hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, and you lift your hips just enough to allow him to pull them down your legs. He buries his face into your neck, planting a wet kiss at its base, then sucking so hard you’re sure there will be a mark tomorrow.

His hand falls to your pussy, and he inhales sharply, fingers dipping into soft wetness. He drags a slow circle against your clit—the movement devastatingly soft, the friction not quite enough. You move against him, a quiet whimper escaping your lips, and he pulls his fingers away. He brings them to his mouth, and sucks, eyes falling shut as he tastes you on his skin.

When he’s licked his fingers clean, he drops them back down to your core, thumb circling your clit roughly. You drop your head to his shoulder and let your teeth sink into the bare skin. When he chokes out a moan, you bite harder, which makes him press his hips forward, into you. The outline of his cock—now fully erect, hits you, and the sheer size of it sends a shiver through you.

“If I’d known—” Oscar says, slipping one finger into you and relishing in the gasp it forces from your lips, “If I’d known you wanted it too, I would’ve had you like this months ago.”

You want to reply, tell him he can have you like this whenever he wants, wherever he wants, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on anything other than him inside of you, and how badly you’re aching for more. So, you nip his ear between your teeth, and grind into him, the palm of his hand brushing your clit deliciously.

He seems to understand your silent demand, because he slips a second finger in, eyes locked on your face, ready to watch the way your head rolls back, lips parted just enough to suck in a breath. As his pace increases, so does the number of curses that slip from your lips.

“Fuck,” you manage to whisper into his hair, as his fingers curl up, hitting that perfect spot.

“I know,” he mutters in return, fingers pounding in and out so hard you’re already thinking how ruined you’re going to be when he gets his cock in you.

One hand grips his shoulder so tight your nails bite into his skin, and the other runs through his hair, like clinging to him is going to ground you, and stop you from losing yourself as he fucks his fingers into you, closer and closer to release.

A third finger slips in far too easily, and you’re so wet for him, so pliant, it makes him groan as he sinks to his knees before you, face dropping to meet your dripping pussy.

He runs his tongue up your thighs without slowing his fingers, just shifting his palm to one side—giving his mouth full access to your swollen, throbbing clit. He takes it between his teeth, and it’s nearly enough to send you over the edge, panting as your hips twitch upwards, but he lets go and clicks his tongue the second he notices the involuntary movement.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he mutters, running his tongue up from your entrance, where his fingers still press into you, to your clit, which sends sparks through your body when he reaches it. “Gotta let me savour you.”

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. He knows you’re beyond words. Instead, he works at you with his tongue and fingers, unrelenting and desperate to make you come completely undone.

You pant out his name, thighs pressing against his face as your head falls back. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulse racing as you feel yourself clench around his fingers, the sensation building and building until you reach your climax with another string of curses.

And Oscar laughs—he actually laughs against you, and the vibrations send another electric-hot jolt through you, your legs still twitching, your core sensitive beyond words. His fingers still, but he doesn’t remove them, and keeps his mouth exactly where it is. Even the soft heat of his breath sends shivers down your spine, and you squirm, not sure if you’re trying to escape his reach or push yourself back towards his perfect tongue.

One press of his hand into your thigh stops you moving entirely, and you lock eyes with him as he stares up at you, lips wet and covered in you. His cheeks are flushed pink, and the way his hair is pushed back out of his face sends warmth through your face. The look is so tender it could kill you. How can a man produce both the perfect, unrelenting orgasm, and this caring softness?

You don’t have time to finish that thought, because the moment passes, and Oscar’s tongue is flat against your clit once more, fingers starting to slowly pump in and out again. The sensation burns straight through you, and you fall back onto the bed, completely deprived of any energy you’d been using to keep yourself upright.

Your hips buck upwards, barely past your last orgasm, but Oscar keeps going, three fingers pumping in and out, tongue tracing tiny circles against your clit.

You feel it deep in your stomach this time—a solid, burning ache for the feeling of him buried deep in you, the sound of skin hitting skin, his solid frame above you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fully riding his face and fingers now, rocking backwards on the bed as he fucks you further towards your next climax, edging you closer by the second.

The pressure continues to build at your core, like a knot being pulled tighter and tighter, and you fist your hands into the bedsheets, eyes still shut, gasping out choked breaths.

“Please,” he whispers into you, lips sending more jolts of energy through you, “come one more time for me.”

And you do, his name spilling from your lips as a second orgasm rips through your body, toes curling as your legs shake.

When you open your eyes again, Oscar is grinning, wide and genuinely proud of himself, like he’s just won a race. And the sight is so endearing you think you just might have to give him a proper thank you.

“Get up,” you say, shifting your body up on the bed so you’re sat upright.

He blinks at you, searching for the whimpering, needy mess you were a few moments ago. You don’t say anything, though. You just stare him down, waiting.

He stands, eventually, unbuttoning his belt, and you can’t help but lick your lips. There’s something almost powerful, in knowing that despite the fact that he just had you melting in his hands, you’re about to have him moaning your name.

When he’s in just his boxers, you press the palm of your hand against the solid outline of him showing through the thin fabric. There’s a wet spot forming in the middle, and you let one finger press against him there, delighted by the sharp inhale he takes.

You grip his cock through the boxers, rubbing up and down his length once, then twice. The third time, his hips thrust forwards. The way his head falls back, and the groan that falls from his lips, tell you that this wasn’t an intentional movement.

You look up at him, eyes wide and doe-like. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No—” he hisses, hand tangling into your hair, as you palm his dick again. “Fuck. No." So, you let yourself slip off the bed, knees hitting the ground.

You reach up to the waistband of his boxers, and he helps you out, pulling them down until they hit the floor. And then you’re face to face with his dick, hard against his chest. All you can do is stare for a second, as he steps out of his boxers and tosses them to the side.

Oscar’s cock isn’t just ‘big’. It’s pretty. Annoyingly so. The perfect shade of pink at the tip, swollen and throbbing for you. The tiniest drop of precum beads at the tip, and you swirl your finger across it, before running it down his length.

You almost want to take a picture of it, and keep it, with the knowledge that you did this to him. But you don’t. Instead, you bring your tongue to his tip, swirling it at the end, teasing him as he did you.

You drag your fingers down his chest, nails scraping gentle lines across the faint outline of his abs, tracing down to the trail of light blonde hairs that usually disappear beneath the waistline of his trousers.

Now though, they serve as the perfect road, leading your hand to join your mouth, cupping his balls as your tongue finds a thick vein along the underside of his cock and traces it.

You try, as you run your tongue back along the vein, to commit this to memory. The taste of Oscar’s cock, throbbing, hard for you. The way his breath catches ever so slightly when your teeth graze against him, or when your fingernails dig half-moon kisses into his thighs. The way your name spills from his lips like a prayer, as he thinks of only you.

Just in case it never happens again.

Then, once you’re sure you’ve savoured the moment, you take him in your mouth entirely, gagging just a little as he hits the back of your throat.

You hold him there as long as you can, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, before you pull off him with a slight choke. Spit dribbles down your chin. You don’t wipe it away.

You return your mouth to his tip, bobbing up and down his length, increasing your pace, hungry for the little sounds that spill from his lips as he pushes into you.

You let yourself gag around him again, cheeks hollowing out as you keep him there, at the back of your throat for as long as you can manage.

When he grips your hair just tight enough to make you pause, you look up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and vision blurred by tears, and he lets out a choked, low, “fuck.”

You blink, tears spilling from your eyes, and he lets the palm of his hand cup your jaw, as his thumb swipes across your cheek.

“You’re gonna ruin me, baby”

He pulls out of your mouth, a string of drool connecting you to him. You don’t bother wiping it away, still staring up at him. He tangles a hand into your hair, pulling you up. The sharp tension at your scalp is so deliciously painful you almost ask him to drop everything and make you come like that, finger-fucking yourself as he pulls your hair.

But then you feel his cock press into you as you stand, and you remember just how badly he needs to be inside you. And how badly you need him inside you.

You let yourself drop back onto the bed, bringing your knees up towards you so you’re spread perfectly open and completely on display for Oscar.

He kneels on the bed, crawling over your body, hands tracing up your curves.

He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he lines himself up with your core, letting his cock hit your clit as he does. You press your hips forward, begging him to do it again, to return that pressure. And he does, letting out his own little moan at the feeling of your soft wetness against his flushed tip.

Just a few circles is all he can manage, before he needs to be inside you, filling you up.

He pushes into you slowly, savouring the feeling of you adjusting to his size, as you clench around him. The first few strokes are gentle, too.

His hand caresses your hair, as he bottoms out. It’s almost too much—the combined softness of his touch, and the feeling of being so stretched out by his cock.

He gets into a steady rhythm, and his eyes drop to your tits. He watches the way they bounce as he fucks into you, and it makes him go faster, harder.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured this,” he says, one hand lifting your thigh, allowing him better access to you, somehow fucking you even deeper than before, while the other hand grabs at your tits greedily, rolling a nipple between his fingers until you gasp. “How many times I’ve cum in my hands thinking about you.”

He thrusts into you again, the hand he was using to prop up your leg dropping to your clit, rubbing fast, hard circles. “I imagined the sounds you’d make as I fucked you,”

And you let out another one of those sounds, a soft and pathetic whine that falls from your lips as he pushed into you once more, filling you up so well that your vision blurs at the edges. “But this is more perfect than I could’ve ever imagined,” he chokes out, the words half broken by a moan that falls from him as you clench around him. “So fucking perfect.”

He moves his hands so they’re either side of your head now, and he lets his body follow, so you’re fully pressed against each other, noses touching, hot breath hitting each other’s lips as you pant, both completely spent, both chasing the other’s climax.

Your hands trail up his back, before letting your nails dig into his skin, hard, dragging them down. His pace is steady now, fucking you in and out, so deep inside you you’re not sure what day of the week it is. When your eyes meet again, he drags one hand down to your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles. He watches your face, observes the way your breath hitches at that specific spot, and doubles down, thrusting harder until you cry out, and he still doesn’t stop until he feels your climax ripping through you—legs twitching as you clench around him so perfectly.

As he fucks you through your orgasm, sparks jolting through your body, brain completely devoid of any thoughts unrelated to Oscar-fucking-Piastri, you scrape your teeth along his jawline, slightly scruffy with stubble.

At that, he pounds into you harder, the sound that escapes his lips almost pornographic. You continue to drag your teeth down his neck, nipping at the soft skin lightly as you go, and you watch as his grip on the bedsheets tightens, and his thrusts become harder, less controlled and steady.

You clench around him, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder, hard. It’s what he needs to send him over the edge—one final thrust and he’s spilling into you, filling you up as you run your tongue along the sensitive spot you’ve just bitten.

He lets his weight drop onto you, and rolls to your side, still inside you, cock still twitching. You barely move, letting your body stay as close to his as possible, pressed up against him.

Oscar pulls you into his arms, cheek nestling into your neck. He pushes some of the sweaty hair that’s stuck to your face back, and plants a kiss on your cheek. “Stay?” he whispers, devastatingly quiet. You lace your fingers through his, where they hold you at your waist, and nod.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper, the sudden emptiness feeling completely wrong. He turns you to face him, and your hands drop to his chest.

Your lips meet his again, and this time it’s softer. So much softer than before.

Because this time, you’re not racing to an end goal. You’re just letting Oscar’s tongue explore your mouth, as his hands learn the shape of your body.

You fall asleep like that, intertwined in each other.

And you decide the fact that you both look like you were attacked by vampires is a problem for tomorrow.

[wildnickk]

like oh um… haha

[verstarris]

IT WAS OBVIOUS

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.” — Oscar accidentally shows too much excitement after his win, revealing your true relationship to your brother and the whole world.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x Norris! fem! reader

warnings. none. AGAIN, IN THE HONOR OF OSCAR’S WIN IN CHINA ‼️🥹 (two posts in one day, crazy ik)

music. The Alchemy by Taylor Swift.

YOU WEREN’T ENTIRELY SURE if hooking up with your brother’s teammate was the best idea you’d ever had—or the worst. But here you were, tangled up in something you couldn’t quite resist.

It all started when Lando and Oscar became teammates. Their friendship blossomed quickly, the kind of bond that seemed effortless. So, naturally, it wasn’t long before Lando introduced you to Oscar. And, well, Oscar caught your eye in a way you hadn’t expected.

He was everything your brother wasn’t—polite, calm, and kind. Where your brother was loud and relentless, Oscar was steady and thoughtful. You couldn’t help but wonder how the two of them could even be friends, let alone teammates.

But the real surprise? You caught Oscar’s eye, too. What began as casual texts and lighthearted calls quickly evolved into something more. Dates, secret meet-ups, stolen moments that felt like they belonged to another world. You didn’t tell your brother for a multitude of reasons. First, it wasn’t any of his business. And second, you knew exactly how he’d react—relentless teasing, endless questions, and a level of overprotectiveness you weren’t in the mood to deal with.

When you and Oscar decided to make it official, it was a quiet decision, just between the two of you. Well, the two of you and your best friend—because keeping secrets from her was impossible. Beyond that, no one else knew. And maybe that was part of what made it so thrilling. The secrecy added a layer of excitement to every interaction, every glance, every touch.

The moments before a race were your favorite. The paddock buzzed with energy, the air electric with anticipation. And amidst it all, there were the secret kisses, the fleeting touches when no one was looking. It was a game, a dance of stolen moments that only the two of you understood. The thrill of it all made your heart race almost as much as the roar of the engines.

Lando's invitation to the Chinese Grand Prix felt like the perfect follow-up to his stunning victory in Australia. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and being here felt like a privilege. The atmosphere buzzed with energy, and you were eager to cheer not just for him, but for Oscar as well—your two boys.

Now, you found yourself standing behind the barriers, shoulder to shoulder with McLaren team members who shared in the collective anticipation. The hum of engines roared in the background as the cars sped around the track, each lap bringing Oscar closer to something extraordinary. His first-ever pole position had already felt like a monumental achievement, but now, with the race on its final lap—lap 56—Oscar was leading. His car, sleek and powerful in its vibrant McLaren orange, glided through the turns with precision, almost effortlessly.

The tension in the air was palpable, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you cheered with the team. Oscar had practically won by now, the gap between him and the car behind him widening with every second.

Standing there, witnessing the culmination of hard work and talent, you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with pride—not just for Oscar and his incredible performance, but for Lando, who was right behind his teammate. The cheers around you grew louder as the finish line approached.

The chequered flag waved, signaling the end of the race, and as Oscar crossed the finish line first, with Lando right behind him, a surge of overwhelming pride and joy coursed through you. It was a moment of pure triumph, made even sweeter knowing how much Oscar had struggled during his home race in Australia. To see him claim victory here felt like vindication for every ounce of effort he had poured into this season.

As Oscar parked his car behind the gleaming P1 sign, your gaze never wavered from him. His car came to a halt, and in the corner of your vision, you caught sight of Lando parking just behind, the two McLarens standing like trophies of the team’s efforts. But your focus was locked on Oscar, on the way he climbed out of the car, exuding both exhaustion and exhilaration.

Helmet off, his face glowed with triumph as he threw up his arms in his signature victory pose, the crowd erupting in cheers. The moment was electric, but your heart raced for a different reason as you watched him turn—not towards his team, who stood waiting with cheers and open arms, but towards you.

Oscar’s strides were purposeful, his gaze unwavering as he crossed the distance between you. Your breath hitched when he reached you, ignoring everyone else, his arms wrapping around you in an embrace that was full of relief, joy, and something so uniquely him. You held onto him tightly, feeling the intensity of the moment.

As you pulled away slightly, his face was so close to yours, his brown eyes meeting yours in a way that made the world around you blur. For a fleeting second, there was a pause, a shared understanding, before he closed the gap. His lips met yours in a kiss that was unplanned but utterly perfect—an unspoken testament to everything he couldn’t say in words.

The team’s cheers rang louder behind you, but in that moment, it was just the two of you. The thrill of victory, the secret you shared, and the raw emotion of it all were woven together in that single instant. And for that brief, breathtaking moment, nothing else mattered.

As he pulled away, his voice was quick but steady, the words tumbling out before he turned away: “I love you.” And just like that, Oscar was off, moving to embrace the cheering team members who waited to celebrate his victory. The moment hung in the air for a beat, the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

You didn’t need to think twice about what had just happened. That kiss—bold, unapologetic—wasn’t just seen by the team. It was seen by the cameras, the crowds, and possibly even the entire world. And your brother. But none of it mattered anymore. Oscar had chosen this moment to make it clear where he stood. His love, his support, his pride in being with you—none of it wavered, regardless of what anyone thought. To him, the name you carried meant nothing in comparison to the connection you shared.

As your eyes trailed back to him, now surrounded by his teammates, the warmth of the moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Your brother was already in front of you, arms crossed, his face set in that classic judgmental look he’d mastered over the years.

You tried not to squirm under his gaze, instead forcing a smile and stepping forward to embrace him before he could say a word. "I’m proud of you," you said quickly, deflecting with a playful tone as your arms wrapped around him.

Lando’s body stiffened for a split second, his eyebrows raised in suspicion, but he eventually hugged you back. "Hmm," he muttered, clearly not convinced but letting the moment slide—for now. You could already see the gears turning in his head, and you knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation.

As the top three entered the Cool Down room, the adrenaline still seemed to linger in the air, blending with the excitement and chatter from the race outside. The drivers were greeted by monitors showing highlights of their performance, the distant roar of the crowd fading into a steady hum. Lando followed a step behind, his usual playful energy evident in the slight bounce of his step as he grabbed a water bottle from the corner table. The tension of the race seemed to dissolve, replaced by camaraderie as they settled in, catching their breath.

It didn’t take long for Lando to break the ice in true Lando fashion. He turned towards Oscar, pointing at him with dramatic flair, his expression mock-serious. “Osc, don’t think for a second I didn’t see that,” he began, his tone accusatory yet laced with humor. The way he gestured, finger wagging as if scolding a misbehaving child, made it clear he was enjoying every second of this.

Oscar, who had just picked up his towel to dab the sweat from his face, froze mid-motion. He glanced at Lando, a mixture of confusion and resignation flickering across his features. “Here we go,” he muttered, almost too quietly to be heard. But he didn’t need to say much. He knew exactly what this was about.

“My poor eyes!” Lando cried dramatically, his free hand flying up to shield his face as if he were genuinely scarred. The theatrics escalated quickly, his voice rising in exaggerated despair as he staggered backward a step for added effect. “I’ll never recover from this trauma.”

Oscar sighed, shaking his head slightly, though the smallest twitch of a smirk threatened to betray his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, man,” he said, his voice dry but tinged with tolerance—the tone of someone well-practiced in dealing with Lando’s antics.

But Lando wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “I mean, honestly,” he continued, his mock indignation unwavering, “a little heads-up would’ve been nice. You know, like—‘Oh, hey, Lando, I’m about to make the whole world cringe by publicly making out with your sister.’ Something like that. Is that too much to ask?” His grin widened as he tossed the water bottle between his hands, his eyebrows arched in that trademark cheeky expression.

Oscar rolled his eyes, lifting the towel to hide his face for a moment as if shielding himself from Lando’s relentless teasing. “It wasn’t that bad,” he replied, his voice firm but quieter now, as if trying to downplay the moment.

“Wasn’t that bad?” Lando repeated, his voice climbing an octave as he placed a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally offended. “Mate, I think I just lost three years of my life.” His grin made it clear he was enjoying this far too much, but beneath the jest, there was no malice—just Lando being Lando.

Oscar finally allowed himself a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. Next time, I’ll send you a formal invitation first,” he deadpanned, the sharp wit of his retort earning a mock gasp from Lando.

“Oh, how thoughtful,” Lando shot back, finally leaning against the wall as if he’d exhausted his dramatic reserves. But the mischievous glint in his eye remained, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let Oscar off the hook anytime soon.

The night paddock lay in near silence, the excitement of the day's events now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The dim glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows across the asphalt, illuminating the reflection of Oscar's trophy as he carried it proudly in one hand. His other arm rested securely around your shoulders, a gesture that brought a quiet warmth as the two of you walked side by side.

Lando walked just a step behind, still buzzing with energy despite the lateness of the hour. His natural playfulness was impossible to suppress, and it wasn’t long before his voice broke through the calm, cutting through the stillness with a sense of exaggerated drama. “Soo…” he began, his tone drawing out the word as if he were preparing to deliver a theatrical monologue.

Oscar groaned quietly, already anticipating where this was headed. “Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his head dipping just slightly. You felt his arm tighten around you briefly, as though bracing himself for impact, while you stifled a small laugh. Lando was nothing if not predictable.

“You two have a lot to explain,” Lando finally said, his voice laden with mock sternness as he caught up to walk alongside you. His brow furrowed in an attempt to appear serious, but the mischievous sparkle in his eye gave him away. He raised an eyebrow for effect, his gaze darting between you and Oscar as though he were demanding a confession for some unspeakable crime.

Feigning innocence, you tilted your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. “What do you want to explain?” you asked, your voice light and teasing. It was clear you weren’t going to make this easy for him. Even as your heart raced slightly at the idea of confronting the topic, you couldn’t resist the urge to play along.

Lando stopped walking for a moment, crossing his arms as he stood in the middle of the path, looking every bit like a self-appointed interrogator. He narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching as though he were holding back a grin. “You two are like… a thing?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, emphasizing the weight of what he was asking.

Oscar exchanged a quick glance with you, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything for you to know what he was thinking—this was so typically Lando. As much as the question lingered in the air, it was impossible to take him completely seriously. Still, the tension buzzed ever so slightly beneath the surface, and it was clear that neither of you could sidestep the question for much longer.

But after a few lingering seconds of silence, Lando cleared his throat dramatically, clearly preparing to fill the void. “I mean, it was obvious,” he declared, his tone laced with faux confidence, as though he had pieced it all together from the start.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. “No, it wasn’t,” you shot back, shaking your head at him. “You had no idea, Lan.”

Lando’s eyebrow shot up as he feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest in mock indignation. “Excuse me? I’m incredibly observant, thank you very much.”

Oscar, who had been quietly amused throughout the exchange, finally chimed in, his voice calm but teasing. “Yeah, right,” he said, glancing at Lando with a smirk. “You only noticed because we made it too obvious today.”

Lando threw up his hands in a theatrical shrug. “Well, maybe. But still. I figured it out. That’s what counts,” he insisted, though the grin on his face betrayed how much he was enjoying winding the two of you up.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a playful shove. “Alright, Sherlock. Sure, you ‘figured it out,’” you teased, unable to keep the grin off your own face. Despite the teasing, there was an undeniable warmth in the moment—a mixture of relief and lighthearted acceptance. Leave it to Lando to turn even the most awkward revelations into something almost comforting.

“But seriously now,” Lando said, his tone softening as he let his teasing demeanor fade away for a moment. He glanced between the two of you, his lips curling into a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you guys,” he admitted, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

Oscar smiled warmly in return, his arm tightening slightly around your shoulders, as if silently thanking Lando for his support. It was a simple moment, but you felt the weight of Lando’s words—his approval meant more than you’d realized.

“Just a bit mad for not telling me sooner,” Lando added, raising his eyebrows as though pretending to scold you. Though the hint of mischief in his smile quickly undermined any seriousness. “You could’ve spared me the whole awkward guessing game, you know.”

© norristrii 2025

[filmjules]

𓏲⋆ DOES IT COME OUT... ANYWHERE ELSE? ⋮ ( nsfw )

peter parker x fem!reader | brand new day spoilers kinda

“Does it... What?” Peter laughed nervously, already naked and on top of you. “No! I mean—I mean I don’t think so.”

The night started like many others. Peter got home from saving people, slightly banged up but totally fine. You took care of him, made dinner and took a shower where you cleaned him up.

Which led to a small mid-shower makeout, which led to him eating you out, which led to now. In bed, with no clothes on.

The thought barely crossed your mind, but it came out before you could stop it.

He’d told you about all of his changes (kinda had to when his webs were all over your apartment) and you’d seen how incontrollable they still were. They were shooting out of him hard and fast and he was struggling to stop them.

So was it really that crazy for your brain to think ‘natural web shooting = web ejactulation = web cum?’

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

masterlist

note this isn’t proofread so if there’s any mistakes 🤫 (or lmk and i’ll fix em!)

[waitimcomingtoo]

The Box

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: Tony finds Peter’s box of condoms and confronts you

Masterlist

“Do either of you want to explain this?”

To punctuate his sentence, Tony slammed a small box of condoms down on the table in front of you. You immediately recognized the packaging and looked at Peter in fear. Peter looked just as scared, but gave your knee a squeeze to assure you that he had it handled.

“Um,” he gulped, “it’s a box of-“

“I know what it’s a box of.” Tony cut him off. “Actually, I knew what it used to be a box of. But for some reason…”

Tony dumped the box over and all but two condoms fell out. Your eyes somehow went even wider as the situation somehow got even worse. You knew it couldn’t be a good thing when Tony called you and Peter into the living room, you just never imagined it would be this bad.

“It’s empty.” He continued. “Can either of you heathens tell me why it’s empty?”

Keep reading

[stzrgirl4norris]

This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream. 

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich. 

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable. 

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks? 

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of  pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar. 

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now. 

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence. 

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier. 

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself. 

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

yourusername added to their story

"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty. 

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident. 

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened? 

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable. 

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch. 

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break. 

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather.  You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

[patchoff1]

black hole fantasy ✶ gr63

george russell x journalist!reader

soulmate au.

summary: you and your soulmate are stuck in a time loop on the day you first meet until you figure out you're soulmates, and you're getting fucking tired of this race day.

contains: soulmate au, time loop, journalist!reader, cursing, crack, angst (this has it all fr), george goes fucking insane in this truly, 2019 rookies moments

word count: 5.7k

playlist: black hole fantasy — the crane wives; my moon my man — feist; dear fellow traveller — sea wolf; snow on the beach — taylor swift feat. lana del rey

a/n: this took........ so long and i'm SO sorry!!!!!! it's also not one of my best works but it's like. it's fine. i enjoyed it. i hope you guys do too!!! reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3 also special thanks for @lyricsandvenom for being my lovely amazing beta-reader as usual

ALSO DISCLAIMER i know this is not accurate to how the championships standings actually are HOWEVER i started writing it by. february or something? and i just couldn't be bothered to change it so. bear with me.

series masterlist! ◦ masterlist!

As usual, George wakes up right on time.

His alarm rings at 6am sharp. He gets up on the first ring. He puts on his clothes.

He eats a light breakfast prepared by his personal chef — nutritious enough to get him through the morning, but not too rich, never too rich on race days. His manager checks up on him, and he texts back immediately, like he always does.

George never gets excited about his home races. Yes, his family and friends are there, yes, he loves his country, yes, it's really nice to stay at his own house and not at a random hotel.

George is on pole. If he doesn't win, he'll have lost from pole on his home race during one of Mercedes' best seasons in years while being on the lead for both the Drivers' and the Constructors' Championships.

He has his schedule laid out in front of him. He has some media duties in the morning, per usual. He'll probably eat a very plain sandwich for lunch, discuss technicalities with his team, stretch, and then get into his car. Hopefully he'll win, so then he'll have many more media duties, and then he'll probably go to a club to celebrate with his team and friends, and then he'll go home, and then he'll wake up on Monday and start working on getting ready for the next race.

George has it all laid out in front of him. If he stays on track, everything will be fine.

So he stays on track.

He tells an interviewer that he's comfortable and confident in the car, and that he believes they can hold on to pole as long as they have a good strategy. His sandwich has chicken and lettuce in it. He stays by his engineers' side until he's almost dragged into the car.

George is staying on track. He's on track. He'll be fine.

He's not fine.

The pit wall notices it on the first lap. George isn't one to hold back, and the car is performing as it should, and everything is perfect.

But he's stuck on the hungry eyes of the crowd, on the way every single engineer and media outlet has been talking about his predicted home race win for days. He's stuck on his family waiting for him back at the paddock, at how his dad clapped his back and told him to bring it home before the race started. He's stuck on the championship lead, on the expectations, on that sure look on Toto's face.

George has never truly fought for the World Drivers' Championship before. He never thought of himself as someone who could collapse from pressure.

"George, you're holding back on the turns. Are you okay? Norris is getting closer."

Are you okay? He doesn't have an answer. He should be. Instead, he's freaking out inside the cockpit of his perfect, brilliant car, losing precious time through every lap because, for some fucking reason, he just can't pull himself together.

When he crosses the finish line, he's P6. P6. From pole.

He can barely look Toto in the eye. He hates the pitying look some of the other drivers give him. He hates the questions he gets from the interviewers, the way they feel stupidly condescending even when they aren't — how do you feel? Do you think this is a setback for the championship as a whole? You said the car was great, what happened? It didn't seem like a strategy issue, what happened? Do you think this race will determine your racing for the rest of the year? Do you think you'll be able to recover from this in time to do better at Spa?

George wants to drive his car into a lake.

Since he can't drive his car into a lake, he finishes up his media duties as quickly as possible and goes home. His parents invite him out to dinner and he makes up a lie about having a bad headache, says they can reschedule it for Monday night. They don't insist because they know he's sulking in his room, beating himself up over what was meant to be a perfect, easily-won race.

He doesn't cry and, if he does, no one needs to know. He's an F1 driver, for fuck's sake — he's supposed to be more mature than this.

But the frustration is hard to swallow. It keeps getting stuck in his throat, scratching his tongue.

George falls into a fitful sleep. He wakes up countless times throughout the night, eyes sticky and swollen from tears and exhaustion. Time stretches, bends, keeps him up, and, when he finally manages to rest, it feels wrong, tired, undeserved. He hates every second of it.

His alarm rings at 6am sharp. He slaps his phone away and turns around in his bed, closing his eyes tightly, wondering if he can will the disappointment away.

It takes all but 10 minutes before his phone starts ringing again. The sound of it is different, though — not his alarm, but a call. Someone with the fucking nerve to bother him at 6am in the morning after the most depressing race of his life must have guts, at the very least, and he lets out an annoyed curse as he reaches out for his phone.

George picks it up angrily without even bothering to check who it is, feeling way more well-rested than he should.

"What the fuck is it?"

"Woah, someone woke up in the wrong side of the bed."

His eyebrows furrow in annoyance, taking the phone away from his face to check if it's really his manager. It is. He brings it back to his ear.

"Of course I did," he answers, clearly irritated, "what is it? I told everyone I wanted the day off."

His manager laughs. The sound is fucking grating.

"What are you on about, mate? You're on pole in your home race, at least try to be in a good mood."

George blinks.

What?

That's—what?

"What?" He says it out loud, and he can almost see the puzzled look on his manager's face from the tone of his voice.

"Are you okay, mate? Did you hit your head during quali yesterday and didn't tell us? I just called because you didn't answer my text."

His heart hammers inside his chest. For a second, George can't fucking breathe.

Oh, this is not happening. No fucking way. Not with this fucking day out of all days.

"It's Monday," he tries to inject his voice with as much certainty as possible, but a hint of doubt creeps in.

Maybe they're just making fun of him? Maybe this is a prank to lighten his mood after his awful race? That must be it. It's a little cruel, sure, but that must be it. Alex and Lando are probably in on it, too. Yeah. It has to be a little prank.

"No, George," his manager says slowly, almost sounding like he's talking to an angry child, clearly confused as hell, "it's Sunday. It's race day. Are you sure you didn't hit your head? Maybe you just had a weird dream."

George scrambles to pull his phone away again, heart racing faster than his car did yesterday as he looks at the date.

Sure enough, it's fucking Sunday.

He hears his manager calling to him on the other side of the line, but George just stares down at the screen, trying to figure out how he should react to this. Is there a right way to react to this?

Everyone knows about soulmate time loops. You meet your soulmate, and you're stuck in a time loop until you figure out who it is, and George has been waiting for this day for years, ever since he was a little boy asking for his parents to repeat the story of their time loop again and again.

But, oh, it can't be today. Not today. Not on a race day, when he meets thousands of new people, when he speaks to more journalists and fans and race workers than anyone can keep track of.

If it's today, he'll have to relive the worst race of his life time and again until he finds a needle in a haystack.

"Are you fucking with me? Did you mess with my phone?" The words leave his mouth as soon as he brings phone close to his face again, growing more desperate each second.

"No? Mate, are you okay? Do you need to see the team medic?"

Oh. Oh, fuck.

You wake up late.

When you finally do, you text your boss that your alarm didn't ring, even though you're pretty sure it did and that your subconscious was just so scared it turned it off before you could fully wake.

You're excited. You're terrified.

You've wanted to cover F1 for years now, ever since you started working with sports journalism, interviewing karting champions and regional tennis players. Now, here you are — preparing to interview F1 drivers and to cover one of the biggest races in the calendar. You've been on the track since Friday, mostly talking to the crowd, but today you'll actually be on the paddock.

You can't wait. You're going to throw up.

It takes you only a few minutes to get ready, running through your apartment like a hurricane while you try to make sure you have everything you need — your phone, your purse, your journalist pass, your wallet. You thought you'd be able to do everything slowly, calmly, but it's fine. This is fine.

This is incredible. And horrifying.

You leave your place soon after, body trembling with nerves.

"You're late," are the first words out of your cameraman's mouth, looking up from his phone to shoot you an amused look when you finally arrive to the paddock, packed with journalists and cameras, hungry for any scrap they can get before the race.

You've known James for quite a few years — you've worked together since forever, back when you were scrambling for a spot at any sort of sports coverage. When you were told he'd be the one with you for this, you cried out of relief and out of this very particular kind of gratitude that you got to do this with the same person you did your first ever interview with.

"I'm almost late," you correct, positioning yourself next to him, your right foot tapping wildly against the floor, "I didn't run 2 red lights for you to say I'm late."

He barks a laugh at that, putting the camera away. "How do you feel?"

"Like this is a dream. Also, like I'm going to pass out."

"That's the spirit."

You chuckle, looking around the buzzing paddock while tingles run through your body. "What about you? Excited?"

"I threw up as soon as I got here."

Your nose turns in disgust as you move your head to shoot him a glare. "Ew. I don't want to know about that."

"You literally asked!"

"Yeah, but I asked in a fun, thrilling way. Your answer was horrible."

Time passes by so quick you can barely feel it. You manage a few interviews with a couple of McLaren engineers before the race, running around the paddock like a child in a candy shop, James trailing after you. By the time the race starts, your anxiety has given way to full blown exhilaration, and the entire day almost feels like a fairy tale, a dream come true.

You're an F1 journalist. You can taste the victory of it on your tongue.

The best part comes after the checkered flag. Your first driver interview is with none other than Alex Albon, and he smiles brightly while you keep from squealing out of pure excitement, managing to hold yourself together as you ask questions about the race, the car, his performance.

You go through the paddock with a bright smile and intelligent questions — Gabi Bortoleto, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz. You even manage a very short interview with George Russell, the main title contender, and you're so delighted by the entire day you don't even mind his clipped answers, knowing he's probably upset over his underwhelming results.

When the bright afternoon turns into quiet evening, you feel that sort of happy tiredness that makes you grin to yourself while you drive back to your apartment. You sing along to whatever's playing on the radio, and, when you get home, you giggle at the pictures James took of you throughout the day. You open a bottle of wine as soon as you get out of your shower, more than ready to celebrate with a glass and a nice movie and to talk about everything nonstop with your coworkers on the next morning.

You drink your wine. You watch Uptown Girls. You go to bed with a smile on your lips, sighing happily as you fall into a deep, easy slumber. It's been a lovely day, you did a great job, and the door you stared longingly at for years has finally been opened.

You actually manage to wake up on time the next day. Your body feels light like a feather, and you take your time stretching and getting ready before you leave for the office. It's supposed to be a calm day — you plan to review the footage from this race weekend, to write down notes, to prepare questions for next time. There has to be a next time.

The city is quite busy, probably from the leftover movement after the race. Either way, you get to the office building a little earlier than you usually would, your good mood emanating from you in waves.

You give your coworkers a happy good morning as you open the door. Before they can react, your boss is basically on top of you, eyes wide with terror.

"What are you doing here?" She all but screeches, attracting stares from everyone else inside the office.

You look at her with a confused expression, eyebrows furrowing.

"I've… come to work?"

"Are you insane?" You can see her hands trembling. "This is a joke, right? You've come to prank me, and now you're going to find a way to teleport to the race track."

Your eyebrows furrow further. "To the race track? What?"

"You're kidding me. You're joking. It's race day. You're supposed to be there. Did you fucking forget?"

"What?" You immediately grab your phone from your pocket, feeling slightly dizzy with surprise and the building anxiety inside your chest. "It's Monday. I—"

You stare down at the screen. 5 missed calls from James. In the corner, the tiny words are clear and unmistakable — Sunday, July 5th.

"Oh." You choke on the words, heart picking up and ramming against your rib cage like a wild animal. "Oh, fuck."

George decides that the best way to deal with this is to go through his day exactly as he did the first time and hope that, somehow, he'll just know his soulmate the moment he sees them.

They're also stuck in the time loop, so they'll be looking for him. Maybe that will change something and he'll figure it out.

It's easy in theory. Not that easy in practice.

He can't tell if there's someone missing from the crowd, can't tell if there's something wrong, if there's someone he talked to before that isn't here now. He curses himself for not paying more attention to his surroundings, to every single person around him, even though he knows that's impossible, even though he knows that he couldn't possibly know.

The day goes by as normal. He's still P6. He can't help but think even with a do-over he manages to fuck it up.

When he wakes up on Sunday again, he decides he needs to be less passive about this.

A few hours later, George locks the door to his motorhome as Alex and Lando get in, hair messy from running his hands through it, eyes flying around the room.

Lando's the first to speak, crossing his arms, clearly amused. "Okay, we're here. Do you want a hug or something? The race will be fine."

"The race won't be fine, but that's not my problem."

His friends exchange a sideways look, probably thinking he sounds a little insane right now. He knows he does. He feels insane.

"How would you know that the race won't be fine? You need to be more—"

"Alex, shut up. I'm— it's the third time I'm living through this day."

There's a very, very long beat of silence. And then they're both talking at the same time.

"Holy shit—"

"You're on your soulmate loop?!"

"Is this the first time you're telling us about this?"

"Who wins the race?"

"Alright, alright," George interrupts the torrent of questions, arms flailing around to stop them, "yeah, I'm in the fucking soulmate loop. Yeah, it's the first time I'm telling you about this — it's only my second repeat, remember? And fucking Lando wins the race."

Lando whistles at the information, eyes glinting with delight before Alex elbows his side, leading him to focus back on the matter at hand.

"Right, sorry. So, how do you want to go about this?"

"I'm not sure," George admits, hands coming back to his hair, pulling anxiously, "I just—I need this day to be over, okay? Really over. It sucked the first two times around, and I don't want to keep doing it again and again."

"I thought you'd be more excited about this," Alex counters, frowning slightly, "you've said you were excited about finding your soulmate before."

"I know, I know, I am," he sighs, "I guess I just wish it happened on a different day. It just sucks."

It really, really sucks. Losing his home race. Seeing the disappointment in everybody's eyes. Hearing the pity in his parents' voices. It was awful the first time around, and maybe even worse during the second. He doesn't think the third time will be the charm.

"Well, don't worry, mate," Lando says with a smile, hand clapping George's shoulder. "We'll find your soulmate in absolutely no time. Maybe we can make a new record for less repeats needed to find your soulmate."

"That's impossible, the record is one repeat, and he's already in his second."

"Albono, just—shut up and roll with it."

Despite his frustration, George smiles.

"Do you think it could be that pretty girl who gave us coffee after lunch?"

"I'm not sure, I haven't gotten to that part of the day yet. You're the only one who remembers the previous repeats, genius."

"Not the only one. It's me and my soulmate."

"Yeah, you and that poor soul."

You shove James' shoulder, walking side by side through the paddock as he chuckles.

"Stop it," but there's no bite to your tone, "we need a game plan, okay? How are we gonna find them?"

"I don't know. Maybe you could go by elimination? It's definitely not me, so that's one."

"Wow, thanks. That helps a lot," you roll your eyes, "maybe we could go see if the coffee girl is still there after lunch?"

Coffee girl is definitely there, still giving out coffee after lunch. When you greet her, she responds exactly how she did the way before, no hint of recognition or of any sort of hidden knowledge. She's not searching for you.

You think maybe that's what you should be looking for. Anyone who speaks or wanders or walks with a searching look on their face, anyone who might be trying to find their soulmate.

But everyone else seems to be living their day as normal. The coffee girl, that cute McLaren engineer, that yelling fan. Their answers to your questions are the same as they were the day before, and it seems like time hasn't stopped and restarted for any of them.

And then you interview Alex Albon.

You're not sure what it is. His answers are also the same, but there's something about him. His eyes wander across the crowd, his posture is slightly tenser. You notice because he was your first interviewee and you know it went a little more smoothly the first time around.

But your soulmate can't be Alex Albon, because it is public knowledge that his fiancée is his soulmate. Still, you can feel something changed, and that's your first clue.

When you do your quick interview with George Russell, who came P6 again, he's also weird. He seemed stressed and anxious when you interviewed him for the first time, probably due to the race, but now he's even worse. He can barely answer your questions, mind elsewhere, clearly distracted and frustrated and annoyed. The brief interview is even briefer, and you come to a staggering conclusion.

Your soulmate is on the move, looking for you, and, somehow, they're stressing out F1 drivers on the process. Your stomach flutters with excitement at the thought.

"They are probably team staff," James points out while he walks you to your car when the day is over, "maybe we can focus on that tomorrow."

"Today, you mean."

James lets out a sigh, eyes rolling with amusement.

"What if you announced you were on your soulmate loop?" Lando's voice carries through the motor home, his eyebrows furrowed.

It's his eleventh repeat. At this point, the failure of the race feels like part of his personality.

"Announced it? To the media, you mean?"

"Yeah, why not? Maybe your soulmate would come forward."

"No, that wouldn't work," Alex shakes his head, "a lot of people would jump at the opportunity to declare themselves an F1 driver's soulmate."

"Well, maybe his soulmate would do it on the following repeat. Then he would know."

"That's not the worst idea you've ever had," George shrugs, mulling it over in his head. "That could work. I could do it at the end of the day and just wait for some sort of contact from them."

Alex crosses his arms. George can tell he's considering it.

"If you wait to get contacted tomorrow—well, today—, there's no risk of there being any fakes. Everyone else will have forgotten about your announcement, including us."

Lando nods intensely. "Exactly."

George claps his hands together, a spark of hope burning in his chest.

"Okay," he says somewhat giddily, "I'll do it."

He doesn't stop to think about the fact that announcing it at the end of the day means you're getting ready to leave while he speaks it into a microphone, loudly declaring he's looking for his soulmate and that he can't bear to live through this day again. Doesn't think about the fact you're so tired from running around after him you don't check your phone when you get home, anxious to go to sleep and try again. Doesn't think about the fact the time loop is getting to you too, even though you were quite excited about it at first.

You're exhausted. You're still looking for him through the engineers, social media managers, physiotherapists, assistants. You're not looking up at TV screens — you're looking around the staff restaurant. Because what's the probability, really, that your soulmate would be a fucking F1 driver? None. That's a different world to yours. You work a 9 to 5. You pay rent. You drive a very used and well-loved car. It doesn't even cross your mind.

And George — he hopes until the very last second. He lingers around the paddock after the race on the following repeat (P6, P6 again, P6 every single time, P6 on twelve different repeats now), knuckles white while he waits, waits, waits. You don't come.

It shouldn't be that hurtful, but it is. Do you not want him? Is part of you disappointed? Is part of you so disgusted by his performance on this stupid race that you don't even want to find him? Even if you know who he is, the loop doesn't stop until he knows who you are as well. Would you rather repeat this day forever instead of accepting him as your soulmate?

Rationally, he knows he's projecting. He knows there are a billion reasons why you haven't found each other. Still, the thoughts repeat in his head the same way this day does: incessantly, annoyingly, mercilessly.

Maybe you just don't want a fucking loser.

"Did you see Russell didn't show up for the race today? Guy got sick or something," is whispered across the paddock on your thirteenth repeat, followed by a conspiringly loud, "can you believe it?!"

Your head snaps so fast your neck hurts, eyes widening comically. "What?"

"'What' what?" James doesn't mind the gossip, looking down at his camera, checking the little footage you've shot up until now. You've been going through the repeats as normal, making sure you'll still have your job when it all stops.

"That's different," you twist your body towards the whispers, trying to catch any more information, "that's different. He was here the other times."

James finally looks up.

"What?"

"Russell," your heartbeat picks up dangerously, "people are saying he didn't show up for the race. But he's shown up in every other repeat."

James blinks.

"What, you think George Russell is your soulmate? Mercedes F1 driver, drivers' championship leader, world known celebrity, that George Russell?"

Your face burns slightly. "Okay, maybe not George Russell, but someone that has something to do with him? Maybe they're sending me a sign?"

"Are you sure he showed up on the other repeats? Maybe you're misremembering."

"I'm absolutely sure. I even interviewed him almost every time."

Hope courses through you like electricity. It was fine at first, repeating your first day as an F1 journalist, getting better and better at it until you could conduct all your interviews flawlessly, words bouncing off you easily and naturally.

13 repeats is a lot, though.

You're tired. You want to have a normal day at the office. You want to eat lunch at a different place. You want it to stop, truly, maybe even more than you want to find your soulmate. Is this how this works? The time loop tires you out and then you're so relieved when you figure out who it is that you just resign yourself to them no matter what? Well, that sucks. This sucks. You want it to be over.

It's disheartening. Disheartening, and anxiety inducing. Will you be stuck here forever? Will you ever find your soulmate, whoever they are? Are you destined to repeat the same interviews over and over for months, years, decades? You're not sure you can do it. It's one of the best days of your life, but you've gone over it so many times it's starting to feel mundane. Boring. Repetitive. You want to go home, to hang out with your friends, to have a nice, relaxing day, without having to worry about searching for your soulmate in every corner and not finding them anywhere.

And if your soulmate is George Russell, can you even blame him for staying home? The guy is probably fed up after finishing P6 for 12 days straight. If points were being counted, he'd have lost the championship by now.

James notices the way you fall silent while the two of you walk through the paddock.

You've managed to get an interview with George Russell on basically every other repeat. If he shows up on the next, you can say something to him. You can say anything, you can give him a little hint, you can throw him a clue.

There's a very low probability George Russell is your soulmate. It seems, however, to be higher than none. Either way, if it's not him, the day will restart and no one will remember your silly mistake. It's fine. Yeah. You can do that.

The tiredness gives way to giddy excitement. You can do that.

You don't tell James about it. It's stupid. What's the probability, really, that your soulmate would be a fucking F1 driver? Microscopical. Still, you have nothing to lose.

On repeat 14, George decides he's fucking done with this bullshit.

He elected to stay home the day before and gather his thoughts. He cried a little. He ignored every single call from his team, his manager, and Toto, as well as every knock on the door from his family. He needed a day off, and he fucking took it, because it doesn't matter. It's Sunday again by the time he wakes up, and it's eating away at him.

The last few repeats he's stayed awake until midnight, staring obsessively at his phone screen until the clock goes from Sunday, July 5th, 23:59, to Sunday, July 5th, 00:00. The sight is unnatural and dreadful, and it makes him panic every time. The moment the numbers change, there's this feeling — like he can physically sense the way time warps, rewinds, restarts, all so he can live through the worst race of his career again. That sucks. This sucks.

So, on repeat 14, George decides he's fucking done with this bullshit. He's not gonna find his soulmate any time soon, so he decides he'll worry about something else.

Something else being the damn race.

When he gets to the paddock, he doesn't say anything to anyone. He doesn't even tell Alex and Lando about his predicament this time around. He eats his breakfast. He eats his lettuce and chicken sandwich. He stretches. He strategizes with his engineers on the pit wall. He prepares and focuses with a vengeance, and decides that, after going through it 12 different times, he can probably manage this stupid race.

And maybe if he wins once, just once, he'll no longer be tormented by his own thoughts. Maybe you'll change your mind about him.

He doesn't hold back on the turns. He trusts this car with his life, and he isn't afraid to push, even in moments when he would usually be a little more careful.

"You're doing amazing," his radio engineer tells him, voice coated in awe. He barely listens, and he doesn't respond. He's fucking tired of letting himself get beat over and over again by both himself and others. He's a Mercedes driver. If he can't win, he can at least give it his best shot, which he hasn't really done the previous times, not with all the expectations chewing away at his fingertips.

The laps go by as quickly as the hours back to midnight on every repeat have. George doesn't know if he's P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, or P6 again. His engineer must've told him but he didn't pay any attention. He just wants to get over it. He just wants to beat the fear and anxiety once, just once.

He wouldn't say he pulls himself together, not really. He still feels like a mess. He's been stuck, as if the time loop meant he had to do all the same things again, repeating and repeating and repeating until, magically, you can find each other. Maybe that's the problem.

Maybe he needs to stop taking the time loop as a prison. Maybe he needs to take it as an opportunity to do a little better than last time — to be a little nicer, to speak a little softer, to work a little harder. To make himself worthy of you. Maybe he needs to be a little better until you can meet each other in some sort of middle.

Maybe he needs to take it as a chance to win. For you, sure, for his family, his fans, his team. Mainly for himself. Maybe he needs to take it as a chance to have his goddamn first home race win. His chance to transform a shit day into a good one.

When he crosses the finish line, he's P1.

"So, how do you feel after your first home race win?"

"Oh, it feels absolutely incredible," his face is sweaty, his eyes burn bright, and, even though he's just had the worst 13 Sundays of his life, on this one, he feels ecstatic.

He feels like he's gone back time and changed the past for the better, and he doesn't care if it takes him 100 more repeats to find his soulmate. He'll keep looking and having a better day each time until you find each other. You'll find each other, and it's fine. Maybe he needed to go through all of it so many times. He had to remember that life isn't estatic, that he's not some still character. This is his time loop, and he can make it into whatever he wants.

"I've been dreaming of this ever since I joined F1. I can't express how happy I am, or how grateful I am for this car, for the team, for my family and friends, for everything. It's truly been an amazing opportunity to be here, racing again and again, and winning at this track. I'm beyond happy, truly."

"It's a long way from P6, isn't it?"

George looks at you. He's been looking at you ever since you found him for your brief, very brief interview, but now he really looks. Straight into your eyes, studying your face, gaze lingering on the very excited, very hopeful smirk on your lips. He notices all the little things about you — how your hand grips the microphone so tight your knuckles turn white, how your expression is a mix of overwhelming hope and desperate fear. After so many interviews, you feel almost familiar. Were you familiar from the start? Or did the time loop manage to get you acquainted to each other without either of you even noticing?

Meanwhile, your mind twists, whispers in your ear, keeps you alert. He doesn't answer for a few seconds, and your heart thumps against your ears. You lean forward slightly, almost trying to nudge him into speaking, into saying something, anything, into asking you why you'd say that.

George looks at you.

And then, slowly, as if he has all the time in the whole wide world, he grins.

Sunday, July 5th, 23:58

Sunday, July 5th, 23:59

Sunday, July 5th, 23:59

Sunday, July 5th, 23:59

Monday, July 6th, 00:00

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[space-less1]

im falling for ollie bearman propaganda

[cursedbybang]

❝this is a bad idea, right?❞

pairing: oliver bearman x fem!reader

summary: where, at a party, you have the absolute misfortune of hooking up with your ex-boyfriend in the bathroom.

warnings: possibly out-of-character personalities (?), unprotected sex (please practice safe sex), brief mentions of emotional distress, and an ollie who doesn't seem to care all that much, MDNI!

word count: 434

a/n: a little piece of advice: don't hook up with your ex. anyway, i hope you enjoy it 🤍

ଓ english is not my first language, be kind.

The sound coming from your throat is low, broken, almost a sob.

Oliver is fucking you against the bathroom sink, your dress hiked up to your waist, your panties pulled to one side, his cock sliding deep inside you and pulling out, wet. Every thrust is hard, precise, as if he still knows exactly the angle that makes you tremble. His hand grips the nape of your neck too tightly to be just desire. The other leaves marks on your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh.

You moan again when he bites the side of your neck, right at the spot that always used to drive you wild. Your skin stings. It’ll turn purple. It’ll be obvious.

"Ollie…" the words come out haltingly, between one moan and the next.

He doesn’t reply with words. He just thrusts deeper, his hips slamming into yours with a wet, obscene sound, drowned out by the loud music on the other side of the door. You broke up months ago. You came with the girls. He came with his mates. A glance crossed the party, half a second too long, and now here you are: him fucking you as if no time had passed, as if he still had that right.

You tighten around him without meaning to. He lets out a hoarse moan against your skin and picks up the pace, his thrusts growing shorter, more brutal. His hand slides down between you, his thumb finding your clitoris with the same certainty as ever. You moan too loudly, your head banging against the blurry mirror, your nails scratching the tiles.

“Shut up.” He whispers, his voice low and rough, but his thumb keeps circling, cruelly. “There are people outside.”

The orgasm builds too quickly, mixed with a sharp pain in your chest. You come, squeezing him tight, your whole body trembling, a long, choked moan escaping you all the same. Oliver holds you tight while he keeps fucking you through the orgasm, deeper, more urgently, until he thrusts all the way in and comes inside you, hot, throbbing, the name he murmurs against your neck almost inaudible.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant noise of the party.

He pulls out slowly. Your dress is still hiked up. Cum is running down your thighs. Your neck throbs where he left his mark.

Oliver adjusts his trousers, looks at you in the mirror for a second longer than he’d like — and that look carries everything you didn’t say — before opening the door and disappearing down the corridor.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ִ⠀shh .ᐟ ׁ⠀ 𓏵𓏵ྀིྀི 💋💄

[moonlightproblems]

Awww, congrats to George and Carmen! 🤍

- that is one hell of a rock 💍🫠