ciao, my butterflies !! mylee. eighteen. she/her. infp-t -> isfj-a. libra. american. po5, mv1, op81. i only write sfw. requests are open! uploads on wednesdays.
paring dark spider-man au!oscar piastri x dark spider-woman!reader word count 1k authorâs note warning! first time attempt at smut masterlist
the real question that london had was where did the real oscar piastri go?
you still see fragments of oscar piastri, the one who turned you into the authorities. you had been an anti-hero stealing from the rich, a so-called problem with the police. you escaped the holding cell that damaged control was attempting to conceal you in. now you was partner-in-crime with spider-man, at least the parts of him that remain.
âoscar, baby. i know iâve been a bad girl.â
the window slid open with a view of the big ben, a cold draft floating through the sheer curtains. his body language seemed like it pained him, muscles twitching and bulging when he climbed into your apartment. the soaked black suit was clinging onto his body from the heavy rain pelting against every surface across the city. his curls were disheveled when he discarded the mask. he looked battered when he turned to face you. reddened cheeks, irises still black, a bruise on his right temple.
you expected him to yell. you had disobeyed his orders, following him in the middle of the night to a abandoned warehouse. itâs where he spent most of his days and nights now when he wasnât fighting crime to save london when his altering dna wasnât controlling his every movement, he was trying to come up with a prototype to contain himself. he stalks up to you, quietly grabbing your jaw. âi told you not to come.â
a small smirk tugged on your lips, âyou really thought i would listen?â
red and blue sirens created shadows across your walls, blaring a street over. it echoed in oscarâs head louder than usual, louder with every passing moment. yet, all he could focus on was your perfume when you walked past towards the windowsill to look for the direction of the sirens. you didnât glance back at him, you could sense he was still rooted in the middle of your apartment. instead of comforting him, you climbed out of the window. a flick of a wrist and a smooth silk web connected to another series of buildings heading towards crime, expecting him to follow you.
the trainâs lights flicker across his face as it moves at a rapid pace. his black irises were back to their normal brown gaze. his jaw clenched, another whimper of pain. his back arched from the seat as his slender fingers held onto the bleeding wound. crimson blood seeping through the black fabric after another attack. he managed to keep the cityâs damage to a minimum and lock up the villain in custody. you didnât sit next to him, but you did just across the train watching from afar as he withered in pain.
your voice was sharp, almost disappointed. you werenât concerned about spider-man, not by a long shot. but more so on how, this bug boy could get injured by a simple villain? âsit down before you make it worse.â
âno,â he bite back a groan. âiâm helping.â
his arm wraps around your waist, a flick of his wrist silky webs come shooting out from him, swinging you mid-air up the fire escape. you didnât hold on until the last minute, youâd rather fall all the flights of stairs in your apartment building before clinging to his muscles. you didnât like how close his mask-hidden face was to yours. your clad feet gently landed on the old wooden floors, he crawled in after you.
his blacked-out iris stares back at you as he tugs off the mask for the second time that night. heâs kneeling on the window seat, knees digging into the cushion. you reached behind him, drowning the city's noise once you shut the window one-handed. you whispered in the dark, âcareful. it almost seems like you started to trust me.â
the words were barely out of your mouth before he took the initiative. mouth on yours, hands already ripping your suit off, organic webs shooting out to pin your wrists together. his hands desperately pulling you into his body, legs wrapped around his waist. your wet and swollen pussy is rubbing against the bulge straining against his suit. his hands are working at slipping off his suit, dropping it mid-thigh.
âyou wear a thong underneath?â you scoffed. âthatâs soââ all the air knocked from your lungs, a small gasp drawn from you when he thrusted his hard cock all the way. âpathetic.â
his strong hand on your back steadies you. his other hand was gripping onto the small dresser nestled in front of the footboard of your bed. your head tilting back into nothing, but the cold draft still swirling in your apartment. he stays buried to the hilt, grinding through it until a moaning mess and leaking rings around him. small sticky webs coating your sheen sweaty skin that neither of you notices. he pants in your ear until he lifts to let his emotionless black eyes stare at you, nose barely grazed over yours.
his lips met yours in a hungry kiss. it made your head spin while deepening the kiss, his hand slid from your back into your disheveled hair tightening his grip. the wet sounds were obscene as he kept rocking your hips into his.
itâs only after the initial haze of his high evaporates that his vision is back to normal. he notices the webbed cocoon around you both, how the webs pinned your body down into the base of the cocoon. in between your thighs wasnât seeping cum, but silky webs.
ââ how to loose a driver in ten days (part two)
paring carson hocevar x reader summary youâre the ceo of a sportâs magazine with a tough athlete who wonât cooperate for the few pages of the magazine heâs going to appear in word count 1k authorâs note dedicated to @haleysteed for the comment on the first one requests open masterlist
you had called him absurd when he offered dinner. in surprise, your hand clinched onto his hoodie strings that were draped over your body. you didn't decline or agree, silently shutting your computer and stalking off while still smelling like him. as if you didn't completely leave him alone in his rv, second-guessing why he asked.
it was the day of the race. like every other athlete, you see pure focus and unwavering determination. you'd figured you would see that, it was typical, a routine, yet you hadn't once today with carson. other drivers were taking espresso shots, having team meetings, or taking a breather in the garage or the team trailer. this wasn't standard, he showed none of the raw emotions that any athlete would before competing.
he seemed unfocused, as if tangled in a web of his own thoughts. his eyes drifted back to you more than once from afar when he was signing autographs for fans. shirts, hats, and questionable things. you had been out of sight from fans, leaning against the merchandise wall. blue eyes that didn't match his fiery personality, a small private smile just for you. almost like he was signaling that he was happy that you were here, forced by your beloved career or not.
on the way back, you had been sitting on the bench seat on the back of the golf cart. knees bumped, fabric scratching each other's before his hand had held onto yours as the cart zipped through the fan zone. it felt too exposed to fans, too easy for them to see something that you refused to believe was there. out of pure instinct, you almost pulled away as if you were getting burned like he had earlier that weekend. your other hand, clenched and unclenched on the metal bar holding on to dear life as if it wasn't used to a gentle touch. your hands always wanted to choke or slap him.
the national anthem rang loudly amongst the crowd and drivers. you were almost envious of the fans with earplugs. internally begged that a pair would appear in thin air into your hands. you had been standing next to carson and his sponsored stock car, his team had enforced it for all- inclusive access. planes flew above your head in the nation's colors. red, white, and blue. you had almost not looked above your head, but towards him. how he looked in the moment with the tossed hair and how he always seemed to be smiling. a yearning feeling settled underneath your ribs and for once you didn't agree with the disgraceful tabloids about him.
hands clasp behind your back, you finally responded quietly. "i don't date my interviewees."
"good thing, this is our last night together then, boss?"
you swore trouble followed carson. typically, you stayed out of the tabloids and were the mystery journalist behind the articles. until, tonight. choas had ensued behind you like a hurricane. your voice was louder than expected for such a busy restaurant. he had been out with an i-racing buddy that he finally got a chance to meet up with in person after the race. it had been the wrong time and place. or as he would put it, the right place and time. you were pissed off and searching for a fight. one person who wouldn't question it, the one who saw an opportunity to fight with you as easily as breathing. a swing of a gnarly punch from you, cracked his jaw. your knuckles and heart bled as you argued, even all the way out to the parking lot. it turned heads because it looked much hotter than a lover's spat. it had been silent, the drive back to his place. he was still bleeding and you were hauntingly quiet. finally, no pestering questions in a monotone professional tone. he quietly enjoyed it.
everything looks different in the daylight. there was no more fighting, just a heavy uncertainty and messy hair. your bare feet padded against the floor, his hoodie covering your body once again like clockwork. only, this time you seemed more... civil. no longer at each other's throats or making breakfast together in between awkward small talk. it wasn't the first night spent together after a fight, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
"i still hate you." you whispered, leaned against his kitchen counter.
"funny. you find me at two am just to argue and end up in my bed again, must be a kink."
it had been insisted by your co-workers that you had a private party for odd magazine having its first print of a nascar driver. it was packed with athletes you've covered before, and close supportive friends.
you had already made your rounds with small talk. a few sexual innuendos from friends and a head nod towards carson. it had made carson's heart beat inconsistently and shy from even across the room. you hadn't seen him since that morning, you called it the last time and he knew you were lying. you couldn't believe in your first draft that you called him an asshole or that you irrevocably hated him.
it had been eye contact from across the room all night, you had been spinning around everywhere besides near him. but two flames always meet again, "the thing isâ"
the words were barely out of your mouth before he took the initiative. he closed the gap between you, his hand now gently cupping the side of your face.
his lips met yours in a soft, yet hungry kiss. it was a moment of desire and anticipation finally acted upon. his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on your hip. it made your head spin while deepening the kiss, his hand in your hair grasping lightly, his fingers tangling in your hair.
everything froze mid-motion when phones pinged, echoed across the dark-lit event of everyone's pocket or purse. it's why you couldn't tell a journalist anything.
the london daily: today's top news. odd magazine's y/n y/l sleeping with the enemy?
sources say, they caught her sleeping with carson hocevar. a muse or enemies-to-lovers?
ââ how to loose a driver in ten days (part two)
paring carson hocevar x reader summary youâre the ceo of a sportâs magazine with a tough athlete who wonât cooperate for the few pages of the magazine heâs going to appear in word count 1k authorâs note dedicated to @haleysteed for the comment on the first one requests open masterlist
you had called him absurd when he offered dinner. in surprise, your hand clinched onto his hoodie strings that were draped over your body. you didn't decline or agree, silently shutting your computer and stalking off while still smelling like him. as if you didn't completely leave him alone in his rv, second-guessing why he asked.
it was the day of the race. like every other athlete, you see pure focus and unwavering determination. you'd figured you would see that, it was typical, a routine, yet you hadn't once today with carson. other drivers were taking espresso shots, having team meetings, or taking a breather in the garage or the team trailer. this wasn't standard, he showed none of the raw emotions that any athlete would before competing.
he seemed unfocused, as if tangled in a web of his own thoughts. his eyes drifted back to you more than once from afar when he was signing autographs for fans. shirts, hats, and questionable things. you had been out of sight from fans, leaning against the merchandise wall. blue eyes that didn't match his fiery personality, a small private smile just for you. almost like he was signaling that he was happy that you were here, forced by your beloved career or not.
on the way back, you had been sitting on the bench seat on the back of the golf cart. knees bumped, fabric scratching each other's before his hand had held onto yours as the cart zipped through the fan zone. it felt too exposed to fans, too easy for them to see something that you refused to believe was there. out of pure instinct, you almost pulled away as if you were getting burned like he had earlier that weekend. your other hand, clenched and unclenched on the metal bar holding on to dear life as if it wasn't used to a gentle touch. your hands always wanted to choke or slap him.
the national anthem rang loudly amongst the crowd and drivers. you were almost envious of the fans with earplugs. internally begged that a pair would appear in thin air into your hands. you had been standing next to carson and his sponsored stock car, his team had enforced it for all- inclusive access. planes flew above your head in the nation's colors. red, white, and blue. you had almost not looked above your head, but towards him. how he looked in the moment with the tossed hair and how he always seemed to be smiling. a yearning feeling settled underneath your ribs and for once you didn't agree with the disgraceful tabloids about him.
hands clasp behind your back, you finally responded quietly. "i don't date my interviewees."
"good thing, this is our last night together then, boss?"
you swore trouble followed carson. typically, you stayed out of the tabloids and were the mystery journalist behind the articles. until, tonight. choas had ensued behind you like a hurricane. your voice was louder than expected for such a busy restaurant. he had been out with an i-racing buddy that he finally got a chance to meet up with in person after the race. it had been the wrong time and place. or as he would put it, the right place and time. you were pissed off and searching for a fight. one person who wouldn't question it, the one who saw an opportunity to fight with you as easily as breathing. a swing of a gnarly punch from you, cracked his jaw. your knuckles and heart bled as you argued, even all the way out to the parking lot. it turned heads because it looked much hotter than a lover's spat. it had been silent, the drive back to his place. he was still bleeding and you were hauntingly quiet. finally, no pestering questions in a monotone professional tone. he quietly enjoyed it.
everything looks different in the daylight. there was no more fighting, just a heavy uncertainty and messy hair. your bare feet padded against the floor, his hoodie covering your body once again like clockwork. only, this time you seemed more... civil. no longer at each other's throats or making breakfast together in between awkward small talk. it wasn't the first night spent together after a fight, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
"i still hate you." you whispered, leaned against his kitchen counter.
"funny. you find me at two am just to argue and end up in my bed again, must be a kink."
it had been insisted by your co-workers that you had a private party for odd magazine having its first print of a nascar driver. it was packed with athletes you've covered before, and close supportive friends.
you had already made your rounds with small talk. a few sexual innuendos from friends and a head nod towards carson. it had made carson's heart beat inconsistently and shy from even across the room. you hadn't seen him since that morning, you called it the last time and he knew you were lying. you couldn't believe in your first draft that you called him an asshole or that you irrevocably hated him.
it had been eye contact from across the room all night, you had been spinning around everywhere besides near him. but two flames always meet again, "the thing isâ"
the words were barely out of your mouth before he took the initiative. he closed the gap between you, his hand now gently cupping the side of your face.
his lips met yours in a soft, yet hungry kiss. it was a moment of desire and anticipation finally acted upon. his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on your hip. it made your head spin while deepening the kiss, his hand in your hair grasping lightly, his fingers tangling in your hair.
everything froze mid-motion when phones pinged, echoed across the dark-lit event of everyone's pocket or purse. it's why you couldn't tell a journalist anything.
the london daily: today's top news. odd magazine's y/n y/l sleeping with the enemy?
sources say, they caught her sleeping with carson hocevar. a muse or enemies-to-lovers?
word count 1k authorâs note inspired by @therealsunflowerjessie comment requests open carsonâs masterlist main masterlist
the night air was hot, but its feels hotter and thicker in a way that frustrates one. beads of sweet dripping down your back, race suit clinging onto youâre form uncomfortably. Itâs a kind of misery, youâve gotten used to. microphones pushed into your face like a pit of sharks surrounding a stranded human in the middle of the sea. reporters and journalists buzz in place, not that you could actually see it with the bright blinking light of a recording camera blinding you. they smiled like they were hungry and their voices were tight. fans had thinned out in the stands, and the buzz of adrenaline slowly disappeared into the mist. your back against the stock car as you shoved your helmet into your crew chiefâs arms.
your eyes met his through the crowded pit lane. too soft for his fiery personality. carsonâs posture is casualâshoulders down, arms folded as he explains his winning overtake on you. he was in his own swarm of reporters and cameras, yet answered all questions with ease. you felt like a tight ball of tension. a small smirk towards your direction almost made you want to throw your helmet at him. it wasnât the fact that he overtook you fairly in the last lap, it was the fact that he intentionally wrecked corey with three laps left. you didnât answer the first time, not with some staring contest between you two. every reporter glances at the others, as if they notice something obvious that neither of you did. a reporter on his side mentioned your name, and carson vaguely responded that you were annoying. your gaze snapped back to the sea of people in front of you when the question was repeated.
âobviously, we know you and corey are good friends. can you talk us through how it felt when carson wrecked corey?â
âheâs an asshole, everyone knows that. itâs no surprise.â
you didnât fail to notice how he slipped past in front of you during your post-race interview, his hand gently lingering on your waist for way too long to gently remove you from his path. his shoulder brushes against yours. eye contact held, long enough for the camera to pick up on it. your eyes lingered on his back before you called out, âyou didnât have to wreck him.â
carson scoffs, âtell him that.â
he always stood too close when arguing, everything turned into a fight between you two. he was hovering and you felt your back digging so far against the stock car you were almost afraid the paint would peel off with you. âi will.â
âgood.â
âwhy donât you just settle it on track?â 23x11 pit crew member offered. it wasnât just you and carson at each otherâs throats. trouble followed carson everywhere, which some would argue was you. the humidity wasnât as suffocating with night nearing, but it was with the two drivers inches away from throwing a punch.
"the winner gets one night with her,â
âhow the hell did i get involved?â
corey frowned. he was the one who had been secretly in love with you since the day he met you. the one that knows all your orders at restaurants, saves you a seat at every driverâs meeting heâs at, and notices that you play with your hands when youâre overwhelmed.
"relax. winner gets the first chance to ask. she can still tell us both to screw off." carson swears he only wants to win because he refuses to lose to corey.
you raise your visor slowly, the floodlights hitting your flushed face. sweat clings to you in all the right places, you shrugged your race suit to hang from your hips. a congratulations spills from your lips over the loud crowd. corey hugs you longer than necessary, everyone noticing how his hands had slid up your waist slowly before his palms met your back embracing you further. you slid off your helmet and balaclava soon after.
he exhales sharply and steps closer, cupping your face like you're something fragile he's scared of breaking. you nod. he closes the gap and kisses you, hard. his right hand slides into your hair while the other wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him like heâs been starving for this. itâs messy and hungry, all pent-up frustration and relief crashing together. carson watched from afar on pitlane while your on victory lane, hurting though heâd refuse to admit it.
the following week, carson was in victory lane. you hadnât greeted him with a small smile on your face as you had done with corey. everyone assumes that you still hate carson hocevar. the second he stepped away from victory lane, he immediately grabbed your waist and picked you off your feet in a single-handed princess carry heading towards the haulerâs before your team or reporters could reach you first. now, corey is the one left watching.
âa bet is a bet,â you whispered as carson had trapped you between the hauler and his warm body. one hand raised, gently replacing your team-branded hat with his. he used to constantly steal your cap to be annoying during interviews or pick a fight, but now it felt different that didnât settle right between your bones. he leaned in as if he was about to close the gap, noses brushing and breathing mixing.
âwe canât, not like this,â he said.
âwhat do you mean?â your eyes flickered between his, forcing down a smile. you felt almost deprived of something that you didnât know you were yearning for.
in one swift motion, he closed the distance between you and crashed his lips onto yours. it wasnât gentleâhis hands tangled in your hair to tilt your head just right as he kissed you like a man whoâd been losing too much sleep over you for months. âi meant something like that.â
word count 1k authorâs note inspired by @therealsunflowerjessie comment requests open carsonâs masterlist main masterlist
the night air was hot, but its feels hotter and thicker in a way that frustrates one. beads of sweet dripping down your back, race suit clinging onto youâre form uncomfortably. Itâs a kind of misery, youâve gotten used to. microphones pushed into your face like a pit of sharks surrounding a stranded human in the middle of the sea. reporters and journalists buzz in place, not that you could actually see it with the bright blinking light of a recording camera blinding you. they smiled like they were hungry and their voices were tight. fans had thinned out in the stands, and the buzz of adrenaline slowly disappeared into the mist. your back against the stock car as you shoved your helmet into your crew chiefâs arms.
your eyes met his through the crowded pit lane. too soft for his fiery personality. carsonâs posture is casualâshoulders down, arms folded as he explains his winning overtake on you. he was in his own swarm of reporters and cameras, yet answered all questions with ease. you felt like a tight ball of tension. a small smirk towards your direction almost made you want to throw your helmet at him. it wasnât the fact that he overtook you fairly in the last lap, it was the fact that he intentionally wrecked corey with three laps left. you didnât answer the first time, not with some staring contest between you two. every reporter glances at the others, as if they notice something obvious that neither of you did. a reporter on his side mentioned your name, and carson vaguely responded that you were annoying. your gaze snapped back to the sea of people in front of you when the question was repeated.
âobviously, we know you and corey are good friends. can you talk us through how it felt when carson wrecked corey?â
âheâs an asshole, everyone knows that. itâs no surprise.â
you didnât fail to notice how he slipped past in front of you during your post-race interview, his hand gently lingering on your waist for way too long to gently remove you from his path. his shoulder brushes against yours. eye contact held, long enough for the camera to pick up on it. your eyes lingered on his back before you called out, âyou didnât have to wreck him.â
carson scoffs, âtell him that.â
he always stood too close when arguing, everything turned into a fight between you two. he was hovering and you felt your back digging so far against the stock car you were almost afraid the paint would peel off with you. âi will.â
âgood.â
âwhy donât you just settle it on track?â 23x11 pit crew member offered. it wasnât just you and carson at each otherâs throats. trouble followed carson everywhere, which some would argue was you. the humidity wasnât as suffocating with night nearing, but it was with the two drivers inches away from throwing a punch.
"the winner gets one night with her,â
âhow the hell did i get involved?â
corey frowned. he was the one who had been secretly in love with you since the day he met you. the one that knows all your orders at restaurants, saves you a seat at every driverâs meeting heâs at, and notices that you play with your hands when youâre overwhelmed.
"relax. winner gets the first chance to ask. she can still tell us both to screw off." carson swears he only wants to win because he refuses to lose to corey.
you raise your visor slowly, the floodlights hitting your flushed face. sweat clings to you in all the right places, you shrugged your race suit to hang from your hips. a congratulations spills from your lips over the loud crowd. corey hugs you longer than necessary, everyone noticing how his hands had slid up your waist slowly before his palms met your back embracing you further. you slid off your helmet and balaclava soon after.
he exhales sharply and steps closer, cupping your face like you're something fragile he's scared of breaking. you nod. he closes the gap and kisses you, hard. his right hand slides into your hair while the other wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him like heâs been starving for this. itâs messy and hungry, all pent-up frustration and relief crashing together. carson watched from afar on pitlane while your on victory lane, hurting though heâd refuse to admit it.
the following week, carson was in victory lane. you hadnât greeted him with a small smile on your face as you had done with corey. everyone assumes that you still hate carson hocevar. the second he stepped away from victory lane, he immediately grabbed your waist and picked you off your feet in a single-handed princess carry heading towards the haulerâs before your team or reporters could reach you first. now, corey is the one left watching.
âa bet is a bet,â you whispered as carson had trapped you between the hauler and his warm body. one hand raised, gently replacing your team-branded hat with his. he used to constantly steal your cap to be annoying during interviews or pick a fight, but now it felt different that didnât settle right between your bones. he leaned in as if he was about to close the gap, noses brushing and breathing mixing.
âwe canât, not like this,â he said.
âwhat do you mean?â your eyes flickered between his, forcing down a smile. you felt almost deprived of something that you didnât know you were yearning for.
in one swift motion, he closed the distance between you and crashed his lips onto yours. it wasnât gentleâhis hands tangled in your hair to tilt your head just right as he kissed you like a man whoâd been losing too much sleep over you for months. âi meant something like that.â
he looking at you individually, not following social expectations. if the roles were reversed heâd likely still think an age gap isnât significant. heâd probably joke around with it especially if any of his members tease him, then move on.
ìŁŒí, juhoon
shy at first. heâll probably wonder whether heâs mature enough or hope that you donât view him childish in certain ways. once he gets comfortable and that disappears, he probably love youâre maturity.
ë§íŽ, martin
the one least concerned about it. he views that as one of the least important parts of the relationship. if he genuinely liked you, it wouldnât bother him. he might even find an older girlfriend reassuring because she seems a little more grounded or mature.
ì±í, seonghyeon
quietly overthinks it, before deciding that it really isnât important. he might wonder whether he can live up to an older girlfriend's expectations. he'd likely focus on proving he's dependable rather than worrying about the age difference itself.
걎íž, keonho
one of the most least bothered. he'd likely see the relationship in terms of compatibility rather than age. heâd brush off comments. he may even like that his girlfriend has a little more life experience if they connect well.
â â summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isnât gone. Itâs just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.
â â series word count: +113.8k
â â warnings: the slowest of slow burns, angst, mean moments, mentions of alcohol, use of strong language, use of [Y/N], cars crashing, english is not my first language, first fanfiction, multi media, SMAU, (let me know if any warnings are missing)
PT. 1 after the win, before we fall [ 4.2k ]
PT. 2 maybe you should say less [ 3.6k ]
PT. 3 it's always fucking Max [ 4.2k ]
PT. 4 there'll be a fine line [ 4.1k ]
PT. 5 fastest bricks on the grid [ 3.9k ]
PT. 6 from the dining table [ 4.0k ]
PT. 7 pastel-coded purgatory [ 3.9k ]
PT. 8 mistake, remember? [ 3.6k ]
PT. 9 papaya rules [ 5.4k ]
PT. 10 will they kiss or crash [ 3.9k ]
PT. 11 god save the queen [ 6.3k ]
PT. 12 margin for error [ 3.6k ]
PT. 13 second best [ 4.0k ]
PT. 14 hagelslag diplomacy [ 5.2k ]
PT. 15 una problema interna [ 6.4k ]
PT. 16 public enemy number one [ 5.2k ]
PT. 17 everything you ever wanted [ 5.1k ]
PT. 18 ten things i can't say out loud [ 6.3k ]
PT. 19 the distance between us is measured in laps [ 6.5k ]
you were covered in confetti, head to toe. reporters gathered round, cameras flashing. victory lane was the closest to pure bliss one could reach on earth.
âhell of a drive.â carsonâs familiar voice. his hands were shoved in his pockets, the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt pushed up his forearms. it was a rare sight for you to see him outside of his race suit, especially on track.
your crew immediately goes quiet because everyone knows what happens when you two are within ten feet of each other. when you spoke up, âthatâs it?â
âyou seem disappointed.â
you glanced at the scrape running down the side of your car. âi was expecting you to tell me i blocked too late.â
âyou did.â
âyouâve done the same before.â you shot back. you thought he would retort back, continue the banter. instead, he reaches out and brushes a streak of champagne off your cheekbone with his thumb.
his right hand cradled your flushed cheek, everything on victory lane falls from your reality. the crowd, the cameras, the reporters, the crew. he leans in, colliding his lips against yours gently. just once. two seconds. he pulls away just as quickly as he leaned in. âcongratulations.â
youâre left standing on victory lane, furious. not because of the kiss, but youâd rather you two had argued.
as carson walks away, your jackman nudges you with their shoulder. âthought you hated him.â
"i do.â
your tire carrier pipes up, "so, why are you watching him walk away?"
after leaving victory lane and the interviews, you were finally alone packing the trunk of your car with your belongings behind the hauler to leave the track. you heard his steps, before his voice. you sighed, already planning to chew him out.
his voice pops up from behind you, âyou know what your problem is?"
you laugh bitterly in response without even turning to glance at him. âwhat now, hocevar?â
"you're the only driver that makes racing miserable for me.â
you scoffed. âthatâs not my problem.â
âand your still the person i look forward to race against you the most.â
every week you tell yourself that you hate carson hocevar. you had spent your entire career running door-to-door with him, trading paint, flipping each other off through the window during cautions. yet, you ask your crew chief where he qualified, and every restart youâre looking in the rearview mirror for the no. 77. being in his presence was exhausting, but not being around him is somehow worse. neither of you would admit it, but you enjoy each otherâs company and will always invent excuses to wind up door-to-door on the asphalt.
word count 577 authorâs note @bluengreyfox for the suggestion in the comments! requests open masterlist
youâre the golden child, the future face of formula one. polished, professional, and pr-trained. the only championship contender, dominating more than half of the races in the season. heâs a wild card in a cowboy-themed race suit, outspoken and constantly finding himself in on-track controversy. it was simple, you two could not absolutely stand being around the other and the media was obsessed.
back in your small london apartment, you watched a little highlight video from this weekendâs nascar race on your laptop. you had seen the celebration clips from reels multiple times already, just not the post-race interviews that you were so curious about. the clip plays. an inaudible question given to carson about you that sounds strikingly similar to, âwho is the better driver?â carsonâs quote that went viral in a matter of minutes after official nascar pr posting the short clip. his voice was low, sure of himself. a teasing smile plays on his lips. he shrugged, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. waitâwhen did he get hot?
âput them in a stock car.â
every interview since has included questions about one another, as if the media teams in both sports had been sent out on some conquest.
you were in the media pen, your race suit dangling from your hips. your fireproofs clinging onto your body slick with a layer of sheen sweat. âthe team did really well this weekend, theyâre finally sorting out my teammateâs car to contend better.â your hands rested against the pen as you told a sky reporter, âpersonally, i seized every opportunity and ran the hell out of the car. simply, i won again and will continue to do so.â
âany thoughts on what carson hocevar said about you in the post-race interview at michigan?â the sky reporter asked from behind the camera.
you took a sip of your water in the team branded tumblr. a moment passed, you knew it was a low-blow but you and carson had been enemies since you were both competitive in karting when you were young. he had beaten you by half a second back then, youâve held it personally against him ever since. you hadnât seen him in-person for almost a decade.
a hurricane emblem dangling from your necklace, as you leaned in closer to hear the reporter clearer. âwhat a one-time winner in nascar says about me doesnât concern me.â
spa is undeniably one of your favorite circuits on the racing calendar. you went a day earlier to explore belgium some, a rare currency you get. gander around at a bookstore and record stores. maybe find a good recommendation for chocolate from a local. you had made a rare mistake, the sponsor emblem hoodie was undeniably not yours. your and his clothes mustâve mixed in your suitcase, you had grabbed the first one on top. the one you wore that still smelled like him. one fan too embarrassed to introduce themselves had posted a picture of you innocently leaving somebody elseâs hotel room. the media was already guessing who you spent the night with.
eighth win of the season. the camera had cut from you getting a soaked victory in champagne to pitlane. carson, standing tall, in a sea of your teamâs colors. behind him, the team that helped you gain three championships alreadyâa big margin in points to win the next one this season before abu dhabi. ïżŒ
it had sent gossip around the ton. everyone packed in for a white wedding and ringing toll bells. only the ring of the toll bell never happened.
you were seized into a pure white dress with a long train and a even longer veil. expensive flowers imported in and violins that made your ears bleed. your watch, gregoryâs pocket watch ticking in your clasped hand awaiting for the right timing to flee. as promised, he will be outside with his familiesâ horse and carriage. a rogue way to escape and not wind up in shackles of a loveless marriage.
the garden walls could not handle a reckless and free spirit like yours. no help over the stone, only pure adrenaline as if you was crawling out of your gravestone. kicking behind your silky flats and veil at the tomb.
it had been an easy escape, your gloveless hand clasping onto gregoryâs. your other hand, lifting up the skirt portion of your white gown as you climbed into the carriage. his hand clenching and unclenching after you slipped your hand away from his abruptly. the men on horses behind you had gained, only a short distance. hooves kicking up the dust, leaving statements in the mud. the horses underneath the angry men was the one to suffer from their abuse.
you called out to the coachman from inside the carriage, âfaster, please.â
the carriage bumped gregory closer to you as the horses slipped off the beaten path. clear out into a field, filled with shadowed trees and barbed bushes. one that the bridgerton hid behind as the men rode past.
unclasping the harnesses from two horses out of three. you sent the bridgerton coachman back to the wedding. the coachmanâs job was simple, conceal and buy the youngest bridgerton and the runaway bride some time. the field had been empty, no movement besides a light breeze. hooking your sock-cladded foot onto the stirrup, pulling yourself on top of the seat. the left behind man had trotted past desperate to catch up to the others.
your unruly hair whipped in the wind as you disappeared into the sunset, running away with the youngest bridgerton.
oscar piastri x yn!childhood friend | request â here | masterlist |
"It's a thing that I can't ignore, Tell your friends that you're mine, I'm yours" when the social media admin reminds osacar who his first crush was and he happened to be hers too....
note â (manips by me) all the artwork used is by clairebuckleyart on insta, thank you for the request!! i went a little off script but i love it (also 4 fics in 4 days is crazy but whatever)!!!! likes, reblog's and comments are appreciated âĄËౚà§â
Liked by user1, user2 and 92,738 others
F1Gossip While filming the TikTok trend "Im so hungry I could eat [First Name Last Name]" the McLaren admin said the name Y/n L/n, which happened to be the name of Oscar Piastri's childhood best friend.
Hattie Piastri, sister of Oscar, was the one to tell the admin of L/n. L/n is now a Artist and Influencer living in Nice, France!
view all comments
user1 she's so stunning bruh
user2 they had to of been more then friends....
->user3 LIKE his face when they said her name brought back memories
->user4 the mclaren social person just rocked oscar's world and started laughing
Liked by devonleecarlson, lilamoss and 98,624 others
yourusername busy busy bee recently...
also please don't eat me
view all comments
user1 the caption asbegfg you're sooooo đ
user2 SHE SAW THE TIKTOK!!!!
hattiepiastri SORRY
->yourusername IT'S FINE I PROMISE!!!
->yourusername just didn't expect to see my first crush after 10+ years
->user3 GIRLLLL WE SAW THAT
->user4 i'd be freaking out man
->user5 so they both 100% had crushes on each other
user6 actually so pretty im speechless
user7 the last slide is real asf
user8 hattie being in the comments is hilarious
user9 shes so cool im not surprised oscar made that face
im so sorry about the whole... "im so hungry" thing đŹ
our admin thought the video was funny and knew it would get attraction so they posted it
yourusername
don't worry, i actually had a good laugh watching it
my friend did the same thing and then showed me your video after
also
insane that your a f1 driver now.... i remember you talking about that being the end goal for years
so happy for you!
oscarpiastri
it's crazy
i sometimes have to step back and look at how insane my life is now
living in monaco while my job is what i've been dream of six i was a kid
and you're doing art still! i actually have a picture that you painted of my first go-kart hung up in my apartment
yourusername
crazy crazy crazy stuff
wait you live in monaco????
your saying that you've been a 30 minute drive away...?
oscarpiastri
i only recently moved to monaco but that's crazy
we've got to meet up soon! it's been too long
Liked by yourusername, alex_albon and 1,972,256 others
oscarpiastri Mega! Do I glue the helmet to my head?
view all comments
user1 have y/n make the damn care if she can break the helmet curse pls
user2 OUR GOAT
yourusername the helmet recognized your pure heart and good intentions....
->yourusername obviously joking, so proud of you angel boy <3
->oscarpiastri thank you for keeping my head on straight pretty girl â€
->user3 FAWKKKK THEY'RE SO CUTE MAN
->user4 he's so cute for giving her the props đ
user5 what a great race omgggg
user6 PIASTRI WDC PLEASEEEE
user7 oscar winning is the best part of this season
user8 please glue that helmet to your heat i BEGGG
paring carson hocevar x reader summary youâre the ceo of a sportâs magazine with a tough athlete who wonât cooperate for the few pages of the magazine heâs going to appear in word count 637 authorâs note petition to make rock you like a hurricane to be carsonâs song requests open masterlist
it was only strictly supposed to be two days.
separated with a few hours each, an hour-long interview, and a photoshoot that would wind up in your magazine pages. odd magazine.
your magazine that started as a visionary dream created by you cooped up in your bedroom. you didnât wish to be on the front cover, just the co-chairwoman and successful journalist. building the concept, brand, vision, and website in your bedroom. it was filled with motorsports, sports, cars, and fashion. it became an overnight sensation after the first official issue.
youâve covered many athletes over time in various fields. nfl, nba mvpâs, tennis, olympians, motocross, formula oneâŠetc. youâd finally be extending out to nascar. typically the athletes would be polite, not give you a hard time. interview and photoshoot within two days, simple and easy. yet, this certain athlete lived up to his nickname because he was anything but easy, hurricane.
he had barely given you anything to work with, not an issue worth. all his answers had been short and infuriating. a string of, âyeah.â âsure.â âmaybe,â. his team had offered a dealâto shadow him through a race weekend. full access to the garage, pit lane, his hotel, everythingâbut no scripted questions. he only agreed smugly to annoy you, but you both lived to regret it. or, quite the opposite.
annoying. reckless. impossible.
three words youâve described him in your notes since the start of qualifying yesterday.
âokay, andââ you had glanced at your notes for a brief second, reading off one of the questions you had lined up. by the time you looked up, he was gone. instead of standing in front of you with his arms crossed, he was across the concrete towards the teamâs golf cart. he had left you behind. âwhat are you doing?â
âi told you no scripted questions, boss.â
you groaned internally before chasing after him.
when panic hits, you freeze up. especially, what you did when he drove recklessly back to his rv. stop. stop. stop. your hand extended out to his on the wheel from your frozen state to ensure he doesnât tip over the golf cart. a correction. only easing off the gas once he feels your touch, one hand off the wheel like the mere touch had burned him.
you finally settled back on your side of the bench seat, âyouâre lucky i donât choke you.â
âlike you did last night?â he asked, earning a side-eye from you. he laughed, like genuinely, and your heart sped up. oh, you hated how your heart was affected by his stupid laugh.
it had been silent for the rest of the brief ride, until a fan had passed by. one that carson had stopped for, taking the time to sign fan autographs. was he actually being nice for once? usually, a sight filled with things you werenât used to seeing. you hadnât meant to stare.
âyeah, sheâs my shadow for the weekend.â you blinked, finally grounding back to earth. your eyebrows furrowed, had he said that to the fan proudly?
his eyes skimmed the words typed on your laptop. there was room on the couch, but you refused to sit down next to him that close. instead, youâre wrapped up in his hoodie pacing back and forth in front of him. you didnât know when or how, you didnât question it when you woke up with his hoodie covering you this morning.
he spoke, âyou don't get to put all that in there."
you stopped pacing, eyebrows furrowed. almost offended that he claimed that you put private things into the draft article when he had given you all that information himself, personally. "you gave me access."
paring gregory bridgerton x fem!boxer!reader not proofread word count almost 1k masterlist
promenading at hyde park with a bridgerton probably wasnât the greatest idea. it drew more suitors eyes on you. which isnât what you want, one mistake could get you out of the tonâs good graces. you wanted no one to know what you do when london isnât looking.
a man stopped in his tracks, one youâve probably seen amongst the sea of people that was betting against you. one that you opted to not remember. his gaze darted all across youâre face. âhave we met before?â
âi am afraid not.â you smiled sweetly. the man had tipped his hat, apologized for mistaking you before continuing on his cane.
gregory pipped up beside of you. âwhat was that about?â
âoh, i am certain it was nothing. the man merely got confused.â your hands clasp behind your back in faux innocence, before you continue walking.
in the ring you are named sir henry, hair shaved close to the scalp having used botanical mixtures and sunlight to lighten your hair and sporting the same sleeveless shirt that hides just enough that youâre truly a lady. to the ton, youâre the diamond of the season always adored in jewel colored dresses and extravagant wigs. the broad difference between you and the allise you box under.
later that night underneath dim light. bare knuckles rhythmically hitting the sheen of sweat on your opponentâs skin. a chuck of skin torn from your hand after a sharp hit. fresh bruises blooming on cheek.
the man was goodâa offense with a sharp right hook. another round started, you defended blows before a sharp and impactful fist of yours hit his face. underground boxing as no rules. you only stepped back when the referee said you won. whistles and disappointment from the sea of english men watching, silenced into your ringing ears.
you didnât leave until night fell, bruised and sweaty. hands still bleeding, but you didnât take a second to address the wounds. just pushing past the heavy crowd, cap low.
âyou done well.â the voice popped up behind you, familiar and definitely a bridgerton. daphne. you only spared a glance underneath your hat. her eyes filled with recognition. simon behind her waiting for the carriage. ây/n?â
the first words from you tumbled out, âkill the urge to tell your brother.â
dapahneâs eyes glowed like she couldnât understand why you would keep this a secret from gregory. âhe would be fascinated.â
âi do not wish for him to know that he is engaged to anyone besides a proper lady.â
two days had passed and daphne kept her word. not a muttered word to her brother about the harboring secret. the early sunlight bled into the morning room of the bridgertonâs estate.
âsir henry won again?â anthony echoed from the newspaper, seating on his piece of the settee.
âitâs quite an accomplishment,â daphne pipped up from her macaroon. âapparently itâs never been won like that before.â
âi like to attend at least one.â hyacinth sulked, slumping farther down the settee she shared with eloise.
âdo not associate yourself with that kind of person, itâs not a place for a proper lady.â violetâs arm curled around her stomach like she couldnât bare the thought, pacing by the windowsill.
âlady whistledown.â a handmaid disrupted the bridgertonâs swaying conversation, the latest lady whistledown on a platter.
you question to no one in particular, âhas anyone discovered who this new lady whistledown is?â
âno.â eloise shut her book, being the first one to pluck a piece from the tray. she started reading out loud, causing a few groans amongst the bridgertonâs.
âcan you not keep it to yourself?â gregory complained, right before eloise froze.
âyouâre sir henry?â
eloiseâs eyes met yours from across the room, right before the rest of the bridgertonâs stared at you. you snatched lady whistledownâs paper from her hands, eyes skimming it quickly. the diamond of the season is shining more brightly than just one way this season. the soon-to-be bridgerton is hiding a striking secret. she is not as much of a proper lady than she is sir henry, the boxer who has won another match.
âthis isâŠâ false. âtrue. i run under a allise.â
it was pure silence. five seconds felt like a lifetime under the microscope. violet exhaled sharply, anthony blinked like he couldnât believe it.
âat least your kids will be successful.â hyacinth pipped up, which caused a wave of laughter.
gregoryâs eyebrows furrowed, his hand grazing the bare skin of your arm. âyou believed that i would be upset with you?â
âgregory, i doubt this is a proper conversation in frontââ violet started.
âwe shall marry sooner, that shall overweigh this rumor. together, we could convince the ton that this new lady whistledown is untruthful.â gregoryâs voice cut through, more determined than youâve heard.
you questioned, âyou truly believe this will work?â
âi am certain it will.â
hyacinth jumped up from the settee, circling your arm with you. âvery well then, my future sister-in-law. we shall get you fitted for a dress while mama plans the wedding.â
your gaze met his while you was being dragged away by the youngest bridgerton sibling, gushing about truly being sisters. there was certainly going to be a white wedding.
paring connor zilisch x reader summary the nation knows you as a fashion icon, you take matters into your own hands when your bf only wears red bull shirts word count 313 requests open masterlist
â if you became a fashion icon, i'm going to kill myself, â
everyone knew youâyour persona plastered on magazine covers and fashion week.
it came as a surprise that after meeting the sarcastic charmer that you ended up back at his place.
it came as a surprise that you, a vintage and chic fashion icon, that you wound up with someone always dressed down. another white t-shirt and wearing red bull like it was his personal identity. you swore you believed he had nothing else in his closet. this is what you think is the third time youâve seen him in a plain white tee and red bull athlete cap. heâs been dressing like a walking sponsorship deal. predictable. clean.
you had been leaning against the doorway, dramatically waiting for your whole life.
âyouâre wearing that?â you asked, flat. he was in the same white shirt and shorts.
he looks down at himself. âwhatâs wrong with this?â
you stepped inside, holding up a garment bag by the hanger. unzipping the bag, a black short-sleeve polo sweater paired with black tailored trousers. not loud and not branded. simple.
âhello? i have taste.â before tossing it towards him. âtake off your clothes.â
âyou want to wear nothing?â a small smile tugged on his lips.
your tone deadly, âconnor.â
âiâm just asking.â he shrugged his shoulders, lifting his hands up in defense. you noticed how he catches the reflection in the mirror and studies himself like heâs trying to understand what you did.
âyou know,â he says, sliding his hands into his pockets of the pants you brought, âi thought you were just dramatic.â
âi am.â you deadpanned before you stepped back, studying him. âbutâŠyeah,â you quietly hummed.
he looks down at himself, then back at you. âyeah?â
âyou like it.â
he paused before saying honestly, âyeah.â
âgood.â
he smirks smugly, âwhatâs next? you pick out my race suit too?â
gamechangershow
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
stormborns
