hello! i’m kate and these are my writings💜
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heat exhaustion • oscar piastri x driver!reader
↳ word count: 2.6k
↳ summary: the heat was unbearable in the qatar gp, and you ended up fainting on broadcast television. knowing that the media was going to exploit your little incident and turn this into an issue of why women do not belong in motorsports, you were engulfed by guilt and self-hatred, and oscar was there to comfort you.
10 things i hate about you • oscar piastri x reader
↳ word count: 3.4k
↳ summary: you decided to write down a list of 10 things you hated about oscar piastri in an attempt to get over your crush on him when he revealed that he had recently gotten a girlfriend. two things didn't go as planned: the list didn't work, and he found out about it.
stardusts and golden specks • oscar piastri x reader
↳ word count: 1.2k
↳ summary: when conversations turned into arguments and all you could feel when you looked at oscar was pain and exhaustion, you learned to say goodbye and let go of your first-ever love.
you're just a man, it's just what you do (m) • carlos sainz x reader
↳ word count: 2.1k
↳ summary: you should have known better than to believe in carlos' loving kisses, sweet lies, and all the times he called you his. because he's just a man, it's just what he does.
me and you against the world • max verstappen x sister!reader
↳ word count: 1.4k
↳ summary: nobody enjoys being booed, and even the toughest of fighters like max verstappen would get disheartened from it. looking right through his act on camera, you decided to give your brother a call to tell him how proud of him you were. what you didn’t expect though, was to hear max cry.
unwanted • charles leclerc x sister!reader
↳ word count: 1.5k
↳ summary: your brother was ready to give you a serious lecture after you tried sneaking home from a late-night party. but when he saw your teary eyes and found out that a boy had made you feel unwanted, he felt like his heart was being ripped apart.
daisy • charles leclerc x sister!reader
↳ word count: 3.1k
↳ summary: you and charles used to be inseparable, but with him constantly being away for all his races, an invisible wall began to form between you and him. it took a crash for you two to acknowledge what had happened, and try mending the broken pieces of your relationship.
missing piece • f1 grid x driver!reader
↳ word count: 3k
↳ summary: you have always taken pride in your ability to handle the press, until a journalist mentioned a sensitive topic that you had tried desperately to avoid – your estranged father. you struggled to give a response, and your fellow drivers showed no hesitation to jump in and defend you.
never have i ever (m) • bradley bradshaw x reader
↳ part i, part ii
↳ word count: 11.7k
↳ summary: a game of never have i ever leads to bradley (as well as everyone) finding out that you are a virgin. the thought of being your first drives him a little crazy, and he can’t wait to ruin your sweet innocence.
a study break (m) • neymar jr x reader
↳ word count: 2.8k
↳ summary: in the middle of studying for your physics exam, neymar decided that you needed a little break, and he’s more than happy to help you de-stress.
something unholy (m) • neymar jr x reader
↳ part i, part ii
↳ word count: 2.8k
↳ summary: while babysitting davi, you went up to neymar’s room to get something for the two of you to play with. it turns out that the room wasn’t empty, and you ended up catching neymar doing something unholy.
summary: your best friend's brother seems to always be keeping a friendly distance from you. intrigued by how reserved and quiet he is, you devise an evil little plan to make him lose control and uncover the facade behind his polite smiles and curt greetings.
Oscar Piastri is an enigma, a riddle you yearn to solve.
You see him occasionally whenever you visit your best friend’s house, purposefully lingering later in the night to catch a glimpse of her brother coming home from practice. He would give you a small smile, and make some light conversations with you and his sister before excusing himself upstairs in hurried steps.
He is always so quiet, so shy and closed off, always keeping a friendly distance from you as if getting too close would burn. It intrigues you more than anything, and maybe a wicked part of you wants to unveil the secrets hiding behind that facade of polite smiles and friendly greetings. You want to see him lose control – to be the one to make him lose control.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Oscar comes home from an exhausting day of practice – muscle sore, completely starving, and in desperate need of a quiet, relaxing night. When he enters the kitchen to get some water, he’s surprised to see you there alone wearing a rather flimsy top that reveals more skin than usual, with his sister nowhere in sight. “Oh – hey,” he greets politely like he always does, shooting you a half smile as he trains his eyes on your face instead of your revealing neckline.
What a gentleman, right?
“Hey, Oscar,” you return the smile, your mind already coming up with a devious plan to break his resolve. “Is Olivia here?” he asks as he glances around the house, searching for signs of his sister since the two of you are almost always inseparable. “Something came up. She told me to wait for her here, said she’ll be back in an hour,” you say to him, to which he answers with a quick nod of his head, “Oh, okay, cool.” Classic Oscar, always so reserved and never uttering more than a few words to you. Yet this only manages to fuel your desire to discover what’s hiding underneath and watch him lose his composure.
With a friendly smile, you gesture at the tray of chocolate cupcakes on the counter in front of you and say, “I brought over some cupcakes. Try them!” Oscar’s eyes almost light up at the sight of the sugary treat. The only things he has eaten during the day are a protein shake and a turkey sandwich he packed this morning that did nothing to keep him full, so the boy immediately picks one up and gives it a huge bite, eyes widening at how delicious they are. “These are good!”
How cliche, you think as you stare at the chocolate frosting at the corner of his mouth.
“You have a little something on your…” you let out a giggle as you point at his lips, and with an embarrassed grimace, Oscar hurriedly wipes at his mouth with his hands. He’s about to bring his thumb up to his lips when you suddenly stop him, grabbing onto his wrist mid-air as he tilts his head in confusion. “Uhh – what are you…?” he questions with a puzzled look and furrowed eyebrows, and his words fall to silence when he watches you slowly bring his hand toward your face.
Oscar feels like he’s suffocating, like his head is being submerged in deep waters as your lips slowly fall open, tongue darting out to give his finger a kitten lick, just to test his reaction. He supposes he should be tugging his hand back, pushing you off of him frantically, but he feels like he physically can’t, or maybe he simply doesn’t want to.
So when he doesn’t pull away in disgust and freaks out like a part of you expects him to, you take it as a sign to continue your devious little plan. Oscar can feel his stomach drop, his breath catching in his throat like all the oxygen has left his body, especially when you smirk and envelop his entire finger into your mouth.
“What are you doing…” he asks in a breathy groan as he tries his damned hardest to recompose himself, holding back the desperate urge to moan at the way you hollow out your cheeks and suck until the tip of his finger just grazes the back of your throat. Fuck, why the fuck does this feel so good already? Something about the haze in your eye makes a chill run down his spine – dangerous and a little twisted, and it’s enough to make Oscar want to surrender himself to you in whatever ways possible, in whatever ways you’d take him.
Every rational thought inside his head is telling him to stop, screaming at him to put an end to whatever madness this is. This is insane, absolutely ridiculous, and you two really shouldn’t be doing this. His sister can be home at any minute, not to mention that he definitely shouldn’t be doing such sinful acts with his sister’s best friend. Unfortunately, his body is betraying him and the tightness in his pants is a clear enough indicator that his facade is starting to crumble. He’s losing control and he knows it, and maybe it’s about time that he realizes how utterly screwed he is.
When you finally pull off of him, a string of spit connects his finger to your glossy lips, and Oscar almost moans at the lewd sight. “Fuck…” The sigh that falls from his lips makes you smile, because while he will never admit this, you can tell that he’s secretly enjoying whatever you are doing to him.
Feeling courageous, you move closer toward the boy until your bodies press directly against each other, feeling the radiating heat from his skin through the layers of clothes he has yet to change out of. You lean in to plant a kiss on his neck, and another, and another, suckling on the delicate skin until a purplish-blue bruise begins to form when you feel Oscar wordlessly tilting his head to allow you more access. In the corner of your eye, you can see him biting down on his lips as if he’s trying his hardest to stifle his sounds, and you can’t have that, no.
You need to hear him, to listen to the way you’re affecting him while drinking in every little whine and plea of his until he comes. So you allow your hand to slide, trailing along the soft lines of his chest and abs until it reaches the hemline of his jeans. Oscar squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, waiting for you to touch him where he needs you the most, yet that feeling never comes. “What?” he asks breathily when his eyes flutter open once again and is greeted by a grin on your face he would only describe as evil, calculative, as if you have everything planned out in your mind already – which isn’t exactly far off from the truth.
“You want me to touch you, Osc?” you say to him, voice sweet and mellow, knowing damn well what his answer is going to be. The bulge over his pants is rather prominent, and it must not have felt very nice under the confinement of his jeans, but you just want to hear him say it. You need to hear him admit it, that he wants this, that he wants you just as much as you want him – and also just to tease him a little.
Oscar nods his head, wishfully hoping that this is somehow enough since his ego won’t allow him to say anything more. To no avail, you shake your head at his silent response. “Yes or no, baby?” The nickname has him inhaling a shuddering breath, his head becoming foggy with lust and the burning need to be properly touched by you. It hurts – he’s so hard and his jeans are so tight, and all he wants is your fingers and lips around him.
All he needs to do is say the word, just say that he wants it and you will give him everything he needs and more, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud, he just can’t do it. Maybe it is his headstrong personality, but Oscar doesn’t beg for anything. He never has to beg for anything that he wants, he simply works for it and gets it. Good grades, his parents’ approval, sponsorships, karting and race wins. He doesn’t beg – never has and never will – but god does he want to get on his knees and beg for you right now.
He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know that he’s having an inner battle within himself, so you decide to be nice and give him a little… push. “Please, baby, please let me touch your cock. Let me make you feel good, Osc,” you pout your lips and look at him with the most desperate, pleading eyes ever, and he swears he is genuinely going to pass out.
Oscar likes to think he is in control most of the time, laid back and calm even in the most unpredictable times. Nothing can ever faze him, and he takes pride in that. But as he stands here before you, pushed back into the kitchen counter as you beg to jerk him off with the prettiest pair of eyes, every ounce of inhibition and self-control has suddenly evaporated from his body.
So he lets himself go, and he lets you take – whatever you want. “Please, I want it,” he gasps out a strained whine as he returns the same pleading expression, shoving whatever “I never beg” principle he used to have to the very back of his mind and lets himself have this, lets himself have you. “Good boy.” Your words coax a breathy moan out of him, loud and unashamed and almost pornographic. You haven’t even properly touched him, and yet he already feels like he’s been completely taken apart by you, with every single part of his body humming in anticipation.
“Unbuckle your pants for me, baby.” Oscar doesn’t need to hear it twice, rushed hands fumbling with his belt to pull down his zipper, his eagerness endearingly funny. He looks at you with awaiting eyes after he’s done, trying his best to be patient as he waits for your next instructions. Placing a chaste kiss on his cheek, you slowly slip your hand into his pants, delicate fingers wrapping around the length of Oscar’s erection. Fucking finally, he thinks to himself.
His face contorts in pleasure when you begin tightening your hand, giving him a few unhurried, lazy strokes up and down his cock. “Argh… holy fucking shit…” Oscar isn’t normally much of a swearer, but he can’t seem to control himself nor the words spilling from his lips when your fingers feel so good around him.
He lets out a displeased whine when you abruptly remove your hand from his jeans, staring at you with dazed eyes as you bring it in front of his mouth. “Spit,” you order, and Oscar being the good boy that he is, immediately obliges, gathering the saliva in his mouth and letting it dribble down to your palm. “That’s my good boy.” Using Oscar’s spit as lube, your hand returns to its original placement and begins moving, this time with much firmer strokes.
Oscar’s eyes snap close at the electrifying sensation, and he feels like his brain is melting inside his head from the overbearing pleasure that envelops him. Every muscle, every bone, every fiber of his entire being tingles with nerves, and your hand feels so warm and slippery and tight and so, so fucking good. He wonders if he’s dreaming, if he’ll suddenly come to his senses and wake up from whatever fever dream this is with a sticky mess under his covers.
The thing is, you have always been gorgeous. Oscar has eyes, and he cannot lie and say that he has never ogled at you when came over to their house and had your back turned, or that he never allowed his mind to wander in the late hours at night as he thinks about you indecent ways – ways a boy should never think about his sister’s best friend. He knows how wrong this entire thing is, with your fingers around him as he moans at how good you’re making him feel, but he doesn’t ever want to stop. So he prays, ever so solemnly to whatever higher power out there that this is real, that you are real, and please please please he just needs you to stroke him faster.
“Please, faster, I need – I need more!”
Now how could you ever say no to him when he looks so good writhing in your arms like this? So you pick up the speed, pumping his cock in faster strokes and occasionally thumbing against the slit when you reach the head. “Does it feel good, Osc?” Oscar frantically nods his head at your question, gasping out strings of barely coherent curses under his breath, “Yes, yes, fuck! It feels so good, so fucking good…”
“Good boy… I bet it does,” you lean down to brush a kiss on his jaw, relishing in the whiny moans that never stop spilling from his raw, bitten lips. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you?” Oscar nods again, eyes rolling to the back of his head whenever you draw teasing circles over his frenulum. but you want to hear him say it, to admit that he’s yours. “Say it,” you repeat yourself, purposefully slowing down the movements of your hand as you await his answer.
“I’m your good – boy!” he breathes out in a groan, wanting more than anything to be good for you. “That’s right, baby, you’re my pretty boy,” you whisper into his ear, and it’s nothing but the truth. With his hips bucking up into your hand in a desperate chase of pleasure as wonton moans never stop falling from his parted lips, Oscar has never looked prettier. Not the kind of pretty that makes you want to take him out to dinner and kiss him under the moonlight, but the kind of pretty that makes you want to take him apart and put him back together, to ruin him and make his eyes roll to the back of his head until he remembers nothing but your name.
You can tell Oscar is getting close with the way his breathing picks up and how he frantically grabs onto your hips just for something to hold onto. He’s jerked himself off before, plenty of times, but he has never felt anything like this – how you’re able to turn him into a malleable, whimpering mess with just a few deft strokes. It’s unfair how stupid-good your hands are, Oscar thinks to himself. Somehow he can’t find it in himself to be upset about it though, not when he’s too occupied with falling apart in your arms.
“You’re gonna be a good boy and come all over my fingers, Osc?” Oscar barely manages to nod, making an almost begging noise in the process, and perhaps he would be embarrassed if it isn’t for how fucking turned on and insatiable he feels. “Yeah? You’re gonna come for me and watch me swallow every drop, baby?” Fuck, he is definitely not going to last when you’re muttering straight-up filth into his ears.
When his eyes flutter close, he lets his imagination run wild the way he always does when he lies in his bed, hand stuffed into his pants while fantasizing about his sister’s best friend. He imagines you getting on your knees, opening your mouth with your tongue sticking out and waiting patiently as he spills all over you. He imagines your face covered in his come – so filthy and sinful – and you scoop them up with your fingers before sliding them inside your mouth. He imagines coming inside of you, warm and tight and so perfect for him. “I wish you were inside me instead, Osc,” you breathe into his ear, and that’s when he feels himself tipping over the edge.
Broken gasps and breathy whimpers are all Oscar can manage as his body overrides with pleasure – pure and utter euphoria that sends strikes of lighting down his spine. The pace of his hips stutters, and he thrusts up into your fingers once, twice, until his come splatters all over your hand, making a complete mess. Lines of white trickle down between your fingers, and he’s still desperately trying to catch his breath when you lift your hand and bring it to your lips. “Jesus fucking Christ…” he groans at the filthy sight of you sucking your fingers clean, lapping up his come and swallowing down everything with a teasing smirk.
You gently thumb at the streak of white that has spilled from the corner of your mouth, swipe it away and bring it to Oscar’s lips. Eager to please and obedient as ever, he parts his lips and lets you push your finger into his mouth, licking the taste of himself away. “You’re so good for me, baby,” you praise him softly, rubbing teasing circles over his glossy lips upon removing your finger. Oscar pouts, silently looking at you with eyes that say “Please kiss me” and you just have to reward him after everything, right?
Slowly, you lean in and press a kiss on his awaiting lips, feeling the way Oscar’s mouth falls open so willingly and melts into you without second thoughts. He isn’t a particularly great kisser, but it’s precisely his unskilled and inexperienced movements that make him so, so addictive. The thought of being the one to ruin him, to teach him all the ways you can make him feel good, to be the one to uncover his facade and make him lose control is exactly why you will never get enough of him. Now that you’ve seen him lose control, you don’t think you can ever stop. You can never stay away from him, and neither can he.
pairing: max verstappen x driver!reader (platonic)
summary: watching kevin and his daughter, laura, playing together at the paddock makes you emotional as you remember the love that you never get to receive growing up. max is here to remind you that your past doesn't define you, and one day you will be okay.
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of absent parent
word count: 3.1k
author's notes: based on the real-life event of me tearing up when i saw that video of kmag's daughter playing with his visor. healing my own daddy issues one fic at a time :)
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
Kevin Magnussen is a great dad.
People can say whatever they want about his driving – aggressive and maybe a little dangerous sometimes – but there is no denying that he is an amazing father who puts his daughters above all else. The Dane is always joking about how his two little troublemakers have been giving him a constant headache, but the rest of the grid knows that he would do just about anything for his girls.
Occasionally, Louise likes bringing Laura and Agnes to the track to see their dad at work. Being a Formula 1 driver with all the hectic schedules and non-stop traveling means that family time together can often be difficult to come by, so Kevin cherishes all the time he gets to be as present in their lives as possible.
The drivers all love it when the Magnussens visit the track, not only because Laura and Agnes are the sweetest little angels ever, but also because they get to witness the rare sight of Kevin “tough guy” Magnussen shedding his hard exterior and tease him about the heartwarmingly softer side he displays to his family.
And while you would never admit this out loud, somewhere residing deep within you is envious – envious of this kind of love that you never got to receive. Sometimes when you look at Kevin interacting with his daughters – just sometimes – you find yourself wondering what it would be like to have a father who is present, who genuinely cares, who loves you with everything they have so much that you never have to doubt your worthiness.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
You were standing with a few other drivers at the track, idly chatting about the upcoming race and your holiday plans now that the winter break is right around the corner when Kevin suddenly saunters nearby, holding the hand of the most adorable little girl. “Laura, come say hi!” he kneels down and says to her, sporting the biggest and most loving smile on his face as his daughter gives a shy little wave to the crowd of drivers before her.
“Hey there, Laura,” you wave at her, settling on a simple greeting since you have never been particularly great with children. “Hello, little one!” Lando greets with a wide grin as he offers Laura a fist bump, and the girl explodes into giggles when he pretends to yelp in pain at how hard Laura fist-bumped him. Classic Lando – always so good with kids.
“She’s got quite the punch, doesn’t she?” Kevin jokes while he chuckles at the sight, admiring the joyous smile on Laura’s face with the tenderest gaze he only reserves for his daughter. Becoming a father is the best thing that has happened to him, and he thanks the stars every day for being blessed with such precious gifts of life. Laura and Agnes – his biggest pride and joy.
“Here to be dad’s little assistant, Laura?” Max asks, his nose scrunching up in an adoring smile like the way it always does when he speaks to Penelope. The little girl nods bashfully before running to hide behind her dad, holding onto his hands as if he is her safe place, her rock.
Kevin laughs at his daughter’s endearing shyness, picks her up and envelops her in his embrace before placing a kiss on her rosy, chubby cheeks. “You’re the best assistant in the entire world,” he whispers softly, adoration swimming in his eyes while Laura lets out a giggle at her father’s words. The drivers around them cannot help but smile along with them – how can they not at such a heartwarming sight?
Yet watching Kevin’s doting smiles and the way he looks at his daughter as if she is his entire universe, the initial warm fuzziness within you silently morphs into a dull ache that squeezes at your heart – an odd yet familiar feeling you know all too well. Despite your best efforts to push them away, your mind becomes clouded with hazy memories of the past – the painful past that has broken you and haunted you for years.
In the fogged-up memories of your childhood days, you were never at the receiving end of such an affectionate gaze. The only way your father has ever looked at you was indifference, annoyance, and a sense of uncaringness that tore your little heart up into pieces and left you wondering what you did wrong to be so undeserving of the fatherly love you yearned for.
He never picked you up and hugged you as if you were a fragile treasure that he cherished. He never held your hand in a way that made you feel safe and certain that nothing could ever harm you because he would be your shield, protecting you from the world and its merciless cruelty. He never once made you feel loved and cared for, ignoring your attempts to gain his validation and approval because he loved himself and his ego more than he would ever love you.
When you received good grades at school and showed him your report card with the rows of A’s, hoping that it would help you get his approval, he didn’t praise you. In fact, he didn’t bother saying anything. He simply gave you a half-hearted nod before shifting his attention back to the damned television screen in front of him, some uninteresting TV show that never should have mattered more than his daughter. So you stuffed the tear-stained report card back into your school bag, uncaring that it got crushed and crumpled, because in the end your hard work and effort didn’t matter. It never did.
When you had a rough day at school and came home with tears running down your cheeks, your father looked at you for a second, rolled his eyes and walked away. So that night you cried yourself to sleep as you soaked through your pillows with your wallowing tears, wishing that your dad could wrap you in his arms and tell you that everything would be okay. You knew that he could hear your sobs across the hallway, but chose to ignore you anyway. You wondered if he hated you that much, or was it simply because he never even cared to begin with?
And when he finally gathered all his belongings and disappeared from your life once and for all, you surprised yourself when you didn’t cry at the sight of the now-empty house. You had just felt empty and lonely – so painstakingly lonely. The kind of loneliness that seeped into your bones and slithered along your veins and consumed your soul.
As you grew older, you became familiarized with that emptiness – comfortable with it even. You begin to find yourself pushing people away when they get too close, keeping most at arm's length because that seems like the safest option, breaking your own heart before others can do it because you never want to experience the same heartbreak your father has put you through.
Despite how painful it is, you hold onto that loneliness like a lifeline because how could you not when that’s the only thing you know? How could you love when you don’t even know what it feels like?
Even though it had been years since your dad had left, the emptiness he had left behind never seemed to fade away. They say time heals all wounds, but you call that bullshit, because then why does it still hurt like a fresh stab into the heart?
Too deep in your storm of thoughts, you don’t realize the tears brimming in your glossy eyes and the way your lips quiver ever so slightly. “Hey… you okay there?” Charles, who is standing beside you, gives you an affectionate pat on the shoulders and whispers hushedly in your ear, worried at your sudden change in demeanor. Quickly nodding your head, you answer him with the best smile you can manage, “Yeah, just remembering some things.”
While most of the drivers still have their focus on Kevin and Laura, a few have also noticed your red-rimmed eyes and quietness. “What’s wrong?” Lando mouths the question silently toward you, eyes wide in concern as he tries not to shift everybody’s attention toward you. You shake your head and mouth “nothing” in reply to him as discreetly as possible, not wanting to ruin the group’s mood with your sudden sentiments.
As much as you want to stay, you simply need to get away for a moment to recollect your thoughts. “Uh – There’s something I need from my driver’s room, so I’m gonna head off,” you hurriedly blink away the tears and put on the best smile – a skill you learned to master after years of being in the public’s eye. You hope that the excuse you just blurted out is somewhat believable, and you quickly disappear into the distance after your fellow drivers bid you goodbye.
While making a beeline for your driver's room, you cannot help but feel so embarrassed, so guilty for the sudden burst of emotions that erupted in your chest moments ago. “What is wrong with me?” you mumble hushedly to yourself as you make your way to the garage – irritated and beyond annoyed at yourself that the mere sight of Kevin with his daughter is enough to bring you to tears.
This isn’t something new to you. It isn’t the first time a good father-daughter relationship has made you tear up. Movies, TV shows, song lyrics – you always get so emotional when you allow yourself to get lost in your thoughts, thinking too deeply about the painful reminders of the love that you never have.
It makes you feel stupid, because how broken do you have to be that trivial things like these are enough to make you cry? And it makes you feel scared, so utterly scared, because what if you were too broken to ever be capable of loving someone this much, too damaged to ever receive love despite yearning for it, and end up pushing away everyone who cares about you for the rest of your life.
When you arrive at your driver's room, you take a seat in the corner, breathing in and out while the self-blaming thoughts inside your head spiral in full force. This is so stupid, you are being stupid, and you hate yourself for being a fool and letting your past trauma affect you like this. Why were you even crying? There is nothing to be crying for. Stop. You need to stop.
Then you hear someone calling your name, voice faint and soft behind the door – Max. “You feeling okay?” he asks, and your delayed response and trembling voice as you answer him, “I’m fine.” are a clear enough indicator that you are far from okay. “Alright, I’m gonna come in now.” A sigh of mixed emotions falls from your lips – annoyance that you never seem to be able to lie to the man, and gratefulness that he always understands what you really need, and right now it is the company of your best friend.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says to you, eyebrows ceasing in sadness when he notices the expression on your face. Max hates seeing you like this, especially knowing the reason behind your tears is your absent father – someone who will never be worthy of having you cry over him.
You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your race suit, guilt weighing heavily on your chest as you apologize, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to ruin the mood back there. Did the other drivers notice?” Max shakes his head with a frown, refusing to let you blame yourself for something you should never feel guilty for. “You don’t have to be sorry, you did nothing wrong.”
“I don’t even know why I am crying, honestly. Why am I still so angry and sad after all these years? It’s like… am I always going to be like this, broken? Will the hurt ever go away?” you explain truthfully to him while trying to piece your muddle-up thoughts together, yet you struggle to put them into words. How can you begin to explain the years of trauma your dad has left behind? How can you describe the mess of emotions you have for him – the hatred, the resentment, and the fact that you still love and miss him so much even after everything he has done to you?
You don’t need to, because Max understands, he always does. One of the reasons why you two became close quickly is because you share a similar, troubled past – something that is rather unfortunate to bond over, you would argue, but it brings you a great friend nonetheless. Max’s father isn’t exactly absent like yours – Jos Verstappen is still quite prominent in his life, along with his abusive and manipulative ways of raising his kids which he would vehemently deny and claims to be “tough love” instead.
Even though he is there, it doesn’t change the painful truth that the presence of his father has ruined Max. For years, he thought being violent was the way to solve problems because his dad always seemed to be able to solve his with his fist. He used to believe that you had to be perfect to be deserving of good things in life because he grew up with the punishment of “no dinner” if he had performed poorly in a race. He didn’t know if he would ever be capable of loving someone, and then he met Kelly and Penelope.
“You know… when I first met Penelope, I was terrified. I was scared that I could never be a good enough father figure for her, that I was too ruined to show her the love she deserved to have. But then I saw her, and then I realized I love her more than anything,” he confesses as he places himself to sit beside you, a reminiscent smile dancing on his lips while he remembers his first time meeting Penelope, the little girl who has become his family.
He remembers the suffocating fear of ending up like his father when he first held the hands of little Penelope, mind plagued with all the horrible what-ifs. What if he was a terrible dad? What if he couldn’t ever love Penelope? What if he was just like Jos Verstappen and ended up destroying her childhood with his anger and temper the way his dad had with his?
Then Penelope gave him a sweet smile, her tiny hand holding onto his pinky as she looked into his eyes with such trust and comfort, as if she knew that Max would love her more than anything in the world. Max genuinely thought he was going to cry, his heart surging with an overwhelming amount of love and determination to protect the little girl in front of her and give her the home she and Kelly deserve to have, and that’s when he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of – that he was going to do better than his father.
“Listen, kiddo. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, it just makes the pain bearable. But there will be a day when your wound will still be there – it always will be there – but the pain and the hatred will no longer consume you. And you will realize that you can be better and stronger than your past, that you can break the cycle, that you are deserving of such unconditional love too.” You listen quietly to your best friend’s answer, exhaling a relieved sigh at the words you so desperately need to hear, giving you hope that despite all your trauma, one day you will be able to love with such certainty as well.
You are never too broken to love or be loved. You are not damaged goods that need repairing. You are not a monster for being intimidated by love and affection, for pushing people away even though you want more than anything for them to stay. You just need to allow yourself to heal from the hurtful past, to understand that your past trauma does not define you. You need to allow yourself to feel, to accept the depths of your emotions, to understand that your sadness and anger are always valid. You need to believe that you will be better than your father, that you will not follow in his footsteps, and that you deserve to be loved just as much as anyone else.
Feeling sentimental over this doesn’t make you stupid or a fool, it just makes you human. It is okay to cry over it, to be sad over it, as long as you remember that one day – while things will never be perfect – it will certainly get better.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Max tells you with a smile, reaching for your hand to give it a comforting squeeze, and you believe him. For once in a very long time, you genuinely believe that everything is going to be okay. The impact your father has on you will always be there. You can never wipe away the hurt and awful things he has done to you, nor can you simply erase the simultaneous love and hatred you hold for him, but one day you will learn to move on and find closure, and you are going to be okay, just like Max said.
There is a knock on the door, and you can hear your name being called again, this time in the soft and squeaky voice of a little girl. “I’m here,” you answer, and peeking behind the gap in the door is Laura with a cheeky grin on her face. Kevin leads her inside your driver's room with an apologetic smile, “Hey, sorry… Laura says she wants to play with you and insists that I bring her here.”
You watch as Laura crawls up into the seat next to you and Max, looking at you with the brightest toothy little grin ever, and your lips begin pulling up into a huge smile as well. “Is it okay if she plays here for a while? I’ve got a team meeting in 5 and she never likes coming to those…” Kevin asks apologetically before relief floods his expression when you answer him, “It would be lovely to have a little playdate with Laura.”
“Alrighty, see you later little one,” Kevin leans down to place a kiss on his daughter’s head, reminding her to be a good kid when he is away for the meeting, and you smile at the sight. Not an envious one, or a reminiscent one, but one of contentment because you know that one day you will be able to receive and give such unconditional love to someone too.
summary: when conversations turned into arguments and all you could feel when you looked at oscar was pain and exhaustion, you learned to say goodbye and let go of your first-ever love.
tags: angst, arguments, breaking up
word count: 1.2k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
When did the warm, fuzzy feeling that blossomed over your chest whenever you thought about Oscar had soundlessly turned bitter? When did your arguments over trivial matters become an almost daily occurrence? When did it happen when you looked into the eyes of your first love – your anchor, your safe haven, your rock – and somehow, it doesn’t feel like home anymore?
You wondered where it all went wrong.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
The story of you and Oscar was like one out of a teenage romance novel, not exactly the cliche best friends-to-lovers trope, but the one where both the boy and the girl had a crush on each other for years yet were always too shy to say anything. The two of you would steal secret glances at each other in the school hallway and look away bashfully whenever your eyes would meet, cheeks rosy and hearts thumping as if you were deers caught in headlights.
Oscar was always so stoic and unfazed, but somehow the mere presence of you was enough to make his stomach swarm with butterflies and his head foggy, stealing away the lovestruck boy’s ability to properly think. It was frightening, really – how much he liked you, and so one day he finally plucked up the courage to confess his feelings to you and asked you to be his girlfriend while doing his best to hide his trembling hands and frenzied heart. You leaned forward to trace the stardusts of freckles over his cheeks, admiring the golden specks swimming in his eyes as you nodded your head “yes”, and at that moment Oscar swore he was the happiest boy on Earth.
They say first love was never meant to last, but the two of you – so young and naive and so in love – were certain as ever that the old saying was simply untrue. “I’m gonna marry you someday,” Oscar said to you, gazing into your eyes with an overflowing amount of love and sincerity that you couldn’t help but bury your face into your boyfriend’s chest to hide the biggest smile of your life. “Mr. and Mrs. Piastri,” you whispered hushedly under your breath. The sound of it made your heart swell with joy, and your eyes fluttered close as you thought about what the future held for you two – experiencing the ups and downs of life together, traveling the world together, buying a house and growing old together.
You thought you two were forever, so it caught you by surprise when things were beginning to shift. It happened silently – you wouldn’t be able to notice even if you were paying close attention, and the love between you and Oscar had changed into something entirely different. Perhaps it was because you two had been together for so many years, witnessed each other grow up into the person you had become, and with that not only did you two grow older, but you also grew apart.
What exactly was the reason behind everything, you couldn’t be sure, but all you knew was that you and Oscar were no longer the same. You could spend days without seeing each other, a normal conversation could so easily turn into a heated argument, and the distance between you two only continued to grow like ivies slithering up the walls of your closed off hearts.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“Let’s go out for dinner at that Mexican restaurant tomorrow night. A little dinner date, me and you, just like how it used to be when we were in high school,” you suggested as you snuggled into the sides of Oscar – it was your attempt to salvage what was left of your relationship, to try and hopefully make things work. He stayed quiet for a few seconds before parting his lips to answer, “I made plans with Logan and Arthur already… sorry, love.”
The unfamiliarity of the nickname that once made you swoon had you cringing silently, and you rolled your eyes at your boyfriend’s disappointing yet unsurprising response. “Do you even have time for me anymore, Osc?” you asked him as frustration pierced through your words, and the exasperated sigh he failed to conceal only managed to fuel the irritation simmering within you.
“What are you talking about?”
“You never have time for me, Oscar.”
Oscar inhaled a deep breath, rubbing at his temples in pure frustration as if he was already exhausted from having this conversation. “You know that’s not true. Stop making everything such a big deal…” A cold laugh escaped your lips upon hearing his words, although the situation was far from funny. “You and I both know that something is wrong between us, Oscar, and yet I am the only one making an effort to try and fix things.”
You watched as your boyfriend closed his eyes, almost like he was hoping to block out everything around him, to ignore your voice and the ugly truth that fell from your lips – the same voice that he used to say was the best sound in the world. “I don’t want to argue with you anymore, love, please,” he said to you, his voice small and pleading – for what exactly, you weren’t certain.
All you knew was at that very moment, for the very first time, you couldn’t find it in you to argue with him anymore. You couldn’t find the strength within you to try and make things work, to fight for your broken relationships, to attempt rekindling the love you two had once felt so deeply for each other. You were simply too tired, too worn out from the hardships of your love as you fought to salvage something that was destined to fail.
“Okay then. No more arguing,” you whispered softly as a sigh fell from your lips – not a dejected one, but rather one of relief. Oscar and you fell into silence, neither of you uttering a single word as you both let the gravity of the situation sink in. Nothing you two could say would make this any better or any less painful – it was bound to hurt, and maybe that was the beauty of loving so deeply.
This was it. The end of it all.
So you leaned forward for one last time – the same way you used to when Oscar confessed his feelings to you – and you brought your hands to his face to trace along the stardusts of freckles that adored his delicate skin. Hidden behind the golden specks of his eyes was love, so much love for you, and pain, exhaustion, frustration, and the agonizing realization that you and Oscar – this inseparable duo for the past years of your lives – had come to an end.
You thought about all the things Oscar had taught you over the years of your relationship. You learned the complexities and depth of your own heart, you learned to be vulnerable with each other even though it frightened you more than anything, and you learned that you were capable of loving someone so much with everything that you had.
As you looked at Oscar, both of your eyes glassy with tears and cloudy with the cherished memories you once shared, you realized that you were about to learn something new again, and perhaps was the most important lesson of all – to say goodbye, to let go, and to move on.
PLEASE MORE CHARLES SISTER READER !! i loved it so much. could you maybe do like a young middle teen sister reader who kinda has a grudge against charles for him never being around cause he was racing and then angst when they see each other again but it eventually turns to fluff/comfort? thank you i adore your stuff !!!
DAISY • CHARLES LECLERC
pairing: charles leclerc x sister!reader
summary: you and charles used to be inseparable, but with him constantly being away for all his races, an invisible wall began to form between you and him. it took a crash for you two to acknowledge what had happened, and try mending the broken pieces of your relationship.
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunications, charles being absent from reader's life
word count: 3.1k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
The first reactions whenever you revealed to people that Charles Leclerc was your brother had always been jealous glances, envious smiles, and words like “That must be so amazing!” And it was amazing indeed – Charles was amazing. So why did you feel so isolated, like you were stuck looming in the hidden shadows of your brother sometimes?
You tried to be understanding. Charles was incredibly talented in racing, and these few years would be the most crucial years of his life in climbing the ladder to Formula 1 – his biggest childhood dream. So whenever your parents would tell you with the most apologetic smiles that they might have to miss your events at school because Charles had an important race they had to attend, you didn’t cry, you didn’t throw a tantrum, you just nodded quietly and went back to your room.
It wasn’t your parents nor Charles’ fault – you knew that. You understood that your parents would never purposefully miss your events or neglect one child for the other, and Charles never wanted to make you feel like the less important one in the family. But somehow, it still stung to glance down at the audience at whatever school performance you were having and not see your parents or brother there, to feel like you were quietly fading into the background, to know that you would always be seen as an extension of Charles and never your own self.
Of course, Charles had noticed you becoming distant from the family – he always noticed everything. It pained him just as much as it upset you whenever he had to miss out on your life, and so he tried hard to be there when you needed it. On the rare days when he didn’t have training or a race lined up, he would offer to take you out for a little “sibling date” and try making up for the times he wasn’t there for you. While you appreciated his effort, there was no denying that an invisible wall had developed between you two, dividing you and your brother with all your missed events and unspoken words.
How could you tell Charles that because of him, you felt like you were not seen? How could you tell him that it felt like his dreams and achievements took center stage of the family while yours had become shoved back in the dimmed shadows? How could you tell him that when you looked at him, you saw a stranger, that the bond that once firmly held you two together had begun to feel oddly unfamiliar? You simply couldn’t.
The wall continued to grow as the years went on, acting as a constant reminder that things between you two could never quite be the same. Your parents would always say to your relatives that you and Charles were such good kids because you two rarely fought. You were uncertain if that was really a good thing though – how could you fight when you barely even talk to each other?
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
There was a soft knocking on your door, and you didn’t need to ask to know who it was. “Go away, Charles,” you sighed exasperatedly, not wanting to speak to your brother just yet. He had done it once again – saying that he would come to your school’s drama performance but telling you last minute that he had an urgent meeting with his sponsor and couldn’t come. It wasn’t his fault that something suddenly came up, but it still hurt like hell, and it left you feeling like a complete idiot for believing for a second that you were more important to him than his race.
Despite your protest, he opened the door and came in anyway. “Hey, ange.” He still called you by your childhood nickname, but that word that once held so much endearment and affection only sounded foreign coming from his lips. “I thought since Mom and Dad won’t be home for dinner tonight, we could go to that restaurant that you like?” he asked with a tired smile, trying to make it up to you for missing your show.
“Just stop it, Charles,” you said to him, rubbing your hands over your face in frustration. Your brother looked at you confusedly, the smile dropping from his face as he asked, “What do you mean?” You considered for a moment to stay silent and continue to conceal your true feelings, to keep acting like everything’s fine – but you were just so, so tired of pretending.
“Stop pretending that everything’s normal between us! Stop acting like you care, or that you aren’t gone most of the time!” For the first time in years, you yelled at him, voice cracking at the emotions that had stayed buried deep within you for the longest time. “It’s fine if you’re not going to be here, Charles, but then just please stay gone… don’t come back and give me all these false hopes when you’re just going to leave me again. Please…” You were already choked up by the time you finished your words, raw hurt and disappointment lacing through your pleas – a mixture of so much love and hate toward your brother.
Charles said nothing, he just stared at you silently while allowing your gun-wrenchingly painful words to set in. The boy hardly cried – not when he performed terribly in a race, not when he suffered a nasty sports injury, not even when he thought his journey to F1 was over when he almost got disqualified at a rather important race. But as he stood there in the doorway of your room, feeling the words stabbing into his heart, he thought he was going to fall apart and shatter into broken pieces.
“I’m sorry,” he let out a barely audible whisper, voice trembling from the guilt that weighed heavily on his chest. Hearing your cries made his heart clench with pain, and it hurt him even more knowing that he was the cause of it all. When you were kids, the two of you always joked that he was going to beat up any boy who would dare break your heart. It was a cruel twist of fate that he, the person who had vowed to protect you, had become the very person to cause you heartbreak, and that realization killed him inside.
Knowing that nothing he said could make things right at this point, he glanced at you one last time before leaving your room. That night while you soaked through your pillow with tears and heartache, in your brother’s room at the other end of the hallway, Charles was crying silently beneath his sheets too.
Two hearts were broken that night, with both of you mourning the shattered pieces of your once unbreakable bond.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. 
The air was humid when your parents and you arrived at the circuit, rain pouring heavily as the scent of wet gravel loomed over the track like a bad omen. Flying halfway across the world to watch Charles’ race wasn’t initially in your summer plans, but your parents insisted that it would be fun to travel as a family. So alas, here you were, standing amidst the rain-soaked circuit to support Charles in the pursuit of his racing dreams.
“Mom! Dad!” The excited voice of your brother could be heard in the distance, and Charles sprinted through the rain to give your parents a quick hug. Then when his gaze shifted towards you, he gave you a slight smile – one that hovered on the edge of awkwardness. “Hey, ange. Thank you for coming,” he said, and you flinched when you sensed the subtle tension of your past conflict lingering around the air.
The two of you never mentioned that night again, pretending it never happened for the fear of reopening wounds that you both knew would never really heal. So you went back to your old routine – with Charles chasing his racing dreams in the bright limelights and you disappearing back into the shadows where the world couldn’t see you. It was less frightening that way, not having to face your fears and be honest about your feelings, to admit how much you missed each other.
“It’s fine – no big deal,” you answered, returning a tight-lipped smile with a shrug of your shoulders. Perhaps Charles was overanalyzing things like he always did, but he felt a punch to his gut upon hearing what you said to him. Having you there at his race to support him wasn’t “no big deal”, because to him it had meant the world.
He wanted to win the race and make you proud, to dedicate his victory to the most important people in his life, to celebrate the moment with you – his best friend and biggest supporter since day one. Though it seemed that this meant much less to you than it did to him, and despite the sadness that clouded over him, he didn’t let his smile falter.
“Well, I’d better head back soon,” he announced quickly as he glanced at the time, accepting the doting kisses and hugs from your mother before walking off into the pouring rain again. You watched as he disappeared into the distance, the “good luck out there” you had intended to say lingering at the tip of your tongue, joining the countless other unspoken words between you and Charles.
The rain had never really gone well with car racing, for the wet conditions reduce traction and control, turning the track into a treacherous playground with accidents waiting to happen. Your parents and you spectated the race from the garage, and you couldn’t help the unsettlement that consumed you as you watched your brother drive, more aggressively than usual.
Sure, Charles had always been a competitive person who wasn’t afraid to take risks on track, but not like this – never like this. It was on a particularly sharp corner when disaster struck. Charles, attempting to overtake the person in front of him, pushed the limits just a fraction too far causing his tires to lose grip, and his car spun out of control.
It wasn’t the first time you had seen Charles crash – he had his fair share of incidents throughout his karting days – but the horror and utter helplessness, as you watched his car hurtle towards the barrier as if time had slowed down, was just as bad as the first.
The piercing sound of screeching tires and colliding metals reverberated through the air, and you held your breath as you braced for the absolute worst – something you learned to do when your family was a part of the dangerous world of motorsports. When Charles’s car settled to a stop, only having a minor collision with the wall instead of a serious crash, you made sure to thank all the Gods in existence as you exhaled a relieved sigh.
Charles staggered out of the car looking relatively unscathed, holding a thumbs-up to signal he was alright and not severely injured as he awaited for assistance. Without hesitation, you headed straight towards the medical center when you watched Charles leave the scene with the medics, not only to check on him but to give him a proper scolding for driving so recklessly.
“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, what were you thinking?” you exclaimed as you made your way to Charles’s bed, feeling a palpable ache in your chest when you noticed the scratches on his face and the bandaged gash on his forehead. “How could you drive so recklessly…?” you asked again, your voice significantly weaker than before – how could you still be mad at him when he was already hurt?
Charles’s head dropped down in remorse after hearing what you had said, it’s only when the adrenaline during the race faded away that he realized how irresponsible he had been. “I’m sorry… I just really wanted to win and... make you proud.” You didn’t expect such an answer from him, finding it hard to fathom that your brother wanted you to be proud of him so badly that he was willing to jeopardize his safety.
How could you begin to express how proud you were of him – so proud that every time you thought of him your heart swelled with uncontainable joy, that seeing him race filled you with so much admiration and respect, that even with all that happened between you two, he was still your biggest role model who taught you everything you needed to know in life.
“Please don’t be mad at me, ange. Here, look at what I got you…” he said to you before reaching into one of the hidden pockets of his race suit, pulling out a little flower. A daisy – your favourite. It was missing a few petals, slightly mushed up, and the stem was bent at an odd angle, but it was the most perfect daisy you had ever laid eyes on.
“I saw it at the field before the race started and thought of you. You told me they were your favourite flower when we were kids, right?” he asked albeit already knowing the answer – they were indeed your favourite flower. “Charles…” you muttered in a hushed whisper, and you genuinely feared that you would start uncontrollably sobbing.
He had remembered. It was a warm spring afternoon when the two of you wandered into a grass field, playing an intense game of tag when you suddenly got distracted by a little white flower that adorned the ground – delicate and so, so pretty. “Charles, what kind of flower is this?” you said to your brother, to which he answered, “These are called daisies.” You studied the flower carefully, admiring its beautiful white petals and soft yellow center, and that’s when you decided, “This is my favourite flower.”
Charles chuckled beside you and teased, “You say that to every flower!” When you smacked his arm jokingly with an annoyed pout on your face, he pretended to yelp in pain and raised his hands in surrender, “Okay, okay! Whatever you say, mon ange.” The two of you erupted into a giggling fit and resumed your game of tag – the game you never seemed to lose because Charles would always let you win.
It was a precious memory you held dearly in your heart, a distant thought that you remembered with such fondness. The simple times when you and Charles were still close as ever, when he didn’t have to constantly be away because of his races and you didn’t push him away every chance you got, before all the unexpressed thoughts and misunderstandings had created a barrier between you two. You had always thought that Charles had long forgotten about it, but now you realized that the memory held a special place in his heart as well, and it made you want to burst into tears.
“Charles, I’m –” you hesitated, almost like you had forgotten how to be honest or vulnerable in front of your brother, but you knew you would never be able to get the words out if you didn’t do it now. “I’m sorry – for pushing you away, for not making an effort to fix things between us… And I’m scared, so scared that if I try, my effort won’t be good enough, and then I’ll have no choice but to watch you leave, ” you let out a sigh while keeping your gaze trained on the flower in your hand, knowing well that if you looked at your brother, you would start crying, and you weren’t sure if the tears would ever stop.
Charles’ face softened at your apology, shaking his head vehemently because he never once blamed you for anything that happened. “No, ange, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry for not being there for you and for ever making you feel unimportant, because you mean the absolute world to me… It’s my fault for not being the older brother that you deserved, and I want to do better, for you,” he admitted truthfully, taking the blame for all the hurt he had caused you over the years for being absent.
When you lifted your gaze to meet his own teary eyes, for the first time in forever, you felt… seen. You had gotten so used to being invisible, letting yourself fade away in the distance as the haunting loneliness swallowed you whole. But with Charles, you didn’t feel invisible, you felt like he could see you – the real you, down to every flaw and every insecurity, and instead of judgment, you could only feel acceptance and love.
Charles had always seen you, and remembered every little detail about you – even the small, unimportant things that you presumed nobody would care enough to notice. To him, you were not a mere extension of him like the world had always seen you as – Charles Leclerc’s sister. To him, you were your own person with your own goals and aspirations, with a heart so big it could embrace the world. You were his best friend, the one who knew him like nobody else, the only person who could understand all his unfunny jokes and odd sense of humor, and he loved every fiber of your being with every fiber of his.
“I love you more than anything, you know that right?” he asked while looking into your eyes, he was not going to let any more unsaid words get between the two of you again. You nodded your head at his question, because despite all your distance and miscommunications, you had always known you were loved. “I know.”
“And you know that I will always be proud of you regardless, right?” It was your turn to ask him, and Charles stayed quiet for a few seconds to think. In the world of racing and its harsh realities, your value was measured by your achievements – you performed well, and the world would love you. Charles had gotten used to that way of things, and so he pushed himself harder and harder each time on track for the fear of making a mistake and being discarded by the world. But with you, with your family, he knew that he would always make you guys proud. “I know,” he smiled.
“We’re gonna fix this, ange,” he said as he reached for your hands. His fingers felt calloused and rough, unlike the hands you had always held onto back when you were kids, but somehow it had felt so familiar, so comforting, so like Charles – those same hands that held yours when you two were running across the field, the one with all the beautiful daisies.
summary: oscar was feeling ill from a nasty cold, but you couldn't resist kissing him. not wanting to get you sick as well, you both agreed on one kiss only, that's it. so why couldn't you two seem to stop?
tags: sexual content (minors dni), sub!oscar, kissing, grinding, reader being a tease
word count: 1.2k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
The sleepless nights full of overtime team meetings, hectic schedules that never seemed to stop, and grueling training sessions that drained every last bit of his energy finally had Oscar succumbing to exhaustion. Which is why the Australian driver was currently spending his rare day off in bed with “Killing Eve” playing in the background, suffering from a rather nasty cold.
It’s times like these that made him wish he had cherished those days when he was in good health – when his throat didn’t hurt every time he swallowed and his nose wasn’t running like the damned Niagara Falls. And it’s times like these that made him especially grateful for having you by his side, taking care of him and providing him with all the affection he needed for a speedy recovery.
“You feeling any better, Osc?” you asked when you walked into his room with a cup of hot honey water – a cold remedy your mother had always made for you growing up. Your boyfriend’s tired eyes lifted to meet yours, and his rosy cheeks and pouty lips looked so adorable that all you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him and suffocate him with kisses.
He nodded before sitting up slightly to take the cup from your hands, taking a few careful sips of the comfortingly sweet drink. “Thank you, baby,” he whispered appreciatively with a weak smile, leaning into the warmth of your palms when you reached your hands to caress his cheeks.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate time to be having thoughts like this, but when you watched your boyfriend’s tongue delicately sweep across his lips to lick off the honey from the drink, it felt like your mind had gone completely blank. So you did the most obvious thing and leaned forward to give him a kiss – just a quick one – but your boyfriend’s eyes snapped open as he hurriedly pulled away.
“What are you doing? You’re gonna get sick like this…” he said to you worriedly, not wanting to give whatever illness he had to you. He had already felt terrible enough as it was, the last thing he needed was to see you getting sick because of him. “I’m strong enough, I think I can handle a few kisses. Besides, how can I resist when your lips taste like honey?” you shrugged with a light chuckle as you tried reaching for another kiss, but Oscar turned his head at the last second so that your lips landed on his cheeks instead, earning a playful protest from you.
While he wanted more than anything to give you all the kisses you craved, to have your lips on him as you kissed all his pain away, the thought of making you sick just didn't seem worth it. “I don’t want to see you getting ill because of me, babe,” he tried to reason with you, endearingly tilting your chin up with his fingertips so that you were looking at him. That was a mistake, because gazing into his eyes – those eyes you could spend hours getting lost in – only seemed to make the urge to kiss him stronger.
“Just one kiss, Oscar, pleaseeeee,” you whined at your boyfriend, pouting in feigned sadness while you snuggled up to him and nuzzled into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent that was Oscar Piastri. There was no way Oscar could have said no to you – not when you had looked so beautiful in his embrace. “Just one,” he muttered quietly, and that was all the permission you needed to lean forward and place a soft, lingering kiss on his lips.
Oscar leaned into the kiss eagerly, realizing just how much he had missed this as his hands wandered over your sides. He had every intention to pull away before things could get overboard, trying so hard to remember his promise of “just one kiss”. But when you got up to straddle his lap, your fingers threading around his hair and tugging it with just enough force to cause tingles of satisfying pain on his scalp – all sense of self-restraint he possessed went straight out the window, and all he wanted was to surrender himself to you.
His hands glided down your waist with a sense of urgency as he pulled you in closer, opening his mouth willingly to welcome the intrusion of your tongue. The kiss was fervent, filled with entwined breaths and desperate touches – a stark contrast to the one you had shared moments ago. As you pulled away momentarily to mouth along his neck, claiming him as yours with each delicate swipe of your tongue, Oscar couldn’t resist grinding his hips against you as he called out your name in a breathy whine.
“What’s got you so worked up, baby?” you couldn’t help but tease the boy’s growing desperation, and for a quick second you almost felt like you were being too mean – until you heard the needy moan that escaped from between his lips, “Baby, please… ” His pleas sounded like music to your ears, and you took a moment to take in the sight of him squirming and moaning before you – so pliable, so precious, so good for you.
Smirking at what he had said to you, you began shifting your hips in slow, unhurried circles over his growing hardness below as you whispered teasingly in his ears, “I thought you said one kiss only?” Oscar grumbled upon hearing your condescending words, “You’re such a tease. Please, I want more…”
“Yeah? You want more, baby?” you asked him, hot breath fanning against his spit-slickened lips. “Please… I need you,” he managed to choke out, letting out another obscene moan when you nibbled on the sensitive spot below his earlobe. He wanted more of you, needed more of you – your heated kisses, your scorching touch, and your intoxicating presence that fuelled an insatiable hunger within him.
And all of a sudden you were gone, climbing off of him like you weren’t just grinding yourself against him seconds ago. “Wh – what? What’re you doing?” he questioned dumbfoundedly, staring at you with his mouth agape in complete confusion. “What do you mean? You said one kiss only, didn’t you?” you answered matter-of-factly with the most sincere, angelic smile you could manage, and Oscar genuinely thought that he was going to die of frustration as he stared disbelievingly at you.
Running a finger along his chin, you traced intricate patterns on his pale skin before telling him, “Drink the honey water, get recovered, and I promise you I’ll give you all the kisses you want… and maybe even something more.” You passed the cup to him, planted a chaste kiss on his forehead, and left the room after shooting him a suggestive wink.
Oscar took a gulp from the cup, cringing at the uncomfortable tightness in his pants you left him with as he let out an exasperated sigh. You were definitely going to be the death of him.
summary: you have always taken pride in your ability to handle the press, until a journalist mentioned a sensitive topic that you had tried desperately to avoid – your estranged father. you struggled to give a response, and your fellow drivers showed no hesitation to jump in and defend you.
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of abusive parent, found family
word count: 3k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
Formula 1 journalists have always been known to be brutal – asking questions that teetered on the brink of privacy violation and unnecessarily hostile probing with the excuse of “providing insightful coverage” on the highly competitive sport.
That was why media training existed – to prepare drivers for the harshest, most demanding questions thrown at them and rewire their brains such that instead of lashing out, they would be able to gracefully divert the focus to something else while also preserving their pristine image.
You had always excelled at handling the media, and your ability to constantly remain level-headed even when they asked the most ridiculous of questions was something you took pride in – until a journalist purposefully asked about a subject you had desperately tried to avoid ever since your F1 career started.
The relationship you and your father had was rather difficult to explain. The two of you became distant since the day your parents divorced and you decided to walk away from his constant emotional unavailability and manipulation he so skillfully disguised as paternal love. He didn’t bother asking you to stay – well, he never bothered doing anything when it came to you. He called occasionally, only when he needed something from you and your mother, and sent birthday cards out of obligation a month late because god forbid he remembered your birthday if your mother hadn’t reminded him.
Then the calls became less frequent, and then they stopped altogether, and his empty promises of visiting became blatant lies that you no longer believed in. Your father gradually turned into a stranger, a missing piece, a clouded memory left behind in the childhood days of your life.
It was a hard subject for you to talk about, something you would much rather keep away from the limelight and scrutiny of the world. Unfortunately for you, secrets weren’t really a thing in F1, and the obvious absence of one of your parents on the grid and in all your victory celebrations had been noticed by the public’s watchful eyes.
So your secret was no longer a secret. All the drivers on the grid were aware of it, and a few closest to you had known the full truth of your strained relationship with your father, but they all avoided mentioning it as they knew it was a family matter you wanted to remain private. Most journalists were also respectful enough to avoid asking insensitive questions when interviewing you, phrasing their words like “How will you celebrate the win with your family?” instead of using the term “parents”, and you were more than appreciative of that.
So when the voice of a certain reporter who was known to be ruthless with his questioning echoed through the press conference, directing the uncomfortable and out-of-the-blue question toward you, you suddenly found yourself at a loss for words.
“Rumors have been circulating the Internet recently about you and your father. There are accusations against you claiming that you were ‘selfish’ and ‘ungrateful’ for cutting off ties with your parent, that a callous and unforgiving person such as yourself does not deserve a seat or to be the inspiration for young minds. What are your comments on such claims, and have you ever experienced regret for turning your back on your family – your very own flesh and blood?”
The sudden silence in the room was suffocating, and the only sound you could hear was the heartbeat that was drumming loudly in your ears as the colour drained from your face. The discussion revolving around your relationship with your father wasn’t anything you were unfamiliar with, but to hear it being brought up so directly in front of the press and all your fellow drivers, and all the demeaning names that people had called you – it had felt so demoralizing.
What happened between you and your dad was entirely private, people outside of your family who had never gone through what you had experienced should never have the right to make comments on your decision to leave. They didn’t know what it was like to have a father who was never there, who constantly let you down with his lies and broken promises, who subjected all his volatile temper and toxic outbursts to his daughter and wife.
You had enough of his bullshit and were simply sick of pretending to be the perfect little family, so you left with your mother and told yourself that you would never look back. It would be a lie if you said that you didn’t miss the presence of your dad every now and then – the palpable emptiness he left behind had and would continue to haunt you – but you also never once regretted your decision.
“I – I don’t think… these accusations… umm –” The composure you had always displayed in front of the media was long gone, and you struggled to find the right words to say in response to such an uncomfortable question. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixated on you while that journalist watched you with an inspective expression on his face, just waiting for the moment when you break – wanting you to lose control so that he could have the reaction he needed to write his article.
And all of a sudden, you were back in your childhood home, standing in the living room with your head hung low, fighting back tears as your father unleashed his wrath at you over the smallest, most trivial things. “What’re you crying for, huh? You want me to give you something to cry about?” he would say to you, his voice harsh and venomous as he screamed out insults that scarred your fragile little heart.
Then you were back in your grade school classroom, standing in front of the whole class and staying completely silent after your teacher assigned you the speech topic “My dad is my hero”. Your classmates looked at you as if you had grown a second head, confused by the way you were struggling to speak about a topic they could so easily blabber on for hours. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything – your dad was never your hero, he was a distant stranger who struck fear within you whenever he was around.
Then you were back in the bedroom at your new home, reading the birthday card that your dad had sent to you a month late. Written in the top left corner of the page was a scribble of your name, completely misspelled. You closed the card with tears brimming in your eyes, knowing that your existence was slowly beginning to fade from your father’s memories. You tried to remember what his voice sounded like, his calloused hands, his boisterous laughter on the rare days when he wasn’t screaming profanities at you and your mother, and then you realized that he was beginning to fade from yours, and it had felt so, so painful.
Blinking away the hectic memories, you were quickly dragged back to the reality of the press conference. Everyone was still waiting for your response, and the reporter continued to wait for you to crumble under pressure, but all you wanted to do was to run out of the room and hide from people’s blazing eyes, to not have the world criticize you on how you dealt with your family trauma.
“I think that is an absolutely unprofessional question to ask if I am being honest.” Max’s stern voice finally broke the silence, and you were still attempting to process the situation when he continued to chastise the overstepping journalist with an irritated scowl, “The focus of the press conference is to discuss the races and the drivers’ performances on the track, not to delve into people’s personal matter and bring up their family situations which clearly do not have any relevance to the sport.”
The Dutch driver had always been brutally honest, never afraid to speak his mind and call out the press for their bullshit, and this was no exception. Having a complicated relationship with his father himself, he knew the hardships of being in your situation and struggling with toxic family dynamics, and he experienced first-hand how the media loved exploiting such issues for the sake of a story. More importantly, you were his friend, and he would do anything to defend you.
You exchanged thankful glances with the driver next to you, feeling the warmth that blossomed over your heart when Max placed his hand over your trembling ones beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze in a way that meant “Don’t worry. I got your back”.
Upon hearing what Max had to say, the reporter was quick to defend himself. “I was merely hoping to get some insights on whether or not the recent rumors had affected her performance on the track. That’s all,” he attempted to reason, trying to rationalize his intrusive question but was interrupted by another driver who frankly also had enough.
“I think everybody in this room is well aware that is not your intention,” Charles spoke up from his seat, staring at the lying journalist with a tight-lipped smile that was far from friendly. Being one of your closest friends on the grid, Charles was also no stranger to your father’s abusive tendencies and knew how tough it was for you to open up to him about such horrible memories. To see the press tried to take advantage of your vulnerability and blatantly lie about their ill intention sickened him, and he was not going to just sit and watch it happen.
The McLaren driver sitting beside him nodded as he let out a light chuckle, “Yeah I mean – I’m literally an idiot at reading the room but even I can tell that getting racing insights was not your only intention, mate.” The audacity some of these journalists and reporters had was astounding, thinking they could get away with asking disrespectful questions just because of their job titles. When it came to snapping back at their baleful antics, Lando did it once on camera with his iconic “Who are you?” and he would certainly do it again.
Carlos couldn’t help but smirk at Lando's cleverness – masking his reproval at the journalist with a self-deprecating joke. When his attention landed on the audience seated before him, he allowed himself to enjoy the caught-off-guard look on the journalist's now reddened face. “Serves him right for asking stupid questions,” Carlos muttered in a hushed voice just loud enough for himself to hear before turning his head to catch your eyes, shooting you a quick smile as a sign of support. You returned the kind gesture, thankful that your friends were standing by your side when you needed help.
As the journalist busied himself with trying to recollect his composure, an awkward silence hung upon the room once again. That was when Daniel perked up from his seat, the usual cheerful smile on his face as he proceeded to do what he did best – easing the tense atmosphere and diffusing the tension with a touch of humour. “Well, I can totally affirm that Lando can be an idiot sometimes,” he joked while grinning mischievously at the papaya driver, and the mood in the room visibly lightened as a few reporters laughed at his playful words.
“But on a more serious note though, I do believe it’s important to remember that drivers are also human beings, and we all have our own struggles and difficulties both on and off track. It’s crucial to respect drivers’ boundaries and not exploit their personal struggles, and our sole focus should always be on the sport and racing,” Daniel voiced out respectfully, emphasizing the one thing that people always seemed to forget – that drivers deserved privacy and owed nobody any explanations on their personal lives, even if they lived under the spotlight.
Oscar and Pierre who were seated at the further end of the table also nodded at Daniel’s resonating words, expressing their agreement on the importance of maintaining a respectful and uplifting environment for all drivers. “What are your thoughts, y/n?” A female reporter in the crowd raised the question, subtly giving you an encouraging smile as she steered the attention back to you, offering you the chance to speak your truth and address the situation directly.
The fear and dread within you slowly dissipated, replacing them was the heartwarming gratitude at your fellow drivers who showed no hesitation in defending you in the face of intrusive questioning. It was then that you realized you were never alone in this journey, that the other drivers on the grid were not only your competitors but your family who understood what you had gone through and would unconditionally have your back.
It was their reassuring glances, their wholehearted support, and their willingness to stand up for you that enveloped you with the strength and courage needed to finally speak up for yourself. “I would like to start off by thanking all the drivers here with me, and thank you to the journalist for that rather personal question,” you spoke clearly at your microphone, your voice emboldened by the newly found determination as you watched the journalist shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“While I do appreciate the public’s concern regarding my family issues, I would prefer to keep my personal life private. The decision to distance myself from my father to prioritize my well-being and emotional health is not something I regret doing, and it is not fair for people outside my family who don’t understand the complexities of our relationship to make assumptions on the matter.”
Taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts, you made the closing remarks to your statement, “Which is why I kindly ask for your understanding and space moving forward, to respect the privacy of not only me but everybody on the grid and allow us to deal with our personal matter privately, and ultimately create a respectful community within Formula 1.”
You looked around the room when you had finally finished speaking, meeting the eyes of your fellow drivers and the rows of reporters sitting before you. Your hands were still shaking from the nerves that pulsated through you, but a firm squeeze of Max’s hand pulled you back to the present before you could begin spiraling. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said with a gentle smile.
The media training sessions had come in handy once again, and you managed to address the situation in a graceful manner without revealing more details than you were comfortable sharing while also highlighting the importance of personal boundaries in the world of motorsports. “Thank you, y/n,” the previous female reporter nodded at you with a proud smile, glad that you put those unprofessional reporters who had no sense of boundaries back in their place.
Among the sea of cameras and eager reporters who could so easily expose the vulnerabilities of the drivers with a simple flick of their pens, some suddenly found themselves becoming the subject of such exposure, called out for their prying questions and insatiable need to twist people’s words for a click-worthy story.
It was evident that what you and the other drivers said had struck something within them as they silently began reflecting on their roles and responsibilities as reporters, and perhaps remembering the reason why they had chosen journalism in the first place – to report the factual truth to the public, or to fabricate things in exchange for views and attention?
The press conference proceeded to continue, but the shift in the atmosphere was apparent when journalists asked their questions with more sensitivity and introspection, mentioning topics that genuinely mattered instead of blindly chasing exclusive headlines. When the conference finally ended, you and all the drivers collectively exuded a breath of relief, feeling a weight being lifted off your shoulders now that the far-from-enjoyable media day was over.
As you exited the room and were away from the cameras and people, you turned around and gave your friends an appreciative smile. “Thank you all… for standing up for me.” You must have sounded like you were close to tears because Daniel began cooing at you teasingly as if he were comforting a crying child, “Aww… don’t worry about it, kiddo.”
Charles leaned forward to ruffle your hair almost like what an older brother would, and he said to you tenderly, “We’re a team, and we’ll always have your back.” You were not going to cry initially, but now you weren’t so sure. At that moment, you had felt so loved, so supported, and it made you want to hide under the covers and bawl your eyes out from the rush of emotions that crashed over you.
Your friends, understanding the depths of your emotions, gathered around to offer you their words of encouragement and gentle pats on your back. “I love you guys, really…” you whispered quietly, looking at them with such sincerity and gratitude. How lucky were you to be able to have these people as your competitors, your friends, your found family?
“Who wants to go and eat because I’m actually starving,” Lando exclaimed as he began walking in the direction of the restaurants, and a few of the drivers tailed behind him as they joined in on the rant about how hungry they were. You watched them with an overwhelming sense of fondness, and when Max reached out his hand for you to take, you gladly accepted it.
Listening to the light-hearted banter and laughs that filled the air with your best friend right next to you, you knew that this was exactly where you belonged. Not in the tiny living room with your father screaming at you, not in the classroom with the kids who didn’t understand what you had been through, not in the bedroom where you cried over your fading memories with your father, but right here – with your favourite people who would always be there to fight your battles with you.
summary: your brother was ready to give you a serious lecture after you tried sneaking home from a late-night party. but when he saw your teary eyes and found out that a boy had made you feel unwanted, he felt like his heart was being ripped apart.
The voice of your brother echoed through the dimly lit corridor of your home, startling you as you tried to sneak in quietly from a rather hectic night out. The disapproving tone of Charles’ reprimand couldn’t be missed, but you couldn’t find the strength within you to deal with his brotherly lecture just yet – not when the urge to cry clawed at your chest from the embarrassment you had just gone through at the party.
“Whatever, I don’t even care,” you muttered quietly before turning around to leave, but a hand clasped around your wrist and stopped you before you could escape to the sanctuary of your room. “What’s with the attitude?” Charles asked with a displeased frown, ready to unleash his scolding about how irresponsible you were being and the audacity to lash out at him when you had your family worried for the whole night.
His words came to a sudden halt when he finally had a proper look at your face, noticing your red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and his heart was filled with a dreadful fear that something terrible had happened. “What’s wrong, chéri?” The previous irritation in his voice completely disappeared as he asked you tenderly in concern, but you refused to meet his eyes because you knew you would only cry harder if you did. “Just leave me alone,” you whispered with your head hung low, and you were grateful that he didn’t try stopping you as you trudged up the stairs to your room.
After a long shower that involved more tears and sobs, you thought you were beginning to feel better about the situation, but when you crawled into bed and had nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company, you found yourself wanting to burst into tears again. That was when a soft knock could be heard on your door, and you answered with a muffled “Okay” when your brother asked if he could come in.
Charles peeked his head through the gap in the door, looking so much like a lost child it was almost endearing. “Hey… do you want to talk about it?” he said with a cautious glint in his eyes, not wanting you to feel forced or pressured to talk to him if you weren’t ready to. You thought about it for a second, and nodded yes when you decided that you much rather have his company than be alone with your anxious thoughts.
The look of utter dejection on your face was something Charles wished he never had to see ever again. “Do I have to beat someone up?” You vehemently shook your head, well aware that he wasn’t joking around and would do anything to protect you. “No… It was my fault, anyway,” you spoke with a sorrowful voice, silently blaming yourself when the events of the night drifted across your mind once more.
“Tell me what happened, chéri,” Charles asked with a worried frown, and so you suppressed the embarrassment you were feeling and recalled what had happened at the party to him.
You told him about this guy who you’ve had the biggest crush on and how you two talked for the entire night at the party, and even flirted a bit with each other here and there. Things were seemingly going well until he leaned in and tried to kiss you. For some reason you panicked and pulled away, telling him that you weren’t ready yet and wanted to take things slower. He proceeded to call you a tease for leading him on for the entire night, and said that you were “such a waste of time” before walking off and leaving you there all alone.
Tears pricked at your eyes as you admitted the truth to your brother, but even through your blurry vision, you could see how furious Charles had looked as he struggled to comprehend your words. “That asshole called you what? Give me his address, I swear to God —“ The pure rage that simmered in his chest was almost blinding, and he was certain he could actually murder someone right now. How dare that guy say such horrendous things to you?
“No, Charles, he was right. I shouldn’t have led him on,” you sighed before burying your face in your hands, failing to see the absolute disbelief on your brother’s face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I shouldn’t have pulled away… I shouldn’t have flirted with him if I wasn’t gonna let him kiss me!” Your muffled voice as you blame yourself did nothing but fuelled the anger that burned within Charles, but it also shattered his heart to see you like this.
How could you ever blame yourself when it should have been the guy’s fault for not respecting your boundaries? Why would you invalidate your own feelings just because of something a stupid boy had said to you? How dare that guy break his little sister's heart and make you believe that you were a waste of time?
Seeing you cry tears of frustration made him want to cry with you, and so he wrapped his arms tightly around you while you wept into his shoulders, wishing that he could take all the pain away and shield you from every bad thing in the world. His hand rested comfortingly behind your head, giving you gentle head pats like he always used to do when you two were kids, “You should never feel bad for having boundaries, chéri. If he doesn’t know how to respect that, then it's entirely his fault, never yours, okay?”
“I just feel like an idiot. When I stood there all by myself after he had left, I felt so unwanted, so undesirable… like no guy would ever like me for being me,” you blurted out between quiet sniffles. Charles was shaking his head before you could finish your sentence, refusing to let you continue with your self-deprecating words. He never ever wanted to hear you talk about yourself like that.
In his eyes, you were the most perfect little angel ever. As your older brother, he understood who you truly were, witnessed the realest side of you. He knew you had the most beautiful heart – always putting others above yourself – and every day you continued to amaze him with how much of a selfless, compassionate, and loving person you were. You meant the entire world to him, and it pained him more than anything to see you speak of yourself in such low regard.
“Don’t say that, please,” he sounded almost pleading, and the raw hurt and vulnerability that was hidden behind his wavering words made you want to cry even harder. “You’re the sweetest, kindest, most amazing person in the world. They don’t ever deserve you if they can’t see that.”
Your brother leaned down to press a kiss on your forehead, fighting back the misty tears that clouded his own eyes as he whispered earnestly, “You are so loved, chéri, and you are so much more than the opinions of others.” Closing your eyes, you allowed the weight of his words to wash over you like soft, gentle ocean waves.
For the longest time, you had always believed that you needed to be a certain way to be loved, and how people perceived you slowly became the entirety of your self-worth. You craved the feeling of being wanted and the validation that came with being chosen, so you allowed people to walk all over you because you were terrified of being left behind.
And while you were so busy searching for the love that you longed for, you had forgotten to give yourself the same love you so easily give to others and overlooked the love that had always been there for you. Charles, your family, your friends – you were so entirely loved that your thought of feeling you were ever unwanted pained them, that seeing you get hurt broke their hearts into pieces.
If you had stopped for a second to look around you, you would realize that you had been searching at the wrong places all this time. You never had to be perfect to be loved and accepted – for it was your imperfections that made you human, that made you, you.
“Try getting some sleep, mon ange,” Charles breathed out a hushed whisper, his voice smooth as velvet. As you rested in the loving embrace of your brother – your pillar of strength and the one who would always have your back, your eyelids slowly fluttered close as your mind drifted toward a tranquil calmness.
“But seriously, what is the guy’s address? I just want to have a little chat.”
summary: you decided to write down a list of 10 things you hated about oscar piastri in an attempt to get over your crush on him when he revealed that he had recently gotten a girlfriend. two things didn't go as planned: the list didn't work, and he found out about it.
tags: hurt/comfort, unrequited love (hmm...)
word count: 3.4k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
Oscar Piastri was perfect in every single way.
Being part of the McLaren team for the past year meant that you had gotten rather close to the two papaya drivers, and somewhere along the lines, bonds formed and friendships blossomed. Then something more started to appear despite your best efforts to deny it, and you found yourself falling head over heels for a certain Australian boy.
One thing about him that was far from perfect though – it turned out that he had a girlfriend. They met two months ago just over the Summer, and when Summer break was over and the team came back to work to prepare for the rest of the season, he had broken the news to you and Lando that he started dating this nice girl named Lily.
You were not one to sabotage people’s relationships, so you swallowed down all your feelings toward Oscar and swore that you would try your hardest to keep them hidden from the world. Still, getting over such strong feelings for someone you cared for dearly was never easy, so you came up with the brilliant idea of writing a list.
10 things you hate about Oscar Piastri.
You would write down all the little things you disliked about him, and by the time you completed the list and scoped out all his flaws, your feelings for him should definitely have disappeared. It had to work, right?
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
1. I hate Oscar’s hair
You hated the way he styled his sandy brown hair – it looked the same every single day and for some reason, that annoyed the hell out of you. Whenever he pulled off his helmet after a race, his hair would be messy, disheveled, and annoyingly handsome that it made your blood boil. You absolutely hated it when he would rake his fingers through them and instead of messing his hair up, it would only seem to look effortlessly better than before.
2. I hate Oscar’s dry sense of humor
Oscar had one of the oddest sense of humor you had ever encountered in your life. His jokes were so lame and out-of-pocket that sometimes you and Lando honestly had no idea how to react. You three could be having a normal conversation when he would suddenly come up with some weird one-liner that made you two stare at him in utter confusion – and you hated how precious you found this about him and how you always seemed to cackle up despite how unfunny he was.
Maybe your sense of humor was just as dry as his, because more often than not you would find yourself laughing along with him, and then Lando somehow would join in on the laughter as well until you three became nothing but a giggling mess. It filled your heart with so much joy – how great it was to be blessed with these amazing people as your friends, to have Oscar Piastri and his stupidly bad jokes in your life.
3. I hate Oscar’s smile
The Australian driver was always so stoic and calm that his smile used to be a rare occurrence in the team – until you had befriended him after working together for a while, and then the boy never seemed to stop smiling. You wondered how someone could be so cheery all the time, flashing his bright smiles here and there. You hated the giddiness that filled your chest when he smiled at you, but what you hated the most was the tight-lipped smile that he forced on his face when things were not going his way.
You could still remember the day Oscar was told mid-interview that his lap time got deleted due to exceeding track limits and was demoted to P6 – the forced smile on his face and how hard he tried not to let his emotions show on live TV. Then when he came back to the Mclaren Garage, the smile was still there as he pretended not to be affected by the news and acted all jolly in front of the team members just to keep morale high. You hated it because it ached you to see him putting up a front, to not be able to show his realest emotions to the world, and the fact that behind that smile was a boy who blamed himself for everything.
4. I hate that Oscar is always blaming himself for things out of his control
You would consider Oscar an intelligent person, but he could never seem to get it through his head that some things were simply not his fault – like when there had been a problem with the engine that caused the car to be undrivable, or when another driver turned into him and left him no choice but to retire due to car damage. But Oscar would always find ways to blame himself, to somehow find his fault in it and what he should have done better to avoid making mistakes. You hated the way he was constantly so harsh on himself, and you wished he could realize that he didn’t have to shoulder all the blame alone.
5. I hate how hardworking Oscar is
He was one of the greatest, most determined athletes you had ever known. Being a rookie in his first season of F1, he knew he had to work harder than anyone else to be able to compete with the more seasoned and experienced drivers on the grid. So he trained hard – waking up before sunrise for the gym, spending hours on the track perfecting his technique, staying up late to analyze data and rewatch his races. His relentless work ethic and unwavering determination to prove himself to the world and achieve success in the sport were irrefutably admirable, but it pained you to see him overworking himself to such unhealthy limits.
“Take a break, Oscar,” you told him when you realized he was still staying up analyzing his previous races at the commons one night. He glanced up at you from his seat, dark circles underneath his eyes, and he shook his head, “I have to finish watching these first.” The look of utter exhaustion on his face from pushing his body beyond its boundaries was still a sight you could never forget – his body slumping with weariness, his tired eyes void of the usual vibrant energy that lighted up the room.
Knowing that nothing you said could have changed the headstrong driver’s mind, you answered with a short “Okay.” and retreated back into your office, ignoring the warmth that lingered on your skin when he placed his hand above yours for a quick second as you gave him a supportive pat on the shoulder. The simple action probably had meant nothing more than a friendly gesture for Oscar, just a way of showing that he was grateful for your support, and so you hated yourself even more for dwelling on it.
6. I hate that Oscar always seems to know what I’m thinking
Sometimes you wondered if you unknowingly had a habit of thinking out loud or if Oscar was really that good at reading you, because why did he always seem to know every little thought that danced inside your head?
It was the night of the Singapore Grand Prix, and while you had always taken pride in being independent and mentally strong, for some reason you had felt awfully homesick that night as you stared at the bustling streets of the city. Working at McLaren was a dream come true, but it didn’t make it easier to constantly be away from your family.
Oscar suddenly appeared beside you, and his presence alone was enough to bring you a sense of comfort. “Missing home?” he asked as he gave you a playful nudge with his elbow, and you rolled your eyes jokingly at the boy beside you because of course he would somehow know what you were thinking, yet again. You didn’t bother lying to him, and so you nodded your head and admitted to your melancholy.
When he held out his hand in a fist and signaled for you to fist-bump him, you gave him an incredulous look that said “Seriously?” but decided to comply anyway. Then he opened up his palm to reveal your favourite childhood sweet, and your eyes widened as if you had found the greatest treasure ever. “You did not!” you squealed in excitement and almost snatched the sweet from his hand, looking at Oscar with disbelieving eyes. “You were saying that you liked these as a kid, so I asked one of my mates to get some for me when he went on vacation.”
The fact that he remembered little details like this about you made your heart swell with adoration for the boy, but you pushed those feelings away because you knew Oscar only did this for you because you two were good friends. “Thank you, Oscar. It means the world,” you flashed him a grateful smile and popped the candy into your mouth, feeling the waves of nostalgia flooding your chest as you savored the sweet, tangy flavors of your childhood.
7. I hate the way Oscar makes me smile
It was one of the worst days of your life. Work was already hectic enough with all the different projects and brand collaborations that were going on, and then somehow you accidentally spilled coffee on your new blouse that morning as if you were in some cliche movie. In the afternoon, you almost tripped down the staircase because you were too busy replying to emails on your phone. As if your day couldn’t get any worse, you dropped your laptop as you sprinted to the meeting you were late for and completely shattered the screen.
As you sat there in the meeting with your unusable laptop, it felt like you were seconds away from storming out of this conference room and never looking back. The deep scowl on your face didn’t go unnoticed by the papaya driver beside you, and so he subtly slipped you a sticky note that read “What’s wrong?”. You quickly wrote down “Nothing.” before shifting your attention back to the media manager as she spoke about an upcoming project that was about to launch.
You felt a nudge on your leg and looked down to see Oscar showing you his phone underneath the table. On his screen was the iconic picture of George Russell crying when he got his first points for Williams, and you had to bite down on your tongue so hard to stop yourself from laughing. Listen, you loved George and he was an amazing driver, but that picture of him with his hands behind his head, lips quivering as he tried to hold back his tears – it’s the funniest thing ever.
It was a mistake to glance at Oscar at that very moment – he looked like he was constipated as he attempted to suppress the giggle that threatened to spill out. It would be game over if that happened, cause then you’d start laughing and Lando’d start laughing and then the entire meeting would just turn into total chaos. Unfortunately, one of your stifled snorts was heard by the media manager and she glared threateningly at you both. “Let’s try not to disrupt this meeting as we still have much on our agenda to discuss,” she warned, and you two hurriedly mumbled a quick apology.
Reaching for his phone, you turned his screen off so that the crying George would be out of sight and tried focusing your mind on something else. After a few deep breaths, the urge to burst out in laughter had subsided, but the ghost of a smile stayed on your face. Your day may have been terrible, but Oscar somehow managed to make you smile again. Still, you hated him for causing you to get scolded by your supervisor.
8. I hate the way Oscar makes me cry
It was the first time you had made such a huge mistake at work. With all the projects and brand deals going on, you must have accidentally missed the deadline for sending the contract to one of your collaborators and by the time you had realized your mistake, the company had decided to withdraw from the project.
Chaos ensued among your team as you and your colleagues desperately tried to salvage what was left of the rather important project, sending frantic emails and scheduling urgent calls to hopefully convince the company of the potential this collab had. They ended up agreeing to participate in the campaign again, and even though your co-workers and supervisors had told you repeatedly that things were all sorted and you didn’t have to beat yourself up anymore, you couldn’t help the intense guilt that swallowed you whole.
To say you were upset was an understatement – you were completely miserable. This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if you were simply more careful. If you had marked down all the deadlines on your schedule and paid more attention to your work, your colleagues and you wouldn’t need to go through this mess and come up with all these contingency plans in an attempt to fix things – to fix your mistakes.
So you sat there in the commons, stuffing your face with salted pretzels from the vending machine as you allowed yourself to drown in self-pity just this once. “Pretzels for dinner? Nice.” Oscar sauntered into the room with a mischievous grin, getting ready to unleash a playful tease upon you when he noticed your glassy eyes and the pout on your lips. He awkwardly shuffled his steps toward where you were sitting and placed himself at the seat beside you.
“You… okay?” The question had sounded so awkward that Oscar cringed the second the words left his mouth. He was never good at comforting people, but for you, he was willing to try. “I just – finished watching the Notebook. Gosh, what a touching love story,” you told him as you rubbed at your eyes, wiping off your tears before they fell.
Oscar could smell the lies from a mile away, and he already knew what had happened anyway. Being in such a tightly bonded team like McLaren meant that news spread fast. People talk, albeit with no malicious intent, and the news of the important project that nearly failed was everywhere.
“It’s okay to make mistakes sometimes,” he spoke with such tenderness, catching you off guard. “They happen to everyone. It’s all part of the learning process, and everything will be fine as long as you learn from your mistakes and do better in the future.” While he certainly was not the best at comforting others, his words were exactly what you needed to hear. Dwelling in the past would not change anything – you had to learn to forgive yourself, to not let your mistakes consume you.
You turned your head so that you were looking away from Oscar, trying your hardest to blink away the tears and not cry in front of him. The thought of showing vulnerability in front of Oscar seemed so embarrassing, and you didn’t want him to think that you were weak for crying over such a seemingly trivial matter.
A hand was suddenly placed behind you, and then you could feel Oscar patting your back gently as he said to you in the softest, most sincere voice ever, “It’s okay to cry.” He looked at you with eyes that seemed to understand the unspoken storm of self-doubt and guilt that resided within you, and it was that sense of complete acceptance that caused you to finally let go.
He stayed silent the entire time you cried, giving you the space you needed to sift through your emotions by yourself. Not once did he ever look at you with judgment, supporting you in moments of hardship like the good friend he always had been. You hated yourself for crying in front of him, but what you hated even more was the fact that it had felt so safe and comforting to do so.
9. I hate that Oscar broke up with his girlfriend
The three of you were in Lando’s hotel room deciding what takeouts you were going to order for the night when Oscar suddenly confessed that Lily and he had recently broken up. “Wait what?” you and Lando exclaimed almost simultaneously, and you tried observing Oscar’s expressions for traces of heartache or pain to figure out what was the right thing to say.
Somehow, Oscar didn’t look too saddened by the recent end of his relationship. “You doing okay, mate?” Lando asked with raised eyebrows, also noticing the relaxed and seemingly unaffected demeanor of his teammate. Oscar nodded, “It was a mutual decision. We weren’t all that compatible and we both agreed that we’re better as friends. No hard feelings.”
The constant nonchalance of the boy wasn’t anything new, but seeing him handle his breakup with Lily with such ease and calmness was something you hadn’t expected. He didn’t seem one bit upset, and you would even dare to say that he looked somewhat relieved.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be your perfect wingman,” Lando joked with a mischievous smirk on his face, pulling out his phone as if he had a list of girls he’d been waiting to set him up with. “I’m good, mate, but thanks,” Oscar laughed at his teammate’s offer – blind dates weren’t really his thing, anyway.
You spent the rest of the night quietly eating your food and avoiding eye contact with Oscar, because you felt like the worst person ever for the damned tinge of hopefulness that sat at your chest after knowing about his breakup. You were prepared to bury your feelings for Oscar and try your hardest to get over your crush on him, but now that he and Lily had broken up, a part of you began wondering how things could change.
You hated the fact that Oscar’s relationship ended and the newly ignited sense of hope inside you about something that could never happen. Oscar would never like you back. He always had and would continue to see you as a friend, nothing more and nothing less, and you were a complete idiot for thinking things could ever be different.
10. I hate the way I don’t hate Oscar
It had been roughly six months since the beginning of your master plan of writing a list of 10 things you hated about Oscar, and you found yourself struggling to complete it. Even after trying your hardest to think of all his flaws and imperfections, you couldn’t bring yourself to write anything more. Heck, even the past 9 things you had written down weren’t really something you genuinely hated about him.
It’s the way he made you feel whenever he’s around, and the way his presence in your life brought you so much joy. It’s the fact that he always seemed to understand you like no one else, and the fact that you could not imagine having a life without him. It’s the terrifying truth that writing this list was completely useless because you had finally realized that you didn’t hate Oscar Piastri, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
There. The complete list of 10 things you hated about Oscar. It was meant to be a secret – something that would remain hidden while you get over your feelings for the boy. Nobody was meant to see it.
It had probably been your fault for not hiding the damned piece of paper somewhere more discreet, somewhere you were certain people would not accidentally find when they looked through your desk. It had definitely been your fault for telling Oscar to search through your drawer for the debriefing files he had urgently needed because you were still busy finishing up at a meeting.
When you walked inside your office and saw him holding up that list that was never meant to be in his hand, watching everything happen in slow motion as he asked you incredulously, “What… is this?”, you knew you were completely fucked.
summary: nobody enjoys being booed, and even the toughest of fighters like max verstappen would get disheartened from it. looking right through his act on camera, you decided to give your brother a call to tell him how proud of him you were. what you didn’t expect though, was to hear max cry.
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, reader being a good sister
word count: 1.4k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
“And Max Verstappen wins the US Grand Prix!”
Your brother had done it again – proving to those who had ever doubted him that he was born a champion by getting his 50th race win. You watched the race from the living room of your family home, grinning at the TV screen with the biggest smile on your face as the camera panned over the Redbull racecar.
When Max came on screen during the post-race interview, his eyes crinkling from how hard he was smiling, your heart swelled with so much pride because you knew he was living out his childhood dream. You could still remember him telling you as a kid with the most determined look on his face that he was going to be a world champion one day, and you had never doubted him for a second.
That was when you could the faint sounds of people booing in the background, just barely masked by the voices of your brother and the interviewer. There was no doubt that the jeers were directed at your Max as he was the only one being broadcasted on the big screens, and the joy you were feeling moments ago had twisted into a sour, unpleasant feeling.
Max had worked so hard to be in his position right now. He didn’t have it easier than anyone else – he dedicated blood, sweat, and tears to his work and sacrificed everything to accomplish the achievements he had today just like all the other drivers on the grid, so why was he the only one being subjected to such unjust hostility?
Having been involved in the sport ever since childhood because of your father and Max, you had always known that people could be cruel. “The higher you rise, the sharper the knives,” couldn’t be more true, and people would do anything to tear you down. They would never acknowledge the effort and hard work you had given, because in their eyes you’d always be undeserving and overrated.
“Does the booing annoy you?” The interviewer asked the driver before him, addressing the unignorable sound of the crowd. Max chuckled lightheartedly at the question, shrugging his shoulder as he answered in good humor, “In the end, I’m the one taking the trophy home, so it’s fine with me!”
“So next week when it’s ten times worse and you win –”
“Then I’ll still go home with the trophy, so it’s all good.”
The interviewer smiled at his graceful answer, glad that he approached the question with nonchalance instead of being spiteful and throwing a fit for the underserved hate. Max’s smile never faltered during the rest of the interview, appearing to be completely unaffected as he answered the questions all the while the crowd continued to boo him.
To the rest of the world, his act seemed totally convincing. It did look like he didn’t give two shits about the haters, laughing at some jokes the interviewer cracked as he talked about his performances during the race and areas of improvement. But you were his little sister, and you knew him well enough to know that the spectator’s reaction had undoubtedly affected him.
You noticed the way his lips twitched ever-so-slightly whenever the crowd taunted him louder, and how his eyes no longer had that gleam of genuine joy that was there when he first appeared on screen for the post-race interview. Max was such a great actor in front of the camera, always knowing how to put on the bravest face and the most convincing front when the world was watching him – but he could never fool you.
The interview concluded fairly quickly, with the interviewer congratulating Max on his 50th win and Max thanking him for his time. You watched as he gave a thumbs-up to the camera before walking off, and it’s times like this that made you wish more than anything to be there for your brother and let him know how proud you were.
So you waited for him to finish all of his media duties and obligatory team meetings that day, and dialed his phone number when you knew he had already settled down for the night in his hotel room.
In the dimly lit hotel suite, Max’s phone rang and he watched as the name “baby sis” and that terrible candid photo he took of you during a family vacation which he set as your contact photo appeared on his screen. He couldn’t help but laugh whenever he saw that picture – your face scrunched up in pure horror and disgust as a wasp flew toward your face.
He picked up the call and his face brightened up almost instantly the second he heard your voice. “Max, hey…” you said on the phone, your lips pulling up into the biggest grin the same way as your brother. “Hey kid, what’s up?” The nickname made you roll your eyes in feigned annoyance – even though you were all grown up and definitely not a kid anymore, he still called you that.
“Nothing much, just staying in for the night. You feeling okay?” You didn’t have to say anything more, Max already knew what you were talking about – the crowd booing at him this afternoon. He could pretend to not know what you had meant, diverting the topic to something unimportant, but he knew he would never get past you.
“Yeah, it’s whatever,” he hummed nonchalantly, hoping his curt answer could somehow fool you that he was not at all affected. The line went momentarily silent as you two said nothing to each other – you knew that he was lying, and he knew that you knew he was lying. “Max,” you broke the quietness and called out his name, “You know that I’m so proud of you, right?”
Max didn’t respond to your question, so you continued on with what you wanted to say to him. “We can all see your efforts… you are the smartest, strongest, most dedicated person I know and I am always so grateful to have you as my brother. Even when the world is trying its hardest to paint you as the bad guy and portray you as the villain, I know you have the kindest heart. I will always be by your side, Max. Always.”
You had to check your phone to see if the call had accidentally ended because the other side of the line was completely silent. “Max?” you called out your brother’s name again, and your heart ached with pity when you heard your brother’s soft sniffles over the phone.
Growing up, Max had rarely cried in front of you – it was always you who cried over the tiniest inconveniences and needed your brother to comfort you as you soaked through his t-shirt with your tears. You could still remember how his hands would glide down your back comfortingly, feeling like nothing could ever harm you again as he wrapped you delicately in his arms.
Max was always there when you needed him the most, and now you wished you could be there for him the same way he had done for you. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Max. I always got your back.” Hearing you say that you were proud of him and that you knew he had a kind heart was more than enough for Max. The world could say whatever it wanted about him, but as long as you were by his side, all is well.
“Thank you for saying that,” he said in a hushed whisper, voice wavering with emotions threatening to spill over. You wanted so badly to give him a big hug, to let him know that this was never his fault and he should never be punished by the world for his success. “It’s you and me against the world, Max, just like when we were kids,” you said with a smile, and for the first time since that afternoon, Max found himself genuinely smiling with you.
When the call ended that night, Max felt like a heavy weight was being lifted off his shoulders. He didn’t have to face the world alone, he had you by his side supporting every decision of his. The world could be so cruel, you both knew that, but everything seemed to be less nerve-wracking when you had each other’s back.
YOU'RE JUST A MAN, IT'S JUST WHAT YOU DO • CARLOS SAINZ
pairing: carlos sainz x reader (18+)
summary: you should have known better than to believe in carlos' loving kisses, sweet lies, and all the times he called you his. because he's just a man, it's just what he does.
(inspired by lana del ray's song, norman fucking rockwell)
tags: explicit sexual content (minors dni), unprotected sex, choking, praise kink, spit, dirty talking, degradation, finger sucking, angst, no mentions of y/n
word count: 2.1k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
You should have known better.
The first time you met Carlos Sainz was the night he had won the Singapore Grand Prix. You were ordering a drink for yourself at the bar when all of a sudden a figure appeared beside you, and you watched with intrigue as he ordered himself a tequila shot before offering to pay for your tab. He turned to look at you, the smile of a winner on his face as he winked not-so-subtly, and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
Carlos was taken aback, considering that it was the first time someone laughed at his face at his attempt to flirt. Was his wink that awkward? Shit, maybe he should have practiced his winks more in the mirror because now he had totally embarrassed himself in front of a pretty girl.
“That was adorable,” you chuckled at the now rosy-cheeked man – who would have thought the confident guy moments ago with the crazy good looks could be so shy and precious? Upon introducing yourselves to each other, you realized that Carlos was way more than just good looks.
He had a great sense of humor that matched yours surprisingly well, he was respectful and charming, and he had some really interesting stories to tell as a Formula 1 driver. So that night you two talked over drinks, learning about each other while you downed shot after shot to celebrate his pole position, danced a little when one of your favourite songs came on, and drunkenly stumbled back to his hotel room with fervent kisses and desperate touch.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“You’re taking my cock so well… what a good little slut for me…” he whispered into your ears as he pushed himself into you again and again, relishing in the sweet moans that escaped your lips each time his cock touched the deepest parts of your cunt. You were so tight, so perfect for him, and he wished he could stay inside you forever.
You made an almost embarrassing moan when his hand reached down and wrapped his fingers around your throat, restricting your airway just enough to send fireworks of tingles up your veins. “You look so pretty with my hands around you, mi amor. Fuck…” Carlos mumbled against your lips, smirking as he watched your eyes roll to the back of your head.
“Carlos,” you moaned, “Carlos, please.” He adored the way you say his name, all whiny and breathy and so good for him. He loved it even more when you begged for him to go deeper, to fuck you harder, to claim you as his with every thrust of his hips. “You’re such a good girl for saying please, aren’t you?” he asked as he tightened his grip around your throat, and you had to grapple the sheets from the intense pleasure surging through you.
Carlos leaned down and captured your lips in a feverish kiss, moaning into your mouth as he let his tongue run over your bottom lip. When he finally pulled away, a string of spit connected your lips to his and he couldn’t help the moan that fell from his lips at the lewd sight.
When his thumb pushed against your lips, you eagerly opened up your mouth and welcomed the intrusion, swirling your tongue around his finger before hollowing out your cheek to suck on it. “Fuck… look at you, baby,” Carlos smirked down at you, drinking in how sinful you had looked lying before him.
Then he pushed his finger further in, pressing on your tongue with a slight pressure that made you gag around his slick digit. “That’s right, choke on it. Deeper, there you go… Good girl.” The praises were never-ending, pouring out of his lips in a way that only seemed to fuel your eagerness to please.
Each movement of his hips was languid and deep, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock snapping into you again and again. “Feels so good…” you drooled on his finger, your words beginning to slur together as you inched closer toward your sweet release. “Yeah? Fucking take it, then,” he moaned shamelessly while his hand dropped to where you two were connected, and began to rub tantalisingly slow circles against your sensitive clit.
The whine you let out was obscene, whispering out a few broken “Mhm… please” was all you could manage from the heavenly sensation that was beginning to crawl up your spine. “Shit… I’m gonna come inside this tight little cunt and you’ll be a good girl and let me, won’t you?” Carlos muttered above you with a knowing grin, pulling out momentarily before fucking back into you just as deep.
The truth was that you would let him do whatever he wanted to you, and you would obey all that he said because you wanted to be such a good fucking girl for him. The movement of his hips gradually became more erratic, fingertips grasping onto your thighs with such pressure that you were certain bruises would form the next day – a sign that you belonged to Carlos.
“I’m close, so fucking close, baby.” He let out a shuddering breath, eyebrows scrunching together in pleasure as he drank in the sight of you sprawled out under him, taking his cock so well. That’s when you lifted up your hips and pushed back into him to meet him halfway, greedily chasing that pleasure that you both craved and needed.
Carlo’s reaction was instant, letting out a guttural groan desperately, “Oh god, please please please, don’t stop –” You felt yourself fluttering in response to his pleas, such a stark contrast to how dominant he was mere moments ago only seemed to push you teetering over the edge.
“Carlos, I’m coming, please –” The words in your head morphed into broken moans and breathy whines, and you could only squeeze your eyes shut in complete ecstasy while you pulsed around his thick length. “That’s it, baby, ohhh fuck you feel so good,” he groaned loudly as his face contorted in bliss, pounding into you again and again before his hips finally stilled and spilled inside you.
When Carlos leaned forward to drop a soft kiss on your lips, feeling the slowed thrusts of his hips while he fucked his come back into you lazily, you moaned out his name in a way that he wished he could hear forever. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered so tenderly, and when he wrapped his arms around you that night, stroking your hair in a way that felt so domestic and gentle as he lulled you to sleep, you almost believed him.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
You didn’t expect to keep in contact with Carlos after that night in Singapore, but neither of you seemed to be able to stay away from each other. And before you even noticed it, the late-night texts and secretive hotel room meetings turned into planned dates and daily messages where he would share with you about his day.
He would send you pictures of his whereabouts throughout the day, update you on his practice schedules, and share with you all the mundane little things that happened to him daily. You found yourself waiting for his texts, missing him whenever he was in training and had to be away from his phone, and you should have known better but you allowed yourself to indulge in whatever this was with Carlos.
“I miss you, mi amor.” Your heart swelled with adoration at his words on the phone, smiling like an idiot as you replied to him, “I miss you too, Carlos.” Phone calls with Carlos were your favourite part of the day whenever he had to fly halfway across the world for a race, just hearing his voice filled you with so much comfort that the miles of distance between you two became unimportant.
“I wish I could be with you all the time, baby,” he smiled into his phone, wishing you could abandon everything at home and fly with him to every race weekend. You really should have known better, but how could you not believe him when he said your name with such fondness, held your hands with such certainty, and wrapped his arms around you like he never wanted to let you go?
You thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with Carlos – oh, how naive of you. Because all of a sudden, his texts became less frequent, the calls with him became shorter, and you could feel him slipping away from your fingertips. You asked him why he was being so distant and cold, but he’d always manage to come up with some reasons.
His training went on longer than he expected, he was so exhausted after the race that he immediately went to bed, he accidentally left his phone in his hotel room. You were no idiot, those were all just terrible excuses – and no matter how much you tried to deny it and convince yourself that Carlos wouldn’t do such a thing, you knew what was bound to happen.
Perhaps he had gotten bored of you, or maybe he was intimidated by the thought of committing to a relationship with you – you would never be sure what the reason was behind his sudden change of heart. But all you knew was that one morning when you decided to not text him first and see if he would be the one to send you a message, he never did, and that was the end of it.
You were almost embarrassed to admit that a part of you expected him to reach out, to maybe send you a simple “good morning” text like you always used to do. Was that really too much to ask for? Perhaps it was the bare minimum for someone who had genuinely cared for you, but it certainly was too much to ask for from Carlos.
When you were tossing and turning in bed one night, your phone screen lit up from a text notification, and your heart almost beat out of your chest when you saw Carlos’ name appear. The frantic beating of your heart slowed, and replacing the excitement was a painful ache that tugged at your heartstrings.
You up? Need you right now.
Maybe a part of you did want to respond to his late-night texts and dial his number, to hear him moan your name again the way he used to, to relish in the way he called you his beautiful girl, to believe in all the fucking lies of how much he wanted to be with you – but you stopped yourself before you could reply him back, shut off your phone, and feel your tears soaking through your pillow as you tried to drown that pain with sleep.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“Carlos Sainz and new girlfriend Rebecca Donaldson spotted on romantic golf date”
You were lying in bed when you came across the news article, and you forced yourself to click off the page albeit wanting so badly to read the words you knew were going to shatter your heart. This was always how things were going to end, with Carlos’ complete indifference while he left you to wallow in sorrow, picking up and mending the pieces of your broken heart alone.
You should have known better than to believe in the words of Carlos Sainz. You should have known he was lying when he told you that he missed you, that he wanted you, that he wished you two could’ve been more. You should have never allowed yourself to get used to his warmth and kisses and embraces because none of them was real – nothing was ever real when it came to him.
He would never know the way you had to hurt, he would never understand half the shit he put you through even if he had tried. You would never let him know how he completely destroyed you with his sweet lies and feigned affection, and the tears that you shed for him in all the sleepless nights that left you questioning if you were ever worthy of love.
Wiping off the tears that ran down your cheeks, you reached for your phone to delete his number from your contacts and blocked him on every platform. You hesitated for a second when your finger hovered over the red button, and somewhere deep within you wished things could have been different – but you pressed it anyway because you owed it to yourself to erase someone like him from your life.
You should have known better.
Carlos Sainz is just a man. It’s just what he does.
summary: the heat was unbearable in the qatar gp, and after completing 57 dreadful laps you ended up fainting on broadcast television. knowing that the media was going to exploit your little incident and turn this into an issue of why women do not belong in motorsports, you were engulfed by guilt and self-hatred, and oscar was there to comfort you.
tags: enemies to lovers (kind of), angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of misogyny
word count: 2.6k
(image is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
“That’s P3 and the third podium of the season. Great work out there today.”
Coming into the Qatar Grand Prix - with the sweltering heat and the suffocating humidity of the desert - you had already known it was bound to be a difficult race, but nothing could have prepared you for how grueling it actually was.
Feeling as if your entire body was engulfed in flames as you sat in the cockpit, sweat dripping down your face while your body overworked itself to withstand the g-forces at every high-speed turn. It was utterly torturous, and with each passing second during the race you felt like you were getting closer and closer to collapsing.
When you finally completed all 57 of those dreadful laps, you just barely managed to pull yourself out of the car with your wobbly arms and trembling legs. Your entire race suit and fireproofs were soaked in sweat, and each breath you took was like inhaling fiery hot air. Your chest hurt from the deep breaths you were struggling to take, every muscle and joint screamed in pain, and your brain felt completely fried by the scorching heat.
Glancing around the circuit, the world suddenly seemed to be made of squiggly lines and distorted shapes, and you had to lean on your car for support as you desperately attempted to recompose yourself. You absolutely could not faint right now, you told yourself. Not when all your fellow drivers were beside you, and especially not when the media would be scrutinizing your every move, dying to see you make a mistake so that they could exploit your vulnerability and convince the world that women were too weak to be in motorsports.
So you forced yourself to straighten up, kept your head high – at least as high as you could with how lightheaded you were feeling – and tried your hardest to put on a victorious smile. In your peripheral vision, you could see a figure slowly approaching you, and your smile immediately disappeared when you turned to see the one and only Oscar Piastri.
The man was just as drenched in sweat as you were, sandy hair all messy and disheveled from his helmet as he said to you, “Congratulations on getting P3, y/n.” You scanned his expression skeptically, finding his sudden friendliness rather unusual considering the fact that all the previous exchanges between you two were always snarky remarks and backhanded compliments. You were about to answer him with a quick “thank you” before he cut you off and continued on with a smirk, “Too bad you still finished below me.”
Ah – there was the Oscar you knew and the lame, dry-humored insults you were used to. The smug grin that tugged on his lips made you wish you could just punch it straight off his handsome face. No wait – he wasn’t handsome, this was simply your overheating brain speaking.
You normally would retort with a couple of witty insults and take a few jabs back at him, but with how nauseated you were as well as the pulsating ache wrecking through your brain, you just didn’t have the energy to deal with his antics right now. When you simply walked away from him in silence, Oscar’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, and he wondered if he had accidentally stepped over the line with his teasing and made you genuinely upset.
Lando, who was standing nearby and watching the whole interaction between you two, side-eyed his McLaren teammate as he failed to suppress his loud chuckle, “You finally pissed her off, mate?” Oscar shrugged his shoulders, putting on the most nonchalant expression he could manage and replied briskly, “Whatever, man.” He didn’t care if he pissed you off or made you upset. He didn’t care about you, period.
At least that’s what he tried to tell himself, anyway.
Upon walking away from the two papaya drivers, you stumbled to the table and grabbed yourself a bottle of iced water, finishing the whole thing in a couple of seconds. It did make you feel refreshed and slightly better, but then all you could feel were waves of nausea when the liquid settled into your stomach.
Panic surged through you, you felt worse by the second and nothing seemed to be making you feel better. The loud music and boisterous cheers of the celebrating spectators around you did nothing to help with your situation, and the deafening cacophony was making you feel severely overstimulated.
That’s when David Coulthard showed up with a microphone in his hand, ready to interview the podium sitters and get some insights on today’s race. You tried to subtly dodge the cheery man, hoping to hold off being on camera for as long as you could. To no avail, the man sauntered straight toward you with the biggest smile on his face and all of a sudden, a microphone was handed to you and you were being broadcast on the big screens.
“Congratulations on getting on the podium today! What’s it like getting your third podium in only your first season in F1? Do you feel excited, overwhelmed, or pressured to perform well? And what are your expectations for future races?” The bombarding questions were too much for your overworked body to handle, and the words falling from his lips sounded more like incoherent nonsense than actual words with meaning.
“I – I, uh,” you wracked your brain to come up with an answer, you really tried, but nothing came out of your mouth apart from the constant stuttering. “Umm, you okay there?” David asked with a worried smile, clearly noticing your distressed state – bless his heart – but his question only managed to attract people’s attention to the two of you. As if things couldn’t get any worse, you could feel so many pairs of eyes on you. All the other drivers, journalists, crew members, spectators, everybody was staring at you.
Oscar’s eyes never left you since the second you had walked away from him quietly. He never seemed to be able to take his eyes off you anyway, albeit he would never admit it out loud. And it didn’t take long for him to notice that something was clearly wrong with you. From your indifference to his teasing, your fatigued body stumbling around the pit, to the way your face gradually became paler and paler underneath the flashing lights of the camera.
There was an unfathomable feeling gnawing at his chest as he studied you cautiously, one he couldn’t pinpoint, but this unpleasant feeling propelled him to walk towards you two and interrupt the post-race interview.
“I’m really… thankful for…” your slurred words came to a halt when Oscar leaned into your microphone and said with an apologetic smile, “I think she needs some rest now, perhaps we can continue this later.” David nodded understandingly, knowing just how physically demanding F1 races could be. But right before the cameraman could pan the shot to the next driver, your vision became consumed by black spots and your body felt like it was sinking into quicksand.
You tried staying upright, but you failed to fight the darkness that engulfed you and the next second your limp body was collapsing into the embrace of the boy next to you. Right before you slipped into unconsciousness, you could hear the worried callings of your name and a pair of strangely comforting arms wrapping themselves around you.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Your eyes slowly fluttered open, trying to blink away the disorientation as you glanced up at the blinding ceiling lights. Every fiber of your being still ached with exhaustion, but the previously unbearable throbbing in your head seemed to fade into a dull pain instead. “Look who’s finally awake.” You turned toward the voice and your tired eyes landed on your fellow driver, sitting beside your bed in his papaya race suit. “Why are you even here, Oscar?” you sighed exasperatedly, and your headache was already starting to return when you slowly recalled what had happened to you on broadcasted television.
The Australian driver shrugged again, feigning nonchalance while he mumbled something under his breath. You didn’t bother asking him what he had said because your mind was already preoccupied with something else – something that could potentially jeopardize your career in F1 and women’s positions in motorsports.
You were so angry, so disappointed in yourself for fainting in front of the crowd while a camera was pointing directly at your face. You could already imagine all the patronizing headlines about you tomorrow, chastising you and taunting you for fainting after the race.
“F1 female driver fainting – Is it the weather conditions or a sign of women’s physical limitations in motorsports?”
“Y/n L/n passes out after Qatar GP: Do women have what it takes to handle the harsh conditions of being an F1 driver?”
It didn’t matter if the heat was torturous or the humidity was unbearable, it didn’t matter even if you finished P3, because all the world could see was that you, a female driver, fainted. The only conclusion they would be able to draw from this incident was that you did not have what it takes to be in F1. You were too weak, too physically incapable, and you never deserved your seat nor the opportunity your team had given you despite the effort and sacrifices you had made to be here.
Before you even noticed it, your eyes were beginning to sting from the unshed tears of frustration, self-deprecation, and guilt. “I should have known better… If only I had stayed awake for a little longer or fainted in a hidden corner somewhere.”
Oscar’s head snapped up instantly, shocked at the sheer vulnerability lacing through your shaky voice. You were never one to show much emotions as a racer, always keeping a cold exterior in all circumstances, so when he saw your glassy eyes he found himself speechless. He had no clue what to say or how to react, and so he just sat there with the most clueless look on his face.
His face was so meme-worthy that you almost wanted to laugh at him if it wasn’t for how shitty the current situation was. The ever-so-stoic and level-headed Oscar Piastri was at a loss for words because you were crying in front of him. But the humor was quick to fade and replaced by the self-blame and guilt for disappointing your supporters and your team, and the damned tears were biting at your eyes again.
You hurriedly covered your eyes with your palm, rubbing at your eyelids as if doing so could somehow force the tears back into your eyes instead of having to cry like an idiot in front of Oscar. You felt so stupid, so embarrassed, so pathetic – and all of a sudden all your thoughts became blank because you could feel a hand wrapping around your wrist.
Oscar’s fingers were delicate, his gentle feather-like touch causing the slightest flurry of tingle to blossom on your skin when he slowly pulled your hand away from your face. “Don’t rub your eyes. They’ll get swollen,” he whispered ever so softly and released his grip on your wrist, only to reach for your cheek and wipe away a stray tear that cascaded down.
The way your heart quickened its pace at his slightest touch is a secret you will never mention to anyone, one you will take to your grave. The clueless, confused expression on his face had long disappeared, and his eyes were instead clouded with a mixture of emotions you struggled to decipher.
Perhaps the heat had really messed your head up, because suddenly you found yourself wanting to lean into his touch and give into his comforting warmth. There was something about the way Oscar was gazing into you, watching you with such sincerity and tenderness that it made your resolve break, and you couldn’t help but allow yourself to open up to him for the first time ever.
“You don’t understand… they’d give me so much shit for this. They’ll take every chance they get to make me seem weak and undeserving of my place here. I worked so hard to be in my position now, to perform well in races and get on podiums, but my effort will never be good enough for the world.”
Oscar knew what you had meant. It was a cruel sport where people could only remember your last race and every little mistake could cost you your career. Every driver is under constant pressure and scrutiny, especially for women fighting for their places in a male-dominated field.
“Perhaps I’ll never be able to understand your struggles, but if there’s one thing that I know, it’s that you deserve to be here more than anyone,” he said to you with so much certainty that it made all those awful thoughts in your head fade away momentarily, and you watched him in silence as you awaited for him to continue.
“I know that you trained harder than any drivers on the grid to get your seat here. You keep a smile on your face despite people’s constant doubt and judgment about you, and you fight hard to prove them wrong. You carry the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, but you don’t have to be perfect to be deserving of the things you have.”
You wondered if Oscar somehow was gifted with mind-reading abilities because there was no way he could have said all that you had needed to hear so badly without reading your mind.
The constant pressure to be perfect, to excel in each and every way, or else you would be seen as inadequate for the sport. All the sleepless nights you spent reliving your mistakes again and again, wondering what you could have done differently to avoid it because you knew the media was going to have a field day with your errors. And the smiles you forced on your face despite facing the criticism of others as you pretended to be unaffected by their words, but then you go back to your hotel room in tears because a part of you was beginning to believe in their words – you would never be good enough no matter how hard you tried.
“You are worthy of the things you worked hard for,” Oscar whispered hushedly, just loud enough for you to hear and for you to remember. He was unsure where all those words came from – all he knew was that he looked into your crestfallen eyes and just spoke his mind, pouring his entire heart out while wishing he would never have to see you cry again.
It was the first time you had seen Oscar acting like this, without his annoyingly funny teases and inside jokes that only you two seemed to understand. It was the first time Oscar had seen you like this, not putting up that tough facade that only Oscar seemed to be able to look through. You two were simply being you, no lies, no fronts, just you. The silence that hung between you and Oscar was strangely comforting – no words needed to be said.
Oscar would never admit it out loud how much he had wanted to kiss you at the moment, and you would never admit out loud how much you had wanted him to kiss you. He pretended that he wasn’t looking at you with such fondness, and you pretended not to notice the adoration swimming in his eyes. He acted like his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest when you reached for his hand, and you acted like your head wasn’t fuzzy with tingles when he silently intertwined your fingers together.
“Don’t get all sappy with me now, Piastri.”
“Oh please, you know I would never.”
heyy, when’s the second part of something unholy gonna come out?❤️
hii, i’m currently still in the process of writing the story. since i’ve been experiencing some writers block atm it may take a little longer for it to be released :( please bear with me in the meantime❤️
summary: while babysitting davi, you went up to neymar’s room to get something for the two of you to play with. it turns out that the room wasn’t empty, and you ended up catching neymar doing something unholy.
tags: explicit sexual content (minors dni), voyeurism, jerking off, choking, praise kink, sir kink, age gap, dirty talking, finger sucking, dom!neymar, babysitter!reader, no mentions of y/n
word count: 2.8k
(gif is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
An excited squeal was heard before the front door flew open, revealing an ecstatic Davi sprinting toward you to greet you with a crushing hug. “You’re finally here!” he giggled with his face burrowed in your shirt, and you patted the back of his head comfortingly as you told him with a smile, “It’s great to see you too, buddy!”
Upon entering the house, Davi began bombarding you with everything that had happened in his life for the past few weeks, from the science fair he won with his exploding slime experiment, the pretty girl who confessed to him at school, the new video game he received from his mom, to the luxurious fishing trip his dad had taken him over the weekend.
Being the babysitter of Neymar’s kid had its benefits - one of which was the high-paying salary. It paid relatively well compared to the other babysitting jobs you were offered, in fact, it paid so well that this single part-time job was enough to support all your daily expenses and cover part of your tuition fee. And while you initially accepted the job because of the money, you eventually decided to stay because of Davi.
And also because of Neymar - but that’s beside the point.
“Then Dad belly-flopped into the lake! It was awesome!” Davi’s smile is infectious, his genuine excitement about all the little things in life would always fill you with a sense of serene happiness, and sometimes it felt like he was more of a friend than a kid you babysat for. “Well, your dad’s always been awesome,” you chuckled quietly while switching on the TV, surfing through the channels until Davi’s favorite program was on.
Though the boy was quick to interject. “I don’t want to watch TV today… Let's play football together!” he suggested, his voice laced with so much glee and excitement that you didn’t have the heart to say no to him, even though you had absolutely zero agility and were terrible at football. “Alright, I’ll get the football for us…” you pretended to sound unimpressed, but soon broke out into a wide smile when Davi jumped up from his seat with a victorious chant.
“There’s a football in my dad’s bedroom, he said I could play with it if I want.” You contemplated for a while, unsure if it was a good idea to enter Neymar’s bedroom. While he should have been at practice at this hour, meaning that his room was probably empty, the thought of entering his room just seemed like a violation of his privacy.
But before you could ask Davi if he could get the football himself, he had already sprinted off toward the backyard, leaving you all alone in the living room as he yelled out eagerly, “I’ll wait for you outside!” Not wanting to rain on the kid’s parade, you let out a defeated sigh and got up from the couch.
“I’ll just go in and out. I’ll not touch anything or look at anything inside,” you mumbled under your breath as you made your way up the stairs, trying to convince yourself that this was no big deal. You were only going into Neymar’s room to get the football for Davi - a fully justified reason. And just like Steve Harrington once said, “I’m stealthy, like a ninja.” You’ll go inside, grab the football, and leave - nobody would even notice you were there.
It was all going to be fine.
Walking down the hallway until you reached the room at the very end, you twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.
It was not going to be fine.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw in that room. Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach when your eyes landed on Neymar, sitting shirtless on his bed with his trousers unzipped, hands wrapped around his length as he pumped himself at a steady pace. The way his face contorted in pleasure, eyebrows furrowed together like he was nearing his release, and then the next second his eyes flew open and he was looking at you in utter shock.
Everything was happening so fast that your brain literally short-circuited, like your entire body had shut down and rebooted itself. Every muscle within you screamed at you to flee the room, to get the heck out after walking in on such an intimate moment of his - but almost as if your legs had stopped working, you couldn’t bring yourself to move an inch.
All you could do was stare at him, eyes wide and mouth hung open like a deer caught in headlights. Neymar’s hand came to a halt, his facial expression just as dumbstruck as yours, and you had to force yourself not to glance down at the fingers still wrapping around his hardened length.
You blinked once, twice, and finally were able to collect yourself the best that you could manage. “Sir, I’m so sorry for coming inside your room unannounced. I was just here to get something, and I— I didn’t know that you were going to be in here— normally you’d be at practice so…” you began to ramble, strings of words spilling out of your mouth as you frantically tried to apologize.
“I’m just really really sorry, sir,” you apologized one last time, shoulders slumped and head hanging low from the unbelievable amount of embarrassment you were feeling, and also because you wanted to avoid looking at him and his exposed body. Squeezing your eyes shut, you waited for Neymar to say something, anything.
You expected him to scream at you to get out, to lash out at you for entering his room without knocking, to kick you out of the house for violating his privacy like this. But when he stayed silent, not uttering a single word or exploding in anger like you expected him to, confusion began to gnaw at your mind and the silence became unsettling.
Your name suddenly fell from his lips in a hushed whisper, his voice raspy and laced with a strange, unexplainable tone. The call of your name made you glance up, and what was once a look of surprise and puzzlement on his face was now replaced with one of desire - his lips pulled up in a slanted grin, half-lidded eyes gazing into you like he had something sinister in mind, and you could feel your insides stirring when his hands began stroking up and down again.
“Lock the door and come over here,” Neymar whispered in a hushed voice, and while his words were soft and gentle, underneath them all was hiding a sense of authority, so firm and unmoving that you couldn’t help but comply. His piercing gaze never once left you as you turned to shut the door, clicked the lock shut, and slowly walked over to his bed. “Sit.” One word was enough to make you listen, taking a seat on the corner of his bed as if your body was on autopilot.
The rational side of you would’ve made you leave the room ages ago, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to leave, not when he’s looking at you with unbridled hunger. All you could do was follow his orders and do exactly what he said, like a girl possessed, hypnotized by all that he had, blinded by the need to find out what would happen if you stayed.
Feeling the tension in the air, you swallowed nervously as you desperately tried to figure out what exactly was happening, eyes flickering between his face and the slow pumping of his hand. “Fuck…” he hissed out through gritted teeth, his piercing green eyes now distant and cloudy with lust. “Now watch.”
Every passing second made it harder for you to breathe, to sit still when Neymar’s pleasuring himself right in front of you, and it was damn near impossible to comprehend the fact that he had asked you to stay and watch. Tightening his fingers around his length, he squeezed his throbbing cock as he thumbed his slit in teasing strokes, gathering the precum that had spilled out.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of bending you over and fucking you inside this house,” he exhaled a shaky breath, smirking at the way your breath hitched as the sinful confession fell from his lips. “I’m a sick piece of shit, right? For thinking of my son’s babysitter this way,” he chuckled, but the way his voice sounded didn’t seem like he was at all guilty.
Words didn’t need to be said for the two of you to know that this was wrong. From the fact that he was jerking off in front of you, the unholy thoughts that he always had whenever you come over, to how you were enjoying all of this no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise.
Neymar was years older than you. He was in his thirties and you were still in college. He was a world-class football player and you were an ordinary college student still trying to navigate life. Most importantly, he was a father, and you were his son’s babysitter. Your relationship never should have exceeded that, but it did, with him splayed out in his bed, admitting all the filthy thoughts he had of you while you watched him.
This was wrong - all of this - but neither of you wanted this to stop.
“But you like this shit, don’t you?” he asked you with a knowing glint in his eyes, and the smirk on his lips only seemed to grow wider. You couldn’t find the words to answer him, any sort of coherent thoughts had longed become muddled up inside your head. Though you didn’t have to, because he already knew your answer from the way your breathing picked up and your thighs clenched together.
“I bet…” he choked out as his head tipped backward, letting out a deep groan while speeding up his hand. “I bet you’d let me fuck you if I asked.” A little gasp escaped your lips, bright eyes flickering with a lustful gleam he had only imagined in the darkest hours of the night. You stayed quiet, nibbling on your lips to prevent the whine lodged in your throat from coming, and that’s all it took for Neymar to know that your answer was a definite yes.
“You’ll let me come inside like a good fucking girl too, won’t you?” The thought alone was enough to make you whimper, clenching your thighs together needily as arousal pooled at the pit of your stomach. Your eyes fluttered closed, allowing the sinful images to plague your mind - god, how you wished those thoughts were reality instead.
You wondered how his lips would taste like, what his reaction would be if he could feel how soaked you were right now, if he would feel as good as you imagined it to be when he finally slid himself inside you, and how he would look when he finally reached his release, emptying himself deep inside you until you milked him of his very last drop. There was nothing you wouldn’t give for all of this to come true, for him to just touch you where you needed.
Fingers suddenly clasped around your throat, pulling you out of your erotic trance and dragging you back to reality - even though the reality you were in seemed more like a fever dream. “Use your words. Yes or no?” he demanded, and he couldn’t help but admire how good you looked with his hands around you - so good for him, so sweet and breedable.
“Yes, sir,” you answer with a soft whimper, head nodding urgently at his previous question while you relish the firm grip on your neck. “Good girl,” he praised you with a smile before releasing his hold on you. There was a warmth that lingered on your skin even after he had let go, and a part of you wished he had kept his hands there longer, that he had squeezed tighter.
“I bet you’d feel so good wrapped around me… and you’ll let me do whatever I want to you…” He continued to pump himself, cock twitching at the sight of you before him - rosy cheeks and glassy eyes, so worked up and so desperate for him to just touch you. “Please…” you huffed out a pathetic plea, hands gripping tightly on the sheets below you, praying that he would do something to ease the aching need between your thighs.
He smiled - not a friendly one, but the same damned teasing grin he always had on - and had the audacity to coo at you as if he thought you were the cutest thing on earth. “Be patient, baby…” You tried to be patient, you really did, but your patience was running low and you were genuinely going to cry if he didn’t touch you soon.
A few more rough tugs on his cock and he knew he was nearing his orgasm. “Fuck… gonna come…” he grunted out, rocking his hips up unrhythmically to meet his fist as the bed started to shake. All that could be heard inside his bedroom was the wet squelching of him jerking his cock, the quick and shallow breaths of you both, and the broken moans that rumbled in his throat with each frenzied stroke.
“Sir, please.” That simple sentence was enough to shatter him into a million pieces. A pleasured groan pushed past his teeth as his hips thrust up one last time, body seizing up as jolts of electricity coursed through him in waves of pure ecstasy. You weren’t even touching him, but all he could feel was you - everything else faded into darkness.
White ropes of come spilled from his cock, getting all over his skin and dirtying the white sheets below him. His mouth fell agape, throwing his head back as your name fell from his lips like a mantra, calling you again and again until he completely emptied himself into his fist.
You watched as he fell apart in front of you, refusing to take your eyes off him even for just a second while he drowned in the endless sea of pleasure. “Fuck… that felt so good,” he spoke in a soft murmur, stroking his cock lazily as he collected some of the come splattered on him with his fingers.
Leaning closer to you, he lifted his hand to your lips and pushed his fingers inside your mouth, groaning with satisfaction at the sinful sight - your lips wrapped around him, so good for him, so eager to please. “There you go, my good little girl…” You moaned at the praising nickname he had for you, twirling your tongue around him and enjoying the taste of him.
A strange silence fell upon both of you after he pulled out his fingers, neither of you was saying anything and all you could hear was your own heartbeat drumming in your ears and the ragged breath of Neymar. You could feel his stare on you, dragging his gaze down to your lips, and you wondered if he was going to kiss you.
He leaned in, so close to you that you could almost feel his hot breath fanning against your lips. You squeezed your eyes shut instinctively, but instead, he tilted his head and placed a chaste kiss on your left cheek.
“I’m off to practice now,” he whispered into your ear, voice low and raspy, and proceeded to get up from his bed. You looked at him with utter confusion, the gears in your head still turning as you struggled to process what exactly had just happened. Was he seriously going to leave? Right now? What about you?
The ache between your legs only seemed to grow, and the frustration building in your chest was beginning to grow as well, really quickly. “But… Sir…” you tried to think of something, but had no idea what you were even supposed to say in a situation like this.
The smirk evident on his face meant that he knew exactly what he was doing, and was well aware of how mean he was being to you, but he was doing it nonetheless. “Keep being a good girl for me, and maybe next time I’ll give you a little reward.” Sending you a wink, he pulled on his jersey and exited the room.
summary: in the middle of studying for your physics exam, neymar decided that you needed a little break, and he’s more than happy to help you de-stress.
tags: explicit sexual content (minors dni), fingering, spit, finger sucking, choking, praise kink, possessive!neymar, dom!neymar, inexperienced!reader, no mentions of y/n, established relationships
word count: 2.8k
(gif is not mine)
─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
“Meu amor.” You hummed at your boyfriend’s nickname for you, keeping your gaze glued to the physics textbook before you as you flipped through another page. Finals week - every college student’s worst nightmare - was right around the corner, and you originally planned to have a cram study session at home, but Neymar managed to convince you to come over and study at his place - which you only agreed to after making him promise not to bother you while you were studying.
He tried sticking to his promise and busied himself with video games, heck, he even started cleaning the house out of boredom - but two hours had passed and he was getting real bored, and hard, and he wanted your attention.
You felt the bed dip behind you, and you sighed in contentment when his arms encircled your waist, tugging you closer toward his chest. “Are you done studying yet?” he asked despite already knowing the answer, though a devious plan was beginning to form inside his head that could most definitely convince you to take a break.
“Still got six chapters left… and the pile of notes over there,” you pouted while nodding your chin towards the papers scattered over the bedroom floor, and the mere sight of the messy notes was enough to worsen the terrible headache pulsating at your temples. A break was very much needed, but time didn’t quite allow you to take one at the moment, and pulling an all-nighter wasn’t exactly your forte.
“Take a break,” Neymar whispered behind your ear before leaning down to plant a chaste kiss on your neck, and another, and another, until you were a giggling mess writhing around in his arms. “Ney, stop, I have to study,” you protested jokingly, nudging him away with your elbow as you tried to suppress your laughter.
Neymar stopped for a second, and just when you thought he was finally going to stop pestering you, he leaned in closer and placed an open-mouthed kiss over your skin. “Let me help you relax, baby,” he exhaled, voice deep and hoarse almost as if he had just woken up while his hot breath fanned over the spot he just kissed.
Your breath hitched, and you could feel your pulse quicken at the sudden change of mood. He leaned in to kiss you again, right above your collarbone, swiping his tongue swiftly against your skin as he kept a firm grip on your waist.
Slowly and steadily, he let his finger slide down your waist and settled over your thigh, rubbing slow, teasing circles over your exposed skin below the hem of your shorts. His touch led a scorching hot trail along your body, goosebumps forming underneath his fingertips, and each circle he drew sent a flurry of tingles down your spine, clouding your mind with thoughts of him and him only.
You had every intention to stop, to pull away from him and get back to studying for the damned physics final you had the next day, but the truth was that you didn’t want it to stop. Every kiss and every touch was so intoxicating that you wished you could get lost in him forever.
The exam had somehow become the last thing on your mind, fading into blurry nothingness - pointless and unimportant. Instead, all thoughts were replaced by Neymar and every little thing about him - his touch, his kisses, his scent.
His lips pulled up into a slight smirk when he noticed the way your body stiffened and your breathing sped up, especially when his fingertips inched closer and closer to your core. He didn’t have to look at you to know that you were blushing, that your cheeks were heating up in a faint crimson while becoming so worked up by his gentle yet teasing touch, desperate for him to touch you but was simply too shy to say anything about it.
He knew everything about you - so innocent and so easy to read - and he knew how to get you exactly where he wanted.
“Let me make you feel good,” he said to you while you leaned backward, and he had to clench his jaw in an attempt to suppress the pleasured groan threatening to spill from his lips when your body brushed against his hardness over his sweatpants.
“Ney, what’s wrong?” you asked with a hint of genuine worry in your voice, completely oblivious to your effect on him and his aching need for you. “Nothing, love, just relax,” he reassured you as he tightened his arm around your waist, giving your thigh a comforting squeeze with his other hand.
Knowing that you wouldn’t be able to get any studying done, not when your boyfriend’s hands are all over you, you nodded at his words before allowing yourself to relax and leaned into his embrace, nestling closer to Neymar and settled between his legs. “Just a quick break…” you whispered softly with a defeated look on your face, but the excitement sitting in the pit of your stomach had long betrayed you - you wanted this just as much as him.
Neymar reached for your chin to turn your head towards him, leaning in slowly until his lips were mere millimeters away from your own. He was so close, so close that you could see the golden specs swimming in his eyes, that if you leaned forward the slightest bit you could kiss him.
But you remained unmoving, holding your breath in anticipation as you waited for him to do something - anything.
There was an unfathomable look in his eyes, a glint of hunger fueled by the desire he had for you. “Be a good girl for me,” he said hushedly, voice firm and authoritative as if he was daring you to misbehave - but you knew better than to do so. You watched as his gaze flickered down to your mouth, and then he leaned forward to connect your lips, stealing your breath away.
You let him take the lead like you always did, surrendering yourself to him in each and every way possible. His taste was intoxicating, each swipe of his tongue and each touch of his skin so addictive that you wondered how you were able to survive all these years before meeting him.
His hand glided down your face to settle over your neck, and you felt his fingers wrapped themselves loosely around your throat before giving it a light squeeze - gentle enough not to hurt, but hard enough to send a wave of pleasure down your body.
You never admitted to him how much you liked it whenever he did that, but you didn’t have to, because Neymar always knew every single thought inside of your pretty little head.
He gave you another squeeze - this time slightly harder, and he certainly hadn’t missed the way your breath hitched against his lips and the soft whine that you let out. “You’re such a dirty little girl, aren’t you?” he asked you quietly, and you couldn’t help but nod at his words albeit knowing it was more of a teasing remark rather than a genuine question.
He let out a small laugh, his breath hot against your lips before he pulled away to stare into your eyes. There was an almost wolfish glint in his gaze, fingers still wrapped around your throat as he breathed out, “Say it, tell me you’re my dirty little girl.”
Your thighs instinctively clenched together at his words, arousal filling up your chest from the thought of being his - completely and utterly his. “I’m your dirty little girl,” you repeated after him, your words coming out shakier than you thought, weak and breathy almost like a pleading whine.
Neymar grinned slightly before he continued kissing down your neck, leaving a trail of wet and tender kisses while occasionally nipping at your delicate skin, suckling and nibbling as he pleased. The fingers splayed on your thighs inched higher and higher until they reached the hem of your shorts where he began toying with the flimsy fabric, purposefully avoiding the place where you needed him the most.
You made a noise of frustration - whiney and desperate - and Neymar would’ve cooed at how adorable you were if it wasn’t for how insanely hard that sound had made him. “What is it, princess?” The simple question only managed to make your frustration grow, because you knew that he knew what you wanted, he just wanted you to say it out loud.
“Ney…” you let out a shuddering breath, feeling your body grow hot from the raw desire and want coursing through your veins. “What do you want me to do, hmm?” Neymar felt like a sick bastard for doing this, for teasing you and being so mean - and perhaps he was for wanting to hear those sinful words coming out of his sweet, innocent girlfriend. But the second the words spilled from your lips, he realized that he was fine being a sick bastard if it meant that he could keep hearing them.
With your wide eyes, blown pupils, and swollen lips, you inhaled a shaky breath before muttering softly at your boyfriend, “Touch me, please.” Three words, three simple words, but it was enough to send him into overdrive.
“Fuck, baby…” Neymar liked to think that he was a rather calm person - even on the field when his team was falling behind or when he only had mere seconds left to score a goal, he liked to think that he could stay unfazed and collected in most scenarios - though he swore he almost fainted upon hearing what you said.
The desperation seeping through your words and the pleading glint in your eyes, so innocent and clueless yet completely consumed by the sinful desire for him. Everything about you drove him to insanity, and he wanted to corrupt you so badly that it hurt.
The relief that washed over you when he finally slipped his hand inside your shorts was simply indescribable, and you couldn’t help but let out a breathy moan the second his fingertips brushed against your skin. He glanced down at you with a tender gaze, watching you as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. “I’ll make you feel real good, meu amor,” he said to you before pressing a kiss on the side of your head, voice sweet and mellow while he rubbed a gentle finger through your soaked folds.
The sensation was electrifying, and you found yourself wanting more from him - so much more. “Keep it wide open for me, hmm?” he instructed after pushing your thighs apart, humming in satisfaction when you nodded compliantly. Your eyes fluttered close as he traced your core with his fingers, gathering your wetness with each delicate stroke while he teased your entrance, swiping against your throbbing hole but not quite entering.
“Ney, please… I can’t…” you mewled as you gripped onto the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and as much as he enjoyed hearing you beg, he decided that it was enough teasing for the day. With a deep grunt, he finally slipped his fingers inside you, groaning at the warm sensation enveloping his slick digit. “God, you’re tight,” he huffed when he pulled out his finger, admiring the glistening wetness coating his hand before lifting it to his mouth, lapping feverishly at your sweetness as he smirked, “Sweet too.”
Pulling his finger out, he lifted his hand to your lips and pushed his spit-slickened digit inside your mouth, groaning at the warm cavern of your lips wrapped around him. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, unsure of what you were supposed to do as he gently pressed his finger on your tongue.
“Suck,” he ordered while he watched you with an intense gaze, and being obedient as ever, you began sucking lightly on his finger, tasting the slightest tinge of yourself on him. He pushed in even further, urging you to attempt swirling your tongue around him - and although your movement was slow and inexperienced, the lewd sight in front of him was enough to make him let out an obscene grunt.
Neymar wondered if he could possibly get any more turned on than this very moment, with you sucking on his finger as you glanced up at him with those innocent eyes, always so eager to please him. And more than anything, he wished that your lips were wrapped around his growing hardness instead.
He pulled out his finger abruptly, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to his slick hand, and he watched with intent as it broke off. Then his fingers were inside you again, this time adding a second one while he plunged them in and out of you with quick, deft strokes.
Wonton moans escaped your lips each time his fingertips dragged along your walls, touching you at just the right spot where you needed him the most. Neymar relished every whine, every mewl, every whimper that came from you, and he wondered how you would sound like when you finally reached your peak.
“F– feels so good…” Your chest heaved up and down, panting from the pleasure building deep within you as he continued speeding up his strokes. “God, you’re such a good girl for me,” he grunted between clenched teeth, keeping a steady pace with his fingers while his other hand traveled to your breast, giving it a tight squeeze.
The nickname made you feel lightheaded, filling your chest with a euphoric feeling that was difficult to explain. You wanted to be a good girl for him, you wanted to pleasure him the same way he was pleasuring you, you wanted to be his - only his and nobody else.
His fingers continued to move inside you - quick and experienced - stretching you out in the best way possible, and the pleasure that began building within you had slowly become overwhelming. “Ney, I–” you managed to choke out, feeling as if your breath got lodged in your throat. “Shhh, just a little bit more,” he shushed you and placed a kiss on your head, determined to bring you to the sweet release that he knew you so desperately needed.
Your body felt like it was on fire, his touch setting you ablaze while molten heat coursed through you. “I bet you’d feel so good around my cock, baby.” His voice sounded breathless, and the occasional grunts that escaped his lips were clear indicators that he was just as affected by this as you were.
“Ney, please…please,” You weren’t entirely sure what exactly were you begging for, your mind had become far too clouded to form any coherent thoughts. “Does that feel good?” He pressed down even harder, curling two fingers inside you as his thumb rubbed quick circles over your clit, his pace never faltering even when your fingers dug into his arm, nodding your head in a frantic manner.
You could feel yourself get closer and closer to the edge, so dangerously close that all you needed was a little bit more before you could reach your release. Over your fogged-up brain and the deafening heartbeat drumming in your ears, you felt Neymar reach for your hand and laced your fingers together, as if he was telling you to let yourself go.
“Be a good fucking girl and come for me. Show me how good it feels.”
Utter pleasure washed over you, enveloping every fiber of your being while you could feel yourself tumble over the edge. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, feeling your mind go blank from the euphoria you were experiencing.
“There you go, baby.” Your body became limp in Neymar’s embrace, thighs clenching together involuntarily when his fingers continued to pump in and out steadily, working you through your orgasm.
In your peripheral vision, you could see your boyfriend’s face contorting, crumbling together as if he was using every ounce of willpower and self-constraint within him to hold himself back. “Fuck, you look so fucking good right now,” he grunted against your neck, unclasping your hands to bring your face toward him.
“Shit, that was amazing…” you whispered shakily when he leaned in to capture your lips in a bruising kiss. “Feeling less stressed out?” he asked between kisses, and the two of you broke out in laughter knowing damn well you had wasted your precious studying time.
When the laughter subsided, your eyes widened slightly as you felt him grind himself against your lower back, hard and stiff and aching with need.
