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"𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬."
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interactions from @tokyocyborg !!
writing blog @niki-phoria :)
you said that you'd take me home / promise me / you'll never let me go
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ sleeping with sirens - forever/always
(gn reader / fluff / 794 words) charles asks you to help him shave
THE DIM BATHROOM LIGHTS FLICKER OVERHEAD, CASTING A GOLDEN GLOW ACROSS YOUR BATHROOM. you lean over the marble countertops to squint at yourself in the mirror. a thin metal chain hangs from your neck — the same one CHARLES LECLERC had gifted for your anniversary just a few weeks prior. a matching one rested around his own neck, diligently tucked into the collar of his shirt.
beside you, charles blinks sleepily at his own reflection. his stubble had grown out during the break. it was longer than usual, just enough to tickle against your skin when he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. his arms snake around your waist from behind, pulling you backwards until your back presses against his bare chest.
“good morning, mon ange,” he murmurs. his breath ghosts against your ear just enough to make you shiver. you squirm in his hold, barely biting back the giggles that threaten to escape your lips.
I saw you have motogp in your fandom list hehe
Bez has been talking about his bf for a while without really saying his name, like full on simp mode he'll talk about his bf to the point people think his fake, Well f1!male!reader (Who is the current f1 wdc lead) has time for Valencia aka moto gp's last race and he decided to support his bf Bez and he arrived with bez, everyone just stared dumbfounded at bez who is holding hand in hand with reader, who was just looking at him with loving eyes, their like sickly sweet.
⊹ Menomale che ci sei tu in questo mare di facce
"In the midst of all this noise, I only hear your heartbeat"
⋮ Marco Bezzecchi × Male!F1 Driver!Reader
⋆ ONESHOT (wc: 1,7k) ⋮⋮⋮ TAGS just fluff mostly, attempt at humor (please laugh), fluff and humor, established relationship, unspecified team for reader, VR46 Academy mention, bez bikefucker mention too (its hard to ignore the fact that he proposed to his bike on the last gp so yeah). ⋮⋮⋮ EVENT 300 followers event.
⊹ K ⋮ Just mention that I didn't want to talk much about the end of the F1 season or the final race in Abu Dhabi. I only focused on the MotoGP season.
Partners In Crime - Oscar Piastri
✦Oscar finally reveals his new relationship!
❁Oscar Piastri x nonbinary!reader ✦ smau, established relationship
✦Reader is nonbinary, reader is implied to be a streamer, suggestive jokes, some parasocial stuff going on (ew), fans confuse reader for a girl for a bit, classic homophobia and stuff, gossip, Oscar keeps reader private because he wants their peace, reader is androgynous for the most part (and there is no fc just imagine yourself in these photos, pictures of both women and men are used to represent reader!)
❥ There is going to be a part 2! These are based on my experiences with being nonbinary!
(This is a work of fiction. Do not take this literally. Do not assume that Oscar Piastri in real life is a queer person. Do not assume that anything in this fanfic is real. It is just for entertainment. Be kind. If you don’t like it, scroll. Have a nice day<3)
ılıılı · Velvet Ring · Big Thief
Liked by lando, alexandrasaintmluex, lilymunihe, and 53,458,834 others
I would love to read a oneshot where a driver (I don't have a preference which one) takes care of a sick y/n. Lots of fluff and caring please.
The apex of the sneeze
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: oscar flinching cause of sneezes, flu, protective oscar, fluff
Summary: When the winter break brings a brutal bout of the flu, McLaren’s stoic driver Oscar Piastri trades telemetry for tracking fevers. Stepping into full, protective pamper mode, he navigates medicine schedules, makes homemade broth, and hilariously battles his own lightning-fast reflexes every single time his sick girlfriend sneezes.
Requested: Yes/anon
Author’s note: I really hope this is what you had in mind! Used Oscar cause i haven’t written anything about him yet and felt like he could fit the plot. Enjoy!! xx
Word count: 4191
Masterlist
The transition from the frantic, high-octane blur of the Formula 1 season to the absolute stillness of the winter break always felt like a sudden decompression. One week you are surrounded by the deafening roar of V6 turbo-hybrids, flashing cameras, and a sea of papaya orange; the next, you are staring at a gray London sky from the window of a quiet apartment, the silence so heavy it almost makes your ears ring.
For Oscar, that transition was usually seamless. He was a creature of baseline calm, a man whose heart rate seemed to remain stubbornly low whether he was taking a corner at three hundred kilometers an hour or choosing between sourdough and rye at the local bakery. He didn’t do drama. He didn’t do frantic.
But he did do devotion.
It began on a Thursday in early December. The last of his post-season debriefs and PR commitments had finally wound down, leaving them with a clear, uninterrupted stretch of weeks before the simulator work for the next car would inevitably drag him back to the MTC. They had planned a thoroughly lazy fortnight, no flights, no packed schedules, just pure, unadulterated domesticity.
The first sign that something was amiss didn't arrive with a dramatic flourish. It arrived with a cup of tea.
Oscar was sitting on the plush cream sofa, his iPad resting against his thighs as he reviewed some telemetry data from the final race, ld habits died hard, and his brain never fully shut off. You were sitting on the other end, curled into a tight ball beneath a heavy knit blanket that you had dragged from the bedroom.
"You're quiet," Oscar noted softly, his eyes not leaving the screen but his head tilting slightly in your direction. His voice had that characteristic Melbourne cadence, even, low, and laced with a gentle, dry warmth.
"Just cozy," you murmured. Your voice sounded thicker than usual, a little raspy around the edges, like dry autumn leaves scraping across pavement.
Oscar paused. His thumb hovered over the glass screen. He didn't say anything immediately, that wasn't his style, but his internal radar, normally tuned to the subtle mechanical vibrations of a racing chassis, suddenly recalibrated itself entirely to you. He looked up, his calm, dark eyes locking onto your face.
You were pale, save for a high, unnatural flush that bloomed across the bridge of your nose and the tops of your cheekbones. Your eyes looked glassy, heavy-lidded, reflecting the dim afternoon light with a strange, watery sheen.
"Are you warm enough?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual as he set the iPad down on the coffee table.
"Mhm. Perfect." You pulled the blanket tighter around your chin, shivering despite the fact that the apartment’s heating was humming away at a comfortable twenty-one degrees.
Oscar stood up, his tall, lean frame moving with that unhurried, deliberate grace that defined him. He walked over to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. He didn't ask if you wanted tea; he just made it. He chose a chamomile blend, adding a generous, heavy-handed dollop of honey, the way his mother used to do when he was a kid back in Australia.
When he walked back into the living room, carrying the steaming mug, you chose that exact moment to let out a sudden, sharp sneeze.
Oscar flinched. It wasn't a massive, dramatic leap backward, but a highly visible, full-body twitch, a sudden tightening of his shoulders and a sharp intake of breath, his hands instinctively steadying the mug so the hot liquid wouldn't spill. He stared at you, his eyes wide for a fraction of a second before his expression flattened back into its usual carefully guarded composure.
"Bless you," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Thanks," you wheezed, reaching a hand out from beneath the fortress of wool.
When your fingers brushed against his to take the mug, Oscar froze. Your skin wasn't just warm; it felt like a radiator that had been left on high for hours. Your fingertips were burning against his naturally cool hands.
Without a word, Oscar didn't let go of the mug until it was safely in your lap. Instead of returning to his side of the couch, he dropped to his knees on the floor directly in front of you. The sudden proximity made you blink heavily.
"Oscar?"
He didn't answer. He simply raised his right hand, the back of his knuckles smooth and cool, and pressed them gently against your forehead.
The contrast was instantaneous. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh at the cold relief of his skin, leaning into his touch. Oscar, however, felt his chest tighten. Your skin was radiating a dry, baking heat. The fever wasn't just creeping in; it had already set up camp.
"Right," Oscar said, his voice entirely devoid of panic but carrying a new, absolute authority. He withdrew his hand, already mentally organizing a checklist. "You're burning up."
"I'm just a little tired," you tried to protest, but the words were cut off by another sudden sneeze.
Again, Oscar flinched, his head jerking back slightly as if dodging an invisible blow in a boxing ring. It was an involuntary, physical reaction to your illness, a bizarre manifestation of his sudden, overwhelming desire to shield you from the very air you were breathing.
"That's the second time," he murmured, his eyes tracking the way your shoulders shook. "And you're shaking. Stay here. Don't move."
"I wasn't planning on running a marathon," you muttered into your tea, but the humor was weak, drowned out by the heavy lethargy settling deep into your bones.
Oscar vanished down the hallway. You could hear the distant, methodical opening and closing of cabinets in the master bathroom. He wasn't rummaging; he was selecting. When he returned, he was armed with a digital thermometer, a fresh bottle of ibuprofen, a box of tissues, and a massive, oversized McLaren team hoodie that he practically lived in during travel days.
He dropped the hoodie onto your lap. "Put that on. Your clothes are too thin."
"Oscar, it’s huge on me."
"Good. More insulation." He turned on the thermometer, waiting for the digital beep. "Open up."
You obeyed, slipping the plastic tip under your tongue. Oscar stood over you, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his sweatpants, looking for all the world like a race engineer waiting for a crucial telemetry reading during a red-flag stoppage. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes were scanning every detail, the dark circles under your eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your hands trembled slightly against the ceramic mug.
The thermometer beeped. Oscar took it, tilting the small screen toward the light.
Thirty-eight point nine.
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch formed at the corner of his jaw. It was the only outward sign that his internal alarm bells were suddenly blaring at maximum volume. A driver who spent his life managing tire degradation and brake temperatures knew exactly what numbers meant. And this number meant danger.
"Okay," Oscar said smoothly, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, soothing register he used over the team radio when things were going sideways on track. "The couch is done. We’re moving you to the bed."
"But I want to watch the show-"
"I'll move the iPad. I'll move the tea. I'll carry you if I have to, but you're getting into bed." He didn't give you a choice. He reached down, carefully setting your mug on the table, and then extended his hands toward you.
When you tried to stand, your knees felt like spun sugar. You swayed, a sudden wave of vertigo washing over you, and you instinctively reached out for him.
Oscar caught you before your brain could even register the fall. His arms wrapped around your waist and back, pulling you flush against his chest. He was solid, unyielding, and incredibly grounded. Without a single grunt of exertion, he lifted you cleanly off your feet, tucking you into his side as if you weighed nothing at all.
You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your hot breath ghosting across his skin. Oscar swallowed hard, his grip tightening as he carried you down the dimly lit hallway and into the bedroom.
The sheets were cool, but Oscar didn't just dump you there. He laid you down with an almost comical level of precision, ensuring your head hit the center of the pillows perfectly. He pulled the thick duvet up to your chin, tucking the edges beneath your shoulders until you were practically mummified.
"Oscar, I'm going to melt," you complained weakly, though you didn't actually make any move to break free.
"You need to sweat it out. And your hands are still cold," he countered, his logic unassailable. He popped two ibuprofen tablets from the blister pack and handed them to you alongside a fresh glass of water he had seemingly conjured from thin air. "Drink. All of it."
You swallowed the pills, the cool water soothing your raw throat. When you set the glass down, Oscar was already moving around the room with singular focus. He closed the thick blackout curtains, cutting off the drab London twilight and plunging the room into a warm, gentle gloom. He plugged in a small humidifier by the nightstand, filling it with water and a few drops of eucalyptus oil until a fine, fragrant mist began to curl into the air.
He was a man who optimized systems for a living. Now, he was optimizing your recovery.
"Are you staying?" you asked softly, your eyelids already feeling as heavy as lead weights as the medication began its slow work.
Oscar looked down at you from the side of the bed. He had already changed into an old t-shirt and shorts, his hair a little messy from where he’d rubbed his hand through it.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said simply.
He climbed into the bed beside you, moving with immense care so as not to disturb the blankets he had so meticulously arranged. He didn't lie down properly; instead, he propped himself up against the headboard, his long legs stretched out beneath the covers, placing himself like a silent, protective sentinel right next to you.
You shifted, dragging your blanket-wrapped body closer until your head rested against his thigh. Oscar didn't hesitate. His large, warm hand found its way to your shoulder, his fingers gently kneading the tense, aching muscles through the thick fabric of his oversized hoodie.
For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the soft hum of the humidifier and the rhythmic, heavy sound of your breathing. Oscar stared straight ahead, his mind calculating timelines, how long the fever would take to break, when the next dose of medicine was due, what groceries he needed to order to keep the kitchen stocked with liquids.
Suddenly, your chest hitched.
Oscar's entire body went rigid. His hand stopped moving on your shoulder. He froze, his eyes darting down to your face just in time to see you let out a violent, muffled sneeze into the pillow.
Oscar flinched so hard his back hit the headboard with a soft thud. He closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a slow, controlled breath through his nose, before opening them to look down at you with a mixture of profound concern and mild, exasperated trauma.
"You really have no warning with those, do you?" he murmured, his voice laced with that dry, deadpan Aussie humor.
"Sorry," you mumbled into the pillow, your voice sounding even worse now. "Did I scare you?"
"I don't get scared," Oscar lied smoothly, his hand resuming its gentle, rhythmic stroking of your arm. "I was just... checking the structural integrity of the headboard."
"Liar."
"Go to sleep," he whispered, his tone softening into something so tender it made your heart ache more than your throat. "I've got you."
The middle of the night was when the flu truly showed its teeth.
Sometime around three in the morning, the fever peaked. You woke up in a state of confused, disoriented misery, your skin drenched in a cold, sticky sweat while your core felt like it was being scorched by an open flame. You were shivering violently, your teeth literally chattering together, a low, pathetic groan escaping your lips before you could stop it.
The moment that tiny sound cut through the silence of the dark bedroom, Oscar was awake. He didn't stir slowly or blink away sleep; he was instantly, totally alert, as if a green light had just flashed in his mind.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice rough and deep from sleep but entirely present. "Hey, look at me."
He shifted, sliding down the pillows until he was level with you. In the dim light filtering through the crack in the curtains, you could see the intense, unwavering focus in his eyes. He reached out, his hand instantly finding your face. His knuckles met your cheek, and he let out a sharp, quiet breath.
"You're boiling," he muttered.
"Oscar, it hurts," you whispered, tears of sheer physical exhaustion pricking the corners of your eyes. "Everything hurts."
To anyone else, Oscar Piastri was a brick wall, unreadable, stoic, cool under immense pressure. But to you, in the dark of a fever-ridden winter night, that stoicism transformed into an absolute, unshakeable anchor. He didn't panic. He didn't get overwhelmed by your distress. He simply became the calm center of your storm.
"I know. I know it does," he said softly, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that had escaped down your temple. "The fever is just fighting it off. You're okay. I'm right here."
He threw back the heavy duvet, ignoring your small cry of protest at the sudden influx of cool air. "We need to get your temperature down. Just trust me."
He left the bed for less than a minute, returning with a clean, soft washcloth and a bowl of cool water. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his long frame casting a protective shadow over you. Very gently, with the patience of someone handling a priceless, fragile artifact, he pressed the damp cloth to your forehead.
You gasped at the cold shock, but within seconds, the relief washed over you. Oscar didn't stop there. He wiped down your face, your neck, and the pulse points on your wrists, his movements slow, deliberate, and endlessly patient.
Every time you shivered, his jaw would tighten, but his hands remained perfectly steady.
"Better?" he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours.
"A little," you croaked. "Can you... can you just hold me? I'm so cold."
Oscar paused. The rational, analytical part of his brain, the part that understood viral loads and contagion, knew that getting too close to a flu patient during peak fever was a surefire way to ruin his own training schedule. If he got sick, his winter fitness regimen would take a massive hit.
But Oscar didn't look at you like an athlete calculating risk. He looked at you like a man who loved you.
Without a word of complaint, he set the washcloth aside and climbed back under the sheets. He didn't care about the sweat, he didn't care about the germs. He pulled your shaking body directly against his chest, wrapping his long arms and legs around you until you were completely enveloped in his warmth. He was like a human furnace, his steady, slow heartbeat thumping right against your ear.
"You're going to get sick," you mumbled against his collarbone.
"Then I'll get sick," he replied, his chin resting gently on the top of your head. "But right now, you're the priority. Shut your eyes."
He began to trace slow, meaningless patterns on your back with his fingertips, circles, lines, the invisible tracks of circuits he knew by heart. Silverstone, Monaco, Spa. He mapped them out across your skin, a silent, rhythmic language of comfort that slowly, surely, began to lull your panicked, feverish mind back into the twilight of sleep.
Just as you were about to drift off, a sudden tickle in your nose made your eyes fly open. You tried to turn your head away, but you were locked tight in his embrace.
“Achoo!”
Oscar didn't just flinch this time; his entire torso jolted backward against the pillows, his breath catching in his throat as if he had just survived a major broadside collision on track. He stared down at the top of your head, his eyes wide in the dark, his heart rate visibly spiking against your cheek.
"Sorry," you mumbled sleepily, too exhausted to even feel guilty.
Oscar let out a long, slow exhale, his fingers restarting their slow sweep across your back. "That's too many," he muttered dryly. "I'm going to develop a permanent reflex if this keeps up."
"You're brave," you whispered.
"Incredibly," he agreed, his voice dropping to a soft, affectionate rumble. "Now sleep."
When morning arrived, the gray London light filtered through the edges of the curtains, bringing with it a dull, freezing rain that splattered against the glass.
You woke up feeling as though you had been run over by a very large, very heavy truck, but the suffocating, terrifying heat of the night before had finally receded into a dull, manageable ache. The fever had broken.
Oscar was gone from the bed, but the space beside you was still warm.
A few minutes later, the bedroom door creaked open. Oscar walked in carrying a large wooden tray. He looked slightly disheveled, his hair was sticking up in odd directions, and there was a faint smudge of something dark on his forearm, but his expression was one of total, focused determination.
On the tray sat a bowl of steaming chicken broth, a plate of dry toast cut into perfect triangles, a fresh glass of orange juice, and a neat array of cold medicines.
"You're awake," he said, setting the tray down on the nightstand. He immediately reached out, the back of his hand testing your forehead. He let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. "Temperature's down. Still warm, but you're not a radiator anymore."
"Did you make that?" you asked, nodding toward the broth.
"I ordered the ingredients express at six AM," Oscar admitted, pulling the pillows up behind your back so you could sit up. "And then I spent the last forty-five minutes ensuring I didn't burn the apartment down. It's from a recipe my mum texted me. She told me if I messed it up, she’d fly over here and do it herself."
You smiled, the movement stretching your chapped lips. "Thank you, Osc."
He picked up the spoon, blew on the broth with painstaking care, and held it up to your lips.
"Oscar, I can eat by myself," you laughed weakly, reaching for the spoon.
He pulled it back slightly, his expression remaining completely deadpan. "I've entered full pamper mode. It's a non-negotiable directive from team management. Open up."
You couldn't help but chuckle, which turned into a slight cough, but you obeyed. The broth was warm, salty, and incredibly soothing. Oscar fed you the first few spoonfuls with absolute gravity, his hand perfectly steady, his eyes watching you to ensure you were swallowing properly.
Once he was satisfied that you weren't going to collapse, he handed over the spoon and sat back on the edge of the bed, watching you eat.
"Did you sleep at all?" you asked, looking at the faint shadows under his eyes.
"Plenty," he lied effortlessly. "I'm an elite athlete. I can sleep anywhere, under any conditions."
"You were awake every time I moved."
"That was just my fast reaction times," he countered, a tiny, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Gotta keep the reflexes sharp during the off-season. Sneeze defense training."
As if on cue, a sudden, sharp tickle hit your sinuses. You didn't even have time to put the spoon down before you let out a massive, unannounced sneeze.
Oscar’s smirk vanished instantly. His entire body leaped backward about six inches, his shoulders hunching up toward his ears, his hands flying up in a defensive, half-formed guard. He stared at you, blinking rapidly, his chest heaving with a sudden burst of adrenaline.
You froze, the spoon hovering in mid-air, before you burst into a fit of breathless, raspy laughter.
"It's not funny," Oscar said, though the tips of his ears were turning a distinct shade of pink. He lowered his hands, smoothing down his t-shirt with an effort at reclaiming his dignity. "You're like an unexploded ordnance. There’s no countdown. No warning lights. Just... boom."
"I told you I was sorry," you giggled, wiping your nose with a tissue he quickly handed you. "You look like you're dodging a crash."
"I've avoided multi-car pileups at Spa that were less stressful than sitting next to your nose right now," he muttered dryly, though he was already reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch incredibly soft. The humor faded from his eyes, replaced by that deep, steady warmth that he rarely showed the rest of the world, but kept entirely reserved for you.
"How are you really feeling?" he asked softly.
"Better," you said honestly, leaning into his hand. "Still weak, and everything tastes a bit like cardboard, but the fire is gone."
"Good." He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your forehead, right where the fever had been raging just hours before. "Because you're stuck in this bed for the next three days at least. I've already cancelled the grocery run and ordered everything to be delivered. You're doing nothing but resting, watching rubbish television, and letting me take care of you."
"Is that a team order, driver Piastri?"
"Strict compliance is required," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "No exceptions."
For the next forty-eight hours, Oscar was true to his word. He became a ghost in the apartment, always present but moving with a quiet, efficient purpose that ensured you never had to lift a finger.
He monitored your medicine schedule with a precision that would have made the McLaren garage proud. Every four hours on the dot, he would appear by the bedside with a fresh glass of water and the exact dosage required. He kept a running log in the notes app on his phone, temperatures, times, symptoms, treating your recovery like a crucial engineering problem that required a perfect solution.
When you grew tired of the bedroom, he executed a flawless transfer back to the living room, building an elaborate, multi-layered fort of pillows and blankets on the sofa that he deemed "aerodynamically optimized for maximum comfort."
He sat with you through hours of terrible reality television, shows he would normally never have tolerated for a single second. He didn't complain once. He just sat there, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, letting you rest your heavy head against his chest while he occasionally offered dry, devastatingly witty commentary on the contestants.
And through it all, his "sneeze reflex" remained fully active. By day three, it had become a running joke between you. You would feel a tickle, take a sharp breath, and Oscar would instantly stiffen beside you, his eyes darting toward you like a soldier spotting a flare in the night.
"You're getting better at the dodge," you remarked on the third afternoon, curled up against his side as the credits rolled on another episode.
"I'm adapting," Oscar said, his tone perfectly even. "It's all about anticipating the apex of the sneeze. If I can predict the trajectory, I can minimize the splash zone."
"You are ridiculous."
"I'm effective," he corrected, turning his head to look down at you.
The color had finally returned to your face. The glassy, watery look in your eyes was gone, replaced by their usual brightness. Your skin was cool to the touch, your breathing deep and easy. The flu had run its course, defeated by time, medicine, and the absolute, unwavering care of a boy who refused to leave your side.
Oscar looked at you for a long moment, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. For all his stoicism, for all his quiet, reserved nature, the look in his eyes right now was entirely transparent. It was pure, unadulterated relief.
"You're back," he whispered softly.
"Thanks to you," you said, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. "You're a really good nurse, Osc."
"Don't tell Logan or Lando," he murmured, a genuine, soft smile finally breaking across his face as he pulled you close, burying his face in your hair. "They'll start asking me to look after them when they get a cold, and I don't think my reflexes could handle Lando sneezing."
You laughed, the sound clear and bright, echoing through the quiet apartment. Oscar held you tight, his heart beating a steady, calm rhythm against yours, completely content in the quiet safety of the winter break, where the only race that mattered was the one he had just helped you win.
hello, hello :]
might i request oscar × male reader where reader is obsessed with oscar's waist and thighs (in a fluffy or suggestive way, completely up to you on the vibe ^^)
if that is not possible, then perhaps a picnic fluff where reader and oscar nap in the sun?
thanks in advance! have a good day/evening/night :]
and you could be my someone, you could be my scene / you know that i will save you from all of the unclean
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ puddle of mudd - blurry
(gn reader / comfort; suggestive / 1.2k words) you drag oscar back to bed when he spends all night working on data
IT'S LATE. the sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, submerging your apartment into darkness ever so slowly. shadows stretched across the floors until everything blended into nothing, all lost in OSCAR PIASTRI’S peripheral vision. only the blue light from his computer illuminates the room. his tired eyes ache even more when he scrolls through the different documents.
oscar sighs loudly. his computer sits on the small coffee table sitting on your living room rug. the most recent data stares mockingly back at him. the numbers all blurred together after a while. sector times and weather reports and strategies mixed until he wasn’t sure which track he was supposed to be reviewing or why he was looking at it at all.
he folds over, curling into himself so his elbows rest on the top of his thighs. oscar’s hands thread into his hair. he grips the strands between his fingertips. his head throbs with a coming headache. his entire body is stiff. his joints are sore from the tension he didn’t even realize he was carrying.
hi can I request gr63 with a reader (male) who’s very prone to injuries? like every time reader always has at least one injury 🥹. love your writings as always if you don’t want to write this you can just ignore it 🥹
'cause i am lost without you, i cannot live at all / my whole world surrounds you, i stumble then i crawl
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ puddle of mudd - blurry
(gn reader / fluff / 918 words) george takes care of you when you're hurt
“DON’T MOVE.” GEORGE RUSSELL’S hands are gentle against your skin when he gingerly brushes his fingertips against your knee. you hiss at his touch. it sends a fresh rush of pain through you, making you flinch away from him instinctually.
your leg blooms with various hues of red and purple already emerging just beneath the skin. it throbs slightly with irritation, only worsened by your insistence on walking through hospitality by yourself despite the nasty hit against an unfortunately low table. “sorry,” you whisper.
george pulls away with a small frown. the couch in his driver’s room is just long enough for you to comfortably stretch your leg out across the cushions. the fluorescent lights in the ceiling are too bright in the early morning. their harsh light only exacerbates the worst of your fresh injury.
“you have nothing to apologize for,” george says. he crouches beside you on the floor, now shifting his gaze to meet your own. his eyebrows are furrowed slightly. it’s an expression you see often, usually when he’s sitting in your kitchen pouring over data into the early hours of the morning. a cup of tea would sit near him, cold and forgotten. his hair would be tousled from his hands running through it every few minutes. you smile softly at the memory.
mercedes!male driver x kimi, miami grand prix moments? I LUV MERCEDES MALE READER SORRY
and through it all, the rise and the fall / you've always been right here with me all along
(gn mercedes driver reader / fluff / 2.5k words) a collection of moments racing with kimi at the miami grand prix
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ sleeping with sirens - forever/always
THE MIAMI PADDOCK IS ALIVE LIKE FEW OTHERS WHEN YOU ARRIVE. the heat sticks to your skin like honey. chatter greets you on all sides. cameras flash when you pass by, lenses following your every move. your teamkit, just slightly oversized and intentionally made of breathable material, feels heavy on your shoulders.
the mercedes garage feels more like home than your apartment on some days. it’s already swarming with people. you dance around mechanics pushing tires back and forth and strategists bouncing between various data files. somewhere, bono is talking quietly with toto, each of them wearing a matching set of askew headsets.
behind you, an arm slips beneath the hem of your shirt and pressing into the now-exposed silver of flesh on your waist. his fingers brush against your side before you can pull away. you jump at the feeling, the air suddenly knocked out of your lungs. you flinch, curling into yourself as you squirm away from the ticklish feeling.
KIMI ANTONELLI laughs as he settles his arm around you. his hand is cold even as he relaxes it, pressing it into your body warmth. “good morning,” he says with a smile that’s far too mischievous for your liking.
i'm guiding your chin to my lips / using only my fingertips
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ pierce the veil - song for isabelle
(gn reader / fluff to suggestive-ish / 846 words) watching the sunset on the beach with oscar
THE SAND BENEATH YOUR FEET SINK WITH EACH STEP, STILL DAMP FROM WHERE THE TIDE HAS PUSHED ONTO THE SHORE. ahead, the sun slowly sinks below the horizon. its light casts a golden glow across the world. it highlights the ridges of the waves when they push and pull onto the land. the breeze rustles a few nearby tree leaves. their shadows dance along the shore.
beside you, OSCAR PIASTRI slips his hand into your own. you shiver when the cool metal of his watch brushes against your arm. his knuckles brush against yours for just a moment before his fingers trail against your palm. he intertwines your hands together like it’s second nature, offering your hand a gentle squeeze with a fond smile.
“thank you for inviting me here,” you say. you gently knock your shoulder against oscar’s, playfully leaning your body against his own. he chuckles in response, giving your hand another squeeze as you come to pause near the edge of the shore.
ahead of you, the sun has slowly begun to slip out of view. the nearby trees sway in the breeze. the tide laps against the sand every few seconds, stretching as far as your eyes can see. the sky above fills with hues of pink and blue. the swirl together among the clouds. “it really is beautiful.”
oscar smiles, soft and fond. you had seen it before — after races when his mother would wrap him into a tight hug; on the paddock when a fan told him he was her inspiration to start karting; on your phone while scrolling through social media when you had gone to dinner with his sisters. you hadn’t noticed it, then. but it was impossible to miss now. "yeah, it is."
heyyy could i req charles leclerc x reader? maybe charles teaching reader french and talking to them with french endearments? tysmm
every night i burn / every night i fall again
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ the cure - burn
(gn reader / fluff / 894 words) charles teaches you french! (and piano)
SUNLIGHT FILTERS THROUGH THE LINEN CURTAINS HANGING OVER YOUR WINDOWS, REFLECTING GOLDEN LIGHT THROUGHOUT YOUR APARTMENT. the ocean’s waves lap against monaco’s shore in a slow, gentle rhythm. the air smells of sea salt and sand. nearby, a breeze rustles the leaves of a few overgrown trees. the deep sound of a few low piano notes reverberates throughout the space. it cuts through the otherwise quiet afternoon. the scale repeats every few minutes, over and over, until the hesitation and pauses between each note lessens to nothing.
leo’s paws pad quietly against your hardwood floors as he scampers through the space. you follow after him, careful not to step on his smaller body as he weaves between your legs. you chuckle softly as you lean down, catching the dog in your arms to hold him against your chest. he wriggles in your hold but licks your cheek nonetheless.
your footsteps are quiet as you wander into the large, open space of your living room. CHARLES LECLERC sits in the corner, eyes still trained on the keys before him. the piano was a housewarming gift from his family — one of the first things they had gifted when you moved in together. charles had made a habit of letting his fingers wander across the keys, letting his racing mind finally rest through the various melodies.
for a moment, you pause in the doorway. leo makes himself comfortable in your arms, nuzzling his wet nose against the crook of your neck. charles had exchanged his ferrari team kit for an off-white cotton shirt and an old pair of sweatpants. his hair is still damp on the ends from his earlier shower. his fingers dance across the keys almost without care, letting the notes fill the quiet.
charles looks softer. more human.
Hello how are you? May i request kimi antonelli with a reader who likes cheek kisses? Thank u!
baby, you're all that i want / when you're lyin' here in my arms
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ bryan adams - heaven
(gn reader / fluff / 831 words) kimi comes home after a long day and relaxes in the arms of his lover
THE SUN SETTLES OVER BOLOGNA’S BUSTLING STREETS, CASTING A GOLDEN GLOW ACROSS THE WORLD. outside, the world begins to slow. a variety of cars and busses line the narrow streets. rush hour traffic begins to build as the workday ends and people flood home.
summertime humidity still sticks to KIMI ANTONELLI’S skin when he quietly enters your shared apartment. you’re sitting on the couch in your living room only half-watching an old movie playing on the tv. your computer sits on the coffee table in front of you along with a few textbooks. kimi smiles softly, already letting go of some of the tension from the day.
you startle when he all but collapses onto the couch so his body nearly eclipses yours. you press yourself further against the back cushions in an attempt to make more room for kimi’s body beside yours. you squirm when kimi leans up to press a chaste kiss against the curve of your jawline. your giggles mix into the afternoon. “comfortable yet?”
Skeletons (and Guns) in the Closet
A John Wick x Ex-Assassin Male Reader
Summary: You and John have built a quiet life together—peaceful, normal… but neither of you is what you pretend to be. When John accidentally uncovers your past, you both learn something surprising: you’re not alone in the shadows you left behind. And maybe, finally, you can stop running from who you are.
Trigger warnings: PTSD, violence, trauma references, identity concealment, emotional suppression, past abuse, brief mentions of blood, dissociation, mild language, implied mental health struggles, slight smut near the end
A/N at the end! Not beta read, we die like John Wick. Y/N not used, Readers downstairs area isn't mentioned.
FDNI!!!!
Hello If requests are open can i req Charles leclerc x f1 driver reader and Charles is jealous?
IF I PULLED YOU CLOSER, WOULD YOU MIND?
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ PRETTYMUCH - would you mind
(gn!redbull driver reader / hurt comfort kinda, fluff / 1.5k words) charles gets jealous about your relationship with max but you're always there to soothe his worries
YOU’RE STILL STICKY FROM SWEAT AS YOU WANDER BACK INTO THE PRIVACY OF THE COOLDOWN ROOM, DUCKING AWAY FROM THE CAMERAS THAT NEVER SEEM TO GIVE YOU ENOUGH SPACE TO BREATHE. your hands are still shaky from the adrenaline. your heartbeat thumps in your throat and your stomach churns. your breaths are shaky and you can barely feel the air in your chest.
CHARLES LECLERC is better than this. he should be, anyways. he follows behind you and max, tossing his ferrari cap on a random chair in the corner. the screens have already been adjusted. neon colors fill the room, showing your respective numbers and names; two redbull seats and one ferrari.
“hey,” you startle at the feeling of a gentle hand against your shoulder. max pauses, giving you some space, but doesn’t move his hand away. charles swallows the lump in his throat. there’s a familiarity in the action — one he hasn’t earned.
normal roommate things - sd6 x m!reader
for loaf who indulged my sd6 brainworms~ i know i've been absent, sorry gang. life really started swinging a sledgehammer BUT IT'S FINE DW. anyway on to cuteness
-> 2k fluff, getting together, rated T -> player!reader, sam being his usual delightful self; reader joins the sharks and ends up roomies with sam
Early September in San Jose is beautiful, even if you're looking at it from a hotel window.
You'd known going into the summer break that you'd be moving as a free agent; you're young enough to still get a good bid, but exiting your first draft contract. With the Sharks looking to build a dynasty, it's not a surprise they snagged you, and you're honored, but…
But that doesn't make it much easier to move so far so quickly.
jealous kimi x mercedes male reader, maybe with some kisses/affection?
just keep your eyes off him
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ tate mcrae - miss possessive
(gn!mercedes mechanic! reader / fluff; tiny bit suggestive maybe / 980 words) kimi gets jealous when someone starts flirting with you at a party
KIMI ANTONELLI PRIDED HIMSELF ON HIS CONFIDENCE. it was a requirement for his job, after all. signing a position at the mercedes formula one team had brought him to glory. he was faster than most, able to beat some of the world’s best. he was on a winning streak, collecting trophy after trophy. his name fell from the lips of commentators and interviewers, all calling him “someone to look out for” and “the next great mercedes talent.”
but with glory came pressure.
kimi considered you one of the best things to happen to him. your relationship was new but comfortable. years of friendship and months of teasing had eventually culminated in a sweet, if not clumsy kiss. since then, things hadn’t changed much. you arrived and left together. kimi’s wins were celebrated with longer hugs and hidden kisses. and now, he had found himself being dragged to a party with you by his side.
okay very much inspired by your fic today of drivers crashing into you
can i request reader with maybe haas and/or the aston martin boys and reader gets into a crash, and has burns on his hands and is scared to let his bf see or hold his hand cause he’s worried they’re gonna be disgusted by them and just reassuring boyfriends haha
🥄 <3
imma do the haas boys with this one bc i love them so so much (ill do it poly then separately)
esteban ocon x male!reader x ollie bearman (together and seperate)
synopsis: after a crash that practically ended your career, you had been insecure about the burns that was left behind. they ran up your hands and arms, some lighter burn scars being present on your face. and no matter what you say or think about yourself, your boyfriend(s) are always there to remind you of how brave and handsome you are.
author's note: i need to start writing more for bearcon and gabico ngl like i love both of them sm and hardly see anything. (maybe i should start posting fics abt them on ao3?) if yall have any reqs for them send them in!
BEARCON!
they were by your side the moment you were taken out of the car and taken straight to the hospital. they refused to leave your side for days, only taking small breaks to get each other food, to shower, or to sleep. after you were discharged, things became a bit...weird. you tried to avoid your boyfriends. it worried ollie and esteban. you had never been this distant before, not for this long anyways. you wouldn't even let them help you change out bandages.
you only wanted to be left alone and do things by yourself. you stayed in the guest bedroom down the hall from them. you locked yourself in there most of the time. you hated the way you looked now, the burns and scars left made you feel like you weren't you anymore. it took you weeks just to let them back in. you tried to hide your face and hands, but it was no use at all. they would smile, kiss along your scars and praise you.
"you're so handsome," ollie would say, kissing one cheek while esteban gives you soft smiles and pecks on your other cheek.
"our pretty boy looks even prettier," esteban would add, making you flustered and feel secure enough to start making debuts back in the paddock. you wouldn't be racing for the rest of the season, but you would still go to support your loves, just like how they helped you to regain the confidence you once had.
ESTEBAN!
esteban had watched as your car stalled before catching on fire. he almost dnfed himself at the sight. he felt like his heart was being ripped directly from his chest. he was grateful that you weren't severely hurt, but he was still worried about the burns you sustained on your hands. he knew you already hated how shaky your hands are (totally not projecting), so this would be another challenge he would stand by you to help you through.
he helped you regain control of your hands, helped to reapply the burn creams needed as well as bandaging them, and, most importantly, reminding you over and over again how handsome and amazing you are. oftentimes, if he sees you just staring at your hands, he will grab them to place multiple kisses against them to make you giggle and smile. he always says cute little comments to make sure you aren't feeling down. he will write you little notes on the bandages to keep that beautiful smile on your face.
OLLIE!
he probably cried more than you did at the sight of the burns and scars that covered your hands and arms. you weren't so much as upset about them but rather disgusted. you hated the way they made your hands feel and look. it took getting used to but eventually you didn't hate them as much, not until ollie started helping you care for them properly.
seeing how careful and attentive ollie was when helping to rewrap them made you absolutely cry. he was confused as to why you were crying until you explained how loved he made you feel. that was the exact moment ollie got even more lovey about it. he'd kiss your hands and shoulders, your cheeks and nose, anywhere he could reach just to hear you laugh. he loved making sure you knew how loved you were and how badass he thought his boyfriend looked with all these scars. he even brags about it to the other rookies how his boyfriend looks the coolest.
TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)
@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius, @toodeepintofandoms, @altairshusband, @lilliezzzzz
surprise! - wsh2 x m!reader
for anon - wasn't sure exactly what vibe you wanted so went with a lil suggestive but nothing overt, mostly just fluff <3
-> 800ish words, solid T rating -> m!reader surprises will at a game -> lighthearted, mildly suggestive
"Damn, they're already making Pros for the kids?" the guy in your row asks as you shuffle past him to your seat. You laugh a little back at him, giving him a friendly nod, but low-key your heart just started beating a little faster.
Good to know that it looks like an Authentic Pro jersey.
