🟢 WHO I WRITE FOR:
81 | Oscar Piastri, 12 | Kimi Antonelli, 87 | Oliver Bearman.
(open to others, but not prioritized. let's see what happens!)
❌ WHAT I WON'T WRITE:
major character death (mcd), super sexual kinks, children/kid fics.
I have a love hate parasocialship with lando norris. Really no bone in my body was routing for him and I'm honestly mad asf he won but at the same time I can't help but be slightly happy for him and respect his growth as a person ngl
I started of the sport this year and i liked him. felt he was too hated for stuff he said in the past but then he made some comment abt how max is only the way he is cus of Jos and it just pissed me tf off.
He has his moments like every driver where he just pisses me off but he's a good driver and he won cus he was consistent this season. It was a weak win in my eyes but he still deserves it nonetheless, cus once again he was consistent. I like this comment he made about his actions, he's grown as a person and that honestly inspires me.
Overall, congrats to him. Hate watching him was really fun anyway, that being said I hope this never happens again.
Tropes: Athlete x Athlete (Power Couple Energy)/ Secret Identity / Hidden Talent / "Teaching the Expert" / Domestic/First Date Fluff/ Ice Skating Date
Summary: Kimi Antonelli thinks he’s pulling the ultimate romantic move by renting out a private ice rink to teach you—a "beginner"—how to skate without the pressure of a crowd. It’s sweet, charming, and totally unnecessary because you’re secretly an Olympic qualifier desperately trying to act like a normal civilian. You play along with his "lessons" to protect his ego, but when a stumble turns into a near-disaster, your muscle memory takes over. Suddenly, the "clumsy beginner" is landing a perfect spin, and Kimi is left questioning reality (and his own coaching skills) on the ice.
Word Count: 2.4k
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The air inside the private rink was crisp, smelling faintly of ozone and Zamboni fumes. But tonight, it just made your stomach do a nervous flip.
Kimi Antonelli stood by the entrance, looking effortlessly stylish in a thick wool coat and a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He rubbed his gloved hands together, his breath puffing out in small white clouds. This was it. The first official date, and you were currently suffocating under the weight of a very stupid, very well-intentioned lie.
It hadn’t started maliciously. In fact, it started because you were desperate to be anyone other than who you were. To the rest of the world, you were an ice skating prodigy. You were currently the top qualifier for the upcoming Winter Olympics, carrying the weight of a nation’s gold-medal hopes on your back.
Then you met Kimi. He didn't know about the medals or the grueling schedule. To him, you were just a girl he met at a party who had a nice laugh and pretty eyes. You wanted to keep it that way. You wanted to know if he liked you, not the athlete on the Wheaties box.
The "lie" had happened a week ago, during a casual text conversation. You were lying on your couch with an ice pack on your knee, exhausted after a six-hour training block, when his name popped up on your screen. You were talking about holiday plans.
Kimi: I drove past that outdoor rink downtown today. It looks really cool with all the trees lit up.
You: Yeah, it’s really pretty this time of year.
Kimi: Have you been? We should go.
You had hesitated, your thumbs hovering over the screen. The last thing you wanted to do was tell him that the rink was your office, your torture chamber, and your sanctuary all wrapped in one. You didn't want to explain that you couldn't go to a public rink because you’d be recognized, or that skating on chopped-up public ice was a recipe for a twisted ankle.
So, you tried your best to shoot it down fast.
You: Honestly? I haven't gone skating just for fun in years. I’m probably totally out of the loop.
It was technically true. You hadn't skated for fun since you were six.
But judging by your current circumstance, he probably had interpreted that text very differently. He probably read “I haven't done this in years” as “I don't know how to skate, and I'm nervous.”
Kimi: That’s a crime. Everyone needs to skate at Christmas. Are you free on Friday?
Kimi: Don't worry about being rusty. I played a little hockey growing up. I’ll teach you.
You had stared at the phone, a laugh bubbling in your chest. Kimi Antonelli, offering to teach you, an ice princess, how to skate. It was the cutest, most ridiculous thing you’d ever heard. You didn't have the heart to correct him then because it felt rude to shut down his enthusiasm. You figured you’d tell him later.
But "later" never happened. And now, standing at the edge of the rink he had rented out specifically so you wouldn't be embarrassed by your “lack of skill”, you realized it didn't feel harmless anymore…in fact, it felt like a ticking time bomb.
"So," Kimi said, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gestured to the expanse of white. "Surprise."
You blinked, looking around. The rink was silent—no screaming kids, no hockey practice, no other couples. It was just the two of you.
"Where is everyone?" you asked, clutching your tote bag tighter.
"I rented it out," Kimi said, looking proud of himself. "Two hours. Just us."
Your heart sank. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for you, and it was also a tactical disaster.
"I figured we could use the space," he continued, leaning in conspiratorially. "Plus, I didn't want you to feel self-conscious if you fell. And... well, honestly, I know how the press gets. I didn't want you waking up to news articles micro-analyzing everything just because you were seen with me. I wanted to save you the burden."
He paused, the realization of his own words hitting him. He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Wow. Okay. I realize I sound like a total ego-maniac right now. 'Oh no, the world is obsessed with me.' Please pretend I didn't say that. I just... I want this to be perfect."
A knot of guilt tightened in your stomach. He wasn't doing this to show off; he was genuinely trying to protect you. If you dropped the bomb now, you wouldn’t just be clearing up a misunderstanding. You’d be taking this incredibly thoughtful, romantic gesture and turning it into a punchline at his expense. You couldn't humiliate him like that, not when he looked so earnest.
"That's... that's amazing, Kimi," you managed, forcing a smile.
"Do you need rentals?" he asked, pointing to the counter.
You hesitated. Your custom Edea boots with the gold-plated blades were actually in the trunk of your car, hidden under a blanket. But walking in with professional gear would be an immediate confession. You had to commit.
"Yeah," you lied, forcing a cheerful smile. "I definitely don't own any."
You were officially a liar.
—————————————
Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the bench, watching Kimi lace up his rental skates. He moved with the easy physical confidence of a Formula 1 driver.
He stood up, wobbling only slightly on the hard rubber mats before stepping onto the ice. He wasn't a figure skater, but he had that natural athlete's center of gravity. He skated backward a few feet, rough and scratching the ice, then held his hands out to you.
"Come on," he beckoned, his eyes warm. "Grab my hands. The ice is slippery, but don't worry. I've got you."
You stepped onto the ice. Your body instantly tried to engage—knees bent, weight over the ball of your foot, shoulders aligned. You had to fight your muscle memory actively, stiffening your legs and letting your ankles wobble artificially.
You grabbed his forearms, clinging to him like a lifeline. "Okay," you squeaked. "Okay, I'm up."
Kimi beamed, taking his role as protector very seriously. He began to pull you forward slowly. "See? Not so bad. Just keep your knees bent more. You're too stiff."
"Like this?" You bent your knees, and you didn't want to ruin his moment.
"Yeah, exactly. And look where you want to go, not at your feet," he coached. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to your coach, who usually barked this specific instruction across a freezing arena at 6:00 AM. "If you look down, you fall."
"That makes sense," you murmured.
You stopped worrying about the lie for a moment and just looked at him. He was just... caring. For the first time in years, you weren't the expert everyone was critiquing. You were just a girl holding a boy's hand, and he was genuinely worried about you skinning your knees. It was surprisingly nice to let someone else take care of you.
As his confidence grew, he loosened up. He dropped your hand for a second, picking up speed. He did a quick lap around you, the wind ruffling his hair, before executing a loud, spraying hockey stop right in front of you.
He looked up, breathless and grinning, waiting for your reaction. He looked so proud of himself that your heart actually squeezed in your chest. He put his hand back with yours.
"See?" he beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's all about the edges."
—————————————
Kimi was skating backward, his eyes locked on yours, his smile confident and distracted. He never saw the deep, jagged rut left by a previous skater’s toe-pick.
His left blade hit the gouge and locked instantly. His legs flew out from under him, sending Kimi crashing down, his heavy wool coat hitting the ice with a dull, sickening thud.
But because he was holding your hands, he didn't just fall but also took you with him.
He jerked you forward with violent force. You were pulled off your center of gravity, your dull rental skates clattering against his as you stumbled over his prone form.
"Whoa!" Kimi shouted.
Instinctively, he let go of your hands to break his fall. It was the chivalrous thing to do, but physically, it was the worst possible variable.
You were launched.
The stumble propelled you like a stone from a sling, hurling you toward the rink boards. A true beginner would have flailed, panicked, and braced for impact, likely shattering a wrist or a nose against the unforgiving hard plastic.
But you didn't think. Your instinct took over.
You were falling forward, inches from the disaster. Instead of crashing, your core engaged with a violent, steel-trap snap. You slammed your right blade into the ice, forcing an edge out of the dull rental steel that shouldn't have been physically possible.
You turned a fatal stumble into a low, crouching lunge.
You were hurtling toward the wall at speed, but you punched your left toe-pick into the ice in time, whipping your body around in a blur of kinetic energy.
SCREEEEECH.
You spun out of the momentum—three rapid rotations on one foot, a blur of perfect axis and balance—before checking out of the spin with a sharp, professional snap of your arms.
You came to a dead, silent halt.
You were alive and safe, but you had just outed yourself completely.
You slowly slid into a graceful rest position and turned around.
Absolute, heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the rink’s generator and the ragged sound of your own breathing.
Kimi was still sitting on the ice. He was propped up on his elbows, legs sprawled. His beanie had slid over his eyes, but he pushed it back with a trembling hand. He wasn't looking at his bruised knees. He was staring at you as if he’d just watched an abomination.
You stood there, the adrenaline crash hitting you, replaced instantly by a wave of hot mortification.
"Are..." Kimi’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," you breathed out, smoothing your coat.
Kimi pointed a gloved finger at you, then at the wall, then back at you.
"You just..." He mimicked a spinning motion with his hand, looking bewildered. "You just Matrixed that wall."
"I..." You scrambled for an excuse. Beginner's luck? Extreme Yoga?
But there is no explaining away a bracket turning into a scratch spin on rental skates.
Kimi scrambled to his feet, ignoring the snow clinging to his coat. He skated over to you. He stopped a few feet away, staring at your battered rental skates as if they were alien technology.
"That wasn't an accident," he said, his voice breathless. He pointed a trembling finger at your feet. "You just did a perfect axle.”
He looked up, searching your face like he was seeing it for the first time. The dim rink lighting cast shadows across his features as the gears in his head finally clicked into place. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head.
"Kimi—" you started, trying to interrupt the train wreck.
"Who are you?" he asked, genuine panic bleeding into his tone. "Normal people don't do that. Are you a pro or something??”
"It started as a joke!" you said quickly, hands flying up in defense. "And then you were being so sweet, and holding my hand, and I didn't want to make you feel bad!"
"I literally explained to you how to balance on ice five minutes ago," Kimi said, his voice rising an octave. He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking genuinely distressed. "I was 'teaching' you. I was holding your hand so you wouldn't fall. And you... You're a pro. How deep does this go?”
"I qualified for the Olympic team last week," you admitted, wincing as the words hit the air.
Kimi made a strangled, dying noise. He turned around, skated a small, clumsy circle, and buried his face in his hands.
"I am never going to recover from this," came his muffled voice. "I felt so cool. I told you to bend your knees! I told an Olympian to bend her knees!"
"If it makes you feel better," you said, skating closer, smoothly now, and gently prying his hands away from his face. "My coach yells at me about my knees, too."
He peeked through his fingers. His face was flushed bright red, a combination of the biting cold and catastrophic embarrassment. "I looked stupid."
"You didn't look stupid," you said softly. "You looked gallant…until you tripped."
He groaned, finally dropping his hands to his sides. "I nearly killed you, and then you turned into a ninja."
"I have good reflexes," you offered with a sheepish smile.
"No," he shook his head, looking at you with a new, intense kind of awe. "You're just amazing."
———————————————
The power dynamic had shifted entirely, but the tension had evaporated. For the last twenty minutes of the session, the charade was dead.
"Okay, but seriously," Kimi said, watching you skate backward with effortless speed, his eyes filled with envy. "How did you find an edge on these? They're like butter knives."
"Fear is a great motivator," you laughed, spinning around to face him. "Here, give me your hands."
You took his hands. "Shift your weight to your heels and stop fighting the ice."
You spent the rest of the time actually teaching him. He was a quick learner; his driver’s brain understood weight transfer and instinct once you explained the mechanics.
As the overhead lights flickered, signaling the end of the session, you stepped off the ice. "You know," he said as you walked out into the biting cold of the parking lot, snow beginning to drift down around you.
"What?" you asked, wrapping your coat tighter against the wind.
He stopped at the car, opening the passenger door for you. He looked at you, his eyes dancing with a competitive spark that you recognized all too well. It was the look of an athlete who had just lost a round and was already planning the rematch.
"Next date," he declared, "we are going go-karting."
You laughed, pausing as you climbed in. "Why?"
"So I can regain my dignity," he said, dead serious.
"Deal," you grinned.
He leaned in then, the cold air between you vanishing. He kissed you. It was soft, sweet, and lingering under the falling snow. It felt better than any podium finish.
"But just so you know," you whispered against his lips, pulling back just an inch. "I'm a fast learner."
Kimi groaned, resting his forehead against yours, defeated but smiling. "Please, just let me win one."
Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Winter Fluff, Matchmaker Lando Norris, Secret Pining, He fell first but has social anxiety, Grumpy x Sunshine (Perceived), The "I thought you hated me" confession.
WARNING: Swearing, Angst, Slight Makeout session.
Summary: Mandatory Decompression." That’s what Zak Brown called the forced team-building trip to the Austrian Alps. You just called it a nightmare. You’ve spent two years convinced that Oscar Piastri hates your guts. You were prepared to ignore him for the whole trip. But then Lando Norris discovers a "local legend" about soulmates matching clothes, and you make the fatal mistake of wearing your limited edition, 1-of-50 ugly Christmas sweater to the village festival. The problem? Oscar is wearing the exact same one. Between three-legged races, aggressive mistletoe, and a very specific gingerbread cookie, you’re forced to realize that maybe Oscar’s silence wasn’t hatred after all.
Word Count: 5.6K
A/N: 5.6K WORDS IS CRAZY WORK. What was I on please. Never mind, this is my fave fic of all time. Lando Noriss and Oscar Piastri bromance, please. I totally do not know if the angst is good enough, but what I DO KNOW IS THAT I enjoyed making Lando "Hypeman/Matchmaker" Norris so much. MORE PAPAYA BOYS PLEASE <3
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"Mandatory Decompression." That was what the email from Zak Brown had called it.
In reality, it was a forced team-building retreat in the middle of a snow-buried village in the Austrian Alps. The F1 season was over, the post-season testing was done, and instead of being on a beach in Dubai, the entire McLaren lineup, including the F1 Academy team, had been shoved onto a bus and driven up a mountain.
"It’ll be good for morale!" Zak had insisted as we boarded. "Fresh air will be a nice change of pace!"
The bus ride had been three hours of Lando Norris trying to hijack the aux cord to play Christmas techno, and Oscar Piastri sitting across the aisle from you, noise-canceling headphones on, staring out the window with the enthusiasm of a statue.
You’d spent the ride glaring at the back of his head. Technically, you were part of the same "Papaya Family," but the dynamic was complicated. You were McLaren’s chosen driver for the F1 Academy series. Oscar and Lando were part of the main F1 team. You shared the same simulator days at the MTC, and the media managers loved the narrative of the “McLaren trio," but the reality was a lot colder, well, between you and Oscar, anyways.
You never got along with him. It stemmed from your very first week at McLaren. Fresh out of the contract signing, buzzing with adrenaline, and desperate to prove you deserved the seat, you’d just finished a grueling simulator session.
"Track limits are just a suggestion, right?" you’d joked, wiping your forehead as you almost bumped into him in the doorway. It was a nervous attempt at charm, a way to break the ice with the guy you’d been secretly admiring since his junior days and someone you desperately wanted to get to know beyond the "Future World Champion" label.
Oscar hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t even looked at you; he was looking past your shoulder at the telemetry screens on the wall. "You lost three tenths in Turn 4," he’d said, his voice completely flat. "You’re overdriving the entry… It’s…definitely a choice…”
Then he walked past you and stepped into the rig you’d just vacated, leaving you standing there feeling like a scolded schoolchild. You’d decided right then and there: You will never let Oscar Piastri walk all over you ever again.
By the time the bus hissed to a halt in the village square, you were stiff, freezing, and ready to fight someone for a hot drink.
"Right, everyone dumps their bags at the hotel," Zak shouted over the wind. "Meet at The Rusty Antler in twenty minutes. Don’t you dare try to sneak off; this is still a workday.”
—————————————————
Twenty minutes later, you were trudging through shin-deep snow toward the local pub. Oscar was walking a few paces ahead of you. He didn't even shiver. He just walked with those infuriatingly gigantic strides, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"You know," you called out, stepping over a slush puddle, "some people help their teammates so they don't die of hypothermia."
Oscar stopped and turned. The snow was catching in his eyelashes. He looked at your shivering form, then at the pub entrance five meters away.
"We are ten seconds from the door," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "The probability of you freezing to death in that timeframe is statistically impossible."
"You're the worst," you muttered, brushing past him and shoving the heavy wooden door open.
Oscar followed you in, the bell above the door jingling.
The change in atmosphere was instant. The pub was suffocatingly warm, smelling of stale ale and burning timber. Outside, the Austrian winter was doing its best to bury the village in white, but inside, the McLaren team was doing its best to be the loudest group in the establishment.
You shed your heavy coat and grabbed a drink, sliding into a booth. Oscar sat in the corner, as far away from the center of attention as possible.
But peace was never an option with this team.
Suddenly, Lando Norris stood on a chair, a crumpled pamphlet in his hand, looking like a town crier who’d had three too many pints.
"Oi! Guys! Listen to this!" Lando shouted, kicking the table leg to get attention. He waved a crumpled pamphlet in the air enthusiastically. "According to this legend—I'm not making this up—there's a saying..."
"That is definitely not a real thing," you muttered into your drink.
“'That those who match the wool, match the soul!'" Lando continued, ignoring you completely. "'If two strangers wear the same threads on the Night of the Frost, which is coincidentally tomorrow, their fates are woven together forever. It’s destiny, mate!"
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. "Please, Lando. If destiny relied on mass-produced knitwear, half this pub would be accidentally married to each other by midnight."
"You're just cynical because you didn't pack anything festive," Lando teased.
You glanced across the table. Oscar was nursing a glass of water, looking bored, scrolling through his phone with that detached, calm expression that always drove you crazy. Oscar looked up, felt your eyes on him, and offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before going back to his screen.
Arrogant fucking asshole, you thought.
"Right, I’m heading back to the hotel," you announced, standing up and grabbing your coat. "But for the record, Lando, I did pack something festive for tomorrow. It is absolutely hideous. So if your stupid legend is real, I might actually find my soulmate. God help the poor guy."
—————————————————
You stood in front of the mirror in your hotel room, tugging at the hem of your sweater. It was a masterpiece of bad taste—a thick, scratchy knit featuring a pixelated F1 car crashing violently into a snowman. The snowman’s head was flying off in a spray of red yarn. It was a limited release, 1-of-50. You bought it purely because it made you laugh.
"Showtime," you whispered.
You walked back toward the town square, where the team had gathered for the festival opening. The cold air hit your face, but the sweater was surprisingly insulated. You rounded the corner to the designated meeting spot by the massive outdoor fireplace and saw Lando first, grinning like a maniac. Then, you saw the figure standing next to him.
Standing there, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too unbothered, was Oscar. He was wearing the exact same sweater. The pixelated crash. The decapitated snowman. The garish orange trim.
Just like that, your mood immediately turned sour. Oh, hell no. You blinked, hoping it was a hallucination. It wasn’t.
Lando’s stupid pamphlet echoed in your head like a curse. Those who match the wool, match the soul.
It felt like a cosmic punch to the gut. Of all the people in the world, the universe just had to pair you with him. And the worst part was that deep down, in the pathetic, secret corner of your heart you refused to acknowledge, you wanted it to be true.
You had spent two years burying that initial spark of admiration, shoveling dirt over the crush you’d developed watching him dominate F2, all because he had made it crystal clear on day one that he found your existence barely tolerable. You had forced yourself to accept that he hated you. You had learned to wear a mask of indifference to protect your pride.
What were the actual odds? Fifty of these sweaters are in existence, and somehow, one was on you, and the other was currently worn over the frustratingly broad shoulders of your arch-nemesis.
Lando took one look at you, then at Oscar, and practically fell off the bench he was leaning on. "NO FUCKING WAY! The Legend! This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Oh my God, should I prepare my best man speech for the wedding?”
Oscar looked down at his own chest, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours. He didn’t even react. He just raised a single eyebrow.
"Well," Oscar said, his voice flat. “This is going to be awkward.”
"Take it off, Piastri.” You warned him.
"No," he said simply. "It’s warm."
“We are going to be the topic of conversation among the locals," You glared at him, panic rising in your chest. "And I seriously do not want to be the subject of some weird romantic misunderstanding. Especially not with you. So go change."
Oscar went still. For the briefest microsecond, his eyes flickered. The calm, bored expression cracked, revealing a flash of genuine hurt before he blinked it away.
"I packed light," Oscar lied. You knew he lied because he traveled with three suitcases. “Besides, I have no time to look for something else right now.”
The damage was instantaneous. The local villagers, primed by Lando’s earlier shouting, immediately clocked the matching outfits. Old ladies were pointing and cooing, while Lando whispered loudly to everyone near him that both of you were "shy lovers" who needed a good nudge.
"I am going to push you into the fire," you threatened Lando.
"Save that aggression for the games!" Lando chirped, grabbing your shoulders.
"Games?" You frowned, looking between him and the crowd gathering in the square. "What games are you talking about?"
"The Night of the Frost Trials, obviously," Lando said, waving a hand at the obstacle course being set up in the snow. "The locals hold it every year. And Zak, being Zak, has decided that Team McLaren must participate in pairs to…increase team morale.”
You scoffed. "Fine. I'll pair up with you, then. Let's go."
"Ah, see, I would love that," Lando said, backing away with a mischievous grin. "But unfortunately, the locals are very specific about the rules."
He pointed to a group of elderly village women who were nodding enthusiastically at you and Oscar, pointing at your matching chests.
"According to the fine print," Lando explained, tapping the paper with mock solemnity, "' To separate a Woven Pair is to invite great misfortunes among them.' Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that translates to McLaren having the worst possible year in F1 History.”
He leaned in, raising his eyebrows. "You wouldn't want to be personally responsible for that, would you? Imagine explaining that to Zak."
"That is ridiculous," you argued, turning to the nearest villager. "Tell him that's ridiculous."
The old woman just clapped her hands. "Das Schicksal! The soulmates must be pairs!"
Lando shrugged, looking delighted. "See? Can't argue with tradition, mate. Go on, off you pop."
He shoved you right into Oscar. He caught you instantly, his hands shooting out to grip your waist and steady you against his chest.
For a heartbeat, the chaos of the festival faded. You were pressed right up against him, your hands instinctively clutching his forearms for balance. He felt surprisingly solid, warm, and sturdy against the biting cold.
“Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. His hands lingered on your waist, thumbs brushing against the scratchy fabric of your sweater.
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. “Gotta admit, Lando can be pretty annoying sometimes."
Before you could process why your heart had suddenly decided to race faster than an F1 engine, a local villager dropped to her knees at your feet.
"Das Band!" she cheered.
The moment was shattered as she began aggressively tying your ankles together with a thick red ribbon
—————————————————
The first trial was the three-legged race, and it was an immediate disaster. You were trying to be fast because Lando was beating both of you, while Oscar was trying to establish a walking rhythm.
"Go, go, go!" you yelled, practically jumping forward.
Oscar dug his heel into the snow, bringing you to an abrupt halt. "Stop hopping. You're going to face-plant."
"We're in last place, Oscar! Move your legs!" you shouted, pointing at the two grandmothers currently speeding past you.
"We're in last place because you're flailing like a caffeinated child," Oscar countered, looking down at your tied ankles. “For God's sake, can you please just match my stride. Inside leg on my count."
"I hate you," you panted, but you stopped hopping.
"Sentiment noted. Now focus," he said calmly.
It was annoying, but he was right. Once you stopped fighting him and matched his pace, you started gliding past people. You didn't win, but you finished second. And more importantly, you didn't eat snow.
The adrenaline faded as the group moved to the gingerbread station. You were currently drowning a gingerbread man in green icing, creating something that looked more like a biological hazard.
"Is that supposed to be a tree, or did the gingerbread man get radiation poisoning?" Oscar asked, leaning over your shoulder.
“Art is subjective, Piastri." You scoffed, glancing at his workspace. “Like yours is any bet—“
You stopped. Looking down at the tray, you realized he hadn't made a snowman or a reindeer.
He’d made a tiny, edible version of you.
Specifically, he’d recreated your helmet design on the cookie’s head. The detail was absurd; he’d even nailed the specific jagged lines of your visor strip.
"Is that... my helmet?" you asked, pointing with a sticky finger.
Oscar froze, his hand hovering over the tray. He blinked, looking at the cookie like he’d just realized what he was doing.
“Uhm, no, it’s not," he said, his voice casual but slightly higher than usual.
Snap.
In one swift motion, Oscar picked up the cookie, bit the head off, and chewed decisively.
What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
“Let's go. We were never gonna win against the grandmas in a cookie decorating game anyway," he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs, grabbing his mug of hot chocolate.
He nudged you away from the table, guiding you toward a patio heater near the edge of the square. The snow was falling heavily now, creating a quiet curtain around you. You leaned against the warmth, watching the steam rise from your breath, while Oscar finished destroying the evidence of his gingerbread affection.
"You know," you said, "You could have swapped sweaters with Lando or something. Saved yourself the embarrassment of matching with a radioactive gingerbread-making aficionado.”
Oscar swallowed the last of the cookie, wiping a crumb from his lip. He looked at you intently,
"I don't mind the embarrassment," he said quietly. Then, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Besides... have you seen Lando's complexion? This shade of orange would wash him out completely. He’d look terrible."
You laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise you both. "He really would."
—————————————————
After the gingerbread fiasco, both you and Oscar tried your best to win the other games, but because Lando Norris was an absolute shit head who bribed the local grannies to help him, it was not shocking to see him win.
“I AM THE CHAMPION!" Lando screamed, sliding across the finish line with his partner, "Team LN04 takes the gold! Suck it!"
You stood shivering near the sidelines. You and Oscar had come in a respectable second, but the emotional toll of being physically tethered to the man you’d been trying to ignore for years was starting to weigh heavily.
"Group photo!" Lando yelled, scrambling up and waving frantically. "Everyone under the arch! We need a new photo for the office.”
You sighed, trudging toward the massive pine archway decorated with holly. You tried to stand at the edge, aiming to disappear into the foliage, but Lando, high on victory and sugar, grabbed your shoulders and shoved you right into the center, directly next to Oscar.
"Smile!" Zak Brown called out, holding up a professional-grade camera. "Closer! Squeeze in, not everyone can be seen!"
You stiffened, forced to step sideways until your arm was pressed firmly against Oscar’s. You could feel the heat radiating off him through the sweater. He stood rigid, his hands buried deep in his pockets, staring straight ahead like a man awaiting a firing squad.
The flash went off, blinding you for a second. You let out a breath, ready to step away and escape the awkward proximity.
But nobody moved.
Instead, a hush fell over the front row of the crowd. A few local teenagers started giggling and pointing upward. Lando followed their gaze, his eyes widening with delight.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," you whispered.
Hanging directly above your heads, tied with a velvet red bow, was a sprig of mistletoe the size of a cabbage.
One of the village elders shouted, pointing a gloved finger at the two of you. "Das Paare! The two must kiss!"
You tried to laugh it off, taking a step back. "Ha, yeah, very funny. Good game, everyone."
"No, no!" Another voice joined in. "Bad luck if you don’t!"
"Bad luck for the Constructors' Championship!" Lando shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.
The crowd laughed, and suddenly, the atmosphere shifted from a casual photo op to a public spectacle. The chant started low, a rumble from the back of the square, but it spread like wildfire.
“Kiss her!!”
You looked around, searching for an exit, but the crowd had formed a semi-circle, effectively boxing you in against the archway. Phone cameras were rising like a sea of digital eyes, all recording and waiting.
"Come on, guys!" Lando cheered, not helping at all as he lowered his camera to watch. “Just a bit of Christmas fun!”
The pressure felt physical, pressing against your chest. It wasn't just a joke anymore.
You glanced up at Oscar. He hadn't moved an inch. His jaw was clenched so tight, his gaze fixed resolutely on a point in the snowy distance. He looked like the idea of kissing you was so repulsive that he had to physically dissociate to get through the moment.
It was a fucking punch to the gut.
If he had laughed it off, you could have handled it. If he had rolled his eyes and given you a quick, platonic peck on the cheek just to shut everyone up, you could have survived. But this? Paralysis? It was so much worse.
He would rather stand here in agonizing silence than touch you.
He was literally holding his breath, as if sharing the air between you was so agonizing. It was the final nail in the coffin of every stupid daydream you’d ever entertained. You realized, with a sickening drop in your stomach, that Oscar Piastri couldn't think of a worse fate than being woven into yours.
"KISS! KISS! KISS!"
The chanting was rhythmic now, accompanied by clapping. Lando was jumping up and down, and the grandmas were cheering.
You felt your face heat up from the sharp, stinging humiliation. It hit you all at once. Not just the tiredness of the day, but the exhaustion of years.
You had spent them pretending that Oscar’s coldness didn’t sting, pretending that him hating you was a fact of life you can’t erase. This entire "soulmate" charade? It was a cruel, flashing neon sign mocking you with the one thing you desperately wanted but knew you’d never have. It wasn’t a fun joke to you anymore.
It was torture.
Something inside you snapped. Everything was too much now—the cold, the exhaustion, the stupid sweater, and the overwhelming proximity to a guy who clearly couldn't wait to get away from you.
You felt the hot prick of tears behind your eyes.
Don't cry, you commanded yourself. Do not cry in front of the grid.
"I... I need a second," you mumbled, ducking your head.
You didn't wait for a response. You pushed through the crowd, ignoring Lando’s confused "Oi, where are you going?" and bolted toward the edge of the village square.
You found a quiet spot behind the old church, where the fairy lights didn't reach, and the snow was untouched. You leaned against the rough stone wall, taking jagged breaths, trying to force the tears back down.
Stupid, you thought. Stupid myth. Stupid feelings. Stupid Oscar.
Then, the fast crunch of footsteps accompanied your thoughts.
"Go away, Lando," you choked out, wiping your eyes furiously with your sleeve. "I'm not in the mood."
"It's not Lando."
You froze. You knew that voice. It was flat, calm, and infuriatingly nice to hear from the person you did not want to see right now.
Panic clawed at your throat. Why was he here? Was the public humiliation not enough? Did he feel the need to come out here and clarify the rejection verbally? Did he want to list the statistical probabilities of why you and he were incompatible? Or worse— he was here to scold you and to tell you that running away was unprofessional, that you were making the team look bad?
You couldn't handle his calm, detached rationality right now, while you were currently held together by spite and heartache. You stiffened, forcing your spine straight against the cold stone wall, and wiped your face aggressively, desperate to erase any evidence of the tears.
You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
You wouldn't let him see that his silence had broken you.
Oscar was standing there, slightly out of breath as he had jogged after you.
"What do you want, Oscar?" you snapped, your voice shaking violently and sounding broken. "Did you come to finish the job? Do you want to list all the reasons why the idea of kissing me was so repulsive that you literally froze in front of the entire grid?"
Oscar stopped a few feet away. He looked winded, his cheeks flushed from the cold, but his brow was furrowed in deep, genuine confusion.
"I didn't—I came to see if you were okay," he said, breathless. "You left in a hurry."
"I'm fine," you lied, crossing your arms tightly over the sweater, trying to hold yourself together physically. "I just got tired of the joke. I know you hate it. I know you hate me."
Oscar blinked, taking a step back as if you’d physically shoved him. "What?"
"Stop it. Just stop," you choked out, the anger finally boiling over. "Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. I’ve known since day one. 'Track limits are a suggestion.' Remember? You looked at me like I was a child. Like, I was a waste of a simulator seat."
You stepped forward, poking a finger hard into the pixelated snowman on his chest.
"I know I'm loud. I know I drive like physics is just a polite suggestion. I know I’m messy and emotional and everything a 'proper' McLaren driver isn't. But I admired you, Oscar. I watched your races since your karting days, and I was so pathetic that I was actually excited to be your teammate."
Your voice cracked, betraying the sob rising in your throat.
"But you’ve looked down on me since the moment we met. You made me feel small. And tonight? Standing under that archway? You looked like you wanted to vomit at the thought of being inches beside me. So just... go back. Go celebrate with Lando. You don't have to pretend to care about the 'diversity hire' just because we're wearing matching jumpers."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and deafening. The only sound was the wind howling through the trees and your own ragged breathing.
Oscar stood there, his mouth slightly open. The color had drained from his face. He looked struck.
"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "That I look down on you?"
"Yes! Your silence made that pretty loud and clear!"
"You have it completely wrong," he said, his voice rising for the first time, cracking with a sudden, desperate intensity. He took a sharp step closer, invading your space. "I don't look down on you. I'm... I'm terrified of you."
You stared at him, the wind knocked out of you. "Bullshit."
"It's not," he insisted, running a hand through his hair, destroying his perfect style. He looked frantic. "Do you have any idea what it’s like? You walked into the MTC that first day, and you were... You were magnetic. You were joking with the engineers, you were laughing, you were so effortless. You have this energy that just pulls everyone into orbit around you. And I… I don’t know how to do that.”
He looked down at his boots, shaking his head, before forcing his gaze back to yours. His eyes were dark, intense, and filled with a raw honesty that terrified you.
"I didn't ignore you because I thought you were a joke. I stared at the data screens because I couldn't look you in the eye without forgetting how to speak. You don't make sense to me. You make me nervous. I didn't know how to talk to you without sounding like a socially inept idiot, so I just... didn't. And then I panicked and criticized your turn entry because racing is the only language I’m fluent in.”
You stood there, stunned, the snow melting on your burning cheeks. He wasn't looking at you with judgment. He was looking at you with a terrified, exposed vulnerability that you had never seen on his face
"You... you’re actually scared to talk to me?" you whispered, the realization hitting you like a physical weight.
He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "Especially tonight."
He took a deep breath, stepping fully into your personal space. You could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You think I don't notice you?" His voice dropped, thick with frustration. "I notice everything. I know you drink your coffee black to try and impress people, but when there’s no one watching, you add three sugars. I know you hum to yourself when you’re calibrating the rig. I know you tap your left foot when you're impatient."
He looked back at you, his eyes dark and searching.
"I have spent two years memorizing you from the corner of the room, terrified to say a word because every time I open my mouth, I freeze up.”
Your breath hitched.
“The sweater.." He gestured vaguely to his chest, his gaze dropping to his boots. You watched a rare, dark flush creep up his neck, staining his ears pink. "It wasn’t accidental. I saw you looking at it on your laptop weeks ago. I tracked down the release date. I set an alarm."
Your jaw dropped. "You... what?"
"I thought..." He swallowed hard, struggling to meet your eyes. "I thought if I had the same one, maybe it would serve as an icebreaker. Maybe it would make you laugh. Maybe we’d have something to talk about."
He paused, his voice dropping to a murmur.
"I didn’t know about the 'soulmate' legend when I bought it," he admitted softly. "But to be honest? I'm glad I did. Because if I hadn't, I never would have had the excuse to be this close to you without you running away from me."
Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt. "You bought a limited edition ugly sweater just to talk to me?"
"I told you," Oscar said, his eyes searching yours, desperate for you to understand. "I was trying to find a way to bridge the gap I idiotically created between us."
"Oh," you breathed. The anger drained out of you, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming realization of two years of wasted time. "We're both idiots."
Oscar’s lips quirked in a faint, nervous smile, though his eyes remained intense. “Yes. But me, mostly.”
He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm against your cold cheek, and the touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to your spine.
"I don't hate you, Y/N,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there. "I never have. I think I’ve been halfway in love with you since you told me track limits were a suggestion."
You didn't wait this time. The dam broke.
You surged forward, grabbing the lapels of his hideous sweater, and yanked him down.
Oscar didn't freeze. He didn't hesitate. He crashed into you.
He kissed you with two years' worth of suppressed frustration and longing. It wasn't gentle; it was desperate. One of his hands tangled into your hair, tilting your head back, while the other arm wrapped around your waist like a vice, crushing you against him, lifting you slightly off the snowy ground.
It was cold air and warm skin, the scratch of wool and the softness of his lips. It was messy and unpolished and perfect. He kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to memorize the taste of you to make up for every missed opportunity.
You broke apart, breathless, gasping for air, foreheads resting against each other. Steam rose from the space between you. Oscar looked dazed, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen and red, his composure completely shattered.
"So," you whispered, your voice trembling, your hands still clutching his sweater. "Still think I overdrive the entry?"
Oscar let out a breathy, wrecked laugh, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his eyes looking at you.
"I think," he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against yours again, "that your entry was absolutely perfect."
He didn't give you time to respond before he captured your mouth again, slower this time, deeper, sealing the deal.
“Y/N! Oscar! Wait! Seriously, stop, I didn’t mean to—“ Lando Norris came skidding around the corner of the church, his chest heaving, his face twisted in genuine panic.
But the moment his eyes landed on the two of you—Oscar’s arm clamped firmly around your waist, the steam rising between you, and the very obvious fact that you had just been making out—Lando’s expression transformed instantly. The guilt evaporated, replaced by chaotic triumph.
"OH MY GOD. I KNEW IT!"
The screech pierced the silence like a shriek from a banshee.
You and Oscar sprang apart…or tried to.
"FUCKING FINALLY!" Lando screamed, lowering his phone but looking like he was about to combust with relief. "Jesus Christ. You have no idea how scared I was! I thought I actually broke you! I was coming here to apologize and beg you not to report me to HR!"
"Lando—" you started, face burning.
"No! Don't you 'Lando' me!" He pointed an accusing finger at both of you. "Do you have any idea how painful it has been watching you two since the beginning? The pining? The staring? The tension in the MTC was so thick I literally couldn't breathe! It was suffocating!"
He threw his hands up in the air, pacing back and forth in the snow.
"I thought I took it too far when you ran off," he admitted, his voice dropping for a split second to something resembling sincerity. "I actually felt bad. I thought, 'Great job, Norris, you've bullied your teammate into a breakdown.' But..." He gestured wildly to the two of you, a grin splitting his face. "Clearly, it was a necessary evil! It was all for the best!"
Oscar blinked, looking mildly impressed by the outburst. "So... you planned all of this?"
“Planned? I fucking orchestrated it like a master matchmaker, mate!” Lando corrected, grinning like a total idiot. “I fabricated the entire legend! I wrote that pamphlet on the bus! The locals? Paid actors. Mrs. Huber, who tied your legs together? She runs the bakery; I promised her a signed hat!”
He shook his head, looking traumatized but victorious.
“And by the way, you are so welcome for the sweaters. That was my masterpiece. Do you know how hard it is to 'Inception' two stubborn drivers into buying the same hideous jumper? I had to leave tabs open on your laptops for weeks!”
He let out a long exhale, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. "Thank God it worked. Because if I had to watch one more season of the 'Sexual Tension Stare-Down' while you pretended to hate each other, I was going to crash my car on purpose.”
He held up his phone again. “Now, a lot of people owe me fifty quid. I told them it would happen before New Year’s. Those nonbelievers.”
Oscar didn't look embarrassed. He just looked at Lando, then back at you with a small, resigned smile, and tightened his grip on your waist.
“Hey, Lando," Oscar said calmly. "Run."
"Running!" Lando chirped, snapping one last blurry photo before sprinting back toward the pub, cackling into the night.
————————————
The night wound down, and the team began the trudge back to the hotel through the fresh snow. You realized you’d left your gloves by the heater, but before you could complain about the cold, Oscar took your hand and tucked it inside his jumper, keeping his own hand wrapped around yours inside the warm wool.
Your phone buzzed in your other pocket.
Instagram Notification: @landonorris tagged you in a post.
You opened it. It was the photo from behind the church—you and Oscar, foreheads touching, looking at each other like you were the only two people on the planet.
Caption: My work here is done. You’re welcome, children. 🧶🧡 #Soulmates #TheSweaterWorked #RetiringToBecomeAProfessionalMatchmaker #CalledIt
You showed the screen to Oscar. He didn't let go of your hand; he just pulled out his own phone and typed a comment.
@oscarpiastri: Delete this, Lando. (But send me the pic).
You leaned your head against his shoulder, matching his stride easily now. As you passed a darkened shop window, you caught your reflection in the glass: two figures huddled together against the Austrian cold, wearing the world's most hideous matching sweaters.
Yesterday, that sight would have made you cringe. Today, looking at the pixelated crash on his chest right next to the one on yours, you decided Lando might have been right about one thing.
Tropes: Childhood Friends to Lovers / Established Relationship / Pastry Chef!Reader / Domestic Fluff / Winter Break / Baking Disaster / She Panics He Grounds Her / Emotional Support Ollie / He Sits on the Floor With You / Kitchen Floor Cuddles / Chaotic Teamwork / Tooth-Rotting Fluff / Holiday Fic
Summary: Being a professional Pastry Chef meant the Bearman family Christmas dessert had to be perfect. But when the sponge cracks, the chocolate seizes, and the meringue mushrooms end up shattered on the floor, you’re ready to cancel the holiday entirely. Enter Oliver Bearman: on winter break, barefoot in the kitchen, and ready to prove that a little mess (and a lot of whipped cream) might just save the night. Featuring: kitchen floor cuddles, chaotic teamwork, and the best grip strength on the grid.
Word Count: 2.1K
A/N: Some Ollie fluff for Day 6!! See you guys on day 7!
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The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and orange zest. Mariah Carey was hitting her high notes on the radio, competing with the hum of the oven.
Ollie was perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, looking ridiculously soft in a knitted jumper that was slightly too big for him. He was officially on winter break. This meant no flights to catch, no cameras, no engineers in his ear. Just him, a half-empty mug of tea, and his eyes fixed on you with that lazy, affectionate gaze that always made your knees a little weak.
"You've been staring at that mixing bowl for ten minutes," he teased, his voice low and raspy from sleep. "Is it going to tell you its secrets?"
"It’s the Yule Log, Ollie," you muttered, wiping flour from your forehead. "It’s the centerpiece. If I mess this up, Christmas dinner is just… dinner."
"Right. Serious business. I'll stay out of the danger zone." He held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. It was the same grin he’d given you when you were thirteen, shivering in the backyard during a neighborhood Christmas party. That was the night everything changed. He’d awkwardly shoved a poorly wrapped gift into your hands (a silver bracelet he’d definitely panicked and bought with his mum’s help) and mumbled that he liked you more than he liked karting.
That was before the academies, the media training, and the Formula 1 grid. You had loved him before he was "Ollie Bearman, the driver." You loved him when he was just Ollie, the boy with the messy hair and the soft smiles.
Now, barely into your twenties, you existed in that comfortable, worn-in space of being "basically married." You had grown up together, your awkward teenage years blending seamlessly into domestic adulthood.
Which was exactly why you were stressing over a cake. You weren't just the girlfriend who liked to bake cookies on the weekends. You were a professional pastry chef. A rising star in London’s pastry scene, recently promoted to Junior Sous Chef at a bakery that had a line down the block every morning.
But ironically, that made this harder.
The cake was for the Bearman family's Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow. When you’re a professional chef, you don't get the luxury of bringing just any dessert. This had to be perfect because it was for the people you loved most.
Everything was going according to plan… until the timer dinged.
You pulled the sponge cake out of the oven. You knew the drill: roll it while it’s hot so it holds the spiral shape. You laid out the towel, tipped the pan, and started to gently curl the edge.
Snap.
A jagged, ugly crack tore right down the center of the sponge.
"It’s fine," you whispered, your heart rate spiking. "It’s fine. Ganache can cover this."
You turned to the stove to finish the orange filling. You reached for the sugar jar blindly, your eyes still glued to the broken cake. You dumped a spoonful into the zest mixture and stirred, only to realize a second later that the jar label said Sea Salt Flakes. You were so tired you hadn't even checked.
"No," you breathed, scraping the ruined, salty mixture into the sink. "Okay. Okay, just the chocolate bark then. We save it with the bark."
You grabbed the bowl of melted high-quality dark chocolate. You turned on the tap to wash a spoon, and a single, traitorous drop of water splashed up and landed dead center in the bowl. Instantly, the glossy, smooth liquid turned into a grainy, dull, concrete-like clump.
"Oh, for God's sake," you hissed, the bowl clattering onto the counter a little too hard.
Ollie straightened up on his stool, sensing the shift in the atmosphere immediately. The playful laziness evaporated. He set his mug down, leaning his elbows on the island to get a better look.
"What?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "What happened? It looks… chocolatey?"
"It seized, Ollie," you snapped, voice tighter than you intended. You aggressively stirred the grainy mess, hoping for a miracle that wasn't coming. "Water got in. It’s useless. I can't use this for the ganache, it'll feel like sand in your mouth."
"Okay, hey," he said softly, sliding off the stool. He took a tentative step toward you, hands slightly raised like he was approaching a startled animal. "Don't spiral. It’s just one bowl. We can fix it, right? Do we have more?"
"No, we don't! That was the last of the 70% stuff I brought home from the bakery," you groaned, running a hand through your hair, leaving a streak of flour on your temple. "I can't serve your parents gritty supermarket chocolate, Ollie. I’m a chef. They expect better than this."
"Babe, my parents eat digestives out of the packet," he countered gently, reaching out to touch your arm. "They don't care about the percentage of the cocoa."
"I care!" you cried out, pulling away from his touch because the frustration was boiling over, hot and suffocating.
You were vibrating with stress now. You spun around, eyes stinging, needing to just get this mess into the trash, and your elbow clipped the cooling rack on the edge of the counter.
Crash.
The tray of delicate, perfect meringue mushrooms, the ones you’d spent an hour piping, hit the tiled floor. They shattered instantly, sending a cloud of white sugary powder into the air like a snowstorm.
You stared at the white dust on the floor, the cracked sponge, the seized chocolate, and the salt-filling. The pressure of making everything perfect just collapsed in on you. You sank to the floor, sitting right in the middle of the crushed meringue shards, pulling your knees to your chest.
"I can't do it," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I ruined it. I actually ruined Christmas."
The music cut out abruptly. Ollie padded over to where you were crouching. He didn't care about his grey sweatpants or the sticky, powdery ruins of your hard work. He sat cross-legged next to you in the debris of the meringue mushrooms and wrapped a heavy, solid arm around your shoulders, pulling you forcefully into his side.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple. "Breathe."
"I’m such an idiot," you choked out, staring at a shard of meringue that looked remarkably like a mushroom cap. "I do this for a living, Ollie. People pay twenty quid for my tarts, and I can't even make a log for your mum."
"You're not at work," he said softly, tightening his grip when you tried to pull away. "You're not Chef right now. You're just… you. You’re my girl who’s been awake since 6 AM and is trying way too hard."
"But it had to be perfect," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the flour on your cheek. "I wanted them to be impressed. I wanted to show them—"
"Show them what?" Ollie interrupted gently, using his thumb to wipe the tear away. "That you’re talented? They know that. That you work hard? They know that, too. You’ve been feeding us since we were kids, babe. You don't have to prove you belong at a table where you’ve always had a seat."
He rested his chin on top of your head, exhaling a long breath.
"Besides," he added, his tone shifting to that low, teasing warmth that always grounded you. "If you make something too fancy, my dad’s just going to ask where the custard is anyway."
You let out a wet, breathless laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. "He would. He’d probably ask if we have any vanilla ice cream to melt over it, too."
"Exactly," Ollie grinned, seeing the tension finally leave your shoulders. "You’re stressing yourself out over my family when they literally have the most basic white-people palates in history. I love you, and I don’t like seeing you cry.”
He nudged your knee with his, waiting until the corners of your mouth quirked up properly.
“There she is. There’s my girl," he murmured.
"I think I’m done," you said, brushing some of the crushed meringue off your leggings and wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. The panic was receding, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth of him next to you.
"Good." He stood up first, unfolding his long limbs with a groan, then reached down to pull you up. He didn't let go once you were on your feet; he kept his hands securely on your waist, rubbing smooth circles into your sides with his thumbs. "So, what’s the salvage operation, Chef? Can we glue the sponge back together or something?"
You looked at the disaster on the counter. It looked less like a tragedy now and more like a challenge.
"Whipped cream," you decided, your voice stronger. "I can’t do the ganache without more chocolate, but I have plenty of double cream. We’ll just… smother it. If we cover it in enough and dust it with icing sugar, no one will see the crack.”
“Okay, that’s a plan.” Ollie rolled up the sleeves of his jumper, exposing his forearms. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed the carton of cream. “I’ll start whisking.”
"You know you have to do it by hand, right? I don't want to wake the neighbors with the electric mixer."
"Babe, please." He grabbed the whisk and the bowl, flashing you a cocky, boyish smirk. "I have the best grip strength on the grid. This cream doesn't stand a chance."
For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen transformed. The heavy, suffocating pressure of perfectionism was replaced by chaotic, messy teamwork.
Ollie was a terrible sous-chef, but an excellent distraction. He attacked the cream with unnecessary aggression, complaining halfway through that his arm was burning, but he managed to whip it into soft, billowy peaks.
When it came time to assemble, he hovered behind you, chin resting heavily on your shoulder, watching as you slathered the cream over the broken sponge. You didn't pipe it neatly; you swirled it with a spatula, creating deep, snowy drifts that completely hid the ugly crack down the middle.
"More sugar," Ollie instructed, reaching for the shaker.
"Ollie, that’s too much—"
"It’s a blizzard," he insisted, shaking a massive cloud of powdered sugar over the log until it looked less like a cake and more like an avalanche.
He set the shaker down and stepped back to admire the chaos, dusting his hands off on his sweatpants. You picked up a serrated knife and carefully sliced off the two uneven ends of the log to reveal the spiral inside—standard procedure to make it look neat for tomorrow.
You went to slide the trimmings into the bin, but Ollie’s hand shot out.
"Woah, woah," he said, sounding scandalized. "What are you doing? We don't throw those away. That’s the best bit."
"It's the ugly ends, babe."
"It's quality control," he corrected, grabbing a small plate and rescuing the two messy, cream-slathered slices. "We have to make sure it’s safe for my parents. I’m sacrificing myself for the greater good."
You laughed, the sound easy and light, finally feeling like yourself again. You carefully transferred the main log onto a clean platter and slid it into the fridge to be ready for Christmas dinner tomorrow.
"Alright," you agreed, grabbing two forks. "Quality control it is."
By the time you made it to the living room, the only illumination came from the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. You collapsed onto the sofa, and Ollie immediately pulled you into his side, balancing the plate of cake scraps on his knee.
You took a bite of the offcut. It wasn't the sophisticated, pristine dessert you had planned. The sponge was a little dense where you'd patched it, and the ratio of cream to cake was ridiculous. But it was sweet, light, and tasted like comfort.
"See?" Ollie mumbled around a mouthful. "Tastes like sugar and victory."
He set the empty plate down on the coffee table and pulled you back into the corner of the sofa, tangling his legs with yours. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The stress of the "perfect holiday" felt miles away. Ollie tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Best cake you've ever made," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with sleepiness.
"You're biased," you whispered back, running your fingers through his hair.
"Maybe," he grinned, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ear. "But mostly because I helped."
Tropes: Snowed In / Stuck Together / Car Sex / Temperature Play / Sensory Overload / Vibration Kink / Engine Revving / Edging / Praise Kink / "Good Girl" / Overstimulation / / Soft Aftercare.
WARNING: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (creampie), use of mechanical vibration for pleasure, semi-public setting (technically inside a car), slight degradation/teasing
Summary: It was supposed to be a quick drive to dinner, but Oscar’s insistence on taking the McLaren 765LT into a blizzard leaves you both stranded in a whiteout. You’re freezing in the passenger seat, so Oscar decides to be helpful and crank the heated seats to the max.He doesn't realize that the combination of the scorching heat and the aggressive vibration of the V8 engine isn't just warming you up—it's wrecking you. And once he notices? He decides to see just how loud he can make you get by revving the engine.
Word Count: 2.6K
A/N: Another Oscar Fic (Lorddddd, I think I have a problem).
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The world outside the windshield was a void of aggressive, swirling white. The blizzard had descended on the mountain pass with a violence that made driving not just difficult, but suicidal.
You shouldn’t have brought this car.
You had argued for the SUV, but Oscar had insisted on taking the McLaren 765LT. He’d claimed that the engine was enough to handle "a bit of powder" on the way to dinner. But "a bit of powder" had turned into a whiteout in ten minutes flat, and now the low-slung supercar was essentially carbon-fiber buried in a snowbank.
In the SUV, you would have had space to breathe. Here, you were practically immobilized. You were trapped, legs forced together by the narrow footwell, the engine thrumming aggressively right behind your spine.
"We’re not moving anywhere for at least an hour," Oscar said, his voice cutting through the heavy vibration of the idling V8.
He killed the headlights to save the battery, plunging the car into a dim, amber gloom lit only by the digital dashboard. He looked infuriatingly relaxed, one hand resting on the top of the steering wheel, wearing a tuxedo jacket that looked perfectly pressed despite the chaos outside.
You, however, were freezing. You were dressed for a fancy dinner out, not a snowstorm—a silk dress that offered zero insulation, your coat tossed uselessly in the unreachable footwell. The cold from the glass was already seeping into your skin, making your teeth chatter violently.
“For fuck sakes, Oscar, I can't feel my toes," you stammered, curling your fingers into the hem of your dress. The bucket seat felt hard and cold against your back.
Oscar glanced sideways. In the tight confines of the sports car, he was inches away. He could see the goosebumps rising on your bare arms, the way your breath hitched in the freezing air. His eyes dropped to your legs, pinned tight together by the seat, shivering visibly.
Oscar reached for the center console, turning the heat up to the maximum temperature. What you didn’t expect was the shock wave of heat to rush through your silk dress.
You gasped a little too loudly; the sensation was overwhelming. The car seat was vibrating against your entrance, which sent shivers of pleasure up your spine in ways you have never felt. It felt really good.
“Okay, how about now?”Oscar asked, his voice entirely practical, eyes still scanning the dashboard screen. He was completely unaware that he’d just turned the passenger seat into a gigantic vibrator.
You couldn't form words. The combination of heat and vibration forced you to give out a shaky, broken exhale from your lips. Your hips twitched involuntarily, grinding down into the leather in a desperate attempt to get closer to the source of the friction.
Oscar frowned slightly, finally turning his head to check on you. "Is it still too—"
He stopped.
He froze as he took in the sight of you: head thrown back against the headrest, lips parted and swollen, your chest heaving, and your thighs clamped desperately together as you rode the waves of pleasure from the passenger seat.
The concern in his eyes vanished, replaced by a slow, darkening amusement. He didn't make a single move to turn the dial down. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying the show.
"Oh," he murmured, that arrogant, teasing smirk spreading across his face as he watched you squirm. "I see. You're not shivering from the cold anymore, are you?”
“Oscar, this is not funny.” You say in between your moans, the feeling building up in your core
"I disagree," Oscar hummed, his voice dangerously low. “You seem to be enjoying it."
He didn't pull back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours in the tight cockpit. The smirk didn't leave his lips; it just sharpened into something more.
"You're practically vibrating, and I haven't even touched you yet," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lap. "It's just a heated seat, love. Why are you so sensitive?"
"Turn it down," you desperately say, though your body betrayed you, your hips rolling instinctively against the leather as another wave of heat washed over you.
"No, I don't think I will. We wouldn't want you to freeze to death, would we?"
He shifted his gaze back to the dashboard, his expression masking a playful cruelty. His hands were still on the wheel, but his feet were busy.
With a deliberate, slow movement, he tapped his foot on the accelerator.
The V8 engine behind your head roared to life, jumping from a low idle to a sharp, aggressive rev. The vibration in your seat tripled instantly.
You cried out, a sharp, broken moan that you couldn't stifle. It sent a jolt of pleasure straight up your clit that made your vision blur.
Oscar watched you unravel, his foot holding the car steady, keeping the vibration at a constant, maddening buzz.
"Does that help?" he asked innocently, though his eyes were dark with arousal. “ Do you feel better now?”
"Oscar!" you pleaded, gripping his forearm, your nails digging into his tuxedo jacket.
"You like this, don’t you? Me trying to make you cum using my car," he teased, pressing the throttle just a fraction harder, making the seat hum violently against you. “Should I try to see how loud I can make you get?”
You tried to answer him, to tell him to stop or to keep going, you didn’t even know which one you wanted anymore, but the words died in your throat, replaced by a ragged, high-pitched whimper.
Oscar didn’t wait for an answer. He took your lack of protest as permission.
He adjusted his foot on the pedal. He floored it, revving the engine at a frequency that felt like it was drilling straight through your nervous system.
"Please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the headrest. The friction of the silk dress against your skin, combined with the searing heat and the relentless vibration, was too much. You were overstimulated, your body wound so tight it felt like you were going to snap.
"Please, what?" Oscar asked, his voice calm and maddeningly close to your ear. He glanced back at your ruined state. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"
You arched your back off the seat, a desperate, instinctive attempt to get more friction, your hips grinding down into the vibration. "Oscar, I’m close. I’m so so close."
"I know," he murmured, watching a bead of sweat roll down your flushed neck. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him. “Look at yourself, you’re a mess, love.” He captured your lips against yours, and you moaned in his mouth, trying to quiet down your cries.
He shifted his foot again.
The engine pitch whined higher, the vibration shifting from a rumble to a sharp, intense buzz that hit your clit with surgical accuracy.
"Oh god!" You screamed his name this time, digging your fingers in harder on his arm. "Oscar, please, I—I need—"
"You need to come?" he finished for you, his smirk vanishing, replaced by a look of dark, intense focus. "On my seat? Without me even touching you?"
"Yes," you begged, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking your eyes. "Yes, please."
"Then be a good girl," he commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "And let the car finish you."
He pressed the throttle harder, holding the revs steady at the red line. The air filled with the deafening roar, drowning out the storm outside, drowning out your thoughts, leaving nothing but the blinding heat and the vibration that was finally, finally pushing you over the edge.
“I’m not done yet, love,” Oscar said, his voice thick and rough. Before you could protest, his hands clamped firmly onto your waist. With surprising strength, he hauled you up and over the center console. It was a clumsy, desperate maneuver in the tight confines of the supercar, limbs tangling as he dragged you out of the passenger seat and settled you directly onto his lap.
You were straddling him now, your knees bracketing his hips against the driver's seat, the steering wheel digging into your back, but you didn't care.
"Oscar—" you gasped, clutching his shoulders.
"Quiet," he murmured, his hands moving fast.
He shoved the straps of your silk dress down your arms, bunching the fabric at your waist until you were bare to his gaze. His eyes traced the curve of your neck, your breasts, your flushed face. He reached up, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.
"God," he breathed, shaking his head slightly, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "You are so fucking pretty like this. All ruined and desperate for me."
His gaze darkened, shifting from admiration back to hunger. He didn't waste another second. One hand stayed gripped tight on your hip to keep you in place, while his other hand went to his own waist.
He kissed you as he fumbled with the belt of his tuxedo trousers, popping the button and shoving the fabric down just enough to free himself. He was fully hard, twitching eagerly in the cool air of the car before pressing hot and heavy against the inside of your thigh.
He groaned in desperation in your mouth, his tongue swirling and making your head dizzy with want. His hands, gripping your hips to guide you.
"Hold on," he breathed against your lips, his voice strained.
He lifted his hips sharply, finding the slick heat of your pussy. With one fluid, devastating thrust, he buried himself inside you while groaning.
You cried out, your head falling back as you arched towards him, the sensation of being filled was so much more intense than the heated seat had ever been. He was scorching hot, stretching you hard and deep.
Oscar let out a rough, ragged exhale, his forehead resting against your shoulder for a second as he adjusted to the tight warmth of your body.
"Fuck," he hissed, his composure finally cracking completely. "You feel incredible."
He started to move, snapping his hips forward to meet you, setting a rhythm that was hard and possessive. But it wasn't enough for him. He wanted to wreck you.
His right foot, still hovering over the pedals, flexed.
He slammed his heel down on the accelerator.
The McLaren screamed. The V8 engine roared to life right behind your heads, the entire chassis shuddering violently.
Because you were straddling him, sitting directly on his lap, the vibration didn't just hit your skin this time—it traveled through the seat, through him, and vibrated deep inside you.
"Oh my god!" you sobbed, crying from the dual sensation of his thrusts and the car, sending you straight into sensory overload.
"Feel that?" Oscar growled, his teeth grazing your neck. He timed his movements to the car, thrusting into you every time he redlined the engine. "Feel how fucking good that is.”
He was relentless. He revved the engine in sync with his hips.
"Look at you," he panted, biting down on your earlobe as he felt you clamp down around him, your body convulsing. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”
"I—I can't," you gasped, your head spinning, your body already so overstimulated.
“You can," Oscar growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Come for me, Y/N.”
He didn't give you a chance to recover. He tightened his grip on your hips until his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you against him. Then, he abandoned all finesse.
He floored the pedal. At the same moment, Oscar snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a force that knocked the breath out of you.
“Oscar!" You screamed, your fingernails digging into his shoulders, your head thrown back from the pleasure of how deep he was inside of you.
"That’s it," he hissed, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his composure completely shattered. He was sweating now, panting harsh and ragged against your skin. "Feel me. Feel everything. God, you feel so good, baby.”
He fucked you harder, matching the violence of the storm outside. Every thrust was desperate and feral, hitting that exact spot that made your vision blur until
“Oscar!” you cried out as you reached your climax, crashing over you like a wave.
Your walls clamped down around him in a violent, rhythmic spasm, milking him with terrifying intensity. The sensation of you tightening around him was the final straw for his control.
Oscar let out a guttural groan, his body going rigid. He slammed his hips against yours one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible, and held you there.
“Fuck, Y/N!”
He unraveled completely. You felt the hot, pulsing jet of his release flooding you, filling you up as he poured himself inside. He kept you pressed tight against him, riding out the aftershocks together, the only sound in the car the dying whine of the engine as his foot finally slipped off the gas and the wet, ragged sound of your combined breathing.
The silence that followed was louder than the engine ever was.
You were collapsed against him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, completely boneless. Oscar was just as wrecked, his head resting back against the seat, his chest heaving beneath you as he tried to catch his breath.
His arms, which had been bruisingly tight around your waist just moments ago, softened instantly. One hand moved up to cup the back of your head, his long fingers tangling gently in your messy hair, while the other rubbed slow, soothing circles into your spine.
"You okay?" he murmured, his voice rough and stripped of all its usual calm detachment. He pressed a lingering, sweaty kiss to your temple. "I didn't hurt you?"
You shook your head against his shoulder, too exhausted to speak, just humming a soft sound of contentment.
Oscar let out a breathy laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. "Good."
He shifted slightly, pulling his tuxedo jacket—which was miraculously still somewhat on his shoulders—around your bare back to shield you from the cooling air. He held you there for a long time, just letting your heart rates sync up, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
"You know," he said after a minute, the dry, cheeky lilt creeping back into his voice. "I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining this to the service center."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, blinking lazily. "What?"
Oscar smirked, reaching up to wipe a smudge of lipstick off your chin with his thumb. "The onboard computer logs everything. They're going to see that I spent twenty minutes hitting the rev limiter while parked in a snowbank."
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "They’re going to think I don't know how to drive stick. It’s going to be embarrassing."
You let out a weak, incredulous laugh, hitting his chest lightly. "Is that really what you're thinking about right now? Your reputation with the mechanics?"
"I take my driving seriously," he teased, his eyes dancing. "Usually."
But then his expression softened completely. He shifted his grip, carefully helping you adjust your dress so you weren't exposed to the chill, but he didn't let you move back to the passenger seat. Instead, he pulled you back down so you were curled up against his chest, legs tangled with his.
"But for the record," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your lips—no tongue, no hunger, just pure affection. "That was the best drive of my life."
He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, then back at you, pulling you tighter.
"Storm looks like it’s breaking," he murmured, resting his chin on top of your head. "But I think we can wait a little longer.”
Tropes: Situationship to Lovers, Disaster Date, George Russell is a Perfectionist™ (and suffering for it), Public Power Couple vs. Private Reality, Confessions.
Summary: To the rest of the world, you and George Russell are the F1 paddock’s "It Couple." You have the aesthetic matching outfits, the slow-motion Drive to Survive walks, and the chemistry. The only problem? You aren't actually official yet. George, being George, creates a strategic operation to change that—a perfect proposal to make you his girlfriend. Except nothing goes according to plan.
Word Count: 1.8k
A/N: Day 4!!! Just a weird tidbit about how I write, I have a whole ass whiteboard just dedicated to my writing ideas, and my parents are definitely judging me every time I see it. Good Lord. Anyway, I hope you guys liked this because it was such a cute concept to think about. Chaotic George Russell >>>>>>
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It started with a plan.
It was 7:00 PM on a Friday. You were currently sitting in the passenger seat of his pristine G-Wagon, looking at a man who was the definition of British composure. Tonight, however, George looked like a man who wanted to scream bloody murder to the universe.
You and George were the "Power Couple" that made the paddock feel inadequate. You were the Creative Director for a high-end streetwear brand that half the grid wore, and he was, well, George, the F1 driver. On paper, you were aesthetic perfection.
But here was the catch—the tiny, chaotic detail that the tabloids missed and that was currently causing George’s left eye to twitch.
You weren’t officially anything yet.
To the public, you were the It Couple. To the fans, you were endgame. But in the private reality of your little bubble, you were currently hovering in that undefined purgatory known as "Seeing Each Other."
You went on dates. You had a toothbrush in his Monaco apartment, and he knew your coffee order by heart (oat milk latte, two pumps of vanilla, 60 degrees exactly). You were exclusive, obviously.
But you hadn't had The Talk.
For a normal person, this "situationship" phase is fun. But for George Russell, a man who lives and breathes organization, living in an unlabeled relationship was psychological torture. He didn't just want to date you; he wanted to call you his. His girlfriend and all the other titles that come with that territory.
The only problem? You had absolutely no idea he was gonna ask today.
To you, this was just a nice Friday night out. You thought he just really craved Italian. You were blissfully unaware that the man beside you had spent three days mentally rehearsing a speech because the stakes were championship-level high in his head.
But the universe had decided to humble him.
"It’s fine," you said, trying not to laugh, genuinely confused by the sheer level of his despair. "George, really. It’s just water. It happens."
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned the color of raw dough. "It is not just water, Y/N. Everyone is out to get me. I have a wet shoe. Do you understand the sensory nightmare I am currently living in?"
He looked so genuinely distressed over a damp foot that you had to look out the window to hide your grin, wondering why he was acting like the world was ending.
————————————————————
The disaster had unfolded in two distinct acts.
The day started well; he had planned a romantic stroll along the river. It was a route he had scouted beforehand, noting the optimal lighting for "Golden Hour" photos and the precise bench where he would stop to admire the view. He was wearing cream-colored Suede loafers. A choice that now seemed like a personal invitation for divine punishment.
The sky had been clear when you parked. But London weather, being the chaotic entity it is, waited until you were exactly halfway away from the car to open up. It wasn’t a drizzle. It was basically a thunderstorm.
"Quick, this way!" George had shouted, his first instinct being chivalry. He whipped off his structured blazer, holding it over your head like a canopy, sacrificing his perfectly pressed Oxford shirt to the rain.
Then, he stepped forward with what looked like a puddle. It was deceptive and small. But it was not a puddle; it was basically a sinkhole.
George’s left foot disappeared. Entirely. The sound was visceral. A deep, guttural GLORP followed by the squelch of a thousand saturated sponges. Muddy water splashed up his cream trousers, creating an artistic, yet horrific, splatter pattern. He froze. You froze. He slowly pulled his foot out, and the shoe made a sucking sound so loud. "Oh," he said, staring at his foot. It was the sound of a man watching his soul leave his body.
You offered to go back. You suggested, quite reasonably, that the romantic dinner after might be hard to enjoy with one foot currently marinating in London sludge. But George Russell was committed. He had shaken his foot with a grimace, smoothed his rain-spattered hair, and declared, "It is merely a setback." So, you pressed on. You walked the remaining three blocks to the restaurant, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic squelch... step... squelch of his designer loafer.
————————————————————
He had booked the corner table at Il Nido, the quietest, most exclusive Italian spot in the city. He wanted privacy, candlelight, and romance. He wanted an ambiance where he could lower his voice to a charming murmur and tell you how much you meant to him.
"We have your table, Mr. Russell," the maître d' had smiled, leading you towards the back. George had relaxed slightly. He was wet, yes, but he could salvage this. He could be charming, despite being a bit damp.
Then, you turned the corner. Seated directly next to your intimate table for two was a bachelorette party of twelve women wearing matching neon pink sashes that said "BRIDE OR DIE." They had clearly been drinking prosecco since noon. The table was covered in confetti, empty bottles, and inflatable props of questionable nature.
As soon as you sat down, the bride-to-be stood up on her chair. "ALEXA!" she screamed at a portable speaker they had smuggled in. "PLAY ESPRESSO!"
The bass dropped. The entire table shrieked in unison, which shattered George’s remaining composure. He tried to power through. He leaned across the table, his eyes intense, trying to ignore the woman in a tiara doing shots behind his left shoulder.
"I WANTED TO BRING YOU HERE," George yelled, straining his vocal cords to be heard over the chorus, "BECAUSE I THINK YOU LOOK LOVELY TONIGHT!”
"THANKS!" you shouted back. "I LIKE YOUR SOUP!”
"IT'S A BISQUE!" George roared, looking like he was in physical pain.
“WHAT?"
"IT'S LOBSTER BISQUE!"
"NEVER MIND!" you yelled, laughing as a balloon drifted over and hit George in the face. He didn't move. He just let the balloon bounce off his nose, his expression one of complete surrender.
He simply placed his napkin on the table with the grave finality of a judge sentencing a criminal. He looked at you, his eyes communicating a desperate plea for evacuation. "We are leaving," he mouthed, grabbing his damp blazer, and placed 2,000 euros on the table.
You didn't argue. In fact, as the bride-to-be started a conga line that was heading dangerously close to your table, you were already halfway out of your chair.
Which brought you to now.
You had both fled the restaurant, sprinting back to the car to escape the noise and the rain.
The G-Wagon was parked on a side street. It was freezing outside, and you were both breathing heavily from the run. The sudden silence inside the car was deafening, and the windows fogged up instantly. The world outside vanished behind a thick layer of white condensation.
George didn't start the engine. He hit the steering wheel. A sharp, precise thud.
"Disaster," he whispered, staring at the dashboard instrument cluster as it had personally betrayed him. "Absolute, unmitigated disaster."
"George—"
"No," he cut you off, and the spiral began. You could practically see how distressed he is behind his eyes. "I had a plan. It was a good and optimal plan. I had a speech prepared. I practiced the pacing. And now? Now I have a muddy foot, and I have a headache from the bachelorette party, and I couldn’t even ask you the one thing I wanted to ask.”
He slumped back into the seat, looking defeated. He closed his eyes, refusing to look at you because he was embarrassed.
“What did you want to ask me? You can still—“
"I can't do it now," he rambled, "The moment is unrecoverable. Just forget everything."
You stayed quiet. You watched him. This was the George the cameras didn't see. The George who cared so much that it made him kind of a lunatic. The George who wanted everything to be perfect for you because he thought you deserved perfection. Whatever he wanted to ask you was probably serious to him, and honestly, you didn’t mind if the day was disastrous because all you cared about was spending time with him.
————————————————
The car was getting warmer. The passenger window was completely opaque with fog now. A blank white canvas.
George opened his eyes. He realized talking wasn't working. Every time he spoke, he just reminded himself of the chaotic evening. He looked at you, then past you to the window.
It was completely opaque. A blank canvas. He blinked. The gears behind his eyes, usually reserved for his racing, suddenly clicked into place. His expression shifted from despair to a sharp, focused intensity. He didn't need a speech. He didn't need an ambiance.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over the center console, invading your space. You held your breath. You thought, Did he just want to kiss me?.
But he didn't. He reached out with one long finger and pressed it against the cold, wet glass next to your head. Squeak. Squeak. The sound was rubbery and ridiculous. He frowned, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, looking exactly like he did during every debrief with his engineer.
He pulled his hand back. The letters were dark and clear against the white fog, illuminated by the blurry streetlights outside.
G I R L F R I E N D?
The realization hit you. OH!
So that was what this was all about. That was why he was spiraling and why he looked like he wanted to physically fight the weather. He wasn't just having a bad date; he was trying to make both of you official. The puzzle pieces of the evening— the specific route, and the private table—suddenly snapped together. He had been trying to do this for hours.
He didn't move away. He stayed right there, hovering over the console, his face inches from yours. He looked at you with big, hopeful, terrified eyes. His hair was a mess. He looked miserable, yet absolutely perfect.
"Because," he whispered, his voice rough, "I can't seem to say it out loud without the universe interrupting me."
A smile broke across your face. The tension in his shoulders finally dropped. You reached up, your hand brushing against his expensive coat. You leaned past him, smelling his cologne mixed with rain, and pressed your finger to the glass right underneath his question.
With two swift movements, you drew.
Y E S 1 , 0 0 0 x
George let out a shaky breath he’d been holding since 9 AM. He laughed—a genuine, relieved sound that broke the heavy atmosphere. "Finally," he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. "Something went according to plan."
He leaned in the rest of the way and kissed you. It wasn't the cinematic, but it was better. It was warm, electric, and happened to the sound of a defogger fan kicking in. Beside you, the writing on the window slowly started to drip from the heat. But you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect date.
Tropes: Best Friends to Lovers, Designated Life Handler, Domestic Fluff, Protective Kimi, Mutual Pining
Summary: George Russell and the rest of Mercedes is coming for dinner in two hours, and Kimi’s fridge contains nothing but a Red Bull and a wilted lemon. As the team’s Social Media Coordinator (and Kimi’s unofficial babysitter), it’s up to you to save him from culinary embarrassment. But somewhere between a heated argument over pasta sauce and hiding from teenage fans in the yogurt aisle, the "best friend" boundaries start to blur. Kimi might be trying to impress George, but by the time you reach the checkout, it’s pretty clear who he’s actually trying to keep.
Word Count: 1.6k+
A/N: (Written NOV 23) It's kind of refreshing to write one shots. I swear the things that comes up in my head are all long form Fics (which im trying to avoid more recently because I'm scared I don't have the time). Also, I hope you guys try and check out my Ollie Bearman series RN. I actually really find the plot intresting and I think the best thing I've came up with from all of my writing (FUN FACT! I have an AO3 account where I write my non x readers) . MERRY CHRISTMAS <3
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The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed with an anxiety that matched your own heart rate. This wasn't just a grocery run; this was a tactical operation. George Russell, Senior Driver, and arguably the most organized man in Britain, was arriving at Kimi’s new apartment with the rest of the Mercedes crew in exactly one hour and forty-five minutes for a "Welcome to the Team" dinner.
Technically, your official title was Social Media Coordinator for Mercedes-AMG Petronas. But somewhere between forcing drivers to learn trending dances and editing 'Day in the Life' reels on long flights to away races, your role had unofficially expanded to 'Kimi’s Designated Life Coordinator.' You were the only two on the team who were close in age, and what started as workplace proximity (mostly you shoving a camera in his face) had fast-tracked into a genuine, chaotic friendship. You were the one he texted when he couldn't find his passport, and consequently, you were the only one standing between him and a disastrous dinner party.
The problem? Kimi acts like a seasoned adult when he’s behind the wheel of an F1 car, but domestically, he is a disaster. You had checked his fridge ten minutes ago. It contained a singular can of Red Bull, a rock-hard block of Parmesan cheese, and a lemon that had seen better days.
"We need a plan," you muttered, gripping the handle of the trolley.
Beside you, Kimi adjusted his sunglasses. You were indoors. He thought the shades made him look more "incognito." In reality, combined with his oversized hoodie, they just made him look like a celebrity nursing a catastrophic hangover.
"The plan is simple…,” Kimi said, scanning the produce section with the intensity of a qualifying lap. Then, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and his jaw went slack. “Ahh fuck, George just texted."
"Is he cancelling?" you asked, hopeful.
"No. He asked if he should... bring wine or if I had enough prepared." Kimi looked at you, genuinely baffled, lowering his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose. "What does that mean? How many is ‘enough wine’?"
You grabbed his arm and steered him away from the leafy greens. "It means we are buying a shit ton. Move your ass, Antonelli. We are on the clock."
You made it through the liquor section then to the produce, but you should have known trouble was coming. You hit the pasta aisle, and the clock in your head was ticking down.
"Okay, sauce," you said, breathless. You reached out and grabbed the first jar you saw—a generic brand labeled 'Traditional Bolognese'—and tossed it toward the cart.
Kimi stopped the trolley so abruptly that the wheels let out a high-pitched squeak.
“Absolutely not."
You turned around. He was looking at the jar in your hand with genuine, visceral horror. "What?"
"Put that down," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "That is a hate crime, Y/N.”
"We have ninety minutes, Kimi! We have to chop vegetables, clean your apartment, and figure out how to turn on your oven. We can't simmer a ragu for six hours!"
"Then we order pizza!" he argued, abandoning the cart to step into your space. "I am not serving George Russell jarred sauce. My Nonna is watching me from the heavens!"
"Your Nonna is alive, Kimi! She commented on your Mercedes FB post yesterday!"
He didn't back down. Instead, he stepped closer, effectively trapping you between his body and the shelf of condemned sauces. He reached out and gently, but firmly, pried the jar from your fingers like he was disarming a grenade.
"It is about principle," he murmured, tossing the jar back onto the shelf behind you. He leaned in, grabbing a tin of San Marzano tomatoes and a packet of expensive dried spaghetti instead.
You stood there, pressed against the metal shelving, heart hammering. Why was he so weirdly strong? And why was this passionate defense of tomatoes suddenly... attractive? Since when were you noticing those things about Kimi?
"Fine," you breathed out. "But you're chopping the onions."
Ten minutes later, you were arguing about cheese types near the dairy aisle. Kimi was holding a ball of mozzarella like it was the Holy Grail, explaining the moisture content difference between buffalo and cow milk, while you were trying to calculate if you had enough time to chill the wine.
"Kimi, just pick the—"
You stopped. About twenty feet away, a group of four teenage girls had frozen. Their phones were already coming up. The whispers started. Is that him? Is that Kimi?
The “Your Bestfriend Kimi" who was ranting about mozzarella vanished instantly. The "Mercedes Driver Kimi" kicked in.
Without pausing his sentence about milk fat percentages, Kimi moved. He didn't look at the girls. Instead, he stepped in, slinging a heavy arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. In one smooth motion, he pivoted you toward the yogurts, angling his body so that his back was to the cameras and your face was buried into his shoulder, completely hidden by his hoodie and his hair.
"Just keep looking at the yogurt," he murmured into your hair, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
You froze. The sensory overload was instant. The sudden heat of his body against yours, the firm, possessive grip of his hand on your hip bone, grounding you. He smelled like expensive cologne mixed with the faint sweetness of the supermarket bakery.
"Strawberry or peach?" he asked loudly, for the benefit of the room, though his grip on your waist tightened just a fraction.
“Uhm…Peach,” you squeaked, your face heating up against the fabric of his hoodie.
You stood there for thirty seconds, pressed together in a fake embrace that felt alarmingly real. Through the rush of blood in your ears, you caught snippets of their hushed conversation as they shuffled past the yogurt display.
"Wait, is that him?" one whispered.
"No, look at them," another giggled, their voices drifting closer before fading as they walked away. "That guy is way too clingy to be Kimi. Plus, Kimi is single. That's just some random couple."
"So cute, though," a third voice sighed. "I want a boyfriend who hugs me like that.”
"Keep dreaming, Sarah."
The group moved on, convinced by the disguise of domestic intimacy.
When the coast was clear, he steered you toward the checkout, but he didn't let go. His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, his thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt.
You made it with twenty minutes to spare. You started unloading the cart onto the belt, driven by adrenaline.
“Okay, help me unload the stuff," you directed.
You placed the items down, and suddenly, the narrative of your shopping trip became very clear on the black conveyor belt: a bottle of very expensive red wine (to impress George), fancy artisan pasta and fresh basil, a single blue toothbrush (because you’d left yours at your place and you were obviously staying to help cook), and a massive bouquet of white hydrangeas (Kimi had thrown them in the cart at the last second, claiming you needed "table aesthetics").
The middle-aged cashier scanned the wine, then the pasta. She picked up the toothbrush, scanned it, and then looked at the flowers.
"Date night?" she asked, a knowing smile crinkling her eyes. "Flowers and a sleepover... moving fast, aren't we?"
Your eyes went wide. "No! No, no. He’s my roommate—well, not roommate, I’m just... I work with him. Helping him with his boss. It's a work dinner."
The cashier wasn't buying it. She chuckled and looked over at Kimi, who was aggressively trying to fit the baguette into a bag without crushing it.
"She's a keeper, love," the cashier said to him, nodding at you. "Doesn't let you buy the cheap sauce. I saw you two back there."
You opened your mouth to panic-deny again, but Kimi beat you to it.
He didn't deny it. He didn't correct her. He just looked at you, the tips of his ears turning a bright, traitorous pink. He took the receipt with one hand and picked up the hydrangeas with the other, handing the flowers to you.
"No," Kimi mumbled, staring at his shoes for a second before meeting your eyes. “I’m more lucky to have her."
The car ride back to his apartment was quiet. The chaos of the store had faded, leaving a strange, heavy tension in the air. The grocery bags rustled softly in the back seat of his Mercedes.
You stared out the window, watching the streets blur by. Your heart was still doing a weird fluttery thing from the checkout comment.
"We have to stop acting like an old married couple," you said, laughing awkwardly, breaking the silence. "That lady fully thought I was moving in with you."
Kimi focused intently on the road, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel. He didn't laugh it off like he usually would.
"Would that be so bad?" he asked quietly.
You turned to look at him. "Kimi, people already think we’re dating. The fans, the press... if we keep this up, you’ll never get a real girlfriend. Everyone will think you're taken."
"Let them think it."
"Why?" You frowned. "It ruins your game, Antonelli."
He glanced at you, then back at the road. A small, shy smirk played on his lips, the kind that usually didn't make it to the cameras.
"Takes the pressure off," he said softly. "Since everyone already thinks I won the lottery."
Your breath hitched. "Oh."
He reached over to turn up the radio, some terrible, upbeat Gen Z techno song that George was absolutely going to hate, cutting off any chance for you to respond. But as he brought his hand back from the dial, he didn't put it back on the wheel immediately. He let it rest on the center console, his pinky finger just barely, tentatively, brushing against yours.
Tropes: Forced Proximity, Snowed In / Blizzard, Brink of Divorce, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort," Emotional Confessions, Husband!Lando.
WARNING: Heavy emotional angst, discussions of divorce and marital neglect, swearing
Summary: The plan was clinical: drive to the cabin, sign the divorce papers, and finally leave Lando Norris in the rearview mirror. But a Finnish blizzard and a stuck McLaren Artura have other plans. Trapped in the freezing cold with the man who broke your heart, trying to win gold trophies, you’re forced to confront the wreckage of your marriage. As the temperature of the cabin starts dropping, you start seeing things a bit differently than before.
Word Count: 2.7k+
A/N: This actually broke me, I love writing angst, and I thought "what is better than two people stuck in a cold cabin...than two people going through divorce." (I'm sorry...not sorry). I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS! I think this is my favorite so far. See you in day 3.
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"I told you to rent the SUV."
“And I said, we don’t need one!” Lando protested, his voice cracking slightly as he gestured wildly at the frosted window.
“Clearly, we do because your dysfunctional car drifted into a pine tree that is now blocking the very exit we need. Lando, we are fucking stuck here."
You stood by the window of the cabin, arms crossed, staring out at the disaster in the driveway. The McLaren Artura—a vehicle worth more than most houses and designed exclusively for dry asphalt—was buried up to its wheel arches in a Finnish snowdrift and a huge pine tree just mocking both of you. It looked ridiculous.
You stared at the car, a bitter laugh bubbling in your chest. It was so typical. Lando Norris: the boy who lives life like a game. He never planned for the bad weather. He never planned for the hard days. He just assumed everything would work out if he went fast enough.
That was exactly why you were leaving him. You were tired of being the passenger in a life that was moving too fast to actually be lived.
Inside, the air was already turning stale and cold. The "smart heating system" Lando had insisted on installing two years ago was currently flashing a red error code that probably meant Game Over in Finnish, and the WiFi router was dead.
Lando was pacing the length of the living room rug. He was wearing a bright neon green Quadrant beanie that clashed violently with the rustic timber walls, looking less like a Formula 1 driver and more like a glow stick experiencing an existential crisis.
"My stream," he muttered, tapping his phone screen aggressively. "I was supposed to be live in a few hours. The chat is going to think I died."
"Priorities, Lando," you sighed, turning away from the window to face the room. "We are trapped in a blizzard with no heat, no internet, and..." You gestured to the coffee table.
There, the reason why you both are here in the first place, sitting in the center of the room like a radioactive device, was the thick manila envelope. The divorce papers.
Lando’s eyes flicked to the envelope, then immediately away, bouncing to the ceiling, the floor, the window—anywhere but the evidence of your failing marriage. He pulled his beanie down lower. "I’m going to check the fuse box again."
"You don't know what a fuse box looks like.”
“I can be an engineer if I wanted to!" he yelled over his shoulder, fleeing into the kitchen.
—————————
Two hours later, the engineering attempt had failed, and the silence was louder than the wind howling outside. You were both huddled on opposite ends of the oversized leather sofa, wrapped in whatever blankets you could find.
Since talking about why you were divorcing was too painful, and talking about the weather was too depressing, you had resorted to arguing about the assets, specifically the things in the last house that you were unable to sell. It was petty, it was stupid, and it was the only thing keeping you from crying.
"I don't want the deer," Lando said, pointing a gloved hand at the terrifying taxidermy head mounted above the fireplace. "It looks like it’s judging me… kind of reminds me of you, actually.”
"Well, I don't want it!" you snapped, pulling your blanket tighter. "You bought it! You said it gave the place 'scandi-vibes'!"
"I was drunk! That shouldn't be legally binding!"
You looked at the deer, and a memory hit you so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of you. You remembered that day. It was two years ago, during the winter break. You were stumbling through the Helsinki Christmas market, Lando laughing so hard his nose was bright red, holding that stupid deer head like a trophy. He had kissed you right there in the snow, promising that this cabin would be your escape—a place where cameras couldn't follow.
Now, the cabin was just another asset to liquidate, and the deer was just a dusty witness to the end.
He huffed, sinking lower into his hoodie. He looked ridiculous and looked exhausted. But also, annoyingly, he looked cold. He hadn't brought a proper coat because Lando lived life on the edge, and now he has to suffer through it, and clearly, you don’t give a fuck if he freezes for the next 48 hours. His teeth were chattering, a soft click-click-click sound that was chipping away at your resolve.
Don't do it, you told yourself. Do not offer him your scarf. He is a grown man. He is a millionaire. He can buy a scarf factory. But god, he looks like a shivering puppy.
"What about the Nespresso machine?" you asked, trying to distract yourself from the urge to choke him with your scarf.
"You take it," he said quickly.
"But you love that machine. You named it 'Brew-is Hamilton'."
"Yeah, well," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, refusing to meet your eyes. "I don't know how to use the milk frother properly. You were the one who made the good foam.
"It’s useless to me. It doesn't taste right if... if you don't make the foam."
The next blow. He was basically saying, It’s useless to me without you. This house is just bringing up past memories that you would like buried with the snow.
You looked away, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Fine. I take the machine.”
—————————
Night fell, and the temperature plummeted. The generator gave a final, dying wheeze and cut out, plunging the cabin into darkness save for the dying embers in the fireplace.
"Dinner," you announced, trying to keep your voice steady. You rummaged through the pantry with your phone flashlight. It was a grim selection of non-perishables left over from your last visit. "Okay. We have pickled beets, a jar of sardines... or plain crackers."
"I am not eating a fish from a jar," Lando said from the floor, where he had moved to be closer to the fire. "That is a crime against humanity. That is worse than Oscar’s dry sense of humor."
"It’s that or starvation, Norris."
“Fine…Crackers, please.”
You joined him on the rug, the only warm spot left in the house. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, not touching, sharing the box of dry crackers and the bottle of expensive red wine that was supposed to be for the 'Closing Sale' toast.
You took a sip, trying to stop your own shivering. The cold was seeping through your socks, biting at your toes. You shifted your legs, tucking them under you, but it didn't help.
Lando paused mid-chew. He didn't turn his head, but his gaze dropped to your socks, tracking the subtle, involuntary tremor of your knees. He knew that fidget. He knew exactly at what temperature you stopped functioning.
Without a word, without even looking up from the cracker he was inspecting, Lando reached out.
His hand clamped around your ankle. He tugged your legs straight, then lifted your feet and tucked them securely under his thighs, sandwiching them between the warmth of his legs and the rug.
You froze.
It was muscle memory. A habit from three years of marriage. Your feet were cold; he warmed them. It was a reflex attested through a shared life you once both knew.
You looked down at his hand resting on your shin. The gold wedding band was gone; he’d taken it off for the legal proceedings, but the skin on his ring finger was still pale, a stark of white against his tan. A ghost of the promise he claimed he couldn't keep.
He chewed his cracker, and he paused. The realization hit him a second later that you.
He went rigid, his hand hovering over your shin. But he didn't let go, and you didn't pull away, either. The heat from his legs was seeping into your frozen toes, a painful, wonderful reminder of the intimacy you were throwing away.
"Jesus," he hissed, his hands tightening around your ankles to generate more friction. "Are you actually part of the undead, now? "
"Rich," you mumbled, eyeing the sad, half-eaten cracker in his other hand. "Coming from the man trying to survive a blizzard on a dry biscuit."
But neither of you moved. The air between you was charged, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and the vanilla perfume you hadn't changed in years.
The fire popped, a loud crack that broke the trance. You looked at the coffee table. The manila envelope was barely visible in the firelight, but its presence felt heavy, suffocating.
"Just sign it, Lando," you said, your voice trembling. You pulled your feet out from under him. The loss of warmth was immediate and brutal. "The pen is right there. It’s been six months of you dodging the lawyers. Just finish it."
Lando flinched. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The neon beanie slipped back, revealing messy curls. The mask of the "Cool F1 Driver," the streamer, and the joker dropped completely. He just looked like a boy who was lost.
"I can't," he said quietly.
"Why?" You grabbed the envelope and tossed it toward him. It landed on the rug with a soft slap. "It’s just paper, Norris. You drive at 200 miles per hour, but you can't hold a pen?"
"I opened it, okay! The papers you sent me the first time… I held it over and over again!" he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking, eyes flashing with sudden, wet anger. "I had the pen in my hand! I sat there for hours!"
"Then why didn't you?"
He looked at you, his eyes swimming with tears, his chest heaving.
"Because it felt like signing your name out of my life," he choked out. "Once I put the ink on the paper, I can't undo it. I can fix a bad lap. I can apologize to the team. I can fix a crash… But, I can’t fix this."
He wiped his face aggressively with his sleeve, sniffing loudly.
"I didn't want this," he whispered, the fight draining out of him. "I didn't know how to carry the weight of the title and the weight of your heart at the same time, so I dropped you. I dropped us. I thought if I focused on the car, you’d still be there when I got out, and fuck, Y/N, I was wrong.”
He stepped closer, hands twitching as if he wanted to reach for you but was terrified to touch. “I let you slip through my fingers, lap by lap, race by race. I was so obsessed with the car that I didn't see I was driving our marriage off a cliff. And the worst part? You stayed. You sat in the stands and cheered for me while I was letting you rot in silence. I want to get on my knees and beg you to start over, to tell you I’ll change—but how can I ask you to forgive a man who watched you drown for a year and did nothing but smile for the cameras?"
He looked at you dead in the eyes now. “I’m sorry, Y/N, for everything I've done to us. But believe me when I say, Fuck the championship. Fuck the legacy. It’s all just noise. I thought if I won, I’d be enough for you, but all I did was ensure I’ll never be enough again. I let you down in the worst way possible. I left you alone when I was right there beside you. I’d give it back. I swear to God, I’d give every point, every podium, every second of it back if it meant you wouldn't look at me with those dead eyes. Please... just tell me it isn't too late."
The silence that followed his confession was louder than any cheering crowds that had drowned you out during your entire marriage.
Fuck the championship.
Three words. Three words that would have saved you six months ago. If he had said them when you were crying on the bathroom floor in Monaco, or when you were staring at the ceiling in an empty hotel room in Vegas, you would have stayed. You would have fought.
But now? Those words just felt like a eulogy.
You looked at him. The desperation in his eyes was raw and terrifyingly real. This wasn't Lando the Superstar; this was your Lando, stripped down to the bone. He was offering to burn down his empire just to keep you. God, it hurt. It hurt because you believed him. You knew he meant it. He would give every trophy back.
But he couldn't give back the time. He couldn't undo the loneliness.
But the love? The love was always right there between the two of you, terrified and freezing. It hadn't left. That was the cruelest joke of all. You didn't want to leave him because you stopped loving him; you were leaving him because loving him had started to kill you.
But looking at him now, shattered and breathless, the horrific truth finally hit you: He hadn't neglected you because he didn't care. He had neglected you because he thought he had to be a god to be worthy of you.
He was just a boy who had convinced himself that the only way to keep you was to be the best in the world. He had driven himself into the ground, chased every point and every win, not for his ego, but because he was terrified that if he was just Lando, he wouldn't be enough. He had broken your heart trying to protect it with trophies and glory when all you ever wanted was him.
If you walked away now, you weren't just leaving a bad marriage. You were leaving a man who had finally woken up. You were pulling the trigger right when he was ready to lay down his armor.
Is asking for a divorce really the right call?
You made a choice.
You reached over and picked up the thick manila envelope.
Lando flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, turning his head away as if expecting you to force the pen into his hand.
Riiiiiiiiip.
The sound was tearing and loud in the quiet cabin.
Lando’s head snapped up. He stared, mouth slightly open, as you tore the document down the middle, then stacked the halves and tore them again.
"My lawyer is going to kill me," he whispered, staring at the confetti in your hands. "That was the original copy."
"Let him sue us," you said, your voice trembling but firm. You tossed the shredded paper onto the floor. "We’re snowed in. We have at least twenty-four hours before a tow truck can get here. Maybe forty-eight."
You crawled across the small space on the rug and he followed you. You didn't kiss him. It was too soon for that. But he sat next to you, shoulder to shoulder, pressing your side against his.
"We don't sign today," you said softly. "We talk about us, about the schedules, about everything.”
Lando let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He leaned his head sideways until it rested heavily on your shoulder. His hand found yours in the dark, his fingers tangling with yours, holding on tight.
"Okay," he murmured, the tension finally leaving his body. "We talk."
He paused, sniffing loudly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.
"But can we also talk about getting better snacks for this cabin? Because if we get back together, I am banning the sardines."
You let out a wet laugh, leaning your head on top of his neon beanie. “Deal."
—————————
The next morning, the sun rose over a brilliantly white, frozen landscape. The Finnish tow truck driver arrived at 9 AM, shaking his head as he winched the flashy McLaren out of the snowdrift. He walked up to the cabin to get a signature, knocking loudly on the thick timber door.
Nobody answered.
Inside, the fire had long burned out, but the room was warm. Buried under the single faux-fur throw, two figures slept tangled together, limbs knotted in a desperate seek for warmth, surrounded by the torn remnants of a divorce decree scattered like snow. They didn't hear the knock. They were too busy making up for lost time.
do you think that if lando wins the championship, will mclaren favour oscar next year or at least keep them racing "fairly"? or do you think they will favour lando all the way? Kinda like Max and Yuki
IN MY OPINION,
No, I don’t think they will favor Oscar just because Lando won. But I also don't think they will treat Oscar like a permanent #2
Firstly, Red Bull is built around Max because the gap between him and his teammates is usually massive. The gap between Lando and Oscar is tiny. You don't turn a driver of Oscar’s caliber into a permanent wingman unless you want him to leave
Secondly, F1 teams don't believe they "owe" drivers a championship. If Lando wins this year, he starts next year as the defending champion. That naturally gives him weight in the garage. They won't handicap Lando just to "be fair" to Oscar.
Oscar won't settle for being a support driver in his 4th season. He will have to take the number one spot by beating Lando on track in the first 5 races. If he does that, the team will back him. If he doesn't, Lando stays as the champion defender.
So no, they won't favor Lando "all the way," but they definitely won't hand it to Oscar on a silver platter either. It’s going to still be a civil war.
GOSH! This is why I literally want to make this blog just a safe space for people who love this sport.
I can’t believe we are at a point where a 19-year-old rookie has to take time out of social media because of death threats over a racing error.
If you are one of the people attacking Kimi for "rigging" the race, you are bullying him for something that didn't happen.
Red Bull has literally released a statement TODAY admitting they were wrong. They reviewed the footage. They confirmed he lost control of the car and nearly crashed due to dirty air. They apologized for fueling the hate.
He defended against a faster McLaren on fresh tires for laps. He fought until the very end and made a mistake because he was pushing the limit. That is racing.
Imagine being 19, making a mistake at work, and having thousands of people telling you to die. It is disheartening, and it is sick.
Kimi deserves support, not this toxicity. If you’re sending hate to a rookie, you aren’t defending Max or Red Bull; you’re just being a bully.
Bullying a teenager off social media because your favorite driver didn't get a specific result is not being a fan. It’s abusive. Do better!!!
a) oscar piastri, who did everything right and should have won. he would have been within 8 points and this championship would have been within his grasp again, the title race back on. he did EVERYTHING RIGHT and yet, the same old story. the team fucked him over.
OR
b) alex albon watching carlos sainz getting a podium with williams while alex had to CARRY THAT TEAM ON HIS BARE FUCKING BACK for the PAST TWO YEARS when they were NOTHING and 3/4 of this season while carlos was nowhere to be found. alex albon, always, in the end, once again the same driver who was a problem. alex albon, the only one of the 2019 rookies who was put immediately in a winning car, and is the only 2019 rookie without one, and who hasnt touched the top steps since the now infamous “redbull has a problem and its alex albon”.
I don’t want to hear one person saying that Piastri is being whiny or ungrateful for saying he is “speechless” after pulling p2 in Qatar. He should be angry. He literally did not put a SINGLE foot wrong all weekend. Fastest in FP, sprint pole, sprint win, gp pole, perfect start & restart, was asked for a 1.24 put out a 1.22 on hards.
The win was his, he deserved it. Yeah I know “if if if” but whatever. Andrea Stella admitted that they didn’t pit under the safety car because it would disadvantage Norris. Norris could afford not to podium today and Piastri needed that win. Stella even admitted that Piastri deserved the win.
It’s ridiculous. Papaya rules has never been about fairness or equality between drivers it’s always been about playing the team game until they secure the constructors then undercutting a certain driver to favour the other who in my honest opinion??? today was NOT the better driver. Piastri proved himself today with pace and overtaking whereas Norris, sure he had a solid drive, but he lost two positions on the opening lap and had a lucky late overtake on Antonelli because Antonelli made a mistake.
This weekend was Piastri’s by a mile, and simply put? the team cost him it. All season he’s been fighting not only every other driver on the grid, but his own team too.
TLDR; fck Mclaren. Fck papaya rules. I’m rightfully pissed and Piastri should be too.
And yeah, I still believe in P1astri. Whatever happens in Abu Dhabi, he’s my WDC.
Side note: hell yes and congrats to Sainz&Williams on a podium today. Mega drive.
WARNING: contains swearing, Graphic depictions of sexual acts, Unprotected Sex/Creampie, Mirror Play, Hair pulling, hard bruising/gripping, Possessiveness, mild degradation, Praise Kink
Summary: When Oscar returns home early from a race weekend to find you wearing a vintage Alpine hoodie, the exhaustion and lingering team rivalry strip away his usual polite veneer. Fueled by jet lag and unexpected jealousy, he decides to remind you exactly whose team you’re actually on—replacing the rival colors with his own, but not before staking his claim in the most primal way possible.
Word Count: 2.6K+
A/N: Day 1 and we are off to smut land. I wrote this around November 21 (Las Vegas Grand Prix week!) and let me tell you, it was the first smut fic I wrote anywhere (not even on my AO3, I wrote a smut fic) but I guess it flowed into me. It had an alternate tone where it was supposed to end just funny and sweet but, lets be real, its fun to challenge ourselves sometimes. ENJOY GUYS! Happy December 1st.
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The hoodie was comfortable. That was your defense. It was oversized, lined with fleece, and unfortunately, emblazoned with a massive, bright pink Alpine logo and a number 10 on the back.
You loved Oscar. You were his biggest supporter, decked out in Papaya orange every race weekend, cheering until your voice cracked. But Pierre Gasly had been your childhood hero long before you started dating Oscar. The sweater was a secret shame that you had, buried deep in your drawer, only worn on days when Oscar was halfway across the world.
Like today, or so you thought.
You were curled up on the sofa in your shared Melbourne apartment, thinking Oscar was currently enduring a post-race debrief in Europe. You didn’t hear the car, nor did you hear the front door unlock.
You only heard the distinct thud of a McLaren kit bag hitting the floorboards. With a half-eaten cookie in your hand, you slowly turned your head.
Oscar stood in the doorway. He looked like a high-fashion zombie with a Rimowa suitcase in one hand, neck pillow dangling from the other, and hair doing that fluffy, post-flight thing that usually made your knees weak.
Right now, your knees were too busy locking up in sheer, unadulterated terror. He looked exhausted, eyes heavy…until they landed on your chest. The silence was loud. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a PR storm. Oscar blinked as his gaze drifted from the pink Alpine logo to your face, his expression unreadable, but his jaw ticking slightly in annoyance.
“I can explain," you squeaked.
"I fly fourteen hours," Oscar started, his voice raspy and dangerously low. He walked slowly into the living room, not breaking eye contact. "I skipped the after-party. I skipped the team dinner. I take the first flight out of Heathrow to surprise you."
He stopped right in front of the sofa, his shadow looming over you.
"And I come home to find my girlfriend wearing Alpine merch."
"It’s Pierre’s!" you defended weakly, pulling the sleeves over your hands. "You know I supported him before I met you. It’s vintage! Well, last season, but it’s really comfy."
"It’s Alpine," Oscar deadpanned. The trauma of the contract dispute flashed behind his eyes. "Babe. You are wearing the team that tried to sue me…in our house."
"I didn't think you'd be home!"
"That makes it worse. It implies you have a secret life as an Alpine defender."
He stepped between your knees, his demeanor shifting from dry humor to something darker, more possessive. He reached out, his fingers gripping the fabric of the hoodie right over the logo, tugging you forward until you were standing up, pressed against him.
"I don't like it," he murmured, his nose brushing against yours. He wasn't really mad, but the territorial look in his eyes made your breath hitch. "I don't like you in their colors. You’re mine. You wear my colors."
"Take it off," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
This was not your Oscar. Your Oscar was the guy who asked, "Is it okay if I hold your hand?" on the first three dates. He was polite. He was composed. He was a gentleman through and through. But this? This wasn't the media-trained McLaren driver. This was a man running on three hours of choppy sleep, stale airline coffee, and pure, unadulterated instinct. The exhaustion had stripped away the polite veneer, leaving something raw and dangerously impatient underneath.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, rimmed with red from the dry cabin air, and they were fixed on you with a hunger that had absolutely nothing to do with dinner. The jet lag had short-circuited his filter, and frankly, the result was doing terrible, wonderful things to your heart rate.
You reached for the hem of the sweater to pull it up, your fingers trembling slightly.
Oscar’s eyes darkened. He didn't wait for you to struggle with the fabric. His hands shot out, sliding underneath. His palms were cool against the sudden heat of your skin, his thumbs digging firmly into your waist. The contrast made you gasp, a sharp intake of breath that vanished into the small space between you.
"Let me," he whispered, the words vibrating against your lips.
He pushed the fabric up, his movements urgent, lacking his usual calm precision. As soon as your arms were raised, he yanked the offending garment over your head and tossed it blindly behind him. You didn't hear where it landed. You didn't care.
Because then it was just you, and him, and the heavy, electric tension of a man who had been away for too long.
He didn't step back. Instead, he crowded you, his knees knocking against yours until the back of your legs hit the sofa. You fell back onto the cushions, and he followed you down immediately, settling between your legs, his weight a grounding, overwhelming force.
"Ozzie," you breathed, the word useless and airy.
“Be quiet, Y/N, “ he growled softly.
He captured your lips in a kiss that wasn't gentle. It was searing. It tasted of desperation, no polite buildup. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the last three weeks of distance, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, demanding and hot.
His hands tangled into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, while the other roamed down your side, his fingers tracing the line of your ribs, possessive and heavy. He wasn't just touching you; he was mapping you, reminding himself that you are his.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers digging into the nape of his neck. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and straight into yours.
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, scanning your face with an intensity that made your toes curl.
"No more Alpine," he rasped, his voice wrecked. He dipped his head, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shuddered, arching up into him. "I don't want to see you in pink ever again. Do you hear me?”
You moaned in reply. His hand slid lower, gripping your hip, his thumb rubbing circles against the skin in a way that made your brain go fuzzy.
"I don't care who you cheered for when you were twelve," he murmured against the pulse point of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin—a warning and a promise all at once. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. "I want you to look at me. Right now. Just me.”
"Only you," you promised, breathless, your hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warmth of his back. "Always you, Oscar."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, a smirk finally tugging at the corner of his swollen lips—arrogant, tired, and incredibly satisfied. He stood up, his gaze never leaving yours, and reached for the hem of his own t-shirt.
With a fluid, lazy motion, he pulled the fabric up and over his head. The movement rippled through his torso, highlighting the deceptive, lean strength of his frame. He wasn't bulky, but every time you saw him this close and raw was entirely different.
The soft living room light caught the sharp definition of his abdominals and the deep, sculpted lines of his chest. As he tossed the shirt aside, your eyes traced the corded muscle of his neck, thick and powerful from hours in the cockpit, down to the broad expanse of his shoulders.
Oscar's grip was firm as he flipped you effortlessly, making you face the mirror in your living room. Your heart raced, reflecting the heat swirling in the air between you. You could see the desire etched across his features, a mix of mischief and urgency lighting up his eyes.
"Look at yourself," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as he slid his hand down your body. His fingers danced teasingly, tracing the curves of your waist before finding their way to your softness. You gasped as he began to work you, his touch skilled and demanding.
With each stroke, you felt the tension building, your breath quickening as you locked eyes with your reflection. The sight of Oscar behind you, his gaze filled with hunger, made your cheeks flush. You were becoming undone under his touch, every sensation heightened, pushing you closer to the edge.
"You like this, don’t you?" he whispered, his fingers moving with a deliberate purpose, drawing soft moans from your lips. He curled his fingers until you shivered against his touch. You could only nod, lost in the moment. "Say it," Oscar commanded, his voice a guttural rumble over your pulse. His reflection loomed behind you, eyes molten, "Say you like it."
Your mouth parted, the words sticky with heat and humiliation. " I like it," you managed, your lashes wet, meeting his gaze in the glass. Oscar's fingers moved with a relentless determination, pushing you closer to the brink. You could feel the heat pooling in your core, your body responding eagerly to his every command. Clearly, this wasn’t just about the damn sweater anymore.
“Look at yourself, love,” he urged, his voice low and rough. “I want to see you fall apart for me.” His fingers worked with skill, finding that perfect rhythm that made your breath hitch and your body arch towards him. You could see the way his eyes sparkled with triumph in the reflection, watching you unravel under his touch.
“Let go for me, Y/N. I know you want to,” he coaxed, his breath hot against your neck. “I want to feel you around my fingers. I want to hear you say my name when you do.” The weight of his possessiveness filled the room. “Oscar,” you gasped, the word slipping past your lips like a prayer. You could see the satisfied smirk on his face in the mirror, the way his eyes, drunk with desire.
The world around you faded as the heat surged, and with a gasp, you surrendered to the pleasure, letting it wash over you. You cried out his name, the sound echoing off the walls, a testament to how utterly he owned you in that moment.
As you trembled in the aftershocks of your climax, Oscar's grip tightened. He leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your shoulder, igniting a fresh wave of heat through your body.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. “How much I miss how you look when you cum for me like a good girl.”
With a swift motion, he turned you fully to face him, with you lying on your back, his eyes dark with desire. “I need you to do it again, Y/N. For me.”
You could see the raw need etched across his features. He grasped your hips, positioning you just right, and then he surged forward, filling you in one powerful thrust.
The sensation was overwhelming. It was hot and heavy, leaving no room for anything but him. You moaned, the sound mingling with the breathless intensity in the air. He began to move, each thrust deliberate and fierce, pushing you against him, claiming you as his.
“Tell me how much you want it,” he demanded, his voice thick with lust.
“So fucking much, Oscar,” you gasped, meeting his fierce gaze. “I want you. Only you.”
“Good,” he growled, picking up the pace, each thrust deeper and more urgent. “Because I’m not stopping until you remember who owns this pretty pussy of yours.”
His weight bore down on you, and you surrendered, losing yourself in the heat of the moment. Each thrust set off sparks in your body, and you could feel the familiar coil tightening within you once more. Oscar's breath came heavy, his grip rough and bruising around your hips as he drove into you with a primal urgency that sent waves of pleasure crashing over you.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and commanding as he captured your gaze. “I want to see you fall apart for me again.”
You were about to explode. You could feel the pleasure coiling tighter, each thrust bringing you closer to your release. “Oscar,” you cried, your voice trembling with desperation.
“Just a little more,” he urged, his own breath ragged as he pushed deeper, his pace relentless. “I want you to cum with me, love.”
In that moment, every sensation intensified. His body, the sound of skin against skin, and the heat radiating between you. You felt the world around you begin to blur; the only thing in focus was him.
With one final thrust, your body trembled, and that wave of pleasure washed over you again. You cried out his name, the sound echoing in the air as you felt yourself unraveling completely with him. Oscar followed you over the edge, his body tensing as he found his release, a deep grunt escaping him as he spilled himself inside you. In that moment, you were both consumed by the intensity of it all, lost in each other.
Oscar collapsed, his strength finally giving out, turning him into a dead weight that pressed you deep into the cushions. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing hot and uneven against your skin. You just lay there, pinned beneath him, listening to the frantic thud of his heart beating directly against yours.
You stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly as the room came back into focus. The sheer whiplash of the last hour hit you all at once. A bubble of laughter rose in your chest, unbidden and impossible to stop. It vibrated through your ribs and transferred straight into his.
“Where did that come from?” you asked, shaking your head in disbelief. “I thought I was dating a good-mannered McLaren driver, not some rake.”
Oscar chuckled, his usual playful smirk returning to his lips, the heat of the moment fading into something lighter. “What can I say? I have my moments,” he replied, running a hand through his messy hair, looking both adorable and sheepish.
He shifted, his gaze darting past your shoulder to the floor where the pink ball of fabric had landed. His expression soured instantly, the sleepy adoration replaced by a look of mild disgust. He went over to where his bag was and pulled out a pristine, papaya-orange McLaren hoodie. He shook it out, the scent of his cologne wafting over you again.
"Here," he said, dropping it onto your lap with a decisive nod, and settled beside you. "Reparations."
You stared at the bright orange fabric in your lap, then back up at his face. You were disheveled, your lips were swollen, your pulse was still erratic, and your brain was currently functioning at about 2% capacity.
You have got to be kidding me," you huffed, throwing your head back against the sofa cushions in sheer disbelief. "Oscar. We just... that just happened." You gestured vaguely between the two of you, your face flushing hot all over again. "My soul briefly left my body. I am currently struggling to stand up, and you are still worried about the damn sweater?"
You picked up the hoodie and dangled it by a sleeve."Your priorities are actually broken. I think the jet lag finally snapped your brain.”
You pulled the orange hoodie over your head, the sleeves hanging long past your hands. “Better?”
Oscar cracked one eye open, scanned the giant McLaren logo now covering your chest, and hummed in satisfaction.
"Much better," he whispered, reaching out to blindly pull you towards him. "Now if I wake up and see that pink thing again... I'm feeding it to the Roomba."
LITERALLY SO FR!!! like someone lend me time and let me cook with this prompt (I'm just a girl with too much delulu on her system that needs to be let out)
