RENATA

women inherits the earth

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. RENATA'S FILES

MASTERLIST

❛ Shall hate tumblr for years, then post in it. ❜

Short stories are published here in my Tumblr and Ao3 account, while multiple chaptered stories are published in my Wattpad account. All of my accounts are named purplekittiesdotcom! 💘

🏎️ | FORMULA 1

Mundane | GRID

Mundane things they love doing with you or seeing you do.

I Knew It, I Knew You | OB87

What are the chances that the same guy seated next to you years ago in the same cinema is, again, seated next to you? Probably low, but never zero.

Cuffing Season? (S) | LH44

The first toy they used on you.

Cowboy | LN1

Got called a cowboy, something he didn't prefer to be called, but apparently he loved the way it rolled off your tongue.

F1 High | GRID

The Man Of Your Dreams | OP81

Ever since you were a small kid, you've liked Oscar, your heart melts when you see him, you dream of him in your sleep. You try to show him your feelings, he deflects, and he can't tell you why, but maybe someday, he will, that is if he's not too late.

[purplekittiesdotcom]

WTF PITWALLPRINCESS DELETED HER ACCOUNT???? 😭😭😭 SHE WAS ONE OF THE FEW PEOPLE I FOLLOW HERE ON TUMBLR BRO 💔💔💔

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS

Ever since you were a small kid, you've liked Oscar, your heart melts when you see him, you dream of him in your sleep. You try to show him your feelings, he deflects, and he can't tell you why, but maybe someday, he will, that is if he's not too late.

➳ PAIRING : BBF!Oscar Piastri x Female Norris!Reader

➳ INCLUDES (TAGS / WARNINGS) : non-f1 au, brother's best friend trope, slow burn (?), fluff, childhood crushes, pining, light angst (this has a happy ending, I promise), implied smut, heavy confessions, crying, alcohol use, eventual romance, talk/thoughts of marriage, talk/thoughts of having kids, talk/thoughts about hardships and different economic status. inaccurate information about engineering and med-allied studies. Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie mentioned multiple times. Pictures from pinterest.

➳ WORD COUNT : 6.3K

➳ RENATA HERE ! : This has been sitting in my drafts for too long, since before I created a tumblr account and initially planned to post it on ao3 or wattpad. I finally had the opportunity, boost, and motivation to edit and finish it, so here you go. Enjoy and happy reading!

+ I am working on your guys' requests, I just need to work a little harder on them so they'll come out nice. I'm sorry for the delays :(

When I was trying to finish this I couldn't help but think of stupid song by Olivia, and before that came out, I was thinking of the promise by When In Rome. Now, I'm thinking of both xD

— requests are open !

The first time you ever truly noticed Oscar Piastri, you were five years old, and he was seven, and the late afternoon sun was filtering through the oak trees in your parents' garden in a way that made everything look gilded and enchanted.

You had been following Lando and him around the perimeter of the garden for the better part of an hour, your small legs working furiously to keep pace with their longer strides, your white sundress catching on the brambles that lined the fence.

They were discussing something terribly important—perhaps paper airplanes—and you were simply trying to be included, to be seen, to be anything other than the little sister who was tolerated but never truly invited.

"Go away," Lando had said, not unkindly, when you tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. "We're doing big kid stuff."

You had felt your lower lip tremble, and had been on the verge of retreating to the sanctuary of the kitchen where your mother was baking something with cinnamon, when Oscar turned around. He had been a skinny thing then, all elbows and knees and freckles scattered across his nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at him. His eyes, even at seven, held a gravity that seemed misplaced in a child's face, a seriousness that made him seem older, more substantial than the other boys Lando brought home from school.

"She can stay," Oscar had said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle in a way that made you go still. "She's not bothering anyone."

Lando had rolled his eyes but acquiesced, and you had spent the rest of that afternoon sitting on the grass at Oscar's feet, watching him fold paper into intricate shapes, occasionally glancing down at you to make sure you were still there, still following. When he smiled at you—a real smile, not the patronizing ones adults gave children—it felt like the sun had decided to shine only on you.

That was the beginning, though you didn't know it then. You only knew that when Oscar was in the room, the air felt different—charged, electric, filled with possibility. You followed him and Lando everywhere, became the proverbial shadow, the little sister who was always underfoot, always listening, always watching.

Your childhood was filled with you learning the cadence of Oscar's laughter before you understood what humor was. You memorized the way he pushed his hair back from his forehead when he was concentrating, the particular furrow that appeared between his eyebrows when he was solving a problem, the way his whole face transformed when he was truly happy.

By the time you were twelve and he was fourteen, the nature of your admiration had shifted into something more dangerous, more precarious.

You were old enough to recognize the flutter in your chest when he entered a room, the way your palms went damp when he said your name, the peculiar ache that settled behind your ribs when you watched him date other girls—girls his age, girls with developed figures and sophisticated conversations about things you didn't yet understand.

You were old enough to know that what you felt was not sisterly affection, not platonic adoration, but something sharp and hungry and terrifying in its intensity.

You told Alex about it one rainy afternoon in her bedroom, the two of you sprawled on her canopy bed surrounded by magazines and the detritus of early adolescence. Alexandra had been your best friend since primary school, fierce and loyal and terrifyingly perceptive, and she had listened to your confession with wide brown eyes before declaring, with the absolute certainty of a twelve-year-old who had read too many romance novels, that you were in love, capital L, and that it was both tragic and beautiful.

"He's too old for you," she had said, not unkindly, braiding your hair with nimble fingers. "And he's Lando's best friend. That's like... forbidden. Epic. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with less poison."

"He's not too old," you had protested, though of course he was (somehow). Two years was an eternity when you were twelve and he was fourteen. It was the distance between childhood and adolescence, between training bras and real ones, between thinking boys had cooties and desperately wanting one particular boy to notice you existed as something other than his best friend's annoying little sister.

But time, as it tends to do, marched forward with relentless indifference. You grew. The gap between you narrowed in significance even as it remained mathematically constant.

By the time you were sixteen and navigating the treacherous waters of sixth form, Oscar and Lando were both eighteen and in their first year at university, studying engineering. They had moved into a flat together, a cramped but charming place that smelled perpetually of microwave ramen and solder flux, and you visited often under the pretense of wanting to see your brother, though everyone—Lando, Oscar, even your parents—knew that you were really there for him.

Oscar had grown into himself in the intervening years. The gangly teenager had been replaced by a young man with broad shoulders and a quiet confidence that made him magnetic. He wore glasses now, thick-rimmed and serious, that made him look like an intellectual from a period drama. He was studying mechanical engineering with a focus on sustainable design, and he spoke about carbon-neutral technologies with a passion that made your chest tighten with pride and longing.

You were eighteen when you decided to stop being subtle. Subtlety had gotten you nowhere—eighteen years of glances and sighs and carefully orchestrated proximity, and Oscar still treated you with the same gentle, distant affection he had when you were five. He still ruffled your hair when he saw you, still called you by the childhood nickname he had coined when you were small, still looked at you with eyes that were fond but infuriatingly platonic.

So you changed tactics. You started wearing dresses that showed off the legs you had spent years running and swimming into shape. You learned how to do your makeup, not the heavy-handed attempts of your early teens but something softer, more sophisticated. You asked for advice from your friends, Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie—your university friends who were studying medicine and biomedical engineering respectively and who found your pining both hilarious and tragic.

"You've got to just tell him," Kimi had advised over coffee one afternoon, his dark eyes serious behind his own glasses. "From your and Alex's stories about Oscar, he sounds like a really good guy. He won't freak out. Probably."

"He's going to freak out," Ollie had countered, ever the pragmatist. "He's known her since she was in nappies. That's a lot of history to overcome."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you had muttered, but you knew Ollie was right.

The history was the problem. To Oscar, you were frozen in amber as Lando's little sister, the girl who used to steal his action figures and cry during thunderstorms. He didn't see the woman you had become, or if he did, he didn't know how to reconcile her with the child he remembered.

But you tried anyway. You flirted with the desperation of the young and in love, which is to say: constantly, shamelessly, and with a complete lack of subtlety. You found reasons to touch him—brushing lint from his shoulder, adjusting his collar, letting your fingers linger on his arm when he made you laugh.

You complimented him in ways that were clearly not sisterly, telling him he looked handsome, that he smelled good, that you liked the way his shirts fit his shoulders. You stayed up late texting him under the covers, sending him songs that made you think of him, memes that were just excuses to start conversations, questions about his day that went on for hours.

And Oscar... Oscar deflected. He responded to your texts with polite enthusiasm, answered your compliments with "thanks, kiddo," tolerated your touches with a patience that felt almost parental.

He never reciprocated, never crossed the line you were desperately trying to erase, but he also never rejected you outright.

He existed in a liminal space of gentle ambiguity, always kind, always just out of reach, always looking at you with eyes that held something you couldn't quite name but that never blossomed into the words you wanted to hear.

"Maybe he just doesn't like you like that," Alexandra had suggested gently one night, the two of you drinking wine in your shared flat near campus. You were studying Psychology, drawn to the profession by some combination of genuine desire to help and figure out what people are thinking and having a hard time of by their behaviour, and yet, you can't seem to figure out Oscar. "Maybe he's being nice because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings."

"He likes me," you had insisted—maybe you've gone delusional—though the certainty was beginning to fray at the edges. "I know he does. I can feel it. He's just... I don't know. Scared? Obligated to Lando? Something."

But as the months stretched into years, as you turned nineteen and then twenty, the excuses began to wear thin.

Oscar graduated with first-class honors, a brilliant young engineer with job offers from three major firms. He and Lando moved to a better flat, one with actual natural light and a better view. You visited less frequently, stung by Oscar's continued distance, by the way he would hug you hello and goodbye with the same brotherly affection, by the way he never seemed to notice when you wore your best dress or styled your hair just so.

And then, gradually, he began to disappear.

It started small. He stopped coming to Sunday dinners at your parents' house, citing work deadlines. He stopped joining you and Lando at the pub on Fridays, saying he was too tired.

The texts became less frequent, the responses slower, until you were lucky to get a reply within a week. When you did see him, at birthdays and holidays, he seemed distracted, distant, his mind clearly elsewhere even when he was physically present. He had taken a position with a startup focused on renewable energy infrastructure, and he threw himself into it with the intensity that characterized everything he did.

"He's just busy," Lando would say when you asked, concern evident in your brother's voice. "You know how he gets. Obsessive. He wants to prove himself."

"Prove what?" you had asked, but Lando only shrugged.

"He's always felt like he had something to prove. You know his background—scholarships, state schools, the whole thing. He thinks he has to work twice as hard to be considered half as good."

You did know. Oscar had grown up differently than you and Lando, in a modest house in the suburbs with parents who worked long hours to give him opportunities they never had. He had come here on academic scholarships, had worked part-time jobs throughout university to supplement his loans, and had never taken a single thing for granted.

You understood, intellectually, that his drive came from a place of insecurity, of fear that he would somehow lose everything he had worked for if he paused for even a moment.

But understanding didn't stop the hurt. When he missed your twentieth birthday party, sending only a bouquet of flowers and a brief text, you cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes before plastering on a smile and returning to your guests.

When he didn't respond to your messages for three weeks, then four, you began to understand that he was not just busy—he was avoiding you. The realization felt like a physical wound, a hollow space opening in your chest where hope had once resided.

So you did what heartbroken girls have done since time immemorial: you tried to forget him.

You threw yourself into your studies with renewed vigor, determined to excel in your program, to become someone worthy of your own respect if not his affection. You went on dates—so many dates—with boys who were safe, boys who were interested, boys who didn't make you feel like you were constantly trying to measure up to some impossible standard.

There was Tom from your anatomy class, sweet and earnest and utterly devoid of chemistry. There was Marcus from the climbing gym, handsome and athletic and boring in bed. There was Julian, a medical student with brilliant prospects and a personality like wet cardboard.

You went to parties and clubs and pubs with Alexandra and Kimi and Ollie, drinking too much and dancing until your feet ached, laughing loudly at jokes that weren't funny, pretending that you were having the time of your life. You posted photos on social media—carefully curated images of you smiling, surrounded by friends, living your best life—hoping that somewhere, Oscar would see them and feel a flicker of regret, a moment of wondering what he was missing.

But the truth, which you confessed only to Alexandra in the small hours of the morning when the wine had stopped working, was that no one measured up. No one made your heart race the way Oscar did with a single glance. No one understood your references, your humor, the particular way your mind worked. No one felt like home, and you began to suspect that no one ever would.

Two years passed in this manner—two years of dating and forgetting and failing to forget, of watching Oscar's life from a distance through Lando's updates and social media posts. You learned that he had been promoted, that he was traveling for work, that he had bought a flat of his own in a trendy neighborhood east of the city. You learned these things the way one learns about distant relatives or former classmates—with a sense of detachment that masked profound grief.

And then, finally, you graduated.

It was a humid day in July, the sky threatening rain that never came, and you stood in your cap and gown with Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie, your family beaming from the audience, your heart lighter than it had been in years despite the persistent ache that had become background noise.

You were done.

You had your degree, your pin, your future stretching before you like an open road. You were turning twenty-two years old, an adult by any measure, and you were determined to start this new chapter with your head held high.

Lando had insisted on throwing you a party. He had rented out the private room of a gastro-pub, invited everyone you knew, decorated the space with fairy lights and photographs from your childhood that made you alternately laugh and cringe. Your best friends were there, proud and slightly tipsy. Some of your classmates, your internship friends where you had done your practicals with. It was supposed to be a celebration of you, of your achievements, of the woman you had become.

You had not expected Oscar to come. He had RSVP'd maybe, citing a work conflict, and you had prepared yourself for his absence, had told yourself that it didn't matter, that you were over him, that his presence or lack thereof was irrelevant to your happiness.

But he came.

You saw him before he saw you, standing in the doorway of the private room with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a gift bag in the other. He was wearing a navy suit that fit him perfectly, his hair styled in the way that made him look both professional and approachable, his glasses catching the light from the fairy lights. He looked older, somehow, though it had only been two years. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, a weariness in his posture that suggested sleepless nights and too much coffee.

Your heart, the traitorous thing that it was, stopped. Then started again at double speed.

He saw you then, and his expression shifted into something soft and complicated—pride, you thought, and something else, something that looked almost like pain. He crossed the room to where you were standing with Alexandra, and before you could prepare yourself, he pulled you into a hug.

"Congratulations," he said, his voice low and warm against your ear, and you smelled his cologne—something woodsy and clean, the same scent he had worn since university—and felt your knees go weak. "You did it. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," you managed, pulling back, hoping he couldn't see the flush on your cheeks. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"I wouldn't have missed it," he said, and there was something in his eyes, some intensity that hadn't been there before, that made you look away.

The party progressed in a blur of congratulations and champagne. You moved from group to group, accepting praise and advice and promises of future collaborations, but your attention kept drifting back to Oscar.

He was talking to some of your friends that approached him, charming them unconsciously, then to Lando, the two of them laughing about some shared memory. He caught you looking at him once and held your gaze for a long moment before smiling—a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes—and raising his glass in a silent toast.

You drank too much. You knew it even as you were doing it, topping off your glass again and again, accepting shots from Kimi and Ollie, dancing with Alexandra until the room spun. You were trying to drown the feelings that had resurfaced with violent intensity, trying to convince yourself that you were fine, that you were happy, that Oscar Piastri was just a man and not the center of your gravitational pull.

By midnight, you were thoroughly, impossibly drunk. The room had developed a pleasant blur around the edges, and your voice felt too loud in your own ears. You remembered talking to Alexandra, who had looked concerned and suggested you slow down. You remembered dancing with Lando, who had spun you around until you stumbled. You remembered standing at the bar, ordering another drink, and then—

And then Oscar was there, his hand on your elbow, his voice cutting through the fog.

"Hey," he said gently. "Hey, I think you've had enough."

"Oscar," you slurred, turning to face him, and the room tilted dangerously. "Oscar, you're here. You're really here."

"I'm here," he confirmed, steadying you with a hand on your waist. "Come on. Let's get you some water."

"I don't want water," you announced, though you allowed him to guide you away from the bar. "I want... I want to tell you something."

"Okay," he said, patient as always. "Tell me."

But the words were jumbled, tangled up in alcohol and years of suppressed emotion. You told him he was beautiful. You told him you had missed him. You told him that no one else had ever made you feel the way he did, that you had tried to forget him but it was impossible, that you were still in love with him, had always been in love with him, would love him until the stars burned out.

You were crying by then, you realized dimly, tears tracking down your face as Oscar stared at you with an expression you couldn't decipher. You said something else—something about him being the man of your dreams, about wanting him to see you, really see you, not as Lando's little sister but as a woman who loved him.

And then, mercifully, the alcohol pulled you under. The last thing you remembered was Oscar's arms around you, lifting you, the sensation of movement, the distant sound of him saying goodbye to someone—Lando, probably—and then nothing.

Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the worst headache of your life and a mouth that felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

You were in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, wearing a t-shirt that was definitely not yours. Panic surged through you until you recognized the space—minimalist, masculine, with a view of tranquility. Oscar's flat.

You sat up too quickly, and the room spun. Groaning, you collapsed back against the pillows, noticing for the first time the glass of water and bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. There was a note in Oscar's neat handwriting: "Take two. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."

You took the pills, drank the entire glass of water, and lay back down, trying to piece together the previous night. Fragments came back to you—your confession, your tears, Oscar's face as you poured out years of longing. Mortification washed over you in waves. You had told him everything. You had cried on him. You had probably drooled on him. You were never going to live this down.

But you couldn't hide in his spare bedroom forever. Eventually, you forced yourself upright, found your dress—newly washed, you could smell, you couldn't help but think if you had vomited, because that's embarrassing, and in front of Oscar, too—folded neatly on a chair with your shoes beneath it, and stumbled to the bathroom to assess the damage.

You looked like death warmed over—mascara smudged under your eyes, hair a tangled mess, skin pale and clammy. You splashed water on your face, rinsed your mouth, and tried to smooth your hair into something resembling respectability.

When you emerged, Oscar was in the kitchen as promised, wearing sweatpants and a faded university t-shirt, looking unfairly good for someone who had presumably spent the night caring for a drunk, crying woman. He was making coffee, the rich scent filling the flat, and he turned when he heard you enter.

"Morning," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I died," you croaked. "Oscar, I'm so sorry. I don't even remember everything I said, but I'm sure it was mortifying, and I—"

"Sit down," he interrupted, gesturing to the breakfast bar. "Drink this." He pushed a mug of coffee toward you, black with a splash of milk, exactly how you liked it. You hadn't realized he knew that.

You sat, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic, suddenly aware of how little you were wearing. His t-shirt hit you mid-thigh, and you were acutely conscious of your bare legs, your lack of makeup, your vulnerability in this space that was so intimately his.

"About last night," Oscar began, and your stomach dropped. Here it came—the gentle letdown, the "I care about you as a friend" speech, the careful extraction from the mess you had made.

"You don't have to say anything," you rushed to fill the silence. "I was drunk, I didn't mean to burden you with all of that, I know you don't feel the same way, and I'm sorry for making things awkward. I'll just... I'll get dressed and go, and we can pretend this never happened."

"Stop," Oscar said, and there was a note of command in his voice that made you go still. He set down his own coffee and turned to face you fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He looked nervous, you realized. Oscar, who was always so composed, so in control, was wringing his hands and avoiding your eyes.

"I need to tell you something," he said. "And I need you to let me finish before you say anything, because I've been practicing this speech for a long time, and if I don't get it out now, I never will."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Okay," you whispered.

Oscar took a breath. "When you were eighteen," he began, "and you started flirting with me, I thought it was a phase. A crush. Something you would grow out of when you went to university and met boys your own age, boys who weren't your brother's best friend, boys who had less... baggage."

He paused, running a hand through his hair. "But you didn't grow out of it. And I realized that I didn't want you to. I realized that when you walked into a room, I looked for you first. I memorized your class schedule so I would know when you might visit.”

You were staring at him, your coffee forgotten, your headache suddenly irrelevant. "What?"

"Let me finish," he said, his voice strained. "I fell in love with you. I think that was when you told me a joke about penguins.” He laughs, but then clears his throat, retracing his purpose.

“If I'm honest, but I really fell when you came to that dinner party wearing that blue dress, and you talked about your program with such compassion, and I realized that you weren't a little girl anymore. You were this incredible woman, and I was completely unprepared for how much I wanted you."

"But," you said, because there was clearly a but coming.

"But," Oscar confirmed, his expression twisting. "I had nothing to offer you. I was twenty-two, buried in student debt, living in a flat that I couldn't thank Lando enough for paying the rent, working a job that paid barely enough to cover my loans. And you...you were raised in comfort. Your parents paid for your education. You had never known what it was like to worry about money, to wonder if you could afford groceries. I couldn't ask you to be with me when I was so...small. When I had no security to give you, no stability, no guarantee that I wouldn't fail and drag you down with me.”

"Oscar—" you started, but he held up a hand.

"So I did the only thing I could think of," he continued, his voice rough. "I distanced myself. I threw myself into work, hoping that if I built something, if I became someone worth having, I could come back to you. I told myself I was being noble, giving you space to live your life, to find someone better. But the truth is, I was terrified. Terrified that if I told you how I felt and you rejected me, I wouldn't survive it. Terrified that if I told you and you accepted, I would eventually disappoint you."

He finally looked at you, and his eyes were bright, wet. "Last night, when you told me you loved me, I wanted to tell you everything. But you were drunk, and it would have been wrong to confess while you were vulnerable, while you might not remember. So I brought you here, and I waited for morning."

He pushed off from the counter and took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and you could smell the sleep and coffee on his skin.

"I bought this flat six months ago," he said quietly. "Paid off my loans. Built the career I dreamed of. And every step of the way, you were the ghost at the edge of my vision, the reason I was working so hard. Not to prove anything to the world, but to prove to myself that I could be worthy of you."

"Oscar," you breathed, tears pricking your eyes again, but this time from hope, from joy.

"I love you," he said simply. "I have loved you. I was just too stupid and scared to say it. And I know I've hurt you by disappearing, and I will spend the rest of my life making that up to you if you'll let me. I-I don't know if you have someone, so I might be making a fool of myself right now—”

You laughed, a wet, broken sound, and set down your coffee so you could reach for him. "No," you said, your hands finding his waist, pulling him closer. "There's no one else. There never was. I tried, God knows I tried, but no one was you."

Oscar closed his eyes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Thank God," he whispered, then laughed softly, relieved.

He kissed you then, and it was everything you had imagined and nothing like it at all. It was soft and tentative at first, a question asked and answered, and then deeper, hungrier, his hands coming up to cup your face as if you were something precious and fragile.

You melted into him, into the heat and solidity of him, into the taste of coffee and mint and Oscar. Years of longing crystallized into this moment, this touch, this man who had been the center of your universe for as long as you could remember.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Oscar rested his forehead against yours again, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Marry me," he said.

You blinked, certain you had misheard. "What?"

"Marry me," he repeated, his voice steady despite the wildness in his eyes. "I know we haven't even dated, I know this is insane, but I've wasted so much time, and I don't want to waste another second. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up every morning with you, in a bed we made, a home we built, I want to be in your life. I want to build a future with you, have children with you, grow old with you. I know I should ask you to be my girlfriend first, to date me, to let me court you properly, but I already know I want forever with you.”

You stared at him, your mind reeling. It was crazy. It was too fast. It was everything you had ever wanted.

"You never even let me be your girlfriend," you said, your voice trembling with laughter and tears. "We skipped right over dating, and flirting as adults, and meeting each other's friends properly. We went from childhood friends to... engagement?"

"I can do the whole thing properly if you want," Oscar said, his lips quivering in a smile that made your heart flutter. "I can take you on dates. I can bring you flowers and write you love letters and meet your friends and your parents as your boyfriend. But at the end of it, I'm still going to ask you to marry me. Because I don't want to be your boyfriend. I want to be your husband."

You thought about it—really thought about it. The years of pining, the heartbreak of his absence, the way no one else had ever compared. You thought about waking up next to him every morning, about building a life together, about the children you would have who would inherit his intelligence and your stubbornness.

"I don't have a ring," Oscar said, suddenly uncertain. "I didn't plan this, I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I can get one, though. Any ring you want. Or we can pick it out together."

"I don't care about a ring," you said, and you meant it. "I care about you. I care that you love me. I care that you finally see me."

"I see you," he promised, his voice fierce. "I've always seen you. I was just too blind to understand what I was looking at."

You kissed him again, soft and slow, and when you pulled back, you were smiling. "Yes," you said. "Yes, I'll marry you. But you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you won't disappear again. Promise me that when things get hard, or scary, or uncertain, you'll talk to me instead of running. Promise me that you'll let me love you even when you feel like you have nothing to offer, because you are everything I want, Oscar. You.”

Oscar's eyes closed, and a single tear tracked down his cheek. "I promise," he said, his voice breaking. "I promise, my love. I'm never leaving you again."

You spent the rest of the morning in his bed—not the spare room, but his room, with its wide windows and minimalist furniture and the bed that smelled like him. You talked for hours, filling in the gaps you had spent apart.

He told you about his work, about the renewable energy projects he was passionate about, about the struggles and triumphs of the past twenty-four months. You told him about the three clinics who offered you jobs, about the patients who had touched your heart during your internship, about Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie and how they had kept you sane during your darkest moments.

You made love slowly, reverently, discovering each other with hands and mouths and whispered words. It was awkward in places—he knocked his glasses askew, you laughed when he tickled your ribs—but it was perfect because it was real, because it was you and Oscar finally, finally coming together as you were always meant to.

When you finally emerged from his bedroom in the late afternoon, showered and dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers because your dress was too wrinkled to wear, you found your phone on the kitchen counter where he had left it. There were twenty-three missed calls from Lando, and a text from Alexandra that simply read: "Did you die? Did you sleep with Oscar? TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

You laughed, showing Oscar the message, and he smiled that smile that had captivated you since childhood.

"We should probably tell your brother," he said, wrapping his arms around you from behind. "Before he files a missing persons report."

"Yeah," you agreed, leaning back against him. "He's going to freak out."

You turned in his arms, looking up at him—at the man you had loved for years, who had finally become yours. "I can't believe I'm going to marry you," you said wonderingly. "I spent so long dreaming about this, and now it's real, and I'm almost scared to believe it."

Oscar kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Believe it," he murmured. "I'm yours.”

And as you stood there in his arms, in his flat, you realized that some dreams were worth waiting for.

That love, real love, was not always easy or straightforward or timely.

That sometimes it required patience, and sacrifice, and the courage to risk everything for the chance at happiness.

You thought about the little girl you had been, following two boys around a garden, her heart already given to one of them even if she didn't know it yet.

You thought about the teenager, watching from doorways, writing initials in notebooks, dreaming of a future that seemed impossibly far away.

You thought about the young woman, flirting and hoping and eventually despairing, convinced that her love was unrequited.

And you thought about now—about the ringless proposal and the promises made, about the man holding you like you were the most precious thing in his world, about the lifetime stretching before you filled with possibility.

"Hey," Oscar said, tilting your chin up to look at him. "What are you thinking about?”

You smiled, bright and true and full of joy. "I'm thinking," you said, "that you're the man of my dreams. And that I finally get to keep you."

He laughed, that rich, warm sound that had been the soundtrack of your life, and kissed you until you were breathless, until the past dissolved and the future shone bright and certain before you.

And in that moment, in that kitchen, in that love, you knew that you had finally come home.

The engagement ring on your finger caught the afternoon light as you unpacked boxes in the new house you and Oscar had found together—a place with enough room for both of your things, with a spare bedroom that you were already calling "the nursery" in your private thoughts, though you hadn't told Oscar yet. He knew, though. He always knew what you were thinking, sometimes before you knew it yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Lando: "Dinner tonight? Bring your fiancé. I still can't believe I'm saying that."

You smiled, typing back a confirmation. Lando had taken the news better than expected—there had been a week of protective older brother interrogation, demands that Oscar treat you right or face consequences, but eventually he had settled into the role of enthusiastic supporter.

Another buzz, this time from Alexandra: "Final fitting for the dress tomorrow. Don't you dare be late or I will murder you.”

You laughed, sending back a string of emojis promising punctuality. The wedding was three months away, small and intimate, exactly what you both wanted. No grand spectacle, just the people who mattered, vows written in your own words, and a honeymoon somewhere warm where you could finally relax after the chaos of planning.

Oscar came home then, loosening his tie as he entered, his face lighting up when he saw you. He crossed the room in three strides and kissed you thoroughly, tasting of the London rain and the coffee he had undoubtedly consumed too much of.

"How was your day?" he asked, wrapping his arms around you, his chin resting on your head.

"Perfect," you said, because it was. Because every day with him was perfect, even the difficult ones, even the ones where you argued about whose turn it was to do dishes or what color to paint the bedroom. Because you were together, finally, completely, and that was all that had ever mattered.

"Mine too," he said. "I closed the deal on the new project. The one in Scotland."

"The wind farm?"

"The wind farm," he confirmed, his pride evident. "We're going to power half the Highlands with renewable energy. And I thought... maybe we could look at properties up there. For weekends. A cottage, maybe. Somewhere to escape."

You looked up at him, at the man who had built himself from determination and brilliance, who had made himself worthy not because he needed to, but because he had wanted to give you everything. "I'd love that," you said softly.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, and you thought about the journey that had brought you here—from a garden in your childhood home to this moment, in this home, in this love that had been a long journey in the making.

And as the sun set over London, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose, you stood together in the home you were building, the life you were creating, the love that had finally found its way home.

The man of your dreams, no longer a dream at all, but real and warm and yours, forever.

➳ RENATA HERE ! : Guys, I actually cried while writing Oscar's confession 😭

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. F1 HIGH

➳ DRIVERS INCLUDED : Professors!Grid | fa14, lh44, nh27, sp11, vb77, cs55, aa23, pg10, eo31, mv3, cl16, gr63

➳ INCLUDES : drivers as professors and headmasters, crack fic, light swearing, playful feud between teachers, brocedes (a warning itself). A few young drivers haunting the narrative.

➳ WORDS : 1.1k

➳ RENATA HERE ! : I want to say that this is all based on my opinion on their vibes if they were teachers, do not hate me pls

ALSOO, I HAD REALLY FUN MAKING THIS

I might do a part 2 with the other drivers, but them as students, since the left ones are mostly the young ones (i counted lando and lance still as young drivers)

— requests are open !

ooi. Senior Professor Fernando Alonso

World History Class

Been teaching at F1 high for 22 years

His class is like a free period

Most of the time students sleep on him

Sometimes he sleeps on his students during a long documentary

Uses vhs

Old fashioned

But his students like him ‘cause he's chill

“All of the deadlines are before exams.”

“You forgot your assignment? Pass it after exams, but I have to subtract some points…”

oii. Headmaster-Senior Professor Lewis Hamilton

Music and Substitute for Theater Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 15 years and has been headmaster for 5 years

Greets everyone that passes by, even the ones he doesn't like

Always a cup of tea in his hands

Fashionable suits all day long

“Nico where's this—”

“Nico where's my—”

“Nico did you send the memo—”

Has a love-hate relationship with his deputy headmaster

Students really love him as headmaster ‘cause he's cool

iii. Deputy Headmaster-Senior Professor Nico Rosberg

Basketball Coach and Head of Physical Education Department

Got his job at f1 high the same time Hamilton was hired

Once got nominated to be Headmaster but doesn't want to be

Hates to see Headmaster Hamilton coming his way

“Yes, I already did that.”

Rolls his eyes a few times in a day (courtesy of Headmaster Hamilton) that leaves him having a headache at the end of the day

“Stroll, what the damn hell are you doing?!”

Questions Stroll’s basketball ethics on a daily basis

Has favouritism among his varsity players

Loves Bearman because he has his head straight on basketball unlike some...

oiv. Senior Professor Nico Hülkenberg

Geography Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 13 years

Always gone, someone has to substitute him at least once a week

A big girl dad

Shows and flexes his daughter's achievements

Gets distracted easily

“Look at my daughter—!”

Is actually good at teaching Geography despite his attention span during lectures

“No, Bortoleto. You cannot do the essay again for extra credits.”

oov. Senior Professor Valtteri Bottas

Government and Economics Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 12 years

Straight to the point

Gives quizzes every meeting

Lets you call a friend when you can't answer a question during recitation

“Wait for Antonelli to come back before you go, he has the hall pass.”

Student: “But professor, I just had my perio—”

“Okay, you can go.”

ovi. Senior Professor Sergio Perez

National History Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 12 years

Bottas is his companion

Loves his job so much

Makes quizzes easy and fun

But his exams are actually kind of difficult

Does ice breakers

Over all cool and chill

vii. Professor Carlos Sainz Jr.

Geometry, Trigonometry, Pre-Calculus Class, and Football Coach

Been teaching at f1 high for 10 years

Highly competitive with his own students when it comes to football

Is dating Professor Donaldson (Graphic Design and Substitute for Art), but they're lowkey

None of their students know but have shipped them multiple times without them knowing

“Ay ay ay!”

Raises his eyebrows on you when you do something questionable

“What are you doing, Mr. Colapinto?”

Gathered around with Professor Albon and sometimes Professor Leclerc during lunch time

Some of his students have a crush on him because he has good hair and is very undeniably charming

viii. Professor Alex Albon

Biology, Earth Science, and Environmental Science Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 9 years

Your pet loving professor

But is brutal when it's time to dissect animals

“Yes, Mr. Hadjar? Oh..you want to puke? Uh…sorry, uh, you're excused.”

“Mr. Norris, please, put back the frog's testicles in the jar.”

“Hi, Lily! I mean—good morning, Miss He, do you need something?”

Blushes hard when Professor He (Sex Education and Substitute for Biology) is visiting his class to borrow a few pens

oix. Professor Pierre Gasly

French Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 9 years

Very funny teacher

His students either laugh or stay silent on his jokes

“No, no, no. It's Bonjour.”

Is dating the school nurse, Nurse Kika

Kika: “No, Professor, your head is okay.”

“But, I think Carlos hit my head pretty hard.”

Carlos: “I didn't do no shit.”

oox. Professor Esteban Ocon

Computer Science Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 8 years

Students love him because his room is extra cold because it has many monitors that heat can be a problem

A huge marvel fan, his laptop is full of mcu stickers

Even his screensaver is marvel related

“You forgot to put a slash again, Miss Pin.”

Is actually a cutie, many students love to see his smile ‘cause it's cute

But they love his partner, Flavy, more who occasionally brings him lunch

Professor Ocon is a very chill and cool teacher but is deadly on the activities he passes to the class

Because yet again they have to code

Using paper and pen

oxi. Professor Max Verstappen

Alg I & II, Stats & Prob, Calculus, Physics, and Chemistry Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 7 years

Huge Math guy

Students fear to see him coming

Especially in the hallways because it'll be a 50/50 of his mood

Would you get a “hello” or a resting bitch face?

It depends if Professor Leclerc hasn't messed with him before he drank his first coffee that morning

“No talking.”

Is very good at his job though

His students are actually looking forward to his teaching

“Fine, you can all use your scientific calculator for this quiz.” YAYYY

“But you have to keep your eyes closed.” aww man

Has beef with Professor Russell or that's what the students see between them (they don't really talk to each other)

xii. Professor Charles Leclerc

Spanish, Italian, French, and Substitute for Music Class

Been teaching at f1 high for 2 years

He thought at a different school before f1 high for 5 years

Got titled “Mr. Prince” because he's dreamy and handsome

His first week in teaching at f1 high, many thought he was a student and a lot of students asked for his number until he sat on the teacher's desk

Student: “So you're French, professor?”

Gets irritated

“No. I'm Moñegasque!”

Student: “but you speak French.”

He just sighs and rubs his temples

Quickly smiles when his wife, Professor Alexandra Leclerc (Art and Substitute for Graphic Design), passes by his class

xiii. Professor George Russell

English Literature and Creative Writing

Been teaching at f1 high for 5 years

Holy PowerPoint guy

“uh, professor, can we have the PowerPoint for studying?”

“Sure, Lindblad.”

He proceeds to send a different PowerPoint presentation, one that was made by the school and not his own

“What are you doing out during class hours? Go back inside.”

“What's your class right now?”

“Professor Verstappen, I caught this one running around.”

Max: “I'm sorry about my student. Thank you, professor…not.”

Is very strict during quizzes

Has a watchful eye of an eagle

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. COWBOY

Got called a cowboy, something he didn't prefer to be called, but apparently he loved the way it rolled off your tongue.

➳ PAIRING : Cowboy!Lando Norris x Russell Female!Reader

➳ INCLUDES : none, unless you count kissing. Use of YN, y mama y papa alex and lily mentioned, age gap (reader is 21 while Lando is in his late 20s, ITS LEGAL OKAY?). Lando is down bad. It's an open for interpretation ending, you decide on your own imagination of what comes next. Pictures from pinterest.

➳ WORDS : 1.7k

➳ RENATA HERE ! : this was a DRAFT, So it looks rushed. I have been dreaming of cowboy Lando for awhile now. Like imagine him if he was a cowboy. 😍

— requests are open!

Dawn was still fighting off the dark when Lando swung into the saddle for his usual morning ride. He needed the quiet while he could get it; around the farm, Wednesday meant all hands on deck from sunrise to nightfall.

Just like every Wednesday at first light, it was just him, his horse, and the empty stretch of dirt road swallowing up the silence.

But today, the dust kicked up a different story.

He was off somewhere in his own head when the heavy, rhythmic beat of a second horse thundered in from the left. Squinting through the pale morning haze, he caught sight of her—a woman pushing her mount through the quiet dawn.

She wasn't from around here—Lando knew every face in this valley. Around these parts, folks were separated by hundreds of acres, but nobody was a stranger.

“Mornin’!” she called out as soon as she spotted him, reining in her horse. “I hate to break your peace, but I’m turned all the way around. Can you point me toward the Russell place?”

The Russell place wasn't more than a short ride out, but the thick pine canopy made a maze of these woods. Navigating those tangled trails was a tricky piece of business for anybody who didn't grow up breathing this dirt.

“Just straight up the trail,” Lando said, his voice low and gravel-rough from the early hour. “Right next to the Norris place.”

His place. The Norris farm was his family's pride, sweat, and blood.

“I can lead you there myself, if you’ve a mind for the company,” he said, giving a slow shrug.

“Appreciate it,” she smiled, “but I’ll get by. Thanks, cowboy.”

Lando always bristled at being called cowboy—it felt cheap, like something out of a store-bought paperback. But the way the word rolled off her tongue made his chest tighten and his stomach take a sudden, unbidden drop. Her voice was soft, laced with just enough sweet provocation to leave him rooted right where he sat.

He didn't hold with love at first sight—that was a fool's notion. But there was no denying she was a strike-me-blind sight to behold. He sat frozen as she kicked her horse into a trot, twin braided pigtails bouncing against her back as she broke through the treeline toward the Russell place, right beside his own land. And right then, Lando knew one thing for certain: he was going to have to hear that voice again.

“Where in the hell have you been?” George asked, casting a slow, critical eye over the woman in front of him. She wasn't just his younger cousin—she was one of his best mates, too, though right now he was silently tearing her appearance to shreds. Stray hairs wisped wildly out of her braids, dust was caked thick across her thighs, and her boots were buried in fresh trail mud. She was late for the quiet breakfast gathering thrown for George and his fiancée, Carmen, ahead of their wedding in a few days.

“Go get cleaned up,” he grunted, shaking his head.

She took off toward her family's designated cabin for the week, taking the steps two at a time to get cleaned up. The Russell place was sprawling—they had money to burn—with compounds of ranch houses lined up across the estate, built specifically to hold the endless stream of kin and guests brought in for big family gatherings.

While she got cleaned up, Lando made his way inside. He was running late himself, though he'd had the sense to give George a heads-up beforehand. Stepping through the doors of the glass greenhouse—now outfitted as a grand dining hall—he was hit with the warm scent of fresh blooms mingled with something rich and sweet: fresh-baked biscuits, courtesy of his mother's pre-dawn hours in the kitchen before he’d hit the trail.

“Lando!” Mrs. Russell called out, a warm smile cutting through the room’s chatter as he crossed the threshold. “Glad you made it in time. Come on, take a load off.”

She steered him toward an open chair beside his buddy Alex and Alex’s wife, Lily. All around them, the hall was alive with noise—a pack of young Albon kids, George’s nieces and nephews, darting between tables alongside a handful of other children, likely distant kin from either George or Carmen’s side of the line.

Plates of food were passed down to Lando from every angle, mostly piled high by Mrs. Russell. She’d always had a soft spot for him and Alex, having watched the pair raise hell alongside George since they were all barely big enough to sit a horse. Chatter filled the room, but the chair directly to Lando's right remained vacant—likely saved for one of the kids currently tearing through the greenhouse.

Then, someone slipped into the empty seat beside him. Instantly, the heavy smells of coffee and fresh biscuits were cut by something soft, clean, and floral—a scent entirely foreign to the dust and pine of the valley.

“What’d I miss?”

That same soft, sweet voice cut through the room’s chatter right into his ear. Lando came damn near close to tipping his head back in pure gratitude, muttering a quiet “thank you” up toward the heavens.

“Nothing major,” George says, who is now standing between and behind the woman and Lando.

“Lando, meet my baby cousin, the one we visit up in the city,” George says, laying his left hand on Lando's right shoulder. “YN, this is Lando, one of my best friends and best men.”

George had two best men for his wedding, because he can do that. Lando and Alex.

“Don't call me a baby, I'm twenty-one—but we’ve met,” YN said, giving George a brief nod before turning her gaze directly to Lando. “Crossed paths on the trail.”

Her eyes locked onto his, holding them with a quiet, steady challenge.

“So that’s why the two of you were late?” George asked, his brow furrowing as he connected the dots.

“No,” Lando shot back before the words could even settle. “Told you already—the stables needed tending first.”

“Uh-huh,” George grunted, letting his hand slide off Lando’s shoulder.

YN turned her focus to the food in front of her, striking up a quiet conversation with Carmen. But George didn't miss the way Lando’s eyes drifted sideways, tracking his little cousin. Recognizing that look all too well, George jabbed a finger in his direction—half playful, half dead-serious.

“You,” he warned under his breath. “Behave.”

Lando rolled his eyes, taking a slow sip from his mug. “I’m not doing a damn thing.”

“No,” George said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not yet, anyway.”

With a final, knowing smirk, George turned to greet a few lingering relatives before heading back to take his place beside Carmen.

The next few days bled into one another, marked by a quiet, simmering game of cat and mouse. Lando watched YN with intentional, heavy eyes, and she threw the look right back with a deliberate, teasing edge. At one point, Lando nearly snapped. She knew damn well what she was doing to him, and she was thoroughly enjoying every second of it—mostly because he couldn't do a single thing about it under George's sharp, eagle-eyed watch.

It was an unwritten law around these parts: you don't mess with a friend’s family. And for YN, you don't mess with family friends. Nobody wanted the bitter fallout if things went south, so you kept your hands to yourself and your mind off the temptation.

But then again, you weren't a true Norris if you didn't bend a few rules—and you sure as hell weren't a Russell if you didn't get exactly what you wanted.

Not a single word passed between Lando and YN after that morning on the trail. Not through the rest of the week, not during the wedding, and not even now, as the festivities wrapped up and YN’s family readied their cars to head back out in the city. The air between them remained thick, charged with everything left unsaid.

YN caught sight of Lando across the yard while she was loading the last of her family's bags into the car. He was already watching her, his gaze steady and waiting. Closing the distance between them, she walked over until she stood just across from him, nothing separating them but the wooden rail of the fence.

“Safe trav—”

Lando's words were cut short as YN reached across the rail, tangling one hand in the nape of his neck while the other threaded deep through his dark curls. Pulling him down to her height, she captured his mouth with hers, closing the gap in a single, sudden kiss.

Lando's hands slammed against the fence rail to catch his balance, his boots sliding in the dirt as the sudden pull caught him off guard. Thank God the yard was empty—and thank God George was already miles away on his honeymoon, nowhere near enough to catch them.

What started as something sweet and alluring quickly turned deep and hungry. The second Lando’s mind caught up to what was actually happening, any lingering restraint vanished. He brought his hand up to cup the back of her head, anchoring her close, desperate for more of her lips, more of her taste, more of everything she was offering.

When YN finally pulled back, Lando instinctively leaned in to chase her lips, only for the wooden rail of the fence to press hard against his chest, halting him in his tracks. Breathing heavily, he looked down at her, his eyes drifting straight to her lips—swollen, glistening, and thoroughly wrecked by his own.

“Had to make the move myself, or you never would’ve,” YN said, a bold, knowing grin breaking across her face. She backed away toward the car, her gaze never leaving his. “Goodbye, cowboy.”

She turned and walked away, timing it just right as her family emerged from the house to load up. Lando stood by the fence, watching her every move—the way she climbed into the driver’s seat, the way she rolled the window down to blow him one last, subtle kiss, and the quiet grin on her face as she finally pulled off the farm, kicking up a trail of dust as she drove back toward the city.

Lando was down bad—completely and utterly hooked. Standing by the fence with the dust lingering in her tire tracks, he knew right then and there that he needed to find out what else she was capable of.

And just how far she was willing to take this.

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. CUFFING SEASON?

The first toy they used on you.

➳ PAIRING : grid x female!reader | lh44, cs55, mv3, cl16, gr63, ln4, op81, ob87, ka12

— ep1. lewis hamilton

➳ INCLUDES : MDNI 18+, smut, heavy smuttt, language, use of sex toys, piv sex, unprotected sex (use contraceptives, kids!!), fingering, oral (f receiving), use of restraints as sex toys, handcuffing, MUNCH LEWIS HELL YEA. Comment if I missed something. Pictures from pinterest.

➳ WORDS : 3.9k

➳ RENATA HERE ! : Guess who's horny—WHO SAID THAT? I have no explanation for this one, I just think he'd be into this, but that's my opinion. 😣

Hehe after posting two fluff fics imma hit you with a smut cuz im a good person like that 🤭

#IWroteThisInsteadOfSleeping

Come request something if you want :)

— requests are open!

episode one

lewis hamilton

— handcuffs

"Are you sure?"

Lewis's voice drops to that register—the one that vibrates somewhere low in your sternum, warm and careful, like he's handling something precious and fragile even though you're both fully clothed, standing in the middle of your bedroom with afternoon light slanting through the blinds in dusty gold bars. He's asked you months ago, maybe even a year ago now, floating the idea over takeout containers and bad television, and you'd shaken your head then, feeling the heat crawl up your neck, muttering something about not being ready, about needing time.

He'd simply kissed your temple, gathered the empty boxes, said, "There's no rush, baby. We only do what we're both comfortable with." Like it was nothing. Like your boundaries were a gift he was happy to receive rather than a barrier he was eager to tear down.

But now—now something has shifted. Maybe it was the way he looked at you this morning over coffee, eyes soft and knowing. Maybe it was the weight of the week pressing down on you, the desperate need to let go, to be held, to trust someone enough to render you completely helpless. Whatever it was, you found yourself standing in front of him with your heart hammering against your ribs like a bird trying to escape.

You nod. Your throat feels tight, cotton-dry.

"Baby," he says, stepping closer. His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing the curve of your hip bones through your t-shirt. "You gotta use words, okay? I need you to say it properly."

The request hangs in the air between you, charged and humming. You swallow, feel the click in your throat, the rush of blood in your ears. "Yes," you finally manage, and the word comes out breathless, trembling, embarrassingly eager. "I wanna try it. Please."

Something dark and pleased flickers across his face—there and gone, replaced by that devastating tenderness he reserves only for you. "Okay," he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "Okay, my love."

You expect him to guide you toward the bed immediately, to cuff your wrists to the headboard in that cliché, movie-way you've seen a hundred times. Instead, he steps back, disappears into the closet for a moment, and returns with something glinting in his palm. Two somethings.

Two handcuffs.

You frown, confusion momentarily piercing the haze of arousal that's been building since you first broached the subject. Two? The math doesn't immediately compute in your lust-fogged brain—two wrists, yes, but two complete sets? But then he's moving toward you with that predatory grace he sometimes gets, the one that makes your knees weak, and rational thought evaporates like steam.

"Trust me?" he asks, already reaching for your left hand.

"Always," you whisper, and you mean it.

He takes your wrist—his fingers warm and steady, feeling your pulse hammering there against his thumb—and snaps the first cuff around it. The metal is cool, heavier than you expected, sending a shiver up your arm that has nothing to do with temperature. Then, instead of raising your arm, he bends, guides your hand down, down, until your fingertips brush your own ankle. The second cuff closes around it with a decisive click that echoes in the quiet room.

Oh.

Oh.

The realization blooms slowly and hot in your chest as he moves to your right side, repeating the process with methodical care—wrist to ankle, wrist to ankle—until you're standing there, naked now (when did that happen? Did he undress you or did you undress yourself? you can't remember, can't think), completely exposed and folded open in a way that makes your face burn. Your arms are stretched down along your body, restrained at four points, leaving you spread and vulnerable and unable to close yourself off even if you wanted to.

The position forces your shoulders back, your chest forward, every part of you on display.

"Comfortable?" Lewis asks, and his voice has gone rough, but his eyes are checking you—scanning your face for any sign of distress, any hesitation. "You okay?"

You test the restraints, feeling the unforgiving metal against your skin, the slight give of the chain links, the way the position limits your movement to small, helpless shifts. "Yes," you say, and then, because he deserves the truth, "Yes and yes."

Your breathing has gone heavy, slow and deliberate, each inhale pushing your chest out further, each exhale trembling through your parted lips. You lick them, suddenly conscious of how dry your mouth has become, how every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware.

"Safe word is red," he reminds you, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. His eyes search yours with fierce intensity. "You say red, everything stops. No questions asked. No disappointment. Just stop, and we cuddle, and we talk. Okay, baby?"

You nod, then remember he needs words. "Okay," you say, and your voice sounds foreign to you—thinner, higher, wrapped in anticipation. "Red. I understand."

And you do. You think about all those scenes in books, in movies, where the safe word seemed almost theatrical, a performance of danger rather than a genuine tool for care. You'd thought it might feel silly, embarrassing, breaking the spell with clinical precision. But now, suspended in this moment with him, you understand with sudden clarity: this is love made visible. This is someone caring enough to build you a door before locking you in the room.

Lewis doesn't rush. He stands there, studying you like you're art, like you're something holy, and the weight of his gaze is almost physical, raising goosebumps across your bare skin. He leans in, finally, and kisses you—and it's different from their usual kisses, hungrier, messier, like he's been starving for this specific taste of you and only just received permission to feast.

His mouth opens over yours, hot and demanding, and you feel the wetness at the corner of your lips—his or yours, you can't tell, don't care—saliva and desire mixing into something primal. When he pulls back, just an inch, you chase him instinctively, leaning forward, but he presses a hand gently against your sternum and pushes you back.

The restraint hits you then, fully, for the first time. You can't reach him. Your hands are trapped at your ankles, useless, and the frustration of it—the sheer helplessness—sends a bolt of arousal so sharp through your core that you gasp aloud. You want to touch him, to grab his hair, to pull him back to you, and the fact that you can't, that you're completely at his mercy, makes you wetter than you've ever been.

"Pathetic," you mutter, but you're smiling, and he laughs—that warm, rich sound that fills the room.

"Impatient," he corrects, and drops to his knees.

Your breath catches as he presses his mouth to your sternum, your ribs, the soft curve of your belly. His lips are soft, reverent, tracing patterns over your skin like he's writing prayers there. He nips at your hip bone, soothes the spot with his tongue, and you feel yourself growing impossibly wetter, impossibly needier, your body responding to his touch with embarrassing enthusiasm.

"So pretty," he murmurs against your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp. "So good for me."

You whine, high and desperate, when he bypasses where you need him most, kissing instead the crease of your thigh, the sensitive skin just out of reach. "Lewis, please—"

"Patience," he says again, but there's a tremor in his voice now, betraying his own restraint. "Let me enjoy you, baby. I've been thinking about this for months."

His mouth finally finds your center, and your head falls back with a cry that you don't bother trying to muffle. He licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, groaning against you like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, like he's been dying of thirst and you've finally offered him water. The sound vibrates through you, adding another layer of sensation to the already overwhelming mix.

He settles in, finding a rhythm that makes your vision blur at the edges—broad, flat strokes of his tongue interspersed with pointed, teasing flicks against your clit. When he pushes his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow, deliberate thrusts, your knees buckle, and only the restraints keep you upright. You would have collapsed without them, you realize dimly, floating in the haze of pleasure.

Then his fingers join the dance—one first, sliding in easily, curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Then two, stretching you, filling you, pumping in time with his tongue. The dual sensation is maddening, too much and not enough, building you toward a precipice you can see but can't quite reach.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips trying to buck against the restraints, limited to small, frustrated rolls. "Fuck, Lewis—I'm gonna come. Please, baby, please—"

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his chin shiny with your arousal, his eyes blown wide and dark. "I know," he says, his voice gravel-rough. "Come on, baby. Don't be shy. I want to feel it. I want to taste it."

He seals his mouth back over you, fingers curling, pressing, and you're gone—shattering apart with a cry that sounds like his name and a prayer and a curse all mixed together. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, starting where his mouth works you and radiating outward until even your fingertips are buzzing with it. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with aftershocks that make you twitch and gasp, your whole body singing with the electricity of release. He gentles his touch, lapping at you with soft, soothing strokes, drawing out every last tremor until you're whimpering from oversensitivity, your hips trying to squirm away even as your heart begs him to stay.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against your thigh, pressing kisses there, his breath hot and heavy. "So fucking beautiful when you let go like that."

You blink up at the ceiling, chest heaving, feeling like you've been unmade and rebuilt from the inside out. The metal cuffs clink softly as you shift, a reminder of your position—open, vulnerable, his—and another shiver runs through you, not from cold but from the lingering power of your submission.

Lewis rises slowly, his hands tracing up your legs, your hips, your waist, relearning your topography with reverent palms. He stops when he reaches your face, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lower lip. You can smell yourself on him—earthy and intimate—and it sends a fresh spike of desire through your spent body.

"Need to be inside you," he says, and the raw need in his voice makes your toes curl. "Can you take more, baby? Or do you need a minute?"

"Please," you whisper, because it's the only word your brain can form, the only prayer you know. "Please, Lewis… let me touch you."

He smiles, that devastating, crooked smile that first made you fall in love with him in a coffee shop three years ago, when he spilled his latte trying to compliment your book choice. "No can do," he says, but his voice is gentle, almost apologetic. "Not yet. You look too good like this—ruined and waiting just for me."

He steps back, and the loss of his heat makes you whimper, but then he's pulling his shirt over his head (when had he kept that on? you wonder deliriously), revealing the lean muscles of his chest, the constellation of tattoos across his shoulders that you love to map with your tongue. He unbuttons his jeans with quick, efficient movements, shoving them down along with his boxers, and you watch, hungry, as he kicks them aside, standing before you in nothing but the afternoon light.

He's hard, you notice with a pulse of satisfaction—achingly hard, his cock flushed dark and curving toward his belly, a bead of moisture already gathering at the tip. For you. Because of you. The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling low in your abdomen, despite the orgasm he's already wrung from you.

He moves back into your space, crowding you with his warmth, his height. He leans in to kiss you, and this kiss is different—messier, more desperate, flavored with your own arousal and his mounting need. His tongue sweeps through your mouth, claiming, tasting, while his hands roam your body with increasing urgency.

While you're still dizzy from the kiss, lost in the slide of his mouth against yours, he reaches between your legs, aligns himself with your entrance, and pushes inside in one smooth, relentless thrust.

The stretch burns so perfectly you see stars. You cry out against his mouth, your body arching as much as the restraints allow, feeling every inch of him filling you, completing you. He doesn't start slow—he can't, you realize, feeling the tremor in his arms, the ragged edge of his control—and instead sets a hard, driving rhythm that makes the bed frame creak in protest.

The air in the room shifts, becomes thick and humid, scented with sweat and sex and the particular musk of skin against skin. The sound of him filling you, the wet slap of his hips meeting your thighs, the broken, breathless noises he's making in your ear—it all combines into a symphony of filthy intimacy that makes your head spin.

"Fuck," he grunts against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "You feel—fuck, baby, you're so tight, so wet. Taking me so well."

You try to close your legs, an instinctive response to the overwhelming sensation building again in your core, but the cuffs prevent it, holding you open for his relentless pace. He notices your attempt, notices the way you strain against the metal, and he pulls back just enough to look down at where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you with a gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.

"Don't hide," he commands softly, his hands moving to your knees, pressing them wider. "Let me see you. Let me feel you."

"'M gonna come again," you murmur against his neck, your voice breaking on a moan as he hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your vision white out. "Shit, baby, I'm gonna—"

"Hold it," he says, his voice strained, his hips stuttering just slightly. "Wait for me, baby. Just a little longer. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"

You swear you could cry. The pressure is exquisite torture, building and building, your body wound tight as a spring. You want to touch him, want to dig your nails into his back and anchor yourself to something solid, but your hands are still trapped, still useless, and the frustration mixes with the pleasure until you're trembling, teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic.

And then—then you feel his fingers at your left wrist, fumbling with the cuff. The metal releases with a click, and then your right wrist is free too, and he's still moving inside you, hasn't stopped thrusting for a second, but now your arms are loose and your hands are flying to his shoulders, his back, clutching at him with desperate strength.

"Touch me," he groans, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic, chasing his own release. "Scratch me, baby. Mark me. I want to feel you for days."

You don't need to be told twice. Your nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave red trails, hard enough to make him shout and thrust deeper, harder. You wrap your legs around his waist—the cuffs at your ankles falling away with another two quick clicks, when did he grab those?—and you pull him into you, meeting him stroke for stroke.

"That's it," he gasps, his forehead dropping to yours, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Come with me, baby. Come now—"

You shatter.

Your second orgasm hits like a freight train, rolling through you in endless waves, your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses that milk him desperately. You cry out his name, bury your face in his neck, bite down on his shoulder as you ride it out, your whole body convulsing with the force of it.

He follows you over the edge with a shout that sounds like your name torn in half, his hips snapping forward once, twice, three more times as he spills inside you, hot and thick and claiming. You feel every twitch, every pulse, holding him through it with your arms and legs wrapped tight around him, keeping him close, keeping him yours.

When you both finally still, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, of two hearts hammering against each other. He stays inside you for a long moment, his face buried in your hair, his hands stroking up and down your sides with trembling gentleness.

"That was—" you start, but your voice cracks, ruined.

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the loss of him. He guides you down onto the bed, following you, gathering you into his arms with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You curl into him, your face pressed against his sternum, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic gallop to a steady, satisfied thump.

"That was fun," you say finally, your voice muffled against his skin. You giggle, suddenly giddy, drunk on endorphins and intimacy. "That was really, really fun."

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah?" He tilts your chin up, looks at you with those eyes that see everything, that hold your whole world. "You okay? Really okay?"

You nod, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Mhm. Better than okay." You pause, then add, testing, "Might have to do it again sometime."

His eyes light up, that wicked glint returning, mixing with something softer, something that looks a lot like forever. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, his hand tracing lazy circles on your hip. "You don't even know what's coming for you. I've got ideas. So many ideas."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite your exhaustion. "Ideas?"

"But only when you're ready. Only ever when you're ready."

You smile against his mouth, feeling safe, feeling seen, feeling loved in every molecule of your being. "Guess we'll see," you whisper.

"Yeah," he agrees, pulling you closer, tangling your legs together. "We will."

And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, marked by him in ways that will last for days, you think that maybe—just maybe—you're ready for whatever beautiful, boundless thing comes next.

[purplekittiesdotcom]

i hope you know me sane is literally so good!! you’re so right unbelievably talented at world building! i’m immediately immersed!!!

would love to see more ollie stuff hehehe

✎ᝰ. I KNEW IT, I KNEW YOU

What are the chances that the same guy seated next to you years ago in the same cinema is, again, seated next to you? Probably low, but never zero.

➳ PAIRING : ollie bearman x reader

➳ INCLUDES : fluff, ollie being a cutie, ollie getting emotional/crying to a scene, language, organic encounter meet cute typa shit. INACCURATE TIMELINE (aged up cuz ts4 was out back in 2019, ollie was 14). Pictures from pinterest.

➳ WORDS : 4k

➳ RENATA HERE ! : I just watched Toy Story 5 in the cinema AND MY GOD IT WAS SO GOOD I CRIED I SOBBED YALL SHOULD WATCH. It inspired me to write this cutesy oneshot, because I thought — must be nice to have someone next to you, watching in the cinema (i was all alone, there was no one seated next to me 😔)

++++ this lovely person wanted more ollie stuff, so here I am at your service 🙂‍↕️ also thank you for all the feedbacks, i really really really appreciate them. 💋

Come drop some requests if you want to :)

— requests are open!

There is a distinct, heavy sort of quiet that settles in when plans dissolve at the very last minute. It isn’t just the sudden emptiness of the evening; it’s the abrupt deflation of expectation, the quiet snapping of a thread you had been holding onto all week.

You stood in the brightly lit lobby of the cinema, the ambient noise of popping corn and rushing families washing over you in waves, looking down at your phone. A flurry of group chat notifications stared back up at you—variations of “so sorry, something came up!” and “can’t make it tonight, guys, duty calls!” text bubbles stacked like a wall blocking you out.

You were supposed to watch Toy Story 4 together. It was meant to be a nostalgic pilgrimage, a shared nod to the childhood you had all left behind. But now, the space around you felt entirely too vast. You pocketed your phone with a small, practicing sigh. It’s fine, you told yourself, stepping into the queue for the ticket tearer. You couldn't be the one to throw a tantrum over an empty seat.

Yet, as you walked down the dimly lit slope of the theater and navigated the row to your designated spot, the maturity you had forced upon yourself began to curdle, just a little.

The theater was buzzing, a warm hive of collective anticipation. As you settled into your seat, you couldn't help but look around. To your left, a mother was gently wiping a smudge of chocolate off her son's cheek while the boy gripped a Buzz Lightyear toy with white knuckles. A few rows down, a couple was sharing a bucket of popcorn, their heads tilted together, whispering secrets into the dark as they laughed softly. It was an environment built entirely on shared joy, which only made your singular presence feel loud.

A quiet bitterness began to creep into the edges of your thoughts, sharp and uninvited. That could be you, a cynical, nasty little voice whispered in the back of your mind. If you gave anyone a chance instead of hiding behind the safety of your own routine.

The thought left a sour taste in your mouth, instantly shifting your bitterness into a profound, heavy sadness. You leaned back against the plush fabric of the seat, staring up at the giant screen where trivia questions were flashing by. You weren't supposed to be thinking like this. You were here to watch a movie about toys, a film engineered to make people feel happy, light, and full of pure, uncomplicated joy.

As the lights finally began to dim, cascading the room into a deep, velvety darkness, the remaining stragglers scrambled to find their places. It was a completely full house. Every single silhouette against the glow of the screen was paired up, packed tightly together—except for the very edge of your row. You were in the second-to-last seat, and the corner spot right next to you remained glaringly, beautifully empty. For a fleeting second, you considered moving over, giving yourself the luxury of the corner armrest, but the previews were already rolling, the loud thunder of the sound system shaking the floorboards.

Then, the heavy doors at the back of the auditorium creaked open, throwing a brief, diagonal shaft of yellow light across the room.

“Sorry! Sorry, excuse me!” a voice suddenly called out. It was a young voice, entirely too loud for the hushed environment, cracking slightly under the pressure of intense panic.

“Shh!” a disgruntled voice hissed from the row directly behind you.

“Apologies… ever so sorry,” the voice scrambled, dropping into a frantic, hurried whisper that carried an unmistakable, polite British lilt.

“Man, get out of the way!” someone muttered as a tall silhouette tripped blindly over a pair of extended legs.

“Excuse me, I am so sorry, deeply sorry!” the guy gasped again, his silhouette weaving through the darkness like a ship lost at sea. He was moving entirely too fast for a room with zero visibility.

Before you could even register his proximity, a heavy, solid shoe came down with full force right on top of your sneaker.

“Ow!” you gasped, the sharp, throbbing pinch of pain drawing an involuntary breath from your lungs as you instinctively pulled your foot back.

The silhouette froze mid-stride, nearly toppling over into your lap before catching himself against the back of the seat in front of you. “Oh god, I’m really, truly sorry,” he whispered frantically. The screen changed to a bright, colorful animation, casting a sudden flash of blue light over him. You couldn't see his face perfectly, but you caught the wide, horrified look in his eyes, his messy dark curls bouncing as he scrambled into the empty corner seat next to you, looking like a boy who had just broken a priceless vase.

“Are you hurt? Blimey, I’m stupid, of course you are,” he scolded himself, his voice dropping into a rapid-fire, agonized whisper as he hunched over in his seat. He looked thoroughly mortified, his hands shifting restlessly. “Did I scrape you? Did I break anything? I think I have a couple of plaster bandaids in my pocket—I’m really so sorry—”

“I’m okay, really. Just breathe, calm down, it’s completely fine,” you whispered back, holding up a hand to stem the tide of his panic.

“Are you absolutely sure?” he pressed, leaning in slightly, his brow furrowed with genuine, wide-eyed anxiety.

“Shhhhhh!” the designated theater hall-monitor from the row behind blew another loud whistle of air.

The guy let out a tiny, high-pitched meep of pure embarrassment, instantly swallowing the rest of his words. He shrank back into the corner of his chair, pulling his shoulders in as if trying to merge with the fabric and become entirely invisible.

Cute, you thought automatically, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite the lingering ache in your toes. Then, you mentally shook yourself. No, absolutely not. Stop it. You don’t even know him. You turned your eyes firmly back to the screen as the familiar, comforting opening chords of the movie filled the room.

For the next few minutes, you lost yourself in the story. The initial loneliness that had weighed down your chest slowly evaporated, replaced by the colorful, high-stakes world of Forky, Bo Peep, and the antique shop. But as the narrative deepened, shifting from lighthearted comedy into something far more poignant about purpose, growing up, and letting go, a strange sound began to drift over from your left.

It was a soft, ragged intake of breath. A sniffle.

You didn't look at first, choosing to give the stranger his privacy. But then came a very distinct, hitched sob, carefully muffled behind a closed fist. You turned your head just a fraction, peeking through the darkness. The bright, warm glow of the screen illuminated the side of his face. The boy who had violently trampled your foot minutes prior was now staring at the screen with absolute, unblinking devotion. As Bo Peep and Woody shared a quiet, deeply emotional reunion on screen, a single, glistening tear escaped his eye, tracing a slow path down his cheek.

As if sensing your gaze, his head snapped toward you. Panic flashed across his features again. He quickly dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, cleared his throat with a loud, aggressive cough, and immediately sat up straight, crossing his arms over his chest in the most masculine, unaffected posture he could muster.

“It’s really quite cold in here,” he whispered into the dark, his voice a little raspy as he stared dead ahead, trying desperately to sound nonchalant. “My eyes… they get incredibly irritated by the air conditioning. Natural reaction, really.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “Right. The theater allergies. Highly selective,” you whispered back softly.

He gave a stiff, formal nod, clearly satisfied that he had successfully defended his dignity.

Except, the movie didn't stop being emotional. By the time the climax arrived, and Woody stood at the back of the carnival truck, looking between the lifelong loyalty of Buzz and the new, free life with Bo Peep, the quiet composure next to you completely shattered. The sniffling returned, heavier this time, followed by the undeniable sound of someone trying—and failing—to quietly swallow their tears.

You looked over again. He was entirely gone, his head tilted down, his hand covering his eyes as the emotional weight of a cowboy doll’s existential crisis completely undid him.

Without a word, you reached into your bag. Your fingers brushed past your phone, your keys, and landed on a small, unopened pocket-pack of tissues—the very last one you had. You pulled it out, extended your hand across the shared armrest, and lightly nudged his elbow with the plastic packaging.

He blinked, looking down at your hand through a pair of remarkably watery, long-lashed eyes. A flush of deep crimson was creeping up his neck, visible even in the dim light. He looked utterly humiliated, but the sheer volume of his tears left him with very little leverage.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, his British accent thick with emotion as he accepted the pack. He pulled out a tissue and gingerly dabbed at his eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of grace.

As the final frame faded to black and the bright, uplifting credit music began to roll, the heavy silence of the theater broke into a collective rustle of people gathering their belongings. The boy next to you let out a long, shaky breath, balling up the damp tissue in his fist.

“It’s just… it’s so beautiful, isn't it?” he asked, turning his face fully toward you. He looked entirely earnest, his heart completely on his sleeve, seemingly unbothered now by the fact that he was a grown man who had just wept at an animated children's movie. “The ending. He stayed. I just… I didn't expect him to stay.”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softening as you offered him a gentle, reassuring nod. “It was a really good ending.”

You grabbed your bag from the floor and stood up, smoothing down your clothes. The house lights were slowly fluctuating, transitioning from the dark amber into the bright, stark white of the daytime reality. “Well, crying man,” you said, a playful, teasing smirk breaking across your face as you looked down at him. “I should probably go. But you might want to wipe that stray tear off your chin before you face the public.”

His eyes widened slightly, his hand flying up to his chin to catch the exact drop you were talking about.

As the overhead lights flared to full brightness, the darkness that had shielded you both vanished. For a split second, your eyes locked. You saw him clearly now—sharp jawline, wide, expressive dark eyes still slightly rimmed with red, and a messy mop of curls that made him look incredibly endearing. He, too, was staring up at you, his hand frozen on his chin, his gaze dropping to your face as if he were suddenly seeing you for the first time.

You gave him one last amused smile, turned on your heel, and joined the steady stream of people shuffling down the steps toward the exit.

Behind you, Oliver Bearman sat perfectly still in the corner seat, his fingers loosely holding a crumpled tissue, his eyes entirely glued to your retreating figure until you disappeared into the bright, crowded foyer.

By the time you got home, the loneliness of the evening had completely transformed into a lighthearted, funny memory. The frustration with your cousins felt distant, replaced by the sheer comedy of the boy next to you. Standing in your bedroom, you looked in your gallery for a quick photo of the screen you had taken before the lights went down—a slightly blurry shot of Woody and Bo Peep—and uploaded it to your Instagram story.

You typed out a caption, smiling as you did: “AMAZING. Also, this guy sitting next to me started crying like a baby when Woody decided to stay with Bo. I had to give him my very last pack of tissues. 😂😭”

Across town, inside a quiet car, Oliver was staring at his own phone screen, his face still bearing the faint, dry tracks of his cinematic undoing. With a sheepish, self-deprecating smile, he posted a selfie directly to his own story. He looked thoroughly exhausted, his eyes slightly puffy, holding up a peace sign inside the dimly lit vehicle.

His caption read: “toy story 4 is so good, absolutely cried my eyes out. This kind woman next to me gave me a pack of tissues, I couldn’t be more embarrassed 😭🙏🏻 standard theater allergies mate.”

Exactly twenty minutes later, your phone began to vibrate violently on your nightstand. The screen lit up with your friend’s contact photo, the ringing sharp and demanding.

You picked it up, sliding it to your ear. “Hello?”

“BITCH,” your friend’s voice exploded through the speaker, entirely skipping any form of greeting. The volume was so loud you had to pull the phone a few inches away from your ear. “YOU SAT NEXT TO OLIVER BEARMAN AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

You blinked, completely bewildered, walking over to sit on the edge of your bed. “Who the fuck is Oliver Bearman?”

A heavy, horrified silence filled the line, followed by what sounded like a frustrated groan. “Who is—are you living under a rock? He’s the British driver! He’s literally a rising star, won a few karting championships, and is moving up the ranks like crazy, everyone is talking about him! He literally just posted a story about a girl giving him tissues, and I know those are your exact bedazzled pack of tissues in the corner of his photo! How do you not know who he is?”

You pulled the phone down, looking at the blank screen for a moment, a sudden image of wide, watery dark eyes and a frantic, polite British accent flashing vividly in your mind. “Are you hurt? Blimey, I’m stupid…”

A small, genuine laugh bubbled up from your chest as you brought the phone back to your ear. “I don't know anything about karting, you know that. To me, he was just a guy with terrible dark-theater coordination who really, really cares about plastic cowboys.”

“You are hopeless,” your friend groaned, though there was an underlying chuckle in their voice. “Absolute historical fumble.”

After you hung up, you stared at your ceiling for a long time, the quiet rhythm of the night settling back into your room. You didn't search his name, and you didn't try to hunt down his profile.

You pulled your blanket up to your chin, closed your eyes, and smiled, thinking that you’d probably never see him again.

Wrong!

Time has a strange, quiet way of reshaping the landscape of your life without you even noticing the bricks shifting.

A few years pass, and suddenly the chaotic, noisy weekends of your youth are traded for the sterile, rhythmic hum of university life.

The group chat with your cousins, once a bustling hub of impulsive plans and shared inside jokes, has slowed down to a muted, polite exchange of birthday wishes and mutually exhausted complaints about upcoming exams, thesis deadlines, and conflicting lecture schedules. Everyone is simply too busy, scattered across different campuses and drowning in the heavy, unglamorous transition into real adulthood.

So, when the long-awaited announcement of Toy Story 5 finally translated into a tangible premiere date, you didn't even bother waiting for a cancellation. You bought a single ticket, knowing that some traditions are too deeply woven into the fabric of your childhood to be sacrificed to the god of busy schedules.

You needed to watch it, if only to anchor yourself back to the girl who used to sit on a living room carpet with her cousins, believing that plastic space rangers could fly.

Walking into the very same cinema felt like stepping through a tear in the fabric of time. The air still smelled of sweet, burnt sugar and artificial butter, and the dim, amber lighting of the auditorium offered the exact same comforting embrace it always had.

You navigated the familiar steps and slipped into your row, settling back into your seat with a bag of popcorn resting on your lap. The room was just as packed as it had been years ago—a sea of children clutching new toys, tired parents, and nostalgic young adults seeking a temporary escape from their responsibilities. And, just like before, the corner seat immediately to your left remained stubbornly, conspicuously empty as the lights began their slow, rhythmic descent into darkness.

You looked at the empty cushion, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as a sudden, vivid memory flashed through your mind—the frantic British lilt, the heavy shoe crushing your toes, and the sheer, unadulterated heartbreak of a boy weeping over a cowboy doll.

You had learned who he was, of course. Your friend had spent the better part of a week flooding your phone with racing statistics, paddock photos, and news articles about the rising star, Oliver Bearman. You had watched his career skyrocket from afar, occasionally seeing his face on sports news, looking sharp and collected in a racing suit.

But to you, he had always remained frozen in your memory as the charmingly clumsy stranger who couldn't handle theater air conditioning.

The loud, bass-heavy rumble of the opening previews shook the theater floor, drawing you out of your thoughts. You adjusted your posture, fully prepared to enjoy the movie in your own solitary bubble, when a tall silhouette suddenly darkened the edge of your row.

There was no shouting this time, no frantic tripping over stray legs or breathless apologies whispered to disgruntled patrons. The figure moved with a quiet, grounded confidence, slipping into the empty corner seat just as the iconic, cloud-filled blue sky of the movie’s opening sequence illuminated the room.

You didn't mean to look, but the sheer gravity of a strange, lingering deja vu pulled your eyes outward. The bright, flickering light of the screen washed over the stranger’s face, and your breath caught slightly in your throat. The sharp jawline was more defined now, the shoulders broader beneath a simple dark hoodie, but the unruly, untamable mop of brown curls was completely unmistakable. It was him.

As if sensing the sudden weight of your gaze, Oliver turned his head. His dark eyes met yours, blinking once, then twice, as his brain scrambled to process the impossible geometry of the universe putting you back in the exact same coordinate. For a second, he just stared, his lips parting in a quiet, breathless exhale. The composure he had cultivated over years of racing at two hundred miles an hour seemed to completely evaporate, replaced by the wide-eyed, stunned vulnerability of the boy from years ago.

Before the silence could stretch into something awkward, Oliver leaned across the shared armrest, a soft, self-deprecating smile breaking across his face. “I promise,” he whispered, his voice a little deeper now but carrying that same polite, familiar warmth, “my feet are firmly planted on my own side of the row tonight. Your sneakers are entirely safe.”

A quiet, genuine laugh bubbled up from your chest, the lingering tension of a stressful university week completely melting away. “Good to know,” you whispered back, leaning slightly closer so the surrounding families wouldn't shush you. “I see you managed to navigate the stairs in the dark this time. Progress looks good on you.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with a playful, triumphant sort of heat. He looked down at the armrest between you, then back up to your face, his smile softening into something incredibly gentle. “To be completely honest, I’ve spent the last few years regretting that I let you walk away so easily last time. I felt like a massive idiot for weeks.”

“You were a bit distracted by your theater allergies, if I remember correctly,” you teased softly, nodding toward the screen where the movie was fully underway.

Oliver let out a low, breathless chuckle, shaking his head as a faint flush colored his cheeks. "Right. The highly selective allergies. A medical marvel, really.” He shifted in his seat, turning his body slightly toward you rather than the screen, his posture completely discarding the screen previews. This time, he wasn't fumbling, and he wasn't going to let the credits dictate the end of the story. “I’m Oliver, by the way. Properly, this time.”

“I know,” you smiled, offering your own name in return. “My friend made sure I was thoroughly educated after the tissue incident.”

“And yet, you didn't slide into my DMs to mock my tears,” he countered smoothly, a boyish, teasing glint in his eyes.

“I didn't want to bruise the ego of a rising star,” you retorted, turning your eyes back to the screen as the movie transitioned into a deeply heartwarming scene, though your heart was currently beating a steady, rapid rhythm against your ribs.

For the next two hours, the cinema felt smaller, warmer, and infinitely less lonely than it had when you first walked in. You watched the movie together, a shared experience that felt remarkably natural, as if the gap of the intervening years had been nothing more than a commercial break. When the inevitable emotional climax of the film arrived, you quietly unzipped your bag, pulled out a brand-new, unopened pack of pocket tissues, and laid them gently on the armrest between you without saying a word.

Oliver looked down at the tissues, then up at you, a soft, incredibly sweet smile breaking across his face. He didn't try to deny it this time, nor did he make up any excuses about the air conditioning. He simply reached out, his fingers briefly brushing against yours as he took the pack. “A preemptive strike,” he whispered, his voice thick with a genuine, soft warmth. “You’re far too good to me.”

When the final credits began to roll and the house lights slowly fluctuated back to life, flooding the auditorium with a bright, crisp glow, neither of you stood up. The crowds around you began to shuffle out, grabbing empty popcorn buckets and coats, but Oliver remained anchored in his seat, his eyes entirely fixed on your face. The stark, bright light revealed every detail—the faint, lingering crinkles of laughter around his eyes, the absolute sincerity in his gaze, and the fact that he hadn't used a single tissue this time, entirely content to just sit in the comfort of your presence.

“So,” Oliver said softly, breaking the ambient noise of the exiting crowd as he slid his phone out of his pocket, holding it out toward you with a steady, unblinking confidence. “I’ve spent the last few years being completely hopeless at missed connections. I’d really like to not fumble this twice. Can I take you out for a coffee? Or a proper dinner? Somewhere where we can actually talk without a designated hall-monitor shushing us from behind.”

You looked at the phone, then up at the boy who had once been a fleeting, poetic anomaly in your life, now standing right in front of you as a beautifully real, down-to-earth certainty. The loneliness of the past few years, the weight of university deadlines, and the quiet bitterness of growing apart from old routines faded into total insignificance.

“Only if you promise not to cry into your espresso,” you teased, a bright, radiant smile breaking across your face as you took the phone from his hand to type in your number.

Oliver let out a bright, melodic laugh, his eyes locking onto yours with a private, fiercely protective warmth that felt like coming home.

“No promises,” he murmured softly, his thumb lightly brushing against your knuckles as you handed the phone back. “But I can guarantee I’ll always keep a pack of tissues in my pocket from now on. Just in case.”

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. MUNDANE

Mundane things they love doing with you or seeing you do.

➳ PAIRING : grid x female!reader | lh44, cs55, mv3, cl16, gr63, ln1, op81, ob87, ka12

➳ INCLUDES : fluff, mundane things, language, more fluff, endearments, fluff fluff fluff. LEO MENTIONED!! hella cheesy and sentimental. suggestive (Charles and oscar) IF U SQUINT ENUFF. Pictures from Pinterest

➳ WORDS : 7.4k

➳ RENATA HERE ! : idk if anyone had done this before, but oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️. Also, this is my first time making something like this, what would you call this kind of fic? Imagine? One shot? Preferences? But one thing for sure that it took me a long ass time to finish it.

— requests are open!

ooi. lewis hamilton

— unraveling his braids

The only sound filling the quiet spaces of the living room was the soft, ambient hum of your laptop, drifting through a playlist of low-fidelity tracks that felt more like a heartbeat than music.

You were melting into the cushions of the couch, while Lewis sat on the floor right in front of you. His back was settled firmly against your shins, your legs bracketing the broad, familiar frame of his upper body. It was a position you both knew by heart—the universal signal that the two-week mark had arrived, and his scalp was finally ready to be released from the tension of his cornrows.

"I look forward to these days," Lewis murmured, tilting his head back against your knees to look up at you upside down.

"Getting your braids undone?" You laughed softly, your fingers already finding their rhythm at the crown of his head. "We do this every fortnight, baby. You’d think the novelty would have worn off by now."

You leaned down, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his forehead. Lewis let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders visibly dropping an inch as his eyes fluttered shut.

"It’s not about the novelty," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register he only used when he was completely relaxed. "It’s just... it’s become our routine. I love it. I love you."

"So cheesy," you chuckled, though your chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. "But I love it too. And I love you more."

"Debatable," he muttered, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Maybe you two were growing older, or maybe the fast-paced, loud chaos of his world just made these quiet, domestic anchors feel incredibly sacred. It’s the mundane things—the unglamorous, repetitive bits of love—that wind up building the safest spaces.

Your fingers worked with practiced, gentle skill. You used the tail of a comb to meticulously loosen the tightly woven patterns, mindful of the sensitive skin near his nape.

"Ouch—okay, gentle, tiger," Lewis winced slightly as you hit a particularly stubborn knot near the back. "I need that hair for the weekend."

"Oh, stop being a baby," you teased, lightly tapping his shoulder. "If you didn't leave the product in it for so long, it wouldn't be a bird's nest at the roots."

"It's a very expensive bird's nest," he shot back, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

"Well, the expensive bird's nest is currently shedding all over my sweatpants," you retorted, though your hands never stopped their soothing, rhythmic motion.

As the braids unraveled, his hair began to puff out in tight, crimped waves, full of texture and volume. You ran your fingers through the newly freed sections, massaged his scalp with the pads of your fingers, and watched the tension leave his face entirely.

Lewis let his head fall completely back against your lap, staring up at the ceiling with a look of pure, unadulterated peace. The world outside could wait; right here, in the quiet swell of the music and the soft tangle of his hair, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.

oii. carlos sainz jr.

— cooking

The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Carlos’s knife against the wooden cutting board was the heartbeat of the kitchen. In the background, a pot of water sent up a lazy, rolling simmer, a low hum that softened the quiet evening. You stood at the stove, gently turning over ingredients in a pan that filled the room with a rich, savory aroma—something that smelled so good it felt almost too perfect for a Tuesday night.

You shifted your weight, balancing like a flamingo with your left hand braced against the cool marble counter and one foot tucked against your opposite calf.

Suddenly, the rhythmic chopping stopped.

The abrupt silence made you glance over. Carlos was leaning against the counter, the knife resting idle beside a pile of perfectly diced onions. He was just looking at you. His eyes, warm and dark, held a distinct, soft sparkle of pure adoration.

"What?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Can you pass me the salt?" You pointed with your wooden spoon toward the shaker sitting just behind him.

He reached back, grabbed it, and handed it over without once breaking eye contact. He just kept standing there, a soft smile playing on his face.

"Carlos," you said, shaking your head.

"Hm?" he hummed, the sound low in his chest.

"You're staring," you raised your eyebrows, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pan. "Do you need something? Am I burning it?"

"Nothing. No, it smells perfect," his smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I... you look really good cooking."

You glanced down at yourself, let out a soft laugh, and gestured to your outfit. "Carlos, I'm wearing oversized gym shorts and a t-shirt that has a literal bleach stain on the hem. Mi cariño, what exactly is special about this?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounded register he only used when it was just the two of you. "You're standing in my kitchen, making dinner. I love it."

He closed the distance between you, his footsteps quiet on the tiled floor. Stepping up behind you, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smelled like garlic, clean laundry, and the faint, woody scent of his cologne.

"We do this almost every day now," you murmured, leaning back into his solid warmth but keeping an eye on the pan.

"And I love it every single day."

"Don't you ever get bored of it, though?" you asked. You tilted your head sideways, lifting your chin to look up at his jawline. "The routine of it all?"

"Do you?" he countered softly.

Before you could answer, he pressed a tender, lingering kiss into the crown of your head, then rested his chin right there, using you as his personal headrest.

"No," you admitted, your heart doing a familiar, happy flip. "I love cooking with you."

"And I love watching you do it," Carlos said, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the quiet, domestic safety of the room. "I love you."

"I love you more," you said, turning off the burner. "Now move your chin, giant, or we're going to be eating burnt garlic.”

iii. max verstappen

— grocery shopping

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed a quiet, sterile tune, casting a bright glare over the polished linoleum floors.

Logically, you and Max didn't need to be here.

Max had a team of people who could orchestrate a full pantry restock with a single text message, but you had insisted. To you, love wasn’t just built in the quiet corners of his Monaco apartment or amidst the deafening roar of the paddock; it was built here, arguing over breakfast brands in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. It was the only place where no one expected him to be a champion—just a guy holding a wire shopping cart.

Max had whined about it the whole way down, of course, offering a theatrical sigh as he grabbed a cart. But you knew him. You saw the way his shoulders dropped the moment you walked through the sliding glass doors, the way he subtly shielded you from the occasional wandering glance of a stranger. He loved the mundane reality of it just as much as you did.

Right now, you were anchored in the frozen aisle, standing before a wall of glass freezers lined with a colorful mosaic of frozen comfort food. You pulled open the heavy door, a rush of artificial winter spilling out against your skin. You reached in and grabbed a bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, a box of breakfast sausages, and a sleeve of frozen hash browns, stacking them neatly in your arms.

"We don't need all of that, schat," Max said from behind the cart, his hands loosely gripping the handlebar. He looked entirely out of place among the frozen peas and waffles, yet completely at home next to you.

"I don't need it, but you do," you countered, sliding the freezer door shut with your elbow before drifting toward the next section. "Have you seen the inside of your fridge lately? Because I have. It looks like a vending machine sponsored exclusively by Red Bull. It’s becoming hazardous to your health. What would your trainer say?"

Max let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, rolling the cart a few inches closer to follow your steps. "And you think processed food is a health cure?"

"Don't complain," you smiled, opening another freezer door and unceremoniously tossing a pack of premium hot dogs into the cart. They landed with a dull thud right on top of the hash browns. "I know for a fact you eat these when you think I'm not looking."

Max opened his mouth to defend his honor, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. He let out a soft huff, a quiet surrender. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. They're efficient."

You let out a laugh—hearty, light, and completely unbothered by the chilly air of the aisle. It was a sound that seemed to cut right through his usual guarded exterior, and you watched the remaining tension leave his jaw. He melted, his expression softening into that private, boyish warmth he only ever showed you.

"You're very lucky I love you," he murmured, shaking his head as he nudged the cart forward, his eyes locked onto yours.

"I should hope so," you teased, turning around to face him fully, a playful glint in your eyes. "You did just asked me to marry you a few weeks ago. It would be a bit awkward if you changed your mind over frozen sausages."

Max rolled his eyes—a dramatic, harmless gesture—but the sudden, bright flash of the silver band on your finger caught the grocery store light, making him smile anyway.

"I love you," you added softly, your tone shifting from teasing to something deeply tender as you reached out to lightly tap the tip of his nose.

"I know," he said, catching your hand for just a brief second, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before letting go so you could keep scanning the shelves. He followed a step behind you, content to be the keeper of the cart, navigating the small, ordinary aisles of a life you were building together, one grocery trip at a time.

oiv. charles leclerc

— bathing leo

The quiet luxury of the bedroom was suddenly pierced by a very distinct, very un-luxurious aroma.

“Baby, you smell bad!” you dramatically exclaimed, extending your arms to lift Leo into the air before his fluffy, four-legged self could collapse onto your clean duvet. The little dog blinked innocently down at you, completely oblivious to the fact that he currently smelled like a walking diaper disaster. “Oh, sweetie, what did you roll in?”

“What? I literally just showered!” Charles’s voice echoed from the hallway, dripping with wounded pride.

You heard the distinct rustle of a wrapper—he was undoubtedly in the kitchen, hunting down his afternoon chocolate stash. A moment later, he walked into the bedroom, his brows furrowed in deep offense, a half-eaten bar of chocolate in hand.

“Not you,” you laughed, shifting the furry culprit so he was propped against your hip. “It’s Leo. I think he desperately needs a bath.”

Charles took one step closer, caught a whiff of the air, and visibly winced. “Ah. Mon dieu. Shit, I forgot to book his appointment at the groomer’s, didn't I?” He immediately fished his phone out of his pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen. “I’ll call them now. They can take him, surely.”

“Nah, don't bother,” you said, cooing softly at Leo, who was trying to lick your chin. “It’s already late, Charles. The vet and the groomers are probably closed by now anyway. It's totally fine, I can just wash him here.”

Charles paused, looking up from his phone with a frown. “Bébé, you don't need to do that. It’s a mess. He’s a nightmare when he’s wet.”

“C’mon, it’s just a little water,” you insisted, giving him a reassuring smile.

After a few more rounds of gentle arguing, Charles finally succumbed to your stubbornness. You marched into the master bathroom, armed with a tiny plastic basin you had painstakingly excavated from the depths of Charles’s hallway closet—a chaotic storage space filled with old racing trophies, random charging cables, and far too many unnecessary gadgets.

You set the basin in the center of the spacious shower, adjusted the water temperature until it was perfectly lukewarm, and gently lowered Leo into it. The moment the detachable shower head clicked on, the little dog froze, looking at you with the ultimate betrayal written all over his face.

Unbeknownst to you, Charles hadn't gone back to his chocolate. He was leaning casually against the marble doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, quietly watching the scene unfold.

He had seen you wash Leo once before, months ago, after a chaotic, muddy run through the park when the groomers were fully booked. Seeing you do it again now—completely unbothered by the impending mess, your sleeves rolled up, talking to the dog in that soft, ridiculous voice you only used at home—made something shift in his chest.

A heavy, sweet wave of adoration hit him so fast it almost made his knees weak. The fast-paced, loud, adrenaline-fueled chaos of his racing world completely faded into the background. This was the real stuff. It was so incredibly mundane, yet so profoundly grounding.

“Okay, buddy, just a little soap,” you murmured, massaging the puppy shampoo into his fur until he looked like a tiny, pathetic polar bear.

Suddenly, Leo tensed.

“No, no, Leo, don’t you dare—”

Before you could finish the sentence, the dog executed a violent, full-body shake. A torrential downpour of soapy water spray erupted across the bathroom, covering the glass mirrors, the tiled walls, and most notably, the entire front of your shirt.

“Non!” you gasped, throwing your hands up too late.

From the doorway, Charles let out a bright, melodic laugh that echoed off the tiles.

“You’re going to need a shower of your own after this,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he walked over to hand you a dry towel.

You wiped a stray bubble off your cheek, shaking your head as you shot him a playful smirk. “Shame. You’ve already showered and changed.”

Charles stepped into the shower enclosure, completely unbothered by the wet floor. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your damp back, ignoring the fact that your shirt was soaked. He tilted his head down, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“I will gladly take another shower just so I can join you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register that made your heart skip. “I love you like that. Mess and all.”

“Mhm? Is that an offer, Leclerc?” you chuckled, turning your head slightly to catch his lips.

“Always,” he whispered, smiling into the kiss while Leo whimpered below you, demanding to finally be dried off.

oov. george russell

— folding laundry

The low, rhythmic chime of the dryer signaled the end of its cycle, leaving a heavy, comforting silence in its wake. It was a Monday morning, the kind where the world outside felt entirely distant. Inside, the bedroom smelled deeply of lavender detergent and warm fabric.

You pulled the massive, plastic basket into the center of the room, tipping it over until a mountain of fresh laundry tumbled out onto the carpet—a warm, chaotic heap of cotton, linen, and soft knits.

George was sitting on the edge of the mattress, scrolling idly through his phone. He wasn't busy, a rare occurrence in his tightly scheduled life, so when he saw you drop down onto your knees to tackle the pile, he quietly slipped his phone into his pocket and slid down onto the floor beside you.

He had never really given much thought to the anatomy of a household chore. To him, laundry was a functional necessity, a task usually relegated to the background of his hyper-focused world. But as he sat there, picking up a rogue pair of socks, a sudden, heavy wave of warmth caught him entirely off guard.

There was a strange, poetic architecture to the scene. You were already in your element, efficiently turning a chaotic jumble of fabrics into neat, sharp-edged squares. You reached into the pile and pulled out one of his oversized, faded team t-shirts. Instead of folding it, you set it aside in a distinct, isolated pile on your left.

“George,” you called out softly, breaking his trance. He had been staring at your hands. “Can you hand me the other basket for the whites?”

He shook himself out of his daze, immediately reaching for the plastic handle. “Here. Actually, let me take over. I'll do them.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you took the basket. “No way. We can do it equally. Team effort, Russell.”

“I am highly efficient at folding,” he pointed out, his tone shifting into that signature, slightly posh, competitive register. “My straight lines are unmatched.”

“We’ll see about that,” you teased, tossing a crumpled pair of his sweatpants into his lap. “Prove it.”

For the next ten minutes, the bedroom was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of domesticity—the crisp snap of fabric being shaken out, the smooth slide of hands smoothing out wrinkles against the carpet, and the quiet sliding of the dresser drawers.

George watched you out of the corner of his eye. You were completely unbothered, sitting cross-legged in a pair of soft shorts and a sweatshirt that you had undoubtedly stolen from his closet six months ago. As you leaned forward to organize his sweater drawer, sliding his knits by color, the domestic safety of the moment hit him again, sharper this time.

“You look incredibly pretty,” he blurted out. The words left his mouth entirely without his permission, completely bypassing his usual analytical filter.

You paused, a half-folded polo shirt suspended in your hands. You turned your head, looking at him with an amused, raised eyebrow.

“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself,” you teased, nudging his knee with your foot. When his expression remained intensely earnest, your smile softened. “I’m kidding, handsome. What’s with the random compliment?”

“Nothing,” George said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more grounded register. He rested his forearms on his knees, a pair of folded boxer shorts still held loosely in his hand. “You just look really... homey. Sitting there, folding my clothes and arranging them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don't know. It caught me by surprise.”

You chuckled, a warm, hearty sound that echoed softly against the wooden furniture. You set the polo shirt into the drawer, smoothing the collar down. “So, seeing me handle your laundry is highly romantic to you, is it? Good to know my domestic skills are so deeply appreciated.”

“Extremely,” he insisted, a boyish, un-studied smile breaking across his face. The rigid, professional posture he held at the racetrack was completely gone, replaced by a soft, relaxed slouch that he only ever used when it was just the two of you. “It’s very special.”

“Very special, huh?” You smiled, turning back to the mountain of clothes. You reached for the isolated pile on your left—the one containing his oversized t-shirt—and moved it a few inches further away from his reach.

George’s eyes tracked the movement. He frowned slightly, his analytical brain immediately spotting the anomaly. “Wait a minute. Why is that shirt going over there? That’s my favorite grey one.”

“It was your favorite grey one,” you corrected smoothly, not even looking up as you picked up a pair of socks. “It is now my official bedtime shirt for the week. The fabric has reached peak softness.”

“That is blatant structural theft,” George laughed, reaching across the pile to try and reclaim it. “I’m helping you fold, and you’re actively robbing my wardrobe in broad daylight.”

“It’s the tax for my labor,” you shot back, slapping his hand away playfully. “Consider it a rental fee.”

He let out a soft huff, surrendering immediately as he sat back on his heels. He didn't care about the shirt; in fact, there was a ridiculous sense of pride that came with seeing you swim in his clothes. He watched you tuck the stolen prize safely away.

“I love you so much,” he murmured, the teasing tone evaporating into something profoundly tender. His eyes were locked onto yours, completely steady.

You paused, holding a pair of rolled-up socks, matching his gaze. The playful air between you softened into something quiet and sacred.

“I love you so much more,” you challenged softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Statistically impossible,” George replied, a faint, adoring smirk returning to his lips as he reached into the basket for the very last piece of clothing. “But I’ll let you believe it for now.”

ovi. lando norris

— eating breakfast

The rhythmic click-clack of a computer keyboard and the neon glow of dual monitors used to be Lando’s entire definition of a late night—and conversely, the reason his mornings barely existed. Before you, breakfast wasn't a meal; it was a conceptual myth. He woke up far too late for his manager’s liking and well past his trainer’s patience, usually rolled out of bed with dry eyes from staring at his PC until 4:00 AM, playing whatever game Max Fewtrell had dragged him into.

Now, he was sitting fully conscious at a solid oak dining table he couldn’t actually remember ever using for its intended purpose, eating actual food with you.

He had woken up early—not because of a screaming phone alarm or a demanding schedule, but because the warm, buttery aroma of toast and brewing tea had drifted into the bedroom and gently nudged him awake. Bleary-eyed and pulling a hoodie over his head, he had padded down the hallway to find you in his kitchen. You were completely barefoot on the cool tiles, wearing nothing but one of his oversized team shirts that swallowed your frame and pooled halfway down your thighs.

Watching you stand there, completely at ease in his space, a sudden, quiet epiphany had struck him right in the chest: You needed to live here. It wasn't just about the luxury of a home-cooked meal; it was the realization that he wanted you anchored in his life on this exact level. He wanted the ordinary, unglamorous, beautiful routine of sharing an apartment with you, talking about absolutely nothing and everything all at once while navigating the quiet corners of a normal day.

“You're up early,” you said, turning around with a wooden spatula in hand and offering him a soft, sleepy smile. “Did the kitchen noises wake you? I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Lando murmured, his voice incredibly groggy, deep with sleep as he pulled out a chair and slumped into it. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to blink away the haze. “Smells amazing, honestly.”

“Thank you,” you said, a happy little lilt in your voice as you plated up the eggs. “Tea?”

Lando blinked. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he’d willingly consumed tea in the morning. Usually, his breakfast consisted of a cold, neon-green liquid from a can that probably defied several health codes.

“Yes, please,” he smiled, the sleepiness in his eyes melting into pure warmth as he looked at you. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, baby,” you replied smoothly, pouring the hot water into a mug.

That first morning had been the catalyst. After that, Lando made sure you were in his Monaco apartment every single chance he got, counting down the days between race weekends just to get back to this specific quietness.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to shift. The welcome mat by the front door, which had spent years greeting only one pair of muddy sneakers, now held a second, much smaller pair of slides. The ceramic cup in the bathroom that used to hold just his lonely electric toothbrush was now tangled up with yours. Even the refrigerator, which had previously looked like a commercial storage unit sponsored exclusively by energy drinks, was suddenly stocked with actual, perishable groceries, vegetables, and milk that hadn't expired three months ago.

He loved every single bit of it. For a guy whose life moved at two hundred miles an hour surrounded by screaming engines and constant public scrutiny, this quiet, ordinary domesticity was the ultimate luxury. He trusted you completely, and the changes you brought into his world didn't feel like a compromise—they felt like coming home.

Lando watched you set the steaming mug of tea in front of him, followed by a plate of perfectly done eggs and toast. He reached out, his fingers catching your wrist gently before you could pull away, tugging you just enough so you’d lean down. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin.

“What’s this for?” you asked, a playful smile tucking at the corners of your lips.

“Just making sure you’re real,” Lando teased, his voice finally losing its morning gravel. He picked up his fork but kept his eyes locked on yours. “And to make sure you aren't going to charge me a service fee for the tea.”

“Oh, the tea is free,” you chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his messy, uncombed curls. “But if you stay up until 4:00 AM on the simulator again tonight, I’m locking you out of the kitchen tomorrow.”

Lando let out a bright, boyish laugh, pulling you a little closer by the waist of his oversized shirt. “Deal. But only if I get a bite of your toast right now.”

vii. oscar piastri

— watering plants and flowers

Oscar’s apartment used to look less like a home and more like a high-end corporate waiting room. It was a study in aggressive minimalism—stark grey lines, industrial concrete, and furniture that seemed designed more for architectural symmetry than actual human bodies. He had never taken the time to decorate it; he simply didn't possess the domestic bandwidth. Even his sister, Hattie, had once staged a minor intervention, pacing through his living room and threatening to forcibly mail him a colorful rug because the sheer, unyielding bleakness of the space was "painful to look at." Oscar had just shrugged, entirely content with his empty shelves.

Then, came you.

You arrived with a quiet, stubborn mission fueled by soil, greenery, and an abundance of fresh flowers. Before you officially moved in, you began staging a slow, hostile takeover of his minimalist haven, one small pot at a time. Every time you visited, you’d slip a new plant onto a bare surface—resilient, low-maintenance varieties that could survive on nothing but pure spite, clean water, and the faint glow of the LED strip lights beneath his kitchen cabinets.

When the day finally came for you to officially unpack your bags, you brought out the big guns.

Suddenly, the cold corners of the living room were anchored by massive, leafy Monsteras that stretched toward the ceiling. The concrete balcony became a cascading waterfall of hanging pothos, their vines dancing in the Monaco breeze. Delicate orchids appeared on the dining table and the sleek marble coffee table, their structured blooms mirroring his love for precision, while a vase of vibrant tulips sat permanently on your bedside table, catching the morning sun.

But the undisputed crown jewel of the entire collection sat squarely on his bedside table: a small, dark ceramic pot holding a single, meticulously nurtured hibiscus plant. It was the moving-in gift you had ceremoniously handed him, and despite Oscar’s usual hands-off approach to nature, he took agonizingly great care of it. He checked the soil moisture with the gravity of a race engineer analyzing telemetry data. He loved it fiercely.

Lately, Oscar’s absolute favorite thing to do when the racing world paused was simply to sit and watch you tend to your kingdom. There was something profoundly hypnotic about the way you moved from room to room with your small, copper watering can. The fast-paced, high-adrenaline chaos of the paddock—the screaming engines, the media scrums, the constant pressure—all of it completely evaporated against the quiet, rhythmic sound of water hitting soil. It made him feel entirely grounded. He had lived in this apartment for a long time, but it wasn't until he watched you meticulously wipe dust off a broad green leaf that he realized he was finally home.

He had never imagined that something so intensely mundane could become the anchor of his entire week.

“Did you water Mrs. Hibby?” your voice drifted in from the balcony, light and slightly muffled by the glass door.

Mrs. Hibby was, of course, the bedside hibiscus. You had christened the plant on day one, a naming convention that Oscar had initially resisted with a look of pure, deadpan horror. He had complained that calling a flower 'Mrs. Hibby' made him feel like he was trying to get it with an elderly schoolteacher, but like the rest of the greenery, the name had stubbornly grown on him.

“Already did, baby,” Oscar called back, his deep, relaxed Australian drawl cutting through the quiet apartment. He was stretched out on the couch, his long legs draped over the armrest, his eyes tracking you as you stepped inside.

“And did she get any sun—” you started, tilting your head as you nudged a stray strand of hair away from your forehead with the back of your hand.

“Yep,” he cut in smoothly, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Gave her twenty minutes of direct morning light right by the window, checked the drainage, and gave her a polite nod of encouragement. She’s thriving.”

You let out a soft, melodic chuckle, stepping closer to the couch and setting the copper watering can down on the floor. “A polite nod? Wow. You’re really leaning into the plant-dad persona, Piastri.”

“I have a reputation to uphold,” he murmured, reaching out and catching your wrist as you stepped past him. With a gentle, effortless tug, he pulled you down onto the couch, adjusting his position until you were tucked securely against his chest, your back resting against his ribs.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, fresh scent of your shampoo mixed with the earthy fragrance of wet soil.

“You know,” you said softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his forearm where it rested against your stomach, “Hattie called me yesterday. She wanted to know if the apartment still looked like an underground bunker.”

Oscar let out a quiet huff of a laugh, his chest vibrating against your back. “And what did you tell her?”

“I told her it’s a jungle now. I told her her brother spends his mornings talking to a tropical flower.”

“I don’t talk to her,” Oscar corrected defensively, though the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his smile. “We just have a mutual understanding. She stays alive, and I don’t get yelled at by you.”

“Mhm. Sound strategy,” you teased, turning your head slightly so you could look up at his sharp jawline.

Oscar shifted, his gaze dropping to meet yours. The playful sarcasm in his dark eyes softened, melting into that private, fiercely protective warmth he only ever reserved for the quiet spaces inside these four walls. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your lips—soft and unhurried.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your mouth, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the warm, sunlit safety of the room.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.

“For bringing some color in here,” Oscar murmured, his eyes scanning the vibrant room before settling back onto your face. “For making it real.”

viii. oliver bearman

— reading

Reading had never been high on Oliver Bearman’s list of priorities. In fact, it usually ranked somewhere between sitting through data telemetry meetings and watching paint dry. If things got boring, his immediate reflex was to look for a steering wheel, a simulator, or at the very least, a video game controller. Pages of dense, unmoving text just couldn't compete with a life lived at two hundred miles an hour.

But then, the universe decided to shift gears during the British Grand Prix at Silverstone.

The Haas garage was its usual symphony of controlled chaos—air guns whining, mechanics shouting over the roar of engines, and engineers staring intensely at banks of monitors. Yet, tucked away in the furthest, quietest corner of the garage, sat an entirely unfamiliar face. You were completely oblivious to the high-stakes madness around you, your knees tucked up to your chest, your nose buried so deeply in a paperback book that the rest of the world might as well not have existed.

As it turned out, your mum was one of the senior trackside engineers, and you had tagged along to visit her at work. Ollie had spotted you the second he walked into the garage, and for a moment, his racing brain completely locked up. You looked so entirely peaceful amidst the roaring machinery. When you finally left later that afternoon, you accidentally dropped your bookmark—a simple, slightly frayed piece of cardstock covered in little painted wildflowers.

Instead of doing the sensible thing and just handing it to your mum to give back to you, Ollie had been stubbornly persistent. He tracked your mum down under the guise of "just being a helpful, polite guy," asking around for your contact information or if you'd be coming back the next day. Your mum, utterly charmed by his polite, boyish demeanor, assumed he was just being an extraordinarily friendly driver welcoming a colleague's family. She had absolutely no idea that Ollie had been completely captivated from the exact moment his eyes landed on you.

It took a year of slow-burning text messages, shared book recommendations that Ollie secretly struggled through just to have something to talk to you about, and a patient, quiet courtship. He waited for you to see him as more than just her mum's polite young driver. He waited until you finally loved him back.

Now, a year into being yours, the fast-paced world of his felt miles away from the quiet sanctuary of his apartment. The rain was drumming a soft, rhythmic beat against the windowpanes, matching the low hum of the city outside, but inside, everything was warm.

You were both squeezed onto his too-small couch, tangled together in a messy, comfortable heap. You were lying on your side, the heavy hardcover book propped up in your hands, while Ollie was molded perfectly against your back. His long arm was draped heavily over your waist, anchoring you to him, his thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin exposed by the hem of your sweatshirt. His chin was resting right on top of your head, his dark curls mingling with yours, his eyes tracking the lines of text simultaneously with yours. He was supposed to be reading along, but his focus kept fracturing, slipping from the printed words to the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, to the soothing cadence of your voice vibrating against his torso.

“You’re not even processing what we’re reading, are you?” you accused him softly, pausing mid-sentence. You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him with a knowing, playful smirk.

Caught red-handed, Ollie didn't even try to deny it. A sheepish, boyish smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You were right, of course. The last three paragraphs had been a total blur of syllables that meant absolutely nothing to him. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The sound of your voice reading aloud was a melody he never wanted to turn off; it was a gentle, grounding anchor that could effortlessly send him straight to cloud nine after a grueling week on the track.

“I love your voice,” he reacted, his voice dropping into a calm, quiet register that felt almost foreign compared to his usual upbeat, energetic tone. It was a soft, vulnerable admission, heavy with the comfort of being entirely at ease.

“Just my voice?” you teased, a soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest as you nudged his arm with your elbow.

Ollie’s smile softened, turning into something profoundly tender. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer against him, solid and real. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss into the crown of your head, letting his lips rest there for a quiet beat before he spoke.

“I love you. You know that.”

The tease melted away from your expression, replaced by a warm, private sweetness that only ever bloomed when it was just the two of you in the quiet spaces of his home. You rested your hand over his where it lay on your stomach, your fingers interlacing with his.

“I know,” you murmured softly, turning your head just enough to catch the edge of his jawline with a tender smile. “I love you, too, Mr. Bearman.”

ix. andrea kimi antonelli

— cleaning

Cleaning from top to bottom was a sacred, albeit exhausting, monthly ritual inside the sun-warmed walls of the apartment you shared with Kimi in San Marino. It was a chore born out of necessity, but over time, it had evolved into something entirely yours—a rhythm of spray bottles, damp rags, and bare feet sliding across freshly scrubbed tiles.

You and Kimi had known each other since the diaper days, a lifelong bond forged by fate and the fact that your parents were practically attached at the hip. For a long time, you were just an inseparable duo, the best friends who shared secrets and scrapes. But somewhere between the clumsy growing pains of adolescence and the quiet realization of adulthood, the lines had shifted. The comfortable gravity of friendship deepened, pulling you both into something profoundly romantic, soft, and lovely.

Growing up, whenever your families would escape to the coast to the summer home your parents had built together, the chore assignments were always entirely predictable. You and Kimi were invariably banished to the living room and hallways, tasked with scrubbing every baseboard until it gleamed, while the adults held court in the kitchen, seasoning the grill, and prepping the pool and hot tub. Back then, the coast trips were heralded by the sounds of the two of you aggressively whining, dragging your feet, and turning a simple dusting session into a dramatic, coordinated protest.

But now? Now, you were doing it entirely willingly. There was no parental oversight, no grumbling over unfair divisions of labor. You had chosen a life of independent together-ness, and taking care of these few square meters of the world felt less like work and more like a quiet celebration of the home you were building.

The deep, melancholic swell of Hozier was blasting from the Bluetooth speakers, a familiar fixture from your personal playlist that Kimi had grown to secretly love, even if he pretended to only tolerate it. You were currently armed with a microfiber cloth, aggressively wiping down the surface of the coffee table, while Kimi was leaning on the handle of the mop, supposedly tackling the hallway but mostly just watching you move.

The transition from cleaning to chaos happened entirely without warning. As the melody shifted into a slow, sweeping rhythm, Kimi dropped the mop against the wall with a hollow clack. He sauntered over, his heavy socks sliding effortlessly across the slick floor, and caught you by the waist before you could finish polishing the wooden surface.

"Oh, so we're abandoning our responsibilities now?" you teased, though you didn't pull away as he tucked your hand into his.

"Just taking a mandated union break," Kimi murmured, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He didn't wait for your approval. With a sudden, playful burst of energy, he pulled you into his chest, counting a completely fabricated rhythm under his breath as he began to lead you in a clumsy, slow dance. The space between the sofa and the television became your ballroom. Kimi guided you with a theatrical flourish, his hand firm on your back as he twirled you around, the fabric of your oversized t-shirt swirling around your thighs. You were laughing now, the breathless, genuine kind of giggle that always bubbled up whenever he let his guarded, quiet demeanor slip into something entirely silly.

Emboldened by his own rhythm, Kimi grinned, his eyes sparkling with a sudden, competitive spark. "Hold on," he warned.

"Kimi, wait—"

Before you could brace yourself, he attempted a dramatic, sweeping dip. The execution, however, lacked structural integrity. His sock lost its grip on the freshly polished tile, his knees buckled slightly under the sudden shift in weight, and instead of a breathtaking, cinematic swoop, the two of you went down in a tangled, undignified heap. The living room rug cushioned the blow, but the sheer gravity of the failure had you gasping for air from laughter.

"Absolutely terrible," you gasped, resting your forearm over your eyes as you lay flat on your back, your shoulders shaking. "I am deeply offended. You cannot dip me to save your life."

"I absolutely can!" Kimi retorted defensively, sitting up and brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He looked entirely unbothered by his bruised ego, a boyish, stubborn grin spreading across his face. "That was a practice run. The floor is a hazard zone."

To prove his point, he scrambled back to his feet, stretching a hand down to you. You took it, letting him hoist you back up into his space. Your feet had barely found their footing before he pulled you flush against him again.

"Watch and learn," he whispered.

This time, his footing was secure. With a deliberate, smooth sweep of his leg, he leaned you back over his arm. It was a perfect, steady dip—the kind that suspended you in mid-air, your heart doing a familiar, dizzying flip as you looked up at him. Your hair brushed the floor, but you felt entirely weightless, anchored completely by the solid, unwavering grip of his arm around your waist.

"See? I told you I could," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, private register reserved only for the space between the two of you.

Before you could offer a witty comeback, Kimi leaned down, and his lips found yours. Your arms instinctively found their way around his neck, fingers tangling into the short hairs at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. The playful energy of the living room instantly softened, melting into something deeply romantic and tender. The music continued to hum in the background, a beautiful soundtrack to a completely ordinary afternoon, but right there, suspended in his arms on a half-cleaned floor, everything felt perfectly, beautifully still.