Can i request an isack hadjar fic where reader is isacks best friend. She’s quite inexperienced and is interested in this other guy so she asks isack to teach her how to kiss and other spicy stuff.
She’s secretly harboured a crush for isack since before they were friends but she didn’t think he liked her back so doing this teaching thing is blurring the lines between how she feels for him and she starts to realise maybe she’s not that interested in the guy she liked. At a party one in one of the drivers hotel rooms she sees another girl flirting with isack and it makes her jealous and she realises she does in fact like him. She excuses herself from the party and he notices and follows her to her hotel room and he asks her what’s wrong. And she confesses she was jealous and he laughs saying you don’t think i was jealous when you were talking to the guy he though she has a crush on and they have sex and he’s being super possessive.
i cant even justify my disappearance. i should be back. (hopefully) i had a birthday yaay!
jealousy, jealousy ᶦʰ⁶
✧. ┊ PAIRING: isack hadjar x fem!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 2.7k words
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, jealousy, oral sex, coarse language, virgin
Isack had a horrible habit of leaving his room messy. The impressive thing was that it didn’t even take him time to make a perfect hotel room look like it’d been burned to the ground. And for me, who was a bit more of a perfectionist, this was utter hell. Utter hell when I have to share a hotel room with my best friend purely for his races. You’d think one would get used to it after 17 years.
Time doesn’t make the sight any less painful.
So I fold the lazy ass’s laundry while he sits on the bed with his shoes on (filthy), scrolling on his phone and occasionally giggling at the mind-numbing Italian brain rot his fellow rookies had sent him. I get down to the last shirt when i hear the familiar lock sound of his phone. There’s silence for a beat. Two. A soft chuckle from him.
“You do not have to treat me like a kid, you know,” he takes the shirt from my hands and begins folding it himself.
“Oh please. If i stop all this, you’d be living in a pigsty.”
“What is ‘pigsty?’”
“Like…a dirty room. Ones pigs may live in.”
“Ah.”
A few moments of comfortable, familiar silence.
Until my phone dings.
And he can tell by the smile gracing my face that it's him. Ollie.
Ollie had been a natural part of our lives. Growing up in the same junior racing environment, he and I had become good friends. When Isack had been occupied with hours in the sim, or cautious night outs with girls who he was "just friends" with, it was Ollie who kept me company. And it would be foolish to claim that I don't feel anything for him.
Isack doesn’t say anything at first, but I catch the way his hands falter slightly on the fold. He smooths the shirt out twice, unnecessarily, then sets it down with a little more force than needed.
I glance up, still smiling, still caught in that light, floaty feeling that always follows a text from Ollie.
"So I'll see you tonight then?"
Yes. Of course he would. I'd been aching to hear that sweet Brit accent of his.
“You’re texting him again?” Isack says. Light. Airy. The kind of tone that tries a little too hard not to sound like it means something.
“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate.
He nods. Stands up and walks to his suitcase, fiddling with the zipper like he’s looking for something. Probably nothing. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” He shrugs. “Just…didn’t know you guys were that close.”
“We weren’t.” I pause. “We are now.”
Isack hums. That kind of passive sound that people make when they’re trying to hold back an opinion. He doesn’t look at me, and it’s weird. He always looks at me. Especially when he’s trying to prove a point.
I stare at the heart that pops up when Ollie likes my text.
So it's settled. I'm seeing him tonight.
In his room.
Which would mean....
Fuck.
Supporting Isack's career meant a lot of travel.
And a lack of travel meant the lack of stable relationships.
And lack of stable relationships meant lack of...experience.
I'd kissed a boy, of course.
But only once.
And it was at a party, the kind where everyone’s too drunk to remember who they kissed and too proud to admit they cared. His name was Luca or Logan or something with an L, and it had tasted like vodka and sour lollies. It didn’t count. Not really.
I swallow hard. The little heart on my phone screen pulses, pink and harmless, but it might as well be a siren.
Isack shifts beside me, still not looking. He’s scrolling through something on his phone with his thumb moving slower than usual—deliberate. Controlled.
“You okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Automatic.
“Yeah.” His voice is clipped. That kind of "yeah" that means no. That means you know I’m not, so why’d you ask?
I look away from him. Back to my phone. Back to that text:
"You sure you're okay with this?"
Ollie had sent it just after I told him I’d come over.
I'd replied too quickly.
"Of course. Can’t wait."
Isack finally puts his phone down, and I feel him watching me now. It burns at the edge of my vision.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.” His voice is lower now. Quiet, like he’s afraid of breaking something between us.
“I know.” I tap the side of my phone with my thumbnail. “I want to.”
It’s not a lie. Not really.
But it’s not the truth, either.
He nods, slow and unreadable. Then, softer, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
I blink. “What, go to a guy’s room?”
He doesn’t smile. Just shakes his head once. “You know what I mean.”
Silence stretches. Not awkward—just tense. Like the pause before a question you’re scared to ask.
“No,” I say finally. “I haven’t.”
He nods again, and something in his face softens. He turns his eyes away like that makes it easier to say, “Then don’t let it be with someone who makes you feel like you have to prove anything.”
My chest tightens.
The room feels too full of things unsaid.
It's stupid and a lost cause, what I'm about to say.
"You have experience."
His body stills, irises darting across my face. But he does not breathe too loud, like he's afraid he'll say what he wants to. Like he'll let his inner thoughts slip.
"I do."
Short. Sweet. Simple. Not letting on too much.
I shift closer, voice dropping in volume, tone becoming velvety. "Will you teach me?"
His lips part. Just slightly. Barely. But enough.
Enough for me to see the exact moment his composure falters.
He blinks once, slow and heavy, like he’s rebooting. Like the question short-circuited something in him.
"Don’t say things like that," he says. His voice isn’t harsh, but there’s a rawness to it, something frayed at the edges. “Not if you don’t mean them.”
I tilt my head. “Who said I didn’t?”
A breath hitches in his throat. That’s all the answer I need.
The silence between us tightens—elastic and dangerous. He looks at me then, really looks, the kind of look that leaves nowhere to hide.
"I’m not a game," he murmurs. “Not some trial run before you go to him.”
I don’t flinch. But my heart does. Loud and fast, betraying every illusion of calm.
"Neither am I," I whisper. "But you’re the only person I’d trust with this."
His jaw tenses. He swallows, eyes falling to my lips and then flicking back up like it burned him to look too long.
"This is a bad idea," he says, more to himself than to me.
“Maybe,” I say, inching closer, “but it’s still an idea.”
A beat. Another.
Then, quietly, he says: “Say it again.”
I blink. “What?”
His voice is almost a breath, but there’s heat coiled underneath.
“Ask me again.”
So I do.
“Will you teach me?”
This time, he doesn’t look away.
A nod. A hitch in his breath.
And then he moves.
Not with urgency, but with intention. His hand hovers just above my knee, fingers curled slightly, hesitating like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
"You don’t get to take this back," he says. His voice is quiet, steadier than I expected. Not a warning to scare me off, more like a reminder that this means something. To him. Maybe more than I realised.
"I know," I say. My voice is softer than his. But certain. "I won’t."
His hand settles on me then, warm and grounding. Not possessive. Just real.
There’s a moment where he just looks at me, like he’s memorising something he doesn’t want to forget. And then...
"Come here."
It’s barely more than a breath. But I go.
And when he touches my face, it’s with a kind of gentleness I didn’t know I needed. His thumb grazes the skin under my eye, featherlight, like he’s checking if I’ll vanish.
My chest tightens. But not with fear. Not with nerves.
With something else.
He leans in slowly, giving me time, giving me space. I don’t pull back. I don’t blink. I just close the distance.
And when his lips touch mine, it’s nothing like that party kiss I’d tried so hard to convince myself was enough.
This isn’t messy or thoughtless or something we’ll pretend didn’t happen.
This is patient. Intentional. Earned.
It’s a lesson, yes, but not the kind I expected.
He isn’t just teaching me how to be kissed.
He’s teaching me what it feels like to be chosen.
His palm cups my cheek, and the kiss deepens. Slowly, carefully, like he’s still asking, still listening to every breath I take, every shift of my body against his.
His thumb brushes along my skin, anchoring me, grounding me, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. The pressure of his mouth grows more certain, not rushed but purposeful, like he’s giving me space to lean in or pull away. Like every part of him is waiting on me.
And I do lean in.
Because I want more. Not just of the kiss, but of him, this version of him I don’t get when he’s driving, or teasing, or pretending he doesn’t feel things as deeply as he does. This version, the quiet one, the one who touches like a promise and kisses like he means it.
His fingers slip into my hair, the kiss deepening again, warmer now, more open. He still doesn’t push. He still doesn’t rush. But there’s heat beneath the patience, like he’s been holding back longer than he’ll ever admit.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m behind. Like I’m lacking or learning too late.
I just feel wanted. Completely. As I am.
I don't feel that way with Ollie. Not when I kiss him.
Maybe I did it wrong?
I go back to Isack's room after the night. I intended to stay over, yes. But my disappointment with how the night turned out just pushed me towards something more comforting. Familiar. Isack.
It's the last race of the year. Abu Dhabi. Glitz and glamour. Bittersweet endings. Fireworks for the championship winner. Champagne for the ones with trophies. A driver's party for Isack and I. I haven't spoken to Ollie since. I don't think I have the privilege to, anyway.
It starts off as any regular party. No one on the dance floor, everyone causing a stampede near the bar. Men and women flirting with each other, eyeing each other, hoping that the alcohol entering their system will grant them the courage. Usual shitty party routine. I don't expect seeing Isack partake in it.
She's a pretty blonde across the club. The one who you'd typically see swinging off of Leclerc's and every other lower Formula driver. I didn't, however, expect my best friend to be into them.
He doesn't look at me when he dances with me. His head is always turned away, eyes roaming her long legs and bare waist.
It fucking hurts.
After a drink or two, I've lost all sight of him. I meet Ollie's eyes a few times in the club but all I can fucking think about is where he is. And then I catch sight of him
Her hand on his shoulder, her lips in an overly sweet smile. That annoying giggle ringing through the air that's bound to make a guy's pants tight. A lean in and peck on the cheek.
And my body burns. Not from the alcohol. From the jealousy that engulfs me like a wildfire. From the tears in my eyes that threaten to fall. From the ache of my heart that beats for him.
I can't stop the tear from falling. And it's suffocating.
Out. Now. I grab my bag and head straight for the door. Liam must've noticed me, for he heads over to Isack and nudges him to me. I don't see what happens after. My vision is too blurry and my head too foggy to care.
I go where my feet carry me. They know the way. My hands autonomously swiping the room key and heading inside the room. The door doesn't even get a chance to shut before he bolts in, holding me as I fall to the floor.
Still struggling to figure out whether it's alcohol or feelings.
"What's wrong?" His voice is a soothing whisper, cutting through the turmoil in me. "Talk to me, my love, what is wrong?"
"That girl...she..." I manage to croak. It's silent and it's broken and it's incoherent but he knows.
"She's no one, nobody, I do not even know her name..."
"How could you? In front of me, too." God, it sounds so pathetic, so selfish. I couldn't care less.
"Oh, mon coeur," he lets out a soft chuckle. Not mocking, not ill-intended. Disbelieving. "How do you think I have felt all this time you've wanted Ollie?"
"That's the think, Isack, I don't." My voice shudders. "He doesn't make me feel like you do."
"Yeah?" he leans in, voice raspy. "And what do I make you feel?"
I can't say it, the word, the feeling too forbidden.
He unbuttons his shirt slightly, whispering. "Give me your consent. And I'll teach you what it's like to love."
One gaze into his caramel eyes and I nod. He hooks his arms around my thighs and practically throws me on the bed.
"Fuck, don't have protection." He curses, taking off the belt holding his pants up.
"Well, pull out in time, then." He smirks, amused by my insistence. I won't pretend this hasn't been on my mind for a while. Going all my life without sex drove me insane.
He takes his time with me, teasingly stripping me, his thumbs brushing against my bare skin like I'm something to be treasured. An experience to last. He's seen me naked before but not in this light. Not when I'm all his. Not when we both know what's yet to come.
He lays on his stomach, putting my legs on his shoulders, his hands shimmying the fabric of my panties off my legs. He kisses every new bit of skin revealed, tongue flicking at anything but the clit. I get desperate enough to let out a pathetic whine. A chuckle, a murmur in French and then a tender kiss to my core. It's better than I'd envisioned. Better than my own fingers could ever do. Better than wet dreams. Better than makeshift sex toys. He eats me like I'm a fine dish. Something served at a high-end restaurant, something to take your time with. His tongue swirls, his lips nibble, his hands squeeze the flesh of my thighs. It's no secret he's skilled. I don't want to know where he got the practice from.
"You're so beautiful. My little girl." Smacks of lips against wet flesh, fingers teasingly brushing my pulsating core. I immediately grab a hold of his hair, fighting the need to scream. His mouth keeps working, a diversion from the fingertips that dive in to me. And it is too much to contain. "Shh, shh. Don't want your dearest Bearman finding out."
"Oh, I have a feeling he knows- FUCK!" He curls his fingers, hitting a spot inside me that makes my lungs tighten and eyes wet.
"Your legs are shaking. Wow." He keeps up his newfound movement, curling and curling and hitting and hitting until I squirt, the golden liquid wetting his shirt, letting the fabric cling to his abs. I pant, the feeling similar to after an intense workout, which this was. I lie there, dazed, blissful, in love.
"Shh, you're okay." He makes a move to lie beside me, letting me into his arms. My first time, and the feeling was too intense for me to comprehend. "That's enough, yeah, you're good. We don't have to do anything else, just relax." A soft kiss to the top of my head. And the words I've waited to hear my whole life.
"I love you."
