#f2 fanfic

[cursedbybang]

my mind has so many plans... i want to make ocs and fics for every man i like.

the next victims are tsolov and niki (who's already collecting dust from how long i've been putting him off 😭)

and bangchan with kaia, who i literally forgot about 😅😅

[cursedbybang]

❝maggots for brain❞

pairing: nikola tsolov x fem!reader

summary: where the promising bulgarian driver finds himself hopelessly in love with someone who could completely destroy him.

warnings: self-destructive reader, brief mentions of alcohol and substance abuse, toxic relationship, emotional dependency, happy ending (?), please take care of yourselves and never settle for a toxic relationship.

word count: 5.6k

a/n: i couldn't find any fics about him, so i wrote one myself 😛. on the other hand, i have absolutely no idea what this is... it just kind of happened.

ଓ english is not my first language, be kind.

THE FOUNDATION ON which the two of you built whatever it was you had had been crooked from the very first day. There was no solid structure there, only a tangled mess of exposed electrical wires and the promise of a fire at any moment.

You met when he was only fifteen, and you were sixteen. Back then, that one year age gap had felt like an enormous difference in maturity, but the truth was that your worlds were already far too different for age to make any real difference. Nikola had always been focused, disciplined, with his eyes fixed firmly on the finish line and a career in motorsport that demanded every drop of his concentration and sanity. He had a clear route ahead of him, a clean map.

You, on the other hand, were the detour on the track. A girl who had learned far too young to build her own defence mechanisms just to survive in a house that felt like a silent battlefield. Your family was the perfect definition of dysfunctional: shouting over dinner, doors slamming, and an icy indifference that constantly pushed you out of the house. You learned to walk on tiptoe so you could steal the expensive bottles your father kept hidden in the study, and to slip your fingers around the cigarette packs your mother left behind on the kitchen counter. While Nikola spent his evenings analysing race telemetry, you spent yours sitting on the kerb with scraped knees, inhaling cigarette smoke and drinking straight from the bottle to numb the noise echoing inside your chest.

The two of you should never have worked. But somehow, you did. In the most unhealthy, possessive and unbreakable way imaginable.

Now, with you having recently turned twenty one and him preparing to take on the responsibilities of possibly becoming a formula 1 driver, your dynamic hadn't improved; it had simply become more complicated, more destructive.

Your relationship was a vicious cycle of extremes. And the worst part of it — the part that made Nikola's temples throb and his stomach twist with pure anxiety — was your terrible habit of disappearing. Of ignoring him for weeks on end.

Three weeks. Twenty one entire days of complete silence from you.

To Nikola, that stretch of silence was the equivalent of having his brain slowly eaten away by acid. He couldn't focus properly during training, missed braking points on the simulator that he normally hit with his eyes closed, and spent sleepless nights in his hotel room staring at the ceiling with his phone clenched tightly in his left hand. His mind unravelled from the inside out, creating every possible worst case scenario. Where were you? Who were you with?

He caught himself spiralling into the darkest paranoias: imagining you passed out on the sofa of some filthy flat, too drunk to remember your own name, or with your pupils blown wide under the influence of substances you kept insisting you "had under control". His chest tightened with unbearable worry, only for it to morph into something sharper, something possessive. He wondered if you were eating properly, if you'd had any water, if you were safe... or if you were deliberately trying to destroy yourself just to punish the world around you.

And above all else, there was the ghost of jealousy.

Nikola hated, with every fibre of his being, the mere possibility of another man laying his hands on what was his. On what he believed was his by right, through time, through everything the two of you had suffered together. He repeated to himself like a desperate mantra that you couldn't do that to him. That no matter how broken or confused you were, you would never betray his feelings like that. You might disappear, you might scream, you might smash things, but your hearts belonged to each other. Didn't they? The doubt was a razor blade lodged in his throat every time he tried to breathe.

Then, that night, your Instagram feed updated.

Nikola nearly dropped his phone. They were photos from your twenty first birthday celebration. The setting was a loud rock concert, with graffiti covered walls, red lights, and thick smoke hanging in the air. In the photos, your eyes were half lidded, a rebellious smile played across your dark painted lips, and a disposable plastic cup rested in your hand. But what truly made Nikola's blood boil was seeing who surrounded you. People he'd never seen before. Blurred faces, lads in leather jackets with cynical smiles, girls with distant, vacant expressions. He didn't need to know them to recognise they were terrible influences; the sort of people who encouraged you to cross every dangerous line, the sort who wouldn't care if you collapsed on the floor as long as the party carried on.

You looked happy. You looked free. And worst of all... you looked like you'd completely forgotten he even existed.

You were celebrating your birthday alongside those people under the illusion of empty freedom, while his last message still sat unopened on your screen. A simple message he'd sent days ago. DAYS. A "Please call me," followed by a "Happy birthday, love. Did the present I sent arrive?" — messages you hadn't even bothered to open, despite being active enough to post an entire carousel of photos online.

The silence from his phone screen was the loudest thing in the room. Nikola threw the phone onto the white bedsheets of the double bed and dragged both hands through his dark hair, pulling it back roughly as a muffled groan of pure frustration escaped him.

He wanted to hate you. He wanted to have enough willpower to block you, move on with his perfect life as a racing driver, and leave you behind in the smoke of that meaningless rebellion. But deep down, in the most tortured corner of his soul, he already knew that the moment your name lit up his screen with a phone call, he'd answer before the second ring.

Because he was trapped by you.

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

The Silverstone paddock had always been one of Nikola's favourite places in the world. The grey tarmac steeped in history, the smell of burnt rubber, the chaotic energy of one of motorsport's most passionate crowds. But during that particular race weekend in 2026, Silverstone felt like nothing more than a blurred backdrop, an out of focus projection while his mind operated in an entirely different time zone. A time zone that belonged exclusively to you.

He knew you were in England. He'd seen your stories. Three days earlier, a blurry photo taken from an aeroplane window, showing grey clouds and the pale green patchwork of the British countryside below, had sliced through his chest like a blade. Nikola had spent hours studying that image, trying to find any clue hidden in the reflection of the glass. He was optimistic — and delusional — enough to cling to the tiny spark in his chest that you had crossed the continent to watch him race, to be there for him after weeks of devastating silence. But the realistic side of him, the one already scarred by you far too many times, knew the chances of you simply having made new friends and decided to party your way across the country were infinitely higher.

There was only one thing stopping him from completely losing his mind: Nikola remembered that you had a British friend. The only normal person in your social circle, in his eyes. A girl who didn't dabble in questionable substances, who didn't spend entire nights sprawled across graffiti-covered pavements, and who kept at least one foot planted firmly in reality. Knowing you might be staying at her place brought him temporary relief, but the uncertainty kept gnawing away at him.

His head felt like it was exploding all the time. Every second away from the track was torture, filled with intrusive thoughts. Nikola could have sworn he felt real worms crawling through and feeding on the grey matter of his brain, destroying his ability to think. The anxiety was so physical, so overwhelming, that he spent the minutes before pulling on his race suit gripping the sides of the toilet in the motorhome, overcome by such violent nausea that he felt like he was about to throw up his soul. He felt like the most pathetic man on the planet. A professional racing driver, reduced to a bundle of nerves because of a girl who barely replied to his messages.

That mental fog came at a cost on Friday. P5 was the best he could manage in qualifying. He missed the apex at Copse because he was wondering whether you'd be drunk by then, and the frustration nearly made him punch the steering wheel. But Nikola was a survivor on the track. On Saturday, starting from fifth, he channelled all that anger and desperation into pure speed. He devoured his rivals one by one around Silverstone, crossing the finish line first in the Sprint Race.

There was plenty of celebration with the team in the garage, pats on the back from the engineers, tight hugs from the family who had travelled to watch him race. Everyone celebrated the rising Bulgarian prodigy, the brilliant future unfolding before him. But to Nikola, all that noise was nothing more than static in the background.

The real sun only rose in his day when his phone vibrated in the pocket of his jeans late that night, in the isolation of his hotel room.

It was a message from you.

Nikola froze in the middle of the room, his breath caught in his throat. It was another one of your classic apologies. The same pathetic excuses you always used — the dead battery, disappearing because you needed to clear your head, the confusion of feelings that made you push away the people who loved you. They were such flimsy excuses, and yet so perfectly crafted to disarm him, that he caught himself rereading every word three, four times. Alongside the message was a simple: "Congratulations on the win. You were incredible today." Nikola stared at the screen, his heart hammering against his ribs, wondering whether you were sober when you typed it or if one of your friends had written it for you so you wouldn't seem quite so indifferent.

But of course he replied. Instantly. It was a reflex, a biological response driven by desperation. It was as though his fingers had taken on a mind of their own, ignoring every last trace of pride or self-respect he still possessed. He typed out the hotel's address and his room number before his own conscience had the chance to stop him.

The moment he sent that message, Nikola knew he was about to do exactly what his family, his PR team, his friends, and literally everyone around him didn't want him to do. He was bringing you into his sanctuary. Nikola's family had never hidden how much they disliked you; to them, you were a dead weight, an anchor dragging him down, a terrible influence that would put every investment and every hope for his future at risk. The PR team dreaded your existence. They were convinced that if you were ever seen with him in the paddock or anywhere nearby, Nikola's image would be ruined.

You were none of the things the corporate, elite world of motorsport expected from a racing driver's girlfriend. You knew that. And the worst part was that you hated it. You hated carrying the weight of feeling as though you embarrassed him in front of his parents, his engineers, and all the perfect friends he had around the grid. You didn't want to tarnish Nikola's image before he had even begun his meteoric rise towards formula 1. The paddock demanded plastic smiles and designer clothes; you were cigarette smoke and secrets buried deep. Nikola knew the last thing he needed was a girl who would undoubtedly create controversy every second in the mainstream media if she were ever discovered.

But he didn't care. He was setting his own world on fire just to keep warm by yours.

When the soft, hesitant knock echoed against the wooden hotel room door, Nikola's stomach dropped. His legs trembled as he walked to the entrance and turned the handle.

The moment he opened the door, the sight of you made him instinctively take a step backwards. You looked different. Completely different from the last time he'd touched you, and miles away from the rebellious, chaotic girl he'd seen in those stories from the rock concert. Your hair, once dark and untidy, had been dyed a deep auburn that framed your face with an almost gentle softness. The countless piercings that used to decorate your ears and septum were gone, leaving only that tiny silver stud at the corner of your bottom lip—the exact spot his teeth had always loved to bite.

Even your face was bare. There was none of the heavy black make-up, the smudged eyeliner, or the dark lipstick you'd worn like battle armour. Your skin was clean. Your eyes… they looked exhausted, carrying the deep shadows of someone who hadn't slept properly in days, but they looked normal. There was no redness, no glassy shine from chemicals, no dilated pupils that haunted Nikola's nightmares. There was no smell of cheap alcohol, cigarette smoke soaked into the fabric of your clothes, or any of that other rubbish. The only thing that remained the same was your outfit: dark trousers and a loose, simple top in muted colours.

Nikola blinked several times, his eyes scanning every inch of your face with an almost painful intensity. Were you sober? The question echoed through his mind, but the answer stopped mattering the moment he caught the soft scent of your skin, just soap and that light perfume he would recognise anywhere in the world.

The conversation between you barely existed. There was no room for words, accusations, or pathetic explanations. The second the door clicked shut behind you, the destructive magnetism that bound the two of you demanded its price. Almost instantly, Nikola's lips crashed against yours with devastating force, fuelled by an unbearable longing and a desperation that clawed at both your chests.

The hotel room instantly transformed into a cocoon of warmth and heavy air. Beneath the dim amber glow of the bedside lamps, the outside world ceased to exist. There was no Silverstone, no family, no press officers in the next room. The only sounds filling the space were your ragged breathing and the desperate sighs dragged from the depths of your throats as your clothes were discarded across the carpet in a trail of urgency.

The scent of sex soon filled the room, blending with the warmth of your skin. Nikola moved with an intensity that bordered on obsession, yet there was a profound reverence in every touch. He didn't want only your body; he wanted your soul. He wanted to tear those three weeks of silence out from inside you — the silence that had nearly killed him. What he felt was an agonising mixture of love and torment. Every time he pressed his body against yours, every time his lips traced a path from your neck down to your collarbone, it felt as though he was trying to fuse himself to you, making sure you could never pull away from him again. Your skin beneath his hands was warm, alive, and the sheen of sweat under the dim light made everything feel like a fever dream he was terrified of waking from.

Hours later, the chaos of passion gave way to an almost sacred calm.

Nikola lay on his stomach with his head resting heavily against your chest, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath him. It was the only sound that mattered now. One of his large hands rested firmly around your waist, while the other held your completely bare hip over the tangled bedsheets. His fingers squeezed your skin every now and then, subtle, almost unconscious little grips, as though he was still testing whether you were real. He was genuinely terrified of opening his eyes only to discover you'd vanished into thin air, becoming nothing more than another mirage created by his exhausted mind.

As his fingers lazily traced patterns across your skin, Nikola's gaze drifted to your ears. He noticed the delicate earrings you were wearing. They were the ones he'd carefully chosen and had delivered to you for your birthday weeks earlier. Seeing that jewellery resting against your freshly washed skin felt like a balm over every wound the photos from the rock concert had carved into his chest. You'd kept them. You were wearing them.

The silence between you was comfortable, but the closeness exposed the fragility of the moment. Nikola slowly lifted his gaze until it met yours in the darkness of the room. He wanted to ask so many questions, wanted to beg for answers, but instead he chose gentle, quiet words. He didn't want to upset you. He didn't want to say anything that might shatter the fragile truce or make you retreat back behind your armour. He wanted to freeze that moment forever.

"Stay…" His voice came out as nothing more than a hoarse whisper, almost a child's plea against your chest. His hand tightened slightly around your hip. "Just stay here. Don't leave in the middle of the night like you always do. Please."

You didn't answer with words straight away. Instead, you simply ran your fingers through his dark hair, gently stroking the back of Nikola's neck with a tenderness he rarely received from the rest of the world.

And, for the first time in twenty-one days, his mind fell completely silent. The pounding noise of anxiety had disappeared. The nausea was gone. The worms he had sworn were devouring his sanity had left his brain. Because that was the only absolute truth in his life: the world could collapse, his career could burn to the ground, and his own mind could become the worst place in the universe, but all of it simply vanished whenever he was in your arms. All that rot was just one terrible thing that happened whenever you left.

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

The break of dawn over Silverstone brought with it that gray, diffused light typical of British mornings, filtering timidly through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains of the hotel room. Nikola woke slowly, emerging from a deep, dreamless sleep — something that hadn't happened in weeks. Instinctively, his arm stretched across the sheets, searching for the warmth of your body, looking for physical proof that the night before hadn't just been another hallucination born from his exhausted mind.

His fingers found nothing but cold fabric.

The impact was immediate. A small, stupid, violent wave of panic lodged itself in Nikola's chest like an electric shock. His stomach dropped instantly. The visceral fear that you'd left him again, the certainty that you'd waited for him to fall asleep before pulling on your boots and disappearing into the early morning fog, made him bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. He was already running a hand through his hair, ready to curse out loud, when his eyes finally adjusted to the dim light.

You hadn't left.

You were standing a few feet away from the bed, near the large glass window. You wore nothing but your bra and underwear, the dark fabric contrasting against the paleness of your skin beneath the weak morning light. But there was nothing peaceful or liberated about the way you stood. Your arms were wrapped tightly around your torso, your fingers digging into your shoulders as if you were physically trying to keep yourself from falling apart. Your legs trembled faintly, and your breathing came in short, shaky bursts that echoed through the silent room.

Nikola held his breath as he watched your distressed posture. You paced back and forth in short, restless steps, your eyes locked on the floor, your brows knitted together in an expression of pure agony. Your lips were dry, and every so often you'd wipe the cold sweat from your forehead despite the mild temperature inside the room. You looked desperate for air, for water, for something your own body was screaming to get back.

For Nikola, who had spent years watching your highs and lows, your disappearances and chaotic returns, it wasn't difficult to guess what was happening. He knew the signs. He could read your body better than anyone else. You were in withdrawal. The trembling, the cold sweat, the distant stare, the restless pacing — it was the physical price your body was demanding for the absence of the drugs, or whatever poison you'd been using to silence the world.

He carefully pushed the comforter aside, moving slowly and deliberately so he wouldn't startle you, like he was approaching a wounded, skittish animal. Wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, Nikola stepped onto the cold floor and quietly walked over to you.

"Hey..." his voice came out barely above a whisper, rough with sleep and overflowing with tenderness as it broke the silence. "Look at me. I'm here."

You flinched slightly and looked up at him. Your eyes, once so stubborn and defiant, now looked like two pools of vulnerability and pain. Nikola didn't hesitate. He closed the remaining distance and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. At first, your body stayed rigid beneath his touch, every muscle tense, but within seconds you melted into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder as a shaky breath escaped your lips.

"What's happening, my love?" He asked, one hand spread across your bare back, rubbing slow circles to calm the tremors running through your body while the other gently stroked your red hair. "Talk to me. Please. If you're like this... if your body misses it this badly... then you stopped, didn't you? You quit everything all at once?"

You gave a timid nod against his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt around his waist with surprising strength.

"I stopped..." your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, the confession seeming to scrape painfully against your throat. "I swear I stopped, Niko. It's been... almost two weeks. But it hurts. My whole body burns, it feels like there are needles underneath my skin. I just... I feel like I'm going to lose my mind if I don't put something back into my system."

Nikola closed his eyes for a second, letting the weight of your confession settle over him. Part of him wanted to celebrate, to scream with relief knowing the sobriety he'd seen the night before hadn't been temporary, it was real. But seeing the physical reality of your suffering wouldn't let him. He pulled you even closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your red hair, anchoring you firmly against him.

"If you stopped, then something happened," he murmured against your ear, his voice calm, almost hypnotic — the voice of a safe harbor in the middle of your storm. "What made you stop so suddenly? What changed this time? What happened during those weeks you disappeared from me?"

You hesitated, your body trembling even harder in his arms. You took a deep breath, the scent of Nikola's soap mixing with your own anguish, before finally finding the courage to tell him the raw truth.

"Two overdoses, Nikola..." you confessed in the faintest whisper, and the word overdoses echoed through the room like a gunshot. "Two of them. Back to back. Four days apart. The last one... I woke up on my friend's bathroom floor with her crying while she was trying to bring me back. It was... it was like getting slapped across the face. A hard one. I looked at myself in the mirror afterward and realized... I don't want to die, Niko. I really don't. I want to live with you. I want to see you win. I want to be here. But... I don't know if I can do this. My brain is screaming for it right now. I don't know if I'm strong enough."

The moment those words left your mouth, Nikola's world turned upside down.

He didn't know what he was supposed to feel. A flood of contradictory emotions crashed into the chest of the nineteen-year-old driver, leaving him frozen for several terrible seconds. Fear — a cold, paralyzing fear that he'd almost lost you forever, that you'd stood on the edge of death twice and he'd never even known. Relief beyond words because you were here, alive, breathing against his chest, still fighting to stay that way. And above all else, terror. Terror at how serious this really was. Terror that you'd gone through two overdoses while he wasn't there. He'd been in a simulator, at a team meeting, on an airplane... living his perfect life while the person he loved most had almost disappeared forever.

But Nikola swallowed his own panic. He couldn't afford to fall apart, not when you needed him to be your rock.

He gently pulled back just enough to cup your face in both hands. His thumbs brushed away the lonely tears beginning to roll down your clean cheeks. He looked straight into your eyes with an intensity so fierce it seemed capable of burning away every last trace of doubt you had about his love for you.

"Listen to me." His voice was firm, quiet, deadly serious. "You're the strongest person I've ever met. You survived that broken home. You survived everything the world threw at you, and you're going to survive this too. I wasn't there these past few weeks, and I'm going to blame myself for that for the rest of my life... but I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing the same air.

"I need you to promise me something. For all the love you say you have for me, for everything we've built since I was fifteen and you were sixteen... promise me you won't relapse. Promise me that when your brain starts screaming again and the worms try to come back, you'll call me. Bite me. Scream at me if you have to. But don't touch that poison again. Promise me. Please. I can't lose you. If you disappear for real... I'll go with you. Do you understand?"

You looked at him, seeing the raw vulnerability on the face of the driver the whole world believed was unshakable. His love for you was a violent thing, almost frightening—but it was the only thing keeping you sane in that moment.

"I promise, Niko..." you whispered, closing your eyes as he pulled you into another tight embrace. "I promise. For both of us."

You stayed like that for a long time, sharing quiet words of comfort as the sun slowly climbed over the Silverstone horizon. Nikola led you back to bed, tucked the comforter around you, and lay beside you, gently stroking your hair until the physical torment of withdrawal eased enough for you to finally drift into real sleep.

But time didn't stop for human tragedy. Soon, the vibration of Nikola's phone on the bedside table shattered the fragile bubble of privacy. It was time to head to the paddock. The British Grand Prix was waiting for him.

Before leaving, Nikola stopped beside the bed. He leaned down, pressed a long, gentle kiss to your lips, and held your hand tightly.

"Don't leave this room until I come back." His eyes stayed locked on yours as he silently asked for one last promise. "Stay here. Eat whatever room service brings you, watch the race on TV, but don't leave. I'll come flying back the second I cross the checkered flag."

You nodded, promising you'd be okay.

When Nikola arrived at the Silverstone paddock, everything looked exactly as it always did: engineers rushing around, journalists carrying cameras, engines roaring somewhere in the distance. He tried to put on his "race face," the analytical mask that protected him from the outside world, but the exhaustion written across his features and the distance in his eyes didn't go unnoticed by the people who knew him best.

As he walked through the motorhome corridor, Arvid Lindblad gave him a friendly but solid shove against the shoulder. The young British driver wore a faint smirk, but his eyes were sharp. Arvid had known Nikola long enough to recognize exactly when the Bulgarian was operating under the influence of the '___ factor.'

"You look like you haven't slept a second, mate," Arvid said, folding his arms and blocking Nikola's path in the narrow hallway. "She's here, isn't she? At your hotel?"

Nikola let out a heavy sigh, already knowing there was no point in lying to Arvid. He glanced around to make sure no PR staff or team members were nearby before pulling his friend into a quieter corner.

"Yeah. She's here," Nikola admitted quietly. "But it's not what you think, Arvid. She's changed. She came to see me, but... things are complicated."

Arvid raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Like most people in Nikola's life, he saw you as a ticking time bomb ready to destroy his friend's career.

"Changed? Niko, come on. We both know the pattern. She disappears for weeks, drives you insane, then suddenly shows up out of nowhere wearing a leather jacket with that look like she's been awake for three days. What happened this time?"

"She quit, man." Nikola defended you instantly, his voice carrying such conviction that Arvid fell silent. "She's clean. Two weeks now. She almost died. Two overdoses in a row at a friend's place here in England, and that's when she realized she didn't want to die. She quit everything. She was in full withdrawal in my room this morning but she was fighting to keep the promise she made me."

Arvid blinked, quietly processing what he'd just heard. He looked down, nudging an invisible pebble with the tip of his shoe, unsure whether he believed such a drastic change. From the outside, it sounded like just another chapter in the toxic cycle of your relationship. But then he looked at Nikola's face and saw the desperation in his eyes — the blind faith he placed in you.

"Look... I don't know if I buy this whole 'she's changed' thing that easily, Niko," Arvid admitted honestly. He sighed, resting a firm hand on Nikola's shoulder. "But you're my brother. I know how much you love her and how badly she gets into your head. Just... be careful, alright? Don't let her destroy you."

Nikola swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, grateful for his friend's loyalty. Deep down, Arvid genuinely wanted to believe you were the kind of person Nikola always described during those late night conversations, even if you'd never given anyone else a reason to believe it. To everyone else, you were the danger. To Nikola, you were the cure.

When the lights went out at Silverstone, Nikola Tsolov turned every ounce of fear, pain, and anxiety from that morning into pure speed. He drove as though his life depended on it. Every overtake was surgical. Every defensive move through Silverstone's high-speed corners was a statement of absolute focus. When he crossed the finish line in first place, claiming victory in the feature race, the team radio erupted in celebration.

Standing on the podium beneath the English sky, trophy raised high above his head, Nikola smiled genuinely for the first time all weekend. But winning that race felt infinitely better for one reason alone: he knew that, unlike every other time he'd climbed onto a podium only to look down at an empty phone afterward, today you were waiting for him back at the hotel. You'd kept your promise. You'd stayed.

The moment the media duties and post race meetings ended, Nikola practically ran to the parking lot. He drove back to the hotel in record time, ignoring the physical exhaustion of the race and the sweat still drying on his skin.

When he unlocked the door and stepped into the room, silence welcomed him. You were curled up beneath the blankets on the bed. The moment you saw him walk in, still wearing part of his team uniform, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips.

Nikola didn't say anything at first. He walked straight to the bed, threw himself down beside you on top of the comforter, and pulled you into his arms with desperate urgency. He buried his face in your neck, breathing in your clean scent, feeling the steady warmth of your body.

"I won..." he whispered against your skin, his voice muffled by the fabric. "I won for you. Because you were here waiting for me."

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him just as tightly, feeling your driver's heart beating powerfully against your chest. The withdrawal was still there, lurking in the corners of your mind like a monster waiting in the dark, but his presence made it smaller. Manageable.

Nikola pulled back just enough to look into your eyes with the same unwavering determination that had carried him to victory at Silverstone only hours earlier. He took both of your hands and brought them to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

"We're going to get through this, okay?" He promised, his voice carrying an absolute certainty that made you believe the future was still possible. "I don't care what my family thinks, what the team's PR says, or how much chaos the universe wants to throw at us. We started this together, and we're going to finish it together. I'll find the best doctors. We'll do whatever treatment you need, quietly if we have to. And I promise you... we're going to find a way to make you better. We'll find your cure. You just have to keep holding my hand."

࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚˖𐦍˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀༻༾✩⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀බㅤ ♬ ᪇ꫭ

divider by @dollywons

[averagecai]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 mini-carlos

awkward!nerdy!rafael câmara x fem!verstappen!reader

warnings ⚠️: none! google translated dutch 🥲

type: texts + smau + written!

a/n: first fanfic, i just get so nervy… ok nevermind. we need more rafa appreciation, he’s so goated!! love him. enjoy enjoy mwah mwah 😋 NOT PROOFREAD, so sorry the texts are blurry i’ll try fixing that next time 🙏 lazy fic, requests are open!!

to say that such a hotel is tiny is disrespect to all those who’ve even bared a naked eye on the building. what i’m saying is the building is absolutely giant. it’s the kind of thing you look at and get that ache in your stomach, the one that says “i don’t want to go home ever again”.

though, you lived your life like this. traveling around with your big brother place to place, each hotel bigger than the last, each woven with the small promise that no matter where, you’ll be safe. safe from… everything.

penelope absolutely beamed at the building, taking your hand in a swift motion and moving far to quickly for anyone but an 8 year old girl ready to destroy something beautiful. a vase, probably. kelly held the baby on her hip, max carried the bags. they laughed together while you made yourself in charge of setting up the rooms, letting penelope swipe the card with her little hand.

when you all finally settled into the room, almost the size of a small house, you flopped onto your queen-sized bed. not the one you were used to, but could you even be used to a bed anymore? a floor layout? it never stays the same for long. but you’ve learned — home is wherever your loser brother is and his really cool kids and wife.

you had about an hour to doomscroll tiktok. dumb memes, your friends sending you cringe shit to make you laugh, watching an edit or two about lewis hamilton, even if he was basically twice your age. a woman can dream, no?

max opened your door with a peak of his head. the bright lights that once illuminated outside your door and in the kitchen were shut off. max whispered like a man on a mission — though, the mission was just ‘don’t wake up my kids’.

“hé, jochie. we leave in an hour for a party, ok? drivers, people… just get ready.”

(hey, kiddo.)

he spoke with such fatigue that it made him sway. just a little. you put your phone down and sat up.

“ok, maxie. take a nap before we leave?”

he chuckled, but his eyes said that it wasn’t such a bad idea. he padded out, shutting the door with a click. you got up, socked feet against the carpet, and started getting ready.

outfit first, always. simple, something that media would love and kika and alexandra would gush over, insisting that you took everyone’s spotlight.

classy makeup, [curled / straightened ] hair. it didn’t take long, but you knew by the screech from the hallway, the small groan of max, and the soft laugh of kelly that everyone else was up.

the babysitter would arrive in 10 minutes. you had to leave in 15.

let’s all just hope nothing went wrong tonight.

stepping out, you took a sweep of the clean floors to find your heels you unpacked prior. slipping them on, penelope ran to you with grace in a sparkling teal tutu that only she could have.

you giggled, swooping her up.

“and whats this, little one? is mama really letting you out in this?”

you raised an eyebrow, spinning around with her to face the mirror on the wall. she giggled, 100% sure that her mama would not, in fact, let her out in this.

kelly sighed gently from behind, taking her from you.

“no,” she gently poked penelope’s nose. “mama will not. she knows. go on, p. get dressed.”

“but—!”

“1. 2..”

“oh, ok!” and like that, she ran off.

—

the venue buzzed, people talked, cameras snapped. but you? you were already heading for the girls.

alexandra greeted you with a hug and a cheek kiss, kika did as well. the other girls had their turns and now, you were all talk at a round table with various wines.

but not for you. legally, you arent 21 yet. in a month, sure, but not today where it matters.

“so..” kika started, like the conversation didn’t start until you showed up. maybe it didn’t.

“i’m gettin married!!” alexandra said, excitement laced in her tone. the table erupted in cheers and squeals.

lily hits her arm with amusement, like she’d already been married to alex albon for years instead of newly engaged.

“been there, done that. boring.”

she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face.

—

the topics changed too quickly, though no one could truly complain. then kika looked at you.

“y/n. we need to have a chat.”

everyone else turned serious too, as if this topic was long awaiting you. you raised an eyebrow, downing a sip of a drink and leaning forward.

“what did i do?”

“we need to find you a boyfriend!”

you nearly choked on saliva.

“oh! no, i’m fine. you guys should— shouldn’t have even talked about it, i’m great being single.”

the argument wasnt very convincing.

“y/n.” alexandra frowned.

and you folded right about there.

“ok ok!” you exploded, excited. because yes, you had met a guy.

“theres this guy. i see him everywhere. he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t whisper, he doesn’t hum any tunes, he doesn’t even make himself known! but he’s like… so cute.”

“so..” lily started. “a stalker?”

“no!” you blurted. “no, definitely not a stalker. he like.. floats around. i complimented his shirt once and i think he nearly exploded. he’s a driver in formula 2. i’ve seen a few of his interviews.. he’s really soft spoken and sweet!”

“so you’re the stalker.” lily corrected herself. you dramatically sprawled your arms on the table.

“no! no one is stalking anyone!”

kika interrupted, smiling maternally. “do you know his name?”

“rafael câmara. brazilian.”

she nodded, grabbed her phone, and started typing. alexandra did the same. they glanced at eachother, stumped. the girls around them watched curiously.

“he’s got nothing on his tiktok,” alexandra said.

“or instagram.” kika added.

“y/n, you’re crushing on a robot man. can’t convince me otherwise.” carmen mused.

you pouted dramatically. “i know! i don’t have his number.. nothing. i can’t do any real stalking.”

lily beamed. “you admit it!”

“not the time, lily! i’m sulking!” you threw a napkin at her.

“y/n, please. you’ll probably run into him at some perfect place, like a laundry mat.” lily smiled.

“a laundry mat?”

“yes! he’ll be in sweatpants and a tight white tanktop—“

“stop walking me through this like a fanfiction!”

lily rolled her eyes. “no fun.”

—

by the time it was dark outside, the venue was buzzing. and in a small corner, a group of young men sat around, all energy and enthusiasm.

dino beganovic, roman bilinski, gabriel minì, alex dunne, and in the middle of it all, poor rafael câmara.

he was being teased by his friends, like usual, because they were all talking about their girlfriends and rafa didn’t have anything to say.

“rafa, rafa, look. do you have someone you like?” dino asked.

“uhm.. yes?” he replied, more of a question. did he even like you? he didn’t even know you. he just knew that you were a very pretty woman on instagram. and he saw a little glimpse of you when he came in.

the table cheered. “who? we wanna know!”

“rafa, tell us!”

“he’s pulling?!”

“rafa you have the best ‘pathetic nerd’ imagine out of us all. some girls are really into that!”

the voices mixed together. rafael opened his mouth to silence them all.

“y/n.”

the silence was deafening.

not from around them, no, drivers still had their own conversations, but at that small table with those boys? silence.

then, alex, a brave soul, felt the need to screech.

“VERSTAPPEN?!”

rafael flinched. “…is that bad?”

“rafael.” they said, almost perfect unison. shivers. roman leaned forward, doing something remotely close to holding in a chuckle.

“buddy.”

——

the groupchat, later at night

—

a few days of monaco sun later, and he did have a little courage. a little. he saw alexandra and kika at a restaurant with his friends.

alex pushed him over. he stumbled on his feet.

and there, before the two women, was a nervous mess of a mini-looking carlos sainz.

alexandra raised an eyebrow. rafael grabbed his balance.

“hello… i’m..” he glanced back at his friends. “rafael. do you know y/n verstappen..?”

the girls looked at eachother. so this was the boy. yes. perfect.

y/n was quite the independent. she needed a nerd like him, so she could just bully him to oblivion and he would take it.

after a few minutes of talking, rafael left with new information. she thought he was cute. pretty, even. hot? that felt wrong. rafael could be called a lot of things, hot was not one of them. apparently to y/n, it was. shocking.

—

rafaelcamara88

rafaelcamara88: the grind does not stop

liked by alexdunne, gabsmini, and…

view all comments

user01: rafael? we were NOT aware of your game

user02: who is this guy trying to impress 😭

alexdunne: 👀

gabsmini: 👀

user03: what do y’all know i’m crine

romanbilinski: congrats rafa, whoring yourself out on main 🙄

rafaelcamara88: this was not my decision and i think you’re aware of that.

rafaelcamara88: and what is this “whoring” i’m hearing of? what does that mean? i look good, no?

romanbilinski: i’m jorking it later

this comment was deleted by commenter.

the post worked a little too well. now you, a grown woman, were completely head over heels over a grown man you’d never even met. and i mean head over heels.

alexandra knows.

kika knows.

lily knows.

kelly knows.

now charles knows!

and so does carlos!

it’s a nightmare.

though, it did bring you and rafael closer. thankfully. he came to your door when it was pouring rain. he was soaked. wet. hoodie and sweatpants absolutely drenched. curls flat to his head. and he said,

“can i take you out to coffee sometime?”

and since then, you’d been in love.

coffee became routine. every friday morning. his treat.

then it was movie nights. it was slow. he took it at your pace, he always did, no matter what. and when you kissed him, it was real. steady. truthful.

he absolutely melted. he would be so much or so little for you, depending on what you asked and how you asked it.

he’d do anything you have to say. really, he would. because rafael câmara could listen to you be mean to him for hours, only for you to later praise him and treat him like an absolute dog.

—

“rafael!” your yell cut through the empty apartment. the one right next to yours with max, kelly, penelope, and the baby inside. his was better, you decided.

“yes ma’am?” he didn’t yell back, he didn’t need to. he was at the doorframe in seconds.

“can you take the trash out?”

he didn’t even say anything back. he just went. walked downstairs, took the bag, took it out, came back, washed his hands, put a new bag in.

“thank you, angel.” you nodded, patting the couch next to you.

“all you.” he kissed your temple.

and when he settled into your open arms, he knew that it was all worth it. crashes, burns, hits taken mental and physically. it was worth seeing you smile like that. worth this moment, in the quiet of his apartment, which he thought would never have another warm presence.

—

thebetterv

y/nv: rafael, i have never had such a better thing happen to me in my life. your anxious thoughts, your worried stares, your hopes of one day setting foot in a ferrari. i love it all, and i always will. i want all your dreams to come true, always. i love you, my sweetest, silliest boy ❤️

liked by gabimini, rafaelcamara88, and…

rafaelcamara88: i love you more

y/nv: don’t start

rafaelcamara88: yes ma’am i’m sorry

user05: she’s got him on a LEASH.

rafaelcamara88: i’ll admit it happily

alexanderdunne: buddy 😭🙏

gabimini: not a great look for you rafaelcamara88

—

rafaelcamara88

rafaelcamara88: life lately with my gorgeous amazing wonderful beautiful smart woman, whom i get the pleasure of getting to be her boyfriend <3

tagged: y/nv

liked by y/nv, alexdunne, and…

alexdunne: oh look at me i’m rafael câmara and i’m a charming brazilian nerd who fell in love with a gorgeous woman who calls me a good boy fuck off mate

rafaelcamara88: i never told you she called me that.

alexdunne: it’s not rocket science mate

user06: IM GONNA CRY

user07: they’re two apples tall 😭

rafaelcamara88: no, i’m 0 apples tall and she’s 4 apples tall because i give her all my apples and oranges and pears and mangos and everything because she deserves it all

user08: what could i even say to this. 😭

y/nv: what about cookies?

rafaelcamara88: i draw a line.

user09: they’re so incredibly perfect for eachother and they know it

[oscah8pastry1]

Diamonds made under pressure— Luke Browning (f!reader, part 1/?)

Summary: After making the jump to Formula One, a young Brit struggles with the pressure to adjust, and while he often finds solace in silence, he's unable to escape the constant stress that had built up over the season—Williams is a shitbox, the regulations are impossible, the eyes feel like too much. They say diamonds are made under pressure, but all Luke can feel is the crushing force and the walls closing in around him.

Three years spent as Luke Browning's partner brought an unpredictable, and very... active lifestyle, race weekends brought a stressed driver that was riled up like fishing line.

And it only got more intense when he made it to Formula One in 2026.

Replacing Carlos Sainz in williams, millions of eyes on every move that he made in front of the camera, eyes always searching like he knew somebody was watching.

But with her it was different.

Shoulders relaxing every time she did something as small as touch him, his eyes only ever on her when she was around, instead of the surroundings that were normally stuffed full of cameras when he was out in the paddock.

Post-race was always the same, no matter how it went—Whether he scored points or binned it into the barriers, he'd always fly home a day early, trudge through the door early morning, half asleep and looking like a zombie hunting for a pair of warm arms to rest in.

But fame changed everyone—He was under constant stress and she could see it, she saw the changes long before he did.

How his tempter was shorter, his tendency to snap when it got to be too much.

Something he never did before.

She could see the tension in his body, how his lips were often red or bruised from how hard he'd bite them when he tried to hold himself together, how his shoulders never relaxed the same way they used to.

It worried her.

She understood the pressure of the sport, how loud and overwhelming it would get—But she never imagined how much of a toll it really took on drivers until it started affecting Luke.

But still, one thing always did stay the same.

He'd practically rip his jumper off like it personally offended him by making her feel too far, tossing it haphazardly as he climbed into her arms, burying his face in her neck.

"I'm bloody exhausted." He'd whine, same three words every single time—It was like clockwork, never missing a moment.

But this time it didn't happen.

He walked through the doors, eyes unfocused and just leaned against it for a moment, breath uneven as he put his hands over his face.

She'd missed the race, too caught up with studies—Of course she still sent him a message before, wishing him luck as she always did. But she had no idea what had happened that weekend.

He'd crashed into Alex. Humiliatingly, the car given too much unexpected closing speed, he couldn't stop it in time and absolutely ruined the race for the team.

He apologized profusely, to Alex, to James. Tried to explain what had happened, but neither listened quite yet.

James assured him that stuff like that happens, but didn't offer anything else.

No "we'll figure out what happened" just... "shit happens".

The cameras suddenly felt like they were mocking him, like those photos of him would be on every headline—"Rookie driver costs team crucial points in Austria.".

His eyes met hers from across the room, a pitiful expression flashing across his face as he watched her stand and approach.

God. Maybe he wasn't quite ready for this.

But he had to be. He'd trained his whole life for this one season, this one season that could be his only chance at making it big.

[swedishgrandprix]

so uhm it's actually 33k.................

[swedishgrandprix]

UTS DONE

[swedishgrandprix]

any updates on the brownovic fanfiction? im gushing with excitment!

over the past like two weeks i have been so incredibly busy with schoolwork and trying to find a job, meaning I haven't been able to write as much :// Unfortunately I'm going to have to push back on when this comes out, since I don't wanna rush it. Hopefully I'll be able to finish this by my birthday (end of Feb)! Thank you anon for checking in!

[swedishgrandprix]

@kirobeilschmidt clearly loves my ideas