i loveee ur stuff, i was wondering if u could write a arthur x fem!reader smut, where she works on charles team (not on ferrari, but like personal photographer or smth, like she travels with charles basically) n she and arthur have like veryyy big tension (like non stop banter, snarky comment, teasing, barks). Then at an after party (monaco 24?) she ends up in his room and they fuck.
hope this is something along the lines of what you were looking for :) also it isn’t proofread so i apologise for any mistakes!
Most Ardently ᴬᴸ
✧. ┊ PAIRING: arthur leclerc x fem!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 2.5k words
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, enemies to lovers, coarse language, taunts, unprotected sex
There were a lot of perks that came with being Charles Leclerc’s personal photographer.
It wasn’t the career path I imagined back when I was a broke uni student shooting blurry portraits of my friends in exchange for takeaway, but somehow, through a chaotic mix of luck, timing, and a shared love of vintage lenses, I ended up with a dream job I never knew I wanted. Private planes stocked with champagne, hotel suites bigger than my entire apartment back home, and front-row access to the kind of glamour most people only glimpse through a screen.
And, of course, Charles himself.
A vision of a man who looked like he stepped straight out of a black-and-white film reel. The kind of subject photographers would kill for.And honestly? One of the kindest clients I’d ever had.
But there was a downside.
A very loud, very smug, very infuriating downside.
His motherfucking brother.
Arthur Leclerc.
The most demonic Leclerc there was.
Arthur Leclerc was a menace.
Not in the villainous, tabloid-scandal kind of way—no, that would’ve been too easy. Arthur was worse. He was charming. The kind of charming that made people forgive him for everything, from stealing your towel when you were in the swimming pool to “accidentally” locking you out of your hotel room at 2AM barefoot. Which he’d done. Twice.
He took one look at me, day one on the job, and decided I was going to be his favorite new toy. Not in a romantic way (though he flirted just enough to keep me constantly confused), and not in a cruel way either. It was worse. He teased.
Endlessly.
Relentlessly.
Like it was his full-time job.
“Your lens cap is still on, Picasso,” he’d say, even when it wasn’t.
"Do men not get with you because of your face or your personality?"
“You hang around Charles too much. You’ll start talking in italics and heartbreak soon.”
Just constant yapping.
We were in Monco that weekend. Sun-drenched and stupidly beautiful. Charles had disappeared into a meeting with the team, leaving me with a golden hour and a memory card begging to be filled.
I was crouched near the harbour, fiddling with exposure settings, when a shadow loomed over me.
“Careful,” Arthur’s voice drawled. “You might fall in. Not that anyone would notice.”
I didn’t look up. I didn't need to see him to know who it was. “And yet, somehow, I always know when you’re nearby. Must be the smell of arrogance and body spray.”
He tsked. “That is rich, coming from someone wearing a shirt that says ‘Pentax 4 Life’. You are realising it makes you look like a cult member?”
I finally looked up, squinting at him through the sun. He was wearing that ridiculous smirk again—the one that made people hand him drinks or forgiveness without thinking. Not me. I knew better.
“You don’t have to stand here, you know,” I said. “There’s a whole country for you to go be irritating in.”
“Ah, ange, you are the most fun to irritate,” he said, crouching beside me like he belonged in the frame. “Besides, Charles said I should try being helpful.”
I paused, suspicious. “Helpful how?”
He reached over and—without asking—tilted my camera up a fraction. “There. Better composition. Rule of thirds, no?”
I swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch my camera.”
“Relax, Picasso. You will still get your moody shot of a yacht.”
“It’s a catamaran, you Philistine.”
He grinned wider, and for a second, I hated how good his eyes looked in this light. Gold-flecked. Unfair.
“You know,” he said casually, “for someone whose job it is to observe, you are much terrible at hiding things.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Arthur stood up, brushing nonexistent dust off his shorts. “Nothing. Just that you get really flustered when I’m around. It is cute. Like a kicked puppy.”
“I don’t get flustered,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “I get annoyed. Because you never shut up, and you always assume everything is about you.”
“Because it usually is.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
He leaned in then—too close, the heat of him sudden and sharp in the salt air. His voice dropped low, almost amused. “And yet, you never walk away.”
That shut me up.
Only for a moment.
“Because I don’t lose,” I said, chin lifted. “And if I walk away, you win.”
Arthur blinked, something sparking behind his gaze.
For once, he didn’t have a comeback.
Just a half-smile, a beat of silence, and a slow, measured step back.
“Well then,” he murmured. “Let the games continue.”
The afterparty was a blur of champagne flutes, flashing cameras, and the sound of Charles’ name being chanted like a hymn. He’d won. Finally. Monaco. His home race.
I was happy for him. Ecstatic, even. But also bone-tired and overstimulated, wedged between celebrities and sponsors and too many people who thought owning a Leica made them a creative.
And I was clinging to the edge of the dance floor, counting the seconds until I could leave.
Until he found me.
Arthur.
His shirt half-buttoned, a drink in one hand and mischief in his eyes.
Of course.
He sidled up, shameless. “You look like you would rather be at a funeral.”
“I’d rather be anywhere you’re not,” I muttered.
“Yet you are watching me,” he said, stepping closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Is it the shirt? It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”
I turned to face him, glaring. “It’s the fact that you’ve been following me around like a lost kitten all night.”
“I prefer ‘charming menace.’”
“I prefer ‘walking red flag.’”
He grinned, leaning in so our noses nearly touched. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”
I opened my mouth to fire back. Something scathing. Something final—but his hand brushed my waist, possessive and sudden.
I froze.
We were tucked into a corner of the club, the shadows flickering just enough to make it feel hidden, but not enough to be safe. Not really. People were all around us, drinks sloshing, cameras flashing, music pulsing like a heartbeat.
“You keep looking at me like you want to slap me,” Arthur said, voice low.
“Maybe I do.”
“Or maybe you want to do something else.”
He didn’t wait for permission. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across my hip. Not subtle. Not coy.
I shoved him back, hard.
“What is wrong with you?”
That got his attention. His jaw tensed, sharp under the flashing lights. “What, now you are pretending like you don’t want this?”
“I don’t want you—”
“Ah, c'est conneries!”
We were nose to nose again. Breathing hard. Both of us trembling with something hot and ugly and undeniable.
And then—
I kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed me. It didn’t matter. We crashed into each other, mouths colliding like a car crash, hot and reckless, all teeth and tongue and fury.
Someone bumped into us, laughed, maybe even whistled. I didn’t care. Arthur’s hands were gripping my waist, my jaw, my hair, like he didn’t know where to hold first. Like he couldn’t decide which part of me he wanted most.
“You’re out of your mind,” I whispered against his lips.
He grinned, wild and breathless. “You make me that way.”
And when his hand slid under the hem of my dress, low, possessive, there, I didn’t stop him.
I should’ve.
But instead, I tipped my head back and let him.
Let him claim me, right there in the corner of that stupid glittering club, with Monaco spinning around us like a dream we couldn’t wake up from.
The moment the hotel room door slammed shut behind us, it started.
“You’re impossible,” I snapped, walking in ahead of him. “You don’t know when to quit.”
Arthur’s laugh was sharp. “And you don’t know when to admit you liked it.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
He paused. “So say you did.”
I turned around slowly. “Why? So you can gloat? Add it to your list of wins?”
“I am not keeping score!"
“You’re a Leclerc. Of course you are.”
He stepped closer, the heat between us flickering back to life. “You kissed me first. You grabbed my hair. You moaned my name in the middle of a fucking club.”
“And you let me.” My voice dropped. “You wanted me to.”
He didn’t deny it.
He just stared at me like he was trying to figure out if this was real—or if he’d imagined the way I came apart in his hands.
I kicked off my shoes, backing toward the bed. “So what now, Arthur? You want a round two just to prove something?”
He shrugged off his jacket, eyes still locked on me. “I want a round two because I can’t stop thinking about how you looked when I had your thighs shaking.”
My breath caught. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.
“You’re such a cocky little shit,” I muttered.
“And you’re still here.”
He crossed the room in two strides. Grabbed my waist. Kissed me like he was punishing me for every word I hadn’t said.
We tumbled backward onto the bed, all teeth and hands and heat.
“I hate how good you are at this,” I whispered against his throat.
“Good?” he scoffed. “You were begging.”
I shoved his shoulder. “You’re delusional.”
He pinned my wrists above my head, smirking. “Say you didn’t like it. Go on.”
I didn’t.
I bit his lip instead.
His groan was low, broken. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
“And you’re obsessed with me.”
He didn’t argue.
He just kissed me again—deeper, hungrier, like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and stay there.
There was no pretending it was casual this time. No drunken excuse, no blurry club lights to hide behind.
Just us.
Sharp edges. Fast hands. Bruised mouths.
He peeled my dress off like he’d imagined it a hundred times. Maybe he had. Maybe I had too. His hands weren’t soft. They were sure. Greedy. Mapping skin like he didn’t believe it was real.
I shoved his shirt off and dragged my nails down his back, marking him. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”
Arthur’s breath caught, then he smiled, dark and wrecked. “Then show me.”
I pushed him onto the bed, climbed over him, settled myself over his hips without breaking eye contact.
For a second, neither of us moved.
He stared up at me like I’d just ruined him. And maybe I had.
“You don’t get to ruin this,” I whispered, breath shaking.
“I would not dream of it,” he said, voice raw. “Just tell me you want this.”
I didn’t say it.
I showed him.
His hands were on my waist, guiding me, grounding me. My mouth on his shoulder, his jaw, his throat. The sharp gasp he let out when I rolled my hips harder made something twist low in my stomach.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel—god, you feel unreal.”
I pressed my forehead against his. “You talk too much.”
He flipped us, pushed me down into the mattress with a quiet, breathless laugh. “Then shut me up.”
He pulled himself out of his tight jeans, manhood springing free like he hadn't let himself release in months.
He shucked off his jeans, cursing softly when they caught at the knees. I watched him through half-lidded eyes, every inch of him flushed and trembling, like the moment itself was too much to hold.
And then—
"I do not have protection..." he muttered, like this information could stop him from all he's every wanted.
"I don't care."
"But ma chérie..."
"Just put it in, God!"
And he sank, letting out a deep groan emanating from low in his throat. He took it inch by inch, careful to take it easy and not hurt me. Not when he'd just got me.
"You've been fucked before, yes?" God, he really did let his mouth run.
"Yeah." His jaw clenched at my answer, thrusts growing harsher. "What, you expect me to be a virgin?"
"No," he exhaled, eyes shut tight as he changed his angle, grunting. "Do not like that you have had another man inside you."
"Whoever said anything about a man?"
"Don't tease me, coucou." Thrust. One. Two. A whine from me.
"I'm gonna..."
"I can feel you clenching."
“Arthur—”
He leaned down, lips brushing my jaw, my cheek, my mouth. “Come for me,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”
I broke with a cry, the tension snapping like a string pulled too tight. My body arched up into him, shaking, legs wrapped tight around his waist. My nails dug into his back, anchoring me to him as he fucked me through it, slow and deep and possessive.
“That is it,” he growled, breath ragged. “That’s my girl.”
His pace faltered. His hips jerked once, twice more, and then he was spilling inside me with a stuttering groan, his forehead pressed against mine, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurt.
We lay there for a moment, gasping, sweat-slicked and silent. The only sound was the hum of the city through the hotel windows, far away and irrelevant.
Then Arthur pulled out gently, collapsing beside me on the bed, arm flung over his eyes.
I stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving. “Well. That was...”
“A mistake?” he offered, voice muffled.
“No,” I said, too fast. Then softer: “No. Just... unexpected.”
He turned his head to look at me, lips still parted, hair sticking to his forehead. “You going to regret this tomorrow?”
“Are you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’m only going to regret stopping.”
I turned toward him, tracing a lazy line along his shoulder. “We fight too much.”
“We flirt too much,” he corrected. “And then we pretend it’s fighting.”
A silence bloomed between us. Not awkward—just full. Full of all the things we hadn’t said. All the things we were too afraid to admit out loud.
He reached for my hand. Twined our fingers together without asking.
pairing. arthur leclerc x ferrari driver!fem!reader
summary. you never set out to date your teammate's brother. in fact, it took arthur months just to convince you to go on a single date, but charles' opinion of you hit an all time low after he became aware of your relationship and nothing you did seemed to help mend your previously strong partnership. when charles takes it a step too far, you decide that you’ve had enough of it. 6.7k, 18+
warnings. injury, descriptions of injury, smut, dom/sub dynamic (sub!reader), fingering (fem receiving), impact play, penetrative sex, mirror sex
masterlist.
. . .
The slightest of contact was all it took. That was all it ever took. One second, you were making the overtake for P2, and the next, you were in the wall.
There was barely time to brace. Barely any time to hit the brakes. Reaction time was trained, drilled, conditioned into you until it became second nature. Thank god it was, otherwise, you might not have walked away from this one.
Your ears were ringing when you opened you eyes after impact. Your vision was swimming but you were conscious. You heard the cadence of the question in your ear more than you could actually understand the words being said.
Are you okay? Y/N, are you okay?
You weren't really sure if you were but your mind went to those that were watching the race, your fans, your team, your family, your friends. Arthur. They needed to hear you say that you were okay. The gritty details could come later.
"I'm good. We're good. That was a rough one, huh?"
You're sure that the pain was still evident in your voice. It was unavoidable after however many Gs of force you just withstood in that crash. You turned the engine off, took a moment to center yourself.
You had crashed. You were a Formula One driver. It was the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, the fourth race of your second season with Ferrari after your Haas contract expired two years ago.
Your boyfriend's name was Arthur Leclerc. Privately (and jokingly), you called him Artie because it made him cringe and you thought it was funny. He was your teammate's little brother.
He was the first person to make it to the circuit medical center after you had been loaded into the medical car. He was shaking as he hugged you, not from fear but from restraint, not wanting to hurt you by squeezing you as tightly as he wanted to.
"You are okay? Tell me you are okay."
"I'm fine, baby."
"I could strangle Max Verstappen sometimes. 'Leave the space' must only apply to others."
"Arthur, it's okay. It's just part of the sport."
He looked you over for a moment more before catching your mouth in a searing kiss. It spoke volumes, and you understood exactly what he meant by it.
I deeply respect your love of the sport but I would burn the FIA and the whole world to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.
"I love you," he said when he pulled back.
"Je t'aime," you returned.
That exchange of I love you's in your and Arthur's respective native languages of English and French had been a staple of your relationship since very early on. Your first "I love you" had been in each other's mother tongue. It had stuck ever since.
“Are you sure you are okay?”
“Yes,” you insisted, “A little dizzy, but okay.”
“Dizzy? You did not say you were dizzy.” That was the doctor that had checked you for any signs of a concussion.
You turned to face her. “Yes, but I had—“
You lost your balance as you turned. Your typical coordination escaped you and Arthur had to catch you to stop you from tipping sideways.
The doctor pulled out a phone. “I’m calling an ambulance. You’re going to the hospital.”
“I’m fine—“
“Mon coeur, please sit down,” Arthur urged.
Your calm but obviously worried boyfriend refused to leave your side even when it meant leaving for the hospital before the end of the race. You tried to convince him to stay for his brother but he wasn’t having it.
In the hospital room after you had completed all the precautionary brain scans, Arthur checked his phone.
"Maman is asking about you," he said. "Lorenzo, too."
You both took note of the lack of another of his family member’s text message, but you had grown all too used to it. It was easier not to comment on it.
"Tell them I'm fine."
"I will tell them we are waiting on your test results."
"Don’t worry them. I’m fine, Arthur.”
"We will know that once they have gotten their results."
Arthur had a very convincing poker face but this needless argument showed how concerned he truly was. He kept worrying his bottom lip between his teeth whenever he thought you weren’t looking.
You tugged on your intertwined hands to pull him closer. “Hey. I’ll be fine. It’s probably just a concussion.”
“You cannot know.”
“Then, call it positive thinking.”
Before anything more could be said, the doctor returned with the results of your tests.
You were okay, only a concussion as you had thought. You had a fair amount of bruising and a bit of whiplash to commemorate one of the worst crashes of your career but other than that, you seemed fine.
They still wanted to keep you overnight for observation but you should recover in a timely fashion.
When the doctor left, you only had time to shoot Arthur an “I told you so” look before his phone started ringing. The caller ID showed his second eldest brother’s name.
He answered in French, a language you knew almost fluently after living in Monaco since your rookie season. You had really buckled down to learn the language after beginning to date Arthur.
“Hello? ... I am at the hospital with Y/N. … I know but congratulations on third. Sorry I missed the celebrations.”
You couldn’t hear what Charles was saying, only your boyfriend’s responses. It was now over two hours since the end of the race. Charles must have only just gotten time to call Arthur.
“I know I am, but Y/N was dizzy and the doctor was concerned and I couldn’t just leave her. … She is part of Ferrari, too. I have a duty to both her and the team. … I was not needed at the garage. … And I said I’m sorry I missed your podium but I wasn’t going to leave her alone. What if something happened?”
You sunk back into your hospital bed. They were fighting again. Because of you.
You and Charles had been rookies together back in 2018. You had started your F1 career at Williams before moving through Haas to where you were now, your second year at Ferrari.
You were a handful of years younger than Charles and he had always treated you like a little sister. When you got the Ferrari contract, Charles was over the moon. You remember him going on a half hour tangent about how much fun it would be having you as a teammate, how excited he was for the next two years.
Charles adored you. At least, he used to, before you and Arthur told him you had started seeing each other.
Since then, Ferrari has been a minefield.
Charles was distant and cold. He stopped sending TikToks and stopped laughing at your memes. He unfollowed you on Instagram for about a week before the Ferrari PR team made him follow you again.
The PR department was working well past overtime thanks to you and Charles. You had learned not to try and approach him even when there were cameras around because he would continue to ignore you and it would further fuel the drama mill.
You missed your friend. You missed the fun you two had last year as teammates.
Now, you were with Arthur. And you loved him. And he made you so happy. But you missed being able to talk to Charles without him looking at you like you were the gum on the bottom of his shoe.
Arthur’s voice had gotten sharper the longer he spoke to Charles. “Not that you bothered to ask but Y/N is fine, by the way. We had to go to the hospital to scan her brain and make sure but she would be. Not like you’d care.”
Arthur hung up and tossed his phone onto a table where he couldn’t reach it. You reached out for his hand and he took it, kissing your knuckles and sighing deeply.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.
“Do not apologize. This is not your fault.”
“It feels like it is.”
“It is not. It is Charles being impossible for no reason. Before we were dating, he—“
He adored you. He called you mon ange. He praised your driving any time he could. He invited you to dinners with his family, which was how you got to know Arthur outside of racing.
Now, Charles couldn’t stand the sight of you. It hurt, you weren’t going to lie. Charles was your teammate and friend, but more importantly, he was Arthur’s brother.
You didn’t feel it was your place to try and close the gap gouged between you and Charles, not when he was Arthur’s family. You didn’t want to complicate things further, didn’t want to try and repair your friendship before the bond between brothers was mended.
“Maybe…”
You lacked the confidence to continue your thought. You didn’t want to suggest what you were about to, even if it could potentially fix everything.
You were selfish when it came to Arthur. You didn’t like sharing him and you especially didn’t want to let him go.
“What?” Arthur asked.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
“What? No? No. Why? No. Why would you want to—? Have I done something wrong? Why would you say that?”
You were quick to reassure him. “No, no, no, baby, it’s not that. I was just thinking that it might be a good idea to take a bit of time and come back to this in the off season. When Charles can separate me as your girlfriend from me as his teammate.”
“No,” he insisted. “No. I do not want him to ruin this any more than he already has. I do not want to take a break.”
“Okay. That’s okay. It was just a suggestion.” One that you were thankful Arthur objected to so vehemently.
“It is a dumb suggestion. I do not want a break. I will never want a break from you.”
“Okay.”
You let him lean in and kiss you. It seemed that Arthur was selfish with you, as well.
.
You were no stranger to Charles Leclerc’s yacht. You had spent many nights attending parties hosted by your friend on his impressive vessel and even more days lounging around or exploring islands along the Monaco coast.
But ever since Charles found out about you and Arthur, you hadn’t been invited back. Until the weekend between races, a week after your crash.
And you hadn’t exactly been invited, it was more that Charles had been told by his mother that you would be spending the day with the family and there was no getting out of it. Though, as the day stretched on and tensions grew higher, you were really wishing that you were the one who could have gotten out of going.
Your concussion wasn’t as severe as originally feared. Your ribs were still tender and the skin of your torso bruised but you were set to race at Miami next week as long as your checkup in a few days went well.
Arthur sat down beside you on the large daybed you had taken to reading on. It was shaded and secluded enough to be comfortable but not so far from the main seating area that you couldn’t easily rejoin the larger group. It was where you had usually set up camp whenever aboard Charles’ yacht.
Your boyfriend handed you the fizzy, non-alcoholic beverage you had requested. He accepted a kiss as gratuity.
“What are you reading?”
“One of those spicy fantasy novels you make fun of me for.”
“Oh, the porn books.”
“They’re not porn books!”
Arthur just laughed because he liked teasing you. He laid his head in your lap. You, of course, let him because you were not actually upset.
You smoothed the hair off his forehead lovingly.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not hurting?”
“No. I’ve been doing my stretches and using bruise cream. I’ll be right as rain next weekend.”
Arthur seemed pleased with that answer. “Will you read to me?”
You regarded the content on the page you were open to. “I’m not exactly at a publicly appropriate chapter.”
“Am I not a better option than ink on paper?”
“You are not always readily available.”
“You are far more busy than me. You are always away from me.”
“Exactly. I need something to do with all my free time in my hotel room. All alone. Just me. And my hands all over… my latest smutty book.”
“You kill me, woman,” Arthur groaned, sitting up to kiss you.
You let out a peel of laughter when Arthur pushed you onto your back. You two were not in the habit of making your close friends and family uncomfortable with excessive PDA, so Arthur abandoned kissing you to pin you down, gentle and conscientious of your torso.
“Okay! Okay, you’re better!”
Arthur leaned down over you. “Better than what?”
“You’re better than my books.”
“Good.”
He kissed you, then wiggled his fingers against your neck to make you shriek.
“Arthur, Y/N. Come eat!” Pascale called the two of you over to the group.
Arthur helped you sit up, then held out a hand to help you down the steps to the deck below because god forbid you take the three stairs on your own. You didn’t mind; you liked that he wanted to help you, even with things you didn’t need him for.
You smiled at Arthur, able to forget about the Leclerc civil war for a moment. Then, you turned toward where everyone else was sitting in the main seating area.
Charles was glaring daggers.
Your stomach dropped. You pulled your hand free from Arthur’s to fix your hair then didn’t take it again when you were done.
Arthur looked at you odd, noticed where you were glancing. He glared back just as hard at his older brother.
“Arthur,” you muttered in reproach.
“If maman was not here, I swear I would smack him across the face.”
“Arthur, please.”
After the race in Azerbaijan was over, after podium celebrations and post-race interviews, Charles had spoken a little too loudly about how it was your fault that you had crashed, that it was what happened when you "still drive like a rookie five years into your career."
The video that some random clubgoer had managed to capture of your teammate badmouthing you while you spent the night in the hospital for observation had gone more than a little viral.
To hear him talk about you like that just made you sad. You didn't have the energy to be mad over it.
Arthur did not share those feelings. When he first saw the video, it was everything you could do to keep Arthur from charging halfway across Monaco to kick his brother's door in. Instead, you anxiously sat on the couch in your living room as he and his brother shouted at each other over the phone.
If it wasn't for Pascale's not at all subtle attempts to get her boys to make up, you and Arthur never would have come today. But she was your boyfriend's mother. She would not accept a refusal of her invitation for today.
You ended up sat beside Arthur and about as far from Charles as possible as sandwiches and chips were passed around. You kept making eye contact with Pascale, awkwardly smiling whenever you did before glancing away.
"Charles, do you have any more wine on this boat?" Pascale asked.
Charles stood. "I'll go get some."
"Arthur, why don't you help your brother?"
You held your breath. You truly admired the balls on that woman, and the unapologetically obvious pursuit of making her sons make up. When you glanced at Arthur, almost hopeful, you saw the dark edge to his gaze as he looked at his brother; he was still too angry to be left alone with Charles.
You didn't believe Arthur would actually slap or physically harm Charles in any way but things would not be made better by Arthur confronting his brother right now.
"I'll help," you said before Arthur had to respond. "Lead the way, Charlie."
You false enthusiasm shriveled into nothingness by the time you reached the stairs down to the bar. You trailed after him below deck, staying several paces behind.
Charles was silent as he began opening cupboards. He hadn't so much as looked at you when you took his younger brother's place in assisting him.
"Charles, I—"
"I do not want to hear it, Y/N."
You swallowed around the nervousness trying to clog up your throat. "Are you ever going to let me explain?"
"There is nothing to explain. You are my teammate. Arthur is my brother. You both go behind my back to start dating each other and do not care of what it will affect."
"Believe me, we've talked about it. At length. We know it's a risk."
"And you do not care," Charles concluded, ducking down below the bar and out of view as he continued his search.
"No, we decided it was worth it." You took a breath. "I don't know how to talk about how in love with your brother I am without making you uncomfortable but if I had to choose between him and racing, I would hesitate."
That statement may not sound all that impressive but Charles had once said to you—after many, many drinks following a successful race weekend for Ferrari—that he would know he truly loved a woman if when he had to choose between her and never racing again, he hesitated.
As a fellow driver, you understood exactly what he meant. That was what you felt for Arthur. That was what the youngest Leclerc meant to you. That was how hopelessly in love you were.
"I love Arthur, I really do. And I know it's messy and complicated and whatever else but I don't care about that. At the end of the day, I am happier with Arthur than I have been in a really long time."
Charles was silent behind the bar. He was still ducked down. It felt like you were monologuing to an empty room. It made it a little easier to continue.
"While I am willing to put a little strain on my career for my relationship, what I have never wanted to put strain on is your relationship with your brother. I never wanted anything like this to happen.
“I never wanted to go behind your back. I never would have pursued my feelings for Arthur if he hadn’t been so persistent but he wore me down and I couldn’t tell him no.
“I am truly sorry for breaking your trust. But I cannot stop loving your brother. I will not let him go just because you cannot accept us, despite all the difficulties it may come with.”
Two bottles of wine appeared on the bar top just before Charles stood upright again. He still would not look at you.
"If you can't forgive me for pursuing a member of your family, that's fine. I understand. But Arthur is your little brother; do not throw that away because of me.
"Hate me. Be mad at me. Ignore me on media days. Unfollow all my socials. Make the entire world think you despise me. I don't care; just don't take it out on Arthur.
"I am not worth you two falling out."
You nearly jumped out of your skin when Charles finally looked you in the eye. You held his gaze, imploring him to listen to what you were saying.
His expression did not change the longer he surveyed you. Then, he took the bottles of wine, walked right past you without another word, and went back above deck.
.
"That is it?" Arthur asked as you recounted the events to him later that night.
He was sat on the lid of the toilet as you washed your face before you two were going to settle in to watch a movie.
"Then, I told him I'm not worth you two falling out over and he walked away. Without a word. Just back up the stairs and that was that."
"You are."
"Are what?"
"Worth falling out over."
You sighed. "Arthur—"
"You are. I am serious."
"Arthur, I'm not going anywhere. You don’t have to choose between me and Charles; I don’t want you to.”
“I am not losing you because of him.”
“I’m not asking you to compromise. I’m not letting you go because of Charles, either, but we have to try and make this work. He’s your brother. That has to mean something to you.”
“He is being unreasonable.”
“Have you even tried to talk to him about it? Or have you just been pretending nothing’s changed?”
“Nothing has changed," he said stubbornly.
“Okay, that's one of the problems."
"It should not matter that we're dating."
"No, it should. And it does. I'm dating my teammate's brother; that is going to change some things. You do recall the HR meeting all of us had to suffer through, don't you?"
Shortly after telling Charles of your relationship, you and Arthur had gone to Ferrari to make them aware as well. There had been no major backlash from the team but there had been a several-hours-long meeting with HR and PR that you, Arthur, and Charles all had to be present for.
Arthur physically shuddered at the memory. "Do not remind me."
"Us being together changes things. You cannot ignore it and hope everything will blow over."
"He hasn't even apologized to you."
"Worry about me later. Fix your relationship with your brother before it's too late."
"Y/N, you are not understanding. I cannot fix my relationship with Charles if he is going to speak of you like he did in that video. If he is going to treat you like he has been, nothing is going to be fixed."
"He's your brother—"
"And you are l'amour de ma vie. I do not care that he is my brother; I will not tolerate anyone speaking of you in such a way. I cannot remove you from the situation. I cannot make up with him until he stops treating you horrible.”
You had not realized Arthur’s view on the whole situation. You supposed it made sense now that you thought about it.
Charles was generally being mean to you, not his brother. When the two youngest Leclercs argued, it was over you. Charles seemed convinced that you would never prioritize Arthur or his career over yourself or your own.
True, you would never give up your seat for Arthur, but you wouldn’t do that for anyone. Should the time ever come where Arthur got an F1 seat, you would never give him anything; he would have to work just as hard as anyone else to race against you. That was racing.
You do not think that Charles meant anything to that extreme of a degree. He perhaps meant that Arthur would seldom be prioritized in place of a career in F1, period, but you and Arthur were on the same page about that.
You had spoken in length about it. You had laid everything on the table a few months into your relationship and spoke about it all until you reached a true and total understanding.
And Charles… Well, Charles would always see Arthur as his baby brother, as someone to protect, as someone who is young and unknowing of the world even if he was snugly into his twenties.
“You need to speak to him. Really speak to him. Talk everything through.”
“He needs to apologize, first. Then, and only then, will I talk things out.”
“You are. So. Stubborn,” you growled at him, jokingly pretending to choke him in your frustration.
“If I was not, how would I keep you in check?”
He slid his hand right up under your oversized sleep shirt to hold your core in his palm. Your freshly washed face went a little pink.
“I don’t need to be kept in check,” you said indignantly.
“Don’t you? You always seem to find some way to misbehave and then I have to punish you for it. You know how I hate to punish you.”
“Don't lie. You love my punishments as much as I do.”
He rubbed his hand over the cloth of your panties, pushed his fingers between your closed thighs to prod over the fabric at where you had already started to ache for him. It took so little to get you worked up, just a few touches and some dirty words and you were ready to melt into any mold Arthur wanted.
“Backtalk.” He clicked his tongue at you. “Already misbehaving.”
“I’m debating my point. That is not misbehaving. You’re just being mean.”
“Keep talking and I can show you how mean I can be.”
“That’s not fair—“
You didn’t get to finish your thought before Arthur stood and pushed you against the bathroom counter. Your thighs dug into the edge of the counter as Arthur pressed against your back, hips nestled into the soft curve of your ass.
“Arthur—"
"Hm?"
He slowly slid your hair out of the way. The collar of your ancient sleep shirt was easily stretched to the side so Arthur could kiss the bare skin of his shoulder. His teeth bit into the curve of your neck just enough to feel but not hurt.
You whined, pushed your hips back into him. "Don't tease."
He slid a hand up to your neck, met your eye in the mirror. "Be patient."
He held you there until you nodded your understanding. Only then did he hitch the back of your shirt up to slip his hand inside your panties from behind.
He grabbed a handful of your ass. You exhaled a soft moan.
You hadn't been intimate since the Monday before the Azerbaijan GP, meaning it was pushing two weeks since Arthur had touched you. You were ready to fall apart and he hadn't even really touched you yet.
"Arthur, s'il te plaît."
In the mirror, you could see him smirk at your French. He had told you before that he liked when you spoke to him in French, that he thought your accent was cute.
You knew it was a totally indulgent way to get what you wanted but you didn't care; it worked. His fingers slid between your folds, feeling how slick and ready you were for him.
He cursed into your shoulder, slipping into French to say, "So wet for me—fuck, Y/N."
"Want you, baby. Please."
"Want me? Want me where?"
"Inside me."
"So lewd, mon coeur," he teased. "You're so needy tonight."
"You started it."
"And I will stop it if you are not grateful for what I am giving you."
He pulled his hand out of your underwear and you whined. You reached back to slide a hand into his hair.
"No, please, I'm sorry. Please, don't stop."
Arthur huffed out a laugh. "I will take care of you. You do not need to beg."
He pulled your panties down until you could kick them off to the side. He gently ran a hand over your stomach and ribs. Arthur was always conscientious of you, especially when you were injured.
"Can you bend over for me?"
You did so immediately, elbows coming to rest on the sink counter. Your shirt slid up off your hips to hang loosely around your waist. You felt your arousal hit the air in the bathroom, the chill making you shift your hips.
"So good for me. My good girl."
You could cry from the praise and the fact that his fingers still were not inside of you that exact second. You were embarrassingly worked up.
Arthur seemed to take pity on you, circling his thumb on your clit a few times before slipping a finger into you. Just one was nowhere near enough to fill you up but you dropped your head onto your arms and moaned.
He kissed your backside, knelt down behind you. "So noisy, amour."
Any snarky response you may have had died in your throat when he pressed a second finger into you. That was enough for a bit of a stretch that had you pushing your hips back against his hand.
"Stay still," Arthur warned.
You really did try to listen to him but after slowly scissoring you open with two fingers, he introduced a third and started really finger fucking you. You pressed your forehead against the counter, not able to stop yourself from pushing back into him again, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, searching for something that would stretch you further, reach deeper into you.
He pulled his fingers out of you. Your whine was cut short when he slapped your bared cunt with the same soaked fingers that were just inside of you.
"You are so fucking impatient."
"Just want you."
"Yeah? You want me so bad you cannot even stay still and let me stretch you out? You want to be torn open by my cock?"
You whimpered. That was exactly what you wanted.
He slapped your pussy again. "Huh? Is that what you want?"
You raised your head just enough to be able to watch as Arthur pushed his shorts down. You couldn't see as he pulled his cock free with him stood behind you but you definitely felt it when he pressed his tip against your prepped entrance.
"Oh, fuck—"
He entered you in a swift motion. You choked around a moan.
He was gentle with his arms as he pulled you back against him but ruthless with his hips as he fucked into you without relent. He didn’t press on your bruised torso but he did get a hand around your throat to make you watch yourself in the mirror.
Your dynamic was like this. He was in charge and you loved that. He could hit you, fuck you hard, have you screaming, begging, crying, but where it truly mattered, he would always be gentle with you. His dominance was not just for him; he was always cognizant of your current state and how you were feeling in the moment.
“Arthur.” You breathed his name like a moan, like a prayer.
He kissed your neck, then your cheek. “So good for me.”
Arthur set the pace slow and deep. You could feel him nudging your cervix, stretching you open, the tug of your walls against his cock making you ache for him even more. You were a moaning mess for him in mere moments.
He coaxed you through your first orgasm like that, fucking you slowly from behind as you watched yourselves in the bathroom mirror, his hand between your thighs to push you along. Your legs shook and Arthur held you upright as he kept the torturous pace all the way through your climax.
“You have a bit more in you, amour. Yes?” he asked, still moving his hips as the continued stimulation was making you squirm.
You felt you could barely catch your breath but you nodded anyway. “Yes.”
Arthur hummed, pleased. “Good girl. Bend over.”
If your first orgasm was for you, the second was surely for Arthur. Sex was always a game of give and take with him. Though, even when he was taking, you were always being given so much.
As soon as he had you bent over again, he gripped your hips, adjusted his own, then started fucking into you fast and hard. You grabbed onto the counter to steady yourself, let your head drop onto the quartz as you went pliant and easy.
You were shaking from the overstimulation, from not getting a break between your first high and the second that Arthur was making you chase.
“Come on, amour. Come on.”
His pace was just uneven enough for you to become aware that he was definitely close. He was waiting for you.
His fingers found your clit again, rubbing out another wave of pleasure that had you trembling against the counter. Your head felt light, legs literally giving out and you would have fallen to your knees if Arthur wasn’t still gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, strong arming you into staying on your feet.
You cried his name and your body went slack. Arthur fucked you through your second high and past it, stroked himself out with your body and buried himself deep inside of you as he came.
You mewled at the feeling, at the depth and the spurting warmth. Arthur smoothed a hand up your spine to soothe you. He whispered praises and pressed kisses into your skin until you came back to Earth, getting your legs back underneath you.
"Welcome back, mon coeur."
You could hear the proud grin in his words but could only give a weak groan in response as you pushed yourself upright. Arthur helped you up, then sat you on the bathroom counter and kissed you sweetly before setting to cleaning you up.
He scooped you up into his arms once you were clean and dressed to carry you out to the living room.
"I can still walk," you told him but still happily wrapped your arms around his neck anyway, leaning against his chest.
"I'll have to do better next time, then."
Arthur set you on the couch. He told you to stay as he bustled around getting popcorn and drinks ready.
"What do you want to watch?" you asked.
"Whatever you want."
"Don't give me that kind of power," you mumbled to yourself.
You didn't giving in to the temptation to queue up some cringeworthy romcom you know Arthur would hate. He had given you enough tonight. You could be nice about the movie choice.
You made it through maybe half of the movie (some new Netflix film you thought looked decent) when there was a knock at the door. It was a soft noise, almost hesitant.
You shared a look with your boyfriend before you both checked your phones to make sure you hadn't missed a text from someone letting you know they were on their way over. You both came up blank.
Despite it being your apartment, Arthur pushed you down when you went to stand and ran to answer the door himself. You couldn't quite see the door from the couch, so you strained your ears to listen.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, not quite unkindly but certainly not happy.
"I went to maman's. You were not there."
Charles. Why had he showed up at your door unannounced this late in the evening?
"I've been staying with Y/N most of the time."
Silence followed. It was painful just eavesdropping on the two brothers. You nearly got to your feet to approach them and attempt to mediate but Arthur beat you to it.
"What do you want, Charles?"
More silence. You don't think you were breathing, scared if you made yourself known it would ruin whatever was about to happen.
"I wanted to apologize," Charles eventually said.
"Apologize?"
You bit your cheek to stop from screeching with joy. Finally—finally! You were so ready for this whole thing to be over with. Even if it took some subtle guilt tripping on your part, you were more than pleased at the outcome.
"For how I've been treating you since you told me about you and Y/N. Is she here?"
"Yes."
"Yes, well, it is her apartment, no?" Charles tried for a weak laugh but Arthur did not take mercy and join him. "Er, well... I—I shouldn't have been so quick to judge you two. I was upset, at first, that you had hidden it from me.
"I forget that you are an adult and you have pursued your own career and you do not need protecting from people who might try to take advantage of you—not that I believe Y/N would do such a thing!"
You cringed. This could go downhill really fast considering Arthur's protective streak over you.
"Yes, I am an adult. How you feel will not dictate my relationship. But how you treat Y/N will dictate my relationship with you. How can you speak of her like you have? She has been your friend for so long."
"I know what it has been like for you to constantly be compared to me. I know it has been difficult for you and I have become paranoid in my fame that someone will use the people I care about to get to me."
"That is ridiculous. Y/N is just as well-known as you, if not more. And she knew you before she knew me—how does any of this make sense, Charles?"
Arthur had a point but you could understand where Charles was coming from. It was always a fear in your own mind that something may happen to or someone might try to take advantage of your family or your friends because they were in connection with you.
"It doesn't," Charles admitted. "It doesn't make any sense. I was being stupid. I assumed the worst—thought Y/N was using you to mess with my head—and refused to see it any other way and I never should have treated Y/N as I have been or said what I have about her.
"She is one of the most talented drivers I have ever driven alongside. She is the kindest person I know. She has been my friend for years longer than she has been dating you. I should not have let my judgement be so clouded by my own fear.
"I am sorry, Arthur. And if Y/N is here, I would like to apologize to her, as well."
It was quiet for several moments. You waited in silence, still holding your breath. Had you breathed at all since Charles started apologizing? Was Arthur going to say anything? Was he just standing there?
There was the rustle of fabric followed by the telltale sighs of relief that accompanied a much needed hug. You exhaled and slumped back against the couch. Thank God.
It was long overdue that the youngest Leclercs made up. Thankfully, Charles knew his brother well enough to know that you must also be apologized to if things were ever going to get better.
"Y/N?" Arthur called.
You suddenly remembered that you had been eavesdropping the whole time. Charles had no idea you were just around the corner in your living room. You had heard the entirety of Charles' apology, even the things not meant for your ears.
You cleared your throat. "Yes?"
"Do you think Charles should be forgiven?"
You laughed and went to join the brothers in the foyer. "I absolutely do. Do I get a hug, too?"
Charles' face was red but he seemed to find the humor in the situation, too. He opened his arms for you and wrapped you in a tight embrace.
"I am sorry, Y/N. I know you would never purposefully try to hurt me or my brother. I was rash in my understanding of the situation."
"It's okay, Charlie. I just missed my friend."
"I'm sorry." Charles squeezed you tight once more before letting you go.
When you stepped back into Arthur, he let his arm slip around your waist. He kissed the side of your head. You leaned into him, too pleased with the outcome of tonight to fret much over PDA in front of Charles.
For the first time, Charles didn't seem deeply disturbed by your affection. However, he did sigh faux irritably.
"You two are way too cute together. It was so difficult to be mad at you sometimes."
You and Arthur laughed.
"I am serious! You should see yourselves."
Despite knowing it was an inappropriate train of thought to entertain in front of your boyfriend's brother, you couldn't help but think back to just about an hour ago and how you had watched yourselves through the bathroom mirror.
"Oh, we have," Arthur said, innuendo lost on his brother but not on you.
You smacked him in the chest. Arthur just laughed. Luckily, Charles seemed none the wiser.
an off-shoot of @cinnamorussell’s that’s the way it goes bandverse ⸻ you tell yourself you’re just here to manage the chaos, but your heart’s already keeping tempo.
ꔮ starring: lead singer!pepe martí x band manager!reader.
ꔮ word count: 3.1k.
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: university. mention of alcohol. idiots in love, pining!!!, mentions of f1a girls. title is from touch tank by quinnie.
ꔮ commentary box: birdy & i have been working behind the scenes on bandverse for monthsss, and while their work is centered on our beloved rookie ‘25—featuring the 2025 rookie class!!! REQUIRED READING, READ IT NOW!!!—i wanted to take a crack at the band on the other side of the stage. i had visceral images of pepe covering this song & got dizzy as hell. ouuu r25 and fw, you are our shaylas. this is entirely self-indulgent, but i also send all my love to fellow pepe enthusiast @spiderbeam 🎤 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Like most Friday nights, tonight smells like beer, sweat, and somebody’s bad decisions. You’re standing near the stage, clipboard in hand, pretending you have your life together while watching the band set up for soundcheck.
Rafaela is the first disaster of the evening. She’s perched on an amp like a caffeinated parrot, arguing with the sound tech about whether her pedalboard ‘has a spiritual connection’ to the venue’s electricity. Her hair is an electric halo, her eyeliner war paint, and her guitar strap covered in glittery stickers spelling out things like GIRL POWER and CAUTION: NEW DRIVER. You once described her as a fire hazard with perfect pitch, and she thanked you.
Chloe, the keyboardist, is her opposite. A human spreadsheet wrapped in thrifted sweaters. She’s currently aligning her synth cables by color while muttering about MIDI latency. She has a calm, nerdy energy that grounds the band’s chaos, though she’s been known to throw hands if someone messes with her meticulously labeled USB drive named Bachstreet Boys.
Then there’s Amna, the drummer-slash-content creator, who’s been filming B-roll of the crowd since she arrived. She’s got the kind of smile that belongs in a skincare ad and the kind of arms that make the drumsticks look like toys. Every time she posts a drum solo on TikTok, the band’s follower count spikes, and so do your blood pressure levels.
You’re mentally tallying up the odds of everything going wrong when the final member steps onto the stage.
Pepe Marti.
He’s wearing that casual confidence like a leather jacket, grinning as if the stage was built for him. The girls stop their bickering the moment he picks up the mic. Partly because it’s time to play, partly because Pepe has that effect on people. He flashes a look toward you, a small salute with the mic, and the corner of your mouth betrays you with a smile.
“Good evening, everybody,” he says, his voice smooth and teasing through the speakers. “We’re Formula Weekend—there’s no math involved, though. Unless you count how many times Rafaela’s gonna break a string tonight.”
Rafaela flips him off affectionately. The crowd laughs.
Pepe paces a little, looking too at home under the lights. “I’m Pepe, the only guy in this band, which basically means I’m living every teenage boy’s dream and every feminist’s nightmare. But don’t worry, these ladies keep me in line.”
“Barely,” Amna calls from behind the kit.
Chloe adjusts her keyboard stand with surgical precision. “We’ve got graphs that prove it.”
Pepe laughs, that effortless kind that pulls the crowd in, and turns to you briefly before facing the mic again. “Let’s make some noise, yeah?”
The first chord hits, loud and alive, the kind of sound that drowns thought. The lights flare, Rafaela’s hair whips in rhythm, Chloe’s synth hums like electricity, and Amna’s sticks come down like thunder. Through it all, Pepe’s voice cuts clean, easy, magnetic.
You tell yourself you’re just here to manage the chaos, but your heart’s already keeping tempo.
You’re watching all of them, clipboard pressed to your chest like it’s armor, pretending you’re calm. You are not calm. Pepe’s at the mic again, fingers tapping against the stand in that restless way he does when he’s fighting the urge to say something unserious. He loses the fight.
“So,” he says, flashing a grin that could power a small village, “we’ve got a five-track setlist tonight. The girls let me pick one song. Just one.”
The crowd chuckles. Rafaela shouts, “And we almost vetoed that too!” without looking up from her tuning.
Pepe feigns a wounded gasp. “Yeah, democracy is alive and well in Formula Weekend. I get one vote, they get three.”
Amna leans toward her mic. “It’s because your taste is suspicious, Pepe,” she sing-songs.
“Suspiciously good,” he fires back.
The crowd laughs again, softer this time, warming to him. You can still feel it. The tension, the subtle weight of every gaze that lingers a bit too long on him. The way some people whisper, the small smirks, the unspoken question hovering like humidity: What’s he doing here?
You brace yourself for the shift that always comes after that question.
Chloe glances up at him, gives the smallest nod. Rafaela rolls her shoulders, ready. Amna counts them in with a stick click that slices through the noise. The first notes bloom, warm and woozy, and the crowd’s talking cuts out like someone flipped a switch.
Pepe leans into the mic, voice low and unhurried. “Cancelled a hot hipster threesome for you ’cause I preach a freedom, but you’re a fucking great excuse.”
It’s disarming, the way his accent rounds the vowels, softens the edges, turns the line into something flirtatious instead of defiant. Rafaela grins mid-riff; Chloe’s eyes flick up in quiet amusement. You can feel the energy turn, slow and deliberate, like the air itself deciding to listen.
The crowd’s judgment melts into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Awe, definitely. You watch as the girl in the front row, the one who was whispering a minute ago, drops her phone a little and just stares.
By the second line, it’s not Pepe versus the band. It’s Formula Weekend, in sync, magnetic. The noise of the bar folds into the rhythm, the lights catch in the haze, and for a second, you forget to pretend you don’t care.
You’re smiling. Again.
The crowd, once buzzing and half-distracted, leans in, the air growing thick with the kind of attention that can’t be faked. The lights wash the stage in syrupy amber, catching on Rafaela’s glittered strap, on the curve of Amna’s drumsticks, on Chloe’s hair as she moves. But it’s Pepe that centers it all. He doesn’t need to demand the room; he just takes it, quietly, effortlessly.
His voice dips into the next verse, smooth and almost lazy: “’Cause he’s so pretty when he goes down on me, gold-skinned eager baby, blue shirt out the laundry.”
There’s a quick, collective inhale from the crowd, the sound of shock and thrill colliding. Someone whistles. Someone else whoops. A few guys near the bar shout things that don’t deserve to be repeated, but Pepe doesn’t flinch. He never does. He just leans into the mic, a grin ghosting his lips, eyes half-lidded like he’s savoring every word.
Rafaela doesn’t miss a beat, grinning like she’s in on the joke. Chloe’s fingers dance across the keys with deliberate grace, grounding the moment. Amna’s drumming grows sharper, louder, daring anyone to talk over them again.
Your clipboard has become useless—a prop for pretending you have control over any of this. You watch him, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your pulse betrays you.
Then he looks at you.
Not a passing glance, not an accidental flicker. He finds you in the crowd like it’s muscle memory, like the lyric was meant to be sung to you and you alone.
His eyes stay on yours as he sings, softer now, almost tender: “He tells me he’s gentle when he wants to be... so I think he wants to be gentle with me.”
It’s stupid how much you feel it. The intimacy of it. The crowd is still there—cheering, laughing, filming—but for that one impossible moment, it’s just the two of you suspended in light and sound. You should look away. You don’t.
Pepe’s smile shifts—small, knowing—and then he looks back to the mic, letting the next line pull him away. You breathe again, or at least you try to.
The rest of the set unspools in a blur of lights and laughter, the kind of beautiful chaos that feels choreographed by luck. The crowd is fully in it now. Bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, a chorus of off-key voices shouting along. Rafaela is in her element, shredding through a Chappell Roan cover. Chloe’s synths melt and shimmer under her fingers, eyes closed, lost somewhere in her own rhythm over the boygenius cover. Amna’s drumming holds it all together, steady but smug, like she knows she’s the backbone of every good thing happening tonight.
And Pepe—of course it comes back to him. His voice dips into Frank Ocean’s Forrest Gump, that unmistakable blend of velvet and ache. You know this one was his pick. It’s written all over the way he sings it, half confession, half prayer. The girls teased him for choosing it, but no one’s teasing now. The crowd is quiet, reverent almost, letting him spin the last few notes into something that hangs in the air long after it’s done.
The lights dim. The cheers rise. It’s over.
You push your way backstage before the first drunk fan can corner them for selfies. Your clipboard is crooked under your arm, and your bag of bottled water feels like a peace offering.
Rafaela sees you first, hair sticking to her forehead, eyeliner smudged into something rockstar chic. “Manager of the year!” she declares, reaching for a bottle. “Did we sound hot or really hot?”
“You sounded like you might actually know what you’re doing,” you say, and she laughs as if it’s the highest praise imaginable.
Chloe takes her bottle next, muttering thanks while already cataloguing every minor imperfection out loud. “I hit that bridge half a beat early. You heard that, right?”
“Nope,” you lie. “Flawless.”
Amna’s phone is already in her hand, a notification pinging from somewhere. “The TikTok clip’s going to blow up,” she says. “Pepe’s intro for touch tank? That’s going viral. I’m calling it.”
You groan. “Please don’t say ‘viral’ in front of me. It gives me hives.”
She just grins, all teeth and trouble. “That’s just your anxiety speaking.”
Pepe is slower to come offstage, always is. Takes his time wrapping the mic cord, chatting with a tech, running a hand through his hair in that careless way that somehow looks planned. When he finally walks over, the others are still buzzing, their voices overlapping. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just reaches for the last water bottle, the condensation slick against your fingers when they brush.
“Good show,” you manage, too casual to be casual.
He grins, a little too eager to be cool. “You think so?”
“I think the crowd didn’t boo, and you didn’t fall off the stage. That’s two wins.”
Pepe laughs, low and genuine. “I’ll take it.”
The air feels thick again, like the music never actually stopped. Before you can think of something smart to say, Rafaela throws an arm around both of you, gestures towards the bar’s photographer, and yells, “Group photo!”
The tension snaps like a string, replaced by a tangle of limbs and laughter. The flash goes off. Everyone’s smiling.
You, maybe a little too much.
The photo barely saves before Rafaela’s already yelling for another round of water. “We’re parched, boss!” she says, collapsing onto a nearby stool. Amna throws an empty bottle dramatically into the air; it lands on Chloe’s lap.
Chloe sighs. “We’re out, aren’t we?”
You look into the bag—empty. A tragic sight. “You downed the last of it.”
Rafaela clutches her chest like you’ve betrayed her. “You’re telling me we shredded that hard, and you didn’t restock hydration?”
“I didn’t realize I was managing a small army of camels,” you shoot back.
Amna props her chin on her drumsticks. “We could just grab some from the bar.”
The collective noise that follows is a symphony of horror. “No,” Chloe says flatly. “Their water tastes like regret.”
“And backwash,” Rafaela adds.
“Plus they charge obscene amounts,” Amna concedes. “For tap.”
You exhale, already resigned. “Fine. I’ll go get some.”
Rafaela waves you off with an exaggerated flourish. “Our hero!”
Before you can grab your jacket, Pepe speaks up. “I’ll come,” he says, already scrambling to his feet.
You turn. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He smiles. “I owe the team hydration.”
Amna whistles. “Take care of our fearless leader, Pepito!”
You pretend not to hear that as you both slip out the back door into the night.
The air outside is a relief. Cooler, quieter, touched with the smell of rain that never quite happened. The bar’s neon hum fades behind you as you walk, the world shrinking to the soft rhythm of shoes against pavement. Pepe hums under his breath, probably still half in setlist mode.
The 7-Eleven sign glows ahead. Divine intervention. “Romantic, isn’t it?” you say. “You, me, fluorescent lighting, and the promise of electrolytes.”
He laughs, hands tucked into his pockets. “This is what they don’t show in rock documentaries.”
“You mean the part where the lead singer buys bottled water for his band because the manager’s too responsible for their own good?”
“Exactly that.” He glances at you, eyes bright even in the flicker of passing headlights. “You make it sound heroic.”
Inside, the store is all about the artificial life. White lights, stale scents. You grab an armful of water bottles while Pepe insists on getting extra snacks. “For morale,” he insists, holding up a pack of instant noodles.
“We don’t have the budget,” you say, “or any budget at all, in fact.”
“I think we can spare six dollars. As a little treat.”
“You ask for a little treat at every gig.”
“And I carry all your bags.”
Somehow, it feels like a fair trade. You pay, he insists on carrying the purchases, and when you step back out into the night, the silence between you trills with something unspoken. Comfortable, careful, and a little bit electric. The world feels smaller again, like the universe has rearranged just enough to fit two people, a bag of water, and everything neither of you are ready to say yet.
The walk back takes twice as long as it should. Not because the bags are heavy, but because neither of you seem in a hurry to return to the noise again. The street is half-lit, quiet in that way campus roads get after midnight—crickets, the hum of distant traffic, the faint shuffle of your shoes against cracked pavement. Somewhere far off, a car door slams, a dog barks, and it all feels like background music to something you’re not sure you want to name.
You end up stopping under a lamppost that hasn’t given up yet. It throws a soft yellow ring around you both, catching on the condensation of the bottles, the sheen of sweat still at the back of your neck, the crooked grin on Pepe’s face. The bag rustles between you as he shifts it from one hand to the other, the plastic squeaking. The light makes his hair look gold at the edges. It’s stupidly cinematic.
“You really didn’t have to come,” you say, breaking the silence first. “I’m perfectly capable of buying overpriced water alone.”
He grins, that easy, unbothered grin that has no right to exist at this hour. “Yeah, but then who would make sure you didn’t run off with the 7-Eleven cashier?”
You roll your eyes. “That’s generous. You think I’m someone people flirt with at convenience stores.”
“I think people flirt with you,” he says, then he amends: “People notice you.”
It’s casual, tossed out like a joke, but it lands too softly to be one. You look away. The lamplight makes everything too visible. The outline of your shoulders, the faint pink in your cheeks, the way you suddenly don’t know what to do with your hands.
He kicks the toe of his shoe against the curb, watching the pebble skid away before glancing back at you. “You didn’t answer me seriously earlier. Did you actually like the set?”
You shrug, pretending you have better things to analyze than your heartbeat. “It was good. The quinnie cover was hit.”
“Only because you like pretending you don’t like my voice.”
“Please. You sound like a heartbreak wrapped in a Spanish accent. It’s very manipulative.”
He laughs, low and real, the kind that sits in your chest after it’s gone. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence. The sound of the streetlight’s buzz fills it, and you realize you don’t actually want to ruin it with words.
Then, because you’re an idiot with poor impulse control, you blurt out, “You didn’t change the pronouns.”
He looks up. “Didn’t feel like I needed to.”
His tone is even, steady, but something glints in his eyes. Something deliberate. He shifts closer, just slightly. “People get weird about that. But it’s just a song.” A pause. “Or it was supposed to be.”
You try to laugh, but it comes out too thin. You don’t know if he means just a song or just a feeling. The difference blurs somewhere between your ribs.
So gentle when he wants to be.
He reaches into the bag, grabs a bottle, and hands it to you. His fingers brush yours—brief, careful, maybe accidental, maybe not. The touch lingers like the echo of a lyric. “Thanks for managing us,” he says, voice quieter now, weighted with something that doesn’t need a name. “Even when we’re impossible.”
“That’s generous.” You snort softly. “I don’t actually manage any of you, Pepe.”
He tilts his head. “You do. Maybe not the chaos, maybe not the girls all of the time. But… uh, me. You manage me.”
You should deflect, crack a joke, say something sharp enough to cut through this moment before it melts too much. But you don’t. Instead, you stand there, two idiots under a lamplight, holding water bottles like talismans, pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.
A moth flutters dangerously close to the bulb above, drawn to the heat. Pepe’s smile shifts—small, secretive, like he’s thinking something you’d want to know but he won’t say yet. The air between you feels stretched thin.
He breaks it first. “We should probably head back.”
You nod, but your feet stay still. Neither of you move. The silence fills back in, patient, soft, like the universe is giving you one more second before something changes.
He glances at you again, eyes glinting with something too delicate to be friendly. “You’ll tell me if I ever sing something that’s too much, right?” he asks.
You smile. “That’s assuming you’ll ever stop being too much.”
He laughs, the sound easing into the hum of the world that goes on around you. “Am I too much for you?” The world holds its breath.
Summary : Everything's changing and the only way you know how to deal with it is by crying. Ollie's there to help though
Pairing/s: Oliver Bearman x Reader
Word Count : 0.8k
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Oliver Bearman Masterlist
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A/N : Oh, how I needed an Ollie last night when this exact situation hit me.
It had reached a new academic year, but this year was different. You've finished high school and are now on your way to university. Ollie was signing with Haas, which meant his life was about to get more difficult. However, the worst part about it all was your best friend was moving away to go to university.
You’d heard the horror stories about best friends that move away and slowly just lose connection until it was like there was never a friendship there in the first place. With all the change that was happening over the next six months, you could feel the anxiety kicking in.
Ollie was back home for the break between Monza and Baku and you couldn’t be more grateful because during that break you had to say bye to your best friend and it was worse than Ollie leaving almost every week.
She understood you in a way that no one else could, there were millions of inside jokes that would be shared between you, inappropriate jokes that would have strangers or other people complaining about but that was your friendship.
It wasn’t until you were lying in bed blocking out the neighbours party that it really hit you. Noah Kahan’s ‘You’re Gonna Go Far’ playing into your ears as the words suddenly hit more than they ever had before.
Before you knew it, the tears had started falling down your face as the panic set in that actually she was packing up her car and being wherever she was. You’d tried not to cry for months about her leaving, but suddenly, everything was just far too much.
Ollie who was lying next to you in bed also blocking out the neighbours party with his own earphones in except this time scrolling on tiktok glanced over at you instantly spotting the tear tracks that had been on your face as you swapped from your normal playlist to your sad playlist needing to just let all your feelings out.
His arms wrapped around your body, pulling you closer to him as he ran a comforting hand over your back in an attempt to help calm you down however you were too deep into your crying session by now.
Soon Ollie figured you’d been crying enough and took your phone swapping over to some ‘relaxing sounds’ that in reality just made you want to use the bathroom but you didn’t have the energy to fight him.
His hand gently pulled your wrist closer to him as he messed about with your smartwatch to start the breathing exercises that were programmed in by whatever company you’d previously bought it from. As you followed the instructions from the watch, you could feel the anxiety of losing your best friend leaving your body and your heart rate dropping back down to normal.
Ollie sighed, letting you remove your earphones and place your phone on the bedside table before pulling you back into his body
“I know it’s hard, darling. Trust me, I know, except I was the one leaving everyone behind. I know it from both points of view, and you just need to remember that what you have won’t disappear overnight. You’ll meet new people on your course even if it’s a small course and you’ll never forget about your memories with her. I know your anxiety is through the roof right now, and you don’t deal well with change, but remember I’ll always be here. Even if I’m in Italy or Australia. She’ll always be there whether she’s ten minutes away by bus or half an hour by train” Ollie took a breath, pushing some hair out your face and wiping stray tears from your face
“Change is hard, and it’ll always be hard for you because that’s just who you are, but I love you for it and remember you’re the first from your family ever to go to university. That’s an achievement. You’re also doing a medical degree technically. I love you” He smiled, and you nodded
“I love you too. Thank you” Ollie nodded, pressing his lips against yours.
Everything was changing, and as hard as that was to admit, unfortunately, change was always going to happen in life, and although your facetimes were starting to become irregular, they were still happening.
No matter what happened in the next few months, at least you always had the memories that you’d created over the past three years at high school. Because you’d left all those friend groups that turned out not to be right, and now you had your best friend.
It was going to work out, and Ollie knew that after a couple of weeks you’d understand that.
“Come on time for some ice cream” Ollie hummed, getting out of bed and throwing you over his shoulder, causing you to giggle and cling on for dear life.
Sitting you down on the counter in the kitchen, Ollie raided the freezer, handing you the carton of ice cream with a spoon as he told Alex to play songs from both your childhoods. After all, much like your best friend, he knew how to make you happy.
synopsis; charlie is proud of his girlfriend who happens to be red bull's golden girl
warnings; none
note; reqeuested
fc; Amna Al Qubaisi
note2; I decided to use Amna Al Qubaisi, who's RB's Academy driver and is Emirati
I know it says academy. It's all I could find. Let me live 😭😭
To everyone who's requested a Smau, I'll get them out as soon as I can. This is my first smau, so it's not as good as I want it to be and it's not funny
Main Masterlist | Actor Masterlist | Charlie Masterlist
I do not give anyone permission to change, copy, or put my work on any other platform. It will only be on top, so if you see it, please report it. Or let me know.
redbullracing and ynln1
liked by iamcharliebushnell, maxverstappen1, and 248,100 others
ynln1 Thank you to everyone who watched and supported me during the F2 Bahrain GP! I hope I made it worth your time ;)
user1 Red Bull's golden girl!
userz Mini Max Verstappen
maxverstappen1 congrats, kleine zus* ❤️ by author
⤷ynln1 Thank you أَخِي الْكَبِير!**
⤷usert @/maxverstappen1 the way they call each other little sister and big brother 😭
⤷userf @usert Ikr!! It's so cute!
iamcharliebushnell congrats, babe! ❤️ by author
userdeez since when was Y/n dating Luke
⤷youeb @userdeez who the fuck is Luke
⤷jobelubr @youeb his name isn't Luke. It's charlie bushnell. he plays Luke in the pjo show
ynln1
liked by iamcharliebushnell, maxverstappen1, olliebearman, and 200,123 others
ynln1 Thank you Harper's Bazaar for having me!
havehd god, she's so beautiful 😍
noobsucker do you need a dog? I can be a very convincing dog!!
⤷cxckslobber @/noobsucker Girl...
⤷noobsucker What?
maxverstappen1 simply lovely ❤️ by author
iamcharliebushnell my girlfriend is so pretty😍 ❤️by author
⤷ynln أحبك
⤷iamcharliebushnell I love you too, gorgeous
olliebearman go best friend, that's my best friend ❤️ by author
⤷ynlnfan OMG Ollie 😭
iamcharliebushnell
liked by ynln1, dior.n.goodjohn, walker.scobell, and 233,621 others
iamcharliebushnell What my shirt says
tagged: ynln1
hgad Lord, when will it be my turn?
ynln I love you!
⤷iamcharliebushnell I love you too ❤️ by author
ynln Wait, who took these?
⤷dior.n.goodjohn I did and that would be know if SOMEONE gave me photo credits
⤷iamcharliebushnell @/dior.n.goodjohn Photo creds to Dior or whatever 🙄
walker.scobell your girlfriend is cooler than you
⤷iamcharliebushnell @/walker.scobell I can't even argue with that
⤷ynln1 @iamcharliebushnell You better not disagree with that
gooesd If you look close enough, you'll see me lying on the track in the back
Deeznutz They look so good togther
⤷adicktion @/deeznutz learn to spell, fuckwad
⤷deeznutz @/adicktion leave me the fuck alone, Janice
ynln1 and iamcharliebushnell
liked by iamcharliebushnell, dior.n.goodjohn, landonorris, and 145,897 others
ynln1 Yeah, my boyfriend's pretty cool but he's not as cool as me.
dior.n.goodjohn charlie, I'm stealing your girlfriend 🤤
⤷ iamcharliebushnell no, you're not
⤷ ynln1 I'm all yours, Dior
⤷ iamcharliebushnell What?
walker.scobell Yep, so much cooler than Charlie
hornyidot the third picture 🤤
landonorris I think he's much cooler than you
⤷ynln1 No one asked you, Norizz
⤷landonorris I--
⤷danielricciardo I taught you well, Y/n
summary: when nikola agrees to spend his break in thailand, he didn’t think that his broken heart would be slowly repaired by tas’ best friend
warnings: reader is thai and is shorter than nikola, reader isn’t fluent in english, tasanapol will be referred as tas, text that looks “like this” means they’re speaking thai
pairing: fem! reader x nikola tsolov
genre: fluff
requested: yes
author note: it’s finally here 😭😭
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
when tas told nikola that they should spend their break together in thailand, he denied.
sure, his only plan during the break was to just rot in his bed while listening to sad music as he scrolled through old photos and messages with his ex-girlfriend, but tas had forced his hand by getting his parents to agree with the thai drivers plan.
it had only seven months and twenty-five days since the breakup, but nikola still felt like it was yesterday. he tried not to let it affect him, but his results spoke for themselves — sure, they weren’t that terrible, but compared to his usual form? yeah, everyone would tell that something had happened.
nikola didn’t expect much from being in thailand.
but, then she came along.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
small flashback:
nikola was starting to believe that the sun held a personal grudge against him because not only is he close to drowning in his own sweat that not even the water rides could cool him down enough, but also believes that he's probably hallucinating.
why does he think that he's hallucinating?
simple.
why would a random girl who he's never seen in his entire life randomly offer him a full water bottle and some snack he's certain tas claims is basically poision disguised as food?
he stared at the girl who tilted her head to the side while a soft smile formed.
"i'm y/n, but you can call me n/n"
nikola's certain that he's heard that name before... but where?
"y/n!"
they both turned to see tas and his group of friends bolting towards them with large grins on their faces. nikola blinked before whipping his head back to her. he’s only been in thailand for four days at this point, but has been introduced to most of tas’s family and friends except for one…
y/n l/n: his best friend.
nikola watched silently with wide eyes and jaw dropped slightly as tas launched himself at her. she let out a small scream as he hugged her tightly while the rest of their friends crowded around her.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
ever since that day, y/n became a constant in his broken world with him even realising it.
“nikola?”
even hearing her say his name took his breath away.
"are you alright?" she asked softly making him look down at her
"yeah" he said quickly
"it's just... a lot" y/n nodded before doing something nikola has only imagined about since they met
she grabbed his hand ever so gently and intertwined their fingers together.
"we go slow" she said before pulling him through the large horde of people
nikola isn't use to going slow. everything around him is always moving at a rapid pace, even his love, but y/n's not like that. her pace is steady and unhurried, like she has all the time in the world.
it felt as if nikola was stuck in a rapid current that kept pushing him everywhere at a speed he was forced to adapt to in order not to drown, but being with y/n made him look at things from a new angel.
in a world that forces him to move fast, she became someone that reassured him that it's okay to lift off the gas a bit.
"y/n" he spoke, but his voice was drowned out by the crowd
he called for her again, but she still didn't turn.
nikola took a deep breath before stopping. y/n turned to him, clear confusion evident on her face.
"y/n"
"yes?"
it went quiet between them.
nikola knew the feelings he held for y/n were similar yet so different from the ones he had for his ex. it was not only love, but a deep fondness that made him feel warm. nikola never thought that being in thailand would change anything and secretly detested tas for forcing him to come, but it did.
not only did nikola find himself changing as a person, but also as a significant other.
"will you stay with me?"
he's said anything remotely similar, but it was the only thing he thought of asking y/n because her staying with him is all he ever needed.
"even after this is over and i have to leave. will you still be by my side?" he clarified when y/n didn't say anything and he hoped that despite the language barrier between them, she could understand what he meant
nikola watched y/n's expression carefully, his heart beating rapidly as he waited, but instead of words, she just smiled and squeezed his hand.
"I am not in love with Ollie!" You shout at your older brother one last time.
"I'm not saying you're in love with him. All I said was it looks like you both want to be more than friends." Arthur said, calmly. "And you defending yourself against something I didn't even say tells me even more that you do have feelings for him."
"HE'S MY BEST FRIEND!"
"YOU CAN STILL LIKE HIM AS MORE THAN A FRIEND!"
"Can you two please stop shouting at eachother?" Charles asks, annoyed with the immature argument between you and Arthur.
----
BREAKING: OLIVER BEARMAN TO RACE IN JEDDAH!!
"Y/N, I can't believe it! I'm gonna drive in an F1 race! This is insane!" Ollie rambled over the phone. As soon as you heard Ollie was going to be replacing Carlos this weekend, you got on the first plane to support your best friend.
"I'm honestly so proud of you, Ollie." You respond, a smile could be heard in your voice.
"I've not even driven the car yet, save the proud speech for when I've done something worth it."
"You got picked to drive for Ferrari, I'm proud."
----
"Y/N!" You heard a familiar voice shout as you exited the airport.
"Ollie!" You shout back, dropping your luggage and sprinting to reach your best friend.
You collided into a bone crushing hug, having not seen each other for a few weeks. You wrap your arms around his waist as his hands cradle your head. His hot breath hitting the top of your head. You buried your face into Ollie's chest, breathing in the familiar scent.
"I've missed you." Ollie whispered.
"I've missed you more."
"Impossible."
----
f2gossip
Liked by User1, User2 and 23,754 others
f2gossip Ollie Bearman spotted greeting a woman at the airport in Jeddah
User3 OMG WHO IS SHE!?
User4 sndkfmfncijdsbbxixcndjdndjds
User5 he has a girlfriend?!
User6 that looks a lot like a certain leclerc 🤨
User7 how can you tell that from the back of her head in a blurry picture
User6 Y/N literally posted a pic on her story in that same hoodie
poly!dino/paul = bobcat!dino, mountain lion!paul, coyote!reader!! (based on dms lol)(from a lil while ago but i swear it was)
WAIT NO BC I REMEMBER THIS AND I WAS OBSESSED (the one time living in the desert pays off 😅)
bobcat hybrid!dino begonavic x coyote hybrid!male!reader x mountain lion hybrid!paul aron
synopsis: your boyfriends are so sweet and accommodating of you, because even though they have adapted to being surrounded by people, you still aren't too keen about it
author's note: I LOVE DESERT HYBRIDS SM!! not only bc i live in the desert but because i see them all the time and they are genuinely gorgeous (which is what me and vinvin talked abt) so honestly, these hybrids fit tbh
to start, all three of your hybrids are typically reclusive and people repulsed animals
however, dino and paul are the opposite and very friendly with everyone
you on the other hand have really bad social anxiety so you are much like your hybrid side and skittish
dino, being a bobcat hybrid, is super protective/territorial of you and will nip at people when they get too close
paul is also territorial/protective but just not as intensely as dino because he knows you also want to try to work through your anxiety
you are super shy and bad with talking to people outside of dino, paul, and bunny!arthur who was your first friend
you tend to fidget with paul's tail when you start to feel really scared
dino picks up on it instantly as bobcats have really good senses and pulls you away into a secluded area
paul just barely growls if anyone comes close and whoever is there scatters because mountain lions are lowkey scary (but adorable)
paul and dino are a lot more active at night since their hybrids tend to be
you on the other hand aren't necessarily nocturnal and tend to just curl up in the bedroom/den while the other two play video games
sometimes you three do have to stay in separate rooms, since mountain lions and bobcats usually are solitary
it does make you sad since you are so used to being surrounded by a pack
but you know it's important for them so you usually invite arthur over for cuddles since he doesn't intimidate you like other hybrids do
sure, you are technically a predator, but you (as mentioned) are very skittish and have high social anxiety when it comes to most people/hybrids
you once had black cat!oscar over for cuddles which was surprisingly soothing for you
but when dino and paul are done with their alone time, they kick out arthur and oscar and curl around you
you love playing with their tails
dino's is stubby and fluffy so you like playfully pawing at it in bed
paul's is longer so you like twirling it around your arm, especially when you are really sleepy or anxious
once you are asleep though, the two go back to wondering around the apartment for a fee more hours before cuddling back up and falling asleep
you are up first in the morning and always make breakfast for them
they spook you in the morning though, on accident of course
you will have your back to then and since they are stealthy, they always surprise you
and then they feel really bad but you just nuzzle against them as they purr
you and paul often smell like dino since he wants everyone to know you are taken by him
its also a comfort for you to remember how much he loves you
paul, when attending dino's races with you, always has his tail near you incase you need to regulate or calm yourself so you don't run and hide
it works amazing and you seem to forget (for a while at least) how many people are around
you don't typically like having your tail touched by paul always baps it when he's feeling somewhat playful
dino and paul also like to groom your ears as a way to help soothe you too
