Tropes: Childhood Friends to Lovers / Established Relationship / Pastry Chef!Reader / Domestic Fluff / Winter Break / Baking Disaster / She Panics He Grounds Her / Emotional Support Ollie / He Sits on the Floor With You / Kitchen Floor Cuddles / Chaotic Teamwork / Tooth-Rotting Fluff / Holiday Fic
Summary: Being a professional Pastry Chef meant the Bearman family Christmas dessert had to be perfect. But when the sponge cracks, the chocolate seizes, and the meringue mushrooms end up shattered on the floor, you’re ready to cancel the holiday entirely. Enter Oliver Bearman: on winter break, barefoot in the kitchen, and ready to prove that a little mess (and a lot of whipped cream) might just save the night. Featuring: kitchen floor cuddles, chaotic teamwork, and the best grip strength on the grid.
Word Count: 2.1K
A/N: Some Ollie fluff for Day 6!! See you guys on day 7!
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 📼 masterlist. 🏎️ inbox. 🏁 taglist
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and orange zest. Mariah Carey was hitting her high notes on the radio, competing with the hum of the oven.
Ollie was perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, looking ridiculously soft in a knitted jumper that was slightly too big for him. He was officially on winter break. This meant no flights to catch, no cameras, no engineers in his ear. Just him, a half-empty mug of tea, and his eyes fixed on you with that lazy, affectionate gaze that always made your knees a little weak.
"You've been staring at that mixing bowl for ten minutes," he teased, his voice low and raspy from sleep. "Is it going to tell you its secrets?"
"It’s the Yule Log, Ollie," you muttered, wiping flour from your forehead. "It’s the centerpiece. If I mess this up, Christmas dinner is just… dinner."
"Right. Serious business. I'll stay out of the danger zone." He held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. It was the same grin he’d given you when you were thirteen, shivering in the backyard during a neighborhood Christmas party. That was the night everything changed. He’d awkwardly shoved a poorly wrapped gift into your hands (a silver bracelet he’d definitely panicked and bought with his mum’s help) and mumbled that he liked you more than he liked karting.
That was before the academies, the media training, and the Formula 1 grid. You had loved him before he was "Ollie Bearman, the driver." You loved him when he was just Ollie, the boy with the messy hair and the soft smiles.
Now, barely into your twenties, you existed in that comfortable, worn-in space of being "basically married." You had grown up together, your awkward teenage years blending seamlessly into domestic adulthood.
Which was exactly why you were stressing over a cake. You weren't just the girlfriend who liked to bake cookies on the weekends. You were a professional pastry chef. A rising star in London’s pastry scene, recently promoted to Junior Sous Chef at a bakery that had a line down the block every morning.
But ironically, that made this harder.
The cake was for the Bearman family's Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow. When you’re a professional chef, you don't get the luxury of bringing just any dessert. This had to be perfect because it was for the people you loved most.
Everything was going according to plan… until the timer dinged.
You pulled the sponge cake out of the oven. You knew the drill: roll it while it’s hot so it holds the spiral shape. You laid out the towel, tipped the pan, and started to gently curl the edge.
Snap.
A jagged, ugly crack tore right down the center of the sponge.
"It’s fine," you whispered, your heart rate spiking. "It’s fine. Ganache can cover this."
You turned to the stove to finish the orange filling. You reached for the sugar jar blindly, your eyes still glued to the broken cake. You dumped a spoonful into the zest mixture and stirred, only to realize a second later that the jar label said Sea Salt Flakes. You were so tired you hadn't even checked.
"No," you breathed, scraping the ruined, salty mixture into the sink. "Okay. Okay, just the chocolate bark then. We save it with the bark."
You grabbed the bowl of melted high-quality dark chocolate. You turned on the tap to wash a spoon, and a single, traitorous drop of water splashed up and landed dead center in the bowl. Instantly, the glossy, smooth liquid turned into a grainy, dull, concrete-like clump.
"Oh, for God's sake," you hissed, the bowl clattering onto the counter a little too hard.
Ollie straightened up on his stool, sensing the shift in the atmosphere immediately. The playful laziness evaporated. He set his mug down, leaning his elbows on the island to get a better look.
"What?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "What happened? It looks… chocolatey?"
"It seized, Ollie," you snapped, voice tighter than you intended. You aggressively stirred the grainy mess, hoping for a miracle that wasn't coming. "Water got in. It’s useless. I can't use this for the ganache, it'll feel like sand in your mouth."
"Okay, hey," he said softly, sliding off the stool. He took a tentative step toward you, hands slightly raised like he was approaching a startled animal. "Don't spiral. It’s just one bowl. We can fix it, right? Do we have more?"
"No, we don't! That was the last of the 70% stuff I brought home from the bakery," you groaned, running a hand through your hair, leaving a streak of flour on your temple. "I can't serve your parents gritty supermarket chocolate, Ollie. I’m a chef. They expect better than this."
"Babe, my parents eat digestives out of the packet," he countered gently, reaching out to touch your arm. "They don't care about the percentage of the cocoa."
"I care!" you cried out, pulling away from his touch because the frustration was boiling over, hot and suffocating.
You were vibrating with stress now. You spun around, eyes stinging, needing to just get this mess into the trash, and your elbow clipped the cooling rack on the edge of the counter.
Crash.
The tray of delicate, perfect meringue mushrooms, the ones you’d spent an hour piping, hit the tiled floor. They shattered instantly, sending a cloud of white sugary powder into the air like a snowstorm.
You stared at the white dust on the floor, the cracked sponge, the seized chocolate, and the salt-filling. The pressure of making everything perfect just collapsed in on you. You sank to the floor, sitting right in the middle of the crushed meringue shards, pulling your knees to your chest.
"I can't do it," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I ruined it. I actually ruined Christmas."
The music cut out abruptly. Ollie padded over to where you were crouching. He didn't care about his grey sweatpants or the sticky, powdery ruins of your hard work. He sat cross-legged next to you in the debris of the meringue mushrooms and wrapped a heavy, solid arm around your shoulders, pulling you forcefully into his side.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple. "Breathe."
"I’m such an idiot," you choked out, staring at a shard of meringue that looked remarkably like a mushroom cap. "I do this for a living, Ollie. People pay twenty quid for my tarts, and I can't even make a log for your mum."
"You're not at work," he said softly, tightening his grip when you tried to pull away. "You're not Chef right now. You're just… you. You’re my girl who’s been awake since 6 AM and is trying way too hard."
"But it had to be perfect," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the flour on your cheek. "I wanted them to be impressed. I wanted to show them—"
"Show them what?" Ollie interrupted gently, using his thumb to wipe the tear away. "That you’re talented? They know that. That you work hard? They know that, too. You’ve been feeding us since we were kids, babe. You don't have to prove you belong at a table where you’ve always had a seat."
He rested his chin on top of your head, exhaling a long breath.
"Besides," he added, his tone shifting to that low, teasing warmth that always grounded you. "If you make something too fancy, my dad’s just going to ask where the custard is anyway."
You let out a wet, breathless laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. "He would. He’d probably ask if we have any vanilla ice cream to melt over it, too."
"Exactly," Ollie grinned, seeing the tension finally leave your shoulders. "You’re stressing yourself out over my family when they literally have the most basic white-people palates in history. I love you, and I don’t like seeing you cry.”
He nudged your knee with his, waiting until the corners of your mouth quirked up properly.
“There she is. There’s my girl," he murmured.
"I think I’m done," you said, brushing some of the crushed meringue off your leggings and wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. The panic was receding, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth of him next to you.
"Good." He stood up first, unfolding his long limbs with a groan, then reached down to pull you up. He didn't let go once you were on your feet; he kept his hands securely on your waist, rubbing smooth circles into your sides with his thumbs. "So, what’s the salvage operation, Chef? Can we glue the sponge back together or something?"
You looked at the disaster on the counter. It looked less like a tragedy now and more like a challenge.
"Whipped cream," you decided, your voice stronger. "I can’t do the ganache without more chocolate, but I have plenty of double cream. We’ll just… smother it. If we cover it in enough and dust it with icing sugar, no one will see the crack.”
“Okay, that’s a plan.” Ollie rolled up the sleeves of his jumper, exposing his forearms. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed the carton of cream. “I’ll start whisking.”
"You know you have to do it by hand, right? I don't want to wake the neighbors with the electric mixer."
"Babe, please." He grabbed the whisk and the bowl, flashing you a cocky, boyish smirk. "I have the best grip strength on the grid. This cream doesn't stand a chance."
For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen transformed. The heavy, suffocating pressure of perfectionism was replaced by chaotic, messy teamwork.
Ollie was a terrible sous-chef, but an excellent distraction. He attacked the cream with unnecessary aggression, complaining halfway through that his arm was burning, but he managed to whip it into soft, billowy peaks.
When it came time to assemble, he hovered behind you, chin resting heavily on your shoulder, watching as you slathered the cream over the broken sponge. You didn't pipe it neatly; you swirled it with a spatula, creating deep, snowy drifts that completely hid the ugly crack down the middle.
"More sugar," Ollie instructed, reaching for the shaker.
"Ollie, that’s too much—"
"It’s a blizzard," he insisted, shaking a massive cloud of powdered sugar over the log until it looked less like a cake and more like an avalanche.
He set the shaker down and stepped back to admire the chaos, dusting his hands off on his sweatpants. You picked up a serrated knife and carefully sliced off the two uneven ends of the log to reveal the spiral inside—standard procedure to make it look neat for tomorrow.
You went to slide the trimmings into the bin, but Ollie’s hand shot out.
"Woah, woah," he said, sounding scandalized. "What are you doing? We don't throw those away. That’s the best bit."
"It's the ugly ends, babe."
"It's quality control," he corrected, grabbing a small plate and rescuing the two messy, cream-slathered slices. "We have to make sure it’s safe for my parents. I’m sacrificing myself for the greater good."
You laughed, the sound easy and light, finally feeling like yourself again. You carefully transferred the main log onto a clean platter and slid it into the fridge to be ready for Christmas dinner tomorrow.
"Alright," you agreed, grabbing two forks. "Quality control it is."
By the time you made it to the living room, the only illumination came from the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. You collapsed onto the sofa, and Ollie immediately pulled you into his side, balancing the plate of cake scraps on his knee.
You took a bite of the offcut. It wasn't the sophisticated, pristine dessert you had planned. The sponge was a little dense where you'd patched it, and the ratio of cream to cake was ridiculous. But it was sweet, light, and tasted like comfort.
"See?" Ollie mumbled around a mouthful. "Tastes like sugar and victory."
He set the empty plate down on the coffee table and pulled you back into the corner of the sofa, tangling his legs with yours. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The stress of the "perfect holiday" felt miles away. Ollie tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Best cake you've ever made," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with sleepiness.
"You're biased," you whispered back, running your fingers through his hair.
"Maybe," he grinned, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ear. "But mostly because I helped."
We all know that you don't choose your favourite driver, they choose you. The same is for the rookies this season and yn has a favourite.
pg10 x reader // f1 social media au
a/n: I think Pierre really chose me, and if it wasn't him, it was certainly Ollie Bearman. How could I help it when the driver actually chooses you? Anyway, the age difference is a bit odd, but imagine she's like directly in the middle 24/25 range. Also, the fans wouldn't pay that much attention to it anyway. For an added bonus, see if you can spot all the Alpine references.
💬 Cherry’s thoughts…
- ੈ✩‧₊˚
Twitter
YouTube favourite drivers: The wand choose the wizard
User She speaks so nicely about Ollie 🥺
User The way she talks about alpine 👀
↪user I know she says there's no favourites but there might be a least
User it's Queen behaviour that she doesn't talk about her favourite driver
User ❤️❤️❤️
User OMG I WANT MORR!
User can we vote for this to be a new series, deep dives on favourite drivers
User I don't know if I can wait for this all over again next year
↪user I have learnt that we are not patient fans
User where can I find myself a rookie ✋️
User is there a return policy?
User crying in Williams 😢
F1reader Did you know you don't actually get to pick your favourite driver? It's true a phenomenon in the F1 space, your driver actually pick you. This season there's even a 2 for 1 bonus with an extra rookie driver to be attached along. Keep reading.
f1reader posted to stories
User awe Ollie's your favourite!
↪f1reader Just my rookie 😊
User it's a good day when you're in the paddock
Olliebearman Thanks yn! Are you going to dinner tonight?
↪f1reader Yep! See you tonight!
Pierregasly I can't find you!
↪f1reader I'm at McLaren hospitality
↪pierregasly ❤️
User these favourite driver allegations are not sticking
User could we see more of you and ollie 🥺
User your next video should be a deep dive on the rookies!
User would love to see morr team content thus year!
Twitter's reactions
user Did we agree on #lnbear as their shipname? what about #ollieyn
user I can not wait for all the gossip this season
user Sorry did she just claim a favourite driver?
-> user Ollie seems to take first place in her eyes
user Her phrasing of williams HA
user When did redbull hurt her?
-> user Maybe after the 2nd championship?
user OMG THE HEART EYES SHE LOVES HIM
Messages
Instagram (photo 6/10)
Liked by scuderiaferrari, pierregasly and others
f1reader photo dump 😊
comments:
user Wait Ollie and other drivers!
user Haha the photo of Charles I cant
user There's alot of Ollie here 👀
user Always looking pretty in pink
-> f1reader It's my signature colour
user This is my favourite time of the weekend
user Are you home already???
-> f1reader Had to miss Sundays race unfortunatly but can't wait for next weekend
olliebearman Hey can you send me these?
-> f1reader Sorry they are apart of my private collection
user We should honeslty pay money for these because they are brilliant
user So next race is Miami do we think we'll see more #lnbear content???
Group Chat: STOP FLIRTING! (Pierre, Ollie, Yn)
f1reader posted a story
user Whoever that is has very nice arms
user Ummm is that a driver?
user I want to know who you think deserves the Cadillac seats
user If you were to rearrange the whole grid who would go where
user Why do teammates make a difference?
landonorris Can you tell me why the car chooses the driver not the other way around
-> f1reader Ha ha ha very funny
-> f1reader But actually?
user So what's next on the F1 explain?
user Can we talk more about F1 Academy
-> f1reader YES! This is one of my goals this year because it is such an important step in the motorsport pipeline
user The two pizzas being so different is hilarious to me
pierregasly soft enough for you?
user 👀👀👀
user I feel like we are all missing something here
user I'm connecting the dots!
r/f1wags This is a soft launch right?
I don't know if this is the right forum but I've been deep diving on yn ln posts and I think she's dating a driver. We all know her as the fun charismatic YouTube presenter but actually it could be more. Please see below evidence.
Who do you think it could be?
Thread:
user People over at Twitter are going mental thinking it's Ollie
-> User That's just because she said he's her favourite rookie
user Maybe this is why she doesn't talk about her favourite driver
-> User And because she still wants to be affiliated with f1
-> User Is she affiliated or just dating a driver 👀
-> -> User She's affiliated, she does customer service stuff and some of the website engineering
User I hope you're joking
User It looks very pink could be Alpine
-> User Her signature colour is pink
User awe the little lego characters
-> User minifigs they are called minifigs
User She is just always there
User I never noticed how much she posted about Ferrari before
User We are detectives!
Twitter
Messages
Instagram
liked by olliebearman, pierregasly and others
f1reader hi I'd like to introduce you to Ollie's patents
comments:
pierregasly Yn this did not help the rumours
olliebearman oh thank you! I don't know how long I could keep this quiet
estabanocan Does this mean I can have my driver back now?
f1reader Also if you can't tell this means that my BOYFIREND pierregasly is my favourite driver
user we were so wrong
user THIS is why she hates redbull
- ੈ✩‧₊˚
FINAL THOUGHTS:
This is super fun, and I want to just make more. Please send me all your thoughts and any requests because I am having fun again. As you may be able to tell, I will write for anyone.
