Discover Top Posts Tagged with #ob87

Hi! I was wondering if you could do something with Ollie about young parents, or something really sappy, like the one about being obsessed with the reader. I love your blog<3

Dangerous Devotion - OB87

pairing: ollie bearman x fem!gf!reader summary: everyone warned Ollie that becoming a father at twenty-one would be a career-ending distraction. They were half right. He isn't distracted by the sleepless nights, the crying, or the chaos of raising a daughter while chasing a championship. He’s distracted by her. Navigating parenthood didn't make them drift apart; it turned Ollie into a man who is possessive, touch-starved, and completely, terrifyingly obsessed with his wife. wc: 3.5k 💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)

note: thank you for the request and idea! i decided to do 2 in 1 hope that's okay for you, hope you like it! 😽💛

The front door clicked shut, the sound barely a whisper in the quiet house, but Ollie knew you heard it. You always heard him.

He dropped his bags by the entrance, toeing off his shoes with an urgency that had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with the ache in his chest—the hollow feeling that had been expanding ever since he left for the track four days ago.

He found you in the nursery.

The only light came from the star-shaped nightlight plugged into the corner, casting a soft, golden glow over the rocking chair. You were there, curled up with your legs tucked beneath you, your head resting against the high back of the chair. In your arms, your daughter was fast asleep, a tiny fist clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Ollie stopped in the doorway. He felt the air leave his lungs.

It happened every time. He’d come home thinking he was prepared for how much he loved you, thinking he knew the extent of it, only to be knocked sideways by the sheer, crushing weight of it. seeing you like this—hair messy, face devoid of makeup, holding the life you two created—it felt like a physical blow.

He crossed the room silently, dropping to his knees beside the chair.

You stirred, blinking open tired eyes. A soft smile broke across your face when you saw him. "You're home," you whispered, careful not to wake the baby.

"I'm home," Ollie breathed. He didn't lean in for a kiss immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the sweep of your eyelashes, the slight pulse in your neck. It was intense, bordering on feverish.

"Ollie?" You shifted slightly, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You okay? You look... intense."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. He turned his face, pressing a fervent kiss to your palm, then your wrist.

"I missed you," he said, his voice rough. "Not just 'I wish you were there' missed you. I mean, I felt like I couldn't breathe right until I walked through that door."

"You were only gone four days, you drama queen," you teased gently, though your thumb stroked his cheekbone lovingly.

Ollie opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, and terrifyingly sincere. He shifted, resting his chin on your knee, looking up at you like a devotee at an altar.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "Do you know what I was doing during debriefs? Thinking about this. Thinking about you holding her. Thinking about the way you smell."

He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your skin, needing the contact to ground him.

"It’s actually a problem, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. "I am so obsessed with you it scares me. I look at you and I feel... greedy. I want every second of your time. I want every thought in your head."

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, despite the years you’d been together. "Ollie..."

"No, I'm serious," he interrupted softly, leaning forward to press his forehead against your thigh, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor himself to you. "You’re a masterpiece. Look at you. You’re exhausted, you haven't slept properly in weeks because of the baby, and you are still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."

He looked up again, his expression vulnerable.

"I would burn the world down just to keep you sitting in this chair, looking at me like that."

You softened, your heart squeezing in your chest. You leaned down as much as you could without disturbing the sleeping baby, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, luckily for the world, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

Ollie let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes again as he buried his face against your stomach, right beside where the baby lay.

"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and devotion. "Because I'm never letting go."

When you finally woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.

Panic, the constant companion of a young mother, spiked in your chest. You sat up abruptly, hair falling over your face, expecting to hear a cry or the hum of the baby monitor. But there was nothing.

Then, the smell of coffee and burnt toast drifted down the hallway.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, following the scent. The morning sun was streaming through the kitchen windows, blindingly bright, illuminating the scene in front of you.

Ollie was standing by the stove, shirtless, wearing only his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. In one arm, he balanced your daughter, who was happily chewing on the drawstring of his pants. With his free hand, he was attempting to flip a pancake.

He looked chaotic. There was flour on the counter and a carton of milk dangerously close to the edge. But he was humming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, a smile tugging at your lips. "You're going to burn the house down, Ollie."

Ollie spun around so fast he almost dropped the spatula. The moment his eyes landed on you, that same intensity from the night before snapped back into place. The spatula was forgotten on the counter (dripping batter onto the marble) as he just stared.

"Hi," he said, his voice raspy with morning grogginess.

"Hi," you replied, walking over to rescue the milk carton. "How long have you been up?"

"Couple of hours," he shrugged, shifting the baby so she was resting more comfortably on his hip. She made a happy gurgling sound at the sight of you. "She woke up around six. I didn't want to wake you."

You reached out to take the baby, but Ollie stepped back slightly, shaking his head.

"No," he said firmly. "I've got her. You drink coffee. You sit."

"Ollie, I can hold my own child—"

"Y/N," he cut in, stepping into your personal space. He used his free hand to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "I’m serious. Sit down. Let me do this."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He was warm, smelling of baby powder and strong espresso.

"I watched you sleep for a while before I brought her out here," he murmured against your skin, his lips moving against your pulse point. "You were drooling a little bit."

You laughed, trying to push him away, but his grip on your waist tightened. "Shut up. That ruins the romance."

"It really doesn't," Ollie pulled back to look at you, his eyes scanning your face with that terrifyingly soft adoration. "It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I almost woke you up just to tell you how pretty you looked, but I figured you’d kill me."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally a quick, hard peck on your lips.

"Go sit," he commanded gently, guiding you toward a barstool. "I’m making you pancakes. They might be burnt, and they definitely won't be round, but I made them."

You sat down, watching him turn back to the stove. He was humming again, occasionally whispering nonsense to the baby on his hip, who was watching him with wide eyes.

"You're obsessed," you said, resting your chin on your hand, your heart feeling full to the point of bursting.

Ollie glanced over his shoulder, a lopsided, boyish grin on his face. "We established this last night, darling. I'm completely gone for you. Now, do you want syrup or fruit?"

"Both," you smiled.

"Both it is," he said, turning back to the pan, whispering to the baby, "See? Mommy gets whatever she wants. That's the rule."

The end-of-season party was in full swing. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was light. But in the corner booth of the VIP area, a different kind of show was happening.

Kimi Antonelli leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and sighed loudly. He looked across the table at Arthur Leclerc, who was currently trying to ignore the situation.

"Is he blinking?" Kimi asked, nodding his head toward Ollie. "I genuinely don't think he's blinked in three minutes."

Ollie was sitting next to Y/N. He had one arm draped protectively over the back of the booth behind her, and his body was angled entirely in her direction, effectively turning his back on half the group.

Y/N was in the middle of telling a story about the baby’s first attempt at crawling. She was animated, using her hands to demonstrate, laughing at her own bad parenting moment.

Ollie wasn't listening to the story. He was listening to the sound of her voice. He was staring at her profile with a look of such profound, dopey adoration that it was almost painful to witness.

Every time Y/N laughed, a soft, matching smile would spread across Ollie’s face, like a reflex. He reached out, his fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve, then drifting up to brush a stray eyelash off her cheek.

"It's disgusting," Arthur whispered, though he was smiling into his glass. "He used to be cool. He used to want to talk about racing."

"Now he just wants to talk about how 'Y/N is a goddess for birthing his child,'" Kimi mimicked Ollie’s British accent poorly. "If I hear him say 'Did you see how she holds the bottle?' one more time, I'm throwing myself into the pool."

At that moment, Y/N shivered slightly, the air conditioning in the venue a bit too high.

Before she could even rub her arms, Ollie was moving. He was out of his jacket in a split second, draping it over her shoulders and tucking the lapels in to ensure she was covered. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that made her flush pink and swat his chest playfully.

Ollie caught her hand and kissed the knuckles, completely unbothered by the audience.

"Oi! Bearman!" Kimi finally snapped, tossing a peanut at him.

Ollie didn't even flinch. He just lazily turned his head toward his friends, keeping one hand firmly planted on Y/N's waist. "What?"

"You're drooling," Kimi deadpanned. "Dial it back, mate. We get it. She's the love of your life. You're obsessed. We are trying to have a conversation here."

Ollie looked at Kimi, then looked back at Y/N, who was now hiding her face in her hands, embarrassed but laughing.

Ollie smirked, completely shameless. "I haven't seen her in four days, Kimi. You're lucky I'm even acknowledging your existence right now."

"You're whipped," Arthur shook his head. "So whipped."

Ollie just shrugged, leaning back and pulling Y/N into his side, resting his chin on top of her head. He looked at his friends with a smug, satisfied expression.

"I have a beautiful girlfriend," Ollie stated matter-of-factly. "We have a beautiful baby. And I’m the one going home with her. Call me whipped all you want. I’m winning."

Y/N groaned into his chest. "Ollie, stop bragging."

"Never," he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent again. "They're just jealous."

Kimi rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to get another drink. I can't be around this much sugar."

As Kimi walked away, he heard Ollie whisper loudly to Y/N: "Do you want anything? Water? Champagne? My kidney?"

The red digits on the clock read 3:14 AM. The nursery felt like a pressure cooker.

Your daughter had been screaming for two hours straight—a high-pitched, sawing wail that grated against your very soul. Teething. It was brutal. You were pacing the floor, bouncing her rhythmically, tears of sheer exhaustion streaming down your own face. Your back ached, your arms were shaking, and you felt like the worst mother on the planet because you couldn't fix it.

"Shh, baby, please," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Please just sleep."

The door creaked open. You expected a sleepy, grumpy Ollie. Instead, you found him fully awake, eyes clear and focused in the dim light.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't ask if you were okay. He just walked straight to you.

"Give her to me," he said. His voice was low, calm, and brokered no argument.

"Ollie, you have training tomorrow, go back to sleep—"

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, his hands gently covering yours where they clutched the baby. His thumbs stroked over your knuckles. "Look at me."

You looked up, blinking through tears.

"You're done," he said softly. "Your shift is over. Give me my girl."

He took the screaming baby from your arms with a practiced ease that still surprised you sometimes. He shifted her high onto his shoulder, immediately starting a deep, rumbling hum in his chest that you knew she found soothing. He began a specific, swaying walk around the room.

"Go to bed," he instructed over his shoulder.

You hesitated, hovering by the crib. "But she's—"

Ollie stopped swaying and turned to look at you. His expression was fierce, but not angry. It was that intense, singular focus again.

"I cannot handle seeing you in pain," he said, his voice rough. "It hurts me more than her crying does. If you don't go get in that bed right now and let me take care of our family, I'm going to lose my mind. Go."

The sheer force of his care for you was overwhelming. You nodded mutely and slipped out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, you were drifting off when the bedroom door opened softly. Ollie padded in. It was silent outside.

He climbed into bed behind you, smelling of baby lotion and relief. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm clamping around your waist like a vise. You felt him bury his face in your neck, inhaling sharply.

"Is she asleep?" you whispered.

"Out cold," he mumbled against your skin. "Took some convincing." He kissed your shoulder, his grip tightening almost painfully. "God, I love you. You're such a good mom. I'm so obsessed with you it makes my teeth ache. Now sleep."

It was a black-tie gala for one of the sponsors. Ollie had stepped away for two minutes to grab you both refills on champagne.

You were standing near a high-top table, idly watching the crowd, looking stunning in an emerald green gown that Ollie had spent the better part of the evening staring at.

"Excuse me," a voice said to your left.

You turned to find a man in an expensive suit—someone you didn't recognize, perhaps an investor—smiling smoothly at you.

"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, stepping a little too close into your personal space, his eyes raking over your dress. "But you look incredibly bored. And far too beautiful to be standing here alone."

You gave a polite, tight smile. "I'm not alone, actually. My partner is just getting drinks."

The man laughed, a dismissive sound. "Well, he's a fool for leaving you unguarded. I'm Marcus. Can I get you—"

He started to reach out to touch your arm.

He never made contact.

Suddenly, the air pressure around you changed. A warm, solid weight slammed against your back. An arm, heavy and unyielding, wrapped around your waist, pulling you back so hard your spine collided with a rock-hard chest.

The smell of Ollie’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive—flooded your senses.

"Is there a problem here?"

Ollie's voice was unrecognizable. It was several octaves lower than usual, stripped of all warmth, all humor. It was ice cold and razor-sharp.

The man, Marcus, blinked, looking up at Ollie, who was glaring down at him with an expression that could only be described as murderous. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and flat.

"Oh, uh, no," Marcus stammered, taking a reflexive step back. "I was just... making conversation with the lady."

Ollie didn't blink. The arm around your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress. It wasn't painful, but it was a clear, primal marking of territory.

"She's not interested in conversation," Ollie said, his voice deadly quiet. "And she's not 'the lady.' She's my wife. Move along."

It wasn't a request.

Marcus turned pale, mumbled an apology, and practically ran into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, the tension didn't leave Ollie’s body, but his focus shifted entirely to you. He turned you in his arms, his hands coming up to cup your face, tilting your head back.

The icy look vanished, replaced by frantic, searching concern. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly now. "Did he touch you? Tell me if he touched you, Y/N."

"I'm fine, Ollie," you soothed, placing your hands over his on your face. "He was just annoying. You scared him off."

"Good," Ollie breathed, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His heart was hammering against your chest. "I hated the way he was looking at you. I wanted to rip his eyes out."

He kissed you then—hard, possessive, and desperate, right in the middle of the gala floor, not caring who was watching. When he pulled back, he kept you locked against his side.

"We're leaving," he muttered into your hair. "I need to get you home and remind myself that you're mine."

The noise at Monza was deafening, the Tifosi screaming as the cars tore down the main straight. But inside the hospitality suite, it was relatively muffled.

Ollie stood by the glass, arms crossed, watching the monitors with a critical eye. He had a few silver hairs mixed into the dark curls at his temples now, and fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes—evidence of a life spent squinting at the sun and smiling at you.

On the screen, a car emblazoned with the number 87 overtook down the inside of Parabolica.

"Did you see that move?" Kimi (now sporting reading glasses that he refused to admit he needed) pointed at the screen. "That was late on the brakes. She drives exactly like you, Ollie. Aggressive. Little bit stupid."

"She drives better than me," Ollie corrected without turning around. "She has her mother's patience."

"She’s leading the championship," Arthur added, shaking his head. "God help us all. Another Bearman."

You walked into the suite then, carrying two espressos. You were wearing a team jacket over a simple white dress, your hair windblown from the walk through the paddock.

The moment you stepped into the room, Ollie’s posture changed. The tension in his shoulders from watching your daughter race evaporated. He turned away from the track—away from the race his eighteen-year-old was currently leading—and walked straight to you.

"Hi," he said, taking the coffee from your hand and setting it down on a table without looking at it.

"Hi," you smiled, smoothing the lapels of his shirt. "She's doing well. Five laps to go."

"I don't care," Ollie murmured. He stepped into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in until there was no daylight between you.

"Ollie," you laughed, glancing over his shoulder at Kimi and Arthur, who were both groaning theatrically. "Your daughter is about to win Monza. Watch the screen."

"I've seen Monza," Ollie said dismissively, his eyes scanning your face with that same hungry, reverent intensity he’d had at twenty-one. "I’d rather watch you."

"Please," Kimi called out from the couch. "We are forty years old. Are you still doing this? It’s been twenty years, mate. Give it a rest."

Ollie didn't even look at them. He brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

"They don't get it," he whispered to you, his voice lower, rougher with age but just as devoted. "They don't understand that it never stops. It just gets worse."

You softened, leaning into his touch, the roar of the cars outside fading into the background. "It gets worse?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his eyes dark and sincere. "I used to be obsessed with the girl who held my baby. Now I'm obsessed with the woman who raised her. I look at you, Y/N, and I think... how did I get away with this? How did I get to keep you for two decades?"

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.

"I am still so head over heels for you, it’s embarrassing."

"It is embarrassing," Arthur shouted. "We are all embarrassed for you!"

You giggled, and Ollie smiled—that boyish, lopsided grin that hadn't aged a day. He kissed you, slow and deep, ignoring the race, ignoring his friends, ignoring the world.

"Let them talk," he murmured against your lips. "I won the championship a long time ago."On the screen behind him, the car with number 87 crossed the finish line in first place, the garage erupted in cheers, but Ollie Bearman was too busy looking at his wife to notice.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories

@ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000

@roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar

@galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09

@axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia

@meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter

@liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m