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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.

In Another Life - F1 drivers

𖤓 where they look at you and realise they want to spend the rest of their lives with you or where they think: oh. this is it. this is everything.

𖤓 inspo: based on "I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you" - Waymond Wang (my favourite film ever)

𖤓 fem!reader x grid (ob87, ka12, gr63, cl16, lh44, ln4, op81, mv3, ih6, aa23, cs55)

𖤓 wc: 3,935

𖤓 Sunny radio! This one's for the EEAAO girlies. The ones who get that love isn't about grand gestures — it's about choosing someone in the small, boring, beautiful moments. Each driver, one moment where they realise forever doesn't have to be loud. It just has to be with you.

𖤓 note: Gang, I tried my best not to repeat the scenarios or wording, but if I failed, pls don't kill me it was hard to come up with a new context for 11 drivers 😭Any love would be appreciated.

𖤓 listen to: "Something About You" when reading this.

CHARLES LECLERC — The Grocery Run

The supermarket is almost empty at 11 PM.

Charles should be home. Should be sleeping. Should be reviewing data for tomorrow's sim session. Instead, he's following you through the produce aisle, watching you squeeze avocados like you're defusing a bomb.

"Not this one," you mutter, tossing it back. "Too soft."

"We've been here for twenty minutes."

"We've been here for twenty minutes because you keep putting back the good ones."

Charles laughs — a real one, the kind that used to come so rarely. You don't look up from the avocados, but your mouth twitches. You know what you do to him.

He leans against the shopping cart. Watches you debate the structural integrity of a tomato. Your hair is messy. You're wearing his hoodie — the old one, the one he almost threw away, the one you stole and never gave back. There's a smudge of something on your cheek. Flour, maybe. Or chocolate. He doesn't ask. He doesn't want to stop looking at you long enough to find out.

You're squeezing tomatoes like your life depends on it. Like this matters. Like getting the right one is the most important decision you'll make all week.

And Charles realises, standing in the fluorescent glare of a half-empty supermarket, that he wants every grocery run with you. Every wrong avocado. Every 11 PM debate about produce. Every single boring, beautiful minute of it.

"Charles."

"Hm?"

"You're staring again."

"Can you blame me?"

You finally look up. Your eyes are soft, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the kind of day that follows you home. You'd told him about it earlier — the bad meeting, the rude email, the way everything felt a little too heavy. He'd listened. He'd made tea. He'd suggested grocery shopping at 11 PM like it was a reasonable solution.

It was. Somehow, it always is with you.

"I love you," he says.

You blink. "I know?"

"No, I mean —" He stops. Shakes his head. Tries again. "I'd do this forever," he says quietly. "The grocery shopping. The bad avocados. All of it."

The words hang in the air between the avocados and the tomatoes. Your expression shifts — something soft, something surprised, something that looks like the first time you realised this was real.

"That's a weird thing to say in a produce aisle," you say.

"I know."

"You're so weird."

"I know."

You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your face into his chest. The shopping cart bumps against his legs.

"I'd do grocery shopping with you in this life too," you mumble against his hoodie.

Charles holds you tighter.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not letting you go."

The avocados are forgotten.

They'll remember tomorrow. Right now, nothing matters except your heartbeat against his and the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the way you fit in his arms like you were always supposed to be there.

LEWIS HAMILTON — The Kitchen at 2 AM

Lewis can't sleep.

This isn't unusual. He's spent most of his life learning to function on less rest than most people need. But tonight is different. Tonight, the silence is too loud. The city outside is too still. His mind is too full of things he doesn't want to think about.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You're standing at the counter, barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts. There's flour everywhere — on your hands, on your face, on the floor. You're trying to make bread. Or something that was supposed to be bread. It's not going well.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

You don't look up. "Baking."

"It's 2 AM."

"I know."

"You're covered in flour."

"I know that too."

He walks closer. Peers at the lumpy dough on the counter. You're completely unbothered by the disaster in front of you. Just kneading away, humming something under your breath, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. "Is that supposed to look like that?"

"No," you admit. "But I know you haven't been able to sleep recently. And I figured —" You shrug, finally looking at him. Your eyes are tired, but there's something else there. Something warm. Something that makes the silence in his head go quiet. "I figured if you were going to be awake, I might as well be awake with you."

And Lewis realises — standing in his kitchen at 2 AM, watching you fail at baking with the same determination you'd bring to anything else — that this is it. This is the rest of his life. Not the races. Not the podiums. Not the cameras.

This. You. Flour on the floor. Bread that won't rise. 2 AM and nowhere else to be.

Lewis doesn't say anything. He just steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. You smell like flour and vanilla and something that's just you.

"I can feel you staring," you say, your attention going back to the failed masterpiece in front of you.

"I'm admiring."

"I'm a mess."

"You're perfect."

"I don't know how to make bread," you warn him.

"I don't care."

"We're going to have to eat this. Even if it's terrible."

"I don't care."

"We could order takeout."

"Y/N."

You stop. Wait.

"In every lifetime," he says, quietly, "I would choose this. "

You go still in his arms.

"Even if I am failing at making bread?" you say with a small pout.

"Especially then." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "It's better."

You turn in his arms. Your flour-dusted hands cup his face. Your eyes search his.

"You're a weird man, Lewis Hamilton."

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He kisses you — slow, soft, unhurried. The bread is forgotten. The silence is no longer too loud. And for the first time all night, Lewis thinks he might actually sleep.

LANDO NORRIS — The Takeout on the Floor

Lando's apartment is a mess.

Not the chaotic kind — the lived-in kind. Clothes draped over chairs. Dishes in the sink. A blanket fort in the living room that you'd built three days ago and neither of you had bothered to take down.

You're sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, eating takeout from containers balanced on your knees. Some reality show is playing on the TV — neither of you is watching. You're too busy arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

"It does not belong," Lando insists, pointing a spring roll at you.

"It absolutely belongs. You have no taste."

"I have excellent taste. I'm dating you, aren't I?"

You pause. "That's... actually smooth. I'm mad about it."

He grins — the grin, the one that makes you want to throw something at him and kiss him in the same breath. You're wearing his hoodie. Your hair is in a messy bun. You love him so much it makes your chest ache.

And Lando realizes — sitting on the floor of his apartment, takeout containers balanced on his knees, arguing about pineapple on pizza — that he doesn't need anything else. Not the wins. Not the attention. Not any of it.

Just this. Just you. Just the sound of your laugh and the way you steal his spring rolls when you think he's not looking.

"Lando."

"Mm?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches you. The way you're completely comfortable. Completely yourself. Completely his.

"I want this forever," he says. "The takeout. The floor. The stupid arguments."

You stop chewing. Look at him. "That's a very intense thing to say while you have sauce on your chin."

"I have sauce on my chin?"

"Right there." You point. He wipes the wrong side of his face. You laugh — that laugh, the one that makes his chest feel too full.

"I love you," he says. Because it's true. Because it's the only thing that matters.

You set down your container. Shuffle closer until your knee bumps his.

"I know," you say. "I love you too. Now eat your spring rolls before they get cold."

"Yes ma'am."

You grin. He grins.

The reality show plays on. Neither of you notices.

OSCAR PIASTRI — The Quiet Sunday

Oscar doesn't talk much.

You'd learned this early. He's not cold — just careful. He thinks before he speaks. He measures his words like they have weight. It used to unnerve you. Now it's one of your favorite things about him.

Today is Sunday. The apartment is quiet. You're reading on the couch. He's at the kitchen table, reviewing data on his laptop. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of his mouse.

This is what your life has become. Quiet Sundays. Shared silences. A love that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

Oscar looks up from his laptop. Watches you read. You're curled up on the couch, your feet tucked under you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth the way it always is when you're concentrating. You haven't noticed him watching. You never do.

He thinks about all the Sundays he spent alone. Before you. The quiet used to be heavy. Now it's just... comfortable. Because you're in it.

He doesn't say anything. He just watches. Commits it to memory. The way the afternoon light hits your hair. The way you mouth the words sometimes, barely moving your lips. The way you look up, catch him staring, and smile like you know exactly what he's thinking.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I'm not." He pauses. "I'm just happy."

You set down your book. "That's it? You're just happy?"

"That's it."

You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat the couch beside you. He stands. Walks over. Sits down. You lean your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.

"This is nice," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It is."

He doesn't tell you that he wants this every Sunday. Every quiet, boring, perfect Sunday. He doesn't have to. You already know.

GEORGE RUSSELL — The Folded Laundry

George is folding laundry.

This should not be a romantic moment. He is wearing an old t-shirt that has a hole in the collar. His hair is sticking up in the back. There is a suspicious stain on his shorts that he refuses to explain.

But he's folding your clothes. Carefully. Methodically. The way he does everything.

You're watching from the doorway. He hasn't noticed you yet. He's too focused on getting the creases right — on your shirts, your socks, the sweater you'd left draped over the chair three days ago.

He folds everything. Even the things you wouldn't bother with. Even the things you'd given up on.

George doesn't know why he's so focused on the laundry. Maybe because it's yours. Maybe because taking care of you — even in small ways — feels like the most important thing he could be doing.

He holds up one of your shirts. It's old. Faded. The one you wear when you're sick or tired or just don't want to try. He folds it slowly. Presses the crease with his palm.

"George."

He looks up. You're in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with an expression he can't quite read.

"You're folding my laundry," you say.

"It needed to be done."

"At 11 PM?"

"The timing felt right."

You cross the room. Sit on the bed beside the pile of folded clothes. Pick up a shirt — one of yours, one he'd folded so perfectly it looks store-bought.

"You're staring at that shirt like it's precious," you say.

"It's yours."

"That doesn't make it precious."

"To me it does."

You're quiet for a moment. Then you set down the shirt and take his hand.

"You're strange, Russel"

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He squeezes your hand. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The laundry is forgotten. The late hour doesn't matter. He's exactly where he wants to be.

KIMI ANTONELLI — The First Rain of Autumn

Kimi doesn't believe in fate.

He believes in hard work. In data. In the things he can see and touch and prove. He's never been one for grand romantic gestures or sweeping declarations.

But then it starts raining.

You're walking back from the café down the street — the one with the good pastries, the one you'd dragged him to because you said he needed to "experience life outside the simulator." He'd complained the whole way. You'd ignored him.

Now you're both soaked. Your hair is plastered to your face. You're laughing — not at him, not at the situation, just... laughing. Like getting caught in the rain is the best thing that's happened all week.

"You're insane," he says, but he's smiling. He can't help it.

"You're boring," you fire back. "Live a little, Antonelli."

You grab his hand and pull him into a puddle. Water splashes up his jeans. He should be annoyed. He's not.

He watches you spin in the rain. Arms out. Head back. Rain dripping down your face. You look ridiculous. You look perfect.

And Kimi realizes — standing in the middle of the street, soaked to the bone, watching you dance in a puddle — that he wants every rainy day with you. Every unexpected storm. Every moment that makes no sense.

"Kimi."

"What?"

"You're staring again."

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one dancing in the rain."

You stop spinning. Walk toward him. Your shoes squelch. Your mascara is running. You've never looked better.

"Come here," you say, tugging his arm.

"I'm already here."

"Closer."

He steps closer. You wrap your arms around his neck. Your wet clothes press against his.

"I love you," you say. Like it's obvious. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

He doesn't say it back. He just pulls you closer. Kisses you. Right there. In the rain. In the middle of the street.

When he pulls back, you're both dripping. You're smiling.

"That was romantic," you say.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He takes your hand. Leads you home. The rain keeps falling.

He doesn't let go.

MAX VERSTAPPEN — The Simulator Break

Max is supposed to be in the simulator.

That's where his trainer thinks he is. Where his engineer thinks he is. Where everyone who needs him thinks he is.

Instead, he's in the break room, sitting across from you, watching you struggle with a vending machine.

"It's not working," you say, pressing the button for the third time.

"Hit it."

"I'm not hitting it."

"Then it won't work."

You glare at him. He shrugs. You hit the vending machine. The candy bar drops. You look triumphant. He looks smug.

"I hate you," you say, picking up the candy bar.

"You love me."

"Debatable."

He watches you unwrap the candy bar, break it in half, and hand him the bigger piece. You don't say anything. You just do it. Like it's instinct. Like taking care of him is as natural as breathing.

Max has won races. Championships. Things people dream about. But none of it feels as good as this. Sitting in a break room. Sharing a candy bar. Watching you wipe chocolate from the corner of your mouth.

He wants this. Not the big moments. The small ones. The ones no one else sees.

"Max."

"Mm?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."

"Maybe you are."

"Am I solved?"

He thinks about it. About the way you make him feel. About how he doesn't have to be anyone other than himself when he's with you.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

You smile. Break off another piece of candy bar. Hand it to him.

"Good," you say. "Now eat your chocolate. You have a simulator session."

"I'm skipping it."

"You're not skipping it."

"I'm skipping it."

"Max."

He takes the chocolate. He doesn't move.

He stays exactly where he is.

ISACK HADJAR — The Disaster Dinner

Isack is supposed to be impressing you.

That was the plan. He'd cook dinner — something nice, something sophisticated — and you'd see that he was an adult. A functional adult who could do things other than drive fast.

Instead, he's set off the fire alarm.

You're both standing in the kitchen, waving dish towels at the smoke detector, coughing. The windows are open. The fan is on. Whatever was in the oven is now a blackened brick.

"I'm sorry," he says, for the fifth time.

"Stop apologising."

"I ruined dinner."

"You didn't ruin dinner. You just... created a bonding experience."

He looks at you. You're laughing. Actually laughing, like this is funny, like this isn't a disaster, like you're not judging him for being a terrible cook.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? I can't cook either. I was going to order takeout the whole time."

"I spent three hours on that recipe."

"I know. It was very sweet. It was also very on fire."

He groans, dropping his head to the counter. You pat his back. Your hand is warm. Comforting.

Isack doesn't know why you're still here. Why you're not running. Why you're laughing instead of leaving.

Then he looks at you. Really looks. At the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. At the way you haven't let go of his arm. At the way you're looking at him like he's not a failure. Like he's just... him.

And he realizes: you're not going anywhere. You never were.

"Isack."

"Yeah?"

"You're very dramatic for someone who set off a fire alarm."

"I'm not dramatic. I'm passionate."

"Whatever"

You order takeout. Eat it on the floor. The smoke detector beeps every few minutes.

He watches you laugh. And he thinks: yeah. This is it.

CARLOS SAINZ — The Packing Night

Carlos is supposed to be packing.

He has a flight tomorrow. Another race. Another city. Another week away from you.

But he's not packing. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you fold his shirts. You're not his assistant. You're not his employee. You're just someone who loves him. Someone who's learned that his shirts wrinkle if you don't fold them a certain way.

"You don't have to do that," he says.

"I know."

"I can do it myself."

"I know."

"Then why —"

"Because I want to." You look up at him. Your expression is soft, patient, unbothered. "Because I'm going to miss you. And this makes me feel useful."

Carlos's chest aches.

He watches you fold. The careful way you smooth out the wrinkles. The way you stack them in his suitcase, like you're building something important. You're humming. Something soft. Something he doesn't recognise.

He thinks about all the times he's packed alone. The empty hotel rooms. The silent airports. The feeling of always leaving something behind. He doesn't feel that anymore. Because you're here. Because you're folding his shirts like it matters. Because you make everywhere feel like somewhere he wants to be.

He crosses the room. Kneels in front of you. Takes your hands — the ones holding his shirt — and presses them to his chest.

"Carlos, your shirt —"

"I don't care about the shirt."

You shake your head, but you're smiling. You fold one more shirt. Set it in the suitcase.

"I'll miss you," you say.

"I'll miss you too," he says quietly. "It's only a week."

"I know."

"It'll go fast."

"I know."

Neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.

"Come here," he says. You lean forward. He wraps his arms around you. Holds on.

The suitcase stays open. The shirts stay folded.

He doesn't care. He'll pack in the morning. Right now, he's exactly where he wants to be.

ALEXANDER ALBON — The First Snow

It doesn't snow in Monaco.

That's what Alex had told you, when you'd first moved here. "If you want snow, you have to travel." You'd accepted this. Mourned it. Moved on.

So when it snows — actually snows, fat flakes drifting down from a sky that's never done this before — Alex is the one who finds you first.

You're standing on the balcony. Barefoot. In your pyjamas. Just watching.

"Are you crazy?" he asks, stepping outside. "It's freezing."

"Look."

He looks. The city is quiet. The snow is dusting the rooftops, the streets, the harbour. Everything is soft. Everything is still.

"It's snowing," he says.

"It's snowing."

"In Monaco."

"I know."

You're not looking at him. You're looking at the snow. Your cheeks are pink from the cold. Your breath fogs in the air. You're shivering, but you won't come inside.

Alex watches you. The way your eyes are wide. The way you're smiling at something so small, so ordinary. Like it's magic.

He thinks about all the things he wants to give you. Big things. Important things. But right now, all he wants to give you is this. The snow. The balcony. The quiet.

"You're staring," you say, still not looking at him.

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one standing in the snow in your pyjamas."

"It's romantic."

"It's freezing."

"It is not."

You finally look at him. Your nose is red. Your lips are blue. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"I want this forever," he says.

"What, me in my pyjamas running in the snow like a fool?" you say with a small smile.

"Yes, and many more stupid snow days to come"

You smile. Step closer. Wrap your arms around him. He holds you tight.

The snow keeps falling. Neither of you goes inside.

OLIVER BEARMAN — The First Apartment

Ollie's first apartment is small.

Too small, probably. The ceiling leaks when it rains. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work half the time.

But it's his. And you're in it. And somehow, that makes everything else irrelevant.

You're on the floor — there's no couch yet, not until next week — eating takeout from containers balanced on a cardboard box. Ollie is telling you about his day. About the engineers, the setup, the small victory he'd felt when something finally clicked.

You're not really listening to the words. You're watching his hands. The way they move when he's excited. The way he pushes his hair back when he's thinking.

Ollie stops mid-sentence. "Are you even listening?"

"Not really."

"Rude."

"I'm listening to the important part."

"What's the important part?"

You set down your container. Crawl across the floor until you're sitting in front of him. Your knees touch.

"The important part," you say, "is that you're happy."

He blinks. His ears go pink.

"I'm always happy when you're here," he says.

"That's cheesy."

"I know."

"I love it."

He looks at you. At the cardboard box. At the takeout containers. At the whole ridiculous, imperfect, wonderful mess of his first apartment.

He thinks about all the things he wants. The races. The wins. The career he's building. But right now, sitting on the floor with you, he can't remember why any of that matters more than this.

"Ollie."

"Yeah?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at me like I'm the only thing in the room."

"You are."

"That's very smooth."

"I'm trying."

You lean forward. Kiss him. He's warm. He's here. He's yours.

The ceiling leaks. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work.

None of it matters.

ੈ✩ drivers sending you pictures of bf! ollie ✩

warning : fluff

a/n: I hope you like it and feedback is always appreciated! whoever requested it, tysm <3

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tg !

permanent tg: @isotopemylove @chair-things @justaf1girl @bibblemiluvr @blushmimi @nikfigueiredo @amz824 @ivegotparticulartaste @raizelchrysanderoctavius @freyathehuntress @piastri-fvx @sadiemack9 @ilivbullyingjeongin @cherry-piee @luvleylisen @sweate-r-weathe-r @jxnellat @loveofmylife12 @budgetcupid @lilaissa @scorpiodiosa @wondergirl101ks @nichmeddar @hoeforlifee @urfavnoirette @lily-ann-b @okcurran @miniboast @teti-menchon0604 @motorsportloverf1 @formula1-motogpfan @capricornito @star73807-blog @isagrace22 @unstablefemme @lovestruck-sky @abmilanooo @thatssoemilia @lexy9716 @gatorguy777 @liz140569 @kaorisakamotofan @hopingfortwistedfriends @thisdoesntexsist-cherry

The Fast and the Flirtatious | OB87

Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: Ferrari-era Ollie was basically “Charles’ kid” and although he got really close with his sister, dating her = off limits, but now that he is in Haas? It is also a PR nightmare.

ynleclerc

Tagged: charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux

Liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, olliebearman, kimi.antonelli and others

ynleclerc winter trip with my favs !

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Ohhh what about yn taking care of ollie after monaco and kimi being pouty and jealous and so on

Oopppp🫢🤭

I honestly was rushing to write this asap because releasing this another time wouldn’t really fit. So please excuse any mistakes and enjoy

The Monaco paddock was split into two very different moods. On one side, Kimi had just won. On the other, Ollie was trying very hard not to think about his DNF. Yn found him sitting quietly near the hospitality area after the race. The second she spotted him, she walked straight over.

“There you are.” Ollie looked up and immediately smiled. “Hi.” Without hesitation, Yn wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “You drove brilliantly.” “I didn’t finish.” “I know.” She squeezed him tighter. “But you were brilliant anyway.” Ollie’s shoulders relaxed slightly. Yn pulled back just enough to cup his face. “You’ll come back stronger next race. I know you will.”

Then she kissed his cheek. A quick, affectionate little kiss. The kind that made Ollie’s brain completely stop working. His smile grew immediately.

Meanwhile, across the paddock, Kimi had just finished celebrating his victory when he looked over. And froze. Yn was still hugging Ollie. Ollie was looking entirely too pleased with himself. Then, to make matters worse, Ollie spotted Kimi. And smirked. The little menace actually smirked. Kimi narrowed his eyes. Ollie looked unbearably happy.

A media manager suddenly appeared beside Kimi. “We need you for interviews.” Kimi didn’t move. “Kimi?” His gaze remained fixed on Ollie. “Now, please.” With the biggest pout anyone had ever seen from a race winner, Kimi finally turned away. Ollie watched him leave and looked very satisfied with himself.

Yn blinked. “What are you smiling about?” “Nothing.” “Uh-huh.” Ollie just leaned into her side as she continued rambling about how proud she was of him. And for the first time since retiring from the race, he didn’t feel quite so disappointed anymore.

Pit Stop: my requests are open!

#f1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula one #f1 fic #leclerc!reader #leclerc!sister #teen!little leclerc #teen!reader #monaco gp 2026 #ollie bearman x reader #kimi antonelli x reader #ka12 x reader #ka12 imagine #ob87 x reader #kimi antonelli #ollie bearman

Brotherly Sacrifice | OB87

Ollie Bearman x Norris!reader

Lando Norris & sister!reader

Summary: After reading a random stat on twitter, reader tries her hardest to get her brother to dnf so her crush can finally get his first podium.

A/N: This is my first smau on here so sorry if it isn’t that great. I randomly got the idea and decided to make it happen. I also have no idea how to format on here. Manifesting an Ollie podium so hard, without a Lando dnf ofc.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ynnorris

liked by isackhadjar, oscarpiastri, olliebearman and 1,532,982 others

ynnorris all I did was ask if he’s taking requests damn.

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lando you do realize I’m the race for championship leader right?

ynnorris take Oscar out with you then idc

oscarpiastri ??

charlesleclerc can you add me to the request list?

ynnorris unfortunately I don’t think a lando dnf is strong enough for you

charlesleclerc fair

mclaren we’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask that of your brother

ynnorris are these team orders??

user1 I just want to know which rookie she suggested to him

user2 praying it’s gabi

isackhadjar I can bet my seat on who you requested

ynnorris I shouldn’t have told you about him

isackhadjar you really shouldn’t have

olliebearman any chance I’m on the list?

lando you’re the whole list

lando yes

ynnorris Lando your days are numbered

user3 wait did y’all see that comment too?

user4 yes yes what does it mean??

user5 ollieyn??

user6 said no one ever

texts between yn and lando

texts between yn and her rookie friends

—

ynnorris

liked by lando, olliebearman, carlossainz and 1,356,723 others

ynnorris Lando told mum about my Etsy witch plan so that’s off. Guess I have to come to the race and sort shit out myself.

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lando leave me alone for fucks sake

ynnorris no! I’m not even asking much from you and I barely ask you for stuff

lando I literally paid for your ticket?!

ynnorris dnf for my love life!

lando you’re making no sense

ynnorris I’m telling mum you called me stupid

lando I DID NOT!

ynnorris DID TOO!

carlossainz the Norris siblings everyone

danielriccardo I believe in you little Norris

ynnorris thank you Danny 😇

charlesleclerc think you can visit Ferrari while you’re here?

ynnorris I’m no miracle worker Charlie but I can slide you my Etsy witch’s number

liked by charlesleclerc

alexalbon free you and Sapphire

ynnorris let’s get it trending

lando who is Sapphire??

alexalbon the Etsy witch

georgerussell why are you on first name basis with her Etsy witch?

alexalbon because real recognizes real

kimiantonelli we have to hangout before the race!

gabrielbortoleto we were going to explore the city you have to join

ynnorris hmm I’ll have to check my very very busy schedule

olliebearman hopefully you find time

ynnorris suddenly I have free time between irritating Oscar and annoying Lando

isackhadjar oh how sudden!

ynnorris I hate you

isackhadjar is it because I’m not English and 6’2??

lando lmao

ynnorris both of your days are numbered

user5 yn and Isack’s interaction… ollieyn in 5

user6 okay grandma let’s get you back to bed

user5 OLLIEYN IN FIVE

—

ynnorris

liked by olliebearman, francocolapinto, lando and 1,789,402 others

ynnorris all these weirdos do for fun is drive. Let’s invest in some hobbies, shall we?

tagged olliebearman, kimiantonelli, gabrielbortoleto and isackhadjar

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gabrielbortoleto you are the one who suggested karting

ynnorris proof??

kimiantonelli I brought whimsy that’s enough

ynnorris you’re so right queen mb

lando I’m noticing a trend in this photo dump

ynnorris I’m noticing a trend in your racing career.

lando just for that I’m making sure he never gets a podium this year

ynnorris I’m not scared of you. I know where you live

lando yeah in the same bloody hotel as you that I’m paying for

ynnorris it’s always money with you, never love and my happiness

isackhadjar I know olliebearmanlover1 isn’t talking about us not having hobbies

ynnorris what are you even talking about? In the words of Andrea Kimi Antonelli “I’m confused”

isackhadjar no one laughed

olliebearman I did

gabrielbortoleto ofc you did

ynnorris wait now I’m actually confused

kimiantonelli I feel like I’m missing out on some key context here

olliebearman how come no selfies?

ynnorris didn’t fit the vibe

olliebearman I like your selfies

ynnorris oh! well I’ll keep that in mind when I post then

olliebearman or you could just send me some

isackhadjar she just threw her phone across the room

olliebearman was that too much? Gabriel said to try more.

gabrielbortoleto smooth man smooth

lando oi what’s all this then?

kimiantonelli I think I know what’s happening

isackhadjar added to close friends story!

view replies

ynnorris DELETE! You know he doesn’t see me like that

isackhadjar I know that you’re a bit slow sometimes!

ynnorris I fucking hate you

isackhadjar ik you’ve said it like 30 times now

olliebearman can you send this to me? Without the text

olliebearman did she reply?

olliebearman what does she think about this? about me?

isackhadjar you’re too tall to be slow

kimiantonelli I officially know what’s happening

isackhadjar proud of you kimi

kimiantonelli they’re in a secret relationship

isackhadjar well… its definitely a secret none of them are aware of

texts between yn and lando

— ynnorris has added to her story

lando mention that dnf again and I’m telling Ollie you love him

ynnorris tell Ollie and I’m telling Oscar about your loscar folder on TikTok

lando you don’t know that

ynnorris yeah but it’s believable enough

lando watch your back Norris

ynnorris don’t underestimate me Norris

isackhadjar it was in fact urgent

ynnorris you’re so odd

isackhadjar and your pathetically single

ynnorris blocked!

olliebearman how come you never visit my garage?

ynnorris you never ask

olliebearman didn’t think I had to

ynnorris you want me there?

olliebearman I want you everywhere I am

olliebearman yn?? hello?? please stop chucking your phone around when we text

ynnorris cool cool cool

texts between yn and the rookies

lando added to his close friends story!

ynnorris I fucking hate you. This is why you need to dnf. You will never see the sunlight. May your race suit feel tight in all the wrong places. May you stub your toe on every door you meet.

ynnorris Did he see this?

lando weirdo

olliebearman first option for sure

lando don’t get too comfortable Bearman

texts between yn and Isack

ynnorris added to her close friends story!

lando I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to see you on a date

ynnorris I still want you to dnf he deserves that podium

lando go to hell

ynnorris I go there every time I interact with you

olliebearman added to his close friends story!

isackhadjar you will name your first born child after me

olliebearman not sure about that

isackhadjar yes

—

texts between yn and Lando

texts between yn and Ollie

ynnorris has added to her story

ynnorris

liked by olliebearman, lando, georgerussell and 1,892,343 others

ynnorris HDJFUEHH HE DID IT! SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP! P3 FOR OLLIE! FIRST FUVKING PODIUM BITCHES 😭😭😭

tagged olliebearman

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kimiantonelli LET’S GOOOOO

gabrielbortoleto amazing

lando congrats mate

lando notice how he managed p3 while I finished at p1

ynnorris literally no one cares. way to make everything about you 🍅

charlesleclerc convinced you you’re the reason I ended up on p2

ynnorris that was 98% all you Charlie congrats!

isackhadjar you’ve always had a way with words

olliebearman this one was for you

olliebearman I physically cringed sorry

ynnorris no you’re so cute

olliebearman

liked by ynnorris, isackhadjar, lando and 2,436,715 others

won a trophy and won the girl

tagged ynnorris

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kimiantonelli fucking finally! I was tired of waiting

gabrielbortoleto you found out about their feelings yesterday

kimiantonelli yes and?

isackhadjar I built this shit brick by brick

olliebearman you’re godsend

ynnorris eh I wouldn’t say all that.

isackhadjar I will leak all your thirst messages about him

ynnorris you’re clearly an angel and it’s an honor to even be in your presence

isackhadjar how kind

lando hurt her and I will make sure you never see another finish line again understand?

olliebearman understood

ynnorris aww they’re bonding 💕

ynnorris technically I won you

olliebearman whatever you say gorgeous

ynnorris eek!

ynnorris

liked by alexalbon, olliebearman, lando and 2,584,276 others

manifested and annoyed so hard I got the guy

tagged olliebearman

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kimiantonelli manifest a double date with Eli and I next

liked by ynnorris and olliebearman

oscarpiastri congrats! One less problem to hear Lando complain about

ynnorris thanks king. Stay strong

lando all this dnf talk is finally over

ynnorris actually 🤓👆 gabi still need to get his first

gabrielbortoleto I’m ready

lando no

user5 user6 never doubt me again!

user6 I’ll admit you were right all along

user5 OLLIEYN IS NOW! SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS

ynnorris okay Alexander Hamilton

user5 AHHHH I LOVE YOU AND OLLIE

liked by ynnorris

isackhadjar I feel like a proud mother

ynnorris a single mom who works two who loves her kids and never stops

olliebearman I’m obsessed with you

ynnorris you deserve the world

olliebearman I’d rather just have you

olliebearman …and she threw her phone across the room while burying her face into my hoodie

#f1 smau #ollie bearman #ollie bearman x reader #f1 instagram au #ob87 x reader #ob87 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #Ollie Bearman social media au #ollie bearman smau #ollie bearman x norris!reader #gigigreens #gigigreens writes

Radio Check | OB87

Pairing: Oliver Bearman x gf!reader

Summary: A little smau about all the times Ollie has been simping about you over the radio, featuring poor Ronan just trying to do his job.

Tags: fluff, humor, established relationship

Warnings: swearing

Other drivers: Radio Check | Masterlist

wrong red garage ✩ ob87 smau

wc/summary: lewis hamilton’s niece has started attending more races but she seems to have abandoned her dear uncle for her boyfriend

contains: fluff, ollie bearman x girlfriend!reader, ollie bearman x black!reader

💌: hope this is a cheer up from the way his race ended this morning 🥲

masterlist

✩ ✩ ✩

liked by olliebearman, lewishamilton, ferrari, and 589k others

ynhamilton china i am in you (note to self do not buy every single piece of food you see, you will get food poisoning)

tagged olliebearman

yourmom olliebearman stop buying her stuff

olliebearman im sorry! ynhamilton don’t listen to her

In Another Life - F1 drivers

𖤓 where they look at you and realise they want to spend the rest of their lives with you or where they think: oh. this is it. this is everything.

𖤓 inspo: based on "I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you" - Waymond Wang (my favourite film ever)

𖤓 fem!reader x grid (ob87, ka12, gr63, cl16, lh44, ln4, op81, mv3, ih6, aa23, cs55)

𖤓 wc: 3,935

𖤓 note: Gang, I tried my best not to repeat the scenarios or wording, but if I failed, pls don't kill me it was hard to come up with a new context for 11 drivers 😭Any love would be appreciated.

𖤓 listen to: "Something About You" when reading this.

CHARLES LECLERC — The Grocery Run

The supermarket is almost empty at 11 PM.

"Not this one," you mutter, tossing it back. "Too soft."

"We've been here for twenty minutes."

"We've been here for twenty minutes because you keep putting back the good ones."

Charles laughs — a real one, the kind that used to come so rarely. You don't look up from the avocados, but your mouth twitches. You know what you do to him.

You're squeezing tomatoes like your life depends on it. Like this matters. Like getting the right one is the most important decision you'll make all week.

"Charles."

"Hm?"

"You're staring again."

"Can you blame me?"

It was. Somehow, it always is with you.

"I love you," he says.

You blink. "I know?"

"No, I mean —" He stops. Shakes his head. Tries again. "I'd do this forever," he says quietly. "The grocery shopping. The bad avocados. All of it."

The words hang in the air between the avocados and the tomatoes. Your expression shifts — something soft, something surprised, something that looks like the first time you realised this was real.

"That's a weird thing to say in a produce aisle," you say.

"I know."

"You're so weird."

"I know."

You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your face into his chest. The shopping cart bumps against his legs.

"I'd do grocery shopping with you in this life too," you mumble against his hoodie.

Charles holds you tighter.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not letting you go."

The avocados are forgotten.

LEWIS HAMILTON — The Kitchen at 2 AM

Lewis can't sleep.

He finds you in the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

You don't look up. "Baking."

"It's 2 AM."

"I know."

"You're covered in flour."

"I know that too."

This. You. Flour on the floor. Bread that won't rise. 2 AM and nowhere else to be.

Lewis doesn't say anything. He just steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. You smell like flour and vanilla and something that's just you.

"I can feel you staring," you say, your attention going back to the failed masterpiece in front of you.

"I'm admiring."

"I'm a mess."

"You're perfect."

"I don't know how to make bread," you warn him.

"I don't care."

"We're going to have to eat this. Even if it's terrible."

"I don't care."

"We could order takeout."

"Y/N."

You stop. Wait.

"In every lifetime," he says, quietly, "I would choose this. "

You go still in his arms.

"Even if I am failing at making bread?" you say with a small pout.

"Especially then." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "It's better."

You turn in his arms. Your flour-dusted hands cup his face. Your eyes search his.

"You're a weird man, Lewis Hamilton."

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He kisses you — slow, soft, unhurried. The bread is forgotten. The silence is no longer too loud. And for the first time all night, Lewis thinks he might actually sleep.

LANDO NORRIS — The Takeout on the Floor

Lando's apartment is a mess.

"It does not belong," Lando insists, pointing a spring roll at you.

"It absolutely belongs. You have no taste."

"I have excellent taste. I'm dating you, aren't I?"

You pause. "That's... actually smooth. I'm mad about it."

Just this. Just you. Just the sound of your laugh and the way you steal his spring rolls when you think he's not looking.

"Lando."

"Mm?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches you. The way you're completely comfortable. Completely yourself. Completely his.

"I want this forever," he says. "The takeout. The floor. The stupid arguments."

You stop chewing. Look at him. "That's a very intense thing to say while you have sauce on your chin."

"I have sauce on my chin?"

"Right there." You point. He wipes the wrong side of his face. You laugh — that laugh, the one that makes his chest feel too full.

"I love you," he says. Because it's true. Because it's the only thing that matters.

You set down your container. Shuffle closer until your knee bumps his.

"I know," you say. "I love you too. Now eat your spring rolls before they get cold."

"Yes ma'am."

You grin. He grins.

The reality show plays on. Neither of you notices.

OSCAR PIASTRI — The Quiet Sunday

Oscar doesn't talk much.

This is what your life has become. Quiet Sundays. Shared silences. A love that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

He thinks about all the Sundays he spent alone. Before you. The quiet used to be heavy. Now it's just... comfortable. Because you're in it.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I'm not." He pauses. "I'm just happy."

You set down your book. "That's it? You're just happy?"

"That's it."

You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat the couch beside you. He stands. Walks over. Sits down. You lean your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.

"This is nice," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It is."

He doesn't tell you that he wants this every Sunday. Every quiet, boring, perfect Sunday. He doesn't have to. You already know.

GEORGE RUSSELL — The Folded Laundry

George is folding laundry.

But he's folding your clothes. Carefully. Methodically. The way he does everything.

You're watching from the doorway. He hasn't noticed you yet. He's too focused on getting the creases right — on your shirts, your socks, the sweater you'd left draped over the chair three days ago.

He folds everything. Even the things you wouldn't bother with. Even the things you'd given up on.

George doesn't know why he's so focused on the laundry. Maybe because it's yours. Maybe because taking care of you — even in small ways — feels like the most important thing he could be doing.

He holds up one of your shirts. It's old. Faded. The one you wear when you're sick or tired or just don't want to try. He folds it slowly. Presses the crease with his palm.

"George."

He looks up. You're in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with an expression he can't quite read.

"You're folding my laundry," you say.

"It needed to be done."

"At 11 PM?"

"The timing felt right."

You cross the room. Sit on the bed beside the pile of folded clothes. Pick up a shirt — one of yours, one he'd folded so perfectly it looks store-bought.

"You're staring at that shirt like it's precious," you say.

"It's yours."

"That doesn't make it precious."

"To me it does."

You're quiet for a moment. Then you set down the shirt and take his hand.

"You're strange, Russel"

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He squeezes your hand. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The laundry is forgotten. The late hour doesn't matter. He's exactly where he wants to be.

KIMI ANTONELLI — The First Rain of Autumn

Kimi doesn't believe in fate.

He believes in hard work. In data. In the things he can see and touch and prove. He's never been one for grand romantic gestures or sweeping declarations.

But then it starts raining.

"You're insane," he says, but he's smiling. He can't help it.

"You're boring," you fire back. "Live a little, Antonelli."

You grab his hand and pull him into a puddle. Water splashes up his jeans. He should be annoyed. He's not.

He watches you spin in the rain. Arms out. Head back. Rain dripping down your face. You look ridiculous. You look perfect.

"Kimi."

"What?"

"You're staring again."

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one dancing in the rain."

You stop spinning. Walk toward him. Your shoes squelch. Your mascara is running. You've never looked better.

"Come here," you say, tugging his arm.

"I'm already here."

"Closer."

He steps closer. You wrap your arms around his neck. Your wet clothes press against his.

"I love you," you say. Like it's obvious. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

He doesn't say it back. He just pulls you closer. Kisses you. Right there. In the rain. In the middle of the street.

When he pulls back, you're both dripping. You're smiling.

"That was romantic," you say.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He takes your hand. Leads you home. The rain keeps falling.

He doesn't let go.

MAX VERSTAPPEN — The Simulator Break

Max is supposed to be in the simulator.

That's where his trainer thinks he is. Where his engineer thinks he is. Where everyone who needs him thinks he is.

Instead, he's in the break room, sitting across from you, watching you struggle with a vending machine.

"It's not working," you say, pressing the button for the third time.

"Hit it."

"I'm not hitting it."

"Then it won't work."

You glare at him. He shrugs. You hit the vending machine. The candy bar drops. You look triumphant. He looks smug.

"I hate you," you say, picking up the candy bar.

"You love me."

"Debatable."

He watches you unwrap the candy bar, break it in half, and hand him the bigger piece. You don't say anything. You just do it. Like it's instinct. Like taking care of him is as natural as breathing.

He wants this. Not the big moments. The small ones. The ones no one else sees.

"Max."

"Mm?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."

"Maybe you are."

"Am I solved?"

He thinks about it. About the way you make him feel. About how he doesn't have to be anyone other than himself when he's with you.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

You smile. Break off another piece of candy bar. Hand it to him.

"Good," you say. "Now eat your chocolate. You have a simulator session."

"I'm skipping it."

"You're not skipping it."

"I'm skipping it."

"Max."

He takes the chocolate. He doesn't move.

He stays exactly where he is.

ISACK HADJAR — The Disaster Dinner

Isack is supposed to be impressing you.

That was the plan. He'd cook dinner — something nice, something sophisticated — and you'd see that he was an adult. A functional adult who could do things other than drive fast.

Instead, he's set off the fire alarm.

You're both standing in the kitchen, waving dish towels at the smoke detector, coughing. The windows are open. The fan is on. Whatever was in the oven is now a blackened brick.

"I'm sorry," he says, for the fifth time.

"Stop apologising."

"I ruined dinner."

"You didn't ruin dinner. You just... created a bonding experience."

He looks at you. You're laughing. Actually laughing, like this is funny, like this isn't a disaster, like you're not judging him for being a terrible cook.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? I can't cook either. I was going to order takeout the whole time."

"I spent three hours on that recipe."

"I know. It was very sweet. It was also very on fire."

He groans, dropping his head to the counter. You pat his back. Your hand is warm. Comforting.

Isack doesn't know why you're still here. Why you're not running. Why you're laughing instead of leaving.

And he realizes: you're not going anywhere. You never were.

"Isack."

"Yeah?"

"You're very dramatic for someone who set off a fire alarm."

"I'm not dramatic. I'm passionate."

"Whatever"

You order takeout. Eat it on the floor. The smoke detector beeps every few minutes.

He watches you laugh. And he thinks: yeah. This is it.

CARLOS SAINZ — The Packing Night

Carlos is supposed to be packing.

He has a flight tomorrow. Another race. Another city. Another week away from you.

"You don't have to do that," he says.

"I know."

"I can do it myself."

"I know."

"Then why —"

"Because I want to." You look up at him. Your expression is soft, patient, unbothered. "Because I'm going to miss you. And this makes me feel useful."

Carlos's chest aches.

He crosses the room. Kneels in front of you. Takes your hands — the ones holding his shirt — and presses them to his chest.

"Carlos, your shirt —"

"I don't care about the shirt."

You shake your head, but you're smiling. You fold one more shirt. Set it in the suitcase.

"I'll miss you," you say.

"I'll miss you too," he says quietly. "It's only a week."

"I know."

"It'll go fast."

"I know."

Neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.

"Come here," he says. You lean forward. He wraps his arms around you. Holds on.

The suitcase stays open. The shirts stay folded.

He doesn't care. He'll pack in the morning. Right now, he's exactly where he wants to be.

ALEXANDER ALBON — The First Snow

It doesn't snow in Monaco.

That's what Alex had told you, when you'd first moved here. "If you want snow, you have to travel." You'd accepted this. Mourned it. Moved on.

So when it snows — actually snows, fat flakes drifting down from a sky that's never done this before — Alex is the one who finds you first.

You're standing on the balcony. Barefoot. In your pyjamas. Just watching.

"Are you crazy?" he asks, stepping outside. "It's freezing."

"Look."

He looks. The city is quiet. The snow is dusting the rooftops, the streets, the harbour. Everything is soft. Everything is still.

"It's snowing," he says.

"It's snowing."

"In Monaco."

"I know."

You're not looking at him. You're looking at the snow. Your cheeks are pink from the cold. Your breath fogs in the air. You're shivering, but you won't come inside.

Alex watches you. The way your eyes are wide. The way you're smiling at something so small, so ordinary. Like it's magic.

He thinks about all the things he wants to give you. Big things. Important things. But right now, all he wants to give you is this. The snow. The balcony. The quiet.

"You're staring," you say, still not looking at him.

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one standing in the snow in your pyjamas."

"It's romantic."

"It's freezing."

"It is not."

You finally look at him. Your nose is red. Your lips are blue. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"I want this forever," he says.

"What, me in my pyjamas running in the snow like a fool?" you say with a small smile.

"Yes, and many more stupid snow days to come"

You smile. Step closer. Wrap your arms around him. He holds you tight.

The snow keeps falling. Neither of you goes inside.

OLIVER BEARMAN — The First Apartment

Ollie's first apartment is small.

Too small, probably. The ceiling leaks when it rains. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work half the time.

But it's his. And you're in it. And somehow, that makes everything else irrelevant.

You're not really listening to the words. You're watching his hands. The way they move when he's excited. The way he pushes his hair back when he's thinking.

Ollie stops mid-sentence. "Are you even listening?"

"Not really."

"Rude."

"I'm listening to the important part."

"What's the important part?"

You set down your container. Crawl across the floor until you're sitting in front of him. Your knees touch.

"The important part," you say, "is that you're happy."

He blinks. His ears go pink.

"I'm always happy when you're here," he says.

"That's cheesy."

"I know."

"I love it."

He looks at you. At the cardboard box. At the takeout containers. At the whole ridiculous, imperfect, wonderful mess of his first apartment.

He thinks about all the things he wants. The races. The wins. The career he's building. But right now, sitting on the floor with you, he can't remember why any of that matters more than this.

"Ollie."

"Yeah?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at me like I'm the only thing in the room."

"You are."

"That's very smooth."

"I'm trying."

You lean forward. Kiss him. He's warm. He's here. He's yours.

The ceiling leaks. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work.

None of it matters.

#ob87 x reader

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