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@clairebearsjournal
Claire ᄫᥠstudent | fic writer | 19
currently pitt obsessed
F1 masterlist | Pitt masterlist (coming soon)

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
wc: 1k
summary: a hook-up leads jack spiraling, sending him on a search for a woman who keeps slipping from his grasp
content: cinderella au, suggestive content, no use of y/n, age gap (not specifically mentioned), not edited
chapter 1
Heâs always had everything at his disposal. Every whim, demand, and promise. Of course Jack wouldnât ever dare to abuse his position; heâs realized that itâs too valuable. He couldnât bear to think about the loss of providing for others he cares about.Â
But only once has the thought crossed his mind.
Call him selfishâhe certainly wouldâbut itâs because of a girl. A girl whose hair cascades over her shoulders in ribbons and golden hoops that chimed when she would laugh. Robby would say it's a breach of uniform, but he could easily excuse it during his shift. Maybe that was his delusion talking.Â
Her hips swayed without a care, mingling with the bodies of strangers without shame. Bare shoulders adorned with freckles shimmied back and forth along to the beat of the bass. Jack stared shamelessly as he sat across the bar from the heat and stench of sweat-soaked clothes. He hadnât come with a purposeâhe had a pretty average shift, but he settled for a drink after work to add to the fantasy of normalcy.Â
His sister would laugh at him. Homebody. Sleep, work, eat occasionally when the time permitted it, and sleep again. His life had to be dialed back when he took up night shifts; any free time was suddenly spent sleeping, and even then, the irritation of going on with his life after work felt exhausting.Â
The drink he was cradling was sweating against his palms. He gripped the glass tighter as he turned to wave the bartender downâmaybe heâd order another one, maybe heâd close his tab; his mind always faltered when he broke from his routine or when he felt a piercing gaze upon him.Â
It was her.Â
The bartender never caught his attention as he slunk ever further away from his lone stool to mix up another drink down the bar. But that gave you time.
Time slowed down, moving in slow motion as all his senses were suddenly attuned to you. The sight of your top riding up your midriff and an intoxicating scentâvanilla laced with jasmineâimmediately took control over the alcohol. Red nails that gently scratched over his arm, sending chills down his spine.Â
A woman who was an enigma shining in the pit of drunkards was now perched across from him on a cracking barstool. Eyes lazily scanned over him, up and down, immediately making him self-conscious of every detail he hastily put together before arriving. Pouting lips covered in a sheen of rose made him forget to even say hello.Â
âCan I get you a drink?âÂ
âI donât drink.âÂ
âYou donâtâyou donât drink.â Who was he to judge? He saw enough cases of alcoholism at work. âWhy are you here then?âÂ
âA girl canât have a fun night out?âÂ
âOf course she can; itâs just that most people your age,â and Christ, his mother would send him to jail if she saw you, you who dressed for men to look and linger. He is included. âTend to pair nights at bars with more than a few glasses of liquor.âÂ
âMy age, huh?â you purred. Was that seriously the only thing that stuck? He was at a loss for wordsâyou leaned even closer to him, posturing yourself in a way that could only lean toward interest.Â
âSo, whatâs it gonna be? Are you going to take me home, sweet thing?â
And he really, really shouldnât. His therapistâheâs always thinking about his damn therapist. He needs a break.Â
He leaves a ten-dollar bill beneath his glass with a pretty girl in tow.
â
Jack wakes in a way he hasnât in years. His muscles donât ache, nor did any night terrors keep him up. He slept like a dead person. The night prior comes back in fragments: clothes discarded without care, lace that was soaked with saliva, legs slicked with oil wrapped around his neckâhe could still feel the warmth beside him. Â
When he threw an arm out to curl around your body, he was deceived only to be met with a dent in the sheets.Â
The comforter was hastily thrown to uncover only hints of your presence, showing that you were, in fact, a visitor and not a goddess he conjured up in a drunken haze.Â
He didnât think you would be a one-done-and-ditch kind of girl, but he assumed wrong. You must have left only minutes ago with your body warmth still lingering beneath the sheets. Heâs shocked you managed to slip out of his house with how much of a light sleeper heâd become.Â
With only a few hours until he has to report back to work, he accepts the fact that he might never see you again, but not without disappointment. Falling back asleep is a feat compared to what blissful rest was granted him last night.Â
â
The nights in the ER pass in a dull lull. Heâs had his fair share of one-night stands, albeit more often when he was younger and spry with plenty of energy to spare, but none of them have lingered with him more than a couple hours later.Â
Itâs been days, almost a week.Â
â
The thought of you has plagued his mind so much Robby has noticed Jackâs downturned mood during hand-offs.Â
âOkay, what is going on with you?"
Theyâre stopped directly in front of the nursesâ station. Directly in front of Princess and Perla, who couldnât be more obvious staring at the pair of them.Â
âItâs nothing. Iâm just tired.âÂ
âDonât pull that bullshit with me, Jackâyou've been like this every day. for,â Robby pulls out his phone, âsix days.Â
âItâs nothing, brother. Shove off it.âÂ
He has half a mind to accidentally let the tablet held loosely between his fingers slip, but that would be petty even for him.Â
âShove off it. "You're ridiculous you know thatââÂ
Dana magically appearsâhe can only assume by the ruckus they're causingâand moves between the two of them, separating him from Robbyâs huffing figure.Â
âBoys, Jesus, do I have to moderate every spat between you two?â
Robby scoffs, but he doesnât last long under Danaâs daggering glare.
"Robby, take a walk. And you,â she points a finger accusingly at the middle of his chest, âgo take the day off. Go relax.âÂ
Jack wasnât sure relaxing meant showing up to the same club a week later.Â
â
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pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
wc: < 1000
summary: he's always handsy when coming off a heavy shift. this time he's rudely interrupted.
content: 18+ MDNI, perv!jack abbott, smut, brief hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, not edited
The early morning chill follows Jack into the apartment as he stumbles into the hallway, kicking off his shoes without care. The quiet is broken by pittering sounds appearing from around the corner.Â
"Honâ"Â
Jack pauses as he's met with a cranky meow and a judgmental look from a ball of furâan elegant cat that is textbook adorable, except for the fuzzy nub of fur that is called a "tail."Â
Oh, he notes, she's just like me.Â
"Yeah, babe?" She comes peering around the corner with major bedhead and his shirt drooping off her shoulders. "Oh, you met Princess!"
"Princess.. I guess I have."Â
She's already bending down to scoop her up, and Jack sees her shirt ride lower and lower down her shoulders until he's shamelessly leaning over to peek at the curves under her shirt.
"Jack." Her eyes are wide with wonder as she tilts her head sideways, similar to a curious puppy.
"Married. Remember, sweetheart?" He flashes his golden band with a wave.Â
As if that's a good excuse, he can hear her think.
"Mhm. But I have to introduce you properly first."
"It can't wait?" Now he's the whining dog.Â
She fully ignores him as she adjusts her shirt, cradling the kitten in her hold. The kitten claws into her shirt, attempting to make biscuits, conveniently at the spot where Jack was just admiring.
"Okay, now she gets to do that and I don't?"
"It's a boy." She has a smirk adorning her face as if she knowsâand she knows that Jack is jealous.Â
âEven better,â he mutters.Â
Jack huffs a sigh, gives Princess a dirty glance, and melts into the couch.Â
âI know we talked about getting a dog, but we both know that was never realistic with our schedules. So I just went into the shelter to look, and Jack, you wouldnât believe how long this poor guy was waiting to be adopted.âÂ
He knows all too well. Jack counts himself lucky to even have a wife, let alone one as wonderful as his own. Â
âItâs a trial periodâif you donât like him." Her voice quiets to a dejected whisper. "We can return him.âÂ
Jack takes a moment to glance at the kitten who's now fast asleep. Heâs a simple grey tabby with no defining features, well, except for the poor thingâs tail.Â
âWell,â he tentatively reaches a hand out to stroke the back of the curled-up cat. âYou seem very attracted to damaged creatures.âÂ
âNot damaged; you were never damaged.â
She gently maneuvers to settle the kitten onto a pillow on the armchair across from them, leaving him to stare at her shorts that are clinging tightly to her ass. She turns, already knowing what sheâs doing to him, as she saunters back over to him.Â
âYouâre perfect; youâll always be beautiful.âÂ
She crawls into his lap, arms strung around his neck; as she hovers right over his obvious problem, he takes the opportunity to slide one hand up her shirt and the other down her shorts. Â
âYouâre soaking, baby.âÂ
The featherlight touch of a finger runs between her folds as she keens at the attention to her aching core. Jack doesnât bother waiting before he hastily inserts two fingers into her pussy. As fast as they go in, they come out, and heâs already shoving the slick-covered digits into his own mouth.Â
Her head slumps against his chest in relief. âYouâre not any better,â she moans into his ear.Â
A broken meow interrupts them.Â
âFuck. Bedroom, Jack. Now.âÂ
He doesnât waste a second.Â
How to Fall in Love in Three Days
⥠Part I
Charles Leclerc x southern belle!Reader
Summary: youâre curvy, confident, and completely unprepared for the way a certain Ferrari driver forgets how to speak English the moment you climb out of the Mediterranean in that red bikini. Charles Leclerc turns into an absolute disaster around you. And honestly? Itâs the most endearing thing you've ever seen. (Featuring summer in Sardinia, yachts parked a little too close, and a racing driver who can handle 350 km/h but not the way you smile at him. This is going to be a problem.)
Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part II here đ
The Mediterranean sun beats down on the deck of Sedici, and Charles is exactly where he needs to be â nowhere. No strategy meetings, no simulator work, no debriefs about what went wrong. Just the gentle rock of the yacht, the sound of Joris and Andrea arguing about whether they should swim to that cove or the other cove, and the blessed absence of anything requiring him to think about apex speeds.
âIâm telling you, the water is better on the east side,â Joris insists, gesturing with a beer thatâs leaving condensation trails across the teak deck.
âYou said that yesterday, and there were jellyfish,â Andrea counters.
Charles sprawls across one of the sun loungers, arm thrown over his eyes, grinning. âThere were three jellyfish. You screamed like-â
âI did not scream-â
âYou absolutely screamed,â Arthur chimes in from the water, where heâs been floating on his back for the past twenty minutes. âI heard it from underwater.â
âIt was a tactical warning shout.â
âIs that what weâre calling it?â
Charles laughs, the kind of loose, easy laugh that only comes during summer break when the championship standings feel like someone elseâs problem. His mother had looked at him two weeks ago and said, âYou need to rest, chĂ©ri. You look tired.â She was right. Sheâs always right. So here he is, doing absolutely nothing, and itâs perfect.
Lorenzo surfaces near Arthur with a splash thatâs definitely intentional, based on Arthurâs indignant yelp. âThereâs another yacht coming in,â he announces, shaking water from his hair.
âOkay?â Charles doesnât open his eyes. Yachts come and go. Thatâs sort of how marinas work.
âBig one. American flag.â
âTrĂšs bien. Welcome to Sardinia, Americans.â
âSheâs parking close,â Lorenzo adds, which is unusual because thereâs plenty of space in this part of the bay, but whatever. Charles is too relaxed to care about maritime parking etiquette.
He must doze off for a bit because the next thing he knows, Joris is shaking his shoulder. âMate. Charles. You have to see this.â
âSee what?â Charles mumbles, not moving his arm from his face.
âJust trust me.â
Thereâs something in Jorisâs voice that makes Charles actually sit up, squinting against the brightness. âWhat am I looking-â
And then he sees you.
Youâre climbing out of the water onto the neighboring yachtâs swim platform, and Charles forgets how to finish his sentence. Actually, he might forget how to speak English entirely, which is concerning because he was relatively fluent in it this morning.
Youâre laughing at something someone on your yacht said, head thrown back, water streaming down your shoulders, your curves, catching the sunlight like diamonds. Your bikini is tiny and red and completely devastating to his ability to form coherent thoughts. Youâre not what anyone would call traditionally âyacht thinâ â youâre soft and round and real in ways that make his mouth go dry.
âCharles?â Joris waves a hand in front of his face. âYou okay?â
âIâyes. What?â
âYouâre staring.â
âIâm not.â He absolutely is.
You wring out your hair, and the movement does things to your silhouette that should probably be illegal in international waters. Youâre curvy in a way that makes him forget every type heâs ever claimed to have. His mind has gone completely blank except for a very loud internal voice screaming that he needs to meet you immediately.
âSheâs pretty,â Andrea observes, coming to stand next to them.
âPretty?â Charles finally tears his eyes away. âThatâsâsheâs-â What are words? He used to know words.
Joris grins, the bastard. âOh, this is amazing.â
âWhat is?â
âYouâve forgotten how to speak.â
âI can speak fine.â Even as he says it, he knows it sounds defensive. âI speak very good.â
ââVery good.â Wow. Eloquent.â
Arthur and Lorenzo have pulled themselves onto the deck now, both tracking Charlesâs line of sight. Arthur whistles low. âSheâs not your usual type.â
âI donât have a type,â Charles protests, but itâs weak. Everyone knows he has a type, or had a type, or thought he had a type until approximately three minutes ago when you climbed out of the Mediterranean looking like every summer fantasy he didnât know he had.
âSheâs American,â Lorenzo points out, as if this is a relevant concern.
âSo?â Charles is still watching you. Youâve wrapped a towel around your waist now, though it doesnât do much to help his concentration. Youâre talking to someone whoâs just emerged from the cabin. Older man, confident bearing, the kind of casual wealth that doesnât announce itself.
âSo your English gets weird when youâre nervous,â Arthur says.
âMy English is fine.â
âIs it though?â Joris grins wider. âSay something complex. Right now.â
âI hate all of you.â But Charles knows theyâre right. His English does get weird when heâs nervous. Or when heâs tired. Or, apparently, when thereâs a gorgeous woman on the neighboring yacht whoâs completely rewired his brain.
You disappear into the cabin, and Charles feels the loss like a physical thing.
âYou should go over there,â Andrea suggests.
âAnd say what? âHello, I forgot how to speak English because youâre in a bikini?ââ
âMaybe more subtle than that.â
âMaybe lead with your name,â Joris offers helpfully.
Lorenzo leans against the railing. âThe yacht is called Dynasty. Very American.â
âWhat does that mean?â Charles asks.
âMeans they have money. Old money, probably.â
You reappear with a drink in hand, settling onto one of their loungers, and Charles watches you tilt your face up to the sun. Thereâs something unselfconscious about the way you move, like youâre not performing for anyone, just existing in your body with complete ease. Itâs mesmerizing.
âOkay, new plan,â Joris says. âWe throw a party. Tonight. Invite the neighbors.â
âThatâs not subtle,â Andrea points out.
âIt doesnât have to be subtle. It has to get her on this yacht.â
Charles runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely not nervousness. âI donât even know if she speaks French.â
âSheâs American, she speaks English. You speak English. Mostly.â
âI speak perfect English.â
âSure you do, buddy.â Arthur claps him on the shoulder. âThatâs why youâre standing here like youâve been hit by a car instead of going over there.â
âIâm not-â Charles stops. âI just. I donât want to be weird.â
âToo late,â Lorenzo says cheerfully.
You laugh at something on your phone, and the sound carries across the water. Itâs bright and genuine and makes something in Charlesâs chest do a complicated thing that feels dangerous.
âSheâs probably not even single,â he mutters.
âOnly one way to find out.â
âBy throwing a party?â
âBy throwing a party,â Joris confirms. âOr you could swim over there right now and introduce yourself like a normal person.â
Charles looks at the gap between the yachts. Itâs maybe fifteen meters. He could do it easily. Heâs a good swimmer. He could just ⊠swim over. Say hello. Be normal.
Except youâre standing up now, stretching, and the movement makes your towel slip a little, and Charles forgets how to swim. He forgets how to do anything except stare like an idiot.
âIâll handle the party,â Joris says, pulling out his phone. âAndrea, youâre in charge of music. Lorenzo, Arthur â we need food. Lots of it.â
âWhatâs Charles in charge of?â Arthur asks.
âNot drowning in fifteen meters of water, apparently.â
âI hate you all,â Charles repeats, but thereâs no heat in it. Heâs too busy watching you settle back into your lounger, one leg bent, the other stretched out, like youâre posing for a painting titled Woman Who Has Destroyed a Racing Driverâs Peace of Mind.
Your father â it has to be your father â says something to you, and you respond with an animated gesture that makes it clear youâre telling a story. Charles wants to know the story. He wants to know all the stories. He wants to know why youâre in Sardinia and what you think about everything and whether you always laugh like that or if today is special.
âCharles.â
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYouâre doing it again,â Joris says.
âDoing what?â
âThe staring thing. Itâs intense, mate.â
âIâm justâIâm looking at the yacht. Itâs a nice yacht.â
âSure. The yacht. Thatâs what youâre looking at.â
Someone from your yacht â crew member, probably â brings you another drink, and you thank them with a smile that Charles feels in his knees. This is ridiculous. Heâs a Formula 1 driver. Heâs been on podiums in front of hundreds of thousands of people. Heâs done press conferences in four languages. He can talk to a woman on a neighboring yacht.
Probably.
Maybe.
You stand again, this time pulling off the towel, and Charles watches you dive into the water with a grace that seems impossible. You surface a few meters out, floating on your back, and he can see youâre comfortable in the water, natural in it, like you grew up on boats.
âOkay,â he says, surprising himself. âIâm going.â
âGoing where?â Andrea looks suspicious.
âSwimming. Itâs hot. Iâm going swimming.â
âUh-huh.â
âNear their yacht?â
âItâs a free ocean, Joris.â
His friends exchange glances that are extremely loud without being verbal.
âDonât be weird!â Arthur calls as Charles moves to the swim platform.
âIâm not weird!â
He dives in before he can overthink it, the water cool and perfect against his sun-heated skin. He surfaces, shakes his hair out, and starts swimming in your general direction. Casual. Easy. Just a guy swimming in the Mediterranean. Nothing strange about that.
Youâre floating maybe twenty meters from your yacht, eyes closed, completely relaxed. Charles swims closer, trying to figure out how to do this without seeming like a creep. Does he say something? Does he splash to announce his presence? Does he-
âIf youâre trying to sneak up on me, youâre not very good at it.â
Your voice startles him so badly he actually inhales some water and has to cough, which is absolutely not the first impression he wanted to make. Youâve opened your eyes and are treading water now, looking at him with amusement that makes his embarrassment about eight thousand times worse.
âI wasnât-â Cough. âI was just-â Cough. âSwimming.â
âUh-huh.â Youâre grinning now, and itâs not helping his ability to function. âYouâre on that yacht, right? Sedici?â
âYes. Iâm-â Oh God, whatâs his name? He has a name. He definitely has a name. âCharles.â
âY/N.â You extend your hand, which is a funny thing to do while treading water, but he shakes it anyway. Your skin is cool from the sea, your grip firm. âNice to meet you, Charles-from-Sedici.â
âJust Charles. Is okay. Fine. Just Charles is fine.â Dear God, someone end this.
But you just laugh, not meanly. âOkay, Just Charles. The waterâs nice, huh?â
âVery nice. Yes. Perfect for âŠâ Whatâs the word? Whatâs the thing you do in water? â⊠swimming.â
Your smile widens. âSwimming. Yeah, thatâs generally what you do in water.â
Behind him, he can hear Joris and the others trying to contain their laughter. Heâs going to murder all of them. After he figures out how to speak like a normal human.
âYouâre here on vacation?â He manages, which is actually a complete sentence. Progress.
âSort of. My familyâs boat. Weâre here for a few weeks. You?â
âSame. I mean, my boat. Not your familyâs. My boat. With friends.â
âI figured it probably wasnât my familyâs boat.â
Youâre teasing him. Youâre definitely teasing him, and somehow that makes it easier. He finds himself smiling back, even though heâs pretty sure he sounds like heâs having a stroke.
âWhere are you from?â He asks.
âTennessee. You?â
âMonaco.â
âFancy.â You flip onto your back again, floating. âNever been to Monaco.â
âNever been to Tennessee.â He wants to keep you talking. He also wants to rewind the last five minutes and start over with the ability to speak. âWhat brings you to Sardinia?â
âMy dad wanted to cruise the Mediterranean. Heâs obsessed with Italy. Weâve been island hopping.â You glance at him. âWhat about you?â
How does he explain summer shutdown without explaining Formula 1? Does he explain Formula 1? Do you know about Formula 1?
âWork break,â he settles on. âI needed to ⊠not think for a while.â
âI feel that.â Youâre quiet for a moment, just floating. âWhat do you do?â
Here it is. The moment where he has to decide. âIâm a racing driver.â
âLike NASCAR?â
âFormula 1.â
You flip back to treading water, looking at him with more interest. âOh, shit. Really?â
âReally.â
âThatâs so cool. I donât know much about it, but my dad watches sometimes. Says itâs pure chaos.â
Charles laughs, and it comes out more natural this time. âSometimes it is chaos, yes.â
âDo you like it?â
Itâs such a simple question, but no one asks it like that. Everyone asks if he loves it, if heâs going to win the championship, if he thinks Ferrari can turn it around. No one asks if he simply likes it.
âYes,â he says. âMost of the time.â
âAnd the other times?â
âThe other times I come here and try to remember how to be a person who doesnât think about tire deg and track limits.â
You laugh again, and Charles decides itâs his new favorite sound. âTire deg?â
âDegradation. How the tires wear down.â
âThat sounds stressful.â
âIt can be.â
You study him for a moment, and Charles tries not to feel like heâs under a magnifying glass. âYou seem pretty chill for someone with a stressful job.â
If only you knew that five minutes ago he forgot how to introduce himself. âSummer break is good for that.â
âWell, welcome to the neighborhood, Just Charles.â You start swimming back toward your yacht. âTry not to sneak up on any more unsuspecting swimmers.â
âI wasnât sneaking-â But youâre already moving away, and heâs not sure if youâre dismissing him or just ending the conversation naturally, and his brain is too scrambled to figure it out.
He swims back to Sedici, where his friends are absolutely not trying to look like they werenât watching the entire interaction.
âWell?â Joris asks as soon as Charles pulls himself onto the swim platform.
âWell what?â
âHow did it go?â
âIt went ⊠fine.â
âFine?â Andrea looks skeptical. âYou look like you got hit by a truck.â
âHer name is Y/N. Sheâs from Tennessee. Her family is here for a few weeks.â Charles grabs a towel, trying to act normal.
âAnd?â
âAnd what?â
âAnd are you going to see her again?â Arthur demands.
âI donât know. Maybe. She went back to her yacht.â
Lorenzo grins. âSo the party is definitely happening.â
âThe party is definitely happening,â Joris confirms.
Charles wants to protest, but honestly, the party is definitely happening. Because youâre on that yacht, probably drying off right now, probably not thinking about him at all, and heâs already trying to figure out how soon he can accidentally-on-purpose run into you again.
This is going to be a problem.
A wonderful, terrible, completely unavoidable problem.
***
Charles has changed shirts three times.
This is a fact that Joris will absolutely never let him forget, but here he is, standing in front of the mirror in his cabin, pulling off a linen button-down and reaching for a different linen button-down that looks essentially identical to the first one.
âTheyâre the same shirt,â Arthur says from the doorway.
âTheyâre not the same. This one is-â Charles gestures vaguely at the fabric. âDifferent.â
âDifferent how?â
âThe color.â
âTheyâre both white, mate.â
âThis one is more ⊠cream.â
Arthur stares at him. âYouâve lost your mind.â
âI havenât lost anything.â Charles pulls on the cream shirt â which does look better, actually â and tries to make his hair do something other than what itâs currently doing. âIs everyone here?â
âEveryone who said theyâd come. Plus like fifteen people no one invited.â
âHow did that happen?â
âBecause weâre in Sardinia in the middle of summer and word travels fast when thereâs a party on a yacht.â Arthur leans against the doorframe. âAlso I think Joris posted something on Instagram.â
âHe what?â
âRelax. He was subtle. Just a story with some music playing. You canât even tell itâs a party.â
Charles highly doubts this but doesnât have time to worry about it because according to his watch itâs already past nine and the party started at eight-thirty and you still havenât come over and maybe youâre not coming at all and maybe this entire thing was a terrible idea-
âSheâll come,â Arthur says, reading his mind.
âI donât know who youâre talking about.â
âSure you donât. Thatâs why youâve changed shirts three times.â
âTwice.â
âIâve been standing here for the third one.â
Charles gives up on his hair. Itâs going to do what it wants anyway. âHow do I look?â
âLike youâre trying too hard.â
âIâm not trying at all.â
âThen mission accomplished, I guess.â Arthur grins. âCome on. Youâre hiding in here and itâs your party.â
The deck of Sedici has been transformed in the six hours since Charles went for that disastrous swim. There are lights strung everywhere, casting everything in a warm golden glow. Someone â probably Andrea â has set up a sound system thatâs playing something electronic and French that Charles doesnât recognize but sounds appropriately yacht-party-esque. There are people everywhere, and Charles genuinely doesnât know where they all came from.
âWho are these people?â He mutters to Joris, whoâs holding court near the bar.
âFriends. Friends of friends. That Swedish model Arthur met yesterday. Her friends. Some Italians from the marina. A couple Brits from that catamaran.â Joris hands him a drink. âYouâre welcome.â
âFor what?â
âFor making this look like an actual party and not a desperate attempt to get your neighbor to come over.â
âI wasnât-â
âCharles. Mate. I love you, but youâre a terrible liar.â Joris claps him on the shoulder. âJust relax. Have fun. If she comes, she comes.â
But Charles canât relax because he keeps looking at Dynasty, trying to see if thereâs any activity, any sign that you might be getting ready to come over. The yachts are close enough that he can see people moving around on your deck, but itâs hard to tell in the fading light.
âStop staring,â Andrea says, appearing with a bottle of beer. âYou look creepy.â
âIâm not staring.â
âYouâre literally staring right now. Iâm watching you do it.â
Charles accepts the beer because his hands need something to do. Someone calls his name and he gets pulled into a conversation about the racing season that he absolutely doesnât want to have right now. He smiles and nods and says something about next year being the year, which is what he always says, and tries not to obviously keep looking toward Dynasty.
Forty-five minutes pass. Then an hour. Charles is starting to think youâre not coming, that maybe you just wanted to enjoy a quiet night on your own yacht, that maybe that conversation in the water was just politeness and nothing more-
âCharles.â
He turns, and Lorenzo is grinning at him with an expression that Charles immediately distrusts.
âWhat?â
âTender approaching.â
Charles very carefully does not run to the railing. He walks at a normal pace, like a normal person who is not desperately hoping to see a specific person stepping off a tender.
And then he sees you.
If the bikini earlier broke his brain, the dress youâre wearing now completely destroys it. Itâs short and black and clings to every curve, and youâre wearing heels that make your legs look about a mile long, and your hair is down and loose and catching the light from the string lights, and Charles forgets English. Then he forgets French. Then Italian. Then every other language heâs ever known, including the ones he made up with Arthur when they were kids.
âBreathe,â Joris murmurs next to him.
Charles realizes heâs actually forgotten to do that too.
Youâre climbing onto the swim platform now, laughing at something the tender driver said, and then youâre on the deck and looking around with undisguised curiosity. Your eyes land on Charles, and you smile â actually smile at him â and heâs pretty sure his heart does something medically concerning.
âHi,â you say, walking over. âHope itâs okay I crashed.â
âNo! I mean yes. I mean-â Charles takes a breath. âYouâre welcome. Very welcome. Weâre happy youâre here.â
âWe?â You tease, glancing around. âThis is quite a party for someone who needed to not think for a while.â
âMy friends,â Charles gestures vaguely at Joris and the others, âthey are very social.â
âI can see that.â You accept a drink from Andrea, whoâs materialized with impeccable timing. âThanks. Iâm Y/N.â
âAndrea. This is Joris, thatâs Lorenzo, and Arthur youâll meet when heâs done pretending heâs not staring at the Swedish girl.â
You laugh, and Charles wants to record the sound. âQuite a crew youâve got.â
âTheyâre terrible,â Charles says, which makes you laugh again, and okay, maybe he can do this. Maybe he can be normal.
âSo Charles-from-Sedici,â you say, turning those eyes on him fully. âGive me the tour?â
âTour. Yes. I can do tour.â Subject and verb. Heâs basically fluent.
He leads you around the deck, hyper-aware of how close youâre walking, how your perfume smells like something expensive and summery, how your dress moves when you walk. He shows you the main deck, tries to remember the names of the various pieces of equipment, and definitely says âhelmâ when he means âbowâ at one point.
âYou okay?â You ask, and thereâs amusement in your voice but also something that might be concern.
âYes. Good. Just-â He gestures at the party. âLoud.â
âWe can go somewhere quieter if you want.â
This seems like a monumentally dangerous idea for his ability to form sentences, but Charles nods anyway. âUpper deck?â
You follow him up the stairs, your heels clicking on the steps, and Charles tries very hard not to think about the fact that heâs leading you away from the party to a quieter, more private space. This is fine. This is normal. People do this at parties all the time.
The upper deck is empty and quieter, the party sounds floating up but muted. You lean against the railing, looking out at the lights of the other yachts, and Charles stands next to you trying to remember how conversations work.
âThis is nice,â you say. âThe whole setup. Sardinia. Must be a good life.â
âSometimes.â He takes a sip of his beer. âYour yacht is very beautiful too.â
âMy parentsâ yacht,â you correct. âIâm just along for the ride.â
âWhat do they do? Your parents?â
âMy dad owns a football team. American football. The Tennessee Titans.â
Charles blinks. He knows that name. âThatâs ⊠big.â
âYeah, heâs done pretty well for himself.â You donât say it like youâre bragging, just stating a fact. âOld Southern money mixed with new sports money. Itâs a whole thing.â
âAnd you?â
âMe?â You turn to look at him. âIâm still figuring that out, honestly. Just finished grad school. MBA. Not sure I want to do the corporate thing, though.â
âWhat do you want to do?â
You consider this, swirling your drink. âSomething that matters. I donât know what yet. Maybe work with the team, maybe something else. My dad wants me to learn the business side, but âŠâ You trail off. âSorry, this is probably boring.â
âNo.â Charles says it too quickly, too intensely. âNot boring. I want to know.â
You study him for a moment, and Charles tries not to feel like youâre seeing through every awkward word to the disaster underneath.
âWhat about you?â You ask. âFormula 1 driver. Thatâs got to be intense.â
âIt can be.â
âDo you love it?â
Thereâs that question again. You ask it like it matters, like the answer is important.
âYes,â he says. âBut sometimes I think I love the idea of it more than the reality.â
âWhatâs the idea?â
âThe speed. The competition. The feeling when everything goes right and youâre on the limit and itâs just ⊠perfect.â Heâs talking with his hands now, canât help it. âBut the reality is a lot of â how do you say â politics. And pressure. And people always wanting something.â
âLike what?â
âWins. Championships. Perfection.â He laughs, but it sounds bitter even to his own ears. âSorry. This is a party. I should not be so âŠâ
âHonest?â You supply. âI like honest.â
Thereâs a moment where youâre both just looking at each other, and Charles thinks maybe he should say something smooth or charming or at least coherent, but then someone calls his name from below and the moment breaks.
âCharles! Where are you? Some guy wants to take photos!â
He sighs. âI should-â
âGo be famous?â Youâre smiling. âItâs fine. Iâll come with you.â
Back down at the party, there is indeed some guy with a camera who wants photos, and then there are more people who want to say hello, and Charles gets pulled into conversation after conversation while trying to keep track of where you are. Youâre talking to Andrea now, then Joris, then youâre laughing at something Arthur is saying, and Charles is stuck nodding along to someoneâs opinion about Ferrariâs strategy calls while wanting to be literally anywhere else.
â-donât you think, Charles?â
âSorry, what?â
The guy â Italian, yacht owner, something about his family making tiles â looks mildly offended. âAbout the upgrades? At Silverstone?â
âOh. Yes. They were ⊠good. Better than before.â Charles has no idea what this guy just said. âExcuse me one moment.â
He extracts himself and finally makes his way back to you. Youâre standing near the railing again, looking at the water, and something about your posture makes him think you might be ready to leave.
âHey,â he says softly, not wanting to startle you.
You turn, and your smile is genuine. âHey yourself. Popular guy.â
âSorry about that.â
âDonât apologize. Itâs your party.â You set down your empty glass. âI should probably get going anyway. Itâs late.â
âNo! I mean-â Charles scrambles for a reason for you to stay. âWe have food. Have you eaten?â
âI ate on the boat.â
âDessert? We have dessert.â
You laugh. âDo you even know what dessert you have?â
He doesnât. He has no idea. âGood dessert. Italian dessert.â
âCompelling argument.â
âPlease,â he says, and it comes out more desperate than he intended. âStay a little longer?â
You tilt your head, considering. âOkay. But you have to actually talk to me instead of getting pulled away every five minutes.â
âDeal. I promise. No more interruptions.â
He leads you to the seating area at the stern where itâs quieter, and Andrea â bless him â appears with what looks like tiramisu and two spoons without being asked. Charles makes a mental note to never make fun of Andreaâs organizational skills again.
âSo,â you say, taking a bite of the dessert and making an appreciative sound that Charles definitely doesnât think about. âTell me something real.â
âReal?â
âYeah. Not the PR version. The actual version.â You gesture with your spoon. âWhatâs it actually like? Formula 1?â
Charles takes a moment, trying to figure out how to explain it. âItâs like ⊠you know when you dream youâre flying? And it feels incredible but also terrifying because you might fall?â
âYeah.â
âItâs like that. But the fall is very public and everyone has opinions about it.â
âThat sounds awful.â
âSometimes it is.â He takes a bite of tiramisu. âBut sometimes you nail a qualifying lap and itâs perfect and everything else goes away.â
âDo you get nervous? Before races?â
âEvery time.â
âReally?â You sound surprised. âYou seem so confident.â
âThatâs the job. Confidence is part of the job.â He smiles. âInside Iâm usually thinking âplease donât crash, please donât crash.ââ
You laugh, and Charles feels absurdly proud of himself for making it happen. âI feel like thatâs probably smart when youâre driving three hundred kilometers an hour.â
âThree-fifty sometimes.â
âJesus.â You shake your head. âThatâs insane. Youâre insane.â
âMaybe a little.â
âDefinitely a lot.â
You talk for another hour, maybe more. Charles loses track of time somewhere between you asking about Monaco and him asking about Tennessee and discovering that youâre funny in a dry, unexpected way that keeps catching him off guard. You tell him about growing up with football players the size of houses and learning that Southern hospitality is a specific kind of warfare. He tells you about karting as a kid and how his dad used to drive him all over Europe in a van.
âThatâs sweet,â you say. âMy dad just threw money at things.â
âDid it work?â
âI mean, I got an MBA, so I guess?â You shrug. âBut I donât know if it made me happy.â
âAre you happy?â
âRight now? Yeah.â You meet his eyes. âThis is nice. Youâre nice.â
Charlesâs brain short-circuits again. âIâthank you. Youâre nice too. Very nice. The most-â Stop talking. âNice.â
Youâre grinning now. âDid you just call me the most nice?â
âEnglish is not my first language.â
âWhat would you say in French?â
âThat youâre âŠâ He switches languages without thinking. âTu es belle. Et drĂŽle. Et je ne peux pas penser correctement quand tu me regardes comme ça.â
âI donât speak French.â
âThatâs probably good.â
âWhat did you say?â
âThat the dessert is very good.â
âLiar.â But youâre smiling, and Charles thinks maybe you know exactly what he said.
The party has thinned out significantly. People are leaving, calling out goodbyes, and Charles realizes with something like panic that youâll probably leave too, and he still hasnâtâhe needs toâhe should-
âI should go,â you say, confirming his fears. âItâs late and I promised my dad I wouldnât stay out too late.â
âWait-â Charles stands when you do. âCan Iâwould you want to-â
You wait patiently while he tries to remember how to ask someone out.
âTomorrow,â he finally manages. âCan I see you tomorrow?â
âLike from my yacht? You could wave.â
âNo. I mean yes. I mean-â Deep breath. âDinner. Would you want to have dinner? With me?â
âAre you asking me on a date, Just Charles?â
His heart is hammering. âYes. I think so. Is it working?â
You laugh, and itâs not mean, just delighted. âYeah. Itâs working. Where?â
âThereâs a restaurant. In Porto Cervo. Itâs on the water. Very good food.â Heâs talking too fast. âI can pick you up. With the tender. At seven?â
âSeven works.â Youâre already walking toward the swim platform, and Charles follows like a puppy. âText me the details?â
âI donât have your number.â
âThen how will you text me?â Youâre definitely teasing him now.
âIâcan I have your number?â
You take his phone and type it in, and Charles watches your fingers move across the screen and thinks about absolutely nothing else. You hand it back, and your fingers brush his, and his brain flatlines.
âText me so I have yours,â you say.
Charles types out a message with hands that are definitely not shaking. âSent.â
âPerfect.â You step onto the swim platform, and the tender driver helps you in. âSee you tomorrow, Charles.â
âTomorrow,â he echoes.
Youâre pulling away, the tender cutting through the dark water, and Charles stands there watching until your boat reaches Dynasty and youâre climbing aboard and disappearing from view.
âSo,â Joris says from behind him. âThat looked like it went well.â
Charles turns. His friends and brothers are standing there with identical shit-eating grins.
âHow long have you been there?â
âLong enough to hear you completely butcher asking her out,â Arthur says. âThat was painful, mate.â
âBut effective,â Andrea adds. âShe said yes.â
âShe said yes,â Charles repeats, and itâs hitting him now that tomorrow night he has to actually take you to dinner and be charming for an entire evening and not sound like heâs having a stroke.
âYouâre panicking,â Lorenzo observes. âI can see you panicking.â
âIâm not panicking.â
âYou absolutely are.â
âWhat if I forget how to speak again?â
âThen mime,â Joris suggests unhelpfully. âWomen love mimes.â
âI hate all of you.â
âYou love us,â Arthur corrects. âAnd we just helped you get a date with the gorgeous girl from the neighboring yacht, so youâre welcome.â
Charles pulls out his phone and looks at your contact. Youâve entered your name as Y/N (the most nice) and he groans.
âShe remembered that?â
âShe definitely remembered that,â Andrea confirms.
âIâm never speaking English again.â
âToo late. You have a date tomorrow. In English.â
âMaybe I can convince her to learn French overnight.â
âThat seems realistic,â Joris says. âOr, and hear me out, you could just relax and be yourself.â
âMyself forgets how to talk when sheâs around.â
âThen be the version of yourself who remembers words. Fake it till you make it.â
Charles looks back at Dynasty. The lights are still on, and he can see figures moving around on the deck. Maybe you. Maybe not. Tomorrow heâll know for sure. Tomorrow he has to pick you up and take you to dinner and somehow convince you that heâs worth a second date despite the fact that he apparently loses seventy IQ points whenever youâre within ten meters.
This is going to be a disaster.
A wonderful, terrifying, completely unavoidable disaster.
âI need to plan what to say,â he announces.
âOh no,â Arthur mutters.
âIâll make a list. Topics of conversation. In English. Iâll practice.â
âPlease donât do that,â Lorenzo begs.
âI have to do something. I canât just show up and forget how to speak.â
âYou could try just having a normal conversation,â Andrea suggests. âLike you did tonight. That seemed to work pretty well.â
But Charles is already pulling up his notes app, typing out conversation starters, and his friends exchange looks that very clearly say they think heâs doomed.
Maybe he is.
But you said yes.
And tomorrow night, heâll figure out how to string enough words together to make you say yes again.
***
Charles has been awake since five-thirty in the morning, which is absolutely insane because the date isnât until seven in the evening and heâs already running through everything that could possibly go wrong.
âYouâre pacing,â Joris observes from where heâs sprawled on one of the deck loungers, wearing sunglasses despite it being barely sunrise. âItâs annoying.â
âIâm not pacing.â
âYouâve walked past me seventeen times in the last ten minutes. Thatâs pacing.â
Charles stops mid-step. âIâm just ⊠thinking.â
âYouâre spiraling. Thereâs a difference.â Joris pushes his sunglasses up to look at him properly. âItâs a dinner date. Youâve been on dates before.â
âNot like this.â
âWhatâs different about this one?â
Everything, Charles wants to say. The way you laugh. The way you looked at him last night like he was interesting instead of just famous. The way his brain stops working when youâre around. The way heâs pretty sure heâd drive the tender straight into a dock if you smiled at him while he was steering.
âNothing,â he says instead. âItâs the same.â
âTerrible liar.â Joris closes his eyes again. âJust be yourself. The version of yourself who can complete sentences.â
âWhat if that version doesnât show up?â
âThen youâll have a very quiet dinner.â
Charles resumes pacing.
By noon, heâs tried on six different outfits. By two, Andrea has physically removed him from his cabin and forced him to go swimming to âcalm the fuck down.â By four, Lorenzo has confiscated his phone because he keeps reading and re-reading your text messages like they contain secret codes.
âThereâs nothing to decode,â Lorenzo says, holding the phone out of reach. âShe said âlooking forward to tonightâ with a smiley face. Thatâs good. Thatâs a good text.â
âBut what kind of smiley face? Is it just polite or is it-â
âItâs a smiley face, Charles. It means sheâs smiling. Thatâs literally what it means.â
âYou donât understand.â
âI understand that youâre being insane.â
Arthur appears with a beer. âStill spiraling?â
âAggressively,â Lorenzo confirms.
âMaybe we should cancel,â Charles says. âI could tell her Iâm sick. Food poisoning. Everyone gets food poisoning on vacation.â
âYouâre not canceling,â all three of them say in unison.
âBut what if-â
âNo.â Joris sits up. âListen to me. You are going on this date. You are going to be charming and funny and yourself. You are going to have a good time. And you are not going to fall into the ocean or forget your name or spontaneously combust.â
âThose are very specific concerns,â Arthur mutters.
âIâm covering all the bases.â
By six oâclock, Charles is showered, dressed in linen pants and a blue button-down that everyone agreed âbrings out his eyesâ (which felt like a weird thing for five grown men to discuss but here they are), and staring at himself in the mirror trying to remember how to be normal.
âYou look good,â Andrea says from the doorway. âStop messing with your hair.â
âItâs not sitting right.â
âItâs fine. Itâs hair. Itâs sitting the way hair sits.â Andrea comes in and physically turns Charles away from the mirror. âYou need to leave now or youâll be late.â
âWhat if Iâm too early?â
âThen youâll wait. Like a normal person.â
âWhat if-â
âCharles.â Andrea puts both hands on his shoulders. âBreathe. Youâve got this. She already likes you. She said yes to the date. The hard part is over.â
Charles nods, not at all convinced that the hard part is over. The hard part feels like itâs just beginning and will continue for the next three to four hours until he hopefully manages to get through dinner without embarrassing himself.
The tender is waiting, and Charles climbs in with legs that feel unreliably stable. Joris gives him a thumbs up from the deck. Arthur salutes. Lorenzo shouts something that sounds like âdonât drown!â which is extremely unhelpful.
The short ride to Dynasty feels both too long and too short. Charlesâs heart is hammering as he pulls up to their swim platform, where one of the crew members is waiting.
âEvening,â the guy says â American accent, probably early thirties, professional smile. âYou must be Charles. Iâll let the family know youâre here.â
Family. Right. Your father is on that yacht. Your father who owns an NFL team and probably has very specific opinions about who his daughter dates and Charles is going to have to make conversation with him and/
âCharles!â
He looks up, and youâre there at the railing, and his brain immediately flatlines.
Youâre wearing a dress thatâs somehow both casual and devastating â white, flowing, with thin straps that show off your shoulders and arms, hitting just above your knee. Your hair is pulled back on one side, and youâre wearing gold jewelry that catches the early evening light, and Charles forgets every single conversation topic he spent all day memorizing.
âHi,â he manages.
âHi yourself.â Youâre smiling as you make your way down to the swim platform. âRight on time.â
âIâmâyes. Time. Iâm on it.â
You laugh, and Charles wants to die a little. Behind you, an older man appears â tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that suggests heâs used to owning rooms. Your father.
âDad, this is Charles,â you say. âCharles, this is my dad, Y/F/N Y/L/N.â
Charles extends his hand, trying to remember how handshakes work. âNice to meet you, sir.â
âLikewise.â Your fatherâs grip is firm, assessing. âY/N tells me youâre a Formula 1 driver.â
âYes, sir. For Ferrari.â
âFerrari.â Your father nods approvingly. âI respect that. Classic team. Though Iâve got to say, Iâm more of a Mercedes man myself.â
Charles isnât sure if heâs being tested. âTheyâre ⊠very good. Very fast.â
âDad, stop interrogating him,â you say, but thereâs affection in your voice. âWeâre going to be late for our reservation.â
âJust making conversation.â Your father looks at Charles. âYouâll have her back at a reasonable hour?â
âDad.â
âIâm just asking.â
âWeâre not in high school.â
âHumor your old man.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling. âIâll be back when Iâm back. Donât wait up.â
Your father chuckles and extends his hand to Charles again. âTake care of my girl.â
âI will, sir. I promise.â
Charles helps you into the tender â you take his hand and step down gracefully despite your heels â and then heâs starting the engine and pulling away from Dynasty while very aware that your father is probably watching them leave.
âSorry about him,â you say once theyâre clear of the yacht. âHe thinks heâs intimidating.â
âHe is a little intimidating.â
âReally?â You sound delighted. âIâll tell him. Heâll love that.â
The restaurant is only about fifteen minutes away by tender, right on the water in Porto Cervo with a private dock for boats. Charles has been here before â the food is incredible, the atmosphere is romantic without being stuffy, and most importantly, itâs not the kind of place where people will bother him for photos every five minutes.
Heâs pulling up to the dock when he realizes heâs been so focused on not crashing the tender that he hasnât said anything for the entire ride.
âSorry,â he blurts out as he ties off. âI should have talked. During the ride. I justâI wanted to make sure we didnât crash.â
âInto what?â You look around at the completely empty water. âThe air?â
âThere could have been ⊠obstacles.â
âIn the middle of the sea?â
âItâs better to be careful.â
Youâre grinning now as he helps you onto the dock. âYouâre nervous.â
âIâm not nervous.â
âYouâre definitely nervous.â
âIâm justâI want tonight to be nice. Good. Perfect.â He realizes heâs still holding your hand and drops it quickly. âSorry.â
âStop apologizing.â You link your arm through his instead. âAnd relax. Itâs just dinner.â
Just dinner. Right. Just dinner with the most beautiful woman heâs ever seen who makes him forget how to speak in multiple languages. Totally casual.
The restaurant is everything Charles hoped it would be â soft lighting, tables scattered across a terrace overlooking the water, string lights creating a warm glow, the sound of jazz playing quietly in the background. The host recognizes him immediately but is professional about it, just a quick âWelcome back, Mr. Leclercâ before leading them to a corner table with a perfect view of the sunset.
âThis is gorgeous,â you say, settling into your chair. âHow did you find this place?â
âI came here last summer with my family.â Charles accepts a menu from the waiter. âThe food is incredible. Everything is fresh. Local.â
âWhat do you recommend?â
âThe pasta alle vongole is very good. And the branzino. Actually, everything is good. You canât go wrong.â
âThatâs helpful,â you tease. âSo just point at the menu randomly?â
âYes. Exactly. Thatâs a perfect strategy.â
You laugh, and Charles feels some of the tension in his chest ease. Maybe he can do this. Maybe itâll be fine.
The waiter comes back, and you order the pasta while Charles gets the branzino, and they share a bottle of white wine that the waiter recommends. Once theyâre alone again, you prop your chin on your hand and look at him in a way that makes him extremely aware of every single thing about himself.
âSo,â you say. âTell me about Monaco.â
âMonaco? Itâs ⊠small. Very small. You can walk across it in an hour.â
âDo you like living there?â
Charles considers this. âItâs home. But sometimes I miss ⊠space. You canât really have space in Monaco.â
âDo you need space?â
âSometimes I think I do. Other times I like that everything is close.â He takes a sip of wine. âWhat about Tennessee? Do you like it?â
âItâs complicated.â You lean back as the waiter sets down bread and olive oil. âI love it because itâs home and my family is there. But it also feels ⊠small sometimes. Not physically. Just like everyone knows who you are and has expectations.â
âI understand that.â
âYeah?â You meet his eyes. âI guess you would. The whole F1 thing.â
âItâs not the same. Your father, he built something. Iâm just driving a car.â
âJust driving a car.â You shake your head. âI watched some videos today. Of you racing. Itâs insane what you do.â
Charles feels heat creep up his neck. âYou watched videos?â
âOf course I watched videos. I wanted to see if you were actually good or just cocky.â
âAnd?â
âYouâre actually good.â You tear off a piece of bread. âAlso maybe a little cocky. You smiled at the camera after that overtake at â where was it? Austria?â
He remembers that overtake. Remembers the rush of it, the satisfaction. âThat was a good move.â
âYou went on the grass!â
âJust a little bit on the grass.â
âYour wheel was completely off the track!â
âBut I made the corner.â Heâs grinning now. âAnd I didnât crash.â
âThatâs your bar? Not crashing?â
âIn Formula 1, thatâs a very respectable bar.â
You laugh, and Charles thinks he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life and never get tired of it.
The food arrives, and itâs every bit as good as Charles remembered. You insist on trying his fish, so he tries your pasta, and somehow they end up sharing both plates between them while talking about everything and nothing â your MBA program, his training schedule, your complicated relationship with Southern society, his even more complicated relationship with Italian media.
âThey love you or hate you,â he explains. âThereâs no middle ground. One race youâre a hero, the next youâre the reason everything is wrong with Ferrari.â
âThat sounds exhausting.â
âIt is. But itâs also-â He searches for the word. âMotivating? When they say you canât do something, you want to prove them wrong.â
âSpite as motivation. I respect that.â
âWhat motivates you?â
You think about this, swirling the wine in your glass. âHonestly? Iâm still figuring that out. I did the MBA because it seemed like the smart thing to do. My dad wanted me to understand the business. But now I have it and Iâm not sure what I want to do with it.â
âYou have time to figure it out.â
âEveryone keeps saying that. But Iâm twenty-six. Shouldnât I know by now?â
âIâm twenty-seven and I still donât know what I want to be when I grow up.â
âYouâre a Formula 1 driver.â
âBut is that who I am or just what I do?â Charles surprises himself with the question. He doesnât usually talk like this. âSometimes I think if I stopped racing tomorrow, I wouldnât know who I was.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, and Charles worries heâs said too much, gotten too heavy for a first date. But then you reach across the table and squeeze his hand.
âI think youâd figure it out,â you say softly. âYou seem like someone who would.â
The sunset has painted the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the lights of the other boats are starting to glow across the water. The waiter comes by to clear their plates and suggest dessert, and Charles orders the panna cotta because you canât come to Italy and not have panna cotta, and you get the tiramisu because youâre âdeveloping a tiramisu addiction since arriving in this country.â
âItâs only been a few weeks,â Charles points out.
âA few weeks of very good tiramisu. Donât judge me.â
âIâm not judging. Tiramisu addiction is very reasonable.â
You talk through dessert, through coffee, through the restaurant slowly emptying around them until Charles realizes with a start that theyâre one of only two tables left and itâs past eleven.
âWe should go,â he says reluctantly. âBefore they kick us out.â
âWould they kick out Charles Leclerc?â
âThey would kick out anyone when they want to close.â
The tender ride back is different than the ride there. You sit close to him this time, close enough that he can smell your perfume over the salt air, close enough that when the boat hits a wave you grab his arm to steady yourself and donât let go after.
Charles drives slower than necessary. Heâs not ready for the night to end. Isnât ready to drop you off at Dynasty and go back to Sedici and spend the rest of the night reliving every moment and analyzing every word.
âThis was really nice,â you say as Porto Cervoâs lights fade behind you. âLike, really really nice.â
âReally really nice?â Charles glances at you. âThatâs two reallys. Thatâs very many reallys.â
âIt was a two-really kind of night.â
âGood. I wantedâI hoped it would be good.â
âYour English gets better when you relax,â you observe. âEarlier you were speaking in fragments. Now youâre using complete sentences.â
âEarlier I was terrified.â
âOf what? Me?â
âYes. No. Not of you. Of-â How does he explain this? âOf messing up. Of saying the wrong thing. Of you deciding Iâm stupid and boring.â
âCharles.â You shift to face him more fully. âYouâre not stupid or boring. Youâre sweet and interesting and funny when youâre not overthinking everything.â
âI overthink a lot.â
âI noticed.â Youâre smiling. âItâs kind of endearing actually.â
âEndearing like a puppy or endearing like someone you might want to see again?â
âDefinitely the second one.â
Charlesâs heart does something complicated in his chest. âReally?â
âReally.â
âThatâs only one really.â
âIâm rationing them. Canât give you all the reallys on the first date.â
âWhat about a second date?â
âAre you asking me on a second date before the first one is even over?â
âIs that wrong?â
âNo.â You touch his arm. âItâs actually really really really nice.â
âThree reallys.â
âDonât let it go to your head.â
But Charles is grinning like an idiot, and he doesnât even care. Dynasty is coming up ahead â he can see it lit up against the dark water, can see Sedici next to it, can see this perfect night coming to an end.
He pulls up to your swim platform as gently as possible, killing the engine and tying off. The crew member from earlier is there, offering his hand to help you up, but you ignore him and turn to Charles instead.
âThank you for tonight,â you say. âFor dinner and the boat ride and the conversation and everything.â
âThank you for saying yes. For coming. For-â Charlesâs brain is short-circuiting again because youâre very close and looking at him in a way that makes him forget how words work. âFor being you.â
âFor being me?â Youâre smiling. âThatâs smooth.â
âIâm not smooth. Iâm the opposite of smooth. Iâmâwhatâs the opposite of smooth?â
âRough?â
âIâm very rough.â
You laugh, and then youâre leaning in, and Charlesâs entire body goes rigid because is this happening? Is this actually happening?
You kiss his cheek â soft and quick and devastating â and Charles forgets heâs on a boat.
He jerks back in surprise, his foot catches on the rope, his arms windmill in a way thatâs absolutely not graceful, and then heâs falling backward into the Mediterranean with a splash thatâs probably audible from shore.
The water is shockingly cold and also heâs an idiot and also heâs definitely just ruined everything.
He surfaces, sputtering, to find you leaning over the edge of the tender with your hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
âOh my god! Charles! Are you okay?â
âIâm fine!â He tries to sound casual while treading water in his nice dinner clothes. âThis is fine. I meant to do that.â
âYou meant to fall into the ocean?â
âIt was hot. I was hot. This is ⊠refreshing.â
Youâre trying not to laugh â he can see you trying â but then you lose the battle and double over, and Charles canât even be embarrassed because the sound of your laughter is worth being soaking wet in the middle of the night.
âIâm so sorry,â you gasp. âI shouldnât laugh. Are you actually okay?â
âMy pride is wounded but everything else works.â He swims back to the tender. âCan we pretend this didnât happen?â
âAbsolutely not. Iâm telling everyone.â
âPlease donât tell everyone.â
âIâm already composing the story in my head.â Youâre grinning as you reach down to help pull him up. âSo there I was, on this romantic date, and I kissed his cheek, and he literally fell into the ocean.â
Charles hauls himself back into the tender, water streaming off him, his nice shirt completely ruined. âIt was a very surprising kiss.â
âI can see that.â
âI didnât expect it.â
âClearly.â
âYouâre very beautiful and I wasnât prepared.â
You stop laughing at that, and something shifts in your expression. âYou think Iâm beautiful?â
âYouâyes. Obviously. Very beautiful. Have you seen you?â Charles is shivering now, whether from cold or nerves heâs not sure. âThe most beautiful. Thatâs why I fell. Because of the beautiful.â
âBecause of the beautiful,â you repeat, and youâre not laughing anymore, just looking at him with soft eyes. âYouâre soaking wet.â
âI noticed that, yes.â
âAnd youâre shivering.â
âItâs fine. Iâm fine.â
âYou should go back to your yacht and change.â
âI should.â But he doesnât move. Neither do you.
âCharles?â
âYes?â
âFor the record, I think youâre beautiful too. Even when youâre dripping seawater all over your boat.â
His heart stutters. âReally?â
âReally really.â
âThatâs two reallys.â
âI know.â You lean down â carefully this time, probably to avoid causing another maritime disaster â and kiss his cheek again, slower. âGoodnight, Charles.â
âGoodnight,â he manages.
You climb onto your swim platform, and the crew member is definitely trying not to smirk as he helps you up. You turn back once, wave, and then youâre gone, disappearing into Dynasty, and Charles is sitting in the tender soaking wet and probably in shock.
He somehow makes it back to Sedici where Joris is waiting on the swim platform.
âHow did-â Joris takes in Charlesâs soaked clothes and dripping hair. âWhat the fuck happened to you?â
âI fell in the ocean.â
âI can see that. Why?â
âShe kissed me.â
âShe kissed you so you jumped in the ocean?â
âI didnât jump. I fell. Thereâs a difference.â
âThatâs the difference youâre focused on right now?â
Charles climbs onto the deck, leaving puddles everywhere. âShe said yes to a second date.â
âBefore or after you fell in?â
âBefore. Technically during? I donât know. Time was confusing.â He starts walking toward his cabin. âI need to change.â
âCharles.â
âWhat?â
âDid you have a good time? Before the ocean incident?â
Charles thinks about your laugh, your smile, the way you held his hand across the table, the softness in your eyes when you called him beautiful.
âThe best time,â he says. âThe absolute best time.â
Heâs halfway to his cabin when his phone buzzes. A text from you. Sorry for making you fall into the sea. Still want that second date?
Charles types back with shaking hands. Yes. Tomorrow?
Your response is immediate. Eager much?
Very eager. Too eager?
No. Tomorrow works. But maybe we stay on land this time.
Probably safer.
Definitely safer. Goodnight, Charles.
Goodnight, Y/N.
He falls asleep with his phone in his hand and a smile on his face, and if his dreams involve you and boats and not falling into the ocean, well, thatâs between him and the Mediterranean.
â Part II
The Lion and The Flame
Pairing: Boxer!Max x Reader
Summary: You joined a beginnerâs boxing class to rebuild after a breakup. Heâs the undefeated underground fighter who never loses, but you knock the wind out of him anyway.
A/N: Something a bit different... maybe a potential series? Let me know what you think đ„đ«¶đŒ
3.2k words / Masterlist
You joined the gym to hit something that wouldnât hit back.
Not to meet a man who could ruin you with one look.
You just needed somewhere to put the ache. Somewhere to bury the noise.
It started small with a flyer tacked to a corkboard at your usual coffee shop: âBeginnerâs Boxing: Build Strength, Confidence, and Community!ââ
You didnât even read past that. You were still raw from the breakup, heart a bruised peach in your chest. You could still hear your friends voice in you head saying, âTry something new. Channel the energy.â So you did.
Two weeks in and youâre still the slowest one in class, still tripping over your own feet sometimes, but youâre getting better. Your formâs sharper, more precise, more in control. Your punches sound less like hesitant taps and more like you mean it. You like the way it makes you feel⊠powerful, in a world thatâs made you feel small lately.
Then one night heâs there.
Youâre staying late because itâs the only time the gym is quiet enough for you to practice without fearing judgment. The gym's mostly empty just the rhythmic hum of the industrial fan and the creak of the old heavy bag swinging back at you.
Youâre mid combo, jab, cross, hook, when you feel it. A shift in the air. Like electricity crawling up your spine.
You turn. Heâs leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed. Arms crossed over his chest. Hood pulled low over his brow. Watching.
âUhââ you fumble with your wraps. âSorry, is this your time? I can go.â
âNo.â His voice is low. Gravel and smoke. âKeep going.â
You blink. âYou⊠work here?â
He steps out of the shadows and under the flickering lights you finally see him. Sweatshirt soaked at the collar. Tape unraveling from torn knuckles. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His face is all edges and intention, and his eyes, God, his eyes. Like a storm barely leashed. Something feral. Something alive.
You recognise him.
Not from class.
From whispers. From rumours. From the crowdâs roar behind warehouse doors. Underground fights. The undefeated. The king of the ring they call the lion. Youâd heard the stories, brutal, unbelievable. A fighter who didnât just win but devoured. You never put a name to the face until now, you just know instinctively its him.
âYouâre Max,â you murmur.
His brow lifts, not entirely surprised you already know his name. âAnd youâreâŠ?â
âY/N,â you say, almost defensive. âIâm new.â
He steps closer and your breath stumbles in your throat. He smells like leather and sweat and something darker. Not cologne⊠experience.
âYeah,â he says, gaze dropping to your stance. âI figured. You hit like someone trying not to.â
Your stomach twists. âI am trying.â
âI know. Thatâs why I stayed.â
You tilt you head. âWhat do you mean?â
He shrugs. âWanted to see if youâd give up.â
You straighten, muscles stiff with pride. âWhy would I give up?â
He smiles, small, amused. âPeople usually do when it hurts.â
âIt already hurts,â you mutter, wrapping your wrist tighter. âI just want it to matter.â
That makes him pause.
He watches you like heâs trying to figure out what kind of flame you are, the kind that warms or the kind that burns. You donât even realise youâre holding your breath until he nods once and moves past you, right behind the bag, holding it steady.
âThen hit it again,â he says. âThis time like you mean it.â
So you do.
Thatâs how it begins.
He doesnât train you.
Not officially. Not in any structured, planned, or spoken way. Heâs not your coach, heâs not on payroll, and no one else in the gym seems to expect him to do anything but haunt the space like a silent, dangerous ghost.
But heâs always there.
Every night you stay late, which is most nights now, he appears. Sometimes already leaning against the wall when you walk in, hood up, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Other times he arrives a few minutes after youâve begun, his footsteps barely making a sound across the matted floor as he moves to the edges of your periphery, close enough to make your pulse spike, far enough to pretend itâs coincidence.
He doesnât say much at first. Most nights he doesnât speak at all, just watches. His presence is a pressure in the air, a weight between your shoulder blades, a constant reminder that youâre not alone in the dark anymore. On other nights heâs more vocal, offering sharp, precise observations that cut through your form like a knife, not unkind, but never sugarcoated. His voice when it comes is low and sure, and it always finds you mid-swing, mid-sweat, mid-thought.
âYouâre dropping your shoulder,â he says one night, voice sudden and smooth as he moves behind you without warning.
You jump, startled by the nearness you hadnât noticed until his breath was practically at your ear.
âJesus,â you gasp. âYou scared me.â
âI donât mean to.â
You laugh. He doesnât. But thereâs a flicker of something soft in his eyes when you smile.
âYou ever get tired of pretending youâre not interested?â you ask one night, somewhere between breathless and bold, wiping sweat from your brow with trembling hands after a long set thatâs left your knuckles raw and your heart pounding.
His head tilts slightly, slow, almost feline in its calculation.
âIn fighting?â he asks, as if thatâs what you meant.
You glance at him sideways, giving him a look. âIn watching me.â
That gets his attention.
He turns to face you fully, stepping in close, too close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest. Close enough to smell the leather of his gloves, the salt of his skin, and the dangerous edge that always seems to cling to him.
âDo you want the truth?â he asks, voice quieter now, almost coaxing, like heâs asking if you can handle it.
Your throat goes dry, but you donât step back. âMaybe.â
He doesnât smile, not really, but his gaze drops first to your mouth then back to your eyes and something inside you twists. He doesnât look at you like youâre delicate. He looks at you like youâre a challenge. A question he hasnât figured out how to answer.
âIâm not scared of any man in that ring,â he says, and every word feels like itâs being peeled from some deeper part of him, something rarely touched. âBut youâŠâ
His eyes stay locked on yours.
âYouâre different.â
You let out a sound, half laugh, half disbelief, because what could he possibly mean by that? You with your trembling fists and half-learned footwork and emotional baggage heavy enough to anchor a ship?
âMe?â you say, like itâs absurd.
He nods, slow. Measured. Dead serious.
âYou donât flinch,â he says softly. âNot when I look at you. You hold your ground like youâve got something worth protecting. Like youâve already been broken once, and now you dare anyone to try again.â
You go still.
âIâm justâŠâ you start, but your voice falters. âIâm just here to heal.â
He studies you. âYouâre already stronger than you think.â
Over the next few weeks the gym becomes your haven, not just a place to train, but a kind of sanctuary carved out of sweat, bruises, and silence.
The world outside still stings sometimes, the wrong song in the car, a passing couple laughing too loudly, the loneliness that curls around your ribs in the quiet hours of the night, but here, beneath flickering lights and the smell of chalk and rubber mats you begin to feel solid again.
Youâre still not fast enough.
Still not perfect.
Your punches donât always land clean, and your form gets sloppy when your mind drifts but youâre not afraid anymore.
Not of the bag. Not of the pain.
More importantly not of being seen.
Max becomes something like a shadow.
Always nearby. Always watching.
Then somehow, impossibly, he becomes a friend. Or maybe something that skirts the edges of friendship, standing too close to something else neither of you have the language for yet.
You start learning things about him in bits and pieces, never offered up like casual facts, but revealed in the quiet in-between moments, like loose change dropped by accident.
You find out he hates early mornings with a passion that borders on theatrical, grumbles about them like theyâve personally wronged him.
"Nothing good has ever happened before ten.â
You raise an eyebrow, mid-wrap. âSunrises? Pancakes?â
âBlinding, and deceptively dangerous if you burn them.â
You just snort.
You find out that he doesnât drink coffee, says it makes his hands shake and he canât afford that. You learn that the long, pale scar along his left side came from a street fight he won in under a minute, a win that shouldâve felt like triumph but still seems to sit heavy in his memory.
Then there are the softer things.
The things you're not sure he mean to let slip.
You find out he loves cats. That he used to sneak food to a stray outside his old apartment until it trusted him enough to curl up on his lap.
You mention offhand how your mom's been texting pictures of her rose bushes again, proud, unsolicited updates with captions like âFirst bloom of the season!â as if the flowers were children on their first day of school.
You expect him to brush it off, or maybe offer a quiet nod, but instead he lights up in this quiet, unexpected way, eyes soft like youâve said something that reached a part of him you didnât know was listening.
âMy granâs like that,â he says, shifting slightly closer. âShe sends me photos of her garden every week. Sometimes every day if the weatherâs good.â
You smile. âReally?â
He nods, pulling out his phone like itâs instinct. âLook.â
He scrolls for a second, then turns the screen toward you. Itâs a picture of a large flowerbed, a little overgrown, the colours soft and unruly, like something out of an old storybook. The caption underneath is typed in careful all-caps: âSTILL NO SIGN OF THE BEGONIA THIEF. IâM WATCHING.â
You let out a quiet laugh, but itâs not teasing. âItâs beautiful.â
âShe works so hard on it,â he says, almost to himself. Then, after a beat. âShe texts me a lot just to check in. Itâs⊠nice. Makes my day better.â
You glance over at him and heâs looking at the photo like itâs something sacred.
âShe sounds really special,â you say.
He nods once. âShe is.â
You catch glimpses of the man underneath the reputation.
The so-called lion of the underground, the undefeated, the feared, with knuckles like iron and a jaw carved from stone⊠who also lights up just the tiniest bit when you mention a childhood pet, who goes quiet when you say youâve had a hard day, who listens like it matters.
You feel it again, the slow, steady cracking open of someone whoâs been closed off for a long, long time.
But thereâs one thing he never talks about, not directly, not even sideways.
He never tells you why he fights.
Not what started it. Not what keeps him in the ring.
Still, he listens when you talk.
The first time you bring up your ex, itâs barely more than a whisper, something you didnât mean to say aloud.
"He just made me feel invisible."
It slips out like a secret, and for a second you regret it, heart pounding, wondering if Max will brush it off, make a joke, or worse, pity you.
But he doesnât do any of that.
Instead his entire body stills like your words struck something in him. His gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing not in judgment but in something that looks a hell of a lot like anger. Not at you, never at you, but at the idea of someone making you feel small. Forgettable. Unseen.
You can feel it radiating off him, that quiet, dangerous rage simmering just under the surface.
âYouâre not,â Max says finally, voice low and steady, but so serious it makes your chest tighten. âInvisible.â
The way he says it⊠like itâs an unshakable truth, like itâs carved in stone⊠it makes your heart ache.
After that he walks you to your car. Just falls into step beside you, quiet and watchful, the way he always is when the night settles in and the gym empties out.
He doesnât touch you, doesnât even let his arm brush yours, but he stays close. So close. Like heâs afraid that if he does touch you, even accidentally, you might vanish and disappear like smoke.
He doesnât say much else that night but the silence between you hums with something unspoken.
Something careful.
Something new.
And it stays with you long after the engine turns over and you drive away.
One night he doesnât show up.
At first you tell yourself itâs nothing. People miss days. Even him.
But then another night passes, and another, and still no Max.
You try not to notice. Try to keep your focus on the rhythm of your gloves against the bag, the sharp exhale of each punch, the way your muscles burn with familiar ache.
But the air feels different. Heavier. Colder. The shadows in the corners of the gym seem to stretch longer without him standing in them, and every creak of the floor makes your heart catch in your throat with hope only for it to fall again.
You donât ask anyone where he is.
Youâre not even sure you have the right to.
By the fourth night something in your chest is tight enough to crack. Youâre standing at your usual spot, halfway through wrapping your wrists, trying to shake the sick weight of dread in your gut, when the front door groans open on its hinges.
Your head snaps up.
Max.
He's here... and heâs a mess.
Heâs standing just inside the doorway, barely upright, his hoodie soaked with sweat and something darker. Thereâs dried blood on his temple, a vicious bruise is blooming along the edge of his jaw, and his cheekbone has a nasty cut. One of his hands is cradled against his ribs like it hurts just to breathe.
For a moment you canât move. You can only stare.
And then youâre running over.
âJesus,â you breathe, reaching him in seconds, your hands hovering uselessly at first before finally gripping his arms, trying to steady him. âMaxâwhat the hell happened?â
He grunts as you guide him toward the nearest bench, his body heavy with exhaustion.
âFight went bad,â he mutters, the words slurred around pain. âDidnât see the right hook.â
He lowers himself down with effort, a hiss slipping through clenched teeth.
Up close he looks even worse. His knuckles are raw and torn, and thereâs blood caked all over him. Heâs shaking slightly, whether from adrenaline, pain, or something deeper, you canât tell.
âYou should be in a hospital,â you whisper, crouching in front of him, eyes scanning every bruise like theyâre puzzle pieces youâre desperate to put back together.
âI should be dead,â he says softly not looking at you.
Your hands freeze where theyâre gently brushing the blood from his brow.
âDonât say that.â
âIâm serious,â he says, voice rough and low. âIt was bad. Real bad.â He swallows hard, and when he finally lifts his gaze to meet yours thereâs something there youâve never seen before. Not just pain. Not just exhaustion.
Need.
Then, after a long beat, his lips twitch the faintest ghost of a grin. âStill won though,â he rasps, trying for lightness, for you.
You just shake your head, torn between relief and disbelief, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the smallest, broken smile.
âI didnât want to go anywhere else,â he says. âI wanted to see you.â
The words knock the air out of you.
You stare at him, your fingers stilling against his cheek. His skin is hot, scraped raw in places, but itâs the look in his eyes that undoes you, that bare, broken honesty, like heâs holding himself together by a thread and youâre the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
ââŠWhy?â you ask, barely above a whisper.
He looks at you like you already know.
Like he canât believe youâre asking.
Like heâs spent weeks standing beside you, aching in silence, wondering if youâd ever see the war heâs been waging inside his own chest.
âBecause youâre the only thing that doesnât hurt.â
The silence between you stretches, thick with things unsaid.
You donât answer him with words.
Instead you reach for the first-aid kit in the back room, hands trembling as you return. You clean the blood from his skin, slow and careful, your fingers brushing the slope of his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Every touch is an anchor, for him, and for you.
He doesnât flinch.
He just watches you, breath shallow, lips slightly parted. His eyes track every movement, dark and hungry, like heâs memorising you the same way he does when youâre at the bag.
Heâs watching like heâs afraid to blink and lose this moment.
When youâre done your faces are inches apart.
Youâre both breathing hard, not from effort, but from whatever it is thatâs coiled between you, electric, unspoken, inevitable.
The air is thick with it, heat rising in waves off your skin.
Then he does something heâs never done before.
He lifts his hand, the one that isnât shaking and gently brushes his thumb against the edge of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
He doesnât kiss you.
Not yet.
He just looks at you, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth, waiting. Silent. Asking.
His eyes search yours with a question⊠Is this okay?
You nod, once. Barely. But itâs enough.
The kiss comes like a dam breaking.
Itâs not soft. Itâs not tentative.
Itâs desperate.
He kisses you like heâs starving, like heâs been holding back for weeks, months, and now that heâs started, he doesnât know how to stop. His hands come up to cradle your face, tentative at first, then firmer, pulling you closer.
You kiss him back with the same urgency, like youâve been waiting for someone to see you, all of you, without flinching. To want you exactly as you are, bruised, burning, flawed and whole.
His mouth moves against yours with aching hunger, with the kind of tenderness that comes from someone who doesnât know how to be gentle but is trying anyway, just for you.
He kisses like he fights, with everything he has.
When he finally pulls away, just enough to breathe, he presses his forehead to yours. His skin is slick with sweat, his pulse thudding hard beneath your fingertips, but all he says is:
âYou deserve better than me.â
Your heart twists. You reach up, fingers curling around the line of his jaw and into his hair. You tilt your face until heâs looking at you again and you say, without hesitation:
âI want you.â
Thereâs another moment where he just stares at you. Silent. Still. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with the blood on his skin and everything to do with the crack youâve made in his armour.
And then he nods.
Once.
Sharp. Decisive.
Because Max Verstappen has never been afraid of fists or fury or pain. Heâs taken beatings that would buckle most men. Heâs stood toe-to-toe with monsters and never blinked.
But you?
Youâre the fight he never trained for.
The one he didnât see coming.
And heâs never wanted to win something so badly.
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YOUR BAKU TOP 3 FINISHERS !!!
sighhh finally ! i finished this piece....missed the weapons au sooooo bad bruh....now you can ask me abt the au but reallly specific stuff like abt the world, team, or hunter (driver) (sorry for the previous anons that I didnt answer their asks abt the au....I didnt know where to start)
au by @roosterhouse | Interpertation by me
below this are the backgroundless non-edited ones and the taaaaag list
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MY BABIES
Sugar Pumpkin - MV1
Starring: Max Verstappen x fem!Reader Word Count: 1.2K Summary: Just over two years ago, the plot of land down the road from her house was turned into a pumpkin patch. She grew to despise the man who introduced a bustling business disrupting her tranquil autumns. Content: one-sided enemies to lovers, emotional distress, no use of y/n
Autumn was her second favorite season. She always preferred the gentle breezes over the sticky humidity that plagued the south. Sipping apple cider that was too hotâalways burning the roof of her mouth, knitting scarves and woolen hats, baking apple tarts and pumpkin pies, seeing sunflowers bloom at the edges of the roadâshe enjoyed it all. But only recently it had been demoted to her second favorite seasonâwhy? Because of the rowdy pumpkin patch that attracted the townies on weekends and late nights.Â
Just over two years ago, the empty lot had been bought by a man who she often walked by with a cold shoulder at the local market. The ruckus that the farm brought had interrupted the peace of late-night walks and listening to the cicadas chirp. Instead she endured the hollering of teenagers into late hours, smashed pumpkin guts and shucks of corn littered across the gravel pathways, and the constant noise of trucks skidding down the street. The once treasured time of the year had been put off by the obnoxious farm.
â
Early in fall still wasnât the bestâbut she made it. When the temperature was unbearable, sheâd stay inside and fall asleep on the couch watching Peanuts. When the apple orchard across town had a sudden infestation of bugs, hot chocolate was the drink of choice. But she couldnât exactly move her house because of the farm down a block.
Noise-cancelling headphones had become the method of distractionâthat and pulling all the curtains closed in the front of her house. Late nights were spent cutting shapes out of felt and making handmade garlands to decorate. 'Tis the season.Â
The coffee table lay strewn with supplies. Colors of fallen leavesâburgundies, browns, and bright yellowsâwere cut into the shape of maple leaves. A ball of string had been uncoiled and tossed around all over the carpet thanks to a mischievous ball of fur. Pom-poms, glitter glue, and markers had joined the mess. Warm string lights were meticulously strung around the curtain poles, and the AC hummed in the background, blasting cool air throughout the floor.Â
Her craft scissorsâones that had jagged edgesâcut cleanly through the felt. Everything was going greatâuntil the atmosphere was disturbed by heavy knocking from the front door. Begrudgingly, she brushed off the scraps that collected in her lap in exchange for looking somewhat put-together.Â
The wooden door creaked openâshe really needed someone to come and fix that, along with the drafty window in the backâand there stood the man whom she had come to despise. His hand was raised as if he was about to knock again, but he slowly lowered it once the realization hit that the door had been answered. A sheepish smile spread across his face.Â
She fought back the urge to roll her eyes. âCan I help you?âÂ
âWe havenât properly metâIâm Max.âÂ
âYes, I know. Itâs been two years since you moved hereâeveryone knows who you are.â An undertone of annoyance wasnât exactly hidden.Â
âUhm, yeah, I apologize about that.â His voice instinctively lowered under the scrutiny. âIt wasnât my intention; itâs just business really took off.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
âIâsorry, I just came by to drop this off.â A mini pumpkin appeared from a bag slung around his shoulder. The stem was cut short, but a coiled tendril stuck out.Â
â...Thanks.âÂ
âI hope to see you around.âÂ
She watched him departâonly now with a palm-sized pumpkin. He almost tripped on a rock and fell face-first into the gravel.Â
â
As the weeks passed and temperatures started dropping, pumpkins kept appearing. Different shapes and colors; some perfect for carving, stout, oblong, and wide, and in colors of green, white, and of course orange. Smooth and bumpy textures dotted the mix. A gourd or two werenât as common, but they would appear.Â
On top of the mailbox, along the brick wall, on the doorsteps, and on a fence postâeverywhere was fair game to house an unsuspecting pumpkin.Â
If anything, it was a pleasant surprise.Â
â
Until one Tuesday night when taking out the garbage, she caught him trying to precariously balance a small pumpkin on the hood of the car parked out front. It was so round it kept tumbling off.Â
It was very silly but charming in a way.Â
âYouâll be paying for any damages.âÂ
He jumped out of his skin, not expecting to be caught red-handed. Â
Panicking, he set the pumpkin on an easier surfaceâthe groundâand disappeared into the darkness.Â
The car was dented and scratched up from years of use anyways.Â
â
Halloween came and went as it did every year. The patch was closed but traveled to the town center as a pop-up for the local parade.Â
Kids ran around the park decked out in homemade costumes of cowgirls, skeletons, and vampires. Plastic pumpkins overflowing with candy were protectively guarded by little arms. Candy apples covered in chocolate with sprinkles were the popular choice of the year.
Orange and purple lights were strung around light poles, faux spiderwebs covered barren bushes, and bubbles floated around.Â
The breeze sent a chill throughout her bodyâshe tugged the sherpa jacket closer. Temperatures hit the low forties, and although stuck in the warm pockets, her fingers began to go numb.Â
âYou look like you need these more than me.âÂ
A gloved hand held out two packs of hand warmers.
âThanks.â She tugged my scarf higherâhoping it would cover her rosy cheeks.Â
â
âDo you need a ride home?â
âNo thanks, Iâm just going to walk back.â
âNonsense, itâs almost hit the thirtiesâand itâs pitch black out. You can get in the passenger seat of my truck.âÂ
â
The low hum of the engine filled the silence back.
âOh.â Maxâs voice brought attention to the scene.Â
A pumpkin massacre had occurred. Probably some bored teenagers who thought taking a baseball bat to smash them was a fun idea.Â
âOhâŠâÂ
Surely, they were just pumpkins, festive decorationsâthey were going to rot eventually. But they grew on herâand maybe perhaps the man who placed them there had as well.Â
His calloused hands gently wiped away an undetected tear. âDonât worry, I have plenty more to replace them.â
âIââ Choked sobs interrupted her, âIâtheyâre just pumpkins,â her eyes, glassy and overflowing with tears, began to steadily stream down. âI donât know whyââhiccupââwhy Iâm crying.âÂ
âHey hey hey, liefde, itâs okay, itâs alright.â His arms wrapped around her body over the center console, squeezing with a comforting pressure.Â
âLetâs go inside, yes? Come on.â They stumbled along to the door, avoiding the slippery guts all over. âKeys?âÂ
âPurseâtheyâre in my purse.â He gently slipped the bag off my shoulders all while still steadying her shaking body.Â
As the door creaked open, a black cat darted toward Max, immediately sniffing him suspiciously.Â
âOkay. Couch, letâs set up here.â The familiar comfort of sinking into the plush cushions eased her anxieties. Once a blanket was gingerly placed on top of her, a purring mass quickly joined her, tucking into her chest.Â
Her voice cracked, âStay. Please.â
âI will.â He settled on the other end as she stretched her legs across his lap. Gently rubbing circles into her ankle, she drifted off. He quickly followed suit.Â
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a/n the fall bug bit me and I'm on a max kick..
Bikini Straps - MV1
Starring: Max Verstappen x Russell sister!Reader Word Count: < 1K Summary: Head injuries and hot women don't mix well with Max. Content: Suggestive content, no use of y/n
WACKÂ
The speed the volleyball flew was practically a missile, a missile that collided smack dab into Maxâs face. The force threw him off balance, and gravity quickly took care of him; the thud his body hit the ground only added to the pain. The sun-scorched sand felt comforting against his tanned skin for a few delusional seconds but quickly became too hot. His arm protectively covered his eyes, seeking some sort of relief.Â
âGodverdommeâŠâÂ
âOh my god, oh my god, I am so sorry.â Kimi.
A scoff interrupted Kimiâs blabbering worry. âRelax. Heâll be fine, he just has to walk it off.â George.Â
âJust shut upâIâm talking to you, George.â He could barely squint his eyes open, just enough to catch a glimpse of the clear sky above. He felt a shadow appear, shading his aching face.
âBoys, use your big heads and go grab some ice.âÂ
âHeyââÂ
âGeorge.â
âWhateverâŠâ He slung an arm around Kimi. âI canât believe sheâs bossing me around now.âÂ
Kimi looked back at her, exchanging an "I canât believe this guy" face. âSheâs literally your sister.âÂ
âYeah, younger sister.â Their footsteps faded as they ascended the wooden stairs up to the beach house.Â
She looked back at the man lying out like a starfish; his muscles were tense, unconsciously flexing his abs.Â
âYou alright?â Crouching down closer to him, she gently lifted his head, sliding a folded-up towel underneath.Â
Max groaned in agony.Â
âOkay, drama queen.â Gentle hands brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face.Â
His second, now successful, attempt to peer at his savior left him even more breathless. Maybe the volleyball sloshed his brain around a little too much. Georgeâs sisterâhe forgot about the George part completelyâleaned protectively over him, stroking his hair in a calming manner.Â
The view left his mouth watering at a very inappropriate time. Framed by a skimpy piece of striped cloth, her breasts spilled out of her bikini, making him ravenous. His eyes were definitely contradicting all the gentlemanly mannerisms his mother taught him. She obviously noticed.
âSeriously?â A playful lilt to her voice teased him. âTake me out first.âÂ
A wolfish grin appeared. âTonight?â
âLetâs make sure you donât have a concussion first.âÂ
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1K notes??? actually crazy đ„Č
papaya rules

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training wheels â đđđđ
the sequel to fast learner! âž» you end up on oscarâs doorstep after your date with lando.
êź starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader. êź word count: 8.2k. êź includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, cum play, virginity loss. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, oscar is a đ€ teensy bit mean, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. it is not required to have read fast learner before this, but good for context. êź commentary box: i think fast learner is currently the most interacted with fic on my blog right now, which is insane. i still donât see myself as a particularly articulate smut writer, but the people have asked!!! and i shall deliver!!! enjoy the last part in this duology đ”âđ« đŠđČ đŠđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
Thereâs not a lot of things Oscar gets jealous of.Â
At least, thatâs what he tells himself while tying his shoelaces, tugging the laces tighter than necessary. Each knot is cinched with the same precision he uses to silence thoughts he doesnât want. Jogging is supposed to helpâburn off the excess, give him something to focus on besides the way the apartment still smells faintly of you.
He hasnât seen much of you since that night. That night when youâd come to him, asking to learn. All in the name of preparing you for another man.
Since then, thereâs been a few texts. A few half-hearted excuses. Enough distance to make him think maybe that night was the sort of temporary madness youâd both agreed never to name out loud.Â
Oscar pulls his hood up, fingers brushing over his headphones, ready to escape into the evening when the knock comes.
He freezes.
The sound is small, hesitant. He knows itâs you before he even checks the peephole. He opens the door, and youâre there. Date-ready. Hair smoothed, eyes lined in careful strokes, lips with the faintest sheen of gloss. A dress heâs never seen before, soft fabric skimming your thighs. Itâs unfair, the way you look; itâs as if youâve been painted in brighter colors just to remind him of what doesnât belong to him.
He clears his throat. âDateâs over?â His voice is neutral, practiced. Itâs the only way he knows how to speak to you now.
You shift your weight, the heel of one shoe scuffing against his doormat. âYeah.â
Thatâs all you give him. No explanation. No mention of Landoâs name. Just yeah.
Oscar steps back, lets you in. He doesnât say anything about how you smell like wine and night air, or how the curve of your wrist looks delicate as you shrug off your jacket. He doesnât comment on how youâre beautiful in a way that feels deliberate tonight, not accidental like when you used to sprawl across his couch in joggers and a hoodie.Â
Instead, he nods toward the kitchen. âWant some water?â
You glance at him, searching his face for something he doesnât offer, and then you nod. âThat would be nice,â you say with devastating, uncharacteristic gentleness.Â
Oscar turns, every movement measured, deliberate. He doesnât let himself look too long at the way your dress rides up when you sit on his kitchen stool, or how your knees press together like youâre still wound tight from the evening. He just fills a glass and sets it in front of you.
It feels like waiting. Again.
Oscar leans against the counter, arms folded, watching the way condensation gathers on the glass you havenât touched. The silence stretches, taut as fishing wire. He lets it spool out until it feels almost unbearable, then cuts it clean with a simple question. âSo,â he starts, âhow was it?â
You look up, startled, as if you hadnât expected him to ask. Your lips part, gloss catching the light, before you settle into a shrug. âIt was fine,â you say. âDinner was nice. Lando picked a place by the port, really good seafood.â
âSounds riveting.â
You shoot him a look, but thereâs no heat in it. âHe was funny,â you add, softer. âHe made the waiter laugh more than me, which was kind of impressive. And heâhe opened doors. Pulled out my chair.â
âChivalryâs not dead,â Oscar murmurs. He watches the way you twist the edge of your napkin-creased jacket on your lap. âWhat else?â
You glance away, as if cataloguing the evening in your head. âWe walked after. Down by the water. He told me about some race weekend stories. Stupid ones, mostly. Stuff he probably shouldnât tell a first date, butâŠâ You pause, a small smile flickering before it slips. âThat was it.â
Oscar hums. He waits, patient, until the question itches out of him anyway. âAnything happen?â
The words hang there. He doesnât clarify. He doesnât need to.
Your expression shifts, frustration surfacing in the downturn of your mouth. You set the glass down harder than you meant to, water sloshing against the rim. âIt wasnâtâit wasnât what I thought it would be.â
Thereâs a furrow in Oscarâs brow now. âWhat do you mean?â
You draw in a breath, shaky. Your nails tap against the counter, a restless rhythm. âI donât know. I thought it would feel different. Special, maybe,â you huff. âBut it was just⊠dinner. Talking. Laughing. The whole time I kept waiting for something to click, and it didnât.â
He doesnât move. Doesnât speak. He only watches you, the weight of your words settling heavy in the space between you, like the air before a storm. He stays very still, the kind of stillness that costs him effort. Youâre watching the countertop when you finally come clean.
âIt felt different when Lando⊠when he tried things.â
His chest tightens. âDifferent how?â The words come out flat, careful.
You shake your head quickly, defensive. âI donât know. Justâdifferent. Not the same.â
Oscarâs jaw works, a muscle twitching. He keeps his tone even. âYou can be honest.â
âI am being honest,â you protest, but your voice is small. Your fingers knot in the hem of your dress like youâre afraid it might betray you.
He pushes off the counter, crossing the space between you in slow, measured steps. Close enough that he can see the flush creeping along your neck, the uneven rise and fall of your chest. Close enough to feel the static hum of your nerves.
âTell me,â he says lowly. âWhat did he do?â
Your eyes dart up, wide, then away again. âHe⊠he held my hand first. Brushed his thumb over my knuckles. It shouldâve been sweetâŠâ You trail off, frustrated, as if the words wonât line up.
Oscar reaches down, takes your hand gently in his, thumb dragging once over the ridge of your knuckles. Slow. Patient. He watches your breath stutter. âLike this?â
You nod faintly. âYeah. But when you do it, it feelsâdifferent.â
Oscar doesnât answer. He only watches you, expression cinched, while his thumb continues its quiet path across your skin. You inhale shakily, grazing your own forearm in a way thatâs almost hesitant, âThen he⊠he touched my arm. Here.âÂ
Oscar mirrors it immediately, his fingers gliding along the same stretch of your skin. He notes the way goosebumps rise under his touch, the way your shoulders stiffen and then loosen in the span of a breath.
âLike that?âÂ
âYeah,â you whimper. âIt didnâtâit didnât feel like this.â
âWhat else?â
You hesitate, cheeks heating. âHe tried to put his hand on my thigh.â
Oscarâs eyes drop, briefly, before returning to your face. He waits for your permission, silent but present. When you give the smallest nod, he lowers his hand, resting it carefully over the fabric of your dress, just above your knee.
The room goes very quiet.Â
His palm is warm, grounding. His voice is barely above a whisper.Â
âHere?â
You release a breath that trembles.Â
âThere. Exactly.â
Oscar doesnât let himself react. Not yet. He only presses a fraction more firmly, thumb brushing once against the inside of your knee. âKeep talking,â he says softly. âTell me everything you he did.â
You speak carefully, as if each word costs something. âAfter dinner, we⊠we walked back,â you stutter. âTo his apartment.â
The words knock something loose in his chest. He tightens his grip without meaning to, fingers pressing harder into the fabric of your dress. He draws in a sharp breath through his nose, tries to even it out. âWhat happened there?â The question lands harsher than he intends, clipped at the edges.
Your eyes flick up to him, gauging. âNot much. Heâhe tried. He touched me again. Higher.â Your hand gestures vaguely toward your hip, uncertain.
Oscarâs jaw is set, but he obliges. His hand slides upward with a deliberate pace, heat trailing in its wake. Itâs not smooth this time; his touch borders on rough, betrayed by the envy heâs choking on. You donât flinch. If anything, your breath catches in a way that makes restraint harder.
âAnd?âÂ
âHe leaned in. His faceâtâwas close. His breath on my neck.â
Oscar closes the space without thought, lips brushing the line where your shoulder meets your throat. The contact is soft, but his breath is unsteady, his mouth lingering too long to pass as imitation alone.
âDid it feel good?â Oscar asks, even though heâs not sure if he wants to hear the answer.Â
You nod, barely. You sound frustrated when you repeat, âBut it was different.âÂ
The word scrapes him raw. Different. He keeps his mouth at your neck, lets the silence stretch, teeth grazing lightly in a moment he almost doesnât control. His lips hover, ready to retreat.
âDid you kiss?â The question is strangled, not neutral this time.Â
You stammer, something shameful burning in the pause. âI⊠wellâwhen heâOscâŠâ
Oh. There it is.Â
Oscar had every part of you except that. Youâd let him use your mouth, let him eat you out and make you come more than thrice, but thatâd been your line. No kissing. Youâd been so adamant on saving that for Lando.
Itâs enough to make Oscar pull back, breath drawn through his teeth, face shuttering. Hurt threads through the restraint, makes him shift as if to step away.
But your hands snap up, clutching at his shirt, holding him there. âDonât.â Your voice trembles with urgency, raw enough to strip his defenses. âDonât go, Osc. IâIâm sorry. I need you. Need you to make me feel good.â
Your grip moors him, the plea louder than the warning bells in his head. He stays where he is, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Heâs close enough to feel your heartbeat thrumming against his own, his own control threatening to crash and burn.
Oscar reads the frustration etched into your face. The tension in your jaw, the restless shift of your hands. He makes a choice.Â
Without a word, he guides you toward the couch. His grip is firm but careful, a silent insistence, and when you sink onto the cushions he urges you onto your back. The air between you tightens, charged with everything unsaid, every flicker of doubt folded into silence. âYou want to feel good?â he exhales, resolving himself to this.Â
He leans over, lips brushing your skin in a scatter of deliberate touches. Your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, the slope of your collarbone. Never your mouth. The discipline is calculated, punishing for him, but necessary. His voice weaves between the kisses, low and even, a steady counter to your anxious form.
âBreathe. Iâve got you,â he mumbles into your shoulder.Â
Each kiss is an anchor, each word a tether. You keen softly, the sound breaking like relief, as though his touch is holding you together where you might otherwise unravel. His hand settles over your chest, palm spreading warm against the swell of your breast. The weight steadies you, and the subtle pressure draws out a shudder. When his thumb ghosts across your nipple through the fabric, the sound you make trembles on the edge between sob and sigh.
âEasy,â he murmurs, though his own control feels stretched thin, fraying at the edges with every soft plea from you. âLet me take care of you, yeah?â
He trails lower, mapping a path with his mouth. A slow, devotional descent. Each press of his lips feels catalogued, a point of reverence along your body. Your dress rides higher under his hands, and your body arches, seeking the path of his mouth. By the time he reaches the band of your underwear, your breathing is ragged, your body taut as a bowstring.
Oscar pauses there, a deliberate hesitation, lips brushing the edge of the fabric. He inhales once, catching the warm scent of you, and then mouths over the thin cotton, tasting heat through the barrier.Â
Your hips jerk helplessly at the first press of his tongue, the fabric dampening under his insistence. He keeps his pace unhurried, deliberate, savoring each broken sound torn from your throat. Thereâs something obscene about thisâOscar, eating you out through your underwear. His nose bumps against your clothed clit and you end up gasping, the sound going straight to Oscarâs cock.Â
âP-please.â Your voice cracks on your words as you squirm. âOscar, please. Take them, hng, off.â
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, searching, as if confirming that you mean it. When he sees nothing but your absolute wreck of an expression, he obliges without hesitation, sliding the fabric down your thighs, letting his fingers trace as he goes. He tosses it aside, then returns to where you need him without so much of a preamble.
When his mouth closes over you properly, the difference is devastating. His tongue works with a precision that borders on cruel, deliberate strokes, designed to unravel you piece by piece. He revels in the way you break apart almost instantly, body seizing around the edge of pleasure before heâs even slipped a single finger inside. The sound you make cuts through him, raw and pleading.Â
Maybe youâre all wound up. Maybe Oscarâs just that good. But youâve barely gotten out your warning of âIâm c-close,âIâm coming!â before youâre finishing on his tongue, coating the lower half of his face with slick. Oscar hisses, hips jerking uselessly against the bottom of the couch as his cock blurts precum into his boxers.Â
Your cry vibrates against his skin, and he slows, intending to retreat, to give you air. But then your legs clamp tight around his head, pulling him closer with surprising strength. Your hand fists in his hair, tugging him down, your voice wrecked and demanding.
âDonât stop,â you say, delirious and wretched. âMore, please.â
Oscar exhales hard against you, the sound swallowed into your skin. âGreedy,â he grunts, his fingers curling into the cushions. âMy greedy, greedy girl.âÂ
Despite his taunt, he surrenders to your demand, his restraint dissolving under the urgency of it. His tongue moves deeper, firmer, coaxing new sounds from you, while one hand steadies your hip against the couch and the other slides lower, testing the threshold of your body.Â
He presses a finger inside at last, slow but inexorable, careful even as desire frays his patience. Your body clenches around him immediately, another tremor racing through you, sharper, stronger. âFuck,â you whine. âFuck, fuck, fuuuck.âÂ
He feels the way you pull him deeper, the way your thighs shake against his shoulders, and knowsâknows with absolute certaintyâthat you wonât let him leave you unfinished, wonât allow him distance or mercy until heâs given you everything youâre begging for.Â
And so he obeys, mouth and hand working in rhythm, every movement tuned to the breaking point of your need, every sound you make pulling him closer to the edge of his own restraint.
Oscar works you open, his fingers moving with careful deliberation, easing into your heat as if he has all the time in the world. He keeps his eyes fixed on your face as he sucks at your puffy clit, reading every flicker of response. Every now and then, he pulls away from your cunt to coax at you. âRelax,â he says. âDonât think too hard.âÂ
You clench around him, body betraying every ripple of sensation. When he adds a second finger, his pace remains unhurried, letting you stretch around the intrusion. His thumb brushes absently against your hip as if grounding you. Then, almost casually, his voice slips into something sharper.
âDid he get to touch you like this?âÂ
The question makes you seize, walls fluttering around his fingers. Oscar notices instantly. His mouth curls faintly, a trace of humor at the corner of his restraint. âNo?â he hums. âThought so.â
You whimper, eyes squeezing shut. He gives you a reprieve, his tone softening, coaxing again. âDonât hide. Youâre fine, baby. Youâre doing so well for me.â
Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, each motion caught between desperation and shyness. He resists the pull to lean up, to kiss you where your mouth waits. Instead, he lowers his head, mouth brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. His tongue drags slowly over the outline of your nipple, and he feels the shiver ripple through you.
âI remember you said you liked it here,â he murmurs, almost to himself, before catching the peak gently between his teeth through the cloth.
You arch beneath him, the sound you make breaking high. His fingers never stop, stroking deep and steady, dragging you toward the edge with a patience that borders on cruel. Every time you falter, his mouth presses reassurance into your chest, lips moving over you in silent comfort.
When you finally splinter apart again, the sound is half cry, half sob, your body convulsing around his hand. Oscar holds you through it, fingers working you down from the peak, his mouth still warm against the front of your dress. He doesnât rush, doesnât pull back. He stays exactly where you need him, watching you unravel, the taste of control sharp in his own mouth.
Eventually, Oscar eases his fingers from you slowly, careful not to startle the sensitivity still clinging to your body. He straightens, dragging in a breath, and shifts as though to stand. âI should get something. Clean you up,â he says, already calculating where he left the towels.
But youâre faster, desperate in the way your hand fists into his shirt and pushes him back down onto the couch. His body lands with a muted thud, surprise flashing across his face. itâs quickly replaced by something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.
âI donât want that,â you say, voice ragged. âI wantâlet me⊠let me do something for you.â
Oscar opens his mouth to protest, but youâre already tugging at the hem of his shorts with clumsy urgency. The fabric resists, and you wrestle with it, your impatience almost endearing. He doesnât help you. He only watches, lips quirking, chest rising with controlled breaths. Deadpan, he manages, âCareful. Youâll rip them.â
You glare up at him briefly, flushed and determined, before dragging the shorts down in a single tug. His thighs flex as the fabric gives way, and the moment his boxers are revealed thereâs no hiding the strain of him, pressed against the thin cotton, already thick and demanding. Thereâs a wet spot where heâs been leaking since the moment he started touching you.Â
Oscar doesnât flinch under your gaze, unembarrassed by his own arousal. If anything, thereâs a flicker of satisfaction in the way your eyes widen slightly, the way your breath hitches.
âItâs not your first time seeing it,â he points out.Â
âI know,â you say, âbut itâs still a fucking monster.âÂ
God, youâre going to be the reason why Oscarâs ego swells. You sink to your knees before him, hands trembling. The sight coils heat low in his stomach. When you reach for him, tugging his boxers down just enough to free him, Oscar has to resist the urge to finish then and there.
For a second, he considers teasing again, a quip already at the tip of his tongue. But then your mouth closes over him, tentative and eager, and the air leaves his chest in one hard exhale. His head tips back against the couch, jaw slackening.
Youâre clumsy, a little unsteady, but you remember what he showed you that first time. How to take him in slowly, how to hollow your cheeks, how to use your hand where your mouth canât reach. The effort makes his stomach tighten, every shift of your tongue pulling another groan from his chest.
Oscarâs hand finds the back of your head, his touch featherlight. Not to force, only to guide. His voice, rougher now, doesnât even sound like him. âGood. Just like that,â he praises. âYou remember.â
His breath stutters when you hum around him, your inexperience outweighed by the urgency in every movement. He keeps his eyes half-shut, fighting the wave of pleasure threatening to undo his composure, clinging to the rhythm youâre building with every pull of your mouth.
Oscar lets his head fall back against the couch, thighs tight, breath staggered. Youâre on your knees between them, clumsy but determined, your mouth stretched around him in a way that sends him perilously close to unraveling. He keeps his voice low, guiding, the same steady tone he used that first time.
âYeah, thatâs it. Hand at the base, keep the rhythm slow. Use your tongueâgood. Just like that.â
You hum at the praise. He forces himself to keep speaking, because silence might ruin him faster. âYouâre doing so well. âS exactly how I like it.â
But then the thought slithers in, uninvited: Lando.Â
Oscar should keep it buried, but his chest tightens, his jaw clenches, and before he can stop himself, the question bursts out in between restrained gasps. âDid you and Lando⊠did you get this far?â
You still instantly.Â
You pull back, lips swollen, breath uneven. Your eyes meet Oscarâs, and then they avert. Something dangerous sparks inside of Oscarâs chest. âOscar,â you say, âIâIâm sorryââ
He doesnât want to hear it. Doesnât need the details of how you were on your knees for another man mere hours ago. Oscar instead cups the back of your head and pushes himself back past your lips, shutting you up. The first thrust is shallow, cautious. He checks himself, checks you.
âYou stop me if you need to,â he rasps. âUnderstand?â
You nod around him, eyes wide, obedient. Only then does he let go.
Oscar moves with care but without hesitation, hips rolling slow and deliberate, feeding himself into your mouth. The wet sounds of it fill the room, obscene and intimate. He watches your throat work, the tears at the edges of your lashes as you fight to keep up, the spit slicking your chin. Each time you gag, he withdraws slightly, only to guide you back down with a rougher groan.
His thoughts blur between what is and what isnât. Between your mouth now, and the unbearable image of you on your knees for someone else. âDid you make those sounds for him?â Oscar hisses. âDid he know how desperate you get when youâre full?â
Your fingers claw at his thighs, head shaking in futile denial, but you donât stop Oscar. You take it, all of it, until he feels your breath hitch in sync with his own. He knows heâs close. Too close.
He drags you off at the last second, jaw clenched. His hand fists over himself in rapid, desperate strokes. He comes hard across your dress, streaks of white catching on the fabric that only minutes ago had been pristine from your date.
For a moment, thereâs nothing but the sound of his breath, ragged and uneven, and the sight of you below him. Knees on the floor, lips parted, dress ruined. His pulse thrums with jealousy, with relief, with something he refuses to name.
His mind clears, and heâs immediately mortified. âShit,â he spits. âIâm sorry. God, IâmââÂ
Oscarâs working through his apology when you get to your feet. He blinks as if stunned, because instead of recoiling at the ruin of your dress, you tug at the straps and peel it off your body in one fluid motion.Â
The fabric lands in a heap at the floor, forgotten. Heâd taken off your underwear earlier, andâJesus Christâyouâre not wearing a bra. It means youâre left in nothing, naked in Oscarâs living room with his cum across your collarbone.Â
âDonât apologize,â you say, your voice quick, almost breathless. âI donât care about the dress. I just⊠I want this.â
You climb over him, straddling his lap, and the press of your bare skin against his leaves him winded. His cock twitches despite him having just finished, the line of him sliding against your folds as you start to move. The slick drag makes both of you shudder.
âI want this,â you murmur, grinding down harder, your voice fractured. âHold me?â
His hands find your waist automatically, holding you steady as if you might slip through his grasp. The friction is unbearable, almost too much, and Oscar feels his eyes sting, vision blurring at the corners. Itâs too close, too raw, and still he doesnât let go.
âYou feel⊠fuck, you feel good,â you gasp, burying your face against his throat. âThis is what I needed.âÂ
Your words lance through him sharper than the drag of your body. He tightens his grip, near desperate now, whispering into your hair as your rhythm falters into primal need. âTake what you need,â he says raggedly. âTake all of me.âÂ
Oscar braces himself as you move over him, the steady grind of your hips unrelenting, intent. He can feel every shiver of heat dragging across him, every fractured breath you spill against his skin. Itâs catastrophic in its simplicity. How you donât ask for more, donât demand what he can barely restrain from giving.
Instead, you work yourself against his lap until your body seizes again, breaking open on top of him.
Heâs hard, painfully so, but he leaves it, neglects the throbbing insistence in favor of wrapping himself around you. His mouth finds your shoulders, the curve of your neck, his lips ghosting where words wonât reach. He breathes you in, steadying himself against the weight of your release. Your trembling ebbs, little by little, your breathing dragged back into rhythm as though heâs guiding you down from the height with each kiss he presses to your skin. His control feels thin, stretched, but it holds, because heâd rather let you come apart in his arms a thousand times than take a single step too far.
Eventually, you lift your head. Your faces are close, so close he can count the flecks in your eyes, the flush still blooming across your cheeks. The pause hangs sharp between you, a silence taut with everything heâs refused himself.
âOscar,â you whisper, and heâs convinced his name has never sounded this good.Â
You lean in, decisive, breaking the line heâs held so stubbornly. Your mouth finds his, soft and insistent.
Oscarâs breath stutters, heart collapsing into the space youâve crossed.Â
The kiss doesnât end quickly. It stretches, deepens, becomes something unruly in its patience. Your mouths fit, pull, linger, testing how far the line bends now that itâs been broken. Oscarâs hands cradle your back, your jaw, like heâs afraid you might vanish if he doesnât hold every part of you. The air tastes of want and restraint, of everything heâs been trying to keep buried.
When you finally break for breath, your voice is small and uncertain. âDo you⊠want it to happen here?â
Oscar almost laughs, a dry sound caught between disbelief and need. âOn my couch?â he says. âNot a chance. Youâre not having your first time like that.â
Before you can protest, heâs already shifting, sitting up with you still wrapped around him. His arms tighten, lifting you with an ease that makes you breathe out a giggle. The movement is careful, deliberate, his control stitched into every step toward his bedroom.
He lays you down gently against the sheets. Youâre sprawled there, bare, the trust in your eyes knocking the breath out of him more than your body ever could. He strips his shirt without ceremony, the fabric tugged over his head and discarded to the floor.Â
You reach for him instantly, tugging him down until his weight settles against you. Your mouth finds his again, hungry, pulling him deeper into the choice youâve already made.
Oscar doesnât give in to your urgency, not yet. You can feel the weight of him pressed against your thigh, the undeniable strain of his body saying he wants it as much as you do, but his hand moves first. His fingers slip between your legs, familiar now. The touch is enough to make you whimper, enough to make your plea stumble out again.
âOscar,â you pout, âI want it now.â
He grins a bit. âAnd youâll get it,â he laughs. âBut not until youâre ready. Iâm not ruining this for you by rushing.â
Two fingers slide in, slow, deliberate. You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging lightly over skin, every inch of you fighting between relief and impatience. He keeps the pace unhurried, his voice steady against the tremor of your breath.Â
âLet me do this,â he says. âYouâll thank me for it.â
When he works a third finger into you, the stretch draws a gasp, your body tightening around him. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, tone quiet but merciless. âThatâs it. Open up for me, baby. If you canât take this, you canât take me.â
You cling harder, muffling a moan against his throat. He takes the sound as surrender, his free hand guiding yours down to his cock.
âTouch me while Iâm touching you,â he instructs. âWrap your hand around meâthere, good. I want to, ah, feel you while âm working you open.â
Your movements are hesitant at first, but his groan betrays how quickly youâre finding him. He praises you between breaths, the restraint in his tone fraying. âGood girl,â he grunts. âThatâs perfect. Youâre perfect.â
His fingers curl inside you at the same time you squeeze him in your hand, the rhythm pulling him closer to the edge of patience. Still he doesnât let go of the pace, steady and sure, determined to shape you to him.
âIâm going to finish again,â you warn, voice shaking with pleasure and impatience.Â
Oscar laughs breathlessly. âDo you prefer I start edging you?âÂ
âYou wouldnât dare.âÂ
Oscar withdraws his hand abruptly, the sudden absence making your body clench around nothing. You start to protest, the sound caught in your throat, but then you see him reaching toward the nightstand. His intent is obvious, clinicalâresponsible in the way you always knew he would be. A condom. Of course.
Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist. His eyes flick to you, brows raised. You hesitate, then force the words past the heat rising in your chest.
âI⊠I want to feel all of it.â The admission is soft, halting. âIâm on the pill. I justââ Your voice falters, nervous under the weight of what youâre asking. âI want it like that.â
Oscar stills, every line of him taut. For a moment, he looks at you as if trying to read whether you understand the gravity of it. His throat works, but no objection comes. Instead, the hesitation breaks into something rawer, hungrier.
He surges forward, the restraint heâs clung to unraveling in one pull of his mouth against yours. His hands frame your face. When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice is rough with certainty.Â
âYou donât have to worry about anything,â he grunts. âIâm the cleanest driver on the grid.âÂ
Oscar holds himself above you, every muscle drawn tight, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on your face. Not on your body, though the sight of you spread beneath him is enough to undo him entirely, but on your expression. The subtle flickers of nerves and want, the way your lips part around a breath that doesnât quite make it out.
The first push is only his tip, and already youâre thrashing under him, your hips jolting, your breath breaking apart in little gasps. He stops instantly, teeth gritted, forcing his own body into check. His voice comes out broken. âBreathe, baby,â he coaxes. âLet me in.â
âIâm trying,â you choke out.
Your legs tighten around him, a plea and a tether both, and he presses forward again, his chest brushing yours as if the closeness alone might ease you open. He whispers between kisses at your temple, your cheek. âYouâre fine. You can take me. Weâre gonna make you take me, yeah?â
Each inch feels impossible, a stretch that makes your nails dig crescents into his back. He winces, but it anchors him, sharp pain grounding him against the molten pull of your body. He eases in further, patient even as his control frays, every fraction of movement wrung out with care.
By the time he bottoms out, heâs trembling with the effort of holding still, your nails sunk deep into his skin. He presses his forehead to yours, swallowing hard against the rush of heat and relief, and murmurs, âThere. Youâve got all of me now.â
Oscar stays still, every nerve alive, forcing himself into patience. Your body tightens, then loosens by degrees, your small sounds shifting from ragged gasps to something softer. He keeps whispering into the space between you, his voice low, coaxing. âOkay?âÂ
For a moment, it feels endless, this suspended stillness. But then you nod, eyes opening to meet his. âI can take it,â you say shakily. âYou can move.â
He exhales like itâs a prayer answered. The first motion is cautious, a shallow pull and press, barely any distance at all. He watches every twitch of your face, every flicker of response, adjusting to each of them as though youâre speaking without words. The restraint is brutal, but he clings to it, steady as he eases into a rhythm.
âHow do you feel?â His voice is strained, though he tries for evenness.
Your arms are tight around him when you whisper back, almost breaking on the word. âFull.â
Something inside him gives at that, a low groan caught against your throat. He presses deeper, still careful, but thereâs no hiding how the praise slips free of him now. âThatâs what I wanted you to feel,â he pants. âYouâre taking me so well. Hold on, okay?â
You cling tighter, nails biting into his skin, your body arching up to meet his slow thrusts. Every movement is tempered with care, yet each one builds, layering want against want against want. And through every shiver, every tremor, he stays with you, guiding you through the rhythm as though the only thing that matters is that you feel exactly how completely you belong here, wrapped around him.
Oscar keeps himself buried inside you, but the tension beneath his restraint is starting to fracture. He reads the nerves in you easilyâthe way your nails bite deeper into his shoulders with every whispered praise, the way your gaze flits between his face and the place where your bodies are joined.Â
He softens his voice, keeps it steady, but something slips through, unguarded. âDid you ever imagine LandoâŠ?âÂ
The name lands like a stone. Your body jerks, clenching tight around him, your voice breaking into a startled sound. âDonât,â you start, but itâs too late.Â
The reaction shoots straight through Oscar, sharp as a blade. Jealousy floods him, sudden and unrelenting, and the careful pace heâs kept wavers. He drives into you harder, sharper, as though punishing the question, punishing the thought, punishing himself for even letting it out.
Your eyes widen, shame flickering there, but your lips part only to release a choked whimper. Oscarâs jaw locks. He knows youâre innocentâknows he has no claim over you, not yetâbut the flare in his chest wonât quiet.
âYou probably did,â he grits, but he doesnât slow. If anything, his rhythm grows more pointed, his hips snapping with a certainty that shakes the frame of the bed. âBut itâs, ah, me youâre in bed with right now, isnât it? You let him sit there thinking he had a chance.â
He feels the shift in you before you even make a sound. The sharp edge of pain softens, melts into something that has you arching into him rather than shying away. Your muscles spasm around his cock, and the sensation drags a hiss from his throat. Heâs watching your face, the tremor in your lip, the way your lashes tremble like you canât decide whether to keep your eyes on him or shut out the weight of what youâre feeling. Every flicker of your expression is another pull at the tight wire of his restraint.
He doesnât give you the chance to retreat. His words press harder than his body does, voice curling against your ear like a hand forcing you open. âIs this what you wanted from him? For him to fuck you like this?â
You shake your head, desperate, breath breaking as you whisper, âDonât mentionâplease donâtââ The plea collapses into a moan, traitorous in how it curls upward, shivering with pleasure. The contradiction only fuels him. His chest tightens with the knowledge that you canât control how your body answers for you.
âWhy did you even go?â His voice is low, rough, each thrust punctuating the question, each movement heavier than the last. âWhy let him put his hands on you when thisââ He pulls nearly all the way out before sinking back in, groaning when you grip down on him. ââis what you needed?â
Your thighs quiver around his hips, caught between wanting to deny him and wanting more of what heâs doing to you. Your head tips back against the pillow, throat tight, a cry caught halfway between shame and want. You manage another broken, âStopââ but itâs ruined when you keen at the very next stroke.Â
Oscarâs mouth twists into something almost like a smile, except thereâs no humor in it, only disbelief at how much he wants you undone, how much heâs willing to press until you admit it. âYou donât want me to stop,â he hisses against your jaw, his teeth grazing lightly before he pulls back enough to see your expression. âYouâre clenching around me just from hearing his name. Fucking pathetic.â
The words make you shudder, your voice faltering, caught between begging him not to speak and begging him not to stop. Tears catch at the corners of your eyes as you writhe beneath him, pulled taut between shame and unbearable want. Your nails leave crescents on his back, dragging against the sweaty heat of his skin, your body betraying every protest your mouth tries to form.
His jealousy distills into possession, every thrust stamped with claim. âYou feel that?â His hand slides higher up your thigh, gripping hard to pull you open wider for him. His voice carries both accusation and hunger. âThis is mine. Not Landoâs. Not anyoneâs. Just mine.â
You writhe, nails dragging red crescents into his back, and he swears youâre holding onto him like the words themselves tether you in place. Your head tips back, throat bared, and the sounds you make tumble out helpless, unrestrained. Each noise cuts through him, proof that the truth is already written into your body.
âTell me,â he pushes, eyes narrowing as he watches every shift in your expression. âTell me this is what you want.â
âYesââ The word bursts out of you like air from underwater. âItâs you, Osc. Only you.â
The admission strikes him deeper than he expects. His chest feels tight, almost painful, but the drive in him doesnât falter. He leans down, fucking you with a rhythm that borders on desperate. His breath comes ragged, his words breaking between thrusts. âGood. Iâm going to make sure you donât forget that.âÂ
Youâre shaking now, clinging to him as if heâs the only thing holding you together. Oscar watches you unravel beneath him, every gasp and tremor etching itself into him like proof. His jealousy burns into reverence, frustration transmuting into a kind of worship he canât disguise. He moves with a force that feels inevitable, each stroke declaring what he canât stop repeating in his headâyouâre his, his, his.
The sound of your moans mixes with his labored breathing, the room thick with the truth neither of you can take back. Oscar, locked on your face, feels the words steady inside him as certain as the rhythm of his body: this is where you belong, and heâll carve that into you until thereâs no space left for doubt.
Oscar feels the rush building, heavy and urgent, the rhythm of your body pulling him closer with every clench, every tremor that runs through you. His jaw locks as he watches you, the way your chest heaves, the way your thighs tremble, the way you give yourself over despite the fracture of your voice. He buries himself once more, feels the fluttering heat of you clamp around him, and it nearly breaks his control.Â
With a groan, he drags himself out at the last second, fist tight around his throbbing cock as he spills hot over the trembling swell of your cunt. The sight of itâyour body marked, flushed, spasming for himâmakes his chest cave with something tighter than relief, something dangerous in its pull. His stomach knots, heat spreading in waves as he drags his release across your skin, unable to look away.
His breath comes ragged, his hand steadying against your thigh as though heâs holding himself up. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes locked on you even as he fights to catch air. Heâs still watching you, as though the mess heâs made of you isnât the end but only the beginning of something he canât stop wanting, canât stop chasing.
Oscar doesnât catch it at first. Your voice is thin, words running over themselves, half-formed and tumbling out too quickly. Itâs only when your hand presses against his chest like youâre holding him back from some invisible blame that he realizesâyouâre apologizing.
The sound of it is almost frantic, defensive. âIt was good,â youâre saying, âso, so good. I donât know whyâwhy I didnâtââÂ
For a moment, he just stares at you. And then he laughs, low in his chest, the sound warm and unbelieving. He leans down until his breath touches your cheek, where he plants a chaste kiss. âYou think that matters?â he says, affectionate even now. âYou think that changes what this is?â
âI didnâtââ you start, voice cracking. âI thought I was supposed to. I donât want you to think I canâtââ
He kisses you before you spiral further, steady, grounding, as if he can bring you back into yourself. When he pulls away just far enough to speak, his voice carries that clipped, dry calm he uses when heâs stating the obvious. âNot everybody finishes from penetrative sex. Doesnât mean you wonât. Doesnât mean Iâm leaving you like this.â
âBut it was good,â you insist, almost pleading, your eyes wide on his. âI swear it was. I donât want you to think you didnâtââ
âI know it was,â he cuts in softly, thumb brushing your jaw. âI could feel you. I know.â
Your confusion flickers in your eyes, brows drawing, lips parting like youâre about to question him. He doesnât let you.Â
His hand slides lower, steady and practiced, and then you gasp when his fingers press into the swollen heat of your clit. You jolt under him, body clenching again, impossibly sensitive. âOh my God. Oscar.â The words spill out helpless, half a whimper, half a plea.
Heâs using what he left on you, slick and messy, his touch circling slow until youâre trembling. He spreads his cum over your clit, using it as lubrication. âYou donât have toââ you try to protest again, but your voice breaks into a moan, betraying you. âOh, thatâd-donât stop, pleaseââ
Oscar covers your mouth with his, kissing the sound away, swallowing every broken noise like heâs collecting proof. He doesnât waste time. He already knows where to go, what to touch, how to have you spiraling under him, and he gives it to you.Â
His hand cups your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple until it pebbles; the way you arch into his palm makes heat flare sharp in his chest. He bends his head, mouth closing over the soft swell of you, sucking your nipple between his teeth just to hear the strangled gasp you give. Every sound you make feels like it brands him, burns straight through to the core. Your fingers claw against his shoulders, needy, almost frantic, and it only spurs him on.
His other hand works between your thighs, sliding through the mess there with slow, unhurried strokes, each one sinking deeper, curling until your back bows. The glide is obscene, slick with his cum and yours together, the sound wet and shameless. His cock twitches against your thigh, leaving streaks of warmth, and he grinds it there deliberately. Just so you feel every throb of him, just so you know what youâre doing to him.
âLook at that,â he mutters, voice rough, caught between reverence and taunt. âTaking me back in. Youâre so selfish, arenât you? Canât get enough of me, even now.â
He presses deeper, fingers curling hard, knuckles dragging against your walls until your whole body trembles around him. His cock smears more of himself over your skin, leaking hot against you. âThatâs itâsuck my fingers in, take it all,â he pants. âYou like that, donât you? Me pushing my cum inside of you.â
You moan something that could be his name, cracked and broken, your thighs trembling around his wrist. The sound pulls a low laugh from him, muffled against your breast where he leaves another sharp bite. âLetâs use our words, baby. Do you like the way I fill you up? Do you like it when I use you?â
Your voice stumbles over itself, wrecked, words tumbling free without shape until finally, you choke out, âPleaseâyes, I love it, I love itââ
The admission guts him. His cock throbs helplessly, smearing precum down your thigh in messy streaks as his fingers drive harder, deeper, fucking his cum inside you. He can feel how soaked you are, how your body canât decide whether to cling tighter or push for more. His mouth roves hungrily across your skinâbreast, collarbone, throatâkissing, biting, soothing as though he canât bear to leave any part of you untouched.
âThatâs it,â he rasps, need fraying his voice. âSo fucking tight on my fingers. Drenched for me. Youâre going to come all over me, arenât you? Going to fall apartâthe way Lando couldnât get you to.â
The pressure builds quick, relentless, your body clutching at his hand as though terrified of losing it. Youâre babbling again, high and frantic, words dissolving into cries that he swallows with desperate kisses. His thumb circles your clit, merciless, coaxing the tension until it breaks sharp and overwhelming.
Your body locks hard around his fingers, pulsing, dragging every spasm out of yourself against the unyielding curl of him. The sound you make is ragged, shivering straight into his mouth as your nails rake down his back, carving him open.Â
He keeps working you through it, dragging you over the edge until the last tremor leaves your thighs quaking, your body limp beneath him. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, your face is flushed, damp with sweat, lips parted and wet from his kisses. His fingers are still inside you, glistening, holding the mess of both of you there as though he doesnât want to let go. His cock presses hot and swollen against your thigh, twitching with every shallow breath he takes, but he doesnât push it further. Not yet.
Later, steam fogs the small bathroom, curling around Oscar as he steadies you under the warm spray. His hands are careful, washing away every trace with a gentleness that surprises even him. You sway, drowsy on your feet, so he holds you closer, lips brushing your temple. He rinses you slowly, as though thereâs all the time in the world, as though this moment deserves to stretch itself out and live in memory.
He doesnât let you lift a finger after. He steers you to the kitchen, pressing snacks into your hands before you can protest, watching with satisfaction as you eat what you can. Thereâs a stubborn part of you that insists youâre fine, that you donât need this much fuss. âIt was just sex,â you huff, cheeks tinged with pink. âItâs not like Iâm sick or anything.âÂ
He only shakes his head, that small, flat smirk pulling at his mouth. âHumor me.â
When heâs finally satisfied, he shepherds you into his bed, piling blankets over you until youâre swaddled in them. You laugh at the absurdity, muffled under the layers, but he only tucks the edges tighter, leaning down to kiss your cheek.Â
âThis is ridiculous,â you protest.
âNot ridiculous,â he says matter-of-factly. âItâs necessary.â
You end up face-to-face, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. The air hums with something softer now, the tension dissolved into intimacy. His fingers trace idle shapes against your arm, a rhythm meant to soothe. You search his expression, trying to pin down what comes next, but he beats you to it.
âWe donât have to know right now,â he says, voice low, steady. âWeâll figure it out in the morning. Whatever this is.â
Thereâs nothing left in you to argue.Â
Warm, fed, and cocooned in him, you let your eyelids drift down.Â
Just before sleep pulls you under, you murmur drowsily, âYouâve ruined me for anyone else.â
He only smiles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. Heâs not even sure if youâre awake to hear his response.Â
âThat was the plan,â says Oscar. â
Exposed - CS55
Pairing: Carlos Sainz x fem!Reader Word Count: SMAU + blurbs Summary: The high after his podium leaves him feeling a little too reckless. Content: Established relationship, profanity, hangovers, use of y/n
Liked by williamsracing, jv.f1 and 635K others
carlossainz55 VAMOS! Finally bringing home the goods đȘ
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alex_albon the GOAT
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maxverstappen1 Can't wait to share the podium with you more often đŠ
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charles_lerclerc Such a masterclass mate đ
liked by carlossainz55
user8 GO WEEYUMS!!
user12 đđđ
user9 there's something symbolic about Carlos getting a podium before Lewis..
‷ user7 stfu bro
‷ user9 wah wah look whose crying
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f1gossipoffical sources have reported seeing Carlos Sainz clubbing with an unknown woman after the Azerbaijan Grand Prix
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user3 FINALLY. my man got some game
user7 seriously?? Now he's out here picking up chicks left and right. He's gonna fall off already đ
‷ user1 get a life
user10 who is she? WHO IS SHE
user8 They didn't even try to be discreet LOL
user2 I thought we established this. he's my bf
‷ user13 parasocial type shit
user12 đđ
â
Carlos didnât awake to the sun; no, he awoke to an arm straight to his chest.Â
âCariñoââ a piercing headache caused his brain to stutter. âDios, how much did we drink last night?âÂ
But he didnât receive an answer right away; she was still peacefully sleeping. Because he was a good boyfriend, and even though she starfish-ed out across the mattress again, he didnât disturb her. Instead, he took to social media.Â
And what a surprise that was.Â
Years of secrecy were exposed by some gossip account; he had half a mind to sue the person behind it, but nothing was illegal about taking a picture in a public place.Â
âJoder, joder, joder.â He took to pacing around the room, trying to think of a solution. His pacing around wasn't exactly keeping quiet.
âCarlos?â He paused mid-step, his mouth trying to form words, but he was left frozen.
âBaby, whatâs wrong?â Her voice was hoarse from their impromptu karaoke. Softened eyes stared at him. Those always undid him.Â
âCome here.â She opened her arms, and he instinctively drew near, pulling her into a bear hug. His head lay in the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the scent of saltwater and vanilla.Â
âIâI was stupid. Someone caught us and posted photos online.â Her breath hitched, but the hands caressing his back didnât stop.
âYouâre not stupid; it was bound to happen.âÂ
âButââ
âNo buts.â She cradled his cheeks with her warm hands; his plush lips made him look like a pitiful fish.
âI knew that when we started this, it would eventually come to light. Itâs okay.âÂ
âBut you wanted it to be just between usââ
âThere you go again with the buts.â She squeezed his cheeks a little harder. âItâs been two years. Iâm very grateful that we agreed to keep it just our secret, but I really want to show off my paddock outfits.âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âYouâre just saying that to make me feel better.â
âMaybe.âÂ
She leaned in as their mouths danced together with familiarity and warmth.
âTe amo, mi amor.âÂ
âMe too, idiot.â
â
alexđŸ & Chili
alexđŸ
HELLO?? I left you alone for one night and suddenly your relationship is outed to the entire world
Chili
Yeah..
alexđŸ
so did she kill you or what?Â
Chili
No, she was very understanding.Â
alexđŸ
bye okay đ Â
if that was me and lily she wouldâve had my HEAD
ChiliÂ
Yeah, weâre going to officially announce it later today
The damage is already doneÂ
alexđŸ
well Iâll always have your guysâ back
I always liked her more than you anyways
Chili
HEY
But seriously, thank you
AlexđŸ
ofc manÂ
â
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yn Since you all are so fucking NOSY, here's my bf đ©·
tagged carlossainz55
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carlossainz55 Cariño đ
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yourbff HOTTIE ALERT
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‷ yn POLICE SHE'S RIGHT HERE!! love u babes
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lando about time @/carlossainz55
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williamsracing queen you dropped this đ
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‷ yn admin can I give you a friendship bracelet?
‷ williamsracing girl ofc, I already have so many to give you
user1 PURR
user6 ok gorgeous!! who even is the other guy?
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user17 bye I wish I was as cool as her đ
user2 đ€ąđ€ą
‷ user14 deadass. are we fucking 10
liked by charles_leclerc, alex_albon, and 312K others
carlossainz55 Mi amor â€ïž
tagged yn
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yn :) đ©·
liked by carlossainz55
alex_albon when can I meet her??
‷ lilymhe ignore him. I NEED to meet her now!!
‷ alex_albon babe you're breaking my heart
jv.f1 Welcome to the Williams family, @/yn!
liked by carlossainz55 yn
‷ yn thanks James đ«¶
williamsracing we are ready for your paddock arrival @/yn đ
liked by carlossainz55 and yn
lando bro her fashion already tops yours
liked by yn
charles_leclerc Leo licked the screen in approval. He's awaiting belly rubs
liked by carlossainz55 and yn
user3 IT'S OFFICIAL PEOPLE. SOUND THE ALARMS!
user17 I love when attractive people get together
liked by yn
‷ yn me too đ
â
âYouâre so hot.âÂ
âWhere is this coming from, mi amor?âÂ
She lazily pecked his stubble. âMmmânowhere.â
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a/n first smau!! honestly I had so much fun making this
CARLOS PODIUMM
Pretty Boy - GR63
Starring: George Russell x fem!Reader Word Count: <1K Summary: She's the only one who gets special privileges. Content: Fluff, established relationship, profanity, no use of y/n
If someone asked for the definition of handsome, George would self-assuredly volunteer himself as a prime example. A pure gentleman in nature. He wasnât oblivious to the comments online; fans would obsess over his English charm. One name stuck out in particular. Pretty boy.Â
It wasnât exactly fragile masculinity, but rather a sheepish embarrassment. He grew up as a little brotherâhis sister loved to dress him up, smear makeup all over his face, and parade him around in front of their parents. But millions of people? That was a little too much. The only exception was that it came from her voice.Â
â
The door to his driver room slammed, rattling the thin walls. He didnât mean to put that much force behind it, but he couldnât help himself. His body sagged down to the floor, knees automatically pulled up to his chest and arms wrapping around them.Â
âThat bad?â She already knew from watching the cameras in the garage. He desperately drove his car around on his last flying lap, taking extra kerb and managing a small slipstream from someone in front of him. He didnât bother to remember who; in the end he only achieved P9. She crouched down to him, wiping away the sweaty curls stuck to his forehead.
âPretty boy,â a hot breath fanned over his ear, and immediately she was tackled, her back quickly pulled to meet his chest.
He methodically dotted kisses down her neck down to her bare shoulders.
âGeorgeâthat tickles.â
Now desperate, he tried to discreetly slip the strap of her dress down but was soon swatted away with a playful scowl. âNot now.âÂ
â
George wasnât one for double dates. She only suggested it to him after he caught her and Lily concocting a secret plan in the Williams motorhome. But even he wasnât immune to his girlfriendâs charms.Â
âBabe. What is this?âÂ
âSurprise!âÂ
She held up two tickets to the Monaco Zoological Garden.
âLily has a friend who works at the zoo, and she said we could have an up-close tour.âÂ
âI will be running the opposite direction of any alligators or snakes.âÂ
To Georgeâs chagrin, up close meant getting physically up close.
âNo, no, no. Get that thing away from me.âÂ
A small, snow-white corn snake lay coiled up in her cupped palms. The zookeeper kept assuring him the snake was non-venomous and could cause no harm, but George was not having it. Alex was silently laughing his ass off while Lily coughed, strategically disguising her own amusement.Â
âHeâs so pretty, Georgie.â That wasnât right; that nickname was reserved for him, only him.
âFine.â He would survive. The cheery zookeeper gently transferred the reptile to his quivering hands. As he grimaced through an obligated photo, he tried his best to keep his cool.Â
But once the snake stuck out its slithery tongue, barely brushing his skin, he decided he was done. âOh my god, I canât do this. Nope. Nope.âÂ
Alex graciously volunteered to be next.Â
Later that day, after he took a long shower, scrubbing himself down too many times to count, he joined her in bed. Her hands reached out to grasp his bicep, tugging him closer for warmth.Â
He melted under her touch as fingers ran through his damp locks. âPretty.â She murmured.
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Bikini Straps - MV1
Starring: Max Verstappen x Russell sister!Reader Word Count: < 1K Summary: Head injuries and hot women don't mix well with Max. Content: Suggestive content, no use of y/n
WACKÂ
The speed the volleyball flew was practically a missile, a missile that collided smack dab into Maxâs face. The force threw him off balance, and gravity quickly took care of him; the thud his body hit the ground only added to the pain. The sun-scorched sand felt comforting against his tanned skin for a few delusional seconds but quickly became too hot. His arm protectively covered his eyes, seeking some sort of relief.Â
âGodverdommeâŠâÂ
âOh my god, oh my god, I am so sorry.â Kimi.
A scoff interrupted Kimiâs blabbering worry. âRelax. Heâll be fine, he just has to walk it off.â George.Â
âJust shut upâIâm talking to you, George.â He could barely squint his eyes open, just enough to catch a glimpse of the clear sky above. He felt a shadow appear, shading his aching face.
âBoys, use your big heads and go grab some ice.âÂ
âHeyââÂ
âGeorge.â
âWhateverâŠâ He slung an arm around Kimi. âI canât believe sheâs bossing me around now.âÂ
Kimi looked back at her, exchanging an "I canât believe this guy" face. âSheâs literally your sister.âÂ
âYeah, younger sister.â Their footsteps faded as they ascended the wooden stairs up to the beach house.Â
She looked back at the man lying out like a starfish; his muscles were tense, unconsciously flexing his abs.Â
âYou alright?â Crouching down closer to him, she gently lifted his head, sliding a folded-up towel underneath.Â
Max groaned in agony.Â
âOkay, drama queen.â Gentle hands brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face.Â
His second, now successful, attempt to peer at his savior left him even more breathless. Maybe the volleyball sloshed his brain around a little too much. Georgeâs sisterâhe forgot about the George part completelyâleaned protectively over him, stroking his hair in a calming manner.Â
The view left his mouth watering at a very inappropriate time. Framed by a skimpy piece of striped cloth, her breasts spilled out of her bikini, making him ravenous. His eyes were definitely contradicting all the gentlemanly mannerisms his mother taught him. She obviously noticed.
âSeriously?â A playful lilt to her voice teased him. âTake me out first.âÂ
A wolfish grin appeared. âTonight?â
âLetâs make sure you donât have a concussion first.âÂ
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Out of Tune - OP81
Starring: Oscar Piastri x fem!Reader Word Count: 1.2K Summary: Oscar doesnât care for singing. But every time he has to sit through it, sheâs there with him. Content: Alcohol/underage drinking, mild profanity, mild sexual content, no use of y/n
Oscar was never really thrilled about music class. Unfortunately tone-deaf by nature, he preferred to stay quiet. When his parents sent him across the ocean to study at Haileybury, he was subject to endure the one-year requirement of choir. As he progressed in his racing career, everywhere he went he was reminded that Oscar Piastri could not sing for the life of him.Â
â
The British national anthem. He was Australian, not British, but the school chorus always sang for the sporting events. He fumbled his way through the notesâflat, sharp, just plainly the wrong soundâit didnât matter to him. The tenors were situated right behind the soprano twos, meaning he was standing approximately one foot away from a girl his mate was crushing on. A grossly artificial scent of strawberry wafted through the air.Â
An obnoxious elbow to his side startled a grunt out of him.Â
âDude, what the hell.â Oscar hissed lowly. His mateânot exactly a friend, but just a random guy he had to partner up with for his chemistry project, where he ended up having to do all the workâwhispered a pleading request to get the attention of the girl.Â
âObsessed idiot.â He gave him a stink eye in hope his buddy would get a hint to bug off; he did not. He reluctantly tapped the girl on her shoulder.Â
âExcuse meâŠâ Eyes the color of Australian waters, the ones he reminisced about so often, stared back at him quizzically.Â
A quirked eyebrow silenced him.Â
His cheeks felt too warm. A pathetic apology was quietly muttered as his eyes soon took to looking at the very interesting grass. It was mid-winter and still very dead. âSorry. Never mind.â
The girl rolled her eyes and turned back around; her scented hair now seemed more pleasant.Â
â
Walking out the door after finishing his A-Levels left him with a feeling of emptiness. This was the official start for him to fully pursue racing, even if his career would crash and burn in the end. His fellow classmates patted him on the back and congratulated him. He would be the one getting out; theyâd have to go to university or live with their parents. Just go about life normally.Â
A random guy slung his shoulder around him. âMate, everyone is going to the woods tonight, a bonfire or something.âÂ
âYeah, maybe.â
He ended up being forced along. After an eventful escape through the first-floor window and a brisk walk to a hidden clearing in the forest, he found himself stranded in a sea of people. Peers were rebelliously throwing their spare uniforms into the bonfire as others watched on, screaming and clapping. A sweating bottle of beer was pressed into his handsâwhoever did it promptly disappeared.Â
âHey, big shot.âÂ
He sputtered out a nonsense reply, resulting in him keeping his mouth shut instead of saying something stupid. Her hair was mussed from the night breeze, and a reflection of the flame danced in her eyes, a sly smirk present.Â
âOh my god, I love this songâcome on.â Her thin fingers wrapped around his wrist as she weaved through the crowd, leading him right next to the speaker.Â
I said, ooh, Iâm blinded by the lights
He swayed awkwardly, cradling his bottle as he watched her.
No, I canât sleep until I feel your touchÂ
An enigma of a girl who danced around fiercely without care or judgement. Oscar took a long swig of his drink, his face scrunching from the burn down his throat.Â
I said, ooh, Iâm drowning in the nightÂ
He joined in at the chorus, stumbling his way through the lyrics in a tipsy haze.Â
âThis way.âÂ
The faint music was drowned out by drunken footsteps crunching against dead leaves covering the ground.Â
âI needed this.â His ragged breathing caught up to him. âMarkâs gonna kill me.âÂ
They both sagged down against a fallen tree trunk. She wordlessly took the bottle out of his hand and emptied it in one sip.Â
âYeah? Well, whoever Mark is, he doesnât have to know.âÂ
He hummed in response. The alcohol was properly kicking in nowâhis heart was beating faster, and his body felt degrees warmer. She burst out in laughter, knocking her head on his shoulder.
âI guess he doesnât have to know about this either.âÂ
Oscar turned his head toward her, and he met those eyes again, crinkled with amusement. And at an excruciatingly slow pace she reached out to his face, tracing from his cheekbones down to his chinâstopping at the untamed stubble. She leaned closer, lips hovering above his own. The stubble above his lip tickled as he leaned in to kiss her silly.
â
He never saw her after that night. Mark came to pick him up early, and he kept the promise to himself that he'd keep quiet. After back-to-back wins in F2 and F3 and the eventful drama at Alpine, he found himself leading the 2025 Formula 1 Drivers Championship.Â
The British GP was no different from any other Grand Prixâ15 minutes before the race, the national anthem was sung. But this year a familiar face was tasked with the job. Six years later, the same girl who he had shared his first kiss with stood in front of thousands at his workplace. The cameras mustâve picked up on his shocked face, something Lando would surely grill him about later.Â
Her vocal expertise far outshone Oscarâs poor efforts from his younger years. God Save the King never sounded so good to him.Â
Once finished, she was hurriedly ushered off the grid. The next few hours left his brain scrambled; he couldnât focus on anything. Information his engineer was feeding him was going in one ear and out the other. He didnât know how he got through the race without a DNF. Yes, he screwed up the safety car restart, receiving a penalty, but he could care less.Â
He went on autopilot. Weigh-in, cool-down room, podium. None of it mattered.
âWhere is that womanââ When Oscar approached looking distressed, Tom was extremely confused.
âOscar, breathe.â
âThe one who sang the anthem?âÂ
âUh, Iâm pretty sure we could find that out.â But Oscar hadnât bothered to stay long; he had to go look for himself then.
He started at the most obvious place, the paddock club. But instead he got bombarded by women who seemed a little too eager and men who crowded his space with no respect. It wasn't worth it to check out the motorhomes. There were too many; she'd surely be gone by the time he had finished. The general admission section was an obvious no-go.Â
As he ran through the paddock, flashes of papaya tried to get ahold of him for a celebratory photo, but he narrowly avoided their grasp in return for a hidden alley behind the Williams motorhome.Â
In the end she found him.Â
âIt's you."
"It's me."
He pulled her close into a hug as she laughed into his chest.Â
âYouâre not going anywhere.â He whispered
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· · · · ⥠NO LOVE IN NEW YORK
⊠starring oscar piastri x f!reader ... 5.2k words ... in which your good samaritan tendencies, and some loser forgetting to show up on your first date, lead you to the most bizarre yet exhilarating nyc commute of your life. ... featuring fluff, humor, meet cute, some forced proximity. female reader (wears 'feminine' clothing). language, reader gets stood up on a date, suspension of disbelief for manhattan geography and the logistics of the mta (please forgive me new yorkers i went ten years ago). english is not my first language. ... author notes tadaaa oscar piastri debut who cheered!!!! not me because i'm scared to death of getting him wrong lowk. i was bemoaning the absence of oscar pictures at the f1 premiere and thought, "i know he just couldn't be bothered to go, but wouldn't it be funny if he'd just gotten lost?" and thats how this fic happened. ngl this is very much out of my comfort zone, i know oscar less than other drivers + much more romcom than i'm used to and idk how i feel about it so feedback would be VERY appreciated! very much open for a part 2 if you'd like that tho!!! enjoy ă(â§âœâŠă)âȘ MASTERLIST / ASK BOX
There was no valid reason dating in New York City should have been this complicated.
Yet you prided yourself on being quite smartâsmart enough to survive in the hostile urban jungle as a twenty-something on her own; definitely smarter than the national average judging by the (frankly depressing) headlines you heard pinging on your phone every morning. Outstanding high school GPA, reading comprehension way above your grade as a kid, and still no damn clue how to score a date in Manhattan.
Well, rather, how to score an agreeable date. Or perhaps just one that turned out to be real.
Monday morning had risen with a yawn from the sun, as though it were remembering only now that June was well underway but the streets remained chilly. Weak light shimmered over the fire escape when youâd drawn your curtains open. Ramen was sitting on the railing, licking his cream paw and staring at you with unimpressed nonchalance, and youâd grinned. Ramenâyour downstairs neighborâs cat, a sandy little imp whose real name youâd never found out but had baptized so after heâd stolen your instant dinner right off your kitchen counterâonly showed up on mornings with importance. Like the day youâd aced Introduction to Statistics with nothing but two hours of sleep and five Monsters.
This was a good omen.
So yes, you were enthusiastic by the time you got home from class, scrambled together an omelet, and disemboweled your apartment looking for your favorite earrings. You were optimistic, and that sometimes sounded like the worst thing anyone could be in New York City.
But this first date promised to be nothing like the others, your inner voice hammered home as you tried to cram your feet into shoes half a size too small. He was cute, funny, not a fascist, he waited exactly the right amount of time in between repliesâneither psychopathic nor disinterestedâ, and heâd told you to dress up because it was only fair that real-life art should match the paintings on the wall. After half a dozen insipid dinners at every other pizza place in Little Italy, and as many ghostings, a museum first date sounded more promising than youâd dared to hope.
Even though he dropped off the radar at ten p.m. the prior evening. Even though you shot him a bubbly, âyou said 2:30pm right? canât wait!â at eleven (the appointed time was but a scroll away, but you just needed to say something, diffuse the nerves somehow). Even though you double-texted him at two fifteen, âomw!â.Â
But Ramen was there this morning, blinking his slow blinks at you. The date had to go well.
The sun was fully awake, undeniable, blazing above the trees and endless spires piercing the sky beyond Central Park, by the time you sat down on the steps in front of the museum. Alone.
It wasnât until two fifty-seven that you accepted to face the glaring truth.Â
First miss for Ramen.
You collected yourself in a clumsy torpor. Nothing to do with your heels, or the stupidly long dress youâd picked out and whose skirt you now had to lift with every stepâthis was the inescapable, crushing feeling of disappointment.
Of course New York City would punish the optimistic. The naĂŻve. The superstitious, who put the outcome of their days into the hands of some feline apparition, scan the sky for four-leaf clover clouds. Served you right for still believing in things falling into place.
Your face burned from the sun and the humiliation, eyes prickling from unshed tears as you stuffed your phone into your purse. Pretended not to notice the group of tourists snapping shots of you, perhaps thinking you some roaming Millais muse. Disappeared into the shade of 103rd Street station, green gown flowing behind you like a pennon.
Every step down the long stairway stung more than the last, but you kept your gaze firmly to the ground, careful not to tripâand bury any ounce of dignity left in you for good. Blend in with the jaded city folk, you thought as you swiped your Metrocard; act as if you know exactly where you are going and go there with purpose, even if you could not be more stranded. Where to now? Back to your disordered, sweltering apartment, its haphazard pile of dishes in the sink and Ramen gauging you silently from the windowsill? Or to the campus library, trying to glean whatever productivity lies within heartbreak? And risk bumping into your friends, whoâd teased you all day about the giddy bounce to your step, and having to explain you werenât even worth showing up for?
âExcuse me?â
You looked up and met hazel. A mop of chestnut hair, that he had manifestly tried to arrange before giving up; discreet moles on an otherwise pale face, and brown eyes where danced flecks of gold and the most gripping kind of urgent resignation. The stranger was cute, and for some incomprehensible reason he matched you: he, too, was dressed to the nines like heâd run off from some wedding, and he also distinctly looked like he wished more than anything for the Earth to swallow him.
âAre you going to the F1 movie premiere?â
âWhat?â
âThe, uh, the F1 movie red carpet thing? Are you going there right now?â
You were starting to worry your foreign-accent (British, or perhaps Australian?) comprehension skills had gotten alarmingly bad, or maybe the shrieking of MTA wagon brakes had finally rendered you deaf.Â
âNo, uh... IâŠâ Oh, what the hell. Like there was any use lying to a beautiful stranger who seemed like he was somehow having a worse afternoon than yours. âI got stood up by my date. F1, you mean like Formula 1?â
What a formidable and ridiculous scene you two mustâve paintedâtwo kids in formalwear, standing in the middle of a New York City subway platform, stuck amidst the pungent smell of piss and nonsensical conversation.
âIâm sorry about your date, they sound like a bit of a dropkick,â the stranger replied, and although you werenât entirely sure what a dropkick was you were surprised to find him genuine. âBut, uh⊠I think Iâm lost, and I hoped you might help me, or else Iâm gonna be the one doing the standing up. On about two thousand people.â
You had no time to furrow your brow, or chew on his words. Suddenly everything clicked with an audible bang, right in sync with the train doors closing to your left. The reason youâd felt so familiarly drawn to that cherub face, and why he had mentioned Formula 1⊠None of the downright lubricious Instagram edits your best friend had ever sent you featured him in a suit, but he was unmistakable.
âOh my god, youâre Oscar Piaââ
âPlease donât tell all of Manhattan,â Piastri interrupted, grimacing as he glanced around the platform. You suffocated your voice, though found his dread of being heard a little pointless. Two people standing idly in black-tie garments as metros passed them by were eye-catching, for sure, but nowhere near NYC eye-catching standards. âItâs already pretty bad how late I am to my own premiere, I donât want to have to take selfies in the subway.â
A million questions jostled about inside your head, but all you could do was stare at him, mouth agape in incomprehension. You didnât keep up with Formula 1, hardly saw any point in cars going in circles, and perhaps a McLaren (was it McLaren or Mercedes?) superfan might have known better than you what the fuck Oscar Piastri was doing there. Not the film premiere gimmick, you were willing to believe that was the kind of fanfare F1 drivers spent their off-days doingâwhat the fuck he was doing alone at three in the afternoon, asking for your help in some acrid station on Lexington Avenue.Â
âCouldnât you just drive to the damn premiere?â
âOh, right, so I should just steal a car off the street?â he deadpanned.
âNo, I mean⊠donât you have a chauffeur? An⊠an agent or something? A team? How do you even end upâŠâ you trailed off, finding no words that wouldnât bring you to astonished frustration. Instead, you opened your arms wide, encompassing all of New Yorkâs rickety railways. âHere?â
Piastri parted his lips to retort with one of his impassive quips, but his whole face fractured then with tremendous vulnerability.
âIâll tell you if you help me find my way. Please?â
He did not look like the type of man whoâd ever begged anyone to do anything for himâyou expected a high-adrenaline junkie like him to pray for neither forgiveness nor permissionâand the contrast made you consider. That, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. And the fact the only other way you could see your afternoon ending was with an onslaught of messages from some guy assuring you life had gotten âsooo hecticâ in the last ten to twelve hours.
Piastri was much cuter than him anyway.
âYou know what, yeah, sure, what the hell,â you shrugged with a growing smile. âIâll help you. I could use the good karma. Iâm Y/N, by the way.â
This whole plan was utterly ridiculous, and you had no idea how youâd possibly explain that to your friends when theyâd ask how your date had gone, but the way Piastri deflated with relief, like his whole body was exhaling, had you convinced youâd made the right call.
âThanks, Y/N.â He said your name with the slightest of accents, and you caught yourself wishing he could say it again. âMaps said this was the shortest path to Times Square, but I think itâs a little confusedââ
âTimes Square? Oh, youâre not getting anywhere near that on the 6. We need to get to Central Park North. You coming?â
You tilted your head to the side, to the staircase drenched in hazy summer light, and Piastri seemed to be weighing the pros and cons for a split secondâyou couldnât fault him, to be fair; you couldâve been a stalker, or a lunatic, or the lowest echelon to a weird MLM scheme. Still, he mustâve decided whatever you were recruiting him for was less dangerous than missing this premiere, because he took off after you.
When he billowed out of the station and back into the city, Piastri winced, and at first you assumed it due to the piercing sunlight reverberating on glassy panels, or the cacophony of horns and engines. However, you quickly noticed him glancing at the passersby with frantic interest⊠and looking puzzled at their utter disinterest in him.
âRelax, no oneâs looking at us,â you reassured him, striding down the street on autopilot. He jogged two steps to catch up.
âYou sure?â
âCertain. Thereâs so many people in New York City, and so many of those people do weird shit, that practically anyone can go unnoticed. I assure you that this,â you gestured down at your long dress, catching the light like rippling topazes, then at the silver cufflinks on his jacket, âdoes not even make the top 5 weirdest things any of these people have seen today.â
But the Australian looked unsure still, twisting his thin lips in a crooked zigzag, so you stopped in your tracks and hailed a young lady passing you by on the sidewalk, Airpods firmly bolted inside her ears.
âExcuse me, do you know who this guy isââ
She strode past you with the most furtive glance biologically possible and a mechanical Nothankyouhaveagoodday. You turned back to Piastri.
âSee? No one cares.â
He chuckled, face breaking like dawn, and you chuckled too with no real reason. You werenât too sure what was funny about typical New York callousness, but the way Piastriâs eyes crinkled, still somewhat strained from stress but illuminating all his features, made you all fuzzy inside. Up close and under sunlight, he looked even younger than youâd thought, no more than twenty-five, and the shadows on his face had lifted, rounding the angles and softening the corners. Like heâd been oil-painted on canvas, ochres and whites melting into each other at the edges.
âOkay, I guess youâre the local,â he conceded, and you resumed your brisk walk.
Maybe you really were at the museum, after all.
âSo,â you spoke up after a bit. âI was promised a story.â
âRight,â he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly regretting his bartering skills.
âHow do you, Oscar Piastri, end up late to a movie premiere and alone in a subway station?â You stepped across a grate on the sidewalk, careful not to wedge your heel in the holes. âThey just left you behind? Did you oversleep or what?â
No reply, but his dry laughter morphing into a cough was a flagrant enough response.
âOh my God, Piastri,â you gasped merrily. âDid you seriously sleep through your movie premiere?â
âNo! ⊠Itâs not over yet. Iâm just late for the red carpet part. I can still make it to the screening.â
You stared, unconvinced, and he stared back, unconvincing. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched your smile grow wider until he couldnât take your teasing anymore. For heavenâs sakeâyouâd known him a grand total of five minutes and were already tormenting him!
âWhat?â
âHow do they let you get away with this?â
âI was racing in Canada yesterday! God forbid a guy wants a nap,â he stressed the last as though it were some capital punishment and rolled his eyes.
Something in his demeanor was fabulously amusing. He was all relaxed tension, calculated coldness akin to what youâd expect from a person whoâs constantly scrutinized; yet there was something more, a sort of agitation bubbling within, under the pores of his handsome face. Feeling so deeply and letting a stranger see so much was not in his nature, that much was clear. Every microexpression, in the lift of his brows, the curve of his lips, the arc of his eyes betrayed a kind of imbalance. He was losing his footing, like a glacier abraded from the top by the sun.
New York City had trained you for all sorts of people, including still waters like him. How to ripple their surface.
âDoes this happen to you often?â
âNo. Never.â
âNever missed a flight?â
âJust once. My mom woke me up screaming one hour before boarding the second tiâwatch out.â
Swiftly, he grabbed your elbow and switched your spots on the sidewalk, pushing you closer to the wall. Before you could open your mouth to protest, the ground rattled from a firetruck barreling past you, ruffling Piastriâs hair and the lapels of his jacket.
âBut I set three different alarms on my phone and I figured, Lando will probably break my door down if I sleep through them, so Iâm safe,â he resumed, entirely unfazed. You looked up at him like heâd just performed actual magic. âBut⊠apparently not. I woke up⊠twenty minutes ago?â That explained the slim, red pillow mark on his face youâd mistaken for a fading sunburn. âI wanted to call a taxi, but theyâve cut off traffic. Itâs a big deal, you know? Brad Pittâs gonna be there.â
The way he said Brad Pitt, with a tone so level it became thick with meaning and the littlest of jazz hands, made it abundantly clear there were few people on Earth Oscar Piastri wouldâve been less excited about than Brad Pitt.
âAre you in it?â
âWhat?â
âThe movie. Are you even in it?â
âUh, my elbow is. Minute fifty-three.â
âWow,â you giggled, arching your eyebrows in a playful wave. âSo am I talking to Oscar Piastri the pro athlete, or Oscar Piastri the movie star?â
âEh, just Oscar Piastriâs fine,â he shrugged, non-committal, though the glint of a smile now flickered uninterrupted on the corner of his lips, almost real enough to remark upon.
Your steps had carried you to the subway entrance north of Central Park alreadyâtoo soon, far too soon, you thought with a faint ache in the chest. Piastri stirred in your body some kind of early-summer warmth, soft and shimmering like a drowsy morning. As soon as he would vanish to the far side of the platform, only the icy wind would remain, howling endlessly through the corridorsâŠ
Piastri, however, did not seem set on giving you up. At least judging by the tiny, tentative steps he took as he walked up to the turnstile, as though the machine could eat him the way it did cardboard tickets. You saw him take out a small, green-lettered card from his pocket⊠and stopped him.
âWait, thatâs not gonna work.â
âHuh?â
âYour ticket, itâs a single ride. You used that back there on Lexington, right?â
âUh, I guess?â
âYou donât have a Metrocard?â
He turned to you, puzzled, and almost slammed into a hurried businessman in the process. Thankfully for Piastri, even assault was too inconsequential to reroute the average New Yorker, and the man just breezed past the turnstile and into the guts of the Earth with a nasty glare and a taunting beep!
âWhy would I have a Metrocard, Y/N, Iâm in this city about twelve hours a year.â
You glanced toward the entrance, where a faint trickle of light still seeped in. A flock of little old ladies, perhaps en route to a high-stakes bingo showdown, had laid siege to the terminals. Judging by their furrowed brows and squinting eyes, no one else in the station would be seeing so much as a hint of a ticket anytime soon.
Goodness gracious. Your helpfulness would be your undoing.
âHow late are you to this thing?â
Piastri checked his watch. âVery.â
âAnd how much do you care about being late to this thing?â
âNormal dude Oscar Piastri? Not so much, to be honest. Formula 1 driver Oscar PiastriâŠâ
âSay less.â
Veritable horror surfaced on Piastriâs face at your confident strides, as if he imagined you were about to vandalize your way through the gates.
âCome on! Hop over,â you signaled.
âUhâŠâ
âOr we could wait in line. Your call.â Like trying to get a puppy to jump through a hoop. What was he waiting for, a treat?
Or perhaps the patrol of inspectors coming down the hallway at the exact same second as Piastri gathered momentum and jumped the turnstile. That, too, seemed like a sensible thing to be on the lookout for.
The two men cried out right as his dress shoes hit the ground.
âOh come on!â you whined. âTheyâre never here!â
âWhat do we do?!â he cried.
âWhat do you mean, what do we do? Just book it!â
You heard a cacophony of footsteps behind your back, promptly echoed by lighter sounds as Piastri ran down the corridor. Without a second glance, you pushed down on your hands, swung your legs forward, and⊠came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Looked down. Sage green fabric had wrapped around the metal blades of the turnstile, like snakes constricting their branches.
âOscar!â you yelped.
If youâd had any doubt Oscar Piastri was the real racing deal until now, they were all silenced at once from the way he spun on his heels, ran back to you and, without a split secondâs hesitation, not even the span of a breath, picked you up from your perch and took off. Instinctively your arms wrapped around the taut base of his neck as you felt his clammy hands slide down your back: the glossy fabric offered no grip to hold on to, yet his strong arms held you into place as tightly as they could. You gritted your teeth, prayed to God your heels would not fall off, and watched in stunned silence as Oscar raced down the stifling hallways.
It seemed like but an instant had passed when Oscar threw himself into the belly of the train, its imminent departure chime his very own chequered flag, and the old doors rattled shut behind you. For the first time, New Yorkers shot you strange looks. Finally you had crossed their threshold for urban bizarrerie.
And you were still in Oscarâs arms, flushed and panting even though he was the one whoâd done all the running. And had barely broken a sweat.
You were about to clear your throat and kindlyâbegrudgingly, perhaps?ârequest he put you down⊠when the announcerâs perky voice began chirping out the next stops through the loudspeakers. You snapped your head at the line map above the doors. No matter what language she said it in, your next stop was always wrong.
âOscar,â you murmured.
âYeah?â he breathed out.
âWe got on the wrong way.â
âThereâs no oil in New York City.â
Oscar remained silent for a few seconds, as if in a trance. His jittery leg did not.
âWhat?â he mumbled when he broke out of his reverie.
You simply pointed at his knee, bouncing up and down since heâd sat.
âI donât know what youâre trying to drill a hole in the ground with your shoe for. Thereâs no oil in New York City. If there was, Trump wouldâve sucked it dry already.â
Oscar sighed, throwing his head back against the glass panel, but your heart swelled with satisfaction when you caught a glimpse of his smile.
Rippling anyoneâs surface had seldom proven as easy as it was fun.
You leaned a little closer to him, and he closed his eyes with a faint grunt. His leg, however, was now still.
âWhy are you so nervous about being late? Youâre the main attraction, itâs not like theyâre going to hold it against you.â
Hearing his reply proved difficult over the trainâs thundering racket, glass windows and moist handles vibrating within their sockets like charged electrons. His eyes, mercifully still closed, allowed yours to linger on his mouthâto decipher each word as it formed, and to savor the quiet contemplation.
âBeing fashionably late usually draws more attention than I like to get.â
âSo why bother going? You donât look like you enjoy being in the public eye that much anyway.â
Only one eye opened, tentatively so, and met your small, expectant smile, chin resting on your fist and your crossed legs imperceptibly brushing his. Any story he couldâve told you right then wouldâve been riveting, it seemed, and for the first time in weeks Oscar found that for you, he did not mind sharing one.
âI told Lando Iâd go. We collided yesterday on track and they thought it would maybe look bad if one of us showed up and not the other. Like weâre avoiding each other or something. I donât know, PR stuff. But I promised Lando, so.â He pursed his lips then, and blew air through his nose, holding back a giggle. âAlso, I donât know, I felt like I had to go. I had a⊠a premonition.â
âA premonition?â
âYeah, I donât know, some kind of hunch. In my cereal.â
You stared at him long, assessing him and the likelihood of a lie, but he was a master of the unreadable smile, the one that could mean anything from Iâm one look away from bursting into laughter to I have never dissociated more than I am currently, and even, perhaps, I wish this train ride with you would never end.
âIn your cereal?â
âThis morning, at the breakfast buffet, I had cereal and there was this kinda cornflake clump that looked like a clapperboard. You know,â he mimed it with his hands and the click of the tongue to match. âSo I thought that was some⊠sign? The universe was telling me to go to this premiere, or something.â His neck tensed abruptly as he suddenly remembered himself. Who he was, and what he believed in. âBut uh, thatâs a little stupid. Forget it.â
The subway doors opened and closed, chimes rang and accordion tunes from the platforms faded in and out of the background chatter. You had close to lost count of how many stops were left until Times Square. The incessant ballet of New Yorkâs illustrious unknowns would still play out, with or without your attention.
When Oscar looked down at you, almost entirely hunched over his lap and taking him in like he was an August rainshower, he found you beaming.
âNo, I totally get you. This date I was supposed to go on before I ran into you⊠I went because Ramen showed up, even though there were so many red flags that I couldâve seen coming.â
âWho?â
âRamen.â
âWhoâs Ramen?â
âThe neighborâs cat. Thatâs not his real name, just what I call him.â
Oscar stared at you, expression frozen in one of delightful incomprehension, the one you get when you are not entirely sure a miracle is destined for you just yet. And you stared back, awaiting his next words for as long as itâd take them to come.
âSo you went on a date because a cat told you to?â
âHe didnât tell me anything, silly, heâs a cat,â you retorted like it was the most obvious thing in the universe, to which Oscar rolled his eyes and muttered Of course. âHe just stared, and every time he does it, I know Iâm gonna get lucky that day. Heâs never failed me before. Well, until today.â
A beat passed, during which you refused to elaborate further out of fear youâd betray the words lingering at the front of your mouth. Maybe this hadnât been a miss for Ramen, after all. Maybe his magic had worked in unexpected ways. Oscar, on the other hand, just basked in the whole of you, and his lips slightly parted without a sound, as though they didnât quite know where to begin.
âWhat?â
âItâs just⊠My job, this whole universe I live in, thereâs no room for good luck charms or silly little superstitions. Theyâre just⊠distractions. All the answers are in the data. Our only faith is in the numbers.â And you sensed him about to say something else, something he had to wring out of the very cloth of his ribcage, but suddenly the deep wells in his pupils were sealed off with his favorite lid of deadpan humor. âWell, except the Italians. But they suck, so I wouldnât take them as an example.â
âOh my God, Oscar,â you gasped, âyou canât say that, do you know how many Italians there are in New Yââ
A sudden jolt shook the entire train, knocking the carriage back onto its breathless tracks; the momentum sent a teenage girl flying into a tall gym guy, who in turn crashed into youâyour hands were too slow to catch you, not lighting-fast and gloved in greatnessâyou fell on top of Oscar, your nose buried against the open buttons of his shirt.
You were upright in less than a second, locked in a litany of Oh my God sorryâs to which Oscar replied his own recitation of No worries itâs not your faultâs. The train resumed its journey through the depths of Manhattan as if nothing had happened, and truthfully nothing hadâexcept you were now a little closer to each other than youâd been before, and you hoped with all your might that he wouldnât notice the way your eyelids fluttered, or how your fingertips had started burning up, or how the air was now thicker, or maybe you hoped he did, so you wouldnât have to speak it aloudânothing had happened, and truthfully everything had.
âWhy did you think I was going to the F1 premiere back there?â you asked softly, not sure why that was the question youâd elected to go with now.
Oscarâs face was impassibleâheâd found his calm, collected control back. But he didnât know, or didnât care to know, that you could hear his heartbeat louder than the railroad racket below.
âYou looked funny.â
âOkay, youâre literally wearing a bowtie, and itâs crooked, by the way.â
âNo, I mean, you looked pretty.â The faintest flick of his tongue showed above his bottom lip, undoubtedly accidental. âYou looked really pretty, so I assumed you were a guest or something.â
Maybe what youâd heard and thought was his heart pulsating in sync with the wobbly tracks had not been his, but yours. Somewhere indistinct, the ladyâs mechanical voice crackled something about Times Square.Â
âThank you,â you smiled, with no mischief attached, this time.
âIâm⊠pretty glad that your date didnât show up in the end, huh,â he laughed half-heartedly.
âOscar, Times Square,â you sprung to your feet, nearly twisting your ankle. âThatâs you!â
The doors almost chewed down on the hem of Oscarâs pants when he jumped out of the train. Without so much as a glance back or a single word of forgiveness, all the carriages vanished into heavy shadows, and the world was back to normal again.
Or almost. If there was anything even remotely normal about Times Square.
Every single light blinded youâno matter how many times you came you could never wrap your head around how the place managed to dazzle you even in broad daylightâas you both exited the metro station. Summer lay heavily on the commotion of cars, police whistles, loud music, and⊠screaming bloody murder?
âAh, I think thatâs my cue.â
Oscar held his hand over his eyes as he took in the scene, and only then did you notice the race cars parked in the middle of the street, some fifty meters ahead. It was probably a fair assumption, then, that the thousands of people massed near the makeshift stage, underneath gigantic screens, were all waiting for him. A fair assumption, and an incredibly odd one; to think you had spent such a mundane moment with the man they would soon shout themselves hoarse for!
âYeah, good luck with that, Iâm not going any nearer,â you forced between clenched teeth. âI hope you donât get into too much trouble.â
When you spun on your heel, you found Oscar extending his hand out for you to shake, squinting his eyes against the sun. Or maybe it was an excuse not to have to look you in the eye more than absolutely necessary. In the same way you couldnât tell whether your hand was slightly clammy from the heat or the nerves.
âThanks for saving the day. Or at least mine,â he said, a little too solemn, a little too final. Like this was a farewell rather than an acknowledgment.
âThanks for saving mine,â you replied, hoping the little smile you forced on your lips looked appropriately warm, and not inexplicably aching. âMaybe Iâll see you around?â
To anyone else Oscar wouldâve replied the truthâProbably notâbut that was not what his bowl of cereal would have wanted of him, so he said:
âMaybe.â
He gave you a wink half a second too long, and immediately looked horrified at what heâd done, which made you double over in a flurry of giggles. When you opened your eyes, he was a few steps ahead, waving you goodbye, and you returned the salute. You watched him jog the distance to the first cameras until he was but one more black and white dot in a sea of elegant millionaires, your throat hollow save for a funny kind of longing.
Then you walked back the way you came, carrying the end of your skirt down the stairs of the metro station.
Thirty minutes later, as you rummaged through your purse for your keys in front of your apartment complex, you noticed your phone lighting up. Usually, when you went on a date, youâd put it on Do not disturb so as to not be temptedâbasic education, you reckoned, and something not many dates of yours had had the courtesy of reciprocatingâ, but you always sent your best friend your location beforehand and allowed her and only her to go through. She knew better than to text you unless it was life or death.
Clearly, this was of the utmost importance, and the fact there were only three messages instead of the fifty-seven you were expecting did not reassure you one bit.
âbitchâ âwho tf is that with oscarâ âand why tf is it you??????â
A link to a TikTok came up mere seconds later.
The sage green gown was unmistakable. Anything else couldâve been explained otherwise, maybe blamed on some uncanny resemblance, a fortuitous angleâit looked like the video had been shot from very far away, and the protagonists not at all aware of the recording; but you wouldâve recognized that lilypad-bright dress anywhere. Just like you knew that the blurry mass of pixels near the manâs face was a pathetic excuse for a wink, and the woman doubling over for no reason was actually laughing. That sheâd watched him disappear into the crowd, immobile and longing, to commit to memory the very way his bones moved when he walked.
âOscar Piastriâs Mystery Date Gets Cold Feet Right Before Red Carpet Debut?? đâ
You stared at your phone even as it kept going off, its vibrations tickling your palm. A series of interrogation marks, each its individual message, popped up one after the other on your notification bar, and all you could do was clutch the screen as though you could shatter it with your bare hands.
This meant nothing, you calmed yourself down. This would blow over soon, you swore. As soon as they realized Oscar Piastri would never be seen again with this mysterious woman, and that it was never anything serious. Anything at all, even. That the New Yorker in apple green was just a mirage on his path, pertaining only to him and for a split instant.
And even if things didnât smooth over⊠you had a feeling Oscarâs team would have no problem tracking you down.
©musicallisto, 2025
‷ THIS IS PART ONE OF A SERIES â READ PART TWO here ! ‷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... endless giggles (ln4)!
