ciao, my butterflies !! mylee. eighteen. she/her. infp-t -> isfj-a. libra. american. po5, mv1, op81. i only write sfw. requests are open! uploads on wednesdays.
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paring connor zilisch x reader summary the nation knows you as a fashion icon, you take matters into your own hands when your bf only wears red bull shirts word count 313 requests open masterlist
❝ if you became a fashion icon, i'm going to kill myself, ❞
everyone knew you—your persona plastered on magazine covers and fashion week.
it came as a surprise that after meeting the sarcastic charmer that you ended up back at his place.
it came as a surprise that you, a vintage and chic fashion icon, that you wound up with someone always dressed down. another white t-shirt and wearing red bull like it was his personal identity. you swore you believed he had nothing else in his closet. this is what you think is the third time you’ve seen him in a plain white tee and red bull athlete cap. he’s been dressing like a walking sponsorship deal. predictable. clean.
you had been leaning against the doorway, dramatically waiting for your whole life.
“you’re wearing that?” you asked, flat. he was in the same white shirt and shorts.
he looks down at himself. “what’s wrong with this?”
you stepped inside, holding up a garment bag by the hanger. unzipping the bag, a black short-sleeve polo sweater paired with black tailored trousers. not loud and not branded. simple.
“hello? i have taste.” before tossing it towards him. “take off your clothes.”
“you want to wear nothing?” a small smile tugged on his lips.
your tone deadly, “connor.”
“i’m just asking.” he shrugged his shoulders, lifting his hands up in defense. you noticed how he catches the reflection in the mirror and studies himself like he’s trying to understand what you did.
“you know,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets of the pants you brought, “i thought you were just dramatic.”
“i am.” you deadpanned before you stepped back, studying him. “but…yeah,” you quietly hummed.
he looks down at himself, then back at you. “yeah?”
“you like it.”
he paused before saying honestly, “yeah.”
“good.”
he smirks smugly, “what’s next? you pick out my race suit too?”
paring carson hocevar x reader word count 390 author’s note thank you @haleysteed for the comment! masterlist
white flag. number 45 had been right behind you, waiting for a brief mistake to have a chance of passing you into first place. you and your teammate were door-to-door before he closed the gap. his tire was bumping into yours as he aggressively bumped you into dirty air. your hands lifted off the wheel, not even trying to save it as the car flew up towards the wall, your own tires screeching and leaving a mark on the asphalt. you held your breath until the moment you felt the impact.
the team had retired the car behind the wall and you from the next race weekend. you weren’t cleared by the medics to run one of your favorite tracks. talladega.
“i cannot reschedule again, carson.” you’ve rescheduled once already with your physical therapist to drive a few hours away to pick up a decoration piece he had to have for your shared apartment from a fan on the marketplace. “i refuse to.”
“okay, yeah. fine, i understand,” he muttered, grabbing an energy drink from the fridge. your body leaned against the kitchen counter to keep pressure off the bandage on your ankle. you could hear the disappointment, despite the kiss on the top of your head as he passed.
carson hadn’t been sulking as anyone expected, just telling everyone on his team “yeah, they couldn’t make it this weekend.” he acted normal and focused like every race weekend. yet, he’d check his phone more often for when you would text, reply, or even have a brief phone call. answering the second it rang as if he was staring at his phone all-day awaiting just for that moment.
his team gave him sympathy pats on his back in passing when you went mia for a few hours. you had told nobody that you decided to call your pilot at the last minute after your session ended earlier than expected.
he froze up briefly because he genuinely wasn’t expecting to see you here. “what are you doing here?”
he smiled without even realizing, “you actually came.”
he hovers around you closer than he normally does and walks next to you for the next few hours before the driver’s introduction. everyone notices that he’s closer than normal, your shoulder bumping into him like a rhythm.
paring gregory bridgerton x fem!reader word count 385 masterlist
the sun beamed down at aubrey hall, your back against the rough bark. the thick branches offered a hand of shade to conceal the sun rays.
though, the sauntering heat did not concern the youngest boy bridgerton. while you indulged in a traded book from eloise, his eyes were on you. his head propped up in his palm, looking in awe. his elbow was resting against the blanket fabric beneath both of you.
this moment was rooted in when he had forgotten his pocket watch, which his eldest bridgerton brother had given him in your morning room.
“i’m afraid that’s all the time you will have today, mr.bridgerton.”
your ladies’ maid spoke sweetly from the doorframe. you had suitors lined up against the wall in the hallway since early light. you had been nearly burnt out, ready to play pall mall in the gardens and horse-riding into the country estate. until, gregory. he shined the brightest out of all of the odd suitors. he returned from eton to step into society and was ready to marry you. hyacinth’s dearest friend.
“it has been lovely to see you.” he rose from the settee, bowing his head a little as a small goodbye. until later. secretly, slipping his pocket watch out from its resting place in his vest. his fingers grazed over the dessert table as he left the ticking clock at your estate in london. you had realized it, when you no longer heard the light clanking when he walked away. he had left it purposely to have a reason to come back tomorrow morning.
he did come back, the earliest it was acceptable for a suitor to show up for something he had ‘forgotten’.
“did you just—“
“leave my pocket watch on purpose? yes, i am guilty of it,” he admitted, hands clasped behind his back. his cheeks had warmed only slightly, though he seemed fairly confident.
“very well, then,” you nodded your head, delicately moving a linen from its plate imported from france and wrapping a handful of green macaroons in the cloth. “for your ride back.”
his lips had met the back of your hand, this time for a goodbye. delicate and light. your heart had jumped at the contact, a brief shared look with your maid. this proposal was acceptable.
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thank you @taurusgale, @haleysteed, and @ryanthedemiguy for the comments! my comments don’t work right, so i can’t respond or like them. any comments are so appreciated, ty again 🫶🏻🫶🏻
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summary bf!cortis hyung line green flags word count 183 masterlist
제임스, james
greengreen, “i saw something that reminded me of you and spent three hours learning about it" type.
greengreen, he remembers your interests and researches them just to talk with you.
greengreen, he doesn’t like to argue with you. he wants to keep peace. which leads to him fairly and willing to hear your side during disagreements and appreciates your opinions even when he disagrees.
greengreen, he actually gives good advice.
주훈, juhoon
greengreen, he’s the "i packed snacks, a blanket, and your favorite drink" type.
greengreen, shows love through actions more than words. often opting for experiences over gestures.
greengreen, he’s patient when teaching you something.
greengreen, notices what makes you comfortable and adjusts accordingly.
마틴, martin
greengreen, he stay on the phone with you until you fall asleep type.
greengreen, a gentle giant with you. he seems to tower everyone, including you. his affectionate with you in a softer, gentle way.
greengreen, he supports you unconditionally about everything. he has enough belief in you for the both of you.
greengreen, he’d write songs inspired by you for other hybe groups.
paring connor zilisch x fem!reader summary you and connor being the most supportive wag/hab ever word count 571 masterlist
scene one
“vegas sucks because we aren’t allowed to do anything,” you told the camera as you pack your birkin—jane style, filled to the brim with necessities transferred from your suitcase for the paddock.
it was difficult to keep your marriage a secret, especially with the drive to survive crew in your hotel. the one that you share. fans and media knew you were married, but didn’t know who your husband was. it was painfully obvious when you showed up with an engagement ring on your finger at a grand prix, then six months later a bigger ring matching. fans with podcasts had guessed, but never came close enough. who is your husband?
you sported his trackhouse red bull hat, being both red bull athletes it was allowed. “how’s being a hab?”
“it’s decent.” he shrugged, earning him a look. you know he was downplaying it just for the cameras.
“dude, i thought you would say cool. it’s, like, your favorite word ever.”
“don’t call me dude, i’m your husband.”
“oh, whatever.”
scene two
connor questioned out of the fame despite being seated next to you, “nervous?”
“no, not at all. just want to preform well. you know?”
one of the executives asked behind the camera, “what are you wearing?”
his red bull hoodie—you refused to cheat on your team and prada sweat pants. hood up to gain some privacy from the non-tinted team car windows. “it’s my comfy fit. got nobody to impress.”
“i like cooler weather,” you said, nodding your head as you glanced out of the window. las vegas—filled with flashing neon lights and cheap weddings. venues we weren’t allowed in or carpet to walk on. you glanced briefly over at him. “how long do you think it would take to adjust to this type of circuit?”
“a couple of races, at least.” he passed off your team-branded tumblr.
“really? it took two laps for me.”
he joked, doubling down. “one lap.”
you laughed, hand with a glinting wedding ring covering your face in false disappointment. “that was so stupid.”
smiling, he replied. “i know.”
scene three
champagne-soaked celebration on the top step. you were far enough ahead in the points, that it was certain you would win your second championship in abu dhabi. his last name was finally sewen onto your race suit.
a promised dinner and a brief celebration with the team in front of the garage. the flash of the camera and you darted from the sticky celebration as far as you could with a laugh, only to still get your fireproofs soaked in champagne from the excited team.
your flushed cheeks were tired from the smiling and strings of “thank you”, from people passing by or the team congratulating you.
you walked behind him bouncing on your toes with your hands on his shoulders like a short train, squeezing them occasionally. the drive to survive crew right behind you, filming as you two led the way back to your driver’s room. chocolate cake and a bouquet sitting on the massage table waiting for you to be surprised.
“this is nice,” you muttered, quiet enough for only him to hear. you licked the fudge off your middle finger, rosing from your spot on the small leather futon.
you ushered the crew out of your driver’s room with your hand, lightly joking. “m’kay, i’m kicking you out now.”
“so you can celebrate properly?” one of the crew members tease behind the camera.
“hell yeah.”
yourusername
📍las vegas, nevada
liked by connorzilisch, kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1, jesselovejr, svg97 and 12.9m
! bf james who is the type to bring you your favorite snacks that he remembers you buying or gushing about without any strings or reasoning. he just shows up randomly with them every now and again, just to show he was thinking about you throughout the day.
! bf james who brings you your preferred flowers, remembering how you mentioned it once during a date. flustered, hands them off to you before a small odd noise escapes from his throat. he secretly enjoys how you admire and appreciate them, even if you don’t verbally express it. your eyes are a tale sign that you feel seen.
! bf james remembers the tiniest thing that you say. even it’s mindlessly said during a conversation or an insignificant thing you’ve said. he tries to soak up as much as you say, it gives him more clues into your heart and what gestures you like regardless of your love language.
! bf james shows up and surprises you with a diamond ring like it didn’t cost anything. he insists on buying everything, never letting you lift a card or cash. your bag is at this point for decoration. after seeing you eye a ring through the shop’s window, real diamonds and thick band. he just knew he had to have it.
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paring max verstappen x teammate!reader word count 800 playlist olivia rodrigo, brutal masterlist
it had been messy.
17 had been the embodiment of messy. insecurities rising to the surface from being in the limelight, trying to force yourself into somebody you’re not, and celebrating things that didn’t matter. you got sick of 17 quickly. caught up in the media, who was favored to win the championship. what the odds were. pretending, acting to have a good time in front of cameras for pr. egos crushed and rebuilt within the same day by performances, half-tenths.
two sensation rookies that red bull liked to gamble with. you had been a part of the 2015 rookies, glad to have a friend since f3 with you. until, you weren’t. by the end of the next season, max verstappen was your rival.
little over a decade together spent as teammates didn’t age well. after eight championship wins (together), a divorce and custody of lily, a ridge was caused between them. it became a series of crashing purposely into the other, clipping front wings or tyres running causing a yellow flag into the wall, yelling matches hidden away in the driver’s room, or ignoring each other on days at the end.
it’s come down to the wire, too close in championship points. articles and reporters spreading about your odds of winning, it’s not helping anything.
act, i
the chicane was tight. the screech of the accelerating car beside you didn’t reach your ears as they rang in your helmet. you were no longer driving the car consciously; it was pure muscle memory. max had been right behind you, waiting for a half-second mistake before attempting to overtake. arms burning as you dove into the corner later, he took the opportunity.
white flag. you haunted him down for half a lap, before using drs to overtake him on the outside. your front wing had been an inch farther than his, before he purposely leaned in clipping your tyre with his. hands lifted off the wheel, not even attempting to save it. flying towards the barrier, your own tyres screech and leave a mark on the asphalt. you held your breath until the moment you felt the impact. muttered something to his engineer that he lost control of the wheel, but you knew better. max verstappen never lost control. and only one of you ended up in the barrier.
“send her my regards.”
act, ii
helmet up, visor down. you tugged off your racing gloves, the same ones you re-stitched yourself. lighter, but enough to slide past fia regulations. a woman, dark hair tied back tightly. young and ambitious. probably just broke out into this sport, new and fresh. no lines aging her face or her emotional morals. a cameraman following her suit, too many cameras in your small bubble that it made you want to lash out with unnecessary anger. with the smiling reporter walking into your steps as you kept walking towards the garage, “thoughts on the collusion? what exactly happened out there between you and max?”
“i don’t know. don’t ask me, he’s an asshole.”
act, iii
if you ask any racing driver, the only thing that matters is winning.
you were frayed by the edges. heat exhaustion that made you feel weak, only to push yourself farther in the car. you refused to quit and refused to ask for help. throwing up secretly in your driver’s room or hotels after a race, close to dizziness before you climb through the halo that you ignored. your body ached as you didn’t mutter about retirement even when reporters or fans asked.
if you ain’t first, you’re last. that quote made a lot of sense to you. you refused anything else besides first. you never passed the checkered flag in below sixth place, besides the occasional dnf for engine failure or max crashing out.
the paddock buzzed with its usual excitement, while you glowed in the night air. champagne drying on your hair and skin. winning felt like a drug you would constantly be ready to endure. you were standing on the top of the world as a fifth-time world champion. lily bouncing besides max’s engineer, down at the pit lane. his hand lightly clapped your back on the podium, a secret way of saying good job.
a small smile had managed to tug on your lips as you glanced at him, only for a brief moment. the first smile since this season had started. you had won. you beat him once again for a champion-ship. revenge, after he robbed the 2021 championship for you. the one that some fans mistakenly count as your first championship. he had won by a single point back then. you had torn yourself apart, every cell of yourself. it was worth winning another heavy trophy looming over your head.
paring connor zilisch x red bull driver!reader word count 625 masterlist
it was an impossible force, such as bringing two opposing people and forcing them together. like magnets, they don’t directly apart easily.
that’s what happened between you two. in a force proximity situation, press putting you two together over and over again for thirteen months to keep sponsors happy. it had been a whirlwind of visiting him at his parents’ house and being in his rv at the races that you can attend when your schedule permits. meeting fellow drivers that he’s gotten close with in the series, sharing beds like little kids in hotels, and laughing until early in the mornings. it had been practiced so much for the media that you’re just friends and that’s what you convinced yourselves.
your first introduction with each other was a dinner filled with a mess of fumbles and real human connection. it felt nice for the connection to be authentic, no pressure. a spill of his water twice, accidentally. two awkward teenagers are sitting across from each other. you both understood each other too well, understood the weight of highly demanding careers and success too early in life. yearning for connection, some normalcy of teenage lives.
neither of you knew how to play golf properly, forcing the ball into a bunker. every warning from your pr manager slipped into the sandy dunes of your mind. get close, but not too close. close enough to fool the press, not yourselves. the blank space where nothing mattered. where daydreams that consumed that matter of actually spending your life with him, building blocks steady on stones. a built presence in a rushed life where everything comes just as quickly as it goes, a few years left in open wheeled racing if you’re lucky.
the long list of promotions had led to you rarely leaving each other’s side. you were sporting his cool blue windbreaker, a little baggy, sitting in the golf cart. he insisted on taking the wheel, like the time he insisted that the one bed his team accidentally booked would be okay. the first moment you started to share something, that turned into every moment you’ve ever lived. whispered secrets, significant wins in your career, and everything in between.
he comes behind you, correcting your hands a little into a neutral position. your dominant hand is below your lead hand on the grip of the club. a candid moment you wish the drive to survive crew cameras didn’t catch. maybe the lovely green scenery of the golf course. there was no way you couldn’t get the white orb staring up and gleaming at you across a few hundred yards. not with his presence in the corner of your sight. you muttered, “back off.”
“then stop leaning in.” the comment earned a glare from you until he took a few paces back.
you felt a red string tighten around your own bloody heart—beating too noticeably against your ribcage from the ghost of his touch. it felt like it had been forcibly opened with his hands, strung up in webbed red string beating just for the likes of him. you had to remind yourself your blood wasn’t actually on his hands. it was a brisk breeze that made your racing mind come back to your body. you relaxed and swung.
“damn, nice shot,” he commented behind you. the muted colored golf ball had landed a few feet away from the flagstick.
“like you could do better?” you scoffed lightly, brushing past him. the windbreaker grazes his polo’s sleeve. slipping the hybrid club back into the cart bag. competition spiking up in your bloodstream, similar to when you’re contorting the car to its limit on the track.
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