multi-twenty-onez

-🍍

inspired by this amazing simi fic 🥹

fem!ish!reader

don’t kill me the quotes aren’t accurate AT ALL but yall get the gist

suggestive light smut

Press conferences were the worst part of being a Formula One driver. Cramming anywhere between six and ten drivers into a stuffy room, shoving sponsored, lukewarm drinks into their hands, and asking them to remember what had just happened whether it had been crash or first ever victory.

This time, it was a first victory for none other than Sebastian Vettel. He’d podiumed before you and rounded it off with first place before you, still grinning that cheeky grin he’d bore since you’d met him in Formula BMW.

The media had swarmed him. After all, who didn’t love the shiny, pretty new German, who looked like an alabaster angel next to his chiselled-from-granite Australian teammate?

You were only half listening as the reporters grilled Seb. He was glowing, chest puffed out, and as you shifted boredly in your seat, you heard some background voice ask:

‘Sebastian, isn’t this the greatest moment of your life?’

He barely paused, a crooked smirk pulling grotesquely at the corners of his lips to reveal perfect teeth.

‘You obviously weren’t there when w—uh, I, lost my virginity.’

The room was silent. You turned slowly to face the man next to you just to find he was already looking.

You knew what he’d been about to say. “We”.

Somebody behind a camera coughed. The other drivers laughed nervously.

‘Well, when you put it that way… Mark, how was your race?’

The Australian nodded and gave a surprisingly (and thankfully) well-composed answer. You were still sweating, praying silently that the man beside you would stop grinning.

You couldn’t wait for the conversation your media team had in store for you…

…

Bang. Bang. Bang.

You swore profusely. You’d just made it back to your motorhome, after whatever nightmare the press conference had been, and finally had been able to get into a hot shower.

You shut off the water and stepped out onto cold tile, scrabbling for your towel in the tiny bathroom. It barely covered your knees when you wrapped it around yourself, but you still stormed out to shout at likely some asshole from your PR group.

‘Go fucking talk to Seb,’ you called. ‘S’not my fault he’s a pervert. Also, what kind of asshole are you to come to my motorhome?’

Silence for a few seconds. You were almost halfway back to the bathroom when whoever-it-was tried the door handle.

It was locked, obviously. You weren’t that stupid.

Apparently, though, that wasn’t enough to stop them. The lock rattled and the door swung open, revealing someone very familiar holding a key and wearing a smile that made you shiver.

Sebastian’s tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip and you suddenly felt as if every single inch of skin your towel didn’t cover was burning.

‘Pervert?’ he asked quietly, pale blue eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Well, when you look like that…’

You crossed your arms over your chest self-consciously. ‘Seb—‘

‘Come on, schatzi, I’ve seen it before,’ he complained, stepping closer to you and brushing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone.

If the shivers had been bad before, the feeling in your bones was now a full-blown earthquake.

‘Seb, you can’t—‘

Whatever protest you had been about to make disappeared as his lips found yours.

It was like sinking into a fever dream, one that smelt like the too-strong cologne that he used to wear as a teenager, the very same one that had almost stained your bedsheets with it’s smell all those years ago.

His hands still felt the same. What was most dangerous of all, however, was that his lips did too.

‘Mm,’ you mumbled. He smiled and started to kiss down your neck in a damp, messy trail.

‘And you made it so easy for me, schatz…’

His cool fingers were a shock to the boiling skin of your upper thighs, making you shudder and clamp them shut. ‘No, no, I don’t think so…’

He pried them apart with one hand, practically purring as he found your bare cunt.

It was slick, you’d barely even noticed till the pad of his finger bumped your clit and made your knees lose all potential of holding your weight. Seb snickered and walked you back slowly, until he could lower you onto the mattress at the rear of your motorhome.

‘And to think, you almost went back into the shower,’ he cooed, curling his fingers inside of you and coaxing sounds you didn’t even know you could make from your lips.

either or :3

pls and thx xx

this yes this

mb it’s lowkey very long

It was absolutely freezing at the Nurburgring.

Silvery mist hung ominously over the section of track Formula One kidnapped once a year for their open-wheel event. The sun hadn’t made an appearance all weekend, and drivers—like you—were losing track of time.

The usually bright, bougie red-and-white of your Ferrari fireproofs were somehow dulled. The only bright thing remaining in this year’s paddock was your teammate’s—Kimi’s—eyes.

He had shed his sunglasses this weekend, as the light wasn’t so harsh, and looked absurdly comfortable in the subzero German climate.

You decided not to dwell on it further—otherwise your face would turn green with envy—and started a half-hearted conversation with your wind-ruffled race engineer.

She was petite and brown-haired, much older than you, and very switched-on. Usually conversations with her were really interesting, though it seemed everybody in the Ferrari garage except Kimi Raikkonen had experienced an unfortunate sort of brain freeze.

The man himself had appeared at your side without your noticing. ‘Hi.’

You jumped, huffing out a very opaque breath into the chilly, damp air.

‘Not cold, I see?’

You had donned a thick, lined jacket on top of your fireproofs today, one that had your last name printed across your shoulderblades. Kimi’s lay forgotten on one of the telemetry desks.

The Finn shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Always an eloquent man,’ you rolled your eyes and he remained as expressive as a sheer seaside cliff.

‘Well, we’ll see if you’ll be talking when you run off track. It’s very slippery out there,’ your engineer piped up with a small smile.

‘Mm,’ you snickered. Still, Kimi’s face barely wavered. If you squinted, however, you might have convinced yourself the tiniest of tics had quirked the corner of his lip upward.

Someone called him from across the garage and he rolled his eyes. ‘Race starts in 20, you should probably go,’ your engineer nodded.

Your teammate trudged off.

‘You need to get that jacket off,’ you grit your teeth at your engineer’s words. ‘It won’t fit in the cockpit, c’mon.’

You sighed and peeled it off, immediately shivering and reaching for your gloves and balaclava. ‘Just get me in the car and get it over with, please.’

She nodded peacefully, walking with you to your car and calling over some mechanics. You watched longingly as they pulled off the tyre warmers and stacked them neatly at the back of the garage.

Your helmet was warm after you shoved it on, thank God. As the team wheeled your car over to it’s p5 start, you had to fight back images in your head of curling up on top of a pile of tyre-warmers.

…

The race start had been messy, but you didn’t have time to think about it now. Some of the hairpins here had thrown drivers much better than you into spins—and your tyres were slowly getting shredded.

You had relayed this to your engineer about three laps ago. She’d asked you to last just a little bit longer—you were relieved when the message came in confirming your pit.

You might have been a little too relieved—turn 13 and 14 appeared out of nowhere and as you fought to keep your Ferrari within track limits you felt something slip.

This lock-up combined with the slick track sent your car flying off track, the rear swinging around and smacking into the wall.

Your head buzzed. It had smacked back into the seat behind you and somehow your helmet felt ruptured—upon your shaky hand’s inspection, you discovered it had.

The metallic taste of blood flooded your mouth. Whether you’d bit your cheek or it was coming from your throat, you didn’t know.

‘Shit…’

The red flags waving from the trackside blurred your vision. Cars still zipped past, heading into the pits.

You tried to brace your hands on the sides of the cockpit but they slipped, and you slumped forward, fighting with the spinning feeling in your head as the steering wheel flickered in and out of encroaching darkness.

Hands, rough, gloved ones, yanked you out of your car. They sat you down and placed cold metal pendants over your heart, gently removing your helmet.

Their hands felt your neck and retracted covered in your own blood. You vomited, vaguely felt disgusted, and passed out.

…

Was it Christmas?

That was the first foggy thought in your mind. But snowflakes weren’t usually so large, were they?

They blinked. You squinted.

You tried to reach for them, but your hand flopped back to your side, feeling as if it was weighted with a thousand bricks.

Warmth encased your hand and you relaxed. ‘Mm…’

A small laugh—more like a snicker—escaped the lips of the face hovering over you. That’s what it was, then—a face.

A familiar one.

‘Kimi?’

The warmth covering your hand tightened. You foggily realised that your stoic, icy teammate was holding your hand.

‘You crashed.’ good to know that the rare display of emotion hadn’t reached his voice.

‘Think so,’ you squinted up at him, trying to get him to laugh again. To your delight, he did.

‘The guy who has been replacing you is shit.’

‘Good to hear you miss me, then.’

‘Yes.’ he didn’t elaborate and you found yourself blushing.

‘He must be really terrible, then.’

hope you’re doing well!

I promise I’m still alive everyone!! I’ve missed yall so much. I’ve kind of being posting more elsewhere so I wrongly neglected probably my favourite people ever and I’m so sorry 😭

(Possibly set around 2012)

contains interactions with mark, jenson, and nico h......

You barely got time to attend Sebastian's races. Between your photoshoots, events and interviews, it was a wonder you even got time to watch them on the TV.

So, the first time you were actually free on a race weekend saw Sebastian parading you around for all of the grid to see.

Faces—those of drivers, mechanics, and the public alike—peeked out from behind walls and doors, watching you and Sebastian chat and wander the pit-lane and paddock.

The first driver to approach was Seb's teammate, Australian driver Mark Webber.

'Jesus, Seb,' he clapped the younger driver on the shoulder. 'She's a beauty.'

'Right?' you'd never seen such a huge, toothy grin on your boyfriend's face. He was beaming, not unlike a small sun, straight up at his fellow Redbull driver.

'Have to keep her from the rest of the boys,' Mark chuckled, winking at Seb and smiling at you before striding off.

After that, there seemed to be no end to the greetings—or the whispering.

You'd noticed small clusters of drivers and officials starting to form in your wake, chattering a bit too loudly to be considered in secrecy.

Mainly, you caught the tail ends of their words—things about recognising you, some murmurings about your good looks—harmless things, really.

So absorbed in this train of thought, you didn't even notice that Jenson Button—the McLaren Mercedes driver—had wandered over.

'Hi, Seb,' he grinned. 'And—he-llo, Seb's girlfriend.'

Sebastian snorted, and pulled you a little closer. 'Okay, Jennifer, keep it to yourself.'

The Brit shrugged, winking at you anyway. 'You know, if you want someone who actually speaks English...'

'Ich bin Deutsch,' you smiled up at him, and Jenson baulked.

'Shit, girl, I take that back.'

He awkwardly patted Sebastian's shoulder one last time and ducked off, likely reporting to his teammate, Lewis Hamilton.

'Dämlich,' Seb said affectionately, smiling down at you. 'The English drivers can be stupid.'

'I expected better,' you sighed, but couldn't contain your grin.

'Maybe another German?' Sebastian waved over fellow countryman Nico Hulkenberg.

He strolled over, smile almost blinding in contrast to the dark tint of the sunglasses propped on his beakish nose, and shook Seb's hand.

'Ich sehe, du hast eine Freundin gefunden,' [I see you've found yourself a girlfriend!]

'Ja,' Seb grinned, seemingly unable to keep the expression off his face. 'Sie ist hübsch, nicht wahr?' [she's pretty, isn't she?]

'Very,' Nico agreed, his lips curving up in a warm smile as his eyes turned to you. 'Willkommen.'

'Danke,' you shook his hand, returning his friendliness before he turned back to your boyfriend.

'Kümmere dich gut um sie, Seb,' Nico nodded.

I PROMISE I WILL START POSTING MORE AGAIN............. school has been kicking my ass

guys i can’t stop thinking about teen max n exchange student reader they are my magnum opus

It sort of felt like a sign.

After all, it rarely snowed in the Netherlands—and even more rarely, snowed this heavily.

And exactly two days after Max’s new exchange student had moved into his home.

You had scurried up to one of the windows on the top floor, face pressing against the freezing glass, and stared out at the white-blanketed hills that had appeared overnight. The snow seemed to glister, sparkling back up at you in the early-morning sun, ensnaring your eyes.

Max, woken by the commotion of your footsteps, crept out of his room to see what was up.

He probably should have been impressed by the snowfall, by just how thick it looked even from up here. But, alas, he was a little more focused on you.

You, in the sweatpants and longsleeve you’d been wearing to bed due to not being used to the cold. You, with your pillow-mussed hair, in a tangle over your shoulders. You, with the warmth from your hands slowly fogging the glass.

It took Max a little longer than he liked to drag his eyes away from you.

‘The snow is nice,’ he mumbled, and you jumped—you had been too enamoured by the pale, glittering hills outside to realise he had approached.

‘I’ve never seen it before!’ you sighed, glancing longingly out the window once more. ‘It’s so beautiful…’

This had Max perk up. Never seen snow before? Even he had, despite it being rare here. It usually didn’t last past midday, however.

‘How?’ he obviously didn’t mean to be rude, but the word was a little too incredulous.

‘It doesn’t snow everywhere, Max,’ you giggled, and it was only now that the boy realised you were shivering. As your shoulders shook from your little laugh, they sort of trembled uncomfortably for a little longer than they should have.

‘Do you need a—’ Max motioned with his hands as if he was wrapping himself up in something. His English was broken, and of course, he couldn’t remember the word jacket in a conversation he was trying very hard not to fumble.

‘A jumper?’ you asked shyly. ‘Yes, please.’

He nodded, grabbing your wrist gently and leading you to his room. You’d already been in here, probably twice, but he hadn’t opened his closet yet—not until now.

‘You can choose.’

Inside, there was an assortment of hoodies and jackets—most with team logos on them. Some you’d seen before, with insignia of various F1 drivers on them, or others with symbols you could only assume were that of his F3 team.

You reached for one in grey and orange—it had his name embroidered on the back. On the front was a small patch with the logo for Van Amersfoort Racing—Max’s F3 constructor.

He chewed his lip, watching as you shrugged it on, nudging you so you would turn around and show him the letters “VERSTAPPEN” which were now splashed across your back. A small, possessive part of him grinned with all of it’s pointy teeth.