Well hello there! ⋆˚꩜。
hihii! my name is lara and welcome to my blog <3
⋆˚꩜。 get to know me!
⋆˚꩜。 the ultimate stan list.
⋆˚꩜。 my masterlist COMING SOON

Kiana Khansmith
occasionally subtle
ojovivo
cherry valley forever
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Andulka
Jules of Nature

oozey mess
hello vonnie
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

titsay
Monterey Bay Aquarium

🪼

ellievsbear
Mike Driver
DEAR READER

Origami Around
NASA
seen from United States
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seen from Thailand
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seen from Australia
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seen from Australia

seen from Belgium

seen from Australia
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@volt44ge
Well hello there! ⋆˚꩜。
hihii! my name is lara and welcome to my blog <3
⋆˚꩜。 get to know me!
⋆˚꩜。 the ultimate stan list.
⋆˚꩜。 my 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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he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds (18+)
Mom’s Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x AFAB Reader
⋆˙⟡ In the smoke-scented dark of her mother's house, a quiet 21-year-old y/n finally snaps and lets her mom's rough-handed, twice-her-age boyfriend ruin her life
word count: 2,869
warnings: nsfw, smut (LITERALLY JUST PURE PORN), fingering, dom!bucky, vaginal sex, daddy kink, age gap (duhrr), stepdad(ish)!bucky, beefy!bucky
a/n: MINORS DNI !! HAPPY NEW YEAR!! im litch back here after a very LONG DAMN BREAK but UHHHH GUYS?? crazy ass trope ik but FAWK ME IM WET??? (ALSO IM SORRY IF THIS IS A TAD BIT UNORIGINAL… read a smut of this trope on wattpad YEAARS AGO SO!)
The summer dragged on like molasses in your mom's quiet suburban house. The kind of heat that made everything feel slower, stickier. Like time itself was resisting movement. You'd dragged yourself back home from college for the break, suitcase crammed with textbooks and half-formed dreams, but nothing could've prepared you for him. Bucky Barnes. Your mom's new boyfriend. He looked like he worked with his hands; rough, calloused palms from God knows what shadowy past he'd hinted at during dinner conversations. And he smelled like Marlboro Reds, that sharp, smoky tang clinging to his clothes like a bad habit he couldn't quit. Ex-military, she'd gushed one night, with a metal arm that whirred softly when he moved and eyes that held storms. He was in his 40s, easy, with those salt-and-pepper locks and a build that was sculpted straight by the Gods.
You hated him at first. Or at least, that's what you told yourself. He called you "kid" the day you arrived, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk that grated, like he knew something you didn't. "Your mom's told me all about you," he'd said, voice low and gravelly, sizing you up with those piercing blue eyes. You were 21, not a child, but the word stung, highlighting the chasm between you: the life he'd lived versus the one you'd barely started. You kept to yourself, through and through, content with your own company, your experiences limited to awkward dorm-room kisses that never went anywhere. Virginity wasn't a badge or a burden; it was just... you. Untouched, untested, and fine with staying that way.
The antagonism simmered from the start. He'd barge into your routines without apology, fixing the leaky faucet in the bathroom while you were trying to read in the adjacent room, his tools clanging like accusations. "You gonna just sit there, or hand me the wrench?" he'd grumble, not looking up, but you could feel his awareness of you, heavy in the air. You'd roll your eyes, tossing it over with more force than necessary. "Didn't realize you needed help from a 'kid,'" you'd snap back, retreating to your room before he could respond. But later, alone, you'd replay the moment: the flex of his shoulders under his shirt, the way his metal arm gleamed under the fluorescent light. And you hate how it stirred something unfamiliar in you.
Your mom worked erratic shifts, leaving the house a battlefield of unspoken friction. Mornings were the worst. You'd shuffle into the kitchen at dawn, seeking coffee and solitude, only to find him there, fresh from a smoke on the porch. His scent would hit you first, sharp and invasive. He'd pour his mug, standing closer than needed, his hip grazing yours in the cramped space.
"Mornin'," he'd mutter, voice rough from whatever kept him up at night.
You'd nod curtly, avoiding his gaze, focusing on the drip of the coffee maker. "Couldn't sleep again?"
"Old habits die hard." His eyes would skim you, subtle, but you'd catch it, the way they lingered on the hem of your sleep shorts, the bare skin of your thighs. It made your skin prickle, a mix of irritation and something hotter. "You avoiding me, or just everyone?"
The jab landed. You were avoiding him, yes. His presence disrupted your careful isolation. "Maybe I just don't like small talk," you'd retort, grabbing your mug and brushing past him, ignoring the spark from the contact.
He'd chuckle, low and mocking. "Fair enough. But careful with that attitude, doll. Might bite you back."
Doll. It started as a taunt, but it stuck, worming its way into your thoughts. You'd hear it echo when you caught glimpses of him in the garage, hunched over his Harley, grease-smeared hands working with precision. The smoke from his cigarette would curl upward, blending with the tang of motor oil. Once, you paused too long in the doorway, watching the muscles in his back shift. He glanced up, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. "See something you like, kid?"
You flushed, anger flaring. "Just wondering how long it'll take you to break that thing too." It was petty, uncalled for, but the way his eyes narrowed only fueled the fire.
The push-pull escalated over weeks, a slow unraveling of your defenses. He'd "help" with chores you didn't ask for, like carrying groceries in, his flesh hand brushing your waist as he set bags down. "Don't strain yourself," he'd say, smirk in place, knowing it irked you. You'd snatch them away. "I can handle it. Not everyone needs a hero complex."
But beneath the barbs, the tension thickened, electric and undeniable. Close calls piled up. One night, after your mom crashed early from exhaustion, you ventured to the back porch for air, only to find him there, cigarette glowing in the dark. The night was humid, stars muted by clouds.
"Escaping the house?" he asked, not turning, but you knew he sensed you.
"Something like that." You leaned on the railing, arms crossed defensively. His scent enveloped you. Smoke, sweat, that underlying musk that made your head spin despite yourself.
He offered the pack wordlessly. You shook your head. "Bad for you."
He exhaled a laugh, smoke billowing. "Lots of things are. Like standing out here in those pajamas, pretending you hate my guts."
Your heart stuttered. "I do hate you. You're... intrusive. Acting like you own the place."
He stubbed out the cigarette, stepping closer, his frame towering. "Is that it? Or is it that I see through you? The quiet girl who hides because she's scared of what she wants."
The words cut deep, exposing vulnerabilities you'd buried. You shoved at his chest, solid, unyielding. "You don't know shit about me."
His hand caught your wrist, not tight, but firm. The metal of his other arm whirred softly as he pulled you nearer. "Maybe not. But I know that look in your eyes. The one that says you're fighting this as hard as I am."
The air crackled. You yanked free, but didn't step back. "This? There's no 'this.' You're my mom's boyfriend. Old enough to—"
"To what? Know better?" His voice dropped, breath warm on your face. "Yeah. But here we are."
You fled inside, pulse thundering, body alight with a need you'd never felt so sharply. Sleep evaded you, your mind replaying his touch, his words, hating how they thrilled you.
The dam broke two weeks later, on a night your mom pulled a double, gone till dawn. The house thrummed with pent-up energy. You were curled on the couch, feigning interest in a book, when Bucky emerged from the garage. Shirtless, skin glistening with sweat, scars mapping his torso like battle lines. The Marlboro scent clung fresh; he'd been out there chain-smoking, you guessed, wrestling his own demons.
"She's not coming back tonight," he said, voice edged with something raw, eyes fixed on you like prey.
"I know." You set the book down, meeting his stare defiantly, though your voice wavered.
He dropped into the armchair, legs manspread, tension coiling in his frame. "You've been a pain in my ass since day one. Snapping, glaring, like I'm the enemy."
"You are," you shot back, standing, hands fisted. "Waltzing in here, disrupting everything. Acting like you belong."
He rose slowly, closing the distance, backing you against the wall. "And you? Hiding behind books and attitude, but I see you watching. Wanting. It pisses you off, doesn't it? That you want me anyway."
The truth burned. "Fuck you," you hissed, but it came out breathless.
His laugh was dark, hands caging you in. "That's the idea, doll." His mouth descended, the kiss brutal: teeth clashing, tongues battling, all the hate and heat pouring out. You shoved at him, then pulled him closer. It was messy, angry, perfect.
He chuckled, low and dark. "Can't help it. You're a fucking temptation. Young, innocent... bet you've got boys your age lining up, but here you are, about to fuck your mom's boyfriend."
The accusation stung, but it was true. You stood, anger and desire mixing. "And so what if I am?"
In a flash, he was up, crowding you against the wall. His body pinned yours, hard and unyielding. "Then we're both fucked." His mouth crashed down, kissing you rough, tongue invading like he'd been holding back for months. You moaned into it, hands roaming his chest, feeling the heat, the scars.
He broke away, breathing hard. "We shouldn't—"
"Don't stop," you begged, pulling him back.
Clothes shed in a frenzy. Your tank top yanked over your head, his jeans shoved down. He palmed your breasts, thumbs teasing nipples to peaks. "God, look at these. Perfect little tits. Been dreaming about sucking on 'em."
You arched, whimpering as his mouth latched on, hot and wet. His metal hand slid between your thighs, past your lacy panties, finding you soaked. "Fuck, doll. This pussy's drooling for me. How long you been wet like this?"
"Since the moment I saw you," you admitted, grinding against his fingers.
He groaned, slipping two inside, pumping slow. "Tight as hell. Bet no one's ever touched you here properly."
The truth bubbled up, hazy with lust. "No one... ever. I'm—I'm a virgin."
He froze, eyes widening. "What?"
You bit your lip, vulnerable. "Yeah. Never... gone all the way."
A dark smile curved his lips, hunger intensifying. "Holy shit. A virgin? And you're giving it to me?" He curled his fingers, hitting that spot, making you cry out. "That's so fucking naughty. Turns you on, doesn't it? Knowing I'm gonna be the first to wreck this innocent cunt."
"Yes—fuck, Bucky—"
He added a third finger, stretching you, thumb on your clit. "Gonna ruin you for those college pricks. They'll slide in and feel nothing—'cause I'll have stretched you out on my thick cock. Made you mine."
You sobbed with pleasure, clinging to him. "Please—need you inside—"
"Not yet. Gonna make you come first. Want this virgin pussy gushing before I claim it." He worked you harder, filthy words pouring out. "Imagine your mom finding out. Her sweet daughter, spreading her pussy open wide for my dick, begging like a slut. Bet she'd die of shock."
The taboo spiked your arousal. "Don't care—want you—"
"That's my girl." You shattered around his fingers, screaming silently into his shoulder.
He licked his fingers clean with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, eyes locked on yours the whole time, like he was savoring something forbidden. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Too fucking sweet, doll.”
He stepped back just enough to give you room, jerking his chin toward the couch. “Get on there. Spread your legs open. Show me.”
Your knees felt like jelly, but you moved anyway, sinking onto the cushions, thighs parting under the weight of his stare. The room felt too bright, too quiet except for the low rasp of his breathing and the faint metallic crackle of the condom wrapper.
He rolled it on with practiced ease, then fisted himself once, twice—slow, letting you see every thick inch, veins standing out against flushed skin. “Take a good look doll,” he said, voice rough, stepping between your thighs. "This is what an old bastard like me is gonna bury in that untouched pussy. Gonna stretch you till you can't forget it." He dragged the tip through your slick folds, teasing, coating himself. "You sure about this, doll? You can always tell me when to stop yeah?"
You nodded furiously, breath catching. But he wasn't moving yet, just circling your entrance, making you squirm. "Words. Beg for it. I wanna hear you beg for my cock inside your pussy."
Something in you snapped. "Please, Bucky—fuck me."
His eyes flashed, a growl ripping from his throat as he started pushing in—slow, deliberate, inch by inch. The pressure built, a sharp burn that blurred into fullness, your walls clenching around the invasion. "Fuck—so goddamn tight," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Like you're trying to strangle my cock. Breathe through it, yeah? Take every bit."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, gasping, the stretch overwhelming but addictive. He bottomed out with a final thrust, hips flush against yours, and paused, letting you adjust. His forehead pressed to yours for a second, breath hot and ragged. "Ya feel that? Your first cock, and it's from your mother’s boyfriend who reeks of cigarettes and knows how to fuck dirty."
"Feels... so full," you whispered, shifting experimentally, the motion sending sparks up your spine. "Move—please."
He started slow, pulling back almost all the way before sliding in again, building a rhythm that had you arching off the couch. "Atta girl. Taking my cock like you were made for it." His hands clamped on your hips, the cool bite of metal contrasting the heat of his skin, holding you steady as he picked up speed. The slap of bodies echoed in the quiet room, raw and unrelenting.
Sweat slicked between you, his pace turning harder, deeper, each thrust jolting you. "Fuck—you really into older men, huh?" he rasped, voice breaking on a groan as you clenched around him. "Mmh—I'm—fuck—I'm twice your age. Old enough to be your dad."
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, taboo and thrilling. "Oh—yeah, harder, Daddy."
He froze for a split second, eyes widening like you'd slapped him. Then something feral unleashed. A deep, animal rumble vibrated from his chest, and he slammed into you with renewed force, the couch creaking under the assault. "Say that again," he demanded, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. "Call me Daddy while I fuck this sweet, tight little pussy."
"Daddy—harder, please," you moaned, legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck yes," he snarled, pounding into you now, relentless, his metal arm whirring faintly with the effort. "Little slut, getting off on your mom's boyfriend splitting you open. Gonna make this pussy mine—ruin you for anyone your age. They'll fuck you and you'll feel nothing, 'cause nothing compares to this old cock wrecking you."
You cried out, the dirty edge to his words pushing you higher, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails. He groaned at the sting, thrusting erratically, hitting that spot inside you over and over. "That's it—scratch me up, mark me while I mark you inside. Gonna come? Do it—cream all over Daddy's dick, show me how bad you needed this."
The coil snapped, pleasure crashing through you in waves, your body convulsing around him, milking him tight. He followed right after, burying deep with a guttural curse, hips stuttering as he emptied into the condom.
He eased out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it into the trash with a flick of his wrist before dropping back onto the couch beside you. His chest rose and fell hard, skin still flushed, the metallic arm resting heavy across your waist like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of contact. For a long minute, neither of you spoke—just the sound of your breathing slowing, the distant hum of the fridge, the faint scent of Marlboros and sex hanging thick in the air.
You shifted, wincing a little at the new ache between your legs, and he noticed. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, thumb brushing the sensitive skin in a slow, absent circle—almost gentle, which felt more dangerous than anything else he’d done tonight.
“Still hate me?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges like he’d smoked another pack in the last ten minutes.
You turned your head, meeting those storm-gray eyes. “Ask me again in the morning.”
A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something guarded there now, the feral edge dulled into something quieter, more complicated. He traced the line of your collarbone with one calloused finger, watching the path like he was memorizing it.
“This—” he started, then stopped, jaw working. “This was a bad fucking idea.”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’re the one who didn’t stop.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping to where his hand still rested on your hip. “And you’re the one who called me Daddy while I was balls-deep inside you.”
Heat crawled back up your neck despite everything. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t, really.
“Your mom’s shift ends at six,” he said quietly. “She’ll be home by seven, latest.”
The reminder landed like cold water. Reality, sharp and unwelcome.
You nodded once, throat tight. “I know.”
He didn’t move right away. Just watched you, thumb still stroking that same small circle on your skin. Then, finally, he stood, gathering his discarded jeans from the floor.
“Get some sleep, doll,” he muttered, pulling the denim up over his hips. “You’re gonna feel this tomorrow.”
You stayed where you were, legs still shaky, watching the muscles in his back shift as he walked toward the hallway. At the doorway he paused, one hand braced on the frame, not quite looking back.
“If I’m still here in the morning…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, heavy with everything neither of you wanted to say out loud.
sooo tangled up with life atm but i promise to have something posted after the Miami GP!!!
loads of love, lar 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽
devórame (18+)
(devour me)
Dom!franco colapinto x fem!reader
⋆˙⟡ Reader takes on the ride of her life—no brakes, no mercy.
word count: 401
warnings: nsfw, smut, straight up p0rn without plot, oral (f receiving), face sitting, squirting, Dom!Franco x english-speaking reader
a/n: MINORS DNI, terrible google translate-level-Spanish (I DONT SPEAK SPANISH im sorry i tried😭), this ones suuuuper short but suuuuper hot
“You’re not listening,” he growls, voice thick with heat as he tugs you closer by the hips, lips already parted, eyes locked on yours from below.
“I am—I just—” you stammer, breathless, hovering over his face, thighs trembling with the threat of giving in. “I can’t just—”
Franco’s grip tightens, fingers digging into the softness of your thighs. “Sientate.”
You freeze, heart pounding. “What?”
His voice drops—gravelly, commanding, undeniably hungry.
“Sit. On. My. Fucking. Face.”
You whimper. It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. The thick Spanish accent curling around each syllable, low and dripping with heat. And the look in his eyes?
Undeniable worship.
You give in.
Your knees slide to either side of his head as you lower yourself onto his mouth, still unsure, still hesitant—until his tongue flicks up, bold and filthy, and drags through you like he’s been waiting all damn day.
You cry out, hips jerking as he locks his arms around your thighs, pulling you down harder against his face.
“Así—just like that,” he groans into your cunt, voice muffled but deliberate. “Dámelo, mi amor. Quiero todo.”
He’s eating you like he’s starved, tongue relentless, lips sucking your clit with just enough pressure to make your legs shake. And then he growls again—“Mírame.” Look at me.
You do—and the sight of him between your legs, eyes wild, cheeks flushed, mouth soaked—it’s too much.
“I—I can’t—” you gasp, your hands buried in his messy curls, “Fran—I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t let up.
He moans into you when he feels the tremor in your thighs, when your hips grind down harder like your body can’t help it. You try to lift off, but he won’t let you.
“Quédate. Stay.”
And then it hits—hot, sharp, blinding.
Your orgasm crashes into you, and suddenly you’re gushing—a high, broken moan spilling out of your mouth as your thighs clamp around his head. You try to pull away, but he groans like it only turns him on more, licking you through it, drinking in everything you give him like a man possessed.
When you finally collapse, gasping, shaking, utterly ruined, he pulls you down gently—presses one last kiss against your soaked, overstimulated pussy.
Franco grins up at you, face glistening, eyes satisfied and dark with pride.
“Mira lo que me haces,” he murmurs. Look what you do to me.
You don’t have the breath to respond.
Not yet.
typed this with one hand (WHATTTTTTT WHO SAID THAT)
he’s not even all that! (18+)
lando norris (F1) x PR liaison!reader
⋆˙⟡ When her situationship leaves her feeling second best, her garage ‘best-friend’ proves she should’ve been first all along.
word count: 531
warnings: smutttttty one-shot, mutual tension, cocky flirty lando, oral (f-receiving), lando and reader are best friends but one lustful glance changes it all
a/n: MINORS DNI, am not a papaya fan but mclaren girlies this ones for u <3 ALSO,,, this is author’s first attempt at writing smutttttt and this is super brief so enjoy!
The McLaren motorhome was quieter than usual. Late evening, lights dimmed, only the hum of tools and distant voices left behind. The two of you were just going through last-minute PR prep in his driver’s room, before tomorrow’s qualifying day.
You sat on the low workbench beside him, just rambling on and about.
“He had the nerve to act like I was crazy,” you muttered, tossing back the last sip of your coffee. “Turns out I am the other woman. And all this time, he’s been seeing this other girl.”
He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned back against the wall, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Then, voice low and sharp:
“He’s not even all that.”
You blinked. “What?”
He turned to loook at you, jaw clenched. “You hear me. I mean you talk about him like he’s some kind of Greek God. The guy’s a walking ego with an emotional maturity of a damp sock. You deserve way better, Y/N.”
You let out a sarcastic laugh, soft and bitter. “Yeah? Like who?”
That was when his eyes changed.
No smirk. No teasing.
Just pure undeniable tension hanging in the air. You felt it thrum between you, thick and electric. The way his gaze dropped to your lips. The slow shift of his body toward yours.
“Me,” he said.
Your heart stuttered.
“What if I coud make you forget him?”
You blinked. “You’re joking.”
His hand lifted–fingertips brushing on your knee, then up, higher. Slow. Teasing.
“Not joking,” he murmured. “Not when I’ve had to sit through every story. Every date. Every guy that didn’t treat you right. And I’ve been right here.”
Your breath caught.
He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.
“I’ve wanted you since the day you waltzed in with your media badge and told off my engineer.”
You didn’t stop him when he tugged you off the bench. You didn’t stop him when his lips crashed against yours, hard and hot and desperate.
And you definitely didn’t stop him when he laid you back on the little couch tucked in his private corner of the garage.
His hands were everywhere. Skimming up your thighs. Under your shirt. Over your chest, skin to skin.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your neck. “Let me show you how it should’ve been.”
Then he was down between your legs, kissing his way over every inch, murmuring praises into your skin as his tongue finally slid over you—slow, intentional, perfect.
You gasped, hips jolting.
“You taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groaned, holding your thighs apart like he wasn’t going anywhere. “He didn’t deserve a second of you.”
It wasn’t just sex. It was release. Weeks, months of built-up tension snapping. Moans filling the tight space. His name falling from your lips as he brought you over the edge with nothing but his mouth and all the things he’d never said.
And when you were shaking beneath him, trying to catch your breath, he kissed his way back up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and whispered:
“Next time you want to rant about some guy not knowing what he had—just remember I’ve always known.”
okaaaay lando norRIZZ

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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the calm before the storm.
oliver bearman (F1) x social media admin!reader
⋆˙⟡ When the weather puts the Japanese GP to a halt, two rookies—one behind the wheel, the other behind the screen—find quiet comfort in unexpected company.
word count: 1,227
notes: fluff, slow-burn, anxious reader and comforting Ollie, a new garage duo in the making…?
a/n: MY FIRST EVER FIC IVE EVER WRITTEN PLS BE NICE english isnt my first language either and this wasn’t proofread but enjoy!!
Being back in Suzuka meant dealing with one of the more demanding circuits on the calendar. Between the technical corners, long straights, and ever-shifting weather, it was a beast of its own. And today, as predicted all week, ithe rain hadn’t stopped from the moment you woke up. Puddles glistened along the pit lane, and the clouds showed no signs of clearing.
Just a few hours earlier, race control has confirmed to each teams that the race will be delayed.
Inside the garage, the atmosphere was oddly calm. Some teams are going through last-minute race strategies, some are milking content whilst having their drivers stuck in place, and some just laughed over card games and half-finished cups of instant coffee. It was that rare kind of lull where the usual tension of race day fizzled into something quieter.
Your marketing director had just wrapped up a last-minute team “discussion”— nothing too pressing, just a rundown of deliverables and content expectations for the upcoming week. As your colleagues scattered back to their corners of the garage to proceed on their assigned content, you remained in the hallway, staring at your spreadsheet with dread.
“How do I even finish this in less than 48 hours…?” you muttered under your breath, scrolling through piles of tasks that were apparently “light” enough for a newbie like you.
From the corner of your eye, you noticed a figure approaching. Tall, rain-slicked curls still drying, and hands wrapped around a steaming mug.
“Tea?” he asked, voice soft, almost hesitant. He held the mug out towards you. You captured a quick glance of the label hanging by the side. Earl Grey, your favorite.
You blinked. “Sure, yeah… Thank you.”
He offered a small, warm smile. “I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself, I’m Oliver. Well… Ollie, I guess.”
You smiled back, already warmed by more than just the tea. Real humble, you thought. “Yeah, I don’t think we’ve had the opportunity of working together yet. I’m Y/N”
“I don’t think i’ve seen you around last season— you’re new?”
You knew that Ollie has been around the garage longer than you since he’s had the opportunity to race with Haas a couple of times the previous season.
“Yeah. Joined at the start of the year,” you nodded awkwardly. “Just trying my best to get familiar around the team… It’ll take some time,” you blushed.
You earned a soft giggle from him. “Hey, same. Rookie year for me too. I guess we’re both just trying to survive.”
There was a brief pause—comfortable, but not awkward—as the rain pattered steadily against the roof above.
“No, yeah, I’m sure you’ll get by just fine,” he added, tone sincere.
Ollie turned towards the little makeshift common room tucked just down the hallway—a few worn couches, a monitor with the live broadcast muted, and scattered paper cups of half-empty coffee and tea from the rest of the crew. He took a seat on the corner of the couch, then looked up and patted the space next to him, inviting you.
You followed, tea in hand, and sat down.
“How’s it going with all the team content stuff?” he asked, taking a quick peek at your screen.
“Eh, I don’t know. I mean… it’s going I guess…?” you sighed, flipping the iPad around so he could take a better look at your spreadsheet. “Supposedly these are all the “lighter” tasks for me since I’m new, but I really don’t get how all of this translates to ‘light’”
Ollie leaned in to scan it. His eyebrows shot up. “This is the ‘light’ stuff?”
“Right?” you laughed, half exasperated, half-grateful you got yourself someone who understands you. “Apparently I’m expected to shoot, edit, upload, and copywrite for I-don’t-even-know-how-many languages in less than 48 hours, but yeah sure. Light.”
He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I thought racing was intense. Yeah… good luck with all that.”
You shrugged, still smiling. “Yeah thanks. I mean… Can’t complain too much since I’m more than grateful to be here… But yeah! Guess we’re both getting thrown into the deep end.”
There was something comforting in it—in sharing that unspoken understanding. You were both new. Still uncertain in your own unique ways. But sitting here, face to face, sipping tea while the rain fell in steady sheets outside, it felt as though everything’s going to be just fine.
He nudged your shoulder gently. “Well, if you ever need a break from all that—someone to film, or just someone to complain to—I’m probably lurking around somewhere.”
You met his eyes for a second longer than before. “Thanks, Ollie. I might take you up on that.”
“Good,” he said, leaning back into the couch. “I hope you do.”
Ollie gave you a sideways glance. “So… if you’re handling all those lighter stuff, does that mean you’re responsible for editing those silly TikToks of me and Esteban then?”
You laughed, covering your face with your hand. “You caught me, yes. I understand if you’re not going the forgive me.”
He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made your stomach flutter unexpectedly. “Look, I must admit it was good content. Very Gen-Z, you definitely know what you’re doing.”
You smiled into your tea, grateful for how easy it felt to sit here with him. There was something nice—strangely grounding—about talking to someone your age in the garage, who was also still figuring things out. His presence calmed the chaos buzzing in your brain.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, nudging your elbow with his. “If you ever need help with filming, I mean it. You know how they say that drivers are usually the worst when it comes to social stuff, but… I don’t mind”
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you. volunteering yourself as tribute?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged with a smirk. “You seem like you need a win.”
You were just about to respond—something teasung, something to match the warmth rising in your cheeks—when a voice crackled through the team radio behind the wall.
“Attention all crew members—race control is monitoring a weather window. Be on standby. We’ll provice further updates in fifteen.”
Just like that, the stillness shifted.
Outside, engineers began quietly mobilizing. Crew members started moving with purpose again, checking the tire sets and adjusting strategy sheets. The rain hadn’t stopped but the buzz of maybe soon was starting to fill the air.
Ollie straightened slightly, stretching his arms. The calm before the storm—literally—was over.
“Well,” he said, standing and offering you his hand, “looks like they’re calling us back to life.”
You took it, letting him pull you off the couch with surprising ease.
“Guess the peace was short-lived,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your shirt, when really you were just trying to steady your nerves.
“Hey,” He said, catching your gaze before you turned. “Seriously, don’t let all that content eat you alive just yet. You got this”
Your heart tugged at the unexpected softness in his voice. You gave a small smile. “And you—Don’t let Suzuka chew you up out there.”
He grinned. “No promises.”
As the boy jogged lightly back toward the main garage area, you stood for a moment longer, watching him disappear into the chaos, still clutching your half-empty tea.
It was nothing. Just small chat.
Just two rookies killing time in the rain.
And yet… your chest felt a little lighter.
part 2…?
here’s a moodboard for my upcoming first piece! 🎞️
who i write (or post) about! 🏎️ᝰ.⋆ ۪✰.🏁
Formula 1 (motorsports)
— Lewis Hamilton
— Charles Leclerc
— Carlos Sainz
— Lando Norris
— Oliver Bearman
— Gabriel Bortoleto
— Franco Colapinto
— Pepe Marti
— Rafael Camara
— Daniel Ricciardo
Football
— Trent Alexander-Arnold
— Dominik Szoboszlai
— Jamal Musiala
— Pablo Gavi
— Joao Felix
— Ruben Dias
— Mason Mount
— Jude Bellingham
— Ferran Torres
— Alenjandro Balde
Others.
— coming soon.
About me!
⋆˚࿔ twenty
⋆˚࿔ indo ~ NL
⋆˚࿔ she/they
⋆˚࿔ sagittarius INFP
⋆˚࿔ scuderia ferrari + fc barcelona