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afterpills · 9 hours ago

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afterpills · 9 hours ago

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If you love me, keep it to yourself.

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afterpills · 9 hours ago

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"What would you tell small Max?"

"I wouldn't tell small Max anything because small Max was not worried about anything. Small Max was just loving life: driving quadbikes, go-karts, motocross bikes, having fun with his friends, not enjoying school. Honestly? That's the beautiful part of it. You shouldn't tell him anything and just let him live his life. I wish I could see myself with small Max. It was a good time."

#💔

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afterpills · 9 hours ago

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If a rivalry lasts longer than 10 years…

Happy Valentine’s Day 😉

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afterpills · 9 hours ago

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kimi: carlos is fixing his hair, so i will fix my hair too 🫡

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afterpills · 10 hours ago

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OSCAR PIASTRI | P3 at the 2025 JAPANESE GRAND PRIX

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afterpills · 10 hours ago

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oscar: what a chill race. a drink would be nice tho :)

the 19 other drivers:

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afterpills · 6 days ago

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to fall in love ⸻ 𐙚 ⸻ george russell x reader.

word count. 1.3k feat. third dates, first kisses, indoor picnics. author's notes. this has been sitting in my drafts for a bit but anon requested a sequel to that's how the light gets in and how could i refuse ?? i have found george russell soooo fun to write and i love him bad !! anyways , once again , the questions are based on this study. i am not going to be the expert on how real it actually is, but to #me it's sooooo real . also , anon , i hope this recruit you to the george russell agenda .

you were supposed to plan this date.

it’s your third date, technically, but somehow, george is the one standing in your doorway, looking unfairly good in a fitted cream sweater, sleeves pushed up to his forearms like some kind of rom-com lead, a picnic basket in one hand and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. he looks sooo pleased with himself, which means you should probably be suspicious.

you cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “are you hijacking my date?”

“hijacking is a strong word,” he says, grinning. “i’d say… enhancing.”

you narrow your eyes. “george.”

“i just figured,” he continues, all innocence, “since someone insisted that four minutes of uninterrupted eye contact is enough to fall in love, we should conduct the full study.” he lifts the basket slightly, like it’s proof of his good intentions. “properly.”

your stomach does something strange at that, but you ignore it, instead eyeing the basket he’s holding. “… you’re serious?”

“completely.” he shifts his grip on the bottle of wine, brandishing it slightly. “thirty-six questions, uninterrupted eye contact, and, if you’re very lucky, some expertly curated snacks.”

you stare at him, trying not to smile. “you’re so committed to the bit.”

he shrugs, that ridiculous grin still on his face. “who says it’s a bit?”

you meant it as a joke, something to pass the time in the car during that ridiculous la traffic, but george—george, with his penchant for overachieving, for doing things properly—apparently took it seriously.

your lips twitch. “george. are you manufacturing our own rom-com?”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “i have absolutely no idea what you mean.”

you exhale, shaking your head, but you’re already stepping aside to let him in.

george spreads out a blanket in your living room, like this is some kind of indoor picnic, setting up an arrangement of cheeses, crackers, chocolates, and what might be the most meticulous selection of grapes you’ve ever seen. he even lights candles.

“you take date-planning very seriously.” you say, amusement in your voice, as you sit across from him on the blanket.

his lips curve upward as he pours two glasses of wine. “can’t go around setting low standards, can i?”

and, no, you don’t let yourself think about what that means— about what he might be setting a standard for. instead, you watch as he pulls out his phone, scrolling until he finds the list of questions. his brow furrows in concentration for a second, before he looks up, eyes bright.

“alright,” he says, settling in. “thirty-six questions. you ready?”

you nod. “hit me.”

he clears his throat, dramatically. “question one: if you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?”

you hum, considering. “anthony bourdain.”

his brows lift, impressed. “solid choice.”

“and you?”

he tilts his head, thoughtful. “robin williams, i think.”

it starts like that— light, easy. dream dinner guests, childhood memories, perfect days. but then the questions start to shift—

“what’s your most treasured memory?”

you pause, taking a sip of wine, running a finger along the rim of your glass. “one summer when i was a kid, my parents took me on this totally unplanned road trip. no reservations, no itinerary—just driving. we slept in crappy motels, ate at diners that probably failed health inspections, spent entire days at the beach doing absolutely nothing. i don’t know. i just remember feeling… free. happy.”

when you look up, george is watching you. his expression has softened— not just in that polite, interested expression, like how you see him on tv. but something more genuine, more… here, for lack of a better word.

“that sounds incredible,” he murmurs.

your heart stumbles slightly. you clear your throat. “what about you?”

he smiles, smaller this time. “winning f2 was special, obviously. but i think… after my first f1 podium, i just sat in the back of the garage for a while, taking it all in. it was the first time i felt like—” he exhales. “like i’d finally done it. like i belonged.”

you don’t say anything, but you reach across the blanket and squeeze his hand. his fingers tighten around yours, just for a moment, before you both let go.

the questions keep going. they get deeper.

“what do you value most in a friendship?”

“what’s your biggest regret?”

“when was the last time you cried?”

at some point, the wine glasses empty. the snacks dwindle. but you hardly notice.

because somewhere between all the words, between the quiet laughter and the confessions, the entire room feels smaller. like the world has shrunk to just this— just you and george, sitting on this blanket, looking at each other like nothing else exists.

and then—

“alright,” george says, exhaling. “last one.”

you inhale, suddenly aware of this moment. of him, sitting less than two feet away.

“question thirty-six,” he reads, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how to handle it.”

you hesitate, at first. but then, quietly, you admit, “i overthink things too much.”

george’s lips twitch. “i have noticed.”

you groan. “oh, shut up.”

he laughs, shaking his head. “go on.”

you sigh. “i get in my own head a lot. especially with people. i overanalyze, second-guess, assume the worst.”

george watches you, thoughtful. “okay. here’s my advice.”

you brace yourself.

“whenever you start overthinking,” he says, completely serious, “just ask yourself: ‘what would george russell do?’”

you stare at him. “george.”

he grins. “i’m just saying—”

“george.”

he’s laughing now, full and bright, and you don’t even realize you’re smiling too.

but then— “there’s one more part,” he says, voice quieter now.

you know what it is. four minutes of uninterrupted eye contact.

“think you can handle it?” he teases, but his voice has dropped, low and steady.

you nod once, silently, and your heart starts picking up speed.

he sets the timer. presses start. the world narrows instantly.

one second. two. his eyes meet yours.

your first instinct is to laugh. that’s what you did last time, in the car. but tonight… you don’t. you don’t want to. you just look. and he looks back.

not smiling anymore, no— his expression vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

three minutes in, he shifts ever so slightly— his fingers brushing against the blanket. your throat feels tight and your palms warm and it hits you, suddenly, how close he is. how still he’s sitting.

how badly you want to move. but you don’t. not until the timer goes off.

a soft chime. four minutes. and yet, neither of you move. not even a blink.

you don’t know what he’s thinking, but you see it— the flicker in his eyes, the way gaze drops, just slightly, from your eyes to your lips.

your breath catches.

and then, he reaches for you, slowly, with the kind of reverence that makes it seem like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. maybe it is, then, the reverence.

his fingers trace along your jaw, light as a feather, before settling there, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. your skin burns under his touch, and his breath is warm when it hits your cheek, and when he leans in, he does it like he’s asking, not assuming.

you meet him halfway.

the is kiss slow, deliberate, full of every unspoken thing the questions didn’t quite get to. every glance. every answer. every inch of closeness that had been building from the moment he walked through your door.

when you finally, finally pull back, it’s only far enough for your forehead to rest against his. the closeness doesn’t break. neither of you speak at first, the silence buzzing softly, only the silent hiss of the candles hitting the wet wax beneath it. it sounds like a thousand decibels in this moment.

then, in a voice just above a whisper, george murmurs, “so, uh… have you fallen in love yet?”

you huff out a breath— half laugh, half exhale— but it comes out shaky, like your body still hasn’t caught up with what just happened.

“ask me again after date four.” you whisper.

“deal.”