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Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot

❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞

[bradley bradshaw x reader]

~6.5k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex

anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.

notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3

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The ready room was colder than usual.

Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.

You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.

The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.

But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.

It just showed that it worked.

Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.

“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”

You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.

Cyclone didn’t make them wait.

“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”

The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.

Cyclone turned slightly.

“Bradshaw.”

Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.

“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.

And didn’t look at you.

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.

You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.

“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”

The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.

Cyclone looked like he might say something.

He didn’t.

Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.

Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.

“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”

Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.

“Hell of a move.”

That was it. No smirk. No punchline.

The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.

Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.

You both moved toward the exit at the same time.

And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.

He didn’t react.

But you felt him turn.

Not a full look. Not dramatic.

Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.

And chose not to say a damn thing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.

Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.

Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.

“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.

“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”

Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.

Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She disappeared around the corner.

Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.

Three long seconds passed.

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.

Behind him, Phoenix slowed.

Turned her head.

Heard the door close quietly behind him.

She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.

You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.

Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”

Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.

He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”

You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.

“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”

You took a step toward him, not away.

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.

“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.

“Say that again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Your hands hit his chest. Hard.

He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.

You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.

Your breath was short. So was his.

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”

It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.

“You tell me.”

And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.

You didn’t care.

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.

He groaned.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.

The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.

This wasn’t control.

This was surrender.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.

You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.

You grabbed them. Yanked.

He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.

He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.

You reached for his belt.

His hand covered yours.

Eyes locked.

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just urgent.

You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.

“You never shut up, do you?”

You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.

“Make me.”

He did.

His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.

You arched against him.

His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.

“You started it.”

His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.

You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.

You wanted this.

You wanted to win.

So did he.

You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned.

His voice was dark, torn at the edges.

You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer.

He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.

You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”

You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.

“Then do it, Bradshaw.”

He froze for half a second.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.

You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”

He didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.

Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.

His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”

He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.

Not pushing in.

Just there.

Teasing.

Taunting.

His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck. You.”

Close enough.

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.

You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.

You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.

His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.

You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.

“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”

You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.

The bench creaked beneath you.

Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—

You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.

Your voice broke.

“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.

You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Jesus fuck—”

His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.

“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.

You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”

His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.

Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”

His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”

You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.

“We’re both so fucked.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.

“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”

You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.

Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”

He blinked. Once.

You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.

When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.

“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”

He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.

He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.

“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

“Not my fault you finished too fast.”

He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.

“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”

“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even pretend to give you space.

His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.

“You smell like me.”

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.

You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”

You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.

His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.

“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.

“Mmhm.”

You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”

“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”

His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.

“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”

“That’s the idea.”

You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.

And it was working.

He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.

You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.

You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”

“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.

You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.

“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”

“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.

Then, softer: “You good?”

That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.

The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.

That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.

The part where he didn’t pull away.

You swallowed.

The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.

You cleared your throat. “This…”

He stilled. Just slightly.

You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.

You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.

Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:

“But it does.”

Your heart kicked.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.

So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.

You didn’t look back as you walked.

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.

He caught it one-handed.

Didn’t say a word.

You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.

You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.

Didn’t need to.

You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.

You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.

Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.

You didn’t look. But you felt him.

You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.

Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.

Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.

You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.

You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.

When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.

You looked at him—just briefly.

Eyes met.

Held.

Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.

You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.

Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.

So you braved to break the silence.

“You heading over to Penny’s?”

Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.

“I was planning on it.”

You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.

“No point in going in separate cars, right?”

His mouth curved. Barely.

“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”

You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.

“Think we’re a little past whispers.”

He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”

The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.

Because maybe it had.

And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.

No hesitation.

No need to ask.

Just there. Still with him.

Still in it.

The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.

He smelled like your soap.

And that was a problem.

You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.

You didn’t move.

Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.

You knew it without looking.

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.

He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”

He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Easier to lie?”

“Easier to not make it a thing.”

There it was.

You saw his jaw tick.

“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.

You met his eyes.

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.

“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”

That landed.

He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.

Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

“You don’t regret it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."

It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.

Then he nodded again.

“Okay.”

He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”

You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.

“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.

You stepped out.

Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.

The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.

Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Just contact.

It wasn’t a move.

It was steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.

The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.

You stepped through it first.

Rooster followed you in.

And the noise swallowed you both.

The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.

One look at you. Then Rooster.

Then back again.

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.

She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.

“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”

Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”

You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.

Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”

Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”

“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”

“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”

“Zero cockpit visibility.”

“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.

They high-fived behind her anyway.

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.

“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”

The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

Rooster didn’t flinch.

He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.

A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.

A low, subtle pull.

He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”

Rooster didn’t blink.

“Nope.”

She sighed and shook her head once.

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”

He looked back toward the bar—toward you.

His voice stayed even.

“She always does.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

#top gun #top gun fanfic #top gun x reader #top gun smut #top gun maverick #tgm #tgm smut #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster smut #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw smut #miles teller #miles teller x reader #miles teller smut #catie tries her best #sunbeamlessrequests

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sunbeamlessreads · 2 months ago

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Hi there, I just had to drop in and let you know how much I love, love, loved The Wager!!! The whole concept is hot af for starters, the banter was so good, the tension building each lap was delicious and then the ummm shall we say, conclusion, was 🥵🥵🥵

Omg, it was perfection!!

10/10. No notes.

thank you so so so much! seeing people continue to enjoy my work even when i’ve been off the radar has been so wonderful. ♥️♥️

#catieanswers #f1

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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Iceman x fem reader

Emojis 🥀🧊

First date with reader where Ice is nervous but also a charmer. He makes sure he looks and does his best for his girl. Include a fluffy/smutty ending please.

hope you enjoy it bestie! you already know i loved the idea <3

Even, Over Dinner

❝ You’ve flown combat missions, Kazansky. You can handle a date. ❞

much love,

c <3

#sunbeamlessrequests

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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Even, Over Dinner - Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’ve flown combat missions, Kazansky. You can handle a date. ❞

[tom kazansky x reader] ~12k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, soft vulnerability, emotionally tense intimacy, language

quiet tension. practiced restraint. one dinner date, and everything that follows.

notes: i proofread this on an 8 hour long plane ride so i'm sorry if its iffy lol. this was a request for my dear @valkilmher. hope you enjoy bestie <3

my masterlist

request guide

Tom Kazansky adjusted his tie for the fourth time, watching himself in the bathroom mirror with a practiced eye. The knot was flawless. Sleek, symmetrical. The kind of tie you could hang your name on.

Still, he loosened it again. Smoothed the fabric. Started over.

He told himself it was just habit. Muscle memory. Precision was part of the job—it bled into everything. But even he knew that was only half true tonight.

Behind him, the apartment was quiet and still, its surfaces immaculate, every line sharp. A study in control. But there were tells. The tie he’d rejected first was slung across the arm of the couch. A second cologne bottle sat on the dresser, uncapped, like it had been considered and dismissed mid-thought. His bed was made, but one corner of the sheet had come untucked where he’d sat down too fast, stood up too soon.

Not chaos. Just… noise. Interference.

This couldn’t be nerves. He didn’t do nerves.

Except now, apparently, he did.

He checked the time. Early, but not so early he could afford another wardrobe change.

His reflection was still watching him—expression composed, jaw steady, eyes bright. On paper, he looked perfect. But there was something just beneath the surface. A charge in the air. A quiet tension in his spine. Not fear, exactly. Just a sharp kind of awareness.

Tonight meant something. And that was the problem.

It wasn’t about impressing you. You weren’t the kind of person who needed dazzling. You weren’t expecting some show. You’d said yes easily, casually, like it hadn’t even been a question. Like dinner with him was just a nice idea, not something to read into.

And somehow, that made it worse. Or perhaps—better.

He wasn’t used to this kind of feeling. This quiet, persistent pressure to get it right not because you expected perfection—but because he wanted to be good for you. Because the idea of making you smile and keeping you comfortable mattered more than he was ready to admit.

You were easy to talk to, a respite in his workday. Easy to laugh with. He liked the way you lit up at your own stories. The way you looked at him when he said something a little dry, a little offhanded, like you were still waiting to see if he was really kidding. You made everything feel lighter—more tolerable.

But tonight felt heavy in the best possible way. Like it could turn into something, if he didn’t screw it up.

He took a breath. One of those long, grounding breaths that started in his stomach and worked all the way to his chest. The kind of breath he took on the tarmac before stepping into the cockpit.

The kind that meant something was about to happen.

One last glance in the mirror.

Hair sharp. Tie straight. Posture exact.

Still, something in his chest fluttered—something he hadn’t felt in years.

You’ve flown combat missions, Kazansky. You can handle a date.

Right?

Your room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the record spinning in the corner. A mellow track hummed low from the speakers—something slow and steady, the kind of song you didn’t need to think about to feel. Late sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, painting the walls in warm amber and pooling across the carpet like warm honey.

You weren’t ready. Or maybe you were, and it just didn’t feel like it quite yet.

Your dress was already on. Simple, soft, something you didn’t have to tug or adjust. It felt like you—just a little dressed up, just a little more thoughtful than usual. Your hair was done the way you liked it, and your makeup was light, just enough to make your reflection smile back a little easier.

You weren’t going for impressive. You just wanted to feel… worth looking at.

Tom wasn’t flashy. He didn’t flirt like he needed to win. He didn’t fill the silence, didn’t chase the room, didn’t try to own it. He simply existed in a way that made you want to lean in. And when he asked you to dinner, it wasn’t bold or dramatic. Just direct. Quiet. Like he didn’t need to sell it. Like he hoped you’d say yes—but would survive if you didn’t.

You’d said yes before you even thought about it.

And now you were pacing slowly in your room, your fingertips tracing the edge of your vanity while the record kept spinning. It almost felt like something was about to begin. Not a fairytale. Not a firework show. Something real.

You sat at the edge of the bed and reached for your perfume. A small bottle with a fading label and a scent you’d loved since high school. You dabbed it at the base of your throat, then your wrist. Let it settle into your skin.

Then you just sat there a moment, your hands resting in your lap, watching the light crawl across the opposite wall.

You weren’t nervous. Not exactly. You’d been on dates. You’d worn this dress before. But tonight, you found yourself hoping he’d notice. Hoping he’d see you and that soft, unreadable look would flicker in his eyes—the one he got when he was really looking at something.

You weren’t used to wanting like this.

Not urgently. Not achingly.

Just… gently.

You checked the clock on your nightstand. Almost time.

You stood, pulled your cardigan off the chair, and stepped into your shoes—low heels, nothing loud. You glanced in the mirror, then back again. Not to fix anything. Just to see yourself.

There was a knock at your apartment door.

Your breath caught—not in panic, but in anticipation.

You reached for your bag. Smoothed your dress once more. And smiled.

Just dinner. Just him.

And maybe something more.

You opened the door.

Tom Kazansky was standing before you in the apartment’s outer hallway like he’d stepped out of a photograph—pressed and polished, almost impossibly still. His suit was sharp, classic, worn like second skin. His tie lay flat and perfect, no sign of adjustment. Jacket crisp. Collar clean. Shoulders squared like he belonged in a portrait.

But his eyes—his eyes gave him away.

They weren’t cold, or detached. They were focused—drawn to you in a way that wasn’t practiced. Not the kind of look he gave to charm. This was something else. Something searching. Like he was taking inventory, not of what you were wearing or how you looked, but of the way you smiled when you saw him. The way you stepped forward.

He blinked once. His jaw shifted slightly. A muscle in his cheek ticked—almost imperceptible.

And for half a second, you saw it: the hesitation behind all that polish.

“You look…” he started, then paused. Just a second too long.

It was barely noticeable. A hiccup in the rhythm. But from him, it meant everything.

“…perfect.”

The word landed softly. No punch of flirtation, no clever smirk behind it. Just a truth that had pushed itself to the surface.

You laughed gently, stepping out onto your doormat and locking the door behind you.

“Do you always start dates with flattery, or am I just special?”

That earned you something. Not a grin—he wasn’t grinning tonight. Not yet. But his lips tugged at the edges, like a smile was thinking about forming. Like it was waiting for permission.

“Depends who’s at the door,” he recovered, voice smooth, but softer than usual.

You walked with him to the car, your heels clicking lightly down the hallway, down the stairs, and against the sidewalk. The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward—but it wasn’t comfortable yet either. It felt full. Too full. Pressurized. Like neither of you wanted to say the wrong thing, or worse—too much.

He moved to open the passenger door before you could reach for it.

You gave him a look.

“Really?” you teased. “You’re that kind of guy?”

“Every time,” he said, straight faced—but the gleam in his eye gave him away. “Sorry if that’s a dealbreaker.”

You slid into the car, smoothing your skirt and trying not to smile too much. When he shut the door, you watched him through the windshield as he rounded the hood. His pace was steady. Not rushed. But there was something deliberate about it. Like he was walking through a checklist in his head.

Open door. Say the right thing. Don’t blow this.

He slid into the driver’s seat beside you. The key turned in the ignition with a clean click, and the engine hummed to life beneath you both. His hands found the wheel naturally, fingers wrapping around the leather like they knew exactly where to settle.

But his right hand—his dominant one—hovered near the gearshift a second too long before resting on it.

You noticed.

So did he.

“You nervous?” you asked quietly, looking at him sideways.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I look nervous?” he asked, still facing the windshield.

“You don’t,” you admitted. “But you’re holding the gearshift like it’s going to punch back.”

He glanced down, flexed his fingers once, then let them relax.

Another beat of silence. Then—

“You make it hard to pretend I’m not,” he said.

His voice was lower this time. Not in volume—just in tone. Less polished. Less performative.

Honest.

You looked at him for a long moment. “Nervous, you mean? That’s good.”

That made him smile. A small one. But it reached his eyes—that rare, flickering kind of smile that didn’t come easy to a man like him. A smile that cost something. Or meant something.

You let your hand rest lightly on the edge of the center console—close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, even if there was still space between you.

He noticed, but didn’t move.

Instead, his voice came again—low, dry, maybe even a little vulnerable, “You act like you’re not grading me.”

You raised your eyebrows, amused. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes still on the road. “Feels like I already handed in the assignment. Just waiting to see if you liked it.”

That made you laugh—soft, surprised.

He turned the wheel with practiced ease, merging onto the main road. But his posture was still a little too straight, his jaw still a little too tense.

And underneath all of it, you could feel it—not nerves like stammering or sweating or cracking jokes.

This was Ice’s version. Controlled. Contained. But unmistakable.

He cared. He wanted this to go well.

And that tension—the effort he wasn’t used to feeling—sat in the air between you. Alive. Unspoken. Ready.

The restaurant sat tucked behind a row of hedges and dark wooden fencing, soft lighting glowing from inside like it was trying to keep its secrets warm. From the street, it barely announced itself. No neon. No music leaking through the doors. Just one gold-lettered name on the glass and a bell that chimed softly when Tom opened the door for you.

Inside, it was quiet—intimate in a way that didn’t feel staged. No loud clatter of dishes, no crowd noise bleeding into your space. Just low conversation, flickering candlelight, and the soft scrape of cutlery against china.

The hostess greeted them with a soft smile and a leather-bound reservation book perched neatly in front of her. She looked up from it as you approached, her eyes flicking once over Tom’s tailored jacket, then to you in your dress and heels.

“Reservation for two?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Tom replied, “Kazansky.”

She checked the book with a quick nod, then motioned with her hand. “Right this way.”

The dining room was dim, the overhead lights low and golden, made warmer by the tea candles flickering on each table. Everything was hushed—the quiet murmur of conversation, the distant clink of silverware, the gentle hum of a saxophone-heavy jazz record playing somewhere near the bar.

You walked side by side behind the hostess, your heels muted against the carpet. Tom’s hand hovered behind your lower back—he never touched you, but it was close. Protective. Present.

You were seated at a two-top booth tucked near the back. Not isolated, but private enough to feel like your own little pocket of the evening. The table was already set: two wine glasses, polished silverware, a single flickering candle in a short glass holder. A folded linen napkin sat across each plate.

“Your server will be right with you,” the hostess said, placed the menus on the table, then disappeared.

Tom waited until you sat, then slid into the seat across from you.

His jacket shifted as he leaned back. He didn’t remove it. The tie remained perfectly in place. But his shoulders seemed… less locked now. Like he’d passed the first checkpoint of the night.

“I like this,” you said, glancing around. “It’s quiet. Feels like a secret.”

Tom looked around, then back at you. “That’s why I picked it.”

“Not trying to impress me with a steakhouse and a bottle of overpriced Bordeaux?” you teased, unfolding your napkin.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching just slightly. “You’d prefer that?”

“No,” you said easily. “I’d wonder what you were compensating for.”

That earned you something—another flash of real amusement across his face. There and gone again. A glimpse of the man beneath the polish.

The waitress arrived moments later—mid-30s, red lipstick, a notepad already in hand and a half-practiced smile that softened when she saw Tom.

“Good evening,” she said. “Can I get you two started with drinks?”

Tom glanced at you first. Let you go ahead.

“I’ll do a gin and tonic,” you said.

“Tanqueray okay?” the waitress asked, already scribbling.

“Perfect.”

Tom looked at the drink menu once—not really reading it. Then he folded it and set it down. “Just a bourbon. Neat.”

“Any brand?”

“Whatever doesn’t come in a plastic bottle,” he said, deadpan.

The waitress grinned. “Got it. I’ll give you two a minute with the menus.”

As she walked away, you glanced at him. “Bourbon? I pegged you for more a whiskey sour guy. Something mildly more interesting.”

He gave you a look. “I don’t drink anything that comes with a garnish.”

“Of course not,” you said, smiling. “God forbid someone mistake you for approachable.”

That earned a soft chuckle, the kind he didn’t give away often.

The candlelight flickered between you. The mood had shifted—slightly, almost imperceptibly—but something had eased.

The waitress returned a few minutes later with the drinks. Your gin and tonic sparkled, beads of condensation already forming on the highball glass. His bourbon was poured into a low, square glass with thick sides.

He nodded his thanks, and she left again.

You picked up your drink. He picked up his.

“To?” you offered.

Tom looked at you for a long second, then lifted his glass. “To being off base and out of uniform.”

You tapped your glass against his, the soft clink sounding far louder in the cozy hush of the booth.

You sipped. So did he.

It hit warm, slow. Yours was crisp and botanical, cool against the back of your throat. His—he took it like he was testing it. Just enough to taste. And nodded like it passed.

When it came time to decide what to have for dinner you both looked, but it didn’t take long. You ordered grilled sea bass with rosemary potatoes and sautéed spinach. He ordered the steak—medium rare—no sides.

When the waitress left, the conversation started to breathe. A little lighter. A little more playful.

“You eat like a caveman,” you teased.

“You drink like someone who wants to forget something,” he countered, eyes warm now.

“Do I?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Gin’s a heavy choice. All that juniper.”

“And bourbon’s subtle?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it does the job.”

You leaned in slightly, your fingers tracing the stem of your glass. “And what job is that tonight?”

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. Still steady. Still calm. But under it—something real. Something felt.

“Trying not to screw this up.”

That silenced you for a moment—not because it was shocking, but because it was honest. Not dressed up. Not deflected.

“You’re doing fine,” you said, softer now.

“Fine doesn’t cut it,” he replied.

You blinked. His tone wasn’t sharp. Just simple. Matter of fact.

And before you could think too much about it, he followed it up:

“You make me nervous,” he said, voice low and certain. “That’s never happened before.”

You let the words settle. Felt them sink into the space between you.

And then you smiled.

“Good,” you said. “Then we’re even.”

The plates arrived like punctuation. Your sea bass was fragrant and perfect, the skin seared golden and crisp. His steak was a clean, unapologetic cut—perfectly pink, with no sides, just a little garnish of a mixed salad and a small dish of coarse salt, both on the side.

Tom picked up his knife and fork, cut into the steak like he’d done it a hundred times with the same quiet efficiency he used for everything. Still, his eyes lifted as you took your first bite, like he needed to see your reaction before he could fully relax.

You hummed softly through your smile. “Okay. This place is officially a good call.”

He didn’t quite grin. Just nodded once, like the approval mattered more than he’d let on.

Conversation trickled back in with each bite. The nerves that had bracketed the evening began to fade—replaced by a warm, easy rhythm that surprised you both.

He asked about your job, and listened like he meant it. You told him about the hellish day last week, about the coworker who kept using the wrong file format and made you restart a project from scratch.

“You don’t strike me as someone who loses patience easily,” he said.

“That’s because you’ve never seen me swear at a printer.”

He laughed under his breath. “You ever throw anything?”

“Once. At a wall.”

“What was it?”

You looked at him across the candlelight, smiling. “A stapler.”

Tom raised his glass in mock salute. “Respect.”

You took another sip, feeling the gin buzz warm through your veins.

And then he started talking.

Not all at once. Not in some monologue. But slowly, in pieces. Droplets of himself placed carefully between bites and long glances across the table.

He told you about growing up near a naval base—how his house always smelled like his mom’s old perfume and a hint of jet fuel. How the first time he got in the cockpit, he didn’t speak for three hours afterward. How flying wasn’t about speed or power—it was about the special kind of quiet that came with it. The kind he couldn’t find anywhere else.

You listened.

He didn’t embellish. Didn’t show off. Just told you the truth in his voice—deep and steady, with the occasional pause like he wasn’t quite sure how much of it to give away.

“I used to think,” he said, pausing for a drink, “that the way people talked about love sounded a lot like what it feels like to fly.”

You blinked. Caught off-guard by how gently it landed.

He looked down at his plate then, cutting another piece of steak. “But flying doesn’t make you vulnerable.”

He looked back up after a moment—and you were already watching him.

And then—carefully, deliberately—you shifted, and your leg brushed against his under the table.

Neither of you moved.

If anything, he leaned into it.

It wasn’t overt. Wasn’t an invitation. Just…a confirmation. That you were both here, in this moment, no longer circling.

Your foot nudged his lightly. He didn’t flinch. Just let it happen.

He looked down at his glass, ran a thumb along the rim.

“This is going better than I thought,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head. “That a good thing?”

“It is,” he said. Then, with the faintest edge of humor: “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

You laughed, and it broke something open between you—eased the last of the tension, let the warmth rise in its place.

When the waitress returned to ask about dessert, Tom didn’t even glance at the menu she’d set on the table. Just looked to you.

“Split something?” he asked.

“Chocolate mousse,” you said immediately after glancing briefly at the dessert menu.

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t hesitate.”

“I know what I want.”

Those five words seemed to hold more weight than just desserts.

She returned a few minutes later with two spoons and a single glass bowl—whipped mousse with a dusting of cocoa and a small curl of dark chocolate on top.

You scooped a spoonful and took the first bite. Closed your eyes for effect. “Perfect.”

Tom didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a moment before taking his own bite.

It wasn’t quite sensual and it wasn’t flirty either.

But it was intimate.

The air had shifted. Grown heavier in a pleasant way. The kind of heaviness that meant everything was headed somewhere else now. Slowly. Inevitably.

His hand brushed yours as you reached for your spoons at the same time, and this time, he didn’t pull back.

You looked up.

He was already looking at you.

Not smiling. Not speaking.

Just… there.

The check came not long after. He paid for it without asking. And when you reached for your purse—more out of formality than anything else—he gave you a look that shut it down instantly.

You followed him out into the night. The air was cooler now, soft wind trailing across your shoulders. Tom stepped ahead and held the door open for you. When you passed him, your hand grazed his.

This time, he did reach for it.

Just for a moment.

But long enough to make it clear—this wasn’t ending yet.

The sky had deepened to a thick, velvet blue by the time you stepped out of the restaurant. The sidewalk gleamed faintly beneath the glow of streetlamps, still damp from the morning’s forgotten rain. You could hear the dull hum of passing traffic, but it felt far away—like the world had narrowed to the few feet between you and Tom.

He opened the door for you again. Still effortless. Still instinct.

When you stepped past him this time, his hand brushed the small of your back. Just a whisper of contact. Not clearly intentional, but not necessarily accidental either. You didn’t flinch. Neither did he.

He shut the door behind you, rounding the hood of the car at a slower pace than earlier. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he didn’t say anything. Just settled in. Buckled his seatbelt. Hands resting lightly on the wheel.

But he didn’t start the car.

Not right away.

Instead, he stared straight ahead, his body still, his breath shallow. The keys sat idle in his hand, silver catching the light of the nearest streetlamp.

You watched him.

The sharp crease between his brows. The tension ghosting through his shoulders. He was thinking too hard. Holding something back. You recognized it now—restraint worn thin.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Still, the keys didn’t move.

“Tom,” you said.

He turned his head toward you. The name pulled him like a magnet; you didn’t usually call him that. His eyes met yours, and in that flicker, something unspoken cracked just a little.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“What thing?”

“Being too careful.”

He looked down at the key in his hand, then back out the windshield. A beat passed. Then another.

“I really don’t want to rush anything,” he said.

“You’re not. Not at all.”

He let out a breath—a deep, low exhale that seemed to loosen something under the surface.

“I don’t want to screw it up.”

You leaned in slightly, elbow brushing the console. “You haven’t. And you won’t.”

For a long second, that sat between you. No rush. No pressure.

Then he finally turned the key.

The engine rumbled softly to life. The dashboard glowed in amber and red, casting light across his features. He adjusted the mirrors, turned on the headlights, and pulled out with practiced ease—hands steady, movements clean.

The tension hadn’t vanished. It had just shifted. Narrowed. Focused, maybe.

You settled back into your seat, letting your leg shift toward him.

He didn’t move away.

His right hand dropped from the wheel to rest palm-up on the center console, close to yours—but not touching.

An invitation.

You looked at it for a moment.

Then slid your fingers slowly into his.

His thumb twitched against yours. His fingers closed. Not tight—just firm enough to feel like a choice.

The road passed under you in smooth rhythm—streetlamps flaring and fading like breath. The inside of the car smelled faintly like him: clean cologne, a trace of bourbon now, and something sharper you couldn’t place.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then, without warning, his voice cut into the hush.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t defensive.

Just quiet. Like a man trying not to fall too hard into something he couldn’t unfeel.

You turned to him. Watched the way the passing lights painted golden stripes across his jaw, the faint pulse of tension in his neck.

And you didn’t hesitate.

“But it does,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. But his grip on your hand tightened—not by much, just enough to say everything he wasn’t putting into words.

He didn’t let go.

And he didn’t say anything else.

Just kept driving—with one hand on the wheel, and the other in yours.

When he pulled up in front of your building, he let the car idle for a moment. His hand slipped away only so he could put it in park. Then the silence settled again—different now, deeper.

You undid your seatbelt slowly, the click impossibly loud.

Then turned to face him.

“Come upstairs.”

He didn’t ask if you were sure.

He didn’t offer some half-hearted joke to deflect the weight of it.

He just turned his head. Met your eyes.

And nodded.

Then he killed the engine.

The headlights clicked off. The cabin fell into stillness. And when you opened the door, stepping into the quiet night, you didn’t have to look back to know he was already following.

Not because he had to.

Because he wanted to.

Your key slid into the lock with a soft metallic click, and the door swung open into the hush of your apartment. No lights yet. Just the spill of a streetlamp through a window, casting long shadows over the floorboards.

Tom stepped in behind you without a word, letting the door shut softly at his back. He didn’t move fast. Didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, looking at you in the dark like he was giving you every second to change your mind.

You turned slowly to face him, your back to the door. The air was thick between you—warm from everything unsaid, everything barely touched.

“I don’t usually…” you started, then trailed off.

He didn’t fill the silence. He waited.

You wet your lips. “I don’t bring people up like this.”

Tom nodded once. Quiet. Not surprised. Just… listening.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said.

You looked down. Smoothed your fingers along the side seams of your dress.

“I just didn’t want you to think this was casual.”

“I don’t,” he said. Instantly. Without hesitation.

You looked up at him.

“It doesn’t feel casual,” he added, voice lower now. “It feels… like you.”

You took in a shaky breath.

Then, quietly: “You can touch me.”

That was all it took.

He raised his hand—slowly, like you were made of glass—and cupped your face, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone. His palm was warm. Steady. His other hand came to your waist, anchoring there like it had always belonged.

You leaned into his touch, and he kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t rushed.

It was deliberate.

The kind of kiss that unfolded like a sentence. Word by word. Breath by breath.

Your lips parted on instinct, and his deepened the kiss slowly, tongue tasting yours with the same care he used to test the wind before flying. Every movement deliberate. Intentional. He was learning you—and letting you learn him back.

You moved together, step by unsteady step, until your back hit the inside of the door with a soft thud. His body followed—close, but not crushing. One arm braced beside your head, the other still at your waist.

You fumbled lightly with the lapel of his jacket, fingers tracing the seam as you slid your hands up to his shoulders. The fabric was smooth. Starched. Still holding the warmth of his body.

His lips moved to your jaw—slow, almost reverent—and then down to your throat, where he paused.

He didn’t rush. He let you feel the press of his mouth against your skin, the soft scrape of his breath, the care in every motion.

You gasped—quiet, involuntary—and your hands clutched at his lapel.

He pulled back instantly.

His eyes were wide. Alert. Reading you.

“Too much?”

“No,” you said, breathless. “No. It’s just—”

You swallowed, laughed a little, eyes dropping for a second.

“I swear, I don’t usually go this far on the first date.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t mock.

He just looked at you like he’d heard that confession in his bones.

“I’m not—” You shook your head, eyes flicking back to his. “I’m not this easy.”

His hand moved from your waist to the side of your neck—fingertips brushing along the edge of your jaw.

“I don’t think you are,” he said. Quiet. Certain.

And something in you melted at that.

Because he meant it.

Because he wasn’t here because it was easy. He was here because it was you.

He kissed you again—softer this time, lips just barely brushing yours before he deepened it slowly, carefully. Your arms slipped around his waist beneath the jacket, fingers finding the hem of his shirt tucked neatly into his slacks.

You whispered against his mouth, “Do you want to stay?”

He didn’t answer out loud.

He didn’t need to.

His lips were still on yours when your hands slipped beneath the lapels of his jacket. He stilled, just slightly—not because he was resisting, but because he was checking in. Even now, even with your mouth on his and your body angled toward him, he was waiting for your signal.

You tugged gently.

“Can I take this off?” you asked against his jaw.

His answer was breath, not words—but he nodded.

You slid the jacket back over his shoulders. It came off smoothly, the fabric cool beneath your palms. He caught it before it hit the floor and folded it over the back of a nearby chair without looking away from you.

“I don’t want to push,” he said quietly.

“You’re not.”

He nodded, but his eyes stayed on you like he needed to hear it again.

“I want to,” you said, softer now. “But only if you do too.”

He let out a breath through his nose and stepped closer, hands framing your face with an almost unbearable gentleness.

“I’ve wanted to since the second you opened the door.”

You kissed him now—slower, deeper��and your hands found the knot of his tie. He let you pull it loose. One slow tug. The silk slid through his collar with a soft whisper, and he didn’t break the kiss as you laid it aside.

When your fingers moved to the first button of his shirt, he caught your wrists gently.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, barely audible. “I promise.”

He held your gaze for a long second, then let go.

You undid the buttons one by one, his chest slowly revealed in narrow glimpses—smooth skin, lean muscle, the curve of his collarbone. Your fingers hesitated at his belt, but he didn’t press.

Instead, his hands moved to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He waited again.

You nodded.

He pulled it down slowly. The fabric loosened against your frame, the air kissing your skin as it slipped from your shoulders and down your arms. You let it fall, stepped out of it.

Tom took a slow breath. He didn’t look down. He kept his eyes on your face like that was the part of you he wanted to remember first.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

You took his hand and started backing down the hallway—toward your bedroom, bare feet quiet against the floor.

He followed, letting you lead, his shirt still hanging open, the sleeves loose at his elbows.

Halfway down the hall, you stopped and kissed him again. This time, you pressed into him fully, your fingers sinking into his hair, and he responded with a low, muffled sound that lit something in your core.

“This is okay?” you asked. You already knew the answer. But it felt right to ask again.

“This is more than okay.”

But still waiting for your next move.

You crossed into your bedroom first, the floor cool against your bare feet. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the ambient spill of light from the hallway. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a thin silver ribbon of moonlight across the bed.

Tom followed behind, quieter than ever.

He stopped in the doorway for a moment. Like he was taking it in—not the room, but the fact of it. The shift. The invitation.

You turned toward him slowly. You were in nothing but your underwear: simple, matching, a soft fabric that still clung in all the places that counted. You didn’t cross your arms. You didn’t cover up. But your breath was a little shallow.

He noticed.

His hands, still resting lightly at his sides, flexed.

But he didn’t move until you stepped closer and reached for his shirt.

It was already unbuttoned, the fabric hanging open over his chest. You laid your palms flat against the skin there—warm, smooth, solid. He exhaled, the muscles under your hands tightening slightly.

“You’re still wearing too much,” you whispered.

His voice was low, roughened by restraint. “You want to fix that?”

You nodded.

You pushed the shirt from his shoulders slowly, letting your fingertips trace the dip of his collarbone, the slope of his arms. The fabric slid down and fell to the floor. You moved to his belt next. Your fingers hesitated just slightly.

He stilled.

Not because he didn’t want it—God, no. But because he was waiting again. Always waiting.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice soft now. “Only if you want this.”

“I do.”

He watched your hands as you unbuckled the belt, your knuckles brushing the flat of his stomach. You undid the button of his slacks next, then the zipper—slow, careful, deliberate.

He helped—just a little—by easing them down, stepping out of them once they pooled at his feet. His shoes were gone by now—somewhere between the hallway and here. Socks too. He stood in nothing but black boxer briefs, and the tension between you spiked in the best way.

You reached out, fingertips ghosting across the waistband.

His voice came again, low and serious: “Let me take my time with you.”

You nodded, breath catching.

Then he leaned down and kissed you again—this time with more pressure, more heat. His hands cupped the back of your thighs as he walked you back, step by slow step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

He sat you down gently.

Then knelt.

Right there.

Both hands slid up your legs, from your calves to your knees, thumbs stroking slow circles against your skin. He kissed the inside of your thigh, just once, through the fabric of your underwear. Then looked up at you.

“Still good?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He hooked his fingers under the waistband and pulled them down slowly, like it mattered to him not to miss a second of it. He helped you lift your hips, never breaking eye contact as he eased them all the way off.

You were half-naked now. Fully exposed. But you didn’t feel bare.

You felt wanted.

When he stood again, you reached for the clasp of your bra. Fumbled.

“Here,” he said, brushing your hands away gently. “Let me.”

He undid it with one hand. You didn’t ask how. And then you were fully undressed—nothing between you but breath and skin and everything you hadn’t said out loud yet.

His briefs were the last thing left.

You looked up at him, your voice a whisper. “Take them off.”

He did. Slowly. With the same reverence he’d shown you. And when he stood fully bare in front of you, you reached for him—not because he needed the invitation, but because you wanted the contact.

Your palms met his skin, warm and solid. His arms circled your waist, and he drew you up, against him, chest to chest.

You felt everything.

And for a moment, you just stood like that.

Breathing. Pressed close. Choosing.

The sheets were cool against your back as he finally laid you down—slowly, gently, like he was worried the moment might break if he moved too fast.

He hovered over you for a second. Just looked at you.

Not just your body—at you. Eyes searching, breath already uneven, jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together.

You reached up and slid your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to pull him down for another kiss.

This one was messier. Warmer. His mouth opened against yours with more heat than before, his tongue sweeping slow and sure, like he was memorizing you from the inside out.

When he kissed down your throat, you felt his breath stutter against your skin. Like it was costing him something not to give in completely.

He pressed a kiss just below your jaw. Another on the hollow of your throat. Then a third, lower, near the curve of your shoulder.

And then he paused.

His lips barely touching your skin. His breath warm.

“You don’t mind if I…?” he murmured, voice thick with want.

Your hand found the nape of his neck. Fingers curled in his hair.

“Please.”

That single word cracked something open in him.

He groaned, low and quiet, and kissed your shoulder—really kissed it—then opened his mouth slightly and bit down. Not hard. Just enough to sting. Just enough to claim.

Your back arched.

He soothed the bite with his tongue, then moved lower.

Your collarbone. The top of your breast. The swell of it.

He took his time.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said softly, in between kisses.

Each one deeper. Slower. Leaving a faint mark—something you’d find in the mirror later and remember exactly how it felt.

His mouth moved over your chest, worshipful. When he circled your nipple with his tongue, you gasped. When he closed his lips around it and sucked, you moaned.

He didn’t stop.

He kissed down your ribs, your stomach, the dip of your hip.

Your fingers trembled in his hair. He looked up once, made eye contact—and the look in his eyes devastated you.

Hunger. Restraint. Awe.

As if he couldn’t believe he had you like this.

He came back up your body, mouth hot and damp, his skin brushing yours as he climbed.

When he reached your face again, you kissed him like you needed to anchor yourself—arms around his neck, your body pressing up into his like you couldn’t get close enough.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him again—slow, deep, anchoring yourself in the heat of him, in the steadiness of his hands, in the way his body trembled ever so slightly above yours.

“You,” you breathed. “I want you.”

That made him exhale hard through his nose, his forehead dropping to yours. For a moment, he didn’t move—just held you there, close, like he was afraid the whole night might vanish if he let go.

“Say it again,” he said quietly.

“I want you.”

“Fuck.”

He kissed you again—harder this time, more need than control now—and you felt him press against you, thick and hot and aching. You moaned softly against his lips, shifting your hips into his, and he nearly choked on the sound it pulled from him.

“I need to—” he said, already pulling back just slightly, reaching over the edge of the bed where his pants lay tangled on the floor. He dug into the pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open with a practiced flick of his thumb.

Foil glint. Soft rip. Controlled breath.

You watched his hands—steady, careful—as he slid the condom on. And you could feel it in your chest, that thick ache of want building even harder now. This wasn’t rushed. This wasn’t careless.

This was him choosing you.

When he looked up again, the tension in his face was tighter—jaw clenched, brow drawn, lips parted like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

He came back to you slowly, crawling over your body, bracing himself above you.

“This still okay?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

“Please,” you whispered. “I want to feel all of you.”

His breath hitched.

That word—please—wrecked something in him.

He pressed his forehead to yours, lips brushing your cheek, his voice rough and reverent.

“God, baby… you have no idea what that does to me.”

And then he shifted—just slightly. You felt it in the way his weight settled between your thighs, the way his body aligned against yours with more intent now.

Still careful.

Still gentle.

But no longer tentative.

“This still okay?” he murmured, even as his cock slid through your slick folds, nudging at your entrance.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes. I want you.”

He groaned—low and unfiltered—and kissed you once, slow and deep, before lining himself up and starting to push in.

The sudden stretch made you gasp.

He caught your jaw gently with one hand, his thumb stroking along your cheek as he moved deeper—inch by slow inch.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good. So damn tight—fuck. You feel unreal.”

You clutched at his arms, nails digging in, and he stilled once he was fully seated inside you. His breath caught at the base of his throat.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, almost laughing—but breathless. Shaken. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”

Your heart thudded at that—at the way it sounded not like a compliment but a truth he believed too deeply.

“You do,” you whispered. “You do, Ice.”

He looked down at you like he didn’t know what to do with that—like it mattered more than anything else tonight. Part of him knew that nickname would never be the same.

Then—finally—he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Measured.

He kissed your neck as his hips rolled, then murmured against your skin: “Every inch, baby. You’re taking all of me. Just like that.”

You moaned, and that’s when it happened—that flicker of a grin, the shift in his tone, that unmistakable hint of Ice in his element.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You like that. Thought you might.”

He thrust again—deeper this time, slower—and when your mouth dropped open, he caught your lip between his teeth and growled softly, “Knew you’d feel this good. Knew you’d be perfect.”

His praise didn’t stop.

“So goddamn warm. So wet for me. I could stay inside you all night.”

Another roll of his hips. Another moan from your throat.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Shaking already. And I’ve barely even started.”

But even as the swagger crept in, the care never left.

His eyes were still on yours.

His hand still cradled your cheek.

He kissed you again, and this time it was slower, sweeter—like a promise beneath all the filth.

“You still okay?” he asked softly, brushing your hair back.

You nodded, breathless. “You’re perfect.”

That did him in.

He smiled—wrecked and awed—and muttered, “lucky bastard,” to himself before sinking back into you with a low groan that felt like it came from the deepest part of him.

His rhythm deepened, hips rolling in long, slow strokes that dragged a low sound from your throat every time he bottomed out. He grunted softly with each push forward, his jaw tight, his breath hot against your ear.

“God, baby… You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, voice breaking on the words. “You don’t even know.”

You couldn’t speak—not when he was moving like that, filling you completely, your body trembling with every deep, deliberate thrust. You could only hold on—arms locked around his shoulders, fingers curled into the muscle at the top of his back.

But he was still watching. Still reading every sound you made.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his lips brushing your cheek. “Making me work for it.”

You arched into him, your body chasing the next thrust before he gave it.

And he laughed—low and rough, the sound laced with disbelief and heat.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?”

Your breath caught. “What?”

He thrust hard and fast—just once—and you gasped, body shuddering beneath him.

“You heard me.” His mouth was at your ear now, his voice a teasing growl. “Dangerous. Should’ve known the second you opened that door.”

You laughed through a moan, barely able to keep up with the way he moved now—deeper, harder, faster, but still controlled. Still holding you like you were precious.

He kissed the underside of your jaw, then your mouth. “Wrecking me and you’re not even trying.”

“Ice—”

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he asked, voice full of heat and reverence. “Let me feel you lose it all over me?”

You could feel it building already—fast and hot, curling low in your stomach, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

He felt it, too.

“C’mon,” he whispered, his thumb finding your clit, stroking in tight, perfect circles. “Give it to me. Want you to fall apart for me, just like that.”

You gasped—one hand fisting at the sheets, the other clutching at his shoulder as your body started to shake.

“That’s it,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “That’s my girl.”

The orgasm hit fast, your whole body locking around him, back arching off the bed. You cried out, breath caught on his name, and he kept moving—kept whispering to you, grounding you through it.

“Fuck, that’s it… that’s it, baby. You’re perfect—so fucking perfect.”

He barely held on.

Your walls pulsed around him, and he cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

“Shit—gonna come—”

You pulled him down to you, wrapped him in your arms, your legs tight around his waist.

“Do it,” you whispered against his skin. “Come inside me. I want it.”

That broke him.

With a low, raw groan, he buried himself deep and came hard, body locked above you, chest heaving, hands trembling where they gripped the sheets. You felt every pulse of him, every shudder, every breathless whisper of your name as he gave himself to you completely.

He stayed like that for a long moment—his body heavy, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You okay?” he finally asked, voice worn thin with emotion.

You smiled. “More than okay.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh and kissed you again—this time soft, slow, reverent.

“Dangerous,” he murmured against your lips. “Completely fucking dangerous.”

He hadn’t moved.

Not really.

His chest was still pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t ready to let you go. His face was tucked into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin, steady but ragged.

Your fingers stroked through the short hair at the base of his neck, slow and soothing. You could feel the aftershocks still humming through him.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to kiss your jaw. Then your cheek.

Then your mouth—soft and slow, not asking for anything. Just being with you.

He pulled back slightly to look at you. His hair was a mess. His lips were swollen. His eyes were still glassy, pupils blown wide.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to break the quiet between you.

You nodded. Smiled, even.

“I’m kind of wrecked.”

He huffed a soft, half-laugh and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Same.”

You stayed like that for a moment—warm skin against warm skin, your legs still loosely tangled, the air still carrying the smell of sweat and sex and something sweeter underneath.

Eventually, he pulled out with slow care, kissed your shoulder again, and got up just long enough to take care of the condom, grabbing a towel from your bathroom without asking where it was. He moved quietly. Efficiently. Still himself.

He returned a moment later, sliding back into bed beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You both lay there for a few seconds, eyes on the ceiling.

Then—

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you said.

He turned his head toward you.

“You regretting it already?” he asked, quiet. Not joking. Just honest.

You looked at him—hair mussed, still flushed from what you’d just shared, those damn eyes fixed on you like you were still the only thing in the room.

“No,” you said. “Not even a little.”

That landed. You could see it in the way he exhaled. The way his arm moved to pull you in, tucking you against his side like you belonged there.

“I don’t usually do this,” you murmured into his chest. “Not like this. Not the first night.”

His fingers moved through your hair, slow and steady. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

You smiled against his skin. “Why’s that?”

“Because if you did… no one would ever shut up about you.”

You laughed—soft and surprised—and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

You both went quiet again.

But this time, it was heavier.

Not bad. Just… honest.

You shifted slightly, looked up at him.

“So… what now?”

He looked down at you. Met your eyes without flinching.

And then—he gave you a real smile. Small. Sure.

“We figure that out. Together.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!!

#top gun #top gun fanfic #top gun x reader #top gun smut #tom iceman kazansky #tom kazansky #iceman x reader #iceman smut #tom iceman kazansky x reader #tom iceman kazansky smut #val kilmer #val kilmer x reader #val kilmer smut #catie tries her best #sunbeamlessrequests

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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got my first collectibles yesterday! so excited to display them when i get back to the US!! :DD

#catierambles #f1 #bburago #mclaren #ln4 #op81

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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Thank you to everyone who got me to 2500 likes!

So excited to keep on writing for you guys!! <3

#2500 likes #tumblr milestone #thank you #catie tries her best

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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I’ve never done a request before but your emoji idea helped me! So here we go-

🥀 “You make me nervous. That’s never happened before Lando Norris (angst—>smut happy ending. Lando refuses to learn what feelings are until reader flirts with someone else)

hi anon! i loved your idea so, so much! i really hope you enjoy it!

Broken Open

❝ You look at me like you see everything I’m trying to hide, and I have no idea how to deal with that. ❞

much love,

c <3

#sunbeamlessrequests

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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Broken Open - Lando Norris x Reader One-Shot

❝ You look at me like you see everything I’m trying to hide, and I have no idea how to deal with that. ❞

lando norris x reader ~3.3k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, emotionally repressed behavior, jealousy, possessive tendencies, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), mild angst, language

he said he didn’t do feelings. you certainly weren’t supposed to make him nervous. and yet—when you 'flirt' with someone else, he unravels.

notes: this was an anonymous request!! i am super excited about having requests open now. i hope this came out okay. requests are a challenge for me, so i want to practice more and more.

my masterlist

request guide

It’s always like this with Lando. Comfortable, easy, fast.

You’re leaning against a wall behind the paddock after a long day, laughing at something stupid he just said. His grin is wide, boyish, a little smug—the one that usually gets him out of trouble. He’s tossing a bottle of water from hand to hand like he’s trying not to fidget.

“You know,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “for someone who’s constantly talking about being smooth, your flirting game is weak.”

That earns you a dramatic gasp and a hand to his chest, “Weak? Me? That’s slander.”

“No, it’s honesty,” you tease, smirking. “You’ve been all bark and no bite since the day we met.”

Lando laughs, a little too loud, “Please. You’d combust if I actually flirted with any intent.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Try me.”

He pauses. Just for a second. It’s barely noticeable—a hiccup in his rhythm—but you catch it. Then he shakes his head with that crooked smile and fires back, “Nah. Wouldn’t want to ruin the mystery.”

It’s classic Lando: cocky, dismissive, always one step removed from sincerity. You’ve played this game before. You’re good at it. But lately… something’s been off.

Because his gaze lingers a little too long on your mouth when you speak. Because sometimes, when you laugh too hard, he looks like he’s memorizing the sound. Because when you hug him goodbye after race weekends, he holds on just a little too long.

And you? You’re not immune to it. Not even close.

But neither of you gives way. You just keep playing—jokes, jabs, harmless tension. Except now, it’s starting to feel anything but harmless.

Lando’s grin still lingers as he pulls his phone from his pocket, thumbing through a message without really looking at you anymore. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, suddenly very aware of the space between you, the silence growing thicker with every second he doesn’t look up.

It’s always like this—close, but not close enough. Like there��s an invisible wall you both pretend not to see.

You push off the wall casually, trying not to overthink it, stretching your arms behind your back as your gaze drifts lazily. The night’s settling in soft and hazy, golden lights buzzing overhead, the air warm from the sun that burned all day. Most of the crowd has cleared, but a few stragglers linger in nearby team lounges—laughing, sharing drinks, winding down after the adrenaline.

And then you spot Oscar, standing near the McLaren hospitality area with his water bottle in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. He’s talking to someone, but his eyes catch yours mid-conversation. He tilts his head, mouth pulling into an easy, knowing smile.

“You heading back soon?” Oscar calls out, voice low and teasing across the distance.

You don’t think—just smile, a little wider than usual. Maybe it’s the heat of Lando’s silence behind you. Maybe it’s the way Oscar is looking at you like there’s something worth chasing.

“Depends,” you say, loud enough for both of them to hear. “Who’s asking?”

You turn, slow and deliberate, just enough to see if Lando reacts.

And oh, does he.

You catch it—just barely. The sharp flick of his eyes up from his phone, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers curl around the edge of the device like he’s resisting the urge to throw it. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Fine.

You walk toward Oscar, each step unhurried but intentional, letting the silence stretch between you and Lando like a challenge. You stop just short of Oscar, who looks thoroughly entertained.

“That for me, or him?” he asks under his breath, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You smile sweetly. “Let’s say both.”

Behind you, there’s a quiet thud—Lando’s water bottle hitting the pavement a little too hard.

“Didn’t know you and Oscar were flirting now.”

You turn around slowly. Lando’s walking toward you with that lazy, swaggering gait he always uses when he’s trying to look unaffected. But he’s not pulling it off tonight. Not with the way his eyes are locked on you, hard and searching. Not with the way his mouth is tight at the corners.

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was your business.”

He stops a few feet away, arms folded, posture casual—but his gaze is anything but. “It’s not. Just… surprising.”

Oscar clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “I should probably—”

“You’re fine,” you interrupt, eyes still on Lando. “He doesn’t get to chase off people he has no claim on.”

“I never said I had a claim,” Lando shoots back, voice sharp now, wounded in a way he tries to hide behind his usual arrogance. “But maybe don’t act like you’re hard to get when you’re throwing it around like that.”

It lands like a slap.

Your chest goes still. Even Oscar flinches beside you.

You blink once. Slowly. “Wow. There it is.”

Lando doesn’t respond—just stares at you like he’s already regretting it but can’t back down. You take a step forward, tilting your head.

“You don’t get to say shit like that to me, Lando,” you say, voice low, trembling at the edges with something dangerous. “You don’t get to act like I’m some distraction you can turn on and off, and then throw a tantrum the second someone else gives me any attention.”

“I’m not throwing a tantrum,” he bites out.

“No? What do you call this, then?”

Silence.

Oscar glances between the two of you. “Yeah, I’m definitely leaving now.”

You don’t stop him this time. You barely notice as he steps away.

Your eyes are still locked on Lando’s. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t break. But you see it now—the cracks spiderwebbing behind the cool mask. He’s unraveling. Slowly, painfully, and so damn stubborn he’s ready to burn himself to keep from admitting it.

You step in close enough that your words are just for him now. “You don’t get to want me in secret and punish me for not wanting to wait around.”

He looks at you like he wants to speak, but all he does is scoff and walk away—shoulders tense, fists clenched like he’s trying to hold something in.

You watch him go, heart hammering against your ribs.

And maybe, finally, you’ve poked hard enough to break something open.

You don’t see Lando the rest of the night.

Not after he stalked off into the dark with his shoulders rigid and his jaw clenched like he was holding back more than words. He didn’t come back. Didn’t text. Didn’t even bother with the bare-minimum emoji reaction to the group chat someone started for drinks.

Fine.

By the time you get back to your hotel, you’re vibrating with it. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

Rage.

It simmers under your skin, acidic and unresolved. Because Lando Norris does not get to look at you like that. He doesn’t get to make you feel like you crossed a line he drew in disappearing ink.

And he especially doesn’t get to say something like that and walk away.

You pace your room for a good ten minutes before you finally cave and grab your keycard, slipping out into the hall barefoot, heart pounding with something that tastes like fury and fear tangled together. You already know which room is his—too many late-night afterparties and shared secrets across hotel corridors to forget.

You raise your hand.

And you knock.

Three sharp, deliberate raps.

There’s a pause. Shuffling. A click of the latch.

The door swings open.

Lando stands there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, damp curls pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower. His eyes widen when he sees you. And then they narrow.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

You push past him anyway.

Door clicks shut behind you.

“You don’t get to say that,” you snap, turning to face him. “You don’t get to act like I’m some passing crush you’ve outgrown and then get possessive the second I seem to show interest in someone else.”

His arms stay folded, chest rising and falling a little too fast. “You came all the way here to pick another fight?”

“No,” you say, stepping closer. “I came to get answers.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. There’s something panicked in the way he looks at you now. Like a man standing too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing he might just jump.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud.

It’s not smug.

It’s soft. Broken open.

“You make me nervous.”

The words hang in the air between you like smoke—delicate, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

You stare at him, stunned for half a second. It’s not just what he said—it’s the way he said it. Quiet. Raw. Like it cost him something.

“That’s never happened before,” he adds, softer this time. His eyes drop to the floor like he’s ashamed of it.

You don’t move. You barely breathe.

“Lando…” you start, but your voice is barely a whisper.

He runs a hand through his curls, agitated. “I know I was a dick. I know I shouldn’t’ve said what I said, but—fuck—I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could’ve said how you actually felt.”

“Yeah?” he snaps, voice rising. “And risk what? You laughing in my face? Telling me I was just another stupid crush you’d outgrow by the next race weekend?”

You take a step closer, arms crossed tight across your chest—not in defense, but to hold yourself together. “You really think that little of me?”

“No,” he breathes. “That’s the problem.”

His eyes meet yours again, and this time they don’t drop. They burn.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

You blink.

“I’ve been in control my whole life,” he says, shaking his head like he’s only just realizing it himself. “On track, off track, with girls, with the media—all of it. But then you show up, and suddenly I’m second-guessing everything. What I say. What I feel. How close I let you get.”

He takes a step toward you now. Measured. Controlled.

“You flirt, and I act like it’s nothing. But you touch me, and I can’t breathe. You look at me like you see everything I’m trying to hide, and I have no idea how to deal with that.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“You didn’t even have to start flirting with Oscar,” he continues, almost to himself. “You just smiled, and I lost it. I—I hated it. Hated watching you give someone else the parts of you I’ve been too fucking scared to ask for.”

The silence between you is thick. Heavy.

You take one breath. Then another. Then step right up to him, close enough that your chests nearly brush.

“You’re scared of feeling something real,” you murmur. “So you pushed me away before I could do it first.”

He swallows hard, his jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“And now?”

His voice is a rasp. “Now I want you so bad it hurts.”

You don’t give him time to second-guess.

You close the space between you and kiss him—hard, fierce, loaded with everything you’ve both been holding back. His hands are on you in an instant, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Your back hits the door as his mouth moves hungrily against yours, all heat and desperation and finally.

He breaks away just long enough to whisper against your lips, “Still make me nervous.”

You smile into the kiss. “Good.”

You don’t remember how you made it to the bed.

You remember the way he kissed you—like he was starved. The clumsy scramble of hands pulling at clothes, the sound of his breath catching when your shirt hit the floor. The muttered fuck against your skin when his mouth found the hollow of your throat.

Now he’s hovering over you, knees bracketing your thighs on the mattress, one hand gripping your wrist, the other skimming the edge of your jaw like he can’t quite believe this is happening.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

You don’t. You just lift your hips to meet his, rolling your body against the hard line of him through his boxers. He hisses through his teeth, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, okay—fuck—” His mouth crashes into yours again, rougher this time. All teeth and tongue, no more hesitation.

You hook your legs around his hips, dragging him in close. The friction makes you both gasp. His hands are on your thighs, your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts, fingers trembling just slightly. It’s not performance. It’s not cocky, not smooth.

It’s real.

“You still nervous?” you whisper, lips brushing his.

He laughs—shaky, wrecked. “Terrified.”

Your fingers trail down his chest, slow and deliberate, feeling the way his breath stutters under your touch. “Good,” you whisper. “Means this means something real.”

His gaze holds yours, something open and wrecked behind his eyes. No bravado now. No shield. Just want and fear and the slow, stunned realization that he doesn’t want to run anymore.

He kisses you like he’s letting himself fall. Like he’s finally giving in.

You tug at the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. Your own shirt follows, tossed to the floor with a quiet rustle. For a moment, you both pause—bare skin against bare skin, your chest rising and falling in sync with his.

You reach down and work at the button of your pants next, fingers shaking a little, but it’s not nerves—it’s need. He watches your hands, then helps without asking, dragging the fabric over your hips and past your knees. You kick them off the rest of the way and feel his hands return to your thighs immediately, warm and certain, palms spreading across your skin like he needs to memorize every inch.

His boxers come off in the same breathless rush, somewhere between a kiss and a curse, and then he’s back over you, weight pressing you into the mattress, bodies flush from thigh to chest. You part your legs, welcoming the way he settles between them like he’s always belonged there.

“I don’t want to rush,” he murmurs, breath brushing your collarbone.

“You’re not,” you whisper, cupping his face. “I want all of it. I want you.”

His hand drifts down, fingers slipping between your thighs, and he groans when he finds you already soaked and waiting. His forehead presses to yours, and for a second, neither of you moves—just breathing, just feeling.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like a prayer. “You’re perfect.”

You guide him with a hand at his hip, and he fumbles briefly, lining himself up with a quiet, shaky breath. His other hand stays at your thigh, grounding himself, steadying you both.

Then he pushes in—one slow, desperate thrust that makes you both gasp. He sinks deep, groaning into your neck like the sound’s been living in his chest for weeks. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, back arching to meet him.

It doesn’t feel like a first time.

It feels like finally.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as your body arches to meet his.

“Fuck, you feel—” he chokes, unable to finish. He pulls back and thrusts again, slow but firm, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Every movement is thick with meaning. Every thrust says I’m sorry. Every kiss says I’m yours. Every whispered curse against your skin is I feel this more than I should.

“You should’ve told me,” you breathe, voice broken on a moan.

“I know,” he pants. “I know, I know—fuck—I just… I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t ruin it.”

“You nearly did.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding the place that makes you whimper and bite down on his shoulder. “I won’t ever again.”

Your bodies find a rhythm—urgent, greedy, perfectly in sync like you’ve done this a hundred times in your heads but never let it slip into reality until now.

Your orgasm builds fast, sharp and inevitable, and when it hits, your whole body tenses beneath him with a cry you don’t bother to muffle.

Lando follows right after, hips stuttering, eyes locked on yours like he needs to see you fall apart to let himself go. He groans your name into the crook of your neck as he spills into you, every part of him trembling.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

His forehead stays pressed to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your skin. One of his hands is still gripping yours like a lifeline.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You wreck me.”

You turn your head just enough to kiss his hair, your chest still rising and falling.

“Good.”

It takes a while for either of you to move.

Lando’s still half on top of you, breathing steadying against your collarbone, skin slick with sweat, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. Your hand rests at the back of his neck, fingers lazily tracing along the edge of his hairline. His body feels heavy in a good way—like gravity’s finally done its job and brought him all the way down to you.

“You okay?” you murmur, voice soft and hoarse.

He hums, almost too low to hear. “More than okay. I think I’m dead. That was death.”

You laugh quietly and feel him smile against your skin.

After a few minutes, he shifts, rolling to the side but keeping you pulled into his chest, his arm slung low across your hips, fingers idly brushing along your spine.

There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Just warmth and the weight of everything unsaid finally settling into something real.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” you ask, voice quieter now. “What you said. About being nervous.”

Lando nods against your hair. “Yeah. Terrified, actually.”

You pull back slightly to look at him. His eyes are soft now, sleepy but honest, all the bravado from before dissolved in the haze of everything you just shared.

He shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t just flirt with me, you see me. I’ve never let anyone get that close before. Didn’t know how to deal with it. So I panicked and tried to act like it didn’t matter.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say gently.

“I know,” he sighs. “A charming, emotionally repressed idiot.”

You grin. “An idiot who finally got there.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Don’t let me screw this up.”

“You won’t,” you promise. “Not if you stop running when it gets real.”

Lando pauses. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You settle into his arms again, the silence now warm instead of tense. Just heartbeats and shallow breaths, the soft hum of the city outside the window. His fingers never stop moving—along your waist, over your bare hip, tracing patterns like he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

Eventually, he mutters, “Can I say something really cheesy?”

You nod against his chest. “Always.”

He presses a kiss to your hair. “That wasn’t just sex. That felt like… all the shit I’ve been trying not to feel finally catching up to me.”

You tilt your head up to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Yeah. Me too.”

A pause. Then:

“Also,” he adds, deadpan, “I’m never letting you within ten feet of Oscar again.”

You snort. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

“Careful,” he says, voice low, “you’ll find out just how possessive I can be.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh? Round two?”

He grins, eyes bright again. “Don’t tempt me.”

And when he pulls you closer, it’s not out of need or fear—it’s out of comfort. Out of want. Out of something real.

notes: hope it lived up to your expectations anon!

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21 @missprolog @vanteel @idontknow0704 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @andawaywelando @yeahnahalrightfairenough @whatsitgonnabeangelina @missprolog @emily-b @number-0-iz @vhkdncu2ei8997 @astrlape @iliveforotps @yourmomsgirlfriend1 @andreafuturefa @chasingosc @littlegrapejuice @lilorose25 @bagelsbitch @lenasimp @simpfortoomanymen @verogonewild @dustyinkpages @arian-directioner @papayababy

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

#f1 #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #ln4 #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris smut #lando smut #catie tries her best #sunbeamlessrequests

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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not sure where to start when sending in a one shot request? use the emoji prompts below! just pick an emoji (or more!) + a character from the list, add a little context if you want (angst, fluff, smut, etc.) and i’ll gladly take it from there!!

reader-insert and fem!reader by default. gender-neutral welcome for non smut works — just specify if you have a preference.

HOW TO REQUEST:

pick a character (from the list below)

choose an emoji (or more)

add any vibe/setting/emotion (optional)

use my asks. anon is open!

CHARACTERS

Formula 1

Oscar Piastri

Lando Norris

Charles Leclerc

Carlos Sainz

Daniel Ricciardo

George Russell

Liam Lawson

Max Verstappen (very particular)

Top Gun: Maverick

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (young)

Natasha “Phoenix” Trace

Robert “Bob” Floyd

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky (young)

Tombstone

Doc Holliday

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

Billie Hargrove

Steve Harrington

Robin Buckley

EMOJI DIALOGUE PROMPTS

🕯️ “You don’t get to come back and pretend nothing happened.”

⚰️ “I loved you. That was my biggest mistake.”

🌑 “Don’t lie to me. Not again.”

🩸 “You keep hurting me, and I keep letting you.”

🪦 “You promised you’d stay.”

🌧️ “It’s not that simple anymore.”

🕳️ “I feel like I’m disappearing.”

🔪 “Say it. Say you never cared.”

🗝️ “You were my home. Now I’m just lost.”

🕰️ “Too late. You’re too late.”

🌧️ “You left. What was I supposed to do?”

🔒 “Why do you keep running from me?”

🚪 “Tell me to stop.”

🎭 “Stop pretending you don’t care.”

🧊 “This doesn’t have to mean anything.” — “But it does.”

🩹 “I didn’t know who else to call.”

🥀 “You make me nervous. That’s never happened before.”

📵 “You really don’t get it, do you?”

⛓️ “I hate how good you make me feel.”

🔇 “Say it again. Slower this time.”

🌸 “You make everything feel lighter.”

🎀 “I didn’t think I could be this happy.”

✨ “I want a thousand more moments just like this.”

🫖 “Stay. Just for a little while longer.”

☕ “Your laugh is my favorite sound.”

🧸 “You feel like safety.”

🍓 “Can I hold your hand?”

🌙 “You talk in your sleep. It’s cute.”

📚 “Read to me until I fall asleep.”

🎠 “I could live in this moment forever.”

🔥 “Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

🌙 “Just—stay. Please.”

💔 “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

👀 “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?”

⏳ “If we do this… there’s no going back.”

🫣 “You’re making it very hard to be professional.”

🫀 “You’re the one thing I can’t afford to lose.”

🕷️ “You were mine first.”

🍷 “Say it like you mean it.”

💋 “That’s the second time you’ve almost kissed me.”

🔥 “If you’re going to keep teasing me, at least be ready for the consequences.”

🖤 “You like this. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

📍 “One word from you and I’ll ruin you.”

⛓️ “Be good. Or don’t. I’m not picky.”

🍷 “You look like sin tonight.”

🫦 “Say it slower.”

🕷️ “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

🧨 “That dress is a weapon and you know it.”

⚡ “Tell me what you want. Say it.”

♠️ “Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

🫦 “Is this what you want?”

🛑 “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

🪞 “You look good like this.”

🍑 “Come home with me.”

🧨 “You’re seriously jealous right now?”

💄 “Come closer.”

🌡️ “Say it like you mean it.”

🕶️ “Is that supposed to intimidate me?”

🔞 “I want you. I’m just scared as hell about it.”

🥃 “I’ve been trying not to think about you. It’s not working.”

🎈 “That’s your plan? Really?”

🍕 “You bribed me with pizza. Of course I said yes.”

📦 “This is not what I meant by ‘be spontaneous.’”

🎮 “I would literally fight God for you. Or at least play him in Mario Kart.”

🐸 “You’re lucky I’m cute when I’m annoyed.”

🛁 “If you bring a rubber duck into the bath again, I’m leaving.”

🧦 “Are those my socks?”

🎤 “I’m not saying I’m dramatic, but I would definitely fake my death for attention.”

📀 “You made a mixtape? What year is it?”

🪩 “You, me, bad decisions, and a dance floor. Let’s go.”

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sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

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Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

my masterlist

request guide

You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag.

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

#f1 #f1 smut #f1 x reader #oscar piastri #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #ln4 #mclaren #op81 x reader

823 notes · View notes

sunbeamlessreads · 3 months ago

Note

barking and s(creaming) over let him see 😩 i wanna experience reading it again for the first time IT WAS SO GOOD!!

it’s feedback like this that make it all worth it man.

i’m such a perfectionist and i fear that people won’t like what i write so i start over and edit things like countless times until they’re absolutely flawless.

to see so many people seemingly liking what i’ve done is just UGH— so amazing <3

#catieanswers #f1 x reader #f1 smut #op81 #oscar piastri

13 notes · View notes

sunbeamlessreads · 4 months ago

Text

The Wager - Lando Norris x Reader One-Shot

❝ “Eyes on the track, Norris.” ❞

lando norris x reader

~3.6k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, dom/sub tension, semi-public style risk, overstimulation, orgasm control

he said he could handle five laps. you said he wouldn’t last two. there’s only one way to prove it.

notes: this is my apology for making lando such a douchebag in my last piece. went in with present tense again. i think it kinda works for the papaya boys, no? enjoy! <3

(i also admittedly didn't proofread this as much as usual so i apologize if it sucks.)

my masterlist

request guide

His sim room is dim except for the dull, shifting glow of LED lights tracing the walls, pulsing in sync with engine revs on Lando’s screen. He’s been here for at least an hour, maybe more, laser-focused—shoulders tense, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel like he’s in an actual cockpit.

You’re in the doorway, leaning against the frame, wearing nothing but one of his hoodies. It hangs low, nearly brushing the tops of your thighs, soft and loose, the sleeves covering your hands. Your skin’s warm beneath it, and a little flushed—maybe from watching him so long, or maybe from what you’re planning.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. Not really. Just a distracted smile earlier when you brought him a drink. Since then? Silence. His attention’s been chained to the corners of a virtual Silverstone, chasing tenths of a second like they owe him something.

Your eyes trail over him now—the way his thighs flex slightly every time he shifts, the way his bottom lip tucks under his teeth when he brakes late. His headset’s pushed back around his neck, and a single bead of sweat slides from his temple to his jaw.

You step into the room without a word and let the door click shut behind you.

“Still trying to shave off that tenth?” you ask, voice syrup-smooth, laced with mischief.

He responds without looking.

“Not trying. Dialing it in.”

You smile. There’s the Lando you know—cocky, precise, addicted to speed and winning.

You drift closer, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate. You round his chair slowly, stopping just beside him, eyes locked on his screen like you’re playing innocent.

“Mm," you trail a finger across the edge of his steering wheel. “I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” he asks, flicking his eyes toward you briefly.

“If you’ve got more control out there—” you tap the glowing screen gently, “than in here.”

His brow lifts slightly. That got his attention.

You move behind him now, running your fingers across his shoulders, down his arms, mapping every muscle beneath the fabric. You lean forward, letting the warmth of your breath kiss the shell of his ear.

“I bet,” you whisper, “you can’t hold out for a whole race.”

That makes him pause. Really pause. His hand leaves the paddle mid-corner, and the engine whines as his car drifts off line.

“Hold out?” he echoes, voice thick with skepticism—and interest.

“Mmhm.” You glide your hands down his chest, over his stomach, featherlight. “I bet I can make you come in five laps.”

He laughs once, but it’s low and tense, like he’s trying to stay calm.

“Five?” he repeats, indignant. “You think you can break me in five?”

You press your body against the back of the chair, hips nudging the rig seat.

“No, baby. I know I can.”

He turns his head to look at you over his shoulder—mouth parted slightly, eyes dark now. He sizes you up like he’s about to take you apart with his hands and teeth.

“And if I make it through five?”

You slowly circle to face him, easing yourself onto his lap—one knee on either side of his hips. You don’t grind down yet, but you settle, letting him feel the heat of you through his joggers. You make sure he notices you’re not wearing anything underneath his sweatshirt.

You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tangling gently, pulling him just close enough that your lips brush his.

“If you make it through five,” you murmur, “you get me.”

A pause. Then you whisper the rest like a promise wrapped in sin.

“However. Wherever. Whenever.”

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching, hands still locked on the wheel because if he touches you now, he’ll ruin everything too early.

You reach down between you, slow and unhurried, palming him through his joggers. He’s already half-hard. The thrill of your challenge, the sound of your voice—he’s trying so hard not to show it.

“You’re on,” he mutters. “Five laps. Don’t go easy on me.”

You grin.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

And as he restarts the session, you start to move—just enough to make him twitch. Just enough to make him wonder how the hell he’s supposed to last.

Lap 1/5

The moment the race loads, you feel it—not just the hum of the sim coming to life, but the shift in Lando’s body beneath you. He squares his shoulders, tightens his grip on the wheel. His voice had been so sure a minute ago, all bravado and arrogance. But now?

Now he’s already working not to react.

You try to stay as out of the way of the screens as you can to at least give him a fighting chance.

Your thighs rest on either side of his, warm skin brushing against his joggers. His seat is snug, built for speed and pressure—not for having someone perched in his lap, slowly undoing him with the smallest touches. You feel him beneath you, hardening slowly, restrained only by thin fabric and sheer willpower.

And still, you don’t rush.

You breathe him in instead. He smells like clean sweat and fabric softener, like tension and heat and the lingering scent of cologne he probably applied this morning without thinking about how close you’d be later.

The first corner of the track comes and goes, and he nails it.

Good.

You want him calm. In control. Thinking he’s got this.

Your hands find his chest, fingertips dragging over the curve of his pecs, then lower, to the subtle ridges of his abs. Not pressing—just trailing. Ghosting. Enough to make his muscles twitch beneath your hands. Enough to make his breathing stutter, just once.

He exhales, shaky.

“That all you’ve got?” he mutters, not looking at you, trying to stay cocky.

You grin against his skin.

“Don’t worry. I’m just getting comfortable.”

You shift slightly—just enough to make sure he feels your bare heat press against him through the fabric. A gentle grind, one slow circle of your hips. His hands tighten on the wheel.

You press another kiss just below his ear. Then another, a little lower.

Your voice stays sweet, nearly innocent:

“How’s your sector time?”

“Shit,” he mutters.

You smile.

Your hips begin a slow rhythm—barely moving, but perfectly timed. Every time he shifts gears, you shift forward. When he straightens out for a straight, you rock back just a little. It’s not enough to drive him over the edge—not yet. But it’s enough to plant the idea. That pull. That ache.

And you can feel him growing harder under you, his body reacting even as he tries to stay stone-faced.

He keeps his eyes on the track. He thinks ignoring you will help.

You know better.

You start trailing your fingers under the hem of his shirt, this time tracing the edge of his ribs, featherlight. He twitches beneath your touch, his hips jerking upward once—reflex. He catches himself, swearing again.

You glance at the screen. One lap just passed halfway.

You lean in and whisper like it’s a secret.

“Four and a half to go, baby.”

He growls under his breath and tightens his grip again. But he doesn’t tell you to stop. You feel it—the way his hips lift an inch into you. Not consciously. Not controlled.

An instinct.

A slip.

You smile.

He wants to win.

You want to ruin him.

Lap 2/5

The moment he crosses the lap marker, you feel the change.

He exhales—just a little too sharp—like he’d been holding his breath since Turn 9. Like the first lap took more out of him than he’ll admit.

You don’t let him settle. You don’t let him recover.

You roll your hips forward again, just slightly more than before, then back. A little faster. A little firmer. His joggers provide friction now—barely a buffer between your heat and his restraint. His cock is hard beneath you, thick and twitching under the fabric, but he hasn’t moved. Not a single touch.

That’s okay.

You plan to do all the touching for him.

Your hands slide lower, sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin—warm, taut, twitching under your palms. You trail your fingers across his abs, then down, slow, until you’re just above his waistband.

You don’t go beneath.

Not yet.

Instead, you rest your hand there, light but suggestive, letting your thumb trace lazy circles against the band of his joggers.

He shifts in the seat, just barely.

“Eyes on the track, Norris.”

You murmur it against his jaw, then kiss just below his ear—barely touching. Just enough for him to feel it.

He grits his teeth. “You’re playing dirty.”

“You agreed to the rules.” Your tone stays breezy, but your hand doesn’t. “Not my fault if you’re losing already.”

You feel the rise of his chest under your palm—he’s breathing harder now, trying not to show it. His foot jolts slightly on the throttle. His car clips a curb. You hear the penalty chime—just a second’s warning—but it’s enough.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

You laugh softly.

“What was that?”

He doesn’t answer.

So you keep going.

You shift your weight forward again and let your lips brush further against his ear.

“Want me to make it worse?”

Still nothing.

You grin—

Challenge accepted.

You lower yourself just enough that you’re flush against him again, your folds hot and slick against the barely-there barrier of his joggers. You rock once—firm, intentional. He groans, just barely, a sound caught in his throat.

Your voice is soft, almost cruel in its sweetness.

“Two laps in. I haven’t even touched your cock yet.”

You reach down, palm him through the fabric now, slow and deliberate. He bucks into your hand instinctively, and that’s the first time his focus slips completely. His car veers wide on a turn, and you hear the wheels screech as they kick up gravel.

“Concentrate,” you whisper, laughing gently against his skin.

“You’ve still got three laps left.”

His response is a low, broken sound that could be frustration or arousal—or both.

You press your mouth to his neck again, your hand still working him through the fabric, your body moving in that slow, taunting rhythm.

You feel him throb beneath your palm. He’s close already. You could push him now—finish this before the third lap even starts.

But you don’t.

Because you want him begging.

Lap 3/5

The moment he crosses the line into lap three, you feel the shift in him.

His thighs tense beneath yours. His arms strain on the wheel. The hard line of his cock is pressed firmly against you now, no longer just reactive—but aching. Desperate. His control is hanging by threads.

And you’re ready to cut every single one.

You rock forward again—this time with real intent. Not teasing. Not suggestive. Deliberate. Precise.

You grind against him with the rhythm of the engine’s growl, syncing your pace with the sharpness of each gear shift. Every time he accelerates, you move with it—hips rolling, breath hot, dragging friction over him that feels anything but accidental.

He makes a sound this time.

A real one.

A low, strangled curse punched out between clenched teeth as you slide your hands under his shirt again and let your nails drag across his stomach. His abs tighten beneath your touch, and you feel his hips twitch up once—seeking more, chasing it despite himself.

You smirk against his neck.

“Feel that, baby?” you murmur, lips brushing skin. “You’re practically pulsing.”

He growls. His voice is rough now, raw at the edges.

“You’re making it impossible to drive.”

“That’s the point.”

You move again—harder this time, a slow, grinding rhythm that drags your slick heat directly over his cock. You can feel him now—hot and thick and wanting more. The only thing separating you is a single layer of fabric.

You lean close to his ear, your voice velvet and wicked.

“Want me to ride you while you finish the lap?”

He groans—a real one, involuntary and half-broken—and his car jerks again on the screen. He recovers, but barely. His knuckles are white on the wheel. Sweat beads along his hairline. He’s silent now, like if he speaks he’ll give in.

You slide your hand down his chest again—slower this time. Taunting. You dip your fingers beneath his waistband now, finally—just a little. Just enough for him to feel your nails against bare skin.

He jerks. His hips buck up into you with force.

You don’t flinch.

You hold steady.

“Three laps,” you whisper. “You’re already fucking shaking.”

His voice is barely a rasp.

“You’re evil.”

You smile.

“You’re hard.”

Your hand brushes against the base of him, just once, and he twitches so violently the rig seat creaks. His breath catches like you’ve just punched the air out of him. His hips thrust up again, instinctual, and your body moves with his—grinding back down.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

You drag your tongue along his throat now, your hips meeting every unconscious thrust, letting his body tell you what his pride won’t.

And you’re so close to taking it.

To breaking him.

But not yet.

You press a kiss to his flushed cheek, then whisper sweetly in his ear:

“Still think you’ll make it through five?”

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Lap 4/5.

You feel it—the way Lando’s whole body tenses underneath you. Not from the race. Not anymore.

Because he knows what’s coming.

Your hand is still wrapped around him, just beneath the waistband of his joggers, fingers teasing but never giving him enough. You feel him throbbing—full, flushed, leaking now. His cock twitches every time you shift your hips, even just slightly.

You look up at the screen.

His car is still on track, somehow. Barely.

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw.

“You made it through three,” you whisper, slow and mocking. “Good boy.”

His breath stutters. He swallows hard.

“But you’re not gonna make it through four.”

And then—before he can reply—you slide your hand fully inside.

You grip him, slow and firm, and pull him free from his joggers. He lets out a low, strangled moan, hips jerking up into your hand automatically. His cock is heavy, hot in your palm, already slick at the tip.

He grips the wheel tighter like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth.

You shift forward, rising just slightly onto your knees. One hand holds him in place. The other guides your hoodie up, exposing the slick, desperate heat between your thighs.

You hover.

Just above him.

Just close enough that he can feel your warmth.

You hold him there.

“You still think you can last?” you ask, voice syrup-sweet.

He nods once—tight, desperate. “Yeah.”

You smile.

And sink down onto him in one slow, devastating slide.

He practically gasps. Chokes on it. His head drops back against the seat. His hands? They don’t move. He’s still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming right now.

You bottom out with a soft moan, intentionally dragging every inch of him into you. He’s so deep inside you it’s almost painful—in the best way. He throbs violently, twitching inside you.

You stay still for a moment. Let him feel it. Let him suffer in the tension.

“Lap four,” you breathe into his ear. “Let’s see what kind of endurance you really have.”

And then you start to move.

Slow at first—grinding against him in long, deep strokes, your thighs pressing against his, your core clenching around him just to watch his jaw go tight. He’s panting now, fully gone, biting back sounds that are barely human.

He shifts slightly in the seat and his hips jerk up once—uncontrolled, needy.

You don’t slow.

You ride him with purpose—steady rhythm, deliberate pace, perfectly timed to the corners he’s trying so hard to take cleanly.

Every time he tries to focus, you tighten around him. Every time he regains rhythm, you pull him deeper. You watch him unravel.

“How’s your lap time now, baby?” you purr, bouncing slightly harder. “Still think you’re gonna make it?”

He’s sweating. Trembling. You feel him gripping the wheel like if he lets go, he’ll lose everything.

“Fuck,” he grits out, barely audible.

You’re soaked, your thighs slick against his. Every time you sink down, the pressure builds, and you know he’s holding on by a single, fraying thread.

He turns to say something—but his voice fails him. Just a strangled moan.

You lean forward, mouth at his ear again, grinding your hips in tight, pulsing circles that make him jerk beneath you.

“One more lap to go,” you whisper. “You really think you can take it?”

He whimpers.

You smile.

Because you already know the answer.

Lap 5/5

The moment it flashes on screen, he stiffens beneath you like he might have a chance. Like he’s got just enough control left to make it to the line.

You smirk.

Good. Let him think that.

His hands are shaking on the wheel with how hard he’s gripping it behind you.

Not from adrenaline. Not from the track.

From you.

From the way you’re riding him like it’s your only mission—to destroy him one perfect roll of your hips at a time.

You plant your hands on his chest and start to move with intent—grinding deep, slow strokes that force him to feel every clench, every pull, every slick slide of your body swallowing him whole. His head drops back against the rig seat, jaw slack, mouth parted in a silent groan.

But he doesn’t let go.

His hands stay on the wheel.

His eyes flicker between the road and you. His knuckles are bone-white. Every muscle in his body is tight with restraint, as if his sheer willpower might keep him from tipping over the edge.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not going to make it.”

“I am.” The words barely scrape out of him.

You chuckle, slow and low, clenching around him mid-thrust. He bucks into you so hard the rig creaks, but his grip stays on the wheel.

You ride him harder now—hips slapping softly, slick heat dragging down his cock with perfect, punishing pressure. His entire body jolts with every downward roll of your hips.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

He groans—deep and wrecked—and tries to focus. Tries to stay in it.

You press your forehead to his and grind in a slow, delicious circle.

“Not the track, is it?” you purr. “You’re thinking about how close you are. How good it would feel to just let go.”

“Fuck—” he gasps, hips jerking up against your rhythm. “No. No—I can finish—”

“You can’t.”

And you make sure of it.

You change your angle—just slightly. And he feels it. Buried even deeper. You clench around him again, dragging a desperate sound from his throat. His back arches against the seat.

He’s trembling. Fully. Visibly.

You slow your pace just enough to tease, your voice syrup-sweet against his cheek:

“I can feel it, baby. You’re right there.”

“I—I’m fine,” he lies.

You pick up speed.

His breath hits high and frantic now, his body jerking with every bounce, every squeeze of your thighs.

“You think you’ll last?” You move faster. “You think you’ll make it across the line without coming in me?”

He whines.

Actually whines.

You dig your nails into his chest, pull his head back, make him look at you. His pupils are blown, his lips pink and parted. He’s wrecked and still trying.

Still trying to win.

You grin.

And then you slam down once, hard, angled just right—and he breaks.

His whole body arches. A sharp, guttural moan tears from his throat as he spills inside you—deep and hot and uncontrollable.

His foot slips on the pedal. On screen, his car jerks wide, flies off the track.

DNF

You collapse into him, both of you panting. Your lips press to his jaw, soft now, breathless.

He’s trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

And you whisper, just for him:

“I told you.”

Lando’s head is tipped back against the seat, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. His hands are finally off the wheel, one dangling limp at his side, the other gripping your thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He’s still inside you. Still pulsing from the aftershocks.

You shift your hips—just slightly—and he twitches, letting out a broken sound that’s half a whimper, half a curse.

“Fuck me,” he groans, voice ragged.

You lean forward, kiss the corner of his mouth—sweet, smug, slow.

“Oh, I did.”

His eyes snap open.

There’s fire there still—under the wreckage. Under the loss. The glint of a man who isn’t done, even when he’s spent.

He reaches up and cups the back of your neck, dragging you down into a kiss that’s too deep for someone that wrecked. Desperate. Tongue and teeth and the bite of someone who’s not ready to admit defeat.

When he pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes heavy-lidded but sharp.

“Just because I lost,” he murmurs, “doesn’t mean I don’t get to take you… whenever. However.”

Your breath catches.

He grins—slow and dark, still breathless but already hardening again beneath you.

“That was only round one.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the shift in him—the way he’s already coming back to life beneath your thighs.

“Already?” you whisper.

“You said I couldn’t last five laps.” He grabs your hips, guiding you down again, grinding into the mess between you. “Let’s see how many rounds you can take.”

Your eyes flutter.

He’s not asking this time.

And just like that, the game starts over.

notes: i really hope it isn't terrible and makes sense lol. i wanted to get this one out quickly, especially after his sprint win yesterday.

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