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vivwritesfics · 2 days ago

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Slow Down, You're Gonna Crash

Chapter One

With her seat at VCARB gone, she's left with nothing to do but steal her friend's car and tour the US coast. Where she meets a group of Navy pilots. One of them just might make everything better.

Bradley Bradshaw x Verstappen!Reader

a/n: this may look like just a casual reupload, but its not. its wayyyyy better than the original version (they actually fuck this time) (in chapter two)

In her defense, she didn’t realise that The Hard Deck was a Navy bar. The sign by the beer taps should have given it away. Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar, you buy a round. She had taken in the final part, keeping her phone in her pocket as she ordered.

Because that was all that she wanted. A drink, a moment of peace before she hit the road. The bar was empty as she sipped her very first drink, tucked away in one of the booths. The longer she sat there, just slowly sipping her drink, the longer she had to stay in San Diego, away from her family. Good. The longer she was away from them, the better.

By the time she had finished her first gin and tonic (something she had gotten a taste for because of her big brother), the bar began to fill up. Men and women in khaki uniforms walked through the doors. Some went up to the bar, some reserved tables for themselves and their friends, and some gathered around the pool table.

The woman behind the bar released a whistle and the group around the pool table turned towards her. She held out two pool cues. “You know the rules, Hangman!” She called and a handsome man approached the bar.

“Trust me, Pen,” he said, green eyes sparkling beneath the bar lights, and handed his phone to her. Another man, equally as handsome, followed him over and passed her his phone, too. She gave over the two cues. “We know the rules.”

She kept looking at the group. The more she looked, the more she realised how attractive they all were. The girl with her dark hair in a bun, the man with the wire rimmed glasses, the shorter man with the close cropped hair. A group this attractive wasn’t natural, she thought as she drained the last of her glass, sipping the gin and tonic mixed with ice in the very bottom of her glass.

Standing up, she grabbed her keys from her pocket and moved to leave the bar. But her eyes were still on the group, too intrigued to leave just yet.

Naval officers weren’t like the people she normally hung around with. They were thin and lithe, athletes trying to keep themselves as light as possible. These Naval officers were big, broad shoulders and all muscle. It made sense for their jobs, she thought. The muscles in their arms became more evident when they began playing pool, their biceps straining the cuffs of their short sleeves.

The one woman in the group leaned over the pool table. She hit the white ball, knocking one of the striped balls into the pocket. It was insanely attractive.

“Would you like another?” The bartender asked and she tore her eyes away from the woman in the khaki uniform.

She immediately went to stand. “I can get it,” She said, but the bartender shook her head, promising to bring her another. Another full glass of gin and tonic and she wouldn’t be able to drive.

The bartender brought over her second gin and tonic and placed it down in front of her. She thanked her quickly and lifted the drink to her lips. As she sipped her drink, another man walked into the bar.

The only similarity he had to the naval officers that filled the building was the aviators sitting low on his nose. It didn’t matter that it was dark outside, he still wore them. A Hawaiian shirt was on his body instead of a khaki uniform, the buttons open to reveal the white wifebeater beneath. She had seen her fair share of moustaches on her friends, fellow drivers, her heroes growing up, but none of them looked as good with one as he did.

Colour her intrigued. She sat back as she watched the way he moved as he walked over to the bar and ordered himself a beer. As soon as the beer was in his hands, he walked over to the group playing pool.

For a minute, she lost sight of him, more interested in the drink in front of her. Just this one and she would be finished. The keys in her jacket pocket were heavy as she drained the glass, drinking until only the ice and the fruit was left.

Suddenly, he walked past her. The man in the Hawaiian shirt walked past her booth. He sat at the piano beside the jukebox and pressed a few of the keys. His aviator friends, the ones that were playing pool, surrounded him at the piano, singing along with joy as he played.

She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t look away from the naval officers that surrounded him. It was quite a sight, all of them singing along to Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe it was something he did regularly, often enough for his friends to know the words. She had seen celebrations like this before, when her big brother had won his first world championship.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt stopped playing and everybody returned to what they had previously been doing. There was still that energy about them, that happy, electric energy that filled the entire bar. His aviator friends walked past the both that only held her and went back to the pool table. He went to join them.

She watched, watched the way he held his beer in his large hands, the way his Hawaiian shirt moved with every step as he moved towards the pool table.

But, suddenly, he slipped into the seat opposite her. She was unable to keep the surprise off of her face as he sipped his beer and said, “Hi.”

That was it. Just a quick, casual ‘hi.’ Being chatted up was nothing new for her and she was used to it. Even when she was a kid in school, boys flirted with her in an attempt to get close enough to meet her brother. She should have been immune to it by now.

But this one little word from the gorgeous man across from her and she was ready to slip from her seat, melting into a puddle on the floor.

She held her composure. The way his dark eyes stared into her own, the way a small, pretty smile played beneath his moustache, wasn’t making it easy. “Hey,” she responded, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible as she picked up her drink. Her media team had trained her for stuff like this. But one look at him and she wanted to get it all.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” he continued.

She didn’t think he knew who she was when he first sat down, but this confirmed it. It sent sparks firing off inside of her. This was freedom.

“I’m just stopping by,” she replied, a coy smile playing on her lips.

He held his large hand out towards her. She couldn’t stop her mind from wandering at the size of his hand, much larger than her own. “I’m Rooster.”

She took a hold of his hand, still unable to get over the size of it, and shook it. “Well, Rooster. Do you always start chatting up random girls in bars?” She asked.

For a moment, a very brief moment, she watched as panic shot through him. But soon he saw the smile playing on her lips, he immediately let his body relax. “Only the pretty ones,” he replied.

Suddenly, she saw an opportunity. She sipped her gin and put it to one side, focusing entirely on him. “Well, if I’m so pretty, then you wouldn’t mind telling me your real name. Because I’m betting it’s not Rooster.” She crossed one leg over the other, letting her foot bounce, occasionally hitting his knee.

He shook his head. “You’re right, it’s not actually Rooster,” he answered. “I’m Bradley. Bradley Bradshaw.”

The name suited him. Bradley. She hadn’t yet said it outloud, but couldn’t wait to feel it on her tongue. Even if it was only for one night.

In return, she gave him her first name and her first name only.

“Have you got a last name?” Bradley found himself asking.

She didn’t tell him what her last name was. Instead, she pulled out her I.D. card and pushed it across the table towards him, getting him to read it. He took it, the I.D. card looking tiny between his fingers. “Ver… Vershtap…” He tried to say it again, trailing off in a confused mumble.

“Close,” she giggled and linked her fingers together, resting her chin on her hands. “Verstappen.”

Bradley continued to stare blankly at her. So, she decided to teach him. “Repeat after me. Ver.”

“Ver,” Bradley repeated. She couldn’t help but laugh; it wasn’t like it was a difficult name to pronounce.

“Stap.”

“Stap. Verstap,” he said, nodding as he put all of it together.

“Pen. Verstappen.”

“Verstappen,” he said slowly. But then he said it again, quicker this time, surprising himself with just how easy it was. “Verstappen. It’s pretty. Where is it from?” He asked and took a swig of his beer.

“It’s Dutch,” she answered, curling her fingers around her glass. “On my dad’s side.”

Bradley said her name in full. The way it rolled off of his tongue, she could have listened to it on repeat.

He looked at her I.D once again and the smile dropped from his face. “You’re only twenty four?” He asked in surprise.

She nodded her head and sipped the melted ice at the bottom of her glass.

“I’m thirty six,” he replied.

Bradley went to stand up, to take his beer with him and leave her to sit alone yet again. But she shook her head and grabbed his hand. “It’s not a problem with me,” she said and he stilled. “You’re younger than my brother’s girlfriend and that is my threshold.”

So, Bradley sat back down. As she drank, she spoke. Bradley ordered her another when her glass emptied.

“So, what’re you doing here in San Diego?” He asked as he put the gin and tonic down and joined her on her side of the booth.

She tapped her nose twice. “That’s for me to know,” she said and giggled. But she really wasn’t going to tell him. She’d learnt by that point that, once somebody knew who she was, they were going to start treating her differently.

She didn’t want that with Bradley.

She didn’t know when they started kissing. But her hands were in his hair, tugging at it as she felt his moustache against her lip. Bradley had his hands on her ass, squeezing lightly as he pulled her onto his lap. “You wanna head back to mine, find out why they call me Rooster?” He whispered against her lips.

She pulled away and nodded her head. At that, Bradley squeezed her hip. “I’m gonna need your words, pretty girl,” he said and she kissed him again.

“Yes Bradley,” she said through a shuddering breath, her forehead against his. “I want you to take me back to your place and show me exactly why they call you Rooster.”

Bradley grinned. He took her hand and led her out of The Hard Deck. He took her past the rest of the Dagger Squad, catching the grin the female Naval officer sent his way.

“Which one is yours?” She asked as they walked out of the doors and over to the car park. She wasn’t going to point her car out to him, the McLaren she was currently borrowing from the man that had stolen her job. But more on that later.

Still holding her hand in his, Bradley took her over to the blue Ford Bronco.

She let out a whistle as she looked at it. “This is sweet,” she muttered as she walked around it.

Bradley beamed, watching as she walked around the car and to it all in. The Bronco was his pride and joy, that fact clear by how well taken care of it was. “You know about cars?” He asked and she nodded her head.

“You could say I’m a car mechanic,” she said and giggled.

Bradley opened the passenger side door. Taking her hand, he helped her to climb into the Bronco.

She fiddled with the radio for most of the ride back to his place. If it was anybody else sitting in his passenger seat, Bradley would have slapped their hand away, stopped them from fiddling with the settings on his precious radio. He had it set to the station he liked, and nobody was allowed to change it. But she didn’t mind when she did it. When she found a station she liked, she settled into the comfortable passenger seat of the Bronco and hummed along.

Bradley was a gentleman. As soon as he pulled the Bronco into the driveway of his beachfront house, he pulled open the door for her and held onto her hand as she jumped out. He pushed the door shut and immediately pressed his lips to her own, hands cradling her head as he held her against the Bronco. She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips. “Fuck,” she whispered, his lips so damn soft against her own. She’d never kissed someone with a moustache before; it was a different sensation, brushing against her lip as she fought him for control.

Control Bradley didn’t easily give up.

She pulled back, chest heaving as she stared into his dark eyes, his pupils blown wide. She was sure she looked the same. “So, are you gonna take inside or what?”

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jadore-f1 · 2 days ago

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Don’t make me wait | IH6

Synopsis ♡ Your relationship with Isack is going extremely well and you're ready to take it to the next level. 4.5k words

A/N ♡ can’t believe that after 10 years in fandom culture, i'm posting my very own fanfic. The writing isn't great, the dialogue is eh and the smut is rushed but i WROTE this. I'm so proud of myself.

Warnings ♡ SMUT! 18+ mdni!!! Fem!reader, Strong language, google translated french, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, switch!Isack (sorta), he has a filthy mouth, p in v, protected sex (pls do this!), grammatical errors, this is barely proofread tbh, probably other things idk

You and Isack had been officially dating for just over a month now, though the two of you had been dancing around your feelings for much longer than that. It all started at the preseason “Meet the Grid” dinner. He was the promising new rookie and you, a wide-eyed media intern just trying to stay out of the way and do your job.

You didn’t even speak to him that night. Just watched from across the room, quietly taking in the way he seemed to slot in so easily with the senior drivers. He was charming, warm, and effortlessly magnetic. It was hard to look away. When he eventually caught you staring, his smile shifted, softening into something less media-trained and more… curious. You turned away quickly, heart pounding, trying to mask the flush crawling up your neck and ignore the flutter low in your stomach.

Yeah. You were immediately smitten.

It continued like that for a while, lingering looks across the paddock, stumbling through interview questions because he’d say something that could’ve been considered flirting if you thought about it long enough. (you didn’t though or at least tried not to, no way he would be flirting with you)

For a few weeks things never went any further than that. You figured he was too busy finding his footing as a rookie to even think about dating, and he was convinced you were either completely oblivious to his flirting or just too kind to turn him down outright.

When the Melbourne grand prix incident occured you felt your heart sink for him. You’d fought with yourself the entire day before finally just deciding to bite the bullet and reach out to him on instagram that night.

@youruser: Hi, I’m not sure if you know me but I work in the paddock

@isackhadjar: yes __ hi! we’ve met before, what’s up?

@youruser: I saw what happened today so i just wanted to check in, you know if you need a friend or a place to vent completely unbiased i’m available!

@youruser: …Not saying you don’t have people, just figured an outside perspective might help. Plus, I’m a pretty good listener

@isackhadjar: lol don’t worry i did not take it that way

@isackhadjar: how about coffee tomorrow morning?

@youruser: sure! Does 8:30 work for you?

@isasckhadjar: perfect, it's a date :)

And the rest was history. He'd asked you out officially somewhere in between the Bahrain and Saudi Arabia races and you’d been basically attached at the hip ever since.

Because the relationship is still so new, there are things you're both still discovering about each other. Little details, unspoken boundaries, milestones you haven't quite reached yet.

The most obvious one is the physical side of your relationship. So far, it's been limited to quick good luck kisses before quali or races, and soft, grounding hugs when the weekend doesn’t go his way. That’s it. And you’re okay with that. You're more than happy to follow his pace. You understand how complicated things can get when you're constantly under a microscope, with cameras everywhere and millions of fans analyzing your every move.

But still… as time goes on, it's hard not to want more.

You're willing to wait—of course you are. You’d wait as long as he needed. In the meantime, you make do with your imagination and the handful of photos tucked away in a private folder on your phone. No complaints. No pressure. Just quiet longing, and the hope that when he’s ready, you’ll be right there.

Then Monaco happens.

You’re waiting in his drivers room like you do after every race, drivers get a 10-15 minute break after each race before they have to enter the media pen so you and Isack use this time to catch up in private otherwise you’d have to wait until the end of the day just for a moment alone. He steps into the room and you’re on him the second the door closes.

“P6 Zack! P6 in Monaco! Baby I can't believe you pulled that off!” you say in between little pecks all over his face, he’s still sweaty but you don’t care at all, too hyped up on adrenaline and something else you don’t want to name yet.

“I know! I can hardly believe it either!” He laughs but he sounds exhausted, hell he looks exhausted, face flushed red and the imprint from his earbuds still visible on his cheeks yet the grin never leaves his face.

When you try to step back to give him breathing room he just makes a small sound of disapproval and pulls you closer, hands tightening around your waist until you're pressed fully against the warmth of him. He lays his forehead gently against your own and just takes a deep breath, like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. You stay like that for a minute reveling in the silence because you know any moment now you're going to have to leave and return to the chaotic world outside your bubble. Eventually you pull back a little just to look at him again.

“I'm so so proud of you Isack” you push his sweat slicked hair back from his eyes and hope he can tell how much you mean it. He leans into you again like he can't bear the small distance you've created.

“Merci mon ange” he whispers before pressing a searing kiss to your lips. It's hot, wet and nothing like any of the kisses you've had before.

One of his hands travels from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair while his thumb rests on the hinge of your jaw moving your head exactly where he wants it.

His tongue presses against the seam of your mouth and you open up immediately—there's no point in denying it, not when you've been dying to kiss him like this. It makes your brain all fuzzy around the edges.

Your hands move to explore as well, one immediately gripping onto his bicep bulging through that skin tight fireproof shirt that has definitely made a few appearances in your dreams. The other lightly scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to shiver and let out a breathy little noise. Fuck. you want to hear that again.

You pull away from his lips and theres a string of saliva still connecting you together, you wipe your thumb against his bottom lip to remove it and he presses a gentle kiss to the pad it, his hand coming to cover yours and he continues to press kisses up, up your arm until he reaches your neck. He nips and licks up and down your neck and until he finds the spot that makes you arch into him, then he bites down.

“Haah- is-isack no fair I can't do the same to you” you manage with a keen.

“Sure you can, just gotta be somewhere discrete bébé” you can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He sounds so smug you can't help but tease him a bit, moving your leg so it's in between his. you press upwards grazing him with just enough pressure.

“Oh putain” he hisses out, hands tightening on your hips, he thrusts forward seeking out the friction again but you remove your leg before he can get it.

“Ok! Baby i'm sorry just please do something please” he whines out, his hips thrust up again chasing any type of pleasure he can get. He looks so good like this, all desperate just from a bit of teasing.

“Oh poor Isack, you get this hard just from kissing?” you pout at him sarcastically. The power you feel right now is unfathomable, you could get used to this. If only he knew how soaked you are between your thighs.

“Since you did so well today I guess I can't be too mean, what do you want? My mouth or my hands?”

“Your mouth please i-” someone bangs on the door of the trailer and you both jump a mile in the air.

“Hadjar! You're late for post race interviews let's go!” his PR manager yells from outside.

You sigh empathetically. He sighs as well tilting his head back against the door like he can’t believe his luck.

“Can't believe I have to talk about my best race finish with blue balls.” he mutters, adjusting himself so it's not as noticeable. You can't help but giggle. He glares at you with a look that says ‘this isn't over’ and heads out the door.

“We’ll finish this later ok!” you yell after him with another laugh.

Later doesn't come that night (and neither do you) or the rest of that weekend for that matter.

That’s the thing about triple headers. It’s three weeks of non-stop chaos, travel, and work. Between back-to-back races and packed schedules, finding even a single quiet moment alone feels impossible.

The tension from Monaco still lingers though. Looks across the paddock are now charged with something heavy, good luck kisses are a little longer, deeper, hungrier. It feels like you’re a balloon seconds away from bursting.

Things finally settled down after the race in Spain. Isack scored points again, and it was amazing to watch. He was steady, focused, like he was really starting to find his rhythm.

To celebrate, the two of you went out for dinner at a cozy, authentic Spanish restaurant Carlos had personally recommended. The food was incredible, the atmosphere relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like you could both finally breathe.

Now, back in the quiet of your hotel room, you're winding down for the night, full, content, and maybe just a little bit tipsy on red wine and the heated glances shared over the candlelit table.

Technically it’s Isack’s hotel room, you have your own on another floor with the rest of the media team but what your supervisor doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

You’re freshly showered and in one of his shirts and some boy shorts just scrolling on social media waiting for him to finish up in the bathroom so you guys can cuddle and start a movie.

The bathroom door swings open, and without looking up from your phone you call out

“Zack, I swear if they don’t give you Rookie of the Year, I’m burning the FIA to the ground.”

He laughs, voice warm and easy. “Love the energy, bébé, but then we’d both be out of a job.”

You glance up to respond, but the words catch in your throat.

You’ve seen Isack shirtless before on the occasional social media post—but never like this. He’s standing by the dresser, back to you, rummaging for something, muscles shifting under damp skin. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to make your mind go blank. His curls are still wet from the shower, starting to dry into that soft, messy wave you adore.

And it hits you.

That’s your boyfriend.

This sweet, ridiculously good-looking, insanely talented man is yours.

How the hell did you get so lucky?

“You’re staring mon ange.” he says softly and you don’t even have it in you to pretend to be embarrassed because now he’s facing you while leaning against the dresser and you can see everything.

Your eyes zero in on the sweatpants again, they’re so low you can see his v-line and the trail of dark hairs leading down beneath the waistband.

You let your eyes trail upwards over the naked skin of his torso, still glistening from the shower practically begging you to lick the droplets of water up yourself.

But honestly it’s the chain around his neck that does you in. It’s shining against his skin and it makes you want to wrap your fingers around it and tug him closer to you like a leash, makes you want to watch it dangle in front of your face, makes want the feel the cool metal pressed against your own heated skin while he poun-

“Ehem” he raises his brows in amusement and your face does heat up this time.

“You just look really good right now” He preens under the compliment, standing straighter and flexing under your gaze.

“Oh? is that why you’re looking at me like you want to eat me?” he steps closer to the bed.

“Amongst other things.” you give a sly smile, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

When he reaches you, you stand up on your knees so you two are face to face. his hands find their place on your waist and yours around the back of his neck. You go to lean in for a kiss but before your lips meet you feel him, solid and warm against your leg.

It’s your turn to raise your brows in amusement now and he scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it, bébé—you’re in my shirt and barely anything else, telling me how much you want me.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, though the curve of your mouth betrays you. “I didn’t realize stating facts was such a crime.”

He steps closer, eyes flicking down for the briefest second before settling back on yours, smoldering. “It is when you say them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice is low, thick with the weight of restrained desire.

You bite your lip, a slow smile forming. “Maybe I do.”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, hands rubbing soft circles on the skin of your waist with maddening ease. “Then don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

“I’ve been ready since Monaco,” you murmur, fingernails lightly raking down his chest. “And I always finish what I start.”

He lets out a stuttered gasp—your turn to make him breathless.

You tilt your head up and your lips meet in a passionate kiss, all teeth, tongue and weeks of build up.

Isack kisses you like a drowning man gasping for his first breath of air. It's desperate, consuming. Like he’s trying to burrow his way into your very soul. And you’d let him. You’d let him claw through your ribcage and settle into the space you’ve always kept open just for him.

Your lips part ways and you fall back onto the bed, slowly scooting up toward the headboard. He follows without hesitation, crawling over you until he’s hovering above. For a moment, you both pause, eyes locked. There’s no awkwardness, no uncertainty you might expect from a first time, just a quiet heavy knowing that every heated moment before now has been leading to this.

“__ are you sure?” he asks softly. You want to tell him that you’ve never been more certain about anything in your life. That there's nowhere else you'd rather be than right here, taking in every detail of his face, the way the city lights cast golden shadows across his features. But the words catch in your throat, too full, too much.

So instead, you just nod and reach for that damn chain, pulling him back to you once more.

your lips meet the skin where his jaw and neck connect, nipping and sucking there lightly just enough to leave a faint mark.

“I still owe you from Monaco, yeah?” you breathe into his skin.

“No you don’t have too.” he denies but you just scoff playfully and switch your positions so he’s lying on his back and you're on top, legs straddling his hips.

“Gotta finish what I started.” you grin and peck his lips before making your descent down his body. you pause at his chest tugging one of his nipples between your teeth softly just to hear that pretty little whine again before kissing your way down to the edge of his sweats.

The imprint of him is hard to miss and you can’t help but run your hand over the bulge and squeeze. his body jolts like he’s been electrocuted.

“Oh mon Dieu bébé, s'il te plaît, ne me taquine pas!” you don't know exactly what he's saying but the impatience of his tone gives you a clue. Oh my God baby please don't tease me

“Relax baby, I'm gonna give you what you want.” your fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats and you pause there, looking up into his eyes again with a silent question. He nods supportingly, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and his hips raise towards you. His sweats and boxers come down together.

Holy shit.

He’s not overly large, very proportional to his body but the thickness of him takes you aback. He has the kind of width that you know you'll be feeling for the next couple days. The tip is flushed red dripping in precum, your fingers wrap around the base and start kitten licking at his leaking head.

“mph-oh fuck” he makes a sound like the air has been punched from his lungs and your thighs clench together in response. His head falls back into the pillows. He’s so sensitive it’s driving you insane. Normally giving head is your least favorite part of sex but his reactions have you retracting that mindset.

You open your mouth and fully take him in going as far as you can, using both hands to cover whatever you can’t reach. his hips twitch up subconsciously and you gag.

“Putain, je suis désolé mon ange, feels so good” he rasps out. you just moan in response and the vibrations pull another breathless whine from him. Fuck, i’m sorry angel

you pull off of him with a subtle pop, hands continuing to work him over while you catch your breath.

“Do you want to cum like this Zack?” you ask and receive no reply.

He’s too blissed out, eyes closed, thrusting up into your fists.

you stop moving your hands and he cries out pathetically. his upper body bows towards you and when you meet his glistening eyes you almost feel bad for ripping away his impending orgasm. almost.

“I asked you a question.” it takes him a moment to find his senses and respond.

“I want it to be inside.” His voice is several notches deeper and the darkness in his gaze sets fire to your veins. His hands slide up your thigh, under the edges of your (his) shirt.

“Take this off cherie.” tugging it up with his assistance, you're completely bare with the exception of your little sleep shorts.

“C’mere.” he mutters softly, pulling you up to him again. Your lips connect, softer than your previous kiss but just as passionate. Your upper body presses up against his and the coolness of his chain makes you shiver in delight, giving you goosebumps.

You sigh deeply, body sinking into him further in contentment. He groans in response, hands tightening around your hips as he uses his bodyweight to flip your positions so he's on top. He presses up onto his palms beside your head. His biceps are on display like this and you can't help but lean up and bite one of them.

“Eh? What was that for?” he asks with a shocked laugh. You shrug with absolutely no shame.

“I've always wanted to do that.” he laughs again while you just gaze at him lovingly. When he catches your stare he bites his lip and the soft moment heats up again.

“Can I feel you now, cherie?” he asks softly, you nod and he's tugging off your shorts immediately, tossing them somewhere behind him. When you're completely bare for him he sits back on his haunches with a look of awe. You try to close your legs together under his unwavering stare but his hands grasp your thighs firmly keeping them apart.

“Ange, tu es tellement mouillée que ça dégouline sur les draps.” he says, thumbs rubbing warm circles on the underside of your thighs, it's nice but if he doesn't touch you properly soon you might explode. Angel, you're so wet it’s dripping onto the sheets

“Please Isack don't tease” you whine out. He smirk’s fingers lightly grazing over your center.

“It's no fun being teased, is it bebe?” he grins cheekily, “You had such a mouth on you earlier. Use it and tell me what you want.”

“Fuc- I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” his thumb presses into that bundle of nerves rubbing light circles but you’re too worked up, it’s not enough.

“Ah Zack please!” you cry out grabbing his forearm in an attempt to drag his fingers where you really want them.

“Mmm ne pleure pas bébé, tu sais que je te donnerai toujours ce que tu veux.” his fingers slip into you and your vision whites out. Don’t cry baby, you know i’ll always give you what you want

“Oh shit- yes!” you moan, back arching off the bed, hands gripping the sheets. God his fingers are so nice, thick and callused from years of driving.

“Feels good baby? Putain, tu ne sais pas depuis combien de temps j'ai rêvé de ça.” Isack leans down on the arm not between your legs, brushing the sweaty hair from your eyes and laying his forehead against yours. Fuck, you don’t know how long i've dreamt of this

“Look at me, yeah? Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers.” you want to break away from his intense gaze but the hand grasping your hair keeps you right where he wants you. You’re practically drooling while his fingers abuse that sweet spot inside you.

When you feel yourself getting closer you try to warn him but all that comes out is “a-ah Zack i’m comi-ah!” before your eyes roll back and you claw your hands down his shoulders.

“Yeahhh fuck bébé that’s it.” he works you through your orgasm slowing his fingers down when you stop spasming around him. you feel him placing little kisses on your face and chest while you struggle to catch your breath.

You pull him in for a soft appreciative kiss and he melts into you. He slots himself in between your legs and you feel him warm and sticky against your inner thigh. You look down between your bodies and catch a glimpse of him, rock hard and tip fire engine red from lack of attention.

“You know, tonight was supposed to be about you.” you reach down to stroke him, he lets out a sharp hiss and grabs your hand to pin it beside your head.

“Continue comme ça et cette nuit se terminera tôt pour nous deux, making you feel good makes me feel good too don’t be silly.” he chastises you lightly. Keep it up and this night will end early for us both

Your legs raise higher up to his hips, opening yourself up to him more and he positions himself against your core, sliding between your folds covering his cock in your slickness before stopping at your entrance. He reaches over to the nightstand for his wallet for a condom, quickly tearing the wrapper and rolling it into himself.

“Can you give me one more?” you nod quickly and he grins “That’s my girl” The slow press of him into you has your breath catching in preparation of the thickness of him. He immediately clocks your hesitation and links his hand with yours, little pecks placed onto your lips in hopes of distraction.

“I got you mon ange, relax.” you do as he says letting out a deep sigh and he pushes in slow and steady until he bottoms out completely.

“You’re so pretty like this.” he nuzzles his nose against yours lovingly.

“Isack!” you groan out, hips grinding against his own with need “Oh God please move!”

“I know baby I know- just need a second.” he grits out, whole body shaking in barely contained restraint. He pulls his hips back until just the tip is there and then slides all the way in again. His pace speeds up and you’re losing your mind.

All you can focus on is Isack, the look of him all sweaty, lip between his teeth and his abs flexing as he pumps himself inside you again and again. You can’t even tell him how good he’s making you feel, the only thing coming out of your mouth is little ‘ah-ah-ahs!’ and broken intervals of his name.

Isack seems to be having the opposite effect though, his mouth won’t stop running.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long, since that fucking dinner party.” The hand not still linked in yours slides down onto your stomach and presses down just below your belly button and you scream.

“Fuuuck yeah bébé” he lifts one of your legs over your shoulder, cock reaching into you so impossibly deep.

“Wanted you so bad in Monaco too, would’ve told my manager to piss off just so I could bend you over that sofa in my drivers room.” he grunts out voice rough from exertion.

“And you’d let me too huh pretty girl, let m-oh fuck let me take you in that tiny room where everyone could hear how good I make you feel.” you clench around him hard at the thought. “mph-yes yes Zack please don’t stop!”

“Mon dieu look at you.” he’s babbling more to himself now, getting closer and closer to his peak. “Comment je suis censé penser à autre chose maintenant ? Je pourrais vivre dans ta chatte.” How am I supposed to think about anything else now? I could live in your pussy

His hips switch into a deep grind, pelvic bone brushing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars.

Your orgasm hits you so quickly you don’t even have time to think let alone warn him. Your cunt spasming around him pushes him to his climax soon after and he wails out hotly against your throat.

“Holy shit.” he whispers before collapsing on top of you, sweaty and spent. He rolls over to toss the condom in the bin before immediately pulling your back into his chest.

It’s silent for a while, you two just basking in the afterglow before he presses soft kisses onto the back of your shoulders and neck.

“That was worth the wait, no?” you have no idea how he can sound so smug so soon after but you can’t help but agree.

“Of course, just never make me wait that long again.” you joke, turning in his arms to face him. Hands tracing over those beauty marks you love so much.

“We can go again if you want.” he says, wriggling his brows with a cheeky smile.

“Isack!” you laugh pushing his head away.

Ending was shit but thank you sm for reading! hope you enjoyed! 🫶🏾

#isack hadjar #isack hadjar smut #isack hadjar x reader #ih6 #f1 x reader #f1 smut #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you #isack hadjar x you #ih6 smut

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wendichester · 2 days ago

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˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ink-stained²,

summary. you've been investigating a series of murder in your hometown. way past work-level healthy. it's getting personal now.

pairing. sam winchester x reporter!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 733

notes / warnings. mild language, implied violence and hunting scenes, mild threat of danger aka monster attacks, sam being adorably grumpy, reader still being a pain in his ass

ᯓ★ read part 1

“So let me get this straight,” you say, voice low, “you hunt vampires for a living, pretend to be FBI, and your best defense against getting caught is hoping people are too weirded out to ask follow-up questions?”

Sam grits his teeth. “It’s more complicated than that.”

You lean against the Impala. “Sure, Agent Sparkle. Enlighten me.”

Dean, in the driver’s seat with his feet up and zero shame, just laughs. “Told you she’d figure it out.”

Sam glares at him. “You helped her.”

“I flirted with her,” Dean corrects. “That’s different.”

You sip the gas station coffee Sam reluctantly bought you after your third not-so-subtle comment about “journalistic fuel.” You wrinkle your nose. “Wow. Tastes like shit.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t stalk us next time and you can pick the place,” Sam mutters.

You grin. “Aww. Is that your way of saying you want me around?”

He doesn’t answer. Just opens the trunk and starts going through weapons like it’s totally normal to pack machetes next to road flares.

You eye the gear. “So what, you guys just drive around with a mini arsenal in your backseat?”

Dean, still lounging, grins. “Babe, this is the backseat.”

Sam slams the trunk. “You can’t come with us tonight.”

You cross your arms. “Too bad, because I already rearranged my evening plans to include monster slaying.”

He steps closer, eyes serious. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know,” you say, firmer this time. “It never was.”

That catches him off guard.

His shoulders relax just a fraction. “You’ve really seen stuff like this before?”

You nod. “Bits and pieces. Urban legends, deaths no one could explain. I don’t run—if I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

He exhales, long and slow. “Fine. You stay close. You follow orders. And if I say run, you run.”

You give him a salute. “Yes, sir. Bossy looks good on you, by the way.”

He mutters something under his breath. You catch “regret” and “impossible woman,” but there’s a hint of a smile now. The corners of his mouth twitch every time you talk, like he’s trying very hard not to enjoy you.

Later, in the woods just outside town, you crouch next to him behind a fallen log. The night is quiet. Too quiet. You whisper, “This where you kill me and hide the body?”

Sam gives you the look—that long-suffering, patience-hanging-by-a-thread stare. “Would you stop talking?”

You smirk. “Nope.”

Then you hear it—twigs snapping. Something fast.

Sam’s hand darts out to hold you back. You freeze. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. He doesn't move it.

A figure bolts past the trees. Sam’s already up, motioning for you to stay, but you don’t listen (shocking no one). You follow—quiet, careful—and almost eat a branch for your trouble.

You round the corner just in time to see Sam take down a vampire with brutal efficiency. Quick, clean. No hesitation.

He’s breathing hard when he turns and sees you.

“I told you to stay back,” he snaps, voice low and furious.

You don’t flinch. “And I told you—I can handle myself.”

He steps toward you, still vibrating with adrenaline. “This isn’t some story for your podcast. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“I’m trying to,” you shoot back. “I’m trying to understand why someone like you would live like this—bleeding in backwoods towns and lying to everyone you meet.”

He’s close now. Too close. You’re chest-to-chest, both of you breathing heavy.

“I don’t want you to understand,” he says, voice rough. “Because once you do? You don’t come back from it.”

Your heart does a weird little skip. “So what, you're protecting me now?”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”

You stare at him. “Is that a confession?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Shit.

And then?

You do something very stupid.

You kiss him.

Just once. Soft, curious, and maybe a little cocky.

He doesn’t move.

You pull back, pulse thundering. “Sorry. Bad idea. I—”

He kisses you back.

Hard.

His hand cups the back of your neck, other arm anchoring around your waist like he’s done pretending. It’s messy. It’s needy. It’s two people who are way too stubborn to admit how bad they wanted this.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you’re breathless and giddy and so not sorry.

“You still mad at me?” you whisper.

He exhales. “Yeah.”

You smile. “Good.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #d : ink-stained

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charles-leclerc-official · 1 day ago

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Waiting for more info, but be serious if he were looking to leave the last place he's going is Red Bull.

#if you think ferrari wont improve why would you go to a team that is crumbling worse #that is very likely going to have a less competitive engine come 2026 #and also conducts itself like that about drivers #the best option would be merc followed by mclaren if the goal would be to get into a competitive car immediately #this isnt serious its just specualtion #but to think hed want to go to red bull is one step too far #the fact mclaren is more realistic simply because of the damn car #red bulls long term trajectory is not looking good #so why would you leave your dream team for them?#like if you're gonna leave at least do it for the fastest car be serious

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halfway-happyyy · 2 days ago

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a concept:

being the designated driver for your friends, and the night is (mostly) going great until one of them takes a nasty spill off of a curb and opens a one-inch gash on their knee. there's a lot of commotion about what to do, with the victim being vehemently against going to the hospital. but really - you're not exactly a wizard with a needle and thread, so your options are limited. in the end, you end up heading to PTMC because it's the closest.

your arrival is followed by a couple of uneventful hours in the waiting room - (non-life threatening wounds don't exactly make top priority) and when you're eventually taken back to be seen, it's just gone two o'clock in the morning.

hospitals are unfamiliar territory to you, so when a doctor appears to check on your friend, you're not expecting him to be so... sexy. its the only word you can think of to describe him. you're not sure if it's the scrubs, or the salt and pepper in his hair, or the delicate creases next to his eyes that speak novels about how much time he spends smiling - but there's something about him that makes your breath hitch.

"good morning, you two. I'm doctor jack abbot. how are we faring so far this morning?"

dear lord, he is hot.

"god, he's hot."

your friend leans in to whisper it to you, but in their drunken haze, it comes out at full volume and all you can do is laugh because they're certainly not wrong, and soon the doctor is laughing right along with you.

"do you think he's single?"

a flush takes to your cheeks as you lean in to shush them, which only makes the doctor laugh harder.

"had one too many wobbly pops?" he murmurs before leaning forward to inspect the sutchered wound.

"yeah," you sigh. "how can you tell?"

"lucky guess," he grins. "i take it you were the lucky designated driver tonight?"

his eye contact feels genuine and intense - and did the hospital just get a couple of degrees warmer, or was it just you?

you shrug. "someone's gotta do it, right?"

he smiles softly at that, and your heart skips a beat.

"alright, kid," he sighs and stands from his position. "you're all fixed up. take good care of it, keep it clean, and come back in about a week, and we'll take the stitches out for ya."

just when you think the worst of it is over, your friend leans over and asks in a very loud whisper if they can have his phone number.

jack drops his head and gives it a small shake, and when he glances back up at them, his hazel eyes are glittering brightly under the harsh hospital fluorescents.

"i'll tell ya what," he pulls out a pad of paper and a pen and scribbles something down before ripping it and passing it to you. "here's my number. i'm going to give it to your friend so that she can keep it safe, and then she can pass it on to you when you're feeling a bit better. how does that sound?"

your friend grins and offers him a double thumbs-up, which makes him laugh.

"thank you for everything, doctor abbot."

"someone's gotta do it, right?" he shrugs, his words echoing yours from before, and the silence that settles between you feels anything but uncomfortable. he moves to leave, but then turns back as if remembering something.

"was nice meeting you this morning."

he's gone before you can say anything back, and the small piece of paper he passed you feels as though it's searing a whole in the palm of your hand.

#the brainrot is real #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #the pitt #shawn hatosy #drabble #a concept

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starryeyed-apple · 3 days ago

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a fresh start (back to the beginning)

part i of small town au xavier series

synopsis: you thought that once you left your hometown, you were done with it forever. but fate has a funny way of working itself out, and your world falling apart drives you to return. and in the back of your mind, you can't help but remember him...

★pairing: xavier x fem!reader ★wc: 2.4k ★content: fluff and some angst, humor. small town dynamics, returning to hometown, childhood crushes. reader's grandpa had a health emergency as part of the plot (he's okay). reader is a medical coder, and still has heart problems. brief zayne mention (back in the city). mainly exposition in this chapter. ★a/n: YIPPEE YIPPEEEE im so excited to be starting this one. please be patient with me as this is the first series I've done in a while, and it may take time to get updates out because I want to take my time and have fun with this <3 ★masterlist ★read on ao3

Maybe you should've known, that despite everything in you trying to stay away, you'd always come back again.

There's a rush of relief when you see the deer on the town's welcome sign once you turn off the freeway, mixed with a sinking feeling of dread. A sensation that you've never been able to shake. A deep seated disappointment that yes, every road you'd taken away from here had eventually led you straight back.

You'd tried. You really did.

And you'd done pretty well for yourself, for a while. You'd landed a career that actually suited your education, one with benefits and a retirement plan on top of that. Also, it didn't make you want to peel your skin off 24/7, so that was a bonus.

You had a nice little townhouse all to yourself, with low enough rent, and good restaurants near your neighborhood.

A tight-knit group of sweet friends pulled you along with them when they went out on the weekends. And your boy—

You pause in your reminiscing, glancing down towards your hand on the steering wheel when you turn the car off the main street.

Yeah, no. Not thinking about that.

But it all boiled down to that phone call that nearly stopped your heart, already too faint for its own good all on its own.

The stop sign right before you turn onto your street is still a little crooked, a monument to the storm that had ravaged through the town back in '02. You'd only been a kid, and remembered how the water on the street came up to your knees before Gramps had swept you back inside.

Gramps, you think with an ache in your heart, hands tightening on the steering wheel before you force your grip to loosen.

His old beat-up truck is still in the driveway when you pull in next to it, and you have to remind yourself that that's all the scare was—fear, unrealized.

He was still inside, still okay. Maybe a little worse for wear, but alive.

Still, you wouldn't believe it until you saw it.

And so you're rushing out of the car when you've barely turned the ignition off. The keys dangle in your shaky hands when you take the steps up to the front door two at a time, an unbidden sob escaping your throat when the door's already opening.

Your grandpa just smiles, waving you closer from the wheelchair that his longtime neighbor pushes out—the very neighbor who'd found him passed out in the driver's seat of his truck when they came home after work.

"Oh, my girl," he sighs when you collapse into the hug he's waiting for, crying into his shoulder.

His wrinkled hand comes to pat the top of your head, and you finally feel at ease for the first time in the last 48 hours, since you'd gotten the call he was in the hospital. It was just a mini-stroke, they'd reassured, and you wanted to laugh bitterly if the sound wasn't stuck in your throat. Just.

"I'm okay. It's all okay now."

He wipes your tears and laughs, deep and joyous, when you pout at him.

"You scared me." You try not to sound like a whiny child, but the sound escapes you anyway, afraid you'd lost the only family you'd ever had in the blink of an eye.

"I'm sorry, girlie." He pats your head again, smiling, and it brings the first smile in the past two days onto your face. Relief finally floods your chest, and you deflate with it. "Come on, let's get you inside. Have you eaten? You look more like death than I do."

You laugh at the familiar dark humor as you grab onto his wheelchair handles to push him inside. Shooting a grateful glance towards Bethany, your neighbor, you mouth a sincere thank you. She just smiles.

"Anytime, sweetie," she hums, tucking your hair behind your ear, and the familiarity soothes that ache that still sits in your chest.

That persistent, gnawing feeling that now that you're back, you're not getting out again.

Still, there's comfort when she offers a warm greeting to your return, "Welcome home."

With a quiet groan, you squint at your laptop screen, all the letters making up the medical jargon jumbling together. You reread the sentence about which vein had been surgically connected to which artery for the fifth time, glance towards the codes, and lean back in your chair.

It had only been a week back home, and you were already going crazy. You could still do all your work remotely, thank god—but that just meant you were stuck with the same work and same old views all day, now. It was hard not to start feeling stir-crazy already, missing the life you had built for yourself.

Even if it had already started falling apart before you got the call.

Rubbing the heels of your palms against your eyes, you sigh, blinking rapidly at the lights that swim in your vision when you pull them back.

"Too many veins. Too many fucking arteries," you grumble, reaching for another sip of your latte, only to discover you were on its last dregs again. "Aarya—"

"No way," the barista calls from the counter, leveling you with a glare that rivals your own. "That's the second one you've had today, missy. I'm not making you another one, I know how your heart acts up when you've had too much."

You groan and huff, head dropping onto your arms on the corner of the table where you'd set up your work.

"It's not my fault." You switch tactics to whining instead, smirking into your arms when you sneak a glance to see your old high school friend wincing at the sound. If it grated on her nerves enough, she'd give in. She always had. "This is the fifth cardiovascular surgery in a row."

"That's too bad," Aarya sings, shooting you a smirk when you lift your head to glare at her. "Hey, you wanted to move to the city to work for a big hospital, now you have to deal with the consequences."

You stick your tongue out at her, and she returns it with a rude gesture that makes you bark out a laugh. It eases that tension at the base of your neck, and you sigh, rolling out the remaining tightness.

Glancing out the window you're seated next to, you squint at the small stage set up at the civic center right across the street from your favorite coffee shop.

"What's going on over there?" you ask, glancing over the small crowd that had gathered around whoever was giving a speech on stage.

Aarya leaves the counter to walk up behind you, leaning down to get a better look.

"Oh, that." She rolls her eyes, disinterested. "It's re-election time."

You look at the speaker for a few more seconds. Their platinum blond hair is graying, eyes too blue even from a distance, and then realization hits you.

"Is Mayor Shen still the mayor?"

"Yup," with a pop of the p, she shoots you a knowing smirk. "Some things never change, do they?"

"Is that even legal?" you ask, trying to remember if there was ever a time when the richest man in town hadn't also ran it. "Can you be mayor of a town for that long?"

"Who knows?" Aarya throws up her hands with a shrug, readjusting her septum piercing before sitting across from you. "Small towns and all that. People like things to stay the same."

"I guess so," you mutter, chin propped on your hand as you look back at your friend. "Does anybody even run against him?"

"Yeah, sometimes. I think somebody else is campaigning this year, but I can't remember who." She smirks, a familiar look in all its cynical charm. "They'll lose anyway."

You sigh, shaking your head as you look back at your laptop screen. With a groan, you slam it shut, earning an arch of Aarya's pierced eyebrow.

"Dr. Li will forgive me for taking a break," you tell her with a bright smile, and she huffs out a laugh.

"Dr. Li sounds like a merciful boss."

"Sometimes," you allow with a shrug. Zayne could be sweet if the mood struck him, especially if you were catering to his sweet tooth.

The surgeon was far too serious for his own good, but you had grown fond of him in the time you worked for the cardiovascular department in Linkon City's top hospital. His medical reports were way more organized than most other doctors you've coded for, and he was patient whenever you needed to ask for clarification.

"He's not really my boss, though."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." You nod, staring longingly at what had once been a full cup of coffee, as if willing it to refill on its own. "Hospital administration pays me."

Your phone chimes with a medication reminder, and you pass on the message in a quick text to your grandpa. Waiting, you see the read notification light up with the time, and frown when there's no further response.

With a sigh, you push yourself up from your seat, tucking your laptop back into your tote bag.

"Gotta go check on the old man," you explain at Aarya's questioning look. Fondness coats your voice at the nickname for him, emphasizing your hushed worry, and she softens.

"How's he doing?" she asks, her voice notably quieter, kinder than her usual harsh-edged monotone that you love so dearly.

"He's good," you brush off, because he was. Because he had to be.

You couldn't entertain any notion that he wasn't, even if he was remaining tight-lipped on everything the doctors had to say in his brief hospital visit. Stubborn as always, just like he'd raised you to be.

"Yeah, he's good."

"Good." Aarya is nodding, her mouth opening to say something else, but you're already spinning around towards the door, your practically empty drink in hand in preparation to throw away.

You stumble back in surprise when you collide right into somebody else as they walk into the café.

The jingle of the bell distantly rings in your mind while you sway dangerously, steadied by the gentle strength in the hands that quickly come around your shoulders.

"Woah," you hear a soft voice mumble.

It's faintly familiar in its melodic lilt, and your widening eyes shoot up towards its owner.

Deep blue eyes peer back at you, slowly widening a fraction as they take you in.

"Xavier," you breathe, and clear your throat. "Uh. Hi."

Xavier Shen blinks a few times.

Long, slow blinks, his head tilting to the side as he continues to take you in. It makes the bangs of his fluffy, silvery blond hair fall across his gaze, and he doesn't even bother to push it back.

"Oh," he finally says after a long moment that feels more and more like eternity. "It's you."

You try not to wince at the utterly lackluster reaction. Or retreat into your shell because of how long it took him to even recognize you.

"Yup." You attempt a laugh, grimacing internally when it comes out strained. "It's me…hi."

Trying to wave awkwardly, it gets even more awkward when you remember your cup is still in your hand.

The awkwardness intensifies when you realize even though it wasn't completely empty before, it's definitely empty now.

"Oh, shit," you hiss, eyes narrowing in on the very noticeable little coffee stain over the pocket of the completely white, pure as fucking snow hoodie that Xavier was wearing.

Your face heats up when he looks down and slowly blinks again.

"I'm so, so sorry," you begin to ramble, hovering around him in a panic. He just stares at the stain, then back up at you. "I—I can pay for you to get it cleaned, or get you a new—"

"It's fine," he interrupts you, not even trying to cover up the yawn that stretches across his face.

He rubs at his eyes, and with the tiniest tilt of his head that can hardly even be called a nod—honestly, it easily could've just been him looking at the menu behind you—he moves past you.

You're left blinking rapidly, empty cup still in hand, staring at the door you had been about to exit through.

You hear him ordering a drink from Aarya behind you, in that same soft-spoken tone he'd always had, and you try not to feel like you've just been left in the dust. A toy never even taken out of its box.

Some things never change, do they? You can practically hear Aarya's voice as you feel the weight of her gaze on your back when you leave, in a daze all the way back to your parked car.

Well.

That…wasn't exactly how you'd imagined it.

But in hindsight, it was Xavier Shen.

Effortlessly cool, top student Xavier Shen, having not a single care in the world as he aced every single test while hardly lifting a finger to study. Sleeping in the back of the classroom and finishing an exam in ten minutes when it was passed back to him.

Xavier Shen, who led the school's fencing team all the way to the national level of competition, and came home with the only first place trophy to grace its barren display cases. And another trophy every year after that, his name shining proudly on the top of the team's list on the shiny plaque.

Xavier Shen, only son of the rich and successful mayor, unsmiling but present in every newspaper photo of a town charity event.

Xavier, who disappeared from school for days or weeks a time, and came back paler, more tired than before.

Xavier, valedictorian and refusing to make a speech. Xavier, never bothering to show up at a school dance, absent even when he won the title of prom king.

Except for…

You clear your throat, shaking your head as you sink further into the driver's seat. Your face is hot when you bury it in your hands, banging your forehead against your steering wheel.

Popular without trying, without even caring, aloof and beautiful Xavier Shen.

Who met your eyes every time you would sneak a glance back at him. Who never said anything when you passed him in the halls, even with the way your eyes were glued to his every move.

Xavier, your biggest childhood crush, who hardly knew you ever even existed.

So maybe it should've been all you expected after all.

#xavier x reader #xavier x mc #xavier x you #lads xavier x you #lads xavier x reader #lads xavier x mc #lads x reader #lads xavier #lads fanfic #love and deepspace xavier #xavier fluff #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #lnds xavier #xavier x reader fluff #xavier shen #shen xinghui

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phoebeegreen3 · 1 day ago

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Capri Persson (F1) ⸺ 07. ALONE AT HOME

🏎 SUMMARY: What if the best driver of recent years isn't actually him? What if the best driver is actually hiding something else? Would he still be the best? Or just a simple fraud? 📓 GENRE: secret identity / rivals to lovers / he felt first, she felt harder / soulmates / slow burn 📧 WORD COUNT: 2500 📬 PARTS: book one (two parts) / CP9, book two (one part) 🏁TAGLIST: @heyyurl @dreadity @moonchouus @wierdflowerpower @anunstablefangirl @deaddumblbumble @a-bbles (let me know in the comments if you want to be part) 🏆 CAPRIPERSSON.MASTERLIST

Faenza, Italy. April, 2023

Sometimes, when everything falls silent and it's just me and my presence in an empty house with nothing else to do, I wonder if this is what they call happiness, or if I'm just confused. When I come back after spending several weeks in different hotels in different cities, it seems like everything has changed—but the only thing that changes is you.

Sometimes I wonder if this only happens to me, or if the other drivers go through the same thing. Maybe it's something collective, maybe it happens to everyone in general, but I'll never know because I never talked about it with anyone. Not even with Jean or Mick.

There were quite a few free days between Australia and Azerbaijan. Days that reminded me there was a world outside of racing and the championship. Days when I secluded myself in my house in Faenza, a nearly medieval town in Italy, close to the team's headquarters, close to Imola, but far—very far—from home, from Sweden.

For many years I got used to that distance, that feeling of not knowing which place you could call home, beyond all the meaning and mystique behind it. If I was speaking of home in a poetic and meaningful way, then my home was on a machine going 300km per hour. My home was in that single-seater, no matter the model. My home was in the frenzy of speed, in the feeling of power, in the adrenaline captured by euphoria. But I couldn't sleep in a single-seater. So I had to find a place that could physically feel like home, even if it couldn't really be home because I couldn't be too far in case they needed me. So I moved to Faenza at Franz's request as soon as I signed the contract with AlphaTauri, just as I had when I was in F2 and F3, but my mother had never been able to stay close.

The stories you hear when you enter the sport vary, and although there are often drivers who had the opportunity to start from a good position, there are others who had to sacrifice everything. Hamilton is one of them, but he's not the first and certainly won't be the last. And when you're born into a middle-class family, with a deaf-mute and practically single mother in Sweden, there's no chance that something like what was happening to me could actually happen. I had no chances, and yet my mother insisted on giving me wings to believe in it.

The way I chose motorsport was quite trivial, since I always had that subtle curiosity for cars as a child—something the other girls my age barely understood. My mother nurtured that curiosity until she put me in a go-kart, and she never stopped. But I was far from the little girl who first got into a kart, and far from my mother too.

So as the days between races stretched out, my ability for retrospection stalked me from a corner of the living room. Everything came to my mind easily. Everything made me question the kind of life I was living, and my question was whether it felt this way for everyone, or if it was just me, lost in my own mind while waiting for the next race.

I was going through the chaotic and terrifying 20s. And even though I had a secured racing seat this season and enough money to live even if I didn't, there were other aspects of my life that haunted me during this process.

I could fill this time by avoiding everything that scared me about the part of my life that wasn't related to racing—the part that was about reading as many books as possible, about visiting every place in the world, or figuring my life out before turning thirty. I was terrified just thinking about it, because probably the only thing I had done during these 23 years of life was focus on building Capri Persson into an exceptional driver—someone nobody knew the truth about. Outside of that, I knew absolutely nothing about the world.

Being a mystery had spared me from thousands of things in life. Jean worked for me and the team, my masseur, my engineers, the whole crew—those were people who were there for work, not because I had to socialize with them. And besides Mick... I didn't really have friends. And with him, we could barely stay in touch because our lives were so different.

So those free days between races could be pure torture or just ordinary days where I avoided locking myself in with my thoughts at all costs.

When it rained, it was worse. Much worse.

My house in Faenza was almost as old as the city itself and had a large yard surrounding it. It was a real country house, and I hoped to have a small farm someday. I liked how cozy it felt with its old stone exterior and tile roof. I also loved how Italian it was—a typical house lost in time, with large classic windows and ivy covering much of the exterior walls. But when it rained, there wasn't much to do, so I trained to avoid every one of my thoughts. Although it was never enough.

Was this really a life? Race, train, race, train, repeat. I did nothing but that. I had nothing but that.

Jean sent me the schedule for the photo session Nyck and I would have for a campaign before the Miami GP, and that was as exciting as my week would get. Every interaction with the real world ended there.

There was something else I used to do between races, something I stopped doing after last season's finale. When I came home between training and catching up with things, I used to work on an old car that, according to my mother, had belonged to my father. Since she thought it was junk, I brought it with me to Faenza during my first Formula One season. I'd been trying to fix it ever since in my spare time, but after Abu Dhabi I closed the garage and hadn't opened it since.

So I didn't hesitate to dive into my thoughts and the few hobbies I had to fill those days when I couldn't make elaborate or extended plans.

Until I got a call from Mick.

"Mick?" I asked as I answered the call.

"Hey, Capri. I'm not bothering you, am I?" he asked, and I sat on the living room couch, watching the rain hit the windows.

"No, not at all. It's a horrible day in Faenza, can't really do much," I told him.

"I see... I haven't been able to talk to you since the party. What did you think of it?" he asked enthusiastically, and I settled into the seat.

"Fine, I guess," I stretched my answer.

"You guess?"

"I don't remember, I think I drank too much."

"Oh," he sighed regretfully. "I shouldn't have left you alone there."

"No, no, no," I shook my head immediately. "Don't say that, I had a great time."

"You don't even remember, don't lie to me."

"Well, you're right about that. But I have the feeling it wasn't bad at all."

"The feeling, huh?" Mick replied in a playful tone, and I frowned, confused. I didn't understand where this was going. Mick doesn't usually call—Mick texts. And besides, Mick and I hadn't talked like this in a while. "Okay... so could you tell me why Max Verstappen keeps asking me about you?"

"Shit," I muttered, bringing a hand to my mouth in surprise. The week I'd spent at home after Australia had made me completely forget everything that had happened at the party, and like a bucket of cold water, the memory of his lips on mine caught me off guard—and then his eyes. God, he really had beautiful eyes.

"What happened?"

"What did he say happened?" I asked immediately, cursing myself. How could I have forgotten?

"So something did happen?!" Mick exclaimed, surprised.

"What did he tell you, Mick?" I insisted, desperate.

"I asked first," he replied, scolding me, and I tried to remember.

"Nothing happened."

"I had no idea you could seem interesting to someone by doing nothing," I could tell he air-quoted the word, smiling amusedly.

"Did he say I seemed interesting?" I asked quickly.

"He said you said some hurtful things, but that you seemed nice."

"He said I seemed nice?"

"Do you have bad reception? You're repeating everything I'm saying," he laughed. "I don't know what you told him..."

"You don't want to know."

"Ohhh, now I do want to know what you told the world champion," he replied playfully, and I sighed, forcing myself to remember exactly what I had said.

"I don't remember all the details, but maybe... maybe I went too far with the criticism."

"Are you serious?" he asked, confused.

"I was drunk. What did you expect me to do?"

"Did you confess something? Did you talk about Capri?" he asked now, worried, and I stopped breathing for a second. What if I had said something like that and didn't remember? Oh, god. "Hello?"

"No, not that I remember. But..."

"But?" he insisted, impatient, and I stood up to pace nervously.

"But I told Max what I really thought. I told him the truth—I don't think he won Abu Dhabi."

"But he did win Abu Dhabi," he reminded me.

"I would have, if I hadn't crashed in the last corner, Mick. And you know it better than anyone. If I hadn't failed, I'd be world champion. Champion. Do you understand that? I was excellent the entire season..." I sighed, standing still, watching the rain fall through the window and remembering that race. "I told him that and I also said something about Abu Dhabi 2021..."

"No, you didn't," he mumbled.

"Yes, and... then I apologized and that was it. Nothing else... happened," I concluded, thinking about the addictive taste of his lips. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I wasn't going to deny it—he was almost as good at kissing as he was at driving—but he was still Max, even if I wanted to separate a casual kiss from the rest of my life.

But Mick said Max told him he found me interesting. Capri or América?

"Well, I think he liked being insulted by your words because he invited you to go skiing in Chamonix with me and the rest this weekend," he added.

"Skiing? Mick, I don't know how to ski."

"You still don't know how to ski? Aren't you supposed to be good at everything?"

"Not skiing, I assure you."

"Well, you learn fast, so it won't be a problem. What do you think?" he asked, and I wanted to say no. I didn't know how to ski, I didn't want to see Max after what happened, and even less now that he found me "interesting." Everyone would be there, no... I wasn't supposed to be there skiing.

"I don't know, Mick. I have a lot to do this week."

"Things more interesting than skiing with friends in France?" he asked, amused, and when I didn't answer, he sighed in frustration. "Fine, the offer's on the table. I would've liked you to come, we haven't spent time together in a while and Laila won't stop talking about how she wants to see you more often. Let me know if you change your mind, it'll be three days and two nights. Hope to see you—and if not... we'll talk," he said, fully aware that maybe what I needed to do wasn't something I wanted, but something I had to do for work. He knew what he was doing, but it wasn't going to work on me.

"We'll talk later. Good luck in Chamonix."

"Goodbye," he replied, and I hung up.

I couldn't lock myself in the home gym until the end of my days or until the next race. I couldn't pretend my personal life didn't happen alongside my professional one. I knew no one other than Jean, Mick, Franz, the team, and my mother. But I wasn't sure that skiing with drivers I worked with—but pretended I didn't—was a good idea. I wanted to convince myself fairly, but a part of me knew that as soon as I got to Chamonix I'd want to leave, because I wouldn't feel comfortable there, because I was meant to follow the path my life had taken, because if the Azerbaijan GP came and I didn't win, I'd blame myself for choosing to learn to ski in France that weekend instead of staying to train and study the track from the workshop.

And I was so sick of that perspective on my life. Because... I deeply loved what I did, I loved devoting my entire life to what I loved most—but socially, I knew there was a part of my life I hadn't developed, and I didn't know if it would be too late to develop it once I had to retire from motorsport.

There I was again. Sitting at the edge of the couch in front of the window, watching the rain fall, thinking about how life passed by while I tried to figure out what to do with it.

When you can't take it anymore, you get up and lock yourself in the gym past your living room until you're exhausted, shower, eat dinner, and sleep until the next day. It was a routine I had gotten used to. I could go months without seeing absolutely anyone, without speaking to anyone, completely in my own world. I had discovered the art of planting and keeping my own garden, which I tried to maintain like juggling on a moving single-seater—it was pretty hard to keep up while traveling all the time, but the strawberries never failed me, and that lifted my spirits.

I also liked walking through most of Faenza, it was a great pastime. I liked hiking, so if I had the chance, I'd find a place to go and disappear. If the activity didn't require talking or more than one person, it was perfect for me. That, and visiting the simulator at the team's offices or driving at the Faenza track. If there were no GPs, that would be my routine for the rest of my life. And I thought it would be for the rest of the week until I had the photo shoot with Nyck for a campaign—but it was Friday morning, and someone had rung the gate bell.

"Yes?" I asked, frowning. Only Jean, my mother, and my trainer knew where I lived. No one else. And all three were supposed to be at home, living their lives.

"Can you open up? We're running late."

I went pale when I heard her voice. I didn't remember us having anything scheduled today, so I paused a moment to see if it came back to me.

"Do we have something today?" I asked.

"Open up and we'll talk. I'm in my car," she said, and I pressed the button on the wall that allowed me to open the gates for vehicles. I closed them as soon as I heard Jean's car in the driveway and went out immediately.

Jean was getting out of the car, dressed very casually.

"Pack your bags. I'm not missing the chance to ski in France, and neither are you."

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