padawanoftheyear

[padawanoftheyear]

[padawanoftheyear]

fast learner ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 8.5k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, dry humping. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, he is a teensy 🤏 bit manipulative, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. title only kind of from niki’s backburner (which could mean nothing,,). ꔮ commentary box: hi, oh my gosh, i don’t think i’ve ever written pwp this long in my life. i’m kind of mortified (especially with the fact this has some >2k more words i shaved off). anyway, this was commissioned, tysm!!! 📑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Oscar Piastri is a patient man.

He has to be. With the way you barrel into his life and make yourself at home—your duffle bag always one laundry cycle away from living in his flat full-time, your half-drunk coffees trailing behind you like breadcrumbs, your laugh breaking over his ribs every time you tease him about being the most boring twenty-something alive—patience is the only option.

He thinks of himself as quiet. You call him steady. Reliable. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with,” you said once, tucked under the same throw blanket, both of you half-asleep while a movie played on loop. The confession buzzed in his ears for days.

So, yes. Oscar Piastri is a patient man. But we never said he was a good one. 

Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.

You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.

“Lando asked me out,” you breathe. 

Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”

You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”

“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”

You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.

Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.

“Done?”

You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”

He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”

Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.

“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”

You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”

He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.

Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.

Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.

He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself. 

You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.

“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”

He waitswaitswaits. 

You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then. 

You nod. 

It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.

You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.

He doesn’t.

He only steps closer.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”

You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”

You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier. 

You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other.  Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”

You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”

Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”

There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.

“That’s good to know,” he says plainly. 

You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”

You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”

Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”

It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.

You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.

“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”

You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused. 

“A little. But in a good way.”

Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.

Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”

You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”

You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient. 

You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.

Still, he waits.

“You okay?” he checks in.

You nod.

“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.

“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you. 

“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”

Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”

He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”

He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been. 

He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”

Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.

Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.

“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”

Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.

You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”

He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”

You look up at him, startled.

Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”

You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move. 

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.

Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.

You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this. 

Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”

You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.

“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”

You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.

“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”

Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction. 

Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”

You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”

“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly. 

You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.

After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.

Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.

But then you pause.

Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”

Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.

“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.

You go very, very still.

Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”

He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.

You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference. 

“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.

Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”

“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”

You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.

“Still okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”

You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”

You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”

You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”

“Coaxing?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”

You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.

Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan. 

Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”

He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.

And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be: 

Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.

Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.

Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.

You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.

He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?” 

“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”

Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.

He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."

You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.

“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."

You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.

“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.

You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."

Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.

“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."

You try again.

This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.

Because it’s you.

You, trying for him.

You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.

He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”

Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.

Lando won’t get this version of you.

Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”

You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.

Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.

“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”

Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”

He hates himself for saying it like that. 

Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.

You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”

Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”

You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.

The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”

He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.

You gag slightly. He pauses. ��You okay?”

You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.

“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”

He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.

“Mouth so fucking perfect.” 

“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”

“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”

The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.

His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.

“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”

Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.

He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”

And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.

He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.

Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.

“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”

He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.

“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”

You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.

The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”

You do.

You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down. 

When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”

Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.

“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.

“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.

Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”

You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”

Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”

You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.

He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”

Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.

Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.

You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”

Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”

Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”

You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”

You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”

Oh.

It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.

“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.

He hesitates.

“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”

You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.

“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”

It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.

You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.

Not triumph. Not desire.

Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.

Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.

“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”

You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”

It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees. 

He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.

“That one?”

You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.

He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.

“Oh.”

Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.

You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”

He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”

“No, like. A lot a lot.”

He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.

Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”

He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.

You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”

He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.

Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.

The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”

You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”

Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”

“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.

Wet.

When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”

He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”

He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”

Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.

Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.

“You good?” he checks in again.

You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”

The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”

“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”

You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.

“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”

You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”

He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.

He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”

You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.

“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”

You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”

Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”

Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.

“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.

You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”

He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.

It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.

Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.

“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”

He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”

His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.

“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”

But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”

Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”

You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.

Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.

The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.

He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.

You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.

He should stop.

Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.

He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.

You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup. 

He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.

“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”

You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.

“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”

He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”

Your face burns.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.

The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.

Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.

“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”

When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.

Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.

Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core. 

He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.

Your cry breaks sharp in the air.

“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”

You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”

Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.

His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”

Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.

Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.

You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.

“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”

He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.

You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this. 

You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else. 

How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?

This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.

He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.

But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—

Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.

And he still won’t kiss you.

Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil. 

The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.

You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.

Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”

You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out. 

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”

You glance at him, waiting.

“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”

Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.

“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”

You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh. 

Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”

You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.” 

Does it sting to hear? Of course.

But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man. 

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat: 

Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐

box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.

[padawanoftheyear]

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 || Say it || Peter Bonnington x Wolff!Reader

Warnings: Unprotected sex, semi-public, (unspecified) age gap, secret relationship (not really though), fingering, praise kink

Wordcount: 1.2k

It's not like she didn't want to support the team, but unlike her father, she was not interested in the sport.

That all changed when she went to one race. She had originally just wanted to stay in the back, but one thing led to another, and she ended up tangled in the sheets with Peter Bonnington.

Back then, she had asked if it was a one-time thing, or if they could continue. Peter had jokingly said that if she came to more races, there could be a chance- and she could not pass that down.

It quickly became a regular thing- even quicker becoming a couple after that. Everybody found out about them after a couple of races, neither of them knowing how though.

Her father didn't know as the only one, and they weren't going to tell him. Toto would first chop off Peter's head, and then hers.

Susie on the other hand was like a supportive best friend- she did admit to having wanted to chop off Peter's head if she was her mother, but she wasn't, so she was supportive instead.

—

She didn't like going to events- especially not one as big as the one she was going to now, but Peter promised her sex if she went and behaved, so she couldn't really say no, could she?

It was a team dinner- either her father was down right oblivious or fucking stupid, but he didn't second guess when Peter mentioned he brought her as her plus one guest.

Maybe she was told to behave, but his hand under her dress was dangerously close to not be counted as behaving.

The longer the night went on, the closer his fingers got to her panties that were already soaked before his touch was lewd.

She grabbed his wrist and closed her legs as her fingers ghosted over the wet spot on the fabric.

"You okay, schatz?" Toto asked when he saw how red his daughters face was.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just hot in here," She said, stuttering slightly. Susie and Peter hiding their laughs behind their hands "I'm going to get some air," She said as she stood up, Peter's hand falling from her thigh.

Instead of turning towards the exit, she went towards the toilets, having seen Peter get up almost immediately after she did.

She went into one of the bathrooms furthest away, leaning back against the sink, waiting for Peter.

"Did you purposely walk here so slow?" She asked annoyed as he entered the bathroom, locking there door behind him.

"Yes, of course," He chuckled softly, walking over to her, pushing her hair away from her shoulder, kissing the exposed skin there.

"Tease," She said softly, her breathing slightly heavy, arching her neck slightly.

"Admit it; you love it," Peter smiled against her skin, his hands rough on the back of her thighs, lifting her up onto the counter.

"Yeah, during sex, not before it," Her breath shook as his hands pushed up the skirt of her dress.

Peter chuckled softly as he pushed her panties to the side, drawing his fingers through her folds "All f'me, love?" He asked with a proud smirk as his fingers glistened with her arousal.

"Don't be so proud- you know it is," She whimpered softly as his fingers pressed slightly against her clit, her legs closing on an instinct.

"Ah-ah. Open back up, love," He hummed, forcing her legs back open, stepping in between them so she couldn't close them again.

"I know it is, but I want you to tell me," He said, slowly pushing two of his fingers into her.

She mewl softly, closing her eyes tightly, one hand on the edge of the sink, the other in Peter's collar.

"Say it, baby," He pressed, his fingers tortuously slow.

"All for you- Scheiße. Please, baby. Please," She panted heavily, her words dropping with need.

"You can do better than that," He taunted, giving a sharp curl of his fingers, making her drop her head onto his shoulder, trying so hard to stay quiet.

"Just for you, liebe, only you," She moaned softly, her arm in his collar now around his shoulders,trying to pull him closer.

"That's better," Peter chuckled proudly, pulling his fingers out of her, causing her to whine at the loss.

"God, baby, I love how you sound, but I need you to be quiet for me," He murmured, stroking her side softly with one hand, the other working on getting his pants undone.

She nodded softly "Anything for you," She said as she kissed his neck softly, helping him getting his pants zipped down.

"I know. Such a good girl f'me," He groaned softly as she spit in her hand, stroking him a couple of times before helping him to guide him slowly into her.

"Shut up," She whimpered, her body turning a deep red from the praise.

"Watch your language, darling. Might have to punish you for it," It was a promise, not a threat, he knew she liked it.

"Whore," She moaned softly as he started moving slowly, his hands beside either side of her hips, holding himself up.

"You want to have that discussion again?" Peter asked with a quiet groan, mouthing along her jaw.

She shook her head as best as she could, her nails digging into his back through his shirt.

"I'll gladly have it with you again if you need to be reminded," Kissing her deeply, swallowing her moans as he gave her hard and deep thrusts.

Peter took one of his hand, pressing his thumb against her clit, circling it, her body starting to shake slightly, legs closing around his waist.

"Please, please,please," She kept begging, voice mumbled against his lips, hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails digging into his scalp.

"I know, love, I know," He groaned against her lips, feeling her walls clench down around him, pulling him closer to his own orgasm.

"Just hold on a little longer, you can do that for me, right?" He asked, his thumb going faster and a little harder.

She nodded softly, face in the crook of Peter's neck.

"Good girl," His mouth was slightly open in a silent moan, feeling himself twitch inside of her, his thrusts getting sloppy.

"You can come, love. Let me feel how good you feel," She came a second later without a thought.

Both her arms were tight around his body, drawing him even closer as her body shook, a silent prayer of his name.

"God, you feel good," He came as well a few thrusts after, pressing his hips tight against hers, coming deep inside of her.

—

Peter helped her get clean up, standing behind her afterwards.

"You'd look good pregnant," He hummed, his arms around her waist, his mouth pressing kisses to her shoulder as she splashed water in her face.

"What?" She asked surprised, pausing her movements.

"What?" He asked confused "I said that out loud?"

"Yeah, you did," She said as she turned around in his arms.

"Just forget it," He mumbled, trying leave but she pulled him back.

"Say it again," She pressed, holding at his hands in hers. He shook his head slightly "We have to get back, but we're not done talking about this"

He nodded softly "Of course"

[padawanoftheyear]

Someone on twitter pointed out the baby holding his finger 😭😭

[padawanoftheyear]

do i actually like sport or do i just want to watch a grown man have a worse day than me

[padawanoftheyear]

lando + memes in my folder 💅

[padawanoftheyear]

McLarenF1: Lando vs Littler, unseen footage 👀 Not really, but we made you stop scrolling 😉

[padawanoftheyear]

I need a sedative

[padawanoftheyear]

HIGH ALL THE TIME (TO GET YOU OFF MY MIND!)

PAIRING: drug dealer!lando norris x f!reader DESCRIPTION: your plug might be slightly infatuated with you and gives you special treatment. oh, and a continuation to this fic WARNINGS: mentions of recreational drugs (weed), smut, car sex, lando is pussy whipped, protected!p in v, oral f!receiving, sex for 🍃, come eating/swallowing, shy!lando A/N: long awaited part two is finally here!!! they fuck in the car again in this one but i will probably be making this a series so i'll switch it up

It had been almost two weeks since you'd last seen Lando. Not that you were keeping track.

Two weeks since you'd sat in his battered, old Golf with the windows fogged up, your jacket abandoned somewhere in the backseat, his hair a complete mess from your hands running through it.

Two weeks since you'd walked away with a free baggie and the kind of smug satisfaction you really shouldn't feel about trading sex for weed. You knew it was wrong.

You weren't going to overthink it, though.

It wasn't like you made a habit of it.

Sure, maybe you'd thought about it a few too many times to call it casual. You thought about the way he looked at you afterwards— dazed, almost grateful, and you never really understood the term 'puppy eyes' until you looked into his.

But you've been busy. By busy, you meant that you barely had a penny to your name. Life didn't just stop because you'd rattled the local dealer in his own car. You were running dangerously low on your stash, but you had no real means of paying him even if you wanted to.

He hadn't reached out to you, either. You figured he'd just chalked it up to an unexpected bonus in his week and moved on.

Until your phone buzzed at 10:47 on a random Thursday night.

Lando: you need more ?

You were sprawled on your bed, phone balanced on your knee, half-watching something on Netflix you'd stuck on as background noise. The message sat there on the screen like it was trying to act non-chalant, but you could practically hear the nervous tone in his voice.

You stared at it for a second, then typed back.

You: im broke

You: like so broke im considering selling a kidney tbh

It took him thirty seconds to reply.

Lando: i don't care

Lando: same deal as last time if you want

You actually laughed out loud at that, the sound echoing off the walls.

You: oh my god

You: and here i thought u werent that type of guy

There was a longer pause this time, like he was either embarrassed or trying to word his response without sounding like the world's most desperate plug.

Though he couldn't be asking you because he needs the money, so who's really the desperate one?

Lando: im not

Lando: i can be for u tho

Lando: so yeah. if u want

You chewed your lip, smiling at your phone.

You: bit forward isn't it

Lando: only a bit

You: what if i say yes

Lando: ill park at the bottom of ur street and you can meet me when ur ready

You: ok

You: give me 15 min

Lando: sweet

You shook your head in pure disbelief, tossing your phone aside to dig out some clothes from your wardrobe.

It wasn't like you were excited to see him. You definitely weren't the one sitting there waiting for a text for the past two weeks. You definitely weren't the one grinning at your phone like a lovesick idiot.

But there was something satisfying in knowing that he reached out to you first.

He suggested doing this again. That made it sort of okay to do, right?

You pulled on your trainers, threw your hair into a lazy knot, and grabbed your phone and keys. You purposefully didn't grab your purse this time, not needing to pretend.

You both knew exactly what this was.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The night air was cool as you stepped out, locking the door behind you. Your street was quiet, the amber glow of the street lamps spilling across empty pavements.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, strolling down to the end of the road and trying your best to look inconspicuous.

You spotted him before you reached the corner— the faint gleam of headlights and the scratched bonnet of his car, parked just far enough way to draw less attention.

He was in the driver's seat, one arm hooked casually over the wheel, the other scrolling through his phone. From a distance, he could've been any other lad just killing time in his car.

If only they knew the true reason for him being there.

Up close, you noticed the way he sat up straighter when he clocked you walking up to the passenger side. The way his eyes flicked over you like he was checking that you hadn't changed your mind.

You quickly slid into the seat, the door shutting behind you with a familiar thunk. The inside smelled the same as before— faint petrol, his aftershave, and a hint of something sweet lingering in the air.

Probably the remnants of whatever he'd been smoking earlier.

Lando sat with both hands resting on the wheel at ten and two, his curls spilling out from beneath his hood.

He quickly glanced at you like he wasn’t ready for you to actually be here already. “Alright?”

“Alright,” you replied, settling into the seat properly.

You didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed on the steering wheel before he reached down to start the engine. The car spluttered into life, headlights bouncing off the row of terraced houses as he pulled away from the kerb.

“So,” you said, leaning back and smirking. “What's this? Your chauffeur service now?”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Don't really know if it counts as chauffeuring when you’re sitting up front.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to watch the scenery slide by outside. “You always drive your customers around, or am I special?”

There was a pause. You could see him biting his lip in your peripheral vision.

“Special,” he said finally, almost too quiet.

That one word hung between you like a cloud, though you weren't really sure if it was a dark one. You let it linger for a second before answering, keeping your tone breezy. “Careful. Sounds like you’ve been thinking about me.”

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck— there it was, the nervous tic. “Maybe I have.”

You turned to look at him fully now, grinning. “You're obsessed.”

He gave a low laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he was trying to play it off. “Don’t start.”

“Why? You embarrassed?”

“Not embarrassed,” he muttered, eyes on the road. “Just don’t fancy sitting here looking like a mug who’s been waiting for a text from you for the past two weeks.”

You laughed outright at that. “Have you, though?”

His ears went pink, and you had your answer without him saying a word.

The streets grew even quieter as he drove, the glow of shop fronts and street lamps giving way to longer stretches of dark road. The occasional car whizzed past in the opposite lane, their headlights cutting briefly through the dim interior of the Golf.

You let the silence sit for a moment, just the low hum of the engine filling it. Then: “So where exactly are you taking me? You planning on dumping me in the middle of the woods?”

That got a snort out of him. “Yeah, cause I look like the sort of guy who could be arsed with burying a body.”

“You do have the vibe for it,” you teased. “Hood up, dodgy car, shifty eyes.”

“Oi,” he said, glancing at you with mock offence. “This is a sick car, thank you very much.”

You looked around at the scratched up dashboard, the faint crack in the windscreen on the passenger side, and the tape holding the glove box shut. “Mhm. Yeah. Real fancy.”

He grinned despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re cheeky.”

“So I’ve been told,” you said, smirking.

He reached down to flick the indicator, turning off onto a narrower road lined with hedges and trees either side. “We’re nearly there anyway. There’s a spot just past the park. It's always empty.”

“Empty sounds ominous,” you said lightly, but you could feel the air in the car shifting. He was fidgeting with his sleeve as he drove, but you could sense the anticipation under his every movement.

The road opened up into a small lay-by tucked off to the side, hidden from the main road by a line of overgrown bushes. He pulled in slowly, tyres crunching over loose gravel, and killed the engine.

The sudden silence felt heavier than you expected.

You turned your head to look at him. His hood had slipped back a little, messy curls framing his flushed face.

“What, no grand tour?” you teased, breaking the tension first.

He chuckled under his breath, finally meeting your eyes. “Don’t need one. You’re the main event.”

You let that line hang there, your smirk curling slow. “Getting smooth on me now, Lando?”

His cheeks pinked again, but he didn’t look away this time. “Maybe I'm just trying to keep up with you.”

You tilted your head, watching him yet again fidget with the sleeve of his hoodie. His leg was bouncing, the highly strung energy clearly still coiled inside of him.

Whatever cocky edge he tried to put on his words, it didn’t hide the way he was wired tight from just being this close to you.

“Relax,” you said softly. “You suggested this. You’re acting like it’s your first time all over again.”

He huffed a laugh, leaning back in his seat. “Feels like it with you.”

You raised an eyebrow at that. “What a line. Bet you’ve used it before.”

“Nah,” he said, and for once, he sounded entirely serious. “Not really had any reason to.”

The silence between you after that was different — heavier, but warmer somehow.

You sat back, letting your gaze drift over him one more time. He was trying so hard not to stare outright, but his eyes kept flicking to your mouth, your hands, and then back up again.

You could take it or leave it, and he probably knew that. But you could also see exactly how much he wanted this — how much he’d been thinking about it since the last time. And maybe that was why you were here after all.

Not because you'd been thinking about it equally as much. He didn't need to know that.

You watched as his hand left the wheel. It hesitated halfway like he wasn’t sure if he should. You didn’t give him the chance to overthink it— you reached across, curling your fingers lightly around the back of his neck and pulling him in.

The kiss was tentative, his lips warm but barely pressing in, like he was testing the shape of you against him again. The moment you deepened it, opening your mouth just enough for his tongue to brush yours, he exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand landing awkwardly on your thigh.

You slid closer, seatbelt digging into your side until you unclicked it without breaking the kiss. He caught on a beat later, fumbling for his own before twisting in his seat to face you more.

You teased his lips with your tongue, and he let you, opening up for you without a fight. When your tongue slid against his, his fingers tightened just slightly on your leg, dragging you closer.

His breathing was ragged already, his mouth chasing yours like he couldn’t get enough, like he might drown if you pulled away. When you caught his bottom lip between your teeth, he groaned into the kiss.

You swore that the sound made you melt.

It was a clumsy feat trying to get over the centre console — your knee knocked the gearstick, your zip-up jacket caught on the handbrake — but he didn’t care. His hands found your waist the second you were close enough, guiding you into his lap like he’d been thinking about exactly how you’d fit there.

“Easier in the back,” he murmured against your mouth, already shifting toward the space between the seats.

The scramble into the backseat was all elbows and knees, his hand catching your ass once to steady you when you nearly slipped. You landed facing each other, your knees on the seat either side of his, breath mingling in the warm air.

He didn’t waste any time— he leaned in, kissing you harder now, hands sliding under the fabric of your jacket, bunching your top up until his palms found the skin of your waist. His hold on you wasn’t tense, but there was a certain possessive edge to it.

Like he was trying to touch as much of you as possible.

You broke the kiss just long enough to slip out of your jacket and pull your top up over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes dropped immediately, drinking you in, his chest rising quicker.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, hands covering your bra like he couldn’t help it.

His palms skimmed up your back, fingers splaying wide, holding you close. You could feel him already hard under you, the heat of him burning even through the layers. His hips shifted, pressing up into you without him meaning to.

Then his mouth left yours, trailing down your jaw, over your throat, wet and open and hungry. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans.

“Wanna taste you,” he breathed.

You leaned back enough to look at him. Even in the poorly-lit setting, you could see the gleam of his eyes. “How is that payment for you?”

He looked almost frustrated that you’d even asked. “I dont fucking care about that.” His hands fiddled with the clasp of your bra behind your back. “I’ve been thinking about it since last time. Every fucking night. Please, just—”

He broke off like he was about to say something more, but ultimately decided against it. “Please, let me.”

You tilted your head teasingly, watching his reaction. “You’re really begging?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, no shame in the admission, though his voice cracked slightly. “Please.”

The sheer need in his tone made you pause— not because you were unsure, but because you quite liked watching him squirm. Then you nodded once. “Alright.”

The relief on his face was instant.

“Lie back,” he murmured, his hands already guiding you back.

You did exactly as he said, stretching out along the seats as he knelt down between your legs. The cramped space didn’t seem to bother him— if anything, it made him look more intent, like he’d crawl over you if that’s what it took.

He unbuttoned your jeans with impatient fingers, dragging them and your underwear down together. The sound of the fabric scraping along your skin seemed loud in the closed car, even over the sound of your rapid breathing.

The moment you were bare, spread out oh so beautifully for him, he hooked his arms under your thighs and pulled you closer in one rough, determined movement.

He started slow— one long, deliberate lick from bottom to top — and then settled in like a man starved. His tongue worked over you with a focus that made your breath catch, every flick and press purposeful. Testing what made you shiver, what made your hips twitch, and then doing it over and over again.

There was nothing tentative about it anymore. He growled against you like the taste alone was enough to undo him. His grip tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.

He was tuned in with your body, chasing every reaction— if you sighed, he repeated it; if you gasped, he pressed harder.

His own noises gave him away. Every few seconds, a low sound slipped out. Something akin to a muffled whimper, sometimes a groan. And the longer he went, the more those noises changed.

You felt the faint, steady roll of his hips against the seat. Subtle, almost hidden, like he was trying not to make it obvious. His chest pressed into your thighs each time he shifted forward, his breath hitching in a way that didn’t quite match the rhythm of his mouth.

It clicked slowly, somewhere between the third and fourth time his groan deepened into something rougher: he wasn’t just eating you out.

He was getting off on it.

The thought sent a jolt of arousal through you. You tightened your grip in his hair, pulling him closer to your pussy, and he groaned again— a sound that vibrated against you and made your toes curl.

Your orgasm built faster than you expected, each flick of his tongue drawing you higher. Your thighs tried to close around his head, but he held them apart easily, one hand pressing down on your abdomen to keep you from thrusting upwards.

When it finally hit, it was euphoric.

Despite his best efforts, your back arched off the seat, a broken squeal leaving your throat. He didn’t let up— if anything, he pressed in faster, licking you through every pulse of it until you were shuddering underneath him.

You slumped back, catching your breath, and only then did you notice the slight tremor in his arms.

“Jesus Christ,” you managed, voice hoarse.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His lips and chin were slick, his hair the messiest you'd ever seen it. He was breathing harder than you, his pupils blown wide.

And that’s when your gaze dropped lower.

The front of his grey joggers had a clear, darkening patch spreading over the obvious shape of him beneath.

You blinked, then looked back at him. “Did you…?”

He looked down and the flush of his cheeks was unmistakeable.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, almost like he didn’t want to admit it. “Fuck, I didn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “Sorry.”

You stared for a second, then let a slow smile build at the corner of your mouth. “I haven't even touched you.”

He winced a little, looking away. “You just taste so good. I couldn't— I didn't mean to—” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, clearly flustered.

You reached down between you, pressing your palm to the damp front of his joggers. The heat there was obvious, and when you cupped him, you felt the hardening of his cock again.

“I'm flattered,” you said simply.

His eyes flicked back to yours, uncertain. “You’re just saying that.”

“No.” You slid your hand inside the waistband, your fingers wrapping around him. The mess coated your skin immediately, warm and thick. “It's a compliment.”

His breath stuttered, his head tipping back as you stroked him slowly.

Then you lifted your hand, holding it up between you. His gaze followed, dark and fixed, and without looking away you brought your fingers to your mouth and licked them clean.

The whimper he let out was almost pained. His hips jerked up into the air, searching for any contact.

“What the fuck,” he trailed off, shaking his head, breathless. “You're unreal.”

You glanced back down and saw the way his cock had already hardened again fully in your hand.

“You want more?” you asked softly.

The grin he gave you was desperate and wrecked all at once. “You’ve got no idea.”

You’re still sprawled across the seats with him leaning over you, the taste of him still faint on your tongue. He was watching you like he’s not sure whether to wait or grab you right now, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling fast.

You didn't move straight away. Partly because you like the way he looks when he’s trying to hold himself together, partly because it's amusing to see the control you have over him.

He doesn't even know it.

When you finally slid your hand back into his boxers, he flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. You wrapped your fingers around him properly this time and he moans like it’s too much already.

“You’re so sensitive,” you murmured, stroking him slowly.

“Yeah,” he managed to get out, voice rough, “but please— don’t stop.”

How could you ever deny him?

You started off with a leisurely pace, almost teasing, feeling the way he twitched in your grip. His head tipped back against the window, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he’s trying not to lose it again.

“Condom?” you asked, though you spot him already reaching to find one.

“Pocket,” he said, a little too quick.

You took it off him, tearing the foil with your teeth before rolling it on for him yourself. His hips shifted involuntarily under your hand at the touch, biting his lip like that might help.

When you moved to straddle him, he grabbed your waist to steady himself. You could feel the tension in his hands, the way he’s bracing for your pussy to wrap around him.

The tip brushed against you in such a delicious way and his breath stuttered. “Wait,” he said, voice strained, “Go slow. I don't know how much I can take.”

You nodded, because there's nothing hotter than a vocal man, and you positioned yourself over him before sinking down slowly, inch by inch. The first push inside made his whole body quiver, his grip tightening almost painfully.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, and it came out almost helpless, like he couldn't hold it back.

You took him slowly like he asked, letting him feel every second of it until you’re fully seated. His eyes were open now, locked on where you're joined together.

His mouth fell open like he was trying to say something but couldn't find the words.

You stayed still at first, letting him breathe through it. His thumbs rubbed over your hips in small, distracted circles.

You thought it's adorable how he needs to be touching you to keep himself grounded.

When you finally started to move, it’s shallow and unhurried. You rocked yourself against him, steady enough that he can feel every drag of your wet pussy on his cock, every squeeze.

His hands slid up your sides, nails catching on your skin, then back down to your thighs.

You leaned forward, rolling your hips in a deeper grind. A strangled sound escaped his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Just don't go any faster. Not yet.”

You smiled at how wrecked he sounded for you, keeping your movements measured and deliberate. His hips spasmed underneath you now and again, like his body wanted more even if his brain was still trying to process the sheer intensity.

Every time you dropped down fully, his breath caught. Every time you lifted up, he followed you ever so slightly, chasing the friction without even thinking about it.

“You’re so loud,” you teased softly.

“Can’t help it,” he admited, flustered, though his voice was cut off by the low groan that slipped out right after.

You bent down to kiss him, needing to feel his filthy mouth on yours. He kissed you back carelessly, mouth opening up for you, the taste of you on his tongue spurring you on further.

You watched the way his face contorted between pleasure and something close to overwhelm.

He wasn't trying to take control. You don't think he could even if he wanted to. He was just letting you work him, letting you decide how much he can take.

And you made him take all of it.

His head fell back again, his neck exposed, and you could see the crimson flush creeping down his throat, all the way to the tips of his ears.

You slowed your actions down even more, grinding instead of lifting, keeping him buried deep as long as possible each time.

“Feels so good,” he whispered, almost like he was talking to himself.

“Gonna make me lose it,” he said eventually, voice cracking halfway through.

“Good,” you whispered back, leaning down so your mouth brushes the curve of his ear. “That’s the point.”

He shivered.

You could tell he was close by the way his breathing changed again, and the tightening of his stomach with every thrust. His eyes were on you, desperate, like he was silently asking permission for something he doesn’t even need to ask for.

You give it to him anyway. “Cum for me, baby.”

He let out a shaky whine as you felt him throb inside you, the tension in his grip peaking as he spilled into the condom. You kept moving through it, riding him gently until the shudders faded.

When you finally stopped, he was panting like he'd just ran a marathon. His head pushed back into the seat, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His hands were still on you, holding you in place like he wasn't ready for you to move yet.

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw. “You took that so well.”

He laughed once, the breathless state he was in not allowing for much more.

At some point you realised that you had to move, your thighs trembling, the heat between you making the cramped space feel almost suffocating.

You were both a royal mess— skin damp with sweat and god knows what else, your clothes heaped on the floor, the faint smell of sex hanging heavy.

You reached for your underwear first, finding it bunched up with your jeans. Your fingers fumbled with the elastic, making a right show of putting them back on.

He leaned forward, dragging his joggers and boxers back up, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against his spent cock.

Neither of you spoke for a moment, the quiet thick with that strange intimacy that comes after. The only sound was the shuffle of fabric and the occasional rustle of the car’s upholstery when you shifted.

You found your top, pulling it back into place as he reached for your hoodie, holding it out for you.

Such a gentleman.

The movement lifted his shirt just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach before it disappeared beneath the fabric again.

It felt absurdly calm after what had just happened. No music, no conversation, just the muted thud of your own heartbeat in your ears.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and looked over at you.

“You good?” he asked finally, voice softer now.

You nodded, making sure your jeans were buttoned before reaching for your bag. “Yeah.”

He didn’t press any further. Just reached out to grab his keys from the front seat, the metal clinking faintly.

You followed him into the front, climbing over the centre console with a little more ease and control than last time. He smirked faintly when you almost caught your knee on the gear stick, his hand automatically steadying your hip as you dropped into the passenger seat.

That one touch— casual, nothing suggestive — still sent a little spark straight through you.

The engine rumbled back to life with the twist of his key, and the car eased out from its spot. The glow of streetlamps rolled across his face as you passed them, catching on the sharp line of his jaw.

His hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other on the gearstick, and you found yourself watching the way his fingers moved.

The first few minutes of the drive were spent in comfortable silence.

His hand brushed your thigh lightly when he changed gear, and neither of you shifted away from the delicate touch.

You glanced at him once, expecting to find him looking out at the road. Instead, you caught him glancing at you in return, his mouth twitching into a tiny, knowing smile before his eyes flicked back to the street.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, his voice low but not accusing.

“So are you.”

He smirked faintly, eyes still forward. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

His lips quirked further, but he didn’t answer right away. The car slowed at a red light, and he finally looked over at you fully.

“You.”

You looked away before you could let him see the heat creeping over your face. The light changed, and the car rolled forward again.

By the time he pulled up at the end of your street, you could already feel the change in atmosphere— the shift from that small, private bubble in his car to the reality of your front door being just a few steps away.

He killed the engine and reached into the side door pocket, pulling out a small ziplock bag and holding it out to you.

You took it, expecting the usual amount. But the second you looked at it properly, you realised it was heavier. Fuller.

Easily double than what you’d asked for.

“This is…” Your eyes flickered between the baggie and him. “This is a lot more than I paid you for.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his seat like it was nothing. “Yeah. Just take it.”

You frowned lightly, not used to such kind gestures from a dealer. He could have easily made good money elsewhere. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to,” he said simply. No smirk, no ulterior motive in his tone. Just that.

You snorted under your breath, shaking your head. “With this much, I probably won’t need to see you for a while.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You saw it instantly— the tiny drop in his expression, the way his mouth pressed together for a split second before he smoothed it over.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t point out that maybe he’d given you more because he wanted to give you and incentive to see him again, not less.

Instead, he just nodded once, like he was agreeing, though his eyes told a different story.

You hesitated, the bag warm in your hand, the weight of it more than just what was inside.

He finally broke the silence, voice low enough that you almost missed it. “So… when am I seeing you again?”

You swallowed, your first instinct to repeat what you’d already said — about the stash, about not needing to — but something in the way he looked at you stopped you.

Still, the truth slipped out. “I don’t know.”

That same flicker of disappointment flashed again, even if he tried to hide it. This time, he didn’t cover it with a smile.

The car felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. You wanted to say something else, something lighter, but the words never came.

So instead, you opened the door, the cool night air rushing in to fill the space between you.

“Thanks,” you said finally, holding up the bag slightly.

His eyes stayed on you, unreadable now. “Yeah. Anytime.”

You stepped out, the slam of the door feeling final in a way that you didn’t expect.

You glanced back once as you walked away.

To your surprise (or lack thereof), he was still there. Watching you as you disappeared behind a row of cars, blocking his view entirely.

You made a promise to yourself to try and smoke a bit more than usual, which is probably the complete opposite of what most people would say.

Anything to wipe that disappointed look from off his face. Anything to see him again— the sooner the better.

a/n: im lowkey more excited abt this than u guys 😭 i love writing this au the words just flow out of me (rip to me this past month ive had the biggest writing/reading block) — please leave suggestions about where you'd like me to take this series, and yes they'll smoke together at some point 😏

[padawanoftheyear]

Baby Danny pics, to made your day❤️

[padawanoftheyear]

[padawanoftheyear]

Drivers in Bed: Daniel Ricciardo

Vibe overall:

Daniel is funny. He’s flirty. Loud. Touchy. Always joking. Until the second the door shuts. And then he’s a completely different person.

Daniel Ricciardo in bed is intense. Cocky. Insatiable. He fucks like it’s his last day on earth. Like he’s trying to make you scream his name through a hurricane. He moans. He growls. He whispers filth in your ear while pulling your hair and kissing your neck with his stupid, perfect smirk. He’s charming right up until the moment he pins you down and says “you ready to be good for me, baby?”

He’s a pleasure dom with a degradation streak. A praise kink menace who calls you a slut with his mouth on your clit. He makes you laugh while he fucks you stupid. And he’ll hold your hand while he does it.

His kinks, in full feral detail:

1. Degradation + praise kink (whiplash levels) Daniel will call you his good girl while wrecking your throat with his cock. He’ll tell you how fucking pretty you look crying on his dick. He’ll say “god, you’re so perfect for me” while spanking you and calling you a mess.

“Look at you. My filthy little angel.” “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a good girl.” “Beg for it, baby. Let me hear how desperate you are.”

The whiplash is real. He’ll ruin your ego and build it up within the same thrust. And you’ll love every second of it.

2. Oral obsession (giving, receiving, god-tier) He lives to eat pussy. Loves it. Gets hard while he does it. Does it for fun. For foreplay. For worship.

He moans into your cunt. Grabs your thighs and holds you down while your legs shake. Sucks your clit with rhythm. Grins when you scream. Then goes again.

“Shit, you’re dripping. You gonna cum on my face, baby?” “Taste yourself. Look how messy you are.” “You’re my favourite meal. Hands down.”

And when you do cum? He stays there. Lap it up. Suck it in. Tongue flat and slow until you’re crying and begging him to stop.

3. Face-fucking kink (receiving, sloppy, obsessive) Put your mouth on him and he’s gone. His head drops back. His hips twitch. He moans like a porn star. Hands in your hair. Then he takes over.

Pushes deeper. Slower. Watches you choke and praises you while you do it.

“That’s it. Take it all, baby.” “Fuck, your throat feels so good.” “You gonna swallow for me like a good little thing?”

Wipes the spit off your chin with his thumb. Kisses your forehead. Then cums on your tongue and thanks you for it.

4. Brat-taming & control (laughs while he breaks you) You mouth off? He smiles. You roll your eyes? He unbuttons his pants and says “get on your knees, sweetheart.” He loves bratty. Because he knows exactly how to tame it.

He’ll spank you. Tease you. Edging you until you’re begging him to fuck you. Then he’ll say “what’s the magic word?” And only when you whimper please will he slide in and start ruining your whole life.

5. Sensory + overstimulation (he lives for it) He wants you twitching. Whimpering. Broken. He’ll finger you until you cum and then not stop. Hold a vibrator on your clit while he kisses your inner thighs. Whisper “just one more, baby, you can take it.” And laugh softly when you cum again so hard you shake.

What makes him hard in seconds:

You biting your lip when you’re flustered

Sitting on his lap and wiggling your hips like a tease

Calling him sir in a playful, mocking way, he’ll flip you over in under 5 seconds

Moaning his name while touching yourself

Sending him voice notes of you whining “I need you”

Pulling his curls while he’s kissing your neck

Licking his thumb clean after eating something messy

Being in nothing but his hoodie

Saying “fuck me already” with attitude

Or whispering “please” with your legs spread wide

Extras he definitely loves:

Doggy with a fist in your hair

Riding his thigh while he watches with his hand down his boxers

Getting head while recording your moans

Fingering you under the table in a restaurant booth

Missionary with your legs over his shoulders, pounding into you while kissing your ankle

Shower sex but specifically with you bent over and steamed up

Pulling out and slapping his cock against your pussy while he says “you want it that bad, baby?”

Riding him while he praises you non-stop, hands on your tits, cock twitching inside you

Saying “mine” over and over while he finishes inside you

Aftercare (chaotic but perfect):

He’ll giggle. Kiss every inch of your face. Call you a good girl fifteen times. Then spoon you and order pizza while you lie there shaking and fucked out. He’ll bring you water, massage your hips, stroke your hair, and say “god, you’re so fucking pretty when you’re ruined.” And then want another round before the food even arrives.

[padawanoftheyear]

Good girl bad girl.

[padawanoftheyear]

Can I request a fic with daniel? Something along the lines of where he shows up to the paddock unannounced with his daughter and all the drivers fawn over her 🩷

Best Girl in the Paddock - DR3

Masterlist

summary: No one knew Daniel Ricciardo was coming to the paddock that weekend — and definitely no one expected him to show up with his toddler daughter in his arms. Invited by Scotty James (husband of Chloe Stroll), Daniel turns the 2025 paddock into a certified uncle convention as every single driver loses their mind over the tiniest Ricciardo. warnings: (pure fluff, girl dad Daniel, soft chaos, baby fever, real 2025 grid, everyone simping over Daniel’s daughter, references to retirement, mentions of Stroll family and uncle Lance, uncle Lando energy, heart-melting levels of cuteness) word count: 678

Nobody knew he was coming.

It wasn’t on the press release. No social media soft launch. Just a whisper that morning from one of the Aston Martin engineers that “Scotty James has guests today”, and then, hours later, Daniel Ricciardo casually strolls through the paddock like he never left, aviators on, curls longer than ever, and a toddler on his hip in a miniature bucket hat and pink noise-cancelling headphones.

The paddock implodes. Literally.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” George says, mouth half-open.

“Oh my God,” Charles mutters. “Is that his- is that his?”

“Bro,” Alex says, already halfway across the paddock. “Move, I’m making myself an uncle.”

Daniel grins the second he’s spotted. “Alright, alright, don’t mob me. She bites.”

The girl doesn’t. She’s silent. Big brown eyes, curly hair poking out from under the hat, and Daniel’s exact smile when she catches Lando waving from twenty feet away and immediately waves back, grinning.

“Her name’s Frankie,” Daniel says proudly, bouncing her slightly on his hip. “Short for Francesca. She’s two and she already thinks she runs the world.”

“She does,” Lewis says from behind them, appearing like a shadow with sunglasses and a grin. “Christ, mate. You made a human.”

“I did,” Daniel says, mock-shocked. “They let me take her home and everything.”

The whole grid is frozen. Cameras are up. Engineers are filming. Drivers who don’t even usually mingle, Kimi Antonelli, quietly watching from Mercedes hospitality; Isack Hadjar awkwardly sipping from a protein shake, are locked in on the toddler.

“She’s so small,” Yuki says, staring.

“She’s perfect,” Pierre mutters.

“She’s definitely gonna bully my future children,” Oscar says like it’s a badge of honour.

Scotty James beams from the sidelines. “Thought it’d be fun,” he shrugs when someone asks how this happened. “Chloe’s idea. Said it’d be good for Lance. Said it’d be great for everyone else.”

She was right. Lance appears ten minutes later, barefoot and visibly panicked. “Is that a child? Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a child?!”

“Uncle Lance!” Daniel shouts.

Lance freezes. “Don’t you dare.”

Frankie holds her arms out. “Lan.”

Lance melts. No one blames him.

At one point, Frankie sits in Max’s lap while he eats pasta and tries to explain race strategy to her.

She just claps every time he says the word “tyres.” 

Carlos hands her a miniature Williams cap and tells her she’s welcome in the factory or garage any time.

Alex gives her a tiny Williams plushie that wasn’t even for her, it was meant for a fan giveaway. He does not care.

Lewis lets her press a random button on his phone and then declares it the best selfie he’s ever taken.

Lando teaches her how to fist bump. She only gets it right once, but he celebrates like she won a championship.

Oscar carries her around like a koala for twenty minutes and looks personally offended when she finally wiggles to get back to her dad.

By the end of the afternoon, half the grid is in full meltdown mode.

“I want one,” George says to no one in particular.

“Absolutely not,” Carlos mutters.

“Too late,” Charles adds, sipping a smoothie. “I’d marry whoever gave me one just like her.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Charles, she bit you.”

“She whispered to me,” Charles corrects, starry-eyed. “She said my name. She’s divine.”

“She said ‘shark’ and you happened to be there.”

“It was fate.”

Eventually, Daniel retreats to Aston hospitality where Chloe has a playmat and fruit snacks waiting.

Frankie sits between her godmother and her dad, smushing banana into Daniel’s shirt while Chloe tells him he’s lucky she’s not livestreaming this whole thing.

“Your grid’s obsessed,” she says. “They’re gonna riot if you leave again.”

Daniel smiles, soft and tired and proud. “I might come back,” he murmurs. “Just to give her a proper paddock debut.”

“You think she remembers any of this?”

He glances at Frankie, who is now babbling to Lance and pointing at a model car like she’s giving orders.

“She’ll remember being adored. That’s enough.”

[padawanoftheyear]

the pause and look into his eyes on “ride”💀💀be SOOO fr this is peak fruitcake behavior

[padawanoftheyear]

FOUR PERCENT | Lando Norris x Reader

SUMMARY: You and Lando take silly compatibility tests. The more results you get, the more determined Lando is to beat the universe (and the algorithm) for love.

Warnings: NONE! Pure fluff and a quick lil LandOscar mention HAHAHAH

“Lando and Y/N’s compatibility is 4%.”

He scoffs, mouth falling open in disbelief. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

It’s summer break for the season, and you and Lando are spending a lazy afternoon curled up together on the couch. A cheesy romcom you both gave up on twenty minutes ago drones on in the background, more white noise than entertainment at this point.

Bored and mildly curious, you’d pulled out your phone and decided to test your zodiac compatibility. Just for fun. If you’d known he was going to take it personally, you would’ve picked a BuzzFeed quiz about what kind of sandwich he is instead.

“I don’t know…” you say with a teasing grin, holding up the screen. The verdict—4% Compatibility—glares back at you in an aggressively red font. “This compatibility test is based on our zodiacs. And the stars know everything.”

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head with the conviction of a man defending your honor. “That’s slander. We’re way more compatible than four percent.” He pauses, lips forming a dramatic pout. “Let’s take another test.”

“Like what?” you laugh. “You wanna test our MBTIs or something?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane, you know that?”

“I just love you.” He buries his head in your neck, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “And by accepting this result, you’re basically admitting that you hate me.”

You roll your eyes. “I love you a lot, actually.”

“If you really loved me, you’d take another test.”

“Fine, fine…” You chuckle, unlocking your phone and pulling up the first MBTI compatibility quiz that pops up. “I’m telling you, this is all a scam.”

You enter your types, hit submit, and wait.

The results flash on the screen.

4% Compatibility.

He groans, flopping back into the cushions. “Now even science says we’re terrible together.”

“Pseudoscience. It’s not that real.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he looks up at you, eyes pleading. 

“Last one?”

You laugh—hearty and unrestrained—the kind that bubbles up from the chest and spills over with affection, despite how utterly ridiculous he was being about all this.

You nod, grinning. “Last one, alright?”

This time, you pull up a quiz from something called the True Love Machine, complete with sparkly graphics and pixelated hearts. You enter your first names, hit submit, and wait with bated breath—even if you already know what’s coming.

4% Compatibility.

He groans, leaning against you even more, like the weight of another 4% verdict has physically wounded him.

“How does every test absolutely hate us?” he all but whines into your shoulder. “We’re the perfect match.”

“Maybe this is a sign.” You stifle a laugh, fingers lazily threading through his curls. “I knew I should’ve checked your natal chart before dating you.”

“Don’t.” He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “I’m already emotionally compromised. This is seriously messing with my head.”

You glance down at him, amused. “Why are you so obsessed with this? You do know none of it’s real, right?”

He goes quiet for a second, then lifts his head just enough to look at you with that dead-serious expression he usually reserves for heated debates about pizza toppings or whether he should have chicken or pasta for dinner.

“A few days ago,” he says solemnly, “Oscar and I took a similar test. Team building, Zak said. But let’s be honest—it was just for fun.”

“Uh huh.” You nod slowly, trying not to laugh at how Oscar has suddenly made an appearance. “And?”

“We got a 98% score.”

You blink, then burst out laughing. “So this is a rivalry thing between him and I now? You’re trying to out-score your bromance?”

“Yes,” he says flatly. “I can’t let my work wife beat my compatibility with my wife-wife. That would be catastrophic.”

You grin, pulling him closer as he flops dramatically into your lap like he’s just confessed a mortal sin. “Well…I’ve got good news and bad news for you.”

He narrows his eyes. “Gimme the bad news first,” he says, suspicious. “Though the good news better be worth it if you’re gonna make me sadder.”

You chuckle. “The bad news is…I’m not actually your wife, Lando.”

He pauses, then lifts his head again. “Yet.”

You smile. “Yet.”

He hums, satisfied. “And the good news?”

“We kept getting your racing number, y'know? That's fate right there."

His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh yeah?”

“Also...” You show him the screen, grinning. "We got angel numbers. Triple 4s." You scroll down, reading aloud from your phone. “It means stability and having a strong foundation. Our relationship is strong and secure, and our spiritual guides are supportive.”

“Okay, that’s literally divine intervention. I accept this. We’re blessed, and we win.”

You laugh. “Yes, but still apparently incompatible.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, snuggling back in with a satisfied sigh, “I think the universe just underestimates us.”

“How brave of you, Mr. Norris.” You smile, fingers brushing against his jaw, full of love. “You really wanna go against the universe?”

“For you?” He looks up at you with that mischievous glint in his eye. “I’d fight a god.”

You shake your head, laughing softly as he settles back into your arms like the matter’s been settled—cosmic forces defied and fate rewritten, all in the name of love.

Outside, the summer sun filters lazily through the curtains, and the forgotten romcom continues to play in the background, its dialogue muffled beneath your quiet contentment.

So what if every test in the world says you’re a terrible match? So what if every chart and quiz and algorithm insists you shouldn’t work?

Because here you are—tangled together on a couch in the home you share, your hearts and values in the same place, laughter and love flowing easy. Steady.  

And really, what better proof do you need than that?

[padawanoftheyear]

High School AU Part 1

CL16, GR63, YT22, IH6, CS55, MV1 X You // fluff // part 2

You’ve walked these halls for years, weaving through a tapestry of familiar faces, some sit beside you in class, others cross your path only at lunch, and a few appear like whispers in the chaotic rush between periods. Here, they are not champions of the track but fellow travellers in the wild race of teenage life, sharing lockers, stolen glances, and the quiet battles of growing up. It’s another day of balancing dreams and deadlines, sidestepping the cafeteria’s culinary mysteries, and deciphering the fine line between playful teasing and the gentle brush of a secret crush.

A/N I’ll come to the request in a bit!! Thanks for the requests by the way! Absolutely adore the ideas!!

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Charles Leclerc

Charles is the kind of boy who can talk his way out of anything. In most teachers’ eyes, he can do no wrong.

He’ll breeze into homeroom a full five minutes late, shirt not yet perfectly tucked, hair slightly damp from running, he’ll smile politely and apologise before entering, and the teacher just sighs and says, “Don’t let it happen again, Charles.”

You watch from your seat as he flashes that angelic grin and slides into the desk next to yours.

“Morning,” he whispers, leaning in. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“You were gone for five minutes,” you deadpan.

“Exactly. Longest five minutes of your life.”

In class, he passes you folded-up notes with doodles in the margins, half of them ridiculous sketches of the teacher, the other half inside jokes from last weekend.

Sometimes he’ll tap his pen against your desk until you look at him, then mouth ‘bored’ and point to the clock like you can somehow make time go faster.

Between classes, he walks with you to your locker, leaning against the one next to yours like he owns the hallway. If someone comes by to talk to him, he’ll answer, but he’s still angled toward you, attention never fully leaving. And when you drop a book, he picks it up before you even bend down.

Lunch is where his double life comes out. He’s sitting with the popular crowd, but half the time he’s looking for you across the cafeteria. Eventually, he’ll wander over with an extra packet of fries, toss them onto your tray like it’s no big deal, and say, “They gave me too many. Guess you’ll have to help me.”

Yeah, right. He definitely got them for you.

After school is when “Perfect Charles” disappears completely. He’ll text you: Meet me by the bike racks.

You think it’s just to walk home together, but then you’re hopping on the back of his bike and riding three streets over to a corner shop because “we need ice cream before dinner.” Or you’re climbing the fence into the school’s football field under the excuse of “watching the sunset,” only for him to dare you to race him across the grass.

One time, he convinced you to sneak into the old gym storage room to find the “legendary basketball signed by a famous player”, which, of course, didn’t exist. You got caught by the janitor, but Charles just turned on the charm, and suddenly you were “helping clean up.”

And when you call him out for being a menace, he just grins.

“Yeah, but you love it.”

And the thing is… he’s not wrong.

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George Russell

George is the student every teacher wishes they had twenty more of. Front row seat, perfect notes, hand always raised with the right answer. His uniform is never wrinkled, and his homework is always done two days early. He lives by the rules, or at least that’s what everyone thinks.

He’s also the first one to speak up if something’s unfair. If a teacher marks you wrong for a question you definitely got right, George will not just let it slide. He’ll raise his hand, calmly explain why you’re correct, and won’t back down until the teacher changes the grade. Not because you asked him to, but because “it’s a matter of principle.”

With you, though, he drops the formal act just a little. During class, when the teacher’s not looking, he’ll scribble “You’re brilliant” on a scrap of paper and slide it over. At lunch, he’ll lean in close and whisper, “If you ever need a partner for a project or a dance, I’m your guy.”

Between classes, he’ll slow his stride so you can walk together, tossing in quiet jokes that make you smile when no one else is watching. If your bag’s heavy, he takes it without asking, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he says, “Don’t want you to get tired before the big exam… or our next adventure.”

And then there’s the wild side he pretends doesn’t exist.

Like the time he decided it would be “a strategic shortcut” to get to lunch faster by climbing out of the science lab window, shimmying across the roof, and dropping down behind the cafeteria. He didn’t think about how much trouble he’d be in, but when you caught him grinning afterwards, he said, “I’m just trying to impress you.”

Or the day he “accidentally” got you both locked in the school library after hours so you’d have the place to yourselves. He brought snacks and even a deck of cards. When the janitor found you, he just shrugged and said, “We were studying. Very… intensively.”

If you tease him for being a rule-bender, he’ll reach out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear and say, “Only rules worth bending… like maybe your heart.”

George Russell may be the smart, rule-following type on the surface, but with you, he’s a little bit reckless, a little bit flirty, and all kinds of yours.

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Yuki Tsunoda

Yuki is the kind of boy who complains about everything but somehow makes you laugh through it all.

He’s the one rushing into homeroom with toast still in his mouth, hair sticking up from his bike helmet. He drops into his seat next to you with a loud sigh and mutters, “School should start at noon,” before pulling out a small paper bag and shoving it toward you.

“What’s this?” you ask, peeking inside.

“Breakfast. You skipped yesterday, so I woke up ten minutes earlier to get you the best one from the bakery before anyone else.” He says it casually, but the way he glances at you out of the corner of his eye gives him away. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not a morning person.”

With other students, Yuki is… well, Yuki. He’s blunt and honest to a fault. When someone tries to copy his homework, he tells them, “Do it yourself, idiot,” but still slides his notes over a second later. He argues with his friends over the dumbest things, like which snack brand is better or who’s the fastest at sprinting to the cafeteria, but if someone messes with his friends, he’s the first to stand up for them.

And everyone knows he’s different with you.

Between classes, he always meets you at your locker, tugging lightly on the strap of your bag the second you turn around.

“You didn’t wait for me,” he says with a mock pout.

“You were late.”

“Exactly. You’re supposed to wait when I’m late.” He takes your books without asking and starts walking beside you, his hand brushing against yours until your pinkies hook together like it’s an accident. (It’s not.)

Lunch is where he shows his soft side again. He barges into the cafeteria line early to snag the good bento boxes, not for himself, but for you.

“I swapped with the cafeteria lady,” he says smugly, plopping it into your hands. “Got you the best one.”

Around his friends, he’s louder, teasing, always the one cracking jokes. But when you sit under the tree in the courtyard and he lies down with his head in your lap, everything about him softens. His friends pass by, whistling and shouting comments, but Yuki just throws a lazy glare and mutters, “Jealous losers,” before closing his eyes.

“You’re my pillow now,” he mumbles, voice quieter for you alone. “Best pillow ever.”

After school, you race each other down the street, breathless and laughing, until you reach your door. Before you can tease him for losing, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks casually, though his ears are a little red.

And that’s Yuki, chaotic, competitive, a little rough around the edges with everyone else… but with you? He’s gentle in his own clumsy way, always making sure you have the best breakfast, the best lunch, and the best part of his day.

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Isack Hadjar

Isack is the kind of boy who can be both the quiet genius in class and the one who makes everyone laugh with a single comment. In the mornings, he’s always at the school gates early, not because he’s overly eager for class, but because he likes picking up breakfast from the little bakery across the street. And without fail, there’s always a second pastry in the bag.

“Here,” he says, dropping it onto your desk before first period.

“You don’t even ask if I want one anymore?” you tease.

He smirks. “Nope. I already know. Chocolate croissant. You’re too predictable.”

You roll your eyes, but the way he watches to make sure you take the first bite gives him away.

In class, he’s focused, serious even, but he has a habit of leaning over to you during boring lessons to whisper,

“If I don’t survive this lecture, tell my story. Make me sound heroic.” Or, “You know, we could probably take over the world if we ditch now and start a business. Are you good at baking?”

The teacher glares, and Isack just smiles innocently like he’s been quiet the whole time.

With his friends, he’s different again, playful, sarcastic, always ready with a joke. At lunch, he somehow always ends up with the best food, trading bites of his sandwich for whatever you brought. Sometimes he’ll disappear for a few minutes and come back with an extra drink for you.

“What?” he shrugs when you give him a look. “The vending machine owed me one. Thought I’d cash in for you.”

Everyone can tell he’s softer with you. When his friends tease him about it, he just grins and throws an arm casually over the back of your chair.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just jealous I’ve got someone to share my fries with.”

After school, he’s the kind of boyfriend who says he’ll walk you home “because it’s on the way,” even if it’s not. He’ll carry your bag without asking and joke, “Wow, what are you hiding in here? Bricks? You planning to work out my arms?”

But then, just as you reach your street, his voice drops a little.

“Hey…” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way that doesn’t match the confident boy from class. “You’ll save me a seat tomorrow, right? Can’t do boring mornings without you.”

And when you nod, he smiles like you just handed him pole position.

That’s Isack, a bit strategic and smart, sometimes intense, but underneath it all, he’s the boy who makes you laugh with perfectly timed jokes, brings you the best breakfast without fail, and somehow makes every ordinary school day feel like something special.

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Carlos Sainz

Carlos is the kind of guy who walks into the hallway and instantly lightens the mood. He’s popular, yes, but not because he’s loud or showy. He’s the guy who makes everyone laugh, even the teachers.

He’ll lean casually against the lockers, juggling a soccer ball with his foot, flashing that easy smile you know too well.

“Hey, you,” he calls out when he spots you approaching. “Did you know I scored the winning goal at practice this morning?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what? You want a medal or a parade?”

He grins, then tosses you the ball. “Better. I want you on my team for the charity match this weekend.”

You catch it, and he steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re way too good to be cheering from the sidelines.”

At lunch, Carlos sits surrounded by friends but always makes space for you. He slides over with an extra sandwich, smirking, “The cafeteria lady knows me too well, got you the best one.”

Someone nearby jokes, “Carlos, you’re spoiling Y/N rotten.”

He shrugs, pretending to be modest. “Only the best for my MVP.”

When you laugh, he leans in just a bit. “You know, I could teach you a few moves after school. Who says charm isn’t a sport?”

After classes, you walk together through the buzzing halls. He carries your backpack, joking, “Careful, you might get too tired for practice with all that weight.”

You nudge him playfully. “And you think I’ll let you win just because you’re sweet?”

He laughs. “Oh, I don’t need to try hard to win when I’ve got you cheering me on.”

At the bike racks, he pauses, eyes sparkling. “So… same time tomorrow? Maybe I’ll bring you some victory snacks if I win the match.”

You smile back, heart skipping. “It’s a deal.”

Carlos Sainz, the perfect mix of sporty, funny, and utterly charming. With him, every school day feels like you’re on the winning team.

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Max Verstappen 

Max doesn’t need to shout to be noticed. You’ll usually find him leaning against a wall in the courtyard, headphones in, nodding to music only he can hear. He’s not one for unnecessary drama, but the moment you walk over, his eyes light up like he’s been waiting for you all day.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and casual. “You made it.”

You grin and drop your bag beside him. “Yeah, wouldn’t miss it.”

Class is mostly background noise for Max, except when it comes to the physics test. That’s his turf, and he’s quietly obsessed with acing it. Halfway through, you catch him scribbling answers with an intense focus that surprises you.

During breaks, Max’s friends gather around, a close-knit crew who joke and rib each other endlessly. Max doesn’t say much, but when someone challenges him to a quick game of basketball, he’s suddenly all in, competitive fire blazing.

You laugh as he sinks the winning shot, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Told you I don’t lose when it counts.”

Lunch is a laid-back affair. Max shares his snacks without fuss, and when you pull out your phone, he smirks. “Bet you can’t beat me at that game.”

Challenge accepted.

Later, after school, Max surprises you by suggesting you join him and his friends at a party. You’re hesitant, but the moment you arrive, Max transforms. The quiet guy is gone, replaced by someone who’s dancing like he owns the night, pulling you into the fun with infectious energy.

Between songs, he leans in close, shouting over the music, “You’re better than I thought.”

You smile, breathless and dizzy from the night, and Max grins back, that chill confidence mixed with something softer.

On the walk home, he slips his hand into yours, casual but deliberate. “Same time tomorrow?”

You nod, knowing with Max, ‘chill’ doesn’t mean boring, it means something real.

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