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formulapierre · 25 days ago

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Mr. & Mrs Smith pt. 2

Assassin!Ray Smith x Assassin!fem reader

+18. mdni

assassin ray who goes ballistic if anyone puts their hands on his wife, she can handle herself, can send her own husband to the hospital but he still can't help it. so when he ends up gunning down the assassins trying to kill them just for being together, he goes to the other room, looking for his wife and finds her on the floor, clawing at a man choking her out, trying to kill her, and Ray sees red, “Hands off my fucking wife!”

The man looks up and is greeted by Ray's gunpoint, “I said; Hands. off.”

the man slowly lets go and she starts coughing, crawling away from under him and gets up as Ray points his gun straight at him. she stands by his side, a hand holding her neck as Ray asks, “What do they want?”

“They want you dead.” The man answered.

“Obviously, you fucking twat, why?” Ray hissed.

“They're scared you'll trade firm secrets; double agent stuff.” The man answered and Ray looked at his woman, then back at the man, and without another second thought, pulled the trigger, giving him a neat hole in the middle of his forehead.

“Firm secrets, what a joke.” His wife muttered and he agreed.

Ray, who even though they're technically on the run, still manages to look for his wife's favourite snacks when they quickly stop for gas and he goes to buy some fags cuz he KNOWS he'll be needing a couple after tonight's shitshow. and when they're back on the road, he hands them to her, w a hand sanitiser and tissues, of course. She thanks him with a big kiss to his cheek and starts munching away as he drives them to the other side of the country.

Ray who at the first opportunity buys his wife a pair of sweats to wear, because she's still in her panties and it's getting brighter outside, the world is waking up and she's bound to catch attention w a pair of legs and ass like hers. and when she slips them on, they fit absolutely perfect because he knows all her sizes by heart, and knows to get her a size up so they're baggy and extra comfy around the waist.

Ray who gets a special kind of twinkle in his eye when he gets his hands on any type of big firearms. he loves them big w lots of buttons to mess with. after all, he's just a boy w a special love for tinkering n messing w machines. His wife notices and her heart grows twice as big at the sight. because he's so freaking cute, getting giddy over using big guns. she cant help the smile that pulls at her lips while watching her husband light up an alley w his machine gun, putting multiple holes in each assassin coming after them.

Ray who's concerned the second his wife groans and clutches at her arm, looking in pain and Ray immediately asks, “Who hurt you?”

She points out a bleeding corpse, and he shoots it once, “Here, you'll be okay, darling,” And she smiles at him, as he kisses his thumb and middle finger together and presses it to where it hurts, and they leave a sea of broken and bloody bodies behind, hand in hand.

Ray who finds out Fletcher was the one who ratted them out to their firms for money. who managed to get photographic evidence of them both together. a mundane picture really, them coming out of the big Tesco, Ray pushing their trolley while his wife is opening a pack of Maltesers.

But Ray doesn't care. he hates it when people feel privy to his private life. he doesn't appreciate that kind of disrespect, at all. especially when there's a possibility that Fletcher could've taken a photograph of his lovely wife doing literally anything, like painting in their garden in nothing but a bikini under the sun.

His wife quickly learned how protective Ray actually was. Before she knew his real occupation, she just appreciated it when he used his whole body as a shield to protect her from unwanted touches or attention. Or when that one time a tipsy man, at the pub, accidentally dropped his wallet on her lap and reached to grab it just for Ray to grab his wrist in a flash. The man winced and Ray relaxed his hold, but dragged the man's hand up on the counter instead, grabbed the wallet on his own and slapped it on the man's hand with a tight smile. She only watched and didn't move an inch, smiling big when Ray asked her to switch seats w him.

It wasn't anything big, but it was enough for her to praise and lean her whole body against him, giving him tiny kisses on his beard once in a while, dying at how adorable he was, and that was just when she thought her sweet and attentive civilian husband was just an accountant with a smidge of OCD.

But now that he could freely express what he could and would do for his wife, was the most thrilling and addicting feeling.

When she wasn't slicing her way through skin and guts, or shooting men dead until her hand burned around the gun handle, she would stand there and watch her Ray absolutely terrorise the other assassins. She would watch with her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes now practically hearts, toying w her fingers like a lovestruck teenager. It was so exciting.

And when Ray would meet her eyes, he would grin and she would giggle, skipping to where he was, standing over a now cooling body and giving him a cheeky kiss to the corner of his mouth. then they would leave on a stolen car, breaking every road law and rule.

And when she finds them a way to get out of the country, Ray realises he has to change his appearance, so he sits on the dingy motel room bed, abt to shave his beard off, he'll do it, but he's just saying goodbye to his facial hair before he has to get rid of it all and cut his hair shorter. At least his wife will only need to dye her hair.

When she realises he's abt to get rid of one of her favourite things abt him, she whines and already mourns the loss. but then realises that actually, he showed her a picture of him when he was much younger and he looked incredibly handsome under the facial hair, so really, there won't be much of a loss.

So before he shaves it all off, she asks him if he'd be up to eating her out one last time as a farewell ritual to his beard lmao.

And Ray would never say no to her, so just to be extra safe, he goes ahead and washes his face, soaps his beard and rinses it, just so all that he gives his pretty wife is redness from the friction. and they go to town, oh they do that the next door guests bang on the wall and shout at them but Ray doesn't give a rats ass and his wife is in another planet as he pounds her to Sunday.

When that's all said and done. Ray finally shaves all of his beard off and she helps him, tilting his head this and that way, even using scissors and a blade when needed. then it was his hair. he thought abt buzzing it all off but she just asked him to hand her to scissors and brush. So she cut almost all of his beautiful prince charming hair, left a little at the top then shaved the sides shorter, giving him a fade of some sort. and at the end when he looks at himself in the mirror he feels so naked. so different.

“Wow, you look like my boyfriend, not my husband.” She says while standing behind him, looking at the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around her chest, hair wrapped in clingfilm.

Ray frowns in confusion, a hand on his cheek, “Excuse me?”

“You look like my bad boy boyfriend who scares my parents, not my mature dilfy husband,” She says and Ray is still confused, “Do you like it?”

“Hm?”

“Do you like my face? Without the beard?” He asks, turning around to face her.

She places a hand on his big shoulder, and squeezes the muscle, “I'd let you do unspeakable things to me with or without the beard, love.”

He smiles and rubs his eyes, “I need my glasses…”

“They're on the bed, I need to wash my hair,” She says, kissing him on the cheek and he hums, walking out of the bathroom with his hands on his hips, dad style.

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formulapierre · 25 days ago

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Mr. & Mrs. Smith

Raymond Smith x fem!reader

+18. mdni

note: quite obviously inspired by the movie of the same title from 2005. Ray and reader r married and secretly assassins behind each others back, until one day their real identities get exposed n they have to work through what it means for their marriage and relationship.

the whole street knew them as the cute couple that everyone wanted to hang out with during bbq parties, or when football was on and someone invited everyone to come and watch the game in their house. Ray was a gentleman through and through, always prepared, polite and reliable, whereas his other half was the more spontaneous one. She's easily the life of the party, sweet, friendly and warm.

and when they were together they were a sight to behold, Ray was one handsome fucker, slicked back soft hair and a thick beard, broad shoulders and kind yet intense eyes. His other half was simply gorgeous, brimming with youthful mirth, the one that somehow all young children gravitate to, always ready to play with them or offer snacks.

Ray worked as an accountant in the city while his wife was a freelance artist as a cover, but both were actually assassins. She ran her own small business and even got to open a few galleries to show off her art, she was doing well, they were doing well.

until one day they both ended up going after the same target, raymond was settled on top of a building, ready to put a hole in the target's skull until an ice cream van barrelled down the street, hitting the target's car and Raymond cursed. It all happened so fast, a hand poking out of the window of the van holding a gun, and Raymond didn't think, pulling the trigger, missing and nicking the person's hand, making them pull their hand back and shoot with the other, straight at him, almost taking out his left ear. How that person was able to see him from that far, and barely miss, was beyond him.

the next day over dinner, Raymond noticed his wife's bandaged finger, he froze and watched her happily chew the pasta he made and enjoy his homemade garlic bread.

“Love?” He said and she hummed, lifting her head to look at him, mouth full of pasta.

“What happened to your finger?”

She froze and he saw something flash behind her eyes, she quickly chewed and swallowed her mouthful, “Hot glue gun got me,”

“Hm,” He slowly stood up and made his way around their dinner table, standing over her and reaching to hold her hand when she snatched it away, “It's still sensitive.”

“I just want to see how bad is it,” Ray said, tone neutral and stable.

“It's not too bad, I already cleaned it well and wrapped it pretty tight, I can't open the bandage to show you,” She explained, clutching her finger with her hand, and looking at him with her big Bambi eyes. He observed her carefully, about how open and honest she sounded and looked. There's no reason for Ray not to believe her. But then he had a gnawing feeling in his guts, and he learned a long time ago to never ignore it.

So he smiled, “Dessert?”

She lit up, “Yes, please!”

He'll have to investigate later because he really wants to trust his wife, but he knows from experience not to ignore his gut feeling if he wants to keep on breathing. So for now, he'll serve his lovely wife dessert, clean the table and make love to her that same evening, like he always does.

“Where were you?”

Ray was greeted at 4 in the morning in his home by his wife standing in the kitchen, wearing his t-shirt and her undies, looking delicious as ever. if it was any other time Ray would already be balls deep inside his wife's perfect cunt, but it wasn't one of those times.

instead he slammed his duffel down on the counter, in the middle of their kitchen, he opened the bag and took out a brick of clay, the type you can get from art stores, from the same brand that his wife likes the most. he then took his butterfly knife out of his pocket and easily sliced the thing open, and instead of bits of clay falling apart, a neatly wrapped pack of bullets fell with a clank.

“Now, are you going to tell me what the fuck is this?” Ray said, inhaling sharply and pointing at the bullets and the rest in the duffel bag with his knife.

His wife didn't move, her arms crossed over her chest and looking at the bullet pack, then slowly raised her eyes to meet his and he frowned, moving a step back when he was met with icyness.

She unfolded her arms and let them hang at her sides, licking her lower lip as Ray watched, knife in hand and heart hammering in his chest.

“A regular civilian is not capable of finding that out,” She said and Ray’s fingers started itching, he was hot all over under his clothes and he was so close to doing something he's never done to the love of his life, to his wife, ever.

“A regular civilian also can't own devices that can't be traced, or work in a company that doesn't fucking exist,” She spat, her previously warm eyes emitting nothing but danger, and all bells in Ray's mind rang loud and clear; he needed to kill her before she kills him.

It all happened so fast, her snatching one of Ray's fancy butcher knives that are magnetised to the wall and dodging Ray throwing the duffel bag at her. Knives sliced the air between them and Ray charged at his wife with everything he got, not holding back, twirling his knife quickly and fast in his fingers, from one hand to the other as he slowly walked her further inside the house, his wife walking backwards, knife in hand and a wild look in her eyes.

She grinned sharp and predatory, “No wonder you're so good with your fingers,”

Ray couldn't hold back his laugh, “What can I say, I'm a natural.”

“How did you figure it out?” She asked, the back of her knees hitting the sofa.

“Be honest, how did you hurt your finger?” Ray asked.

“Gunshot,” She answered and Ray didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned.

“Sorry, babe. Didn't mean to nick you.” He said and watched as her eyes darkened, “You dickhead! Why did you shoot me?! I was after a fucking terrorist!” She shouted, almost giving him a new haircut as he dodged the knife, Ray knocked her off her feet, she fell with a grunt. “It's just protocol, eliminating anyone who gets between me and the target,”

Ray was about to grab her when she wormed herself away at a fast speed, pushed her body up with ease and balled her fists in front of her, jumping on their glass coffee table, “What sort of fucking company do you work for? I could've been a civilian!”

“Listen– get your feet off the coffee table!” Ray warned.

“Fuck the coffee table, it's ugly anyway!” She spat and slapped the knife off his hand quickly, and as soon as he lost his knife he jumped her, her own butcher knife flying in the air and landing buried in the sofa.

Ray fought to hold her still but she was strong and squirmy, hitting him with her elbow on his side, a gasp was punched out of him and he decided then to not hold back, Ray gathered her in his arms and threw her across the room, breaking the window and bringing down the blinds.

When she got her footing back, she glared at him with the power of fifty suns, “I can't believe you hit your wife, Ray.”

“Last time I checked my wife wasn't an assassin,” Ray said, throwing his coat on the sofa and unbuttoning the first 4 fout buttons of his shirt, then rolled the sleeves watching his pretty wife wrap a ripped piece of fabric around both of her wrists, “Your hypocrite, you're an assassin too! And your name is probably not even Raymond Smith either!”

She grabbed Ray's favourite potted plant and threw it at his head, as he dodged the hit, he found himself embraced by his wife, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms wrapped around his shoulders, “You know that won't work-” His voice quickly got cut off when she squeezed his neck with the remainings of the blinds, the white fabric pulling tight at his thick neck as he clawed at her to let go.

“Did you even love me? In those 5 years of marriage, was anything real?” She asked, squeezing harder until Ray slammed them both down on the ground, bruising her back, she screamed and he took that second to get her hands off him, finally gulping oxygen into his lungs, “Yes! Yes, I fucking did!”

“Then why didn't you tell me?! Why did you hide??” She shouted, eyes brimming with tears at being slammed down on her back, but also at the anger at being lied to.

“To protect you, that's why! I can't tell my bride I was a killer, what sort of girl would marry a man like that?!” Raymond said, hovering above her, hair dishevelled and eyes wild.

She then started giggling, giggling for the love of God. “Ray, my love, the light of my life,” She said, holding his face in her hands, Ray feeling his chest burn at the overwhelming emotions he was feeling, “You told me you were an accountant and I married you. If a girl is willing to marry an accountant, she'll marry an assassin,”

Ray didn't mean to laugh, his eyes burning with unshed tears as she brought his face lower and kissed him gently on the lips, and for a moment everything was okay.

That's when she decided to grab him and flip them around, squeezing his head between her thighs and pulling at his arm, hard.

“Even though I really did love you. Don't even think I'll let you go, now. I'm not a civilian, baby, and you'll do well to remember that.” She threatened and Ray grinned, he won't have her any other way.

He brought his free arm up and squeezed at her naked thigh, “Are we fighting or fucking? I'm getting mixed signals here.”

“Oh, can it, Mr Smith,” She squeezed his head tighter, cutting off his oxygen as he gasped and relaxed her hold, just to give him a taste of what's to come if he tries to run away.

Their short moment of peace was erupted with a rain of bullets. Raymond both threw them on the ground, under the range of the gunfire.

“What the fuck!” She cursed and when the gunfire finally stopped, Raymond dragged her up the stairs and the gunfire resumed as they tried not to get hit, “Meet me in my studio, okay?” She said and Ray nodded, turning to get to their bedroom, to probably, well, most definitely get a gun. She was about to turn around when he grabbed her by the back of her neck and kissed her hard, when he pulled away she grinned, her cheeks warming up.

“Go on, then.” He smirked, patting her cheek and sneaking to their bedroom as she made her way to the studio, quickly grabbing every hidden weapon in the room and shoving it all in a backpack, she opened the window and hopped on her desk, and looked outside, immediately spotting guys from her organisation, and others most definitely from Ray's firm. And, they definitely weren't here for tea.

She quickly loaded her gun and waited on her desk for Ray, the wind making her shiver under her t-shirt and undies. She was totally barefoot too, but she'll worry about that later.

“Mr. & Mrs. Smith! Come out whenever you are! You know the rules! No banging the competition!” A voice called out and she cursed under her breath, then gunshots resumed, in that moment Ray walked inside the studio, greeted by her gunpoint, “Let's go,” He placed her pair of Uggs in her lap and nodded at the window facing their garage.

“That's what took you so long? My fucking shoes?“ She said, quickly slipping them on and hopping out of the window, walking slowly on the roof to then jump down behind the house. “You're not walking barefoot in the streets, it's really unsanitary.” Raymond said, disgusted.

They sneaked inside the garage, getting inside the car, Ray in the driver's seat and her in the passenger's, with the two bags of weapons and other stuff by her feet as the garage door opened up automatically, catching the attention of the other assassins, “Put your seatbelt on,” Ray said, absolutely running over anyone jumping in front of their Mercedes as she shot them out of her window, Ray driving furiously down their street.

“You got me shoes but didn't think to get me trousers?” She said, pointing at her lap, she was still wearing underwear.

“You look great, don't worry.” He shrugged as she glared at him, “My ass is freezing, just so you know.”

“I'll warm it up for you later.” Ray said, smoothly driving down the empty road, looking at the rear mirror every minute or so, making sure they were not being chased.

I really wanted to write something for like secret spy AU or something. but didn't know how to do it. only that I wanted it to be funny n sexy in a way. so I luckily remembered that Mr and Mrs Smith 2005 was still in my watchlist. so I watched the movie and immediately wrote this after finishing the movie. and I used Ray Smith cuz his name is ALREADY smith and I'm in love w him so yeah 😍😩

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formulapierre · 26 days ago

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FIRST, SUGAR. 18+

pairing. raymond smith x fem!reader word count. 1932 summary. ray's mindless touches on your thigh while you read begin to catch up with you, though he's too busy working to realise. so he offers you a promise, "if you can give me twenty minutes. I'll fuck you for twice as long." warnings. 18+ only! general filth, little bit of fingering, pinv, horny writer's thought pls excuse me. mdni > I know this will not get read bc he's not popular anymore but I needed to get it out of my system (he's still not out my system btw, it’s a sickness. help!)

⎯ ☆ ⎯

It’s quiet, the evening calm. The only sounds coming from the crackle of the fireplace and soft, steady breaths. Both yours and Ray’s attention obtained by your individual papers in hand: yours, a book, and in Raymond’s, a stack of papers he’s been asked to look over.

The feel of it all so comfortable, so familiar.

The backs of your thighs horizontally rest over his, lounging across him with your back propped against the arm of the sofa — your new read held close to your face. Ray’s seated position remains close, tucked to you like you are to him. Nestled into one another casually.

His feet sit on the coffee table ahead, one hand clutching the pile of papers, his other resting over your thigh, touch mindless as he grazes your bare skin. The careful caress simply an absentminded act, an act of spontaneous, unprompted protection maybe. His focus fully engrossed in a page of nothing but information and numbers.

Though to you, it wasn’t just nothing. Ray’s thoughtless touches act as a distraction to you, each stroke and brush and graze pulling your attention further and further away from your story until all that remains are muddled, merged sentences. The plot lost to you by now.

And so you peek at him over your book, gaze focused and almost delirious as you watch him, completely unaware of your lusty set of eyes. You observe him, vision fixed on his casual grip on you: ringed pinky and large, veiny hand perched upon your skin like it’s where it belonged. Everything about it so confident, so manly. Cardigan woven with wool and residual notes of whiskey and cigarettes — like it was a fortuitous, accidental representation as to who he is: gentle and virile.

You quietly pay attention to the way he works, his glasses resting atop his nose as he skims the page — his articulate, precise nature urging him to comprehend everything written. His heed to detail being one of the things most attractive about him. And yet, he had no idea what he was doing to you. Sat there, utterly unaware of his power.

Though that changes as your breathing grows inadvertently heavy, a sudden sharp inhale from you makes his neck snap to follow the sound. His eyes now focused on yours over your novel, a slight quirk in his brow as if to analyse you.

Your expression —or the top half, what he can see— is blissed, pained even. These last thirty-some minutes of gentle grazing begin to catch up with you.

He hums shortly, the noise an attempt to scope you out, though by now there’s no need for connecting dots or guessing — all evidence as clear as day. He looks down to his palm just above your knee, your thighs pressed tight together in an effort to alleviate some of the pressure you feel between them.

He uncrosses his ankles on the coffee table and leans forward, placing the stack of papers beside his whiskey tumbler. Ray clears his throat in his fist, a sly, faint smile forming behind his hand as if he’s debating with himself. His eyes drift down to the hand on your lower thigh, gaze following the ever so slow tail as he itches under your robe.

“You didn’t want to disturb me, did you?” Raymond questions, eyes pleased and proud as they flicker up to you.

“No,” you murmur with a faint shake of the head, voice catching in your throat as you watch.

His fingers move inwards and under your nightdress, slotting between your thighs as if to separate them — his hand protruding through both thin layers of fabric.

“So patient of you,” he teases, tilting his head forward, peering at you over the top of his glasses. “Must’ve been agony.”

It was. It really was.

With his spare hand, he reaches for your book and takes it from your hold — placing it open and faced down beside his papers to keep your space. He pulls back to sit in his original position, feet now planted on the floor, knees apart in a manspread. He taps at his thigh, running a hand down the beef of it like he was beckoning you, summoning you almost.

“Come on,” he whispers, the instruction soft as he gestures you along. He taps at it again and rolls his hips underneath himself to reposition — preparing for you.

With an excited giggle, you do as asked, finally about to get what you want after all of his mindless teasing. You situate yourself over his lap, knees either side of his thighs as you use his shoulders for your support — keeping you up right. His eyes fix on you above, watching the antsy knitting and curving of your brows.

He spreads his arms either side along the back of the leather chesterfield, maintaining his dominance while he lets you take the lead. Or so he lets you think.

You reach between yourselves, your fingers hurriedly finicking with his belt, urging him out of his trousers. Your too quick movements stall your attempts, and you huff, the sound more similar to a whimper than anything else.

His head cocks, amused, watching you fiddle with the buckle. Watching you fail with the buckle.

He lifts a hand from its spot behind the sofa, redirecting it to your cheek — palm large and warm as he cups the side of your face, making you look at him. Ray’s touch glides backwards to behind your neck, thumb resting over your ear as he urges you closer. Pulling you inwards.

“Give me some sugar first.”

You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before moving away, trying to move away. Though he has other plans. His hold firm behind your neck to keep you there — bringing you back in so he could return the kiss. His beard skims at your chin as he deepens and roughens the kiss, intensifying the moment.

Though his dick is not yet hard, the presence of him is just as noticeable as if it were. The faint brushes of his big, thick cock through his trousers sends your mind into a tizzy. All your bodily responses become all the more evident, as if you’re betraying yourself.

And with your attention consumed by the way he kisses you, he’s slipping his other hand between you both, reaching between your thighs. He itches a finger to skim down your cunt and you jolt, his touch catching you by surprise. You moan into his mouth, the sound stifled and muffled, before you pull away.

You look down to watch, but your view is obstructed by your fabric pooling around your thighs. And then he clicks his tongue, eyes still boring on your face. You follow the noise, looking back up and he nods slowly, wordlessly praising you for following along.

With your gaze fixed on his, he’s hooking his finger into the elastic of your underwear, parting it aside within his very skilled hand. He trails down your slit, all arousal noticeable when he’s met with no resistance, the slick of your cunt granting him easy access to toy with you.

He raises a brow, both satisfied and impressed. His touch remains light as he brushes the pad of his middle finger downwards, circling your entrance briefly before he’s slipping inside your cunt.

It was something, but not enough. Nowhere close to being enough.

You wrap your arms around his neck, mouth grazing his with the closeness.

“More,” you utter against his lips, a slight whine to your voice. “Another.”

Your hips wind involuntarily, like you’re preemptively chasing after something — anticipating it. The feel of a lone finger is far from what you needed to satiate the gaping want.

“Another what?” he speaks into your mouth, a twinge of whiskey being tasted on his tongue. He knew what he was doing, and he was abusing his power over you. “You’re a smart girl. Tell me.”

“Finger. Another finger,” you plead. Your answer is quick, like you thought the speed of your response will get you what you want faster.

He tuts quietly, lips brushing against yours as he shakes his head.

All you can respond with is a whinge, a frustrated whinge at that and your hips still. The sensation of his finger being withdrawn from you. You mumble a faint, “What?” when you feel his hand part from behind your head, the one near your cunt too.

And then his hands drop to his lap, placing them between your thighs as he unfastens his belt — the jingling sound of the metal making your eyes widen, lighten almost. His hips raise underneath you as he tugs on the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down just enough to comfortably reach into his boxers.

He wraps a hand around himself and brings his cock out over the top, fisted grip tight as he gives it a few pumps — polishing his head as if to ready himself. With his other hand, he’s bunching the fabric of your garments, holding them up so he could guide himself closer to your cunt underneath.

He knocks his head at your clit just to see and hear and feel you shudder, a response he often loved from you. And so with you right where he wants you, right at the edge, he’s lining up with you — his eyes fixed on yours like it's all coming from a place of muscle memory, not needing sight to know what he’s doing.

Ray presses the tip of his dick against your pussy, the shape of his head kissing at your entrance so perfectly. And when he feels like you’ve suffered enough, he’s feeding himself into you, filling you from underneath as you lower down — meeting him halfway.

Strength in your neck dissipates, your forehead collapsing against his as you inhale shakily, taking all of him until nothing remains. His balls pressing up against your cunt’s lips like you’re sitting on them.

You lean in to kiss him while you give yourself a moment to reaccustom to him, familiarising with the thick feel of his cock. Your breath catches in your throat when you feel him bump up into you, a small jut upwards knocking the air out your lungs.

With himself wedged fully inside, he moves a hand to your throat, lightly holding under your jaw. There’s no pressure behind his touch, simply the presence there to guide you, to feel you. He keeps his mouth to yours, swallowing the little gasps you make and he tests the waters once more — adjusting his hips, pushing himself up into you entirely. The full weight of you perched upon his lap, sat on his dick.

“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, speaking against your lips.

You nod. Blissed, hazy eyes doing the talking for you as if you’ve suddenly become incapable of speaking.

Ray runs his spare hand behind you and to the cheek of your ass, palm resting over the satin fabric as he guides you — ushering your hips forward to grind over him. Though the presence of his touch is short-lived as he reaches forward, collecting his papers from before.

With his hand on your jaw, he brings you inwards, tucking your face into his neck. He brings the papers in his view, holding the stack just to the side of you.

“If you can give me twenty minutes to finish this” he says, voice soft beside you. “I’ll fuck you for twice as long,” Ray whispers, his words a promise.

Raymond Smith is a man of his word.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

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formulapierre · 26 days ago

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Disruption

Pairing: Raymond Smith x F!Reader

Word Count: about 4k

Summary: Ray’s been buried in work for hours, but you’ve been craving his attention and you know exactly how to get it.

Warnings: SMUT! 18+ only please, minors DNI!! (unprotected - be responsible!) P in V sex, cursing, established relationship, thigh riding, very soft Dom!Ray, orgasm control, light degradation (dirty talk)

A/N: Y'all, this man has the patience of a saint - but he's finally making his debut!! 🙌🏻 Just a really quick shoutout to the best bestie ever, Laur (@laurfilijames)! Because we wouldn't even have this if it wasn't for her! ANNNND the title idea/brainstorm sesh!! My beautiful, brilliant minded friend - thank you for getting me through this one. 👯‍♀️ I love you endlessly!!! ✨All feedback (reblogs, comments, likes) is much appreciated and encouraged!! ✨ Enjoy babes! 🩷

Ray’s been at the dining room table for hours. Papers spread out; laptop open - some godforsaken ledger pulled up with a scowl carved into his face. Perfectly content to ignore the way you’ve been pacing around the house like a restless cat in heat.

You tried reading, scrolling, even taking a long bath to distract yourself. But he hasn’t looked up once - not when you padded past him with wet hair and freshly lotioned skin. Not when you slipped into one of his oversized cardigans - soft, worn-in wool that smelled like him, and nothing else but a pair of lace panties.

None of it worked.

Each time you walk past, he’s there - so focused, so calm, so fucking hot about it. And you’re bored, dripping into your panties because he hasn’t touched you all day.

Now you hover at the edge of the room, arms crossed beneath your chest, one hip cocked out, watching him. The deep blue walls and low pendant lights bathe him in warm amber, highlighting the sharp lines of his face and the steady, graceful rhythm of his pen against paper.

The soft grey pullover sweater he’s wearing clings to his back, the fabric stretching over lean, hard muscle. When he reaches forward or shifts in his chair, you watch the defined lines move beneath the material - all quiet dominance and control.

He has the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing lean forearms threaded with veins and the solid weight of his favorite watch. His glasses sit perched low on his nose, his brow slightly furrowed as he makes notes on whatever spreadsheet he’s buried in now.

You sigh, loudly. Theatrically. But Ray doesn’t even glance up.

However, you do notice the faintest hesitation in his pen. He doesn’t react outwardly, but the subtlest shift sets across his toned shoulders, telling you he’s not as focused on his work as he’s pretending to be.

You can’t help the way your lips purse, just a little, at the realization. A quiet spark of satisfaction curls at the corners of your mouth.

Smirking, you saunter towards him, each barefoot step slow - letting the cardigan swing open just enough to tease. You stop behind his chair, stealing another moment to admire the shape of his back. There’s something so goddamn beautiful about the way he works - you could watch him like this for hours, casually running empires from the dining room.

His rich scent hits you as you approach - a hint of cedar from his cologne, clean detergent, and the lingering warmth of musk that always clings to him. It sinks into your lungs, leaving your head spinning in the best kind of way.

You shift in beside him, close enough to be felt, your voice soft and spoiled, almost petulant as you speak. “You’ve been working forever.”

He hums, his pen still moving. “Because someone has to make sure the money’s clean, darling.”

His pinky ring catches the light as he writes, glinting with every movement - precise and practiced, like everything he does.

Reaching out, you trail your finger slowly across his back, gliding from one broad shoulder to the other. The soft knit of his sweater shifts beneath your touch, and you feel the tension ripple beneath it.

“Are you insinuating that I’m dirty, Raymond?” you tease, your voice dipping low as you lean down, lips brushing his ear. Your teeth graze the shell of it, just a nip, soft and delicate - before pulling back with a wicked little smile.

Ray pauses at that, setting the pen down with a soft click, and lifts his head. He looks at you over the rim of his glasses, eyes dragging slowly over your body - your bare legs, the cardigan slipping low, the peek of lace beneath. He blinks once - then again, fast. A tic you’ve come to recognize. It’s how he reins himself in when he’s trying to stay composed.

Something he’s struggled with more since you came into his life, but not in a way he minds.

He turns slowly in his chair, finally facing you - gaze pinned, taking his time, indulging in your sight like it’s his reward.

His hand drags thoughtfully across his beard, like he’s weighing something - his fingers disappearing for a moment in the thick, meticulously kept scruff. Then he tips his chin and gestures toward his lap with a nod. “Come here,” he commands.

You bite your lip, eyes wide and a little too innocent, even as you let the cardigan slip a touch lower off your shoulder - just enough to offer a better view of your breast. Your tone is soft and sweet on the surface, but it’s laced with mischief. “Thought you were working.”

“I am.” His voice drops, low and sharper now. “Don’t make me ask again.”

A soft, excited meep slips past your lips - something small and involuntary, because you love it when he gets like this. You obey instantly, straddling his lap without hesitation, settling yourself over one thick, tailored thigh.

Ray raises an eyebrow when he realizes where you’re sitting. “What exactly are you doing?” he asks, voice edged with intrigue - his eyebrow still lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's this close to smiling.

You rock your hips once, just to test him, and the pressure is perfect. Denim against lace. His firm muscle pressed right where you need it.

Your arms curl around his neck, fingertips brushing the nape of it, leaning in close. “Getting creative,” you purr, dragging your lips over his jaw. “Since you’re too busy to fuck me.”

Ray doesn’t move, but his hands come up, gripping your hips. And then his thigh flexes beneath you, just once - enough to make you feel it. He watches you like something primal and a little bit entertained, a faint sound catching in his throat.

“Go on, then,” he orders, his tone is dry with a tinge of amusement as he indulges you. “You’re already making a mess of my evening. Might as well make a mess of my fucking trousers while you’re at it.”

Glancing up at him through your lashes, your mouth curves into a smile that’s playful, sheepish, and just a little smug. Ray hates mess. Hates anything unclean or out of order. But you? He wants the mess when it’s yours.

You start to move slowly at first. Hips rolling in lazy motions, grinding yourself down on the solid muscle of his thigh. The friction is divine, and every drag of lace against denim makes you press down harder.

He’s focused, tracking each twitch of your lip, every flutter of your lashes, all the tiny reactions in the way you rock against him. You let out a breathy moan, soft and helpless, grinding down exactly right - and his composure falters. His jaw tics, his long fingers flex against your hips, like the sound and feel of you is almost too much for him.

Your eyes lock - his are dark and calm, yours wide and hungry. He doesn’t blink or move, just holds you there on his leg with his firm grip and consuming stare. Your pulse hammers in your throat - you shouldn’t like being watched this much, but you do. There’s something raw and electric about the way he looks at you.

Your pace picks up as your orgasm builds, pressure curling deep in your belly. The cardigan slips off one shoulder with the increased movement, your body flushed and glistening with heat underneath it. Ray tilts his head slightly and adjusts his glasses like he’s refocusing.

Both hands move up your body, one arm wraps around your waist, keeping you balanced. The other slips beneath the wool draped around your unexposed shoulder, guiding it down your arm.

Your chest is bare to him now, your nipples stiff from the air and your own need. He studies you with quiet obsession - his hand slides up to cup one breast fully, his thumb brushing over the swollen peak while he watches your breath hitch at the contact. He squeezes, enough to make your body jolt, then repeats the motion on the other side. The sound he pulls from you is almost pathetic - high and fragile enough to make him smirk.

“You know how good you look like this?” he praises, slate-blue eyes locked on your chest as his thumb teases you again. “These perfect tits out. Cunt soaked for me.”

His cardigan pools around your elbows as your pace stutters, hips grinding faster and harder as you chase the pressure. Every movement of your clit sweeping over his thigh sends pleasure rolling through you.

Desperate, broken noises spill from your lips, gasping as your grip tightens on his shoulders, nails biting into the soft material of his sweater - completely losing yourself on the muscle he’s tensed just for you.

“Can’t help but act up when you want my cock, can you?” he growls low, his thigh flexing hard beneath you again.

You whimper, your head shaking from side to side with hopeless want. He can see how far gone you are - pupils blown wide, sweat clinging to your skin, your pink mouth parted in a silent, pleading gasp. But you don’t let go. Because he hasn’t told you to.

And you’re waiting - just like he’s taught you too.

You’re grinding frantically against him now, breath catching on every exhale, lost in the burning haze of need. Your orgasm is just out of reach, held hostage by the absence of his permission - while he watches - composed, relishing in it.

Ray is savoring this - the way your release belongs to him. He loves to own these moments, making sure your orgasm isn’t just something you take, but something he gives.

And then his voice slices through it all. “Do it,” he instructs, quiet and absolute. “Make a mess, love.”

His order is your undoing - your hips jerk forward, involuntarily, chasing that final bit of friction. The tension coils so tightly it’s nearly unbearable - your breath shatters, legs trembling as your entire body locks up in ecstasy. You cry out, grinding against him as your orgasm burns through your core, blurring your vision and leaving you slack with pleasure. You soak his thigh completely, the mess is hot and unfiltered, gushing through the lace and darkening the fabric beneath you.

You’re panting against his chest, eyes fluttering open slowly, still floating in that haze. And when you finally look up at him, his gaze is dark and heavy with desire - like he’s drinking in the sight of you ruined and breathless in his arms and loving every second of it.

“Needy little thing,” he remarks, not even trying to hide the amusement in his tone at your behavior.

Ray’s hand moves to your jaw, fingers curling gently around it as he guides your face closer to his, leaning in to press a kiss to your damp temple.

He shifts beneath you then, lifting you off his lap with gentle care. You whimper softly at the absence, legs still shaky, and he steadies you while you find your footing.

That’s when you see it, the shape of him - hard, thick, and straining beneath his trousers. Your breath catches, and you nibble on your lips as your thighs instinctively clench. You're still aching, still needy, because he hasn’t fucked you properly yet.

But Ray knows this, and without a word, he reaches for the cardigan still hanging from your arms. He slips it down slowly, knuckles grazing your sides as the wool glides over your skin, removing it and folding it over the back of the chair - neat and methodical, just like him.

With a quiet shift, he removes his glasses - holding them delicately in one hand - while his other bunches the fabric of his sweater between his shoulder blades. In one smooth motion, he pulls it up and over his head, muscles flexing as golden skin stretches across his torso. His chest is broad, lean, and defined in a way that’s always present beneath whatever crisp layers he wears. His stomach muscles contract with the motion, and as the fabric clears his head, it tousles his perfectly styled hair - leaving it just slightly disheveled.

He drapes it over top of the discarded cardigan, still holding his glasses, still watching you, before he slides them back on. His eyes trail down your body, devouring every inch of you standing there in nothing but those lace panties, chest flushed from release, plump lips parted, legs pressed together like you’re trying to hold in what’s left of your composure.

Ray looks down at you for a moment longer, like he can’t quite believe how pretty you are like this. His hand lifts, brushing the pad of his thumb slowly across your bottom lip, feeling the softness. He watches you like he’s starving, the quiet intensity in his eyes makes your pulse stutter. Your mouth parts, and you take his thumb between your lips - just to show that you’ll let him do anything.

And then almost like a switch, his expression changes, eyes darkening with intent as he instructs, “Turn around.”

You do as you’re told without hesitation.

He places one hand between your shoulder blades and guides you forward until your bare stomach meets the edge of the table. His palm flattens gently against your back, and with that same calm control, presses you down and bends you over without a word of resistance.

You brace yourself on the table, breath shallow, chest rising and falling against the cool wood. Behind you, there’s the quiet clink of his belt coming undone, the low slide of leather through denim - the sound alone makes your stomach flip.

Just as your breath steadies, you feel him at your hips, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He drags the lace down slowly, letting it slide over the curve of your ass, your thighs, until it catches around your ankles. The fabric is damp, clinging slightly from how soaked you are, and you feel the low rumble of approval from his chest as your foot moves to kick them aside.

He pushes your legs further apart with a nudge of his toe, causing you to gasp softly. But you move easily and eagerly - parting your thighs wider for him, desperate to be filled. The cool air against your bare cunt only intensifies the ache between your legs.

The heat of his body crowds in around you as the weight of his cock brushes your inner thigh. He guides himself through your dripping folds, dragging his tip slowly between your swollen lips, smearing your release all over his length. His precum mixes with you - warm, sticky, and lewd.

One slow roll of his hips, and he’s pressing inside you - holding, letting you feel the stretch begin. The first few inches make your knees buckle. He’s thick and unforgiving, filling you up like it’s the first time all over again. You clench around him, greedily trying to take more, but he holds steady - giving you only what he wants.

Then he sinks in - and the most delectable, shameless sound escapes your body. Ray grunts at the feel of you, his hand coming to your hip, holding you firmly as he starts to move.

He fucks you with long, deep strokes - dragging the length of himself all the way out before thrusting back in, a bit harder each time. The pressure, the fullness, the overwhelming movement of him, slams into you all at once.

His grip tightens around your waist, one hand trailing slowly up your back, firm and steady, pinning you to the table.

You whimper, fingers digging into the edge of the table - no matter how many times he fucks you, no matter how wet or ready you are, the feel of him inside you always leaves you wrecked. So much and not nearly enough - an exquisite kind of ache.

A moan tears from your throat, loud and greedy, while Ray sets his pace - punishing and devastatingly precise. The table shifts beneath you, legs creaking in protest, and somewhere under your cheek, you feel papers slipping - documents he’d been buried in all evening, now pushed askew by the force of your body jolting against the wood.

“This what you needed?” he taunts, his voice a mixture of gravel and silk. “After all that whining - this what you were after?”

You nod, gasping his name as he drives deeper, harder, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs. His own breathing grows heavier, but his control never wavers - one hand stays locked around your waist, the other ghosts up your spine.

“Listen to you,” he utters, dark and amused. “Can’t even take a proper fuck without crying for it like a filthy thing.”

A high pitched whimper tumbles from your lips at his words, mouth open against the table, fingers still clawing at the edge for something to hold onto while he drills into you - measured and merciless.

Ray goes on, his breath brushing across your skin. “Couldn’t behave yourself. Grinding this cunt all over my fucking thigh, desperate for anything I’d give you.”

His fingers slide up the back of your neck and tangle into your hair, curling tight - not forceful, but to keep you right where he wants you. He leans in until his mouth hovers at your ear, the heat of him sending goosebumps down your spine.

“But you like being like this, don’t you?” he rasps, his voice rough and raw.

Another thrust and your voice stutters from your throat as he fucks into you like he owns you, hitting your g-spot, over and over, making your legs quiver under the pressure of it, your body clenching tight. You’re dripping for him, so wet he buries himself in your drenched heat, every thrust slick and loud.

He pants, “Soaked and spread out for me,” hips snapping forward again, “My perfect, messy girl.”

You sob out his name, wrecked and breathless - his only response is another relentless thrust of his hips and a low snarl. You feel him everywhere - wrapped in your hair, pressed along your spine - mouthing filth into your skin like its devotion.

He straightens up behind you while his pace quickens, skin on skin echoing off the walls. You gasp, your head turning just enough to look over your shoulder - and what you see nearly undoes you all over again.

Ray’s brow is furrowed, jaw clenched, sweat beading along his temple. He’s flushed, focused, and fucking you so purposeful, it could only be him. Without breaking his stride, he lifts one hand to his face, slipping his glasses off.

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, a low exhale slipping between his clenched teeth. Then, hurried, he slides them right back on. You watch his lashes flutter once, then twice, and again in quick succession.

Because he needs to see.

Needs to watch the way he sinks into you with every push - how soaked your cunt is, how you clutch around him like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

The sight of him above you, bare-chested and sweating, muscles flexing with every snap of his hips, working his cock into you - steals the breath straight from your lungs and makes your head spin with how utterly gone you are for him.

You feel it building again - quick and heavy - your body still strung out from riding his thigh, the teasing, the stretch of him. Your clit throbs, your arousal making a mess of both your thighs and the table beneath you.

“That's it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “Squeezing me so good, going to milk every drop out of me.”

You nod urgently, hips jerking, the tops of your thighs bumping the edge of the table, his name slipping past your mouth in broken cries.

You can’t wait - not this time.

“Please… please, let me! I need to come, Ray - please!”

You’re begging before he even gives the word, too desperate to hold it in, too strung out to care. You typically know better, but right now, all you can do is plead.

Your desperation punches right through his composure. He groans, low and ragged, his usual soft tone completely abandoned. And that’s when his fingers slide low - finding your clit, rubbing it just right, coaxing your orgasm forward while his cock pounds into your perfect spot.

You cry out for him - broken and high - as your orgasm slams through you like a wave, your vision going white at the edges. You pulse around him hard, soaking him all over again, the slick sounds between you turning obscene.

But Ray doesn’t stop.

His thrusts keep coming, dragging you straight into overstimulation. Whining, you tremble beneath him as your body jerks, raw and ruined - tipping past the edge until you're spiraling all over again.

He groans out, pace faltering, hips snapping faster as he loses his own control. “Fucking hell - look at you,” he pants. “Can’t stop making messes all over me.”

You’re still pulsing around him, fluttering and tight, and it tips him. With a hoarse sound, he drives into you one last time and spills deep, flooding you with his release. You feel every throb of it, every warm pulse as he fills you with his cum, groaning again, hips rocking slowly, like he can’t stop, like he needs to feel every last drop sink into you.

His movement softens, breath ragged against your back as he stays buried, grinding lazily through the aftershocks. With a final exhale, he lets his weight settle over you gently, his chest pressed to you, his body flush with yours.

His lips land on your shoulder - light and slow - kissing you there once, then again - a little lower, a little longer. The brush of his thick beard against your skin is warm and scratchy, pulling you gently into the afterglow.

You shift slightly beneath him, and he finally, gently pulls out - his softening cock slipping free with a low groan, followed by the slow warmth of his release trickling down your thigh.

He presses a final kiss to your shoulder, then lifts up from you just enough to move. One hand stays on your back while the other slides around your waist.

“Easy now,” he soothes, voice low and spent.

With a careful grip, he helps you upright, guiding your body back against his chest, steadying you as your shaky legs try to find themselves again. His arm wraps fully around you, keeping you close.

You lean into him, flushed and breathless, your skin damp, a gorgeous grin spreads across your lips - it’s lazy and satisfied, like you’ve just been thoroughly, completely fucked out of your mind.

Ray glances down, catches the look on your face, and shakes his head with a soft, incredulous laugh. “Christ, love. You act like this wasn’t your plan the second I opened my laptop.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence - but the mischief in your eyes gives you away completely. “It wasn’t!” you protest, far too quickly - your voice softening, sweet and smug, before adding “…But you left me unattended.”

Ray lets out a quiet breath as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to the space between your cheek and your ear - softly inhaling your scent, a private little indulgence.

“I ought to fucking know better,” he mutters against your skin, but here’s no bite in it, only fondness and amused surrender. The kind of affection reserved for someone who keeps getting away with it… because he wants them to.

As he steps back, his ringed hand slips from your waist to your ass, delivering a firm little swat that makes you gasp and laugh.

“Minx,” he mutters dryly under his breath - like its fact.

And fuck if you don’t already want to do it all over again.

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formulapierre · 26 days ago

Text

Hi!

Ok so, never written a fanfic before! I've got something in the works... and I'd like your honest, unfiltered opinion on how I can improve it. Seriously. I haven't written so much as a story in like 8 years. This gal is horrificly out of practice.

So even if this is not a character you like or even a fandom you're interested in,, please please give it a read anyway. I'm hoping that if this fic turns out ok, that I can do some Top Gun fics.

Anyway. Enough stalling from me. I'm nervous someone punch me in the neck or give me a forehead kiss idk.

CW: talk of weed that's it

also no title because then it's real!

"Raymond? What are you doing here?!" she excitedly exclaimed, standing up on her tip-toes to throw her arms around him. "Y/n?" He breathed, a soft smile complimenting her blinding grin. Placing a hand on her lower back, relishing in having her pressed up against him- if only for a brief moment. "I'm here on... business." He tells her gently, casting a glance at his employer. A look of realisation graces her face as she turns toward the elegant couple standing beside them. "Oh you must be the Pearson's! It's lovely to meet you both!" Extending a warm smile and a handshake to the pair. Raymond clears his throat, "This is Y/n," he explains, glancing down at her, a gentle smile on his face reserved only for her. "We met at university."

"Well any friend of Raymond's is certainly a friend of ours." His boss says kindly, wrapping his arm around his wife. Raymond turns to look at Y/n, "Darlin' what are you doing here?" Mickey's eyebrows shoot up as he glances at his now smirking wife. "Well, you remember the arts program I've been trying to get funding for, for like forever?" A nod of agreement pushes her to continue. "A member of the board of governs invited me to charm the socks off a bunch of old fucks, who really don't give a shit about getting disadvantaged youth into the arts." She looks suddenly at the couple infront of her "No offence!" She breathes hurriedly, whilst they shake their heads amusedly. "Any luck so far?" Raymond asks. "No," She sighs "But the night is still young!" She jokes. "I wish the principle could've come instead, this isn't really my scene" She explains while gesturing at herself, feeling like a sore thumb in her second-hand dress. Raymond casts an almost imperceivable glance down at her, appreciating the way the dress clings to her in all the right places. Blinking, he looks back up only to be caught by Ros' raised eyebrow and shit eating grin. "So tell me, Y/n, how did you and Raymond meet at Uni?"

Sending him a seemingly innocent smile she replies, "Ray was in my favourite student punk-rock band. One look at those liberty spikes and we've been friends ever since." "That is not true!" He defends, a light dusting of pink smattered across his cheeks while laughter rolls through the group. "Kidding!" She chuckles, wrapping a hand around his annoying thick bicep. "No we were placed in the same accommodation-" "Grubby fuckin' place" He grumbles. "-and one of our housemates was blasting music at like two in the morning, so I did what any normal person would do," pointedly looking at the man beside her, "knocked on the door, politely asked them to lower the volume because I had an exam on 'Conflict Resolution In The Classroom' the next day, and they turned the volume up even louder!" She exclaimed. "Next thing I know, Ray shows up with a fuckin' baseball bat, pounding on the door- nearly trampled the kid down N' throws his sound system out of the third floor window!"

"That's how the two of became friends?" Mickey asks, looking between the pair, bewildered. "Well that and I was her dealer." Raymond replied, shooting her a small smirk. "Best dealer I ever had, didn't have to pay for a thing." She smiled back at him, desperately trying to ignore the way her breath hitches as he mirrors her smile. "Ray's such a good friend, isn't he?" Mickey drawls grinning as Ros snorts in laughter, quickly covering it up as a cough.

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formulapierre · 26 days ago

Text

Our Own Place

Raymond Smith x gn!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Raymond's always going to protect you OR you and Ray (unsuccessfully) dream of a life outside of work.

Word count: ~1.8k

Warnings: Suggestiveness, canon-typical violence and swearing (a LOT of swearing), fluff.

A/n: This is for @bellaxgiornata's 4k follower celebration! Getting this in right at the buzzer lol. Congrats on the followers, and everyone should go read her work! (Only if you love amazing writing). My prompt is “Are you serious right now? You're bleeding!”

Thanks for reading!

—

The plan had gone right to fucking shit. It was meant to be simple. Easy. Discreet. You and Raymond were meant to meet with one of Mickey’s lords — let him know about some men coming onto the property next week and give him some extra incentive to pretend he never saw them.

The drive has started normally enough.

“Ray?” you said from the passenger seat. You leaned back against the headrest, eyeing his beautiful side profile as he drove. You didn’t think you’d ever tire of this view.

Raymond merely hummed in response, eyes focused on the road. Though his hand lying warmly on your thigh gave a squeeze.

“We should get a place out here one day.” You’d turned your head to take in the green hills and open space. Away from the constant stress of work.

“Is that so?” he asked, and you saw him look at you from the corner of your eye. You could hear the smile in his voice, the hope for such a life.

You let out a wistful sigh, a bit dramatically. “Yeah, just a place for us. No work. No guns. No Fletcher.” You let out a small laugh alongside his. “A house where we could worry about just us. We’d be happy. Alone,” you added on.

Ray’s smile grew wider. “Hmm, alone? Now what would you want to do alone, love?”

Biting your lip, you trailed your hand along his thigh. You reveled in the feeling of the hard muscles tense beneath your touch.

“Love…” Ray warned when your palm inched higher and you leaned over to press your lips to his neck.

As you pulled away to make some comment about pulling off to the side of the road, you both caught the movement in the rear view mirror.

A large black vehicle appeared in the distance, quickly speeding toward you. Ray’s whole body went tense as your hand stilled. You were minutes away from the lord’s estate as the car sped closer. Much too close for either of your liking.

“Ray…” you muttered.

“I know.” He always knew, was always on top of everything. In both his work and in his relationship with you. Which is why this car was such an anomaly to him. And why you couldn’t help moving your hand to cover his, trying to use that touch to ground you from the uneasiness in your gut. With your other hand, you reached down to the gun by your side.

Ray’s eyes flicked between the road and the mirror as it drove right up behind your car, nearly rear ending it. You watched from the side mirror, a thick swallow passed down your throat.

The car began to pull out from behind you and up alongside yours. It drove almost erratically, swerving back and forth until it scraped along the side of your car. And again, but harder. You held onto the car as it rocked back and forth. Ray gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning sheer white.

“You know them?” you asked, hating the way your voice wavered just a bit. You ignored the quick glance from Raymond, instead staring at the vehicle. Their blacked out windows showed nothing but your own reflection.

You’d been in situations like this, but never with Raymond. Not since you began dating. And that scared the shit out of you. He was the most capable right-hand man there was, but if he got hurt…

“If I had to make a guess,” Ray muttered, his gaze going to an old barn sitting off the road, “I’d say it was the fuckin’ Russians again. They’re goddamn hydra cunts trying to get rid of ‘em.”

After the one more hit from the black car, Ray jerked the wheel to pull off the road toward the barn. He came to a screeching stop next to it, sending your body forward. He didn’t want to take any potential fight to the lord.

And a fucking fight there was. The car followed closely after, and the instant you stopped, you heard shouting — in Russian.

Goddamn it.

Just as you and Ray grabbed your guns, the first shot rang out. You and Ray jumped as a bullet hit off the side of your car.

“Shit!”

As men left the car, their guns aimed at you, Ray turned toward his window. Quietly, he said, “Stay hidden and stay low. And don’t you fuckin’ die on me, love.” His eyes never left the group of men.

“I love you too,” you breathed out, giving him one last glance before reaching for your door handle.

In an instant, Ray opened his window, turning and firing several bullets at them. That gave you cover to open your door and slink out. You kept low and quickly rounded the side of the barn.

Each shot echoed in your ears. You couldn’t help but listen in between the shots for any sign of Raymond getting hit. Moving around the barn, you held your gun firm in front of you, waiting for men to come around the side.

And sure enough, the second one of them appeared, you pulled the trigger. You weren’t sure he even saw you before his body hit the ground. You attempted to keep your breathing even, focused, but the rapid beating in your chest suffocated you.

Continuing forward, you tried reassuring yourself that Ray was a tough man to kill. The two of you would kill these bastards and get on with the plan — even with a bullet-ridden car now. Mickey wouldn’t be pleased, but you’d both be alive.

But any relief you had disappeared when you finally heard Ray again. The shooting had quieted before his sharp groan shot into the air, followed by “Fuck.”

You moved faster, pushing away any thoughts of the worst-case scenario. You’d trained for this, and you’d be dead before you let any of these men fucking breathe again. More shots and grunts rang out, but then it died into silence.

Finally, their car came into view. Your eyes scanned back and forth for any movement, but you saw nothing. Had Ray killed them all?

Peeking around the corner, you quietly thanked the heavens when you saw his all-too familiar figure appear from behind your car. Your body relaxed until you saw him closer. Air escaped your lungs as if you’d been punched in the gut.

As he was walking toward you, you could see a slithering trail of crimson snaking down from his temple. And when his jacket moved with his steps, you caught a glimpse of the growing patch of red staining through the side of his white shirt.

Your body had begun to move without a second thought, trying to meet him halfway, but a shower of debris exploded right next to your head. A bullet smashed through the wall inches from you.

You quickly ducked when you heard Ray shout, “You right fuckin’ cunt!”

He shot back at the man, giving you cover, but you could’ve vomited when you heard the horrible clicking noise of Ray’s gun. He’d run out of bullets.

Standing up, your gaze locked on the Russian. He stood behind his car, raising his gun at Ray, and all you saw was red. Blood rushed past your ears until you couldn’t hear anything else. He didn’t have time to aim when you emptied three bullets into his body.

You barely waited for him to hit the ground before running to Raymond. He had a wild look flickering across his eyes, but all you could focus on was the blood.

You didn’t even get a word out as a drowning urge to start crying hit you like a wave.

“Love, are you okay?” he asked, his hands and gaze raking across your body for any injuries. Your face sunk into a deep frown as you eyed him, catching the bloody mess of his knuckles too.

Instead of answering, you spat out, “Are you serious right now? You're bleeding!” Pushing his hands off of your body, you pulled back his jacket to look at the cut soaking through his shirt. Did he need a hospital? Was he bleeding out?

“It’s just a light graze. Are you okay?” he asked again, his voice pleading but firm this time, leaving no room for negotiation or distraction. His hands landed on your shoulders, making sure you focused on his question.

You nodded your head, bringing your eyes back up to his. Gritting your teeth in an attempt to push back the tears, you brought a hand up to the blood splattering his face. “Are you okay?” you asked, your other hand grabbing onto his good side. And before you could stop it, you began rambling through weak sobs.

“You’re so selfish for taking on all of them while I went around. You could’ve gotten shot, or killed Ray. Oh my god, what would I do then? I can’t even think abou-”

His lips pressed against yours, stopping your panicked rambles in their place. His kiss was gentle, keeping you right there in his arms. His fingers curled around your jaw, the pads of them cradling the back of your head. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or his mouth, but your body leaned into his with a tired relief.

He pulled back, just barely, while swiping away your stray tears, and said, “I’m okay, love. And I would do it all again if it meant you were safe. Okay?”

You nodded, and when he still looked at you, waiting for your response, you breathed out, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeated, letting out a long breath. He then stepped back, grabbing the gun from your hand to shoot another bullet into the last man’s body. Raymond Smith wasn’t an emotional man, but that cunt had shot at you.

And with a wry smile, you wrapped your hand over his and shot another for good measure. Ray kissed you again, more forceful this time, nipping at your bottom lip. When he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, he muttered, “Now let me call Dave and Bunny to clean this up.”

Shaking his head, he added, “I oughtta burn these bastards for even looking at ya. And for ruining my fuckin shirt.”

At that, your mouth grew into a small smile. You let him grab your hand and guide him away from the evidence of what you both just did. You’d seen it all, but Ray’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take care of you. Maybe he’d buy that place out here sooner than he thought.

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formulapierre · 27 days ago

Text

Winner Takes All

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd/Reader

Summary: Reader is at the base to write an article, everyone's betting if Bob would get a kiss. The squad doesn't know they're already married.

Author's Note: This is part of the Brain Itch Series. Where the fics are very broken and have no start or end but stories that I just wanted out of my system.

Bob didn’t wear his ring on his finger. He always worried that he might lose it. But it was always on a chain around his neck. It was long enough that no one could see it and he didn’t like sharing about it either. Because all things considered, Bob was a possessive motherfucker who didn’t like telling anyone about you. Because what if someone got nosy and wanted to know you more? He couldn't blame them, though. You were simply that amazing.

However, when the conversation came up that there was a possibility that the current Top Gun crew was to be interviewed and their very curated achievements were to be shared with the general public, he couldn’t help but mention you. The war correspondent who had won prizes and was in the running for a Pulitzer.

Of course, he didn’t tell how he knew you. Just that he thought you would do a good job.

And now here you were.

Sitting in The Hard Deck, scribbling notes, watching officers around.

The place was packed. It was bodies against bodies but no one was complaining. Everyone was dancing to a different rhythm but they all seemed to be enjoying it. You were taking in the atmosphere and writing it down in small bullets on your notepad.

. Continue Reading. . . . Fic Masterlist.

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formulapierre · 27 days ago

Text

The Flame That Never Fades - chapter 3 - Shameless (3/16)

pairing: Toto Wolff x Victoria Lorenz (Original Character)

summary: She's young, fiery, naive and blindly in love. He's older, married, powerful and dangerously irresistible. To him, she was an obsession, an escape, a desire. To her, he was everything. The Flame that Never Fades is a story of forbidden love in the world of Formula 1, born from lust… and ending in something that can never be undone.

warnings: age gap (28 years), forbidden romance, obsession, desire, dark romance, smut, infidelity, emotional manipulation, dominant older man, angst, longing, possessiveness, emotional pain, toxic dynamics, no promise for happy ending.

word count: 37k

read on: AO3 - Wattpad - Tumblr

====================

my other finished fanfiction: The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC]

====================

chapters until now:

Prologue 1: Middle of the Night 2: Frozen 3: Shameless ============================

Chapter 3: Shameless

Say it louder, say it louder Who's gonna love you like me? Say it louder, say it louder Who's gonna touch you like me? Ooh, said you wanna be good but you couldn't keep your composure Ooh, said you wanna be good but you're begging me to come over Ooh, come over Ooh, saying who's gonna fuck you like me? I don't wanna hurt you but you live for the pain I'm not tryna say it but it's what you became You want me to fix you but it's never enough That's why you always call me cause you're scared to be loved Shamelles - Sofia Karlberg (the Weeknd cover)

Brackley, Mercedes Headquarters – Two Months Later, February

The air smelled of freshly polished aluminum, brand-new electronics, and... tension. The Brackley factory buzzed with life like a beehive. Engineers darted about with tablets in hand, prototype parts waited for approval, and the drivers' new suits hung neatly in the locker room, ready for the next chapter. The 2025 season was just around the corner.

Victoria walked through the main doors without a word. Dressed in a black Mercedes tracksuit, her hair tied up high, sunglasses on—even indoors. Not because she wanted to look intimidating. But because she preferred no one saw her eyes. Especially he.

She knew he would be there. Toto was always in the factory for the first simulator tests, always personally overseeing team coordination, initial briefings, and strategy syncs.

And they both knew the moment would come when they'd see each other again.

But they passed like strangers.

Their eyes didn't meet. She looked at the floor. He stared at the phone screen in his hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his silhouette: the same suit, the same assured stride—but his face... it seemed dimmer. Or maybe it was just her, refusing to see any light left in it.

"Good morning," he said into the room during the morning briefing, not looking at anyone in particular.

"Good morning, boss," she replied, as always—but without a hint of the playful tension that used to dance beneath her words. Now her voice was flat. Professional. Lifeless.

They only spoke in front of the team. About data. Braking modes. The steering wheel.

Never about that night. Never about emotions. Never about them.

They avoided each other with the same precision as the engineering they built together.

During the lunch break, Victoria sat in a corner of the canteen, pushing pasta around her plate with a fork. She spoke quietly with the chief aero engineer, scribbling something on a napkin. She didn't glance toward the executive office. But she felt it. Felt that damn familiar tension whenever he was near.

Toto watched her from behind the tinted glass of his office. Saw how much she had changed. How far she had withdrawn. How walls had risen within her—walls that hadn't been there before that night. Or maybe they had, and he hadn't noticed, too busy trying to tear them down.

He wanted to go to her. To say something. Maybe that she looked good. Maybe that he'd missed her. Maybe that... But he couldn't.

The rules. The spotlight. The rumors. Susie.

And the fact that he still tasted her on his lips, still heard his name in her voice when she climaxed.

That evening, after the simulations wrapped, Victoria walked past his office on her way out. Notes in her hands, a bag slung over her shoulder. She paused for a moment. She didn't know why. Maybe part of her hoped the door would open. That she'd hear her name.

But she heard nothing.

She pressed her lips together and walked on.

And on the other side of the door, Toto stood still, his hand on the handle. He knew it was her. He felt it. But he didn't open.

Because they both knew one thing — that night hadn't been the end of their story.

It had simply been suspended— between the heart and reason.

And with each day, it hurt more.

The first race of the season, March, Bahrain Circuit

From the very first seconds, it all promised perfection.

Victoria was starting from pole position. Her reaction was instant, aligned with the flash of green on the lights. She left the rest of the field behind—precise, flawless, composed like a machine. While commentators marveled at her technique, Victoria barely heard the radio calls.

By the third lap, something happened— The display on her steering wheel went dark.

"Victoria, confirm," came her engineer's voice. "We're losing data from your dash?"

"I can't see anything. I'm flying blind. I feel everything, but I see nothing."

But she didn't slow down. She drove by instinct, by sound, by the tension in her wrists. She knew this circuit like her own body. And even without data, she was faster than anyone. She was going to win this. It was supposed to be her day.

Then came the call for an early pit stop. A bad decision. A stupid one. Driven by panic and mistranslated telemetry. And then—a mistake in the pit lane. A mechanic dropped a wheel nut. She lost over nine seconds. In Formula 1, that's a lifetime.

She returned to the track in tenth.

Rage boiled in her like fire. She chased—aggressively, precisely. Clawed her way back to fifth. But when she crossed the finish line, she felt nothing.

It was supposed to be a victory. Hers.

After everything. After the winter. After he left.

Instead—it was failure.

She didn't look at her engineer. Didn't answer a single journalist. Didn't stop for anyone. She walked straight to the drivers' room. To the quiet, closed space where only she remained— with her fury. And her sorrow.

She peeled the suit down to her hips, left in just her sports bra and briefs. Sat on the floor, knees tucked under her chin.

And then... tears. Muted. Soundless. But burning her throat to the very end.

In the race that was meant to be her grand return, her triumph, her declaration of strength— she'd been brutally betrayed.

By the team. By the data. By him.

"I shouldn't care this much..." she whispered to herself. "It's just a race..."

But no. It was everything. Her whole identity, her entire journey. Her heart.

"Victoria...?"

Toto.

She heard his voice before the door even opened. She didn't have time to wipe her tears. Didn't have time to hide her emotions.

He stood in the doorway. And she sat there—soul stripped bare, furious like never before.

"Get out," she said sharply, without looking at him.

"We need to talk."

"I said: get out!."

He closed the door behind him, stood still.

"I won't leave. Not until you tell me to my face what you're really thinking."

She stood slowly, as if it took effort. Turned to him— pale, pupils blown wide, eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall.

"You think I don't see what's happening? That I don't notice how you avoid me, how you look everywhere but at me? That I'm just supposed to accept that I gave myself to you and you... you treated it like a moment of weakness?!"

"That's not what it was—" he began, but she stormed up to him and slapped her open palm against his chest.

"Then what?! Tell me what it was!" she shouted, hitting him again. "Because I don't know if for you I was a stupid girl, naiwe woman, a fucking mistake — or just a break from the boring life you have with your wife!"

Toto grabbed her wrists, held her hands still, eyes locked with hers—eyes full of pain that needed no translation.

"You're not a mistake," he said softly.

She fell silent. Stopped struggling. Her breath quickened, eyes glistened with tears.

"Then why did you leave me?"

"Because I'm scared. Because you're everything I'm not supposed to want. You're too young. Almost thirty years younger... too intense. You're fire—and I have a family. A home. A little boy who calls you Auntie Vici. A wife who trusts you."

"But it was me you kissed that night," she whispered, stepping closer.

"Me you touched. Me you wanted. So don't talk to me about reason now—because reason was the first to walk out of this room."

He closed his eyes, trying to pull away. But her scent, her voice, her presence— they were a trap he couldn't escape.

Then she touched his cheek. Gently. Intentionally.

"Tell me the truth, Toto. Do you think about me?"

"All the time," he said before he could stop himself. "I think about how you looked beneath me. How tight you were. Warm. How you trembled under my touch."

Her breath hitched.

"Say it in Polish," she whispered.

He looked into her eyes, then cupped her face in both hands.

"I can't love you..." he whispered. "But I can't stop wanting you. You're my sin. And my hunger."

And then they were on each other again. Passion needed no invitation.

Her body was aflame — with anger, with longing, with desire. His — taut with months of tension he didn't know how to release. Their kisses were a clash of worlds, of two torn souls.

Toto pressed her against the wall, his hands gripping her thighs, then sliding up — to her waist, her breasts. He pulled off her top, yanked down her panties. Unbuckled his pants, breathing heavily. She wrapped her legs around him, desperate for closeness.

He entered her in one motion — deep, hard — just the way she'd missed it, just the way he had. Roughly, wildly, but with a fire that had been burning for so long she let out a moan and dug her nails into his shoulders.

"You're only mine, do you hear?" he whispered in Polish, lowering his mouth to her neck. "Only mine. No one will ever touch you like I do."

"Toto..." she moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Don't stop, please..."

They made love like wildfire, on the edge of pain and ecstasy. With their bodies, they spilled everything they couldn't say aloud. He panted into her ear:

"You're everything I can't have. But you are my flame..."

Even after it all, they stayed entwined. Bodies pressed against the cold wall, heated only by each other, by a desire without boundaries, by pain that had pierced through skin down to the bone.

Toto didn't move. He held her tightly, still deep inside, as if letting go would shatter something that could never be mended again. Their breaths tangled, quick and heavy, full of tears neither had cried.

Victoria wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. She trembled. Not from the cold — from the knowledge that this closeness was fragile as glass.

Toto pulled back just enough to brush her temple with his lips. Then her cheek. Then her nape.

"My wild, fiery girl..." he whispered in Polish, with a tenderness that startled even him.

Her body shivered, hands sliding down his back.

"You're so beautiful... so warm..." he murmured, kissing the line of her jaw, then letting his mouth wander along her neck. "So damn real..."

Victoria sighed, still taking in his touch, still feeling him inside her. They remained in that moment as if the world outside the wall didn't exist.

But then Toto closed his eyes. And whispered what had to be said.

"I can't love you, Vici..." His voice was quiet, broken. "I won't leave Susie. I can't. That's... that's my home. My life."

She froze.

She had known. Always known. But hearing it aloud... it hurt more than anything she'd ever lived through.

Slowly, she pulled back and looked into his eyes.

"I'm not asking you to."

"But you have to know that... that this won't change. That it'll always be just... a moment. An escape. Never a future."

She stayed silent for a long while, then leaned closer, pressing her forehead to his.

"Then be my escape," she whispered. "Be this moment. Just be."

"Victoria..."

"I don't want your love, not if you can't give it. I want you. Like this. Tender. Present. Real. Even if only for a moment."

His hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing away the trace of a tear.

"Little one... my wild girl..."

"Just now, Toto," she whispered. "Not tomorrow. Not when you go back to her. Just here. With me."

He held her tighter. And again, he kissed her neck — slower this time, full of unspoken gratitude. For her permission. For her understanding. For still wanting him, even knowing the truth.

They stayed together for a long time. Slowly rocking in rhythm with their breaths. He — inside her. She — open, quiet, at peace.

And then he whispered one more word. The truest of them all. It didn't mean "love" — but it came close.

"I need you."

"I know," she replied. "I need you too."

And from that moment — it was no longer just a night.

It was the beginning of a hidden flame no one had the right to extinguish.

***

The weeks passed like races — fast, brutal, leaving no time to breathe. Each Grand Prix unfolded under the weight of tension. Results, briefings, telemetry, media pressure... But beneath the facade of professionalism, hidden in glances, gestures, and moments of silence, something more was alive.

Something that had no right to exist.

Toto and Victoria played the roles of perfect professionals. She — focused, precise, seemingly unshakable. He — as always composed, analytical, commanding. To everyone else, they were the team principal and his golden driver — perfectly in sync on track.

No one knew that at night their bodies sought each other in urgency. That sometimes they stumbled into hotel rooms without a word, like two predators — greedy, desperate. That after every debrief, their hands brushed "accidentally," that their gazes spoke more than any speech could.

No one knew that afterward, when they were spent and tangled in each other, Toto never stayed. He left. Returned to Susie. To Jack. To the family he built — and would never abandon.

And Victoria?

She stayed alone. In silence. Sometimes with his shirt. Sometimes with his kiss still on her lips.

But it was enough. For now.

Because each visit from him was like breath. Like a flicker of life in the dead days. Because even if in the morning he returned to a world where there was no place for her — by night, he was hers alone.

Sometimes, when they lay curled together, his body still trembling inside hers, he whispered softly into her ear:

"My wild girl... so soft, so beautiful..."

"You're mine. Only mine."

And she listened, as if every word was a touch. Held him tightly, as if trying to memorize him. Even though she knew he would never be hers.

She knew Susie and Jack were his life. That if everything fell apart, he would always choose them. And she... would remain only a memory.

And sometimes, when she came back to her apartment alone — to the empty walls, to the bed that still smelled of his skin — she felt like a thief. Because she was stealing something that was never hers to take.

There were moments when the guilt burned so deeply she couldn't sleep.

She thought of Susie — her smile, her trust, how she had once called Victoria part of the family. She thought of Jack, who said he wanted to be fast like "Auntie Vici." She thought of how she was betraying not just the woman who had helped her... but the child who loved her.

But then Toto would come again. And again he would whisper in her ear that he couldn't breathe without her. That she was his night. That only with her did he stop feeling dead.

And again, she agreed. To the shadows. To being a secret. To being a moment.

Because if that was the only form of love she could ever get from him — she took it with her whole being.

Each night. Each cry. Each breath between kisses that meant: stay, while you still can.

-----------

Next -> chapter 4: Lilith

-----------

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formulapierre · 29 days ago

Text

The Flame That Never Fades - chapter 1 - Middle of The Night (1/16)

pairing: Toto Wolff x Victoria Lorenz (Original Character)

word count: 37k

read on: AO3 - Wattpad - Tumblr

====================

my other finished fanfiction: The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC]

====================

chapters until now:

Prologue Chapter 1: Middle of the Night

============================

Chapter 1: Middle of the Night

I summoned you, please come to me Don't bury thoughts that you really want I fill you up, drink from my cup Within me lies what you really want (...) In the middle of the night, in the middle of the night Just call my name, I'm yours to tame In the middle of the night, in the middle of the night I'm wide awake, I crave your taste All night long 'til morning comes I'm getting what is mine, you gon' get yours, oh no, ooh In the middle of the night, in the middle of the night, oh Middle of the Night - Elley Duhé

Abu Dhabi, December

The light of the floodlights reflected off the golden trophy she held in her hands, as if she still couldn't quite believe it truly belonged to her. Her race suit was sticky with champagne, glitter clung to her long, light hair, and on her lips — a smile so wide it nearly broke your heart.

World Champion.

Mercedes' Diamond. The Queen of the Track.

Incredible, unpredictable, wickedly fast.

Toto stood a few steps away, shoulder to shoulder with Susie. He looked at Victoria with pride — the kind usually reserved for one's own child — but beneath that pride stirred something he couldn't name. Something that had been growing inside him for months. Perhaps even years.

"It looks like we've just created a legend," Susie said, gently touching his arm. "And she... she really is extraordinary."

Toto nodded but said nothing. His gaze never left Victoria.

The crowd cheered, music blasted, champagne poured in rivers. Everyone was celebrating — engineers, mechanics, sponsors. It was a night of euphoria. Fulfillment.

But in Victoria's eyes, there was something more than just joy. When no one was looking, she dimmed for a moment, as if the weight of her success was greater than she had expected. Toto noticed. He always noticed.

With each passing hour, the party grew more chaotic. Susie, exhausted but happy, said her goodbyes shortly after midnight.

"I'll walk her," Toto offered.

"Victoria?" Susie raised an amused eyebrow. "You better keep an eye on her. She might have overdone it a bit."

"I know."

Susie kissed his cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

Toto approached Victoria, who was standing by the balustrade, holding a glass and staring at the night lights of Abu Dhabi. Her cheeks were flushed with alcohol, her gaze distant. She didn't notice when he came closer.

"That was a great race," he said softly. "You gave it everything."

Victoria turned her head. Her blue eyes shimmered in the light.

"Maybe that's why it hurts more than I thought."

"It hurts?" he asked gently.

"Because I have no one to truly share it with," she whispered. "Because my parents don't see it. Because..." she trailed off. "Because I'm a world champion, and yet I still feel... empty."

Toto looked at her for a long moment. Without speaking. Then he took the glass from her hand and set it on the nearby table.

"Come. Time to go back."

They walked together to the hotel lobby. Victoria's steps wobbled in her high heels, sometimes laughing, sometimes falling into silence. When they reached her room, she stopped at the door and looked at him intently. She stood close — too close. Her scent — a mix of champagne, leather, and something achingly feminine — hit him harder than it should have.

"Thank you for staying," she said softly. "For everything. For not leaving me when I was nobody. If it weren't you..."

"If it weren't you, you wouldn't be here. Don't take that away from yourself."

She bit her lip and then, before he could step back, wrapped her arms around him. Tightly. Her arms locked around his neck as if she was afraid that letting go would make everything fall apart. It lasted too long to be just a friendly embrace. Too long for something fatherly.

Toto felt her body pressed against his — warm, soft, fragrant. And he felt his own body respond. Powerfully.

"Victoria..." he murmured, but he couldn't pull away.

She looked at him up close. Her eyes were glistening, burning.

"You know what's the worst part?" she whispered. "That I can't pretend anymore. That every night I think about you. And I hate myself for it."

Toto opened his mouth, but no words came.

Then she placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was timid, but sure.

"It doesn't mean anything, right? I'm just the girl without a family to you."

"Don't say that."

"It's true, boss..." she said with a sad smile.

And then, under the weight of alcohol and emotion, Victoria simply did it.

She brought her lips to his, shyly, as if afraid she wouldn't be accepted. She kissed him gently, tenderly, as if all her love, longing, and pain were contained in that one touch. It was a kiss full of uncertainty — and hope.

Toto froze. His heart stopped for a moment, and then... he couldn't hold back. For a second he didn't understand what was happening, but then he felt it all — her warmth, her torment, her desire.

Surprised, he returned the kiss, pulling her into him, feeling her body melt into his. His hands unconsciously tightened around her back, and his breath grew heavier, steadier. Against all reason and every rule, Toto let himself be swept away.

The kiss deepened, grew more passionate, and she surrendered to it fully, as if all her doubts had fallen away. Toto felt himself stop thinking, losing control, forgetting everything around him. In that moment, there was only them — him and her. Two souls who, for a heartbeat, could forget the world.

When they finally pulled away, they were both breathless. Victoria looked at him, her lips slightly chapped, her eyes filled with fear and surprise.

"What now?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Toto had no answer. No words.

He simply looked at her — and felt, in that moment, that he couldn't pull away.

There was no turning back now.

Their lips met again — this time with no hesitation. Deeper, fiercer. As if they could drown in that kiss everything they weren't allowed to feel. Victoria melted into him with a trembling sigh, her fingers wandering uncertainly along the collar of his shirt, as though searching for support — or courage.

Toto broke away from her lips only to trail his mouth across her cheek, her temple, down to her neck. He felt her pulse beneath his tongue — fast, fluttering, alive. He tasted her carefully, tenderly, yet with a hunger that had long slipped beyond his control.

His hands roamed her back, her sides, until they settled on her waist. He pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress. Victoria let out a soft moan, not from pain — but from relief, as if she'd been waiting for this touch her entire life.

Their kisses grew hotter, consumed by a need that no longer knew any bounds. Toto slowly began unzipping her dress, and Victoria, her heart pounding, raised her arms, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

She stood before him in delicate lace lingerie, her eyes — blue, deep — unwavering.

"Are you sure?" Toto whispered, struggling against reason.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she answered softly, touching his cheek.

That was all it took.

He hesitated for the briefest moment — and then his hand slid between her thighs, and the world began to spin.

His mouth returned to her skin — her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders. His fingers wandered over her body, exploring every inch with tenderness, as if learning her by heart. And she... she gave herself to him completely. Without fear. Without restraint. Eyes closed, lips whispering his name.

He was confident, in control, commanding. He left no room for doubt. He taught her his rhythm — one that their bodies followed instinctively. And she absorbed every movement, every breath, every moan.

When he entered her, she gasped, parted her lips, and froze — startled by the intensity, the ache, the pleasure. He held her hips, firm, steady. Moved within her like a man who knew the female body and his own strength — and it was that strength that made her feel safe in the madness.

With every thrust, he pushed past boundaries she never knew she had.

And when he began to speak to her in German — low, commanding — the foreign words wrapped around her like a spell, binding her completely:

Schau mich an

Sag meinen Namen

Nur mir gehörst du

It was her first time — he felt it in the way she trembled, in the breath she held when his hands reached deeper. But there was no shame in her.

Only trust. Only love — unspoken, but pouring from every part of her being.

Toto knew he should stop.

He should pull away. He had a wife. A child. He was her boss. Her mentor. A man twenty-eight years older.

But nothing was as it should be anymore.

With every second, with every roll of her hips, every sigh that spilled from her lips, he lost himself more.

In her body. In her scent. In the tenderness of her gaze — as if he were her whole world.

Her body welcomed him with a trust no one had ever given him. It called to him, guided him, consumed him. And he... surrendered without a fight. The softness of her skin. The warmth that wrapped around him. And the way she trembled in his arms, whispering his name — it tore him apart from the inside.

Her body was an instrument, and he played her with precision, with passion, with wildness.

When she came, she moaned his name from trembling lips, and he buried his face in her neck, breath ragged, still inside her — as if he didn't want the moment to end.

Then came one breath. Long. Heavy. Quiet.

Then came the thoughts. It's absurd. It's wrong. It's betrayal. Not love.

But when Victoria threaded her fingers through his hair and whispered his name — again and again, eyes dazed, heart bared — there was no Susie, no Jack, no world outside the fire, the flame that burned between them.

And he burned with it.

***

She lay in his arms, naked, wrapped in the warmth of his body, still trembling from what had just happened. Her head rested on his chest, and her fingers slowly traced the lines of his torso—the same hands that only moments ago had clung to him with desperate devotion. Every touch was a prayer. Every kiss—a fulfillment of all the unspoken dreams.

It had been her first time. She had given him everything. Her whole self. Her soul, her heart, her body. With the love she had carried inside her for years. She didn't feel pain. She felt only him. And it was beautiful. For a brief moment, she truly believed she could be more than just a girl without a family. That she could be... his, and he hers.

They were silent. Only their still ragged breaths echoed off the walls of the hotel room.

"Toto?" she whispered, lifting her head. She smiled faintly. "Are you here?"

He didn't answer.

He clenched his jaw. His hand, which just moments earlier had been resting on her hip, slowly slipped away. He turned onto his side. Sat up. Silent. As if something inside him had suddenly gone dark.

Victoria rose, propped on her elbow, naked and full of sudden doubt.

"Is everything okay?"

He didn't look at her. His gaze was fixed somewhere on the carpet, lost in the emptiness that was swallowing him whole.

"I shouldn't have..." he said quietly. His voice was deep, strained.

Her heart froze.

"Toto..." she whispered, feeling the fire within her extinguish in a heartbeat.

He stood, turned his back to her, reached for his shirt.

"It was a mistake. A huge mistake."

Her breath caught halfway through.

"A mistake?"

He looked at her for a moment. And that one moment was enough.

There was no more desire in his eyes. No tenderness. Just guilt. Fear. And something else—that cold, impenetrable "this should never have happened."

She felt her body tremble. Not from cold, but from pain. From disappointment. From a heart torn apart—one that had just rested in his hands and now lay crushed beneath his feet.

She wrapped herself in the sheets, trying not to show the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"To me, it wasn't a mistake," she whispered. "It was... it was the first time I felt truly alive. Like I was... loved."

Toto looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said, but his voice sounded distant. Detached. As if he were saying it to himself, not to her. "I shouldn't have."

And before she could say anything — before she could ask if it had all just been desire — he got dressed and left without a word. He was gone.

Just like that.

He closed the door behind him and left her alone — in the warm bed, with a shattered heart, with a body still pulsing from his touch.

He had possessed her that night. Her body. Her thoughts. Her soul.

And then... he disappeared.

And for the first time in a very long while, Victoria truly felt like an orphan.

***

The door clicked shut behind him. No words. No glance. No goodbye.

Victoria sat motionless, still wrapped in the bedsheet that only moments ago had smelled of his skin, his cologne, his warmth. Now it all burned—the pillows, the sheets, her own body. Every inch he had touched seemed to scream.

She was alone. Naked. In every sense of the word.

In the first few seconds, she tried to understand. To replay it all—his gaze, his touch, the whispered words, the way he held her. She thought maybe he would come back. That the door would open again and he'd say he couldn't stay away. That he was scared. That it had meant something to him too.

But minutes passed. And the door remained closed.

She felt something inside her begin to break—first softly, like a fine crack across glass. Then deeper. Sharper. As if she were shattering completely.

She clenched the edge of the sheet, digging her nails into the fabric, as if it could stop the pain. But nothing could. Because it wasn't just rejection. It was something more.

It was a betrayal of trust. She had believed it meant something. That he had felt it too. For that one moment—when he kissed her so hungrily, so tenderly, as if she was all that mattered—she felt like she mattered to him.

And now? Now she was nothing more than a mistake.

A misstep he should never have made.

And yet she had given him everything. Everything. She had given herself completely—body, soul, heart. He had been her first. And somewhere in her irrational, stupidly naive heart, she thought it would mean something. That it would change something.

But the only thing that changed... was the silence he left behind. Icy. Unbearable.

She felt the tears running down her cheeks. She didn't scream. She didn't throw anything at the walls. She just sat there, letting the silence consume it all.

Whispering just one sentence like a prayer.

"I shouldn't have..."

And she repeated it over and over again.

But not about him. About herself.

***

The door closed softly behind him, but the echo of it slamming shut seemed to reverberate inside him for a long time. In his chest, in the pulse at his temple, in every thought now collapsing like a house of cards.

They had been walking the edge together for months. He had felt it.

He felt it every time she looked at him with that spark in her eyes — the one she couldn't hide. He felt it in the way she joked with feigned nonchalance, in the way her gaze lingered too long on his, in the way her body subtly tensed whenever he touched her by accident.

He'd been a fool to ignore it. But a bigger fool now. Because he had let that moment consume him. He had let need, desire, loneliness, and the hunger for something... alive, something real, drown out his reason.

He had betrayed Susie.

But worse — He had betrayed Victoria.

He stood in the empty hotel corridor, breathing faster, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

He couldn't go back to his room. Not now. Not to the bed where Susie, the woman who had been his anchor, his light, his home for years now lay asleep.

How could he look at her?

How could he hold her as if nothing had happened, when his body still remembered the heat of another woman's skin?

Victoria...

He clenched his eyes shut.

Her eyes. Her trembling when he first held her. She had given him everything — with such trust, such pure vulnerability, the kind no one had ever given him.

And he had taken it. Without right. Without love.

She was young. Still searching for her place. And she loved him — naively, desperately, genuinely. And he, the idiot, the old damn idiot, used that. Took her like a lost man aching to feel wanted again. Needed.

And in doing so, he had taken something he could never give back.

Her virginity.

But it wasn't about the physical. It was the fact that she had given him her heart. And he had broken it in a single moment of silence, in a single look that said: It was a mistake.

Because it was. The biggest mistake of his life.

He leaned against the wall, hand gripping the back of his neck.

Shame. Disgust. A sorrow so heavy it suffocated him.

He didn't know what he would do. He didn't know how to move forward. But he knew one thing:He had no right to look her in the eyes again. Not after what he had done. Not after hurting the one person he had sworn to protect.

"Idiot," he hissed to himself.

"Stupid fucking old idiot."

And he walked into the night — alone — into a darkness he would never forget.

-----------

Next -> chapter 2: Frozen

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formulapierre · 30 days ago

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THE NEWSROOM | “The Greater Fool”

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formulapierre · 1 month ago

Text

Giving Her Everything You Could Never. | Pierre Gasly

Pairing: BestFriend!Pierre Gasly / UnnamedBoyfriend x Reader

Prompt: Where you feel suffocated in your relationship and Pierre helps you to find yourself again.

Warnings: Cheating, Swearing, Toxic Relationships.

Word Count: 5.7k

“All I’m asking is that you think about everything I do for us,” he said, his voice tired but stern. You’d been going in circles for nearly an hour, and you were done. It was always the same fight. He hated your friends...said they were reckless, irresponsible. Said they lived in a way you two couldn’t afford. Money has always been a sore spot. You came from a bit of privilege; he didn’t. And even though you’d tried to meet in the middle, your definitions of 'reasonable' never quite worked out.

“Are we seriously doing this again?” you sighed, sinking onto the couch. You rubbed your temples as you felt the dull pain of a headache starting to spread.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Because you keep spending money we don’t have.”

He’d sat down and made a spreadsheet months ago; separate accounts for the house, retirement, some hypothetical future family. In theory, it was responsible. In practice? Smothering. Every non-essential purchase had to be justified; every pound and pence had its place.

“I really think you need friends with more realistic lifestyles sweetie. Ones who don’t blow money every weekend,” he added, softening his voice and throwing in sweetie, a nickname you’d never liked but never told him you hated.

“They’re my friends,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to ditch them just because you’ve decided fun is irresponsible. There’s a middle ground, you know. Saving doesn’t mean we have to live like this.”

He folded his arms, jaw tight. “I’m trying to build something for us. For our future. Can’t you see that?”

You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. “I don’t care about some distant future. I care about now. And honestly? I don’t even know if we have a future anymore.”

He blinked, stunned. “What? Of course we do. You’re my fiancée.”

Your mouth fell open. “What?”

“You are. I mean, we talked about marriage...”

“Hold up,” you cut him off. “You mentioned marriage one morning in bed. You never asked me. You never bought a ring. You said we couldn’t afford a wedding. That is not a proposal.”

He took a step back, stung. “So what? You don’t want this? You’d be a fucking idiot to walk out on me.” The venom in his tone made your skin crawl. He’d never spoken to you like that before. And he almost never swore, at least, not like this.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said, voice rising. “I just want to live a little. To go out for dinner without needing to justify it, to buy a pair of shoes without guilt-tripping myself. I’m tired of explaining every tiny thing. It’s exhausting.”

He scoffed. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Pierre. Fucking Gasly. Your so-called best friend.” His laugh was bitter. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you? He’s the one who’s filling your head with this crap.”

“Oh my god. Seriously?” you snapped. “I am not sleeping with Pierre.” It wasn’t even the first time he’d thrown that accusation at you, but you were still outraged that he’d mention it. “And yeah, maybe this setup seemed smart at first. But I didn’t realise how controlling it would become.”

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N!” he shouted, pointing a finger toward you angrily. “You wanna fuck him? Fine. Go. Be another notch on his bedpost.”

______

“Pierre…” you choke out, voice barely holding steady between shallow breaths and quiet sobs.

He picks up instantly.

“Hey. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His voice is low, calm, but there’s urgency behind it, like he already knows this isn’t just a bad day.

There’s a pause before you say, “I’m… I’m outside.”

The call ends without another word. A second later, the door swings open.

Pierre just stands there for a heartbeat, eyes locking on yours. He takes you in, the tear tracks on your cheeks, the tired slump of your shoulders, the once-crisp blouse wrinkled from a long, awful day. He doesn’t ask. He just steps aside.

You cross the threshold, and before the door even clicks shut behind you, his arms are around you. It’s not dramatic, it’s just right. Familiar. Safe. His hand rests at the back of your head, the other across your back, anchoring you like he's done a hundred times before.

“You didn’t have to call,” he says into your hair. “You could’ve just come in.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” you mumble against his chest. “I didn’t know if you’d be busy or…”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

That silence lingers, not awkward, but weighted. He relaxes his hold just enough to look at you.

“Same argument?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you nod, eyes brimming again. “Same one. Just... meaner.”

You toe off your shoes near the door and slip your coat from your shoulders. Pierre takes it from you without a word, hanging it up like he’s done it a hundred times. Like this is normal, like you showing up wrecked isn’t out of the ordinary. You head toward the kitchen, hands shoved into the pockets of your skirt, and lean against the cool marble counter. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but you can feel the weight of everything unspoken.

“You want your usual?” he asks, already opening the fridge. You nod, and he pulls out your favourite drink, the one he only ever buys for you.

“He said I should stop seeing my friends,” you say, voice quieter than before. “Said they don’t live the same kind of lifestyle we’re ‘supposed to.’”

Pierre turns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Meaning me.” You nod again.

“And then,” you continue, taking the drink from him, “he accused me of sleeping with you.” Pierre doesn’t respond right away. He leans back against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze heavy but unreadable. You sigh. “I’m sorry. I know that’s weird for you.”

“It’s not weird,” he says after a beat. “It’s just not true.”

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah. I’m starting to feel like the version of me he wants only exists in a spreadsheet.”

“You know what I think,” Pierre says, watching you carefully.

“I deserve better?” you reply, trying to smile but failing.

He tilts his head. “That you deserve someone who doesn’t make you justify being yourself.”

You go quiet again, fingers curling around the bottle in your hand.

“I don’t even think I don’t love him,” you admit. “I think I just don’t want the life he’s trying to build yet. Not like that. Not...locked in.”

“Wanting space doesn’t mean you’re selfish,” Pierre says gently. “It just means you’re still figuring things out. You’re allowed.” You give a slow nod, turning toward the cabinet you know by heart. You grab the bottle of ibuprofen, shake out a few pills, and swallow them with a sip of your drink. The dull throb behind your eyes is threatening to spike again.

“I’m so tired,” you murmur.

Pierre watches you for a moment, then pushes off the counter. “Come on,” he says, that familiar mischievous glint finally surfacing in his eyes. “We’re going out. You need a night off.”

You blink. “What, like clubbing?”

“Yes, clubbing. Drinking. Dancing. Being twenty-something and a disaster. I’ll even pay, so you don’t have to think about receipts or spreadsheets or whatever else he’s trained you to worry about.”

You smile - actually smile - for the first time that night. “I don’t have anything to wear. I look like an absolute mess….”

Pierre’s already pulling open a drawer. “We’ll fix it.” Pierre steps closer, eyeing your outfit with a thoughtful squint. “Okay, step one… this shirt.”

You frown. “What about it?”

He reaches for the top button. “It’s great…just not for tonight…” You raise an eyebrow but don’t stop him as he unbuttons the first couple of buttons, revealing just a hint of the lace bra underneath. For a second, just a flicker, his gaze drops, then flicks back up.

You notice. But you don’t say anything.

“Better,” he says lightly, like nothing happened. “Now… the skirt.”

“What about the skirt?” you ask warily.

“It’s too… respectable,” he says, already rummaging through a drawer. When he pulls out a pair of scissors, your eyes widen.

“Oh no. Nope. Not a chance.”

“Trust me,” he says, giving you that lopsided grin he always uses when he’s about to talk you into something.

You hesitate, but then slowly nod. “You’re buying me a new skirt.”

“Deal.” He kneels in front of you, surprisingly careful as he starts snipping at the hem of your pencil skirt. The sound of fabric giving way fills the quiet room. You glance down at him, the way he focuses, the concentration in his brow, like this is a project that actually matters.

A few moments later, he stands, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Turn around.”

You do, catching your reflection in the mirror. The skirt that once fell just below your knees now barely grazes mid-thigh, hugging your legs in a way that feels a little too good for something he cut with scissors.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, adjusting the hem slightly. “But fine. It kind of works.”

“Told you,” he says, already disappearing into the bathroom. He returns with a pack of cotton buds and a bottle of makeup remover.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the counter. You do. He stands in front of you again, gently dabbing at the streaks of mascara on your cheeks, careful not to press too hard. When he finishes, you glance in the mirror. Somehow, your ruined makeup has turned into something smoky and smudged.

“Okay, that’s kind of impressive,” you admit.

He shrugs. “You cry on my couch often enough. I’ve had practice.”

You laugh, really laugh, for the first time in days. Then you reach into your purse and pull out your red lipstick, swiping on a quick coat in the mirror. “Who are you? My fairy godmother?” You say, looking yourself over. Then you break the moment of both you looking at each other through the mirror. “Only complaint? You’re not ready yet.”

Pierre grins. “Give me five minutes.”

_____

Pierre steps out of his room just as you finish fluffing your hair in the mirror. Predictably, he’s wearing his signature going-out look: crisp linen shirt, sleeves rolled, tailored shorts.

“You look exactly the same as every other time we’ve gone out,” you say, eyeing him with mock judgment.

He shrugs. “Why mess with perfection?” You laugh softly, grabbing your purse. He already has a taxi waiting, of course he does, and you’re outside the club before you even have time to second-guess whether this was a good idea. The line snakes around the building, but the bouncer clocks Pierre immediately. A quick nod, a few words exchanged, and you're waved inside like VIPs.

You glance at him. “Seriously?” He just smirks

Inside, the music pulses through the floor, the bass vibrating up through your heels as lights flicker overhead. The space is packed, bodies moving, laughter echoing through the low haze of smoke and heat. Pierre places a hand on your lower back, firm, steady, as you make your way through the crowd. You try not to overthink it. It's a practical gesture. That's all.

Still, the pressure of his palm lingers.

At the bar, you lean forward to scan the shelf, hair falling into your face. “What do you want?” Pierre asks, his voice low near your ear so you can hear him over the music. You don’t answer right away. You’re too aware of how close he is. How you can feel the heat of him behind you. How no part of this feels particularly platonic tonight.

Finally, you glance over your shoulder. “Two shots of cherry vodka.”

He lifts a brow, then turns to the bartender. “Make it four.”

“You planning to keep up with me?” you ask, smiling.

“I’m planning to make sure you don’t think about anything other than this tonight,” he says casually - too casually - and gestures for the bartender to hurry. You don’t respond, but your stomach does something strange and sharp. When the shots arrive, you down one without hesitating. Pierre matches you beat for beat, the edge of his arm brushing yours.

You don’t pull away.

Another moment passes. He leans in, voice almost teasing, but with something else underneath. “You gonna make me dance with you too?”

You glance at him, feigning indifference. “Maybe. Depends how drunk I get.”

“Then I better buy another round,” he says, smirking, but his eyes hold your gaze for a beat too long before he turns back to the bar. You stare at the curve of his jaw, the slope of his neck, the way the collar of his shirt is just slightly undone. And for the first time, you wonder - not idly, but really wonder - what would happen if you stopped pretending the two of you were just friends.

_____

It was getting late and the club was starting to thin out. You’d both paced yourselves after those first shots, neither completely drunk, but definitely close enough. On the dance floor, you swung your hips to the pulsing beat, Pierre just behind you, occasionally grabbing your hand and pulling you close to dance with him. The red lighting cast a sultry glow over everything, setting the perfect tone. The music was too loud for talking, so you’d both just surrendered to the moment, a rare escape you wished you could have more often. Tonight, you hadn’t thought about the future once. No worries about what would happen after the club, after this night.

You lost all sense of time until Pierre’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leaned in close, his breath warm at your ear. “Wanna get outta here?” You nodded without hesitation, your feet were aching in those heels, and that persistent headache was creeping back. His arm stayed snug around your waist even after you climbed into the cab; his hand hovered just millimetres from you, a quiet promise in the dark.

The ride home was quiet but comfortable. You closed your eyes for a moment, wanting to savour this night - not thinking about when it would have to end, or the reality waiting back at home. Back at Pierre’s apartment, you checked the clock, it was well past 3 AM. Kicking off your heels, you reached into the cupboard and grabbed two glasses, filling them with water, handing one to him.

“Thanks for tonight… I really needed this,” you said softly.

Pierre smiled, leaning against the counter as he took a slow sip. “Always. You know I love a night out, and with you? I’m never saying no.”

You hesitated a beat, then let the words spill out, maybe the drinks gave you courage. “You know what he said before I left?” Pierre raised an eyebrow, silently urging you on. “He told me, ‘If you wanna go fuck him, you go do that.’”

Pierre’s eyes darkened, searching your face. “And what do you think about that?”

You exhaled, anger bubbling to the surface. “I’m pissed. I never even considered cheating on him, but for him to throw those accusations around so casually… It's like I can’t do anything right. I don’t know what to do… I want to get one over on him, even if it’s just for a moment. I know it’s petty, but I want to make him feel what he’s made me feel, like I’m not good enough.”

Pierre leaned closer, his voice low and steady. His gaze flickered - something unreadable there. He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking, but neither of you moved away. Your pulse quickened. “So why don’t you?” he asked softly.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know how.” A wild idea flickered in your mind. “Maybe… What if we made something up? Just pictures. Nothing real. Just to show him…” You broke off, unsure if you wanted to say it. “To show him he can’t control me.”

Pierre’s expression shifted, growing serious, almost warning. His voice dropped low, a quiet growl. “You know this could blow everything up, right? There’s no going back from this.”

You met his eyes, heart pounding in your throat. The weight of what you were about to do pressed down on you, and for a moment, the thrill of rebellion tangled with fear. “After tonight… maybe I don’t care anymore.”

Your voice cracked just slightly, betraying how scared you were of what that meant…for everything.

_____

“Let’s start simple, how about a mirror selfie? Put your hand on my waist,” you say, taking Pierre’s phone. You both move into position, standing close in front of the mirror. You tilt your head slightly before snapping the first photo. Pierre’s hand rests firmly on your waist as you both study the picture, then save the best one.

“What’s next?” you ask.

Pierre grins. “How about one of us kissing? That’ll make it convincing.”

You smile, remembering how you’d kissed a few times as teenagers, always each other’s safe choice when dared. Opening a bottle of wine he’d kept chilled, you sip slowly, letting it warm you. Eventually, you make your way to his bedroom, settling on the bed across from him. Setting the glass on the bedside table, you climb into his lap.

“How’s this?” you ask, cupping his face gently in your hands.

His breath catches. “Perfect.” He lifts the phone, your lips barely brushing before meeting. He snaps the photo, then shows it to you. It looks real - intimate, convincing.

Neither of you moves for a moment, caught in the silence and closeness.

You gather courage to break it. “How about your hand on my thigh?”

He nods, and you slide your skirt up slightly. His hand wraps possessively around your thigh, sending a shiver through you. You quickly take the photo. The tension thickens, and you both know the pictures will need to get riskier. Pierre leans down, guiding you gently onto the bed. He lifts your knee and kisses it softly, a trail of warmth along your skin. You snap a photo, but don’t stop him.

Pulling back, he smiles softly, mirroring your own. “I’ve got another idea.”

He pulls you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself in front, as if you were closer than you are. Taking the phone from you, he captures the shot. His hand moves through your hair, sending a shiver through you. You turn to face away, letting the image suggest more than it is.

“Why don’t you live up to your reputation?” You ask, turning around so you were facing away from him, giving the appearance he was taking you from behind. He let out a soft laugh as he realised what you were doing. You undid the last few buttons on your shirt, dropping it off the side of the bed, wanting the photos to look like things had escalated. Pierre wrapped his hand around your shoulder as he pressed up against you, just like he had done earlier at the club, only this time you could feel much more, you certainly knew how he was feeling.

“Mon amour?…” He asked softly and you hummed in response. “Tell me you feel the same way I do right now��”

“-and how's that?” You asked teasingly.

“Like this…” He replies, pressing himself against you firmer, allowing you to feel exactly how hard he was. “Tell me you feel the same…let’s take some really dirty photos, let me claim you, show him that he’s lost you forever,” He whispered softly into your ear and you swear your brain stopped at that moment, you had to take a moment to process what he’d said.

“Fuck P…that’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard,” You say breathlessly as you feel his lips on your neck, starting to suck what will become dark purple bruises. “-Yes…I feel the same,”

“Good girl,” He replied before turning you over onto your back and continuing to suck on your shoulder, littering your skin with his marks. A dirty smile spread across his face as he moved back to admire his work, making sure to get a good photo. The way he called you a ‘good girl’ made you go completely crazy, praise was another one very high up your list of turn-ons. “Tell me what you need princesse…” He says softly, letting his french slip out at the end, something else that drove you absolutely wild.

“I need you P…He never…” You begin to say, stopping as you realise what you were about to say.

“He never what?” He asked, brushing a piece of hair from your face. “Never fucked you the way you wanted? The way you needed?” You just nodded, you knew that he could read you like an open book, you had no doubt that he was gonna leave you a stuttering mess by the time the sun rose. “Awh…such a needy girl, you need me huh?” He teases, causing you to blush profusely and nod. “We’d better take this skirt off then shouldn't we?” He asked, not even waiting for a response before tearing the fabric for the second time tonight, to say you were turned on by this would be an understatement. You now lay bare before him, just the thin lace of your bra and panties stood between you. “You’re so gorgeous, you know that don’t you…ma belle petite fille?”

_____

04:49 - 9 UNREAD MESSAGES FROM: UNKNOWN

thought you might wanna see these...

what the fuck?

who is this?

get your hands off my fucking fiancée!

I mean I gotta thank you, this was your idea after all...

Gasly? the little bitch actually did it...

I'm only giving her everything you could never...

_____

PierreGasly

Liked by YourName, CharlesLeclerc and 934,234 likes

PierreGasly Letting her hair down...

YourName Best night ever!!

PG10_Fan I love their friendship ♥️

Racer_Boy Not her being in a relationship...don't see him anywhere.

--- Milly_Track How can you tell from four blurry photos???

View all 8,940 comments

_____

“You don’t have to do this,” you say again, adjusting your sunglasses as you follow Pierre out of his car and onto a sunlit Milanese street. “Seriously, P, it’s just a skirt.”

Pierre raises an eyebrow, smirking as he gestures toward the boutique in front of you. “It’s not just a skirt. It’s the skirt I ripped. That makes it an act of redemption.”

You scoff. “Redemption for what, exactly?”

“For not spoiling you sooner,” he says, and there’s something in his voice half tease, half truth. “Come on. Humour me.” The shop door swings open with the delicate chime of wealth. Inside, everything is cool marble, soft lighting, and fabric so fine it barely makes a sound when you run your hand over it. It’s the kind of place your boyfriend would’ve hated too indulgent, too expensive, too… joyful. The kind of place he would’ve made you feel guilty for walking into.

Pierre, on the other hand, walks in like he owns it. He gestures to a rack. “Pick anything. Or everything.”

You hesitate, fingers brushing over the clothes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “You let someone make you feel like you didn’t deserve this for long enough. Let me fix it.”

Your breath catches. You look at him, really look. There’s no performance in his eyes, just quiet sincerity, and a flicker of something else. Something protective. You start picking out pieces. A skirt, a dress, a pair of heels you’d never buy for yourself. He watches with an easy smile, never pushing, but always near.

In the changing room, you try on a sleek black dress first. Safe. Classic. When you step out, Pierre tilts his head. “It’s nice,” he says, “but not you.”

You raise a brow. “And what’s me, then?”

He walks over, pulls a soft wine-colored skirt from the rack, holds it out. “This.”

You blink, surprised by the lump rising in your throat. But you take it. And when you twirl in it, just for fun, he smiles like it means everything. As you try on more clothes: silks, satins, lace he picks with too much care, you feel the tension of your old life peel away. You laugh. You feel good. You feel... chosen.

And that’s when the heat rises in your chest.

“I think he liked making me feel small,” you say suddenly, looking at your reflection.

Pierre turns toward you. “He didn’t know what he had.”

You glance at him. “And you do?”

Pierre steps closer, voice low. “Every goddamn inch.”

The words hang in the air like something neither of you can swallow.

Still, a tangled knot of conflict twisted inside you. This wasn’t just about the skirt. It was about all the things you’d been told you couldn’t have, all the times you were made to feel small for wanting more. Pierre knew it, his gaze softened as he saw the flicker of hesitation on your face.

“Try it on,” he said quietly. “For you.”

You hesitated, then nodded. It was a small act of rebellion, and maybe, just maybe, a step toward reclaiming parts of yourself you’d locked away for too long.

You slipped into the skirt, the fabric soft and new against your skin. Pierre’s eyes followed you the entire time, watching as you examined yourself in the mirror. He stood close behind you, just far enough not to touch, but near enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. You caught his reflection alongside yours, and for a moment, everything felt aligned, like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You took Pierre’s hand and left the boutique, stepping out into the golden light of Milan’s late afternoon. The streets were alive, but your world had narrowed to the steady rhythm of your heels on cobblestone and the weight of soft paper bags filled with little pieces of you rediscovered.

Pierre was unusually quiet. You glanced up at him. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” But you knew better.

“P…” you warned, narrowing your eyes slightly.

He smiled to himself, like he’d just confirmed something inside. “Come on. One more stop.”

“I have nothing left to try on,” you said with a laugh. “Unless you’re planning to dress me in crystal-encrusted lingerie...”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered, smirking. Then he stopped walking. You followed his gaze and froze.

There it was.

The Bag.

Displayed behind a glass case like it was art, and honestly, it was. The exact make, model, and colour you’d sent him a photo of two birthdays ago, with a message that just said: “Maybe one day.” You hadn’t even remembered telling him.

Apparently, he had.

You shook your head immediately. “No. Nope. Not happening. That’s too much...”

“Let me,” he said, cutting you off, voice softer now. “You’ve wanted it for years.”

“It’s...Pierre, it’s thousands of euros.”

“I know.”

You gawked. “You know and you still...”

“It’s not about the bag,” he said, gently taking the handles of your other bags from your hands. “It’s about giving you something he never let you have. Not just the thing. The feeling.”

“What feeling?”

He looked at you like it should be obvious. “That you're worth it.”

Your stomach twisted. You looked back at the window. At the bag. At yourself. For a second, you could see the version of you who almost believed it.

“Do you know how many times I’ve walked past this shop and talked myself out of going in?” you murmured.

Pierre didn’t say anything. He just stepped forward and opened the door.

And you followed.

The boutique was calm, elegant... the kind of quiet that wasn’t intimidating so much as expectant. Soft lighting spilled from recessed fixtures, catching the gold hardware of bags arranged like artwork. Everything gleamed.

You didn’t hesitate at the door. Not because you were used to places like this, because you could afford them. You always could. But you’d stopped letting yourself want anything that came with a price tag that made him sigh, or give you that look...the one that said, Why would you waste your money on that?

Pierre moved with purpose, scanning the displays until his gaze landed on it. Your bag.

The one you’d pointed out in a window once, offhandedly. The one you’d shown him in a screenshot after a couple glasses of wine, laughing like it was just a fantasy. The one you’d almost let yourself buy once, before deleting it from your cart.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He nodded toward the shelf. “There.”

You blinked. “Pierre…”

“You said you loved it.”

“I do, but—”

He turned to face you, brows lifting slightly. “So what’s the problem?”

You hesitated. “It’s a stupid thing to want.”

His jaw tightened a fraction, but his voice stayed gentle. “Wanting something doesn’t make you stupid.”

You swallowed, arms crossing over your chest. “He’d say it’s a waste. That it’s shallow. That I’m shallow for liking things like this.”

Pierre’s expression darkened for a moment...not fully visible, but enough for you to feel it. “He also said you were irresponsible for buying your friend a birthday gift and ordering dessert. So maybe his opinion isn’t relevant.”

You looked at the bag again. The deep, rich leather. The understated stitching. It was beautiful. And practical. And… yours, if you wanted it to be.

“I just...” you started, then faltered. “I don’t want to be reckless.”

Pierre stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Choosing joy isn’t reckless.”

The sales assistant, sensing the moment, gently brought the bag over and held it out to you. You hesitated. Then slowly reached for it. It was heavier than expected, solid and smooth in your hands. A whisper of indulgence you’d denied yourself so many times, you’d forgotten what wanting something without apologising even felt like. Pierre moved behind you as you turned toward the mirror. His reflection hovered just behind yours, close but not touching, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes weren’t on the bag.

They were on you.

You lifted the strap over your shoulder, letting it fall against your side. You adjusted it. Met your own gaze. And for the first time in a long time, you saw yourself not as someone asking for too much, but as someone who had simply waited too long to ask for enough.

Pierre tilted his head slightly, watching your face. “That’s the version of you he was afraid of,” he murmured.

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Why?”

“Because she doesn’t need him to approve of her.” The air between you shifted...heavier, but not suffocating. Electric in its quiet honesty.

“I feel like I’m doing something wrong,” you admitted.

Pierre’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re not.” You looked down at the bag. Then back at yourself. Then at him.

“I want to stop apologising,” you said.

“Then stop.”

You exhaled, shaky but steady.

He stepped closer, his presence solid behind you now. Not touching. Just there. Like he always had been, when you were allowed to laugh, and dance, and want things just because they made you happy.

“Let this be the first thing,” he said, softer now. “The first thing that’s just for you.”

You didn’t respond right away.

But you didn’t take the bag off, either.

_____

PierreGasly

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PierreGasly Giving her everything you could never...

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_____

Pierre’s apartment was quiet but far from empty. The faint hum of the city outside was a soft contrast to the stillness inside. You sat on the edge of the sofa, your thoughts heavy with the week that had passed...the photos he’d sent to your boyfriend, the social media posts with the caption “giving her everything you could never,” the way everything had shifted so suddenly.

Pierre reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His gaze held something unspoken, an invitation, or maybe a question you weren’t quite ready to answer.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the last week settle over you like a fog. The photos. The messages. The silence from him. And yet, here you were, standing in his apartment, where everything felt both dangerously close and achingly uncertain.

“I saw the message you sent.”

He nodded, eyes trained on yours. “I meant it. He needed to see.” A flicker of something...pride, possessiveness, relief?...passed over Pierre’s face.

“He did.” Your heart tightened. You knew Pierre didn't like him, the difference know was that you were done making excuses for him. You weren’t sure if you hated or needed the way he flaunted it on social media, the caption sharp as a knife: ‘Giving her everything you could never.’ It was bold. Defiant. A challenge wrapped in care.

Pierre moved to pour two glasses of wine, handing one to you. “How are you holding up?” he asked softly.

You took the glass, fingers trembling just a little. “Conflicted. Angry. A little scared.”

He settled beside you on the couch, close enough that his warmth seeped through your clothes. “Good,” he said, surprising you. “Because that means you’re feeling. And feeling means you’re alive. And alive means you’re ready.”

Ready for what, you weren’t sure. But as you looked into his steady eyes, the possibility of something different ...something better... flickered faintly within you. Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The silence was expectant, thick with everything left unspoken.

Finally, Pierre broke it, voice low and almost hesitant. “You know, I first really felt it that night we kissed… at that party, when we were sixteen. Drunk, reckless… like nothing else mattered.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That long ago?”

He gave a slow, almost rueful smile. “Yeah. I remember it like it was yesterday. It wasn’t just the alcohol. It was you. Suddenly, everything shifted... everything I thought about us, about what we were.”

Your throat tightened. “I thought it was just a dare. I never imagined you felt the same.”

Pierre reached out and took your hand gently, his thumb brushing your skin in a quiet reassurance. “I didn’t say anything back then. I was scared... scared of ruining what we had. But that moment… it stuck with me. Even when I tried to ignore it.”

You shifted slightly, the wine warming your hands and loosening your thoughts. “It’s just… everything feels so tangled. Like I’m stuck between wanting to burn it all down and hoping somehow it can still be fixed.”

Pierre’s eyes softened, but there was a fire beneath them. “You don’t owe him anything anymore. Especially not at the cost of your own happiness.”

You met his gaze, and the vulnerability between you made the space feel smaller, more intimate. “But what if letting go means losing something important?”

He reached out, his fingers brushing your hand, steady and sure. “Sometimes, the things you’re holding onto aren’t helping you move forward. Sometimes, you need to choose what’s best for you.”

Your breath hitched. It wasn’t just the wine. It was the truth in his words... raw and undeniable.

Pierre’s hand slid up your arm, warm and grounding. “I want to be there with you. Not to erase the past, but to help you find what makes you happy.”

You looked away for a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, by everything that had led you here.

“Why me?” you whispered.

“Because you deserve to be cherished, to be wanted in every way,” he said, voice thick with feeling. “Because I see you. The real you. And I want to give you everything you never had.”

You felt a rush of something fierce and fragile all at once. The fear, the hope, the anger, all tangled up with something daringly close to hope.

Pierre leaned in, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “No more apologies. No more holding back. Just you… and me. Starting now.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of the past week the photos, the silence, the aching doubt dissolving, just a little, in the space between his words and your breath.

I'M BACK!!!!!! I'm sorry y'all, I know its been like forever, but that writers block hit HARD...and then I went to the MotoGP and something clicked. ALSO! I'm going to the British GP in July!!! Hopefully i'll be seeing you around 🥰 - E x

#f1 imagine #f1 #pierre gasly #formula 1 imagine #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly fanfiction #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly fanfic

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formulapierre · 1 month ago

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Masterlist!

Charles Leclerc

The Loneliest -> Where you are fed up in your current relationship and Charles has to watch as you find somebody else and see how much happier he makes you...

Timezone -> Where Charles is fed up with being so far away from you at a time where both of your lives are changing, not that he knows that...

Carlos Sainz

All I want -> Where your so called 'relationship' turned out to just be friends because Carlos 'can't' do relationships...

Max Verstappen

The Loneliest -> Where you are fed up in your current relationship and Charles has to watch as you find somebody else and see how much happier he makes you...

George Russell

Her Royal Highness -> Lewis introduces George to HRH Y/N the Princess of Wales during the British GP and the press seems to be hot on their heels... His Royal Highness -> George settles into life as the Prince of Wales which involves starting a family and having to overcome an obstacle that nobody saw coming... Their Royal Highness' -> Coming soon!

Pierre Gasly

I don't wanna leave just yet -> Where Pierre suddenly ends your relationship; claiming it was your fault and you have to deal with the fallout...

If you love her -> You finally decide to give Pierre your everything and you get his everything in return but life has other plans for you...

Logan Sargeant

Oklahoma Smokeshow -> Where you and Logan both had the dream of getting out of your small town and he was the only one that made it...

XXX

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formulapierre · 1 month ago

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𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚 | pierre gasly × fem!reader

summary | you reunite with pierre after a long time apart, emotions run high, and despite past pain, you both finally admit your feelings

warnings | emotional vulnerability, past relationship tension, intense romantic scenes, kissing, angst with a happy ending

word count | 2.4 k

🖇️ sctw album 🖇️ f1 masterlist

The sound of the F1 engine roared in your ears as you waited, sitting on the cold railing of the circuit. The lights around shone brightly, and the crowd roared as the cars sped by, but you couldn’t focus on any of it. The echo of your thoughts was much louder.

It had been months, maybe years, since things between you and Pierre had gotten complicated. The boy you used to share laughs and promises with was now a shadow roaming through your mind one you could no longer reach.

It wasn’t that you had forgotten him, no. It was that, for some reason, the memory of him hurt more when you didn’t see him. And now, after everything that had happened, nostalgia had become your worst enemy.

You looked down at your hands, feeling the weight of everything you had left behind. It had been so long since the last time he looked at you with those bright eyes, telling you that what you had between you was something “real.”

“How does something so real get lost?”

Maybe it had been an accident, or maybe not. You had seen the signs. At first, you told yourself it was just a phase, that things would get better, but they didn’t. Between the trips, the races, and the cold nights where words drowned in everything left unsaid, something broke. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but by the time you noticed, there was no turning back.

The echo of his voice came back to you strongly that last conversation that had remained suspended in the air.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. I always will be, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

But he never kept that promise. And there you were, alone, replaying the same words that no longer meant what you thought they did.

Why did it still hurt so much?

You got up from the railing and slowly walked toward the corridors leading to the locker rooms. You didn’t really know why you had come here, if you already knew you’d see him. But something deep inside pushed you to seek him out, even though what you really wanted was to punch the past and move on.

It was clear that you had lost the battle against nostalgia. A part of you still wanted him, and you didn’t know if that made you weak or just human.

The sound of the door opening startled you, and when you looked back, you saw him. Pierre was there, as always, with that look that mixed exhaustion and determination. You didn’t know what he was thinking in that moment. You didn’t know if the only thing he felt upon seeing you was a simple “I lost you,” or if there was still something more in those dark eyes you once knew so well.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone distant, but with a hint of curiosity, like he couldn’t understand how you had ended up here after all this time.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, unable to lie about what you were feeling. “I just… wanted to see if anything had changed.”

Pierre didn’t say anything for a long moment. His fingers ran through his hair, messing it up slightly, while his eyes analyzed your movements, as if searching for an answer he wasn’t ready to find.

“And you? Why are you here?” The question left your mouth before you could stop it. Why did you still need to know so much about him?

Pierre sighed, dropping his bag on the floor.

“I’m just here to get ready for the next race.”

It was the simplest, most direct answer, but the words felt hollow in the air.

“Nothing more.”

Something in his gaze told you that it wasn’t just that. But you didn’t dare ask more.

The silence between the two of you stretched, heavy, as if time was willing to trap you both in that moment in the same bubble that had formed months ago, when words were no longer enough to explain what was really happening.

You used to be so good at anticipating his reactions, but now you felt completely lost.

“Sometimes I wonder where all the time went.” He said, breaking the silence with a soft voice, as if speaking more to himself than to you. “Like I don’t even know when I stopped seeing what we had.”

His words surprised you, but they also hurt. Did he really not know? Or maybe… he didn’t want to know.

“Yeah…” you murmured, “it’s strange how it all slips away when you least expect it.”

And suddenly, there it was the nostalgia that had never really left. It hadn’t gone away. It had been inside you all along, waiting for the right moment to return. Because even though he drifted away, the memories of what once was were still alive, echoing in every word left unsaid, in every empty gesture.

And all you could do was wait, feel, and remember.

The air between you two grew dense. The circuit lights flickered in the background, as if trying to draw your attention, but all you could see was Pierre, right there in front of you. His face had changed with time, but his eyes, those damn eyes, were still the same. Deep, with that mix of sadness and determination that, even if you didn’t always admit it, had always captivated you.

You felt trapped between two worlds: the present, urging you to move on, and the past, holding you to memories you weren’t sure you should’ve kept buried. Why was nostalgia so persistent?

“Do you still think about it?” His deep voice broke the silence again, and your heart skipped a beat.

You hadn’t expected that question. You didn’t think he’d dare to bring it up. You didn’t know what to say.

“Sometimes…” you murmured, lowering your gaze. “It’s hard not to think about what we once were. About what… we believed we were.”

Pierre stayed silent, his lips pressed into a straight line. You knew, somehow, he had been carrying that weight too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here in this locker room, alone with you, at a moment like this.

“I’ve been telling myself this whole time that I should let it go.” Pierre took a step closer to you, his presence nearer than you expected. “But I never could.”

Your breathing grew heavier. What was he trying to say? What were you hoping he’d say? Was it too late for what you both wanted?

“Pierre…” His name left your lips as a whisper. You were surprised by how vulnerable it sounded. “I can’t keep carrying this. Not after everything that happened. But I don’t want to forget either.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to process every word you had just said.

“Then…” he said softly, stepping even closer, “what do you want to do with all of this?”

The simple fact that he asked you that as if there was still space for something between the two of you, left you speechless. What did you want to do? What could you do?

You looked down at the floor, taking a breath to steady yourself. Questions flooded your mind, but you had no answers. Was this a sign, a last chance, or just the echo of a past you both had already lost?

“I don’t know.” You finally admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I just want… not to be forgotten. I don’t want this to be just a memory. I don’t want to be another mistake your mind has already erased.”

Pierre looked at you intently, his eyes so close you could feel the intensity of his emotions.

“I never forgot you.”

Something in those words made you want to get closer, but fear held you back. You knew what happened when things sparked between you two again. You couldn’t risk falling into an endless cycle of doubts and regrets.

“Then why did everything fall apart?” you asked in a whisper, as if afraid of the answer.

Pierre took a deep breath, like he was wrestling with something inside.

“Because I didn’t know how to handle it. Because I thought time would fix everything, but really, it only made it worse. I walked away without realizing what I was losing.”

Your chest tightened. You knew, deep down, that both of you had drifted for the same reason. Fear. Insecurity. The inability to understand what was happening in your hearts.

“And now… what do we do?” The question left your mouth without thinking, and you instantly regretted it. It was too soon for those words. But something in you, something deep, pushed you to seek an answer even if you weren’t sure you had the strength to hear it.

Pierre watched you in silence, his expression firm, but his eyes showed a flicker of doubt.

“I don’t know, but… I want to try. I don’t want this to be all we ever were. I don’t want it to be just nostalgia.”

The air between the two of you grew tense, charged with a raw energy you couldn’t quite tell was good or bad. But right then, in that moment, you realized that even though everything had changed, there was one thing you hadn’t been wrong about: what you felt for him had never gone away.

And then, before you could say anything else, Pierre took another step toward you, his face so close you could feel his breath. Your heart was beating so hard it felt like you could hear it in your ears.

The space between the two of you narrowed, and the outside world seemed to vanish into the air thick with uncertainty. The crowd, the noise of the cars, the bright lights all of it seemed to fade as the only sound left was the wild beating of your heart.

Pierre didn’t take his eyes off you. It felt like everything you had feared, everything you had been avoiding for so long, was about to overflow. Was he ready for this? Were you?

With every passing second, you wanted it more. The fear of what the two of you could become was still there, but so was the longing for something more. You wanted to take a step forward, but the words failed you, gestures trapped in the air. The questions still crowding your mind held you back, but the pull you felt toward him pushed you forward, urging you to take the next step to take a risk.

It was he who finally broke the silence, with a soft whisper you hadn’t even expected.

“I don’t want this to end here.”

Just hearing those words made all the air inside you release. As if the universe had paused to let you both take a deep breath. Pierre was right. You couldn’t let this be just a memory. There was so much more to explore, to understand, to heal.

Your response was a sigh, followed by a fragile smile. “Then let’s not end it. Not yet.”

Something shifted in those few seconds between you. The tension faded, leaving behind only a subtle and tangible electricity that ran through every corner of the room. Pierre stepped closer, so near you could feel the warmth of his skin. His eyes softened, and for a moment, it felt like there had never been any "wear and tear" between you. Just the version of you two that met without the weight of time.

Without thinking too much, you raised your hand, touching his cheek gently, as if afraid he might disappear into a breath. Pierre closed his eyes at the contact, savoring the touch a palpable contrast between the intensity of his emotions and the tenderness of the gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely audible. “I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”

You didn’t need him to apologize. The pain had been there for both of you, but what mattered now was that you were both here together in this moment of vulnerability.

“You don’t have to say it.” You replied, the pain of the past few months fading for a moment. “But if there’s one thing I need to say… it’s that what hurt the most wasn’t losing you it was watching you walk away without an explanation.”

Pierre frowned, as if the reality of your words hit him hard. “I didn’t want to walk away. I swear.”

You knew that. You had felt it. But there was something in the unsaid words, in the unexplained actions, that had left you with an emptiness you were now trying to fill. You couldn’t go on living with that nostalgia, with that regret that had never let you be free.

“And I don’t want to live with the regret of not telling you how I feel.” Pierre added, his voice trembling for a moment. “I don’t want it to be too late.”

The truth was it scared you, but in that instant, looking at him, all you could feel was relief. As if the two of you could finally let go of the shadows of the past and start building something new. Something that could, at last, be real.

Without saying anything else, and before any other word could get in the way, Pierre leaned in toward you. The first brush of his lips was soft, barely a whisper of contact. A touch so delicate it almost felt like it would vanish into the air just like so many of his promises had.

But it didn’t disappear. Instead, the kiss deepened, and something shifted. There was a spark, a small flame that quickly grew, fueled by the need to finally heal.

What you felt wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a reunion, a new beginning, even though you knew it wouldn’t be easy. It never had been.

Pierre wrapped his arms around you, his touch firm and protective, as if he never wanted to let you go again. And you weren’t going to let him. Finally, you allowed yourself to embrace what had been, what could have been, and what would be. Without fear, without regrets.

The kiss intensified. And for the first time in a long time, you felt that time held no power over you. Not when you were with him. Not when you felt him this close.

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formulapierre · 1 month ago

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comforting reassurance - Fabio Quartararo

Y/N x Fabio Quartararo Theme: smutish, teasing, touching, (little angsty) Fabio invited you out on a ride and even though you're nervous, you're ready to go on this adventure. word count: 1900+ taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests :)

Standing in Fabio's garage, you can feel the anticipation bubbling within you. The sleek lines of his Yamaha YZR-M1 gleam under the overhead lights, a marvel of engineering and power. The thought of your upcoming ride sends a thrill through you, though your nerves jitter just beneath the surface.

Your hands trace the contour of the bike's fuel tank, imagining the rush of the wind and the roar of the engine beneath you.

Suddenly, you feel a familiar warmth as Fabio hugs you from behind, his strong arms encircling your waist. You melt into him, savoring the comfort of his embrace. The scent of his cologne, a mix of citrus and wood, wraps around you like a second hug, soothing your nerves.

"Hey," he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. "Are you ready for our adventure?"

You lean back against him, tilting your head to catch his eye. "I'm a bit nervous," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I've never done anything like this before."

Fabio tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a gentle kiss.

"You'll be fine," he reassures you, his voice steady and calming. "I promise you'll enjoy it. Trust me."

There is something so reassuring about the confidence in his voice, the way he always seems to know exactly what to say to make you feel better.

He releases you briefly, and you turn to face him, catching the glint of excitement in his light brown eyes.

Right away, you find yourself captivated.

He is dressed in a black leather suit that mirrors his racing gear, yet it is more casual, almost effortlessly stylish. The way the leather hugs his body, accentuating his athletic frame, makes your heart skip a beat. The suit highlights his broad shoulders, toned arms, and narrow waist; each movement he makes exudes confidence and allure. It's clear he knows the effect it has; his playful smirk revealing his awareness.

With a boyish grin, he reaches for a hanger on the wall and pulls down one of his black leather jackets. It is beautifully crafted; the leather soft and supple yet sturdy.

"Here," he says, holding it out to me. "I want you to have this."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Fabio, I can't take this. It's one of your racing jackets."

Fabio shrugs, his grin widening.

"Consider it a gift. Besides, it looks better on you."

Blushing, you take the jacket and slip it on. It fits perfectly, hugging your frame like it was made for you. The weight of it is comforting, and you can't help but smile as you zip it up.

Fabio steps back, admiring the sight with a satisfied nod.

As he moves around the garage, checking the bike and gathering the rest of your gear, you find yourself captivated by the way he carries himself again. There is a confidence in his stride, a quiet assurance that comes from years of knowing his skills on track. Even in this more relaxed attire, Fabio exudes a magnetic charm that draws your gaze.

"You look incredible," you blurt out, unable to contain your admiration.

He turns toward you with a playful grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Do I know?"

You nod emphatically, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. "Seriously, Fabio. You look amazing in that."

He chucled softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Thank you," he replies sincerely, his voice low and velvety. "I'm glad you like it."

Like it?

You are practically mesmerized by it. The way the leather jacket molds to his torso, the way his movements seem effortlessly graceful yet purposeful—it is a side of Fabio you haven't seen up close before, and it is simply captivating.

As he finishes up with the bike, Fabio turns to face you fully, his gaze warm and inviting. "Ready to hit the road?"

You nod eagerly, the anticipation building within you. "Absolutely."

You spend the next few minutes adjusting the helmet until it fits snugly. Fabio checks everything meticulously; his attention to detail makes you feel even more secure.

Finally, he climbs onto the bike and gestures for you to join him. Your heart pounds as you swing your leg over and settle behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

The engine roars to life beneath you, and you feel a jolt of excitement mingling with your nerves.

"Ready?" Fabio calls over his shoulder.

You take a deep breath and nod, even though he can't see you. "Ready!"

With that, you are off.

The bike surges forward, and you tighten your grip around Fabio. The world blurs around you as you speed down the winding roads, the scenery a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. The wind whips past you, cool and invigorating, and you find yourself laughing out loud at the sheer exhilaration of it all.

Fabio's expert handling of the bike is evident in every smooth turn and acceleration. He guides you effortlessly through the landscape, the powerful engine purring beneath you. Gradually, your nerves give way to pure joy. There is something magical about the freedom of the open road; the connection between you is amplified by the shared experience.

As you ride, your hands instinctively wander over Fabio's chest, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath the leather suit. You can hear him muttering something—a chuckle, even—and you know he enjoys the sensation as much as you do.

Encouraged, your hands move lower to his waist, feeling the flex and movement of his body as he expertly maneuvers the bike. The vibrations of the engine resonate through his chest, adding to the thrill.

Fabio then drives playfully, leaning into the curves with a confidence that makes the ride even more exhilarating. Subconsciously, your hands continue to explore, tracing the contours of his body, and you sense his enjoyment in the way his chest rumbles with laughter.

He speeds up again, and you hold on tighter, your hands clutching at his waist as the scenery whizzes past you. The rush of the wind and the feeling of being so close to Fabio combine to create an unforgettable experience. Each twist and turn brings a new surge of adrenaline, and you revel in the sensation of being utterly alive.

After a while, Fabio slows down and pulls off onto a scenic overlook. He kills the engine, and you both remove your helmets—the sudden silence almost startling. The view is breathtaking—a vast expanse of rolling hills and lush valleys stretching out beneath a clear blue sky.

Fabio turns to you, his eyes sparkling with happiness. "Did you enjoy yourself?" He asks, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You smile, feeling warmth spread through you. "Yes, I did. It was incredible."

He grins, his gaze unwavering. "I am glad to hear that."

After a brief pause, he continues, his voice laced with amusement. "Did you realize where your hands were during the ride?"

The question catches you off guard, and you feel a blush creep up your cheeks. Your mind flashes back to the ride, your hands instinctively stroking his chest, moving lower to his waist. You were so caught up in the thrill of the moment that you didn't fully realize how intimate my touch had been.

"I, um, I guess I got carried away," you stammer, looking down in embarrassment.

Fabio chickles softly, reaching out to tilt your chin up so you are looking into his eyes. "Don't be embarrassed," he says gently. "I enjoyed it. I loved feeling your touch and knowing you were having a good time."

His words send a rush of warmth through you, and you can't help but smile. "Well, I did have a good time. A great time, actually."

"Good," he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. "Because I wanted today to be special for us."

"It definitely is," you assure him, your voice filled with sincerity. "Being here with you, experiencing this- it means more than I can say."

Fabio leans in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. It is gentle yet filled with unspoken promises, a testament to the connection you share.

When he pulls back, you can see the sincerity in his eyes, the depth of his feelings reflect in every line of his face.

"I'm glad you're here," he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek.

Wrapping your arms around him, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the comforting scent of leather and cologne. In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the warmth of Fabio's embrace, you know that this day will be etched in your memory forever.

Eventually, you get back on the bike and make your way back home. During the ride, you hold on tight once more, but this time your touch is deliberate. Your hands wander over his chest, savoring the feel of the firm muscles beneath the soft leather of his jacket. The connection between you is electric, each stroke sending a thrill through both of you.

Fabio's reaction is immediate and palpable. The way he moves in his seat, the subtle shifts of his body tell you he is enjoying himself immensely. You can sense the pleasure radiating from him—a mutual enjoyment that heightens the thrill of the ride.

With each mile, the bond between you grows stronger. The rhythmic vibrations of the engine, the rush of the wind, and the intimate contact all combine to create a heady sense of pure hedonism.

Fabio is humming, his entire being resonating with the joy of the ride and the closeness of your bodies.

The riad unfurls before you like a ribbon, the fading light casting ling shadows that dance along the pavement. Every curve and straightaway is a new adventure, and you can feel Fabio's excitement echoing yours.

He leans into the turns with an expert grace, the bike responding to his every command as if it were an extension of himself.

Your hands continue to explore, moving lower to his waist, feeling the powerful muscles flex with each movement.

Fabio's quiet chuckles and murmurs of pleasure reach your ears, and you know he is relishing the sensations as much as you are. The intimacy of the moment, the shared experience, is intoxicating.

As you near his home, the scenery becomes more familiar, but the excitement doesn't diminish. If anything, it grows more intense, the anticipation of what is to come mingling with the lingering thrill of the ride.

When Fabio finally pulls into his garage and cuts the engine, the sudden silence is almost eerie.

You dismount, and you remove your helmet, shaking out your hair. Fabio turns to you, his eyes glowing with a mixture of exhilaration and something deeper. He steps closer, his hands finding yours, pulling you into a close embrace.

"How was that?" he asks, his voice low and velvety.

"Amazing," you reply, breathless from the ride and the intensity of your connection. "I loved every moment."

He smiles, his hands moving to cup your face gently. "You make everything better," he murmurs, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your lips.

You melt into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck. The warmth of his body, the scent of leather and cologne, the lingering excitement from the ride- all combine to create a perfect moment.

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formulapierre · 1 month ago

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do you write for MOTOGP? If you do can you write maybe some smut for Fabio Quatararo? If not just some fluff

A/N: I literally just re-made my Masterlist to add MotoGP in for you. And I so don’t regret it 😌

“I’ve missed having you”

Fabio Quatararo x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader and Fabio are walking on eggshells around each other, reader finally speaks to him which ignites something in them both.

Warning: UNDER 18’s DON’T INTERACT!!, smuttish scenes? Somewhat…- swearing, maybe some tears? fluff!! Google translate- my bad writing…

Key: Y/N (Your name) Y/L/N (Your last name)

Word count: 1,227

A/N: this is my first time with “smut” not exactly smut but you know- I wouldn’t say this is smut- but there is still some ‘scenes’ , erm yeah kinda want me some Quatararo.

When did our relationship get so tense? I would say around the last few weeks of the championship, he was trying to get his points back- and hopefully make the last race his championship secured…

Yet during this time- his been so concentrated on winning I feel like his been loosing me… and it’s horrible to say but it’s true, I follow him around like a lost puppy most days- a silent supporter in the waves of people.

I missed him, even when he was just at arms reach, we barely spoke. Half the time I got a quick kiss on the cheek purely for cameras sake… he barely went near me behind close doors- unless he was asleep and I am then able to tuck myself under his arm- but when I wake his back is always facing me.

Most nights I would sleep before he even came to bed, and them nights I would cry myself to sleep- because I only wondered was there something I’m doing wrong… or was there someone else? Was I maybe not good enough anymore? And his now realising he can do way better… this feeling sucked.

Was he trying to push me away, so that when he does leave me it wouldn’t hurt so much? Because right now this shit pains me. I rather he just rip the band aid off on the first place honestly.

I let Fabio have his space- this weekend finally being the last race of the season, he had stopped using his socials to concentrate on this last race… and stopped speaking to me in general really.

Truthfully, I wanted to pack up and go home… but no I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Tom asked a few times what’s going on- but I had no answer to give I was silently praying he would have something for me, but neither of us knew.

Our relationship was well and truly dead I would say… this weird feeling like maybe he doesn’t love me anymore? It’s easier for some more than lovers to fall out of love- I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him.

—

He tried his best, he really did. You could see the defeat on his face, and when he entered the garage, got his helmet off he broke down… and I just stood there watching, my heart went out to him.

My heart said to grab ahold of him… my mind said- if he needs you he will reach out. And so I listened to my mind… I waited for him to reach out.

My eyes were brimming with tears also, he deserved to win so much… but if it wasn’t meant to be, then it wasn’t meant to be… a bit like us really- I kind of came to terms with that.

Leaning over I switched the TV off nearby, I like and respect the other riders, but right now- seeing someone getting the cheers Fabio wanted so bad- hurt me also. I thought it would save us all the world of good and not watch.

Outside the garage we could hear the cheers still, but that was better than seeing it. Looking back down at Fabio, my heart fluttered slightly, as he was already looking up at me. Eyes red, lips somewhat swollen and cheeks flushed. Even now he look so effortlessly handsome.

My breath hitched when his hands found my waist, pulling me in and resting his head against my stomach… and as a natural instinct my fingers ran through his hair. This was the most affection I had gotten out of him in over a month, and boy did it feel nice. I was bathing in it- this gave me that little bit of hope that our relationship wasn’t falling apart at our feet.

“Pecco is coming back in- you should go and congratulate him-” I felt him sigh against me through my shirt, before he stood up, our chest just touching. Sympathetic as always, I brung my hands to his cheeks wiping away the stray tears before moving aside. And for the first time in a while he offered a small smile before heading out the team garage.

“Maybe he will talk now-” rubbing my shoulder Tom got up also. “You both need some time to reconnect.” Smiling he then nudged my shoulder leaving me be.

—

The night was young so they say, but for me and Fabio we were well and truly fucked- well I still had some energy left- Fabio however he was beyond exhausted. And for the first time in a few weeks we actually went to bed at the same time…

We both laid in silence- frightened to talk to one another. Swallowing the little bit of nerves I had, clearing my throat I found the courage to speak up.

“How you feeling?”

“I don’t even know how to answer that question.” Whispering back, his hand slid across the bed taking ahold of mine. And then I knew- my emotions were not going to hold in for long-

“I’ve missed having you…” letting out a shaky breath afterwards, my heart felt heavy.

“bébé… you’ve always got me…” (baby) his body then moved closer on the bed, he was at hands reach- I felt his body warmth slowly start surrounding me.

“It felt like I lost you-”

“Never, you’re stuck with me unfortunately.” I could hear the smile in his voice- even though I couldn’t see him in this dark room.

“I thought maybe you had lost interest in me…” it was now my turn to move closer- this time our chests finally touching.

“Oh, ma jolie fille.” (My pretty girl) and finally his lips pressed against mine- it was something I didn’t realise I needed so badly. Like his kiss sealed the fact that I was being delusional- I had not a worry when it came to our relationship.

So my only question would be.

“Are you sure you’re okay?…” whispering against his lips, I pulled back slightly…

“I will be.” And then he leaned back in connecting us once again. This kiss now saying everything we both needed to each other this past month.

Like a switch something was ignited in us both, his innocent kissed turned more hungry, making their way down my neck, biting down on the spot he knows so well. And without any control a low moan escapes my lips- causing me to bite down on my bottom lip suppressing anything else that dared to be voiced.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you moan in over a month-” his breathing become ragged- as if that alone was enough for him.

“You sound like a song.” He shuffled his body now hovering over the top of me, settling himself between my legs. My body ached for him- his hands gripped my thighs, and pulled me down the bed and against him, then toying with my/his top, sliding it up and exposing my stomach.

“A song I want on repeat.”

And as he moved down, my shorts followed along with him… humming to his words, my hands found his hair, running through before gripping ahold- catching his attention.

“Show me why they call you El Diablo.” I squirmed under his touch, my body getting hotter by the second.

“How about you moan it ma belle.” (My pretty)

Masterlist

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