itsnesss

[itsnesss]

hey stunner

could I pretty please request Ollie with a girlfriend who always makes him packed lunches/meals for training and races and leaves a little sticky note with it every time and the rest of the team get jealous cause the food looks and smells amazing

thank you, have a lovely rest of your day💕💕

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐟 | ollie bearman × fem!reader

summary | you always prepare ollie's lunch and add little notes to it. It's your way of showing affection. he loves it and it makes his friends jealous

warnings | chef!reader, fluff humor, mild embarrassment, public reading of a flirty note, excessive cuteness, food envy

word count | 1.2 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

The sun was just beginning to peek through the window when Ollie came downstairs, still bleary-eyed and his hair a mess. Despite the early hour, the kitchen already smelled delicious.

The sound of the pan led him straight to the scene he loved seeing every morning: you, in pajamas, hair clipped up, gently stirring with a wooden spoon.

"Up this early again?" he mumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his forehead on your shoulder.

"It’s your simulator day, and then the gym, right? I wanted to make sure you ate something decent instead of those bars you swear are ‘super filling.’"

He let out a chuckle, pressing a kiss to your cheek before stepping away to pour himself some water. On the table, a bento box was already half-prepped, with vibrant compartments and fruit cut into star shapes. The little sticky note hadn’t been placed yet, but you had the pen in your hand.

Ollie came closer, curious, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to read them early.

"What are you writing this time? Another ‘don’t forget to smile even if your trainer yells at you’?" he laughed.

"Close," you said with a mischievous grin. "This one says: ‘If you hit your best lap time today, I’ll make brownies tonight. If you don’t… I still will. But act like you don’t know that.’"

He laughed loudly this time, grabbing you by the waist and spinning you around to give you a kiss longer than strictly necessary.

"You’re the best part of my day, you know that?"

"I know. But tell that to your trainer after he sees I gave you rice cake as a snack."

Hours later at the training center, Ollie opened his lunchbox in the team’s common room. The sticky note was still on top. He didn’t have to say anything — the smell of sesame chicken filled the room, and one by one, the other drivers and mechanics looked up.

"Is that… homemade food?" Esteban asked, sniffing the air like a hound.

"Yeah," Ollie said casually, as if it were no big deal. He grabbed his chopsticks and started eating while Kimi peered over curiously.

"Your girlfriend cooks that for you every day?"

"Yes. Sometimes the menu changes. But there’s always dessert. And a note."

There was a moment of silence before someone muttered:

"Do you think she’d adopt all of us?"

And just like that, culinary jealousy spread through the team.

...

The atmosphere at the team base that Friday was relatively calm. Simulator in the morning, technical sessions in the afternoon. Nothing too exciting… except for Ollie.

He had an extra motivation to get through the day: his lunch.

As soon as he got out of the simulator, he walked straight to the hospitality fridge and pulled out his lunchbox, perfectly labeled with his name in a blue sticker. The sticky note was already attached on top:

“Reminder: you're stronger than you think. And yes, I added dumplings this time. Do not share, please!”

He read it with a smile. “As if I’d share,” he thought.

But someone was watching. Someone hungry. Someone named Kimi Antonelli.

"Does that have dumplings?" Kimi asked, leaning his elbows on the table like a hungry puppy.

"No idea what you’re talking about," Ollie replied, discreetly closing the lid.

"Come on, man. Just one. I just wanna see if they taste as good as they smell."

"My girlfriend said not to share. Her exact words."

Kimi rolled his eyes and walked away… but not for long.

While Ollie stepped away to take a call with his engineer, Kimi, like a thief trained by the F1 school of crime, slid over to the table. He lifted the lid with almost reverent care. And there they were: four perfect homemade dumplings nestled on a bed of sticky rice.

"Just one," he whispered, as if that justified the crime.

But just as he reached for one with Ollie’s chopsticks, he heard a voice behind him:

"Touch it and you lose the hand, Antonelli."

Kimi turned with a guilty smile.

"How did you know I was going to do that!?"

"Because you’re as subtle as a brick. Also, you left your fingerprints all over the tupperware last time."

The rest of the team burst out laughing. Esteban came over with a water bottle and added:

"Trying to steal his food again? This is becoming a ritual. Why don’t you just get a girlfriend too?"

Kimi dropped into the seat with a dramatic sigh.

"I don’t want a girlfriend. I want a chef."

"Mine’s both," Ollie said smugly, sitting down and picking up the first dumpling. "And that’s why you’ll just sit there and watch me eat this."

Kimi shot him a look full of culinary resentment while everyone laughed.

From then on, every time Ollie opened his lunch, someone would inevitably keep an eye on him. But Kimi… Kimi never tried again without permission.

(Technically.)

...

Race weekend arrived, and for the first time, you decided to surprise him in person. With help from Esteban, your trusted accomplice, you secretly traveled to the circuit.

The paddock was organized chaos: engineers running from one garage to another, mechanics fine-tuning details, drivers reviewing data. Everything buzzed with the usual pre-qualifying tension.

Except for Ollie Bearman.

Because you were there.

You had traveled in secret to the circuit a logistical madness that included a delayed train, a shared Uber, and a ridiculous number of messages with Esteban to make sure Ollie didn’t see you too soon.

And now, carrying an insulated lunch bag covered in cherry and bear stickers, you walked through the paddock looking for your boyfriend. You wore sunglasses, a cap, and had one mission: hand him his lunch before his technical meeting.

Esteban spotted you first.

"Hey! The star chef’s here!" he called out from afar, making several mechanics turn.

You just smiled, a bit embarrassed.

"Where is he?" you asked.

"Data room. But if you walk in now, you’ll scare the life out of him."

And so you did.

The door opened softly, and Ollie looked up from his tablet. The first thing he saw were your sneakers, he’d recognize them anywhere. Then your legs, your shirt, your cap...

"You?" he asked, stunned. "What are you doing here?"

"Is that your ‘Hi babe, what a lovely surprise’?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stood up immediately, hugging you in a way that erased everything else.

"Sorry, I just… wasn’t expecting it. I thought you were at home!"

"Wanted to give you this in person." You pulled out the lunchbox, fancier than usual, with a big note on top.

Before he could read it, the data engineer walked in right behind him.

"Ollie, I need you to- oh."

Silence.

He saw the tupperware. He saw the note. And read aloud, instinctively:

"You don’t need luck today. You’ve got talent, hunger, and this mango rice to make you smile. PS: You have the cutest butt in the paddock."

You froze.

So did Ollie.

The engineer blinked once. Twice. And then, with all the dignity he could muster, said:

"I’ll just… leave this here."

When he was gone, Ollie turned to you, eyes wide.

"Why would you write that?!"

"It was meant for you to read! Not for public announcement!"

You both burst into laughter, covering your faces with your hands as you sat down.

"God, now everyone is going to know about the butt thing," he said through his giggles.

"Everyone already knows, Ollie. Now they’ll just have it confirmed."

Later, as he walked out of the garage toward qualifying, several team members sent him off with:

"Good luck, cutest butt in the paddock!"

[itsnesss]

Hiiiii this is kind of like your last request but can you please write for kimi and reader whos learning italian and is stressed for their exams

Im currently in extension italian and looking to take it for the rest of high school but i missed like 2 weeks of lessons because i was sick and i have an exam in 2 days and im stressed 😭

Could it be kimi helping the reader with their studies (since hes italian obviously!!)

𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐢 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | you're stressed about your Italian exam, kimi notices, sits with you, and patiently helps you study

warnings | academic stress, comfort-heavy, fluff (emotional support)

word count | 1.1 k

an | sorry for the delay, I hope your exam went well 🤍

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

You're sitting at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, laptop open on a verb conjugation page that makes you want to cry. Your notes are scattered all over the floor. The yellow highlighter doesn’t highlight anything anymore; it just trembles between your fingers.

"I can’t do this anymore," you whisper. "Nothing's sticking. I missed two weeks. Everything’s a mess."

Kimi appears at the door. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt and holding a glass of water. He watches you silently for a few seconds before stepping into the room.

"Talking to the verbs again?" he asks with a faint smile, setting the glass down on your nightstand.

You don’t answer. You just lower your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek. Your eyes are wet, but you refuse to cry. Not again. Not over this.

Kimi sits beside you without a word. His presence has always been calm, steady. Like a rock in the middle of your storm.

"I’ve got the exam in two days," you say finally, your voice barely a cracked whisper. "It’s not like the basics. They’re asking for structures I don’t even remember learning."

"And what did you do today?" he asks, without a trace of judgment.

"I tried to review il congiuntivo... but I ended up reading the same sentence five times. Then I spent an hour watching dog TikToks."

"Valid strategy," he replies calmly. "But not the most effective."

You let out a weak laugh. He looks at you with that neutral expression that's sometimes hard to read, but you’ve learned to decipher it by now. He’s thinking. Planning something.

"We’re doing this my way," he says, standing up. "Got a clean notebook?"

"Yeah... I think so."

"Grab it. And sit at the table. We’re going to study, but without making it feel like torture."

"And how are you going to pull that off?" you ask, half-laughing.

Kimi shoots you a serious look.

"I’m Italian. Verbs are my daily bread. And I care about you."

Your stomach does a tiny flip. You don’t say anything, but you obey.

You sit at the table while he searches through the chaos of your stuff for your favorite pen. Then, unhurried, he starts to teach you like he’s done it all his life. With patience. With dry humor. With calm.

For the first time in weeks… something starts to make sense.

Kimi flips through your notebook carefully, glancing over your underlined notes, scribbles, and a small message in the corner of a page that says “I want to die lol.” He doesn’t say anything. Just raises an eyebrow, and you hide your face in your hands, mortified.

"I’m not judging," he says at last, nodding. "But we are going to fix this."

He sits across from you, the notebook open between you both. He picks up a black pen and writes in clear, elegant handwriting, almost too neat for someone like him:

Congiuntivo Presente

Che io parli, che tu parli, che lui/lei parli…

"You’ve seen this already, right?"

"Yeah, but I mix it up with the imperfect. I don’t even know when to use what anymore."

Kimi nods slowly. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say “but it’s easy.” He just does what he always does: gets straight to the point.

"Okay. You use the present when you’re talking about something that could still happen. Something you want, doubt, hope for but that’s not real yet."

He looks at you.

"For example: Spero che tu capisca."

"‘I hope you understand.’"

"Exactly. You don’t understand yet," he adds with a wink, "but I have faith."

You laugh without meaning to.

"Now," he goes on, "the congiuntivo imperfetto is trickier, but you use it when all that stuff you hoped for… was in the past. Or didn’t happen."

He writes another example:

Speravo che tu capissi.

(I hoped you understood.)

"See? I don’t have faith anymore. Just sadness."

"Relatable," you say, slumping onto the table.

Kimi taps you on the head with the pen, gently.

"No giving up. Listen, you don’t need to be perfect. You just need to understand the rules well enough to show you know how to play. And you’re smart. What you’re missing is peace of mind."

"And you’re gonna give me that?"

Kimi shrugs.

"I can’t promise miracles. But I’ll stay here until this stops feeling like a nightmare."

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he writes another sentence on the page without looking at you:

Se io potessi, ti porterei via da tutto questo.

You read it softly.

"‘If I could, I would take you away from all this.’ … That’s… congiuntivo, right?"

Kimi nods.

"Yeah. And I mean it."

You smile, this time with less tightness in your chest.

Maybe you’re not ready for the exam. But with him across from you, explaining things calmly, without pressure, without making you feel dumb...

...

It’s been almost forty minutes since you started. Your notes now have a new order, clean, with examples you actually understand, simple explanations in the margins, and even a couple of drawings (one of them is Kimi’s attempt at drawing a pizza to explain definite articles).

When you finish copying a conjugation chart, you drop your pen and lean back in your chair.

"My brain’s going to explode."

"Not yet, please. We still have trapassato prossimo."

"Don’t say those words in front of me."

Kimi chuckles softly and stands up. You follow him with your eyes, a bit confused.

"Where are you going?"

"For chocolate. And coffee."

"Chocolate?"

"Mandatory break. Teacher’s orders."

You don’t protest. You just smile as you watch him disappear down the hall. The air in your chest feels lighter. Your hands don’t shake anymore.

A little while later, he comes back with two steaming mugs and a chocolate bar broken into pieces on a napkin. He hands you a mug and sits beside you this time, closer. The smell calms you more than any breathing exercise could.

"Thank you," you say quietly.

"It’s nothing. I mean, the coffee is terrible. But the chocolate makes up for it."

"Not just for that."

He glances at you sideways. You can tell he’s not big on getting sentimental, but he doesn’t pull away.

"I know it hasn’t been easy," he says at last. "Missing classes, feeling lost, thinking you’re falling behind. I get it. I’ve been there. Not with Italian… but with plenty of things."

You look at him closely. He doesn’t talk much about himself, especially not about hard times. But his words are honest. And that’s enough.

"What you’re doing right now," he adds, "trying, even when you’re tired, anxious… that means more than any grade."

You say nothing. His words settle in your chest, soft and warm.

"You’re a really good teacher," you whisper.

"Yeah, I know."

He makes you laugh again, just as he breaks off another piece of chocolate and hands it to you directly.

"Ready for another round?"

"With chocolate… I think I am."

He raises his mug.

"To conquering the trapassato prossimo."

You clink your mug with his, laughing. And for the first time in days, studying doesn’t feel like punishment it feels like something you can, and will, get through.

[itsnesss]

just so u know i loveee ur acc and ur writing!! everything is soo cute and the tate series ATE!!

Aww, thank you! I’m so glad you love it all. Keep enjoying! 🤍

[itsnesss]

Hi lovely! I was wondering if you could do a lando norris x reader in the Miami gp 24' (based on the dts episode of him) where he is starting to have some self doubt because he is having a hard time beating max in the race so the McLaran team brings reader to talk to lando through the headsets/radio while he's racing and she encourages him to win but also says that other people's opinions about him shouldn't matter to him. And after all he ends up winning the race and reader is the first person lando finds after winning for the first time. Tyy

𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 | lando norris × fem!reader

summary | lando, full of self-doubt during the 2024 miami gp, hears your voice over the team radio. your words push him to fight harder, he overtakes max and wins his first race

warnings | emotional vulnerability / self-doubt, slight angst, fluff, comfort, intense racing tension

word count | 1.4 k

🖇 more ln4 🖇 f1 masterlist

The Miami sun bore down fiercely on the circuit, illuminating every curve and inch of asphalt. The 2024 Grand Prix had kicked off with full intensity, and you were stationed at McLaren’s control center, watching with your heart in your throat as Lando fought on the track.

From the moment the race began, the battle for victory seemed destined to be a constant duel between him and Max Verstappen, the relentless champion.

But something about Lando worried you. Through the radio communications, you could sense a subtle change in his voice, a small crack that hadn’t been there before. He sounded less sure of himself, as if that spark that had always made him shine on the track was starting to flicker.

"Everything okay out there?" you asked calmly, trying to project confidence.

"I’m... I don’t know, not sure I can do it this time," he replied, a hint of doubt in his voice. "Max is too strong. I don’t know how I’m going to get past him."

You knew Lando was an incredible driver, capable of pure moments of genius. But you also knew that the pressure of facing a rival like Max could make even the strongest start to waver.

"Listen to me, Lando," you said, trying to make your voice both firm and comforting. "You have something Max doesn’t. It’s not just speed or technique. It’s you. Your heart. Your courage. Don’t let anyone’s opinion make you doubt that. You’re not what others say, you’re what you know you’re worth."

There was a moment of silence, then you heard him take a deep breath. You knew your words were reaching him, that they were starting to sink in.

The race continued, and with each lap, the tension rose. Lando seemed to be fighting not only Max, but also that inner voice whispering that maybe he wasn’t enough.

But you were there, on that invisible radio channel, reminding him he wasn’t alone. That someone believed in him someone who knew he could do it.

"Lando, focus on Sector 3. You’ve got pace, you can catch him on the straight. You have DRS."

The engineer’s voice was clear, but deep down, all he wanted was to hear yours again. Amid the heat, the speed, and the pressure, your voice had become his only anchor.

You came back on the comms, on direct order from the team principal. "Lando, listen to me. Breathe. You’ve done this before. You’re more than a stat or a podium. You brought yourself here. No one else."

From inside his cockpit, with his hands clenched on the wheel and his visor fogged from the heat, Lando closed his eyes for a second. Not enough to lose control but enough to let your words reach him.

"Don’t let Max live in your head," you continued, that mix of firmness and tenderness only you knew how to use. "He doesn’t live there. You do. Remember why you started. Remember who you are. Not to beat him... but because you never give up."

And then, something changed.

The next sector was clean, precise. Pure art on wheels. The gap shrank lap by lap. The pit wall erupted with data and strategies, but Lando wasn’t listening to the noise anymore. He was only listening to you.

On lap 54 of 57, he made his move. Aggressive, but smart. He tucked into the slipstream and, coming out of turn 11, he had him: DRS activated, he dove down the inside and

he passed him.

"Let’s go, Lando, you did it!" you shouted over the intercom, forgetting all protocol. You weren’t part of the technical crew, but in that moment, you were everything he needed.

"Thanks to you," he replied, voice breaking, barely audible beneath the helmet. "You have no idea how much I needed that..."

The final laps were the longest of his life. Not because of difficulty but because of restraint. He wanted to scream, cry, see you.

The team buzzed, fans went wild. Final corner. Final breath. Checkered flags.

"P1. Lando Norris. P1."

For the first time in his career, he crossed the line first, not by accident, not by luck. By merit. By fight.

And when the car stopped at the pit line, and he removed his helmet through tears and ragged breaths, he didn’t look for his engineer or his team boss.

He looked for you.

Mechanics surrounded him, applauding, lifting him onto shoulders while camera flashes exploded from all directions. But he barely registered their faces. It was all noise, confusion, and overwhelming celebration.

Until his eyes found you in the crowd.

You were there, headset hanging around your neck, walking quickly toward him, eyes shining with emotion and pride. You didn’t wear a race suit or technical gear, but you were more a part of the team than anyone.

Lando didn’t think. He broke free from the arms congratulating him, from the cameras trying to capture him. He ran to you as if the real finish line was exactly where you stood.

And you moved too because you knew what was coming.

You met halfway, right in front of the pit lane barrier. He wrapped you in an embrace so tight it nearly lifted you off the ground. His body trembled—not from physical effort, but from the emotional release he’d held in for 57 laps.

"You did it..." you whispered, burying your face in his neck, feeling the heat radiating from his race suit.

"No. We did," he replied, his voice cracking. "I couldn’t have without you. Really. Hearing you... saved me."

Slowly, you pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes. His face was streaked with sweat and tears, still tense from the intensity but his gaze was clear. Free.

"Lando, win or lose, that doesn’t define who you are. People are always going to talk. But I see you. I always have."

He smiled. Not the usual media smile, or the cocky driver one. A real smile. Raw. Completely human.

"I promised myself that if I won… you’d be the first person I’d hug. And look at us. I didn’t let myself down."

He kissed your forehead, and for a second, the world disappeared. No roaring engines. No screaming fans. Just him, you, and the certainty that the day wasn’t about the trophy.

...

Drops of champagne still sparkled in his hair as Lando stepped down from the podium, the trophy in one hand, and that impossible smile still painted across his face. The British anthem still echoed through Miami’s loudspeakers, and you watched from the paddocksurrounded by media, crew, and curious onlookers. Everyone wanted a piece of that moment. His moment.

But not you. You just wanted to be with him. In silence. No cameras. No noise.

After the press conference, the photos with the team, and congratulations from drivers who finally saw him as more than just McLaren’s friendly kid, he slipped away.

He found you next to the hospitality unit, alone, a bottle of water in hand and your headset already packed away. Lando didn’t say a word. He just walked toward you slowly and, once close enough, set the trophy down and pulled you into his arms.

This time, the embrace wasn’t about euphoria. It was about relief. Intimacy. Belonging.

"Can we hide from the world for a while?" he whispered in your ear.

You nodded without a word, taking his hand.

You climbed into one of the team’s private rooms the one he used between sessions. No luxury. Just a couch, a ceiling fan, and soft sunset light filtering through the blinds. He stripped off his race suit down to his waist, leaving only his sweat-soaked black shirt, his neck still red from the heat.

You sat on the couch, and he dropped beside you, resting his head on your lap.

"You know something?" he murmured, eyes tired but joyful. "During that final lap, I wasn’t thinking about Verstappen. Or the trophy. I was thinking about how you’d look at me if I won."

Your fingers began gently combing through his damp hair, lowering his heart rate more than any cooling system ever could. "And how am I looking at you now?"

"Like I’m worth it. Not for winning. Just… for being me."

You smiled, lowering your gaze to meet his. "You’ve always been worth it. The rest is just... the consequence."

He slowly sat up, leaning in. His hands took yours, warm and soft. "Today, I felt like a champion. But with you… I always feel invincible."

And then he kissed you. Not a quick one. Not one stolen between pit stops. A deep kiss, honest, tasting of victory and salt. Of unspoken promises, clearly understood. Of staying together, through every race, every doubt, every lap.

Because the real finish line was never the checkered flag.

It was finding each other at the end.

[itsnesss]

Tomorrow will be cardiac

📷 Clive Rose

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

🖇️ more...

"We just had to go to the team photo session. How hard could it be?" you asked, watching Ollie run through the paddock waving a Ferrari flag that clearly wasn’t his.

"Depends... before or after Kimi and Yuki hijacked the golf cart?" Max replied in the most neutral voice possible.

Oscar appeared, panting.

"I can’t find them. They have a megaphone and they’re shouting ‘Long live chaos!’"

"Perfect," you said. "We lost them in under ten minutes."

At that moment, Lando rolled by on a skateboard, Charles was behind him on an electric scooter, and Carlos ran past holding a GoPro like he was filming a survival documentary.

"What are they doing?" Max asked.

"Escape Room: Track Edition," said Lando, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Checo and George were sitting in a corner playing chess with pieces made out of Tupperware. Fernando was giving them tactical advice like it was actual warfare.

"I just wanted a nice group photo," you whispered, staring at your empty camera.

"And I just wanted no one to fall in the fountain this time," Max added.

Yuki yelled from afar:

"WE DID IT! THREE DRIVERS IN ONE CART!"

A loud metallic crash followed.

Oscar covered his face. Charles came running.

"Do we have insurance for this?"

"Toto has insurance for everything," Max replied, like that would somehow fix it.

Eventually, you managed to gather everyone in front of the camera. Kimi was holding the flag upside down. Ollie had dirt on his face. Lando was still on the skateboard. But they smiled.

Click.

"Can we go eat now?" Kimi asked.

"Only if no one steals the cutlery this time," you said, eyeing Charles, who whistled innocently.

Max slung an arm over your shoulders.

[itsnesss]

𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you’re alone at home, feeling a growing sense of desire. while relaxing in your room, max unexpectedly shows up, surprising you

warnings | smut without plot, explicit content, masturbation, fingering, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex

word count | 1.7 k

🖇️ more mv1 🖇️ f1 masterlist

You're wearing a Max Red Bull t-shirt, you like to wear it when he's not home.

Max has been away for a week, and you miss him, a lot.

Again, you have the house to yourself and you feel strange, you're in the room, it's almost night, the lights are off, and only the reflection of the moon is visible. You're leaning against the door frame that leads to the balcony, dressed only in panties and the t-shirt that almost covers your thighs. A slight breeze makes you lift the t-shirt so the air can pass and give you space on the inside of your thighs. The air doesn't seem to be enough. Your breathing becomes heavier, and your nipples become firm and hard, clearly showing through the t-shirt.

"What's happening to me?" you ask yourself.

You close the balcony door and walk towards the room, suddenly you feel your thighs wet, and a feeling of pleasure invades you. You stop in front of the bed, sit on it and open your legs slightly.

One of your hands is placed on your breasts and you start to caress them in a soft and delicate way, you massage the outline of your breasts, then you go down to your navel and caress your abdomen area, while with the other hand you continue to caress one of your breasts. You feel as if your body is burning, you feel very hot.

You start to bite your lips, while the hand that is on your abdomen is placed just above your Venus mound, you feel heat and moisture in that area, and a tingling sensation runs through your entire body. You can't take it anymore and one of your hands goes under the t-shirt and starts to touch you over your underwear. You start to moan softly.

"Mmm!" you hear yourself moan.

Your eyes close tightly, and your movements become faster and more desperate. You take off your panties, and with more freedom, you touch yourself with more intensity. A louder scream escapes you.

"Ahh!".

Slowly, you begin to slide a finger along your wet folds. You feel a little liquid escaping that runs down your hand, while you gently caress your clitoris with one finger, and with the other hand you touch a breast.

"Oh!".

You start to insert one finger, then two, and your moans become more intense and frequent, the heat and moisture become more intense, and you feel your body tremble and shake. Your fingers move faster inside you.

"Fuck!".

Suddenly, you open your eyes and see Max standing in front of you, watching you.

"Oh my god" you sit up in bed and cover your face with your hands, embarrassed. Max approaches you.

"Oh no, don't stop for me"

"What are you doing here?" you ask him.

"I came to see you, I missed you" he smiles looking at you "Besides, the race isn't until tomorrow" he sits next to you, hugs you tightly and kisses your neck.

"And wouldn't it have been better to call me and not scare me?" you try to sound annoyed, but your voice betrays your emotion.

"You know I like to see you like this"

"Oh, my god!" you cover your face with your hands again and make a face of embarrassment.

"Continue" he tells you while taking your hands and lowering them from your face. His voice is low and husky, and he looks intently into your eyes as he speaks to you. "I want to see you masturbate, I want to see you when you touch yourself and bring yourself to orgasm". He caresses your cheek.

His words excite you even more, and you feel your body react to his gaze and his voice. Your breathing quickens, and your nipples harden even more. Max smiles at your reaction and kisses you passionately.

"I want to see how you touch yourself, how you come", he whispers against your lips.

His words make you feel intense heat in your body, and you start to feel even wetter between your legs.

Max strokes your hair and kisses you again.

"Continue", he encourages you.

You start to touch yourself again, and Max watches you with a look full of desire. You bite your lips trying not to moan. Your fingers slide through your vagina, and you can feel your moisture escaping.Your breathing is fast and ragged, and your movements are quicker and more desperate.

"No," he touches your lips. "I want to hear you, don't hold back," he tells you. His voice is soft but firm.

"Ahh!" you moan louder.

His hands caress you and his gaze never leaves you for a moment.

"Fuck!" you shout louder this time.

"That's it!" he whispers. His hands move towards your thighs, and he begins to caress you with soft and delicate movements, his hands moving up until they reach the junction of your legs. You feel the warmth of his fingers near your most intimate area, and your heart pounds in your chest. His fingers begin to caress your vagina, and you feel increasingly wet.

His movements are slow and deliberate, and each time he touches your clitoris, you feel a wave of pleasure that runs through your entire body.

"Faster, please!" you beg. Your voice is hoarse and full of desire.

"Yes," he replies with a smile. He increases the rhythm of his fingers, and you begin to move to the rhythm of his movements, you feel closer to orgasm and you want to get there with Max. His fingers penetrate you deeper, and you can feel your muscles contracting around them.

"Almost! Almost!" you shout, with your eyes closed and your head thrown back.

"Come for me!" he tells you in a hoarse voice.

"Oh, god!" you shout, and you begin to come. An intense heat spreads through your body and you feel as if you are floating, your body trembles with pleasure, and your thighs press against Max's hand. You feel completely liberated and satisfied.

"Was it good?" Max asks you, smiling.

"Yes... but now it's my turn," you say with a mischievous smile.

He tries to pull away, but you grab his shirt, pull him close to you, and kiss him.

"Now you're mine," you tell him in a commanding tone.

"As you command, princess," he smiles and hugs you.

You push him onto the bed and get on his lap, you lift his shirt over his head, throw it away, and kiss him. His hands slide over your hips.

His lips slide to your neck, and he begins to kiss and nibble your skin. You feel his warm breath on your ear, and his tongue traces a wet path down your neck. Your breasts are firm and sensitive, and you can feel Max's erection against you.

"I want to feel you inside me... mouth," you whisper against his ear, and he smiles.

"Then take me," he tells you in a deep voice.

You move your hands towards his pants, unbutton them, Max helps you take them off along with his boxers until his erection is free. You take it with one hand and caress it slowly. He closes his eyes and lets out a moan.

"Fuck, you're amazing!" he tells you.

"Now I'm in charge," you smile and lean forward. Your tongue slides over the tip of his penis, and then you take it in your mouth, starting to move up and down. Max groans and you grab his hair, guiding the rhythm.

"Shit, that feels good!" he tells you. His hands take your head, and you can feel his breathing getting faster.

You stop and look him in the eyes.

"Do you like it?" you ask him with a flirty smile.

"Very much," he replies, with narrowed eyes and a hoarse voice. "It's a good welcome."

You continue your work, and you can feel his erection growing in your mouth. His moans get louder, and his hands press your head against his body. Suddenly, he pulls away from your mouth and looks at you intensely.

"I want to fuck you," he tells you. "I want to feel myself inside you." His hands take your hips and put you on the bed. His hands run over your body and stop at your thighs.

"You're ready for me," he tells you, looking into your eyes. "I want to feel you." His voice is deep, and you can see the desire in his eyes.

"Yes!" you reply, and you take him in your hand again, guiding him towards your vagina. You begin to penetrate yourself with him, feeling your body open to accommodate him. His hands grip your hips, and he begins to move inside you with slow and deep movements,his gaze fixed on yours.

"Oh, fuck!" he shouts, and quickens the pace, filling you completely with each thrust.

"You're perfect," he tells you.

You feel full and satisfied, and pleasure completely floods you. You can feel the climax approaching, and each thrust from Max makes you feel closer to the edge.

"Come on, come on!" he encourages you. His movements are getting faster and stronger.

"Yes, yes, yes!" you shout. His words excite you, and the orgasm washes over you, completely shaking you.

"Oh, shit, I'm coming!" Max shouts. His body tenses, and you can feel him inside you.

"Yes!" you tell him. His thrusts become more frantic, and finally he spills inside you, with a cry of pleasure.

"Fuck!" he says, collapsing on you, panting. His arms wrap around you, and he hugs you against his body.

"That was incredible," he says, kissing you on the forehead. "You're incredible."

You smile and hug him tightly. "You are too," you tell him.

"Can we stay like this forever?" He hugs you, burying his face in your shoulder.

"Not if you want to win the next race," he laughs and kisses you on the lips.

"Who said I want to win?" he asks you.

"You," you smile. "You're the best driver, I can't take that away from you.

"Honey, you don't know how happy that makes me."

You look at him mischievously. "Do you feel ready to sleep?"

"To sleep?" He pulls away and looks at you. "Are you sure about that?"

"No," you laugh and push him onto the bed to position yourself on top of him. "We're not done yet." You kiss him on the lips and start kissing his neck, then slowly moving down.

"Another round?" he asks you.

"Yes." You smile. "But now it's my turn." His eyes light up.

"That's my girl." He smiles at you and closes his eyes, preparing for what's to come.

[itsnesss]

Hii, no hablo bien inglés 💔, pero llevo días pensando en Kimi con la tendencia de TikTok "mi novio actual".

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMSLxyke7/

Necesito saber si se comporta como un niño ofendido y dramático... quizás un poco dolido. 😭 En fin, gracias por leer esto. Me encanta tu blog. 💓💓

𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | teasing kimi with a tiktok trend sparks his playful drama

warnings | light romantic teasing, mild playful drama, tiktok trend reference

word count | 0.3 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

You can’t help but smile as you hold the phone in your hand. The idea of the TikTok trend “my current boyfriend” has been spinning in your head all day, and you finally decide to record the video you know will be fun… and maybe a little bit problematic.

There he is, Kimi, unaware of anything, distracted by his phone while you prepare the camera. As soon as you start recording, you point at him with that phrase that’s been all over lately:

“My current boyfriend,” you say with a playful smile.

He looks up, surprised, and you can already see his eyes widen a bit, as if that phrase just gave him a little punch. You know Kimi has that dramatic flair when something doesn’t sit right with him, and right now he looks like he’s about to go into full “offended child” mode.

“‘My current boyfriend’?” he says, crossing his arms and frowning. “What kind of title is that? Are there ‘non-current’ boyfriends waiting in line?”

You can’t help but laugh as he gets all dramatic, exaggerating that annoyance you find absolutely adorable. You know deep down he just wants to feel special, not just a “title” in a trend.

“Come on, Kimi, it’s just a silly trend,” you say as you walk over to kiss his cheek. “Don’t take it so seriously.”

But he gives you a look that’s a mix of offense and tenderness, and it only makes your smile grow wider. You know he likes being comforted when he gets like this, and that behind all that drama is a guy who just wants to feel unique.

“If I’m your ‘current boyfriend,’ I expect to be treated like it,” he says in an exaggerated tone, but his eyes sparkle with amusement. “No replacing me with the next one, okay?”

You laugh again and take his hand, knowing this little scene is just another way of showing how much you love each other—even if it comes with jokes and a touch of drama.

“Deal, my ‘current boyfriend,’” you say with a smile, as you turn off the camera.

[itsnesss]

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 | axel kovacevik × fem!reader

summary | you’re training at the dojo, distracted by axel intense presence. he challenges you to a new form of training: kissing

warnings | flirtation, romantic tension, and playful interactions

word count | 1.2 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The dojo is full of noise, but you can’t hear a thing. Every punch in the air, every foot sliding across the floor, every voice of the students training, everything fades away like you're in a bubble. You’re standing in the corner, watching, but not really seeing. Your mind is occupied with something else, someone else: Axel Kovacevic. No matter how hard you try to focus on the movements, you can’t stop thinking about him. His figure in the center of the dojo, moving with the grace of a dancer, makes the world disappear. It’s almost unreal, like everything around him has stopped, and he’s the only one in motion.

But it’s not just his skill that has you so distracted. No, it’s so much more than that. It’s the way he looks at you, the way his intense, penetrating gaze seems to pierce everything you are, stripping away every layer of you, getting to your very core. Every time he looks at you, you don’t know whether to feel uncomfortable or, worse yet, excited. It’s like he’s aware of everything you feel, and that completely disarms you.

Today, like any other day, is no different. You’re training, but you can’t help it. You see him there, dominating the space with his presence, showing off a perfect technique. Every move he makes seems so simple, yet so impossible to replicate. His body moves with impressive fluidity, as if he’s dancing, like he doesn’t even need to try. Everything he does is hypnotizing.

You sigh, frustrated, as you try to refocus on your training. But it’s useless. Every time you glance in his direction, your heart beats faster. And those damn butterflies in your stomach, that won’t stay still for even a second. You know you should focus on what you’re doing, that training is important, but how can you do that when he’s so close? How can you focus when all you can think about is him?

Suddenly, you feel someone approach. You turn, and there he is. Axel, with his ever-confident gaze, walking toward you with firm steps. The sound of his footsteps echoes in the dojo, but to you, everything else fades away. It’s just him in that moment.

“Ready to train?” he asks, his tone as soft as always, but with a hint of challenge, like he’s expecting something more from you. That smile of his, calm and self-assured, but in his eyes... there’s something else. Something you can’t quite figure out.

“Of course,” you say, trying to sound calm, but your voice shakes, betraying you. Axel looks at you, noticing, but says nothing. He simply nods and moves on, like he’s read every one of your thoughts.

“Today we’re doing something different,” he says, his voice mysterious. “I’m going to teach you something that’ll improve your skills significantly.”

Intrigued, you frown. “What is it?”

“Kiss training,” he says, and his mischievous smile makes your heart race instantly. Kiss you? Seriously? You’re sure he’s joking, right?

You look at him, trying to find a clue in his expression. But his face is completely serious, and that glint in his eyes leaves no doubt. He’s not joking. “Kiss me?” you repeat, feeling how your face turns red.

“Yeah, kisses,” he responds, like he’s talking about any other training technique. “It’ll help improve your coordination. Trust me, it’s more important than you think.”

Your mind is a whirlwind. Kisses? This is too weird. Too... strange. But for some reason, you can’t say no. The way he looks at you, his calmness, his confidence, it disorients you. Part of you wonders if this is his game, if he’s trying to make you feel uncomfortable. But another part of you... another part of you wants to know what would happen if you go along with it.

“If you’re not comfortable, we can stop,” Axel says, his tone softening for a moment. “But if you choose to do it, I need you to give it your all.”

You’ve got a million things to say, a thousand excuses crossing your mind, but at that moment, something inside you shifts. You don’t know if it’s pride or if you’re actually curious, but you find yourself saying, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Axel smiles, and that smile makes your whole body ignite. “Perfect,” he says, and before you can think of anything else, he takes a step toward you. The proximity of his body leaves you breathless. You can smell his scent, feel the heat radiating off his skin, and a shiver runs through you.

“Remember,” he whispers, “this is just training. Nothing more. Okay?”

You nod quickly, trying to stay calm, but you know you’re not succeeding. The tension in the air is palpable, and every little movement Axel makes only intensifies it.

When his lips finally touch yours, it’s like the whole dojo fades away. At first, it’s gentle, almost delicate, like he’s testing the waters. But before you know it, Axel guides you with an unexpected softness, moving as if he knows exactly how to make your body respond. The kiss deepens, and all you can do is follow his lead. You clutch at his neck, letting him guide you, letting yourself get lost in the warmth of his lips on yours.

You don’t know how much time has passed, or how much longer you could keep going like this, but a part of you doesn’t want it to stop. The voices in the dojo, the others training, everything has faded. Nothing matters anymore except this moment. Except him. Except his kisses.

When you finally pull away, you realize you can’t breathe. You’re flushed, completely red, and the blush doesn’t fade. You can’t look him in the eye, so you look down, feeling your skin burn.

“That was... good?” you ask, though you can’t even believe you just said that. Did you really ask if the kiss was good? Is this the time and place for this?

Axel watches you for a moment, processing everything that just happened. Then, a bigger smile crosses his face. “Much better than I expected,” he replies, his tone softer than before. “I think this training worked better than you think.”

Your heart is pounding as you try to find something coherent to say. “I think so,” you mumble, still not believing what just happened. “I think it really helped.”

Axel looks at you, and for a second, his gaze softens in a way you haven’t seen before. Like he’s really seeing beyond your facade. Then, he steps closer to you, and his words fall like a whisper in your ear: “If you ever want more practice... you just have to ask.”

A shiver runs through your body, and you feel the desire growing inside you. What does that mean? Was he serious? You’re too confused to respond, but something inside you knows this is just the beginning of something far more complicated, something that could change everything between you two.

And maybe, just maybe, this “exercise” isn’t just an excuse for you both to be this close.

[itsnesss]

banger

[itsnesss]

Could you please write something Angsty with Ollie when you always made sure to use double protection when you sleep together as you both only turned 20 and he’s busy with F1 and you with you’re study with university you know how privileged you are to be able too travel the world in you’re early twenties and to be a part of Ollie’s journey but it all changes at the Monaco GP when you realize that you’re period is late and you can’t help but start to panic and decide to take a test when Ollie has a team meeting but he comes back earlier than expected and finds you crying on the bathroom floor and you explain it to him with tear choked voice. Much Love❤️

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭? | ollie bearman × fem!reader

summary | at 20, both careful, everything changes at the monaco gp when the period is late

warnings | gf!reader, angst, anxiety, pregnancy-related panic

word count | 1.4 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

Traveling the world with Ollie is a dream. You know it. You repeat it like a mantra every time you juggle online classes and connecting flights.

You’re in your twenties, still figuring out who you are, while you watch him shine under the lights of every paddock, every podium, every interview.

And even though the noise of his world sometimes overwhelms you, you chose him. You choose him, again and again.

And you were both always careful.

You both knew you weren’t ready. That your lives were too unstable, too fast—like the cars he drives. Always double protection. Always.

And yet…

You’re in Monaco. The sun shines over the Mediterranean like nothing could possibly go wrong. The air smells of luxury, sea, and gasoline. You've been distracted the past few days, maybe because of jet lag, maybe because of the pressure of an important online exam you just took. But this morning, while you were getting ready to go with him to the track, something clicked in your head. And it wasn’t just any thought.

It was a cold, dry, silent realization.

Your period.

It was supposed to come ten days ago.

Ten.

Not one. Not two. Ten.

You start doing the math. You mentally review everything again. The pills. The condoms. Human error? Did something happen? A mistake in the middle of exhaustion? Of alcohol? No, no… no!

But the panic settles in your chest like a soaked brick.

Ollie leaves early for a team meeting. He kisses your forehead goodbye, not noticing how your hands tremble slightly when you hold onto his arm a second longer than necessary. He smiles. "I’ll see you later, okay?" You just nod. You can’t speak.

As soon as the door closes, you run.

You head to the nearest pharmacy, wearing a hoodie and oversized sunglasses as if they could hide the storm brewing inside you. You buy one test. Two. You don’t want to leave room for error.

The hotel room is silent when you return. Only your uneven breathing can be heard.

The clock on the wall seems to mock the time you can’t control.

You go to the bathroom. Read the instructions three times. Do what you need to. Leave the test on the sink. Sit on the floor, legs crossed, hugging your knees.

One minute passes.

Two.

Three.

Your eyes fill with tears before you even look.

And when you finally do, you see it.

Two lines.

Clear as day.

The air leaves your lungs as if you’ve slammed into an invisible wall. The world tilts, spins, collapses. You start to cry. Not a soft cry. No. A broken, overflowing cry, silent on the outside but deafening inside.

You don’t know how much time passes before you hear the door open.

You didn’t hear him come in.

"Hey, I forgot my—" Ollie’s voice cuts off abruptly.

Your eyes meet in the mirror. He’s standing in the doorway. You’re on the bathroom floor. The test in front of you. The disaster, exposed.

"… What’s going on?"

You struggle to speak, to say something. But your throat closes up. Your voice comes out hoarse, cracked, barely a whisper:

"I think… I think I’m pregnant."

Ollie’s expression changes in a second. His face shifts from confusion to shock, and from shock to a tense kind of stillness that makes you want to throw up.

He stays there, frozen in the doorway. As if he doesn’t know whether to come in or run. As if his mind is trying to process something that just doesn’t fit into his reality.

You don’t know how to say anything else. There’s no script for this. No one prepared you for this moment.

"We used protection," he finally mutters, like he’s talking to himself, like if he repeats it, he can make it all a misunderstanding. "We were always careful. Always."

You nod, tears still running down your face, with the positive test still on the sink, cruel and definitive.

"I don’t know what happened," you whisper, your voice shaking like a string about to snap. "I thought everything was fine. I didn’t feel different. I didn’t have symptoms. And… it just didn’t come."

He kneels in front of you, finally moving closer. He’s no longer frozen. Now he looks like something else. Something more human. More vulnerable. He leans in and cups your face with his hands—soft but firm.

"Are you sure?" he asks, even though he knows the answer is in plain sight.

"I took two tests," you confess, a lump in your throat. "Both came out positive."

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to say something. Something big. Something that could fix the disaster unraveling between you. But he doesn’t. Instead, he hugs you.

And you break.

You sob into his chest, feeling him tremble a little too. You don’t know if it’s from fear, from anger, or simply because it’s all too much. The sound of your tears filling the silence of the bathroom mixes with his shaky breathing.

"I’m so sorry," you say, not even knowing why, not knowing if it’s your fault. But you need to say it. You need to let it out.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just holds you tighter.

"It’s not your fault," he says at last. His voice is low, hoarse, filled with emotional exhaustion you’ve rarely heard from him. "It’s nobody’s. But, fuck… I don’t know what to do."

Your tears pause for a moment. You look at him.

"Me neither."

That’s the scariest part. That you have no answers. That you’re alone in this. That your world—the one of travel, circuits, goals, youthful dreams—just cracked in a way neither of you saw coming.

And what hurts most… is that you’re not even sure you’ll be able to hold it together.

Now you’re sitting on the edge of the bed in a hotel robe with your knees pulled to your chest, while Ollie paces back and forth, as if he needs to move so his thoughts don’t drown him.

"I have to race tomorrow," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "And next week is Spain. Then Canada. Austria…"

His voice trails off, and you lower your gaze. Not because it bothers you that he said it, but because you understand. His life doesn’t stop. It never stops.

"And I have a final paper due Monday," you reply, your voice still broken but trying to sound sane. "After that… exams. And internship hours. I can’t fail this semester."

And there it is. The abyss. The two lives you built so carefully… on the brink of collapse over something as unexpected as two pink lines on a cheap test.

Ollie stops in front of you.

"I don’t want you to think I’m going to leave," he says suddenly. "I’m not that kind of person. I couldn’t."

You look at him. And while part of you feels relief hearing it, another part still doubts. Not him. The world you live in.

"It’s not just about whether you stay or not, Ollie. It’s about what we’re going to do with this. With everything. With… a life."

The word hangs in the air like undetonated dynamite.

He sits beside you, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Several seconds pass in silence before he speaks:

"I don’t know if I can be a dad right now."

Your throat tightens. Not because you didn’t know. But because hearing it out loud hurts more than you expected.

"I don’t know if I can be a mom either," you admit. "I don’t even know if… if I want to be. At least not now. And I feel horrible for thinking that."

He lifts his head. Looks at you with a mix of pain, fear, and something else you can’t quite decipher.

"You’re not horrible," he says with a sincerity that nearly breaks you. "You’re human. And brave for saying it."

You look at him. You want to believe him. But right now, you feel anything but brave.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling. You feel the weight of the future crushing your chest.

"What do we do, Ollie?"

Silence.

He turns his face toward you, and though his voice is low, firm, almost trembling, there’s something in it that sounds like a decision:

"Whatever you decide, I’m going to be with you. I’m not going to let you go through this alone. No matter what you choose."

Your bottom lip quivers. You try to hold back another wave of tears, but it’s useless. Because in that moment, even though the fear is still there, you feel a spark of something else.

[itsnesss]

Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it.Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞: 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | final exams in a month, panic sets in tears, chaos, and dramatic speeches. kimi stays, calms, organizes, and reminds: you're capable

warnings | gf!reader, academic stress, panic attack elements (crying, overwhelm), comfort, fluff, golden retriever boyfriend energy

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

You're surrounded by highlighters. One is drying out on the edge of the bed without its cap, another is chewed between your fingers, and several more are scattered across the desk like witnesses to a crime.

Your notes are everywhere: some open on the floor, others crumpled, one pinned to the wall with washi tape like that’s going to help you absorb information through osmosis.

Your heart is pounding, your eyes are burning, and your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. You don’t even know where to start. You haven’t touched a single flashcard, haven’t opened the first topic, and the bac is in a month. One month. Thirty days. What can you do in thirty days? Go over the entire syllabus? Prepare text commentaries? Review philosophy, history, math? Sleep? No. Sleep is no longer an option.

You feel your throat burn. You're about to cry for the third time this afternoon—and it’s because of a damn dried-up highlighter.

And then, you hear the door open.

"Hey, amore..." says a familiar voice, soft, almost carefree.

Kimi walks in with a bag of croissants in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He has that smile he always wears when he sees you... but it fades the moment he takes in the disaster that is your room. And you.

"What happened here?"

You turn with a kind of hysterical laugh caught in your throat.

"What happened?" you repeat, your eyes wide. "Kimi, the bac is in a month! A month! And I haven’t started anything! I’m completely lost, I’m going to fail, my life is going to be ruined, I won’t get into university, and I’ll end up… I don’t know! Selling defective highlighters from a street stall while crying!"

You toss a tissue at your face and sigh. You're being dramatic you know it. But you're so overwhelmed you can’t help it. Everything feels too big, too hard, and you feel so, so small in front of it.

Kimi walks toward you carefully, like he’s afraid of spooking you.

"Are you crying because of…?"

"Yes, because of a highlighter!" you yell, pointing at the pastel yellow one that has tragically died on the floor. "It was dry and that was the last straw!"

He lets out a soft laugh and crouches beside you. With the kind of tenderness only he has, he runs a thumb over your damp cheek and wipes away the tear.

"At least you cry in style," he says, and you let out a choked laugh between sobs.

"Don’t make fun of me," you mumble, letting yourself fall against him. Your forehead rests against his chest, and you feel his arm wrap around you.

"I’d never do that. I'm here for this, right? To hold you while the world falls apart because of some exams."

He closes his eyes and rests his chin on your head. His voice, calm, steady, warm, filters through your chaotic thoughts like an anchor.

"You’re going to be okay. I promise. We’ll do this together, okay?"

You don’t say anything, but your hand clutches his shirt. Because even though everything in your head is spinning out of control... he always manages to stop the chaos, at least a little.

You don’t know how long you stay curled up against him. It could be minutes or an eternity. All you hear is his calm, steady breathing, like he’s trying to regulate yours with his. And in a way, it works. Your heart no longer beats with the same violence, and the tears though not completely gone have stopped flowing uncontrollably.

"Does your head hurt?" he asks quietly.

You nod, not lifting your face from his shirt. His hand moves gently across your back, drawing little circles that, for the first time in hours, make you feel like you’re not alone in this wreckage.

"Okay, listen," he says softly, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head. "I know it all feels like a giant mountain right now, but we can break it down. Step by step. Day by day. I’ll help you, amore. Want to start?"

"I don’t even know where…" you whisper, voice cracking.

"From the beginning. Tell me which subjects you need to prepare."

You take a breath, pull back slightly, and look at your desk in resignation.

"Literature, history, philosophy, english, geo, and math."

Kimi nods like it’s not a monstrous list.

"Perfect. Then we’re going to make a schedule. A real one. With breaks, time to breathe, and…" he reaches into the bag he left on the desk, "croissants as rewards."

You can’t help but laugh.

"You’re going to motivate me with pastries?"

"I’m going to motivate you with love and pastries. Which is objectively better than any educational system."

He hands you his phone, already open on a scheduling app. You look at it, surprised.

"You had this ready?"

"I know you, amore. I had a feeling."

You start dividing the days by subjects, assigning realistic study hours, leaving room for breaks, and marking small “rewards” at the end of each day. Kimi does it all with infinite patience, listening without judgment, suggesting instead of imposing.

"This is insane," you whisper at some point, watching the schedule take shape.

"No," he corrects you, taking your hand, "this is what you do when you decide to fight instead of give up. And you always fight even when you cry over highlighters."

You sigh. There’s still a pinch of anxiety in your chest, but it no longer fills the whole space. Because now he’s there, sharing it with you.

"What if I don’t make it? What if I run out of time?"

"Then we’ll improvise. Or you’ll do your best. Because you’re brilliant, even if you don’t feel like it today. I know that. And I’m not going anywhere. Even if you have to study twenty hours straight and yell at me because you don’t understand Rousseau."

You look at him. He has that soft, silly smile that always disarms you.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Don’t thank me yet," he replies, standing up to grab your flashcards. "The battle against the note mountain hasn’t even started. But don’t worry. I brought reinforcements. And croissants."

You laugh. For the first time in days, you truly laugh.

And while he starts sorting your notebooks by color, as if that were a war tactic… you realize maybe you can do this.

Because you have Kimi. And with him, everything feels a little less impossible.

Days passed. Some were chaotic, full of tears, existential dread, and internal battles with the voice in your head telling you you wouldn’t make it. Others were miraculously productive, with full hours of focus, checkmarks on your calendar, and that almost-forgotten feeling of progress.

But the best part was that Kimi was there for all of it.

He became your official study partner. He sat beside you, even if he didn’t understand a single word of your philosophy texts. He read your outlines, quizzed you, and gave you a kiss every time you got one right. He learned how to pronounce Spinoza without laughing and ended up having opinions about Victor Hugo. More than once, you caught him doodling nonsense in the margins of your pages while you reviewed.

"Is this a philosophical pig?"

"No, it’s Descartes… in cochon mignon version," he replied seriously, like it made perfect sense.

And you laughed. You laughed so hard you forgot, for a second, all the stress.

That particular night, you were both lying on your bedroom floor. Your notes were stacked, and your head was resting on his lap. He was stroking your hair absentmindedly while you repeated phrases quietly.

"‘L’homme est condamné à être libre…’" you murmured.

"That guy sounds intense," he said, and you smiled.

"It’s Sartre."

"Couldn’t he just say ‘do what you want but take responsibility’?"

"Wouldn’t be existentialism if it were that easy to digest."

"Touché," he said, kissing your forehead.

You fall silent for a few seconds. Your eyes sting a little from exhaustion, and that familiar twinge of insecurity creeps in.

"Do you really think I can do this?"

Kimi stops stroking your hair and makes you look at him.

"Y/N… I don’t think. I know. You’re smart—smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re scared, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not capable. Look at you: you’ve been fighting this for days, organizing, reviewing, moving forward. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You keep going. And not everyone does that."

You feel a knot form in your throat. You’re not sure if it’s because of his words, his voice, or the way he looks at you like you're everything good in the world packed into one person.

"Can I give up for just a little bit?"

"You can give up for as long as you need," he whispers. "And I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to start again."

You wrap your arms around him tightly. And for a moment, between notes, highlighters, and philosophical theories, you feel safe.

And just a little bit braver.

[itsnesss]

simply lovely 💙

Max Verstappen wins the 2025 Emilia Romagna Grand Prix | By Clive Rose

[itsnesss]

I just read the Ollie comfort fic and I need morrreee!!! can we please get a Kimi version of reader comforting him after a bad race panic attack?

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | after the race, you find Kimi hiding, overwhelmed and struggling to breathe. he’s having a panic attack, and you help calm him down

warnings | fluff, angst, panic attack, anxiety, emotional distress, panic

word count | 0.9 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

The roar of the engines still vibrates in your chest, even though the race ended minutes ago.

You’re standing by the garage, arms crossed over your chest, trying to ignore the cold sweat running down your back. You saw it. You saw it in the last lap. Kimi wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t a technical error. It wasn’t a bad strategy. It was him. Something in his eyes.

“Where is he?” you ask one of the engineers, who barely glances at you before shrugging.

“He said he needed a moment. He’s in the hospitality.”

But you know that’s not normal. Kimi doesn’t disappear after a race. Especially not when he’s finished on the podium. Especially not when everyone expects a smile, a word, a simple “grazie.”

He didn’t do it this time.

You quicken your pace, dodging reporters, cables, and metal boxes. No one seems to notice the tension on your face, but inside, your heart beats as loudly as if you were the one who got out of the car.

You push open the hospitality door without announcing yourself. The place is almost empty. Only he is there.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs drawn up.

His helmet lies beside him. His racing suit still half unzipped. His elbows resting on his knees, and his hands... his hands are tangled in his own hair, trembling.

Kimi Antonelli doesn’t tremble.

But now he does.

You freeze for a second. Just one. Then he raises his head and looks at you.

And there it is.

Fear.

“Kimi...” your voice is a whisper, as if any louder sound could break him completely.

He doesn’t answer.

He just closes his eyes and clenches his fists tighter, as if trying to hold something inside. But he can’t. Not this time.

You see it. His chest rises and falls too fast. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t match his usual composure. His lips are parted, searching for air that seems not to come.

You take a step toward him.

“Hey... Kimi, look at me,” you crouch down in front of him, not daring to touch him yet. “You’re okay, right? Just... breathe with me, please.”

He shakes his head. Just a slight movement, but enough to make the lump rise in your throat. His eyes are watery, terrified, lost in something you can’t see.

“I can’t,” he pants. “I can’t breathe...”

Your heart shrinks.

Without thinking twice, you reach out and gently place your hand on his cheek, guiding his gaze to you.

“You’re breathing,” you whisper. “Just very fast. Let’s do it together, okay? I’m with you.”

You inhale slowly and deeply, exaggerating the movement so he can follow you. The first time, he doesn’t manage it. The second, a little better. The third, his breathing starts to sync with yours, though his hands still tremble.

You pull him closer, without hesitation.

Your arms wrap around him, and finally, he lets himself fall. He rests his forehead on your shoulder, searching for something to hold onto—something, you. His breathing is still shaky but no longer sounds like a silent scream.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice broken, trembling.

“You’re having a breakdown,” you reply, stroking his hair calmly. “And that’s okay, Kimi. I’m here.”

He says nothing. He just clings to you.

As if the world weighs heavier than he can bear.

And you decide to hold him.

Minutes pass in silence. Only the faint sound of the air conditioning, his still uneven breath, and the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

You don’t let go. You don’t move.

And neither does he.

Until, very slowly, Kimi pulls away just a little. Enough to look at you, though he keeps one hand gripping your arm as if letting go would mean sinking again.

“I’m sorry...” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I don’t know what happened.”

Your gaze softens.

“You don’t have to know everything now.”

He looks away, frustrated.

“I felt... fine. Or so I thought. But on the last lap... it was like my mind shut down. I couldn’t hear the radio. I couldn’t think. And when I crossed the line, it got worse. I felt like... like I couldn’t get out of myself.”

You take his hand slowly and intertwine your fingers with his. It’s cold. And still trembling a little.

“And now?”

Kimi swallows. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks down at your hand, as if it’s the first time he’s noticed you’re holding it.

“Now... I’m just scared it’ll happen again. That everyone will notice. That I won’t be able to control anything.” He pauses, his lips barely moving. “That I’ll fail.”

Your heart tightens hard. Not for what he says, but for what he doesn’t allow himself to say.

“You didn’t fail, Kimi,” you whisper. “Your body is just telling you something’s wrong. And it’s okay to listen. No one expects you to be perfect.”

He shakes his head.

“They do.”

“I don’t.”

That makes him look at you again. His eyes, still wet, lock onto yours with something that mixes relief, disbelief, and something deeper. Something broken that is finally starting to show its cracks.

“Thank you for staying,” he whispers.

“I always will,” you answer.

And then, without warning, without any words before, he rests his forehead against yours.

He’s not trembling anymore.

But you know the fear hasn’t gone away.

It’s just found a safe place to hide for a while.

[itsnesss]

hihi!! could you please do a younger driver (like ollie or kimi) and a piece on missing the reader’s graduation bc of a race?

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | you graduate, but ollie misses it because of a race. you give your speech, heart heavy, thinking of him

warnings | fluff, soft romance, mild angst, long-distance struggles, emotional vulnerability, comfort

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

Your dress has been hanging in the closet for days, protected by a garment bag. It’s the same one you picked out with your mom, the one Ollie said made you look like a movie star.

Less than 24 hours to your graduation, and as you place the cap on the bed, you check your phone one more time. Nothing. No new messages. No calls. No news from Ollie.

You knew. You knew there was a chance. A high chance, to be honest, that he wouldn’t make it. But you had made so many plans… He himself promised he would try everything to be there.

“What if I get there just at the end, and I give you a hug when you finish your speech?” he had said excitedly, days before.

You practiced that speech with him. Several times. On video calls from hotels all around the world. He corrected you, laughed when you made a bad joke, asked you to say it slower when you rushed.

And you did it hoping that, when you walked on stage and read the final words, his eyes would be waiting for you in the audience.

But now, less than a day away, everything points to him not being there.

You sit on the bed and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail.

You take a deep breath, swallowing the disappointment. He loves you. You know that. But sometimes loving someone who also loves their dream is… lonely.

You want to scream. Not at him. At the world.

Then, your phone vibrates.

A voice message from Ollie.

“Hey... love. I’m sure you probably already know what I’m about to say. I tried, really. But I’m not going to make it. I’m stuck here because of the rankings. They won’t let me move anything. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I thought if I didn’t tell you earlier, there might still be a tiny chance. But there isn’t…”

Pause.

“It hurts more than I can explain not to be there tomorrow. I know how much it means to you. To both of us. But even if I can’t see you walk across that stage, I’ll be watching you from wherever I am. And when you finish, when you have your diploma in your hands… call me. Please. Because even if I can’t hug you, I promise I’ll be with you in everything that comes after.”

A tear escapes.

Tomorrow is still ahead.

The sun falls perfectly over campus when you leave the house with your cap in hand and your eyes still swollen from crying the night before. You look in the rearview mirror of your dad’s car and smile automatically. You’ve waited for this day for years. You imagined it again and again. But in all those versions… Ollie was there.

When you get out of the car, everyone seems to be shining. Your classmates take selfies, some rush to meet their families, others joke about not tripping going up the stage. You just look for a face you already know you won’t find.

The ceremony begins. Your name is on the program. You’re going to give a speech. One you practiced with him. One you read over and over so he could hear it between training, interviews, and flights.

“Now, please welcome our graduating class’s guest speaker…”

You’re asked to go up.

The lights blind you a little. The auditorium is huge. It feels bigger without him.

“Good afternoon. I want to start with something very simple… thank you.”

Your voice is steady. No one notices how tightly you grip the edge of the podium, or how your eyes wander over the rows, hoping to see him somewhere. Hoping you could trick fate and make him appear.

“Thank you to my teachers, my parents, my friends… and to someone who isn’t here today. Though he was in every rehearsal, in every word of this speech. This person… believed in me when I didn’t. He listened, encouraged me, interrupted me with bad jokes so I wouldn’t take everything so seriously. And even though he’s not sitting here today… he’s with me. I’m sorry. Because that’s what the people we love do: they’re there, even when they can’t be.”

There’s a long silence. Some people applaud. Others smile, not fully understanding who you meant.

But you know. And that’s enough.

When you step down from the stage, your chest burns a little. Pride, sadness, a warm hollow that carries his name.

You go through the ceremony like a spectator of your own movie. You receive your diploma. You get hugs. Your parents congratulate you. Friends take pictures with you.

And you smile. Because you made it this far.

But something is missing. And no matter how much you deny it, you feel it.

Later, when you’re at home, the dress already wrinkled and the cap on the table, your phone vibrates.

Ollie: Can I call you?

You answer with a simple “Yes.”

Seconds later, his name appears on the screen. You pick up.

“Hi,” you say, barely a whisper.

“You look beautiful,” he says without hesitation.

“How do you know?”

“I watched the whole stream. I had an interview at the same time, but I snuck away. I saw you give the speech. You have no idea how hard it was not to cry like an idiot at the part about ‘the people we love are there, even when they can’t be’…”

You bite your lip. There’s a huge knot in your throat.

“I really wanted you to be there.”

“Me too. Every second. Every damn second. Can I send you something?”

Before you can answer, a notification arrives.

An attached file. A video.

You open it.

It’s Ollie, in his hotel room, still wearing his team suit, holding a small homemade sign that says “Congrats, love. You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s cheesy,” he laughs from the phone. “But I made it while watching the ceremony. Just in case… you couldn’t see me, so at least you’d know I was with you. In my way.”

And you… you break down crying. Silently. With the full weight of having wanted that moment so badly with him.

“Thank you, Ollie.”

“I’m going to make it up to you. All of it. I promise.”

“No need. Just… thank you for not making me feel alone, even though you were so far away.”

Silence. Warmth.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, steady.

Your heart stops for a second.

“I love you too.”

And at that moment, even though you’re miles apart, even though you haven’t seen each other, even though there’s no photo of you both at your graduation… you know this day will live in your memory as one of the most beautiful ever.

Only three days have passed since your graduation, but it feels like an eternity. After the call with Ollie, everything was bittersweet: you knew he loved you, you knew he tried, but not being able to hug him that day hurt more than you thought.

And you accepted it. You learned to let go of the idea of “the perfect moment.”

Today is Sunday, and you’re at home, in pajamas, watching a documentary you’re barely listening to. Your family is out. You have the house to yourself. Your phone is silent. You don’t even know what country Ollie is in now.

Someone rings the doorbell.

You frown. A package? A neighbor? You get up dragging your feet, expecting anything but what you see when you open the door.

“Hi, love.”

And there he is.

With his suitcase at his side, a cap crooked on his head, hair messy like he just ran out of the airport. His eyes lock onto yours like he can’t believe he’s really seeing you. Like he’s afraid you’re part of a jet-lagged dream.

And you… you’re frozen in shock.

“Ollie,” you whisper.

“I didn’t want to miss another important thing. I took the first flight after the GP. I just arrived. I couldn’t tell you. My battery died, I lost signal, then I got lost in the airport… but… I’m here. And I don’t care how I look now, or that I don’t have a gift, or that I’m sweating like crazy. I just needed to see that you were okay.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

And then you run.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just hug him like your body finally remembers what breathing well means. Like he fits with your chest, your arms, your story.

He laughs into your neck, his hands firm on your back.

“It was so hard not to cry earlier,” he murmurs. “But this… this is a miracle.”

You pull him tighter.

“It’s not a miracle. It’s that you love me.”

He pulls back a little just to look at you. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face.

“So much.”

“Want to come in?” you ask with a teary smile.

“Only if you give me coffee and a tour of a brilliant graduate.”

“I’ll give you anything. But the tour starts with you hugging me for another half hour.”

“Deal.”

You close the door. He puts down his suitcase. And without another word, you hug again in the hallway, as if the world has finally aligned.

[itsnesss]

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⌠ max verstappen ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝟐 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 ⌠ charles leclerc ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 ⌠ lando norris ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐲𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 ⌠ oscar piastri ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐝 ⌠ george russell ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚 ⌠ carlos sainz jr ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫 ⌠ lando norris ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬 ⌠ charles leclerc ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 ⌠ kimi antonelli ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢 𝐝𝐨 ⌠ lando norris ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐤 𝐢'𝐦 𝐨𝐤 ⌠ max verstappen ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐧𝐨 𝐢'𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 ⌠ franco colapinto ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 ⌠ oscar piastri ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ⌠ oliver bearman ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚 ⌠ pierre gasly ⌡

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 ⌠ max verstappen ⌡

note; I love this album and f1, so why not?

tell me what other characters you would like to read in these one shots from this album

[itsnesss]

𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you try to leave max, to break the toxic cycle. but every time, he pulls you back

warnings | toxic relationship dynamics (emotional push-and-pull, codependency), emotional manipulation, emotional conflict, suggestive themes, on-and-off relationship patterns

word count | 1.0 k

🖇 sctw album 🖇 more mv1

Another fight. Another door slamming shut.

Once again, you're on the couch, hands trembling as you wonder when things stopped making sense and started falling apart.

Max doesn't take long to come out of the room. He’s wearing that look you know so well the one that always comes before the hurtful words.

But this time, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, eyes full of exhaustion, pride, and unresolved desire.

"Are you going to keep that look on your face all night?" his voice is low, almost indifferent.

You stare at him, unblinking.

"And are you going to keep acting like nothing matters to you?"

Silence. But the air is already heavy.

Too full of everything left unsaid.

He steps closer. One step. Another. Until the distance is so small, you can smell his skin that mix of gasoline, sweat, and something inexplicably addictive.

"I hate you," you whisper.

He smiles. One of those arrogant smiles you hate... and crave.

"Not more than I hate you."

Then he kisses you.

It’s not sweet. Not gentle. It’s wild. It’s hunger. It’s rage disguised as desire.

Your hands tangle in his shirt. He lifts you off the couch effortlessly, and in a second, you're against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist.

Like always.

Like never.

Because even if it hurts, even if it burns, even if you both know this is falling apart… you can't stop.

You don't want to stop.

And in the back of your mind, part of you screams that this is wrong. That you should run. That the alarms are blaring.

But another part…

The part that loves him even when you hate him, the part that drowns in the adrenaline of these stormy reunions…

That part wants to stay.

"Just for tonight," you whisper against his lips.

Max nods, but he doesn’t make any promises. He never does.

And you don’t ask for one. Because you both know this can’t be fixed.

But God, it feels good to burn together.

You wake up before him.

Light filters through the hotel window, illuminating his bare back and that peaceful expression that only appears when he's asleep. It’s so ironic it hurts.

Because calm Max is a lie.

A trap.

A siren that sings just long enough for you to return… before dragging you down again.

You sit at the edge of the bed. The air smells like him, like sex, like guilt. Like always.

Your clothes are scattered across the floor like evidence of another shared crime.

You dress in silence.

"You're leaving without saying anything again?" his rough voice breaks the moment.

You don’t turn around. You know if you do, you'll stay. Again.

"You shouldn't have called me last night."

"And you shouldn't have answered."

Checkmate.

It's always like this. You two play with fire like burns don't exist.

But you're burning alive, and he knows it too.

"This isn’t healthy, Max."

"And since when has that stopped us?"

You laugh, without humor. You turn and look at him. He’s leaning against the pillows, hair messy, eyes locked on you. That look that hurts. Because it used to be love. Now it’s an addiction.

"Why can’t we let go?"

He shrugs.

"Because we like how it burns."

And there it is. The rawest truth.

You like the fire. You like how alive you feel in the middle of the disaster.

You like the drama, the sex, the make-ups that feel like happy endings… until it starts all over again.

You leave the room without saying another word.

But you don’t go far.

Because you know, deep down, you know he’ll message you in a few days.

An excuse. A complaint. A “come over.”

And you’ll go.

Even if everything around you screams to run.

You forced yourself to cut everything.

Changed your number. Deleted his messages. Stopped following his races, his interviews, even his social media.

Because if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that this time, you wouldn’t go back.

Two weeks passed.

Fourteen days without him.

But every night, the memory of his voice, his scent, his mocking laugh, sneaks through the cracks.

No notification sounds… and still, every noise makes you check your phone.

Until you see it.

A photo. Leaked. Max with someone else.

And you’re supposed to feel relief. It should help you hate him.

But it just hurts. Way more than you’d admit.

That same night, a message from an unknown number pops up:

"You don’t even answer when I miss you?"

Blocked.

Five minutes later, there’s a knock on your door.

Literally.

And when you open it, there he is.

Soaked from the rain, eyes red, chest heaving with the fury of being ignored for the first time.

"How did you know I was here?" you ask, shocked.

"You think I don’t know you? You always come back to the same place when you want to disappear."

Silence.

"And what are you doing here, Max?"

"I want to see you."

"Why now? After you’re out with someone else?"

"I’m not seeing anyone," he cuts in, serious. "I was just... trying to forget you."

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it hurts too much.

You cross your arms, shaking—you don’t know if it’s from the cold or the fury.

"Then we’re both fucked."

His eyes lock with yours. And for a second, it’s like the world stops.

Like the disaster is already happening inside you both.

"Just tell me you didn’t miss me," he says, stepping closer.

You don’t answer.

"Say it, and I’ll leave. For good."

And there’s your damnation: you can’t.

You can’t tell him you didn’t miss him. Because every night, you thought of him. Because every fight, every kiss, every hug in the middle of chaos became a vice your body doesn’t know how to quit.

So, you say nothing. You take a step toward him.

And Max understands.

He kisses you.

And once again, as always, you fall together.

Because running was never your strength.

And because between the sirens and the flames, there’s only one thing you both know how to do:

Stay until everything burns.