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littledes1re · 3 days ago

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What daddy wants, he gets

Pairing: Daddy!joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is insatiable when it comes to you. He has to have you, every damn hour and day. And you are always, desperately ready for him whenever that‘s the case. Aka Free Use!

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, Free use, cnc (I think?), somnophilia, daddy kink, fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, Joel is the horniest mf, breeding kink, praise kink, ddlg vibes, Dom!joel, soft!joel, sub!reader, age gap! (50s and 20s), teasing, oral m!receiving

A/N: phew. After that Angsty chapter of HtD, I needed something like this. Also I‘m ovulating so this is filthy😫 Enjoy!!

Saturdays were peaceful. And not because the world stood still, or because the birds hummed their quiet tune, or the freshly placed bread in the oven smelled extra nice—no. It was because your man was home, not working from seven to five like he always did.

No rushed goodbyes, no tired eyes, no annoying alarms in the morning—just the peaceful and warm feeling of having him beside you. Waking up to his groaning, him stretching his hands out, pulling you into his body, kissing the back of your neck as you anticipated to share that beautiful morning together. Just slow and easy. Coffee steaming out of the machine, laughter filling the space between conversations, the sun pouring into the room.

And while you try to wash the dishes after the breakfast you two just had, he suddenly comes from behind, caging you between his big arms, pulling your panties quickly down and filling you with his cock, in one swift move.

That‘s what you enjoyed most these days. Joel didn‘t need to ask, he didn‘t need to tease. He knows you are ready for him, any time he wants you. And while your home, you were only allowed to wear his big shirts, with nothing but panties underneath. Whether it‘s when you just read a book on your tummy, coming from behind and diving his face into your pussy or when you‘re fast sleep, softly pulling your panties down and filling you with his cock. Thrusting into you with a gentle rhythm—not wanting to wake you, stroking your face and hushing your sweet little whimpers. A small ‚daddy‘ slipping between your lips, cumming around his cock, creaming around him even while you‘re asleep. And then the next morning feeling the sticky sensation between your thighs, while noticing the smirk on Joel‘s face.

Or even in the car after having a shopping spree. Your face red and flushing, scared that people might see from the parking lot, but Joel doesn‘t care. He is too focused on fucking up to you, pinching your nipples under your dress and giving quick thrusts, until you forget that people are around you, feeling dizzy and the only thing you can do is cum around him.

Because what daddy wants, he gets.

„Can y‘blame me, baby? My sweet girl makin’ me breakfast, takin’ care of her man.“ he coos into your ear.

Your legs already beginning to shake, tummy clenching—you were getting used to the constant stimulation that Joel gave you. Every damn day. It was hard cumming around him in the beginning of your relationship. Now, he doesn‘t even need to touch your clit anymore. (Even though he does anyways—he loves to way the little nub throbs under his fingertips). And even when it‘s too much, there is no use telling him that. He will hush you, continue until your insides are filled with him, tugging your panties back on and giving you a kiss on your forehead.

„Daddy.“ your whimpers fill the otherwise quiet kitchen. Joel‘s hands are squeezing the very same place he always does—your hips. The marks he leaves are now a part of you, the bruises showing off where he grips you, whenever he fucks you. Your thighs red and always sticky, the cum he pumps you with is always spilling down the sides of your panties. You were a mess. And Joel knew that—and he loved everything about it.

„Yea, right here baby. Daddy‘s right here.“

The dishes were long forgotten as Joel bend your upper body down, now fucking into you in a hard speed. Groans and moans filled the room, his hands just squeezing your hips harder. And as his hand came down and pinched your clit, you cried out—cumming on his cock.

„There we go, pretty.“ Satisfied with his work, he thrusts a few times more and fills you up with his seed, as you try to come down from your high. He pulls out of you, pulling your panties up again—ignoring the cum that already starts to drip.

While you still try to catch your breath on the counter, he washes his hands, then starts cleaning the dishes, helping you.

But Joel rarely does it for his pleasure. See, Joel always notices whenever his girl is all over the place. Is it her period? Is it stress at work? Is it the insomnia or even just having a bad day. ‚Sorting you out’ that‘s what he calls it. Spreading you, filling you, giving you countless orgasms until you can‘t think straight is his way of sorting you out—making your head cloudy, dizzy and unable think about anything else then his cock. The cramps, worries, headaches all forgotten once he is in you, taking good care of his girl.

But in some days it‘s just his lust speaking, your pretty eyes, pretty plump lips, that beautiful body of yours. He would look at your thighs and get hard, peek at your ass whenever you bend down, to take something from the floor. And of course, the love for your man, the way you take care of him. Like on this day.

Soft rain pattered against the windowpane, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur of gray and green. After having breakfast and that little session with Joel, it started raining. And you two decided on a calm, cosy afternoon with a little movie. Curled up on the couch, you shared lazy smiles. No rush, no obligations. Just the soothing hush of the rain and each other’s presence.

You scrolled through an endless list of movies.

„How about this?” You asked, tilting the screen toward him.

He chuckled. „We always watch horror, huh?”

„Yeahhh,” you sighed dramatically, stretching your legs over his lap. „But it’s the only good thing.”

A knowing grin spread across Joel’s face. He wasn’t about to argue. „Alright, I’ll watch whatever you want, baby.”

With that, you nestled into his side, a blanket pulled over both of you. The opening credits rolled and you two intended to just enjoy the movie, for the remainder of the day.

But Joel had other plans.

It was the middle of the movie, when his mind drifted, his gaze landing on your face. Your soft cheeks, your little pout. All concentrated on the movie. So cute. And then his eyes drifted lower. The blanket was kicked away, your legs were open, showing off your panties and oh—there it was. His cum dripping slowly from the sides of your panites. A little pillow built up and soaking the fabric.

He didn‘t like horror movies, anyways.

His hands move slowly to your thigh, groping it and squeezing the flesh, like he always does. A familiar touch, you don‘t think much of it. Your body reacts though, when he suddenly presses two fingers at the center of your panties. Feeling around, seeing just more cum leaving the sides.

„S‘uncomfortable?“ he asks, gently laying his head on your shoulder and beginning to plant sweet little kisses on your neck.

You release a breath. „I got used to it.“

He smiles. Remembering the first time you called him ‚daddy‘, the first time you asked for a spanking. The day you felt comfortable enough the fully submit yourself to him, to trust him and to give him the power over you. Your sweet eyes lightening whenever he demands you something, your cunt getting wet at the way he manhandles you and your little smile whenever he says he needs to sort you out.

Your legs spreading wider, welcoming his hand on top of your pussy.

„There she is, ready for me again.“

And you were ready for him, always. Admittedly, you were a bit tense at the beginning. Not knowing when he is going to take you, practically waiting for that moment to happen. Joel made it a game for himself, touching you, teasing you making you think that now it‘s the time, where he pulls your panties down and fucks you without remorse. It took longer then expected. And once he started, he couldn‘t stop. Controlled by his lust and your pleasure, the shocked look on your face whenever he carries you on his shoulder, throwing you on to the couch and taking you from behind. Or not being afraid about getting caught. His hand finding your cunt even if you two sat on the family table, eating dinner with Tommy and Maria.

You thought he is going to break you one day. But what happened is—you got even more crazier for him. Your skin getting used to his markings, your cunt to his cock and your insides always aching for his touch, where with only one look of your eye he knew what you needed.

„Daddy.“ you whined out, your head lulling back as Joel pulled your panties down, once more. This time throwing it somewhere in the room, knowing at that point it‘s not wearable anymore.

The movie long forgotten as Joel played with your pussy. Spreading it with his fingers, blowing cool air on it and cooing out whenever you clenched around nothing.

„Haven‘t given any attention to this little button of yours didn‘t I? What a bad daddy I am.“ he murmurs, his middle finger landing on your clit, gently rubbing circles in a slow and agonising way. Smiling at you when he sees you getting more wet, nodding his head when you pout.

„C‘mon focus on the movie.“ and as much as you wanted to huff and puff, shake your head an say no—you obligated. You knew there was no use of fighting him, that would just land you on his lap, with ten spankings on your butt and a not so happy Joel.

So you did what he said, trying your best to focus on the movie, while his finger rubbed and teased your cunt. Sometimes slowly going to your hole, putting only the tip of his finger in and playing around with the cum from earlier. Sometimes, playing with your inner thighs. Pinching and groping them, appreciating the beauty. He was always mesmerised at the way your cunt reacted to his touch, the throbbing, the release of more wetness, the way it gets more puffy and swollen.

And as he continued, he suddenly felt you clenching— a breath releasing from your lips and your body slightly shaking. You just had an orgasm.

„Oh, my poor baby. Just cumming from teasing, huh? Did I train you this well?“

His head was spinning at the sheer thought of you releasing only with the slight touches of his fingers. Your face already looking fucked out and your eyes expecting more from him. Your lips bitten and plump, he needed to fuck you now.

Joel stood up, pulling his joggers down, releasing his cock—red and angry, twitching for some sort of stimulation.

A whine escaping your lips, as he gently spread your legs further on the couch, nestling between your thighs and filling you with one motion. He waited a little bit, trying to make you more desperate for him. His thumb landed on your clit, smiling when he heard you cry out for more. He gently began thrusting, his hips beginning to have a rhythm, his thumb never leaving your nub.

„Sensitive.“ but again—there was no use for telling him that. He didn‘t go slower, he didn‘t stop on your clit. He shook his head, a tsk leaving his lips as he pumped his shaft in and out of you. But you could feel the way your tummy tightened once again, being on the verge of an orgasm. It felt like too much, too much pleasure and too many orgasms.

„Don‘t look at me like that, angel. I know you can do it. C‘mon baby.“ he cooed to you, his hips starting to get a little bit faster, but his thrusts still gentle—he wanted you to cum and the best way to do that, was focusing on your spot. A sweet cry leaving your lips whenever he hit it, a gush releasing around his cock.

He loved how much of a mess you were.

And that he only had that for himself.

„Let it out, sweetheart.“ he coaxed you, his lips coming to your ear kissing you, looking into your eyes—giving you a nod, knowing you can cum, you can let go.

And as Joel pushes down your lower tummy, your legs shook, your body practically shaking as you clenched down his cock, moans and moans spilling from your lips. His thrusts not telling up, riding your orgasm and making you feel that pleasure you thought you are going to break on.

While you catch your breath he pulls out of you, jerking himself slowly, waiting for you to come back to your senses. He nears his cock into your mouth and at first, you don‘t realise it, making him chuckle.

„Open your mouth.“ he demands and as you do he gently brings his shaft in, making you close your lips around him and slowly bob your head up and down. Focusing on the head, lapping at the taste of your cunt, swirling around him and your hands landing on the rest of his dick—pumping him to his orgasm.

„There she is, that‘s my good girl.“ he whispers, his hips locking as you feel his tip pulsing on your tongue, releasing finally spurt after spurt onto your mouth. Joel groans into the air, thrusting slowly into you, riding the last bit of his orgasm.

He pulls out, cups your cheeks with his hands and looks at your glassy eyes, all fucked out, waiting for you to swallow. Another rule he has for you. You quickly catch up on it, keeping eye contact as you swallow, making him nod his head and kiss your forehead.

„Now you‘re all empty here, s‘a shame. Might as well take care of that when you go to sleep.“ he says, pointing at your cunt, making you flush and close your legs again.

And for the rest of the day, you anticipate the time where you go to sleep and he fills you back to the brim—like you are used to.

Ugh what I would give for this🫩🫩 as always!!! English isn‘t my first language and any Feedback or corrections are welcome!! (I tried to proofread everything as much as possible, but sometimes I don‘t catch on everything)

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @cuntyhunty22 @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #dbf!joel #fic rec!!!#joel smut #joel miller fluff #daddy!joel miller #old man!joel miller #dom!joel miller

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rex-rambles · 2 days ago

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➤ PROUD | MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: max verstappen x wife! reader, kimi antonelli + max + reader (platonic)

summary: kimi gets his first podium, max finds you crying in a bathroom, and you both realize you want to start a family together

wc: 2.6 k

warnings: none! a few innuendos on max's part

➤ MASTERLIST

You had been married to Max long enough to recognize when his focus shifted. When he stopped paying attention to useless questions, when a car caught his eye, when he heard someone saying something wrong about anything, really. It was the subtlest of changes, the softest of looks, but you saw the way he turned, just slightly, when the TV in the motorhome played a clip of the rookies, talking about pressure and the reality of F1.

He watched from the corner of his eye, his notes still in hand, so that anyone who might walk by would think he was deeply focused, and not distracted by a simple broadcast. You, however, know better.

You push off the counter of the small coffee bar, coming to take the hat from his head, and rake your hand through his hair instead.

He smiles slightly at the action, letting his attention break to look up at you. "Do you think they miss their mums?" You ask, eyes finding the broadcast. Max would've been about their age when he started, so young, so full of dreams. You weren't that much older than them really, but it was still enough to be daunting.

Being 18, like Kimi, was the time of little independent steps, going away to university, starting something new. Becoming a world-famous F1 driver when you're not even old enough to drink in some countries had to be quite the trip. "What?" Max responds, now turning to give the TV his full attention. "The rookies?"

"They just look so young." Doing all this, on their own. They might have teams and managers and fellow drivers, but it had to be terrifying. "It's got to be hard, away from family like that. And on Father's Day, too."

"I didn't miss my parents," Max says, returning to the notes in his lap as he lies. He can never look at you when he does. You never pressed about his childhood, though all you can imagine is that poor boy, charting across Europe alone to do all of these races, with all the stress. It can't be good for children, even if they are racing prodigies. "I turned out fine."

There's a beat of silence where you don't answer, and he lets out a soft breath.

"Fine, relatively speaking." He corrects. "Besides, with all the karting and F2 or F3, they're used to travel."

"Even when they're still in school, poor things." Max glances back at the TV as the clip of Isack hugging Lewis's dad plays, and your heart dislodges in your chest. That's a lot of pressure, something that never goes away with F1, or at least you've never seen it leave Max. He was becoming a beacon for the rookies, maybe because of it. He probably knew better than anyone how to handle that sort of pressure, the lifestyle change.

Someone walks by, cutting through the moment, and you and Max just look at each other as you wait for them to leave. There was so much more to be said on this kind of topic, specifically behind closed doors, but there was more than just Max being a good mentor that played into it. Finally, the person leaves, and Max returns to his notes. "If you're worried about their education, you could help them with their homework."

"Maybe I can cook them a nice meal. You can have them over." Max laughs, then, getting up from his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close to him. The move startles you, so quick and so in public, but you lived for these stolen moments. Max was always like this when he knew no one could see. Little bursts of energy, the hidden romance that was best protected when others weren't around. You didn't mind by now, really. You'd rather your kisses be private than spread across Instagram. "What?"

"You are something else," He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Worry about me for a change, hm? Where's my home cooked meals?"

"They're a treat for when you win," You say as you press a quick kiss to his lips before finally pushing away. The last thing you needed was some photographer walking in on you two. "So go lose, yeah? Saves me from having to do the dishes."

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he prepares to go, and you're struck by a feeling you can't quite describe. It's a strange sort of love that twists in your gut, almost complete but not quite. Loving Max was always just a full-bodied feeling, that some small part of it missing was obvious. It wasn't nerves, though the butterflies still came out as he raced, as he battled for second place.

It wasn't anger, or concern, or sadness, no strange emotion you couldn't place. Instead, it just felt like you were waiting for the last piece to click into place, even if you didn't realize what it was. Max gets second, and the win doesn't really fix it either, though you're happy he placed well. He probably wasn't the most enthused at George's first, but then, as the racers settle, you realize who came in third:

Kimi.

Little Kimi, with his homework and the pressure and now, you realize as you watch the nearby Mercedes garage, without his parents.

That must be awful, you find yourself thinking as your heart sinks further into your stomach. What a race to miss, to have no one there to celebrate. The big screens catch your eye as you see Max approach Kimi, and for a moment, the world pauses as Max pulls him into a quick hug that feels like it might last forever.

That's the missing piece, you think.

Max had always been so good with kids. Whether his little nieces or nephews, or teenagers like Kimi, he had a way with them. He was patient, and funny, and kind, and welcoming. He was saying something to Kimi as your visions swims before you, a mix of emotions that truly catch you by surprise.

It's pride, and heartbreak, and knowing.

That could be your son someday. Maybe he had just done well on a test, or won a competition, you didn't care, and Max was hugging him like a father would. You turn back toward the Red Bull garage's bathroom, quick to try to calm yourself, but it's no use.

Max would make a fantastic father one day, and for the very first time, you realize that's something you can pursue.

There was something going on with you lately. Max hadn't really had too much time to notice it, with the triple headers and your work schedule, but you were just...softer. Not in a bad way, and not in a way he'd ever vocalize, but you were just so utterly irresistible and sweet. He didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave your side, didn't even mind hearing you talk about ridiculous things like rookies being lonely and the best parks near his apartment.

But there was something brewing under the surface, and he didn't really know what.

Then again, he also just got 2nd place, and you're not at the barrier to greet him, so he doesn't really have time to focus on that either. He chalks it up to the crowds crushing in to get to George and Kimi, both for George's first win of the season and Kimi's first podium, both of whom refuse to stop smiling, especially once they get to the podium platform. Even from up above, however, Max can't seem to spot you. He can always find you in a crowd, a skill he prides himself on.

You were wearing one of his hats, and a cute little white dress, so it should be easy, but you're not with his team, not with the crowd.

Nowhere.

Finally, when he gets back to his driver's room, and it's empty, does he start to worry. "Have you seen-" He barely gets the word out before one of his attendants is gesturing towards the restroom with a strange expression, and Max panics at the thought of you being sick, of something being wrong, and he quickly knocks on the door. "Love? You okay?"

"Shit, Max-" Your voice sounds hoarse and Max's heart breaks at the thought of you being sick while he was out celebrating, but when you open the door just a crack, he realizes it's something else entirely. "Sorry, sorry, I'm a mess."

You let him into the restroom, a small space considering it's just a little side room, but that sort of invasion of each other's space had never bothered either of you. What does bother him is the tear-tracks on your cheeks, the way you laugh sadly as you try to wipe away the evidence. "What's wrong?"

You crying is not the most uncommon sight in the world, but the last time you cried at one of his races was because he won his fourth championship title. Maybe you were crying over how poorly he was doing? Maybe something terrible happened? "The video-"

"What video?" Max rushes out, coming to cup your face in his hands. "I swear, if anyone said anything-"

"You hugged," You say with another soft laugh, now truly confusing him. Max tries to wrack his brain for the last time he hugged a woman that might be taken as him cheating, and then what it might take for you to have a mental break. "And his dad wasn't there."

"What?" Then, the pieces click into place. "Kimi?" You nod, sniffing softly as you wipe at your nose with a tissue. "You're crying...because I hugged Kimi?"

"Our little baby got his first podium."

Our.

Little.

Baby.

Oh shit. "Are you pregnant?"

"What?" That seems to snap you from your tears, looking up at him before reaching out to smack his arm. "No! I can be emotional without being hormonal!"

"I wasn't saying that," He soothes, though he finds himself somewhat saddened by the answer in a way he never thought he would be. "You just called him our baby."

"He's your baby," You joke, covering your face with your hands. "He won and you hugged him, and his parents are here, and he's probably so happy I just...I can't. How could you not cry? He worked so hard!"

Max slowly wraps his arms around you and gently rocks you, unable to stop the growing smile on his face. Only you could get emotional about another man getting on the podium. You'd probably be like this for all the rookies, he thinks. He'll need to start packing more tissues. "But you didn't come to watch." I missed you, he wants to say, but right now is not about him.

"I didn't want anyone to see me like this and take it wrong." You say, muffled by his shoulder. "If I saw him in person I'd probably start bawling."

"Well, you should go congratulate him if it moved you to tears." He says, somewhat teasing, somewhat not. It was a very big thing for Kimi to finally get on the podium, and you were right. He worked hard to get here, taking third place in a way many other drivers couldn't currently.

Maybe crying over it was a bit much, but being proud? That was understandable. "Give me your sunglasses."

"Anything for you," He says, reluctantly pulling the sunglasses he'd hung on his shirt collar and handing them out to you. You walk, then, hand in hand through the garages before reaching Mercedes, which Max realizes is somewhat enemy territory, but for you, he doesn't mind. Kimi is off to the side to take pictures with some of the mechanics, all beaming ear to ear, and he hears you sniff beside him. "Hey, Kimi."

Kimi looks up with a grin, and you offer a small wave. "I just wanted to come congratulate you," You say, and Kimi immediately goes in for a hug, which somehow makes Max more emotional as he watches it.

That's the missing piece, he thinks, what he wasn't getting about the tears.

You were always so good with kids. Whether Max's own nieces or nephews, or teenagers like Kimi, you were always so good with them. Even now, Kimi sinks into your arms like you're his mother, like it was the kind of hug he needed. You already were so patient with Max, you had to be with children, so warm and honest and welcoming. Kimi could be your kid someday, maybe after having a hard day, or maybe after a good one, just needing comfort.

You would be an incredible mom someday, and as Max had said earlier, he'd do anything for you. A little baby, clad in Red Bull gear, with his hair colour and your eyes, it would be perfect.

Anything you make would be perfect. "I'm so proud." You say as you pull back. "Your parents must be so proud! Third! You're first podium!"

"You're going to make me cry," Kimi sniffs, and Max watches your bottom lip tremble. "No, no, don't cry too!"

"Alright, alright." Max wraps his arm around you, pulling you into his side. "Both of you."

"Emotions are meant to be felt!" You say stubbornly, a reminder Max has had to hear plenty of times. You had never made him feel guilty when he got angry, never made him feel like he couldn't be sad. It was the sort of thing a parent should have said to him as a kid, the sort of thing that would make you a fantastic parent now.

"You know what they call you?" Kimi says, more to Max than you. "Mother Hen. Now you are Mother and Father Hen."

You tense in Max's arm, and he softly laughs. "We're adopting him." You state bluntly, looking up to Max. "Can we adopt all of them?"

"Bit late to adopt, I think." He says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "We'll just have to make our own."

"Hey!" Kimi says, hands flying to his ears like an actual kid as he laughs.

"You can be our babysitter," Max continues, reaching out to shake hands with the boy, who happily shakes it back. You, on the other hand, are shooting Max a rather strange look. "What? It'll be good for him to have a normal job for once."

"We can all take turns," Kimi agrees eagerly. "Ollie and I-"

You finally laugh, shaking your head as you take a step back, and Max doesn't blame you. Those boys probably got into more strange situations than Max did at that age, which is saying something. "There is no way both you and Ollie are looking after them. That is a recipe for disaster waiting to happen."

"What's a disaster waiting to happen?" George asks, and now it's Max's turn to tense. He was very good at being civil, good at hiding it too, but that didn't cut the tension in the air.

"Ollie and Kimi babysitting for us." You answer for him, head coming to lean back against Max's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. It's the sort of admissions that would make headlines if it got out, but considering what Max was planning on tonight?

Probably wasn't too early to announce the baby.

"Babysitting?" George echoes, shocked. "Are you expecting?"

"Not currently," Max says before he can help it. "Give it about nine months."

"Max!" Your face flushes red, smacking at his arm, and he takes it as his cue to leave. "You are unbelievable!"

"Congratulations, Kimi." Max says as he leads you away, trying hard not to laugh as both Kimi and George exchange looks. "George."

You wave goodbye, turning around to look at them, and Max keeps his arm around your waist to drag you backwards. "You both did so well! You better celebrate tonight."

"I think you are celebrating enough for the both of us." Kimi answers, and George turns on him like a scandalized mother.

You laugh as you turn back around, and Max finds that he missed the sound. You crying was easily one of the things he hated most in this world, meaning your laugh is one of the things he loved the most.

Your hand slips into his, offering a squeeze. Only when you're finally out of earshot, the rest of the crews and the microphones and the eavesdroppers hidden away, do you tug harder on Max's hand, drawing his attention. "Do you mean that? About starting a family?"

"Like I said, anything for you." Then, after a beat, "We're not naming our kid Kimi."

"I know," You answer, leaning up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "I was thinking George."

a/n: KIMI PODIUM! didn't realize i was a kimi fan until i genuinely got emotional at seeing him come third.

#➤ rex works #➤ mv1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fluff #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fluff #f1 imagines #reader insert #dad max verstappen #f1 fanfic

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p1girlfriend · 3 days ago

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you're from another country? – f1 grid reactions ── .✦

content: curious flirty boys, light culture shock, soft obsession

lando norris ── .✦

“wait, what? you’re not from here?” gets weirdly shy about it. suddenly obsessed with your accent. asks 500 questions about your hometown, your food, your slang, your everything. “do people there think I sound weird?” downloads Duolingo and starts trying to learn your language but gives up after two days unless you’re helping him.

oscar piastri ── .✦

blinks slowly.

“...say something in your language.” you do. he just nods, completely smitten, trying not to show it. asks about your culture very calmly, but ends up going into a Wikipedia rabbit hole after you go to bed. starts using random words from your country around you like it's totally normal.

charles leclerc ── .✦

his entire body lights up.

“I KNEW there was something special about your voice.” insists you speak to him in your native language, even if he doesn’t understand. “Je suis amoureux de ça. Continue.” asks your mom for traditional recipes and tries to cook them for you (he burns them but you cry anyway).

lewis hamilton ── .✦

loves it. eats it up. wants to know everything — music, food, holidays, superstitions.

“teach me how to say ‘I love you’ in your language.” starts playing artists from your country in the car. asks you to dance with him in the kitchen while it plays. “you bring a whole new world into mine. i like that.”

carlos sainz ── .✦

instantly interested.

“You’re from where?” asks about your traditions like it’s a school project — but he’s so attentive. “And how do you say ‘pretty’? No, wait. How do you say ‘the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen’?” teases your accent when you get mad, but will bite anyone else who does. starts pronouncing your name in your accent every time now.

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

screams.

“that explains so much.” then grins and says something like “okay, so which country gets the honor of claiming my favorite person?” does a terrible impression of your accent. on purpose. learns every curse word in your language immediately. refers to your cultural food as “our family recipes” even though he can’t cook.

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

stunned and so into it.

“wait, so you’re international? i’m dating an international girl?” starts calling you things like “minha estrangeira linda” (my beautiful foreigner) gets so excited when you talk in your native language around him starts watching YouTube videos about your country like it’s homework

franco colapinto ── .✦

blushes. hard. asks what it was like growing up there accidentally watches a whole documentary about your region starts slipping little words of your language into conversation to impress you

“i’m learning... slowly. say something else. i like the way you speak.”

max verstappen ── .✦

doesn’t say much at first. but watches you carefully. asks thoughtful questions out of nowhere like:

“what’s your favorite childhood memory from home?” surprises you by memorizing how to say “good morning” and “you’re beautiful” in your language. “i want to understand where you come from. because i want to understand you.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

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papayainsectorone · 3 days ago

Text

Thin Walls.

summary: you were supposed to go out, but sickness kept you in, by morning, the silence hurt worse than the moans through the wall

content: emotional hurt, implied sex (not graphic), casual relationship angst, jealousy, loneliness, overheard intimacy

word count: 2.8k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

You were supposed to go out tonight.

Some new place Lando had found, low lights, overpriced drinks, something about a DJ who only played vinyl. You’d even gotten halfway through your makeup before your stomach lurched and you ended up bent over the sink, hands braced, eyes watering as the nausea rolled over you like a tide.

You never made it out the door.

Lando had found you sprawled on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed to the cold tile, mascara smudged. His hair was still damp from the shower, curls dark and dripping at the edges of his hoodie.

“Jesus,” he muttered, crouching down beside you. “You okay?”

You managed a groan that could’ve meant anything.

He stayed with you as you threw up again. Held your hair back, rubbed slow circles on your back, filled a glass of water and pressed it into your hand like he couldn’t think of what else to do. You didn’t talk much—you didn’t have the energy. But when he stood in the doorway afterward, one arm through his jacket sleeve, that familiar frown pulling between his brows, you knew what he was about to say before he said it.

“I can really stay in.”

You shook your head. “Go. Really. I’m gross, and you’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“Still—”

“Go,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’m not fun tonight. Not even a little bit.”

He didn’t look convinced, but eventually he nodded. Told you to text if you needed anything. Promised not to let Max get him into trouble.

You told him to stop being dramatic. He smiled. Then he left.

And you went to bed.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep if you’d really slept at all. The hours passed strangely, melting into one another. You drifted in and out. Everything ached. The water on your nightstand stayed untouched. Your phone buzzed once—Lando, probably—and you ignored it.

When the front door clicked open sometime way after midnight, you stirred. A sliver of you relaxed at the sound. Familiar keys. Familiar footsteps. Home.

You swallowed thickly and cleared your throat. “Lando?” you rasped, barely above a whisper. “Can you—?”

But then a voice answered. And it wasn’t his.

It was higher. Feminine. A soft laugh, lilting at the end like a question. Then his voice, lower, slurred slightly, that lazy cadence he got when he was half-drunk and in a good mood.

You froze.

Shoes hit the floor. A giggle. The shuffle of two bodies moving down the hall.

At first, it was almost funny. You’d done the same thing last week—brought Adam home and Lando had made fun of what happened then. You could still hear the amused twist in your own voice, saying something like, “What, can’t handle being cockblocked in your own flat?”

But that night had ended with you on the couch and Lando throwing popcorn at your head while some terrible action movie played.

This was not that.

You could hear them through the wall. Every breath, every shift of weight on his mattress. Every sound she made. You curled in on yourself, knees to chest, head pounding.

It wasn’t funny now.

You pressed a pillow over your ears. It didn’t help.

The moans started quiet, stifled, maybe self-conscious but grew, pulled along by the creak of his bed, the wet press of skin. And Lando—his voice, when it came, made your stomach twist harder than anything else had all night. Low and coaxing, a muttered curse, a breathless laugh. You knew that voice. Knew exactly where his hands were when he made that sound.

You breathed through your nose, slow and shallow, gripping the blanket with white knuckles.

You told yourself you weren’t angry.

You’d started this, set the precedent. Casual. Open. Not serious.

You’d slept with other people. He knew. He’d seen. He did it too but it was never here.

Still, your chest hurt.

But what gutted you most wasn’t the sex. Not the rhythm, not the moans, not even the part where she said his name the way you do.

It was the quiet after.

The way they didn’t stop touching, not really. The murmurs. The softness.

You couldn’t hear the words. Just the cadence. Hushed and easy, unhurried. He said something that made her laugh again, quiet, real. And she said something back and he answered and neither of them moved to leave.

You lay there, wide awake.

The wall between you was barely half a foot of plaster, but it felt like an ocean.

They talked until nearly dawn.

And for the first time since you started whatever this was with Lando—friends, friends who fuck, friends who don’t ask questions—you realized just how badly you’d underestimated the part of you that still wanted to matter to him more than this.

More than her.

More than a night.

By the time the sun began to crawl up the walls, you hadn’t slept a minute.

Not really.

The quiet had returned. Their quiet. The kind that came after intimacy, after everything. It was worse than the sounds before, more intimate, somehow. Her sighs had faded. Lando’s voice had too. But the silence was heavier than either of them.

You stared at the ceiling. Your eyes burned, dry and overused, but no tears had come. Not one.

You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Your body still ached. You weren’t sure how much of it was the illness anymore. Your stomach hadn’t stopped churning, not since the first laugh spilled through the wall.

You tried to breathe evenly. Tried to swallow the knot in your throat. But it just sat there, thick and choking and useless.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this.

You were the one who said it was fine. Who shrugged the first time he kissed you and didn’t call it anything. You’d joked about other people. About being casual. About being cool. And you were, right? You were so cool. Unbothered. Fun.

Fun doesn’t lie awake and listen to her almost-lover make someone else come through the wall. Fun doesn’t memorize the sound of his voice when it’s not meant for her.

You sat up. Too fast.

The room spun, nausea crashing into your ribs all over again. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

There was a moment, brief, stupid, when you thought about knocking on his door.

Not to start a fight. Not even to interrupt. Just to see what he’d do. If he’d look guilty. If he’d look relieved.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stood and walked slowly to the bathroom. Your feet were cold against the tile. The reflection in the mirror was worse than you expected. Hair tangled. Skin washed out. Your mouth pale and dry and unkissed.

You turned on the tap and splashed water onto your face. Again. Again. Like maybe if you did it enough, it would cool everything burning beneath your skin.

It didn’t.

You stood there, hands braced on the sink and hated yourself just a little, for every time you’d laughed off the late-night texts, for every moment you’d believed that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one pretending not to care.

Because clearly, he’d never had to pretend.

You stumbled back to bed. Your sheets were too warm now, twisted and suffocating. You pulled the blanket up anyway and curled into yourself like it could keep the ache in.

It didn’t.

You wanted to cry.

You really, really wanted to cry.

But all that came out was silence.

Just like the room next door.

You heard her leave.

You hadn’t moved from your bed, just lay there, eyes open, chest hollow, still pretending not to listen.

But you heard it. The soft rustle of clothes being pulled back on. The quiet pad of bare feet against the hallway wood. A door creaking open, gently. Like she was trying not to wake anyone.

Like he’d asked her to be quiet.

You strained without meaning to, catching murmurs at the front door. Too muffled to make out words, but one voice was hers, light, airy, a little hoarse from sleep. The other was his. Lower. Still warm.

Then—

“Bye,” she said, soft.

A pause.

Then a second one: “Bye.”

His voice. A little thicker.

You didn’t need to see it.

That pause was a kiss.

Of course it was. You felt it anyway, like something brushing the back of your neck. Like being touched through a pane of glass.

The door shut with a whisper. Quiet steps moved back through the apartment. He paused in the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, close. A glass set down. Then retreating footsteps. His door shut.

And that was it.

Stillness again.

By the time you finally slept, it was real daylight.

Only for maybe an hour. Two at most. When you woke, your mouth tasted stale and your body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in a cold room. You didn’t move at first. Just blinked into the corner of the ceiling, where a shadow flickered faintly from the curtains.

It was late morning now.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

You kicked the blankets off with effort, limbs heavy and sluggish. You felt sore. Your stomach was still tender, but more than that you just felt... used up. Like the night had crawled into your bones and refused to leave.

You shuffled out into the hallway slowly, one hand braced on the wall. The air smelled faintly of something warm—toast, maybe, or coffee. The kind of domestic scent that could've been comforting, if not for the bile rising at the back of your throat.

You hesitated outside his door. It was closed. No sound came from the other side. You didn’t knock.

In the kitchen, a half-full coffee mug sat on the counter. His keys were back in their dish. A hoodie draped over the back of a chair.

You filled a glass of water with shaking hands and sipped slowly, staring at the window. The city outside looked too bright. The traffic moved as if nothing had happened. As if everything inside you hadn’t quietly rearranged itself in the dark.

You used to laugh at people like this, quietly, cruelly. People who got too attached. Who got soft. Who heard someone moan into someone else’s mouth and broke a little over it.

But now, standing barefoot in the kitchen, in an oversized tee that didn’t smell like you anymore, you weren’t laughing.

You just stood there.

Tired.

Alone.

Wishing you hadn’t said he could go out. Wishing you hadn’t cared when he did.

Wishing you hadn’t listened.

You were still sitting at the kitchen table when you heard his door open.

The soft shuffle of socks on the hardwood, the muted crack of a yawn stretched into the hallway. You didn’t turn right away just stared at the half-empty glass of water in front of you and waited for the rest of him to arrive.

“Hey,” he said, voice still rough with sleep as he rounded the corner. “You’re up.”

You hummed, noncommittal.

He rubbed at his face, blinking at the light. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” you lied.

He made a sympathetic noise in his throat. “Still looked rough last night. I almost stayed, y’know.”

You nodded. “I remember.”

“I just figured, like—you didn’t want me hovering.”

You didn’t answer.

Lando moved to the fridge, pulled out the orange juice, poured himself a glass like it was just another morning. Like he hadn’t spent the night making someone else feel wanted through the wall you shared.

He sat down across from you, running a hand through his hair. “Anyway, the night was good. Really good, actually.”

You looked at him then.

He smiled, broad, boyish, a little smug.

“I met someone.”

Your mouth tasted like metal. “Yeah,” you said, voice thin. “I heard.”

He laughed, totally missing it. “God, shit—right. Fuck. Sorry.”

You said nothing.

“She’s—her name’s Lottie. Charlotte, actually.” He took a sip of juice. “She was with a few friends. I think she’s from Bristol or something, but lives here now. We started talking at the club, she made fun of my drink choice, can you believe that?”

He was grinning. Like it was a good story. Like it was funny.

And maybe it was.

Maybe to someone else.

You forced a smile. “Sounds like a good night.”

He nodded, that warmth still on him. “It was. Unexpected, but fun. We... yeah, we ended up back here.”

“I heard.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the retelling, in the fuzzy afterglow that clung to him like the scent of her perfume you could still faintly smell in the air.

And you just sat there.

Listening.

This time, to the way he remembered her.

Not you.

Never you.

He was still talking, something about Charlotte’s laugh, about how they’d ended up sharing fries at some god-awful hour, how easy it had felt.

You couldn’t listen anymore.

You stood up mid-sentence. No warning. Just the sharp scrape of the chair legs against the floor.

He stopped, startled. “Hey—what’s—?”

“Need the bathroom,” you said quickly, already turning away.

You didn’t.

But you needed out. Needed away from the way he said her name. From the ghost of her perfume still clinging to the room. From the way his voice kept rising like he didn’t even notice the silence pooling between your ribs.

In the hallway, you steadied yourself against the wall. The same one that had betrayed you last night. Your fingers curled against the paint like you could scratch it down to brick.

Back in the kitchen, he called after you, not unkindly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied again. “Stomach’s just—still a bit off.”

He didn’t press.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

You shut the bathroom door behind you and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, hands braced on your knees.

The worst part was you weren’t even angry. Not really. You’d brought someone home last week. You’d started this game. You’d made the rules.

You just hadn’t expected to lose this badly.

Not like that.

You swallowed hard, but your throat stayed thick.

From the other side of the door, the apartment sounded quiet again.

But it was too late.

You’d already heard everything.

Later, you emerged like nothing had happened.

Hair brushed, hoodie changed, face washed cold. You looked… fine. Or close enough to it. The headache had dulled, the nausea thinned to a manageable hum. You even offered to make tea.

“Wow,” Lando said, perched on the arm of the couch. “You sure you’re alive?”

“Barely,” you said with a small grin, flicking the kettle on. “But I figured I’d try.”

He watched you like he was trying to decode something, but didn’t push. Just nodded and stretched, groaning a little. “Think I’m still drunk. What’s the cure for that?”

“Water. Sleep. Regret,” you replied, pulling down two mugs and setting them beside the kettle.

He laughed. “Shit, one out of three’s not bad.”

You smiled like it didn’t hurt. You laughed where it fit. You asked about his night—just enough to seem polite, not enough to sound jealous. You let him talk.

God, he could talk.

She was a writer, apparently. Or trying to be. Smart. Funny. She’d ordered something weird at the bar and convinced him to try it. She didn’t like racing all that much but knew who he was. Thought he was cooler in person.

Of course she did.

You nodded, sipping your tea, the steam hiding whatever might’ve shown on your face. You asked the right questions. Played your part. The roommate. The friend. The girl who hadn’t curled up in the dark, fists clenched, listening to someone else’s moans coming from the other side of the wall.

“Anyway,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck, “I might see her again.”

You shrugged like it meant nothing. “Cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You should.”

He smiled, clearly relieved. “Alright. Good.”

You took another sip of your tea.

It tasted like ash.

tag list:

@lifesass @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0 @pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs

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