Your Secret Santa XoXo - Kimi Raikonnen X Reader

hihihihi! 🥹💕 i want to let you know that i adore your hotch fics! and i wanted to ask if you’d be ok—but no pressure!!!— to write one with bombshell!reader waking up from anesthesia and forgetting hotch and her are already together and starts flirting with him the way bombshell!reader absolutely would lol? thank you!

thanks for requesting lovely! fem, 1k

You don’t remember waking up, but you’re sitting against a pillow with a yoghurt in your hand. You must’ve been on some sort of auto-pilot… Are you in a hospital gown?

You put your yoghurt down on the table that’s been wheeled over your lap and stare at the white-blue chequered gown creased between your thighs. Your head feels heavy. 

“You okay?” 

You drag your gaze to the source of the voice. 

Agent Hotchner sits in the chair next to your bed. He has one leg crossed over the other, but he notices your confusion and his nonchalance turns to concern. “You need help?” 

“With the yoghurt?” you ask. 

“Yeah, honey. I can help.” 

You roll that over in your mind. Stern Agent Hotchner just called you honey. 

You’ve been trying to convince him for a while that you’re someone worth being sweet to. Trying to sway him, because there are parts of him you can’t get out of your head when he’s not around. He has not yet been swayed. Honey is a hand held out you’re going to snatch. 

Hotch stands. He goes to pick up your yoghurt. 

“What, are you gonna spoon feed me?” you ask, a clumsy drawl to your voice.

“I was going to… but I don’t like your tone.” 

Is he flirting back? You must’ve hit your head. “Coward,” you murmur. Speaking of hitting your head, there’s a throbbing behind your eyes, and a dryness to your throat bordering on uncomfortable. The yoghurt was there for a reason, clearly, but you don’t have the energy in you to eat seductively. 

“My head hurts,” you say quietly. 

You close your eyes. 

“I know.” A hand touches your face. You stay very still, though your heart doesn’t. “You don’t feel too hot. Do you want a drink? I can get you anything.” 

“Your hand is so big…” 

“Not so much bigger than your own,” he says. 

“Prove it.” 

He says your name like he knows you well, which sets your racing heart off all over again. But, used to hiding from him, you open your eyes to watch him and wipe all surprise from your face. You raise your hand, and he raises his, and you press your fingers together. Your fingertips don’t reach his, his palm wider, warmer. You thread your fingers carefully into the gaps between his, your lips curling into a satisfied smile. 

Less satisfied when he closes his hand around yours. 

“You’re teasing me,” you say. 

“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you lay back properly?” 

“Super, super forward.” You lay back under the pressure of his hand, stricken by the feeling that he’s done something like that before. You rest your head against your elevated pillows and have to give up —you can’t hide how surprised you are at his open touching, his face so close to yours you can see every warm fleck in his dark eyes. 

“You look startled,” he murmurs. 

“I think you’ve been bodysnatched.” 

“I have?” 

“Yes.” You nod. “I can’t keep up. And I’m usually pretty great at that.” 

“At what?” 

“Flirting.” 

“Oh,” he says, taking your hand again, pulling it toward his mouth, “you think I’m flirting?” 

“Is there something wrong with me?” 

“Not beyond the usual. You’re more lucid than they suspected you’d be, actually.” He kisses your knuckles. 

“I’ve hit my head.” 

“No, honey, you were under anaesthesia. Everything’s fine.” 

“You’ve hit your head.” 

He breathes out a laugh. “I don’t remember any injuries, but I’d love to know why you think so.” 

“You’re kissing me.” 

He pauses, lowering your hand. “Yes?” he says cautiously. 

“Would you want to do it again?” 

Hotch puts your hand on your chest. He cups your cheek in one hand, takes your shoulder into the other, and leans down to see you eye to eye. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks. You can feel the love he has for you in each word. 

Weirdly, you can feel it in yourself, too. Like, more than a crush. More than wanting him to spin you around or play with your thigh under a desk. You really love him. 

“I think I forgot you,” you say softly. 

“Amnesia is a very common symptom of anaesthesia, don’t worry.” He pulls your face up to peck you, quick but not without a gentleness that has your hands thrumming with pins and needle. “I thought you were acting strange, but I put it down to discomfort. Sorry, I imagine it’s very disconcerting to feel you don’t know me.” 

He just kissed you. “No, I know you, I just… I think I love you, but you don’t usually want me back.” 

He rubs your cheek with his thumb. “I’ve always wanted you,” he says, his dulcet tenor another comfort entirely. “And I love you, whether you remember it or not. Should we try to finish your yoghurt?” 

“You really love me?” 

He turns your face to press a kiss into your eyebrow. “You don’t remember?” 

“I do–” You begin before thinking about it, and realise that you’re telling the truth. You remember that he loves you. Agent Hotchner loves you. He’s in your hospital room handling you like thin glass.  

“Well, is there much else to remember?” 

You practically smirk at him. “I can think of some things.” 

“Wow!” He leans down for another kiss. “You’re awful,” he murmurs, his smile soft on your lips. 

make a wish, huh? i wish i wish with all my heart for reader to have pissed off her daddy dom in the field. so as a punishment she has to sit on this big man’s shoe while he does paperwork. cockwarming him with her mouth until he decides no matter how bad she’s whining and needing him, that she can rock and get herself off. but only if she listens to him. if not? if she’s a brat and she’s being really really needy?? i do believe that causes for a spanking, don’t you? over his knee, skirt rolled up.. you know. just a wish 😈🙏🏻

Knees | Dom!Aaron Hotchner

The Secrets We Keep (a Bunny and Clyde story) - Blurb

Pairing: Dom!Aaron Hotchner x BAU/sub!Reader

Words: 2k

CW: 18+, nsfw, mdni.

Tags/warnings: master!hotch, bunny!reader, established D/s relationship, cockwarming, oral (m receiving), pet names (bunny).

a/n: when Morgan asks for something, you give it to her.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

You swallowed and his entire body tensed up under you. He hissed in disapproval, his darkened gaze almost searing a hole through yours. You couldn’t help it, saliva had been pooling in the corners of your mouth for a few minutes and it was either swallow or let it drip down your throat. And let’s be honest, the latter did not sound as naughty as the former. You knew how he’d react, knew that his cock would twitch at the slight change in pressure, knew that he would know what you were doing. 

You didn’t let his stare scare you. Instead, you returned your own — round, innocent eyes that glistened with tears. It wasn’t that he was hurting you, on the contrary, he was giving you something that you craved yet it was a punishment that he knew was sure to make you lose your mind. His cock in your mouth, warm and heavy on your tongue, thick and hard against your throat. Unmoving, still, agonizing. 

He’d asked you into his office the second the last agent had left for the night. You knew what it was about, knew what awaited you the second he locked the doors and closed the blinds. And fortunately for you, it had not been the professional reprimand that you’d thought.

Unfortunately for you, he had made you strip completely, only allowing you to keep your panties. The cold air made your nipples hard and your skin erupt in goosebumps. He led you down on your knees, your pussy landing on his expensive leather shoe. He was calm and collected as he rolled his desk chair further into his desk, caging you against the wood at your back and his wood at your front.

“Open,” he commanded, and fearing any more repercussions after your major, his words, mild, your words, fuck up in the field, you eagerly did as he asked. A hint of a smile graced his lips as he watched you, an overwhelming sense of pride and satisfaction burning through his body as he unbuckled his belt. It was painfully slow and you were overly eager as you realized what he was commanding you to do. You were about to reach out to help him speed along the process when his eyes darkened in warning, your hands immediately falling against your sides. 

“Color?” he asked, a hint of cockiness in his voice startled you.

“Green, sir,” you replied, the implications of your consent not yet clear.

“Good,” with that he sprung his cock free from his underwear. He was already semi hard, the tip glistened with pre cum and you couldn’t help but salivate at the excitement. “This is not a treat, bunny,” your eyes met his again before he continued. “You are going to take me in your mouth but you may not make me cum, am I understood?”

Oh no. Aaron knew how much you loved to give him head, how you reveled in watching him come undone by your skilled tongue. It was one of the first things he’d learned about you, one of the things he couldn’t believe you liked doing. Which is why he knew that every fiber in your body would light up in protest. You wanted to scream, argue, throw a tantrum — but you didn’t. Instead you simply nodded solemnly. You had done this to yourself and there was no one else to blame.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he praised and the excitement in your lower belly went up in flames again. “You will be a perfect, still angel until I finish my paperwork, and then we’ll see if you’ve earned the right to get yourself off on my shoe.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And with that he rolled his chair all the way into his desk, one hand around his cock, the other grabbing your chin and pulling you where he wanted you. The movement made your pussy graze against his rough laces and you had to stop yourself from moaning. You could already feel your wetness start to pool and he’d literally done nothing yet. His fingers pressed against your cheeks and your mouth opened on its own, wide and eager, as he placed a third of his length on your tongue. 

You could’ve started crying right then and there, but you didn’t. You would not let him break you that easily. 

“Do you remember how to safe word, bunny?” He asked, he always asked.

You nodded, making your tongue rub against the underside of his length. You tapped his leg once. Yes. “How do you tap out?”

You tapped his leg twice and he rewarded you by patting your cheek, gently at first, but then his pats turned into soft smacks, right against the tip of his cock inside your mouth. He groaned loudly, the sounds slowly making you lose all sense of self as you felt him twitch inside your mouth. 

“Fuck, bunny,” he moaned. “This is going to be a long night.”

And long it was. You had lost track of time. At first you decided to count the seconds, minutes, hours, whatever to distract yourself from moving, from what you actually wanted to do. But it was impossible. Your arms had wrapped around his leg to hold yourself steady, your legs had started to wobble and so you’d given up and fully sat yourself down on his shoe.

You were gone, your brain wasn’t working anymore. All you could think about was the weight of his cock in your mouth and how much you wanted to move. Move your tongue, move your head, move your hands to wrap around his base, move your hips to give yourself some kind of relief.

You swallowed again, this time accidentally, and because of your miscalculation, your flat tongue grazed against his length, making you roll your eyes back in euphoria. You didn’t register as your hips started moving, as your pussy made contact with the rough, uneven surface of his laces, as your wetness drenched his shoe. Your clit grazed against a buckle and you moaned, loudly. That was the final straw. 

Without a word of warning he rolled his chair out, his hands quickly grabbing you under your armpits and effortlessly lifting you from under the desk. Your mind snapped back to reality in an instant. Glazed eyes turned sharp, numbness turned responsive, daze turned into realization. You were about to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to let the tears fall when he sat you down on his lap, your legs on either side of his own. 

“Sir—”

His palm landed with a smack on your ass, the sting making you whimper. You had learned early on that there were times when he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t bring himself to verbalize his commands. Instead, he’d gotten into the habit of turning them into action. A single spank was a warning to be quiet, to save whatever groveling — he wasn’t going to listen to it. 

“When I give you a command, I expect you to follow it,” he said, anger lacing every word.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your head hanging low avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t mean it—”

That made him snap, his right hand landing another smack against your reddening ass as his left tightly grasped your jaw, pulling your head up to face him. 

“Like you didn’t mean to go into that apartment without backup?” 

He was concerned, so much in fact that it was the easiest you’d ever been able to read him. You knew he’d been concerned for you. As your boss, you knew he cared for you. But as your Dom…that was a whole different story. You’d done your best to compartmentalize, to trust the other in your skills and training, to accept that you would both be put in scary situations when out in the field. But right then and there, you knew, you saw. He was terrified.

“Yes,” you breathed, the heavy understanding of your punishment washing over you like ice cold water. “It will not happen again. Sir.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching, but you knew what he would find. You cared too. It wasn’t like you had planned on going in without backup, it was that you both understood that the job came first, that whatever instinct made you follow through, no matter how reckless, had probably been for the best of the case. And as much as you both knew, if it made him feel more comfortable to remind you to be careful in this way, you would let him do it every single time.

“Good girl,” he praised, his lips hovering over yours teasingly. “I think you deserve a treat, don’t you?”

You nodded rapidly, making him smirk. You reveled in it, in his smile, in the warmth that was seeing him experience happiness in whatever form it might take. He gently guided you back to your knees in front of his chair and your eyes lit up.

“Make me cum, bunny,” he sat back down, legs spread open like inviting you to a buffet, chest rising and falling, his white button up straining with each breath.

You wasted no time getting to work, your hands quickly wrapping themselves around the base of his cock. He was still a little slick from your saliva, but it wasn’t enough, so you reached one hand down your panties, fingers eagerly collecting your slick before you slathered it all over his rock hard erection.

“Jesus Christ, bunny,” he groaned as your hands started to move up and down his shaft. Moves calculated, perfectly pressured, expertly avoiding his needy tip. Pre cum started to leak once more and that’s when you couldn’t hold back any longer. Your tongue darted out on its own volition, eagerly rolling around his tip, hungrily drinking him all in. He moaned loudly, his hand wrapping around your hair and pushing you further down against his length. 

You let him, flattening your tongue and opening your throat as you swallowed more and more of his length into your mouth. He stopped at your hand, letting you work your magic then. You wanted him to cum, needed to feel his spend down your throat. Your hands sped up their movements, meeting your mouth sloppily as you bobbed your head up and down to meet them at the base. You continued to roll your tongue around his length as you sucked in your cheeks, tightening around his cock. You could feel him tense, his moans becoming louder and louder, his breathing uneven, his heartbeat aggressive.

“I’m close—” he didn’t even manage to finish his sentence as you removed your hands and took him the rest of the way down your throat. His chest erupted in an animalistic groan as the tension snapped and he spilled down your throat. You moaned at the feeling, at the power that you had over this beautiful man in front of you. As much as you wanted relief of your own, there was nothing more satisfying than having him spill down your throat, than having him come undone by your tongue. The tears finally spilled as you kept him there, patiently waiting for him to finish before you pulled yourself off him. Your eyes locked onto his as you swallowed, making a show of it. 

You were both breathing rapidly, both stuck in a pocket of time where nothing else but the two of you existed, both completely satisfied in your own ways. He ran his hand over his face then, breaking the spell, knowing that if he stayed any longer, he’d say something he’d regret. Instead he took in a sharp breath and placed himself back into his pants before he reached out to help you to your feet. He led you back on his lap and this time he cradled you, warm hands running all over your cold body. You hummed against his chest, your own hands tightly grabbing a hold of his suit jacket. 

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he murmured before he pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“Yes, Master.”

idk if i'm "back" yet, but here's my offering to you on this saturday. but mostly bc i wanted to fuck with morgan while she's busy and can't do anything about it.

tags: @ssamorganhotchner, @criminalskies, @callm3c0nfus3d, @xladyxdreamer, @gr3enflowers, @lilyviolets, @howabouticallyou, @shadowmemory, @simp4f1, @honeylovemoon, @powerlvr25, @formulapierre, @spenciesprincess, @extra-trash77 (if i missed anyone please let me know!)

Always Walk Me Home

Max Verstappen x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You and Max are keeping things casual. Sooo casual. You can be casual. Right?

a/n: Heeeeere we go, his number is in my bio for a reason, it’s my other favorite boy! This one is heavily inspired by some of the prompts on this list. anyways enjoy!

Warnings: alcohol/mild intoxication, mild sexual references, google translated Dutch

Things with Max are… brand new. Everything is still fresh. Everything he does gives you butterflies, makes your heart skip a beat. It’s the honeymoon phase, as everyone calls it.

It’s so brand new that nobody knows. Nothing is… official, yet. You’ve just been on a few dates, had a few movie nights. You’ve stayed at his place a couple times, waking up with his arm around your waist and Jimmy and Sassy curled up next to you. It’s casual. You’re keeping things casual. Max seems content to feel things out, to keep seeing you without labeling it. You’re trying so hard to be casual about it that it’s almost embarrassing.

You feel like everyone sees straight through you. On top of spending time alone together, you and Max are friends, so you see each other at group outings and clubs and dinners with your other friends. Max acts the same there as he always has- kind, courteous, and friendly. You won’t lie, sometimes you wish he’d hold your hand or pull your chair out for you or something, anything to show you that you’re not the only one feeling less than casual. But you’re scared of scaring him away, so you keep your mouth shut.

…..

You’re out to dinner with friends, somehow ending up sitting next to him. It’s nice, really nice. You can smell his cologne, can feel the warmth radiating off of him at the packed table. You have to fight the urge to nudge his foot with yours, to press your knee against his. That wouldn’t be very casual of you. You can do this, you can be normal.

He’s saying something to the person next to him, laughing and leaning towards them. You want to be the reason he’s laughing, want to be in on the jokes. You keep your mouth shut and look at the menu instead.

“What are you going to get?” Max asks.

He’s suddenly in your space. He’s leaning close, his shoulder brushing against yours. Be normal. You shrug, sliding your finger down the menu.

“Probably the shrimp scampi,” you say, pointing at the item.

Max nods. “You love seafood.”

You blink, breath caught in your chest. He’s right, but you didn’t know he knew that. Let alone for him to say it as fact. It’s not like he’s whispering either- someone else could hear. It’s silly, because it’s such a small thing, but you’re overanalyzing everything about it.

“I do,” you agree, turning and smiling at him.

“I remember things,” he says, a soft smile on his face, and now your face is growing hot.

Someone draws his attention away, and you look back to the menu. You nearly yelp in shock when something brushes your knee, but- it’s Max, you realize with a start, his hand searching for something. You hold your breath. His fingers find yours, and he interlaces your hands, palm to palm. He keeps them resting on your leg.

You try to take even breaths. He’s holding your hand in public, with your friends right next to you. Sure, it’s under the table, but this is the most you’ve gotten from him in a setting like this. He’s held your hand on dates, done much more in the privacy of his home, but here it feels overwhelming. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, and you resist the urge to hold on so tightly to him that he can’t let go.

Eventually the food comes, and you both let go so you can eat. But it was nice while it lasted.

…..

Max’s apartment is spacious and cozy, despite the fact that he’s gone from it so often. There’s a warmth here, an aura that just screams Max. His cats roam freely, though while you’re there they have a tendency to follow you around.

“They are traitors,” Max accuses as Jimmy and Sassy weave around your ankles in the kitchen.

“Maybe I’m just better than you,” you say.

“Oh, you are,” he says, sending up a swirl of butterflies in your stomach. “But I feed them. So they are traitors.”

You laugh, leaning down to pet the cats. They nudge their heads against your hands and legs, paw at your socks, and when you walk into the living room, they follow after. Max just watches with disappointment.

By the time he joins you in the living room, drinks in hand, both of them are curled up in your lap. He lets out a huff and sets the drinks on the table. Then he’s nudging at the cats, and you cry out when he pushes them both off your lap.

“Max!” You say, appalled.

He laughs, lays down on the couch, and promptly placed his head exactly where the two cats had been. He stares up at you with a wide grin, eyes squeezed nearly shut.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you answer.

He reaches for one of your hands. He squeezes your fingers softly before bringing your hand up to his hair. You laugh and take the hint, start running your fingers through the blonde strands. He lets his eyes fall shut. Then you watch as he brings his hand up, purses his lips, and points at them.

You take that hint too, lean over and plant a kiss on his lips. When you try to pull away, he wraps a hand around the back of your neck and keeps you there. He deepens the kiss, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of your neck to hold you there. It’s not the best angle, but it’s nice, always nice to kiss him.

He finally lets you go and collapses back into your lap, a satisfied smile on his reddened lips.

…..

“I can’t open it!” You squeak. “What the fuck, how do they make it look so easy?”

You’re holding a bottle of champagne in your friend’s apartment, trying to get the cork out. It doesn’t help that you’re scared- one too many horror stories about someone getting a cork to the eye, or breaking a window. You huff and try again, gently. No use.

“Lando slams it on the ground,” your friend suggests, her eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, and he also shattered one of Max’s trophies,” you say. “So maybe not the best example.”

You hear familiar laughter, then, and you drop one hand to your side, still holding the bottle in front of you with the other. Max makes his way through the kitchen, a smile on his lips that paints his whole face. You hold it out to him, pouting.

“No, no,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

He wraps his hand around yours, around the bottle. You can’t lie, your mind goes somewhere else for a second, but you tamp those thoughts down and try to focus.

“See, you put this hand on the cork,” he instructs, “and this hand on the bottom.”

His hands are warm over yours. Your face feels hot. Does he feel the sparks when his skin touches yours, too? Or is this normal for him? Is it just a friend helping another friend? You wish you knew, wish he’d say something to quell your worries and calm your racing heart.

“-and then you twist, like this,” he demonstrates.

The bottle hisses, and you jump, but there’s no dramatic pop, no shooting of the cork. You just pull it out, and you stare at the bottle with wide eyes. Oh. That was-

“Easy, right?” He says. “You are already a pro.”

You laugh, shake your head, and hold out the bottle to your friends, standing there with their empty glasses. You want to study their faces, ask them if they noticed anything. You want to ask if they saw the sparks, too. Someone takes the bottle, and your hands fall to your side, the cork still between your fingers.

Your knuckles brush against something- when you look, it’s Max’s hand. He’s still standing there, watching as everyone passes the bottle around. You swallow tightly, bump your hand into his. Deliberately. You want to look up at his face, want to gauge his reaction, but you resist the urge.

Max reaches his pinky out and hooks it with yours. For just a moment, standing in the kitchen, surrounded by your friends, you’re linked. The sparks run from his finger, up your wrist and arm and straight to your heart. Your chest fizzes like the champagne, bubbly and overflowing.

…..

You weren’t even planning on seeing Max tonight. It’s a girls night, one that’s been suggested over and over, each of you being too busy to make it happen until tonight. You’re at your favorite bar, bass thudding in your chest, your friends all around you.

And then, there’s a tingling feeling in your spine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Someone is watching you. You turn over your shoulder and lock eyes with Max.

He’s leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. He has a black t-shirt on that’s always been one of your favorites- it hugs his upper arms and his chest so perfectly. He’s watching you, a soft smirk on his lips, a drink in his hand. Everyone is moving around you, but you’re stuck on him.

You smile, wave, and force yourself to turn back to your friends. You like him, you want to spend time with him, but you’ve been neglecting your friendships because of it. Your friends have been teasing you all night about how you’ve been too busy, how you keep checking your phone, how there must be a guy. You’ve denied it at every turn. You can’t leave them now. Ditching your friends for the guy who isn’t even your boyfriend would be the opposite of casual. You force yourself not to look at him, but you swear you can still feel him staring.

Ten minutes later, a bartender appears with a tray of shots and lime wedges. “For you,” she says, pointing at you, and your friends squeal in excitement. She points behind you, then. “From him.”

You turn over your shoulder again. Max is watching, and waving this time. You laugh and wave back, and your friends all do the same. He’s far away, too far to make it in time as you each grab a shot and throw them back in unison. You put the lime between your lips and turn to look at him again, raising your brows. He laughs, eyes lit up so bright you can see the blue even across the room, you swear. Then he juts his chin in the direction of the hallway when nobody else is looking. A message just for you.

You find him out there ten minutes later, trying not to make it obvious and taking the time to come up with an excuse- you fake a phone call. The hall is empty when you walk out, and you wonder if he’s given up on you- you know you saw him walk out. Then he pops his head out from around a corner and waves you over frantically.

He’s leaning against the wall, the same way he was in the club. You stand against the wall on the other side of the hallway and stare at him.

“I’m not leaving right now,” you say. “I promised I’d stay out late.”

“I know,” he says. “Just wanted to see you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah? Seeing me across the bar wasn’t enough?”

The tequila running in your veins has you feeling braver than usual. It doesn’t seem to scare Max. He just grins wider, brow quirked.

“No, it wasn’t,” he says. “You’re pretty from far away, but even prettier up close.”

Your face feels hot. He pushes off from the wall, leans towards you. He could box you in if he wanted, could pin you right there, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes your hand in his and pulls you away from the wall, too. The kiss he sweeps you into is sweet. He wraps his arm around you, and you sling yours around the back of his neck. One of his hands cradles the side of your face as he deepens the kiss. Out of all of it, you’re much more focused on the feeling of his thumb on your cheek than the feeling of his lips on yours. It’s strangely intimate, strangely soft, the way he holds you as he kisses you in the hallway of a bar. The way his nose nudges against your cheek, the way he pulls you closer and closer like he can’t get enough.

He pulls away, leaves you gasping for air.

“You taste like lime,” he says.

You nod, dumbfounded.

“You should go back to your friends,” he suggests, kissing your temple. “If I keep kissing you I won’t want to let you go.”

You breathe out a laugh and slap his shoulder. “If you keep staring at me in the club I won’t be able to focus on anything else.”

He laughs. “I know,” he says. “That’s what makes it fun. Besides, you’re fun to watch.”

…..

Three days later, Max is holding your purse. He’d taken it from you when you were all standing in the lobby of the restaurant and your friend dragged you into the bathroom. He’d promised to keep it safe. Now you’re back, your friends are gathering their things and saying goodbyes, getting ready to go home. You’re watching him.

The little black bag looks even smaller in his hands. His fingers are wrapped around the clutch, thumb rubbing back and forth across one of the stitches the same way it had on your skin the night before. He’s talking to someone else, but when there’s a break in the conversation, you nudge him.

“I can take that back,” you say, holding your hand out.

He tilts his head, blinks softly. “That’s okay. I’ll carry it.”

You’re sure you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights. “Okay, but I’m leaving, so I need my purse.”

He nods. “I thought maybe I could walk you home. If you wanted.”

You nod in response, feeling a bit dumbfounded. The two of you exit the restaurant, waving goodbye to your friends. He takes your hand the second you’re outside, your purse still in his other one. Your fingers knit together like second nature, now. You could predict the pattern of the brush of his thumb against your skin like clockwork.

Your apartment isn’t far, but you find yourself walking slow on purpose, prolonging the moment. You pass people on the street and you know that to them, the two of you look like a real, actual couple. It’s nice to pretend. You lean into his shoulder, and he stumbles and laughs and keeps both of you upright. The two of you talk the whole way there, about everything and nothing and all the stuff in between.

When you reach the apartment building, he finally holds your purse out to you. You open the clutch, digging through it to find your keys and the front door access card. He watches in amusement as your fingers fumble through the bag.

“D’you wanna come up?” You ask. “I have some of that wine you like.”

You pull the card triumphantly from your bag. You look up at him, and he’s smiling softly, something sparkling in his eyes that makes your breath hitch. Makes the champagne bubble in your chest all over again.

“That’s okay,” he says, softly. “I’ve got to get back to the cats. But can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”

You blink, card still pinched between your fingers. “Yeah, sure.”

He tilts his head at you. “Maybe brunch. You are going to need sleep. How about you text me when you wake up and we’ll go from there?”

You nod. He nods back. Then he reaches up, cups the side of your face in his hand. He’s so gentle about it, more so than he normally is. When he presses his lips to yours, he tastes like gin and he kisses like… like he cares for you. Like this isn’t leading somewhere else, like he’s not going to pull you into his lap and start trailing kisses down your neck. He kisses you just to kiss you, just to say goodnight.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says when he pulls away. “Goodnight, liefje.”

You smile up at him. “Goodnight, Max.”

He smiles back. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead softly. You swear you’re melting into the sidewalk. You must be a puddle under his feet. You want to press yourself into his chest, tell him to wrap his arms around you, ask him to never let you go.

But you’re trying so hard to be so good at being casual, so you kiss his cheek, turn around, and walk inside. You take the elevator up, leaning against the wall and covering your giddy smile with your hand. When you get into your apartment, kick off your heels, and drop your bag on the counter, your phone buzzes. It’s a call. You look at the screen and see Max’s face.

“Hello?” You answer.

“Did you get in alright?” He asks.

Your heart squeezes fiercely in your chest. He sounds so soft, asking it. You walk over to the window, peel back the curtains, hoping you’re right about what you think you’ll see. There he is, still standing in front of the entrance, phone to his ear. He’s staring up at your window. When he sees you, he waves.

“Yeah,” you say. “You didn’t have to wait, you know.”

But I’m so glad you did.

“Yes I did,” he says, voice soft and scratchy from the night out. “Had to make sure you were safe.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “Let me know when you get home, okay?”

“I will,” he says. You watch as he waves again, smiling up at you. “Goodnight.”

…..

He picks you up for brunch the next day. By the time you’re in his car, it’s nearly 10:30. He drives with his hand on your knee, like always, fingers dancing across your exposed skin below the hem of your sundress. You like watching him drive, like being here with him. He pulls up to the restaurant and runs around to open your door for you, leaving you laughing. He hands the keys to the valet. Then he slips his arm around your waist and leads you inside.

You’ve been on dates with him, but none this fancy, none where you feel a little out of your element. Max seems comfortable, though- it’s moments like these where you’re reminded he’s not just your-friend-Max. He’s three-time-F1-world-champion-Max-Verstappen. Of course he can get a reservation here with such short notice. They’re honored to have him here.

A waiter leads you to a booth in the back. The restaurant is bright and airy, fresh flowers on every table. Max asks for a pitcher of water and orange juice before the waiter leaves. He pulls your chair out for you, pushes it in when you sit down. Your palms are sweating, heart beating rapidly. It’s just- this is the closest you’ve come to feeling like you’re actually dating him. Suddenly, it’s terrifying.

You ask him what’s good on the menu. He points out his favorites- the French toast, the eggs Benedict, the omelettes. He tells you he’s going to order a fruit sampler for the two of you to share, and you smile softly.

“They always have the best strawberries,” he tells you, eyes lit up. “You love strawberries.”

“I do,” you tell him, warmth filling your cheeks. “You do too.”

You’d bonded over that, when you first became friends. A strawberry wine that nobody else wanted to drink. Too sweet. You’d split the bottle with Max and went to bed with a sugar rush, your lips still tasting like strawberry. Ever since, for every special occasion, the two of you have gifted each other that same strawberry wine. It’s a running joke, among your friends- you’ll open the bottle, ask if anyone wants a glass. They’ll ignore you, but Max will come running.

He opens his mouth to say something, but over his shoulder, you spot something that makes your blood run cold.

“Shit,” you mutter.

He looks at you in concern. “What is it?”

“Nothing, just-“ you sigh. “Your coworker is here.”

Charles Leclerc has just walked in the door, a girl on his arm. The waiter is pointing in your general direction, towards an open table a little ways away. There goes your whole morning. He’s going to want to leave now.

Max turns to look, brows raised. “Oh. At least it’s one I like.”

You can’t help the laugh. “Should we go?”

Max turns back to you, perplexed. “What, get up to say hi? I don’t like him that much. He’ll come over here when he sees us.”

Us. You wish he meant it how you want him to.

“No, like-“ you sigh, gaze flickering down to the table. “You don’t want people to know, so-“

“What?” He asks, wide eyed. “What do you mean, I don’t want-“

“You didn’t want to tell anyone,” you say, quietly. You can’t look at him. “We haven’t even really talked about this, and… I figured you…”

You trail off, because you can feel him staring at you. He reaches over and tucks his finger under your chin. He tilts your face upwards towards his. His gaze is soft, a small smile on his face.

“Schat, you have to be joking,” he says, and you stare back at him. “Of course I want to tell people. I have wanted to tell the whole world since I kissed you the first time.”

You blink. “But you- you didn’t want to put a label on it. You never…”

“We never talked about it,” he says. “I was giving you time. I’m a lot. Dating me is a lot. You are… I was following your lead.”

“Oh my god,” you blurt out, a giddy feeling in your chest. “Oh my god, I’m so dumb.”

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. His eyes are bright and sparkling, his smile spreading across his whole face. You’re so done being casual.

Charles appears at the end of your table seconds later, smiling at the two of you. “Max, hi, good to see you. And I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” he adds, turning to you.

“Charles, this is my girlfriend,” Max says, reaching across the table to take your hand.

When you greet Charles, you can’t wipe the giddy grin from your face. It stays there the whole rest of the day- through breakfast, through a walk through a park, through a late lunch at Max’s with the cats winding around your ankles. Every time it starts to fade you think of Max, bright blue eyes, his finger under your chin. You fall asleep still smiling. You’re pretty sure it’ll be there when you wake up.

…..

The next time you go out with your friends, Max carries your bag the whole night. He also keeps his hand on the small of your back nearly constantly. He orders and pays for all of your drinks, includes you in all the conversations, and brushes his lips against your temple every time there’s a lull in the talking.

Nobody questions it. None of your friends even bat an eye. You find out why when you end up in the bathroom with the girls, a tradition as old as time itself.

It turns out they all already knew.

“Max told us all the day after he kissed you the first time,” someone tells you. “And then he told us we all had to act like nothing was different, because he didn’t want to scare you off.”

You collapse into a fit of laughter, bracing yourself against the sink. All this time, you were worried about it, and he’d told everyone right away. You’d thought you were the one struggling to be casual. God, you’d have saved yourself so much trouble if you’d only asked. If you’d only told him straightforward what you wanted. If you’d only been up front.

You’re giddy with it, then. You can feel it coursing through your veins and buzzing in your fingertips. You won’t call it love yet, at least not out loud. It’s too soon, right? It can’t be love. But it’s something, and now you want him next to you. You want his lips on yours again. You’re missing him even though he’s just through the door, waiting for you, your bag in his hand.

When you return to his side, you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. You watch his smile grow and his cheeks turn red. You place your hand on his shoulder and put your lips against his ear.

“You should take me home,” you tell him.

His cheeks get even redder, and he turns to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “You’ll walk me home, right?”

“Always,” he agrees.

He takes your hand, squeezes lightly. You feel like you’re glowing brighter than the neon lights above your head.

…..

You slip up over your morning cup of coffee three days later. The cats are in your lap. There’s the perfect amount of cream and sugar in the mug, he’s made it exactly right. The sun is shining through the windows, bouncing off his hair and painting his skin in golden light. You weren’t going to say it out loud, you really weren’t, but it slips past your lips anyways.

“I love you,” you say.

Max laughs, takes the mug from your hands, and kisses you.

Then he says it right back.

read the prequel/ sequel, Someone Sane

okay, now I’ve got my three favorite boys in the masterlist! thanks for reading! come say hi, or check out more of my writing here. drop an ask or a dm to be added to the tag list!

taglist: @4-mula1

toto and you accidentally calling him daddy and being scared he won’t like it but then he’s like “say it again” and goes feral ☠️ i need to be stopped pls

- 🦕

GRGIRGJI THIS IS SOOO GOOD YES ANON. hes truly One Daddy To Rule Them All.

afab gn reader, warning for daddy kink obvs

he's got you in his lap, his back against the headboard as you ride him

his large hands are on your hips, guiding the way you rise and roll back down onto his thick cock, deep voice rumbling in praise every time you take him to the hilt once more

"that's it, i knew you could do it, always so good"

and that's when it slips out, with your head nestled in the bend between his shoulder and neck

"thank you, daddy"

he freezes, his grip on your waist tightening as you whip your head back to stare at him with rabbit-in-headlight eyes

"i-i'm so sorry, oh my g-" you begin, only for your apology to be silenced by toto's mouth on your own - a deep, hungry kiss, his teeth nipping and pulling your bottom lip

you moan into the kiss, hips subconsciously grinding against his cock once more

when he breaks the kiss, you're both panting for breath, his forehead still pressed against yours as he asks if you're sure

and when you nod in return, a small smile toying at your lips as you reply with a teasing "yes, daddy", you don't understand why the world is suddenly upside down until toto is fucking into you and you realise he's flipped you both other

he hoists your legs up around his waist, pulling your arms above your head and pinning them there with one strong hand

"say it. say it again."

he's fucking growling down at you, and you can't refuse, even if the rough thrusts of his hips are making it hard for you to form words

"d-daddy! fuck! daddy!"

he groans again, a deep, desperate sound at the base of his throat, and releases your wrists to move your legs once more, pulling them up around his shoulders, bending you nearly in half

he's so deep you feel like you can hardly breathe, let alone think

the only thing you can say is your broken litany of "daddy--!", shaped around moans and whines that edge into screams as he presses circles into your clit with his thumb

"that's right, so good for me -- cum for me, cum for daddy, yes?"

and you can't deny him, you can never deny toto, not when he coos into your ear like that and rolls his hips so deep you think he's ruined you for all other men, forever

afterwards, he cleans you up, holding you against his chest with strong arms

"so you're uh... into that?"

he grumbles something suspiciously similar to "don't push your luck", and you laugh

i would kill for a jack & joe jr x reader smut at palm beach !! something to the tune of sibling rivalry ,,

What The Boys Will Do

synopsis: two kennedy brothers, a smoldering rivalry, and a girl who knows exactly how to stir the pot at palm beach. it’s all a game of who gets to win... until they realize they’re both playing for the same prize.

word count: 4.8k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader, joe kennedy jr. x reader

rating: 18+; includes explicit sexual acts

author's note: for that one other anon who requested joe jr smut, this is for you as well!

December in Palm Beach meant nothing like the Christmases you'd known before. No snow, no biting wind, just the relentless Florida sun beating down on the Kennedy compound's whitewashed walls, turning everything golden. The Atlantic stretched beyond the garden wall, a glittering blue expanse that seemed to mock the very concept of winter.

You'd been staying with the Kennedys for nearly two weeks now. Ambassador Kennedy and his wife Rose had extended the invitation through your father—business connections, naturally—and you'd accepted with polite enthusiasm that masked your genuine curiosity. The Kennedys were American royalty, after all, and their sprawling Palm Beach estate was the stuff of newspaper photographs and whispered gossip.

What you hadn't counted on was the brothers.

Joe Jr. and Jack Kennedy were studies in contrast. Joe Jr., the eldest, carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who'd never questioned his place in the world. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and clear eyes, he moved through rooms like he owned them, which, you supposed, he technically did. His laughter was loud, his opinions firm, his handshake crushing. The golden boy, groomed for greatness from birth.

Jack was... different. Leaner, sharper somehow, with eyes that seemed to catch everything. Where Joe Jr. commanded attention, Jack slipped into it sideways, with a wry comment or an observation that made everyone in earshot suddenly aware of his presence. He was quieter, but no less intense—just more selective about when to deploy his considerable charm.

And both of them watched you.

You first noticed it during tennis matches, when you'd catch Joe Jr.'s gaze lingering a beat too long on your legs as you reached for a backhand. Then at dinner, when Jack would pass you the salt before you'd asked, his fingers brushing yours with deliberate slowness. Small moments, easily dismissed individually, but collectively forming a pattern you couldn't ignore.

Neither brother spoke of it directly. Instead, their rivalry leaked out in a thousand tiny ways: Joe Jr. cutting Jack off mid-story to tell a better one; Jack needling his brother about some Harvard football game he'd fumbled; Joe Jr. casually mentioning his plans to enter politics while looking pointedly at his younger brother's thinner frame, still recovering from some illness.

And always, always, their eyes would flick to you afterward, gauging your reaction.

You weren't naive. You understood the game being played, and rather than shy away, you found yourself leaning into it. A laugh at Joe Jr.'s jokes that lasted a touch too long. Asking Jack to explain something political, your body angled toward his, eyes wide with manufactured fascination. Accepting Joe Jr.'s invitation to swim, then emerging from the water with your bathing suit clinging to every curve. Borrowing one of Jack's books, then returning it with comments that showed you'd actually read it, watching surprise and something hungrier flicker across his face.

It was intoxicating, this power. Dangerous, perhaps, but no more dangerous than the cocktails Ambassador Kennedy mixed himself each evening—strong enough to burn, sweet enough to make you forget the burn until morning.

Today had been particularly charged. A boat trip along the coast, all of you packed into the family's sleek vessel, salt spray and sunshine and too many bodies in too little space. Joe Jr. had insisted on teaching you to steer, his chest pressed against your back, hands covering yours on the wheel. Jack had watched from his seat at the stern, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the tight set of his jaw.

Later, back at the house, Jack had cornered you in the library, ostensibly to show you a first edition of Fitzgerald, but really to stand close enough that you could smell his cologne and count the freckles across his nose.

Dinner had been unbearable—the brothers seated on either side of you, Rose Kennedy oblivious to the tension as she discussed Christmas arrangements, the younger Kennedy children squabbling over dessert. Joe Jr.'s knee pressed against yours under the table; Jack's foot hooked casually around your ankle.

Now, as evening settled over the compound and the family dispersed to their various entertainments, you found yourself needing air. Space to think. The beach called to you—empty, you hoped, and cool with the night breeze.

You slipped out through the garden gate, shoes dangling from your fingers, and made your way down to the shore. The sand was still warm from the day's heat, fine-grained between your toes. You walked until the house lights dimmed behind you, then settled on the sand, knees drawn up to your chest, watching the moonlight dance across the water.

"Thought I might find you here."

Joe Jr.'s voice startled you. He stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his linen trousers, jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose tanned forearms. In the moonlight, his features seemed harder, more defined.

"Did you follow me?" you asked, not moving to make room beside you.

He shrugged, a fluid motion that spoke of absolute confidence. "Maybe. Or maybe I just needed some air too." He settled beside you anyway, close enough that his arm brushed yours. "It's a madhouse in there. Mother's on about Christmas decorations, and Jack's being... Jack."

The way he said his brother's name carried a weight you couldn't quite decipher. Irritation? Jealousy? Both?

"What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

Joe Jr. picked up a handful of sand, let it sift through his fingers. "You know exactly what it means. He's been following you around like a lost puppy for days. It's embarrassing."

"I hadn't noticed," you lied, watching his profile.

He turned to face you then, his expression skeptical. "Sure you haven't. Just like you haven't noticed me watching you either, right?"

Your heart kicked against your ribs. This was it—the thing neither brother had been willing to say out loud, suddenly made explicit in the darkness.

"Joe—"

"Don't," he cut you off. "Don't pretend you don't know what's happening here. Between us. Between you and Jack. All of it."

You swallowed hard. "And what is happening, exactly?"

His laugh was short, almost bitter. "You're playing with us. Both of us. And you're enjoying it."

The accusation should have shamed you. Instead, it sent a thrill down your spine, a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the lingering warmth of the day.

"I'm not playing anything," you said, but your voice betrayed you, coming out husky and low.

Joe Jr. shifted closer, his thigh pressing against yours now. "Liar," he said, but there was no anger in it—only a strange sort of admiration. "You've got us both twisted up, and you know it. The question is..." His hand found your waist, fingers splaying wide. "What are you going to do about it?"

You should have pulled away. Should have stood up, brushed the sand from your clothes, walked back to the house and the safety of other people. Instead, you turned toward him, close enough now that you could feel his breath on your face.

"What do you want me to do about it?" you whispered.

Something flashed in his eyes—triumph, maybe, or relief. "I want you to stop pretending you don't want me."

And then his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding, his hand sliding from your waist to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devoured you. There was nothing gentle about the kiss—it was all teeth and tongue and barely restrained hunger, months of watching and wanting compressed into a single, explosive moment.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands finding his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle there. He was so different from Jack—broader, harder, radiating a physical presence that seemed to overwhelm everything else. His kiss tasted like bourbon, and you found yourself responding with equal fervor, as if some dam had broken inside you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. "Tell me to stop," he said, but his hands were already moving, one sliding up your thigh, bunching the fabric of your dress.

"Don't stop," you breathed, and something wild flashed across his face.

He pushed you back onto the sand, his body covering yours, mouth finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. "I've watched you with him," he murmured against your skin. "Seen the way you look at him. The way you laugh at his stupid jokes." His teeth grazed your neck, making you arch against him. "Is this what you want from him too?"

The question sent a jolt through you. "Joe," you gasped, not answering, not needing to.

His hand found the hem of your dress, pushed it up around your hips. The night air was cool against your suddenly exposed skin, but his palm was hot as it slid up your inner thigh.

"Say it," he demanded, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Say you want me. Not him. Me."

You couldn't speak, could barely think with his weight pressing you into the sand, his touch so close to where you needed it. Instead, you pulled his face down to yours, kissing him with all the pent-up desire of the past weeks.

He groaned into your mouth, his fingers finally slipping past the barrier of silk to find you wet and ready. "Christ," he muttered, forehead pressed against yours. "You're soaked."

The crude observation should have embarrassed you. Instead, it only heightened your arousal, knowing how much he wanted this—wanted you. His fingers moved with expert precision, circling, dipping inside, drawing out your pleasure until you were writhing beneath him, sand sticking to your sweat-dampened skin.

"Joe, please," you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for.

He seemed to know, though. With swift, efficient movements, he unbuckled his belt, shoved his trousers down just enough to free himself. You caught only a glimpse in the moonlight—thick, straining against his palm as he stroked himself once, twice.

"Tell me," he said again, positioning himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you breathed, and it wasn't a lie, not in this moment with the ocean roaring in your ears and his body hot and hard above yours. "Please, Joe, I want you."

He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, filling you completely, drawing a cry from your lips that he silenced with his mouth. There was nothing gentle about the way he took you—his hips driving forward with a force that sent you sliding in the sand, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider for him.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled against your ear, punctuating each word with a thrust. "All those times you bent over in front of me? Wore those little dresses? This is what you were asking for, wasn't it?"

"Yes," you gasped, because it was easier than explaining the complicated truth—that you'd wanted both of them, differently but equally, in ways you couldn't even articulate to yourself.

He fucked you like he had something to prove, like he could erase any thought of Jack from your mind through sheer physical dominance. And for a while, it worked—your world narrowed to the sensation of him inside you, the weight of him above you, the sound of his labored breathing mixing with the crash of waves.

Your orgasm built quickly, almost violently, spurred by the rough friction and the forbidden thrill of being taken like this—outdoors, where anyone might see, by a man whose brother wanted you just as badly. When it hit, you cried out his name, your nails raking down his back, leaving marks you hoped would still be there tomorrow.

Joe Jr. followed soon after, his rhythm faltering, his face buried in your neck as he groaned his release. For a long moment, neither of you moved, just lay tangled together on the sand, catching your breath.

Finally, he rolled off you, tucking himself away, straightening his clothes with efficient movements. You did the same, pulling your dress down, running fingers through your sand-streaked hair.

"We should get back," he said, his voice oddly formal now, as if trying to recapture some sense of propriety after what you'd just done. "Before they notice we're both gone."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. He offered his hand, pulled you to your feet, then brushed sand from your back with a touch that lingered just a moment too long.

The walk back to the house was silent, charged with unspoken questions. At the garden gate, he paused, turned to face you.

"This isn't over," he said, and you weren't sure if it was a promise or a warning.

Then he was gone, striding ahead of you toward the house, leaving you to follow in his wake, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, your mind already spinning with the implications of what had just happened.

And what might happen next.

You avoided both Kennedy brothers the next day, pleading a headache and staying in your room until late afternoon. It wasn't entirely a lie—your head did ache, though more from the tangle of thoughts than any physical ailment.

What had happened with Joe Jr. on the beach felt like crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed. The game you'd been playing had suddenly become very real, with consequences you weren't sure you were prepared to face.

And then there was Jack. The thought of him made your stomach twist with a complicated mix of guilt and anticipation. Did he know? Had Joe Jr. said something? The Kennedy brothers shared many things, but you doubted this would be one of them.

By evening, hunger and boredom drove you from your sanctuary. The house was quieter than usual—Ambassador Kennedy and Rose had taken the younger children to some Christmas event in town, and dinner had been an informal affair that you'd apparently missed entirely.

You wandered the halls, eventually finding yourself at the foot of the grand staircase. The second floor housed the family's private rooms, including your own guest suite at the far end of the corridor. You climbed slowly, trailing your fingers along the polished banister, lost in thought.

At the top of the stairs, you froze. Jack Kennedy leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a book dangling from his fingers. He looked up as you reached the landing, his expression unreadable.

"There she is," he said. "We thought you might have caught the train back to New York without saying goodbye."

"Just feeling a bit under the weather," you said, suddenly aware of how close you were standing to him, of the narrow corridor stretching behind him toward your room.

He studied you, his gaze moving slowly over your face, down to your neck where you knew a faint mark from Joe Jr.'s mouth still lingered, despite your best efforts with makeup. "Better now, I hope?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice. There was something in his eyes—a knowing look that made your skin prickle with awareness.

"Good," he said, pushing off from the wall. "I was hoping to show you something. In the study."

The study was Ambassador Kennedy's domain, a wood-paneled room filled with leather-bound books and the lingering scent of cigars. Jack led you there with a hand hovering just above the small of your back, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through your dress.

"Your father won't mind?" you asked as Jack closed the door behind you.

He smiled, a quick flash of teeth. "Dad's not here. And what he doesn't know won't hurt him." He crossed to a cabinet, opened it to reveal a collection of crystal decanters. "Drink?"

You nodded, watching as he poured amber liquid into two tumblers. His movements were precise, economical—so different from Joe Jr.'s broader gestures. Where his brother commanded space, Jack seemed to navigate it with a dancer's awareness of exactly where his body began and ended.

He handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. "To feeling better," he said, raising his drink in a toast.

The whiskey burned pleasantly going down, warming you from the inside out. Jack watched you over the rim of his glass, his eyes never leaving your face.

"So," he said finally, setting his drink aside. "You and Joe had quite the evening last night."

Your heart stuttered. "I don't know what you mean."

His laugh was soft, almost kind. "Come on now. We both know that's not true." He moved closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "He came back covered in sand. And you..." His finger traced the air just above the mark on your neck, not touching but making you acutely aware of its presence. "Well, let's just say the evidence is fairly compelling."

Heat flooded your face—embarrassment, yes, but also a strange, twisted excitement at being caught. At having both brothers' attention so completely focused on you.

"Jack, I—"

"You don't need to explain," he cut you off, taking the glass from your suddenly nerveless fingers and setting it aside. "I'm not angry. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What do you mean?" Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

He smiled again, but this time there was something predatory in it. "I mean that my brother has always had a habit of taking what he wants without thinking about the consequences. Without considering whether what he's taking might be better off in someone else's hands." His own hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with feather-light pressure. "My hands, for instance."

Your breath caught in your throat. This was what you'd been playing with, wasn't it? This rivalry, this tension. And now it was fully in the open, impossible to ignore or deny.

"Jack," you began, but he silenced you with a look.

"Let me ask you something," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Did he make you feel good? Really good? Or was he too busy proving a point to pay attention to what you needed?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Because while what had happened with Joe Jr. had been intense, overwhelming even, there had been a selfishness to it—a sense that your pleasure was secondary to his need to claim you.

Jack read your silence correctly. His smile widened, turned knowing. "That's what I thought." His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, down your arms to capture your wrists. "Let me show you the difference."

He backed you against the Ambassador's massive desk, his body caging yours without quite touching it. Unlike his brother's forceful approach, Jack's was measured, deliberate—a slow burn rather than a conflagration.

His mouth, when it finally met yours, was gentle at first, almost teasing. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like he was savoring a fine wine rather than gulping it down. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking permission rather than demanding entry.

You opened for him with a soft sigh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. Through the fine fabric of his shirt, you could feel his heart beating, steady and strong. He deepened the kiss gradually, one hand sliding into your hair, angling your head to give him better access.

Where Joe Jr. had been all urgent heat and barely restrained power, Jack was precision and patience. He kissed you until your lips felt swollen, until your body was melting against his, until you were making small, needy sounds in the back of your throat.

Only then did his hands begin to wander, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. He found the zipper of your dress, drew it down with agonizing slowness, his mouth never leaving yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your lips, echoing his brother's words from the night before, but with a different inflection—less a challenge than a genuine offer.

Your answer was the same. "Don't stop."

He smiled against your mouth, then stepped back just enough to help you out of your dress, letting it pool at your feet.

"Beautiful," he said simply, and somehow that single word affected you more deeply than all of Joe Jr.'s heated declarations.

Jack's hands skimmed over the silk of your slip, learning the contours of your body with careful attention. When they finally slipped beneath the hem, sliding up your thighs, you were already trembling with anticipation.

"Sit on the desk," he instructed, his voice low but firm.

You obeyed, perching on the edge of the massive oak surface. Jack stepped between your knees, spreading them wider with gentle pressure. Then, to your surprise, he sank to his knees before you.

"Jack, what—"

"Shh," he silenced you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. "Let me show you what my brother should have done last night."

Your slip rucked up around your hips as he pushed it higher, exposing you completely to his gaze. Unlike the darkness of the beach, here in the warm lamplight of the study, you felt suddenly, acutely vulnerable.

Jack seemed to sense your discomfort. He looked up at you, his eyes serious now. "You are exquisite," he said. "Every inch of you. Let me worship you properly."

Before you could respond, his mouth was on you, his tongue tracing a path that made your head fall back, a gasp escaping your lips. Where Joe Jr. had been efficient but hurried in his attentions, Jack was thorough to the point of torture, alternating between broad strokes and focused circles, bringing you to the edge only to back away, building your pleasure in careful, deliberate increments.

Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, urging him closer. He hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for his mouth, his tongue delving inside you before returning to the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you seeing stars.

"Jack, please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for, only knowing that you needed more, needed release from the exquisite tension he was building.

He looked up at you, his mouth glistening. "Not yet," he said, and the command in his voice was all the more powerful for its softness. "Think about it. Think about how different this is. How much better."

And it was different—not necessarily better or worse, but a completely different experience. Where Joe Jr. had taken you with raw passion, Jack was dismantling you piece by piece, with surgical precision and devastating attention to detail.

When your orgasm finally hit, it was like nothing you'd ever experienced—a wave that seemed to go on and on, Jack's mouth and fingers working in perfect harmony to draw out every last tremor of pleasure until you were gasping his name, your body boneless and liquid.

He rose to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression one of pure masculine satisfaction. "Now," he said, unbuckling his belt with unhurried movements, "I'm going to fuck you on my father's desk, and you're going to remember every second of it."

The crude language, so at odds with his usual polish, sent another jolt of arousal through you. You watched, still dazed from your orgasm, as he freed himself from his trousers, stroking his length with the same deliberate pace he'd applied to pleasuring you.

He was different from Joe Jr. here too—not quite as thick, but longer, curved slightly in a way that promised to hit places his brother hadn't reached. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him, hard and ready.

"Turn around," he instructed, helping you off the desk. "Bend over."

You complied, bracing your hands on the polished wood surface. Jack moved behind you, his hands sliding up your sides, pushing your slip higher until it bunched around your waist. You felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing your entrance.

"Ask me for it," he said, his voice tight with restraint. "Tell me what you want."

"You," you breathed, pushing back against him. "I want you, Jack. Please."

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch and burn of him. By the time he was fully seated, you were both panting, your forehead pressed against the cool wood of the desk.

"God, you feel incredible," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "So tight. So perfect."

He began to move, setting a rhythm that was neither as frantic as Joe Jr.'s nor as slow as you might have expected. Each thrust was calculated for maximum impact, angled to hit the spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, echoing his brother's words from the night before, but with a different inflection—curious rather than accusatory. "All those times you looked at me across the dinner table? When you borrowed my books and returned them with your scent on the pages?"

"Yes," you gasped, because it was true—you had wanted this, wanted him, from the moment you'd first seen him lounging by the pool, his lean body golden in the sunlight, his eyes following you with quiet intensity.

He reached around, his fingers finding the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs, circling it in time with his thrusts. "And my brother?" he asked, his voice strained now. "Did you want him too?"

The question should have shocked you, but in the haze of pleasure, it only heightened your arousal—this acknowledgment of the triangle you'd been navigating. "Yes," you admitted, and felt him thrust harder in response.

"Both of us," he said, not a question now but a statement of fact. "You greedy thing."

His pace increased, his control slipping as his own pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, spurred by his fingers and the relentless drag of his cock inside you.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice rough now, his rhythm faltering. "Come for me while I'm inside you. Let me feel it."

Your body obeyed, clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you for the second time. Jack groaned, his fingers digging into your hip as he followed you over the edge, his release hot inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just stayed joined together, catching your breath. Then Jack pulled away carefully, helping you stand, turning you to face him. Jack took his time—straightening your slip, retrieving your dress from the floor, helping you back into it with gentle hands. He zipped you up, pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck, then turned you to face him again.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he said, but there was no judgment in his tone—only a kind of rueful admiration. "With both of us."

You met his gaze steadily. "I know."

He studied you for a moment, then nodded, as if confirming something to himself. "Well, then," he said, stepping back, "may the best man win."

Later that night, you stood before the mirror in your room, examining the evidence of the past two days—the faint mark on your neck from Joe Jr.'s mouth, the slight bruise on your hip from Jack's fingers. Your body felt pleasantly sore, used in the best possible way.

From downstairs came the sound of raised voices—Joe Jr. and Jack, their words indistinct but their tones unmistakable. Arguing, as they so often did, but with a new edge that you recognized all too well.

You smoothed your hands down the front of your dress, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. You could end this if you wanted to. Choose one brother over the other. Draw a line under the whole affair and return to New York with a scandalous memory to keep you warm through the winter.

But as you listened to their voices rise and fall, each trying to assert dominance over the other, you knew you wouldn't. Not yet, anyway.

what kind of lover they are | f1 dilfs

— jenson button

Jenson is more of like a cheeky playboy playdilf, you should say. He couldn't give up that life easily, women loves him. His reputation precedes him, but that doesn't mean he's not devoted to you. When you walk into a room, he'll make sure to get you feel special — especially by showing you off.

— sebastian vettel

Sebastian screams husband material, no doubt. How does the ring of promise sits on his finger so perfectly, you don't know. It's just one of the rules of the universe. And he's proud to show it off, staring at his wife lovingly whenever you're doing anything, nothing, everything. Was he rambling again?

— mark webber

This gentleman screams old money, dad's friend kinda love and you're not even sorry. He loves to steal a little kiss here and there, and you love to pick a sweet little dress. It's pink, it's short, it's everything a man could ask for, no? Loves to take you on a spin on his Porsche, matching your dresses to the car each time.

— fernando alonso

He's young and beautiful, and lana would agree. This Spaniard is giving very much the cheeky and young teenage lover. You'll catch him in a gym, on his own, working on those biceps. And he wouldn't be sorry to invite a sweet looking damsel to his company.

I bet with seb, baby leclerc wouldn't (or wouldn't be able to) keep him as a secret for so long. The girl is obssesed with him and the man kisses the ground she walks on, they're just so smitten to each other. But I wonder whether in this case, seb has children or not because if he does — like imagine the whole family is obsessed with her too😭🥹 seb children be like “can we have her live with us” and seb was all like “id like that to happen too”

🫣🫣🫣 i mean, their age gap is alr quite significant and if seb already has a baby, the baby would have to be around five to balance out the age gap... but!! dilf seb is very hard to resist so,, maybe 😩😩😩

"i don't wanna go." his daughter stubbornly looks away from him, squirming to get away from his opened arms and deeper into your embrace. she practically looked at him like he was her long time enemy, and she sought refuge into your arms.

"schatz, we had an agreement." sebastian continued to coax his girl, who was undeniably besotted by you— disinterested in leaving your house, and you altogether. "you said you'd be good, and listen to papa. we need to go home now, y/n has things to do." his voice was tinged with helplesness, now very familiar with this dance as they've shared the same stalemate dozens of times until—

his daughter sniffles. your heart practically melted into a puddle, and you couldn't help but hug her tighter to you. as if sharing her same fear that you will be separated.

"chéri," you look up at sebastian, grasping his hand. "i can reschedule. we can stay in, and watch more tangled, and cuddle." you utter softly.

"you keep spoiling her, baby." sebastian has hints of exasperation in his tone, but the smile creeping on his face betrayed him as he leans down to press a long kiss on your lips.

"i barely see her anymore, i should have cleared my schedule as early as yesterday." you murmur, resting your cheek on the top of her head as she giggles in delight, now as familiar with this dance to know she's won the negotiations once more.

sebastian laughs, pressing a kiss to both your head as he stands up to grab the remote and replenish the snacks.

"you should live with us! so we don't have to be apart! we can hang out everydayyyyy!"

you laugh at her enthusiastic prattle, looking up at her smug father who's been tirelessly convincing you of pretty much, the same thing.

"work those eyes shatz, so we'd have her living with us by the end of the month!"

Charles jealous and possessive please! Smut 🔥

no mercy.

CL x fem!reader - 4k celebration ✨

in which lunch with friends turns into charles reminding you that you’re all his

first 4k request up! thank you so much for this, wrote this whole thing in like half an hour bc damn this took me back to my charlie roots. i hope u love this anon, and all my lovely readers - lemme know what you think

warnings: 18+!! minors GO AWAY! smut, swearing, slight breeding kink, use of “slut” (in the sexy way tho!), lando causing his usual chaos (feat. shit stirrer alex), dom!charles/sub!reader, minor hints of corruption kink, slapping like once, fluffy ending

1.4k words

interesting.

the word you’d choose to describe this lunch is interesting.

charles’ hand seems to grow tighter on your thigh with every passing minute, or, to be more precise, every time lando speaks.

“so am i, ahem, are we gonna be seeing you at any races soon?” lando teases, raising an eyebrow, gesturing to alex sat beside him to cover up his slip of the tongue.

“i’ll be there whenever charles wants me there. maybe i’ll even get to see you win a race.” you laugh. you’re enjoying the company, but the impromptu lunch with the other two drivers seems to be riling your boyfriend up to new heights.

you know the brit is teasing him, and alex is lapping up the drama, stirring the pot. you certainly don’t mind if it keeps charles’ hand wandering higher up your leg. you’re just being polite, lando knows that, charles definitely knows that, but his tight smile and clenched jaw paints a different picture.

“i think we need to get going.” charles pipes up suddenly, after what feels like an eternity of silence from the monegasque man, and he throws a few hundred euros down of the table. “see you in bahrain.” he glares at lando pointedly, and extends his hand to you.

you take it, grinning apologetically at lando and alex, who both wear the same shit-eating grins. they know exactly what they’ve done and they’re lapping up the visible irritation they’ve concocted in their friend.

charles opens your door when you reach his ferrari, silently closing it and walking around to the drivers side.


“not a word.” he grunts.

his hand slips into your panties as he starts the car, and your head tips back against the headrest.

-

he throws you onto the bed, no mercy, nothing forgiving behind his rage filled eyes. you wriggle up onto your elbows, watching the way his shirt sleeves are haphazardly rolled up, the way his hands rub together. your thighs clench. his jaw is ticking, and you can see the cogs turning in his mind, ideas brewing.

there’s no warning before pounces, shoving your floral dress up your thighs. he’s met with white lace, intricately textured, gone sheer with your arousal from the way he’d toyed with you in the car, and he sighs deeply, pained.

“this is what you wear out under this slutty fucking dress?” charles glares down at you, yanking at the fabric. the band snaps back against your belly and you gulp, hard. “nothing to say?” he tuts. “you didn’t seem to have a problem talking to my friends.”

“wore it for you, promise.” you whisper, eyes wide, pupils blown. charles scoffs.

“did you really? because it seems like you’ve forgotten who you fucking belong to.”

you don’t get a chance to reply because you’re stunned into silence when a tear sounds from between your thighs. you see a flash of white when he discards your underwear, throwing them to the floor. charles forces your legs apart, settling onto his belly as if he wants to examine you.

“still soaked.” he hums, impressed. “question is, cherie, for who?” he tilts his head condescendingly and your squirm.

as if to torture you, his nimble fingers trace your folds, spreading the wetness he’s created. you buck your hips at the pressure, it’s not nearly enough, and a low whine sounds from the back of your throat.

“all for you, baby.” you promise. “please, charlie.” you beg.

“is my precious girl getting desperate? hm?” he finds your clit, circling it with the pad of his calloused thumb. you nod profusely, and he’s obsessed with your compliance. “now you know how i felt watching him want you.” he spits.

charles plunges two fingers inside of you suddenly, and you cry out, grinding your hips to his rhythm. the stretch is so delicious that you barely register the burn, not that it matters with the way he’s slicked you up already.

“baby, ‘m all yours.” you’re getting desperate now, pleading with your eyes as much as you can between squeezing them shut every time your tummy tightens.

“i’m not so sure, think you need reminding still.” charles smirks, and his pace increases tenfold.

all you can hear is the wet slap of his fingers slamming into your pussy, his other hand teasing at your clit, just barely touching it. it riles you up endlessly, and your belly aches from how tight you’re clamping down around his hand.

“wanna cum.” you slur, dizzy from the shockwaves washing over you.

“ask nicely.” charles quips sternly, slapping your thigh. it sends a jolt through you and you can’t help it, spilling around his long digits.

you expect him to stop, to punish you for disobeying him, but he fucks you through your orgasm until you’re spent. he’s grinning when you manage to open your eyes.

“so that’s how you’re gonna be, hm? you wanna act like a slut, cherie? because believe me, i’ll treat you like one.” he speaks concisely, slowly, his voice low and threatening.

he points to your dress. “off. now.”

you scramble to peel it off, throwing it off of the bed, and your bra follows suit. you lay there bare, studying him. if you didn’t know him, love him, you’d think he’s his normal self, but you can see the way he’s digging his nails into his palm, can see the way his neck is flushed red. he unclenches his hands to undo his jeans, just enough so that his cock is on display, red and aggressively hard. you wonder how long he’s been like that.

charles kneels at the end of the bed, shifting until he’s hovering over you. the head of his cock nudges your clit, spreading the remnants of your orgasm over himself and your cunt, watching the way it flutters at the pressure. and then he’s sinking in, slow, deep. he’s heavy on top of you and you revel in the weight of him, his scent.

he grins when he bottoms out, letting out a low groan. he stills for a moment, looks at you, brushes a few strands of hair away from your pink flushed face.

“apologise.” charles coos, mockingly. your eyes well with tears, so much pressure swelling in your belly.

“charles.” you whimper, attempting to thread your fingers through his hair, but he catches your hand, sweeping up the other, and pins both of your wrists above your head.

“apologise.”

and you can’t help but ramble pathetically.

“i’m sorry, charlie, love you so much, ‘m so sorry.”

the feeling of his hips hitting yours is like water in the desert: luxurious, essential. the pace he sets is brutal, utterly fantastic, a stark contrast to anything he’s ever given to you before.

this entire experience is surreal, he usually dotes, whispers lovingly into your ear as he gently coaxes orgasms out of you. this could not be anymore different.

the power he exudes, fully clothed, rocking into your quivering, naked body turns you on endlessly, unlocking a part of yourself that you’d never let anyone else see before.

“you like it better like this, don’t you, cherie? when i fuck you hard like this?” you nod frantically. “pretending to be the sweetest little angel when really, you’re nothing but a dirty fucking girl, letting him gawk at you. bet you loved it, all that attention.” charles grunts.

you arch into him, the elastic band in your core growing that bit too tight.

“maybe i need to fuck a baby into you, make sure everyone knows you’re all mine.” he whispers.

that’s all it takes. you reach your high instantly, spurred on by the filth he spouts. the tight, hot hold you have on him makes him see stars, and then he’s cumming, too, spilling warm and white into you.

it’s quiet for a moment, the air still, the smell of sex settling over the space. you relax into the bed, and gently, he pulls out of you. he smiles softly, fingers grazing your sweat dampened face. he unbuttons his shirt as he walks to the en-suite, returning to you shirtless and with a warm, damp cloth.

you smile sleepily as he cleans you up, wiping away the mess he’s made between your legs - as best as he can, anyways - and then he strips off his jeans, and clambers into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms so that your back is flush to his chest.

“was that okay?” he asks quietly. you roll over in his arms, raising your head to peck his jaw.

“more than okay.”

“i didn’t take it too far?”

“baby, it was perfect.” you giggle.

“you know i’m not mad at you, right? but i swear, if lando ever looks at you like that again, he won’t be having kids.”

-

first 4k request happy dance 🕺🏻✨

-

taglist

@thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @spideylovin @formulaal

lemme know if u wanna be added or removed <3

it is a glorious sunrise - f.alonso

masterlist

requested: n

pairings: Fernando Alonso x fem!reader

warnings: not intended for minors + oral ( m receiving) + established relationship

a/n: had an Alonso brainrot in June… it’s just now getting posted 😅 lol enjoy!!!!

《 the following content is not intended for minors. 》

There is happiness

In our history

Across our great divide

There is a glorious sunrise

Dappled with the flickers of light

the white linen sheets are crumpled up at the end of the bed. the warm breeze of beautiful Greece was unbearable, that not even night fall could’ve made the humidity drop.

your bodies, despite the warmth, are intertwined with one another. his large hand rests upon your ass, while his other arm has fallen completely numb underneath your naked body.

you can’t help but move closer to him, wanting to feel his chest slightly rise. you can feel the warmth and moisture against his skin, your finger nails trail over the glisten droplets against his abs causing him to stir awake.

he exhales a moan, hand moving up your back and snaking into your hair, fingers beginning to massage your scalp. the silence is filled with the birds chirping outside the open window, and the sounds of young boys and girls giggling in the distance of the sea. it’s blissful, a beautiful awakening next to him.

you flip onto your stomach, breasts pressed against his bare body, you move upward, hands on both sides of him as your lips connect with his. your eyes close, but his open as he was just beginning to drift back to sleep. your soft sweet lips begin to gently move down his neck, a silent moan escapes his lips, head tilting further back into the pillow.

“ay dios mío,” he whispers feeling your nails rake into his skin, lips and tongue licking the sweat off his body. he squirms underneath you, breath hitching when he feels the warm air against his growing hard cock. looking out the window he sees the sun is just barely rising. the orange and pink skies are just forming, the view is breathtaking. watching the sun come up from the clouds, he couldn’t think of anything more beautiful. that’s until his attention shifts to your wet tongue against his tip, mind switches back to reality.

his chest begins to rise and fall with much more emphasis, you can hear his breath increasing with each passing swipe and flick of your tongue against him. he says he can’t last much longer underneath your wet touch, he’s so close to folding. his fingers are bunching the sheets, knuckles white, he’s trying hard to keep it together.

“amor, please,” his pleas are increasing, you swear the people outside your room could hear him, but you don’t mind. you love having him wrapped around your finger, looking like a damsel in distress. it’s not very often he behaves like this.

your tongue flicks him just right, something he’s never felt before, the way it scrapes against his skin, tickles his own nerves the pleasure makes his legs twitch as his body exhales your reward; his cum.

“Buenos días princesa,” he sighs watching you crawl up from his legs to beside him in the bed. you press your lips against his once again, two of you settling into the mattress comfortably.

“what a beautiful morning, nando.” you say, moving yourself closer so you can rest your head against his chest, two of you watch the sunrise with heavy eyelids and once again fall back into slumber.

There is happiness

Oh She's Mine - Max Verstappen

Summary: Max finds himself with a crush on his substitute race engineer but will she shake his form or keep him on track with his trajectory, or maybe they'll be the most cohesive race engineer and driver pairing so far.

Themes: slightly-mean!Max followed by obsessive!Max

Edit: No part 2 requests please

Initially Max wasn't eager for GP to be replaced if only for a couple weekends due to GP needing some time off due to some matters to do with his family. But when he was introduced to her on Wednesday, the young woman was familiar. He'd seen her around the factory and even seen her which GP.

"So you're going to help me win a race?" Max questions once they're left in each others company and she doesn't miss the doubt in his tone about her abilities.

"You think they're trust me with this job if they thought I couldn't?" Y/n shoots back but she's visibly flustered over it. Upset or embarrassed Max can't quite tell.

"I think you need to prove it." Max shrugs earning a thick swallow before she turns and tries to actually handle this as she figures is the right way. Just get on with the job, do what a race engineer does.

Max continued to find no end of entertainment through watching her stutter and stumble through talking to him. There's been exchange glances between the other engineers and mechanics noticing Max's slightly unhinged approach to speaking to the substitute race engineer.

But when the time comes for her to really step up onto the pitfall for FP1, a test to see if she can handle the role. Max almost finds himself shocked at the difference of her confidence and tone.

He does decide to keep his slightly flirtier and more non-f1 related comments off of the radio channel.

But once he's out there do a debrief and then once they step out y/n finds herself almost cornered by the champion.

"You surprised me." Max admits watching her face contort to a frown.

"I'm not so terrible at my job that you have to keep declaring you won't listen to me?" Y/n questions crossing her eyes but avoiding looking him directly in the eye. "We have to go over some things before FP2."

"Please, lead the way." Max smirks back to his usual persona that he's grown to have with the young woman.

Y/n tries to keep herself from losing focus when it comes to Max standing so close to her as they speak that he is actually completed pressed to her side. She wishes she was doing a better job at hiding her smile when he makes certain comments but there's something about his presence which is stopping her from feeling so uncomfortable. Even if he's not the nicest man on the planet to her.

Her reprieve comes in the form of FP2.

"You two seem to have hit things off." Hugh comments as she moves up onto the pit wall for the practice.

"Well I think FP1 seemed to prove to him that I'm not as useless as he wanted to think I am." Y/n states then swallowing thickly. "It's quite nice working with him."

"Good." Hugh nods with a small smile.

-

Y/n sighs ahead of the race as she talks with Max as they stand on the grid. Making sure he knows his stuff, which he obviously does but she doesn't want to be the reason that Max loses.

"It's alright, y/n. If I'm not first, we know you aren't needed again." Max smiles patting her shoulder watching her face drop and she looks like she's about to be sick and he realises how badly timed. "I am joking."

"I knew that." Y/n groans then finding herself pulled into a hug as Max chuckles and rubs her back.

"Do not worry. You are ok." Max assures her while she smiles nervously. "We will win this and you will come up on the podium."

"No-"

"Yes." Max cuts in still holding her in a hug which she is very aware of being caught on camera.

"Alright, Max." Y/n states sucking in a breath and patting his back in gesture.

Max eventually disappears for the national anthem then returning to climb in his car with y/n being gestured at to come closer. Turns out he just wants to ask about the initial first corner plan which is really no different to usual.

They all walk to the pit wall leaving ahead of the formation lap.

-

As predicted, Max wins and he does actually force y/n to climb over the barrier with his aid when he sees that she had tried to avoid being the one up on the podium up with him.

The rest of the team encouraged her too and she found herself actually being tugged with Max.

"You were great, you deserve to be up here." Max states as they walk up to the cool down room.

"I don't-Hi." Y/n greets when she sees the two McLaren drivers already there. "Congratulations, you guys did amazing."

Always so polite and kind as they both seem intrigued by the new face.

"Y/n is filling in for GP temporarily so I said she should come up on the podium." Max explains then moving to put his stuff down, picking up the cap with a bottle of water as they begin to discuss the race as they watch some clips.

Y/n is almost grateful she falls by the wayside. Then eventually they're called for the podium.

"You'll go out last, after me." Max explains as they call for Oscar to go out first. "Move over to the little podium on the far side."

Y/n nods swallowing thickly, trying to ignore Lando's smirk from the side of her eye when she feels one of Max's hands holding her waist and rubbing it slightly. Annoyingly it does work to ease her nerves.

Lando goes out next followed by Max and she follows a couple seconds afterwards, once she is on, she gets shot a smile from Max before moving onto the podium.

Being given the trophy she does admittedly almost drop it, not expecting the weight of it or for it to be so hard to hold in one hand.

When the champagne spraying occurs, she finds herself very much targeted by the Dutchman and she's definitely surprised by the cold temperature.

Then they tap bottles all exchanging congratulations before the podium group photo before they jump down, Max taking both bottles after watching y/n struggling to carry the trophy in one hand.

"I don't have any other clothes." Y/n states looking very much with a grimace while Max laughs lightly and pats her back lightly as they get down to the team again.

"We will find you some clean clothes." Max laughs, while guiding her in front of himself.

-

"You should just come with me." Max states as they walk out of the debrief.

"I should?" Y/n laughs nervously, having predicted this and seen it coming really.

"Yes, you should."

"Wouldn't be very appropriate." Y/n mumbles swallowing thickly while Max frowns at her words. "Max..."

"Don't do that. Don't be stupid." Max instructs making her force her eyes up to look at him. "-Not stupid, but you know what I mean. You haven't actually said no."

Because in all honestly there's two reasons she's denying this is because he was a bit of a dick and because dating a driver given her choice of career seems like a questionable move.

"You should just say yes." Max shrugs since she's already moving to walk with her.

"You didn't actually ask a question for me to say yes or no to." Y/n shrugs earning a small smile from the driver.

"It wasn't really a question, more of a demand." Max shoots back without a moment of hesitation. "I'm just saying you should."

Y/n sighs before she bites her lip a little before tilting her head then sighing softly as she slides her hand into his hand. Her silent way of complying with his demand but she'd be lying if she said it didn't feel quite nice to walk out of there with him.

-

GP isn't back for the following weekend which means y/n is in the hot seat on the pitwall again.

"We have y/n as Max's race engineer and honestly for anyone listening to his radio and onboard, you can hearing them getting quite bickery with each other. It's certainly making for some brilliant entertainment." Ted states with a small laugh as he's brought in on the broadcast. "Max and GP sometimes have their moments but it's almost as if Max is purposely trying to annoy y/n."

"Well we all know the rumours between them two." Crofty chuckles since it has been going around with Max's continuous touching and slightly possessive looks to any other man who seems to dare to speak to y/n.

"Max, box." Y/n instructs sternly.

"Pit confirm." Max responds almost sounding like he's giggling.

"Dick." Y/n mutters making sure it's not on radio while others on the pitwall looks at her in amusement.

Usually there would be a zero tolerance for such behaviour between two employees, but it's not actually effecting Max's performance and y/n isn't going to be Max's engineer beyond this weekend because GP will be back. Though everyone certain Max is going to make a request that she take on a more active role on his side of the garage.

They decide to go for a race simulation, wanting to figure out the right set up and balance. So he's fuelled up and sent out.

"You don't have to glare at me from the pit wall." Max states over the radio after he's driven out the garage.

"I don't have to, but I want to." Y/n smiles, or so he assumes, he feels like he can hear a smile in her tone. "Warm up, push lap, please."

"So polite." Max chuckles over the radio smirking to himself as he hears literally radio silence.

The rest of the warm up lap she's silent and in the hot lap, they do get back into actually working with her giving him instructions for engine mode changes, figuring out what works best for him and eventually after a few more rounds, a couple stops to try different tyres.

After the practice is over y/n heads over to the garage where Max is climbing out the car.

"That felt good."

"Well you got P1 in the session with those first hot laps." Y/n sighs then swallowing thickly as she feelings Max gently playing with a few strands of her hair. "Qualifying later. Then sprint shootout and sprint race tomorrow...do you think you'll manage to not give me a headache?"

"No."

"Right, perfect." Y/n grumbles while Max grins and manages to steal a kiss making a mechanic whistle as she tries to nudge him away, with little success. "Thank you for that."

"You can be sarcastic but I know you aren't really upset." Max smirks while she rolls her eyes at him, but her flustered body language just gives away that she's feeling nervous about it.

"Let's go. We need to go over some of the data." Y/n mutters feeling Max link his hand to her own allowing her to lead them from the garage out to the unit.

-

"Max, amazing efforts in the sprint and now in the race. You win yet again. Do you have any celebrations with a certain race engineer that we do hope to see sometimes following this?"

"There will be celebrations with the whole team." Max confirms clearly not having any intentions to directly inform the world of his relationship.

"I see. Well, I think speak for everyone when I say congratulations and a very big well done to your race engineer for helping you through her second race weekend. It does sound like her patience may have been tested but you both did amazingly."

"Thank you." Max nods still not swaying before he's allow to leave.

When he gets back to the unit y/n is talking with some other engineers who see Max and seem to clear off pretty quickly.

"I've been told we need to celebrate properly." Max states coming up behind her and holding her waist as he speaks into her ear. "We should go celebrate."

"Another demand, not a question."

"You can say no." But you won't.

She can just hear the ending of the sentence that he utters out.

"Let's go." Y/n nods almost eager for them to get out of there and have a more private celebration of such a successful weekend and possibly the continuation of quite a nice start to a relationship.

Meanwhile Max is pretty eager to make sure y/n really finishes this weekend knowing how much he wants to keep her around.