BF!KIMI who is a golden retriever but calmer. he’s sweet, eager and completely obsessed with you, but in a quieter way than people expect. less loud chaos, more soft smiles and him constantly checking in.
BF!KIMI who has young love energy. everything feels exciting with him. late-night calls turn into falling asleep on facetime, random “thinking of you” texts, counting down until you see eachother again.
BF!KIMI who is very affectionate. he isn’t over dramatic about it, but he’s always touching you somehow. hand on your back, fingers laced together, forehead kisses, pulling you closer.
BF!KIMI looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. the kind of boyfriend that just stares at you when you’re talking because he genuinely loves hearing you speak.
BF!KIMI who is shy at first. at the beginning of the relationship, he’d be nervous. a lot of blushing, awkward flirting, overthinking texts before sending them. once comfortable though, he’s much more relaxed and playful.
BF!KIMI who is obsessed with hearing about your day. even if it was boring. he wants every detail, what you ate, why annoyed you, what made you laugh.
BF!KIMI who is quietly protective. he notices everything. if you’re uncomfortable, tired, cold, upset. he picks up on it before you say anything.
BF!KIMI who gets flustered by compliments. tell him he looks good and he’ll smile, look away and mutter something under his breath because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
BF!KIMI who loves simple dates. drives, ice cream runs, wandering cities, staying in and watching movies. he doesn’t need anything fancy.
BF!KIMI who is secretly competitive. he seems chill until you play a video game or board game together. then suddenly he needs to win.
BF!KIMI who always steals your hoodies. he always claims it because they smell like you.
BF!KIMI who posts you eventually. at first, he’s hesitant because of his fans, but once he’s sure, he always posts blurry candid photos of you.
BF!KIMI who gets jealous easily but hates it. he won’t make a scene, but he’ll go quieter and pull you closer.
BF!KIMI who remembers everything. your favourite snack, your coffee order, little dates you mention once, all put away in his head
BF!KIMI who goes soft after bad races. if he has a bad weekend, he wants comfort, just being near you helps him relax and reset.
BF!KIMI who is very ‘us against the world.’ he’d take the relationship seriously, even young. loyal, all in, and willing to grow with you.
♡ "come pick up your clothes, i have them folded." ♡
or: a one-night stands leaves you stumbling home from an unknown apartment with your heart in your throat. you swore you weren't that kind of person, but there was something about him. something... special. and only when he texts you the next day do you realize exactly who is it. fem!journalist!reader x max verstappen
warnings: SMUT. INSANE DARK SMUT. dominant!max, submissive!reader, FLASHBACK SMUT. awkward/darker tension because obviously!! thank you guys for staying w me while i activate and deactivate :( i love you all!!
♡
you don’t realize your shoes are on the wrong feet until you’re three blocks from the building. (it tracks. you’re not exactly making stellar choices this morning.)
the hoodie isn’t yours. it swallows your hands and smells like something expensive you don’t recognize—clean, sharp, a citrus bite you’ll remember later when you’re trying to fall asleep (like his teeth on your neck, you remember, you swear you remember).
you’ve done the walk of shame before, but not like this. not with your pulse trying to jump out of your throat. (he was in the shower when you left. you didn't want to see his face.)
you swore you weren’t this person. you didn't do one-night stands. you didn't get drunk off tequila that cost more than your salary. you didn't let the man across the bar pick up your tab. and you didn't go home with him.
your phone buzzes as you pass a florist setting buckets of tulips on the sidewalk. you don’t look.
(not at first.)
you let the vibration settle, spurring a fresh wave of nausea. buzz. buzz. buzz. three consecutive texts. fine.
come pick up your clothes. i have them folded.
you left in a hurry.
should've asked me to call you a car.
you stop dead in front of a window full of wedding cakes and ironically laugh—one short, ugly sound that fogs the glass. there's a couple inside, pointing at the sixteen-inch red velvet. you want to throw up.
the number isn’t saved, because why would it be? it's not like you were expecting him. there's no name next to the contact. no photo, either. your fingers shake as you type three letters and delete them. your reflection stares back at you from the window. (there's mascara smudged under your eyes, and a sneaky shot of electricity goes down your spine as you realize there's a purplish bruise right under your jaw.)
you switch to your camera roll. there’s a photo from last night you didn’t mean to take—your manicured hand on a marble countertop, his wristwatch in the corner, out of focus. black face, steel bracelet. you tap the time stamp like it’ll tell you something useful. 1:07 am. your brain does the slow crawl of connecting dots it should’ve connected twelve hours ago. the apartment building (too nice). the elevator (keyed access). the watch (oh god, his hand had been around your throat—). the magazine-catalog bedroom.
the citrus bite catches in your nose again.
you switch back to messages, holding your breath.
i'm really sorry i really wasn't expecting last night
could we just pretend it never happened?
you resist the urge to empty the contents of your stomach on the street when bubbles emerge.
do you remember who i am?
he doesn’t send a name. of course he doesn’t. he's going to make you ask. (he likes that. making you squirm.) you take the bait, responding within seconds.
who are you?
he doesn't respond to that. instead, he says:
you also left your earrings in the bowl by the door.
your free hand lifts, grazing the end of each earlobe. bare. you swallow. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. you could ignore him. you could block the number. you could go home, shower until your skin feels new, and pretend the last ten hours didn’t happen.
you open your email just to have something to do with your hands.
your editor's name greets you first. the subject line (ASSIGNMENT: Red Bull feature: season open) makes your head spin.
he included a list of due dates, bullet points, interview targets. a note at the bottom: we’ll try for on-the-record with MV if PR allows—play it straight, keep your distance, you know the drill.
you reread those two letters like they’re not a full person. like they’re not a face on every screen, a set of stats you could recite half-asleep. his fastest lap time, his season points, his grand prix wins.
your phone buzzes again.
did you make it home?
you swallow thickly.
i can't come back
i have work
you pause, because your hands won’t stop shaking. you lean your forehead against the cool glass. on the other side of it, a woman in a hairnet places sugar flowers along the edge of a tiered cake with steady hands. you want to break something. you want to sink into the ground. you want his fingers in your mouth and his tongue doing that thing against your neck—
his response is short.
what do you do?
you could lie. you don’t.
i'm a journalist
a beat passes.
for what exactly?
your heart slams so hard you feel it in your teeth.
sports
longer beat. then:
motorsport?
you picture last night. the quiet, assessing way he listened like he was cataloguing you, like he’d separate you into sectors and hunt blood in each one. the way you didn’t ask a single real question because you didn’t want to hear a real answer. then again, you weren't exactly focused on finding answers.
there had been one thing you wanted. (you'd gotten it.)
you don’t respond immediately. you open a new tab and type max verstappen watch into the engine like a lunatic. you don’t even have cell data turned on for safari because you’re trying not to blow your whole paycheck, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of the city sidewalk wondering if a watch worth your entire life had been pressed to your neck last night. the page buffers, then loads.
the logo in the pictures matches the blur in your photo. your heart snowballs into your stomach.
you type, delete, type again. then:
how did you know?
he's quick with his response.
you know how.
you let your head hit the glass very gently. okay. there it is. no denial left to hide in. you slept with max verstappen last night, and you liked it, and now his number is in your phone. your assignment's number is in your phone.
and he folded your clothes.
did you really fold my clothes?
you imagine him laughing.
of course i did.
you were in a hurry, evidently.
(a mercy. or an insult. you can’t tell which.)
you shake your head as if he can see you.
i can’t come back now
when?
you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a live wire. your editor’s email sits in your skull like a loaded gun. keep your distance. you lock your phone, then unlock it. lock. unlock.
your phone lights up again before you can decide.
come back tonight.
i'll be expecting you.
♡
you're late to your first meeting of the day. you don’t usually get nervous on calls, but when the red bull comms coordinator joins the zoom, your throat closes just as suddenly as your editor rushes to introduce you. you mute yourself, try to even out your breathing as the PR voice reigns bright and flat in your headphones. media windows, no personal questions, keep to racing topics, we’ll let you know about one-on-ones.
"and max's availability?" your editor asks, and you want to bury yourself under the track to keep from hearing that name ever again.
"ten minutes after FP2 if the run plan allows. no promises. and please submit your topics in advance."
you hear your voice like it belongs to someone else. "understood."
the black screen you're left with after you hang up highlights the bareness at your earlobes, the tiredness lingering in the subtle shift of your shoulders. you stare at your reflection in silence, wondering about the state of your earrings, in a bowl by some stranger's front door. (but he's not a stranger. stop saying that.)
you open the document you'd been working on: RB – SEASON OPENER – DRAFT 1. you always write the boring sentences first. car looks planted. long run pace. tire deg. your fingers find autopilot the way they always do. your brain keeps slipping—back to the countertop, the watch, the hand braced beside your hip when you said you should go and didn’t move.
the way he didn’t crowd you. the way you wanted him to. the way his hands lingered in your hair, the way he leaned in to smell the perfume you'd dotted on the column of your neck. the way your eyes had rolled back in your head when he'd moaned.
you last twenty-four minutes before you retrieve your phone.
can i come by at 7?
there is relief in your exhale when he responds.
i’ll have the door open.
you should say no. you should say, leave them with the doorman. you should say nothing at all. the best you can manage is:
thank you
i didn’t do it to be thanked.
you don't ask what he did it for.
♡
the paddock smells like rubber and sunscreen and coffee that’s been burned since dawn. it’s louder than you want it to be (and you’re too aware of your own hands. nothing fits right in them anymore).
you flash your pass, and you're in. (but not even ten seconds later, you feel him. not touch—just awareness. that small tilt in the air, the way everyone else orbits without meaning to. you feel sick. you're wet. you're wearing lace panties. you wish you didn't know why.)
you focus on your job. you ask a mechanics lead about updates. you record quotes. you smile, and wave, and ask your coworker about his new baby. your editor texts a thumbs-up when the comms girl waves you into a scrum. ten minutes or less, she says. you stand where you always stand: second row, third person from the left, recorder angled up. his cap blocks his eyes for the first few answers. neutral. efficient. he says the usual things in the usual tone.
then he looks at you.
not a double-take. not a scene. just a direct, unblinking look that pins you to the asphalt. you feel it in your spine. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t look away. he answers the next question like you’re not there and like you’re the only person there. (stop looking at me, says the angel on your right shoulder. keep looking at me, says the devil on your left.)
a gap opens. nobody jumps on it. you do.
"you said after testing the car feels 'predictable,'" you start, steady. “isn’t predictability exactly what kills adaptability in race trim?”
(your editor will love this. you love this. max, however, looks like he wants to shove his fingers down your throat.)
the cap tips a fraction. "depends who’s driving it." his voice is low. clear. you want to strangle him.
"that would be you," you respond.
"yes, it would be."
"so what do you think?"
the corner of his mouth twitches. "i think i make the car do what i want." the group laughs politely, eyes darting between the two of you. you don’t join them. you can’t look away. (were his eyes always this blue? was his hair always this gold?)
PR thanks everyone, calls it. six minutes, fifty-three seconds.
your phone buzzes before you’ve even stepped aside.
nice to see you again. in daylight.
♡
you tell yourself you’re only going for your clothes. nothing else.
you tell yourself that again in the elevator, watching the numbers climb—17, 18, 19, 20. your heart overpowers the chime of each floor: you still haven’t changed out of the paddock clothes, press badge clipped to your lanyard, hair stiff from sun and lazily-applied dry shampoo. the irony isn’t lost on you; this is your job, and you’re walking straight into its worst complication.
the hallway is quiet, carpet soft enough to swallow your shoes. his door is already cracked open, just like he said. (like he'd promised. you give yourself a moment to collect your shaking breath, finding that even your hands mirrored the shattering quiver of your diaphragm.)
he’s at the counter when you step inside, henley sleeves pushed to his elbows, glass of water sweating onto the marble. same watch. no cap this time.
"hi," you manage.
"you’re late." no smile. not unkind, either. just fact.
"traffic," you lie. (you're getting good at it, the lying.)
he nods once, tilts his chin toward the folded pile on the leather sectional: wine-red dress, lace tights, your bra laid in half on top, neat as origami. the sight is obscene in its politeness. you stiffen, deepening each breath that enters your lungs.
you cross the room, shove the bundle into your tote. (you're going to burn these clothes later.) "guess that’s it, then."
"guess so." he leans back against the counter. it would take you five steps to be right in front of him, to lean up and nip at the junction between his neck and jaw. to have your lips be exactly where you want them to be even though it's the worst idea you've ever had—
"you ask good questions."
(you wish he'd just let you leave, because every word that comes out of his mouth pushes you closer and closer to a bad decision.) "that's your professional feedback?"
"it’s my personal one."
you turn too quickly, pulse scraping your ribs. your shoes squeak as they drag across the floor. "well, i try not to mix the two."
his mouth twitches again, that terrible half-smile that never reaches his eyes. you want to bite it. "uou already did."
the air goes thinner, if that's even possible. he takes one step off the counter, then two. not threatening. deliberate. like everything he does. like how he drives, like how he kisses, like how he fucks. you should walk away. instead, you let him come close enough that you can count the flecks of green in his irises. (one, two, three—)
"i'm serious about my job," you say. it sounds smaller than you meant.
"i know that." you never realized just how soft his voice goes when he speaks to you. like he's coaxing a spooked animal. "i do."
"okay," you whisper, and you swear his eyes flutter. "that's good."
he’s so close the air tastes like his cologne, the same sharp citrus that’s been living in your lungs all day. he reaches out, and for a beautiful second, you think he’s going to touch you. he doesn’t. his fingers stop an inch from your shoulder, flexing like he’s arguing with himself. (don't do it, you tell yourself. don't lean in. don't, don't, don't.)
then his hand makes a detour, and presses to the bruise under your jaw.
you go catatonic. his thumb stays there, a light pressure against the skin he left marked. recollection comes into his face at the same time it does into yours, vivid images of the night before testing the space between you. you forget how to breathe for a whole second, and when you finally exhale, he watches the column of your neck expand with it.
"does it hurt?" (he's clinical with it, but you know better.)
you shake your head. "not really."
he hums, thumb moving once, slow, like he’s making sense of your answer. making sense of you. "you didn't cover it earlier."
you wince. "rough morning."
"yeah?" he clicks his tongue. "wonder why."
you bristle. "i can handle myself."
“i know.” his breath catches on your collarbone. "you did last night, too."
(his hands on your hips, rough and sure, steering you backward until your spine hit the wall. the shock of cold plaster, his dominant huff of laughter against your throat. his fingers sliding under the strap of your dress, under your bra, under your panties. the wet drag of his mouth down your jaw. the ache crawling up your throat as he pressed his fingers to it, muffling the wet sound of your mouth making room for him. he wasn't even halfway down and you were already choking on it, "poor girl—")
you blink hard and the image is gone. except it isn’t. he’s still there, watching your pupils flicker, watching your breaths shallow. his gaze drops—once, twice—to your mouth, remembering what it felt like. what it could still feel like, if he just... came closer. the thought hits you so hard you nearly sway.
"you should go," he says finally. it's almost kind. almost. his hand drops, and you resist the urge to whimper. he’s still close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes—wanting. waiting. how easy it must have been for him to have you back here. how easy it must have been to make you want him.
(you just can't help yourself.)
he steps back first. (of course he does.) the space he leaves behind is cold, buzzing with everything unsaid. "good luck with the article."
you freeze. "that’s the job," you suddenly feel the need to clarify. "it’s not personal."
he exhales through his nose, half-smile cutting deeper lines into his cheek. "everything with you feels personal."
you shake your head, insistent. "it doesn’t have to."
"no," he says, voice low. "but it already does."
♡
the club lights strobe hard enough to sear your retinas, all blue and green and acid pink, hundreds of bodies pressed too close, someone’s elbow digging into your ribs. you really shouldn’t have come out: you’re on your third drink and the second occurrence of your left shoe in some ancient, sticky patch on the floor.
but it was better than sitting at home staring at your empty document. you'd gotten three sentences in this morning before excusing yourself to take a forty-five minute, ice-cold shower. which, in your opinion, did nothing to quell the breathtaking urge you had to march right over to max's apartment and slap him in the face.
(and then kiss him. in that order.)
you make an excuse to your friend ("i gotta pee, gimme a second") and escape to the bathroom. the thick bass from outside punches through the walls, fluorescent bulbs flickering just in time to catch you ugly—cheeks splotchy, mouth bitten raw, mascara wet and smudged under your eyes. (no surprise after the week you've had.)
you drop your bag sideways onto the counter beside the sink, and everything inside spills: lipstick, phone, crumpled receipt, those damned silver hoops. you curse under your breath, dragging a hand down your face so hard you nearly scrape mascara onto your chin. you're tempted to burn it. you're tempted to scream. how the things you wish you could do haunted you.
the burning in your throat is a warning: do not text him, do not let him see you like this, sweating out the ghost of his hands.
you open his thread anyway. type:
are you awake
(delete)
where are you
(delete)
come get me
(delete)
god. have some pride. have some self-respect. of course you get dicked down once and can't function for the rest of eternity. of course he's out there fucking god knows who, god knows when—your inner monologue is rudely interrupted when the door swings open, then falls shut. you glare at yourself in the mirror, and there’s no max there. just you. just you, and this viscous want swirling in your irises like a taunt.
your phone throbs in your hand. you don’t think—you haven’t been all night—and before you know it you’re pressing the 'call' button beside his number, pressing the speaker to your ear so hard it aches.
it rings. and rings. and rings.
(you should hang up. you never should have called.)
but he picks up.
fifteen fucking seconds later, he picks up.
static breath, then: "hello?"
your whole body locks, frozen from the neck down. you almost hiccup, swallow a sound that might be a sob, might be laughter, might be his name. you have absolutely nothing to say. you have everything to say.
"hello?" he says again, voice sleep-rough. you imagine someone else's mouth on his, someone else laying next to him, and almost smash the phone on the cracked ceramic next to your shaking hand. you suck in a breath. now or never.
"i—" your voice catches. "i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—this is really—" a laugh crackles out of your throat, hoarse and broken. "this is really stupid."
he doesn’t laugh in return. (somehow, that’s worse.) "where are you?"
you swallow. "out," you say. "doesn’t matter."
another beat, longer this time. "did something happen?"
your exhale is pathetic. "no—not really. i just—" miss you. want you. need you so bad i can't sleep at night, and when i try, all i do is dream of you, so come back and make me see stars. come back and put me to sleep. come back and just be with me.
he says your name into the receiver, just once, and you nearly melt into the floor. "do you need me to come and get you?"
that certainly gets your attention. "what?"
his breath fuzzes through the line. you picture his fingers tight around his phone and remember what they felt like around your throat. your mind floods with shame, then defiance. "no, i’m—i’m not drunk." a lie, technically. "i’m fine."
there’s barely a pause. "then why are you calling me?"
silence follows. why were you calling him? (because he’s the only thing that’s felt real all week, because no one else even comes close, because you’d risk your pride and your job and every last shred of dignity just to be near him, to maybe—no, not maybe. you’d do anything. anything to have him.)
"i don’t know," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant. "i couldn’t—i couldn’t help it."
even through the phone you know he’s already smiling, that impossible almost-smile that drives you up the wall. you hear him shift with a low rustle, the sheets shuffling as he sits up.
"come over."
“now?” you ask, shocked by how quickly you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"yes, now." he doesn’t tease you for it. the line goes dead before you can respond—you're left standing with your phone slipping out of your sweaty hand, your body a traitorous mess alongside it. shame settles sweet at the base of your neck as you stumble out of the bathroom, shuffling toward the exit sign blaring warning-red. you want to blame the vodka, the week, your own lack of willpower, but there’s no point.
there's no one to blame but you.
♡
he's just... there.
you hover inside the doorway, half in and half out, silence stretching between you. max is across the room—back to you, pouring water at the counter like nothing in the world could hurry him. (because he's so damn unhurried, he could care less—)
"come in, at least."
your heart skips. you set a single toe further inside, nerves slicing through your center. your fingers fumble for the lock, the bolt thudding home too loud in the dark. (you wish he'd turn on on a light. you wish he'd look at you.) he doesn’t move. doesn't give any indication that he even knows you're inside his house save for the slight tightness of his fingers around his glass.
"put your bag on the couch." voice flat, a cool command—like you’re interviewing him, not about to fuck him.
you do as he says. the bag drops, leather sighing. your hands hover around your thighs, unsure what to do next. (he's trained you to wait for a command, you realize.)
"shoes too," he says, and his eyes flick up—one glance, blistering. "leave them by the door. you'll track dirt."
you kick them off, sucking in a sharp breath. the floor is cold, nerves raw along the arches of your feet. you tense then relax them, feeling for the cracks in the hardwood. you're barely two steps in when he holds up a hand.
"coat, too." (you could scream. you're not a houseguest, for god's sake—)
"what else do you want me to do?" you lament (to no avail) as you fuss with the buttons of your coat, slipping the fabric off to lay it beside your bag. "come closer? kneel? crawl, even?"
max stills, and for a single second, you regret having said anything at else. he sets the glass down, turns at last—full height, full attention. calm on the surface, of course. he always is. but you know better.
"do you want that?" he asks half-seriously. "kneeling? crawling?"
you huff, righteous all of a sudden. "of course not."
"you had no problem the other night."
you want to slap him. you want to kiss him. "that was different," you snap, arms crossed, chin up. "i was drunk, and you were—"
"what was i?" he cuts in, crossing the room in two slow, deliberate steps. "go on. say it."
he hums, slow and mean. "i think you do." he takes another step, crowding into your space—not touching you despite the fact that every cell in your body was nearly screaming for him to. you wondered if he could hear the goosebumps emerge on the exposed skin of your arms, the back of your neck, the base of your spine.
"maybe you'd rather leave," max continues, and he could be talking to air with how still you were standing, how slowly you forced yourself to breathe. "maybe you want to fight instead of fuck."
the word lands between you. (so he knows, too. he knows what you want, he knows what you need, and yet, he's making you work for it. a stronger woman would hate him for it.) you glare at him, hope he sees the tremble in your jaw and knows you blame him for it. "yeah. i came all this way to yell at you."
he snorts, mouth ticking. "as expected."
your fists ball at your sides. "you don't know me."
"no." his voice is soft, almost taunting. you could trick yourself into believing the look in his eyes was kindness, sympathy, but you knew exactly where that would lead. you'd traveled this road once—only god knew why you wanted to do it again. "but i want to."
"this is unprofessional," you say to avoid kissing him right then. "a hundred versions of wrong."
"true."
"i just needed my earrings back." you jut your chin, arch your back to stand taller than you are. (it's of no use.) "you didn't need to make it into a thing."
"you're right."
"and—" you inhale when a lock of hair falls across his forehead, train of thought lost. (he needs a haircut. you hope he never gets one. you hope he lets you pull it tonight.) "and you should sit down for a one-on-one with me next week, because my—"
he moves, quick, hand catching your jaw. not hard. not soft, either. his thumb at your cheek, the warmth of his palm sinking into your skin, laced with something mean. "do me a favor," he murmurs, too close. his breath ghosts your lips. "and shut up now."
"don't tell me what to do," you manage, but your voice is barely a whisper. taken. caged.
he leans in, nose brushing yours, and you swear you see stars. "take off your shirt."
(you want to argue. you want to win. you also want to let him fuck you halfway to hell. the choice is easy.)
you tilt forward, balance tipping as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, teeth scraping against his as you pull him towards you, and he grins against your mouth, because he lives for the anger in every slip of your tongue against his, every ugly snarl he muffles with his mouth. he's wearing his watch, the watch, and you shiver when the face meets the underside of your throat.
(he likes that. you know he does.)
one second his hand is on your jaw, the next his other hand is sliding around your waist, dragging you backward until the back of your legs hit the couch. you gasp at the sudden change in height, his palms resting flat on the curve of your hips, pushing you downward, forcing you to stare up at him.
(blue, are his eyes. blue as the ocean, blue as the sky—)
"shirt," he murmurs, almost condescending. "don’t make me say it again."
your fingers tremble, but the lace of your shirt meets the leather of his couch cushions in one pull. (you swear he's categorizing you, then—will you listen? will you fight him? will you make him work for what you both already know you'll give him if he asked?) you barely have time to breathe before he’s lowering himself between your knees, thumb pressed into the delicate 'v' of your trachea. not to cut off your circulation, no, he'd never do that, he likes hearing you talk. (more than he'd like to admit.) your eyes roll back—because you like this. because he remembers what you like.
"no more attitude?" he asks, laugh a broken breath at the back of his throat. "how sad."
"i wasn't giving you attitude," you snap. "you were being a—"
"—polite host." he finishes, mouth meeting your sternum first—open, hot, deliberate. (god, he's doing that thing with his tongue again, that swirling you swear you can feel everywhere.) he's slow enough to make you dizzy, fast enough to make you clench around nothing. (you're so empty, so lonely, so needy, and you're not ashamed, because he's going to fix it, he's going to fix everything—)
his free hand slides up your thigh, slow, almost lazy, until his fingertips find the edge of your skirt. he doesn’t lift it yet. he just toys with the hem, brushing the fabric over your hip. "shaking," he mutters under his breath, a light tsk underscoring your humiliation. "after all that talking."
"i wasn’t—"
"talking?" he arches a brow. "you're right. you were whining. different."
you glare at him, chest rising too fast (too much, too quickly, he's playing with you like a stupid puppet on a string, snap out of it, goddammit). "i wasn’t whining."
"you are now," he says, breath warm against your bare stomach. "poor thing." his knuckles just barely brush between your legs, skimming right over the damp spot he hasn’t even touched properly yet. your exhale leaves you in a rush, unexpected.
"hm," he muses. "all this for me?" you think he's finally going to touch you when your hips twitch upward toward his hand, but he only laughs once, a sharp, incredulous sound. he's delighted. "god, you’re easy."
you shove at his shoulder—more offended than you should be—but he catches your wrist mid-air, grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch halfway out of your mouth. "bad idea," he warns softly. "very, very bad."
your knees weaken. fast. “i’m not scared of you.”
"i know.” his eyes flick up, intoxicated. you gradually realize he's flushed cherry in the dim light, color lining his cheekbones. “that’s why this is fun.” (fun for him. fatal for you. if he gets any closer you’re going to do something really, really stupid—)
"open your legs."
"what?" you make a broken sound you definitely did not authorize (mortifying) as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, bunching the fabric in his palm like he owns it. like he owns you. (he doesn’t. he shouldn’t. too late.)
"you heard me." max's thumb drags up the inside of your wrist, slow enough to count the seconds, slow enough to make you want to sink right to your knees in front of him. "c'mon." he taps the inside of your thigh, like he's berating you. "you can do it."
(you are fighting him. you really are. you're trying, but the air is so thin, and you can barely inhale without drinking down the citrus scent of his skin.)
two seconds.
that’s all it takes for every reasonable thought to vanish. you obey before you process the command, shifting your hips to open around his like he’s wired straight into your spine.
he makes a low sound of pleasure, hooking a finger under the lace waistband of your panties, tugging it aside just enough to expose the soft, soaked center. then he stares. and stares. he stares so long you lift your head to peer down at the way his eyes darken under his mused hair, the way his entire body has gone pointedly... still.
"max?" you whisper, gripping the couch so hard your knuckles ache. "what are you...?"
he doesn't answer you. not at first. not for a solid, terrifying, dizzying five seconds where he just… stares. (stares like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to solve you, like he’s trying to bite you—)
his brows draw together, faint at first, then deeper, like want, then disbelief, then something darker, heavier, something you can’t name.
"max" you repeat, softer this time, chest tightening. you shift, suddenly self-conscious, thighs twitching inward, but his hands fly to your knees in an instant—firm, holding you open exactly how he had you. (you don't even realize how quickly he'd moved until your breath catches. motorsport reflexes, you manage to remember.)
"don’t," he says, and it's the first word he's said in nearly a minute. "just... stay like that."
"I know." his eyes flick up, wide and unbelievably blue, pupils blown enough to swallow half the color.
you flush deeper. "you’re—you’re staring like you haven't already—"
"don’t finish that sentence."
his gaze snaps back to your cunt, breath falling out of him on a sound you’ve only ever heard from him inside you. he bites down on nothing, jaw locking. (you want to give him the invitation to bite you, instead, but you know he needs no permission.)
"are you—" your throat bobs with your swallow. "are you gonna eat me out, or are you gonna just sit there and stare?"
silence.
electric silence.
max's eyes lift, just barely, and the look on his face is hunger carved into bone, offense lining the crevices of his mouth. (oh, you think faintly. oh, i've done it now, haven't i.)
"say that again," he whispers, voice wrecked quiet.
you regret every decision that brought you to this very point in your life, resisting the urge to bolt. "max—"
“no, no.” his fingers tighten around the insides of your knees, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. “go ahead and say it again."
your mouth goes dry. "are—are you going to—"
his jaw ticks. once. twice. it’s the only warning you get.
"—eat me out, or—"
the air punches out of your lungs when he grabs your hips, yanking you forward so sharply your spine curves off the couch. the friction of the leather squeaks under you, his watch smacking lightly against the inside of your thigh, cold burning a path over overheated skin. his mouth is an inch from where you need him, so close you swear you can feel the slick slip of his tongue running over his bottom row of teeth.
his voice is mean when it hits you. "you came into my house," he says, low. "then you picked a fight—" his palms slide higher, brushing the crease of your thighs, holding you open wider than before— "and now you want to rush me?"
your face burns. "that’s not—"
"yes, it is." the phrase is worse than mean: it's tender. affectionate. as if he expects a fight from you. as if he wants it, too. "poor girl, thinking she can tell me what to do." (you're not sure if he's even talking to you at this point.) "she should've just kept her mouth shut."
you're about to respond when his mouth finally seals over your clit.
just like that.
the sound you make isn’t human. you clamp a hand over your mouth on instinct—mortified, overwhelmed—but his fingers wrap around the breadth of your wrist with a warning squeeze. stay, you can swear he whispers into your cunt. stay, sit, that's a good girl—
he sucks your clit between his teeth—slow, deep, obscene enough that your spine arches violently off the couch, head snapping back against the armrest. he groans as you shove weakly at his shoulder, scrambling for hot, immovable muscle before your hand flies to his hair, tugging at the strands at the base of his neck.
(he moans. the bastard.)
he pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet, his breath hot against your cunt. "you have a smart mouth," he says quietly, almost conversational. "but this—" his thumb drags through your slick, circling your clit with humiliating precision. "this is what shuts you up."
your throat goes tight around a sound you don’t release in time. "don’t stop," you gasp, and he laughs, a low, dark, fuck-you of a sound that you feel between your legs.
he slides one hand up your stomach—slow, deliberate—until his palm rests flat between your ribs, holding you down with humiliating ease. he clicks his tongue when you whimper, slapping the flesh of your inner thigh with an acute flick of his wrist. (like you're misbehaving.) you yelp, residual embarrassment singing sweetly down your spine.
"i—" (oh, desperation makes you easy.) "i think i'm—"
"no." he licks you once—slow, long, dragging the tip of his tongue along your slit so carefully you feel every microsecond of contact—then pulls back again.
"but—"
"no." his thumb taps your clit twice—scolding, precise.
your breath breaks, vision whiting out. “max, please—” his tongue slides inside you mid-sentence, sudden enough that your mind goes blank—a bright, electric short-circuit behind your eyes. "oh—!"
"god." his tongue freezes mid-kiss to your slit, lifting to huff a breath against your thigh. "you really don’t listen."
"i'm gonna come—" your hips jerk (habitual, at this point), and he immediately places a palm flat on your lower stomach, pressing you down into the couch like he’s pinning a trembling animal.
he opens his mouth, and for one, devastating second, you think he's going to appease you.
he doesn't.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your slick across his knuckles. then he stands. "get up."
your pulse stutters. "…what?"
"up." he gestures once with two fingers—sharp, impatient. "now."
you want to listen to him. you do. but your legs don't work. you pitch forward as you push yourself upright—vision spotting—and max's hand snaps around your upper arm, turning your body with zero effort, guiding your back straight into his chest. (oh, right. motorsport reflexes.)
"careful," he murmurs behind your ear, infuriatingly calm. "don't fall."
your palms slam flat into the wall as he settles a knee between your thighs. your cunt throbs (painful, perfect) against the cotton of his pajamas as he positions his naval to your spine, and you almost choke on your own saliva. his and snaps to your stomach when you twitch, and you swear you can feel his smile.
"relax," he mutters into the curve of your neck. (it’s not a suggestion. it’s a reprimand.)
your breath catches when he presses closer—chest to your back, the weight of him undeniable, the heat of him dangerous. he fits himself along your spine like he’d planned this exact angle, this exact contact. this exact moment, a million times.
"max—"
"that's my name." he nudges your cheek forward with his jaw, guiding your face back toward the wall. his other hand slides lower over your stomach, then your navel, then the waistband of your panties still stretched awkwardly around your thighs.
"these," he says, fingers slipping lazily beneath the band, "are useless."
he drags them down to your knees with one smooth pull.
your pulse skids into overdrive, fingers clawing at his forearm in response, nails catching in the soft fabric of his sleeve. he tsks, gathering your wrists to press them against the plaster of the wall once more. "stay here."
you nod too fast, too eager. pathetic.
max scoffs, pressing a soft, too-tender kiss to the base of your neck. his hands toy with the elastic waistband of his pants, and you nearly shiver hearing the fabric hit the floor. "say, 'yes, max.'"
a shot of something electric goes down your spine. "yes, max."
"say, 'yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall.'"
you swallow. "y-yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall."
there’s another rustle of fabric behind you, soft and efficient, and even without looking you know he’s stripping with that same maddening calm he applies to everything else. no hurry. no nerves. just decisions. he makes them; you live with them.
you feel him before you see anything—heat at the small of your back, the bare drag of his chest against your shoulders, the solid line of his thighs bracketing yours.
"stand up straight," he says.
you force your spine to lengthen, shoulder blades pulling tight, fingers stretching against the wall. (tight, tight, like a live wire, like a puppet. you squeeze your eyes shut.)
"wider." a tap of his knee between yours, guiding, not gentle. "don’t make me do it for you."
you shuffle your feet, muscles trembling with the effort. the position is obscene: you're presenting for him, and he's making you, and you don't have a single bone in your body that has the right mind to turn him down.
"there we go." you hear the smile in his voice more than you see it. “look at you.”
your cheeks burn. "don’t—"
"don’t what?" he crowds closer, his hand flattening at the base of your spine, nudging your hips the tiniest bit back until you’re perfectly aligned with him. (oh, god, he's molding you.) "don’t look at you? don’t touch you?"
your breath stutters. "you’re being—"
"honest," he decides for you. "for once."
his palm slides up your back, vertebra by vertebra, until his hand presses your shoulder blades, holding you there. pinned. placed. exactly where he wants you. your breath leaves you in an exhale as your upper chest meets the wall, hips angled toward him. he rests his cock against the curve of your ass as you tilt back, and your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. (oh. my god.)
"you want to come?" he asks softly, almost dangerously. his hand slides down your stomach, over the faint tremble in your navel, lower, lower, lower—
"i—yes. yes," you whisper. he hums against your shoulder in response, a sound you feel more than hear. a sound you know means good. a sound you know means finally.
"you want me to help you?"
his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back a fraction more until the head of his cock slips between your thighs—bare skin to bare skin—cruel and dizzingly hot. his mouth brushes your ear, a lethal intimacy you only let yourself enjoy for the moment. (you're addicted to him now. you can't help it.)
"yes," you breathe just as the heat of his knuckles brushes over the rounded curve of your cunt. "yes, please, help me—"
you're barely done with the phrase before he's tilting your hips upward, angling your shoulder blades towards the wall, and sinking all the way inside in one, devastating thrust.
the sound that rips out of you is high, strangled, punched from your lungs by the force of him. your hands slap harder against the wall, fingers splaying, searching for something to grip that isn’t there. max groans, like the breath has been knocked out of him, too.
"fuck," he mutters into your nape, voice wrecked and angry about it. "you’re—" he stops, inhales once, hard. "—tighter than I remember."
"no—i can't—" you gasp, the stretch burning you open from the inside, filling you so acutely you could barely feel anything but the space where his body met yours.
he chuckles shakily—cruel and approving. "you can. you have." his fingers dig deeper into the crescent-moons of your hip bones, anchoring you in place as he pulls out, the entire length of him dragging against every raw, trembling inch of you. you nearly choke, palms curling into fists.
you whine lowly (embarrassing. humiliating. involuntary), and max's breath stutters. your cunt tightens around nothing, fluttering like it’s trying to pull him back in. "oh," he murmurs, fascinated. "she’s trying to kiss me."
then he thrusts again.
hard.
your forehead hits the wall, a broken moan scrambling for purchase in the column of your throat. "max—!"
“too much already?” he asks, already pulling back for another. "that's a shame." you don't answer—you can't—and your voice breaks clean in half when his hips slam forward again, the slap of skin reverberating through your spine. his hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening you against the wall with his entire body weight behind it.
"keep your hands up," he murmurs, and it's then that you realize you're gripping his forearm for dear life. "or i stop."
that’s all it takes. your arms shoot up, looking above your head. (useless, obedient.) he rewards you with a slow, devastating grind—his cock dragging deep, kissing the spot inside of you that makes your vision spark white at the edges.
he hums in approval, fingers sliding lower until he finds the swollen bud of your clit, and you jolt violently when he circles it once, practically vibrating in his hold.
"oh?" he breaths. "sensitive."
"max," you gasp. (you can barely talk, he's got you so dumb, you wished he fucked you like this every night, you'd never have to think again.) "i—i’m close, i can’t—"
your walls flutter around him helplessly as he thrusts deeper, deeper than he's ever been. "i know," he punches out, hair tickling the base of your neck as his head bows forward. "can feel you." he presses a hand into your lower stomach for emphasis, feeling for himself underneath your skin.
your vision flickers white, tears gathering in your lashes. your whole body trembles as his rhythm turns punishing—perfect, relentless, cruelly timed to the way your walls seize around him with every drag of his cock. "max—" your voice cracks. "i’m—i’m gonna—"
"ask."
your breath fractures like glass. "what?"
"ask. me." the command slices clean. he leans in—mouth to your ear, panting against your skin. "ask me to let you come."
(you hate him. you love him. you want to cry. you want to come so bad it hurts. you'd do anything, everything.)
"please," you manage, barely a sound. "max, please, i—i need—"
"wrong." his hand slides up your front, palm closing gently—obscenely—around your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re breathing open-mouthed against the wall. "that’s not what i asked."
your pride dies right there on his floor. "max," you gasp, high and breaking and involuntary, "let me come. please. please, let me—"
max pulls out an inch before sinking deeper in response, shifting to spread your legs further. your cunt clenches then releases as you force yourself to breathe through the intrusion. (don't come, don't come, don't come, maybe the punishment is worth it, oh, god, i'm going to come—)
max looks down at the slick swallowing his shaft, breathing out a low, astonished laugh. “look at her." his hips snap forward once, brutal. "she heard you.”
you barely open your mouth before you're shaking, orgasm hitting so violently your knees buckle, vision blacking out at the edges, palms smearing down the wall, useless. a high whine leaves you as you tilt your head back, just in time to catch max's mouth in yours. your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to pull him inside your lungs, heart beating a war-drum in your chest.
“fuck—” max gasps behind you as he thrusts once, twice, then folds over you completely, breath crushed into your shoulder. warmth spreads inside your cunt, and you shiver at the familiar sensation. (inside, you'd begged him last time. come inside, always come inside.) you're still twitching when he drags his hand from your stomach to your mouth and forces two slick fingers past your lips, pulling at your inner cheek.
you're not sure if you imagined it. but you could swear he whispers 'god, i love you' into the crook of your ear as your cheeks hollow.
♡
A Weekend with Max Verstappen: Red Bull's Season Opener is One to Watch. By: [Your Name]
There’s a particular stillness around Max Verstappen that you don’t notice until you’ve spent enough time in the paddock.
When I spoke to him after Friday practice, he called the RB21 “predictable.” The word is deceptively boring. He used it casually, as if describing a weather forecast, not the machine he relies on at more than 200 miles per hour. But watching him drive, you understand that predictability, for Verstappen, is not about ease. It is about obedience.
The car doesn’t just respond to him; it anticipates him. Most drivers adapt to instability. They learn to feel the tremors in the floor, the twitch in the steering column, the subtle warning signs that a corner might bite. Verstappen reads those signs, too, but with something closer to disdain than fear. It is not aggression. Aggression is sloppy. What Verstappen does is assured. He takes the track in pieces—sector by sector, curve by curve—until the circuit becomes something he understands viscerally.
You get the sense he does this with everything in his orbit.
Even in interviews, his restraint is not caution—it’s confidence. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t elaborate unless he chooses to. He gives nothing he doesn’t intend to, and somehow, it feels like enough.
That control—measured, unhurried, unapologetic—is what sets Verstappen apart. Not just as an athlete, but as a presence. You walk away from him with the distinct impression that he knew exactly what you were going to ask before you opened your mouth. That he’d already decided which parts of himself you were allowed to see.
And perhaps that’s the most telling thing about him: the certainty. The quiet, unnerving certainty of someone who has mastered not just speed, but himself.
♡
note: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR READING!! seriously i love you all SO MUCH thank you for staying w me!!!!!!! BUT i’m back, i’m unwell, and i’m writing again!! mwah mwah mwah kisses from gracie i love you always!!!
trying to read a f1 fic all of a sudden BOOM white faceclaim BOOM you’re sabrina carptenter five times in a row now i’m gracie abrams now i’m tate mcrae BOOM white woman central
summary: silly texts you get from your husband/boyfriend.
warnings: lots of swearing, lots of nicknames, sexual innuendos, that's it (i think?) OH CHARLIE KIRK BTW (as a meme reference)
an: so uhm....i literally have my finals going on rn. but like, idek why i feel the deep urge to feed u all during my exams, genuinely this may be causing my downfall. anyways, hope you like it!
about the reading: you might think your innocent and shy roommate wouldn't be up for any trouble or nasty secrets. oh well, how wrong you were.
cards contained in this reading: of creator!oscar x fem!student!reader, 5,2k words, shy oscar, nerd oscar, mentions of a car crash, smut, oscar jerking off in front of a camera and being cocky about it, fingering, unprotected p in v, cum play, also i have no idea how the website works so lets just pretend i do and what appears about it in the fanfic is right
a/n: you thought i was finished? ha! i was in fact not. and i looooved the feedback for the lando of fic so you got one for oscar now too😏 this was heavily inspired by that ai pic of oscar where he looks like he took photos with an old webcam. fuck it uuuup babes! xo💋 part 2
“good morning“ you smile at a rather sleepy oscar who is munching on his cereals, sitting by the small kitchen counter on a stool. “you look like you have been naughty last night,“ you tease, grabbing the oat milk from the fridge to make yourself a coffee. coffee and toast. the only things keeping you alive through these uni nights.
it’s been a little harder to keep up with everything recently. your mini job has also been asking the most of you. working at a restaurant and trying to make ends meet while studying was killing you and you didn’t know how oscar could be so chill about everything. it was not enough that work and uni stressed you out, but you had also troubles sleeping because of that.
oscar blushes, and its so cute when he does. especially since naughty is definitely not on his list. oscar is the simplest (not to say boring that would be too mean), calmest and chillest sweetheart you know. you go to university together and since you guys befriended a little better, you also spent your free time together. cooking or ordering dinner together, going to the gym, going on small walks or study dates.
it took some time for him to warm up to you though. you met him through a facebook post when you put the roommate application out there and hoped someone, preferably not a freak again, would share an apartment near the campus with you.
oscar was ticking all your boxes for a potential roommate the moment you saw him and you figured you wouldn’t have much trouble with him. no random one night stands, no loud parties and no waking up to a hungover asshole lying messily by the toilet. no, it wouldn’t be the first time.
“nah… just stayed up late playing fifa….“ he answers nonchalantly with a shrug, shifting his focus back to his cereal bowl that looked so much better and more interesting than anything else in this room right now. an excuse to not stare at your half naked ass in those soft grey shorts.
you snort a laugh, waiting patiently for your coffee to brew, then pouring yourself a cup full. “does that require moaning too?“ you ask, moving to sit up on the island beside his arms. a loud cough is torring through his throat and you have to laugh again. it’s so sweet when he gets all awkward and shy. but you are really teasing him. he is a quiet and kind roommate. so if it takes to it that he is sometimes moaning then whatever. he is just a human after all. well... little did you know.
“you don’t have to actually answer. i’m just messing with you,“ you reassure oscar, when he looks up at you with those brown doe eyes that make you believe he takes everything serious that comes out of your mouth.
the kitchen is bathed in a brief silence until you see a letter on the counter. you put your cup down beside you, and grab the white envelope. “what’s this?“ you ask, opening it slowly. but you know you won’t like it already.
“it’s for you. it came in the mail today,“ oscar replies, shoving another spoonful of cereals in his mouth.
the australian uses the meantimes to look you up and down, studying your every move. from the color of your eyes that are illuminated by the morning sun, to the soft fall of your hair. there is a quiet yearning nestled in the bottom of his heart whener he looks at you or spends time with you.
it’s the matter of these moments when he realizes you are actually so much more than a roommate for him. he would never admit it, but he has a thing for you. and it's growing without asking for permission. and no one could blame him. how couldn’t he, when your laugh lights up his everyday and when all he is looking forward to is coming home to you and share the newest campus gossip again. he never did that kind of stuff before. but since you always like to stay up to date, you yapped and he yapped back.
your stomach clenches when you see the contents of the letter, tossing it aside with a huff. “what?“ oscar asks, concern lacing his voice. he doesn’t just want to pick up the letter and read it himself. that would be to forward. but he is burning to know what’s gotten you so upset suddenly.
“my car…“ you sigh. “i still haven’t paid that bill since the crash…“
this summer you found yourself, after a rather stressful fight with you now ex boyfriend, driving home from his place late at night. it took one inattentive moment and an irritated mood, to crash your car so bad, the whole front had to be changed out and get redone. nothing happened to you and the other unlucky person, but the damage was definitely waging down on your mind and your wallet.
“how much?“ oscar asks, not missing the way you try to avoid eye contact. It’s no news that uni students are broke. but it breaks his heart more to see you this upset.
“5k... why can’t i just be a millionaire…“ you grin despite the pain, taking another sip of your coffee. “just never worry about money again. spend how much i want, no more sleepless nights.“
“i can lend you,“ oscars says without hesitation. you turn your head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. it’s too much. and besides, he is sitting in the same boat as you. how could he possibly lend you so much money out of nowhere? “what? like 5k? just like that?“ you question, disbelief clear in your voice.
he shrugs again, like he just didn’t offer to take a big weight off of your shoulder, and stands up to put the empty bowl in the sink. “yeah... i’ve been kinda saving up. you pay me back when you can, no interest.“
you can’t help but stare at his back in disbelief. you can’t remember the last time someone did something so generous for you. and you feel bad. it’s his saved money. he needs it too after all. and god knows when he will have that kind of amount again. oscar turns to face you when he doesn’t get an answer and finds your wide eyed expression. it makes him smirk a little in amusement “what?“
you shake your head “osco... that’s… obviously very nice of you but… that’s a lot. i can’t possibly take it,“ you clarify. it's like he doesn’t even care. a chuckle leaving his lips, “what’s a lot between friends? besides, you’d do the same for me if our situations were reversed. look, i don’t take no for answer.“
a smile spreads on your face now too and you don’t want to argue with him. he insists, and it feels nice. so why not? you’re sure you can repay him the moment you get the chance to. “you are really saving my ass, oscar. thank you so much. i promise you i’m gonna get back to you!“
you can’t keep yourself from standing up and giving him a hug. it’s how you feel after all, lightened from a big headache. at least one. oscar stiffens for a moment, feeling awkward and nervous at the sudden display of affection. is he… supposed to just hug you back? and what does that make you two? you surely wouldn’t have hugged him if he’s just a friend? or maybe you’re just really really grateful he helped you out? maybe the hug meant more to y-
“i’ll go and get ready for uni, yeah? we can leave in thirty minutes,“ you announce, ripping him out of his overthinking and making him realize he hugged you back so lightly, you sure as hell now assume he really is awkward. you smile at him before brushing past him, leaving for the bathroom, and him speechless.
oscar exhales and looks up at the ceiling. fuck it. he feels his dick stir pathetically in his sweats from a hug only. but it’s a hug from you. however, he decides to take the time while you get ready to film himself jacking off. at least he knows you always get ready with headphones in. makes it easier for him to release the sudden boner you granted. at least his fans get something from that too.
…
“you want to watch another episode?“ oscar asks, grabbing the empty boxes from the chinese take out, and making the most of it to tidy up the remnants of your dinner. you look up from your phone, already half asleep, barely having processed anything from the recent episode of game of thrones.
sleep is pulling you after such a stressful week and you were glad that this sunday was so peaceful and cozy at home. however, you would have another grueling morning and week before you, and even if it wasn’t that late, you knew you’d be dead tomorrow.
“i really love watching this with you… but i’m dead.“
oscar smiles at your answer, understanding and not being sad about it at all. he just posted on twitter that he was getting ready soon for his usual sunday evening life stream. so no worries from his side.
and as soon as he was sure you were in your room for long enough for you to be asleep, he sets the camera up along with his laptop. oscar liked to settle for this small apartment, messy boy aesthetic. it wasn’t really a far stretch from the reality he lived in after all. it was a small apartment. and he was messy.
the golden light from the desk lamp illuminated his frame, just as much as the red/pink led lights behind him that accentuated the mood. soft rap music was audible in the background, just setting the sound right for this to feel casual yet dirty.
hotnerdonline is live. join! 281 people online.
a small smirk spreads on his face once the livestream is set up and running. comments flood his screen just as much as subs and donations. the comments get him going already, not that he really needed it. a porn beforehand was all he needed to get himself hard immediately, and he tried to not feel guilty imagining the girl who was moaning to be someone entirely else…
“hey, my sweets…“ it’s exaggerated, oscar knows. he also knows that it’s mostly show, but he likes how it feels. he likes that confident, cocky side that comes out of him whenever he is online. whenever he creates content or goes live, is the only moment he can truly say he feels confident. and as long as no one he knows, knows about this and it pays his bills, he really couldn’t care less.
he stands up from his spot on his desk, enough to show off the bulge in his tight black boxers, straining to be let free and have it’s own moment on camera. fuck... he was so hard, and it didn’t help that every move made him gasp softly.
he grabs onto the bulge, cock hard and leaking slightly from the tip through the fabric. his large palm cupping it, playing with it just enough to tease and get his audience riled up. “i bet you’re just aching as much as i am to know whats underneath tonight….“
﹍
justahornygirl67: you look like my future bf💋💦
jeremyishard: i wanna pound that ass so hard <3
gamergirlxo_: fuuuck… look at him be all confident🥵
softcrush_69: can i get a wet hi, baby?🩷
nerdybunny19: you and me, gamer date? cockwarming included ofc🥺
⤿
﹍
oh yeah, he was boosting his confident with this. and it did help that these people didn’t know him in real life. here, they loved him for his shameless horniness and the need to share it. here, he could be himself without getting judged. everyone would match his freak. he fixes his black t-shirt on the shoulders before answering a few comments.
“hi, softcrush_69“ he greets with a smile, sitting down again. “are you guys gonna be nice to me tonight? i’m really fucking horny and crave release,“ he chuckles softly, trying to lighten the hard tension in his dick with a squeeze.
﹍
wizardwithahardwand101: collab when?🥹🫶🏻
softcrush_69: nice? where’s the fun in that?😈 last time edging was so cute💜
johnnysbeast: you deserve a nice sloppy one, nerdy… i wish i could give it to you. looks so yummy😫
angelnotadevil: yes, baby. be nice to yourself tonight
⤿
﹍
oscars deep chuckle fills the room once more, his dimples showing in the soft lamp light. “alright, alright… i jerk off for you under one condition, though! i wanna reach 500 viewers tonight. come on guys! we can do this! tell your friends and your friends friends that this is the best dick online.“
oscar spends the next hour chatting with the viewers about dirty and simple things. the audience has grown over the months he had started this account. what started as a stupid idea turned out to be real enjoyable and good money making. oscar had old silent followers, new excited followers and the usuals that would always hang out, comment on his twitter as well or send him generous donations. he liked them the most. it felt like a horny friendship.
the attention peaking to the whole of 500 viewers which had to be the most of viewers on a sunday night live session. so oscar keeps his promise. with a cockring vibrating right at the base of his hardness standing all proud and at attention, he angled the camera perfectly and jerked off beautifully in the moody lights.
tshirt pulled up to show off the faint lines of his abs getting covered in his cum the moment the whines and moans have become too much. the vibration at the lowest setting but he was already so worked up, even with trying to put on a show and make it last long, he came with almost no effort.
fingers playing with the cum, he smears it a little over the pale skin, the perfect white smirk decorating the frame enough for it to look hot yet lazy. “shit... who will help me clean this up?“
﹍
johnnysbeast: i volunteer🫡
gamergirlxo_: i’ll help you… you just go back to gaming, sweet😋
ginaisonfire95: fuuuckk… looks delicious, baby😔💋
⤿
﹍
oscar cleans up, saying his goodnight and giving out kisses and mentions to the people who supported and commented the most. it’s nice to see that after the livestream he got more than the rent covered for the next two months. and fuck did he feel good. posting one last lazy bed picture as a sleep well post on twitter, he went to bed. but not without wondering what you would say if you ever found out.
it’s a recurring thought he couldn’t stop. and his eyes opened again, starring at the ceiling in close to worry. what if you thought he was disgusting? he did this right here, a hallway the simple distance between you two. what if this ruined any chance he had of ever coming close to you?
so with the same worrying thoughts he fell asleep at tow in the morning, knowing his alarm clock would go off in four hours, hauling him back into the shy, sweet and normal uni life. a double life, if you will.
…
oscar has been restless for the past days and you noticed. he seemed deep in thought and you couldn’t possibly figure out why. even when he spent time with you, he seemed distant and always pondering.
because the other half of his life that happened online, was running his brain into a worn out state. one of the popular onlyfans creators, princesstara777, had called every other single creator to a challenge and show the audience they can indeed pull a girl (or a boy, it depended). fuck them, and come on their ass. that was the challenge. and while it sounded maybe easy for others, oscar found troubles in the first half of it. and that was to actually find a partner to do this with.
he was a disaster in real life, let alone in dating . how was he supposed to ask a girl to create content with him? not only that, but fuck her and come on her ass? loads of his followers and mutuals have already tagged him in the challenge and he would look a coward if he didn't participate.
of course oscar posted already proudly about it. of course he would participate. oscar as in hotnerdonline. not oscar in real life, who goes to uni and plays fifa when he's bored but doesn't talk to a soul, oscar. he needed a plan. as soon as possible.
so here he was, starring at you from the sofa as you sat opposite of him on the floor. legs crossed, hair in a messy bun and writing in your text book. focused so beautifully while biting you lip.
it was a horrible idea. horrible idea really. but did he have any other chances? not really. but fuck it, he liked you. loved you. and so the tangle of his thoughts came back around so fast. in that stressful state he forgot to warn his mouth too, that they were not to speak.
“when you said you want to return the favor, what did you mean by that?“ so fucking stupid.
you look up from the textbook, raising an eyebrow in confusion “sorry?“ oscar shakes his head quickly, drawing a hand over his face “nothing… nothing… please forget about it.“
but you heard him already. you just wanted to make sure he repeated it. and this time with intention. “yeah... i mean… whatever you need. it’s yours… just tell me,“ you shrug, going back to your task.
god, he felt horrible. you looked so innocent and sweet just telling him to take whatever he wanted. only if it would be that easy. it sounded easy coming from you. but that really was the least it felt.
"actually... there is something. but... it's weird... i mean... it's okay if you don't want to do it... we will surely find... another way you know..." he stuttered, feeling pathetic and stupid. you just chuckle, not bothering to look up. he is just having his usual shy moments, thats it. "just tell me what it is, oscar."
oscar feels his heart pound against its ribcage when he hears your nonchalant response. god, you're blissfully unaware what he is about to reveal and it feels just wrong. suddenly it feels wrong to do it, wrong to admit it, everything feels wrong. now or never. what is the worst that could happen? his crush finding him disgusting and horrible. that could happen.
"i have an onlyfans account where i post stuff and... this is how i make my money and... fuck... it might be weird but... i... i like it, okay? so please don't judge me... however... there is this challenge and i was tagged... i can't say no and i don't want to say no to it... but my big mouth already agreed to it anyways so..."
you freeze. pen halting in hand as you stare at your text book. oscar is a.... what now? the shy, sweet, calm oscar has... an onlyfans? you slowly look up at him when he is finished rambling. his cheeks tinted a pink and he hasn't looked at you once since finished talking.
"it's not what you think... i mean... yes, it's kinda dirty and... filthy but..." he swallows, still avoiding eye contact and it makes you smirk amused briefly. but you push the reaction down. you choose to listen.
"i... the challenge is, i have to fuck someone... doggy preferably and... and like... come on their ass..." oscar explains, palms growing clammy as he runs a hand through his hair.
"when?" you ask, setting the pen aside, and leaning your chin on your palm. it's sweet how he doesn't seem to realise your answer. he keeps rambling. "it sounds dirty... i know... lord knows it fucking is... but like..."
"when?" you repeat. but he still won't look at you. "you really don't have to... but... you said whatever i need and i just... figured i could at least ask."
cute, shy idiot. nonetheless, a little bit of an idiot. you chuckle, finding it more than endearing that he is having a hard time to realise you long said yes, technically. standing up from your spot is when he halts in his words, looking up at you with big eyes when you step between his legs.
"i am asking when, oscar," you say again, finally having his attention. you reach out, offering him both of your hands. he stares at them, then hesitantly takes them. "I'm not asking questions if you don't want me to. and i won't judge. but if thats how i can help you, i'm in"
your voice drops and he feels his heart starting to race. you say yes? just like that? no suspicions, no judgement, no weird looks. and it was weirdly... calming? but why?
"r... right now would... would be great," he stands up, towering over you, looking down with so much blush and devotion. the softness in his eyes holds a determination. a kind you have never seen. and suddenly you're curious. how he fucks, how he manages his onlyfans, how he came to this idea after all. it turns you on. imagining him sitting before his camera, alone, jerking off and being all sweet. or dominant. or maybe even playful. the thought is making you hot all over, bringing a burn right down between your legs.
"let's go then," you say sweetly, leading him away from the living room to his bedroom. sitting down on his bed you watch him look around the room awkwardly for a moment. you sat in his room before, sure. but not like this. not in the lights he is preparing. not in front of the camera he just put on his tripod. not about to fuck.
"i mean... it's really okay if you back out last minute..." oscar makes sure, raising his hands. but his eyes widen when you pull off your top sitting there in white lace bra and looking like an angel. good god he is gonna cum in seconds. bad idea. very bad idea.
"i have to ask though," you say, looking at the camera then at him. leaning back on your hands you watch him for a long moment as he waits for you patiently to ask. "why didn't you tell me you where doing... this?"
oscar clear his throat, trying to not stare at those perfect fucking tits winking at him. "because... it's embarrassing as hell..." he confessed, sitting down beside you, looking at the floor. "i mean look at me... i'm not made for this. i feel like i'm a loser sometimes..."
"a loser with an onlyfans" you grin, cupping his cheek and tilting his face to you. oscar meets your eyes and almost melts at the gentle touch. "is this really okay? why did you agree to this?" he's searching your eyes trying to make out answers to his questions.
"you needed a favor," you remind simply. "i told you to do whatever. you’re a friend who needs help.... and i trust you." a shrug, a soft chuckle. and it earns you a smile. "besides, i don't think the chemistry between us can be ignored longer... so one way to make up for lost time."
the wink you gave him has spit dying in his throat and his eyes widen briefly. you're right. no need to deny it. no need to hold back. oscar leans in with this confession, laying his lips on yours for a needy kiss.
it's saying more than words ever could, more than emotions could ever paint. and you know you were right when you felt it the first time. that butterfly feeling in your stomach. his eyes lingering, leaving a hot trail on your skin that turns you now on, you get impatient.
"come on," you murmur. "let's film this." oscar chuckles softly, standing up and pulling his t-shirt over his head. you discard your sweats as well, leaving you in matching white panties. you get into position, ass in the camera. but not before checking out the faint muscle lines. pale biceps and veiny forearms. god... he looks so good naked. and he wasn't even fully naked yet.
"i'm gonna be weird once the video starts..." he warns. "i... i act different on this account. also... you don't have to show your face if you don't want to. this angle works fine."
you smirk, "just do it, oscar. i'm yours." i'm yours. does he really need more than that? than this full consent to do whatever? from you? this deal only gets sweeter. oscar undoes his pants, leaving him in black boxers, hard cock straining against the fabric. fuck foreplay. but he wants to make this comfortable for you.
the camera makes a small sound, signaling that the video is officially running, and that he has fully control over the situation. you feel a slap on your ass, his hands grabbing onto your cheeks and it makes you gasp. "alright, baby. get that cute ass up in the air for me."
fuck... is this the way he is going to talk? you would stand no chance once he is finished with you. your skin glowing from the hotness of the moment. you feel oscar lean over you, brushing hair from your shoulder and kissing the spot. "relax, you look so pretty" he murmurs. and it's your undoing.
grabbing onto your waist he pulls you back, slapping your ass once more before sliding the flimsy fabric down your smooth skin. "damn, look at that cute little pussy... all wet and pretty..."
oscar looks at the camera, two of his fingers running gently up and down your soaked fold making you exhale in that horny way. it's so reverent, you wiggle your hips a little, giving the camera your best. and oscar smirks "get her nice and wet before i fuck this pretty pussy, hm?"
he teases your hole, playing with it and your lower lips. your soft sounds rile him up even more, although he was meant to tease you with his touch. the pads of his fingers draw slow circles with just the right amount of pressure on your clit before pushing them inside.
you moan softly, head falling forward as you try to keep yourself up on your arms and not grind greedily and messily back onto his hand. "my girl likes this so much, huh... fuck... look at this soaked mess," the chuckle rumbles deep in his throat and you bite your lower lip when he curls his fingers just right. "let them hear you, pretty girl"
your face contorts in pleasure even if they can't see it. you're not even trying to fake in. not exaggerating. it just feels too fucking good. your moans are honest as his touch and dirty words spur you on. and oscar realizes. your pussy clenching around his fingers beautifully has him all cocky and confident for the camera. he should have asked you way sooner. only if he knew you were going to be such a pretty sight.
oscar pulls his fingers out slowly, making you whine softly at the loss. pulling his boxers down, he shows the length into the camera. you refuse to turn around and let the camera catch your face. but shit... would you love to know how it looks. red at the tip and slightly curved. so beautiful, already glistening with pre cum. you know you are missing out on this first time. but hopefully you would have more chances to see it.
he changes the angle just enough to film the scene perfectly. obscene and dirty. cock lining up with your wet pussy, drawing up and down to coat himself in your slickness. "fuck..." you moan softly, making him grin. god you're perfect.
he slides in slowly, all the way in and leaving your mouth hanging open at the feeling. every ridge, every vein. it stretches you so perfectly, sliding in so easy as he bottoms out. "look at that," oscar groans. "she's taking my cock so well..."
your soft moans are music to his ears as he starts to move. thrusting forward in languid but deep motions. where the fuck did he learn to fuck like that? and it's so much, so heavenly, you suddenly forget it's all on camera. not that you would care. oscars fingers curling around your hips is not bruising, yet it's firm. and it makes you forget any prayer you have ever learned.
"that's it, baby... take my cock like a good girl," oscar hums, pulling you back against him with every deep stoke. your moans grow loud and needy when he picks up the pace. just enough to make that hot liquid feeling build in your tummy.
"please..." you whine softly, your mouth working for you even though your brain can't. and it's brilliant. "come on my ass..."
oscar gasps, pushing into you with more force, the thick head brushing against your g spot with every move forwards. it makes you whine out loud sharply when he does it again and again. the knot slowly tightening into one of the best build ups ever.
"you want my cum, pretty girl? fuck... that's so hot" he groans, reaching around to play with your clit. your legs shake and your fingers grasp his sheets desperately. and it happens so fucking fast you don't stand a chance. feeling like the best climax you had in a good while, moans only an echo from another universe. your hair falls forward like a small curtain, shielding just enough as you come so hard it makes your whole sight fuzzy for a good long moment.
"good girl," he praises. "cuming so fucking beautiful you earned my cum, baby..."
a few more jerky thrust before he pulls out, fisting his cock enough to make ropes of thick, hot load land right on your ass. you gasp when he pulls out, feeling horribly empty at the sudden loss. it's the last thing he wanted to do, really. your warm tight, cunt feeling like a dream and it would have been even more if he were to come inside you, the way you were squeezing him like a fucking vice.
"fuuck... so fucking pretty," he murmurs, spreading his cum around a little. he laughs, jiggling your cheeks to the audience, making you giggle in such a sweet way, if he wouldn't be on his knees already he would drop to them for you.
oscar ends the video, setting everything aside, and giving your lower back a kiss. "wait here," he says, disappearing, only to come back moments later with a wet, warm washcloth. cleaning you up then himself. he helps you back into your sweats and makes you lie down.
you lie in silence for the following half an hour. curled up in his arms you take in his scent. so safe, so grounding after such an intense fuck. "you okay?" he murmurs, kissing your neck gently, up your jaw and your forehead. you smile up at him, nodding. "more than okay."
it's good to know that you enjoyed it. even more when you two find out that the video indeed went viral the next day. it might have been your first time online like this, but definitely not your last.
Summary : After leaving Australia to chase his Formula One dream, Oscar returns not as the boy that used to be you older brother's best friend, but as a man who you can't stop staring at, and who can't stop staring at you. What's supposed to be a normal weekend in Singapore leaves you both tired of pretending you don't want each other
WC : 7.9k
Warnings : SMUT! p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, dom!oscar, oral sex (fem receiving) +18 [minors dni]
A/N: Hiiii everyone! I’ve been a bit busy this past few weeks and I’m gonna need some more bcs I have midterms in no time, but I’m posting this one in the meantime! I still have one more Patreon post to upload here and then I’ll get some more stuff done, I promise!
When did you get hot?
All the sudden I could look you up and down all day
You didn't want to be mean, you really didn't, but c'mon...
You had known Oscar Piastri your whole life, ever since your brother Theo became best friends with him when you were four. They were two years older, and incredibly fucking annoying.
They never called you by your name, no, that was long gone. It was always Bird.
When you were very little, you had rescued a little sparrow that had unluckily hit one of the windows of the Piastri's house. You took care of it for a whole month until you were sure it was healthy enough to go back outside, and you cried for days when it left. Which they never failed to remind you.
Because God, they were always in your business.
You got used very early to check the chairs you sat on for fart cushions, the food you ate for fake bugs, and to pour a bit of sugar in one of your fingers before using it in your cookies, in case they had exchanged it with salt.
Even though the adults were an easy target for them, you were their favourite one. Because you had learned to read their mischievous smiles whenever they were planning something. You had learned to suspect whenever they paid attention to you. At the ripe age of 10, you were un-trickeable.
You had also learned to ignore the rest of the kids at school when they mocked Oscar for sitting next to you in the bus station. Chanting annoying melodies about you two being boyfriend and girlfriend.
"Don't listen to them, Bird." He used to say. "They're jealous that you're friends with someone older."
You just nodded.
Because when you were a little girl, he was the oldest kid in the friend group, and that used to mean something. In your eyes, he was insufferable at times, yeah, but he also knew things that you didn't.
When you were ten, those things were the capitals of the world. When you turned thirteen, it was how mean guys your age could be.
During your whole life, he was always two steps ahead. Whatever happened to you, had already happened to him. And he was always there to help you out.
At least until he left Australia for good.
He had been travelling around for a few years already, following his motorsport dream. But your gift for your fourteenth birthday from him was a goodbye hug at the airport.
He promised he would call, that he would come back a lot. He promised many things, and at first you didn't get why your brother was so upset about him leaving.
But then he stopped calling, and you understood.
"No mail for you." Theo said, one of those Saturdays that didn't feel quite right anymore.
You frowned, looking at the envelopes on the table. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Were you waiting for something?"
Yes, you were waiting. You had been waiting for far too long.
"I wrote a letter to Osc two months ago." The words came out embarrassingly gentle at the mention of his name.
"Ah." He replied, his jaw tensing in a way you hadn't seen before. "Well, he still hasn't replied to my text messages from last week, so don't get your hopes up for a letter."
Then, he stood up and left what he was reading on the table, not even bothering to put it back in the envelope. You had gotten used to that, to him leaving whenever someone said Oscar's name.
He opened the living room's door, but before he entered, he looked back at you.
"He's not coming back, Y/N. He's just not."
You still remember that moment perfectly. Not the words per se, but the tone. You had never heard him so defeated before.
At that time, you thought he was just being an annoying teenager, playing the rude older brother. Then you realised he was just really missing his best friend.
Four years went by before he came back to Australia.
You didn't even know about it until you heard a very distinctive yell from Eddie across the street. You immediately stood up and got on your tiptoes to take a look over the garden wall, curious.
And that's when you saw him.
You didn't even know it was Oscar at first. Because the Oscar you knew... well, he didn't have that back. Or those arms.
It didn't help when he turned around, because holy shit he also didn't have that face.
You really didn't want to be mean, but he didn't use to be... cute. At all. And now he was suddenly built like some sort of Greek God? How was that fucking fair?
It took him weeks to win your brother's friendship back. You started seeing him around the house, doing Theo's chores for him because every time he didn't feel like moving, he dramatically reminded him of how he left.
It was all jokingly. You knew they had have a serious conversation once in the garden though. You hadn't caught all of it, but enough to know how alone Oscar said he had been, and how much of a tourist he felt like in his own hometown.
You remember feeling sick at the thought.
He wasn't back for long, just the winter. He had recently made it to Formula 2, and wanted to come back to tell his family and spend some time here before he had to leave again. If everything went right, for good this time.
You talked about it with him once, when you accompanied him for a run at sunrise, one of those days that you couldn't sleep and heard him going out of his house.
He apologised for the thousandth time that morning.
"It's fine, Osc." You said, sitting down on the sand next to him. "Theo already forgave you, and he's the one you were friends with."
He winced slightly at your words. "We were friends too."
You didn't look at him when you hummed. your eyes fixed on the sunrise in front of you, the light starting to come out from the horizon.
"I didn't mean it like that. We were friends, because of Theo. You were closer to him than to me, so if he forgave you so did I."
He seemed satisfied with that answer. "Yeah, 'mkay."
You sat there in silence for a few more seconds, the only thing that caught your eyes being a woman walking a very furry border collie. At least until he spoke again.
"I did miss you, y’know." The admission was quiet, softer than anything he had ever told you before. "I missed your brother like crazy, yeah, but I also missed you. Not as Theo's sister, but as yourself. As Y/N. If that even makes sense."
You looked back at him, the border collie long forgotten now, the only thing in your mind the way he had said your name. Not Bird, or Birdie. Your actual name.
The sunrise light casted the softest orange on his features, the shadows sharpening his jaw and nose as he stared at you.
He looked incredibly different now. So mature, so stoic. But his eyes were still the same, the familiar shiny brown that you used to see every morning going to school, and every night when you shared popcorn on the couch.
He was still the same Oscar.
And God, you had missed him too.
...
Singapore is very different from Australia, but you're getting used to it. It's the third consecutive year that you've ended up here since Oscar made it to Formula One.
Now the only times you can hang out with him are during races or in the breaks, and since he only has two of those, you and your brother have taken twice as many flights during this time that in the rest of your life.
You had never even been in Europe before he invited you to Barcelona last year, how could you say no to this life?
You're aware that a part of him keeps trying to overcompensate for the years he spent away, too focused on making it into this world to keep yours and Theo's friendships, which is why you keep double checking if he really wants you there before you accept him getting you the tickets.
Because that's another update, you don't think you've paid for one single thing in the last three years. Not booked flights, not dinners, not anything during race weekends. It's all on him.
You do feel bad about it sometimes, but he genuinely seems happy with that arrangement, so even though you insist on complaining about it, he always shuts you down.
Which is why, when Friday comes and you step into the paddock, he already has an iced coffee in hand for you.
"Figured you'd need it." He winks, handing you the drink.
You immediately take it, feeling the condensation in your fingers. "You and your insistence on still treating me like a kid."
" 'M not treating you like a kid." The complain comes with a light frown.
But he does, sometimes. Giving you his jacket, reminding you to drink water and walking you home. Just like when you were little.
"Ah, no?" You smile, taking a sip of the coffee. "Then how do you treat me like?"
Oscar just stares at you, a smirk tugging at his lips.
And for a second, you think you can read his mind.
However, before either of you say anything, your brother slaps his shoulder, getting to you two.
"So." Theo says. "How bad are you gonna suck this weekend?"
He rolls his eyes, arms crossed as his friend mocks him. As per usual. "Remind me again why I even keep you around."
"Because the fame got to you without us." You reply, after taking another sip of your iced coffee. "We keep you in shape."
Your brother agrees, pointing at you. "Yeah, mate, we balance your world."
"Sure." Oscar says, looking at you one last time before the three of you keep walking into the paddock.
You're used to it at this point. The cameras, the attention, the constant eyes on you.
That doesn't mean it never weirds you out though. Because it does. Whenever someone talks to you like they know you, and when a photographer kneels a bit too much to take your picture when you're wearing a skirt.
Like right now.
You don't even notice it at first, until a slight breeze makes you put your skirt down and you look around to see if someone noticed it. Not like the piece of fabric was short enough to let them see anything, but just in case.
And indeed, someone notices. And he's already taking pictures of you.
"C'mon sweets, give me a smile." The man says. You had never seen him before, but he's wearing a pass around his neck, so you assume he's a usual photographer. "Move a bit, let that skirt flow."
You fucking freeze. It’s pathetic, but you genuinely can’t move.
Is he actually asking what you think or are you being dramatic? Do you have a right to call him out, or is he just doing his job? You're uncomfortable, but he hasn't done anything, has he? He's just... kneeling. A lot. Almost enough to take a picture underneath your skirt if you move.
But you're not supposed to make a scene.
"Give me a turn, c'mon, make me happy." He insists. And his smile gives you goosebumps.
You don't say anything, don't move.
At least, until someone stands in front of you, and after a confusing instant you realise it's Oscar.
"That's enough, mate, she doesn't want pictures." He says, and you can swear you've never seen his jaw so tense.
The photographer shrugs. "I'm just doing my job."
"Yeah, I bet y'are." Oscar nods. "But your job's taking pictures of me, not harassing her, alright? So don't push it."
The other man raises his hands in surrender, taking one last look at you before walking back into the crowd.
And only then, Oscar looks back at you, his eyebrows slightly arched in worry as he touches your upper arm. "Bird, are you okay?"
You nod, still a bit confused. "Yeah, it's fine."
"It's not fine." He frowns. "You don't owe anything to those people, specially nothing that makes you uncomfortable."
"It wasn't that bad, m'okay." You shrug, not wanting to make a big deal out of this.
They have happened before, scenes like that. People see someone walking into the paddock with a VIP pass and think they can treat them as some sort of circus animals. But you're not a driver, not even a celebrity, and it makes you feel weirdly exposed.
"You're not okay, Y/N."
"Yes, I am." You insist, taking an awkward sip of your iced coffee, looking away.
"Hey, stop that." His hand moves to your shoulder first, and then two of his fingers lightly touch your neck.
You feel the warmth of his skin against yours, trying incredibly hard not to swallow or appear nervous.
God, why did he have to change so much? Why couldn't he have stayed like he was as a kid? When he had pimples, and dry lips, and his touch didn't make you feel anything.
"I've known you since you were four, I know when something's bothering you."
You try to play it off, forcing a smile. "I didn't think you paid that much attention to me."
His words come out fast, unfiltered. "I've never paid more attention to anyone else."
The second he says that, his mouth twitches, and his fingers move away from your jaw, like he's said something wrong. Something that's too much.
He looks around, clearing his throat, making sure no one's filming you together. And only then, he dares to meet your eyes again. But his expression is different; more guarded, more careful. More... Oscar.
"I-uh... I don't know, Bird, you're a bit off lately, that's what I meant." He composes himself, wiping one of his hands against his t-shirt. " 'M worried."
"Well, you don't have to worry because I'm cool." You reply. "Super cool."
"You're being weird." Oscar insists. Of course he does. "Weirder than you always are anyway."
"Gee, thanks mate."
He rolls his eyes. Not in annoyance, but he doesn't seem perfectly comfortable in this conversation either.
"Y'know what I mean." He says, and his voice gets a bit quieter with his next words. "Y'also know you can talk to me, right?"
You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. "Yeah, I know. You can get going, I'll be at the garage in a bit."
He imitates your gesture, looking away for a second. "Alright."
And after another small instant, he puts his hands in his pockets and walks away, towards the busiest part of the paddock.
Is it terrible that you wish he'd stayed?
...
This just can't be your life.
It all has to be a cosmic joke, some sort of price you have to pay for something terrible you did on your past life.
You don't even know where to go, because every single inch of this godforsaken place is packed with cameras. And you're blushing. A lot.
You run your hands through your head, letting out a sigh and trying not to think about the fact that you're probably gonna be trending topic on Twitter in a moment.
Trying not to replay that moment in your head.
"Y/N, right?" A reporter had walked to you, microphone in hand. "Oscar's girlfriend."
You're pretty sure the noise that came out of your mouth, something between a surprised whine and a nervous scoff, has never before been heard in the history of humanity.
You denied it like you could, but your cheeks are so red they can probably be seen from all the way to Australia.
When your back hits a wall you're trying to hide yourself behind, your phone buzzes.
Of fucking course.
"I can see you blushing from here."
When you raise your head, you find Oscar looking at you from the entrance of the Mclaren hospitality.
He's smirking like he used to when you were ten and had stepped on a puddle on the way home, waiting for your parents to notice. Like he knew something the rest of the world didn't yet.
"I am NOT blushing" You quickly type back.
He holds your gaze for an instant before checking his phone. And when he does, his smile only grows bigger. More annoying.
"Don't tell me that the thought of us together is so shameful that you need to go hide"
You feel your cheeks getting even redder.
Jesus Christ, get a grip.
"The interviewer just caught me by surprise, okay?" You reply. "Quit mocking me. I can see YOU laughing from here"
He laughs at the messages, even though you can't hear him.
"Sorry, sorry" He texts you back. "You just look cute"
Your fingers, that had been quick to start writing a reply to his first comment, immediately freeze.
Cute.
He had never called you cute before. Ever.
Always annoying, bratty, dramatic. Sometimes, when he was in a good mood, funny. But cute? Hell no, he had never commented on your physical appearance in general, didn't matter how much effort you put into it.
You look cute.
"What did you just say to me" Is the only thing you can come up with under his gaze.
His answer to that does nothing to ease the fucking feeling in your stomach.
"Blushing suits you"
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
This is not flirting, is it? He's not flirting with you. He can't, it's Oscar. Your Oscar.
Well, uh... your brother's Oscar.
This is Theo's best friend we're talking about. The guy that used to make fun of you when your face was covered in flour during that time that you got into baking. The same guy that taught you how to ride a bike. He could never see you as anything other than a little sister.
Could he?
You try to be funny, as normal Y/N would do.
"Why are you talking to me like that😰😰😰😰"
Good. Chill, effortless. A nice familiar joke.
You don't see his face when he writes the last message, as he turns around and walks back into the Mclaren hospitality. Away from you.
"I have no idea"
You don't reply to that.
You have no idea either, but you were expecting some sarcastic remark, not an honest response. However, playing innocent has always been classic Oscar.
You've always thought his way of going one step forward and three steps back with women was some personality trait, but maybe the truth is more complex.
More dangerous.
...
You're getting your third water bottle of the day. God, the sun really doesn't play around in Singapore.
It's Quali day, and the paddock is as busy as ever; mechanics running around, drivers sweating, reporters and photographers trying to catch a glimpse of anyone...
You navigate it however you can. It's been at least half an hour since you've last seen Oscar, and thankfully he doesn't seem to be anywhere near you for now.
After what happened yesterday, you're still trying to recover your image for both the public and him.
The words "you look cute" and "blushing suits you" are still running around your mind, and you'd definitely be lying if you said you haven't read that chat a few times already.
Because God, you have. Again and again. Imagining how his voice would sound like if he had dared to say it out loud.
But he won't. Because he's a Formula One driver, he's an actual full-on celebrity, and most importantly he's your brother's best friend. He would never cross that line with Theo's little sister.
He will always see you like a little kid.
"Oi, Bird!"
You look to your right when you hear your brother's voice. And in two seconds, he's next to you.
"Have you seen Oscar?"
"Uh, no." You quickly reply, shrugging.
He rolls his eyes, one of his hands running through his face to wipe away a bit of sweat.
"I don't know what's up with him lately, doesn't he seem weird to you?"
You have to look down at your water bottle to avoid his gaze. "Weird how?"
"Distant, I guess."
"I think he's fine." Your fingers nervously rub around the bottle, playing with the condensation as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Luckily, Theo doesn't pay the matter more attention when his eyes fall on one of the food trucks.
"Listen, I'm gonna go get something to eat." He playfully slaps your shoulder. "Can you look for him? Tell him I need his help for something?"
You nod. Because, I mean, what else could you have done?
"Sure."
You do look for him, going to the usual places. He's not in the garage and the mechanic that you asked hasn't seen him around either. Fortunately, when you walk into the hospitality one of the media team girls tells you that he's probably in his driver's room, so you walk there.
And this one is fully on you, because you should've just said who you were.
But your closeness to the Piastri family plays a trick on you, and after he replies to your weak knock telling you to come in, when you put one foot inside the room, you see him. You see a lot of him.
"Holy shit, I'm sorry!" You quickly apologise, frozen in place.
And there is Oscar, obviously fresh from a shower, a towel wrapped low around his waist. Very low.
"Y/N?"
"Sorry!" You mutter, closing the door again and rushing out of the room and away from the hospitality.
But unfortunately for you, because the universe has a great sense of humour, Oscar's apparently very quick to throw on some sweatpants and a random white t-shirt, and two seconds after you leave he's already getting to you.
"I can hear you walking behind me, don't even try." You say, in a weak attempt to save face. You just want to forget about this, not make it a big deal.
And he fucking laughs, taking a few fast steps to catch up with you. "I'm sorry, okay? I thought you were someone from Mclaren."
You're frowning in mock disgust when he holds your wrist, forcing you to turn around to face him. "You let Mclaren staff walk in on you naked?"
Oscar chuckles again, his boyish grin doing little to help calm you down.
"I was not naked." He states. "And it's not like you haven't seen any shirtless men before either."
"Not you though?" You complain, getting away from his grip on your wrist.
Truth was, you had seen him shirtless before, but it surely didn't count. Beach days when both of you were kids were hardly comparable to seeing him fresh out of a shower at twenty one.
"I can't believe I've seen your six pack." Your hands quickly cover your eyes, as if trying to prevent you from repeating the image in your head. "I can't believe you have a six pack."
He chuckles again, and you swear you're gonna need to be put down after this conversation.
"C'mon Bird, I wasn't that big of a loser in your eyes, was I?"
You don't reply, but your face does it for you. Tilting your head, he can clearly read your mind.
Because yeah, he was a bit of a loser. Years ago. You're not sure what he is now.
"Well, so what did you think of it?"
"Ew!" You hit his shoulder, pushing him away. "Don't talk to me again, ever!"
You can hear him laughing behind you when you walk away covering your ears.
"It was just a question!"
But you don't stop, and you definitely don't look back at him.
You need to get a grip urgently.
…
Race day comes with the usual heavy Singaporean heat and the same amount of cameras in your face as always.
Luckily, you've already gotten yourself an iced coffee, so you don't depend on Oscar this time.
Not like you've seen him since yesterday anyway.
After Qualifying, Theo told you he had to stay longer so you two headed to the hotel before him. And when you went down for breakfast this morning, he wasn't there either, which to be honestly help calm you down a bit.
Not like you should be nervous, should you? Yeah, he had called you cute, asked you what you thought of his abs and looked at you in a way he never had before. But that wasn't a big deal, he was just messing with you.
Right?
When you finally see him again, it's in the hospitality. You're scrolling mindlessly on your phone, not really doing anything, and then some voices make you look up. Actually, it was a certain voice.
And there he is, walking next to some guy from his PR team you've seen before. When he sees you, his usual resting face changes to the slightest smile, as one of his hands waves once at you.
You imitate his gesture, your lips pressing together in an awkward manner before you force yourself to look away.
Fucking hell, this is so weird.
Thankfully, the terribly embarrassing moment ends when his the guy he's with keeps walking, expecting him to follow, and he does. But when you look up one last time, you see him glancing at you too.
You spend the race next to your brother, watching it in one of the huge TVs of the hospitality, leaning over the balcony every now and then to see the actual cars. They always make you dizzy, and you never really understood how Oscar can drive at those speeds and not faint or throw up.
But to be honest, that's not even one of the five things that intrigue you the most about him.
When the race ends and you see his car crossing the finish line, you can't help but smile. Theo has one arm around your shoulders as he celebrates with a random man that you haven't seen before.
P2. After starting 8th. Not bad at all.
You're already used to the fuss, to the insane crowds of people, but it always catches you by surprise how quickly the ground in front of the podium fills with hundreds and hundreds of people. When you get out of the balcony it's almost empty, and when you get down there you can hardly walk.
Theo guides you through it, until he gets to a spot where you can at least breathe. And that's when you see him.
Looking up, Oscar is just walking to his very deserved second place, his sweaty hair peaking underneath the Mclaren cap.
He stands up there, and his eyes immediately scan the crowd. Until they get to you.
His attentive frown changes into a soft smile, head tilting just slightly. And even though at first you try to convince yourself he's looking at both you and your brother, his best friend, you know his eyes are just on you. Lately, they always are.
And you would be lying if you said yours didn't navigate towards him too.
Like right now, as he sprays the champagne and chuckles when Charles sprays him back, you can't look at anything else other than him.
The way he squeezes his eyes shut to not let the liquid get in, how he runs a hand through his wet hair to try to accommodate it decently, how he completely fails at making it look clean and yet it still looks good. You're hyper aware of every little detail.
When the podium celebration ends, and the drivers go to their post race interviews, you take advantage of the time to make a stupid excuse to get rid of your brother, who doesn't really complain. He's used to you walking around the paddock and disappearing every now and then.
So you do it again today, wanting to see Oscar. And wanting to see him without Theo stuck by your side. You're hoping to talk to him, and your older brother catching up to the awkwardness between you two isn't exactly what you need.
You wait for him in his drivers room, sitting on the edge of the couch until you hear the door. You immediately stand up at the sound, and when Oscar walks in and sees you, he closes it behind him with a little smile.
"So this is new." He jokes, taking his cap off, his still wet hair stuck to his forehead before one of his hands messes it up a bit.
You shrug. "I wanted to congratulate you."
"Y'always do." He replies. "With your brother."
Your eyes move to the wall next to you as you press your lips together. True, that was a pathetic excuse.
"What do you want, Bird?"
He isn't even looking at you now. His hand unzips the upper part of his race suit, letting it fall to his waist, the fireproofs tight on his torso.
"Is it that weird that I want to see you?"
"Considering you've been avoiding me, yeah." His retort makes your jaw clench slightly.
Because it's true, you've been kinda avoiding him the whole weekend. Not really ignoring him, but you're always cutting conversations short and looking away whenever he attempts to make eye contact with you.
However, you don't want to admit that. "I wasn't avoiding you."
He scoffs. "Sure you weren't."
"Maybe you don't know me as good as you think you do, Oscar, have you ever thought about that?" You ask, and you aren't even sure why you sound so snappy.
Maybe because he looks like he doesn't care for the first time ever. Maybe because it feels like he's been playing with you the whole weekend.
That's when he turns around, looking back at you. And his expression isn't playful anymore.
"I know you more than you think, Y/N."
Now you're the one that scoffs. He's bluffing.
"Y'think I'm joking?" He talks again, frowning slightly. Not angry, but confused. Almost desperate.
"Are you?"
"No." His answer is quick. Real. "I know you change your favourite colour every year, but you always come back to a pinkish orange because it reminds you of the sunsets in Australia. I know you hate flying, but you do it anyway because you love seeing new places, and you always bring a sleep mask with you not to sleep, but so you can put it on and think you're on a train instead of a plane."
He takes a step closer to you, and this time you don't take a step back, you don't back away.
"I know you pretend not to like One Direction anymore because your brother used to tease you about it when we were younger, but you still listen to them when you think no one's listening. You try to act colder and more distant because you think that makes you look like an adult, even though every single person I've always met has immediately loved your personality. I know you try to distance yourself from guys because you're terrified of ending up in a loveless marriage like your mom, and you think never letting yourself fall for anyone is better than risking it."
You look away, your eyebrows pinched together slightly. "Okay, you made your point."
"I don't think I did." He replies, taking another few steps towards you. "I'm not even close to making my point. I've been trying to make you understand, Bird, but I don't know if you're genuinely oblivious or if you're trying to turn me down gently."
Now you freeze.
You immediately look back at him, your eyes widening slightly for a second before your expression softens.
"What are you talking about...?"
Oscar glances away for an instant, running one of his hands through his hair before looking back at you. "Y/N, c'mon..."
"Oh" Comes out of your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. "Oh..."
His eyes are on you as he takes a step closer, as if he was expecting you to move away. When you don't, he raises one of his hands, his fingers touching a lock of your hair with a gentleness you've only seen him use on you.
His hold goes from the hair to your neck, and then cheek, with enough slowness to let you pull away at any second. But you don't even consider moving.
He seems to catch up on that, because in a second he's leaning closer. Tentatively, not wanting to scare you.
And before you can even fully process what's happening, his lips are on yours.
His free hand moves to your waist, pulling you even closer to him, and yours rest against his chest. The kiss is slow and gentle, he doesn't risk being rough in case you suddenly regret it, not wanting to overwhelm you.
And he definitely knows you too well, because a few seconds later you're pulling away, taking a step back.
Oscar looks down at you, trying to read your expression. "Y/N?"
You raise both hands, moving them away from his chest, your eyebrows pinching together in worry. "I-uh, I gotta go."
"Okay, hold on."
But you don't listen to him, walking towards the door.
God, this is so bad. You can't believe you've kissed him, he has kissed you. Oscar, your brother's Oscar, the guy that completely abandoned you two for years.
"Wait, Y/N."
But you shake your head, leaving the driver's room as one of your hands run through your hair.
He doesn't give up, quickly catching up to you. "Can you please stop freaking out and talk to me?"
"I have to go, I need to-"
Oscar's hand catches your wrist, and he doesn't let you finish the sentence. "Y/N, c'mon. I kissed you, you kissed me back, we're gonna have to talk about this."
You finally look back at him, nervously. "I'd really rather not."
He doesn't get mad, he doesn't even look annoyed. Instead, he smiles. It's warm and familiar, the same smile he used whenever you won to everyone in board game nights.
"Well too bad. Because I have many things to tell you, and I need you to listen."
Your hands quickly cover your face, your cheeks still blushed from both the kiss and this embarrassing attempt of running away.
"Oscar I will kill you if you keep talking, I swear to God."
He chuckles, his hands moving to your waist again before he kisses your cheek. "I'd crawl out of my grave in time to make you breakfast, Bird."
"Stop." You complain, but it has no real bite. "Quit mocking me."
His lips find your neck, and then your jaw. "I'd say y'like it."
"You'd be wrong." You lie. "I hate you."
You can fucking feel his smile against your skin.
"Yeah? Show me how much y'hate me then."
He's still smirking when you playfully push him away. "Oscar Piastri, are you trying to talk dirty to me?"
"Absolutely." He nods, kissing you again, before whispering against your lips. "Is it working?"
"Yeah."
He laughs between kisses, as he makes you walk backward into his drivers room.
And you just let him.
His other hand wraps around your waist to pull you flush against him, the door clicking shut behind you when he closes it with a gentle kick of his heel.
His hands keep roaming over your curves, exploring every inch of your body as he lifts you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist.
He carries you to the couch, laying you down gently before covering your body with his, trailing kisses down your neck.
You tilt your head to give him better access, and he groans softly at your involuntary action. His hands slide under your t-shirt, pushing it up slowly. He breaks the kiss momentarily to pull your shirt off completely, and then captures your lips again.
He's getting harder and harder, pressing against you through his race suit. But he doesn't want to rush this, he wants to explore every inch of you slowly. After the amount of time he's spent waiting for this, there's no way he's gonna let it be too fast.
His lips trail down your body as his hands reach behind you to unhook your bra, and you just let him take it off.
He throws your bra to the side, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of your bare breasts. "Holy shit, you're so fucking perfect..." He cups them gently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples before he leans down to capture one in his mouth, sucking gently while his other hand kneads your other breast.
You let your head fall back against the couch's pillow, moaning softly. He takes his time worshipping your tits, switching between licking, sucking and biting gently. Only when they're both hard peaks does he move down further, pressing kisses along your stomach.
He unbuttons your jeans slowly, looking up at you from under his lashes with his stupid puppy eyes.
"Can I?"
You quickly nod, and he smiles before pulling your jeans off completely, leaving you in just your panties. He spreads your legs gently, settling between them. His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, asking silently for permission.
When you bite your lip and nod again, he pulls them off slowly.
He throws your panties aside and takes in the sight of you, completely bare before him. He groans at how wet you already are for him, his cock throbbing painfully. Without hesitation, he leans down and captures your clit with his mouth, sucking hard.
Oscar eats your pussy like a starving man, his tongue and lips working your sensitive flesh. One hand kneads your breast while the other plays with your clit. He looks up at you between your legs, seeing your head thrown back in pleasure.
"Fuck... Osc..."
He smiles against your pussy at the curse, knowing he's already getting to you. He focuses on your clit, flicking it rapidly with his tongue before sucking it hard into his mouth again. His fingers tease your entrance slowly before sliding one inside you gently.
One of your hands move down to his hair, tangling on it and pulling tightly.
He moans at the gesture, loving how passionate you're getting. He adds another digit inside you, curling them to hit that spot that makes your toes curl. His mouth latches onto your clit, sucking hard while his fingers pump in and out.
Your legs start shaking around his head, and he doubles his efforts after you moan again, his fingers moving faster and curling deeper inside you. His tongue circles your clit rapidly before sucking it into his mouth again.
Your moans and the way your hips are moving against his face tell him you're right on the edge, and he wants to taste you so badly.
But he also wants to make this last.
So he slows his efforts, pulling back just enough to tease you. His fingers stay curled inside you, his mouth hovering over your clit. He's breathing heavily, holding himself back from pushing you over the edge immediately. "Shh..." He whispers against you. "Not yet..."
You whine at the loss, and he looks up at you with a wicked smirk, his fingers gently moving inside you but not enough to send you over. He blows softly on your clit, teasing you with his breath. "M'gonna make this last..." He whispers before sucking your clit gently again. "You gotta be patient, Bird..."
You roll your eyes. "God, I hate you."
He laughs softly against your pussy, the vibrations making you moan. "I know y'do right now..." He presses a gentle kiss right above your clit before sucking it back into his mouth slowly. "But you'll be thanking me in just a minute..."
He moves his face suddenly, leaving it bare. He can see the frustration written all over your expression, and that makes him smile mischievously, knowing he's driving you wild. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving your juices smeared on his face.
"Hmm?" He watches you squirm, your legs still spread open for him. He slowly pushes down his race suit, along with his boxers. His hard cock springs free, and he strokes it slowly once before looking back up at you. "Y'want it?"
You immediately nod, and he moves between your legs, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubs the head of his dick against your clit teasingly before sliding it down to your entrance. He doesn't push inside yet, just holds himself there, torturing you with anticipation.
"Don't tease me..."
He chuckles darkly, his eyes burning with desire. "But I love teasing you..." He circles your entrance with the tip of his cock again before slowly pushing just the head inside you. He watches your face carefully, seeing the frustration and need in your eyes.
You moan, and he does so as well when he feels your tight pussy wrapped around just the tip of him. He leans down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans, and starts to slowly push deeper inside you, giving you just an inch at a time.
He breaks the kiss, his face contorted with pleasure as he feels you squeezing around him inch by inch. He's being so gentle, trying to stretch you out slowly instead of slamming inside like he wants to.
He pulls back slightly before pushing in deeper again. "Fuck... you feel even more perfect than I thought."
You look at him. "Y'thought about this?"
He pulls in and out of you, his eyes glassy with desire. "Every fucking night since I came back." He admits softly, pushing deeper inside you. He pulls back slightly before sliding back in, setting a faster rhythm.
He watches your face closely, noticing how your eyes flutter closed when he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you. He focuses on that spot, his hips snapping forward with each thrust. He leans down to capture your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips.
His hand tangles in your hair, deepening the kiss as he continues to slide smoothly in and out of you. He's being gentle but firm, his thrusts controlled as he tries to draw out your pleasure. His other hand reaches down to grab your thigh, moving it to wrap around his waist.
You obey, opening yourself up even more for him, making him groan against your mouth. He can feel your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs tightening around him.
You moan at the new depth, and he quickly moves his hand from your thigh to cover your mouth, muffling your loud sounds. He starts pounding into you harder, the couch shaking beneath you. His other hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place as he fucks you roughly.
"Shh..." He hisses in your ear. "Y’gotta be quiet, Bird."
He doesn't slow down his movements at all after saying that, if anything he starts thrusting even harder.
His other hand grabs your hip tightly, pulling you onto his cock with each thrust. "Y'don't want anyone to hear us, do you?"
You shake your head, whining against his hand.
He nods, his hand still covering your mouth as he continues to fuck you hard and fast, leaning down to whisper in your ear. "Then you gotta be quiet f'me, yeah? Be good f'me." He emphasizes his point by slamming into you particularly deep.
"I know you wanna moan... you wanna be loud f'me... but not right now, Bird. Not unless you wanna give half the paddock a fucking show." He snaps his hips against you again, watching your face closely.
You roll your eyes, your back arching towards him. "Osc..."
He swallows hard at the way you whisper his name. His hand tightens over your mouth as he fucks you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He leans down to capture your lips in a rough kiss, swallowing any more sounds you might make. "That’s it… Good girl..."
He moves his other hand down to your clit, starting to rub it in time with his thrusts, wanting to push you over the edge quickly and quietly. His hips move even faster, slamming into you repeatedly. "C'mon Y/N... come for me..."
Those words and that movement are exactly what you need.
He feels your legs tighten around his waist again as you start to come. He keeps rubbing your clit, prolonging your orgasm as he continues to fuck you through it. His own release is building quickly, but he wants to make sure you're satisfied first.
Only then, he groans loudly as he comes inside you, his hips jerking forward as he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum. "Fuck... fuck, fuck..." He buries his face in your neck, his breathing ragged as he tries to catch his breath.
You whine at the feeling and he looks up at you, his brown eyes dark with desire and satisfaction.
He sees the slight pout on your face and the whimper you make, knowing you're sensitive and overwhelmed. "Shh... shh... I know, Bird."
You close your eyes, letting out a breath now that his hand isn’t covering your mouth anymore.
Oscar pulls out of you gently, making you whine again. "Sorry." He quickly apologises. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." You say, looking back at him for an instant before adding; "You?"
"Are you joking?" He smiles, laying down next to you on the couch and pulling your body closer to him, making you rest against him. "Y/N, this is the best day of my fucking life."
That makes you breathlessly chuckle. "You’re so obsessed with me it’s embarrassing."
"I am." He kisses your cheek, not complaining. "I’m the founding father of the Bird fan club. I’ve been here long before those people on Twitter that call you pretty."
"Whoa, you’re jealous already?"
"You have no idea." He replies, his lips finding yours this time.
When he pulls away, his pupils still dilated, you can’t help but mock him. "You’re moving fast, pretty boy."
"That’s my job, pretty girl."
One of your hands moves to his hair, playing with the messy locks. "Y’know what I mean."
"Mhm." Oscar nods. "I know what y’mean. I also know I’ve been stupid enough to miss out on this for way too long."
You keep your eyes on him, so he adds; "Before you freak out again, I’m not asking you to marry me, Bird. Just to give this a chance, see how it goes. Maybe not tell your brother yet, so I can finish the season before he murders me."
"Yeah, you’re so dead." You jokingly nod. "Fucking your best friend’s sister, how low can you go?"
"I think I’ve shown you how low I can go already."
He chuckles when you playfully hit his shoulder, hiding his face against your neck.
"You’re terrible, I hate you."
"No you don’t." Oscar replies. "You just hate that you can’t resist me."
And you roll your eyes, because maybe that was true before, but now?
You don’t really have a reason to force yourself to resist him anymore.
ᯓ★
tag list: @sainz0fthetimes @idgasb @peraltiagokid @anifffff @supercalifragilisticexpliadociou @elenabozzato @vnvngel
౨ৎ instead of going on the sim like usual, lando spends his winter break on his fake fanpage account to ragebait his long time online rival, berrypiastri,. however, after seeing your face reveal, he might start rizzbaiting.
౨ৎ lando norris x f!reader, smau, set in the current winter break, enemies to lovers, lando is his own fan, lots of bantering and ragebaiting! fc: yunjin from lsfm
from jia, leaving u guys with this fic while i prepare for exams ! unfortunately i have a gfx exam that will last me a whole week 😵…
Summary: what happens when you combine two identical dachshunds, one dog park mix-up, and a very famous racing driver? Your meet-cute becomes a dognapping crisis!
The late afternoon sun in Monaco is a specific kind of gold. It’s not the hazy, humid gold of a Spanish summer or the sharp, brittle gold of a Swiss autumn. It’s a rich, old-money gold, the kind that filters through the leaves of ancient plane trees and spills across the manicured lawns of the Jardin Exotique, making everything it touches look impossibly expensive and serene. It’s the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re living inside a vintage postcard.
You are watching that very light catch the highlights in the ridiculously silky fur of your dachshund, Gretchen, as she trots with immense self-importance across the dog park’s pristine grass. Her little legs move in a blur, a determined, stubby piston-action that is entirely at odds with her otherwise regal demeanor.
“Gretchen, darling, the ball isn’t going to throw itself!” You call out, holding up the slobber-covered tennis ball.
She gives you a look over her shoulder, a look that clearly communicates, ‘And your point is?’ before she resumes her patrol of a particularly interesting patch of clover.
You sigh, a fond, exasperated sound. Having a dog named Gretchen Wieners means accepting a certain level of high-maintenance sass. It was funny when you named her, a perfect joke for a tiny, cream-colored wiener dog who seemed to be full of secrets. It is slightly less funny when she’s actively ignoring you in favor of sniffing something that is, in all likelihood, the ghost of a croissant from someone’s picnic last Tuesday.
You lean back on the park bench, the wrought iron cool against your sundress, and close your eyes for a moment, just soaking it in. The gentle murmur of French and Italian, the distant hum of a supercar winding its way down Avenue Princesse Grace, the happy yapping of dogs. It’s a peaceful symphony.
The symphony is interrupted by a new sound. A frantic, happy scrabbling of claws on gravel, followed by a leash-jangle and a low, musical voice speaking in a mix of French and English.
“Doucement, doucement. Leo, calm down, please.”
Your eyes flutter open.
Standing by the gate is Charles Leclerc, looking somehow both exactly like he does on television and completely different. He’s not in a race suit, but in a simple white t-shirt and dark shorts, his hair artfully messy from the breeze. He’s wrestling with the clasp of a leash, and at the other end of it is a carbon copy of your dog. A small, cream-colored, long-bodied, short-legged dachshund, vibrating with the sheer, unadulterated joy of reaching a field of grass.
“Okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, finally unclipping the leash.
The dog is a missile. A low-to-the-ground, cream-colored torpedo of enthusiasm. And its target is Gretchen.
He barrels towards her. Gretchen, who had been engrossed in her clover investigation, looks up, her ears perking. She sees the approaching blur and, instead of her usual aloofness with strange dogs, she does something extraordinary. She wags her tail. Not just a polite little flick, but a full-body, a-stranger-is-a-friend-I-haven’t-sniffed-yet wag.
They meet in the middle of the lawn in a flurry of sniffing and tail-chasing. It’s an instant, profound connection. A dachshund love story for the ages.
Charles walks over, a sheepish, devastatingly charming smile on his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Ah, sorry. He is … a lot.”
“Don’t be,” you say, your own smile blooming effortlessly. “Gretchen is usually the queen of social distancing. I’ve never seen her take to another dog so fast.”
“They are, euh, they look like twins.” He gestures towards the two dogs, who are now engaged in a chaotic game of chase that involves a lot of tumbling and playful nips.
“They really do,” you agree. “What’s his name?”
“Leo.”
“I love that. This is Gretchen.”
Charles’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Gretchen? Like, from Germany?”
You can’t help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that makes him smile wider. “No. Well, yes, technically. But her full name is Gretchen Wieners.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his head tilts, a look of slow-dawning comprehension on his face. He lets out a sudden, surprised bark of laughter. It’s a wonderful sound, not performative or polite, but deep and real.
“Non. You did not.”
“I absolutely did,” you confirm, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. “She’s a wiener dog. It felt like a moral obligation.”
“That is the best name for a dog I have ever heard,” he says, still chuckling. He runs a hand through his hair. “Now I feel bad. Leo is just Leo.”
“Leo is a great name! It’s classic. Strong. Lion-like.”
“He is not very lion-like,” Charles says, watching as Leo dramatically trips over his own feet while trying to catch Gretchen. “He is more like a small piece of bread with legs.”
You laugh again, covering your mouth with your hand. “A baguette?”
“Exactly! A tiny baguette.”
You both fall into a comfortable silence for a minute, just watching your identical dogs play. The golden light deepens, casting long shadows across the grass.
“You live around here?” He asks, his voice a little softer now.
“Just up the hill,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Moved here about a year ago.”
“Ah, okay. Me too. Well, I have always lived here. But my apartment is new.”
“Right. Of course.” A silly thing to forget. “It must be strange. To have your hometown be this place.” You gesture around at the opulent, postcard-perfect scenery.
He considers this, his gaze distant for a second. “Sometimes. But most of the time, it is just home. Where my dog is, you know?”
“I know exactly,” you say, your eyes soft as you watch Gretchen roll onto her back, submitting to Leo’s playful attack. “It’s funny how they anchor you. Doesn’t matter where you are, as long as they’re waiting for you.”
“For sure,” he agrees. He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes, a warm, clear green, hold your gaze. There’s an intensity there you weren’t expecting, a flicker of something that makes the air feel suddenly warmer. “It is grounding.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck. You break the gaze, looking back at the dogs. “So, uh, does Leo have any other special skills? Besides the baguette impression?”
He grins, the moment broken but the warmth lingering. “He is very good at sleeping. A champion, really. He can sleep for twenty hours, I think. And he is very good at stealing my socks. And you? What about Gretchen Wieners?” He says her full name with a delighted reverence that makes you ridiculously happy.
“She’s an expert at judging people. She has this look … it can cut you to your very soul. She’s also a master manipulator. She’ll pretend she hasn’t been fed when she absolutely has. She has my parents completely wrapped around her little paw.”
“A clever girl.”
“The cleverest.”
You talk for what feels like five minutes but, when you glance at your phone, you see it’s been almost an hour. The sun is kissing the horizon now, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. The park is emptying out.
“Oh, wow,” you say. “I should probably get going. It’s her dinner time. And if the queen is not fed on time, there will be a rebellion.”
Charles nods, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “Yes, me too. Leo, he gets very dramatic.”
He whistles, a sharp, clear sound. “Leo, viens ici!”
You call out at the same time. “Gretchen! Time to go home, sweetie!”
The two cream-colored blurs, now thoroughly exhausted and panting happily, detach from each other and trot towards the sound of their respective owners’ voices. Or, at least, that’s the general idea. In their post-play haze, they seem to aim for the nearest tall human.
The little dog that arrives at your feet looks up at you with big, brown, adoring eyes, its tongue lolling out. You reach down and scratch behind its ears, the fur just as soft as you remember. “Good girl,” you murmur, clipping the leash onto its collar without really looking.
You stand up and smile at Charles, who is doing the same with the dog at his feet.
“It was really nice to meet you, Charles.”
“You too,” he says, and his smile is genuine. “And you, Gretchen Wieners.” He winks.
“Bye, Leo the Baguette,” you say with a little wave to the dog beside him.
As you walk away, a giddy, light feeling bubbles in your chest. It’s the kind of feeling you get from a perfect, unexpected moment. A little cinematic scene dropped into the middle of an ordinary day. You don’t ask for his number. He doesn’t ask for yours. It feels too transactional. This was just a nice moment at a dog park. Maybe you’ll see him again. The thought brings another smile to your face.
The walk home is pleasant. The dog trots happily by your side, only occasionally pulling to sniff at a particularly fragrant potted plant. When you get into the elevator of your apartment building, it licks your hand.
“You’re extra sweet today,” you coo, stroking its head. “Did you have fun with your new boyfriend?”
Inside your apartment, you unclip the leash. The dog immediately does a perimeter check, sniffing every corner of your living room with a seriousness that suggests it’s searching for contraband. This is normal. Gretchen always does this, reacquainting herself with her kingdom.
You go to the kitchen and pull out her food bowl — a ceramic one with ‘Her Majesty’ painted on the side. You fill it with her special, grain-free kibble and add a splash of water, just how she likes it.
“Dinner is served, my lady!” You call out.
The dog trots into the kitchen, gives the bowl a cursory sniff, and then looks up at you. And whines. A soft, confused little sound.
“What?” You ask. “It’s your favorite. Don’t be difficult.”
It ignores the bowl and nudges its head against your leg, looking for more pets.
This is the first red flag. Gretchen lives for her food. She would trample over a line of puppies for a single piece of kibble. She never, ever, turns down a meal.
“Are you feeling okay?” You ask, crouching down. You run your hands over the body, checking for any tenderness. It just wags its tail and tries to lick your face. Everything seems fine. Maybe it’s just tired from playing so hard.
You leave the food and go to the living room, flopping onto the sofa. The dog hops up next to you — another small, almost imperceptible oddity. Gretchen always waits for a formal invitation to come onto the couch. She sits, puts a single paw on the cushion, and stares at you until you pat the seat beside you. This one just launched itself up.
“You’re being very bold tonight,” you say, stroking its long back.
It snuggles into your side, letting out a contented sigh, and promptly falls asleep. Okay, this part is normal. The post-park crash. You turn on the television, keeping the volume low. After an hour, you realize the food in the kitchen is still untouched. That’s not right.
You gently nudge the sleeping form beside you. “Hey. You really need to eat something.”
The dog stirs, blinks its sleepy brown eyes, and then yawns, a wide, cavernous yawn. You smile and go to give it a belly rub, your fingers seeking out that perfect spot that makes its leg start thumping.
Your hand moves across its warm, soft belly. You rub and you rub. And then you stop.
Your brain, which has been happily coasting on the fumes of a charming encounter, suddenly slams on the brakes.
There is … anatomy here. Anatomy that Gretchen, a female dog, definitively does not possess.
You stare down at the dog. The dog stares back up at you, tail giving a lazy thump-thump-thump against the sofa cushion.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. The words hang in the quiet air of your apartment.
You gently lift the dog’s back leg. You confirm the evidence.
This is a male dog.
This is not Gretchen.
This is Leo.
“Oh my god.”
You have Charles Leclerc’s dog. Which means … Charles Leclerc has yours.
A wave of panic, so potent it’s almost nauseating, washes over you. You jump up from the couch. Leo — because this is definitely Leo — looks at you, confused by the sudden movement.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, think,” you say to yourself, pacing the length of your Persian rug. “How do you fix this? How do you fix this?”
You don’t have his number. You don’t know which apartment is his. Monaco is small, but it’s not that small. You can’t just go door-to-door. ‘Excuse me, are you a world-famous Formula 1 driver? And if so, have you accidentally stolen my dog?’
You snatch your phone, your hands trembling slightly. What do you even do? Post on Instagram? Tag him? That seems insane. Mortifyingly insane. Hi @charles_leclerc, sorry to bother you during what I’m sure is a busy schedule of being handsome and driving fast, but I appear to be in possession of your dachshund.
Leo hops off the couch and comes over to you, nudging his wet nose into your hand as if to say, ‘What’s all the fuss about? I’m comfy here.’
You look down at him, your heart sinking. “Your dad is going to think I’m a complete lunatic,” you tell the dog. “Or a dognapper. A very incompetent dognapper.”
You check the collar. It’s a beautiful, soft leather. There’s a small, silver tag attached. You flip it over, your heart pounding with a sliver of hope.
It’s engraved with one word: Leo.
Of course. Why would it have his phone number on it? He’s Charles Leclerc. That would be a security risk.
You sink onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Across the principality, in another apartment that probably has a much better view than yours, is your sassy, judgmental, food-obsessed little girl. And she’s with a man you just met. A very famous, very handsome man who probably thinks you’re, at best, an idiot, and at worst, a kidnapper.
This is, without a doubt, the most bizarre and stressful thing that has ever happened to you.
Leo rests his head on your knee and lets out a tiny, sympathetic sigh.
***
Meanwhile, in an apartment overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Hercules, Charles is frowning at a ceramic bowl that says ‘LEO’ in bold, masculine letters.
The small, cream-colored dog sitting primly at his feet looks from the bowl, to him, and back to the bowl, her expression one of utter disdain.
“What is this?” Charles asks the dog, his voice laced with confusion. “It is your favorite. You love this.”
He had arrived home feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The encounter at the park had been … nice. Genuinely nice. The woman — he hadn’t even gotten her name, he realizes with a pang of regret — was funny and warm, with a laugh that made you want to do whatever it took to hear it again. And her dog’s name … Gretchen Wieners. He smiles to himself just thinking about it.
He’d walked in, unclipped Leo’s leash, and expected the usual routine: Leo would sprint to his water bowl, drink for a solid minute, then come demand his dinner with a series of impatient yaps.
But this dog hadn’t done that. It had walked calmly to the center of the room, sat down, and just watched him. Politely.
“Are you tired, mon bébé?” He’d asked, scratching behind its ears. The dog had leaned into his touch, but it felt different. Less frantic. More refined.
Now, it is refusing to eat.
“Leo, come on. Eat.”
The dog lets out a delicate little huff, turns its back on the bowl, and trots over to the sofa. It sits on the floor and looks up at the cushion, then back at Charles.
“What? You want up?”
The dog just stares.
“Okay …” Charles says, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, then.”
The dog, with an air of someone who feels they’ve finally been understood, hops gracefully onto the sofa and curls up in the corner, tucking its nose under its tail.
Charles stares at it. Leo is not a graceful hopper. Leo is a scrambler, a climber. Leo’s method of getting on the couch involves at least two failed attempts and a final, desperate lunge. This was … elegant.
A strange, unsettling feeling begins to prickle at the back of his neck.
He walks over to the sofa and sits down, observing the dog. It’s the same color. The same size. The same long body and short legs. But is its face a little … narrower? Are its eyes a little more … almond-shaped?
“Am I going crazy?” He murmurs.
The dog opens one eye, regards him, and then closes it again, as if to say, ‘That is a question for your therapist, not for me.’
He leans back, trying to shake it off. He’s just tired. It’s been a long week. The dog is just tired, too. That’s all.
He scrolls through his phone for a while, replying to messages from his team, his family. The dog doesn’t move. Doesn’t snore. Leo snores. Not loudly, but a soft, whistling sound. This dog is perfectly, unnervingly silent.
Finally, he decides to go to bed.
“Okay, time for bed,” he says, standing up. “Come on, boy.”
The dog on the sofa doesn’t move.
“Leo?”
Nothing.
He walks over and gently picks the dog up. It’s warm and sleepy in his arms. He carries it towards his bedroom, talking to it in a low, soothing mix of French and Italian, the way he always does.
“… and tomorrow we can go for a long walk, eh? Maybe see your girlfriend again.”
He sets the dog down on its bed at the foot of his own. As he pulls back his hands, his fingers brush against its stomach.
His hand freezes.
He slowly, carefully, moves his hand again.
There is a distinct lack of something. Something that should be there. Something that has been there every single day of Leo’s life.
Charles’s blood runs cold.
He lets out a string of curses, a fluent, panicked mix of French, Italian, and English.
“Merde. Porca miseria. No, no, no.”
He turns on the main bedroom light, flooding the room in a harsh, bright glare. He kneels down and, with the gentleness of a bomb disposal expert, confirms his horrifying suspicion.
This is a female dog.
This is not Leo.
This is Gretchen Wieners.
He stands up so fast he feels a little dizzy. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
“Okay. Okay.”
He has her dog. The woman from the park. The funny, beautiful woman whose name he doesn’t even know. He has her dog. And she has his.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. This is a disaster. But it’s also absurd. He pictures her, wherever she is, having the same moment of shocking discovery.
Unlike you, however, his panic is quickly replaced by a wry sense of determination. He can fix this. But how? He paces his bedroom, Gretchen watching him from her temporary bed with an expression of mild curiosity.
He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have her number. He doesn’t know her name. But he knows where she was. And he has a very particular set of skills. None of which are useful in this situation.
He checks Gretchen’s collar. A simple leather one, with a gold, heart-shaped tag. He flips it over, hoping for a number, a name, anything.
The tag is engraved.
Gretchen Wieners
If I’m lost, my mom is probably ugly crying.
Charles reads it. Then he reads it again. And then he throws his head back and laughs. A loud, genuine, relieved laugh that echoes in the silent apartment.
“Oh, you are kidding me,” he says to the dog, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Your mother is a comedian.”
Gretchen thumps her tail once, as if to say, ‘The best.’
The tag is useless for contact information, but it’s a jolt of pure personality. It reminds him so clearly of her laugh in the park. The stress melts away, replaced by an overwhelming urge to see her again.
He has to find her.
He has a plan. It’s simple. It’s perhaps a little optimistic. But it’s all he’s got.
He will go back to the dog park first thing in the morning. And he will pray that she has the exact same idea.
***
You did not sleep.
You spent the night with a very cuddly, very sweet male dachshund who seemed thrilled to be having a sleepover. Leo, it turns out, is a world-class snuggler. He burrowed under the covers and pressed his warm little body against your back all night. It was nice. But it wasn’t Gretchen.
Every tiny sound from the hallway had you jumping, half-expecting a knock on the door from a frantic, or angry, Charles Leclerc. You imagined him with Gretchen, who you know for a fact is a bed-hog and will systematically push a person to the very edge of the mattress over the course of a night. You hope she hasn’t declared a coup and claimed his bed for herself.
At 6 AM, unable to lie there any longer, you get up. Leo follows you, stretching his long body with a groan.
“Okay, new friend,” you say, your voice rough with exhaustion. “Here’s the plan. We are going back to the scene of the crime.”
You get dressed with a sense of grim purpose, pulling on jeans and a simple sweater. You forgo makeup. This is a rescue mission, not a fashion show. You clip the leash onto Leo’s collar, your hands clammy.
“Please be there, please be there, please be there,” you chant under your breath as you walk out the door.
The morning air is cool and fresh, the sky a pale, promising blue. Monaco is still sleepy, the streets quiet save for the early-morning hum of street cleaners and the cry of gulls. The walk to the park feels ten times longer than it did yesterday. Leo trots beside you, sniffing the air, perfectly content. He has no idea of the international dog-swapping crisis currently unfolding.
As you approach the gates of the park, your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. The park is mostly empty. An elderly man throwing a ball for a golden retriever. A woman jogging on the perimeter path.
And then you see him.
He’s standing near the same bench from yesterday, looking out over the grass. And at his feet is a very familiar, very regal cream-colored dachshund.
Relief washes over you so intensely your knees feel weak.
“Gretchen!” You cry out.
Charles turns at the sound of your voice. His face breaks into a wide, relieved smile. Gretchen’s head snaps up, her ears perked, and the moment she sees you, her tail starts whipping back and forth like a metronome on high speed.
At the same time, Leo spots Charles and lets out a series of excited yips, pulling on the leash.
You half-walk, half-run towards each other, meeting in the middle of the lawn like soldiers being reunited in a black-and-white movie.
“I am so sorry,” you both say at the exact same time.
You stop a few feet from each other, a little breathless, and then you both start to laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, sleep-deprived, utterly relieved sound.
“I am so, so sorry,” you say again, crouching down to unleash Leo, who immediately bounds over to Charles, jumping up on his legs. “I didn’t even look. I just clipped the leash and walked away. I feel like the worst person on the planet.”
Charles is doing the same, unclipping Gretchen, who sprints the last few feet and practically leaps into your arms. You bury your face in her soft fur, inhaling her familiar dog-smell. “Oh, I missed you, you little monster.”
“Non, non, it is my fault,” Charles says, ruffling Leo’s ears. “I was … I think I was a bit distracted.” He looks up at you, and the meaning is clear in his warm eyes. “I am just happy you are here. I was not sure if you would come.”
“Where else would I go?” You say, stroking Gretchen’s back. “I had your dog hostage. I was about five minutes away from creating a city-wide amber alert.”
He chuckles. “I saw the tag on her collar.”
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh, god. You saw that.”
“The part about the ugly crying?” he says, his smile teasing. “It was very, uh, descriptive. I felt I had a responsibility to prevent this.”
“Mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.”
“I thought it was charming,” he says softly.
You look up, your cheeks flushing. “So, how was she? Was she a nightmare? Did she steal your side of the bed?”
He laughs. “She is a princess, for sure. She refused to eat from Leo’s bowl. She would not get on the sofa until I formally invited her. And yes, she sleeps horizontally. I think I had maybe ten centimeters of the bed last night.”
“That sounds about right,” you say, shaking your head. “Leo was an angel. He’s the world’s best cuddler. And he didn’t eat either. He just whined at Gretchen’s ‘Her Majesty’ bowl and looked at me like I was trying to poison him.”
“He is not used to such a fancy dish,” Charles says. “He is a simple man. A baguette.”
You both smile, the morning sun warming your faces. The dogs, happy to be with their rightful owners, are now sniffing each other again, their crisis averted, their world restored to its proper order.
An easy silence settles between you, filled with the relief of the situation being resolved. But underneath it, there’s a new tension. The excuse for seeing each other is gone. The dogs are back where they belong. This could be another goodbye.
You can’t let that happen.
He can’t let that happen.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a gesture you’re starting to find incredibly endearing. “To prevent, you know, a future canine mix-up of this magnitude …”
“… we should probably be more careful,” you finish for him, your heart starting to beat a little faster.
“Yes. That. But also, maybe I should have your number,” he says, his gaze direct and hopeful. “Just in case. For emergencies.”
“Right,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “Emergencies. Like if I accidentally take your dog again.”
“Exactly,” he says, a playful glint in his eye. “Or if, for example, I wanted to ask if you were free for dinner sometime, to properly apologize for my part in the dognapping.”
A huge, brilliant smile spreads across your face. “I think I could be free for that particular emergency.”
“Good,” he says, his own smile mirroring yours. “That is very good.”
You pull out your phone, and he pulls out his. You trade numbers, your fingers brushing as you hand his phone back to him. A tiny spark zings up your arm.
“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice low.
“Okay,” you breathe out.
He lingers for a moment, as if he doesn’t want to leave. “I never got your name yesterday.”
You tell him. He repeats it, testing it out, the sound of it in his accent making your stomach do a little flip.
“It was very nice to meet you. Properly, this time,” he says.
“You too, Charles.”
He gives a final scratch to Gretchen’s head. “Be good for your mother, Princess.” Then he looks at Leo. “Come on, baguette. Let’s go home.”
You watch him walk away, Leo trotting happily by his side. Just before he exits the park, he turns and gives you one last smile and a wave.
You wave back, your hand feeling floaty and light.
You look down at Gretchen, who is looking up at you with an expression that is somehow both smug and loving.
“Well,” you say, clipping her leash back onto her collar. “I guess you’re a pretty good wingwoman after all.”
Gretchen wags her tail, as if to say, ‘You’re welcome.’
lando norris x reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
RARE AESTHETIC : The year is about to be 2023, you’re thriving at your big girl corporate job and all your best friends became influencers, which inadvertently turned you into their sugar baby. In Ibiza, during a girls’ trip to ring in the New Year, you meet a younger guy with a bright smile and a dirty mouth – and everything goes downhill from there.
AUTHOR’S NOTE : heya!!!! reposting this with a very nice little smutty surprise at the end after taking it down a couple of months ago because i thought i could maybe write a second part… which hasn’t happened yet, but will happen soon #trust. anyways, english is not my first language so please have mercy on me hehe and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it! also please comment what you thought of it i’m #dying to know + let me know if you’d like to be added to an eventual tag list for a just as eventual part 2 (and 3 and 4 and 5? i see their lore clearly in my head i just need to actually write it down grrrr)!!! anyways, welcome to “Nice To Each Other”!!!! <3
WORD COUNT : 13k :p
WARNINGS : smut… *monkey covering eyes emoji*
Your skin is warm from the sun and your cheeks are rosy from the accidental nap you just woke up from. A couple of feet away, in the infinity pool of the nice little villa you rented for the week, the girls are giggling about something silly, with Pinterest-worthy fruity drinks in their hands and cute sunglasses on the tip of their noses. You can kind of hear the waves hitting the shore and your playlist, the one you've curated perfectly exclusively for this trip, is playing faintly from the JBL you dropped on the sun lounger next to yours. The thought of fuck, this is definitely what life is actually all about comes to you abruptly, and it makes you smile, because yeah, you don't really see how it can get any better than this.
Your best mates, your sexiest bikini and an absolutely divine tan – you've officially peaked at 26 years old.
As soon as you sit up to undo the sloppy braids you went to sleep with, the girls notice, and before you even know it, you've got a glass of lychee sangria and a plate of prosciutto e melone on your lap.
"Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty," Isla gushes, her slowly drying body sliding right next to yours on the lounge chair, a pretty grin on her cherry-tinted lips. "Welcome back to the land of the living. You laid down for two seconds and we lost you for the next four hours. Pretty impressive, if you ask me."
You roll your eyes at that. "Sorry, baby, not all of us can live life on easy mode. My very hardworking body cannot make the difference between a power nap and a 10-hours night of sleep anymore."
You can barely hold back your laughter as you say it, and it's now her turn to roll her eyes at you. She huffs and pushes you back to lay on the lounge chair, and when the mocking laugh finally erupts out of you, the slap she jokingly gives your chest just makes you crack up harder. "Shut up, muppet, you work in PR. Also, you're the sexiest bitch I know, so you wake up everyday and willingly make the choice to suffer. Not my problem you refuse to use your tits instead of your brain for once."
This just makes you laugh harder, and her poker face breaks quickly. Her hands come up to unbraid your hair, and you lean into it. The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's the peaceful type of quiet that can only be found when you're around the people that you love the most, and Isla, as it stands, is one of the founding members of this category.
You met at 5 years old, as lifelong best friends tend to do. She was the goalie in the little kids' football team your parents put you in before they realized that you were definitely more of an arts and crafts' girlie than a "run after a ball for two hours and kick it once in a while" kid. Isla, as it turns out, shared your philosophy, and you would most often than not end up sitting down by the goal braiding flowers into each other's hair for the majority of the game. You quickly became inseparable, and that didn't change as you grew up. At 18, as you moved to London for uni, she, who had quickly realized school was not and would never be her forte, came with you in the hopes of finding a purpose. Your first shared flat was a tiny mess with a lot of personality (mold in the bathroom), but you made do, and you made do so well that while you graduated with honors, Isla, who had always been the epitome of the cool English girl, grew an online community so vast it sometimes felt a little bit suffocating. She had started YouTube as soon as you arrived in London, and in three years, she had become a household name in both the city and the Web in general. Her content was that of a relatable twenty-something who was at the same time a chaotic mess and a bright-eyed it girl, so of course people were eating it up. The longevity of it, however, was actually what was the most surprising, because ten years later, here she still was – the brightest star in the sky, with the world at the tip of her fingers and so many brands competing for her attention in her DMs that it made you both a bit dizzy when you tried to deal with it all.
However, Isla has made it clear that wherever she goes, you, her 9-to-5 best friend with a private Instagram account and a permanent resting bitch face would also be. You were, in this big scary world of public perception and Reddit threads, her trusty sidekick, and while some people may take offence to that, you were exactly where you wanted to be. You got to enjoy all of the perks of being an influencer without having to personally deal with any of the inconveniences – who would ever say no to being their best friend's plus one to every single brand trip she's invited to? Not you, definitely, because while you do love your job, it sure as hell is not sending you to the Maldives for free, even though you did get a nice little New York City week last November, all expenses paid, to attend a one-day conference... So you guess it's not all that bad in the big old corporate world.
You're both still sitting in silence, deep in thought, her hands running in your hair, your face nearly in her rack, when Florence, still in the pool, whistles like a perv, getting both of you's attention and bringing you back to the present.
"While I'm aware you guys aren't fucking, I still hope you know that I would pay some seriously good money for that sextape if it ever comes out," she snickers, and you can't help but join in as you jokingly wrap your arms around Isla's waist, pulling her in in a lover's embrace that would definitely make both of your mums blush.
"What, jealous? You can join, babes, we don't mind a good threesome once in a while."
Flo doesn't hesitate, a wide toothy smirk taking over her face, and she nearly runs out of the pool to join you on the lounge chair, which creaks a little bit as it's definitely not made to handle the weight of three women who do pilates thrice a week for the sole objective of having bigger bums. She leaves behind Tilly and Zara, who are laughing, quite used to this underlying homoerotic tension in your friend group, as this gimmick has been going on since you first came together, in what you've come to collectively call "The Genesis", as it definitely sounds better than "we all met in a club at 18 and became inseparable because somebody drugged all of our drinks, which turned out to be a very strong bonding experience and the foundation of girlhood at its purest form".
You, Isla, Florence, Tilly and Zara. The Core 5, or as they like to call it, Y/N's Angels, because out of the five of you, you are the only one whose job is not to simply vibe, and that automatically makes you both their mother and their sugar baby. What a time to be alive.
As you settle in, with two bad bitches on your lap and a minty cigarette between your lips, the girls start to establish the plan for the night, as it's your first one in Ibiza so of course it needs to be iconic. You're happy to just sit there and enjoy the ride, because they're the ones that get invited to clubs and that need to decide which ones to prioritize over the others. Maybe you're the one living life on easy mode, after all.
"All of the reservations for dinner this week have been made when we first booked the trip, so we can't really move that unless David Guetta himself invites us anywhere... which unfortunately probably won't happen knowing the one-sided beef he seems to have with one of us since last time," starts Tilly, pointedly eyeing Florence, who just smiles and blinks innocently as if she doesn't remember that last year she very much ghosted the DJ after he apparently gave her the worst head in the history of man. "This means that we just need a club itinerary for the week. So? Thoughts?"
"I think we should hit Pacha first of all. It's always a good time. Remember the Australian guy you met there the first time we went, Y/N? Is he still trying to contact you on LinkedIn? You little minx," Zara teases you as she fills up everybody's glass to the brim with a fresh new batch of that to-die-for sangria.
You nod as your cheeks heat up a little bit, remembering the man in question. "Well, I never accepted his follow request on IG, so beggars can't be choosers, I guess."
You're not a player, but you do enjoy the game once in a while, and when a guy has an accent, some nice eyes and a head of very pretty curls that look even prettier after being grabbed a little too hard, what's a mere girl to do but take him back home with her? That's just the polite thing to do, after all, and you were raised well.
Thinking about tall, tan and big everywhere made you kind of clock out from the ongoing conversation, and when you come back to it, a gameplan has been made.
"OK, so, it's five PM right now. Let's say we leave for dinner at eight, that gives us three hours to get ready, or two hours of prepping and one hour to look at her emails for Y/N..."
You cut Tilly off, shaking your head. "So considerate. Thank you for your generosity."
They all ignore you, and Isla brings up her strawberry vape to your mouth to shut you up.
Tilly continues, a focused look on her face that can only mean she's already planning the composition of a killer Instagram carousel. "Dress code for tonight? Let's start basic with the all white fits, and we can come back to change after dinner. So, let's say we do flowy, ethereal, linen and lace, gold accents and natural makeup for dinner. Sounds good?"
Everybody agrees. We cheer to it. The JBL is playing "Tití Me Preguntó", and the sun is just hot enough to make everything a little bit more intense, a little bit more perfect.
You smile.
Ibiza, baby.
Three days later, on the very first day of 2023, the girls are out and about while you are stuck back at the villa, as you're never really on vacation when you're the youngest Marketing and Communications Manager Burberry has ever had. Saying you work in PR is a bit of an understatement, sure, but you never really have the time to go into the details, so that's what you usually stick to.
Where there is a brand, there is a crisis, and your job is to make sure that the crisis of today never becomes the crisis of tomorrow. Efficient, brutal and just cutthroat enough to be a little bit scary : there's a reason you got the job of your dreams at 25, and there's a reason you're still here, thriving, a year later. Some say you were made for it. You like to say that it was made for you.
It's been midnight for just about 5 minutes when you finally close your two laptops, take off your blue light glasses and try to loosen the knot in your lower back. Your normal phone (not to be confused with your work phone, whose ringtone has given you PTSD) vibrates twice from where you left it on the dresser so as to not get distracted, and two messages from Isla greet you when you pick it up.
ISLA
heyyyyyyyy boss babe idk when you think you're gonna be done, but fyi we actually ended up at cova santa!!!
and we met some blokes we know there, so just text me when you get here so i can come get you!!! vip baby!!
You're about to text her that you just need to get ready and you'll be there in 45 minutes tops when she sends another text that makes a smile grow on your lips.
ISLA
also i know you're trying to be responsible (lol) but this guy here is 110% your type it's kinda scary so i told him his dream girl is coming soon and i showed him a sexy pic of you and now he's trying hard to act all nonchalant but he asked for your number anyways and he keeps looking at the entrance so pls hurry up xoxo i really want to watch you guys kiss!!!!
Yeah, okay. You're definitely gonna need a couple of tequila shots before you get to her level, but you're also definitely up for the challenge – and if the night does end up with you under Mr. "110% your type"... Well, you can't really be held responsible for it.
What would be Ibiza without at least one little adventure, after all?
An hour later, you make it to Cova Santa, and the quarter of a bottle of tequila you downed as you were curling your hair is starting to hit, if the slight fuzzy feeling that’s taken over your head is any indication. You’re glad you put on one of your cosier, more broken in pairs of Miu Miu heels because you can already tell this is gonna be a long night.
The bass is heavy, the crowd is packed, the lights are bright and Isla quickly grabs your hand to drag you towards the VIP section, still hot as hell and nearly flawless even though she’s been drinking for the past 4 hours, and, realistically, for the past 3 days.
She’s trying to debrief you about something as you walk through the sea of people, and while you don’t hear all of it, you catch her drift pretty quickly.
“OK, so he’s a bit shorter than your usual boytoy, but I think what he lacks in height he compensates in banter! And we both know how much you love some good banter!”
Her scream reaches you through the general noise of the club, and you can’t help but laugh and nod, because yeah, it’s not a secret that you’re a sucker for a 6 with a smart mouth.
“And what does he do? Anything but a DJ, please!”
She pauses in the crowd, a wide smile on her burgundy red lips and an evil glint in her eyes that makes you brace yourself for the bullshit that’s definitely about to come out of her mouth.
“Worse! I think he’s a Twitch streamer!”
You roll your eyes, but once again, the alcohol in your veins makes you unable to feel anything but whimsy, so you start giggling. Ah yes, 110% your type, which of course includes men who play video games for a living. “Fuck you, Isla!!! A Twitch streamer, really? If he’s not cute, I’m being mean to him and that’s gonna be your fault, so I hope you feel guilty when I destroy his little ego and leave him for dead in Cova Santa!”
You ignore all of her jabs of “I swear you’re gonna really like him” and “I’m betting 100 American dollars that you end up in his bed tonight anyways you whore” as you finally reach the VIP section, where Tilly hands you a vodka soda as soon as you step one foot past the bouncer.
“Y/N, baby, you look stunning! What the fuck is this wet dream of a dress?” she gushes as her hands firmly grab your shoulders to both keep you at a viewing distance and to balance herself a bit, because you can clearly see that she’s wobbling a little in those 6 inches high heels. Her brows furrow, and you can see, with the sudden widening of her eyes, that she quickly realizes you’re wearing…
“Is this Versace Spring Summer 2004? Shut up!”
Both your eyes turn towards the younger blonde girl who just appeared next to you, her eyes glued to the fabric of your baby pink dress that is, in fact, straight out of the Versace Spring Summer 2004 collection.
You nod your head enthusiastically, because while this is a stranger, this is a stranger who knows her vintage couture, which automatically makes her a friend. “Yes! I love you!”
She laughs, and all three of you cheer to it. You down your glass, and as soon as you put it down, a new one appears in your hand – one of the many perks of looking like a rich pretentious bitch in those foolish VIP sections. You spend money to get more drinks, so of course they get you more drunk so you want to spend more money to get more drinks. It’s an universal trick, and one you, grand master of marketing, is still not immune to.
The blonde girl introduces herself to you as your friends all come to greet you, and you understand quickly that she’s not that much of a stranger to your friend group as a whole. Her name is Pietra, originally from Brazil, and while in your eyes she’s way too young to be hanging out around a bunch of random men in Ibiza, she’s apparently been dating one of them for a couple of months now, so that supposedly makes it all better. Also, she’s got that spark in her eyes that tells you she’s exactly where she wants to be, so while your maternal instincts urge you to feel some sympathy, the more rational part of your brain urges you to just smile and nod, because that’s just a random Tuesday in the world of people with one too many Instagram followers.
You then meet her boyfriend, Max, and everything suddenly makes sense. That is a D-list celebrity if you’ve ever seen one. He’s got a nice smile (he’s too aware of it, it’s a bit freaky) and he insists on shaking your hand like this is a business meeting, because in his world, every person he ever meets is a business opportunity. Anyways, he’s nice enough, but you once again just smile and nod, as this is a girls’ trip, after all, and you personally don’t really see any business opportunity between a Twitch streamer and Burberry. He’s also pretty quick to write you off as “poor pretty dumb girl with an office job”, which you can tell from his slightly patronizing tone when he explains what he and his entourage do for a living (they have their own brand! cool!). You don’t really mind. You’re not there to make LinkedIn connections, you’re here to get drunk with your friends and shake some ass in your favorite Ibiza club.
Quickly, Zara, Flo, Tilly, Isla and you leave them all behind in the VIP section and jump eagerly into the crowd, your little circle of girls being quickly overpowered by the hundreds of people on the dancefloor. You forget all about the mysterious guy that all of your friends promised you was hot as fuck, as he wasn’t even in the VIP section when you arrived, so he’s not really your problem after all.
A house song you’ve heard once or twice in the London clubs is playing and Zara has her arms over your hips, yours finding her neck as you both sway to the music. You can see Flo recording, and while you already know this is going to end up in her “ibiza w/ my girlfriendzzz” vlog (and unfortunately probably in the intro), you don’t really have it in yourself to care. All of your friends’ fans know who you are, but they don’t really know who you are, if that makes sense. The girls have built a narrative in which you’re their smart, busy, work-driven best friend who just gets in the car on the way to the airport and enjoys the ride… which is not really that far from reality, after all. You’ve planned one trip in the past ten years… and it’s when you got Isla’s parents to drive you both to Wembley Stadium for a One Direction concert… in 2013. So, yeah, you exist, you’re an important part of the Core 5, but you’re mysterious and elusive and the most skilled with a curling iron. You still get thousands of follow requests on Instagram every week, and your name appears on a couple of Reddit threads once in a while, but that’s pretty much it. You’ve stumbled once on a TikTok thirst trap edit of yourself, and while you did save it (you looked very sexy in it, sue you), that was enough doomscrolling for the evening.
The night goes on this way, you and your girls and a beat that is surprisingly in sync with your heart, and an hour or two later, your group has spread, as of course five very fine women on a dancefloor don’t go unnoticed for too long. Personally, you’ve talked to a couple of people, but none of them have really grabbed your attention, so as your phone indicates you that’s it’s just past 3 in the morning, you’ve made your way back towards the VIP section to get some fresh air and to light up an even fresher menthol cigarette.
You find a nearly empty spot with some sofas deeper into the forest, and with a cigarette in your mouth and a half-empty glass in your hand, you nearly throw yourself on one of them, excited for some relief after one too many hours on heels one too many inches too high. You take them off sloppily before taking the opportunity to relax a little bit, laying down on your belly and holding yourself up on your elbows with your feet lazily kicking in the air. On your phone, you scroll halfheartedly through the stupidest Instagram Reels ever, so you alternate between taking a hit and giggling to cat videos, with the surrounding fairylights illuminating your face and the house music just loud enough to get your head to bop a little.
That’s how he finds you.
“I’ve never seen anybody having this much of a good time in a club. What are we watching?”
The voice takes you by surprise, but the vodka in your stomach makes your instincts a bit less instinctual, so you don’t jump. You just slowly turn both your head and your screen towards the newcomer, the naive little smile on your face making the whole situation way sillier than it should be. “Baby cat.”
A very nice smile blossoms on his own lips as his eyes focus on the dumb video, and your heart misses a beat. Oh. You make sure that he’s still staring at your phone before letting your own eyes finally take a full look at the stranger, scanning him from head to toe, and as you do, your spine gets a bit more rigid, your grin a bit more solid, your gaze a bit more focused. Oh.
He’s pretty. Not particularly crazily handsome, but pretty enough that you resist the urge to look too hard at his baby face to make sure that it is fully imprinted in your memory. Nice nose, nice lips, nice jawline – and those eyes. It’s pretty dark out here but you can still see them, and you like what you see. They’re gentle, kind eyes, like those of a little lamb (very weird comparison that your just as really drunk brain is extremely proud of coming up with, thank you very much)... until they focus back on your face, and then the gleam that appears in his gaze would never in a million years be found anywhere near one of those sweet little babies. Except maybe if there was a wolf close. Yeah. This boy is the wolf. He smiles with all his teeth and that just confirms your theory… but if he’s a wolf, and you’re a wolf, then who the fuck is driving the bus?
You got so stuck in your head that you lowkey forgot you’ve got an audience, so when you can’t stop a little laugh from escaping your mouth at the thought that just hit you, he just tilts his head, still smiling, as he manspreads on the sofa in front of yours. Fuck, he’s hot.
“You’re way too fit to be a psycho so I’m just gonna ignore that.”
You finish your cigarette, giggling again, before dumping it in the conveniently neighboring ashtray and turning on your side to face the guy, trying very hard to keep your eyes very far from the strip of tan skin that his unbuttoned linen shirt shows off in a way that is much too sexy to be an accident. Fuck, with this and the messy curls and the very nice outfit, he looks like too much of a good time. You need to chill.
As you go to take a sip out of your glass to concentrate on something that isn’t the way he looks at you, you realize that it’s empty, which means only one thing : you’re screwed.
“Famous last words,” you tease him, and your voice, fully against your will, takes that tone that it only ever takes when you want something real bad. Too late, then. “You never know, I might bite.”
This is the same girl who came to Ibiza with the intention of being responsible. Come on, man.
His smile, which was already sharp, just widens, and he leans forward on his elbows. Yeah, you’re in trouble. “Well, who says I wouldn’t be a willing victim, love?”
He’s so close. Too close. Who the fuck puts two sofas this close?
“Cute,” you softly roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the grin that takes over your face, and it just adds some fuel to his fire.
“I already thought you were pretty in the photos your friends showed me earlier, but those actually really didn’t do you any justice.”
Of course, the guy with the cocky smile is Mr. “110% your type”. Of course.
You shake your head at his words, getting into a position that just accidentally makes your boobs look even better than before. You catch his eyes going downwards quickly before focusing back on yours, and while he knows that you just saw that, he definitely doesn’t care. You’re playing a game together, and for once, it seems like you’ve potentially met your match.
“Funny because my friends told me the bloke they spoke with was taller, though, so I think you might have the wrong person…”
He laughs, and the fact that it’s not a fake laugh has you resisting the urge to sneakily rub your thighs together. What do you mean you’re standing in front of a man that’s both proper fit and self assured? This is a trap. It has to be. Where are the hidden cameras?
“Oh, Y/N, right? You and I are gonna have so much fun.”
It’s just you two in what has to be the most quiet spot in all of Ibiza. No interruption, no buffer of any kind. Just you, him and the visceral urge to sit in his lap.
Fuck me, I need a drink.
It’s after a good minute of way too intense eye contact that you realize you don’t even know his name yet. He’s still leaning towards you like your grin is a magnetic force, so it’s not a surprise when he comes even closer as soon as you open your mouth to ask the question. It’s as if he can’t control himself, as if this crazy tension between you overpowers his senses. The feeling of it all is heady, and you shiver lightly at the realization that this is probably the most insane case of lust at first sight in the history of man. That, or you’re so down bad that any guy with some nice blue eyes gets you going like a blushing virgin.
You need to keep your cool. You really, really need a fucking drink.
As soon as the thought hits you, it’s as if the connection between you both goes deeper than just two strangers who want to shag the other, because he raises his own glass to his lips, and the sight of his Adam apple moving as he swallows has you gulping softly. He’s still looking at you with those killer bedroom eyes when you reach your hand out in the universal “give me” motion, and he, without any question, gives you what you want instantly. Be chill. Be chill. This is a man. Just a man.
His fingers flutter against yours for a second or two, and just to add insult to injury, he obviously very voluntarily strokes the back of your thumb with his own calloused one before letting go.
You resist the urge to chug it all in one go, because you’ve still got a little bit of dignity to maintain. Instead, in an attempt to even back the scales, you deliberately put your lips exactly where his were a couple of moments ago. He notices. Once again, his gaze sharpens, and you catch his pupils dilating. There you go. Just a man.
You take a dignified little sip of his gin and tonic, letting out a satisfied little “ah!” when you’re done. You’re not the biggest fan of gin, so this is definitely just a part of this little performance you’ve got going on. He still hasn’t looked at anything else but you, so you guess that it’s working… just as you expected.
“What’s your name?” you finally ask him, before slowly licking your upper lip to swallow the residue of alcohol that stuck to your clear lipgloss.
He sounds a bit winded when he answers. “Lando.”
You tilt your head, still laying on your side on the sofa and holding yourself upright on your elbow. Your maneater smile (as the girls like to call it) softens a bit. “Lando. Cute. Where’s it from?”
“My mum,” he offers, and his eyes crinkle, his gaze turns fond.
In turn, it warms your heart, because while this is definitely a playboy, it is also first and foremost a mumma’s boy. “Even cuter. It’s surprisingly very fitting, so good job to her.”
You’re not lying. He does look like a Lando, as crazy as it sounds. It’s a bit whimsical, and he has what you can only describe as elfish features, in a way. You don’t really know why, but it’s getting to you. Must be that 12 year old you who was obsessed with Legolas is finally waking up from wherever she’s hiding in the depths of your boy-obsessed brain.
“No Star Wars joke? I’m in love,” Lando jokes, and when you laugh, in an attempt to ignore the warmth his voice ignites in your chest, he chuckles too.
He’s so close that you can feel his breath on your skin when he does, and the warmth of it has you losing focus a little bit. You’d just need to lean forward a little bit, to maybe sneakily reach out a hand, to feel his skin against yours again. You feel dizzy with want. This is, you think, the most down bad you’ve ever been, which is fucking preposterous in itself, because as far as you know this man could be – “Are you a Twitch streamer for real or did my friend just say that to freak me out? Because, just so you know, I refuse to fuck a Twitch streamer. So, yeah. Answer wisely.”
It slips out of you too quickly, too honestly, and suddenly all your cards are on the table, and the ball is in his court. Oops. Oh well. So much for mystery and nonchalance and will they, won’t they. You want him, he wants you (if the grin that just blossomed on his lips is any indication) and now you’re both officially aware of each other’s intentions.
He runs his hand through his hair, and while you let yourself be distracted by the veins in his forearm for a second too long, you focus back on his face when he starts talking. “What’s wrong with being a Twitch streamer, anyways?” he asks you, with his eyebrows up and his smile mocking. “And no, I’m not. Well, it’s not my full time job, anyways. So I think fucking me won’t go against your moral standards, baby.”
You ignore the pet name, because it’s now your turn to raise your brows at him. “Lots of words for a guy who definitely is a Twitch streamer.”
Lando rolls his eyes in fake exasperation and quickly steals his glass back from you, making you gasp in exaggerated consternation at his action. This little game you’re playing is the most fun you’ve had in weeks.
“It doesn’t count, you little brat. I do it for like, an hour a month or something. It’s job number five out of five, so that tells you how much of a Twitch streamer I am.”
That grabs your attention. “And what’s job number one? Professional Fortnite player who, oh, actually does it in front of a camera?”
Lando’s smile widens. You’re so fucking hot, so fucking wrong, and mostly so fucking loud about it it’s adorable. “I’m a driver, actually.”
Your smile drops, and you unconsciously pout a little in confusion, because, yeah, that’s both unexpected and a first. “Like, a taxi driver?”
As soon as you say it, you know there’s simply no way that Lando, with his self-assured smirk and his confident manspread that is surprisingly more sexy than annoying, is a taxi driver.
It’s as if he can read your thoughts. “Yeah, no, no taxis. The cars I drive are a bit faster than that.”
On a normal day, if you were sober, you would probably be able to answer him in a rational way, with a full sentence, a verb and a period at the end. However, it’s nearly sunrise, you’ve been drinking for a couple of hours and his stare makes your already fogged up brain even more of a jumbled mess, so the thing that comes out is a very strong new entry in your Top 10 of Most Stupid Things You’ve Ever Said Ever.
“Lewis Hamilton?”
Your mouth closes straight after, the realization of what you just said hitting you at full speed as soon as it’s out, while his opens, and stays open for a couple of seconds as he considers how to reply to such a wonderful and intelligent claim. When it comes out, it sounds more like a question than an answer. “Well. Yes. But like, Lando Norris?”
“Oh. Cool. That’s… cool,” you declare very smartly, before oversharing as you tend to do when you’re plastered and a bit embarrassed. “I only know Lewis because I work with him, so I don’t really know anything about your cars, other than they're, like, fast. Sorry for not knowing you, anyways. I’m sure you’re just as fast as Lewis. Well, maybe not, because everybody says he’s the best, and I’ve never seen him drive myself, but you know, if everybody says it.. even though everybody said the world was going to end in 2012 and-”
“Wait, you work with Lewis? How? As an influencer? What?”
His voice cuts you off as he shortcircuits, and you’re glad for it because that was a monumental Y/N rant that would have probably ended up with you most probably talking about how you lost your virginity (2012 was a dark time for everyone, okay). His gaze, which is suddenly a bit less sultry and a bit more tense, is intently scrutinizing your face. He’s slowly leaning away from you as in his head, he’s talking about all of the things you could actually be : an obsessed groupie, a journalist, or even a random woman hired by another team to fuck up his already shaky reputation even more.
In his mind, you stop being just a pretty, easy girl with a sharp tongue and doe eyes. You become a threat : an extremely fit threat, sure, but a threat anyways.
You don’t notice his inner dilemma because your eyes close in an unladylike chortle as soon as he says it, as you’re actually both not really surprised and not offended by it all. It’s a common mistake, but it’s still pretty funny to your tired brain at the moment. “I’m not an influencer, you muppet. Just because I’m a pretty girl with a fancy dress doesn’t mean I got it in a brand deal.”
That seems to settle Lando a bit, and while he’s still not fully back at ease, he relaxes a little, taking another sip before handing you the glass so you can finish it off. “So what are you? Because right now, with all the clues you’ve given me, I’ve got one option, and I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.”
You understand what he means as soon as he says it, and you cackle freely, finally sitting up, resisting the urge to let your legs land on his lap. “Lando! Are you implying I’m a whore?”
It seems your laugh is contagious, before his cocky smirk cracks to let a snigger through, and he finally leans back on one of his elbows as his other hand coincidentally lands on your knee, which rubs against his when he moves closer. “Not a whore,” he protests halfheartedly, but the glint in his eyes has you shaking your head as you scoff at his very obvious dishonesty. He still keeps the act up, letting his lips part then purse as he fakes some very intense pondering. “More like… whore-adjacent.”
“Ah! Shut the fuck up, you Twitch streamer!”
You’re still laughing, and he is too, and his left hand tries to sneakily move up your thigh. You jokingly slap it away before it gets too close, and he gasps in mock protest. His nose scrunches as he keeps up the smug eye contact you’ve got going, and suddenly his other hand, just as large, just as warm, is back on your thigh. Cocky motherfucker.
You let him win this round, though, because you can’t deny the fact that his grasp on you has your stomach in knots and your throat drying up.
“So, not a whore, then. Just a very pretty girl with a very mysterious job,” he drawls in an attempt to smooth things over, and you hum.
“Yeah, if you consider working in PR as mysterious, then sure.”
His gaze lights up, and he happily huffs. You act as if you can’t feel his grip tightening steadily on the skin of your thigh. It’s a win-win situation, anyways. No need for drama.
“Well, look at that. You work in PR, I’m a PR nightmare. Match made in heaven,” he playfully exclaims, before quickly understanding, from your raised eyebrow, that this might not be the smartest thing to say to a PR girl who you want to get into your bed at the end of the night. “Which is what I would say if I was a PR nightmare, but as I am of course definitely not any of that, then I guess that’s too bad for the actual PR nightmares out there.”
He shrugs innocently, and that whole little shtick makes you nearly laugh too hard again until you catch yourself right before it happens. Come on, Y/N, you need to grow a spine, like, yesterday.
In his mind, there’s still a question that you haven’t answered. “Are you, like, a PR assistant? Definitely fashion, right? You’ve got that whole thing about you. How did you even end up working with Lewis? I can’t remember him working with any brand recently, except maybe…”
You cut him off, because for once, you’re talking to a guy who seems actually interested in your job, and even though you know that this is not a pissing contest, you can’t resist the animal instinct in your DNA that makes you want to impress the beautiful man in front of you. “Burberry? Yeah, we’ve got a little bit of a partnership going in with Lewis right now, which is pretty cool, to be frank. I’m kind of like the link between his team and ours, actually, as the Head of the Marketing and Communications Department,” you offer in a very humble way, your shoulders rising in your best impression of a nonchalant shrug.
He’s stopped moving, and his thumb, which had been tracing slow circles on the skin of your thigh for the past minute, freezes completely. “Head?! Like Chief? Like Big Boss?”
You nod proudly, manipulating his state of shock to your advantage as you let your hand finally wander up his forearm, because you’ve been a very good girl for the past hour or so and you can’t resist the temptation anymore. It’s like a little treat, a little reward, when you let your fingers trace the solid lines of his arm until they hit the rolled sleeve right under his elbow just to stop right under it. You scratch lightly the sensitive skin there with the tip of your nails, and his breathing speedens a bit, but he hides it quickly, way too curious to let himself be distracted.
His voice is disbelieving, but not in a mean, condescending way. He sounds boyish, a bit concerned, a bit awed, and his following exclamation surprises the shit out of you. “But you’re like 23! And you’re the boss? You must be the most fucking terrifying PR rep ever. I knew you were definitely a bit mean, but this is crazy. And so sexy. Fuck, you’re so sexy.”
It’s your turn to freeze a little, because you’ve only heard one thing out of everything he’s just said, and that’s... “You think I’m 23?”
It comes out strangled, and he nods enthusiastically. His eyes are so expressive that you can see the sincerity in them, and you wince sharply, because you finally see through the lust-tinted glasses you’ve been wearing since you’ve met him, and it’s not looking good. You’ve been staring at him for an hour straight, but it’s the first time you actually see him, all of him. The very noticeable puppy eyes he’s making at you right now, showcasing his confusion at your reaction, just confirm everything, and you sober up nearly immediately.
You quickly take your hand off his arm before sighing deeply, closing your eyes as you do.
“Lando, how old are you?”
He frowns, not really understanding why this is all of a sudden pertinent or important. “I’m 23,” he states, before he flinches back in panic. “Wait, what the fuck, you’re not a minor, right?”
While this situation is nothing to laugh at, his question is so absurd you can’t fight the giggle that wants to escape your throat. Oh, come on.
“A minor? Lando!”
He’s grimacing a bit at himself, realizing how stupid this sounded, and both his hands lift in the air in a “not guilty” gesture, his eyes going from scared to amused in a second or so.
“What? What’s the problem, then? Your name’s not Y/N? You’re not British? Your tits are fake? What is it?”
You just sigh again, both in plain astonishment and in utter disarray, because this is the dumbest situation you’ve ever been in, and you can’t believe it’s happening for real to you on a random Monday morning in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Lando, I’m not 23. I’m 26, about to be 27 in three months. I could, like, be your mother!”
Lando physically recoils, until his brain catches up to the quick math of it all and he tsks at you. “Yeah, okay. Now, I’ve never been very good with numbers, but even I can tell you that this is not true. For a big boss, I would have expected you to know that, but I guess they just promote anyone these days.”
He’s too sassy for his own good, but you can’t even respond before his two hands find themselves back on your thighs, his grip solid, grounding.They don’t move even when you try to push them off, because clearly this boy does not understand the gravity of the situation.
His following statement just confirms that. “So, you still haven’t explained what’s the problem here.”
You gasp at him, your whole mask of nonchalance forgotten ever since you found out his age. “The problem? I don’t fuck kids, that’s the problem. I don’t want to be a cougar, thank you very much.”
This whole speech contradicts wildly with the fact that your hands, even though they’ve stopped trying to push him away, haven’t moved, and are now laying flatly on the top of his, your fingers curling slightly against the curve of his thick wrists. Fuck, I’m turning into my mother.
Your panic just makes him laugh, and it’s such a pretty laugh that you can only pretend to get mad at it. “Y/N, first of all, I’m repeating myself here, but I would definitely be a willing victim if that were to be the case. Second of all, it’s not, so calm the fuck down. Would it help if I told you I turn 24 tomorrow?”
You contemplate that as his calloused thumbs go back to tracing smooth circles on the skin of your thighs, luring you into him, your upper body leaning towards his unconsciously. “Well, yeah, it would.”
He nods, as if to say “well there you go”.
“Great, then. It’s not true, though, but if it makes you feel better, we can go along with it.”
“Lando!”
“What?! I’m trying to help, here!”
You stand up sharply, and he stays seated, which makes him look up at you with these laughing eyes and this sinful, cheeky mouth, and while you do have the higher ground now, you think it makes you even more down bad.
His fucking hands are still on your body. At this angle, they feel enormous, like they could cover the whole length of your thighs, and oh so warm, so inviting… but you are an adult, and your willpower will not be defeated by a nice pair of hands.
“Lando, your brain is not yet fully developed, so I’m making an executive decision for us both here,” you start, right before he cuts you off.
“This is like… reverse ageism!”
His facial expression is insulted, but his tone is mocking, and his grasp on you moves from the front of your thighs to the back of them, which brings you infinitely closer to him and his long eyelashes. When he exhales longly, voluntarily, it nearly hits straight against the junction of your legs, and your eyes narrow in an attempt to scold him and his whorish behavior. It has the opposite effect, however, as the corners of his lips turn up and you feel his fingers inching up, up, up… until they disappear under the hem of your dress.
Lando lets you talk. He knows women like you : if you don’t get it all out, it’s gonna haunt you for the rest of your time with him, and he’d rather you be fully, mentally and physically there with him when he finally gets you where he wants to.
“Stop joking! I don’t want to be like… a predator. You’re probably famous, right? At least a little bit, anyways. Imagine the headlines : Grandma’s Still Got It!”
He guffaws. He can’t help it. This is the most fun he’s had in months, he thinks.
You’re still freaking out, but it’s more of a downward spiral than anything, so he finally cuts you off before you make yourself insane with what-ifs and conspiracy theories.
“And, and I’m going to walk around London, and people are going to point and laugh and go old hag! Old ha-ah!”
Your knees fail you when he jerks you towards him, and you literally fall into his lap, the quick move shutting you up instantly. You’re stretched over his strong thighs, and you feel him right under you. No more mental breakdown : the only thing you can think about is him, and his scent, and his arms, which have now moved right under your bum to hold you against him.
You can’t meet his eyes, and the pout that takes over your face is just a very poor attempt at seeming annoyed and not turned the fuck on. If you’ve lost all control over the situation, at least you still have yourself… right? Right?
“Deep breath, baby. That was a lot of words. Silly words at that,” he chides, and while normally you wouldn’t tolerate the slightly patronizing tone, you’re a bit tired and he’s pretty and his body against yours feels very nice.
You however don’t take that much needed deep breath, because even though he’s a fine man with a deep voice, he’s still a man, and you think listening to him like that would be your final straw. To be fair, you’d rather die, so when you start holding your breath instead, it’s quite funny to watch Lando shake his head dejectedly as soon as he notices.
“Okay, you muppet, be a brat, see if I care.”
You resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him, because, well, your own thing was about being too old for him, so that wouldn’t look too good – but God do you want to.
Instead, you let your own hands wander, playing idly with the open collar of his shirt to ground yourself, but mostly to mess with him. In return, his fingers tighten and you feel them getting closer to where you actually want them.
Oh well, may the best tease win here.
Even though you’re distracted, you still haven’t forgotten the problem at hand here, and he knows it, so he adjusts his stance.
“To go back to what I was saying,” he cheekily starts, because you both know that he wasn’t saying anything, “26 and 23 is nothing. You’re not a cougar. You’re a beautiful woman and I’m a man with eyes and, no surprise there, I want you.”
His honesty is charming. Your pout turns into something a bit more mischievous, but you’re still looking anywhere but his eyes. Right now, you’re actually focusing on the cute little moles splattered over his face. They’re adorable. He’s adorable.
As soon as the thought hits you, it’s as if a switch turned on in his brain, because one second his face is a couple of centimeters away and the next his chin is in the valley of your breasts, his head angled up so his slightly open lips hit the tip of your chin and his eyes lock directly into yours when the surprise finally makes you look.
The atmosphere is all of a sudden not light anymore. It’s so tense that you feel it in your core, in the tip of your nipples, in the roots of your hair. The fact that he has this much power over you makes you shiver, because that is a 23 years old guy you met not even a day ago, and this whole thing is pretty fucking terrifying. However, this is a question for later, because right now is not the time for thinking. Yeah, definitely not.
“I also wouldn’t mind being the predator,” he whispers against your jaw, and even though it’s a bit of a shitty pick up line and any other the corniness of it all would have made you cringe, right now it makes a quiver go down your spine, which has you straightening right into him.
Lando just looks at you after that, and with the deadly combo of both his eyes and his hands on you, it isn’t long before you let go of any rational thought holding you back.
He wins this one… but something in you tells you that this might be a win-win situation.
Your hands go up to the back of his head as a symbol of your defeat, and when you finally kiss him, Lando’s smiling.
He’s still smiling as he kisses you back and as he lets his fingers slowly reach under the back of your thong, playing with it, making you arch into him. It’s hot and it’s fast and it’s long overdue, and you’re so fucking glad that you gave in, because that is a man that knows how to kiss. His frame is solid under you, and your arms are around his wide shoulders and tangled in his hair as you can’t resist the urge to grind softly against him. The groan that escapes him is sinful, and it’s now your turn to smile, because it’s a very clear sign that you get to him just as much as he gets to you, and what a delightful thing that is.
You kiss and you kiss and you kiss for what feels like hours. He makes sounds that have your insides clenching and you feel him slowly getting harder under you, and you wonder out of the blue if 23 year old boys can still come untouched. It’s a fleeing thought, though, and you forget it as soon as he pulls you closer as if he can’t stand the mere idea of there being even just a tiny bit of empty space between your two bodies. As it stands, his tongue is in your mouth and his long fingers are so close to your cunt that it nearly hurts and you’re about to break it off to finally tell him to just fucking do it when your long-forgotten cellphone vibrates behind you, on the empty sofa where you left it.
You ignore it the first time, but when it vibrates again, and again, you unwillingly pull yourself away from Lando, who protests nearly whiningly (you’d never thought you’d ever say that but it is sexy as fuck) before throwing his head back, his breath, loud and erratic, sounding like music to your ear. Not to flex, but yeah, you’ve done that. It’s pretty fucking gratifying.
You blindly stretch back and grab your phone after a few tries, and Lando looks at you while you giggle at the screen. The light illuminates you in a way that makes you look alive, and he catalogues it all in his brain, just to remember that you’re real and not straight out of his teenage wet dreams. He stares under lowered eyelids at your fucked up, nearly fully gone lip liner, at your messy curls, at the little dark smudges of mascara under your eyes. He traces the ridges of your flushed face, the pretty pink apple of your cheeks, the way you bite your sensible, puffy lips as you smile at whatever the fuck you’re looking at on your phone. Lando can’t believe now that he first thought you were a random influencer, because it’s clear to him now that you’re not just a pretty girl in a sea of pretty girls. You’ve got this whole aura around you, and while he doesn’t really know you yet, there’s a feeling in his chest that makes him desperately want to.
He needs to snap out of it, though. This is not very Ibiza-party-boy chill of him.
“What’s so funny?” his voice comes out ragged, a bit worse for wear, and he doesn’t really try to do anything about it because in two minutes tops he plans to be back on track with his mouth fused to yours.
You shake your head, and you gaze up from the screen to lock eyes with him as you do.
“Nothing. Just the girls. They texted me to tell me that they’re about to leave,” you tell him, trying your best to not sound winded from the very intense snogging session that just happened, but failing miserably as your eyes can’t stop darting down to his now wet lips.
He hums lowly, nodding, and as he brings his hands up from your bum to your waist, holding you steady on his lap, he smirks slowly.
“Tell them we’re about to leave too, then.”
It’s now your turn to smile smugly, because yeah, that’s a pretty good plan.
“Should I also make sure to tell them to not wait up?”
He fakes thinking about it for five seconds or so, before nodding twice, nonchalantly, like you’re just two people discussing the weather and not the very intoxicating fact that in the next hour you are most definitely gonna end up naked under him in his bed.
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, baby. You’re very smart, you know that?”
“Hm,” you shrug as you text back an update to the groupchat, ignoring the way his big hands are now gently cupping your breasts as if to give you a bit of a preview. “I’ve been told once or twice.”
You’re both grinning as you throw the phone back on the sofa behind you, and you run your hand through your hair to tame it a bit before gripping his forearms again, enjoying the feel of them flexing under your grasp. Ỳou inhale once, before boldly waggling your eyebrows at him in a way that has his own raising in glee.
“So… where were we?”
The door to his room doesn't even have the time to slam closed before the straps of your dress are off and this boy lets vintage couture hit the floor like the brute he is.
Normally you would complain at least a little bit, just for the sake of it, but with his tongue in your mouth and his grip on your arse, you're a bit too busy to care. Oh well, you'll send it to the dry cleaner when you're back in London.
That's not to say that you don't have your hands full too : you're unbuttoning his shirt (well, the last two buttons that weren't already undone) as fast as you can with your eyes closed and as soon as it's off, you're letting your fingers wander, tracing the ridges of his surprisingly robust chest and teasing a little bit as you go down, down, down...
Lando takes his mouth off yours and he huffs a laugh, his forehead leaning against yours for a second or two. "Ok. Bed. Now."
You certainly won't say no to such a wonderful offer.
You push him back towards the edge of it, and his eyes are on you as he backs up. You're naked, bar your Agent Provocateur thongs and your heels. The heat in his gaze has you shivering, but you keep your composure up. You're cool and composed when you kick the Miu Miu's off your feet, smiling a little bit, because this is all a show and you are a wonderful, wonderful performer. He's already lucky enough to just be looking at you, so of course you won't make it too easy a job for him to get you to the second act.
He's sitting on the bed, shirtless, hair a mess, when you walk towards him, and the way he tilts his head back to lock his eyes to yours has your smile widening. In this light, with the very early morning glow hitting the left side of his face just right, there's a glint in his gaze and the lines of his jaw, of his brow and of his nose are so sharp you inhale abruptly at the sight. This guy, this stranger, makes you go fucking crazy. You've never felt this much attraction to a one-night-stand, and you just know the next entry in your journal is gonna be titled "Lando". He doesn't know it, but he's just made it to the yearly "Men Of The Year" PowerPoint night with the girls.
You're still not speaking when you make it in between his thighs, and you just tilt your head a little when his fingers start toying with the sides of your panties. There's a duality in Lando that makes him both cute and sexy at the same time, and it's the type of duality you've only ever seen in the most famous of men you've worked with, which reminds you that yes, you are to about to fuck with a celebrity, and yes, that goes against every single rule you've followed diligently since the beginning of your career. Fortunately, you don't have the time to think too much about it, as he pulls you to sit on top of him and the feel of his warm skin on yours has you blanking.
The feel of his hands settling on your hips is grounding in a way that surprises you. Warm. Certain. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment forever and nothing else exists beyond the press of body on body and the soft dip of the mattress beneath you both.
For a second, you just sit there, thighs bracketing his, the room unbearably quiet except for the sound of your breathing — his a little uneven, yours carefully controlled. You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way his fingers flex ever so slightly, like he's restraining himself on purpose. It does something dangerous to you, that restraint. Makes your stomach tighten.
"You're so fucking gorgeous," Lando murmurs, voice low as if he doesn't want to disturb the peace, to cut the tension that's built between you.
You're smiling again, and your voice is just as low when you answer, but there's a hint of mischievousness in it that betrays your true feelings. "Thank you very much."
"Not even a you too? You meanie," he chides lightly, but with his smirking face in your neck and hard cock under you, you don't take it too personally.
"Hm, maybe later."
He's scoffing jokingly, and when he bites the top of your left tit in retribution, you gasp more out of outrage than of surprise, because of course this little brat would do something like this.
As a result, you pull his hair tightly. The moan that leaves his parted lips is a bit of a revelation, but once again not a surprise. Of course this puppy-eyed cocky bastard loves some good hair-pulling. Fork found in kitchen and all that.
He's back to kissing you before you can mock him a bit for it, though, so that'll be for later.
Five seconds later, he has you under him, so quickly that you can't really comprehend how the switch happened. You're so fucking wet that it doesn't matter, anyways. What actually matters is the fact that if in the next five minutes he isn't in you, you are going to actually lose your mind.
He's still kissing you when you take matters into your own hands, trying very hard to unbutton the top of his linen trousers with your hands that are shaking slightly in want. God, you want, you want, you want. You've never been this horny in what feels like forever. You'd like to say that it's not him, it's you being just a very sexual being in general, but you can't lie, his smell and his grip and his everything are getting to you.
He understands what you want quickly, and he helps you to get his trousers off, kicking them away when they get too far down for you to continue. You hum in gratitude and to thank him, because you're a very polite girl, you let your fingers finally flutter against his cock throughout the fabric of his boxers. You're not blind to the straightening of his spine and to the inhale he suddenly takes through his nose. He's so fucking affected by you that it makes you even wetter, which you didn't think could be possible all things considered.
Lando tries to hide how erratic his breath is getting, because the fact that he's literally about to come nearly untouched at the big age of 23 is incredibly embarrassing, as his long fingers come to clench on top of your breasts. You're shaking again, but the want is slowly turning into need and it's all getting a little bit too much. This is, literally, hour 3 or 4 of foreplay, now. Enough.
There's no more hesitation between you two, because it seems you've both come to the same conclusion in your heads. Lando's lips make their way to the valley of your breasts and his calloused fingers slide your thong down your thighs before coming back up to finally feel you. There's something in his eyes when he realizes how much you want this that has you arching into him, because you're not one to be all that thrilled at a man's approval, but he seems so proud of himself (and of you!!! in a weird way!!! this is all so weird!!!) that you're feeling yourself just get hotter and hotter as the moments and the feelings go on.
Your movements also get hasty, as if you're both running against the clock. You pull down his boxers just enough to finally get his cock out, and while you can't see with the way he's pressed against you, you can tell that it's pretty just by the feel of it against your palm. He's thick and veiny and so fucking hard it must hurt. He's also began to breathe choppily against you, as if he just ran past the finish line of a marathon. His strong thighs, which are holding him up over your, are starting to flex rhythmically like he's having a stroke, but no, it's actually just you. You stroke him once, twice, before Lando stops you, eyes closed, jaw clenched. His fingers leave your cunt, which he was lazily petting, surprisingly aware that you were too fired up for more and way too tired for two orgasms in a row, as he slowly starts to rise up from you.
You let up a disapproving noise when his heat leaves you, and with your eyelids low, you wrap your arms around his strong shoulders to keep him against you. No, wait, don't leave, fuck me!
"Wait, wait, wait," Lando nearly begs you, because with your lips pouting and your sad little eyes you're starting to make him feel bad for trying to be a good person. "I'm just getting a condom, baby, I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving."
He kisses your pout quickly, sneakily, and you hate to admit but his tone and his care make you melt.
"I genuinely couldn't leave if I wanted to, anyways. You've got me fucking drunk on that pussy," he mutters as he gets on his knees to reach the bedtable on the right side of the bed, and while this was definitely an inside thought, you're glad he says it because it makes you finally gain some control back over yourself.
"One more second with my hand over your cock and you were done for, by the way," you tease him, using this little break from the feverish sexual tension as an excuse to stretch your arms over your head to fight the tightness that's taken over your shoulders.
Lando nods quickly and his facial expression as he opens the drawer has you grinning, because you've never seen a man look both this horrified and this appalled by his own behaviour. "Oh, believe me, I'm very aware of that," he nearly squeaks, and the break in his composure makes you finally laugh out loud.
You're still giggling when he's suddenly back on top of you, ripping the condom wrapper off with his teeth and frowning at you in fake outrage. "You think that's funny, huh?"
You stop laughing at the sight, because he's tan and wrecked and glorious, but you just cannot stop being a fucking brat anyways, so, with your lip in between your teeth, you nod cheekily. He then nods back, but it is slow and measured, and the way his veins bulge against his thick neck grabs your attention, so you miss the way he takes his cock in his hands and rolls the condom over it. You're still laser-focused on his neck when his fingers end up in your hair and his grip tightens to pull your head back so you can finally look back into his eyes. You gasp, because yeah, sue you but you definitely match his freak when it comes to hair-pulling.
"You want it, hm?" he asks, and the sudden dirty talk has your brain shortcircuiting. Well hello there. "You want my cock?"
You're still biting your lower lip, and while it's starting to fucking hurt, you're grateful for it as it is the last thing holding you back from instantly nodding.
The situation is not in your favor. You're laying down and he's standing upright on his knees, holding his cock while he also holds your gaze. He's tan and there's a slight sheen of sweat over his bronzed skin that makes him glow, and the flexing of both his thighs and his biceps just highlight the sheer strength hiding in his somewhat unassuming body. That's the kind of build you associate with swimmers, in a way : broad shoulders, tight waist and very nice glutes. You think he would do wonderful in a pilates class.
"Come on, pretty, don't get shy on me all of a sudden," Lando adds before very voluntarily letting the tip of his prick hit your clit, and a surprised moan is the only answer you give him. "Yeah, I know, baby, you want it so fucking bad, right?"
Your hands are reaching for his chest against your will, because you just need to feel him. He, who is trying very hard to be in charge of the situation, lets you do it, because he's as hungry for it as you are. He even leans in, letting his navel hit yours and settle there, and you feel his toned stomach extending against yours as he breathes. The intimacy of it all is stifling.
You're undulating your hips under him, and every time the tip of his cock catches your clit, you exhale sharply. "L-Lando," you stutter with your eyes closed, because it's all too much, and you don't think you could give him the begging he wants right now even if you wanted to.
He's pussy-drunk, you're cock-stupid – what a fucking dream team.
"Ok, ok, baby," it's his turn to sound like he's choking on his own breath. "'m gonna fuck you, baby."
And fuck you he does.
As soon as he slips the tip in, you're arching into his body, your face pressing into the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. You're panting at the feeling, at the rightness of it, because this has been a long time coming. You simultaneously both sigh in bliss when he's fully in, because there he is and there I am and there we are finally together.
There's no pause, no break, no moment of hesitation. As soon as he is in your cunt, his hips go to work, and he starts pounding, to your absolute delight. It's so weird that this stranger seems to know exactly what you want when you want it, but you don't spend too much time questioning it because ever since you met Lando 4 hours ago, he proved that you're surprisingly very alike in way too many ways – a fact that is a bit scary considering you're a nearly 27 years old woman and he's a freshly 23 years old guy, and worse, a 23 years old professional athlete. You sure do hope that he's the one that is a bit too mature for his own age and not the opposite.
Your fingers are grasping at any part of him you can reach, and as he fucks into you with vigor, your nails find the middle of his back and press in, because you need to attach yourself to something, anything. Lando shudders against you when the pain hits him and it just makes him piston into you harder because yeah, it's confirmed, you're his fucking dream girl. He never doubted you would disappoint, but here you are, ticking all of his boxes one after the other without even knowing it.
While he's having an eye-opening realization (he never wants this night to end), you are too, but mostly because you're about to come for the first time from penetration alone. His big hands are so tight on your hips that it hurts, keeping you as close as humanly possible, and there is no stimulation other than his cock inside you and his pelvis deeply grinding into your clit with every back-and-forth of his own hips, but for once in your life, that is enough. There's something building slowly but surely in your chest, a feeling you can't name, you can't place, but it's sirupy and it's fluttery and it's undeniably good and special and beautiful.
If you were drunker, this is when you would say "I love you". Actually, you're now stone cold sober, and you're resisting the urge to do it. As you'd rather die than ever do that, you just moan against him, biting his soft skin to ground you to something solid, to something real.
His pace is unforgiving, and his hands have moved to your bum as soon as your legs wrapped around his waist to get him even closer. You're both so fucking loud it's a bit shameful, but there's no place for shame of any kind in a room that is already filled to the brim with so much lust and so much tension. He hits all the right places, all the spots that make you twitch and tweak and scream out in glee, and without any warning, you're coming.
It's loud and it's messy. It doesn't hit you in waves – it hits you like a fucking tsunami. You're panting and he's nearly fucking growling and you can't believe that this is your life. Thank God you came to the club tonight. Thank God you came to Ibiza. Thank God you were born, even. You wish you were exaggerating, and you know the girls are gonna laugh when you try to explain the feeling because you don't think you can put it into words, anyways, so you probably won't even try. This is going to stay yours, and yours only, for now – not like a dirty little secret, but more like a coveted gift from somebody you'll never ever see again.
Your hands are now in his hair, and Lando comes as you're scratching gently his scalp. His hips still into you abruptly and the moan he lets out is more of a whimper than anything, which has your spent brain clocking back in for a second to say nice before going back to an unconscious state. His breathing in your ear is labored as he falls back on top of you, still inside of you, and you both just take a minute to enjoy it, to soak in it. You inhale when he exhales, and your lethargic bodies are like two puzzle pieces that just fit into one another.
The room is silent again bar for your shared breathing, and your eyes close for a second, or probably more than that because the next time you come to, he's off of you with a fresh pair of boxers on as he's washing you clean with a warm water-soaked hand towel.
You hum at the feeling, and his head rises so his gaze can meet yours. The small smile that takes over his face is endearing, so the little bit of energy you still have in you is put to use to give him a lazy grin in return.
"Hi," he boyishly beams, and your heart twists in your chest at the sight. "I lost you for a minute there."
"I think I'm a little tired," you murmur back sluggishly.
It's the understatement of the year, as even bringing your hand up to try to fix your messy hair is a challenge in itself. You honestly think you just make the situation worse, and that is confirmed by the crinkling of his eyes and the toothy smile that just keeps growing bigger and bigger as the seconds go on.
"Go back to sleep then, pretty. I'll take care of everything."
You're about to do just that, lulled by his low voice and his heartwarming kindness, when your hand shakily reaches out towards the wall against which you dropped your purse and your cellphone when you first arrived. "My phone... Can you..."
"I've already plugged it in. Go to sleep, girlboss, your emails will still be there tomorrow," he quips cheekily.
Your eyes close with the thought of fuck, I think I could love this man.
A week later, when you're back home in your London flat and a verified account with a couple of millions of followers requests to follow your very private Instagram account, the memory of this thought alone is enough to have you deciding that you will not press the blue accept button.
Not yet, not now. There's no place in your life right now for a pretty boy with pretty eyes and even prettier words, and if you're honest with yourself, that is unfortunately ultimately for the better.
Luckily for Lando, however, fate works in mysterious ways – which is exactly what he tells himself when he catches a glimpse of you in the Spa-Francorchamps paddock seven months later.
unedited & low effort cuddling with kimi, very short, nothing is described about the reader, silverstone 2026 we will not miss you
—
Kimi burst into his shared hotel room, eyes only searching for a second before he found you.
In no time flat, despite being barely through the door, he was throwing all his bags on the floor and practically tackling you. From your flattened position under him on the sofa, you could only muffle out a “hey” and wrap your arms around his back in return.
With the adrenaline from being in the car fully drained out of his body, the only energy left in him was used to hold you with all his strength. To press his fingers into your back, feeling your shoulder blades and wishing there was no shirt in between you two so he could take in the heat of your bare skin under his fingers.
He buried his face into your neck and sighed.
You let him lay like that for a while, crushed against each other, until you shifted under him. He groaned and held on to you tighter, trying to get you to stay, but you said something about holding him so he let you move him around.
It was hard to move his limbs that screamed at him to rest, but he forced them to move to the position you wanted him in. Now, instead of being sandwiched between him and the couch, you were facing him. You were so pretty, as usual. Your eyes…
He couldn’t look you in the eyes right now.
“Hi,” you whispered to him. He said nothing in response, just pushed his head under your chin and rested there.
“Aren’t you hungry? Thirsty?”
He nodded.
“Let me get up and get you something, then.”
He shook his head, mumbling, “No.”
The night after the race was all he had with you and he had no plans of spending any time away from your side.
“Kimi…”
But he only hushed you. He didn’t want to think about the race, or about eating, or about sleeping. Just you.
So when you rested your arm around his back and held him tight, he could finally breathe. After a day that felt a million hours too long, he was here, and nothing else mattered.
“say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “say thank you, oscar.” (or: unbeknownst to you, the person you’ve been sexting might just be somebody you know.)
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader.
ꔮ word count: 5.7k.
ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp-ish, soft dom!oscar, sexting, guided masturbation [f], oral [m], praise & degradation, p in v. title from (and fic inspired by) gracie abrams’ risk. commissioned!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
To cut him some slack, he had been honest from the very beginning.
You joined the app on a Friday. Not a rock-bottom Friday. Not a tipsy one, either. Just—a Friday. Grey sky, lukewarm coffee, inbox full of half-asks and ghostings. The app was called Velour. Marketed as ‘the thinking person’s thirst trap.’ A place for people who allegedly read books before they fucked. Where bios quoted Rilke and still managed to ask what color your panties were.
He had no face, no name. Just ‘O.’
A location that blinked Melbourne like a dare, and five black-and-white photos that managed to say everything and nothing at once. Cropped close. A mouth, a hand, the outline of a shoulder. A pair of thighs in compression shorts that frankly should have been illegal. You’d stared too long at that one. There was no context or caption, only the unspoken promise of ruin.
You told yourself you were there for amusement. For attention you could throw away. You uploaded one photo. Jaw turned, mouth parted, collarbone exposed. Let them wonder. Your bio read: said i wouldn’t do it. look at me now.
Then you swiped. And swiped. And swiped. Until you found him.
You hovered on the profile longer than you meant to. He had athlete written all over him—but in the subtle way. The kind that didn’t need to shout. The kind that let the shape of a thigh do the heavy lifting.
You matched in under an hour.
He messaged first.
O: You look like you'd break hearts for sport.
You: only on weekends.
O: Lucky it’s Friday, then.
The rhythm established itself fast. Snark edged with suggestion. A kind of conversational sparring that hummed beneath your skin. He was quick. Dry. Almost too confident, but not in the overcompensating way. In the way of someone who knew what they looked like when they made you come.
O: What are you wearing?
You: what makes you think I’m wearing anything?
O: God, you’re going to be a problem.
You: that’s the hope.
You asked once, joking, if he was some kind of model. He wrote:
O: Not professionally. But people look.
So, yes. He never lied.
It’s partly on you. You never asked for a face. The not-knowing made it worse. Better. More dangerous. Your imagination filled in the blanks with reckless confidence. His voice, when he finally sent a voice note, was low. Smooth. A little amused, a little deliberate.
“Say please,” he’d said in jest, and you replayed it a couple of times in the dead of the night.
You hadn’t swiped on anyone since. Not once. Not when you were bored. Not even when he took twelve hours to reply and you told yourself you didn’t care. The messages became a fixture. A heartbeat.
You’d catch yourself reading and rereading his replies like they were scripture. One hand between your legs. One word in your mouth. You never told him how far he’d gotten under your skin. He never asked.
You should have known.
Maybe not at first. Not in the beginning, when it was all thigh pictures and veiled threats and that smirking voice note that made your knees go warm. But later. Somewhere between the third and fourth night he sent you a recording at two in the morning, voice dipped low and rough with sleep—or maybe just want.
“Touch yourself,” he had murmured. A rasp. Something peeled open. “Slowly. I want you aching first.”
And you did it. God, you did it. Hand slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts like muscle memory, breath catching as you recorded something back—a whispered thank you, half a whimper. A photo, too. Of the aftermath. Of what he could reduce you to.
You’d never been this person before. Not with strangers. Not even with the ones who weren’t strangers. But something about O made it feel less transactional.
It wasn’t just about the sex. He told you little things in the witching hours, when neither of you could sleep and your phones became lifelines.
O: Had a girl once. Didn’t work out.
You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have to. The way he wrote it told you enough. And more:
O: Got a place in Melbourne. Not there much.
You: why not?
O: Work. Travel. Same old.
He never said what he did. You didn’t ask.
There were nights he’d vanish. You’d tell yourself not to care. You’d go to the gym, go to sleep, try to fuck someone else and never follow through. And then he’d reappear with a two-minute audio clip that would leave you soaked and shaking.
You remember one in particular. The voice, deeper than usual. Accent thicker. Like he’d stopped pretending to be anonymous.
“Good girl,” he said after you sent him a recording of your own. Barely a whisper, just the sound of your breathing, your fingers, his name almost slipping out. “That’s it. Bet you’re so fucking wet right now. You always are for me.”
You should have known.
But you were sleep-deprived. Starved. Touch-drunk on someone you’d never seen, never held, and yet felt like you already knew.
Three days later, he asked if you wanted to meet.
O: You still up?
You: always for you.
O: Meet me. Tomorrow night. Your side of the city.
You: you sure you want to break the spell?
O: I want to see you fall apart in person.
You stared at the screen for a long time. Your mouth dry. Your legs already aching. You typed and deleted three different versions of yes before you landed on a simple thumbs up.
He sent a location pin as a reply.
A restaurant. Not far. Not loud. Expensive enough to say this wasn’t just about sex, but discreet enough for you to wonder what you were getting into.
You charged your phone. Shaved everything. Told yourself this was just another night. That you wouldn’t be disappointed, wouldn’t be shocked. That he could be some balding tech bro or a failed actor or worse, and you’d still survive it.
But deep down, you knew.
Maybe not the whole truth. You knew, instead, that this would ruin you one way or another.
On the day of, you see him before he sees you. Or maybe he sees you first and just pretends he doesn’t. Either way, there’s a lag. A beat suspended between knowing and not-knowing. Then he walks over.
Baseball cap. Hoodie. Sunglasses, even though it’s dark inside and no one here gives a shit. Dressed like a man trying very hard not to be looked at, which, of course, makes everyone look twice.
He takes the seat across from you.
You stare.
Not at the mouth, which you’ve imagined. Not at the hands, which you’ve dreamt of. Not even at the jaw, sharp and familiar. No.
The eyes.
That’s what does it.
You exhale. Slow. Controlled. “You’re joking.”
He lifts the menu. “Hi to you too.”
“You’re fucking joking.”
“I’m really not.”
“Oscar Piastri?” you say it low, like a curse. He flinches anyway.
“Technically,” he says, adjusting his cap, “I never told you I wasn’t.”
You scoff. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Oh, fuck off with that.”
“Did I ever give you a fake name?”
“No,” you admit. “Just a letter. Like a Bond villain.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Did I lie about where I live?”
“No.”
“Did I say I wasn’t Australian?”
You fold your arms. “So that’s the bar, then? You didn’t technically lie, so everything’s fair game?”
He sets the menu down. His hands are steady. “I didn’t lie,” he repeats, quieter now. More serious. “I just didn’t say everything.”
Your gaze narrows. “And what, exactly, were you omitting?”
He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like it's obvious. “That I’m me.”
“You are,” you agree flatly. “Which is exactly the problem.”
He tilts his head, a mockery of innocence. “How do you know who I am?”
“Don’t bullshit me like that,” you huff.
“I’m not bullshitting anyone.”
“You drive for McLaren. You’re on billboards. You’re on TikTok. You're on the back of some guy's hoodie literally right now,” you say, jerking your chin toward a fan near the bar. “I live in this country. Everyone either wants to marry you or throw eggs at your car."
He smiles, crooked. “And you?”
You pick up your water glass. Raise it halfway to your mouth.
He watches. Waiting.
“Do you love me or hate me?” he rephrases.
You sip. Let the silence stretch. Let it smolder.
He doesn’t know, you think. He doesn’t realize he’s already made you come four times with just his voice. Doesn’t realize you still keep one of the recordings saved under a boring filename, like MeetingNotes.mp3, so no one ever asks.
You swallow. Set the glass down gently. “Ask me again after dessert.”
His grin sharpens. He leans forward, arms braced on the table, voice low and amused. “If dessert’s anything like your last voice note,” he stage-whispers, “we’re both fucked."
You just smile in response. A little cruel. A little inviting.
Dinner is—annoyingly perfect.
The food is forgettable. The conversation, less so.
Oscar is better in person than you want him to be. Wry. Self-contained. Polite, but not boring. He orders sparkling water and something seared. You get pasta you won’t finish. He doesn’t talk about the car, or the team, or what it’s like to be twenty-something and publicly dissected.
Instead, he tells you about the time he forgot his passport before a flight to Singapore, about a hotel in Japan where the toilet kept playing jazz, about how he once learned to cook for his ex and now only knows how to make three elaborate dishes he no longer eats.
Sometimes, when he hits the punchline, his voice dips. A cadence that slides lower, smooths out. The accent thickens. Familiar. Unmistakable.
It hits you like a bruise. He’s used that voice on you. You grip the stem of your glass a little tighter, and he notices.
“You’re staring,” he says lightly, not looking up from his plate.
You arch a brow. “So are you.”
He shrugs, barely containing a smile. “Only fair.”
The rest of the meal passes in rhythm. You say something cutting. He volleys it back. There’s a pulse beneath every word. You can feel it in your knee bouncing under the table. In the way he keeps adjusting his sleeves, his watch, the angle of his posture.
Then, without ceremony, he calls for the bill.
It arrives like a closing chapter. No questions asked. No pretense. The decision already made.
He walks you to the curb with one hand in his pocket and the other brushing yours just enough to make your pulse trip. He doesn’t ask where you’re both heading.
Neither of you speak on the cab ride. Tension coils in the silence, warm and anticipatory. Your thighs press together. His knee bumps yours once and neither of you moves away. He watches the city roll by. You watch the reflection of his jaw in the window.
By the time you get to your building, you’re drowning in it. Want. Nerves. That stupid, low ache he used to pull from you with nothing but a breath in your ear.
He follows you up without asking. You unlock your door with hands that only barely shake. Step aside.
He enters like he’s been here before, like he owns it. Maybe he does. A little.
You close the door behind you. Lean your back against it. Heart banging like it wants out. Oscar turns. Looks at you. Doesn’t move.
“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, voice too steady, “or just stand there like a fucking statue?”
His mouth curves. Slow. Measured. “Was waiting for the invitation.”
You walk toward him with something sharper than grace. Hunger dressed in confidence. He doesn't step back, but doesn't reach first.
You kiss him like it costs you.
Because it does.
Oscar kisses you like he’s starving.
Because he is.
Your hands find his jaw. His neck. The hair at the back of his head. His grip lands on your waist, then your hips, then your ass. He pulls you closer, and it’s like gravity itself rearranges.
You already know he’s going to be your favorite mistake.
The bedroom is darker than you left it.
Oscar doesn’t ask to be led. He walks in like he knows the way—flicks the light on low, toes off his shoes, rolls up his sleeves. You pause in the doorway. He glances back.
“Are you going to hover there all night, or…”
You arch a brow. “Or?”
Oscar grins. It’s lazy and confident, the way you’ve seen in those Instagram reels where he’s being sprayed with champagne. “Or you can come show me how grateful you are I didn’t bail.”
You scoff, but your feet move anyway.
He reaches for you halfway across the room, tugging you close by the waist. Hands hot and steady. When his mouth brushes yours again, it’s rougher. His tongue dips in like he owns the space. Like he’s checking if it’s still his.
You pull back just enough to speak. “You think you’re cocky enough for both of us?” you breathe.
“Oh, sweetheart.” That damned accent. Uncut. All bite and heat now, slinking down your spine. “You haven’t seen cocky yet.”
He kisses you again. Deeper this time. His teeth scrape your bottom lip, and your knees nearly buckle. His hand slides between your legs, cupping through your clothes. You have to bite back a groan.
He freezes. Pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth. “Christ. You’re soaked.”
Your face heats. You go to swat his hand away, but he catches your wrist, fingers curling around it tight. Not painful. Commanding. “Don’t.”
The word lands like a struck match.
You glare up at him. “Don’t what?”
He steps back, dragging you with him until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then he lets go. “Lie back,” he commands.
You don’t move.
He tilts his head. Patient. Dangerous. “C’mon. You know how this goes,” he says. “I’ve heard you. Watched you.”
Your throat tightens. Heat curls, low and shaming. “You want me to—”
“Touch yourself, yeah.”
He says it like a challenge. Like a dare. Like he already knows you’re going to.
You hesitate. Try to find some footing in wit. Pride. Something. “Bit arrogant, aren’t you?”
Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug, then steps back and lowers himself into your desk chair, spreading his thighs like he’s settling in for a show. That stupid fucking hoodie still on. That face calm, unreadable, but eyes already locked to your hands.
“Not arrogance if I’m right.”
You sit. Slowly. Let the silence drag.
His tone softens. Just a notch. “You want to stop, say it. I’ll go.”
You don’t.
You stretch out against the mattress, spine arching, one hand brushing up under your dress. Slowly. Testing.
His breath catches. Just barely. But it counts.
You pull your dress up. The air bites at the wet heat between your thighs. He sees it. Sees all of you now, bare and hesitant and trembling despite the attitude.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Attagirl.”
You flush hard.
His voice, when it comes again, is the same one from the recordings.
Low. Measured. Laced with that accent that makes you ache in places you didn’t know could ache. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask. It tells. Demands. Wraps around your spine and pulls.
“Start slow,” he says. “Middle finger first. You know where.”
You hesitate. Maybe on principle. Maybe out of spite. His gaze doesn’t waver.
You part your thighs, breath trembling, and slip your hand between them. Skin already flushed, hypersensitive. One touch and you’re jolting like you’ve been struck. There’s too much heat. Too much memory. Too much of him already lodged inside your head.
The way he looks at you like you’re art and ammunition at once. Something precious. Something dangerous. His to admire. His to detonate.
He leans back in your chair—your chair—and makes it his. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Casual dominance wrapped in a stupid McLaren jacket.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, just above a whisper, just enough to sting. “Now pull those pretty little panties to the side, yeah?”
You slide your finger through the slick heat pooling between your thighs, pressing in just enough to tease. Not enough to satisfy. Not yet. You arch, a quiet curse slipping through clenched teeth. You can feel your heartbeat everywhere.
“God,” you hiss. “Please—”
He cuts you off with a look that’s amused, stern, and fucking devastating. “Don’t beg. Not yet,” he says. “You’re the one who got yourself off without me all this time. Show me how.”
You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You glare instead, but your hand doesn’t stop moving. Faster now, the slick sound of it filling the room.
Shame and arousal knot together. Coiling.
Oscar’s next command slices through the air like a whip. “Two fingers.”
You obey. You hate that you do. You love that he knows you will. You slide in a second finger, walls clenching around the stretch, breath catching in your throat. You’re wetter than you thought possible—your body a traitor, your pride fraying at the seams.
The sounds you’re making now are shameless. Gasps. Moans. Pleas that you swallow back before they fall.
Oscar watches like a critic. Like he’s appraising a performance he commissioned.
“Fuck, look at you,” he drawls. “Dripping all over your sheets like a filthy little thing.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, shivering from the inside out.
“Open your eyes,” he snaps. “I want you watching me while you fall apart.”
You listen. And you’re close now—so close your legs twitch from the tension, the ache curling under your skin like fire. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and Oscar takes it as a sign to dole out his next order.
“Faster. Come on,” he prompts. “Fuck yourself like you mean it.”
You don’t think. You just do. Obeying the voice that’s ruined you so many times before. Your wrist strains and your body trembles; everything else disappears.
He tilts his head, that cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Need my cock already?”
You whimper. It escapes you before you can bite it back. Your wrist stutters. You wince.
His eyes flash, sharp. “Keep going. I didn’t say stop.”
“Oscar—”
“You’re so greedy, aren't you? Want me to do all the work,” he taunts. “Want to lie there, all needy and wet, and be ruined. But you can do this. You’ve done it before.”
You’re a breath away now. A single exhale from breaking. Everything inside you is wound tight and aching for release. A sob crawls out from the back of your throat as you go back to pumping your fingers into your sopping cunt, trying to chase pleasure for the man coaxing you towards it.
Oscar softens, just slightly. Just enough to make it worse.
“Good girl. Come for me,” he says. “Come just like you did the night I told you to come on your fingers and thank me after."
And you do.
It hits like a wave—sudden and brutal. Your whole body locks, jerks, shatters around your own hand. You sob his name. Mouth open, eyes wide. Locked on his.
You’re still twitching when he lunges.
Oscar’s mouth catches yours mid-breath, swallowing your shudder. It’s not gentle. It’s selfish. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tastes like claiming and salt and the bruised edge of your own name.
You gasp into it, and he’s already over you, under you, everywhere. All teeth and hands and heat. Fingers slick from your own body. Tongue pressing past your lips as if he owns the next breath you’ll take.
Clothes disappear in pieces. Dress shoved up, then off. His shirt peeled from his skin. Fingers catching in your straps, tugging them down your arms. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then bites the underside of your. Your hips squirm as he presses a thigh between them, pinning you down, rolling against you. It’s clumsy, chaotic, intimate in a way that feels dangerous.
“Fuck,” he hisses into your mouth. “I’ve thought about this. So many times. You like this part, don’t you? Being spread out. Slick. Shaking. Waiting for someone to make you come again.”
You try to speak, but he steals your answer with another kiss. Deep, consuming. He doesn’t let you come down. He only keeps pushing, talking, layering heat over heat until your mind goes foggy with it.
“You know what got me off the hardest? The idea of your fingers deep inside, while I talked you through it. And you were doing it. Weren’t you? Playing along like a good little whore. Sending me photos. Moaning my name like you knew it already.”
His hand slides down your side, grazing your breast, your ribs, the trembling dip of your waist. He palms your thigh, pushes it open wider.
“Oh my God,” you manage to choke out, just as he moves back to strip away his clothes.
Shirt, pants, briefs. It’s almost clinical, the way he undresses. Efficient. No hesitation. No shame.
And then he’s there. Gloriously there. Pale cock standing at attention, with an angry red tip leaking like a faucet.
You blink. You stammer.
It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. Hard and flushed and heavy, thick veins along the shaft. And it’s—bigger than expected. Realer than you let yourself imagine.
Your breath catches. Your thighs tense.
He notices. Oscar’s voice drops, losing some of its edge. It’s not gone, but it’s muted. Softer. Measured.
“You alright?” he asks, cocking his head. There’s a gentleness to his eyes that makes your heart ache and your clit throb. “You can tap out. I mean it. I won’t be mad.”
Your mouth is dry. Your thighs are wet. You nod, then, realizing you need to say something out loud, you whisper, “I want this. Want you.”
The moment stretches. A beat. A breath. His hand brushes your knee, the gesture grounding. Patient.
His smile returns. Slow. Wolfish. “Good,” he hums, “because I’m going to ruin you.”
He crawls back over you, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not pushing in. Yet.
“Gonna fuck you slow first,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Make you feel every inch. Then I’ll fuck you the way I’ve been thinking about since the first time you sent me that little audio message. You remember? All breathless, whispering thank you like you were praying.”
His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts forward.
“Thought about you with your legs spread, touching yourself just like I told you to. Thought about bending you over this bed, and making you say please until you cried.”
You do. You remember too well.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “Say thank you, Oscar.”
Somehow, you manage to choke it out. “Thank you, Oscar,” you whimper.
Finally, finally, he begins to press his tip in. It’s a stretch that borders on unbearable. His jaw clenches. Your mouth falls open. Nails scrape along his shoulder blades, searching for purchase.
He groans into your neck. “That’s it. Let me in. Let me fuck you open.”
You can’t speak. Can’t think. Only feel the drag of him, the weight of it, the way he fills you up.
Oscar braces a hand beside your head, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunts. “You were made for this. Made for me.”
You arch. He presses deeper, and deeper, until there’s nothing left between you but the slow, obscene drag of his cock inside your cunt. There’s the sound of your own breathing, ragged and real.
There’s the knowledge—shared and silent—that there’s no going back from this.
He finds a rhythm quickly. Like he’s been mapping it in his head for months. Maybe longer.
Each thrust is deliberate, brutal in its consistency. It’s as if he’s trying to etch himself into the softest part of you, and he is. You know he is. You feel it. Over and over. A litany in motion. Sharp hips, sharp tongue, sharp wit. The shape of him inside you becoming a kind of prayer.
“You look so good like this,” he rasps, breath hot against your throat. “Fucked open. Finally where you belong.”
It’s filthy. Cruel. Exactly what you thought you wanted. Your body flinches. Tighter around him. Unintended. A tell. The smallest betrayal.
His hips stutter mid-thrust. He watches you, eyes narrowing, brain ticking. Calculating. When he smiles knowingly, it’s the kind that feels like danger wearing a soft edge. Something mean with manners.
“Oh,” he says slowly. “Is that what does it for you? Not when I call you my little whore, but when I say you look good?”
You glare, trying to keep your dignity intact, your breath steady. “Fuck you.”
“I am fucking you, pretty girl.”
You clench down again. Oscar chuckles breathlessly, the sound low and mean. “There it is again,” he murmurs, rolling his hips slowly, the grind unbearably deep. “Tight little squeeze. Your pussy’s telling on you, darling.”
You hate him. You don’t. You want him. You want more. Want it mean, want it sweet, want it all at once. Contradictions melting in your gut.
He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. Tender. Too tender. A cruel kind of affection. It makes your stomach turn in the best way. “You’re perfect, you know that?” he whispers in a tone that borders affection.
Your body sings. It sings around him. Like a lock clicking open. Like truth breaking skin.
Oscar makes a low sound in his throat, equal parts reverence and smugness. The sound of discovery. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, suddenly gentle in voice but not in pace. His hips are snapping hard. “You want to be worshipped? Want me to treat you like a princess?”
You want to scoff. You can’t. Your pride’s still here, somewhere, buried under want. But your thighs are trembling.
You’re panting. Clutching. Tethering yourself to whatever's left. Oscar’s right there, relentless. Praising you like a prayer whispered between thrusts. As if every compliment earns him another inch.
“So tight. So fucking perfect.”
“You’re taking me so well. Never felt anything like this.”
“You were made for me, baby. You’re—hng—sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.”
Your orgasm builds again. Tangled. Tense. Threatening to snap.
He sees it. Feels it. The way your body contracts. The small, high-pitched sounds spilling from you. The way your hand grips his bicep like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
“Not yet,” he says, a command. “Stay right there. Want to feel you fall apart. Want to watch it happen.”
He slows, the bastard. His pace turns into deep, dragging thrusts that leave you gasping. He draws it out until it hurts—the pleasure of it all. Until you’re clawing at him, not to escape, but to survive.
“That’s it,” he breathes, brushing his mouth against your jaw. “My good girl. Always so good for me.”
You’re on the edge. Hanging by a thread. Every nerve ending tuned to him, to this.
You just look up at him—eyes wide, mouth parted, vulnerable in the worst way. The best way. “Can’t hold it back,” you whine. “Oscar, ‘m gonna come.”
“Do it,” he relents, voice going impossibly soft as he hits that spot inside you. The one that has you seeing stars. “Good girls deserve to milk me dry.”
He doesn’t stop when you start to fall apart.
If anything, he leans into it. Presses harder, deeper. Riding the tension as it breaks, then crests again, then splinters entirely. Your body spasms beneath him, dragged mercilessly through the folds of pleasure, like he’s determined to wring you out. Thorough, precise, and just a little cruel.
You’re gasping. Boneless. Trying to anchor yourself to anything real, anything solid, and finding only him. His hand on your hip, his chest against yours, his mouth, half-sharp, half-sweet, pressing whatever it wants into your skin.
“That’s it. That’s it,” he says, breath unsteady but voice still maddeningly in control. “Look at you. Look what I do to you.”
He slows, but not because he needs to. Because he likes watching you twitch. He lets you linger in that overstimulated afterglow, lets the echoes settle before pulling them forward again.
You think that’s it. That he’ll fold you against his chest, that his mouth will find the shell of your ear and whisper something soft, foolish, post-coital.
But no. Oscar lifts his head. Reaches to brush your hair from your eyes with the back of his fingers as if it’s some gentle courtesy, not a prelude.
“Still good for me to get what I want?”
His voice is not tentative. Instead, it lies in wait. The kind of question that’s already half-answered.
You nod.
“Use your words.”
You swallow. Find breath.
“Yes.”
A corner of his lip tugs upward. Something hungry flashes in it. Then he moves—rising off you with that lithe, economical grace, hands guiding your hips as he shifts the angle, presses your thighs apart again.
Rougher, now. Faster. His control returns in the shape of momentum. Your body, pliant and bruised with bliss, meets each thrust like instinct, like muscle memory. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t want him to stop. You want to be unmade properly. To see what he looks like when he breaks, too.
When he pulls out, you chase the loss. He catches your chin between his fingers, leans in with eyes that are just a little darker than earlier. “Mouth.”
You blink, then nod, repositioning with something close to desperation. Knees beneath you. Lips parting.
He slides in with a groan that cracks somewhere at the edges, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other tightening in your hair. “Fuuuck. Just like that.”
You hum, or try to. He shudders, thrusts just hard enough to hit his tip in the back of your throat a couple of times. Your eyes water at the feel of it, but he’s already gracefully at the end of his rope.
When he finishes—hard and fast, hips twitching, voice fractured into a curse and your name—it feels less like an ending and more like something earned. Like gravity finally catching up to the fall.
He stays there a moment longer. Fingers softening. Breathing out your name like it tastes good in his mouth.
He pulls out after a moment too long. He’s still catching his breath when he sees it: his release, smeared at the corner of your mouth. Glossing your bottom lip. A thin, obscene line trailing down your chin like spilled sin.
You’re blinking up at him, fucked-out and glassy-eyed, still breathing through parted lips. And it ruins him. Just absolutely levels him.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans hoarsely, reverently. “You look—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way his hand runs over his face, like he’s trying to scrub the image from his mind and failing gloriously.
He kisses you, then, but not with hunger. It’s something slower instead. Grounded. His thumb catches the mess at your lip, and he hums when you let him wipe it away. He’s tasting himself, tasting you. Taking it all in.
There’s something almost delicate about it, which would be surprising if you didn’t already feel like the floor had dropped out from under you somewhere between his praise and the way he came undone in your mouth.
He pulls back with an exhale. Presses his forehead against yours. Murmurs, “Where do you keep your towels?”
You’re brain is still just a little too foggy to process. “What?”
“Towels,” Oscar repeats, nudging your nose with his. “Or wet wipes. Or a cloth. Just—anything that won’t make me feel like I’m letting you marinate in me.”
You bark out a laugh. “Didn’t realize you were the aftercare type.”
“I’m not a monster,” he deadpans, dragging a hand through his hair as he sits up. The movement pulls every line of his body into view. Long, clean limbs. Defined stomach. The faint blush of exertion still clinging to his skin. You stare. You don’t mean to.
Your eyes follow the flex of his back as he stands. The easy confidence in the way he moves across your space like he’s lived in it. Like he belongs. He doesn’t. That’s the problem.
You rattle off a drawer, a shelf, the hallway linen closet. He listens, nods, and disappears from view.
And that’s when your mind begins to spiral.
Because you just fucked Oscar Piastri.
Let him talk you through your orgasm. Let him ruin you, mouth and body and everything soft in between. Let him see you like this—open, loud, desperate.
What the fuck were you thinking?
He’s a goddamn risk. You know that. You’ve heard the warning signs. The drowning metaphors. The stories that end in fire. But you did it anyway. Jumped, swam, sank. Let him into your bed, your life.
It doesn’t have to mean anything, you reason. It could be a one-off.
But then—
Oscar comes back. Warm cloth in one hand, clean towel in the other. He settles beside you, nudging your legs open gently so he can clean you up without asking. It’s matter-of-fact. Unflinching. Weirdly intimate.
He says nothing at first; he only takes care of you like he means it. Then, as he pulls the blanket up around you both, he kisses your shoulder and murmurs, low and cocky: “Give me twenty minutes, and then we can go again.”
You laugh. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it, warmth spreading across your chest like sunlight you weren’t expecting. Dangerous. Disarming.
You press your face into the pillow and mutter, “Asshole.”
He grins against your skin. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t promise anything else. But he wraps an arm around your waist like maybe he’s not done with you. Not even close.
Against your better judgment, you find yourself hoping he’s telling the truth.
Maybe it’s too soon to say it.
But God, you might just love—the risk. Not him. Surely not him.
Right? ⛐
box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.
lando takes you clubbing to the raspoutine in paris, and a cheeky shirt switch leads to an even better night for the both of you.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.5k ୨୧ warnings : SMUT (f oral, semi-public – club bathroom), clubbing / drinking, munch!lando (yes its a warning) is exactly where he wants to be ୨୧ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series.
lando loved taking you out to clubs – especially ones that were extremely hard to get in to without the right connections. you think he does it to show off, like a male peacock trying to impress the female one by showing off its feathers. that's exactly how you would describe lando.
even after almost four years of knowing and dating him, lando still felt prideful in himself to show off for you. and lando always seemed he thrived off of impressing you – taking you places you haven't been, clubs you've never heard off because of how exclusive they are.
you know... just millionaire boyfriends things. nothing too extreme.
and even after three constant years of traveling all over the world with lando – some things really do still amaze and impress you.
like the raspoutine club he's managed to drag you to. the entire club was bathed in a deep red lighting and immediately when you walked in, lando holding onto your hand tightly, you could feel the bass vibrating through your whole body. every step you took in your heels sent another vibrating shockwave through your bones.
lando was just a step ahead of you, guiding you through the crowd of people, the smell of alcohol, expensive perfumes, and faint scent of smoke filled the air. you seen your boyfriend look over his shoulder you – checking to make sure you were doing okay, his bright smile painting his grin when you make eye contact. he then manages to move to where he's right next to you, his hand resting on your hip. which is warm against your skin, his thumb slowly rubbing up and down on the sliver of skin that is peaking between your blue set you're wearing.
when you two get past the dancefloor and the crowd starts to dwindle a little, lando presses his mouth against your ear so you can hear him over the music. "did i tell you, you look absolutely gorgeous, princess?"
you don't even bite back the smile as you turn to look at him, "yes, about three times at the hotel and two more on the way here." you tease before pressing a kiss his cheek. his hand comes down to grab a handful of your ass before playfully smacking it.
"hey! there he is! lando, how are you!" someone calls out once you both near the back of the club where red velvet booths line the wall. lando steps away from you to quickly greet the icy blonde male before his hand is reaching blindly towards yours. you grab lando's hand and let him guide you back next to him. "you must be y/n! pleasure to meet you, i'm matt!" he says, doing the usual european cheek kiss greeting that you've grown so accustomed to over the last eight years.
when matt turns around, back to you, talking to lando and trying to get you both to sit down – that's when you notice the back of matt's shirt. well... more like what it says.
because in big colorful font reads: EAT PUSSY, IT'S VEGAN.
you can't help but laugh at the text, lando giving you a side glance as he has you sit down next to him on the booth seat. however, you can he noticed the seat too from the faint smirk on his lips. you and lando sit shoulder to shoulder, his arm resting behind you as the assortment of drinks being to appear on the table in front of you all.
between the drinks and shots, you and matt start to strike up a conversation. the two of you talking about fashion and the industry after learning that matt is a model. lando chimes in here and there, the two of you sharing a few drinks, and you can't help but bite back a smile whenever you feel his lips press against your bare shoulder.
"so, matt," you say leaning over the table, a wide grin on your face as your body flushes with warmth from the alcohol starting to run through you. "what is up with that shirt? i just have to know!" you finally ask, making the french model laugh and shake his head.
"just something fun that i threw on. you like it?"
you laugh, nodding your head, "i need to know where you got it! lando needs one for sure!"
you completely miss how your boyfriend almost chokes on his drink when he hears you. but matt catches it and laughs as he watches lando try to recover.
"is lando vegan?" matt asks, a smirk on his lips and the question makes you laugh again, hands clapping together as you lean back into lando.
"hm," you say, looking at your british lover with a fond look. the red lights casting him in a beautiful glow as your hand reaches up to brush his hair back – even though it definitely wasn't needed, but neither of you care. "yeah, something like that."
the icy blonde male shakes his head, grin on his face before he looks at lando. "i'll tell you what– let's trade shirts! you can have it for free since y/n likes it so much."
lando knows he should probably deny the offer, but he's too far into tonight – and you – to deny it. he can deal with repercussions from his pr team at a later date, he thinks. his eyes shift over to you for a moment, taking in how he's totally enamored with you under the lights.
and then he's standing up before you can even fully process what's happening as lando is taking his shirt off in the middle of the club. matt lets out a hollered laugh before he's doing the same. you don't pay any attention to anything but lando, your hand casually reaching out to touch him. he turns his head and looks down at you with a wide, confident grin on his face as he switches shirts with matt – the two grinning and hugging even.
you feel something shift inside you as you watch lando throw on the other shirt. a heat running through you and settling in your stomach, but this is different from the one you've been feeling all night. no, this is one you get before you usually let lando rock your shit. and he is now wearing the rather iconic, in your complete opinion, shirt.
and of course he puts it on backwards, the big bold "eat pussy, it's vegan" written straight across his chest. he looks down at you, wiggling his eyebrows which earns a laugh from you as he smooths the shirt down. when he sits back down, lando doesn't hesitate to pull you into him. your chest flush against his side, looking at you before he's giving you a chaste kiss.
"you like my new shirt, baby?" he asks, your hands gliding across his shoulders before you're leaning close to kiss him again.
"yeah... i think it really suits you," you tell him, his hand coming up to grip your thigh in a way that sends another wave of heat over you. literally, taking your breath away, letting out a stuttered gasp as he kisses you. not caring who is around or that the two of you could end up all over twitter by daylight. "lan~" you giggle out, cupping his face as you both look at each other.
"don't you think this shirt gives good advice?" he asks, his hand trailing up your thigh and playing with the hem of your skirt.
"i do," you tell him with a smile, leaning over to the table to grab another drink. but instead of drinking it yourself, you hold it to his lips and lando happily lets you pour the drink into his mouth – the liquid burning down his throat. "don't you think..." you start to saying, earning his fully attention – as if you didn't have it already, "take the advice? you know... since you're good at following rules and regs and stuff."
"and stuff?" he repeats with a smile, his hand squeezing the flesh of your thigh. his lips press against your neck and the feeling sends a rush of adrenaline to between your legs. "are you gonna punish me if i break the rules?"
"well, i mean– when have you ever been denied the opportunity to eat pussy, lan?"
he chuckles, shaking his head, "you've got a point, princess." he's then standing up, taking a hold of your hand to help you stand up. "we'll be back!" he calls out to matt and the few others at the table and without looking back he guides you away.
you let lando guide you through the crowd of people, completely trusting him even if you have no idea where he's taking you. the two of you head in the direction of restrooms before lando is leading you down a hallway – everything still bathed in that red light. you learn rather quickly that raspoutine is a labyrinth, but lando seems to know exactly where he's going. only because seconds later he's pulling you into one of the single-occupancy restrooms hidden away near the very back of the club.
your british lover slams the door, locking it with a sharp click before he's pressing you against it. inside the bathroom, you can only focus on lando who is pressing his body flush against yours – his hands gripping your hips tightly before he's kissing you. you immediately kiss back, a low moan escaping your throat as his lips move passionately against yours in a deep, bruising kiss. his tongue slipping inside your mouth easily, and tasting the premium, expensive vodka on your own tongue.
you felt lando's hand move to grab your thigh, bringing it up to rest around his waist – his cock hard and throbbing in his pants, rubs against your clothed core. soft, desperate moans sound against his mouth as your hands come up to tightly grab the back of his shirt to anchor him close to you.
"f-fuck, lan~" you moan out when lando suddenly hoists you up, your legs around his waist as he moves the short distance from the door to the marble counter. the counter is cold against your otherwise heated skin and the contrast as you try to anchor yourself closer to him.
lando looked down at you, chest heaving as he ran a hand through his messy curls. his hazel eyes scanning over your body, the sequin and hanging jewels on your two-piece set gleaming under the pinkish hue lights that starkly contrast against the deep, lustful red of the rest of the club.
"so..." he trails off, hands sneaking underneath your short skirt to grab at the hem of your lacy panties. he doesn't pull them down yet, but you wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally ripped them from how tightly he's gripping them. "you gonna let this vegan have his dinner?"
you can't help but let out a small lighthearted laugh, "i guess i can feed this poor vegan~"
lando kisses you again, pulling your panties down past your knees and over your heels. he pulls away to dangle them in between the both of you – a wicked smirk on his face before you're watching him pocket them.
"that's my princess," he says, spreading your legs wider, skirt bunching up to reveal your center to rather humid air of the bathroom. lando sinks down to his knees, not seeming to care that he's getting his pants dirty as he's level with your dripping pussy. "as the french say, bon appétit."
he then leans forward and buries his face directly between your thighs.
lando's tongue does a broad wet stroke from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. one of your hands immediately grabs onto his hair as you throw your head back as a loud, unfiltered moan rips from your throat. your other hand holds onto the edge of the counter like a lifeline – like you're trying to keep yourself anchored to reality.
his large palms come up to cup your ass, lifting you slightly off the counter to get a better angle as you feel his tongue slip inside before he's licking up again to suck on your clit. you were dripping onto his lips as lando switched between flattening his tongue, swirling it tightly around clit, and flicking inside so it could gather your juices up. he could feel you running down his chin, but lando could care less about the mess he was making – drinking you up like a man dying of thirst.
or a hungry vegan.
you felt your hips twitch against his mouth, trying to buck up but lando's hands grip you tightly and stop you from doing so. the pleasure was overwhelming – the small restroom filled with the sounds of your moans and the wet sounds of his mouth against your pussy. it was completely and utterly driving you over the edge.
"lando, please– fuck, fuck, fuck! lando, lando, i-i'm gonna–" you choke out as you feel him insert two fingers into you. pumping them fast and hard before he's curling them and rubbing your sweet spot. his lips locked harshly onto your clit, and you can feel your eyes rolling into the back of your head from the pleasure.
you managed to look down, locking eyes with lando who is staring at you with those piercing hazel ones. he gives his fingers another few good pumps and his tongue drawing sloppy figure-eights until you're finally coming.
vision turning white as you feel your walls clenching violently around his fingers as your orgasm rips through you. you let out a loud moan mixed with his name as you feel your thighs shake from the force of the orgasm. especially when lando refused to pull away – drinking up all your juices. he stayed right there between your trembling thighs, tongue flattening against your folds, his hands holding you as steady as he could until you could finally feel yourself come down from your high.
slowly, lando finally lifted his head before standing to his full height. chest heaving and face flushed even under the pink lights. you could also see his lips and chin glistening with your wetness – the sight itself making you a little shy as the realization that he just ate you out in a club bathroom. with a shaky hand, you reached out towards lando to pull him closer to you.
your boyfriend leaned over you as you felt his hands wrapped around your waist. he gives you a firm kiss, the taste of yourself on his tongue, as he pulls you off the marble counter. holding your close as he trails his lips down your neck and fixes your skirt.
"guess i need to do this vegan diet more often," he whispers into your ear – breath hot and smug as his hand lazily strokes your back. "but i think i was already addicted to your pussy for a while."
"shut up," you mumble with a laugh, hiding your face in his neck and arms around your waist as you couldn't feel anything but completely and utterly ruined and in love with him.
SUMMARY: You and Max are both professional athletes with insane stamina, something you never really thought about… until your friend casually asked how many rounds you two could actually go before tapping out. One conversation with your friend, one deal with Max later…
PAIRING: max verstappen x reader
WARNINGS : 18+ ONLY!! MINORS DNI , Explicit smut, overstimulation, edging, switching (dom!reader & dom!max), oral sex (m & f receiving), deepthroating, gagging, praise kink , begging, competitive sex, unprotected sex , established relationship.
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The conversation with your friend refused to leave your head.
“You two have never actually tested it? How many rounds those insane athlete bodies can really handle before one of you taps out?” she’d asked, eyes wide with curiosity. “You’re both elite. You’ve never just kept going until one of you physically can’t anymore?”
You’d been shocked. “What do you mean?"
That question followed you home. The next evening, Max came up behind you in the bedroom, pressing his chest to your back and kissing your neck slowly , his silent “I need you” signal. You were needy too, and the curiosity burned hotter than usual.
You turned into his arms. "Max... about that thing my friend asked. I want to test it but let's turn it into a challenge"
His competitive grin appeared instantly. “Yeah?”
“Whoever taps out first has to be the other’s personal servant for the next two months. Whatever they want, whenever they want. No excuses.”
“Deal,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But I’m not losing, schatje.”
You both loved sabotaging each other. You had secrets to make him lose his mind. He knew your weak spots too. Game on.
You started slow, saving energy. He peeled your shirt off, you did the same to his. Clothes dropped piece by piece until you were naked. He rolled a condom on carefully, then pulled you into soft, deep kisses, hands gentle on your waist as he laid you down.
It was sweet, slow rolls of his hips, lazy making out. Until Max pulled an ace from his sleeve.
While still moving inside you with that unhurried rhythm, his thumb found your clit and started rubbing tight, perfect circles. He knew how easily you got overstimulated there. The gentle session turned electric in seconds. Your breathing grew heavy, hips jerking.
“Max— fuck...” you gasped.
He didn’t stop. He kept the slow thrusts going and rubbed your clit relentlessly until the orgasm hit you like a wave. You cried out, clenching hard around him, thighs shaking. He didn’t let your poor clit rest, drawing out every aftershock until you were panting and dizzy.
It took you a moment to recover. Then you remembered: you had to fight back if you wanted to win.
You pushed him onto his back and straddled him, sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion. You were in control now.
“No hands,” you ordered, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head.
You rode him exactly how you knew he liked: deep rolls of your hips, then faster bounces, then slowing down cruelly when he got close. Max’s eyes started rolling back, fingers gripping the sheets tightly.
“Please… please let me come,” he murmured, voice strained.
You slowed even more, teasing. “What did you say? Say it louder if you want it.”
Max was too desperate to fight his pride. “Please, Y/N… just let me come, pleasee”
“Good boy,” you whispered, riding him hard and fast until he came with a deep groan, filling the condom.
It was obvious this was only the beginning. Normally you would have stopped here, but your friend was right: pushing limits was addictive. And neither of you liked losing.
Max reached for another condom. You stopped him.
He raised an eyebrow until you slid off the bed and knelt between his legs. His cock twitched at the sight. You rarely did this ,maybe twice in five years, and he knew you weren’t a big fan. That made it even more effective.
“Don’t put it on yet.”
Max needed a bit longer to get fully hard again. You used the time to tease him with your mouth.
He hardened instantly when you kissed the tip. You teased with soft kitten licks and kisses, drawing it out. Soon his hand rested on the back of your head. You let him guide you, relaxing as he pushed deeper.
You gagged and pulled back for air. “Sorry… I’m really inexperienced with this.”
He just stroked your hair gently, breathing hard. You went back in more determined. Your eyes watered, tears slipping down your cheeks as he grew frantic. The ache between your legs became unbearable, so you slipped a hand down and rubbed your clit while sucking him.
Max groaned at the sight. You looked up at him through wet lashes and cupped his balls and that broke him. His eyes rolled back and he spilled into your mouth with a broken moan.
“You don’t have to swallow if you don’t want to,” he rasped.
But you did. You pulled off, opened your mouth to show him, then swallowed.
“Fuck… such a good girl,” he murmured, voice wrecked. His cock twitched hard at the sight.
He noticed your hand still between your legs and grinned. “Is my pretty girl horny? Want me to help?”
“Yes please,” you whispered.
He pulled you back onto the bed, spread your legs wide, and settled between them. He spread your soaked folds, admiring how your pussy clenched around nothing. He toyed with you, circling your clit, sliding fingers along your labia, dipping one finger in only to pull it out.
“Please Max, do something,” you begged, hips humping his hand.
“Naughty girl. Be patient,” he said, then gave your pussy a light slap.
Your whole body jolted and a strangled moan escaped. Max looked surprised but pleased, he’d never done that before. He did it again, a little harder. Your hips jerked and another moan tore from you.
“I see… we’re learning new things about each other,” he said, voice low. He gave one more light slap, then dove between your legs with his mouth, making you see stars.
“How about a 69 if we’re experimenting?” Max suggested with a wicked grin, still catching his breath.
The night became a blur of exploration. You tried positions you’d never bothered with before. Max took you from behind while you gripped the headboard. You rode him reverse cowgirl, grinding back against him. He fucked you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist. You switched dominance constantly : sometimes you pinned him and edged him until he begged, sometimes he held you down and made you come over and over until your voice went hoarse.
You both lay there for a minute, catching your breath, sweaty and laughing softly.
“Still good?” he asked, competitive glint still in his eyes.
“Better than you,” you shot back.
“Oh my god, Max, you and your stupid 69 jokes,” you laughed.
“Please?” He gave you the softest, subby eyes and sweet talk until you gave in.
It wasn’t a joke. He was obsessed, eating you out like a man starved while you took him back into your mouth. The mutual pleasure was overwhelming. You both came hard again.
Round… you’d lost count.
You were both exhausted, bodies covered in sweat, legs trembling. But neither would quit. You wanted to break him.
“Don’t take a condom this time,” you said, voice hoarse. “I want you raw.”
Max’s eyes darkened with surprise and lust. You were both clean and you were on birth control. He was more than happy to agree, but you could see he was fighting exhaustion too.
He slid into you bare and you both moaned at the feeling. He found your g-spot almost immediately and hammered into it relentlessly, trying to make you tap out. The raw friction felt incredible, too good. You were sore, overstimulated, and felt like it had been hours, but the pleasure kept building.
You came once more, but this time the overstimulation was bordering on too much. Your muscles were tired. Max chased his own release, thrusting deep until he spilled inside you with a guttural groan. He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from your pussy for a moment before collapsing beside you.
You both stared at the ceiling, chests heaving.
You turned to look at each other, shocked, then started laughing weakly.
“I’m quitting,” you said at the exact same time as him.
“So… we both lose?” you asked.
“Technically yes,” Max grinned tiredly. “This time. Rematch in two days?”
You groaned but smiled. “Deal.”
He pulled you into his arms and kissed your temple. You stayed there for a while, enjoying the warmth.
“Okay, I need to go clean up,” you said eventually, trying to stand.
Max reached for you. “Sit back down, I’ll clean you up—”
Too late. Your legs gave out the second you stood. You started falling. Max tried to catch you but when he stood up, his own legs buckled too. Both of you ended up on the floor in a tangled, exhausted heap.
You burst out laughing. “I was just… searching for something on the ground.”
“Sure thing,” Max chuckled, pulling you on top of his chest right there on the floor.
Pairing: Lando Norris x EX!Personal Assistant!Reader
Description: You're Lando Norris's former personal assistant—fired eighteen months ago after he told you he loved you in a Qatar hotel room, then panicked. Now he's a World Champion with a new girlfriend and a mess of an assistant, and he needs you back. Just for two weeks of training, he says. Except Lando's never been good at keeping things professional, and some feelings don't stay buried.
Genre: second chance romance, forced proximity, angst with a happy ending, workplace-adjacent tension, emotional groveling, he's down BAD
WC: 21k
Note: Firstly, I want to apologize for how long this took to put out. I really struggled with finding the ending that felt right. And the paragraphs may feel overwhelming in length—I hit the 1,000 block limit like 40 times and had to condense everything. I proofread, stopped, then proofread again because it didn't feel good enough, and the cycle continued. So, about half is proofread and half isn't, which means there could be errors. Thank you for your patience and your kind words. I want to wish you Happy Holidays if you celebrate, and I'll continue doing my best with this little hobby of mine.
Leaving your job is the best thing that's ever happened to you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That's what you've been telling yourself for a year and a half now, and if you say it enough times, eventually it might feel true. The severance package Lando gave you was obscene. Guilt money, obviously, even though you're not calling it that out loud, but that's what it is—guilty money, hush money, please don't sue me for firing you thirty seconds after I came inside you money. Enough that you don't need to work. Enough that you're free.
Free. You're so fucking free that you've tried pottery three times and hated it every single time. You're so free that you've reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by color again because the first way was better. You're so free that last Tuesday you stood in the shower and counted to three hundred just to see if you could.
The clay fights you. That's what they don't tell you about pottery. Your hands cramp and the instructor keeps saying feel the clay's energy like the clay has energy, like the clay is anything other than wet dirt that collapses the second you think you're getting somewhere. You even tried running. Running is just you and your thoughts for however many miles you can stand. Not ideal. Not even close to ideal. Guitar's gathering dust in the corner. Duolingo sends you passive-aggressive notifications about your streak. You've considered learning Portuguese but that feels pointed, feels like something you shouldn't examine too closely.
Two weeks ago, Lando Norris won the World Championship. You watched it from your apartment because you're a masochist, apparently. You sat on your couch in Monaco and watched him spray champagne and cry and lift the trophy, and you thought, good for him. You thought, I'm happy for him. You thought those things and none of them were true.
Last Friday he went to the FIA Prize Giving ceremony in Rwanda with his beautiful girlfriend to collect his trophy. The photos were everywhere. Every sports website, every F1 account, probably on the fucking news in countries that don't even have racing. His girlfriend, Magui, wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess reincarnated. He wore a tuxedo. They looked like they were attending their own wedding. That's a thought you're not examining. That way lies madness.
You abandon your collapsing bowl. Scrub the clay off your hands—it gets under your fingernails, stays there for hours. The instructor asks if you're signing up for next week. "I'll think about it," you say.
You're not signing up. You already know you're not signing up. Outside, Monaco is cold for December. Your apartment is fifteen minutes away if you walk fast, twelve if you're really moving. You've timed it. You don't go home, and you tell yourself you're just walking. Just getting some air. Just clearing your head after an hour of fighting with clay that had no interest in becoming anything other than a lopsided mess. That's what you tell yourself, and maybe it's even true. Except you're walking toward the harbor instead of toward your apartment, which is the opposite direction, which means you're either lost in your own city or you're lying to yourself. Probably the second one.
And the wonderful thing about Monaco is that it's small. Stupidly small. You can walk from one end to the other in under an hour. Which means you can't really avoid anything, can't really escape anyone, can't really pretend you're not living in the same two square kilometers as—you stop that thought before it finishes.
There's a sports bar on the corner. The kind that has screens covering every available wall, the kind that shows every race, every match, every game that matters. You've walked past it a hundred times. You've never gone in.
Today, you're going in. Just for a drink, you tell yourself. Just for one drink because it's cold outside and your apartment is empty and you're allowed to get a drink at a sports bar without it meaning anything. The bartender is maybe twenty-five, definitely Australian, probably works here because Monaco is where F1 people end up when they're not important enough to actually work in F1. He looks up when you walk in.
"What can I get you?"
"Vodka tonic." He makes it. You don't drink it. Instead, you just hold it and look at the screens because that's what you do in sports bars, you look at the screens. There are eight screens total. Three of them are showing football. Two are showing tennis. One is showing some sport you don't recognize—maybe rugby, maybe something else entirely. And one is showing a replay of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final lap. Lando crossing the line. The radio message. The celebration. You watch him climb out of the car. Watch him collapse into his team's arms. Watch the whole thing you already watched two weeks ago from your couch, except now you're watching it in a bar in Monaco while a drunk British guy three seats down yells "FUCKING LEGEND" at the screen.
The bartender notices you watching. "You follow F1?"
"Not really," you lie.
"Shame. That race was incredible. Norris finally did it, you know? After all these years."
"Yeah. I heard."
"Best season I've ever seen. Guy's a machine." He's polishing a glass, still talking. "And his girlfriend, mate. You seen her? Absolute smoke show."
You finish your vodka tonic in one go. It burns. "Another?" the bartender asks.
"No. Thanks." You pay and leave. Outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. You start walking. Not toward home. Just walking again. The thing about Lando firing you is that you still don't understand it. You've had a year and a half to make it make sense and it doesn't. It will never make sense.
He'd looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he used to in hotel rooms and empty conference rooms and all those in-between moments when it was just the two of you and nothing else in the world mattered. He'd touched your face. You'd touched his. For one perfect second, you'd thought maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed. Then his expression changed and he'd pulled away and gotten dressed like he couldn't stand to be near you anymore.
I fucking love you, he'd said. In that hotel room in Qatar, buried inside your cunt, saying it like it was being torn out of him. Like he couldn't help it. Like he actually meant the fucking words. And then ten minutes later, boom, you're fired.
Just like that. You're fired. Two words that ended everything. You've spent eighteen months trying to figure out how someone tells you they love you and then removes you from their life entirely. How someone can look at you like you're the only person who matters and then just stop. Just move on. Just win a championship and fall in love with someone else and be happy, be so fucking happy that you can see it in every photo, every interview, every goddamn Instagram story.
He touches her differently than he touched you. He touches her casually. His hand on her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, easy and comfortable and public. Like he's allowed to. Like it's simple. He never touched you like that. He touched you like he was desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was afraid—of what, you still don't know. Afraid you'd disappear, maybe? Afraid someone would see? Afraid it meant something.
It did mean something. It meant everything. At least it did to you. You miss him. That's the pathetic truth of it all. You miss him so much that sometimes you can't breathe. You miss his 3 AM phone calls. You miss fixing his disasters. You miss the way he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he couldn't solve. You miss the feeling of him. His hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd say your name like it meant something.
You miss all of it and he's moved on and you're walking through Monaco at sunset thinking about someone who fired you eighteen months ago and probably hasn't thought about you since.
Your doorbell rings at 9:16 PM on December 19th. You're not expecting anyone. You consider ignoring it—consider pretending you're not home, consider going back to the book you're not reading. mBut, then, the doorbell rings again.
You should just pretend you're not home. Should pretend a lot of things that aren't walking to the door. You walk to the door anyway. Look through the peephole and your heart stops. Actually fucking stops in your chest. Lando Norris is standing in your hallway. He's wearing a cream Loewe sweatshirt and jeans, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other coddles his phone, and he's looking at it like he has all the time in the world. His hair is also shorter than it was in Qatar.
So, you do the only rational thing, the totally rational thing, and open the door. "Finally." He looks up from his phone. "I was about to use the spare key."
"You don't have a spare key."
"Don't I?" He walks past you into your apartment before you can stop him. "Nice place. Very clean and entirely very sad."
"Excuse me?"
"It looks like no one actually lives here." He's examining your bookshelf now, tilting his head to read the spines. "When did you become this person?"
"What are you doing here, Lando."
"Came to see you, obviously." He picks up a book, flips through it, puts it back in the wrong spot. "How've you been?"
"How have I been? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Yeah. How are you? What've you been up to? Pottery, I heard. That's cute."
Your stomach drops. "How did you know about pottery."
"I know things." He sits on your couch. Your couch. Like he belongs there. "You quit that too, I assume. Seems to be your pattern lately."
"My pattern."
"Quitting things. Pottery, yoga, that book club." He gestures at your apartment. "Living like a goddamn ghost."
"Get out."
"In a second. I need to talk to you about something first." He leans back, arms spread across the back of your couch. "The new assistant isn't working out."
You stare at him. "Emma. She's trying, I'll give her that. But she's not you. Doesn't think like you. Doesn't anticipate things like you did." He says it so casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "She's kind of useless, actually."
"And?"
"And I need you to train her."
The audacity. The fucking audacity of Lando Norris. "Are you insane?"
"No. Why would I be insane?"
"You fired me."
"I know. I was there."
"You fired me eighteen months ago and now you're asking me to train your replacement."
"She's not your replacement. That would imply she's anywhere near as competent as you were. Which she's not." He examines his nails. "I'm asking you to train her so she can be at least seventy percent as useful as you were. That's all."
"Get out of my apartment."
"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's a simple request. A few weeks of your time. I'll pay you whatever you want. You're not exactly busy." His eyes flick around your apartment. "Are you."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is you fired me. The point is you told me I was done. The point is you haven't spoken to me in a year and a half and now you show up here like nothing happened."
"Something happened?"
You want to hit him. Want to actually punch the asshole in the face. "Qatar. Something happened in Qatar."
"Oh, that." He waves a hand. "Ancient history. We've both moved on."
"Have we."
"Haven't we? You have your pottery classes. I have my championship." He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were in on a joke and now just makes you want to scream. "We're both doing great."
"Lando."
"What?"
"Get the fuck out."
"I'm at the Fairmont. Room 412." He stands up, stretches. "Think about it. I need an answer by tomorrow morning."
"The answer is no."
"Sure it is." He's walking toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You look good, by the way. Tired, but good."
He leaves before you can respond. You stand there in your apartment. Your very clean, very empty apartment. Your heart is doing something in your chest and your hands are shaking. Lando Norris showed up after eighteen months and asked you to train his assistant like it was the most reasonable request in the world. Made you feel crazy for being angry. Commented on your home and your pottery classes and the fact that you're living like a ghost. How does he know about the pottery classes. How does he know anything?
You walk to your couch. The cushion where he sat is still slightly compressed and you stare at it. He knows about pottery. About yoga. About the book club you got kicked out of. He's been watching. Or keeping track. Or something. For eighteen months you thought he'd forgotten about you entirely. That you'd been erased from his life as cleanly as you'd been erased from his Instagram captions. And now it turns out he's been aware of you this whole time. Aware enough to know about pottery classes in Monaco. Aware enough to know you quit.
The Fairmont is twelve minutes from here if you walk fast. You're not going to the Fairmont. You're not training Emma. You're not doing any of it. You lasted forty-seven minutes before you grabbed your keys.
When you enter Fairmont hotel, you walk past the front desk without making eye contact with anyone, past the bar where well-dressed people are having well-dressed conversations, past the elevator bank to the one marked for floors three through six.
You press the button. Wait. Watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open and you step inside before you can change your mind. Fourth floor. Room 412. The elevator is playing jazz, soft and inoffensive, the kind of music designed to make you forget you're in a metal box suspended by cables. You watch the numbers climb. One, two, three, four. The doors open.
The hallway is long and carpeted in a pattern that's probably meant to be elegant but just makes you slightly dizzy if you look at it too long. Room 412 is at the end, past eleven other rooms, past the ice machine, past the window that overlooks the harbor. You stand there for a moment. The door is dark wood with a brass handle and a number plaque that's slightly crooked. You can hear voices from one of the other rooms, muffled by walls and distance. Someone's watching television. Someone else is laughing. You knock on Lando's door.
The door opens immediately, like he was standing right there, like he was waiting.
"Took you long enough," Lando says. He's changed. Different sweatshirt, this one grey, same jeans. His hair is still damp like he showered after leaving your apartment, and you can smell his soap from here—clean and you don't recognize it but that fits him anyway, fits this version of him that exists in hotel rooms and galas and Instagram posts with his girlfriend.
"Can I come in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway?"
He steps aside and you walk in. The room is bigger than you expected, bigger than it needs to be for one person. There's a king bed with white sheets, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a desk by the window with a view of the harbor that's probably spectacular in daylight but right now just shows darkness and distant lights. His suitcase is open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a way that's chaotic and familiar and makes your fingers itch to organize it. There's a bottle of champagne on the desk. Two glasses next to it.
"You knew I'd come," you say.
"Of course I knew." He closes the door behind you. "You always come." The certainty in his voice makes you want to scream.
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not flattering myself. I'm stating facts." He walks past you to the desk, picks up the champagne bottle, examines the label like it matters. "You lasted, what, an hour?"
"Forty-seven minutes."
"Forty-seven minutes." He looks at you now, really looks at you, and there's something in his expression that you can't read, something that might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely. Either way, you don't entertain the thought. "You counted."
"I count everything now."
"I know you do." He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like of course he knows. And maybe he does know. Maybe he knows about the counting and the pottery and the book club and every other pathetic thing you've been doing for the past eighteen months while he's been winning championships and falling in love.
"How do you know about the pottery classes?" you ask.
"I told you. I know things."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." He pours champagne into both glasses even though you haven't said you want any. "Emma will be there on Monday. I need you there by nine."
"I didn't say yes."
"You're here, aren't you?"
He hands you a glass and you take it. You're not sure as to why you take it but you do, and now you're standing in his hotel room holding champagne and trying to remember how you got here, trying to remember the exact sequence of decisions that led from your apartment to this moment. "This is insane," you say.
"Probably."
"You fired me."
"I remember."
"You told me you loved me and then you fired me."
Something flickers across his face. Fast, there and gone before you can identify it. "That was a while ago."
"So?"
"So we've both moved on." He takes a sip of his champagne, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Haven't we?"
"I don't know, have we?"
"You tell me." He sets his glass down on the desk, leans back against it. "You're the one who showed up at my hotel room at ten PM."
"You literally asked me to."
"I asked you to think about training Emma. I didn't ask you to come here." He tilts his head, studying you in that way he used to. "But here you are anyway."
You hate that he's right. Hate that he knew exactly what would happen when he showed up at your apartment. Hate that after eighteen months of nothing, he can still make you do exactly what he wants with barely any effort at all. "Why me?" you ask. "Why not hire someone else to train her? Someone who doesn't have a history with you?"
"Because no one else knows how I work."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"It's the only reason." He crosses his arms. "You know my schedule better than I do. You know what I need before I need it. You know how to fix problems before they become problems. No one else can do that."
"Emma could learn."
"Emma is twenty-three years old and terrified of me. Every time I ask her a question she looks like she's going to cry." He says it without sympathy, just a simple observation, a simple fact. "She's not you."
Your stomach lurches, "Good. She shouldn't be me."
"Why not?"
"Because being me got me fired."
"No." He pushes off from the desk, takes a step closer. "Being you got you promoted from assistant to whatever we were. Getting fired came after."
"After you decided you were done with me."
"I never said I was done with you."
"You fired me. That's pretty definitive."
"Is it?" He's close enough now that you can see the exact color of his eyes in the hotel room lighting—that blue-green that changes depending on what he's wearing, what the weather is, what mood he's in. Right now they're darker, more blue than green, and fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "Because here you are. In my hotel room. Eighteen months later. Doesn't seem very definitive to me."
You should leave. Should put down the champagne glass you're still holding, should walk out of this hotel room, should tell him to train Emma himself or hire someone else or figure it the fuck out on his own. You don't leave.
"Monday," he says. "Nine AM. MTC. I'll have everything ready for you—schedules, systems, all of it. Two weeks. That's all I need."
"And after two weeks?"
"After two weeks you go back to your life. Pottery classes or whatever else you're doing to pass the time." The dismissiveness in his tone makes you want to throw your champagne in his face.
"I want double your normal consulting rate," you say instead.
"Done."
"And I'm not working with you directly. Just Emma."
"Fine."
"And if she's actually incompetent, if she can't learn this, I'm out. I'm not babysitting someone who can't do the job."
"She can learn. She's not stupid, she's just not you." He picks up his champagne glass again. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. What does your girlfriend think about this?" The question comes out before you can stop it. You watch his expression carefully, looking for any sign that it bothers him, that the mention of Magui does something to him the way the thought of her does something to you.
Nothing. His expression doesn't change at all. "Magui doesn't care about my work arrangements," he says.
"You told her you're hiring your ex-assistant as a consultant?"
"I told her I'm getting help training the new hire. She said that's great." He takes another sip. "She's very supportive." Of course Magui is supportive and understanding and completely unthreatened by the fact that her boyfriend is hiring the woman he fired after sleeping with her. Of course she's goddamn utterly perfect.
"Monday," you say. "Nine AM. Two weeks. Then I'm done."
"Deal." He sets his glass down, extends his hand like this is a business transaction, like you're colleagues making an agreement and not two people who destroyed each other eighteen months ago.
You shake his hand. His palm is warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel, and the touch of it against your skin makes something in your chest crack open. He doesn't let go immediately. Just holds your hand for a beat too long, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles in a gesture that might be accidental or might be completely intentional.
"It's good to see you," he says quietly.
You pull your hand back. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that. Don't make this into something it's not."
"What am I making it into?"
"You know what."
He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were the only person who mattered and now just makes you feel like you're losing a game you didn't know you were playing. "Monday," he says again.
You leave before you can do something stupid like stay. The hallway is the same length it was before—forty-three steps from his door to the elevator. You count them again anyway. Count them and try not to think about the way his hand felt against yours, the way his eyes looked in the hotel lighting, the way he said it's good to see you like he meant it.
The elevator arrives. You step inside and watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out past the bar, past the front desk, past all the well-dressed people living their well-dressed lives. The night air hits you when you step outside and it's cold, colder than it was before, or maybe that's just you.
Monday. Nine AM. Two weeks. You just agreed to spend two weeks training Lando Norris's new assistant, in the same building as him, probably seeing him multiple times a day, pretending that Qatar never happened and that the past eighteen months of pottery classes and counting ceiling tiles were a completely normal and healthy way to process getting fired by someone who said they loved you.
This is fine. You're fine. Everything is completely fine. You walk the twelve minutes home and try to convince yourself that you haven't just made a catastrophic mistake.
Monday arrives with the kind of crystalline Monaco morning that makes you hate how beautiful everything surrounding you is. The sky is aggressively blue. You stand outside the MTC building at 8:47 AM because you're not going to be late, not going to give Lando the satisfaction of waiting for you.
The severance money means you don't technically need this. Could've said no. Should've said no. But here you are anyway, in black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater, your hair pulled back, looking professional and composed and like someone who definitely didn't spend three hours last night googling "how to train someone when you're emotionally compromised."
The building looks the same. Glass and steel and McLaren orange accents, you've been here a thousand times. Walked these halls, sat in these conference rooms, fixed Lando's disasters in every possible corner of this building. You take the elevator to the third floor. Lando's offices are on the fourth, but you're meeting Emma in the conference room, neutral territory. The elevator doors open and she's already there.
Emma is standing outside Conference Room B, clutching a tablet to her chest like it's a life preserver. She's twenty-three, with dark hair in a neat ponytail and wide brown eyes that get wider when she sees you. "Oh my god," she says, and her voice is high and nervous and sweet. "You're here. You're actually here. I'm Emma. Obviously. You know that. Lando said you'd be here at nine but I got here at eight-thirty because I didn't want to be late and I've been standing here for—sorry, I'm talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous. I'm Emma."
"You said that already," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself because she's like a puppy, earnest and eager and probably thirty seconds away from peeing on the floor from excitement.
"Right. Yes. Sorry." She clutches the tablet tighter. "Thank you for doing this. Lando said you were the best and he wasn't exaggerating, I've read all your notes, like all of them, the system you set up is incredible and I've been trying to follow it but I keep messing things up and last week I accidentally booked him on a flight to Barcelona instead of Budapest and he didn't even yell, he just looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy and that was somehow worse—"
"Emma."
She stops mid-sentence. "Yeah?"
"Breathe." She takes a breath. Then another one. "Sorry. I'm nervous. You're kind of a legend around here."
"I'm really not."
"You are, though. Everyone talks about how you could predict what Lando needed before he even asked, how you saved the Singapore weekend when his passport got stolen, how you once fixed a PR disaster with seventeen minutes' notice—"
"That was fifteen minutes."
"See?" Emma's face lights up. "That makes it even more impressive."
You can't help it. You laugh. It's been eighteen months since you laughed in this building, maybe longer. "Come on. Let's get started."
Conference Room B hasn't changed. Same long table, same uncomfortable chairs, same view of the parking lot where you can see Lando's cars if you crane your neck. You don't crane your neck. You spend the first hour going through systems. Calendar management, how Lando color-codes everything but never looks at the color-coding so you have to verbally remind him anyway. The specific way he likes his schedule printed—landscape, not portrait, because he's a psychopath. His coffee order, which changes based on what country he's in but follows a pattern if you pay attention.
Emma takes notes on everything. Actual notes, handwritten in a neat script, asking questions that are surprisingly intelligent. "What about when he's being difficult?" she asks around 10:15. "Like when he just doesn't want to do something?"
"Give me an example."
"Last month he had a sponsor call with Tag Heuer and he just didn't show up. Turned his phone off, then I found him at the gym."
You nod. "That's a Marcus problem."
"Marcus?"
"The Tag Heuer exec. Lando hates him. Too corporate, talks in buzzwords, makes Lando feel like he's in a business school presentation." You pull up the calendar on your tablet. "Did you reschedule?"
"I tried. Marcus was pissed."
"Marcus is always pissed. Did Lando at least send him something? Gift basket, signed merch, something to smooth it over?"
Emma's face falls. "I... uhhhhhh, no?"
"Rule one," you say, and you sound exactly like you used to, competent and certain and completely in control. "When Lando fucks up with a sponsor, you fix it before it becomes a problem. Send Marcus a bottle of something expensive with a handwritten note from Lando. I'll show you where we keep the stationary. Lando won't remember doing it but that's fine. That's the point."
"That feels like lying."
"It's not lying. It's managing expectations. Lando's job is to drive fast and look good in photos. Your job is to make sure he can do both without accidentally destroying his entire career." You look at her. "Can you do that?"
She straightens up. "Yes."
"Good." You're explaining the intricacies of Lando's travel preferences—aisle seat but only on long-haul flights, hates flying commercial but won't admit it's because he's claustrophobic, needs noise-canceling headphones or he gets migraines—when the door opens.
You don't have to look up to know it's him. You can feel it, the way the air in the room shifts, the way Emma's posture goes rigid. "Morning," Lando says, and his voice is casual, easy, like this is completely normal. Like he didn't show up at your apartment four days ago asking you to do exactly this.
You look up. He's in McLaren team gear, black joggers and a papaya polo, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks good. He always looks good. You hate that you still notice. "We're in the middle of something," you say.
"I know. Just wanted to check in. See how it's going." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and his eyes are on you. Just on you. Not on Emma, not on the conference room, just you. "How's she doing?"
"She's sitting right here," Emma says, and there's a tiny bit of spine in it that makes you like her more.
"Right. Sorry." But he doesn't look at Emma. Still looking at you. "How's she doing?"
"Fine. We're going through travel protocols."
"Riveting." He pushes off the doorframe, walks into the room like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. He owns this whole building, or at least McLaren does and he's their golden boy so it's basically the same thing. He stops at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair. "Mind if I sit in?"
"Yes," you say, at the same time Emma says "No, of course not."
Lando smiles. That smile. "Majority rules." He sits down across from you. Emma looks between you like she's watching a tennis match and can't figure out who's winning.
"Continue," Lando says, gesturing at you like a professor encouraging a student. "Don't let me interrupt."
"You're already interrupting."
"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'm just sitting here. Very quietly. Being super helpful."
You want to throw your tablet at his head. "Emma, where were we?"
"Um." Emma's looking at her notes but you can see her hands are shaking slightly. "Travel preferences?"
"Right. So Lando needs—"
"I need a lot of things," Lando interrupts. "Very high maintenance. Must be exhausting to keep track of."
You ignore him. "Lando needs at least seven hours of sleep before a race. Which means you're coordinating with his trainer and his PR team to make sure he's not scheduled for anything after nine PM on Saturday nights."
"Unless it's important," Lando adds.
"Nothing is more important than you not crashing the car because you're tired."
"I would never crash because I'm tired. I'd crash because someone else did something stupid."
"Abu Dhabi 2023."
He sits up straighter. "That was different."
"You were exhausted. You'd done press until eleven the night before and you missed the apex on lap forty-three because you were too tired to focus."
"I missed the apex because Ocon was being a dick."
"Lando." You level him with a look. "Are you going to let me train Emma or are you going to argue with me about things that happened two years ago?" Something flickers across his face. Something that might be hurt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Fine. Continue."
You continue. Emma asks about race weekend protocols. You explain the specific way Lando likes his debriefs, bullet points, not paragraphs, because he won't read paragraphs. The way he gets quiet before qualifying, needs space, don't try to cheer him up or pump him up just let him be.
"He's a headphone person," you explain. "If he's wearing them, don't bother him unless the building is on fire."
"What if it's actually important?" Emma asks.
"Then text me first— sorry, text whoever his performance coach is and they'll handle it."
"You mean text you," Lando says quietly.
You don't look at him. "Text whoever is listed as his primary contact."
"That's you."
"I'm not his primary contact anymore."
"Yes, you are." He says it with complete certainty. "Never changed it. It's still you."
The room goes very quiet. Emma is looking at her tablet very intently, like she's trying to disappear into it. "We should take a break," you say, standing up. "Emma, fifteen minutes?"
"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely." She practically bolts from the room.
You start gathering your things. Lando stays seated. "You're still my primary contact," he says again.
"Change it."
"Why?"
"Because I don't work for you anymore."
"You're working for me right now."
"I'm consulting. It's temporary."
"Right." He stands up, walks around the table. He's too close now, close enough that you can smell his cologne and your head spins. "Two weeks."
"That's what we agreed."
"Then what?"
"Then I go back to my life and you figure out how to not destroy Emma's will to live."
"C'monnnn, I'm not that bad." You finally look at him. Really look at him. There's a small scar on his left eyebrow that wasn't there before—probably from a crash you didn't see, didn't hear about, weren't there for. He's broader in the shoulders. More defined. Like he's been training harder, pushing himself harder.
"You called her useless," you say quietly. "Emma. You told me she was useless."
"I said she wasn't you."
"Same thing."
"It's really not." He takes another step closer. "You were terrifying. Efficient and cold and you knew exactly what I needed before I needed it. Emma's trying but she's not—"
"She's twenty-three years old and you make her cry."
"I don't make her cry."
"You make her feel like she's failing even when she's doing everything right. That's worse than making her cry."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?" You cross your arms. "She accidentally booked you to Barcelona instead of Budapest and you looked at her like she'd killed your dog."
"It was a stupid mistake."
"It was an honest mistake. A mistake I made three times in my first six months working for you and you just laughed and fixed it."
"That was different."
"Why? Because you were fucking me?"
The words hang in the air between you. Lando's expression shutters closed, that thing he does when he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. "That's not fair," he says finally.
"Nothing about this is fair." You grab your tablet. "I need air."
"Wait—" But you're already leaving, walking out of Conference Room B, past Emma who's hovering in the hallway pretending to look at her phone, toward the elevator. You hit the button. Wait. The doors open.
Lando catches them before they close.
"Move," you say.
"No."
"Lando, I swear to fucking god."
He steps into the elevator. The doors close behind him. It's just the two of you in this small space, and he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You're right," he says.
"About what?"
"About Emma. About me being too hard on her." The elevator starts moving down. "I don't mean to. I just—"
"You're comparing her to me."
"Yeah."
"Then stop."
"I can't." His voice is quiet now, raw. "You set an impossible standard and now everyone else just feels wrong."
"That's not my problem."
"Isn't it?" He moves closer. "You're here, aren't you? Training her. Which means some part of you still cares."
"I care about her. Not about you."
"Liar." The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out without looking back. You can feel him following you, his presence like a heat at your back. Outside, the Monaco sun is aggressive and bright. You walk toward the parking lot, no destination in mind, just moving because if you stop moving you might do something stupid like turn around.
"Where are you going?" Lando calls after you.
"Away from you."
"Your car's the other direction." You stop and turn around. He's standing there in the middle of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is all some game and he's already won.
"What do you want from me?" you ask.
"I want," he stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"Fine. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the villain in your story."
"Then stop acting like one."
"I fired you because," He stops again, and this time he looks genuinely frustrated, like the words won't come. "It was getting complicated."
"You said you loved me and then you fired me. That's not complicated. That's just fucking cruel, Lando."
"It wasn't— I wasn't trying to be cruel."
"Then what were you trying to be?" He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the parking lot while people walk past, employees and engineers and team members who definitely recognize both of you and are definitely going to talk about this later.
"Two weeks," you say finally. "I'm going to train Emma for two weeks and then I'm done. I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to analyze what happened in Qatar. I don't want closure or explanations or whatever it is you think you need to give me."
"What if I want those things?"
"Then you should've thought about that eighteen months ago." You walk back to the building, back to Conference Room B where Emma is probably still trying to make herself invisible. Lando doesn't follow you this time.
When you get back upstairs, Emma looks up nervously. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," you lie. "Let's talk about how to handle media obligations." You make it through the rest of the morning. Make it through lunch—salads in the cafeteria, Emma chattering nervously about her girlfriend and her apartment in Nice and how she got this job. Make it through the afternoon session on crisis management.
At 4:47 PM, your phone buzzes.
You stare at the messages. Emma is explaining something about how she organized his sponsor contacts but you're not listening anymore. "I need to take care of something," you tell her. "Can you review the crisis management protocols we just covered? I'll quiz you when I get back."
"Yeah, of course." She's already pulling up the documents, eager and focused.
You take the elevator to the fourth floor. Lando's office is at the end of the hall, corner office with windows overlooking the harbor. The door is half-open. You knock anyway.
"Come in," he says. His office is exactly how you remember it. Sleek brown desk, nice chair, shelves lined with trophies and helmets and racing memorabilia. There's a new addition—a photo from Abu Dhabi, him holding the championship trophy, surrounded by his team. You're not in it. Obviously.
Lando is standing by the window, back to you, still in his team gear. "Close the door," he says without turning around.
You close the door. Stay by it. Keep your hand on the handle. "What."
"I owe you an explanation." He turns around finally. His face is serious, none of that cocky confidence from this morning. "About Qatar."
"I don't want a fucking explanation."
"I know you don't want to hear it. I'm telling you anyway." He leans back against the window ledge. "I fired you because I was in love with you and I didn't know what the fuck to do about it."
You stare at him. At Lando Norris standing in his corner office with the nice windows and a championship trophy on his shelf, telling you he fired you because he loved you like that makes any fucking sense at all.
"No," you say.
"No?"
"No. You don't get to do this." You take a step forward, then another, until you're in the middle of his office and your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. "You don't get to rewrite this to make yourself feel better."
"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what happened."
"What happened is you fucked me and then you panicked and then you got rid of me. Don't dress it up as some grand romantic gesture."
"It wasn't—" He pushes off from the window, agitated now. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying to protect you."
"From what?"
"From me. From this." He gestures around the office, at the trophies, at everything. "From being the person everyone whispers about. 'Oh, she's only here because she's sleeping with Lando Norris.' From having everything you accomplished reduced to who you were fucking."
You laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "How noble of you. Firing me to protect my reputation."
"It wasn't just about reputation."
"Then what was it about, Lando? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared. You said something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment and then you couldn't take it back so you just removed the problem entirely."
"I meant it." He takes a step closer. "I meant every fucking word."
"Then why—"
"Because I couldn't keep you and race at the same time!" His voice rises, echoing off the glass walls. "Because every time I got in the car I was thinking about you instead of the track. Because in Suzuka I nearly crashed in turn seven because I was wondering if you were watching. Because I was so gone for you that it was making me dangerous."
You open your mouth. Close it and try to find words that make sense. "You don't get to blame me for your driving," you say finally.
"I'm not blaming you. I'm explaining."
"You're making excuses."
"Jesus Christ." He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up completely. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"
"Difficult?" Your voice is rising now too. "You fired me, Lando. You looked me in the eye and told me I was done and then you disappeared from my life for months. You moved on for fucks sake! You found someone else. You won a fucking championship. And now you want me to what? Thank you for protecting me?"
"No, I want you to understand!"
"I understand perfectly. You wanted me gone so you could focus on your career. Mission accomplished. You got everything you wanted. Congratu-fucking-lations!"
"Everything except you."
The words hit you like a physical blow and you take a step back. Lando closes the distance. He's too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes, close enough that you're breathing the same air.
"You think I moved on?" His voice is lower now, dangerous. "You think I just forgot about you?"
"You're with Magui—"
"Magui is—" He stops. His jaw works. "Magui is uncomplicated. Easy. She doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."
"How nice for you both."
"You're not listening to what I'm saying."
"I'm listening. I just don't believe you."
"Why not?"
"Because if you actually loved me, you would've fought for it. You would've figured it out. You wouldn't have just thrown me away like I was—like I was disposable."
"You were never disposable." His hands come up like he's going to touch you, then drop. "You were the opposite. You were so important it fucking terrified me."
"Past tense."
"What?"
"Were. You keep saying were." You're shaking now, with anger or something else you refuse to name. "Past tense, Lando. Because whatever you felt, it's over now. You made sure of that."
"Is it?" He moves even closer, so close now that his chest is almost touching yours. "Because you came to my hotel room. You agreed to train Emma. You're standing in my office right now when you could've said no to all of it."
"I came because you manipulated me—"
"I asked. You chose."
"Fuck you."
"Yeah?" His voice drops even lower, rough and intimate and infuriating. "Is that what you want?"
Your breath catches. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't point out that you're still here? That you haven't left even though you could? That you're looking at me right now like you want to hit me or kiss me and you can't decide which?"
"I want to hit you."
"Liar." He reaches up slowly, giving you time to move away. You don't. His fingers brush your jaw, the same way they did in that hotel room in Qatar, and your traitorous body remembers. Remembers everything. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."
"And you're still an asshole."
"Yeah." His thumb traces along your bottom lip. "But you liked that about me."
"Past tense."
"Sure." He's smiling now, that devastating smile that means he thinks he's winning. "Keep telling yourself that."
You should leave. Should push him away, walk out of this office, text Emma that she's on her own, block Lando's number, and get on the first flight to literally anywhere else. You don't leave. "You're with someone else," you say, but your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.
"Am I?"
"Magui—"
"Isn't here." His other hand comes up to cup your face, tilting it up toward him. "Hasn't been here. Not in any way that matters."
"That's not—you can't just—"
"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "I know it's fucked up. I know I have no right to any of this. I know I'm the villain in your story and I probably deserve it. But I can't," His voice cracks slightly. "I can't keep pretending I don't still feel it. Can't keep watching you in that conference room teaching Emma things you used to do for me and act like it doesn't make me want to flip the fucking table."
"Lando."
"Tell me you don't feel it too." His eyes search yours. "Tell me Qatar meant nothing. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you're over it and I'll back off. I'll let you train Emma and I'll stay away and I'll never bring this up again."
It would be so easy to lie. To say the words he's asking for and walk out and go back to your empty apartment and your pottery classes and your carefully constructed life without him. "I can't," you whisper.
"Can't what?"
"Can't tell you that."
His grip on your face tightens. "Why not?"
"Because it's not true." The admission feels like it's being torn out of you. "I think about it every day. I think about you every day. And I hate it. I hate that you still have this much power over me. I hate that you fired me and moved on and I'm still—I'm still stuck in that hotel room in Qatar waiting for you to explain why you ruined everything."
"I'm explaining now."
"It's too late."
"Is it?" He's so close now his lips are almost touching yours. "Tell me it's too late. Mean it. Make me believe it."
"Lando, don't."
"Don't what? Don't tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you? Don't admit that Magui was supposed to help me move on and it didn't work? Don't say that I've been keeping track of every pottery class and yoga session and book club meeting because I couldn't stop myself?"
"That's creepy."
"I know." He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I know it is. I know I'm fucked up about this. About you. But I can't."
You kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's eighteen months of anger and hurt and want colliding all at once. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you remember, that you've heard in dreams and hated yourself for missing. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and it's exactly like Qatar and nothing like Qatar at all. In Qatar, it was desperate and finite, both of you knowing it was ending even as it was happening. This feels different. More dangerous.
This feels like a beginning. He walks you backward until your back hits his desk, and his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him automatically, muscle memory from all those times before, and he's between your thighs and you're both breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Fuck, I missed this."
"Shut up." You pull him back in, kissing him harder, meaner, putting all your anger into it. He takes it, gives it back, his teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
His hands slide under your sweater, palms hot against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. You've been so cold for eighteen months and now you're burning up. "We can't," you gasp when he moves to your neck, biting down on that spot below your ear that makes you see stars. "Lando, we can't."
"Why not?" His voice is muffled against your skin, and his hands are still moving, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.
"Because—because Emma is downstairs, because this is your office, because you have a girlfriend."
"I'll break up with her." He says it so casually, like it's already decided. "I'll call her right now."
"Don't be stupid."
"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I don't want her. I want you. I've always wanted you."
"You fired me."
"Worst decision I've ever made." His hands frame your face again, forcing you to look at him. "And I've made a lot of bad decisions, so that's saying something."
You want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to pull him back in and forget everything that happened between Qatar and now. "This is insane," you say.
"Probably."
"We'll ruin everything. Again."
"Maybe." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Or maybe we'll figure it out this time."
"You don't know that."
"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You both freeze. "Don't," Lando says.
"It might be Emma—"
"It can wait." But the spell is broken. Reality is seeping back in through the cracks—the fact that you're sitting on his desk with your sweater rucked up and your lipstick definitely smeared. The fact that Emma is downstairs waiting for you. The fact that Magui exists, whether Lando wants to acknowledge it or not. You slide off the desk, putting distance between you. Your hands are shaking as you pull your sweater back down, try to smooth your hair.
"This was a mistake," you say.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend it didn't mean anything. You're shit at it." He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Always have been."
"It meant something in Qatar too. Look how that turned out."
"This is different."
"Is it?" You find your tablet where you dropped it on the floor, clutch it to your chest like Emma did this morning. "Or are you going to fire me again in two weeks when you remember why this is a bad idea?"
"That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. His jaw tightens. "Don't run."
"I'm not running. I'm leaving. There's a difference."
"Is there?" You open the door. Emma is definitely going to know something happened—your face is probably flushed, your lips probably swollen. But you can't stay here. Can't keep looking at him without wanting to touch him again. "Two weeks," you say without turning around. "I'm training Emma for two weeks. That's all this is."
"If that's what you need to tell yourself."
You walk out. Down the hallway, into the elevator, down to the third floor. Emma looks up when you walk in, takes one look at your face, and wisely says nothing. "Sorry," you manage. "That took longer than expected."
"It's fine." She's studying you though, those wide brown eyes taking in everything. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Let's go over crisis management one more time." You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through Emma's questions and the review session and the walk to your car. Make it all the way home before you finally let yourself fall apart. Your apartment is exactly as empty as you left it. Clean and sad and full of the ghost of pottery classes and yoga sessions you quit.
Your phone buzzes and you brace yourself.
You throw your phone onto the couch. Pour yourself a glass of wine you don't drink. Stand in your living room and touch your lips where they're still tender from his teeth. This is going to end badly. You can see the car crash coming from a mile away and you're walking toward it anyway. Monday down. Thirteen days to go, and you are so undeniably fucked.
Tuesday passes in a blur of Emma and schedules and carefully avoiding the fourth floor. You arrive at 8:45 AM, earlier than necessary, because if you're early then you're in control. Emma is already there—of course she is, eager puppy that she is—with coffee for both of you and questions written neatly in her notebook.
"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," she starts, and you're grateful she doesn't mention the fact that you came back from Lando's office looking like you'd been thoroughly kissed. "About anticipating his needs before he asks?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you do that? Like, how do you know what he's going to want before he knows?" You think about all the times you just knew. Knew he needed silence before quali. Knew he needed distraction after a bad race. Knew he was spiraling before he even realized it himself. "You pay attention," you say finally. "To patterns. To mood shifts. To the things he doesn't say."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
You spend the morning going through his sponsorship portfolio. Emma takes notes on everything—which sponsors require more hand-holding, which ones Lando actually likes, which ones are just obligatory. "Tag Heuer," she says, reading from her tablet. "You mentioned Marcus yesterday. What's the deal there?"
"Marcus is—" You stop, because Lando's walking past the conference room. You can see him through the glass wall, talking to someone from engineering. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't even glance in your direction.
Good. That's good. "Marcus is old-school corporate," you continue, dragging your attention back to Emma. "Thinks racing should be serious and professional. Doesn't understand that half of Lando's appeal is that he's not those things."
"So Lando hates him."
"Lando tolerates him because Tag Heuer pays extremely well."
Emma makes a note. "Got it. Tolerate with expensive gifts."
"Exactly."
Lando walks past again twenty minutes later. Still doesn't look. Wednesday is worse because Lando isn't there at all. "He had to fly to London," Emma explains when you arrive at 9 AM to an empty building. "McLaren board meeting. Won't be back until late."
"Oh." You hate the disappointment that floods through you. Hate that some part of you was expecting him to show up, to push, to do something. "Okay. Good. We can focus without distractions."
Emma gives you a look that suggests she's not as oblivious as you thought. You spend Wednesday going through worst-case scenarios. PR disasters, contract disputes, the time Lando accidentally liked a tweet criticizing the team principal and you had to do damage control for six hours straight.
"The key," you tell Emma, "is to fix it before it becomes a story. Lando's going to fuck up. That's not the question. The question is whether you can contain it before it explodes."
"That's kind of dark."
"Welcome to Formula 1." Your phone stays silent all day. No texts from Lando. No calls. Nothing. Which is fine. Which is what you wanted. You definitely don't check it seventeen times. Wednesday evening you're back in your apartment, staring at your laptop without seeing it, when Charlotte, your close friend finally calls.
"You're avoiding me," she says without preamble.
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."
"Busy doing what? I thought you were living your best unemployed life."
"I'm consulting."
There's a pause. "Consulting for who?"
"It's temporary."
"Babe. Consulting for who?"
You close your eyes. "Lando."
Charlotte makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're kidding."
"I'm training his new assistant. Two weeks. That's it."
"Two weeks of seeing your ex-boss who you were definitely in love with and who fired you after fucking you? That Lando?"
"I wasn't in love with him."
"You counted ceiling tiles for four months after he fired you."
"That's not—that's different."
"Babe." Charlotte's voice goes soft. "What are you doing?"
"I'm helping someone who needs help. Emma's sweet and she's trying and Lando's going to destroy her confidence if someone doesn't teach her how to handle him."
"Very altruistic."
"It is altruistic."
"So nothing's happened?" You think about Monday. About his office and his hands and the way he kissed you like he was drowning.
"Nothing's happened," you lie.
"You're such a bad liar." But Charlotte doesn't push. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to watch you fall apart again."
"I'm not going to fall apart."
"Promise me."
"I promise." You hang up and immediately check your phone. Still nothing from Lando, which is good. Which is what you need. Right? Right? You make it to 11 PM before you break and text him.
You stare at that last message for longer than you should. Beautiful. He used to call you that, in hotel rooms and early mornings and moments when he thought you weren't paying attention. You plug your phone in across the room so you won't be tempted to respond. It doesn't help. You lie awake until 2 AM thinking about his hands and his mouth and the way he said I'll break up with her like it was simple.
Thursday morning Emma is vibrating with excitement when you arrive. "Okay so I have a question about the simulator sessions," she says before you've even sat down. "How often does he do them and do I need to coordinate with the engineers or does that happen automatically and—"
"Emma. Breathe."
"Right. Sorry. I'm just," She pauses. "He texted me last night."
Your stomach drops. "Lando texted you?"
"Yeah. Just to say I'm doing a good job and he appreciates me being patient while I learn." She's beaming. "That was nice, right? That he took the time to do that?"
"Very nice." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.
"He's not as scary as I thought he'd be. I mean, he's still intense, but you can tell he cares about getting things right."
You think about Monday, about the way he looked at you in his office, the way his voice cracked when he said I can't keep pretending. "Yeah," you manage. "He cares about getting things right."
You're midway through explaining the intricacies of coordinating with his performance coach when the door opens. Lando walks in with two coffees and that fucking smile. "Morning," he says, like this is casual, like he didn't disappear for two days. He sets one coffee in front of Emma. "Vanilla latte, right?"
Emma lights up. "You remembered!"
"Course." Then he turns to you and sets the second coffee down. "Oat milk cappuccino. Extra shot."
You stare at the cup. It's from the specific café three blocks away that you used to make him stop at every morning when you worked for him. The one with the good oat milk, not the shit oat milk. "I didn't ask for this," you say.
"I know." He sits down at the table, directly across from you. "But it's 9:30 AM and you've been here since 8:45 and you haven't had your second coffee yet. You get mean after 9:15 if you don't have caffeine."
"I'm not mean," you say.
"You're terrifying." But he says it like it's a compliment. "So. What are we covering today?"
"We?"
"I'm sitting in again. Making sure Emma's getting the full picture." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's in team gear again—black joggers, papaya polo. His hair is messy like he didn't bother styling it. "That okay?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really."
You want to throw the coffee at him. You take a sip instead. It's perfect. Exactly how you like it. The bastard remembers everything. "Fine. We're covering travel coordination. Emma, pull up Lando's schedule for Japan."
The next hour is torture. Lando sits there asking questions, making comments, watching you explain things to Emma with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Every time you look at him he's already looking at you. "So when we're coordinating flights," you say, pulling up a calendar, "you need to account for jet lag. Lando needs at least two days in-country before a race weekend if it's long-haul."
"What if there's not two days?" Emma asks.
"Then you make it work. But he'll be pissy about it."
"I don't get pissy," Lando interjects.
You level him with a look. "Singapore 2024. You had one day in-country and you snapped at everyone for three days straight."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I had food poisoning."
"You were jet-lagged."
"I was dyyyyying."
"You had a very mild stomachache." Emma is trying very hard not to laugh. Lando is glaring at you, but there's something else in his expression. Something that looks almost like fondness.
"Anyway," you continue, turning back to Emma. "Two days minimum. Schedule accordingly."
At 11 AM, Lando's phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shutters. You make it through another twenty minutes before Lando comes back. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his jaw.
"All good?" Emma asks brightly.
"Fine." He sits back down. "Where were we?"
"Simulator sessions," you say. "Emma needs to know how to coordinate."
"Actually," Lando interrupts, "I need to talk to you about something. Work thing. Won't take long."
Emma looks between you. "I can step out—"
"No need." Lando is already standing. "Conference room down the hall. Five minutes."
He walks out. You have no choice but to follow. The conference room is smaller than the one you've been using, no windows, just a table and six chairs and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly sickly. Lando closes the door behind you.
"What's the work thing?" you ask.
"There is no work thing."
"Then why—"
"I needed to see you alone." He's standing too close again, crowding into your space. "Needed to know if Monday was real or if I imagined the whole thing."
"Lando—"
"Did you think about it?" His voice is low, urgent. "The past two days. Did you think about it?"
"That's not, we can't do this here."
"I texted Emma. Told her she's doing a good job. Did she tell you?"
"Yes."
"I did it so you wouldn't think I was only here for you. So you wouldn't accuse me of using this as an excuse." He takes another step closer. "But I am here for you. I'm always here for you."
"You were in London."
"McLaren board meeting. Had to present the championship review. Couldn't get out of it." His hand comes up to your face but doesn't quite touch. "Thought about you the entire time. Especially during the part where they asked about my personal life."
Your breath catches. "What did you say?"
"Said it was complicated." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so light you might be imagining it. "Said I was working on fixing something I broke."
"Did they ask about Magui?"
Something flickers across his face. "Yeah."
"And?"
"And I told them we were taking a break."
The world tilts. "You what?"
"Called her last night. Told her I needed space to figure some things out." His eyes search yours. "She was surprisingly understanding about it."
"Lando, you can't just do this."
"Can't what? Can't be honest? Can't admit that I've been in a relationship with someone I don't love because I was too fucked up over you to be alone?"
"That's not fair to her."
"I know. Which is why I ended it." His hand is fully cupping your face now. "I'm not doing this halfway. I'm not sneaking around or lying. If we're doing this, I'm all in."
"We're not doing anything—"
"Liar." He's so close now you can count his eyelashes. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."
"You're being crazy."
"Probably." His lips brush against yours, barely a kiss, more a promise. "But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Want you."
You should push him away. Should remind him that Emma is down the hall, that this is insane, that he broke your heart eighteen months ago and you're not giving him the chance to do it again. You kiss him instead. It's different from Monday. Slower, deeper, less angry and more inevitable. Like you're both finally admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide into your hair and you press closer, your back hitting the wall, and he makes that sound again, the one that's half-groan and half-surrender.
"We have to stop," you gasp against his mouth.
"Why?"
"Because Emma is waiting. Because we're in an office building. Because—"
"Because you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." His forehead rests against yours. "But that's okay. So am I."
"Then why are you pushing this?"
"Because eighteen months without you was worse than being scared." His eyes meet yours. "Because I'd rather risk everything than spend another year and a half counting how long it's been since I touched you." You're saved from responding by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out, grateful for the interruption.
"Shit." You step back, putting distance between you. "We need to go back."
"In a second." He catches your hand. "Tonight. Come over."
"Lando."
"Not to my place. Neutral ground. There's that restaurant you like on Avenue Princess Grace. The one with the good risotto."
"I know the one."
"Seven PM. Just dinner. Just talking."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I'll respect it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "But you won't say no."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of you." He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. "Seven PM."
He leaves before you can argue. You stand there in the conference room, heart racing, lips tingling, completely and utterly fucked. When you get back to the main conference room, Emma takes one look at your face and mercifully says nothing. You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through explaining simulator protocols and race weekend logistics and all the things Emma needs to know.
Lando doesn't come back. At 6 PM, Emma starts packing up. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow's our last day of basics, then we'll start shadowing some actual events."
"Sounds good." She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You and Lando. You have history, right?"
You should lie. Should definitely keep it professional. "Yeah," you say instead. "We have history."
"I figured." Emma adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's different around you. Lighter. Like he can actually breathe."
She leaves before you can respond. You sit in the empty conference room staring at your phone. At the time. 6:03 PM. You could go home. Pour wine. Pretend tonight isn't happening. Instead, at 6:47 PM, you're standing outside La Maison du Caviar in a black dress you haven't worn in two years, watching Lando get out of his car.
He's in dark jeans and a white button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looks unfairly good. "You came," he says, and he sounds surprised.
"Don't gloat."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He offers his arm. "Shall we?" Day three. Tension officially at breaking point. This is going to end in flames.
"Wine?" Lando asks once you're seated.
"I can order my own wine."
"I know you can. I'm asking if you want wine."
You do. You desperately do. "Red."
He orders a bottle of something French and expensive without looking at the menu. The sommelier practically bows before walking away. "So," Lando says, leaning back in his chair. "How am I doing?"
"At what?"
"At this. Dinner. Normal human interaction."
"It's been five minutes."
"And?"
"And you're doing fine. Very restrained."
He smiles. That dangerous smile that means trouble. "Just wait."
The wine arrives. It's good. Too good. The kind of good that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. "Emma's doing well," you say, because work is safe. Work is neutral territory.
"She is. Thanks to you."
"She's a fast learner. She actually listens."
"Unlike me?"
"You listen. You just choose to ignore half of what people tell you."
"Not true. I listened when you told me I needed to be nicer to Emma."
"You texted her once."
"And I brought her coffee this morning. And I'm letting her leave at reasonable hours instead of texting her at midnight about random shit." He takes a sip of wine. "See? Growth."
"Impressive. Want a gold star?"
"I want you to admit I'm trying."
"You're trying," you concede. "Doesn't mean it's working."
"Ouch." The waiter comes to take your order. You get the risotto because Lando was right, it is good here. He gets something with fish that you know he'll eat half of before getting distracted. Once the waiter leaves, Lando leans forward. "So. Eighteen months."
"We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"The post-mortem. The 'where did we go wrong' conversation."
"Why not?"
"Because I already know where we went wrong. You fired me."
"Before that. You're skipping the part where we were in love."
Your grip tightens on your wine glass. "We weren't in love."
"I was."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He stops, frustrated. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"
"Difficult?" Your voice rises slightly. An older couple two tables over glances your way. You lower it. "You think I'm being difficult?"
"I think you're refusing to have an actual conversation because you're scared of what might happen if you do."
"I'm not scared of anything."
"Bullshit. You're terrified. You've been terrified since Monday when I kissed you and you kissed me back and realized that maybe you're not as over this as you want to be."
"You're so fucking arrogant."
"And you're deflecting."
"I'm being realistic. You broke my heart, Lando. You don't get to just decide we're doing this again because you're bored of your girlfriend."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"It's me finally having the balls to fix the worst mistake I ever made."
"By taking me to dinner? By kissing me in conference rooms? That's your plan?"
"My plan is to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—nostalgia or whatever you think it is."
"It's been two days."
"It's been eighteen months. Two days is just how long it took me to get you in the same room as me." He refills your wine glass even though you haven't asked. "And before you say it—yes, I know I'm the one who caused those eighteen months. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I'm here now and I'm trying and you won't even give me a chance to explain. I've had eighteen months to figure out exactly how miserable I am without you." His voice drops. "Because I've tried to move on and I can't. Because every time I get in that fucking car I still think about you in Qatar watching me in FP2 and smiling like you were proud of me."
Your chest aches. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because it's not fair." You set your wine glass down too hard. "You don't get to fire me and disappear and show up eighteen months later with pretty words and expect me to just—"
"Just what?"
"Just forget. Just forgive. Just let you back in like you didn't completely destroy me."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. "I know," Lando says finally, quietly. "I know I destroyed you. You think I don't know that? You think I didn't see what I did to you?"
"Clearly not, since you still did it."
"I did it because I was fucking terrified. Because I'd never felt that way about anyone and it was making me insane. Because every time I looked at you I wanted things I didn't know how to want." His hands are clenched on the table. "And I know that's not an excuse. I know it doesn't make it better. But I'm trying to explain—"
"I don't want an explanation. I want you to leave me alone."
"Liar."
"Stop calling me that."
"Then stop lying." He leans forward. "You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Tell me Monday meant nothing. Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you're not sitting here right now wishing we were anywhere else so you could do it again."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Because your pupils are dilated and your breathing is uneven and you've been staring at my mouth for the past thirty seconds." Fuck. He's right. You have been.
"That's—I'm not—"
"You're a terrible liar," he says again, and there's something almost gentle in it now. "Always have been. It's one of my favorite things about you."
"I need to use the bathroom." You stand up before he can respond. Navigate through the restaurant on unsteady legs—from the wine or from him, you're not sure. The bathroom is in the back, single-stall, the kind with a heavy wooden door and a lock that actually works.
You close yourself inside and immediately brace your hands on the sink. Your reflection looks back at you—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You look like someone who's losing an argument. Worse, you look like someone who wants to lose. Deep breath. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish dinner like a professional, go home, and forget this ever—
The door opens and Lando steps inside and locks it behind him. "What are you doing?" Your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.
"What do you think I'm doing?" He's crossing the space between you in two strides, and then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you onto the sink.
"Someone could—"
"Let them." His mouth finds your neck, that spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "I'm done pretending. Done watching you try to convince yourself you don't want this."
"Lando."
"Tell me to stop." His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk out right now. I'll finish dinner, take you home, never bring it up again."
You should. You should absolutely tell him to stop. "I hate you," you say instead.
"I know." His mouth moves to yours, kissing you hard enough to bruise. "Hate me louder."
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you're trying to push him away. It's all contradiction—your mouth saying one thing while your body says another, and he can read every single signal.
"This is insane," you gasp when he bites down on your lower lip.
"Probably." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs. "Don't care."
"We're in a restaurant bathroom."
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, dangerous. "You want me to stop?"
"Yes."
"Liar." His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Try again."
"I—fuck—" Your head drops back against the mirror as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, teasing. "This doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it?" He's watching your face, cataloging every reaction. "Because you're shaking. And your breathing's gone all uneven. And you're so wet I can feel it through your underwear."
"That's not—" You gasp as he presses exactly where you need him. "—not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth is on your neck again, biting, sucking, definitely leaving marks. "Been thinking about this for eighteen months. Eighteen months of wondering if you tasted the same, if you'd make those same sounds, if you'd still fall apart the same way."
His fingers slide inside you and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. "Don't." He uses his free hand to pull your lip from between your teeth. "Want to hear you. Want everyone in this fucking restaurant to know what I'm doing to you."
"You're insane."
"And you love it." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck against his hand. "There she is. There's my girl."
"Not your girl."
"No?" He slows his movements, teasing. "Then whose girl are you?"
"I'm not—I don't belong to—fuck, don't stop—"
"Say it." His thumb finds your clit and you actually whimper. "Say you're mine."
"Go to hell."
He laughs, and it's dark and possessive and makes you clench around his fingers. "We're already there, beautiful. Might as well enjoy it." He works you with devastating precision—eighteen months and he still remembers exactly what you need. The pressure, the angle, the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. You're gripping his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt, and he's muttering against your neck in a voice gone rough and desperate.
"So fucking perfect. Missed this. Missed you. Missed making you fall apart on my fingers like you're mine, like you've always been mine—"
"Lando—" You're close, embarrassingly close, everything building sharp and inevitable.
"I know. I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter." His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it. "Come on, beautiful. Show me. Show me you still want this as much as I do."
You come with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair, and he works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away. "Fuck," you breathe.
"Yeah." He's breathing hard too, forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "So that happened."
Reality comes crashing back. You're in a restaurant bathroom with your dress rucked up and Lando's fingers still inside you and at least twenty people on the other side of the door who definitely heard something. "Oh my god." You push at his chest. "Oh my god, we just—in a public bathroom—"
"Technically a private bathroom." But he's pulling back, giving you space. "No one's going to say anything."
"Everyone's going to say something." You slide off the sink on shaky legs, trying to pull your dress down with trembling hands. "They're going to see us walk out and they're going to know—"
"So what if they know?" He's watching you in the mirror, his reflection overlapping with yours. "I told you. I'm done pretending."
"That's easy for you to say. You're Lando Norris. You can do whatever you want."
"And what are you?"
"I'm the girl who got fired for sleeping with her boss and now everyone's going to think I'm pathetic for coming back."
"No." He steps behind you, hands on your hips, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "You're the girl I've been in love with for two years who I was too much of a coward to keep. And if anyone says anything about you being pathetic, I'll personally destroy them."
You want to argue. Want to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Want to protect yourself before he has the chance to hurt you again. Instead you turn around and kiss him. Slower this time, softer, and when you pull back his eyes are closed like he's savoring it.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you whisper.
"I know."
"And it doesn't mean we're back together."
"Okay."
"And I still think you're an asshole."
"Fair." He opens his eyes. "But you're here. You came to dinner. You let me—" He gestures vaguely at the sink. "—do that. So maybe we're not as hopeless as you think."
"We're absolutely hopeless."
"Probably." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."
You should say no. Should walk out, go home, block his number, and never look back.
"One chance," you hear yourself say. "You get one chance, Lando. You fuck this up, I'm gone. For real this time."
"I won't fuck it up."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He kisses you again, quick and sure. "Because I'm not losing you twice."
You fix your makeup as best you can. Lando runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like you've had your hands in it. You both look thoroughly fucked and there's nothing to be done about it.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
"Me neither." He unlocks the door. "Let's go anyway."
The meal continues in a strange sort of limbo. Lando orders dessert—some chocolate thing that's probably obscenely expensive—and insists you try it even though you say you're not hungry. He feeds you a bite from his fork and you let him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're aware that this is a turning point, that you're crossing a line you swore you wouldn't cross.
"Good?" he asks.
"It's fine."
"Just fine?" He takes another bite, considering. "I think it's better than fine."
"You think everything here is better than fine. You probably have stock in this place."
"I don't have stock in this place." He pauses. "I know the owner, though. Nice guy. Makes excellent risotto."
"Of course you do." By the time the check comes, it's nearly 10 PM. The restaurant has thinned out—just a few tables left, couples lingering over wine, the staff starting their closing routines. Lando pays without looking at the total, leaves a tip that's probably more than your entire meal cost.
"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand. You look at it for a moment. At his palm, open and waiting. At the decision you're about to make. You take his hand. Outside, Monaco is cold and beautiful. The kind of night where the Mediterranean is dark glass reflecting city lights, where everything feels suspended and possible. Lando's car is waiting where the valet brought it around—matte black Porsche,
"I can walk," you say, even though you're not letting go of his hand.
"It's cold."
"It's twelve minutes."
"It's twelve minutes in heels." He opens the passenger door. "Let me drive you. Please." There's something in the please that gets you. Something vulnerable and honest that wasn't there before. You get in the car. Lando slides into the driver's seat and the engine purrs to life. He doesn't immediately drive. Just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the street.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Yeah." He glances at you. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how I'm going to convince you to let me come upstairs."
Your stomach flips. "Lando."
"I know, I know. You said one chance. I'm not fucking it up." He pulls out into traffic, smooth and controlled. "But I also know that if I drop you off and drive away, you're going to spend the entire night convincing yourself this was a mistake."
"It might be a mistake."
"Or it might not be." He takes the turn toward your apartment, like he's made this drive a thousand times. Maybe he has, in his head. "Either way, I'd rather find out tonight than spend another eighteen months wondering."
You don't respond. Just watch the city slide past through the window, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out when exactly you decided to let this happen. Your apartment building appears too quickly. Lando pulls into a spot on the street—not in front, not obvious, but close enough. He kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.
"So," he says.
"So."
"This is the part where you invite me up for coffee that we both know we're not going to drink."
"Is it?"
"Or—" He shifts to face you properly. "—this is the part where you tell me to leave and I respect that and go home alone and hate myself for approximately six hours before texting you something stupid at 4 AM."
"Those are my only two options?"
"Probably not. But they're the most likely ones." His hand finds yours in the dark. "For what it's worth, I'm hoping for the coffee."
You should tell him to leave. Should protect yourself, keep the boundary you've barely managed to maintain. Should remember that this is Lando Norris, who broke your heart eighteen months ago and has given you no real proof that he won't do it again.
"Do you actually want coffee?" you ask instead.
His smile is slow and dangerous. "Not even a little bit."
"Then why did you offer?"
"Because you need the plausible deniability. Need to tell yourself we're just having coffee, just talking, just two adults having a completely professional and appropriate conversation at 10 PM in your apartment." He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "And I'll play along. I'll make coffee and sit on your couch and keep my hands to myself until you give me permission to do otherwise."
"You're very confident I'm going to give you permission."
"I'm not confident about anything right now except that I want you. Have wanted you for two years. Will probably want you for the rest of my life." His eyes meet yours in the dim light. "But I can wait. I'm good at waiting now. Eighteen months taught me patience."
Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "One coffee."
"One coffee," he agrees.
You get out of the car before you can change your mind. Lando follows, keeping a careful distance as you walk to your building's entrance. You're aware of his presence behind you—not crowding, not pushing, just there. Patient in a way he never was before. The elevator ride is silent. You're both watching the numbers climb—three, four, five, six, seven. Your floor. The doors open and you lead him down the hallway to your apartment.
Your hands shake slightly as you unlock the door. Lando notices but doesn't comment. Inside, your apartment looks exactly the same as it did when he was here four days ago. Clean and empty and sad. You see it through his eyes again—the bookshelf organized by color, the lack of personal photos, the overall sense that no one actually lives here.
"Coffee," you say, moving toward the kitchen. "How do you take it?"
"However you're making it." He's still standing by the door, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not presuming. "Nice place."
"You said it was sad last time you were here."
"I said it looked like no one lives here. Different thing." He finally moves, but only to the living room, sitting on the edge of your couch like he's not sure he's allowed. "Do you actually live here or do you just exist in it?"
"That's a very philosophical question for 10 PM."
"I'm a very philosophical guy."
"Since when?"
"Since I spent eighteen months thinking about what I did wrong." He watches you move around the kitchen, getting mugs and grounds and trying to remember how your coffee maker works. "Lots of time to think when you're alone."
"You weren't alone. You had Magui."
"I told you. That was—"
"Uncomplicated. I remember." You measure out coffee with more precision than necessary. "How is she taking the break?"
"She said she saw it coming."
You turn to look at him. "She did?"
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I talk about you. A lot. Even when I'm trying not to."
"That's—" You don't know how to finish that sentence. "—unfortunate for her."
"She's already seeing someone else. Some photographer. They've been friends for a while." He says it casually, like it doesn't bother him at all. "She's happy."
"And you're here."
"I'm here," he confirms.
The coffee maker gurgles to life. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him watch you.
"Why did you really come to Monaco?" you ask. "Not the story about Emma being useless. The real reason."
He's quiet for a moment. "You want the truth?"
"That would be nice."
"I came because I couldn't stay away anymore. Because I won the championship and the first person I wanted to tell was you and you weren't there. Because I went to the Prize Giving with Magui and spent the entire night wishing it was you in that dress." He stands up, finally, moving toward the kitchen. Not quite entering it, just leaning in the doorway. "Because I've been tracking your pottery classes and your yoga sessions and every other thing you've tried to distract yourself with, and I realized I was being a creepy stalker instead of just coming here and saying what I should've said eighteen months ago."
"Which is?"
"That I love you. That firing you was the worst decision I've ever made. That I'm sorry." His voice cracks slightly on the sorry. "That I don't expect you to forgive me but I'm asking anyway."
The coffee maker beeps. You don't move.
"How were you tracking my pottery classes?"
"Really? That's your question?"
"It's a relevant question."
He sighs. "Charlotte."
"Charlotte?" Your voice rises. "Charlotte's been spying on me for you?"
"Not spying. Updating. She thought I should know you were okay."
"I'm going to kill her."
"She was trying to help."
"By reporting my activities to my ex-boss like I'm under surveillance?"
"When you put it that way it sounds bad—"
"It is bad, Lando!" You're fully yelling now, and some part of you knows you're not actually angry about Charlotte, you're angry about everything else—the eighteen months and the pottery classes and the fact that he's standing in your kitchen looking unfairly good and you want him so badly you can barely breathe. "You can't just—you can't track me and show up and expect me to just—"
"To just what?" He moves into the kitchen properly now, crowding into your space. "To just admit you still feel it too? To just let yourself want something instead of punishing yourself for wanting it?"
"I'm not punishing myself—"
"You're living like a ghost. Like you're waiting for permission to actually be alive again." His hands find your waist, not pulling, just holding. "Let me give you permission."
"I don't need your permission."
"Then take it anyway." His forehead drops to yours. "Take what you want. For once, just take it."
You're gripping his shirt. You don't remember reaching for him but you're holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room.
"This is going to end badly," you whisper.
"Probably."
"You're going to break my heart again."
"I'm going to try really hard not to."
"That's not good enough."
"I know." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss. "But it's all I've got."
You kiss him properly this time. Slower than in the restaurant bathroom, less desperate, more like you're both admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide up your back and you press closer, and the coffee sits forgotten on the counter, getting cold.
"Bedroom," you breathe against his mouth.
"You sure?"
"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm changing my mind."
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He carries you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way, only fumbling slightly when he has to navigate your bedroom door. Your bed is exactly where beds go, and he sets you down on it with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
"Hi," he says, hovering over you.
"Hi yourself."
"Just so we're clear—this isn't just sex."
"Lando."
"I need you to know that. This isn't me trying to get laid. This is me trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "—to show you I'm serious. That I'm all in."
"You're going to show me you're serious by sleeping with me?"
"I'm going to show you I'm serious by staying." His hand cups your face. "By waking up here tomorrow. By making you actual coffee in the morning. By not running away when it gets complicated."
"It's already complicated."
"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you again, and this time there's a promise in it. A commitment you're not sure either of you are ready for but are making anyway. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt. Start working them open one by one. He watches your face the whole time, like he's memorizing this, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.
"Still with me?" you ask when his shirt is open, hands spread on his chest.
"Always." His hand slides into your hair. "Even when you don't want me to be."
"Annoyingly persistent."
"One of my best qualities." He pulls your dress over your head in one smooth motion, and then you're both just staring at each other in the dim light from the hallway. "Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you are."
"You saw me three days ago."
"Wasn't close enough." His hands map your body like he's relearning it—ribs, waist, hips, thighs. "Wasn't touching you like this."
You pull him down, tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His weight settles over you and everything else falls away—the eighteen months, the fear, the certainty that this will end in disaster. Right now, there's just this. Just him. Just the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you want to be.
Even if it's temporary. Even if it's going to hurt later. Right now, though, it's enough.
Days four through fourteen pass in a blur of Emma and schedules and Lando showing up at your apartment every single night like he lives there. He doesn't live there. You've been very clear about that.
"I'm just here a lot," he says on day seven, making coffee in your kitchen at 6 AM like he belongs there. Like it's normal, like this is normal. "That's different from living here."
"You have a toothbrush in my bathroom."
"Emergency toothbrush."
"You have clothes in my closet."
"Just in case."
"Lando."
"What?" He's grinning now, that insufferable grin that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "I'm respecting boundaries. You said I couldn't move in. I'm not moving in. I'm just visiting. A lot."
"You stayed here six nights in a row."
"And I went home on the seventh. See? Not living here."
You throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, still grinning. The thing is—it's good. Terrifyingly good. He makes you coffee in the morning and you pretend to be annoyed about it. He stays up too late watching old race footage and you fall asleep on his chest listening to his heartbeat. He fucks you against your kitchen counter on day nine and you return the favor in your shower on day eleven and somewhere in between all of that, you stop counting days.
Emma is thriving. That's the word everyone keeps using—thriving. She's confident now, anticipating Lando's needs before he asks, managing his schedule like she's been doing it for years instead of two weeks. "You're amazing," she tells you on day twelve, over coffee in the MTC cafeteria. "Seriously. I don't know how you did this job for so long."
"Practice. Lots of practice."
"And patience. God, so much patience." She stirs her latte. "He's different lately though, have you noticed?"
Your stomach flips. "Different how?"
"Happier? Less stressed? I don't know, he just seems lighter." She smiles. "Whatever you said to him about being nicer to me, it worked. He actually asked about my Christmas plans yesterday. Like, genuine interest. It was weird."
"Good weird?"
"The best weird." She leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"That depends on the question."
"You and Lando. Are you... I mean, it seems like—" She stops, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."
"It's complicated."
"That's what everyone says when they're together but don't want to admit it." She's still smiling, not judging, just observing.
Day fourteen arrives with the weight of finality. Your last day training Emma. Your last day having an excuse to be at MTC every morning. Your last day before everything becomes real or falls apart or some combination of both. Emma brings you flowers. Actual flowers—a bouquet of peonies tied with a ribbon.
"Thank you," she says, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. "For everything. For being patient with me. For not making me feel stupid when I messed up. For teaching me how to do this job without losing my mind."
"You're going to be great," you tell her, and you mean it. "Better than great. You're going to be exactly what he needs."
"I hope so." She hugs you, quick and tight. "Will you still answer if I text you with questions?"
"Of course."
"Even stupid questions?"
"Especially stupid questions."
Lando doesn't show up all day. You tell yourself it's fine, that he's busy, that he's giving you and Emma space to wrap things up properly. You tell yourself a lot of things that aren't quite true. At 5 PM, Emma leaves. You pack up your things—tablet, the notes you've accumulated, the coffee mug you've been using that technically belongs to McLaren. You're stalling. You know you're stalling when your phone buzzes.
You take the elevator to the fourth floor for what might be the last time. Lando's office door is open. He's standing by the window, still in team gear, and he turns when you walk in. "Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"So. Two weeks."
"Two weeks," you confirm.
"Emma's going to be fine."
"She is."
"Thanks to you." He moves toward you, hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I got you something. To say thank you. For the training."
"Lando, you don't have to—"
"I wanted to." He pulls an envelope from his desk drawer. "It's not much. Just a little something." You open it. It's a check. A very large check. More than double what you agreed on.
"This is too much."
"It's not enough." His voice is quiet. "You came back when I asked. You trained Emma. You gave me two weeks when you could've told me to fuck off."
"I did tell you to fuck off."
"And then you came anyway." He's smiling now, that soft smile that's just for you. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." You fold the check, tuck it into your bag. "So I guess this is it."
"Is it?"
"The two weeks are up. I'm done. You and Emma are set."
"What about us?"
There it is. The question you've been avoiding for fourteen days.
"I don't know," you admit. "What about us?"
"I don't want this to end." He says it simply, honestly. "The two weeks are up but I'm not ready to stop seeing you every day. Coming to your apartment. Waking up next to you. All of it."
"Lando."
"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out. But I'm all in. I told you that. I meant it." He takes your hands. "Move in with me."
You stare at him. "What?"
"Move in with me. My place. I have space. A lot of space. You could—"
"No."
"No?"
"We've been doing this for two weeks. That's not enough time to—"
"It's been two years," he interrupts. "Two weeks is just how long it took us to stop being idiots about it."
"That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?" He's frustrated now, you can see it in the set of his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me what I need to do to prove I'm serious."
"I don't know! I don't have a checklist of requirements. I just," You pull your hands back. "I need time. I need to know this isn't going to fall apart the second things get hard."
"Things are already hard. We're still here."
"Two weeks isn't hard, Lando. Two weeks is the easy part. The hard part is six months from now when you're traveling and I'm here and we haven't seen each other in weeks. The hard part is when I do something that pisses you off and you remember why you fired me in the first place."
"That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're right. I don't know that. But I know I want to try. I know that two weeks with you has been better than eighteen months without you. I know that I'm in love with you and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I'm not."
Your chest aches. "I need to go."
"Where?"
"Home. My home. I need space to think."
"Okay." He doesn't try to stop you. "Will I see you tonight?"
"I don't know."
"Tomorrow?"
"Lando."
"I'm just asking. I'm not pushing." But you can see it in his eyes—the fear that this is it, that you're walking out and not coming back.
"I'll text you," you say finally.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You leave before you can change your mind. Drive home in a daze, your apartment appearing too quickly. Inside, it's exactly as you left it this morning—coffee mugs in the sink from breakfast with Lando, his shirt draped over your chair, evidence of him everywhere. You sink onto your couch and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing.
Christmas comes three days later and you spend it alone. Lando's in the UK—family obligations, his mum's house in Somerset, the kind of traditional British Christmas that involves too much food and badly wrapped presents and everyone arguing about charades. He invited you. Asked you three times, actually, each time more hopeful than the last.
You said no.
"I don't want to meet your family," you'd told him. "Not yet. It's too much."
"They'd love you."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is I need space. I need to figure out if this is real or if it's just us getting caught up in each other again."
He'd looked like you'd slapped him. "Right. Space. Okay."
He texted you on Christmas morning, then a hour later, and the hour after that. Charlotte called twice asking if you're spending Christmas alone, you lied, she definitely didn't believe you.
The day after Christmas, you're sitting in your apartment in pajamas and the same book you've been pretending to read for three days when your doorbell rings at 2:47 PM. Lando is standing in your hallway in a Christmas sweater—an actual, honest-to-god Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He's holding a small gift bag, silver with white tissue paper, and he looks nervous.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
"Can I come in?"
You step aside. He walks in, setting the gift bag on your coffee table like it might explode. "You didn't have to get me anything," you say.
"I know. I wanted to." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "How was your Christmas?"
"Fine. Quiet."
"Mine was loud. Too loud. Kept thinking about how you'd hate it—all the noise and the people and my mum asking a million questions."
"She asked about me?"
"Yeah. She wanted to know why I invited someone and then showed up alone. Gave me a whole lecture about not screwing things up." He smiles, but it's strained. "She's very wise."
You gesture to the couch. He sits. You sit on the opposite end, keeping distance between you. "The training finished well," he says, like this is a business meeting. "Emma's doing great."
"I know. She texted me."
"Right. Of course." He's fidgeting now, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "I, uh. I missed you. At Christmas. Kept looking around like you might show up even though I knew you wouldn't."
"Lando."
"I know you need space. I'm trying to give you space. But it's been three days and I'm going insane." He looks at you finally. "I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to prove I'm serious without being overwhelming. Don't know how to give you time without feeling like I'm losing you."
"You're not losing me."
"Aren't I?" His voice cracks slightly. "You spent Christmas alone. You won't move in with me. You barely text me back. What am I supposed to think?"
"That I'm scared." The admission comes out quiet. "That I'm terrified this is going to fall apart and I don't know if I'll survive it a second time."
"So don't let it fall apart." He moves closer. "Stay. Fight for this. Give us an actual chance."
"I am giving us a chance."
"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're preparing for the end before we've even really started." His hand finds yours. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't know how many times I need to say it. I'm not firing you. I'm not leaving. I'm not changing my mind."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can." He reaches for the gift bag, holds it out to you. "Open it."
"Lando."
"Please. Just open it."
You take the bag. Pull out the tissue paper. Inside is a small box, velvet, the kind that makes your heart stop. "It's not what you think," he says quickly. "I mean—just open it."
You open it and it's a key. A single key on a keyring, simple and silver.
You stare at it. "It's to my place," Lando says, words tumbling out fast now. "I know you said you won't move in. I heard you. But I want you to have it anyway. So you can come over whenever. So you know you're always welcome. So you can—" He stops. Takes a breath. "So you can stop thinking of my place as mine and start thinking of it as ours."
Your vision blurs. "Lando."
"I know it's not a grand gesture. I know it's just a key. But I don't know how else to show you I mean it. That I want you in my space, in my life, in everything." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "You said I needed to prove I'm serious. This is me proving it. Take the key. Use it or don't use it. But know it's there. Know you have a place with me whenever you're ready."
You're crying now. Properly crying. And Lando looks panicked.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. If it's too much—"
You kiss him. Hard and desperate and with your hands fisted in his ridiculous Christmas sweater. "It's perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "You're perfect."
"I'm really not."
"Shut up and let me have this."
He laughs, and it sounds like relief. "Okay."
You pull back, wiping your eyes. The key sits in the box, catching the light.
"I'm still scared," you admit.
"Me too."
"But I want this. I want us."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pick up the key, test its weight in your palm. "I'm not ready to move in yet. But maybe—maybe I could stay over more? Start keeping more things there?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want." He's grinning now, that full devastating smile. "You can reorganize my entire closet if you want. Color-code my kitchen. Do that thing you do where you arrange everything by frequency of use."
"You make me sound like a psychopath."
"You are a psychopath. It's one of my favorite things about you." He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. "For the record, I missed you too."
"Yeah?"
"So much I almost got on a plane to Somerset."
"You should've."
"Your mum would've hated me. Strange woman showing up on Christmas."
"My mum would've loved you. She already does, actually. Based entirely on my descriptions." He pulls back to look at you. "Fair warning—she's going to want to meet you. Properly. Probably at Easter or something equally family-oriented and terrifying."
"Easter's months away."
"So we have time to prepare." His hand cups your face. "You'll be ready by then. I know you will."
"How are you so sure?"
"Because you're here. Because you're crying over a key. Because you're scared but you're doing it anyway." He kisses your forehead. "That's the bravest thing I know."
You stay like that for a long time—curled up on your couch with Lando, the key in your hand, the future stretching out uncertain and terrifying and full of possibility. It's not perfect. You're still scared. He's still Lando Norris with all the complications that entails. But it's real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.
Eight Months Later
The private jet levels off somewhere over Europe. You're curled up in the leather seat across from Lando, watching him pretend to read the same page of his book for the fifth time. You've been living together for six months now—his place became your place became our place somewhere around month three when you finally stopped keeping a drawer at your apartment "just in case." You sold that apartment four months ago. Haven't regretted it once.
"Nervous?" you ask.
"About what?" He sets the book down, reaches for your hand. The promise ring sits on your right hand, exactly where it's been for eight months. You've gotten used to the weight of it. Used to the way Lando looks at it sometimes, like he's planning something.
"You've read the same page five times."
He laughs, caught. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous." He stands up, walks to his bag. "Actually, I have something for you."
"Lando—"
"Close your eyes. Trust me."
You close your eyes. Feel silk brush against your face—a blindfold. He ties it carefully at the back of your head. "What are you doing?"
"Surprising you." He takes your hand. "Just trust me. We'll land soon."
"We're supposed to be going to Belgium."
"We are. Eventually." You can hear the smile in his voice. "But first—a detour." Twenty minutes of torture. You can hear everything but see nothing—the engine, the change in air pressure as you descend, Lando's thumb tracing circles on your palm like he's the one who needs reassurance. The plane touches down. Smooth landing. Lando helps you stand, guides you down the stairs carefully, his hand firm on your waist. The air is different here—warmer than Monaco, with a breeze that smells like salt and something floral you can't quite place.
"Are we at the beach?"
"Maybe. Keep walking." He guides you across tarmac, then pavement, then sand. Definitely sand. You can hear waves now, the rhythmic crash of water against shore. The sand gives way to wood—a deck, maybe a dock. The sound of the waves is louder here. Then he stops. His hands on your shoulders.
"Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Nervous. "You can take it off."
You untie the blindfold, let it fall.
You're standing on a dock. The sun is setting over crystal-clear water that stretches to the horizon. There's a villa behind you, white stone and huge windows, the kind of place that's definitely not in Belgium. Palm trees. Bougainvillea climbing the walls. The most beautiful sunset you've ever seen painting everything gold and pink.
"Where are we?" you breathe.
"Greece." Lando's voice comes from behind you. "Santorini, specifically."
You turn around and Lando Norris is on one knee. Your heart stops. Actually fucking stops because he's holding a box—a different box than the one from eight months ago. This one is smaller, more delicate, and when he opens it there's a ring inside that catches the sunset and throws light everywhere.
"I know this is fast," he starts, and his voice is shaking. "I know eight months isn't very long in the grand scheme of things. But I've been in love with you for two years. I wasted eighteen months of that being an idiot. And the last eight months have been everything. Coming home to you. Waking up next to you. Fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes and making terrible pasta at midnight and watching you reorganize my closet for the third time." He takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to wait until it's been a year or two years or whatever arbitrary timeline is supposed to make this acceptable. I know what I want. I've known since Qatar. I've known since before Qatar."
You're crying already. God, what is happening?
"You make me better. You make everything better. You call me on my shit and you're there at 3 AM when I can't sleep and you make Emma text you updates because you're worried about her even though you don't work for me anymore. I love you. I love you so much it's stupid. And I want to marry you. I want to marry you and fight about coffee orders and have you reorganize our entire life and grow old and—"
"Yes," you interrupt.
He blinks. "What?"
"Yes. I'll marry you. Obviously I'll marry you, you idiot."
"I had a whole speech prepared—"
"I don't care about the speech." You're pulling him up off his knees, laughing and crying at the same time. "Ask me. Properly."
He laughs, stands up, takes the ring out of the box with shaking hands. "Will you marry me?"
"Yes. A thousand times yes."
He slides the ring onto your left hand—your actual left hand, the important one. It sits there catching the light, real and perfect and terrifying. "I can't believe you did this," you say, and you're in his arms now, held tight against his chest. "Greece. A sunset. What about Spa? The race?"
"Fuck Spa." He's grinning against your hair. "We'll get there Sunday. I told Zak I needed a couple days. Told him it was important. Everyone knows—McLaren, Emma, Charlotte. They're all in on it. I've been planning this for three months." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are shiny. "I'm yours. For as long as you'll have me."
"Forever, then."
"Forever." He kisses you as the sun sets over Santorini, soft and deep and perfect. When he pulls back, he's still grinning. "No take backs."
Lando pushes the door open to the bedroom and you see champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, the whole romantic setup that he definitely planned down to the last detail. "You're very sure of yourself," you say, even as he's walking you backward toward the bed. "What if I'd said no?"
"You didn't." His hands find your waist, slide under your shirt. "And even if you had, I would've asked again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that until you said yes."
"That's insane."
"That's commitment." He pulls your shirt over your head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Now stop talking and let me worship my fiancée." The word makes you clench. Fiancée. You're his fiancée now. The ring on your finger catches the candlelight as you reach for him, pulling him closer.
"I love you," you whisper against his mouth.
"I love you too." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your skin, working open the button of your jeans. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it." He pushes you down onto the bed and follows you, covering your body with his. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, and you arch into him. "Shh." He's working his way down, kissing and biting and marking you as he goes. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be mine." He makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his mouth is between your thighs and you're fisting your hands in the expensive sheets, gasping his name. He takes his time, licking and sucking and bringing you right to the edge before pulling back.
"Not yet," he says, grinning up at you with his mouth wet and obscene. "Want you desperate for it. Want you begging."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "You love me. You're going to marry me. And right now, you're going to come for me." He lowers his mouth again and you shatter, coming hard with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair. He works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and pushing him away.
"Too much," you gasp.
"Not nearly enough." He's pulling off his own clothes now, and when he's finally naked he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you. "Ready?"
"God, yes." He slides in slowly, so slowly, and you can feel every inch. When he's fully seated he stops, just breathing hard against your neck.
"Fuck," he groans. "Feel so good. Always feel so good. My perfect girl. My fiancée. Mine."
"Yours," you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Always yours."
He starts moving then—slow at first, then harder, faster, until the bed is slamming against the wall and you're both gasping. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit and you're coming again, clenching around him as he fucks you through it. "That's it," he growls. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel it, baby."
You're barely down from the second orgasm when you feel the third building. Lando shifts the angle and hits something inside you that makes you sob.
"Right there?" he asks, doing it again. "That the spot?"
"Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop—"
"Never stopping. Never letting you go. You're mine now. Forever." His rhythm is getting erratic, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?"
"Yes—please—Lando—"
"Mine," he says fiercely, and then he's kissing you as you both come, him spilling inside you as you clench around him, both of you shaking and completely wrecked. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own.
"Holy shit," you manage eventually.
"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at you, and he's grinning. "So. Still want to marry me?"
"After that? Absolutely." You trace his jaw with your finger. "Though I'm going to need you to do that again. You know, to make sure."
"Fiancée has demands." He's already hardening inside you again. "I think I can work with that." He does it again. And then again. By the time you finally collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and expensive sheets, the moon is high and you can barely move. "Can't believe you're mine," Lando murmurs against your hair, his hand finding yours to trace the ring there.
"Can't believe you proposed on a dock."
"Romantic as fuck."
"Insane as fuck."
"Same thing." He kisses your temple. "Get some sleep. We have Spa on Sunday and I need you well-rested."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to win that race for you. For my fiancée." He says the word like he's testing it out, like he can't quite believe it's real. "And then I'm going to take you back to Monaco and fuck you in our bed as a race winner and your future husband."
"Very confident."
"Very in love." He pulls you closer. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up properly in a few hours." You fall asleep like that—engaged, thoroughly fucked, in Greece with Lando already planning tomorrow. It's him. It's always been him. And finally, you're both brave enough to admit it.
synopsis: y/n is a popular influencer who was invited on a brand trip to the miami gp. there, a particular driver catches her eye and she takes to her private account to fangirl a little, where he can't see... right?
pairing: oscar piastri x influencer!y/n
genre: crack & fluff - smau
fc: random pinterest baddies
note: hii first post! was lowkey fighting for my life formatting all of this and it came out super long but i hope you enjoy!! <3
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yn.ln
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yn.ln i love u miami. thank u sm for having me 😚
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user1 you are gorgeous!
f1 Thanks for joining us! ❤️ | liked by yn.ln
user2 queen of the paddock i guess 😛
user3 literally wish i was you omg
user4 yn and lando in the same place????? my worlds are colliding
-> user5 ikr i was gagged 😭😭😭
-> user6 brb reading yn x f1 driver fanfics lol
-> user5 @/user6 real af drop the links
user6 <33
ynupdates
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ynupdates Y/n spotted at the Miami GP! She posted, confirming she had been gifted the trip by Formula 1.
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user7 ahh this is such a crazy crossover
-> user2 i couldn't believe my eyes bro
-> user5 i hope she got to meet some of the drivers 🤭
-> user2 @/user5 yearning to see their interactions or whatever
user3 this is the content we deserve
user8 they just invite her to anything these days what
-> user1 someone's mad she got the invite and they didn't
user9 drop the hair routine lowkey 🙏
TWITTER
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ynupdates
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ynupdates Y/n has created a new, private twitter account, which was made public briefly yesterday. We wonder what she's been posting 👀.
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user1 i just missed it 😭😭😭 i wanna see what shes been posting
-> user3 ikk im so annoyed
user2 i saw someone on tiktok saying she was talking about an f1 driver
-> user3 omg no i have to know???
-> user5 wait i saw that too, i wonder which one tho 🫠
-> user6 you are actually feeding my delusions rn omg @/ynupdates pls confirm
-> ynupdates @/user6 While our account has not been accepted by Y/n yet, we do accept submissions from fans so if anyone is on the account, they can send us screenshots.
user4 so all of us are just sitting in her requests fr
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oscarpiastri
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oscarpiastri Another race down. Thank you everyone! 🧡
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user1 Amazing as always
user3 smashing it!!!
user4 the racing gods blessed you fr this time 🥹
-> user3 finallyyy he deserves it
yn.ln congrats!! 😚 | liked by oscarpiastri
-> user6 ariana what are you doing here????
-> user7 HUH
-> user5 giggling to myself because im on her priv so this makes perfect sense
-> user2 this NEEDS to happen.
-> user3 oscar likeddddd 🤭🤭
ynupdates
liked by user1 and 472,973 others
ynupdates It seems Y/n has a little crush on Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri 👀. She has made numerous tweets about him on her private account and even commented on his recent post! (Thank you to those who sent in screenshots).
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user3 THIS IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN MISSING???
user6 nooo whoever sent these is lowkey a snitch
-> user2 girl please y/n made that comment publicly 😐
user1 oscar liked her comment too ... new ship?? 🤭
-> user2 this is actually my dream couple i can't even lie
user6 i don't know if i want to be him or be with him
yn.ln .... 😀
-> user4 GIRL 💀💀💀
-> user5 i love u but u are literally a public figure 😭 it was going to be exposed eventually
-> user2 brb making edits of you and oscar...
-> ynupdates Sorry! I promise we love you!!!
user6 do not let any f1 fanpages hear this im scared
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yn.ln
liked by oscarpiastri and 782,933 others
yn.ln you ain't got no mrs, but you got a sports car.
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user3 THE CAPTION pls
-> user4 in the words of ms tate mcrae herself 😛
-> user1 her acting so nonchalant on the main is sending me lmfao
oscarpiastri I do have a sports car actually | liked by yn.ln
-> user8 WJEBJDUXKDWHSHDJS
-> user5 oh my god. im floored
-> user3 HELPPO WTFFF
-> user7 this is what the people wanna see!!!!!!! holy shit
