mean!Steve harrington x fem!reader, angst, 1.8k words
Summary: When Steve gets migraines, he gets angry. This time, he takes it out on you. Or, you're Steve's punching bag, and this time it hurts too much.
part one part two part three
Steve comes home in a silent, white-hot rage.
It’s in the way he shuts the front door—too carefully, like he's afraid to slam it, like he's afraid you'll know he's angry.
It’s in the dead look in his eyes as he scans the living room and finds you there. He doesn’t greet you.
He walks to the kitchen instead, and you hear the violent crack of an ice tray being twisted, the hard clatter of cubes hitting glass.
“Bad day?” you ask gently when he comes back to the living room.
He lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Is there another kind?” He doesn’t look at you. “Just… don’t, okay? Don’t do the understanding girlfriend thing tonight. I can’t stand it.”
You don’t flinch. You just nod, watching him. “Okay. What can I do?” You don't add that you'd do anything for him to feel better. He probably knows it already.
Steve finally looks at you, and the frustration in his eyes is a live wire. “Nothing. There is literally nothing you can do. My dad called to remind me I’m a disappointment. Keith scheduled me for a closing shift after an opening for no goddamn reason. My head feels like it’s splitting in two."
His words are meant to push you away, to hurt you because he’s hurting. But you won't let him push you away.
"So let me help you carry it," you say quietly. "Please. That’s what I’m here for.”
He stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room tightens. “Help me carry it?” he repeats, his tone dripping with a disdain so sharp it makes your breath catch.
"You want to help? You can't. You're not built for it. You're built to sit there and look concerned and absorb," he continues, his gaze dissecting you. "That's your whole function. You're a emotional pet."
The insult is so mean that your vision actually swarms for a second. A pet. Steve thinks of you as that?
"And I'm sick of having to tend to you, sick of having to manage your disappointment that I'm not happier, that I'm not better for you." He watches the pain flicker over your face.
You want to protest, to tell him that's not true, but your throat has closed.
He shakes his head, a dismissive jerk. "You don't get it," he says, and his voice is low, flat, drained. "You never have. All your little questions. Your little suggestions. Your little worried looks. They don't do anything. They're just... noise."
Your heart aches with this horrible pain that makes you feel nauseous. The warmth has drained from your face, leaving you cold and numb.
"So do us both a favour, and stop trying. Stop with your little attempts at trying to make me feel better. Just be quiet. Be still. Or better yet," Steve says, straightening up, his gaze sweeping over you with a finality that chills your blood, "just be gone."
For one more second, you remain. A statue of hurt in his living room. Then, without a word, you turn. You walk to the hall closet, take your coat, and open the front door.
You don't look back.
The door clicks shut behind you.
Steve stands in the sudden, absolute silence of his living room. The quiet he demanded.
It’s awful.
He was mean. God, he was so mean, to bright, innocent, perfect you, who doesn't deserve his anger, not in the slightest.
He stares at the space where you’d been standing. He can still see the exact way your expression had shut down, like a light switching off behind your eyes. You hadn’t cried. You hadn’t yelled. You’d just… accepted it. And that was worse.
Emotional pet.
The words curdle in his stomach. He called you a pet. He reduced your kindness, your steady love, the very thing he craved most in the world, to the function of a dumb animal waiting for a scrap of affection.
A low, wounded sound escapes him. He sinks onto the arm of the couch, his head dropping into his hands.
He sits there for a long time, motionless in the dark. The silence he created is a loud, accusing thing. It gives him nowhere to hide from the replay in his mind.
Steve doesn't sob.
He just sits there, letting the tears fall, silent and relentless, dripping onto his jeans. He cries for the horrible pressure of his life. He cries for the easy target you’d become. But mostly, he cries because he knows, with a certainty that hollows him out, that he might have just broken the one pure, good thing he’d ever managed to hold onto. And he has no one to blame but himself.
He doesn’t move to wipe them away. He lets them fall. It feels like the only honest thing he’s done all night.
Hours pass. The streetlamp outside casts long, skeletal shadows across the floor. He’s shivering, but he doesn’t get up. He’s punishing himself by staying in the exact spot where he destroyed everything.
Destroyed you.
Then, a key scrapes in the lock.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
The door opens. Soft footsteps. The gentle shush of a coat being hung up. He doesn’t dare look.
You walk into the living room. You don't look at him, hunched and broken on the couch. Your own face is carefully blank, but your eyes are red-rimmed, the only evidence of the silent storm you’d weathered alone in your car. You saw him crying. Your heart, already shattered, had cracked into even smaller, more painful pieces.
You hadn't planned on coming back inside, but you do.
You move to the kitchen. Not to hide, but to do what you do. What you’ve always done. The tap runs. You open the aspirin bottle, shake two into your palm. You take the glass of water you’d poured and walk back to him.
You stand in front of him. Steve finally lifts his head, his face ravaged with tears and shame. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
You don’t speak either. You simply hold out your hand, shaking, the two white pills sitting in the center of your palm.
An offering. A habit. A terrible, loving reflex he no longer deserves.
He stares at your hand, then at your face. The kindness there, even threaded with so much hurt, is worse than any slap. He takes the pills with trembling fingers, his touch brushing your skin. You flinch, just a tiny, almost imperceptible recoil.
He wants to cry again.
You hand him the water. He takes it, his eyes never leaving yours, drinking under your silent, weary observation. When he’s done, you take the empty glass back.
Then you kneel in front of him. He flinches, expecting… he doesn’t know what. Instead, you reach for his shoes. Your hands, usually so sure, fumble with the laces. Your fingers are shaking. You set them neatly aside.
You stand, motioning for him to lie down. He obeys without a sound, stretching out on the couch. You disappear again, returning with the soft throw blanket from the armchair. You drape it over him, tucking it around his shoulders with a soft care that you've always lended him, expecting nothing in return.
Every movement is precise. Every action is love. You are taking care of him, thoroughly, completely, while your own soul bleeds out quietly inside you.
You sit on the floor beside the couch, just as you had when he was in the armchair earlier, but now your back is to him.
The space between your spine and the couch feels like a mile.
Steve lies under the blanket, watching the tense line of your shoulders, the way you won’t let yourself touch him.
He can’t stand it.
His voice, when it comes, is ruined. Raspy from disuse and tears. “You came back.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of awe and profound shame. You don’t turn. You don’t answer.
Steve swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. “You shouldn’t have.” A beat. “I didn’t think you would.”
He pushes himself up on one elbow, the blanket pooling at his waist. He’s a mess—hair wild, eyes swollen, shirt wrinkled from where he’d been crying into it. He looks at the back of your head.
“I called you a pet,” he whispers, the words foul in his mouth. “I told you to get out. I meant it… in the moment, I meant to hurt you. I wanted to.” He confesses it like he’s pulling out a poison dart. “Because you were there. And you were good. And I am so... not."
You close your eyes tight, but you can't block it out. The words find their mark all over again, fresh and brutal. Your heart doesn't just ache; it seizes, a tight, physical cramp of pain high in your chest.
It's the hurt of betrayal, sharp and clean, but beneath it is a deeper, more desolate ache—the grief for what you thought you had, the safety you felt that has now been revealed as fragile.
“Stop,” you whisper, the word so soft it’s almost inaudible. You press the heels of your hands against your closed eyelids. “Please, just… stop talking.”
The plea slices through his confession. He falls silent, the poison dart half-pulled, his own guilt choking him.
You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you keep your back to him. “I heard you the first time. I felt it. I don’t… I can’t hear it again right now. It hurts too much.”
Steve hears the pain in your voice, the way it scrapes over the words. It’s a different kind of devastation than your earlier silence.
This is the sound of the wound, exposed and bleeding.
“Okay,” he breathes, the word full of shattered remorse. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”
The silence returns, but it’s charged now with your request. It’s a silence you asked for, to protect the pieces of yourself that are left. He respects it. He doesn’t try to fill it with more apologies or explanations. He just lies back down, the blanket feeling less like a comfort and more like a shroud.
You stay on the floor, your hands now limp in your lap, staring at nothing. The hurt is a living thing between you, a third presence in the room. Steve can’t fix it with words. He can only lie there in the wreckage of his own making, and you can only sit beside it, guarding your broken heart.
The love is still there, a battered, bleeding thing, but for now, the only thing to do is to not make the hurt worse.
And so, in the dark, you both hold perfectly still.
Flames Unveiled (Chapter 10- Relief From Your Duties) Aegon II Targaryen X (Bastard Velaryon) Reader X Aemond Targaryen
Summary: After six years living away from Kings Landing, you and your family are summoned back, for reasons unknown. Your mother, Rhaenyra, has different plans for you. You swore to always protect your family, but at what cost?
Warning: References to / sexual content (18+), injuries, cursing, drinking, fights, angst, blood
Tagged: @faesspace @a-beaverhausen @heavenly1927
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
The feeling of your bed dipping pulled you from slumber. Blinking through the dim light cast by the candle and fireplace, you heard the drunken rustle of Aegon, struggling to untie his boots.
"Aegon?" You sat up, rubbing your eyes, trying to adjust to the dark. "Why are you here so late?"
It had been a month since the announcement of your betrothal to Aemond, and your relationship with your mother had soured. Despite your pleas for her to talk to the King, she remained silent. You grew furious, vowing not to speak to her again, though you knew it was an extreme step.
After Aegon left your chambers the night before, the Queen confronted him in his own rooms, lashing out and berating him. Yet, he returned to your chamber at night, seeking conversation, drink, or merely sharing an uncomfortable silence.
"Aegon?" You asked again, sensing his body flop onto the bed with a sigh. "Did you come from Flea Bottom?"
Aegon murmured softly, sitting up, attempting to pull back the covers and climb in. You shifted slightly, turning to face him. His disheveled appearance and scent suggested an evening far from the castle walls, yet his eyes remained shut. Unconsciously, his arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you nearer.
"You smell," you muttered as Aegon nestled his head in the crook of your neck. "You reek of wine and whores."
Aegon chuckled. "Ah, don't feel jealous. Who am I with now?"
Rolling your eyes, you replied, "Why are you here, exactly? Besides sullying my chambers."
Aegon lifted his head, resting it on his palm. "My mother."
"Your mother?" You echoed, mirroring his position, feeling his hand gently squeeze your hips. "What's she doing now?"
Most times Aegon sought you out, it was to escape his mother's wrath. You knew how harshly she treated him—her verbal assaults and physical blows were his reasons for seeking refuge with you.
"Same old, how I disgrace Helaena by visiting Flea Bottom, how I need to spend more time with the children... How it's inappropriate for me to be so close to you..." His eyes remained fixed on your lips.
"Hm, can't say I blame her. What would my betrothed say if he found you in my bed?" You both chuckled at the thought. Your fingers absently twirled a lock of Aegon's messy hair as you drifted in thought. "You should rest. Leave before the sun rises."
Aegon, his eyes already closed, hummed a soft goodnight before drifting off to sleep. You struggled to doze off, lying stiff as Aegon pulled you closer to his warm body, his snores echoing through your room. But the sound of the crackling fire eventually lulled you to sleep.
When you woke, the bed was empty and cold. His departure was always the hardest part. Rising, you stretched and slipped into a blush-colored gown, combing out your waves.
Your schedule was quite packed today: breakfast with the Queen at her request, followed by Helaena joining to assist with your needlepoint. Afterward, you planned to take in the air by the Blackwater or ride Lyrax, seeking solace in a quiet spot to read.
Sir Criston Cole stood outside the Queen's chamber, acknowledging your passing. These breakfasts often involved Alicent planning the wedding, which was set to occur in half a year.
"I was thinking, spotted orchid or gillyflower? What do you think?" Alicent paced the room, causing you to prick your finger with the needle.
"Oh, Y/N! Choose orchid, they would be so beautiful!" Helaena smiled, leaning forward to place her hand on yours.
You hummed softly, setting down your canvas and rubbing your aunt's hand. "Orchids would indeed be beautiful, but I've always been partial to roses."
Alicent's smile faltered momentarily before she dryly responded, "I'll see Highgarden has your roses then."
"White ones," you replied with equal dryness, returning to your needlepoint. Helaena tried to suppress a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Of course," Alicent said, smiling softly as she walked back to the window, resting her hand on her face, covering her chin and mouth. "Helaena, have you seen Aegon?"
Helaena shrugged, replying, "He doesn't sleep in my chambers."
Your cheeks flushed; he sleeps in mine.
"You'd think that as a man grown, he would stop avoiding his responsibilities..."
You stabbed the needle into the canvas again, tugging at the thread. Helaena didn't seem interested in her mother's words; she didn't care about Aegon's whereabouts or activities. You glanced at her canvas, displaying a beautiful butterfly, while yours was a poor attempt at a flower.
The door creaked open, causing all three of you to turn your heads. Aegon entered, appearing in better condition than when you last saw him. Freshly bathed, clad in all black with his silver chain draped across his chest.
"Mother. Helaena... Y/N." He strolled toward his mother's table, noticing her wine pitcher, and poured himself a glass.
"Where have you been?" Alicent stormed up to her eldest, seizing the glass and slamming it on the table, spilling the Arbor Gold. "I sent for you last night."
"I was busy!" Aegon retorted, moving over to the couch where you and Helaena were seated, plopping himself in the middle. "I came as soon as I could."
You thrust your needle back into the canvas, pricking your finger. You hissed in pain, prompting Aegon to glare for a moment, almost too long, before the Queen intervened.
"After all the whores and wine ran out, I suppose," she spat.
You rose to leave. "I believe I should take my leave—"
"No, stay. You're family, after all. Soon to be closer once you marry my awfully dreadful brother..." His words hung in the air. Helaena slammed down her canvas and rushed out of the room, but you remained seated, engulfed in the tension.
"You may take your leave, Y/N," Alicent demanded, her jaw tight as you hurried past her, casting a glance at Aegon before closing the door.
Your plans for reading were sadly disrupted when a member of the Kingsguard approached you, relaying that your grandsire wished to see you. Entering his dim chambers, you found your grandsire sitting upright in his bed, his head thrown back in agony, gritting his teeth as he demanded, "Who is it?"
"It is me, grandsire. You requested my presence," you said, swallowing the lump in your throat as you moved closer. You noticed the discoloration in his face, his lips stained red with blood, and his eyes rolling into his skull. "Are you alright? Should I fetch the Maester?"
"No, no... I am fine, nothing but a headache... Come closer, let me see you clearer." His outstretched hand reached for your face, slowly brushing against your soft cheek. "You resemble your mother so much."
"Thank you, grandsire..." The room descended into silence. Your gaze drifted to the tables adorned with sculptures of buildings and dragons. It pained you deeply to witness his suffering, barely recognizing your face despite seeing it so often.
"You must be wondering... why I asked you to visit me," the King strained to say, coughing violently, trying to shield his mouth as blood flew out. "I promise... it will only... only be a moment."
"Grandsire, I must-"
"No," he insisted, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "Your mother was only fourteen when she served as my cupbearer. She attended many small council meetings, as a future ruler should. I wish... I wish for you to do the same."
A small smile graced your lips as you took your grandsire's hand, gently rubbing circles into it. "Of course. If you wish it, I will."
The King gasped, coughing again, bringing a cloth to his lips as he watched the white cotton turn red. "I must get the Maester."
"Y/N!" The King nearly yelled, causing you to halt in your steps. "You are a smart young woman, do not think otherwise... I will be fine; I just need to rest."
You gave him a sympathetic glance, "I will visit you in the morning." Your hands clutched at your skirts as you left the room.
Instead of heading to the Blackwater to read, you turned back toward your chambers. Your heels clicked as you walked down the corridor, exchanging nods with the maids and ladies-in-waiting.
As you neared your chamber doors, you noticed the door was slightly ajar. Once again, you were aggravated by the lack of respect. You opened the door and found your mother inside.
"Mother," you spoke dryly, closing the door behind you as she stood from the chair where she was seated.
"Y/N, I did not wish to intrude-"
"Yet you did," you interrupted, circling the table and standing upright. "Why are you here, anyway?"
Rhaenyra sighed. "I do not wish to fight or argue, but knowing you, that will be the outcome."
You didn't respond, merely turned away, unclasping your earrings and tossing them on the table. Your hand toyed with the necklace's ruby before releasing it and facing Rhaenyra again.
"Then what is it? Is it regarding my betrothal? Have you changed your mind yet? I would not believe so," you said, crossing your arms and glaring as Rhaenyra took a deep breath.
"I have not," Rhaenyra retorted. "It is in regards to home."
"Home?" Your head cocked in confusion.
Rhaenyra sighed, stepping closer, her hands reaching for yours. "We are going home, Y/N."
"What?" You swiftly withdrew your hands, running them through your hair. "What do you mean?"
Rhaenyra sighed, observing her daughter from a distance, seeing so much of herself in her that it sent a shiver down her spine. "We sailed here with the intent for you to join the court. Now, with your betrothal settled, there's nothing else to do but wait for the wedding."
The words gradually settled in your mind, and slowly, you brought your hands down, hugging your sides. "So, you are leaving? Not me?"
Rhaenyra rushed to your side, wrapping her arms around you as she whispered, "It will only be for a few moons. You can spend your days as you see fit, like a woman grown."
"Good. I will watch over Grandfather," you said quickly. "He wishes for me to attend the small council meetings."
You felt her laugh, kissing the top of your head before pulling away. "You will be fine, I believe that. Though, your brothers will miss you dearly."
"And I will miss them," you sighed, noticing how your mother held herself, her hand lingering longer on her stomach than usual. "Were you going to tell us?"
Rhaenyra's hand made small circles. "I wasn't sure, with everything... How did you know?"
"I have seen you with child many times... I just hope this time, it's a girl."
Rhaenyra's lips curled upward. "I would expect you to hope that. I will leave you; we depart within the week."
When the door clicked shut, you walked over to your book, flipping through the pages before slamming it shut. You knew deep down your mother wanted to leave King's Landing, but now she planned on leaving without you. Though, you had no right to feel upset, you should be overjoyed with staying in Kings Landing.
Walking to the desk on the far side of the room, you pulled open a drawer and found parchment and ink.
Cupbearer, Small Council, Spotted Orchid, White Roses, Mother, Dragonstone.
The words formed a short list detailing the day's events. Reflecting on the words, you slid the paper away and rested your hands on your head. Pushing away from the desk, you turned back to where your book lay, pouring yourself a glass of wine as you began to page through its passages.
You read and drank until the sun slowly set, the small print blurring as you realized how tipsy you were. The passageway door creaked open, but you had no fear of who it might be as you continued to flip to the next page.
"You started without me?" Aegon's voice came from behind you, leaning over and taking your glass, sipping quickly.
"I started a few hours ago. You came too late." You didn't lift your head from your book, nearly finished. Aegon hummed, pouring more wine into the glass before taking another gulp.
He moved around the room as you read, stumbling upon your parchment and reading it slowly. "Is this a list?"
You hummed, finally turning away from the book to Aegon. His cheek was purple, and his lips-stained red. You tried not to linger on his appearance for long, replying, "It is."
Aegon cocked his head, "Why are you drinking, if I am not the one initiating it, something must have happened."
You sighed, sinking back in your chair. "The King wants me in the small council meetings now that I'm the named heir after my mother. The Queen has already planned the wedding ceremony, though it's half a year away. She's detailed everything, down to the colors and the flowers for the Keep's decoration. And now, my mother and brothers are off to Dragonstone, leaving me here to wait for this damned wedding."
While you ranted and raved about your day, Aegon slowly walked over to you, kneeling at your feet, his hands slowly slipped underneath your skirts.
"Aegon... What in the seven hells are you doing?" You quivered as he looked up, his hands still slowly kneaded at your plush thighs.
"Some relief from your duties... When you stress, it tends to fuck with your mind in a way that will eat you up on the inside. Drinking is one step, your mind will fog for a time, but this will keep your mind on something else completely." Aegon seductively whispered, your skirts pooled above your knee, your legs twitched as he planted soft kisses on the skin.
"And what do you have in mind, uncle?" You bit back the lump in your throat as his breath hit your entrance, licking a stripe against your folds. You let out a stuttering gasp, clenching your legs, but Aegon fought to open them.
You felt him hum against you as he licked again, slowly, as if he knew he was torturing you. His tongue plunged into your entrance, swirling it around as his nose brushed against your bud. You tried to suppress your moans, tilting your head back as he sucked and licked your sensitive areas, your legs twitched with each touch. You wanted to push his head away, tell him to stop, but as he continued, your hand gripped at his scalp, tugging at his hair.
Slowly, Aegon pushed a finger in, pumping as he blew air at your bud, inserting another finger, licking at your juices as you squirmed in your seat. "Aegon, p-please..."
There was a tightening in your stomach as he curled his fingers, sucking on your bud and devouring your cunt, let out a gasp as you came, your legs shook as you panted slowly, but Aegon still remained under your skirts, lapping up your juices as he pulled his fingers from your core. He licked them one by one, slowly pushing himself away to see how pretty you looked panting for air.
His lips and chin were glistening, as he leaned in and kissed your lips. You could taste yourself on him, giving him more pleasure as you moaned into his mouth. Your stress was erased and replaced with lust; your eyes fluttered as you both separated.
"Did that work?" A hint of cockiness was laced in his words, "I am willing to try again."
With wobbly legs, you rose, causing Aegon to stagger up as well. You noticed a lump in his pants, tightening the area, Aegon took note of this and let out a breathy laugh. The air was thick and hot, your hands fumbled at his belt, Aegon assisted as fast as he could. Before he could drop his pants, a knock echoed through the room.
"Princess? Are you in there?" Mara's gentle voice barely made it through the wooden door.
You both quickly pulled away, scrambling around the room in a frenzy. You pressed your finger against your lips, gesturing toward the passageway door. Aegon nodded, moving toward the door but swiftly turned back, stealing a quick kiss before hurrying away and gently closing the door as Mara entered.
"Oh, Princess! I didn't realize you were here! Shall I draw you a bath?" Mara bustled in, setting down lotions and oils on the table.
You smoothed your dress, still feeling the lingering sensation of Aegon's lips. "Yes, please. That would be wonderful."
My good little baby - Modern!Aegon x Girlfriend!Reader
Pairing : Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary : Aegon loves to look at you when you can't do anything and is very ready for him
Your mine - Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader
Pairing : Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary: On Aegon's name day, you spent time dancing with everyone. But there is someone who is always watching you.
Little Dragon - Aegon Targaryen x Niece!Reader
Pairing : Aegon Targaryen x Niece Valeryon(Targaryen)!Reader.
Summary : Your mother's decision to abdicate her throne and marry you to Aegon confused the entire kingdom, but you knew that your mother only wanted to avoid the war that would likely occur if she ascended the throne.
That One Ex - Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader
Pairing : Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary : Aegon is a very jealous type of boyfriend, he doesn't like anyone getting too close to you. Until the time comes when you come with him to a charity party, you meet your ex who also comes.
Sweet little sister - Modern! Aegon Targaryen x Stepsister!Reader
Pairing : Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Stepsister!Reader
Summary : You are attracted to your stepbrother, Aegon. every night after everyone is asleep you masturbate while thinking about him. Until one night, Aegon heard you moan his name.
Please Stay - Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Fiancé!Reader. (part II)
Pairing : Modern!Aegon Targaryen x Fiancé! Reader
Summary : You are the best surgeon at your young age, your life is already in order with you having Aegon as your fiancé. but one day you can't do anything while he's lying on the operating table.
The Queen Grief - King Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader.
Pairing : King Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader
Summary : Summary : After the incident where your son was killed coldly, you were drowned in anger and also hated.
My happiness - King! Aegon II Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader.
Pairing : King Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader
Summary: you try to get up and come back for your two children after the tragedy, you also find out some good news that makes you even happier.
Our Fate - Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader.
Pairing : Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader
Summary : Your marriage with Aegon has a good influence on you both, Aegon changes his character to be better and you also feel the changes in him day by day.
The Price Of Loyalty - King!Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader.
Pairing : King!Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader. Summary : Your marriage to Aegon should have calmed the feud between your two families, but everything changed when Aegon was crowned king and the news of your brother's death brought you a difficult choice.
Veil Of Betrayal - King!Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader.
Pairing : King!Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader. Summary : You are safe and sound in the Red Keep, but that's probably what you think. Because after you escaped from the clutches of your father and mother, they did everything they could to bring you back.
Shadows - Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.
Pairing : Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.
Summary : your marriage to aemond was based solely on his obsession and regret for not being able to have your sister, helaena. you were just a shadow of your sister in his eyes, and you were determined to make him realize that he was wrong.
Choices - Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.
Pairing : Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.
Summary : you were tired of being just a shadow, after that night something inside you changed. the choice you made that night changed your entire life.
Resolve - Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen
Pairing : Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.
Summary : the situation rewinds to when you found out you were pregnant, your mother made a tough decision for you and aegon.
The Twisted Truth - Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.
Pairing : Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen. Summary : story from aemond's side, when he could only stay silent without doing anything because he had destroyed you.
Eternal Flame - Aegon Targaryen x Niece!Reader.
Pairing : Aegon Targaryen x Niece!Reader. Summary : Your love for Aegon is enough to make you a bridge between the differences of your family, you are also a valuable asset that your family has in this peace.
Unspoken Desires - Mafia!Aegon Targaryen x RivalDaughter!Reader
Pairing : Mafia!Aegon Targaryen x RivalDaughter!Reader. Summary : As you tried to navigate the dangerous waters of business, betrayal, and loyalty, the world shifted. The very people you trusted, the ones you loved, turned against you. The power struggles between your families bled into your personal life, and your love became the price to pay. When your life was on the line, when you were betrayed by those closest to you, you felt yourself slipping away, your body and spirit breaking under the weight of it all.
Silent Grief - King!Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader.
Pairing : King!Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader. Summary : Jaehaerys—your precious boy—was stolen from you too soon. Taken from the world in a brutal twist of fate that left your family fractured, broken in ways you never thought possible. He was a promise of a future, a new beginning after the turmoil that had once gripped your bloodline. But now, that future is gone, lost in the cruel grasp of tragedy.
Chained By Destiny - Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader.
Pairing : Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader. Summary : Where the realm saw a reckless prince and unworthy heir, you saw the boy who had once clung to you in the dark, his insecurities and fears laid bare. You saw the man behind the title, burdened by a heavy duty as a prince. And when others turned their backs on him, you stood steadfast by his side, offering the love and solace he so desperately needed.
Fire Of Passion - Aegon Targaryen x Twinsister!Reader.
Pairing : Aegon Targaryen x Twinsister!Reader.
Summary : Despite your love for him, being Aegon’s betrothed was no easy feat. His wandering nature often drove you to anger, jealousy, and despair. The nights when he stumbled into the Keep reeking of wine and sin were endless. Yet, somehow, you always found yourself forgiving him, pulled back by the way his silver hair glimmered in the firelight or the softness of his lips against yours as he murmured promises of change.
Twisted Heart - Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader
Pairing : Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader.
Summary : One stolen moment had led to another, and before you knew it, you were tangled in a web of passion and deceit. Aegon was nothing like Jace; he was unpredictable, possessive, and maddeningly intoxicating. He made you feel alive in ways you hadn’t thought possible. And while the court saw you as Jace’s loyal wife, the truth lay in the quiet nights spent in Aegon’s arms, in the stolen kisses and whispered promises that neither of you could keep.
Held Only in Dreams - Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader.
Summary : There was a time when your halls rang with laughter. When your chambers were filled with the soft shuffle of tiny feet and the scent of lemon cakes cooling on the windowsill. A time when your husband’s hand curled possessively over the swell of your stomach, whispering prayers to gods he claimed not to believe in. A time when you were not only queen—but mother, wife, sister, daughter, beloved. That time is gone. Now, the Red Keep feels like a tomb. Your son is dead—burned before your eyes in the dragonpit, his small body offered to flame while your screams echoed through stone and fire. And with him, the future you built crumbled to ash.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after getting your heartbroken by your long-time one-sided love for charles, the most irritating and vexing person in your life, max verstappen, suggests only one thing to remedy it: fucking it out. and after some brief scepticism, you agree. what could possibly go wrong?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: enemies with benefits, angst, smut (18+ please for the love of god minors DNI), best friend's older brother vibes, bad french and dutch, poor humour, mental health, insecurities, jealousy
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
EP 1 | AN OPEN DOOR
EP 2 | MEDDLE ABOUT
EP 3 | BABYDOLL
EP 4 | PACIFY HER
EP 5 | PLAY WITH ME
EP 6 | HOUSE OF BALLOONS
EP 7 | JEALOUS TYPE
EP 8 | DADDY ISSUES
EP 9 | SHE'S ALL I WANNA BE
EP 10 | DO I WANNA KNOW?
EP 11 | BACK TO FRIENDS
EP 12 | THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS
EP 13 | A CLOSED DOOR
total word count: 76.1k
EP 13.1 | dancing with our hands tied s|f|a
EP 13.2 | their first podium f|a
EP 13.3 | happy birthday max f|a
EP 13.4 | revolving door universe headcanons f|s
EP 13.5 | max vs superman f|s
EP 13.6 | horror night at the leclercs f
EP 13.7 | hand-painted trophies f|a
EP 13.8 | cat whisperer + cat parents f
Ep 13.9 | positive reinforcement f|s
EP 13.10 | casual lore drop f|a
EP 13.11 | the simulator f|s
EP 13.12 | the winner takes it all f|a
EP 13.13 | i think you'd look best in all white f|a
EP 13.14 | yes to forever f|a
EP 13.15 | honeymoon avenue f|s
EP 13.16 | a forever family f|a
PLAYLIST
𝐀/𝐍: yes this is not a drill! i'm writing another series! however, this idea is credited to this lovely anon who i dearly thank for requesting this! i hope you like it as much as summer sunshine although, as you can see, the tone is a bit different. and this one doesn't have entirely pre-written chapters so i'm taking my time to explore the plot here!
🚦⭑.ᐟ You return to the paddock with the weight of everything unsaid. A quiet, vulnerable conversation with Lando finally lays bare the truth—that it’s always been Max, no matter how much you tried to deny it. But media day in Austria brings no relief. Max has had enough. He keeps his distance, reminding you with sharp words and sharper looks that he’s locked in, no distractions, no you. And yet, when the cameras stop rolling, the pull between you refuses to fade.
Word count: 5.2k
...or read me on ao3 | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8 | chapter 9 | next chapter
Pairings: Max Verstappen x Reader
Lando Norris x Reader
Reader x Rockstar OC (ex) *loosely based on Andy Biersack
-> future Oscar Piastri x Reader
Tags/Warnings:
Fem!Influencer!reader
Slight!Oc but not really, just story building for Y/N
{2024-present season based} *Not always lore accurate
Slight #Smau - Social Media Alternate
UniverseToxic/semi-abusive relationship with established rockstar boyfriend, alcohol use, drunken behavior, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, public argument, heated kissing, paparazzi & social media mentions, angst, depression, themes of escape, reinvention & heartbreak, very light smut references (fade to black) -> the future chapters will include smut, unprotected sex, enemies-to-??? extreme slow burn in the making, love triangle, love square, let's just say the reader has a reverse harem
Disclaimer: This is a fictional fan work. I do not own or claim to represent any real individuals (including Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, or any public figures mentioned). All characterizations and events are fictional. Please don’t confuse this with real life. This is for entertainment only.
🔞 NSFW Disclaimer: This is a fictional and mature fan story featuring adult themes, emotional intensity, and potentially explicit content.
Want to listen to what I listened to while writing this?
Chapter Specific Warnings:
‣ Multiple POVs, Angst / miscommunication, Mentions of crying & emotional breakdown, semi-toxic reader, Love triangle messiness/jealousy, Social media drama, Angst / heartbreak, Tension-filled dialogue, Subtle touches (longing / yearning), Mentions of rejection & unresolved feelings, unrequited love
Max stared at the message glowing on his screen, the words sitting heavier in his chest than he wanted to admit.
“It’s not like that, Max. But if you can’t see past a photo, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
He should’ve felt relief. You weren’t denying him, not fully. But the photo—your arms around Cyrus, smiling like you had taken him back, it was already burned into his brain. The realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. This feeling—It had followed him long before he saw the photo of you and Cyrus. It had followed him onto the plane to Barcelona, into the paddock, onto the simulator—because if it wasn’t Cyrus, it was Lando. He felt it in every lap he’d turned, every corner he braked into too late, every half-second he lost on his engineer’s screen—it all came back to you. You weren’t his. In fact, you never really were to begin with.
Max pressed the lock button, set the phone face down on the table, and dragged both hands down his face until his palms pressed into his eyes. He couldn’t afford this. Not now. Not when qualifying was a mere hours away.
He had promised himself years ago that nothing—not distractions, not women, not even the constant chatter and drama of the media—would come between him and the car. He was here to win. That was the only truth that ever mattered to him.
So why was he sitting in a silent hotel room in Barcelona, staring at a text from you instead of studying the telemetry reports his engineer had sent over?
He exhaled slowly, trying to force his eyes back to the notes, but the numbers refused to stay still. Instead, memories pressed in—how the two of you had once spat fire at every glance, every word a weapon, until somewhere along the way the walls began to crack. He saw the flicker in your expression the first time you looked at him without anger, the fragile truce that turned into something deeper, the quiet surrender of your head on his chest, when you were drunk and he wanted to kiss you back so badly. He could still feel the weight of you there, his hand tangled in your hair, your smile soft and unguarded—as if you’d long forgotten he was supposed to be the enemy.
Max swallowed hard. It’s gone. That’s gone.
And maybe after all, you were the girl he was supposed to hate since the beginning. Maybe he should hate himself for falling into this place of distraction where he promised he’d never go again.
He pushed himself off the chair, pacing the room like a caged animal. He needed to focus. He had to focus. Because if he didn’t, if he let this spiral go unchecked, he knew what it meant: you wouldn’t just slip into his head anymore. You were starting to cost him everything he’d built his life around.
And maybe… maybe it was time to stop fighting that. Maybe it was time to let you go—let you and Lando run your course, however messy, however inevitable. And then you’d be gone, contractually done by the end of race season. Because holding on to you, chasing after you, meant watching his grip on the one thing that never betrayed him—the car—start to slip.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees. For the first time in years, Max Verstappen felt like he was losing control. And it wasn’t on track.
♡
Max forced himself to flip the switch. It was a skill he’d honed over years— compartmentalizing, drawing the line between personal chaos and professional clarity. He pulled on his race suit, zipped it up to the neck, and shoved every thought of you into a mental lockbox that he wouldn’t dare to open.
By the time he reached the paddock, his walk was sharp, his expression unreadable. Engineers swarmed, media cameras blinked, fans shouted his name. He was in his element again—untouchable.
Until Lando brushed past him on the way to the drivers’ parade, his voice low enough for no one else but Max to hear.
“She’s back, you know,” Lando said lightly, like it was small talk. “Haven’t seen her yet, but I will. Planning to talk to her after quali.”
Max’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look up. “Good for you.”
Lando tilted his head, studying him. “You don’t care?”
Finally, Max glanced up, eyes like ice. “Nope. Do whatever you want.”
The air went taut, Lando’s small smile faltering. His jaw clenching, the tension suddenly laying on thick.
Max tugged his gloves tight, voice flat as stone. “I don’t care anymore. About her. Or about whatever… this was becoming.”
He walked away to greet the other drivers, leaving Lando with his lips slightly parted and confusion plastered across his face.
♡
After qualifying, the mic was shoved in his face, flashes of light bouncing off his helmet hair, adrenaline still in his blood from pole position.
“Max, another incredible performance out there—Can we except another World Drivers’ Championship Title from you this year?”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink.
“Yep. There are no distractions from my end, I plan to bring it home.” he said, jaw tight, eyes unflinching. “My head space is on the track. For good.” He gives a quick, cocky smile before walking off to the next interview.
The words tasted like iron, like biting his own tongue— but now, it was finally time for him to believe his own words.
♡
He knew you were back—Lando had made that known to him in qualifying. But he didn’t care. Today was race day, and all that mattered was proving himself where it counted most.
The fire was different this time, sharper, cleaner. He was locked in. Sitting on pole, he wasn’t about to let anyone pry it from him—not when the circuit was his to command.
He kept his distance in the paddock, brushing past the other drivers without a word, until his gaze locked on Lando. P2. Always there, always pushing, always in his mirrors—in more ways than one. Their rivalry was no longer just about tenths of a second. But Max refused to let that thought breathe. Not now.
Once the lights went out, instinct took over. Every lap was precision, every corner another nail driven into the certainty that he wouldn’t yield. Lando was there, hovering just out of reach in his rear view, but Max never let the gap shrink. Not on the straights, not in the turns. Lap after lap, he kept him pinned back where he belonged. This was Max’s track, Max’s race, Max’s win. And he would dominate until there was no further question— That he was the best.
♡
The checkered flag fell, and the roar of the crowd was nothing but white noise in his ears. He’d done it—lights to flag, untouchable, not even Lando breathing down his neck could crack him. For once, his head was clean. No shadows, no distractions. Just the track.
But the moment he rolled into parc fermé, helmet off, balaclava still clinging damp against his skin, the noise crept back in. The engineers slapped his back, cameras flashed, microphones hovered. He tugged at the edges of the balaclava, sweat running down his temple, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Hair messy and red faced.
And then he saw you. It was the worst kind of ambush.
You weren’t even looking at him at first. Standing near the paddock ropes, half-lit by the low sun, you were smiling at someone else—a journalist, maybe, or a team member brushing by. Pretty. Too pretty. That smile… it was soft, unguarded. It carved a line straight through the armor he’d been building in your absence.
He tore his gaze away before it could linger, before the ache in his ribs could deepen. He yanked at his gloves, jaw locked. He wasn’t going to let you back in—not through a smile, not through the memory of how your voice softened when you said his name. When you called him Maxie. The thought alone made his cheeks flush.
He shut the thought down like slamming a visor shut. He refused to let you take root in his head again.
And then, as if the universe was cruel on purpose—
“Max,” you called, starting forward.
His pulse spiked but he didn’t slow, shouldering past mechanics, tugging at the collar of his suit as if he could tear himself free of the air itself.
“Max, please,” you tried again, catching pace with him.
“I don’t have time for this.” His voice was flat, clipped, as he pressed through the tunnel of cameras and team staff.
But you didn’t let go, didn’t back down. Persistent, as always. And it snapped something in him. He stopped so suddenly you nearly stumbled into him, his eyes dark when they found yours.
“You think you can just walk up and talk to me whenever it suits you? No.” His tone was ice, cold enough to burn. “I’m not one of them. Not another guy wrapped around your finger, waiting for scraps. I’m done with that.”
The words sliced out of him, sharper than he meant them, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “You’re exactly what I thought you were when this all started—some online girl with no depth, no control. You’re just noise. A distraction I don’t want, not now, not ever.”
His jaw tightened as if the words spilling out of him were poisoning him. He could still see the hurt flicker in your eyes, but he turned away before it could settle in his chest, forcing himself to walk, to keep moving.
Every step away felt like tearing skin from bone.
♡
Leaving L.A. felt like ripping the bandage off a wound you’d been nursing for months now. But this time, it wasn’t about running away—it was about running toward something. Toward him.
You were done. Done circling, done hesitating. Your heart wanted Max, had maybe always wanted him, and pretending otherwise had only twisted you into knots. The conversation with Cyrus only made it clearer—Cyrus was your past, a chapter you had long outgrown. And Lando… sweet, steady Lando. He’d been good to you, maybe even what you needed for a while, but that was the problem. And probably why he brought up seeing other people. He’d never pushed, never fought. With him, things were safe, light. But he wasn’t Max—Max was fire. He made you ache, he made you furious, he made you feel alive in a way you could never explain.
And despite everything—your fighting, the walls, the barbed words you had once thrown at each other—you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you once those walls finally came down. That glint in his eyes after you kissed him, when you softened. You’d seen the man beneath the sharp edges, and the thought of losing that, of never touching that again, was unbearable. You’d always been behind the scenes rooting for him, even when you tried to convince herself you belonged with Lando. Max had carved his way into you. Max Verstappen practically signed his name on your heart. You would never get him out of your system. It wouldn’t work that way.
Vanessa didn’t need convincing when you told her. “Then let’s go,” she’d said. “If that’s who you want, you don’t waste another second.”
So you packed. And by the time you touched down, Barcelona was already alive with the hum of race weekend. You messaged Lando first—told him you were back, that you wanted to talk. You didn’t go into detail but you knew the conversation would be a hard one. But when your finger hovered over Max’s name, you stopped. This wasn’t something you wanted to send in a text, typing out in words that could never carry the weight of your heart. No. You planned to just tell him face to face.
Back in the hotel room, you chose carefully. The dress was simple, light against the summer heat, but it felt like a statement—a piece of yourself that you wanted him to see. To show him that despite everything he thought about you in the beginning, that you finally found yourself. You fixed your hair, steadying your hands as if that could quiet the nerves in your chest. Buzzing, ready to be let out. No more games. No more armor. No more love triangles. Just you and Max.
The moment you saw him on the track, butterflies erupted in your stomach. The fire in his driving was unmistakable, the kind that set him apart from all the other drivers. He kept Lando in his mirrors the entire race, refusing to yield an inch, refusing to falter. You found yourself gripping the paddock ropes, heart pounding with every lap, whispering encouragements under your breath as if he could hear them. He won. Of course he won. And when the checkered flag fell, it felt like the universe was telling you it was finally time.
You stayed by the ropes, waiting, nerves buzzing under your skin. And then there he was. Helmet off, balaclava peeled halfway down, his face flushed crimson from the heat of the car and the fight he’d just waged. His hair was damp, sticking up in messy tufts from the helmet, strands plastered to his forehead. Sweat glistened down his temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before sinking into the collar of his fireproofs. His chest rose and fell in deep, labored pulls, the fabric clinging to the shape of him.
And God, he was beautiful. Not in the neat, curated way he looked the last time you saw him, but in something far more real, far more dangerous. This was Max stripped down—red-faced, furious, alive in a way that made him untouchable. Your pulse skipped and then quickened, a drumbeat in your throat. You couldn’t look away. Every detail of him was magnified: the furrow in his brow, the set of his mouth, the wild look still burning in his eyes.
For one heartbeat, you swore he was the most captivating thing you’d ever seen. Your fingers curled tightly around the rope as if that alone could steady you, as if the sight of him wasn’t unraveling you from the inside out.
Then as if your heart guided you, you pushed towards him in a steady hurry—
“Max!” you called out to him, stepping forward, heart raw, open, and ready to spill.
For one second, his eyes caught yours. Gentle. For one second, there was something there. The kind of look that made you want to throw yourself at him, to tell him everything, to pour her heart out right there in the middle of the track and plaster him with kisses.
But it was gone as quickly as it came. He ignored you completely, a familiar look of hatred in his eyes. His eyes were locked ahead like guided missiles as he walked past with haste.
You continued to follow, trying again, only much quieter now— almost in sad surrender— “Max, please,” you say with pleading eyes.
He stopped in his tracks leaving you inches away from colliding with his back. He turned to face you, something unreadable written all over his face. You barely recognized him. It was as if he reverted back to the way he used to look at you, except this time—it felt more cruel. This wasn’t your Max.
His mouth curved into something sharp, cutting. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, “You think you can just walk up and talk to me whenever it suits you? No.”
The words landed like glass shattering.
You blinked, your breath stuttering in your chest. A whimper, barbed-wire wrapped around your throat, your voice so low you’re not even sure he heard you:
“Maxie, that’s not—”
“I’m not one of them. Not another guy wrapped around your finger, waiting for scraps. I’m done with that.”
He stepped closer now, his words cold and final. “You’re exactly what I thought you were. A distraction. Some online girl with no depth, no control. You’re just noise. A distraction I don’t want, not now, not ever.”
Your throat tightened until it burned. Tears welled, unbidden, hot against your lashes. You tried to breathe through it, tried to find words, but your body betrayed you. Your hands shook, your chest ached, and all you could do was stand there as he walked away.
♡
The week between Barcelona and Austria dragged like wet concrete. Not once did you hear from Max. Not a single text, not a single glance, not even a breadcrumb left in the dark for you to follow. You had almost reached out twice—little drafts that never made it past your own screen, deleted before they could mock you for even considering it. To make an even bigger fool out of yourself. Because he had made himself clear.
When Vanessa told you that you both were flying with Max on his jet, your chest tightened with something sharp, somewhere between dread and a pathetic kind of hope.
The interior hummed with quiet luxury—the subtle thrum of the engines, polished wood, soft leather, and the faint smell of coffee and cologne. Bradley and Vanessa fell into easy conversation, Vanessa laughing at something he said, their smiles bouncing back and forth like an inside joke. You sat across the aisle, headphones wound tightly in your fingers but not playing a thing. You kept your gaze fixed on the window until it burned, but every few minutes, your found your eyes betraying you, sliding back over to him.
Max was there, just a seat ahead, profile sharp in the overhead lights, hair falling in soft disarray after a long week. He leaned back with a kind of stillness that made you hyper aware of everything you did, jaw set, eyes distant, mouth pressed into that unreadable line that had once softened just for you. Now, he didn’t even look your way. Not once.
You remembered the last time you were on his jet. The tension had been electric, combustible. When he drunkenly followed you to the bathroom after strip poker. An almost stolen kiss that you were moments away from giving in to. You remembered how it felt to press against the narrow counter, his hands grazing your chest, his mouth hovering over yours, waiting to win some unspeakable battle between him and Lando.
This time, when you got up to slip past the cabin staff toward the small restroom, your stomach twisted with déjà vu. You lingered in the narrow aisle too long, waiting, foolishly, like maybe fate would play the same card. When you came out, pushing the door open, there he was—waiting. But this time he was just waiting for you to leave. You nearly collided with him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you pushed past him.
Your breath caught. So did his, for the smallest fraction of a second. His hand hovered like he might steady you, fingers twitching near your wrist before he pulled back, shoving them into his pockets instead.
“Sorry,” you murmured, but it came out thinner than you had meant, frayed at the edges.
He gave you a curt nod, eyes flashing toward yours just long enough to unravel you, then back to the floor. He stepped past you without a word.
You found your way back to your seat, gripping your hoodie strings until your knuckles whitened. You thought about the texts you never sent. The way you hadn’t even seen Lando when you landed in Barcelona. Leaving him on read for days. You just… couldn’t—your heart had been gutted too completely after Max’s rejection after the race. You had ignored him, ignored yourself, burying everything under the weight of one truth: you chose Max, but Max didn’t want you anymore.
You unlocked your phone now, thumb hovering over your last conversation with Lando. His last message blinked up at you—lighthearted, almost tentative, from after qualifying in Barcelona. You had never answered him. He didn’t know what you were planning, how you were going to tell him your heart belongs to Max. You thought, briefly, maybe you should try to explain things over text. But then again—maybe you should end things properly, even though you two never had an official title. Media day in Austria, you promised yourself. You would speak to him. You would cut the last thread cleanly, so you could stop pretending there was still something to be salvaged while you grieved Max.
And when the season ends, you would leave. F1, the grid, the endless ache of being in his orbit. You would disappear from his world entirely, find someplace quiet to stitch yourself back together. Focus on work.
You pressed your forehead against the cool oval of the window. Clouds stretched out beneath the jet like endless white fields, the horizon glowing faintly gold. Your pulse still hadn’t slowed from brushing past him, from that almost-touch. Your heart yearned even now, stupidly, for the way it used to feel when he let you in fully. When he wanted you more than anything.
And as the jet droned steadily toward Austria, you stared out into the vast sky, fighting the crushing thought that you were falling, always falling, and Max was never going to catch you. Not anymore.
♡
Your thumb hovered over the glowing screen until it hurt. You had opened Lando’s chat three times already, each time locking your phone before you could say anything. You were trapped in a van heading to the hotel with Vanessa, Bradley, and… Max. While trying to distract yourself, you figured it was best to finally message Lando back.
You [3:01 PM]:
Hey. Can we talk in Austria? I owe you that much.
Simple. Final. Not an invitation, not a beginning—just the closure you both deserved. You reread it five times before finally hitting send, your chest tightening when the little “delivered” mark appeared.
The moment it left your phone, the weight shifted. Not lighter, not yet, but different. The ache that had been lodged under your ribs since Barcelona pulsed in a new rhythm. Something inevitable was coming, and you were finally ready to face it.
You pressed your forehead to the glass, doing anything you could to avoid looking over at Max. Vanessa and Bradley were still laughing about something in the seats in front of you. The rest of the car ride to the hotel was quiet. Too quiet. You and Max still hadn’t exchanged a single word since that near-collision at the bathroom door. Every nerve ending screamed at you to just look at him, to ask something about the weekend, but you couldn’t bear the idea of being brushed off again. So you continued to stare out the window, clutching your phone like a lifeline.
By the time media day arrived, the tension had calcified inside you. Walking into the paddock, you could feel the cameras, the curious eyes, the low murmur of fans—none of it touched you. Your pulse thundered only for two people.
Lando was first. You caught sight of him leaning casually against a barrier, cap tugged low, smile faint as he spoke to a team member. When his eyes flicked up and landed onyou, something unreadable passed across his face. Not anger, not even hurt anymore—something steadier, something that made guilt knot in your stomach. He gave you the smallest nod, like he already knew why you asked to talk.
Your lungs constricted. It would hurt, but you had to do it. End it properly.
And then there was Max.
He walked past you on the way to Red Bull hospitality, surrounded by cameras and microphones, his stride purposeful, jaw clenched. His hair was a little messy from tugging at his cap, his shirt clung to his shoulders in the late summer heat. And though he didn’t look at you, didn’t give you an ounce of acknowledgment, the sheer presence of him made your pulse quicken in your throat.
It was cruel, you thought, the way your body betrayed you. One glance—no, not even that, just the sight of him near—and you were undone. You hated that he still had that power. You hated that you still wanted him.
Your throat burned as you moved through the motions of the day—interviews, photos, smiles that never quite reached your eyes. Every time Max’s laugh carried across the paddock, or you caught the line of his profile in the crowd, you felt the barbed wire twist tighter around your chest.
♡
You found Lando just outside the McLaren motorhome, tucked away near the back where the crowds didn’t press so close. He noticed you before you even reached him, straightening a little, arms crossing over his chest in that quiet, defensive way he did when he was bracing for something.
“Hey,” you said softly, stopping a step too far away, like there was still some invisible line you weren’t sure you were allowed to cross.
“Hey.” His voice was even, but his eyes—God, his eyes had always been too honest. There was something tired there, something resigned, like he already knew what you were about to say.
“Can we talk?”
He nodded, gesturing toward a quieter corner. Your pulse hammered as you walked. You had rehearsed this a thousand times, tried to string together apologies and explanations, but now that you were here, it all threatened to come out as static.
“I wanted to do this face-to-face,” you began. “After Barcelona, I… I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to face you when I was—” you broke off, pressing your lips together before the tears could come too soon. “I owed you the truth.”
Lando looked at you for a long moment, and then he exhaled a little laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “The truth being that it’s him?”
The words sliced through you, not because they were cruel, but because he said them so plainly, without hesitation. You felt your throat tighten. “Lando—”
“No, don’t,” he cut in, shaking his head. “It’s fine, you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. In fact, I’ve known for a while. That’s why I told you we should see other people, remember? I thought maybe if I let you breathe, if I stepped back a little… you’d come back. To me.” His jaw flexed, eyes darting down before lifting again. “But you never really left him, did you?”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to— I swear, I never wanted to—”
“Yeah, I know,” he said quietly, and this time his voice cracked, just enough for it to hit you square in the chest. “You were good to me. You were… real. But I can’t compete with the way you look at him. You think I didn’t notice? The second he walked into a room, I lost you.”
The tears finally came then, hot and unrelenting. “I’m sorry.”
His expression softened, though there was still that shadow of hurt lingering. “You should’ve just told me sooner.” He let out a breath, half a sigh, half a laugh. “But I didn’t say anything either, did I? I knew. Deep down, I knew. And I guess… I just hoped I was wrong.”
You wanted to reach for him, but your hands stayed frozen at your sides. “You were never wrong, Lando. I did pick you… initially. I think I just couldn’t get him out of my system. You just—” You faltered, then forced the words out, raw and trembling. “You just weren’t him.”
He flinched, but nodded, like that was the confirmation he’d been waiting for all along. His eyes swept over you one last time, softer now, almost wistful. “Okay. Go be with him, I know he wants to be with you too.” He was trembling slightly, trying to keep the ‘nice guy’ act. You could tell he was hurting inside.
The silence that followed was thick and final. Your chest ached so badly you thought it might cave in, but beneath the grief, there was a thread of clarity—an ending, finally spoken aloud. It was real, but it’s over.
When you turned to walk away, you knew there was no undoing it now. But also, there was no “being” with Max. He didn’t want you.
♡
Later that afternoon, Cameras click and reporters chatter, but there’s a small break in the chaos—a friendly “redbull challenge” organized to lighten the mood. Today’s game is a classic: giant Jenga, but each block has a dare or a question written on it. Pull the wrong block, and you’re forced to answer or perform. It’s simple, but the stakes feel absurdly high when Max is on your team. It’s you two against Yuki and Bradley.
He smirks when he sees you enter the redbull patio, that same mischievous glint that always makes your pulse stutter. “This should be fun,” he teases, voice low enough that only you hear it, and your stomach twists in anticipation. Things were starting to become… normal.
The tower wobbles under your careful hands. Max hovers behind you, his shoulder brushing yours as he steadies it, fingers almost lingering. “Careful,” he mutters, and you notice the way his gaze flicks to your lips, sharp and assessing. Every inch of closeness sends heat crawling up your spine.
When it’s his turn, he pulls a block slowly, deliberately holding it in place while his eyes linger on yours. “Truth or dare?” he asks softly, and your chest tightens. You can feel the weight of all the months of near-collisions, arguments, and unsaid confessions compressed into that single look.
You answer truth carefully, keeping your tone light, but he leans just a little too close, just a little too intentionally, brushing his hand past yours when he sets the block back. The question was redbull related, and you answered it as if you were PR trained. Your heart is hammering, your mind dizzy from the subtle, deliberate tension. Every laugh, every teasing remark, every hovering glance is like a spark threatening to ignite everything between you two again.
By the end, your team wins, but the air between you and Max hasn’t cooled. You linger near the front of the patio as he steps past with practiced indifference. But you notice it—the way his jaw tenses, the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, and the way his eyes, however briefly, search for yours before he looks away.
Vanessa nudges you lightly, grinning. “Intense, huh?” You nod, feeling the lingering ache of want and frustration, the pull that refuses to be ignored. “He’ll come around.”
And you know, deep down, this game hasn’t settled anything. It’s just another layer of tension, another reminder that nothing between you two is simple—or over.
A/N: Only a few chapters left!
Mad Max is officially back—and oof, that one stung.
RIP Lando x Y/N… how are we feeling about that? 👀
Also, just a little reminder: I write mostly as a form of escapism. I don’t claim to be a professional writer, just someone having fun with the story. So while I love hearing your thoughts and reactions, rude comments honestly just make me want to keep these fics to myself. Thanks to everyone who’s been so kind and supportive—it means the world. 💙
Accidentally In Love | sinner!Adam x fem!sinner!Reader
PART 1 | PART 2
plot. You and Adam became friends with benefits. The lines of your situationship are blurred. Even more so when you and the First Man get closer and closer. What will it take you to understand that you and Adam are falling in love?
word count. 3.8k
tags. enemies to lovers, sinner!Adam, friends with benefits, sexual content, p in v sex, Adam Has a Heart, falling in love, Reader has wings, Reader is Lucifer's Royal Guard.
TW! this chapter contains an explicit sexual scene, MINORS DNI
a/n. here it is, final chapter! Thank you for reading this silly little fic, I'll for sure write more about Adam soon! Hope you enjoyed it <3
"and now I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like I love you"
—
It’s karaoke night for you and Adam. Yeah, karaoke night. At first it started off as a joke. One time, after an usual afternoon of strenuous intercourse, you and Adam found yourselves singing “Out on the Tiles” by Led Zeppelin. You had decided to put on some music in shuffle to try to muffle up your obscene sounds that both of you understood you couldn’t contain. Next thing you knew you and Adam were performing an improvised gig on the already ruined bed of your room.
“I’m so glad I’m living and gonna tell the world I am” you sang out of your lungs, holding an imaginary mic.
You pointed towards Adam, prompting him to finish the lyrics. Smiling, Adam clenched his hand in a fist to pretend to be on the mic too. He leaned backwards, throwing his head back.
“I got me a fine woman and she says that I’m her man” he sang back, enthusiastically.
This singing shenanigans would happen so often that you decided to set your own karaoke night on Fridays. You and Adam stole a karaoke machine from a bar and installed it in his room. And now he’s holding you by the shoulders, vigorously shaking you in a playful manner as you can’t stop laughing.
“Feels like you’re dying, you’re dying” he sings with all the air he could gather.
You bend in half, this time a real mic in your hand “Youuuuuuu, your sex is on fire”.
Adam mimics a guitar riff with an high pitched voice as you sing along to Kings of Leon.
“Consuuuuuumed, with what’s to transpire!” Adam goes, crouching onwards himself.
Something definitely changed between you and Adam. You still don’t know what it is but it’s pacifying you.
—
The other patrons at the Hotel noticed, even though a bit later. Your relationship was so obviously sexual that none of them really stopped to think if there was more. Until signs started to show.
One time, all of you were watching a movie downstairs. You had forced Adam to participate even if he didn’t want to and was suggesting to have another karaoke night instead. But in the end, you both plopped down on the couch next to each other with everyone and got comfortable in front of a romantic comedy Charlie put on. At first, you and Adam tried to keep your facade of annoyance. You and him were so dense, you didn’t think the others knew that you two were fucking, so you had to pretend to still hate each other. But, as the movie progressed, you and Adam lost your purpose of showing a fake resentment. You glanced down and noticed the tip of your fingers resting really close to Adam’s. His fingers, weirdly enough, were moving in a jerking motion, stroking the fabric of the couch back and forth, as if he was nervous. You moved your fingers closer. With unusual uncertainty from his part, Adam slid his fingers even closer to yours, making them touch. And you and Adam held hands. You decided not to mention it, staring at the TV with your face on fire and his cheeks colored in a red hue. Your hands stayed intertwined the whole movie, and when it ended you separated quickly, again naively thinking that nobody noticed. But, during the movie, Angel had definitely noticed. The spider demon let out one of the loudest gasps in his life as he covered his mouth with four hands. When you and Adam went upstairs later, everyone was still hanging out in the common room. And Angel raised his shoulders and arms.
“Are y’all blind or did you see what I saw?” he asked, almost irritated.
“What?” Cherri asked while mindlessly scrolling on her phone.
“Like, (Y/N) and Adam holding hands?!” he exclaimed, his arms dramatically falling flat on his sides.
“They’ve been fucking like two horny rabbits for months and this is where you draw the line?” Husk questions, raising a red eyebrow.
“Fucking is one thing, holding hands while watching a romantic movie is another!” Angel protest.
Cherri chuckles “It’s obvious by the amount of sex they have that there’s more”.
“Obvious?” Angel questions “Uhhh, hello?? Hate sex is a thing!”.
And that wasn’t the one and only time. Seems so obvious to everyone now, except to you two. It’s in the way you and Adam snuggle during movies, or when you’re cooking and he hugs you from behind, resting his chin in the space between your horns. It’s in the fact that you don’t call each other names anymore unless you’re having sex. Or when you fly around the city together pulling pranks on people, and sing your hearts out during karaoke. Now it’s not only in the way you two wildly wrestle under the sheets. It’s in the goofy way you try to sweep it under the carpet.
“Uh, we’re going upstairs uh to…FIGHT! Definitely not to have sex! Because we hate SEX!” Adam stopped “No wait, I love sex, I mean-“
“We’d HATE to have sex with each other!” you say, trying to back him up.
“Exactly, not with such a stupid cunt!”
“Hey, too much” you whisper, elbowing his side.
“Oh shit I’m so sorry babe”
And everybody looked at you the most unconvinced, inexpressive poker face. But Charlie, underneath, felt that it was heartwarming. Even if Adam whispered in your ear a “can’t wait to fuck your brains out” when displaying apparent affection, she knew that something was going on and it was nothing but beautiful. This is the purpose of the Hazbin Hotel, after all.
—
Honestly you have no idea what you and Adam are right now. First, you were just a Royal Guard who had to surveil the First Man on Earth, the Exterminator. Then you became his friend with benefits. Now sex is still here, but maybe you’re more friends than anything? Or more. Nothing was defined. You never set boundaries. You had your fair chances of getting intimate with other people, but it felt so wrong so you never went for sex. Adam felt the same. When Cherri brought everyone to the club to have a night out, he had his opportunities to have sex with other girls. But he just didn’t feel like it was right. Especially not if you were in the club with him.
“You can do what you like, you know?” you suggested him in his ear one of those times, in a space between the bar counter and the dance floor. But Adam just shook his head.
“Nah, don’t really feel like it. I mean, yeah that bitch with the black top was all over me but she’s not my type”
He tried to play it cool, not looking at you in the eyes. But in reality, Adam was just checking around to see if your friends were looking. And when he made sure that they were out of sight, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you deeply. It was unexpected coming from him, sure, but you let yourself melt in his kisses as music bumped in your ears. Something was happening.
—
“Here you are” you say.
Your hair is flowing, moved by the slow but firm flapping of your wings. You’re suspended meters and meters high, just in front of the Hazbin Hotel sign. Adam is sitting on the “Z”, holding his golden guitar in his hands. He looks kinda annoyed.
“I was just practicing guitar” he says.
“And I’m still a Royal Guard on duty”
“If your duty is going at it with the one guy you were supposed to surveil, then you’re already doing a great job”
You roll your eyes and scoff “Funny, very funny Adam”.
“Alright, you can hear me play something” he gives in.
“As long as it’s not Wonderwall”
“The fuck no, I fuckin’ hate the Oasis!”
So, with another flap of your wings, you gracefully land next to him. You expect Adam to go wild with one of his exaggerated, over-the-top and ego-boosting guitar solos. But instead, Adam quietly starts a finger picking, quite tune. It’s not a specific rock song, just a chill, peaceful chord progression. Adam starts humming a tune, eyes closed. You press your elbows against your knees and rest your cheek in the open palm of your hand, looking at the view. Pentagram City is a mess, for sure. But with Adam’s unusually calm vocalizing, and his presence, it feels like home. You peek a look at Adam. He’s still keeping his eyes closed, it’s the first time you see him so calm, and not his loud, immature self. He’s beautiful. You realize that your face is hot. And you can’t see it but your pupils are dangerously dilated. You press your lips together, and you feel your heart pounding in your chest. Oh you know what’s happening. Maybe you should make it stop. You try to take a deep breath. You’re so in love with Adam.
Adam is lost in his own thoughts and music. He was so comfortable in your presence as he strummed that he almost forgot you were there. He opens his eyes, he just wants to take a quick look at you before closing them again. He realizes that he’s done for the moment he sees how you’re looking at him. With shining eyes, dilated pupils, a fond smile on your face. He doesn’t really realize what it means for you, neither do you. But now his heart is beating at unprecedented speed. Shit, shit, shit. It’s not the first time it happens with you. One time, he felt this way when he woke up before you and saw you sleeping naked next to him, cuddled in his arms. The other was when you held hands for the first time during movie time with the other guests. But this time he’s feeling it on a whole other level. You’re so beautiful. And you’re standing by him listening to his tunes despite the man he is. The one who did so much harm but it’s trying to get better. Adam doesn’t know if he actually has gained any redeeming qualities, but one thing he’s sure about is that at least with you he is a better man. He thinks back on when you two used to argue non stop, resenting each other’s presence. It looks like a far, distant reality that never happened, if anything it’s at least a joke. Adam is so in love with you.
—
Sex still represents the majority of your relationship with Adam. Unlike your feelings, it never changed. Always so loud, fun, satisfying for sure, and unhinged. You and Adam could unleash your personalities at best under the sheets, and that was the best part of it. But this time, something is out of place. Not in a bad way, at all.
Adam is on top of you, placed between your spread legs. His wings are wide open, covering your naked bodies and encapsulating them in a small space reserved to only you two. His thrust are firm, but also slow and sensual, which wasn’t really his style. He’s holding your face with both hands, as he’s mesmerized by your deep moans of pleasure. You cling onto him with nails and legs, holding him as if he was about so slip away. You open your eyes, and catch him staring. He would usually say something sarcastic, like asking the fuck are you looking at. But instead, he looks lost in a profound state of blissful hypnosis, his pupils dilated and mouth slightly parted. Then, Adam plunges forward, still sliding in and out of you with slick sounds. Your breathing becomes even more irregular, hips jerking under his body as waves of pleasure hit you. You tug at Adam’s hair in the spot between his horns. With one hand, Adam firmly holds your hip, while the other has its fingers entangled in your hair, lightly pulling them.
“A-Adam…please I’m so close” you stutter. You would never beg usually, but this time it’s hard not to do so.
What surprises you is the way Adam responds. He would have usually bragged about you begging for him to make you reach your climax, reminding you how much of a whore you are for him. And you would have protested by flipping the roles and making him a mess under your body. But Adam just sinks his face in your neck, whispering.
“I know baby, I know. I got you” he says, interrupted by a moan “Fuck you’re doing so good I swear”.
His movements in you become more erratic, sloppier, and his breath hotter against your ear. The fingers plunged in your hair start stroking your scalp, you try to suffocate your moans of pleasure in his shoulder. You come first around his shaft, whispering quietly his name until you come down from your high. Adam climaxes second, emitting a low, strangled moan in your neck as his wings twitch. You take some time to realize how good it was, your chests rising and lowering with every breath, holding each other. It’s when your mind clears that you realize how atypical of a sexual encounter that was for you and Adam. It was…sweet? Really intimate and not in the physical meaning of the word? Adam never praised you in bed, and you never spoke to him so gently asking to make you finish. And the way he looked at you was absurd, to say at best. With a cherry colored hue on his cheeks, and a light in his eyes you rarely saw in him.
“Ah shit that was great” Adam chuckles, collapsing next to you.
The pride in his face says it all, maybe you were wrong before. You mentally shrug.
“Yeah” you roll on your side, facing him “but I’m so hungry right now”.
Adam sighs, looking up at the ceiling “When I was in Heaven, there was this place that delivered the best fucking ice cream your taste buds could ever graze. A mountain of it. Great for after sex I swear. I miss it”.
Adam takes the opportunity to talk about Heaven more. He’s clearly being nostalgic. He misses it. And while you like hearing him waffling about all the crazy concert he performed, the best restaurants, theme parks and clubs in Heaven, you can’t help but frown. A small smile still lingers on your face, but you ask yourself if Adam really belongs in here. A part of you says of course yes, the other is unsure.
“You know” you say, scooting closer to him “I’ve never really asked myself about how life in Heaven would be. But it really sounds like a beautiful place”.
Adam nods, twisting on his side to face you “Oh fuck yeah it was, I wish I could…”
He interrupts himself as he meets your face, pressed against the pillow. A small, comprehensive smile is gently placed on it, and your eyes are stuck in his own with a visible shine.
Oh no don’t look at me like that.
Adam’s grin disappears, he looks away and tries to play it cool as always, glancing around the room. He clears his throat.
“Yeah I mean, Heaven was great but under a certain perspective…” he trails off.
You wait for him to finish, and he can’t escape your eyes. He finally reciprocates again, getting lost into them.
“Hell is not half-bad, for some reasons” he says.
Adam doesn’t realize it, but now he’s smiling too. His eyebrows are arched upwards in adoration as he ponders on every inch of you. Your now relaxed expression, your glimmering eyes, your naked body covered in white sheets, your head slightly plunged in the pillow. Suddenly, Adam’s smile fades. His eyes go wide, and his heart skips a beat. A wave of realization hits him.
“Holy shit (Y/N) I’m so in love with you”.
Both of you jump in surprise, moving away from each other as the mattress bounces under your bodies. You clench the sheets, and you feel your heart pounding. Where did that come from?!
“What?!” you exclaim.
“WHAT?!” Adam yelps back, incredulous of his own words.
He didn’t mean to say it out loud, he didn’t even mean to say it in his mind actually. You can feel his own panic on your skin, as every inch of your body figuratively catches fire. You don’t know what to say. Adam sits up, covering his face with a hand in embarrassment.
“Fuck! I’m so sorry I ruined everything!” he exclaims, voice panicky.
“Ruined what?”
Oh no. It takes you a second to realize what you said. Adam’s hand files down from his face and looks at you. And you see something you thought you would never witness on Adam’s face. Pain. Adam is hurt. His mouth is slightly open, his breath suspended, his eyebrows knitted. You used to call him many names when you two argued. An asshole, a dirtbag, a dickhead, an irresponsible, immature jerk. But Adam never batted an eye. It’s the first time you see an unmistakable, terrible flash of pain in his face. You feel horrible. You sit up, your mouth open and about to say something. It’s hard to gather the right words after saying something so wrong. You extend a hand towards him, but Adam leans back, away from your touch.
“Adam fuck that’s not what I…” you say, voice shaky.
Adam shuffles away from you again, his face full of regret, embarrassment and clearly pain. He shakes his head, proceeding to get out of bed. He starts looking frantically for his clothes, putting them on as quick as he can. No words come out your mouth, your mind too confused and full of things to process. In just a matter of seconds, Adam is already dressed.
“I-I’m sorry, I gotta go” he stutters, looking at you for a split second.
“Adam, wait! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to sa-!”
You don’t have time to finish what you have to say. Adam had already opened the window of your room, and in the blink of an eye he flew away. Shit, shit, shit! Why did you even say that? That came out so wrong. But you couldn’t help it, you were so taken aback by his sudden confession. You mentally punch yourself in the face. Physically, you limit yourself to drag a hand down your face and groan loudly in your palm. You try to give yourself some time to think, you don’t want to hurt Adam even more. You spend some minutes with your face smothered in your pillow, suffocating sounds of pure frustration. After you gathered your thoughts together, you finally get up from the bed. You put your clothes back on, and head towards the still open window. With a strong flap of your wings, you sprint upwards. As you thought, Adam is sitting on the Hotel sign. He looks pissed. His lips are tightly pressed together and his eyebrows are knitted at the corners. He notices you but doesn’t look up.
“Adam, c’mon…” you say, as kindly as you can.
You keep floating in front of him, the wind generated by your wings making Adam’s hair slightly flow. He doesn’t look at you, he’s just staring at his own knees. For a solid minute you two don’t say anything. Silence has never been a thing between you and Adam, but you respect his wish. Suddenly, Adam breaks it.
“It’s not like you have to pity me” he mumbles.
“I’m not pitying you”
“Um yeah? I just ran off like a pissy school girl and here you are looking at me like a lost child”
“Adam-“
“You know how much time has passed since I last said those words?”
You don’t say anything. Adam finally looks up at you, his eyes a mess of emotions.
“Centuries” he says, spiteful of himself.
Your eyebrows arch upwards in surprise, your forehead corrugated. Your stomach burns, as you can finally feel every emotion Adam tried to hide under sarcasm for so long.
“Centuries?” you ask.
“Yeah, and I know I’ve been literally fucking around for a lot of time so it’s actually my fault, but I can’t say that I don’t mean it once I say it”
“Adam, my question was genuine”.
His mind stops in his tracks. You look weirdly calm. A bit unsure, of course, this is your first very serious conversation. But you’re still collected and he envies you.
“I really wanted to ask you what did you think you ruined. Because I’ll admit it, and I don’t wanna hurt you even more, but I don’t know what goes on in your head. We have all this sex, but also some care, but we also bicker. It’s confusing. I don’t even know if monogamy is your thing. But you showed me care. Sometimes, you still are a bit of a jerk let’s be honest. But I felt care too”.
Your stomach is twirling around, but you can’t stop your flow of consciousness. You wanna know what Adam means, what the First Man wants from a sinner he swore to hate not so long ago. Adam strokes his hair with a hand. His blush intensifies.
“I myself don’t really know what we are. If you know please fuckin’ tell me. What I know is that I feel something, love if that’s what we wanna call it. I mean, look at you! You sing along to rock songs with me, you know how to fight and look so badass while doing it, and you’re hot as fuck too! But if you don’t feel the sa-“
In a sudden movement, you zip towards Adam and grab him by his robe to push him on your lips. He lets out a muffled sound of surprise, but quickly closes his eyes to reciprocate the kiss. It’s calm, sweet, your lips and tongue are moving in tandem in such a tender yet passionate manner. It’s full of care, whatever it is. When you pull away, you look at each other in slight embarrassment. But you push it back immediately.
“I would have never thought I’d say it to you, but I do love you, Adam. Even if you’re still not perfect at all, you’re still a dickhead let’s admit it, I feel something for you. And I don’t expect you to suddenly become a better person just for the sake of being with me, but right now I’m sure I love you like this”.
You had blurted it all out in a single breath, still close to Adam’s face after your kiss. And finally, he smiles. Not with his usual teasing, shit eating grin. He smiles genuinely.
“I still don’t know if I’ll be a redeemable man, or if I want to become one. But at least with you I feel a bit of a better man”.
You smile back at Adam. He looks like a whole other person compared to how he was when you met. He still is his old self. But you came to love him. You and Adam lean forward, capturing yourselves in another deep, thoughtful kiss. Your wings meet, grazing each other as they close around you two. After a while of getting lost in your affection, you separate and playfully smirk.
“C’mon you whiny baby, why don’t we go downstairs to join everyone for movie night?” you suggest.
Adam groans and rolls his eyes “Us being a thing doesn’t mean that I have to participate in every fuckin’ activity of this Hotel”
“Uhh, yeah it does? I’m still in charge of forcing you to join. Now get your lazy ass off of there and let’s go”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. summary ━━━━━━━ Lando gets jealous during a dinner with friends. Later that night, a dream occurs.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader
࣪ ִֶָ☾. word count ━━━━━━━ 17.3k
࣪ ִֶָ☾. warnings ━━━━━━━ angst
Series Masterlist
The late afternoon sun filtered through Y/N's bedroom window as she stood before her full-length mirror, smoothing down the fabric of the black dress that clung to her curves like liquid silk. The dress was from a designer—a gesture that had both infuriated and confused her in equal measure. She'd almost thrown it out the window, almost donated it to charity out of spite, but something had stopped her. Maybe it was the way the fabric felt against her skin, or maybe it was the undeniable fact that it fit her perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for her body.
The dress was a masterpiece of understated elegance—black as midnight, with a plunging neckline that showcased the swell of her breasts without being too vulgar, and a silhouette that hugged every curve before falling in a graceful cascade to just above her ankles. A daring slit ran up her left thigh, stopping just high enough to be provocative without crossing into indecent, revealing flashes of her leg with each step she took. The fabric was so fine it seemed to shimmer with her every movement, and the way it accentuated her waist and hips made her feel like a goddess carved from marble.
She had chosen to wear it tonight not because Lando had given it to her, but because she looked fucking incredible in it. At least, that's what she told herself as she applied the finishing touches to her makeup—smoky eyes that made her gaze seem mysterious and dangerous, and lips painted a deep wine red that matched the vintage she planned to order at dinner.
Her phone buzzed against her vanity, and she glanced at the screen to see Lando's name. Her stomach clenched involuntarily, the way it always did when she saw his name on her phone, though she refused to acknowledge the flutter of anticipation that accompanied the anxiety.
"On my way up. Be ready in 5."
She stared at the message for a moment, remembering how he'd managed to convince her to let him drive her to dinner. It had been three days ago at Max and Pietra's apartment. Y/N had been there for dinner when Lando showed up unexpectedly, claiming he needed to drop off something for Max. But the way his eyes had locked onto her the moment he walked through the door told a different story. He was supposed to leave right after—had even said as much to Max—but then he'd seen her sitting on the couch, and suddenly he had all the time in the world.
She'd been in the middle of berating him about something—she couldn't even remember what now—when he'd interrupted her mid-sentence.
"Let me drive you to dinner on Friday," he'd said, his green eyes intense and pleading in a way that had caught her off guard.
"I can take the tube," she'd replied automatically, because agreeing to anything with Lando felt dangerous.
"Y/N, please." The way he'd said her name, like a prayer, like a request for absolution, had made her chest tighten. "Just... let me do this one thing. Let me drive you."
She'd wanted to say no. Every logical part of her brain had screamed at her to say no. But there had been something in his voice, something raw and desperate that had made her nod before she could stop herself.
Now, as she heard his footsteps approaching her door, she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake.
The knock was soft, almost hesitant, and when she opened the door, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Lando stood in her doorway, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair—his curls were perfectly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through them, and his green eyes were bright and intense. He was wearing a crisp white button-down that was open at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat and a hint of the chain he always wore. The shirt stretched across his shoulders and chest, and she could see the definition of his muscles beneath the fabric. His forearms were exposed where he'd rolled up his sleeves, and she found herself staring at the veins that stood out against his tan skin, at the way his hands flexed as he gripped the bouquet of flowers he was holding.
But it was the look on his face that made her stomach flip. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes wide with something that looked like wonder, and when his gaze traveled slowly down her body and back up to her face, she felt as if she might combust under the intensity of his stare.
Y/N's chest tightened with a familiar rage that had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the way Lando was looking at her—like she belonged to him. Like this whole elaborate charade of flowers was going to somehow erase everything that had happened between them. She knew exactly why he was doing this. Ever since he'd found out about the soulmate bond, he'd been acting like it was some kind of divine mandate, like the universe had decreed they were meant to be together and she was just being stubborn by resisting. The worst part was the traitorous flutter in her stomach when he looked at her like that, the way her body still responded to him despite everything her mind knew to be true. She was furious with herself for still feeling anything at all for him, for falling for whatever game he was playing now. Part of her—a part she hated and tried to bury deep—wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them, to kiss him until she couldn't breathe, to beg him to never let her go. But she'd rather die than give him that satisfaction, rather die than let him know that despite everything, she still had feelings for him.
Lando felt as if someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart until he couldn't breathe. She was wearing the dress—his dress—and she looked like every fantasy he'd ever had made flesh. The black fabric hugged her curves like it had been painted onto her skin, and the way it dipped low at her neckline made his mouth go dry. Her legs looked endless beneath the hem, and her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her look ethereal.
But it wasn't just her beauty that had him rooted to the spot—it was the way she carried herself, the confidence in her posture, the slight tilt of her chin that spoke of a strength and intelligence that made her infinitely more attractive than any physical attribute ever could. And she was wearing something he'd chosen for her, something that had come from him, and the possessiveness that surged through him was almost overwhelming. She looked perfect, absolutely perfect, and the knowledge that she'd chosen to wear his gift sent a primal satisfaction coursing through his veins. His eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts beneath the silk, the way the fabric clung to her hips, and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk that was both amused and slightly mocking. "Eloquent as always, Norris."
He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and thrust the flowers toward her. "These are for you."
She looked down at the bouquet—white roses mixed with eucalyptus and baby's breath, elegant and understated—and felt something twist in her chest. Another gift, another gesture designed to wear down her defenses. She wanted to throw them back at him, wanted to tell him that flowers wouldn't fix what he'd broken, but the words stuck in her throat. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he interrupted, his voice rough. The truth was, he was dying inside every time she looked at him with that cold, distant expression, every time she spoke to him in that carefully neutral tone that made him feel like a stranger. He knew he deserved it—knew he had no right to expect anything different after the way he'd treated her—but it was killing him all the same. He felt helpless against her coldness, desperate to break through the walls she'd built around herself. "You look..." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Christ, Y/N, you look incredible."
She felt heat flood her cheeks and turned away to hide her reaction, busying herself with putting the flowers in water. The compliment hit her harder than it should have, and she hated herself for the way her heart skipped a beat. "Thank you," she said quietly, hating the way her voice sounded softer than she'd intended, hating that he could still affect her this way.
When she turned back to him, he was still staring at her with that same intense expression, and she felt the air between them crackle with tension. For a moment, she thought he might step closer, might reach for her, and she wasn't sure if she would push him away or pull him closer. The thought terrified her—how easily she could fall into his orbit, how desperately she still wanted him despite everything.
Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped back, grateful beyond measure that she was even letting him drive her to dinner, that she hadn't slammed the door in his face the moment she'd seen him. "We should go. The others will be waiting."
The drive to the restaurant was torture of the sweetest kind. Lando gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, trying to focus on the road instead of the way Y/N looked sitting beside him. She had her legs crossed, and the hem of her dress had ridden up slightly, exposing more of her legs. Every time she moved, every time she shifted in her seat, he caught a hint of her perfume—something floral and expensive that made him want to bury his face in her neck. The urge to pull over was becoming overwhelming, to park somewhere dark and secluded and finally give in to the need that was consuming him. He imagined her gasp of surprise, the way she might melt against him if he just stopped pretending to be a gentleman.
Y/N stared out the passenger window, hyperaware of every breath Lando took, every subtle shift of his body beside her. She could feel his eyes on her whenever they stopped at lights, could sense the tension radiating from him in waves. Part of her wanted to call him out on it, to snap at him for thinking he could just buy her pretty things and expect her to fall into his arms. But another part—the part she was trying so hard to ignore—was thrilled by his attention, by the barely contained hunger she could see in his peripheral vision. She kept her expression carefully neutral, even as her pulse raced with a mixture of anger and unwanted desire.
He kept stealing glances at her, memorizing the way the city lights played across her features, the way she absently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When they stopped at a red light, she turned to look out the window, and he found himself studying her profile—the elegant slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. He was drowning in regret, in the knowledge that this coldness between them was entirely his fault, that he'd pushed away the one person who mattered most to him.
"You're staring," she said without turning to look at him, and he felt his face flush.
"Sorry," he muttered, forcing himself to look straight ahead as the light turned green.
"I didn't say I minded," she replied, and when he glanced at her, she was smiling—not the mocking smile she usually gave him, but something softer, more genuine. The words slipped out before she could stop them, a moment of weakness that she immediately regretted.
His chest tightened, and he had to resist the urge to pull over and kiss her until neither of them could think straight. Instead, he focused on driving, on getting them to the restaurant in one piece, even though every cell in his body was screaming at him to turn the car around and take her back to her flat, to his hotel, anywhere they could be alone. He was grateful for this moment, for the small crack in her armor, even as he ached with the knowledge of how much damage he'd have to undo to earn her trust back.
The restaurant was tucked away in Mayfair, the kind of place that served modern European cuisine and had a wine list that read like a novel. When they arrived, Lando handed his keys to the valet and hesitated for a moment beside Y/N, his hand hovering uncertainly near her back. He was dying to touch her, had been craving even the smallest contact, but he wasn't sure if he had the right. The space between them felt charged with everything unsaid, everything broken. Finally, etiquette won out, and he placed his hand on the small of Y/N's back to guide her inside, telling himself it was just good manners, just what any gentleman would do.
The touch was innocent enough, but the feel of her warm skin through the thin fabric of her dress made his head spin. His fingers spread slightly against the silk, and he had to bite back a groan at how perfectly she fit against his palm. What he really wanted was to slide his hand around her waist, to pull her against him, to map every inch of her body with his hands and mouth until she was trembling beneath him. He wanted to worship her, to show her with every kiss and caress just how much she meant to him, how desperately he needed her. But instead he kept his touch light and brief, even though every nerve ending in his body was screaming for more.
Y/N felt the heat of his palm through her dress like a brand, and her breath caught in her throat. Part of her wanted to melt into his touch, to lean back against the solid warmth of his chest. But another part—the louder, angrier part—wanted to spin around and yell at him for thinking he could just touch her like he owned her, like he hadn't shattered her heart into a million pieces. The only thing that stopped her from making a scene was the knowledge that they were standing outside one of London's most exclusive restaurants, where a single raised voice would draw unwanted attention and probably get them both thrown out. So she kept her mouth shut and her expression neutral, even though her whole body was trembling with the effort of not reacting.
She told herself his touch meant nothing, that he was only doing it because it was expected, because it was the polite thing to do when escorting someone into a restaurant. It wasn't because he wanted to touch her—it couldn't be. Not after everything that had happened between them. The thought that this was just obligation, just empty courtesy, made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the hope she was trying so hard to kill.
They were led to a private dining room where their friends were already gathered around a large table. Max was there with Pietra; Tom with his sister; Connor, who brought two girls; and Ed with his cousin—a tall, dark-haired man named James whom Y/N had never met.
"They're already here," Y/N murmured, smoothing down her dress nervously.
Lando's response died in his throat as they rounded the corner and their friends came into view. The long table was already animated with conversation, Max gesticulating wildly as he recounted some story, Pietra laughing beside him, Tom's sister adding commentary while Connor sat flanked by two girls Lando didn't recognize. Ed was there too, and next to him sat someone Lando hadn't met before – presumably the cousin Ed had mentioned bringing.
"Finally!" Max called out, spotting them first. "We were about to send a search party."
All heads turned toward them, and Lando felt Y/N stiffen slightly beside him. His hand pressed more firmly against her back, a silent reassurance, though he wasn't sure if it was for her benefit or his own.
"Traffic," Lando offered as explanation, though the truth was he'd driven around the block three times, trying to work up the courage to pick her up.
"Y/N, you look absolutely stunning!" Pietra exclaimed, rising from her seat to embrace her friend. "That dress is incredible."
"Thanks," Y/N replied, her cheeks flushing slightly. She carefully avoided mentioning who had sent it to her, though Lando noticed Max's knowing smirk from across the table.
"Come, sit," Tom called out, gesturing to the only two empty chairs. "We haven't ordered yet, just drinks."
Lando's eyes swept the seating arrangement, his jaw clenching imperceptibly. The two available seats were across from each other – one next to Max, the other beside Ed's cousin. It should have been simple. Natural, even. He'd sit next to his best friend, she'd take the other seat.
But something twisted in his chest as Y/N moved without hesitation toward the seat next to the stranger, settling into it with a quiet "Hi, I'm Y/N" to the man beside her.
The moment Y/N settled into the chair beside Ed’s cousin, Lando felt something crack inside his chest. He'd been hoping, perhaps foolishly, that they might sit together, that the car ride might have softened something between them.
The cousin – James, as he introduced himself – was everything Lando suddenly, irrationally hated. Tall, even seated. Dark hair neatly styled. Wire-rimmed glasses that gave him an intellectual air. The kind of easy smile that suggested confidence without arrogance. Everything Lando suddenly wanted to destroy with his bare hands.
"James," he replied, extending his hand to Y/N. "Ed's told me a bit about everyone. You're in finance, right?"
"Yes," Y/N confirmed, and Lando watched as her shoulders relaxed, her professional persona sliding into place like armor. "And you?"
"International law. Mostly dealing with European Union regulations these days. Thrilling stuff, I assure you." His self-deprecating tone earned him a genuine laugh from Y/N, and Lando's fingers tightened around his water glass until his knuckles turned white. The sound of her laugh for another man felt like a knife twisting in his chest.
Y/N found herself smiling at James's easy humor. There was something refreshing about his self-deprecating attitude, and she appreciated that he didn't seem to take himself too seriously despite clearly being accomplished in his field.
"Actually, that sounds fascinating," Y/N leaned forward slightly, her interest clearly piqued. "Especially with all the post-Brexit complications. I imagine you're dealing with some interesting jurisdiction issues."
James's eyebrows rose appreciatively. "You follow politics?"
"Religiously," Y/N admitted. "It's a bit of an obsession, actually. My friends think I'm mad for having notifications on for European Parliament votes."
Lando sank into his seat next to Max, directly across from Y/N, trying to keep his expression neutral even as his heart was breaking into pieces. Max shot him a questioning look, but Lando just shook his head slightly and reached for the menu. He forced himself to function normally, contributing to the general chatter, but inside he felt hollowed out, watching Y/N engage with James in a way she'd never engaged with him.
"You're joking," James laughed, pulling out his phone. "I have the same thing. Did you see the vote on the Digital Services Act amendment last week?"
"The one about platform liability? Absolutely mental how close it was." Y/N's eyes lit up with an enthusiasm Lando had never seen before. "Fifty-three votes. In a parliament of 705."
Lando watched Y/N transform before his eyes, her entire demeanor shifting into something open and engaged in a way he'd never experienced with her. She was leaning toward James, her hands animated as she spoke, her face alight with intellectual passion. The black dress shifted with each of her movements, the fabric catching the light, and Lando's eyes traced the line of her neck, the way her collarbones stood out when she laughed.
But now she might as well have been on another planet, completely absorbed in her conversation with James about European politics. Lando felt like he was dying inside, watching her be completely expressive and open with a stranger in ways she'd never been with him.
Y/N was genuinely enjoying the conversation. It had been so long since she'd met someone who could discuss European politics with any real depth, and James seemed to have a solid grasp of the complexities involved. She found herself relaxing in a way she rarely did at social gatherings, her usual guardedness melting away in the face of genuine intellectual engagement.
"Mate," Max murmured beside him, but Lando couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding across the table.
The waiter arrived with wine lists, and James immediately turned to Y/N. "You'll have to help me navigate this. I'm hopeless with wine pairings."
"Oh, she's brilliant with wine," Pietra chimed in. "Y/N's the only person I know who actually understands all those tasting notes."
Y/N flushed slightly but took the wine list with obvious pleasure. "I just enjoy it. There's something about understanding the terroir, the way climate and soil affect the grapes..."
Lando watched, transfixed, as Y/N explained the intricacies of wine to James. Every gesture, every expression, every spark of intelligence in her eyes made him fall deeper in love while simultaneously making him want to reach across the table and strangle James for being the recipient of her attention. The way she moved her hands as she spoke – Lando wanted those hands on him, wanted to be the one making her eyes light up with excitement.
"Terroir," James repeated thoughtfully. "That's the French concept about the complete natural environment, right? I've always been fascinated by how they've managed to legislate that into their AOC system."
"Exactly!" Y/N's excitement was palpable, and Lando felt another stab of jealousy mixed with awe. "It's brilliant how they've codified something so ephemeral. Like, you can't call it Champagne unless..."
She was glowing. That was the only word for it. Lando watched her explain the intricacies of French wine law to James, who listened with genuine interest, occasionally asking questions that only made her more animated. Her hands danced as she spoke, her fingers tracing invisible maps on the tablecloth, illustrating the different wine regions. Lando was mesmerized by every movement, every word, every breath she took. In that moment, she was the most beautiful, most intelligent woman in the world, and she was completely focused on another man.
When Lando's eyes did move away from Y/N, they landed on James with a burning hatred that surprised him with its intensity. He found himself fantasizing about leaping across the table and beating the smug smile off the man's face, about grabbing him by his perfectly styled hair and showing him exactly what Lando thought of his intellectual conversation. The violent thoughts scared him, but he couldn't stop them from flooding his mind every time James laughed at something Y/N said or asked her another thoughtful question.
Y/N was completely absorbed in explaining the nuances of French wine classification. She'd always loved sharing knowledge about subjects she was passionate about, and James seemed genuinely interested rather than just politely listening. It was rare to find someone who could keep up with the technical aspects while also appreciating the artistry involved.
"The wine selection here is quite good," the waiter offered, having patiently waited for a break in their discussion. "Might I recommend starting with champagne for the table?"
"Actually," James said, glancing at Y/N with a conspiratorial smile, "what would you suggest? You clearly know what you're talking about."
Lando wanted to wipe that smile off James's face. The easy way the man deferred to Y/N, the obvious respect in his voice – it was everything Lando had wanted to offer her but had never been able to achieve. Instead, every interaction between them had been charged with conflict and tension.
Y/N studied the list seriously. "Well, if we're starting with champagne, I'd go with the Billecart-Salmon. It's a smaller house, family-owned, and they have this beautiful balance of tradition and innovation. The rosé particularly – they use red wine addition rather than skin contact, which gives it this gorgeous copper color and these subtle notes of redcurrant..."
She trailed off, suddenly seeming to realize the entire table was staring at her. "Sorry, I'm being pretentious, aren't I?"
"Not at all," James assured her warmly. "It's refreshing to meet someone who's genuinely passionate about something. Most people just pretend to know about wine."
The way James looked at Y/N with such obvious admiration made Lando's blood boil. He could see the respect in the man's eyes, the genuine interest, and it was everything Lando had desperately wanted to inspire in Y/N but had never managed to achieve.
"Y/N knows about everything," Connor's date – Lily, she'd introduced herself as – said with obvious admiration. "Ed's told us stories."
"Not everything," Y/N protested, but she was smiling, relaxed in a way that made Lando's chest ache. She never smiled at him like that – open, unguarded, genuinely happy.
"She's being modest," Ed interjected. "This girl once corrected a sommelier at a Michelin-starred restaurant about a vintage. And she was right."
"It was just that the label said 2015 but the taste profile was obviously from the 2016 harvest," Y/N explained to James. "2015 was a hot year in Burgundy, very ripe fruit, almost jammy. But what they served had this bright acidity, more restrained fruit – classic 2016 after the frost damage reduced yields."
Lando understood perhaps half the words she used, but he couldn't stop watching her face, the way her eyes sparkled when James asked follow-up questions that showed he was actually listening, actually understanding. This was Y/N in her element, and she was magnificent. Every word out of her mouth made him fall deeper in love while simultaneously making him feel more inadequate than he'd ever felt in his life.
"How could you possibly know that from taste alone?" James asked, genuinely intrigued.
Y/N launched into an explanation about vintage variations, climate patterns, and their effects on wine characteristics.
The champagne arrived, and Y/N watched critically as the waiter poured, nodding approval at his technique. When James raised his glass to taste, he looked to her first, as if seeking permission or guidance.
"What am I looking for?" he asked.
Lando wanted to grab the glass from James's hands and pour it over his head. The deferential way the man looked to Y/N for guidance, the obvious respect in his voice – it was maddening. Lando had never thought to ask Y/N about wine, had never shown interest in her knowledge or expertise.
"First, just look at it," Y/N instructed, holding her own glass up to the light. "See how fine the bubbles are? That's from the traditional method, the second fermentation in the bottle. Industrial champagne has these big, coarse bubbles."
She was a teacher, Lando realized. A natural educator who came alive when sharing knowledge. He'd never seen this side of her, had never even known it existed. In all their angry confrontations, he'd never once thought to ask her about her interests beyond work.
"Now smell," Y/N continued, demonstrating. "Don't just stick your nose in. Start farther away, then come closer. You'll get different aromatics at different distances."
James followed her instructions precisely, and they began discussing what they each detected – brioche, green apple, a hint of almond. Their heads bent together over their glasses, and Lando felt his jaw clench so hard it ached. The intimate way they were sharing the experience, the obvious pleasure Y/N took in James's careful attention to her instructions – it was torture to watch.
"You alright?" Max asked quietly beside him.
"Fine," Lando bit out, taking a large swig of his water. He was sticking to water all evening, not wanting to risk anything when he drove Y/N home later.
But he wasn't fine. He was watching the woman he was desperately in love with have the kind of easy, intellectual conversation with a stranger that he'd never been able to achieve with her. Every interaction between them had been charged with anger. They'd never just... talked. And watching her now, seeing how she opened up when someone showed genuine interest in her thoughts and knowledge, made Lando realize how much he'd failed to understand about the woman he claimed to love.
The conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Somehow, they transitioned from viticulture to literature – James mentioned Hemingway's thoughts on wine in "A Moveable Feast," which led Y/N to confess her obsession with expatriate writers of the 1920s.
"You've read 'The Sun Also Rises,' then?" James asked.
"Only about fifteen times," Y/N laughed. "I wrote my master's thesis on the use of alcohol as a metaphor for emotional avoidance in post-war literature."
Lando felt another piece of his heart crack. A master's degree. In literature. How had he not known this? How had he been so focused on the physical pull between them that he'd never bothered to learn the most basic facts about her education, her interests, her past? Every revelation about Y/N's depth and intelligence made him realize how superficial his understanding of her had been.
"You have a master's?" Tom's sister, Clara, asked with interest.
"In comparative literature," Y/N confirmed, then looked almost embarrassed. "It's not exactly useful for finance, but I loved it."
Y/N felt a familiar twinge of self-consciousness about her academic background. Most people in finance found her literature degree irrelevant, sometimes even pretentious. But James seemed genuinely interested rather than dismissive.
"That's fascinating," James leaned forward. "I've always thought Hemingway's iceberg theory applied to more than just writing. The idea that the dignity of movement comes from the unseen portion..."
"The seven-eighths below the surface," Y/N finished, her eyes bright. "Yes! It's like he understood that what we don't say is often more important than what we do."
Lando watched them fall into a discussion about modernist literature that left most of the table behind, but they seemed oblivious to everyone else. The easy way they built on each other's thoughts, the obvious intellectual chemistry between them – it was everything Lando had dreamed of having with Y/N but had never been able to achieve. Instead, he sat there feeling like a child listening to adults discuss things beyond his comprehension.
James mentioned having just been to the Hemingway exhibit at the Morgan Library in New York, which launched Y/N into an enthusiastic monologue about her favorite museums.
"The Musée Rodin in Paris," she was saying, her hands painting pictures in the air. "There's this room dedicated to 'The Gates of Hell,' and the way the light falls across all those tortured figures... It's like being inside Dante's mind."
They laughed together, a shared memory of a place Lando had never been, discussing an artist he'd never heard of. He watched Y/N's face transform with joy as she and James traded stories about Paris – favorite cafés, hidden museums, the best spot to watch the sunset over the Seine.
Lando had been to Paris multiple times for different events or filming, had stayed in the finest hotels, but he'd never visited a museum, never explored the city beyond the events and his hotel room. Watching Y/N discuss art and culture with such obvious passion made him realize how shallow his own experiences had been, how much he'd missed while focusing solely on racing and brand deals.
"You should go to the Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature," James suggested. "It's this bizarre hunting museum in an old mansion. Completely surreal – they have these installations where you can hear animal heartbeats in the walls."
"I've been meaning to go for years!" Y/N's excitement was palpable. "Is it true they have a room entirely dedicated to unicorns?"
"Complete with 'evidence' of their existence," James confirmed with a grin. "It's brilliantly mad."
Y/N laughed with genuine delight. She loved discovering new places through other people's experiences, and James seemed to have a knack for finding the most interesting, off-the-beaten-path locations. His enthusiasm was infectious, and she found herself mentally adding several new destinations to her ever-growing travel list.
The main courses arrived, but Y/N and James barely noticed, too engrossed in their conversation which had somehow shifted to contemporary art. Y/N was explaining her theory about how social media had fundamentally changed the way we interact with art in museums, turning contemplation into performance.
"People don't look at art anymore," she argued, cutting into her fish with precise movements. "They photograph themselves with it. The art becomes a backdrop for their personal narrative rather than something to be experienced."
Lando watched every precise movement of her hands as she cut her food, the elegant way she gestured while making her points. He was completely mesmerized by her intelligence, by the passion in her voice when she discussed subjects she cared about. In that moment, she was the most captivating woman in the world, and he couldn't look away even though it was agony to watch her connecting so effortlessly with another man.
"But isn't that just another form of interaction?" James countered thoughtfully. "Maybe less pure than traditional contemplation, but still a way of creating meaning?"
"Perhaps," Y/N conceded, "but I think something's lost when we mediate every experience through a screen. Like, when was the last time someone stood in front of a Rothko and just let themselves feel it without immediately reaching for their phone?"
"Rothko specifically is interesting," James mused. "He wanted viewers to stand eighteen inches from his paintings, to be completely enveloped by the color fields. You can't photograph that experience."
Lando had never heard of Rothko. He didn't know what color fields were or why eighteen inches mattered. He felt profoundly ignorant, like a child listening to adults discuss things beyond his comprehension. The curly-haired racing driver with his perfect body and million-dollar contracts suddenly felt very small, very young, very stupid.
"Exactly!" Y/N's eyes lit up. "He was creating these spiritual spaces, these opportunities for transcendence. But now people just snap a pic and move on to the next Instagram opportunity."
When Lando's eyes moved away from Y/N's animated face, they landed on James with a burning hatred that surprised him with its intensity. The man was listening with such obvious respect and interest, asking thoughtful questions that made Y/N's eyes sparkle even brighter. Lando found himself fantasizing about reaching across the table and wiping that intellectual, superior expression off James's face. The violent thoughts came unbidden and intense – he wanted to grab James by his perfectly styled hair and show him exactly what happened when someone monopolized Y/N's attention.
"You're really into art," Connor observed, having been listening with interest.
"Guilty," Y/N admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm that annoying person who reads every label in museums and stays until closing."
"Nothing annoying about being engaged with culture," James said warmly. "I'd rather spend time with someone who cares too much than too little."
The way James looked at Y/N when he said that – with such obvious admiration and respect – made Lando's hands clench into fists under the table. He wanted to be the one looking at her that way, wanted to be the recipient of her passionate explanations about art and literature and wine.
"Careful," Ed warned with a laugh, "Y/N will take that as permission to drag you to every obscure exhibition in London."
"Promises, promises," James replied with a grin, and something in Lando's chest shattered completely.
They looked good together. The realization hit him like a physical blow. James with his intellectual glasses and easy confidence, Y/N with her brilliant mind and passionate opinions. They matched in a way that Lando and Y/N never could. They spoke the same language – references and ideas flowing between them without effort, each building on the other's thoughts in a seamless dance of intellect.
Y/N felt a warm sense of connection that had nothing to do with romantic attraction. It was simply nice to meet someone who shared her interests, who could discuss art and culture without making her feel like she was being pretentious or showing off. James seemed genuinely curious about her opinions rather than just waiting for his turn to speak.
"Speaking of exhibitions," James said, "have you seen the Bacon show at the Portrait Gallery?"
"Not yet," Y/N replied. "I've been meaning to, but work's been insane."
"It's extraordinary. The way he captures psychological states through physical distortion... There's this one triptych of screaming figures that's absolutely haunting."
"Francis Bacon was obsessed with the mouth," Y/N said thoughtfully. "The scream as this primal expression of human existence. Very influenced by Eisenstein's 'Battleship Potemkin' – that scene with the nurse on the Odessa Steps."
"And Velázquez's portrait of Pope Innocent X," James added. "His 'Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X' is in the show. Seeing it in person is overwhelming."
They fell into a discussion about the relationship between violence and beauty in art that had Lando completely lost. He caught maybe every third reference – something about a photographer named Muybridge, someone called Bataille, concepts like "abjection" and "the sublime" that meant nothing to him.
But he couldn't stop watching Y/N. The way she listened with her whole body when James spoke, leaning in, her eyes focused completely on his face. The way she built on his ideas, challenging them sometimes but always respectfully, always with this underlying excitement about the exchange of thoughts. Her hands moved constantly as she spoke, conducting an invisible orchestra of ideas.
Lando was completely mesmerized by the grace of her movements, the intelligence blazing in her eyes, the passion in her voice. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but it wasn't just her physical beauty that captivated him – it was her mind, her curiosity, her ability to engage with complex ideas and make them accessible. She was a goddess, and he was falling deeper in love with every word she spoke.
"You've gone quiet," Max murmured beside him.
Lando realized he'd been staring, silent, for who knows how long while the conversation continued around him. The others had broken into smaller discussions – Pietra and Clara talking about wedding planning, Connor entertaining his dates with racing stories, Tom and Ed arguing about football.
The waiter appeared to clear their plates, and Y/N finally seemed to remember there were other people at the table. Her eyes swept the group, landing briefly on Lando. For a moment, their gazes locked, and he saw something flicker across her face – surprise, maybe, or confusion. As if she'd forgotten he was there.
Y/N suddenly became aware that she'd been monopolizing James's attention for most of the evening. She glanced around the table, realizing she'd barely spoken to anyone else. Her eyes met Lando's across the table, and she felt a strange flutter of... something. He was looking at her with such intensity, such focus, that it was almost unsettling. She quickly looked away, not wanting to analyze whatever that expression meant.
Then she looked away, turning to answer something Pietra had asked, and Lando felt dismissed. Forgotten. Irrelevant.
Dessert menus appeared, and naturally, Y/N and James found something to discuss about the wine pairings for each option. They debated the merits of Sauternes versus Tokaji with chocolate, the surprising effectiveness of sherry with tarte tatin.
"You really know your dessert wines," James observed with admiration.
"Sweet wines are underappreciated," Y/N replied. "People think they're simple, but the best ones have this incredible complexity. The balance between sugar and acidity, the concentrated flavors..."
She was beautiful when she talked about things she loved. Her whole face animated, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. She gestured with her dessert spoon, using it to emphasize points about botrytized grapes and residual sugar levels. A small drop of chocolate sauce clung to the corner of her mouth, and Lando watched, mesmerized, as she licked it away absently while listening to James explain something about ice wine production in Canada.
The simple gesture of her tongue darting out to catch the chocolate sauce made Lando's body respond involuntarily. He wanted to lean across the table and kiss that sauce away himself, wanted to taste the sweetness on her lips, wanted to pull her away from this intellectual conversation and remind her of the fire that existed between them. But she was completely absorbed in James's explanation about Canadian viticulture, her attention entirely focused on another man.
"Have you been to any vineyards?" James asked.
"A few," Y/N replied. "Mostly in France, some in Italy. I've always wanted to do a proper tour of the Mosel Valley in Germany though. Those Riesling producers working on those insane steep slopes..."
"I was just there last month actually," James said. "For work, but I managed to visit a few producers. The tradition there is incredible – some of these families have been making wine on the same plots for five hundred years."
"Did you go to JJ Prüm?" Y/N asked eagerly.
"I did! Tasted the 2019 Wehlener Sonnenuhr Spätlese. Absolutely transcendent."
They might as well have been speaking in code. Lando took another large gulp of water, not thirsty, just needing something to do with his hands that wasn't reaching across the table to pull Y/N away from her discussion about German wine classifications.
Lando felt like he was drowning in inadequacy. Every topic Y/N and James discussed highlighted another area where Lando felt completely out of his depth. Wine, art, literature, politics – she was knowledgeable about everything, passionate about ideas and culture in ways that made his own interests seem shallow and meaningless by comparison. What did he have to offer someone like this? His ability to drive fast cars around a track suddenly seemed infantile compared to her vast knowledge and intellectual curiosity.
"The Prädikatssystem is fascinating," Y/N was saying. "This idea of ripeness levels determining quality categories. Though of course now with climate change, getting high must weights isn't as challenging..."
"Which is why some producers are actually declassifying," James added. "Making technically Auslese-level wines but labeling them as Kabinett for stylistic reasons."
"Exactly! It's this tension between tradition and adaptation that makes German wine so interesting right now."
They continued like this through dessert, their conversation meandering through topics with an ease that spoke of perfectly matched minds. When Y/N mentioned offhandedly that she'd been reading about the philosophy of language, James lit up and started discussing Wittgenstein's ideas about meaning and use.
"The whole 'meaning is use' concept changes everything about how we think about communication," James said, his dessert forgotten.
"But then how do we account for poetry?" Y/N challenged. "Surely meaning there transcends mere use?"
"Unless the 'use' of poetry is to transcend ordinary meaning," James suggested with a smile.
"Oh, that's clever," Y/N laughed, a bright, delighted sound that Lando had never heard from her before. "Very circular, but clever."
Lando watched her laugh, watched her lean back in her chair with such easy comfort, and felt something inside him die slowly. He'd made her laugh before, but it had always been dark, sarcastic, edged with anger. This was pure joy, intellectual delight, the kind of happiness that came from finding someone who spoke your language.
Y/N was enjoying herself more than she had in months. James was clearly well-read and thoughtful, able to engage with complex ideas without being pretentious about it. She found herself relaxing completely, her usual social guardedness melting away in the face of genuine intellectual stimulation.
Lando didn't know what Wittgenstein was. Another name to add to the growing list of things that marked the gulf between him and Y/N. He thought of his own education – basic schooling barely completed, his life devoted to racing since childhood. He could tell you everything about tire degradation and fuel management, could read a track like poetry, could feel the limit of adhesion in his bones. But he couldn't discuss wine or philosophy or art. He couldn't make Y/N's eyes light up with intellectual excitement.
"Coffee?" the waiter suggested, and the table generally agreed.
"Actually," James said, glancing at his watch, "they have an excellent whiskey selection here. Anyone interested?"
"God yes," Y/N said immediately. "I love a good whiskey after dinner."
Of course she did. Of course there was another thing she was passionate about that Lando hadn't known. He watched as she and James pored over the whiskey menu, debating the merits of Irish versus Scottish, the influence of peat, the difference between bourbon and rye.
Every new revelation about Y/N's interests and knowledge made Lando feel smaller and more inadequate. While he'd been assuming she was just another beautiful woman in finance, she'd been developing sophisticated palates for wine and whiskey, reading philosophy and literature, traveling the world with genuine curiosity and engagement. He felt like a fool for how little he'd understood about the woman he claimed to love.
"The Midleton Very Rare is exceptional," James suggested.
"Mm, but for after dinner, I prefer something with more smoke," Y/N countered. "The Lagavulin 16 maybe?"
"You like Islay whiskeys?"
"Love them. The peatier the better. I know it's an acquired taste..."
"The best things usually are," James agreed warmly.
The way James looked at Y/N when he said that – with such obvious appreciation for her sophisticated palate – made Lando want to flip the table. This man understood her in ways Lando had never even attempted. Instead of being intimidated by her knowledge, James seemed delighted by it, encouraging her to share more, asking thoughtful questions that showed genuine interest.
They ordered their whiskeys.
When the drinks arrived, Y/N nosed hers carefully, her eyes closing in apparent bliss. "God, that's beautiful. Like a campfire by the sea."
The sensual way she experienced the whiskey, the pure pleasure on her face as she savored the aroma – Lando wanted to be the one inspiring that expression of bliss. Instead, he was watching her share intimate moments of appreciation with another man, moments that felt more connected and meaningful than anything he'd ever achieved with her.
"That's poetic," James said, watching her with obvious fascination. "You have an incredible palate."
"I just pay attention," Y/N replied with a modest smile. "Most people drink without really tasting."
"Like life," James observed. "Most people experience without really living."
Y/N looked at him with surprise and pleasure at the philosophical connection. "That's beautifully put."
The moment felt intimate, charged with intellectual attraction that was perhaps more dangerous than any physical chemistry. Lando watched them share this moment of understanding and felt something break inside his chest. This was what real connection looked like – minds meeting, ideas flowing, mutual respect and admiration. It was everything he'd dreamed of having with Y/N but had never been able to achieve.
Max, who had been watching Lando's increasingly tortured expression throughout the evening, finally leaned over and whispered, "Mate, you need to breathe. You look like you're about to pass out."
Lando turned to his friend with eyes that were slightly wild. "She's..." He gestured helplessly toward Y/N, who was now discussing the intersection of environmental policy and contemporary sculpture with James. "Look at her, Max. Look at how her mind works."
Max followed Lando's gaze and had to suppress a smile. Y/N was indeed magnificent—completely in her element, her intelligence blazing as she deconstructed complex ideas with elegant precision. But what was more interesting to Max was watching his best friend fall deeper in love with every word she spoke.
"She's impressive," Max agreed quietly. "But mate, you're looking at her like she's some kind of goddess you could never approach. She's still human."
"Is she?" Lando asked, his voice barely audible. "Because I'm sitting here listening to her discuss climate policy and art history and literary theory like it's nothing, and I can't even follow half of what she's saying. What am I supposed to contribute to a conversation about 16th-century Flemish painting? My thoughts on the aerodynamic properties of a McLaren front wing?"
"You're being ridiculous," Max said firmly. "You're incredibly smart, just in different ways. Not everyone needs to be a walking encyclopedia."
But Lando wasn't listening. His attention was completely absorbed by Y/N, who was now laughing at something James had said about a disastrous attempt to navigate the Venice Biennale without a map. Her laugh was bright and uninhibited, the kind of genuine joy he'd never managed to inspire in her. She looked so relaxed, so open, so utterly comfortable with this man she'd met just two hours ago.
Meanwhile, every interaction they'd had had been charged with tension and conflict. She'd never looked at him the way she was looking at James—with interest and respect and easy camaraderie. She'd never opened up to him the way she was opening up to this stranger, sharing opinions and stories and pieces of herself that Lando had been desperate to see for months.
Y/N was completely unaware of the intensity of Lando's focus on her. She was too engaged in her conversation with James, too delighted by the intellectual stimulation, to notice the way Lando's eyes rarely left her face or the increasingly desperate expression in them. She was simply enjoying the rare pleasure of meeting someone who could match her curiosity and engagement with the world.
"The problem with most political art," Y/N was saying, "is that it tends to be so heavy-handed. The best political statements are often the most subtle ones—the works that make you feel something before you consciously understand what they're arguing."
"Like Guernica," James suggested. "It's obviously responding to the bombing, but the power comes from the emotional impact, not from any explicit political message."
"Exactly. The politics emerge from the humanity, not the other way around."
As Y/N launched into a detailed analysis of municipal cooperation frameworks, Lando found himself studying every detail of her animated expression. She was extraordinary. Absolutely, devastatingly extraordinary. And she was wearing his dress while having the kind of stimulating intellectual conversation he'd never be able to provide.
Lando watched Y/N explain the mechanisms of deliberative democracy with the same fluency others might use to discuss their weekend plans. She wasn't just intelligent—she was passionate about improving how societies functioned, devoted to finding better ways for people to live together and solve collective problems.
What did he do? He drove cars in circles for entertainment. Yes, he was good at it. Yes, it required skill and courage and split-second decision-making.
"You're being obvious," Max murmured next to him, but Lando didn't care. Let everyone see. Let them all know that he was completely, pathetically in love with a woman who was so far out of his league it wasn't even funny.
Tom’s sister was trying to engage him in conversation about the upcoming race calendar, but Lando could only manage monosyllabic responses. His entire focus was on the pair across from him, on the easy way they interacted, like old friends or—his stomach churned—like people who could be more than friends.
As the evening wore on, Y/N and James continued their wide-ranging conversation, touching on art, politics, literature, travel, and philosophy with equal enthusiasm. Their intellectual chemistry was obvious to everyone at the table—not romantic, but the genuine delight of two sharp minds discovering common ground.
Every topic they covered was another reminder to Lando of how little he knew about the woman he was desperately in love with. He felt like he was watching her from another planet, observing a level of intellectual sophistication he could never hope to achieve.
"I can't believe we haven't talked about music yet," James said as they waited for the final round of drinks. "Please tell me you have opinions about contemporary classical composition."
"Guilty," Y/N laughed. "Though I'm more interested in how electronic music is influencing traditional orchestral work. Have you heard anything by Ólafur Arnalds or Max Richter?"
"Richter's Recomposed by Max Richter: Vivaldi – The Four Seasons is incredible," James replied immediately. "The way he deconstructs and rebuilds classical structures using modern production techniques—it's like watching someone translate poetry between languages."
"Exactly! And it makes classical music accessible to audiences who might be intimidated by traditional concert settings. There's something democratic about that approach to high culture."
As they discussed the intersection of electronic and classical music, Lando felt the last of his composure beginning to crack. Even her musical tastes were sophisticated, informed, thoughtful. She probably went to concerts at the Royal Albert Hall and underground electronic shows with equal enthusiasm, while his Spotify playlist consisted mostly of workout music and whatever was popular on radio.
The democratization of culture, classical composition, electronic influences on orchestral music – these were concepts that existed in Y/N's world but were completely foreign to Lando's. He felt like an alien observer, watching two people discuss subjects that might as well have been advanced physics for all the sense they made to him.
"The democratization of culture is such an important concept," James was saying. "How do you maintain artistic integrity while making art accessible to broader audiences?"
"I think the key is trusting people's intelligence," Y/N replied. "Most of the time when art feels dumbed down, it's because creators assumed audiences couldn't handle complexity. But people are much smarter than they're given credit for. They can appreciate nuance and sophistication if you present it in an engaging way."
Lando stared at Y/N as she spoke about the importance of trusting people's intelligence, and felt a bitter irony settle over him. Here she was, advocating for giving people credit for intellectual sophistication, while he sat convinced that he could never measure up to her standards.
But what if he was wrong? What if his assumptions about his own inadequacy were preventing him from seeing possibilities that actually existed?
The thought was terrifying and hopeful in equal measure.
Their conversation continued to flow seamlessly, covering everything from urban planning to renewable energy policy to the role of expertise in democratic decision-making. With each exchange, Y/N seemed to bloom further, her natural brilliance and passion more evident with every word.
And with each exchange, Lando felt himself shrinking further into inadequacy and despair.
Y/N was still completely unaware of the intensity of Lando's scrutiny. She was too engaged in the intellectual stimulation of her conversation with James to notice the desperate longing in Lando's eyes or the way his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.
But Lando was drowning in the realization that the woman he loved was even more extraordinary than he'd imagined – and even more impossible for him to reach.
As they continued discussing art history with the same fluency they'd brought to wine and politics and literature, Lando felt something close to despair settling over him. This was Y/N in her natural element—intellectually engaged, culturally sophisticated, completely comfortable navigating complex ideas and abstract concepts. She was displaying a depth of knowledge and genuine passion for learning that made his own interests seem embarrassingly shallow by comparison.
What did he have to offer someone like this? His ability to drive very fast? His knowledge of tire compounds and aerodynamics? He was good at exactly one thing, while she seemed to be brilliant at everything.
The evening was winding down, but Lando felt like he could sit there forever, watching Y/N's brilliant mind at work, falling deeper in love with every word she spoke while simultaneously feeling more inadequate with each passing moment. She was magnificent, absolutely devastating in her intelligence and passion, and she was completely, utterly out of his reach.
As the conversation finally began to wind down and the waiter brought the final bill, Lando forced himself to function normally, contributing to the general chatter about the meal and making plans for the next gathering. But inside, he felt hollowed out, watching Y/N exchange contact information with James while laughing about something related to an art exhibition they both wanted to see.
Lando felt like he was dying inside, watching her be completely animated and open with a stranger in ways she'd never been with him. Every laugh, every animated gesture, every spark of intellectual excitement was like a knife to his heart, reminding him of everything he'd failed to offer her, everything he'd failed to understand about the extraordinary woman he was desperately in love with.
The evening was winding down, plates cleared and final drinks being finished. Everyone was starting to gather their things, chairs scraping against the floor as people stood to leave. Y/N was reaching for her purse when James touched her elbow gently, leaning in slightly.
"Y/N, I was wondering—" James began, his voice carrying that particular tone that made Lando's entire body go rigid. He knew what was coming before the words even left the man's mouth. The way James was looking at her, the slight nervousness in his posture despite his earlier confidence—he was about to ask her out.
Lando was on his feet before he'd made a conscious decision to move, his chair nearly toppling backward from the force. His body moved on pure instinct, driven by a possessive fury that turned his vision red at the edges. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight as he closed the distance between them in three quick strides, positioning himself directly behind Y/N. Close enough that she'd feel his presence, close enough that James would understand the unspoken threat.
"I was thinking," James continued, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore Lando's looming presence, "perhaps we could have dinner sometime this week? Just the two of us? There's this fantastic little tapas place in Shoreditch that—"
"That's very kind of you, James," Y/N interrupted, and Lando held his breath, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles ached. This was it. This was the moment she'd agree to a date with someone worthy of her, someone who could match her intellectually, someone who wasn't him. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure everyone could hear it. "But I don't think that would be a good idea."
Lando blinked, certain he'd misheard. Through the haze of jealousy that had been consuming him all evening, he'd been so sure she'd say yes. The easy way they'd talked, the laughter they'd shared—surely that meant she was interested?
"This was a lovely conversation," Y/N continued, her voice gentle but firm, "and I enjoyed talking with you. But that's all it was for me—good conversation. I hope you understand."
James’ face showed disappointment but he nodded graciously. "Of course. I understand. It was still a pleasure meeting you."
The relief that flooded through Lando's system was quickly replaced by a different kind of anger. How dare this man ask her out? How dare he think he had any right to Y/N's time, to her attention, to the possibility of her affection? She was his soulmate—his—even if she didn't want to acknowledge it. The audacity of this stranger thinking he could just waltz in and—
Lando's hand shot out, wrapping around Y/N's wrist. "We're leaving."
Y/N turned to look at him, surprise flashing across her face at the contact. "Lando—"
"Now," he said.
Y/N barely had time to grab her purse before Lando was pulling her away from the table, his grip firm but not painful, his long strides forcing her to hurry to keep up. She could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, see the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath the skin.
"Lando, what the hell?" Y/N hissed, but she was moving with him, probably not wanting to cause more of a scene.
He didn't answer, couldn't answer. His mind was a chaotic storm of mine, mine, mine, and if he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure what would come out. He just needed to get her away from James, needed to get her alone, needed to—fuck, he didn't even know what he needed, just that every instinct in his body was screaming at him to get her out of there.
They were halfway to the exit when Y/N yanked her wrist out of his grasp, the sudden loss of contact making him stumble slightly. She stopped walking, forcing him to turn and face her.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed, keeping her voice low but unable to hide her fury. "You can't just grab me and drag me out like some kind of caveman!"
"He was asking you out," Lando said, as if that explained everything.
"So?" Y/N's eyes flashed dangerously. "What business is that of yours?"
"You were flirting with him all night—"
"I was having a conversation!" she interrupted, her voice rising slightly. "A perfectly normal, friendly conversation. Not that it's any of your concern who I talk to or who asks me out."
"It is my concern," Lando shot back, stepping closer, his jaw tight.
"Why?" she challenged, lifting her chin defiantly. "Why do you care who I talk to, Lando? Why do you care if someone asks me out?"
There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. His voice was steady, certain, almost reverent.
"Because you’re my soulmate," he said.
No shame. No hesitation. He claimed her as if it were written in his bones.
Y/N’s head spun. She couldn’t believe how direct he was—how unapologetic.
"You can’t just—" she started, but her voice faltered under the weight of his stare.
"I can," Lando replied quietly. "Because you are. You’re mine, Y/N. And I’m done pretending otherwise."
“No, we are nothing to each other!”
Before either of them could say anything else, the rest of their group emerged from the restaurant and towards the exit door, chattering and laughing, though several of them shot curious glances at Lando and Y/N standing apart from each other, both clearly tense.
"Everything alright?" Max asked carefully, looking between them.
"Fine," Y/N said shortly, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Just leaving," Lando added, his jaw tight.
Without thinking, moving on pure instinct again, Lando placed his hand on Y/N's lower back, the touch lighter than when he'd grabbed her wrist but no less possessive. He felt her stiffen slightly, but she didn't pull away this time, didn't protest as he guided her toward where his car was parked.
The others called out goodbyes, making plans for future meetups, but Lando barely heard them. His entire focus was on the woman beside him—the heat of her body through the thin material of her dress, the rigidity of her posture, the way she kept her face carefully turned away from him.
The walk to his car felt endless and too short at the same time. She was confused, her mind spinning as they walked. Part of her had liked seeing Lando jealous—really liked it, if she was honest. The raw possessiveness in his eyes, the way he'd immediately moved to claim her (because that's what it had been, hadn't it? A claim)—it had sent a thrill through her that she didn't want to examine too closely. But another part of her was furious. He had no right to be jealous, no right to act like she belonged to him when he'd never made any real move to claim her outside of these heated moments.
When they reached it, he opened the passenger door for her, a gesture that would normally be gentlemanly but felt charged with the tension crackling between them. She slid in without a word, and he closed the door perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
The car ride was silent, thick with unspoken words and barely contained emotion. Y/N stared out the window, hyperaware of every movement Lando made—the way his hands gripped the steering wheel with unnecessary force, the way his jaw remained clenched, the way he took turns a bit too sharply. She could practically feel the anger still rolling off him in waves.
She snuck glances at him from the corner of her eye, taking in his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. Even angry—especially angry—he was unfairly attractive. The intensity in his expression, the way his forearms flexed as he shifted gears, the controlled power in every movement. It wasn't fair that he could affect her like this, make her feel things she didn't want to feel.
When they pulled up outside her apartment building, Y/N expected him to wait for her to get out like he usually did. Instead, he turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Walking you up," he said, his tone brooking no argument.
"That's not necessary—"
"Yes, it is." He was already out of the car, coming around to her side.
Y/N wanted to argue, wanted to tell him she was perfectly capable of walking herself to her own apartment, but something in his expression stopped her. He was still angry, she could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the set of his mouth. But there was something else there too, something raw and desperate that made her chest tight.
The elevator ride was excruciating. They stood on opposite sides of the small space, the few feet between them feeling like miles and inches simultaneously. Y/N could hear her own heartbeat, could smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him, could feel the weight of his gaze even though she kept her eyes fixed on the floor numbers.
At her door, she fumbled with her keys, her hands slightly unsteady. She could feel him behind her, close enough that his body heat warmed her back, close enough that if she stepped backward even slightly she'd be pressed against him.
"Thanks for the ride," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral as she finally got the door open. "You can go now."
"No."
She turned to face him, ready to argue, and the words died in her throat. His expression was intense, almost feral, his eyes dark with an emotion that made her breath catch.
"I can't do this anymore," he exploded, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "I can't sit there and watch you with other men. I can't pretend like it doesn't fucking kill me to see you laugh with them, to see you give them your attention, your smiles, your brilliant fucking mind while I get nothing but cold shoulders and one-word answers."
"Lando—"
"Do you have any idea what it was like?" He stepped closer, backing her against her door frame. "Sitting there for hours watching you with him? Watching you light up for him in a way you never do for me? That dress—fuck, that dress I bought you because I saw it and couldn't think of anything but you wearing it—and you wore it while you spent the entire night talking to another man?"
His voice was getting louder, more desperate, and Y/N glanced nervously down the hallway. The last thing she needed was Mrs. Patterson from 4B coming out to investigate.
"Get inside," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into her apartment. "Unless you want the entire building to hear your tantrum."
The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly the space felt too small, too intimate. Lando was pacing now, running his hands through his hair repeatedly, making his curls wild.
"A tantrum?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You think this is a tantrum? This is me losing my fucking mind, Y/N. This is me watching my soulmate—" He stopped abruptly, the word hanging in the air between them like a physical thing.
"Don't," Y/N said quietly, but he was already continuing.
"My soulmate," he repeated more firmly, "sitting across from me, wearing a dress I bought her, giving all her attention to some random guy who thinks he's worthy of her because he can quote some dead philosophers and discuss wine regions."
"He wasn't some random guy, he was Ed's cousin—"
"I don't give a fuck if he was the Pope's cousin!" Lando exploded. "He had his hands on you, he was making you laugh, he was looking at you like—like—"
"Like what? Like someone enjoying a conversation?"
"Like someone falling in love!" The words burst out of him, and then suddenly all the anger seemed to drain from his body, replaced by something infinitely more vulnerable. "Like I look at you. Like I've been looking at you for months while you pretend not to notice."
The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N stared at him, her heart racing, unable to form words.
Lando sank onto her couch, his head in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, sad rather than angry. "I'll never deserve you, will I? I'll never be able to have those kinds of conversations with you. I can't discuss Rothko or debate politics or recommend books. I can't take you to museums and explain the historical significance of paintings. I can't match you intellectually, can't challenge your brilliant mind the way someone like James can."
He looked up at her, and the defeat in his eyes made her chest ache. "I'm just a driver who happens to be your soulmate. And that's not enough, is it? I could read every book in the world and I still wouldn't be able to have those kinds of conversations with you. I'm just a driver who's good at going fast and that's it. You need someone like him, someone who can match you intellectually, someone who—"
"Stop," Y/N said, exhaling loudly, her anger evaporating in the face of his self-deprecation. "Just... stop."
She moved closer to him, close enough to see the pain etched across his features, the defeat in the slump of his shoulders. "Lando, if you want to have those kinds of conversations with me, you can read more books. You can learn about art or politics or whatever you want. That's something you can change if it matters to you."
She took a shaky breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. "But me? I'm the one who will never be up to your standards."
Lando's head snapped up, confusion replacing the hurt in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"All the women you've been with," Y/N said, hating how vulnerable she sounded. "They were all perfect—tall, thin, perfect in that way that makes normal women want to crawl into a hole and never come out. I'm smart, Lando, I know that. But I also own mirrors. I know what I look like compared to them. Perfect bodies, perfect hair, perfect faces. Models and influencers and actresses. Even if I got loads of surgeries, I would never be able to reach your type or your standards."
She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed in the dress he'd bought her. "So please don't compare this. Don't compare us. Don't stand there and tell me you don't deserve me when we both know I'm nothing like the women you usually—"
"Stop," Lando said forcefully, crossing the space between them in two quick strides. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare stand there and tell me you're not my type."
"Lando—"
"No," he said, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders, not hard but firm, desperate. "You think those women meant anything? You think any of them made me feel even a fraction of what you make me feel?"
"You don't have to—"
"I can't breathe when you're in the room," he said, the words pouring out like he couldn't stop them. "I see you and everything else disappears. You think I care that you're not some Instagram model? You think I give a fuck about perfect when you exist?"
Y/N tried to step back, but his hands tightened slightly on her shoulders, keeping her in place. "You don't mean that."
"I bought that dress," he said, his eyes boring into hers, "because I saw it and immediately thought of you. Not any other woman, not some model or actress. You. I sent it to you because I couldn't stop imagining you in it, and then tonight, seeing you wear it while you talked to him—"
His voice broke off, his jaw clenching as he fought for control.
"That wasn't fair," Y/N said. "You can't be angry at me for talking to someone else. We're not together, Lando. We're—"
"Nothing to each other?" he finished bitterly. "Yeah, you said that already."
"Because it's true! We fight constantly, we can barely be in the same room without arguing, you—"
"I love you," he said suddenly, the words exploding out of him like they'd been ripped from his chest. "I'm so fucking in love with you I can't think straight. You think we're nothing to each other? You're everything to me. Everything."
Y/N stared at him, shocked into silence. He looked as surprised as she felt, like he hadn't meant to say it, but now that the words were out there, he wasn't taking them back.
But then her shock hardened into something else entirely. Her jaw clenched, and she shoved his hands off her shoulders with more force than necessary.
"Go," she said, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. "Get out."
"What? No, Y/N, I just—"
"I can't stand to hear you lie to me again," she snapped, her eyes blazing. "Just go."
"I'm not lying!" Lando protested, desperation creeping into his voice. "Everything I just said—"
"Was bullshit," she cut him off harshly. "You don't love me, Lando. You love the idea that we're supposed to be together because of some fucking mark on your skin."
"That's not true—"
"It is true!" she shouted, her anger flaring hot and bright. "You know we're soulmates, so now suddenly you're in love with me? Suddenly I'm everything to you? Don't insult my intelligence."
"Y/N, please, just listen—"
"No, you listen," she said, her voice rising. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear you tell me you love me when we both know it's only because of the marks. So just leave. Now."
"I'm not leaving," Lando said stubbornly, his own anger starting to match hers. "Not like this. Not when—"
"I'm telling you to go!" Her voice was getting louder, sharper. "What part of that don't you understand?"
"The part where you think I don't mean what I said!" he shot back. "You think I'd lie about this? You think I'd—"
"Yes!" she screamed, and there was something feral in it, something raw and uncontrolled that made Lando take an involuntary step back. "Yes, I think you'd lie! I think you'd convince yourself you feel something just because destiny or fate or whatever the fuck told you that you should! And I can't—" Her hands were shaking with rage now. "I can't stand here and listen to you tell me you love me when I know it's not real!"
"It is real," he said, but his voice had lost some of its conviction, shaken by the intensity of her fury.
"GET OUT!" she roared, her voice breaking with the force of it, louder and more vicious than he'd ever heard her. "Get the fuck out of my apartment right now, Lando! I don't want you here! I don't want to see you! I don't want to hear another goddamn word from you!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Lando stood frozen, his face pale, looking at her like he didn't recognize her. Like he'd never seen this side of her before—and he hadn't. This wasn't sadness or hurt. This was pure, unadulterated rage, the kind she'd learned to weaponize growing up, the only emotion she'd ever been allowed to show.
"Okay," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."
He turned and walked to the door, his movements stiff and mechanical. When he reached it, he paused with his hand on the handle, but he didn't look back this time.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Y/N stood there in the middle of her apartment, chest heaving, fists still clenched at her sides. Her whole body was rigid with anger, not allowing even a flicker of the devastation underneath to show.
She waited. Listening for his footsteps in the hallway, waiting until she heard the distant sound of the lift’s door opening and closing. Waited until she was absolutely certain he was gone.
Then, and only then, did the armor crack.
Her knees buckled first, and she barely made it to the couch before they gave out completely. The sob that tore from her throat was ugly and broken, nothing like the controlled fury she'd shown him. Her hands came up to cover her face as the tears finally came, hot and relentless, streaming down her cheeks.
She hated this. Hated crying, hated feeling vulnerable, hated that she'd spent her whole life learning to hide behind anger because showing anything else had always been used against her. Her family had taught her that tears were manipulation, that sadness was weakness, that the only acceptable emotion was rage.
So she'd learned. She'd learned to turn every hurt into anger, every disappointment into fury, every heartbreak into something sharp and cutting that kept people at a distance.
But now, alone in her apartment, wearing the dress he'd bought for her, she let herself break. Let herself feel every bit of the pain she'd been holding back—the hurt at thinking he only loved her because of the marks, the fear that she'd never be enough for him, the absolute devastation of sending away the one person she wanted more than anything.
She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen, curled up on the couch in a ball, letting out all the emotions she'd never let him see. Because showing him would have been too dangerous, too exposing. Because if he'd seen her cry, he would have known just how much power he had to destroy her.
And she couldn't give him that. Couldn't give anyone that.
So she'd screamed at him instead, had driven him away with anger and venom, had protected herself the only way she knew how.
Even if it meant protecting herself right into being completely, utterly alone.
–
The apartment was different—bigger, brighter, filled with toys scattered across the floor and children's drawings stuck to the refrigerator with magnets. Y/N stood at the kitchen counter, her hands braced against the marble as she stared out the window at the darkening sky. She didn't remember coming here, didn't remember this kitchen, but somehow it felt like home.
More than that—it felt like her home. Like she'd stood in this exact spot a thousand times before.
The weight of exhaustion pressed down on her shoulders, the kind that came from months of barely sleeping, of tiptoeing around landmines in her own house. Behind her, she could hear the soft sound of breathing, small and hesitant.
"Mummy."
The word pierced through her chest like a blade. Y/N's hands tightened on the counter, her knuckles going white. She didn't turn around. Couldn't.
"Mummy," the voice came again, barely above a whisper. "Why don't you talk to Daddy anymore?"
Y/N's breath caught in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears burn behind her eyelids. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, broken. "Because... because I'm scared he doesn't want us."
There was a pause, then the soft patter of small feet against the hardwood floor. Y/N felt rather than saw the presence move closer, slipping into her peripheral vision.
The little girl was small—maybe four or five years old—with dark curls that fell in wild waves around her face. But it was her eyes that made Y/N's heart stop. Those eyes. Green-blue and bright, with that particular spark of mischief and determination that she'd seen a hundred times before.
Lando's eyes. On a face that was somehow both his and hers.
"But he does," the little girl said, her voice so achingly earnest it made Y/N want to scream. "I hear him cry when you're not looking."
Y/N finally turned, slowly, like the movement hurt. When she looked down at the child—their child, some part of her mind screamed—she saw tear tracks on those round cheeks. Saw the confusion and pain etched across features far too young to carry such weight.
"Baby—" Y/N started, her voice cracking.
"He sits in my room after he thinks I'm asleep," the girl continued, clutching a stuffed papaya to her chest. "He tells me stories about when you were happy. About when you used to laugh at his jokes and dance in the kitchen and—and love him."
Each word was a knife twisting deeper. Y/N dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out instinctively to cup that small face, to wipe away those tears.
"He says he ruined everything," the little girl whispered, her lower lip trembling. "He says you deserve better than him. But Mummy, I don't want better. I just want you both to be happy again. I want us to be a family."
"We are a family," Y/N choked out, pulling the child into her arms. "Baby, we are, I promise—"
But even as she said it, she could feel the truth of their situation. The distance. The silence. The way they moved around each other like ghosts in their own home, too afraid to reach out, too proud to break first.
"Then why does it feel like we're breaking?" the little girl asked against her shoulder.
Y/N had no answer. She held her daughter—this impossible, beautiful daughter who shouldn't exist yet but felt so real—and felt something fracture in her chest.
The kitchen began to blur at the edges, reality starting to dissolve.
"Mummy, don't go," the child said, her voice growing distant. "Mummy, please—"
"I'm not," Y/N gasped, trying to hold on tighter. "I'm not leaving, I promise, I—"
But the small body in her arms was fading, becoming translucent, and Y/N was grasping at nothing but air.
–
The apartment was unfamiliar yet achingly recognizable. Lando stood in the hallway, his body frozen, unable to move forward or back. He didn't remember how he got here, didn't remember walking through the front door, but somehow he knew every corner of this place.
This was his home. Their home.
Toys littered the floor—a mix of racing cars and picture books, papaya-colored items scattered among the chaos. Children's artwork covered the walls, crayon drawings of stick figures labeled "Mummy," "Daddy," and "Me" with a bright sun overhead. Evidence of a life lived, of a family built.
But something was wrong. He could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating.
From where he stood, he could see into the kitchen. Y/N was there, her back to him, hands braced against the counter like she was holding herself up. Even from this distance, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her head hung low like she was carrying the weight of the world.
He tried to move toward her, tried to call out her name, but his voice wouldn't work. His feet wouldn't move. He was a ghost in his own home, forced to watch but unable to act.
Then he heard it—a small sound from somewhere behind Y/N. Soft breathing, hesitant and scared.
Lando's heart clenched when he saw her. The little girl, peeking around the doorframe into the kitchen. She couldn't have been more than four or five, wearing pajamas covered in tiny race cars. Her dark curls were mussed from sleep, falling in wild waves that he recognized immediately as his own.
But it was her face that stopped his heart. Y/N's nose. His eyes. A perfect combination of them both, impossible and beautiful and real.
Their daughter.
"Mummy," she whispered, so quiet Lando almost didn't hear it.
Y/N's knuckles went white against the counter, but she didn't turn around. Lando wanted to scream at her to look, to see their baby standing there looking so small and scared, but he couldn't make a sound.
"Mummy," the little girl tried again, her voice breaking. "Why don't you talk to Daddy anymore?"
The question hit Lando like a freight train. He watched Y/N's shoulders hitch, watched her squeeze her eyes shut against tears.
No, he thought desperately. No, baby, please don't cry. I'm right here. I'm—
But he wasn't, was he? Not really. He could see the evidence of it in the way his daughter clutched the doorframe, in the way Y/N stood alone in their kitchen like she'd been doing it for months.
"Because..." Y/N's voice was hoarse, destroyed. "Because I'm scared he doesn't want us."
The words shattered something in Lando's chest. He tried to move forward, tried to reach for her, tried to tell her she was wrong—God, she was so wrong—but his body wouldn't respond. He was stuck, forced to watch this scene unfold like a nightmare he couldn't wake from.
I want you, he screamed silently. I want both of you more than anything. Please, Y/N, please believe that.
The little girl moved into the kitchen, her small feet padding across the hardwood. She was clutching something to her chest—the papaya plushie.
"But he does," their daughter said, and Lando felt his heart break at the earnestness in her voice. At how hard she was trying to fix what he'd broken. "I hear him cry when you're not looking."
She knows, Lando realized with horror. She knows I fall apart. She knows I can't hold it together.
Y/N turned finally, slowly, and Lando saw the tears streaming down her face. Saw the devastation etched across features he knew better than his own. She dropped to her knees, reaching for their daughter with shaking hands.
"Baby—" Y/N started.
"He sits in my room after he thinks I'm asleep," the little girl continued, and Lando felt exposed, flayed open. "He tells me stories about when you were happy. About when you used to laugh at his jokes and dance in the kitchen and—and love him."
I do that, Lando thought, even though this was a dream, even though none of this had happened yet. I do that because those memories are all I have left. Because I don't know how to fix this.
Y/N cupped their daughter's face, wiping away tears, and Lando wished desperately that he could be there too. That he could wrap his arms around both of them and make everything okay.
"He says he ruined everything," the little girl whispered, her small voice trembling. "He says you deserve better than him. But Mummy, I don't want better. I just want you both to be happy again. I want us to be a family."
We are a family, Lando tried to say, but still no sound came out. Baby girl, we are. I promise. I'm trying so hard to fix this. I'm trying—
"We are a family," Y/N echoed his thoughts, pulling their daughter into her arms. "Baby, we are, I promise—"
But Lando could see the lie in it. Could see the way they'd fractured, the distance that had grown between them. Could see the future this dream was showing him—a future where his worst fears came true. Where Y/N's doubts won. Where their daughter paid the price for their inability to communicate.
"Then why does it feel like we're breaking?" the little girl asked against Y/N's shoulder.
Because I don't know how to make her believe me, Lando thought, and for the first time in this frozen state, he felt wetness on his own cheeks. Tears he couldn't stop. Because she thinks I only love her because of the marks, and I don't know how to prove it's real.
Y/N held their daughter tighter, and Lando could see her trembling. Could see the way she was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away.
The edges of the scene began to blur, like reality was dissolving. The kitchen started to fade, becoming translucent and unreal.
"Mummy, don't go," their daughter cried, her voice growing distant and echoing. "Mummy, please—"
"I'm not," Y/N gasped, her hands grasping at their daughter desperately. "I'm not leaving, I promise, I—"
But the little girl was fading, becoming see-through, disappearing like smoke. Y/N was reaching for nothing, her face twisted in agony as their daughter vanished from her arms.
No! Lando tried to scream. Please, no. Come back. Both of you, come back!
The kitchen dissolved completely, and Y/N disappeared with it. Lando was left standing in darkness, his heart racing, his face wet with tears.
He could still hear it—their daughter's voice, small and broken:
I just want you both to be happy again. I want us to be a family.
The words echoed in the void, a promise and a warning and a plea all at once.
–
Y/N jolted awake with a gasp, her body jerking upright in bed. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, so hard it hurt. For a disorienting moment, she didn't know where she was—expected to see that kitchen, to smell the faint scent of coffee and children's shampoo.
But there was nothing. Just her bedroom, dark except for the ambient glow of the city filtering through her curtains. Just her bed, cold and empty. Just silence.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. Her face was wet. She touched her cheeks with shaking fingers, feeling the dampness there, the evidence of tears she'd cried in her sleep.
"Fuck," she whispered into the darkness, her voice hoarse.
The dream was already starting to fragment at the edges the way dreams did, but the core of it remained vivid. Too vivid. The weight of that little girl in her arms. The sound of her voice. Those eyes—God, those eyes that were so unmistakably Lando's.
I hear him cry when you're not looking.
Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of her apartment. She could still feel it—the phantom sensation of small arms around her neck, soft curls against her cheek, the way her heart had physically ached looking at that perfect combination of her and Lando.
Their daughter. They'd had a daughter, and Y/N had broken her heart.
"It was just a dream," she said aloud, as if saying it would make it feel less real. "Just a weird, fucked up dream."
But it didn't feel like just a dream. It felt like a warning. Like her subconscious had taken all her fears and desires and manifested them into the most devastating scenario possible.
Because wasn't that what she wanted, deep down? Not just Lando, but a life with him. A real life. A family. Everything the dream had shown her—the home filled with toys and drawings, the little girl with his smile and her stubbornness, the everyday domesticity of it all.
But the dream had also shown her the other side. The reality of what happened when you built something on a foundation of doubt. When you loved someone but couldn't trust that they loved you back for the right reasons.
I'm scared he doesn't want us.
The words she'd said in the dream echoed in her mind. Was that really what she thought? That even if they somehow made it work, even if they built a life together, Lando would eventually realize he only stayed because of the soulmate marks? That he'd wake up one day and regret everything?
Y/N reached for her phone on the nightstand. 3:49 AM. She pulled up Lando's contact, staring at his name on the screen. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
What would she even say? Hey, I had a dream about our future daughter and it made me realize I'm terrified of wanting you?
She set the phone down without calling.
It was just her subconscious processing everything—the fight, sending him away, the way she'd screamed at him. Her mind was probably trying to make sense of her own fears, showing her what she could have versus what she was too afraid to reach for.
That's all it was. A very vivid, very emotional dream that her brain had conjured up because she'd gone to bed upset and confused and secretly, desperately wishing she hadn't made him leave.
Y/N lay back down, pulling the covers up to her chin. She stared at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the surface.
He sits in my room after he thinks I'm asleep. He tells me stories about when you were happy.
Even now, even knowing it was just a dream, the image hurt. The idea of Lando broken and hiding it, putting on a brave face while falling apart in private. Just like she did.
Maybe that's what her subconscious was trying to tell her. That they were both so busy protecting themselves that they were destroying the very thing they wanted most.
Or maybe she was reading too much into a dream. Maybe it was just her brain's way of processing rejection and fear, of manifesting her deepest insecurity—that she'd never be enough for him, that he'd only ever want her because fate said he should.
Y/N closed her eyes, but every time she did, she saw that little girl. Heard her voice asking why Mummy and Daddy couldn't just be happy.
"It was just a dream," she whispered again to the empty room.
But as she lay there in the dark, she couldn't shake the feeling that it had been something more. A glimpse of what could be. A warning of what she was about to lose.
If only she could find the courage to believe him.
–
Lando woke with a violent jolt, his body lurching upward in the hotel bed as a choked gasp tore from his throat. His hands shot out instinctively, reaching, grasping for something—someone—that wasn't there.
Empty air. Cold sheets. Nothing.
"No," he whispered hoarsely into the darkness. "No, no, come back—"
But there was no one to come back. Just him, alone in this sterile hotel room with its heavy curtains and silence so thick it pressed against his eardrums.
His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, his heart hammering so violently he could feel it pulsing in his throat, behind his eyes, in the tips of his fingers that were still extended as if he could somehow pull his daughter back from wherever she'd gone.
His daughter.
"Fuck," Lando choked out, pressing his palms against his face. His cheeks were wet. When had he started crying? In the dream? Or just now, waking up to find his arms empty when seconds ago they'd been full?
I hear him cry when you're not looking.
The words echoed in his mind, and Lando let out a broken sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. Even his dream daughter knew he was falling apart. Even a figment of his imagination could see through the facade he worked so hard to maintain.
He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking over the glass of water he'd left there. The screen lit up, far too bright in the darkness: 3:49 AM.
Less than four hours since Y/N had screamed at him to leave. Since she'd looked at him with nothing but rage and disbelief and told him she couldn't stand to hear him lie to her again.
Lando pulled up her contact, his thumb hovering over her name. He stared at it—just her name, no photo because she'd refused every time he'd tried to take a picture of them together—and felt something crack further in his chest.
What would he even say?
Hey, I just had the most vivid dream about our daughter. The one we'll apparently have someday if we don't destroy each other first. She had your nose and my eyes and she was crying because we'd broken her heart by breaking ours.
Y/N would think he'd lost his mind. Or worse, she'd think he was trying to manipulate her with this soulmate destiny shit she already refused to believe in. Using their hypothetical future children as emotional leverage.
Lando set the phone down without calling.
"It was just a dream," he said aloud to the empty room, his voice rough and cracking. "Just a really fucked up dream."
But God, it hadn't felt like just a dream.
He'd been there. In that house—their house, he'd known it with absolute certainty. He'd seen the toys scattered across the floor, the crayon drawings on the walls, the evidence of a life they'd built together. He'd watched Y/N stand in their kitchen looking defeated and exhausted, had seen their daughter peek around the corner with tears in her eyes.
And he'd been powerless. Frozen. Unable to move or speak or fix anything, just like in real life.
Lando fell back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The dream was already starting to fragment at the edges the way dreams did, but the core of it remained sharp and vivid. Too vivid.
Why don't you talk to Daddy anymore?
Because I'm scared he doesn't want us.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Made him see Y/N's face more clearly as she'd dropped to her knees in front of their daughter. Made him hear the devastation in her voice as she'd admitted her deepest fear.
That he didn't want them.
"I do want you," Lando whispered to the darkness. To Y/N, who wasn't there. To the daughter who didn't exist yet. To the future that felt like it was slipping further away with every passing second. "I want you both so fucking much it's killing me."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? He could want something all he wanted—want it desperately, viscerally, with every fiber of his being—but that didn't mean he'd get it.
His subconscious was probably just processing everything. The fight. The way Y/N had looked at him with such fury and pain. The way she'd screamed that she couldn't stand to hear him tell her he loved her because she thought it was all obligation. All because of the marks.
His brain was taking all of that—all his fears and desires and the desperate, aching need to make her understand—and manifesting it into the most devastating scenario possible.
A future where they had everything he wanted. The house. The family. The little girl with Y/N's intelligence and his stubbornness. But where they'd destroyed it all because he couldn't make Y/N believe him. Because she'd never accept that his love was real.
He says you deserve better than him.
Lando's throat tightened. Had he really said that in the dream? To their daughter? Or was that just what his subconscious believed—that he was inadequate, insufficient, never going to be enough for someone like Y/N?
I don't want better. I just want you both to be happy again.
"We were never happy to begin with," Lando said bitterly to the ceiling. "How can she want us to be happy again when we never figured out how to be happy in the first place?"
Lando's jaw clenched. It didn't matter. It was just a dream. Just his subconscious trying to process impossible emotions and even more impossible situations.
Just his mind showing him what he wanted most—a family with Y/N—and what he feared most—that even if he got it, he'd fuck it up beyond repair.
But as he lay there in the darkness, his face still wet with tears, Lando couldn't shake the feeling that it had been more than just a dream.
It had felt like a warning.
Or maybe a promise.
Or maybe just his heart breaking in slow motion, showing him exactly what he stood to lose if he couldn't find a way to make Y/N believe him.
"I won't give up," he whispered to the empty room. To the daughter who didn't exist. To the future that felt both inevitable and impossible. "I promise I won't give up."
Even if she never believed him.
Even if she kept pushing him away.
Even if every time he told her he loved her, she heard obligation instead of truth.
He'd keep trying. Because what else could he do?
The alternative was a future like the one his dream had shown him—where they had everything and nothing at the same time. Where their daughter asked heartbreaking questions and neither of them had good answers.
Lando reached for his phone again, pulling up Y/N's contact one more time. He stared at her name until his vision blurred.
Somewhere across the city, she was probably asleep. Probably not thinking about him at all. Probably relieved he was gone.
He set the phone down without calling.
"It was just a dream," he said again, like repetition would make it true. "Just my brain processing shit."
–
What neither of them knew—what neither of them could possibly know—was that at 3:49 AM, they had both jolted awake at the exact same moment. Both gasping. Both reaching for something that wasn't there. Both with tears streaming down their faces.
What neither of them knew was that the dream hadn't been just a dream at all.
It had been the same dream.
The same kitchen. The same little girl with dark curls and green-blue eyes. The same devastating conversation about fear and love and a family breaking apart.
Y/N had experienced it from inside—holding their daughter, feeling the weight of her in her arms, hearing those words that shattered her heart.
Lando had experienced it from the outside—watching helplessly, frozen and unable to move, forced to witness the destruction of everything he wanted most.
Two perspectives. One dream.
Miles apart in their separate beds, they both lay awake in the darkness, both convinced it was just their subconscious processing their fears. Both thinking they were alone in their torment. Both holding onto the memory of a little girl who had somehow reached across the space between sleep and waking to touch them both.
Neither of them reached out to call the other, even though they both stared at each other's contact information. Neither of them suspected that across the city, the other was wide awake too, haunted by the exact same impossible vision.
All they knew was that they had the most vivid, most devastating dream of their lives.
And that somehow, impossibly, it had felt more real than reality itself.
warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, soft sex, p i v, oral (m, f), hair pulling, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, virginity loss, slight voyeurism, aftercare), forced proximity, makeout scenes, pet names (sunshine, baby), secret relationship, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.
music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy
summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
a/n: read part one here <3 hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
The next morning, the villa seemed to hold its breath. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, heavy with the scent of saltwater and jasmine, and already the weight of the morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence where you could almost hear the thoughts racing, the weight of the air pressing in as though something was about to break.
You sat at the end of the dining table, one leg tucked beneath you, a loose hoodie slipping off your shoulder. You stared down at your cereal, which already started to become mushy, your spoon abandoned in the bowl. You weren’t really eating—you were just there, staring down at the swirls of milk and flakes while your thoughts looped back to last night.
Your thighs still tingled. Your skin still remembered the brush of his fingers, the way he whispered praise into your ear with a voice so low it made your lungs forget how to breathe.
And then he just left.
You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. You just stared at the ceiling until the sun started spilling across your sheets, your lips curving without your permission, heat blooming across your cheeks.
Footsteps padded across the tile—not rushed, not hesitant. Just calm, and easy. You knew it was him before he even came into view, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t move, yet your breath still caught anyway. You hid the smile quickly, biting the inside of your cheek as though that could erase the evidence.
He walked into the kitchen without pause. Hair tousled, his curls messy and falling over his forehead. A simple black t-shirt stretched across his torso, sleeves tight against his arms. Navy shorts hung low on his hips. He didn’t look like someone haunted by the night before. He looked… effortless. Like this was just another morning.
Your heartbeat was a slow, steady thud in your ears. He hadn’t said anything after last night. Not when he left with your name still clinging to his lips. And now, he was here, barefoot and relaxed, as if the memory of his fingers deep inside you wasn’t still thick in the air between you.
He reached for the orange juice in the fridge, the sound of the cap twisting echoing in the silence. You wondered if it was too loud, but to you everything felt too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant swoosh of the waves from the ocean, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He poured himself a glass, the golden liquid cascading smoothly into the cup, the way his fingers curled around the glass—so strong, yet effortlessly delicate.
He never once acknowledged you, but somehow you could feel his awareness. He knew you were there.
Lando leaned against the counter, still not looking at you. But you looked, you couldn’t stop yourself. The curve of his throat, the faint red mark on his collarbone—had you done that? Or was it a different girl? Your eyes dropped lower, to the veins in his forearm, to the way his fingers flexed around the glass with tension he probably didn’t realize he was holding.
The seconds ticked by like hours, stretching the air between you until it vibrated with unspoken words. And then, as if finally deciding to break the stillness, he looked at you. But it wasn’t just a look or a small glance. Lando watched you, his eyes locked on yours, sharp and knowing, and then that damn smirk tugged at his mouth. Slow. Crooked. As if he was letting you know—without words—that he remembered everything.
Your stomach flipped. You should have looked away, pretended to be too busy with your cereal. But instead, you smirked right back. A tiny one, more playful than defiant, like you’d just agreed to play along in this silent game. You remembered the way he looked at you last night—right before he slid his fingers between your thighs—with reverence, like he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it.
The tension wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was charged. Like teenagers daring each other not to break first. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to your mouth, before flicking back up. He took a slow sip of juice, as though he wasn’t caught, but his eyes never left yours.
You leaned your chin on your palm, tilting your head at him. “Morning, Lan.” You said, casual, but your voice carried more than that—like you were testing how much he’d give away.
His smirk deepened, one eyebrow ticking up. “Morning, Sunshine.” He echoed, smooth, easy, but his eyes sparkled with something far less innocent.
The air between you thrummed, like the universe had reduced itself to nothing but glances and smirks across a breakfast table.
Suddenly, Max’s voice broke through the air like a slap, loud and oblivious as he stomped in, “Where the fuck is my charger?” He muttered while ruffling his hair, already half-complaining.
You jumped slightly at the sudden interruption, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He was still a bit drunk from the night before, his words slurring together as he dug through the drawers, looking for his charger.
Lando shifted immediately, the tension vanishing like it had never existed. You, on the other hand, were still frozen, while your heart was beating too fast. Your palms suddenly went cold as you clenched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that wasn’t the pull of his gaze.
“Hey, are you seriously still looking at your cereal?” Max’s laugh was grating, but it was easy to let it wash over you, pushing away the tension that was still hanging in the air like fog.
Lando, however, didn’t break. He didn’t let the interruption completely pull him away from whatever had been between you. He just bit his bottom lip, eyes darting from Max to you in the span of a heartbeat. The smirk remained, like a secret only the two of you shared.
The moment stretched long as Max rambled something uncomprehendable under his breath, as Lando’s attention remained fixed. His eyes flicked from Max to you, and back again. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that held you captive in place, even as the noise from Max’s antics continued in the background.
You tried to breathe, but it felt like you were suffocating. The space between you and Lando seemed infinite and too close all at once. Every time your eyes met his, there was an undeniable, magnetic pull. And yet, he didn’t break the silence. He didn’t rush forward to fill it. He just watched—eyes gleaming, smirk softer now, but just as dangerous.
Max continued his tirade about his charger, finally locating it under the couch, and tossing it carelessly onto the table. Then finally, Lando placed his glass in the sink and moved toward the hall. But as he passed behind your chair, something happened. His hand brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like the memory of the touch from the night before. But your body flinched anyway—every nerve sparking to life, your skin burning beneath where his fingers had grazed. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t stop his tracks. But you felt it.
Max was wandering across the room, completely unaware of the situation between Lando and you. But you knew better.
Everything between you two had changed, and though the world seemed to spin on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
────୨ৎ────
Laughter was bouncing off the walls in the villa, and music was thumping through the thick summer air as the glasses clinked in careless celebration. Only a few days have left in Ibiza.
It was too loud, and too hot. Too crowded with people who had no idea what had passed between you two just a few nights ago. No one knew that Lando had had his fingers buried deep inside you while your breath hitched, gasping his name like it was the only thing tethering you to life.
Now, here you were, both pretending that night had never happened. Well, sort of.
Lando lounged across the pool, sunk into one of those overstuffed chairs with a glass of something cold in his hand. His curls were messier than usual, dark and wild, shadows playing over his jawline that was clenched tighter than anyone pretending to be relaxed should be. He wasn’t looking at you—at least, not openly—but you could feel him. Like a pulse beneath your skin, drawing your eyes back to him, again and again.
Finally, your gaze caught his. It was slow, deliberate. Neither of you willing to look away first. Your eyes locked like some silent challenge, electric and heavy. You didn’t smile, and neither did he. But the tension between you snapped into place like a taut wire, humming with everything you weren’t saying, everything simmering just beneath the surface.
Then, without a word, Lando stood up. He wasn’t in a rush, no sudden moves. Just smooth, deliberate steps, passing close enough that his fingers brushed your hip—light as a feather, but you knew better. It was never accidental.
He disappeared inside the villa, footsteps fading down the hallway until a door clicked open, but it didn’t close. You knew exactly what that meant. You waited, heart pounding loud in your ears, counting the seconds-ten, fifteen-before you followed, steady and sure.
The bathroom was dim, bathed in the soft golden glow leaking from the hallway lights. The bass of the party thudded muffled beyond the door, but here, time slowed.
Lando was already there, leaning against the sink like he had all the time in the world-like he hadn't been eyeing you from across the room all night, like he hadn't traced your every step in that little sundress that barely brushed your thighs.
He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at you-dark, unreadable, jaw tight, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was already winning. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his shorts like he didn't trust himself to touch you again.
“Took you long enough.” He finally murmured, voice low and smug.
“You didn’t exactly rush me, Norris.”
“Didn’t need to, Fewtrell.” His eyes roamed over you with a dark heat, each slow sweep like a silent claim.
You moved first—one step, then two, until you were close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath against your face.
“Sunshine…” He said finally, almost like a warning.
Your nickname—tender and teasing—the one he always used when he wanted to sound playful. But now it was tight in his throat. It made your stomach twist because he never said it like that. Not with his mouth this dry, and his eyes already glued to your lips.
“This is a bad fucking idea.”
You tilted your head. “You think I don’t know that?”
He sighed, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as he looked you over again—really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your bare legs, and the shine of want in your eyes that matched the one in his.
And he cracked. Again.
“Fucking hell…” He muttered, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You stepped closer, one slow, deliberate movement at a time, until you were standing between his legs. You didn’t touch him yet—just looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft.
“You didn’t stop me that night,” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “But I should have. You’re—”
“Max’s little sister?” You cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m also the one you’ve been thinking about every time someone walks into the room.”
The look on his face—God. It was like you’d cracked something open.
His expression faltered for a second, just a flicker, but enough to see it all pour through. First came surprise—barely there, just a flick of his brows. Then irritation, not at you, but at himself—for being so obvious. For letting you see how tightly you’d wrapped yourself around his every thought.
His jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew you were right.
Then came the worst part, the one he tried to bury beneath a half-lidded stare—the longing, plain and aching. It flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken, curling in the corners of his mouth that wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite get there. Like he hated how much he wanted you. Like he was two seconds away from either kissing you stupid or walking away before he could ruin everything. But he didn’t walk away, and that silence, thick and electric, was answer enough.
You didn’t give him time to argue again. You dropped to your knees in front of him— slow, controlled—watching the way his eyes went wide, then half-lidded with lust all over again.
“Fuck, wait—” His voice caught in his throat as your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of his shorts.
He reached down like he might stop you, but his touch faltered the second your fingers looped into his waistband. “I’m serious,” He said, though there was no heat in it. “We can still walk away from this, and forget it all.”
You looked up at him with a smirk, easing his shorts down. “Then go.”
Lando didn’t move. He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between guilt and desire. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained somewhere on the ceiling, like if he didn’t see you, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. That you weren’t happening.
Because fuck, you were Max’s little sister. You were off-limits for him, and he had no business in being this close to you, especially not like this—seconds away from crumbling for you, with your hands on his thighs while kneeling in front of him like this. So damn tempting, and so utterly unfair.
It was wrong. It was reckless. But it was inevitable.
His fingers flexed against the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going white. He was using every last bit of restraint he had left—every warning, every memory of Max’s voice in his head—to stop himself from losing control. But you were there, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, and a mouth he had no right to want on him as badly as he did. All he could think about was how you’d felt the other night—how warm, how wet, how desperate you’d been beneath his fingers. How badly he wanted more.
A slow smirk curled on your lips, while observing his silent struggle. “That’s what I thought, Lan.”
And then you began—your secret, sweet mission, practiced in the quiet dark for months, now brought to life with every touch, every breath, every pulse between you.
You didn’t rush, not yet. You let your lips skim along the edge of his waistband, hot breath ghosting over the fabric as your hands tugged his shorts down slowly. Your fingers grazed along the hard line of him through his boxers, and the way he was already so hard it made your mouth water.
His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, and you gave it a single, deliberate stroke, letting your thumb swirl over the head and smear the precum. He groaned, biting down on his knuckle to muffle it.
“Don’t fucking tease me, sunshine.” Lando warned, but his voice was strained, betraying him. He liked it. Liked the way you looked on your knees, like sin wrapped in summer heat and lipstick, ready to make him break.
“You didn’t mind teasing me the other night,” You murmured, voice silk. “Thought it’s only fair this way.”
That earned you a quiet, desperate laugh through his nose, but it was cut off the moment you fully wrapped your fingers around him—finally. Warm skin, heavy in your hand, already aching for you. You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick at his tip.
He hissed, eyes fluttering shut, jaw flexing like he was biting back a groan.
“Keep quiet, Lan,” You teased, tongue flicking out just enough to briefly taste him. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”
Lando didn’t answer, though. He just stared down at you like you were unreal, his hand tightening in your hair as you moaned softly—needy, and breathless.
“Holy shit,” He groaned, his hand tangling tight in your hair. “You’re unbelievable— fuck, Sunshine…”
You looked up through your lashes, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. “Just for you, Lan.”
When your lips finally closed around him, the tension cracked. His hips jerked forward, breath hitching as you took him slowly and deliberately, desperate to feel every inch of his cock. His fingers tangled in your hair as he tried to steady himself, but every moan caught in his throat betrayed him.
“F-fuck—” His free hand flew over to his mouth, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “Don’t do that— d-don’t fucking look at me like that.”
Like what?
Like you were proud of this.
Like you wanted to ruin him.
Like you could anything to him in that moment.
You sucked him deeper, letting your lips glide down until the head bumped the back of your throat, and he made a broken sound that sounded too close to a moan for comfort. He gripped the counter hard as the hand from his mouth travelled down, trying to keep still—trying not to fuck your pretty little mouth with his dick, even though every part of him wanted to.
Oh, but you weren’t done, not yet.
You set a rhythm, letting him slide deeper and deeper each time, your spit slicking down his length. You hollowed your cheeks, and slid up just to swirl your tongue around the tip, making Lando choke out your name.
When you finally pulled back just to stroke him, spit trailing between your lips and his tip, he looked down at you like he was going to fall apart.
“Where the hell—” He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” You just smiled around him, refusing to answer.
And fuck, if only he knew. If only he knew that you had spent months sneaking quiet moments at night while trying to keep quiet from your parents’ and Max. Earphones in, watching soft porn and imagining it was him, and not the actors, not the fantasy.
You’d watched girls do this a hundred, even thousand times—perfect mouths, heavy eyes, desperate to please. Every single time you imagined it was him. Imagined you, on your knees, giving him what he deserved. Imagined his hands in your hair, voice ruined and strained whispering your name like a fucking prayer.
And now? Now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was moaning for real, for you, trying so hard to keep quiet but failing more with every swirl of your tongue, every slow suck that made his knees threaten to give out.
“Sunshine— fuck, you know I can’t be loud,” He whispered, biting down on the back of his hand as your mouth moved expertly on him—tight, messy, and hungry. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not now.
Lando whimpered your name like a prayer, “Yes, fucking amazing. What did I do to deserve you?” You moaned around him, sucking harder as he twitched on your tongue.
He was holding on by a thread—hips barely jerking, knees wobbling, knuckles white where he gripped the counter behind him.
“Shit, baby—” He whimpered again, wrecked and desperate. “I’m gonna— fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m not gonna last long.”
You moaned in response, sending vibrations down his length that made him stutter and curse again.
His hand tightened in your hair. “Fuck— you’re gonna make me—” Lando breathed, eyes glassy now, chest rising fast. “You keep going like that and I’ll come in two seconds, I swear to god...”
You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him with your hand, spit shining down his length. “That bad, huh?”
“That good,” He corrected through clenched teeth. “That fucking good.”
And then you ducked back down, this time even more eager, letting him sink into your mouth again—deeper, messier, your fingers sliding to cup his balls, teasing lightly while your tongue worked him in every way you knew he liked. His thighs flexed under your touch. His hips rolled forward just enough to chase it—desperate now, so close it made your own thighs clench in sympathy.
The tension in his whole body wound tighter and tighter, until finally he groaned, raw and broken, “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby— I can’t hold it—”
And then you felt it—the twitch of him in your mouth, the sudden shaky breath he sucked in, the grip of his hand in your hair going rigid as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled down your throat with a muffled groan, head dropping forward, eyes half-lidded and stunned, like you’d just taken every last bit of control he had left.
He bit back all the sounds, biting his knuckle, the other hand gripping your shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him. His body was trembling from the pleasure you just gave him, head falling backwards, both of you lost in the moment.
You swallowed every single drop of his release, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him—eyes dazed, smug, and soft.
When you stood up, fixing your hair, Lando’s eyes were still hazy—dazed with pleasure, lips parted in disbelief. He stared at you like you’d just ruined him, only sending you a smirk.
“If your brother knew about this, he would literally kill us, Sunshine.”
────୨ৎ────
The last day in Ibiza had arrived far too quickly, though the memories of the week already felt heavy and golden, threaded into your skin like sunlight.
The trip hadn’t only been about hazy nights and crowded clubs pulsing with music—you had filled the in-betweens with memories that felt softer, and golden.
Afternoons spent on being stretched out beneath the sun, skin sticky with salt, laughter echoing between you as you shared fruit and drinks that tasted like summer. Hours wandering through local markets, fingers grazing over handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, jars of honey that glowed amber in the light. A boat trip that left your hair wild with sea air, the water glittering endlessly around you as you couldn’t help but smile and laugh.
Countless evenings were spent by the shoreline, your toes buried in cool sand while the whole group was trading funny stories, jokes and secrets, the waves softly rolling in and out in the background, as if the ocean itself was keeping you company. The sky turned from bruised purple to inky black, the stars pinpricking the quiet above you.
Every day had been eventful, and every night was brimming with restless energy. But this specific morning, you wanted something different. Something quieter, and something that belonged to just the two of you. You felt bold and you knew this idea was the best way of spending your last, normal morning on Ibiza during this trip.
The villa was hushed when you slipped out of your room, the air cooler in the early hour, scented faintly of salt drifting through open windows. The tiled floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded down the hallway, the silence broken only by the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant whoosh of waves hitting the shore. Outside, the world was only just beginning to wake, the sky brushed with the soft blues with the moon still proudly shining on top of the sky.
Behind the closed doors you passed, everyone was still wrapped in their sleep, their breathing heavy and unbothered after another long night. Everyone, except you.
Your heart beat faster the closer you got, until it was pounding in your chest as you stopped outside his door. You hesitated, just for a moment, fingers grazing the wood. He was in there, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. And you—dressed in your two-piece swimsuit, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders, nerves buzzing in every vein—were about to wake him up.The thought alone sent heat blooming low in your chest.
You pressed your lips together, swallowing the flutter of anticipation rising in your chest, and finally pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked faintly, though the sound was swallowed in the hush of the room.
It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, but not enough to block the soft seep of the early morning light. The air smelled faintly of him—clean, and warm, the trace of his perfume and suncream that clung to his skin all week.
Your gaze found him instantly. Lando lay diagonally sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted loosely around his waist. One arm was thrown lazily across his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark curls were mussed and flat on one side, his lips parted slightly as he slept.
In the dim light, he looked impossibly young and yet unfairly beautiful, softened and peaceful in a way you rarely saw when he was awake and grinning or teasing.
You crept closer, each step careful, until you were crouched by the side of the bed. For a moment, you just looked at him, letting yourself take him in. His lashes curled against his cheeks, longer than they had any right to be. His skin was bronzed from the week spent beneath the Ibiza sun, golden and warm, dotted here and there with soft freckles.
He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, unfairly so, and something inside you whispered that you shouldn’t be staring at him like this—but you didn’t stop.
Tentatively, you lifted a hand. Your fingers hovered in the air for a beat—heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears—before you finally let them brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, smooth, and under your fingertips you felt the faintest twitch of muscle as he stirred.
“Lan…” You whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt to say his name like that, soft and tender.
Lando stirred in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. His lips twitched, his breathing hitched just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes opened. At first his gaze was unfocused, glazed with sleep. But the moment they found yours, recognition bloomed across his face, and with it came a slow, lazy smile that curled across his mouth, soft and genuine. It made something in your chest twist.
“Morning, Sunshine.” He muttered, voice low and rough, thick with sleep. It was the kind of sound that slid down your spine and made your stomach flip.
Before you could even think, his hand lifted from where it rested against the sheets. He covered yours, still cupping his cheek, with his own. His palm was broad and hot, enveloping you in his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed faintly against your knuckles, a fleeting unconscious gesture that made your stomach twist with happiness.
Your lips curved as you leaned in slightly, your voice soft, hopeful. “Everyone’s still asleep,” You whispered, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Are you up for a morning swim with me?”
His lashes blinked heavy, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he pushed himself up onto an elbow. His curls fell over his forehead, messy and boyish, and he squinted as if trying to process your words.
“Wait, what time is it?” He rasped, but there was a spark of curiosity there.
“Four fifty-five.” You admitted, unable to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth.
He groaned again, this time louder, more dramatic, and flopped back onto the pillow like the world around him had just ended. “Woman, you’re fucking insane.” He muttered, voice muffled from the pillow.
You couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “Maybe,” You teased, eyes glinting. “But you’re coming with me. Besides, the sunrise is in a couple of minutes. Are you really going to miss that… with me?”
You let the words hang between you, teasing, daring. And when he peeked out at you from beneath his arm—eyes sleepy but glinting—you already knew.
He was coming. Because Lando Norris could never say no to you.
The villa was still asleep, every room sunk deep in silence, but the two of you moved through it like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. You held your phone in one hand, flashlight glowing faintly to guide the way over the uneven tiles. Behind you, Lando trailed like a reluctant shadow, his hair a wild mess of curls flattened on one side, hoodie thrown lazily over his shoulders, swim shorts hanging low on his hips. He was barely awake, dragging his feet dramatically, muttering under his breath.
“This should be illegal to wake up at such an hour,” He whispered, voice rough and still thick with sleep. “Five in the fucking morning. The moon is literally still out!”
“Shh!” You hissed over your shoulder, though your lips already twitched with a smile.
“You’re fucking insane. Go and seek help.” He groaned, louder this time.
You spun on your heel, nearly crashing into him. “Shut up, Lando. You’ll wake them up!”
That made him grin, teeth flashing in the dim glow of your flashlight. “You’re acting like we’re robbing the place.”
“We kind of are,” You whispered, pushing at his chest with your free hand. “Now move!”
He stumbled backward dramatically, accidentally bumping into a small table. A glass vase with fresh flowers in it wobbled on its edges, making both of you freeze in your movements, eyes wide, until it settled with a soft clink. For a moment, neither of you dared to breathe. Then you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to mute your laugh in your palm. Lando was doubling over, muffling his chuckle into the sleeve of his hoodie.
“See?” You wheezed between your own quiet giggles. “This is exactly why I told you to be quiet.”
“The fuck? But you’re worse than me, Sunshine!” He shot back, grinning. “You look like a cartoon villain with that flashlight.” You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but your laughter betrayed you.
The two of you stumbled down the hallway, shoulders bumping, your combined giggles echoing faintly. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot, but instead of worrying, you only laughed harder, hearts pounding with the reckless thrill of sneaking around. It felt like being a teenager again, sneaking out, except this time the stakes weren’t your parents catching you.
Finally, you slipped out the back door. The air hit you instantly, cool and crisp, smelling faintly of salt and jasmine from the villa’s garden.
The world was suspended between night and morning. The sky was lika a shifting canvas—inky indigo at its highest point, softening into deep navy streaked with pale blue closer to the horizon. The moon still hung above the water, pale and luminous, while a faint wash of silvery light spread across the sand. The stars, dimmer now, still blinked stubbornly against the glow of dawn.
You hugged yourself against the early morning chill before glancing at him. Lando was watching you with that crooked, sleepy grin, shaking his head.
“We’re actually insane for doing this.” He repeated, but his voice was lighter now, filled with amusement instead of complaint.
“Maybe,” You said softly, catching his hand and tugging him toward the beach. “But trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.”
The beach was completely empty, untouched, just the two of you, the ocean, and the endless stretch of sky preparing for the sunrise.
You dropped your hoodie—which Lando insisted on you wearing—and the towel in the sand, shooting him a daring grin. “Race you!”
Before he could react, you bolted away. Your laughter split the quiet, the sand flying behind you as you sprinted toward the water.
“What the— hey, that’s cheating!” Lando shouted, his voice cracking with amusement as he tore right after you.
You squealed, pumping your legs harder, but the sand dragged at your ankles and the water’s edge loomed. You hit the shallows first, the icy shock biting into your calves and thighs, and you gasped, stumbling forward with a squeak. The next second, he barreled in behind you, sending water splashing high into the air.
“Fucking hell, it’s freezing!” He yelled, laughing through his shiver.
“Nah, you’re just dramatic!” You shot back, splashing him with both hands.
He retaliated instantly, water slapping against your face, your hair plastering against your cheeks. You shrieked, diving sideways to escape, only for him to lunge, grabbing at your ankle. You kicked free, giggling so hard you could barely breathe, then shot a wave of water straight at his chest.
“Alright, that’s it.” He grinned wickedly, charging at you with both arms open.
You screamed, laughing, trying to swim backward, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly out of the water before dunking you under with a triumphant cheer.
You surfaced, coughing, hair plastered everywhere. “Are you insane?!” You spluttered, wiping the salty water out of your eyes.
He coughed, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Absolutely.”
And just like that, it devolved. You chased each other in circles, splashing, squealing, darting beneath the waves only to pop up on the other side. At one point, you tried to sneak up and launch yourself onto his back, and he staggered, carrying you a few steps before flipping you both under the surface. The ocean became your playground, each wave rocking you into new fits of laughter.
When you surfaced, gasping and dripping, he was already there—hands finding your waist without even thinking, grounding you as the water tugged at your bodies. You looped your arms lazily around his shoulders, both of you breathless, grinning like idiots.
The chill of the water barely registered anymore. He was warm against you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The playfulness between you softened, and the world around you seemed to exhale.
The horizon was shifting—the blues started to bleed into pastel pinks and soft oranges. The moon still glowed faintly in the sky above, but already the light of day was spilling over it, chasing the shadows away.
Lando tilted his head back, watching the light spill across the waves. His curls dripped, droplets sliding down his temples, his skin glowing with the first trace of sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to yours, instantly softening, as if the sunrise had nothing on you. And for him, it clearly hadn’t.
“Okay, I have to admit it,” Lando murmured, voice low, reverent, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “It was totally worth it.”
Your chest tightened. Maybe it was the sunrise. Maybe it was the way his arms held you steady, as if he wasn’t letting go of you. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time all week, it felt like the world only revolved around the two of you.
And as the sun climbed higher, painting the ocean in colors you couldn’t name, you stayed there in his arms—warm against the chill, held steady against the tide. Time slowed, stretched, until it felt like the sunrise belonged only to the two of you.
By the time you both finally trudged out of the sea, your bodies were heavy with the weight of saltwater and laughter. The horizon had shifted completely—what had been a watercolor wash of pinks and silvers earlier was now painted in golds and pale blues, the sun climbing steadily higher, its reflection glittering across the ocean’s surface like a trail of fire. Droplets rolled down your skin, catching the morning light, making you shimmer as you padded barefoot over the sand.
The chill of the water still clung to your body, but the warmth of the sun kissed your shoulders, drying you slowly. You each grabbed a towel from the spot you’d left them, wrapping yourselves up, though your hair clung stubbornly in damp strands, salt-stiff and wild. You laughed at the sight of Lando trying to shake his curls into submission, and he rolled his eyes, shooting a playful glare before flopping dramatically onto the sand.
You followed, spreading your towel beside his, lying back so the sunlight could soak into you. The sand was warm beneath the thin fabric, grounding you, while the air smelled like salt and wildflowers carried from somewhere inland.
Around you, the beach was still deserted—just the hush of the waves, the occasional cry of a distant gull, and the gentle rhythm of his breathing beside you.
You started talking then, softly at first. Nothing important—just observations, half-formed thoughts, silly jokes about how insane you both were for being up at this hour. He teased you for dragging him out of bed, and you teased him for pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it. But slowly, the conversation meandered, stretching out like the sunlight itself.
His voice was lower in the morning, still rough with sleep, and it blended with the rhythm of the waves until you weren’t sure where his words ended and the ocean began.
You talked about places you wanted to see, about old memories from home, about things that didn’t matter and yet felt like everything in that moment. At some point, you caught yourself watching his mouth as he spoke, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the way he bit down on the edge of his towel to wipe at his face.
And there, wrapped in warmth and salt air, you realized this was true happiness. Not the wild nights, not the crowds or flashing lights, but this. Slow, golden, stretched out like time had stopped just for the two of you.
The air was thick with salt and warmth, carrying the cries of seabirds and the slow hush of waves rolling in and out. For a while, you both just lay there, listening, breathing, existing.
It was you who broke the silence, your voice hushed as though you might disturb the spell. “Do you realize that we might be the only people in the world who saw that sunrise from the water today?”
Lando cracked one eye open, turning his head lazily toward you. “Deep thoughts this early?” His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice was soft, as though he didn’t really want to ruin the quiet.
“I’m serious,” You protested, rolling onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “It felt like… like it was just for us.”
He gave a small hum, closing his eyes again. “Mhm. Don’t get used to it though. I’m never letting you wake me up before five again.”
You laughed, tossing a bit of sand at his arm. He flinched dramatically, brushing it off like it had been an attack, then retaliated by flicking his damp towel at your legs. That started a brief, ridiculous back-and-forth, both of you muffling your laughter, trying not to disturb the tranquility of the empty beach.
When you both settled again, breathless from laughter, he turned his head toward you once more. This time, his expression was softer, more open. “Still… it was worth it.”
The way he said it—quiet, almost shy—made your chest tighten. You wanted to bottle this moment, keep it safe forever.
It was nearly eight when you finally gathered yourselves, towels draped loosely over your shoulders as you made your way back to the villa. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the beach had begun to change—the distant figures of early walkers appearing further down the shore, the hum of a boat engine carrying faintly over the water.
Inside, the house was stirring. Doors slowly started to creak open, sleepy voices filled the hallways, footsteps padded toward the kitchen. People emerged, hair mussed, eyes heavy, yawns stretching their faces as they shuffled toward coffee and food.
No one asked where you’d been. No one looked at you too closely, or noticed the way your hair was still damp at the ends, or how faint grains of sand clung stubbornly to your legs. The secret of the morning swim was yours to keep—tucked quietly between you, something fragile and precious that belonged to no one else.
As you moved through the room, you caught Lando’s gaze across the table. His curls were still a bit damp, darker where they clung to his forehead, his cheeks faintly flushed from the sun and sea. His lips curved just slightly, subtle, private—as if he were remembering it too.
And in that moment, with everyone around and yet no one noticing, you knew you were both carrying the sunrise with you.
────୨ৎ────
The last evening in Ibiza had a softness to it, the kind that clung to the air when you knew something was ending.
The villa was buzzing with chatter and laughter, the group still gathered around the long dining table, the remains of dinner scattered between half-drunk bottles of wine, cocktail glasses, and plates smudged with sauce. Someone was telling a story, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the stone walls, but you slipped out quietly, your glass of wine in hand.
The terrace greeted you with the cool kiss of evening air. The heat of the day had softened, and a light breeze carried the faint tang of the ocean. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs, tucking your legs up beneath you, the glass cradled loosely between your fingers.
The view before you stole your breath. The sky was painted in layers—gold bleeding into pink, pink fading into lavender, and all of it slowly surrendering to the deepening blue of night. The sun hovered at the horizon, its last light shimmering across the water like molten copper. Already, the moon was visible, pale and patient, waiting for its turn to rule the sky. The waves rolled gently against the shore in the distance, the sound a low, steady rhythm beneath the hum of voices inside.
You sighed, the sound soft and almost wistful.
Last night in Ibiza.
It had been more than just a holiday. More than just chaos and late nights. It had been a chapter, one you weren’t quite ready to close.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
The voice made you glance over your shoulder. Lando stepped out onto the terrace, curls backlit by the glow of the villa, a drink in his hand. His white shirt hung loosely over him, the sleeves rolled up, and there was an ease about him that almost made your chest ache.
He leaned against the doorframe first, looking at you with a small, crooked smile. “Hiding?”
You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m not hiding, just watching the sunset.” You tilted your chin toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was melting away. “Can’t believe it’s our last night here.”
He let out a hum, his gaze following yours toward the view. Then he pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped into the chair beside you. His knee bumped yours as he sat, and neither of you moved away.
“Yeah,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “Feels like it went by in a blink.”
You laughed quietly, swirling the wine in your glass. “Probably because you all made me drink so much tequila I lost track of time.”
That earned you his laugh—the real one, unrestrained, warm enough to seep straight into your bones. He shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to keep up with Max.”
At your brother’s name, you groaned dramatically, hiding your face in one hand. Lando’s laugh grew louder, and soon enough, you were laughing with him, the two of you caught in a bubble of your own amusement while the voices inside blurred into background noise.
The laughter ebbed into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, and easy. The kind of silence you wanted to linger in. Your gaze drifted to him again. The last of the sunset light traced across his features, softening the sharp lines, making him look almost boyish while painting his skin in gold and rose. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was curved in that faint, unreadable smile.
He caught you staring. His eyes met yours, steady, curious, holding you in place. And suddenly, it felt like the air between you shifted, heavier, charged.
Your heart thudded—brave, and reckless. That spark inside you flared to life. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in. Just a little at first, testing, your breath mingling with his. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and that was all the courage you needed.
Your lips gently brushed his. It was soft, barely a touch, the kind of kiss that could almost be passed off as nothing if you wanted it to be. But it was enough to send a jolt through your chest, enough to make the world tilt for just a heartbeat.
When you pulled back, Lando was frozen, wide-eyed, his lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
A grin tugged at your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t let Max know about this.”
For a beat, he just stared at you. Then a laugh broke out of him—quiet at first, then fuller and warmer, filling the night air. He shook his head, curls bouncing, his hand coming up to rub across his mouth as if he could hide the smile tugging at it.
“You’re insane, Sunshine.” He muttered, though his voice was laced with amusement. And something else. Something that made your stomach flip.
You laughed too, your cheeks flushed, giddy with the thrill of what you’d just done. “Maybe,” you teased, raising your brows. “But you didn’t exactly stop me.”
His eyes softened, his grin tilting crooked. “Didn’t want to.” He said, quiet but certain.
Your laughter tangled together again, mingling with the distant murmur of waves and the soft hum of cicadas in the garden. The villa’s noise carried faintly through the open doors, but out here, it felt like you were in your own little world.
Side by side, shoulders brushing, hearts a little too fast, you sat beneath the indigo sky as the first stars bloomed above. A secret smile pulled at your lips, mirrored by his.
Without saying it, you both knew—this trip wasn’t something either of you would forget.
────୨ৎ────
Later that night, when everyone finally decided to call it a day and went to their room, the villa had finally gone quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door creaked as someone went for painkillers and a glass of water, but otherwise the only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant, lazy crash of waves on the shore.
You sat propped up in bed, hair damp from your shower, skin still warm and sweet-smelling from the lotion you’d rubbed in. Lando’s oversized t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, brushing your bare thigh where your pajama shorts ended.
Your phone screen glowed faint blue in the dimmed room, but you weren’t really scrolling anymore—just staring, looking at the same posts without taking them in. Your chest felt tight, restless, like there was something waiting, pressing against your ribs.
The sudden knocks on the door came so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it. Four gentle taps, hesitant but still deliberate. Your brows furrowed, having in mind that everyone should already be asleep. You slid out of bed, heart already beating faster, and padded across the room on bare feet.
When you cracked the door open, the sight on the other side knocked the air from your lungs. Lando. He leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t thought this through. His curls were mussed, eyes burning with something raw and urgent. A plain black tee clung to his shoulders, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a rush.
You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, he spoke—his voice low, rough, like he’d been chewing on it all night. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” He whispered, jaw flexing as his fingers drummed against the doorframe. “I know I tried to stay away, but I can’t do this anymore.”
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—permission, rejection, maybe salvation.
You gripped the edge of the door tighter, your pulse loud in your ears. “Lando…” You breathed, but he cut you off, stepping inside the room, the door slipping shut behind him with a soft click.
He raked a hand through his curls, pacing a step before turning back to you, desperation in every line of him. “Every time you laugh, every time you look at me— it’s fucking torture,” He said, his voice breaking around the words. “I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to be good, to respect all the boundaries Max had set, and to not cross a line I can’t uncross. But fuck…” His eyes found yours again, blazing. “I can’t. Not anymore.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at each other. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and the muffled crash of waves outside. His confession still vibrated in the air, still in your chest.
Lando looked at you like he’d just confessed to a crime—like he was waiting for you to push him back out the door, to slam it shut and lock it forever. His fists were clenched now at his sides, his jaw tight, but his eyes were full of yearn.
And maybe you should have thought about it. Maybe you should have told him to leave. But instead, a slow smile curled at the edge of your lips.
“You know…” Your voice was soft, teasing, cutting through the tension like a spark in dry grass. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this forever.”
Before Lando could process your words, and before he could speak again, you stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to you.
Your lips crashed together, desperate and hot, the kiss messy in the way it only could be when both of you had been holding back for far too long. His breath hitched against your lips, like you’d stolen it straight out of him, and for a split second Lando didn’t move. His body went rigid, every muscle taut, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away.
It was wrong—so fucking wrong. He wasn’t supposed to want you nor need you. But then your fingers tightened in his shirt, keeping him close, and he felt the way you trembled against his mouth. That hesitation, that thin thread of resistance he’d been clinging to—it snapped.
Lando groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, like he’d been starved for this and suddenly couldn’t breathe without it. His body melted against yours in an instant, the hand that had been frozen now instinctively sliding to your waist, gripping hard, and pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear any second.
When you finally broke away, gasping for air, his pupils were blown wide, his lips wet and parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a race. He looked utterly wrecked already, the last of his restraint gone.
“Fuck,” Lando whispered, his voice ragged, forehead leaning against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
And you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wicked and playful. “Can you finally fuck me now, Lan?” You whispered, throwing his own restraint back at him like gasoline on a flame.
He groaned at your words, low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. Your laugh came out breathless, shaky, because you weren’t sure how much longer your knees could hold you up. His touch was fire, his words molten, and you knew with every nerve in your body, that this was only the beginning.
Lando’s lips found yours again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere at once—sliding under his your shirt, skimming along the curve of your waist, and up your ribs. His touch was greedy, rough like he was making up for every single time he’d held himself back.
You gasped against his lips when he lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as he carried you the few stumbling steps toward your bed.
“You think it’s funny?” He growled against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He pressed you down into the mattress, caging you with his body, curls falling into his eyes. “Smiling at me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me?”
His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were already aching for him. You arched into his touch, your laugh breaking into a shaky breath. “What if I did know?” You whispered, eyes locked on him.
Lando smirked, dangerous and devastating. And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slower and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you writhed beneath him. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, then lower, sliding past the waistband of your shorts, fingers teasing along your heat without giving in just yet.
“Lan—” Your voice cracked on his name, half-plea, and half-warning.
“God, you sound just like I remembered,” He murmured, lips dragging along your throat, nipping lightly at your skin. “Drove me fucking insane every night, replaying it over and over.” His fingers finally slipped where you needed him most, drawing a startled moan from your lips. “But this time, you’re not just in my head. You’re finally mine.”
Your hips bucked up into his hand instinctively, chasing more, but Lando only chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “This desperate already, Sunshine? Haven’t even touched you properly yet.” His voice was rough, the restraint barely hanging on by a thread.
Lando slid one finger through your slickness, teasing, spreading it over you before pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Fucking hell… you’re soaked. And all of that for me?”
Your answer came out in a gasp. “Always for you.”
That completely shattered him. His mouth crashed into yours again, desperate and messy, his teeth clashing against your lips like he couldn’t get close enough. His fingers pressed harder, stroking you until your thighs trembled. Then suddenly he pulled back, leaving you panting and wide-eyed on the bed. You nearly whined at the loss, but the sight of him tugging his shirt over his head shut you up fast. His sun-kissed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, golden and flushed, the lines of muscle shifting as he leaned over you again.
“That one night in the bar, when you leaned across the counter in that little dress, and asked me that ridiculous question… fuck, I almost lost it. Almost took you right there in front of everyone.” Lando said, voice husky, catching your chin between his fingers so you had to look up at him.
Your laugh came out breathless, nervous, but playful all the same. “Maybe you should’ve.”
The look in his eyes darkened. “Don’t test me.”
Your body lit up under his touch as he stripped you out of your pajama shorts and underwear in one smooth tug, tossing them carelessly aside. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and for a heartbeat, Lando just looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
Your breath caught as he leaned towards you, his mouth ghosting down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His voice was rough, low, vibrating right into you. “You have no fucking idea how much I wanted to do this after I caught you, moaning my name.” He murmured, his eyes flicking up to yours, pupils blown wide with hunger. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, right where your pulse hammered. “I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing it. For just walking away.”
Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your mouth opening but no sound coming out. You could only watch him—how he looked at you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could fix him.
“But I’m not going to keep myself away from it now.” His lips brushed your hipbone, soft, hot, and teasing.
The words struck through you, your whole body tightening in anticipation. You barely had a chance to inhale before his mouth was finally on you, his tongue sliding hot and eager against your slick folds, and every thought shattered. A broken gasp tore out of you, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you could stop yourself. His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his grip firming on your thighs as if to say, don’t run from this.
“Fuck, Lando—” Your voice cracked, desperate, still trying not to be too loud.
He lifted his head just enough to smirk at you, lips glistening with your wetness. “That’s right, baby. Say only my name.” Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling, teasing, dipping inside until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.
Every flick, every groan from him felt like it was unraveling you one string at a time. And you could feel it in the way he moved—this wasn’t just about making you fall apart. This was about making up for every second he’d denied himself, every second he’d forced the distance between you. But there was no denying that he wanted it just as much as you did. Maybe even more.
His grip on your thighs tightened as if he feared you’d slip away, holding you open for him like he’d been dreaming of it for weeks—maybe months. His mouth was merciless, tongue working you with a hunger that made your whole body quake. You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration rolling through your core until your back arched off the bed.
“Holy shit—” The words came out high, almost a sob.
He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening as he dragged his tongue slowly up your folds before circling your clit with deliberate, devastating precision.
“Fuck, you taste just as sweet as I remember, Sunshine.” He rasped, the words muffled against your skin.
Your hips bucked at his confession, and he pinned you down harder, his thumb sliding in to press right where his tongue wasn’t, overwhelming you with sensation. Every movement of his mouth was calculated—slow enough to tease, fast enough to destroy. He pulled back just slightly, his breath hot against your swollen, aching clit.
“You gonna come for me now?” He murmured, his voice low, hoarse with need. He nipped lightly at your inner thigh before flattening his tongue against you again, harder this time. “Right on my tongue? Let me have it, baby.”
Your whole body convulsed at his words, heat spreading so quickly you barely had time to gasp his name before it tore through you. The orgasm hit hard, sharp, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as you cried out, tugging his hair, desperate and raw.
But he didn’t stop. Even as your body writhed and your hips jerked, he lapped at you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was desperate to drink down every sound, every shudder. His moan vibrated through your core, drawing out the high until you collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin.
“Shit— Lando, I can’t—” You whimpered, your whole body still quivering, every nerve raw.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, slick with your cum, his curls mussed from your fingers tugging at them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, then leaned forward to press his tongue flat against your clit one last time.
The shock of it made you jolt, your thighs trembling against his grip. “Lando— please…” You gasped, but he only smiled against you.
“You think one orgasm’s enough for me?” Lando said, his voice wrecked, low. His index finger slid through your folds, circling slowly, dragging your sensitivity to the edge of unbearable. “Not when I’ve waited this fucking long.” He pressed two fingers inside you again, curling them just right, making your back arch off the bed. “I told you, Sunshine,” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face, “I’m not keeping myself from this anymore. Not from you.”
You squirmed under him, your hands clutching at the sheets, your breath breaking apart into desperate whimpers. Every time you were close, every time the heat coiled too tight, he slowed down, pulled away, forcing you to the edge but never letting you fall.
“Lan— fuck, please… I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, Sunshine.” He cut you off, his tone sharp but dark with desire. His lips brushed your inner thigh before he bit it lightly, sucking just enough to leave a mark.
You tried to grind against his fingers, desperate, but his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down. His smirk grew when you let out a frustrated whine.
“Look at you,” He whispered, watching the way you squirmed. “So needy… you want my cock that bad?” He flicked his tongue over your clit, quick and precise, just enough to make your body convulse. “Beg me for it, Sunshine. Let me hear you.”
Your pride tried to resist, but the ache inside you was unbearable, your body trembling with denied release. Your nails dug into the sheets, your voice breaking as you finally gave in. “Please, Lan… fuck me already, I need you—”
He whimpered like the words alone had undone him, his lips parting as if the sound was too good, too addictive. Lando dragged his fingers out of you slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan before leaning over you.
His lips brushed yours, teasing, so close but not giving you the kiss you craved. “Say it again.” He demanded softly, his breath hot against your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered shut, desperation spilling out of you. “Just fuck me, Lando. I’m begging you.”
That was all it took. He crashed his mouth back onto yours, hungry and rough, his body sliding against yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. His hands roamed around your waist, your thighs, and your breasts—touching you like he was making up for lost time.
You could barely breathe when you felt him grind against you, the hard line of his cock straining through his sweatpants brushing your slick folds through the thin barrier of his pants. The friction sent a desperate whimper tumbling out of you, and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.
“F-fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, his voice jagged with restraint. His hips rolled once, slow, making your body jolt beneath him. His forehead pressed against yours, curls damp against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me, Sunshine. I can’t—”
His words broke off into a groan as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest rising hard against yours. Then, with hands trembling more from need than hesitation, he gripped the hem of your top and peeled it upward. The cool air kissed your heated skin, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed. His jaw clenched, his breath catching.
“Holy shit…” He whispered, like the sight of you had gutted him. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling slowly over your nipples until your back arched. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and he gave a broken laugh, shaking his head as if you were undoing him with every tiny move. “Yeah, fuck— don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
In a rush of clumsy urgency, he yanked his pants down, tossing it blindly across the room. His cock sprung free, heavy and flushed, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.
He noticed your stare and smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck, his voice husky against your skin. “Like you see something you like, huh?” He teased, his voice husky and wrecked, the cockiness in his tone making your cheeks burn.
Your laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere between breathless and needy, and the sound only made his grin widen against your skin. He didn’t give you a chance to answer—his touch lingered over your hip, firm yet reverent, before he leaned over to fumble in the drawer, cursing low under his breath until he finally pulled out a condom and tore it open with his teeth.
He sat back on his knees, chest rising and falling fast, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolled the condom down over himself. The sight alone made your thighs press together, your body begging for him.
When Lando’s eyes met yours again, they were full of hunger, but also something softer. He bent down, his lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss. “You ready, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice low, wrecked with both restraint and need, searching your eyes for any hesitation or restraint.
And then—just as he slid the tip of himself against your entrance, your breath caught, panic flickering in your chest. “Lando— wait.”
Immediately, he froze. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. His hands stayed steady on your hips, not forcing, not moving. “What’s wrong, Sunshine? Talk to me.”
Your throat felt tight, your lips trembling, but you forced the words out. “I…” Your voice broke. You shut your eyes, cheeks burning before finally admitting, “Fuck, I’ve never done this before.”
Silence.
When you dared to look, his expression was stunned, caught between disbelief and something achingly soft. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You mean…?” He swallowed, searching your eyes. “You’re still a virgin?”
You nodded, barely breathing, every nerve in your body screaming with fear that this would change everything.
For a long moment, Lando just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just trusted him with. “Fucking hell, I didn’t know… I thought you—” His voice was wrecked, almost breaking. “And you— you’d give that to me?”
You lifted a hand to his face, brushing your thumb over his lip, steady despite your trembling. “There’s no one else I’d ever want to. Just you. Only you.”
His breath left him in a rough exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and head hanging low as if the words undid him more than anything else ever could. When he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen, raw and burning just for you.
“Are you sure?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to yours again. “Tell me right now if you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop.”
“I’m sure,” You whispered, your voice trembling but true. “Please, Lan. I want you.”
He kissed you then—not rough, not hungry, but slow and reverent, as if he was sealing a promise. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the other tracing slow, grounding circles on your thigh.
When he finally slid down, lining himself up with you, he did it with infinite patience. He pressed the tip against you, watching your face the whole time.
“This might hurt a bit, Sunshine,” He murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “But I’ll go slow. So fucking slow. Just hold onto me, and tell me if you need a break.”
You nodded in response, and that was a green light for him. Lando pushed in, inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight as he held himself back, his breath ragged against your cheek. You gasped at the stretch, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he immediately froze, cupping your face.
“Hey— look at me. You okay?”
You nodded quickly, even though your eyes watered, your chest heaving. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… don’t stop.”
His face crumpled with something between agony and devotion. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth, whispering against your skin. “Good girl. You’re so perfect. Taking me so well…”
And when he finally sank fully into you, he held still, buried deep, his whole body shaking with the effort not to move too fast. “F-fuck,” He groaned into your neck, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven, sunshine. Absolute fucking heaven.”
He stayed like that, kissing away your nerves, whispering sweet nothing until the pain dulled, until you shifted beneath him and whispered the words that tipped him over the edge of restraint. “Move, Lando. Please.”
He groaned like the sound alone shattered him, burying his face in your neck as his hips finally shifted. The first drag of him moving inside you was slow, his cock filling you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thighs tremble.
“Holy shit,” He breathed, his voice guttural, shaky with restraint. “You’re so tight—”
Each movement was careful, his hand gripping your thigh, the other stroking your cheek as if to remind you he was there, that you weren’t alone in this. He pressed kisses across your jaw, down your neck, his words tumbling out against your skin. It still hurt a little, but beneath it there was heat—sweet, dizzying sparks that curled low in your stomach.
“Lando…” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “Don’t hold back— please.”
He pulled back then, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, but the softness was still there—woven deep into the hunger. “You sure?”
“Yes,” You breathed. “I want all of you.”
The groan that tore from him was broken, and desperate. His forehead dropped to yours, curls damp from sweat against your skin, before his hips snapped forward in a deeper thrust. You cried out, clinging to him, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound. His rhythm built, still controlled but heavier now, deeper, until every roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth. His hands gripped your body like he never wanted to let go—one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as if he needed you closer, always closer.
The heat inside you coiled tighter with every movement, your body matching his rhythm instinctively. You dragged your nails down his back, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. “Lan— I think—”
“I know, baby, I know,” He panted, his lips crashing into yours again, hot and desperate. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
And when it hit you—when your body clenched around him, your cry muffled against his mouth—he lost himself too. His thrusts stuttered, his hips pressing deep as he groaned your name, spilling into the condom with a shudder that rattled through his whole body.
The world had gone quiet again, save for the sound of the air conditioning and both of your uneven breaths slowly settling into rhythm. Lando was still inside you, his body heavy and warm on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips pressed absent, feather-light kisses along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
Finally, after a long moment, he shifted with a soft groan, careful as he pulled himself out, and took the used condom off, throwing it away to the bin next to your bed.
Then, he came back to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “You okay?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but so gentle it made your chest ache.
You nodded, brushing his messy curls from his forehead with shaky fingers. “I’m more than okay, Lan.”
His mouth curved into a tired, crooked grin before he leaned down to kiss you—slower this time, sweet and lingering. He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, then gathered you against his chest like you were something fragile.
“You’re amazing, Sunshine,” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “Didn’t hurt too much, did it?”
You shook your head against him, smiling softly. “Only at first. But then it was perfect.”
He tightened his arms around you, his chin resting in your hair. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, your leg hooked over his, his thumb tracing mindless patterns across your arm. The room smelled faintly of your shower gel and his cologne, mixed with the salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.
When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hushed, almost shy. “I meant it, you know. About not wanting anyone else. I’d only ever want you.”
Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his aquamarine eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he kissed you again, slow and deep, as if words couldn’t come close to what he felt.
He whispered your name softly when he finally pulled away. “You’ll ruin me, you know that?” You giggled softly, snuggling closer, hiding your face in his chest. He chuckled quietly too, his hand smoothing down your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
After a long silence, you exhaled shakily. “Can I tell you something?”
He hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Always.”
“I was… scared to tell you it was my first time.” Your voice was so small it almost vanished into the space between you. “Scared you’d think I was… I don’t know. Less attractive or boring. Or—”
“Hey.” Lando’s hand stilled against your back. He tipped your chin up gently, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was sharp, almost offended, but softened with warmth. “Sunshine, you’re insane for thinking that.” Your breath caught as his thumb brushed your cheek.
“None of it made you less attractive. Do you have any idea how much it meant to me that you wanted it to be me? That you trusted me like that?” His voice dropped lower, softer.
Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes, but you smiled anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. “Still… I probably sucked at this, and looked clueless.”
Lando’s lips curved into a slow grin, his tone slipping into a teasing drawl. “Clueless? You? Oh, please.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You didn’t look like someone inexperienced in that bathroom, kneeling in front of me on the floor the other night…”
Your face burned instantly, and you swatted his chest, giggling despite yourself. “Lando!”
He laughed with you, the sound low and husky, wrapping you up in it as much as his arms. “I’m just saying,” He teased, his grin smug. “Pretty sure virgins aren’t supposed to look that sexy while also begging for me to fuck them.”
“Shut up.” You muttered, burying your face against him, but your laughter betrayed you.
He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, still holding you tight. “Never shut up about it. Not when it’s you.”
The night blurred into warmth, into shared kisses, and into the slow weight of Lando’s breathing evening out beside you. You had never felt so safe, so full, and so undone yet held together all at once.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted to sleep in his arms. His chin was gently tucked against your hair, his thumb still brushing your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even unconscious.
When the faintest pale light crept through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and lavender, you stirred. Lando was still there, one arm heavy around your waist, his curls messy, his lips parted in the softest, almost boyish way. For a moment, you just watched him, memorizing him like this—unguarded, and all yours.
But then he shifted, blinking awake slowly. His gaze found yours, sleepy but softened by a small smile. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Morning, Sunshine.” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
You wanted to keep him there forever. But you both knew you couldn’t.
With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away, sitting up. “I think I should…” He glanced toward the door. “Before anyone notices.”
Your chest squeezed, but you only nodded, fingers catching his wrist before he could pull away. He looked back at you, and leaned back down. But this time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, like he wanted it branded into both of you.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, breath warm, “Love you.”
When he whispered those two words, something inside you cracked open, soft and trembling, like you’d been waiting years just to hear those two words in his voice.
For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe. Because how could this be real? How could it be that the same boy you’d been hopelessly in love with since you were fourteen—the boy you used to watch from across crowded rooms, the boy who smiled at you like you were just Max’s little sister—was now in your bed, skin still warm against yours, telling you he loved you?
It felt impossible. Unreal. Like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.
You smiled through the sting in your eyes, tugging him close for one more kiss. “Love you too, Lan.” The words slipped out with ease, though your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs.
When he pulled away, forehead resting gently against yours like neither of you wanted to let go, you closed your eyes just to memorize the moment. His breath mixed with yours, his fingers brushed your cheek, and his love wrapped around you like it had always been meant to.
Then he finally pulled back, quiet as he dressed, careful with every movement. Before going, he mouthed one last goodbye paired with a soft grin that made your heart ache. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sunshine.”
And finally, the door clicked softly behind him.
Moments later, the sheets were still cooling from his absence as you lay there, staring at the ceiling with your heart aching in the sweetest, sharpest way. Because you were still that fourteen-year-old girl somewhere deep inside—still the girl who doodled his name in margins, who blushed when he looked your way, who whispered your feelings into the dark where no one would ever hear them.
And now… now he had finally said them back.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue of dawn slipping through the villa windows. Lando padded barefoot toward his room, every step quiet and careful—until he froze.
Max was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and hair wild, clearly just woken up. His eyes narrowed immediately, flicking from Lando’s disheveled curls to the wrinkled tshirt, then back to the door he’d just slipped out of.
Lando’s chest tightened, his heart dropping. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but Max just tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered one second longer, sharp, suspicious, then without a word, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the kitchen. Lando exhaled silently, forcing his legs to move again. He ducked quickly into his own room, shutting the door with a quiet thud.
The storm hadn’t come yet, but the air in the villa was already heavy, humming with the weight of what Max had seen, and chosen not to say.
────୨ৎ────
21 & 25
The football match had ended hours ago, but neither Max nor Lando seemed ready to call it a night. They were sprawled across the couch in Lando’s apartment, an empty pizza box on the coffee table between them, cans of beer lined up like trophies from a war well fought. The city glowed faintly beyond the tall windows, muted in the haze of late evening.
Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh. “You know what’s still the wildest thing to me?”
Lando arched a brow, sipping his drink. “What?”
“That you—” Max jabbed a finger at him, grinning like he’d caught him in some grand hypocrisy. “‘Mr. I’m not interested in dating’ actually managed to get yourself a girlfriend. Like, a real one. Not just a fling as you used to.”
The words made Lando’s heart skip, but he schooled his expression into something casual, even amused. He chuckled lowly, swirling the can in his hand. “Yeah, well… stranger things have happened, mate.”
Max laughed, shaking his head. “No, seriously. Never thought I’d see the day.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So… who’s the unlucky girl dating you, huh?”
For a split second, Lando froze. His mind flashed with the truth—the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you whispered his name in the dark when you both lay in his bed late at night.
“Well— about that...” Lando started hesitantly, scratching his neck.
It’s your little sister—he wanted to say.
But his composure held. He smirked faintly, masking the way his pulse had spiked. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you nosy bastard.”
Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that. You finally settle down with someone and you won’t even tell me who she is? What’s her name, at least?”
Lando only shrugged, leaning back lazily into the couch, as if the subject bored him. “She’s shy, and we’re taking things slowly. So some things aren’t for public knowledge yet.”
Max rolled his eyes, grabbing another can of beer from the table. “You’re fucking impossible. But fine, keep your little secret.” He smirked, lifting the can toward Lando in mock salute, “However. I can’t wait to finally meet her. Hopefully, you’ll introduce me soon.”
Oh, but he didn’t have to introduce you two to each other.
Lando’s lips quirked, a laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah… maybe one day.”
Before Max could press further, Lando pushed himself off the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. “Speaking of introductions, I’m introducing myself to whatever snacks are left in the kitchen. You want anything?”
“Sure.” Max muttered, distracted by the match highlights flickering on the TV.
Lando padded into the kitchen, his heart still racing from the conversation. His apartment was dim, the only light coming from Monaco's skyline outside, bathing the living room in a muted orange glow. The hum of the fridge and the regular tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds, except for Lando’s muffled cursing as he dug through the kitchen cupboards.
“I swear to God, I need to fire whoever stocks my pantry,” Lando called, his voice light, oblivious. “Where the fuck are my tortilla chips and Kinder chocolates?”
Max chuckled dryly from his spot on the couch, lounging lazily, one ankle perched on his knee. “Maybe you should stock your bloody kitchen by yourself, mate.”
“Not when I’ve got friends like you bringing me beer and all the goodies.” Lando shot back with a grin, still hidden from view.
Max shook his head, grabbing his own beer from the table. His fingers tapped absent-mindely against the can, eyes drifting over the clutter in front of him—controllers, half-empty takeout boxes, and Lando’s phone buzzing lazily against a coaster. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen flashed again, bright and insistent in the dim light.
And as he leaned to see who texted him, the name on the notification twisted his stomach into a knot.
Sunshine:
see you later, Lan <3
His blood turned cold. For a second, Max thought maybe it was the beer messing with him, maybe his mind was playing tricks. But the way his chest clenched, sharp and suffocating, told him otherwise. He furrowed his brows, blinking once, twice. His brain stuttered over the words. The casual familiarity of the message—the nickname—clung to his mind like a hook.
Lan.
His stomach twisted. He swiped his tongue across his teeth, blinking as if to reset his thoughts. He let out a slow, measured exhale through his nose, the weight of that message sinking deeper than it should have. His fingers tightened slightly around the can as the pieces began to stir, forming a puzzle he had been too blind—or too unwilling—to solve.
The first day you met him. You always being somewhere around them. Ice skating. The whole Ibiza trip. You in Lando’s shirt as a pajama. That one morning when Lando walked out of your room, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. The way you always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Lando’s gaze had started to linger on you—longer and softer, like you were the only person in the room. The gentle touches. The way you had always hovered near him, always watching, always… there.
He had been a fucking idiot. He had been blind. Or worse—he had ignored it.
But this? This message? This felt like a punch to the gut. His little sister, and his best mate. Holy fucking shit. Max felt the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins, ready to kill both of you.
How could you do this to him?
The sound of footsteps on tile jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Lando returned, snack bag in hand, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, no tortilla chips but I found pretzels and those spicy peanuts you—”
“Lando.” Max’s voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp, lethal in its stillness.
Lando froze mid-step, bags of snacks dangling from his hand. He glanced up, casual smile still lingering—but faltering the moment his eyes met Max’s. “What?”
Max’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His gaze was sharp, dripping in a cold fury that had Lando’s throat tightening instantly. He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, beer can hanging loose from his fingers, but his body was coiled, electric with tension.
“We need to talk.”
A moment of silence stretched, the weight of those words suffocating.
“About what, man?” Lando asked, his tone light, attempting casual, but his body betrayed him—shoulders stiffening, grip tightening on the snack bag as if it could shield him.
Max smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Lando.”
Lando’s mouth opened, ready to toss a joke, deflect, anything—but the weight of Max’s stare pinned him in place.
“Was it nice to play behind my back?” Max continued, tone low, dangerous. “You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”
Lando’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Max, it’s—”
“It’s what?” Max snapped, cutting him off. “It’s nothing? You gonna tell me that text was nothing too?”
Lando’s stomach dropped. So, that’s what this was about. He cursed internally as his pulse was racing. His first instinct was to joke, to deflect, but the weight of Max’s glare pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was quieter now, threaded with truth. “It just… happened.”
Max’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as his fists curled at his sides. “You think that makes it better? You sneaking behind my back? You sneaking into her fucking bed, Lando?”
Lando stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Max, look at me. I didn’t sneak, and I didn’t manipulate her. I didn’t— she’s not a kid anymore, mate!”
Max scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I know.” His voice dropped, a deadly whisper now. “You were supposed to be her friend.”
“I am!” Lando said firmly, standing his ground now, eyes burning. “I am her friend. But I’m also in love with her.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. The truth, raw and unavoidable, hung in the charged silence that followed. It made Max’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, confusion, and protectiveness, all tangled in a knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.
Max scoffed, dark and bitter. “You fell for her? Christ, Lando. What the fuck!”
Lando didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I fucking did. And if you’d open your eyes, you’d see this a long time ago, and not only now.” Max’s breath hitched. Because deep down, some part of him knew. He had always known that despite how much he had tried, it was inevitable.
But knowing and facing it—those were two very different things.
Max didn’t even realize how hard his fists had clenched until his nails dug into his palms, a sharp sting that barely registered. His breathing was shallow. Every time he tried to speak, the words just burned his throat. “You—” He started, but it fizzled into nothing.
His thoughts were a mess, tangled between anger and something deeper. Betrayal? Guilt? Loss? He didn’t know.
The words hung heavy in the air, the room suddenly too small to contain it. “You don’t get it,” Max’s voice was low, dangerous. “She’s not just someone you can fall for. She’s my little sister.” He growled, his voice dropping. “You know she’s always been off-limits for you.”
Across from him, Lando wasn’t fidgeting anymore. He stood still, but his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His eyes weren’t apologetic, they were certain.
“Max…” Lando’s voice was quieter now, not as defensive, not cocky. Just real. “I’ve loved her for a long time. You just never wanted to see it.”
And that—that hit.
“You think this is about me not seeing it?!” Max snapped, his voice louder now, shattering through the apartment. “You think this is about me pretending? You’re my fucking best friend, Lando. And she’s my little sister. You’re both all I’ve got.”
The air was thick, suffocating. The room felt too small for the both of them, as if the walls themselves were bracing for impact. Max’s fists trembled at his sides, and for a second, Lando wondered if this was it—if the fistfight was about to happen, if years of their deeply-rooted friendship were about to shatter right here, right now. But Max didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.
Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and ragged. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.”
The words dropped heavy between them. Max turned abruptly, his footsteps sharp against the floor as he stalked toward the door. Lando flinched at the slam of the front door rattling the frame. And then—silence.
Lando’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want it to be like this. Not with Max. Not with you. You both had wanted to tell Max, together, carefully. Not… like this.
Outside, the city lights flickered against the night sky, but inside the apartment, the air crackled with unspoken truths and the weight of inevitable consequences.
And Lando knew—he was fucked. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
But now, the secret was finally out. The lines were blurred, and rules were broken. She was off-limits from the very beginning, and he knew it. She knew it. Yet what’s forbidden always tempts the most, and they had been tasting it for far too long.
After all, the forbidden taste is always the sweetest, and it’s just impossible to resist it.
put me in a room with her and i'll add a new element on the periodic table thats a mixture of our cum that has reacted with the air and toxic waste around us from fucking so much that the cum mixture starts to crystallize and become an entirely new element
charles leclerc x fem!reader smau
summary everyone says pierre is the one for yn, everyone but charles
warnings cheating
fc ally rossel
notes requested!💐 i love pierre but this was fun to write ngl🫣
probably will do a part 2 some time in the far far future
INSTAGRAM
yourusername
liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc and 172.181 others
yourusername our job is beach (for now)
tagged pierregasly
view all 2.189 comments
pierregasly 😍😍
pierregasly gorgeous mon cœur ❤️
user they are sooo😫😫😫
user SHE IS STUNNINGGGG
user my favorite couple on the grid by farrr
user yessss she’s the best wag she is gorgeous and so nice🥹
user + her relationship with pierre is so cute😣💘
user love herrr
MESSAGES
PHOTOS
INSTAGRAM
charles_leclerc
liked by pierregasly, landonorris and 2.998.831 others
charles_leclerc does he know where your heart lies?
view all 11.719 comments
user shady ass caption what have you got between hands leclerc
user dammmn okay girl
user seems aimed🫣🫣🫣
user I KNOOOOOOWWWW and i’m nosy as fuck i wanna know😤
user slay i guess
pierregasly mr. mystery? 😂
carlossainz55 🧐
user even he was weirded tf out
user boy who is “he” ????
user caption is overshadowing this serve😍😍
user my bitch’s pose is naaaessty
user he’s such a teenage girl with this dramatic ahh caption 😭
user need to study his brain
user yes but i want to know
TWITTER
INSTAGRAM
yourusername
liked by yourbsf, lilymhe and 217.081 others
yourusername 🙃
view all 8.181 comments
yourbsf gorg💘
user i’m not saying i get charles… but i get charles
user i too would fuck everything up for a girl like that
user slut
user i can’t even judge her cuz if i could i would’ve gotten with both of them as well
user she did it for us🫡
user NOT THE WAY I LOVED YOU😧
user she’s messy af😭
lilymhe beauuutiful girl 😍
user lily said i support women’s rights but most importantly i support women’s wrongs!!
user and she’s so real for that
user getting one millionaire dick was not enough for you?
user ngl i’m so jealous of her😞
user right like she got with two of the hottest drivers on the grid she lucky af
user she is still a bitch
user i’m so confused with these comments what happened
user there was a paparazzi pic of charles and yn kissing (you can’t see their faces so ppl weren’t sure) but now pierre has unfollowed both of them sooo…yeah
user what a whore
user yeah well charles is just as shitty as her but i don’t see anybody bashing on him🤷♀️
user girl you got caught cheating on your boyfriend with his friend and now you’re in here thirst-trapping get a fucking grip
charles leclerc x female pop singer!reader x oscar piastri
f1 smau with intermittent scenes
fc: none it's a mix of taylor swift, sabrina carpenter, and random pinterest ladies. {voice claim is adele}
Summary: he drives vroom vrooms, she sings soulful tunes. there's no way in hell this is gonna work, right?
Warnings: language, implied smut (18+ only), oscar is a simp, lando is a horrible wingman, reader is a fangirl
Y/n set her phone aside and laughed as Leo jumped over onto her, headbutting her chin then licking it while she rubbed him. Charles stretched out, gently pulling the dog from her face.
"He's a bit insane," he apologized, rolling his eyes when Leo immediately scampered back to tuck his head under her chin.
"If he keeps loving on me like this I might smuggle him out," she teased, smiling as Charles laughed.
"You'd steal my dog?" he asked, clicking his tongue. Leo's ears perked up and y/n gasped as she was abandoned. Charles cooed at the puppy, cuddling him close.
"Not steal. Borrow." Reaching over, she smoothed her hand over the pup's back, not really surprised when he suddenly flopped onto his side, yawning with a squeak.
"You can babysit?" Charles offered, looking up at her with a smile.
"Hm… I don't know. What's the pay rate?" Watching as Leo nestled his head against Charles' shoulder, eyes drooping.
"My undying thanks, Leo's devotion… Paddock passes?" He leaned his head back. "A kiss?"
She blushed, thinking of the unexpected but very welcome kiss they'd shared on a dark street while walking Leo. The sweetness and tenderness had been sorely needed. Sighing, though, she shook her head. "I don't even get a Ferrari? I'll pass."
His chuckle was, like his company had been all evening, warm and soothing. "You don't have one already?"
"If I'm in New York or London my assistant arranges for a driver. And it's pointless having one in LA. I have a Mercedes but I rarely… Actually, I don't. That was his." She shrugged, impulsively scooping Leo up and settling him against her chest. He squirmed a little then relaxed and she sighed, knowing Charles understood her need for puppy snuggles.
The room was silent for a moment, Charles shifting so was next to her. "Why did you cry for yourself at the show, chérie?"
"I was stupid," she whispered. "I fell for everything he said. When I met him the first time people told me he was bad news but I just thought they were jealous, and when I told him he said they were crazy. And I believed it. By the time I realized they were right it was too late."
"That doesn't make you stupid. You were young when you met, yes?" he asked gently.
"Twenty-one."
"Exactly. So you weren't stupid, chérie. You were naïve."
"Perfect prey for a guy like him," she sighed. "I thought I was living my childhood dream because not only was I a singer, I was dating my childhood crush."
"He was your crush?" Charles made a face.
"I was like ten when his stupid Baby song came out," she defended.
"Ah, we were all stupid at that age." He nodded.
"I just…" She sighed, pressing her face into Leo's fur for a few seconds. When she lifted her head she stared straight ahead. "I feel like he played a colossal joke on me. He said all the right things at first and when he showed his true side I was too in love to want to give up on us."
Charles's hand slid over hers. He sat up, his expression concerned. "Did he…"
"Not physically," she murmured, answering the question he asked with his eyes. "He wounded with words. When I got excited about a new song I was working on he always downplayed it, you know? I got the opportunity to perform Your Song this year at the Grammy's—"
"It was beautiful," he said. "You said you would play it all the time as a child."
"And he—" She blinked in surprise. "You remember that?"
"It was during the lockdowns, no? The video of you playing and singing it at home went viral. I watched it a lot while I was learning piano."
"Wait." She laughed, shocked. "You watched me while you taught yourself piano?"
"Because I saw the video and you said you were self taught." His smile was almost bashful. "It was one of the first pieces I learned to play."
"But you've never played it publicly."
He shrugged. "It belongs to you."
"It belongs to Elton, I just borrowed it." She looked across the room, through the doorway where she could just see his grand piano. "Will you play for me?"
Charles protested weakly. "Chérie, I'm still not as good as you—"
"Please?" she murmured.
He sighed, looking at her for a moment. Then, sighing again, he nodded. She smiled, gently transferring Leo to the sofa and getting to her feet. Charles led her through to the piano, and she looked around the room, taking in the décor and noting that he had recording equipment in the corner.
"It won't disturb the neighbors will it?" she asked, joining him on the piano bench.
"No, they never complain when I play." He lifted the cover and let out a breath. "I feel like I am back in school doing reviews."
She giggled. "I promise not to grade you harshly."
He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and as soon as he began to play she felt him relax. She couldn't help but hum along softly. He glanced at her, smiling, and she drew in a breath when he gave her a nod. "I am playing, you should sing," he said, tipping his head. "Please."
"The last verse," she agreed, turning on the bench so she faced him. Waiting for his nod, she admired his side profile and the focus with which he played, already aware that music was a passion of his. She began to sing, watching him, blinking and then finding him looking at her as she sang the line I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue and oh, they were both blue and green and she scooted back a little when she felt herself starting to fall into them. When his playing softened she softened her voice, watching his eyes light with something akin to admiration.
"Oh… I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind… That I put down in words… How wonderful… Life is… While you're in the world…"
She wasn't sure if he leaned in or if she did, or if they did it at the same time. But the music seemed to echo around them as their lips met, stealing her breath and drawing her closer to him. It seemed so natural to be kissing him again, and when he stopped playing abruptly and his hands cradled her cheeks she finally let herself touch him, tentatively resting her hand on the side of his neck.
"Y/n," he moaned, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against hers.
"We shouldn't," she whispered.
"I know," he agreed.
His breath caressed her lips and she shivered. "People will talk."
"Do you care?" he whispered.
"No, but…" She stared into his eyes, both hands sliding to cup the back of his neck. "Please just… I can't let myself fall for you, Charles. I can't get played again."
"I don't play," he murmured, tracing her cheek with his knuckles.
"How can I know that you're not full of tricks and unkept promises?" she asked, pulling away. His fingers trailed down to her chin and she felt a twinge of regret when she heard his sigh.
"You can't ever know, can you?" He lightly plinked the piano keys.
"I guess not." Pulling one foot up onto the bench, she rested her chin on her knee. She watched his hand move over the keys, unintentionally humming. "Play that again?"
He did, shifting to give her room when she reached to add a few chords.
"Take a bow… To the crowd… The joke's on me," she sang gently.
Charles hummed, nodding as they played through it again. And, apparently realizing what she was doing, he stood and left the room, coming back a moment later with her phone and his iPad. "Do you need pen and paper?"
"No, my phone's good, thank you."
He sat next to her, and when he shifted she realized Leo was tucked in the pocket of his hoodie. "Would you prefer I leave?"
She shook her head, opening her phone's camera and starting a video. "I need your input and help."
He scoffed at that, bending to place Leo in the soft dog bed beneath the piano. "You're the professional, mon couer."
"See, you say things like my heart and say you don't play," she teased, actually laughing when he bumped her shoulder with his.
"It's how I speak, amour."
"I'll believe that when you talk to Max or Lewis and call them your heart," she snorted.
"You have a point," he conceded with a sigh. "But I do not play."
"Only the piano, right?" she asked, ending the video and starting a new one.
"Only the piano, yes." He leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "Shall I play for you, mon couer?"
"Please? While I work on lyrics."
He kept calling her the professional but his input was better than from some who'd been in the industry for decades. And she knew it was because music for him wasn't a career, it was an outlet. He played and composed with emotion, not with a care for how much money it would make him.
"Again?" he asked an hour later.
Taking a sip of the tea he'd brewed for them, she nodded. "I think we've got it, Charles."
"Will you record it?" He took his place in front of the piano while she stretched.
"Yeah, video's going," she told him.
"I mean to publish."
"Oh. I guess? My manager can handle the rights and crediting and royalties for you."
He shrugged. "I don't need the royalties, mon couer."
"Would you record it with me?" she asked once they'd played through the entire song fully.
"You would want me?" He sounded surprised and she turned to him, ending the video and immediately emailing it to herself.
"Of course. It's your song too. Your melody. I'd love to be in the studio with you." Thinking of how busy he would be for the rest of the season, she locked her phone. "I'm sure we can find a studio nearby for us to use before I leave."
He chuckled. "You find one, amour, and I will be there."
"Thank you," she whispered, hugging him. His arms wound around her and she closed her eyes, letting herself enjoy the warmth and gentleness of his embrace. They both began to pull away at the same time, both freezing when his cheek brushed hers.
She was well aware it could be a big mistake, that she had once again fallen for the right words, and she would be left alone and cold once more. But she turned her head slightly, barely brushing his lips with hers. His arms tightened as he caught her in a gentle kiss and it felt different and she couldn't begin to explain how. Last time there had been the element of danger, the excitement and the butterflies and fireworks. But Charles…
He guided her to her feet, somehow keeping his lips on hers. He didn't pull her with him from the room, his hands at her waist keeping her steady.
It was warmth and safety. Exciting, yes, but calming at the same time. He wasn't an ice cold energy drink that would leave her buzzing and her heart racing. He was a cup of hot tea on a cold winter's day. His gentle touch soothed her even as it aroused her. When he sat on the foot of his bed she hesitated only a second before straddling his thighs, kneeling over him.
"Do you want music, chérie?" he whispered, leaning back slightly.
"Don't need it," she promised, shivering as his hands slipped under the shirt he'd loaned her, his fingers caressing and leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"Candles?" He grunted and chuckled when she lightly shoved his shoulders. Lying back, he stared up at her, humming through a sigh while one hand left her skin, reaching to stroke the curve of her jaw. "He didn't deserve you."
"Is this where I say 'no one does'?" she murmured, leaning over him. "Or do I say maybe you do?"
"Don't blow up my ego," he whispered, sitting up to meet her in another kiss.
YN laughed while she signed the CD, nodding when one of the mechanics asked if she would sign something for his niece. Ynbff was already on it, pulling a copy of the CD from her bag and YN signed it for him, handing it over with a smile then spending a few moments to take pictures. They then decided to walk along, mainly so yn could work off some of her nervous energy.
Pete stayed close as they walked along in front of the garages. YN walked slowly, breathing in the scent of the sea mixed with the aroma of fuel and rubber. Taking a few photos, she couldn't keep the smile from her face as drivers walked up to introduce themselves. As they neared the McLaren garage she snapped a photo of the car, stopping long enough to post it to her story.
ynyln has added to their story
"YN," Ellie hissed.
She jerked her head up, eyes widening at the sight of Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri standing with her assistant. "Shit, sorry," she mumbled, stepping forward. "Hi."
"Found your way to us at last?" Lando teased, an easy grin on his face once the introductions had been made.
"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."
Oscar snorted, grinning. "Heh, nice one."
"Thanks." Smiling up at him, she missed the knowing look on Lando's face as he looked between them.
"Oh this is mint – Catch ya later yeah? Media," he said, moving to shake YN's hand then turning to ynbff. "You said you wanted a drink, right? Follow me – you don't mind right YN? Perfect."
YN blinked as he easily swept her friend away, leaving her alone with Oscar. And Pete, but he was chatting with a couple of the mechanics. Turning to smile at her favorite driver, she cleared her throat. "You're doing great this season so far," she said.
"You think so?"
"Well yeah. You're already ahead in points as opposed to last year at this time. I know you've had a couple less than stellar races this season, but you're consistently top five and you had fasted laps a few weeks ago at Miami. You'll get a podium soon I know, and you're definitely good enough to get your first win." Realizing she was starting one of her rambles, she felt her cheeks grow warm and pressed her lips together. "I'm not biased, honestly. Just because you're my favorite driver—"
"I'm your favorite driver?" he asked softly.
She was sure she imagined the hint of wonder in his voice. "Well… Yeah."
He grinned and she was momentarily dazzled. "I'm honored."
"You're young and passionate, and more importantly, you're good. I've seen people brush you off because you don't have an outlandish personality but I think it's a benefit to you. If you steadily cry for attention people won't be surprised when you earn it."
As she talked she moved, and she didn't realize they were walking together until they reached the barrier. He leaned against it, continuing to tell her about his late night drive of the circuit as soon as he'd arrived in Monaco.
mclaren
liked by charles_leclrec, ybffn, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others
mclaren: We think we've discovered ynyln's favorite driver 👀 What are you talking about, oscarpiastri??
scuderiaferrari: please return our guest 😤
mclaren: no 😌
landonorris: you mean I'm not the favorite??????
user5: stop this is so cute!!
user9: her face tho. same, yn, same
user4: the way he's smiling omg
ynyln
liked by mclaren, ybffn, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others
ynyln: it was completely accidental that I found myself near the McLaren garage, and this lovely guy from Australia was kind enough to tell me how I got lost then escorted me back to Ferrari. Undying thanks to oscarpiastri, otherwise I'd still be wandering the streets of Monaco. (Ferrari's jokingly(?) threatened to lock me in hospitality for the rest of the weekend)
mclaren: blink twice if you need rescuing
oscarpiastri: always happy to help out 😊 (liked by author)
user4: oh no he has no rizz 😩
user5: ugh this is so flipping cute
user2: he's blushing!!!! AGH
ynyln
liked by charles_leclrec, mclaren, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others
ynyln: an amazing day. I'm in awe at all the work and dedication that goes into the vroom vrooms. Thank you so much scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, f1! (Now to crash because I'm waking up at 5am)
scuderiaferrari: ❤️❤️❤️
charles_leclerc: it is already an honor. This week is going to be incredible!
ynyln: c'est déjà incroyable
user2: oop
user3: "an honor" sir she stayed at ur house last night
oscarpiastri: 5am?? Do you hate yourself?
ynyln: sometimes but this is for TOP SECRET RECORDING
oscarpiastri: Is it top secret because it's top secret or because you're doing it so early?
oscarpiastri: also please don't hate yourself
ynyln: it's a human weakness I'm afraid. And it's top secret because I haven't told the label I'm working on new songs already. But I promise to work on my self esteem
oscarpiastri: I can't wait to hear them.
ynyln: if I don't pass out I'll drop by mclaren's garage and give you an early access listen
oscarpiastri: you can pass out at our garage (liked by author)
user4: maybe he does have rizz
mclaren: we can kick lando out of his room if you need a nap tomorrow, YN (liked by author and oscarpiastri)
landonorris: no??
mclaren: changing the access code now
ynyln: I watched the hub tour, can I take oscar's room? (liked by oscarpiastri)
mclaren: done
oscarpiastri: wait
user8: hey scuderiaferrari, mclaren's tryna steal your girl
scuderiaferrari: she'll have extra security tomorrow
"OSCAR!"
Oscar jerked, nearly hitting his head on the underside of the shelf, as Lando burst into his room. "Jesus Christ, mate," he groaned, backing out and turning to look at his teammate. "What?"
"Are you fixing the room up for YN?" Lando waggled his eyebrows as he looked around.
"Oh fuck off," he muttered, going back to plug in his laptop. "How are you this energetic so early?"
"Early?" Lando scoffed, flopping onto the couch. "It's almost noon. We've got the thing in forty-five minutes—"
"And you have nothing better to do than annoy me?" Oscar asked, kicking Lando's feet off the couch before sitting down to open his laptop.
"No? But also I'm here to offer my services."
With a heavy sigh, Oscar closed his laptop and set it aside. "What are you talking about?"
"You and YN."
Oscar just stared at him. "There's no and."
Lando waved one hand. "I saw the pictures, mate. Did you see the pictures?"
"Pretty sure I did? What the fuck are you talking about?"
Sitting up, Lando whipped out his phone and opened his photo album. "One perk to being so nice is the social media admin sends me any pics I ask him to." Swiping through, he pulled up one and turned his phone so Oscar could see. "Exhibit A."
It was the same photo posted to the official mclaren account. The one of he and YN chatting at the barricade. "It's two people talking."
"That's not the point – It's the looking," Lando pushed the phone closer to him. "Until I saw this I didn't really understand the heart eyes for days meme but now? Osc, mate, she's into you."
He let out a humorless chuckle. "And you call me a muppet. No she's not."
"What were you talking about that had her smiling like that?" Lando swiped to another photo.
"I dunno." About home. Not a house, but the feeling of belonging. And how important music was in destroying barriers of language and lifestyles. He could have talked to her for hours, could have listened to her talk about what she used to escape her demons for days. "I think music."
"And here?"
Oscar kept his face blank, as though he wasn't staring at himself blushing and giggling over what YN had said.
"I know you care but sometimes your whole attitude is literally 'I don't give a fuck about this' in interviews and I gotta say: same."
"Ah… Media I think." He cleared his throat and got to his feet.
"Mate, it's alright to like her."
No it wasn't. "It's not like that."
"Right so you telling her the view from the dog's head is enchanting was just small talk?"
Lando was not going to let this go. "She saw my video of my hike and asked about it."
"And?" Lando threw up his hands when Oscar just looked at him. "That was your cue to say oh it's lovely, why don't we go together one morning!"
"Er… No, I'd never say something like that." Oscar shook his head. Not to mention she was tangled up with Charles...
"That's the problem—" Lando cut off when the door opened. One of the PR team popped her head in.
"Hi Oscar, you've got a visitor. She said you're expecting her so I'll bring her up?"
"Uh… Sure?" Oscar winced as his voice cracked on the word, dragging his hands over his face as the door clicked shut.
"Who's coming to see you?" Lando asked suspiciously, helping himself to one of the drinks from the fridge.
"I don't have a clue," he sighed.
"Maybe it's YN. She promised to drop by so you can hear her new music right?"
"Are you constantly reading comments?" Oscar muttered. "Yeah she did but I doubt she'd come straight—" He gulped when there was a knock at the door.
"Oh this is gonna be great," Lando giggled, taking a sip of his energy drink as he went to open the door. "Well hello! We were just talking about you."
It was her, because of course it was, she wasn't the type to make even the vaguest of promises then not fulfill them, and she was in his private room, smiling and bubbly as she greeted him and Lando, and—
Lando. Fuck's sake it would take an act of god to get him to leave the room now.
"All good I hope," YN said with a little laugh.
"Only the best," Lando promised. "Osc can't shut up about you."
"Shut up," Oscar groaned, drowned out by YN's giggle.
"I think it's so cute that you call him Osc. My assistant – ybffn? She calls him Pastry Boy."
Lando's eyes went wide, and Oscar groaned again when his friend burst into high-pitched laughter. "No but it fits! He does love a good pastry!"
YN swiveled her eyes to him and he felt his stomach twist. "Do you?"
"Oh god, yeah. My trainer hates it because I can't say no to a good pastry." He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why his palms felt sweaty.
"Yeah I'm with you there. We went incognito in Paris just so I could buy and eat every pastry I wanted." She sighed happily at the memory.
"You can still go incognito?" he asked, surprised.
"Sometimes. Luckily no one knew which hotel I was staying at so we were able to sneak out without being noticed. And Pete was with us. When he's in jeans and a hoodie nobody pays attention to him. Plus it was raining so I was able to keep my hood up."
"What's your favorite pastry?" Lando asked casually.
"That's like asking a mother which child is her favorite…" YN scrunched her face and sighed. "Pain au chcocolate."
"Perfect choice, that's the best," Oscar said with a nod.
"Isn't it? I love pastry and chocolate, it's—"
"The best of both worlds," he finished with her.
"Yes!" She grinned and the twist in his stomach loosened, unleashing a swarm of butterflies.
"Oh this is so beautiful," Lando murmured, yelping when Oscar elbowed him in the ribs.
"Did you get to the studio?" he asked her.
"Yes." She practically glowed, shrugging off her backpack. Motioning for her to sit, he stumbled when Lando pushed him towards the couch. "I got two tracks down and a couple rough demos—" She pulled out a tablet, shoving her backpack to her other side as Oscar sat next to her.
Lando huffed and took the chair. "Oh!" he blurted, his expression innocent. "Did you want me to leave? I don't wanna ruin a private listening party."
"No it's fine." She flashed him a smile then turned her attention to the tablet. "The first one is just a demo. I'm not that great on guitar and it was last minute, so…"
Oscar listened as she rambled on about how she'd been inspired for the one and the second was a last minute burst she'd cranked out with just herself and the guitar. "Anyways," she said with a small shrug, handing the tablet to Oscar. "Just hit play."
He did, and was met with a strumming guitar. Then her voice, and he marveled at her ability to sing so beautifully so early in the morning. He glanced at her, saw she'd pulled her knees up and was nodding her head to the beat. I was enchanted to meet you. Please don't be in love with someone else. Please don't have somebody waiting on you...
ynyln has posted to their story
[caption: got lost at the mclaren hub oops]
YN smiled as she posted the story and locked her phone, picking up her cup to finish her coffee. She'd been hanging out with them for nearly two hours. Well, with Oscar. Lando had been in and out, giggling and giving Oscar knowing looks. "I should really get going."
Lando nodded, smiling. "Glad you liked the transition. If you ever want…"
Laughing, she patted his shoulder. "As soon as I'm ready to do a remix album I'll call you."
"Perfect." He nudged Oscar and tipped his head.
Confused, because she could tell Lando was trying to silently tell his friend something, she got her backpack and picked up her paddock pass. "I can see—"
"I'll walk you out," Oscar blurted, already on his feet.
"Thanks." Waving goodbye to Lando, she headed out of the room, smiling her thanks when Oscar opened the door for her.
"He's a bit mental, but he's alright," he said as they walked along to the stairs.
"Lando? My grandma would say he's hyper." YN headed down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to loop her pass over her neck.
"She'd be right," he chuckled.
She felt him tugging on her backpack and glanced over her shoulder to see him zipping the front compartments.
"Don't want you losing anything," he said. His cheeks tinged pink and she almost giggled.
"Thanks. Did you get a hike in this morning?" she asked once they were walking across the hub towards the exit.
"No, I did work in the gym. Did – Oh right you were at the studio."
"I'm gonna try to go tomorrow," she said. She wondered if Charles would want to join her.
"Do…" He cleared his throat, stopping just before they got to the doors.
"Hm?" She turned to face him.
"Would you, um…" His cheeks darkened and he ran a hand through his hair. "Christ, I'm bad at this."
Realizing what he was trying to say, she gave him a soft smile. "Do you want to come with me on the hike in the morning?"
He nearly sagged with relief. "I-if you want company, yeah."
"I'd love to." Taking out her phone, she unlocked it and handed it to him so he could give her his number. "I'll text you so you'll have me – What time did you want to head out?"
"Whenever you'd like. I don't have anything until afternoon." He handed her phone back with a smile.
Making sure to save him, she sent him a quick text - 👋🏻 – and leaned to kiss his cheek. "Text me later and we can make plans."
"Yeah, alright," he agreed.
"I'll see you in the morning, Oscar. Thanks for everything," she said, rolling her eyes when Pete appeared at her side. Exchanging farewells with Oscar, she held onto her phone as she left, glancing back to see Oscar watching her through the window. Used to Pete's surly silence, she didn't talk on the way back to the Ferrari hospitality center, unconsciously chewing on her lip as she thought over the day.
Chapter Summary: Daniel does damage control over the mess Max made and finds out some interesting information.
Warnings: Swearing, drinking, a shitty Max.
Word Count: 1686.
Author's Note: This is a short chapter, the next one will have a it more information! I can’t wait to hear what you guys think! <3
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
_______
Max was surprised when it wasn’t you who opened the door. Where he expected to see your beautiful face, hopefully not as upset with him as you were previously, he instead saw Daniel. A furious looking Daniel at that. Before Max could even react he felt himself being pushed back further away from the door and Daniel stepping out. He only began to feel nervous when he heard the unmistakable click of the door closing.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Daniel was seething.
“My fucking problem is I’m an idiot who hurt her.” He attempted to point towards your door, arms too heavy to lift them properly. “All I seem to do is hurt her.” The self loathing oozed from every word that left his mouth.
“You’re not the victim here, stop the pity party.” Max was drunk, Daniel could smell it off of him and he wasn’t about to let him derail the attention from you to him.
“But I am.” The scoff from Daniel prompted Max to further explain, “I am and it’s all my fault! I could be in there with her, not you, me, but I'm not, I’m out here and you won't let me see her.” Suddenly Max got quiet, “Are you in love with her?”
Daniel wasn’t sure why, out of everything, this had upset him the most, but it had and to Max’s shock, after a moment of silence, Daniel did nothing other than turn around and begin opening your hotel room door again, preparing to leave a drunk, pitiful Max all alone in an empty hotel hallway while he got to be inside with you.
Max’s hand wrapped around Daniels arm, pleading him not to leave, pleading him to answer, did he love you too?
“No, Max, Jesus, I’m not in love with her,” A sigh of relief had left Max, one he knows he should be ashamed of, “doesn’t mean I don’t know what's right for her and currently, you are not right for her. Go to bed Max, she doesn’t want to see you.” Daniel's arm slipped out of his grasp and Max heard the door click closed.
You didn’t want to see him.
______
“Is he okay?” Of course, even in all of this, you were checking that Max was okay.
“He was so mean to you and you’re still worrying about him?” You stood in front of him, hands wringing the shirt that lay against your stomach, eyes cast down. Everything made sense to Daniel now, “God, you really are in love with him aren’t you?”
“Daniel, I’m not in love with my boss.” The look he gave you clearly indicated that he did not believe you for a second.
“Okay, and just Max? Not your boss Max, but your best friend Max? Are you in love with him?” The silence seemed to stretch for hours as Daniel sat waiting for an answer.
“He didn’t get me the flowers Daniel.” He was pretty sure he heard the disappointment somewhere in your voice. You flopped down next to him on the couch. You avoided Daniel's eyes and he took this as the closest admission he would get from you.
“How do you know he didn’t get you the flowers?” He was walking on very thin ice here, but maybe he could get you to make the move if Max was scared of the power dynamic.
There was no way Max could have gotten you the flowers. There was absolutely no way. There were suddenly a thousand thoughts running through your brain and not a single one of them made a lick of sense to you. Could it have been Max that got you your favorite flowers? Daniel watched as you tried to put the pieces together that were so obvious to everyone else. And when he realized that there was no way you were going to admit that you had to have known by now, he opted for a different route to get you to what was the ultimate ending in all of this.
“Did you want the flowers to come from him?” Daniel watched your eyes drop to your lap, no doubt debating on whether to admit it to him or not, but Daniel now knew and suddenly this entire game shifted and he realized that the person they all thought held the power suddenly held none. You and Max were both on even footing. Quite frankly, you and Max technically weren’t even players in this entire game, you were the pawns, but the rest of the grid now was and it was about to get a lot more fun.
The grid vs you and Max. The race was on.
“Let me go, it’s getting late, I should get Max back to his room because lord knows he's probably still passed out by your door.” Daniel indicated for you to stay seated and instead shuffled around the room, grabbing his things, conveniently leaving before all the food he ordered had arrived.
Before he had the opportunity to twist the door handle, he felt your fingers wrap around his wrist, no part of him expected to see you look as distraught as you did when he turned to look at you.
“Please, don’t tell him.” It broke his heart, the fact that you thought he didn’t feel the same, but he also knew that this was something that you need to tell him yourself, if Max doesn’t ruin it all before you get the chance to.
“I would never.” He couldn’t miss the sigh of what he assumed was relief, leave you, eyes trained on his own, “but, for what it’s worth, I think you should tell him.” He could see you gearing up to protest and hoping to avoid the argument, he swung the door open, ready to leave, not even remotely surprised by what he saw waiting for him on the other side.
Max lifted his head up, momentarily forgetting why he was there until he saw you looking down at him, completely ignoring Daniel moving towards him. He tried to get up, but his entire body felt heavy and he refused to take his eyes off of you. He briefly registered you and Daniel speaking to each other and you closed the door before Daniel was hosting him and mumbling something as he did.
“Does she hate me?” Daniel was busy wrapping Max’s arm to hobble him towards his room when Max asked the question. The wholly innocent question. The question that was filled with fear. It was seeping off of him. Max had truly thought you now officially hated him and truthfully, he wouldn’t be surprised if you had. He had absolutely put you through the ringer the last couple of days and any anger, or god forbid, please, god forbid, any hatred you had towards him would be completely and entirely justified.
“She sure as hell deserves to,” Max dropped his head, allowing the information to sink in, “and truthfully, I wish she did, but,” But? There was a but? How could there be a but? “She definitely doesn’t.”
Max stopped the slow drag of his feet to his room, halting Daniel in the process, “What do you mean she definitely doesn’t hate me?”
“I’m saying she doesn’t hate you?” Daniel tried to get them moving again, but it was almost like Max was anchored to the spot.
“And you’re sure she doesn’t hate me? What did she say?” Max needed answers. How you didn’t hate him was beyond any comprehension.
“It was a private discussion between me and her, so that’s none of your business, but she doesn’t hate you.” A grin spread across Max’s face, nestled neatly between flushed, apple cheeks.
“You think she’ll still work for me?” Fuck, so Max was still a dick.
Daniel let go and watched Max drop to the floor with a thud and a curse. Daniel hadn’t even bothered to respond to him, leaving him to fend for himself as he made his way into his room. If Max wanted to be a dick, then he could sort himself out. Daniel didn’t even bother to look back as Max struggled to his feet, unsure of what just happened and where he went wrong.
The beep of the keycard and the click of the door shutting was the last thing he heard from Daniel that evening.
And once again, Max was alone, in an empty hotel hallway with no one because all he could do was push everyone away.
He laughed bitterly and he slowly made his way to his room, needing to rest before the race.
The flowers were a mistake.
_____
BigRicc: New development.
NoRizz: Jesus, now what?
Chili: Another new group? Seriously?
BigRicc: It’s a big new development.
NoRizz: Did she quit??
Chili: You know what, good for her. She kind of deserves it.
NoRizz: I agree. She can be my PA?
Chili: She could be a lot more than my PA.
BigRicc: She’s in love with him.
NoRizz: WITH CARLOS??
BigRicc: Jesus.
Chili: Why was she wasting her time with Max then? I’ve been wanting to take her on a date!
NoRizz: Since when?
Chili: Since I met her.
NoRizz: Why didn’t you tell me??
Chili: You want to be the man that admits you find Max’s girl hot and wanna fuck?
NoRizz: Oh yeah, no, bad idea.
NoRizz: Don’t do that.
NoRizz: Do you think I could ask her on a date?
BigRicc: You boys done?
Chili: How should I ask her out? Where should we go? You think she’ll wear that sundress again?
BigRicc: No, because she’s in love with Max.
NoRizz: You just said she was in love with Carlos?
BigRicc: Jesus.
BigRicc: I’m ignoring this.
BigRicc: We need a new plan.
Chili: Why? I thought the plan was to get Max to confess?
BigRicc: yes, that was the plan, but since she is in love with him too, why not use that to our advantage?
NoRizz: Great idea!
NoRizz: How?
BigRicc: Easy, someones gotta make her believe they sent the flowers.
almost everything i write includes smut* minors do not read!
CHARLES LECLERC:
one shots
☆ getting shit faced with bff!charles (anon requested)
☆ needy!charles after his first win of the season (anon requested)
☆ the blueprint (architect!Charles)
in which you and your co-worker can't help but constantly butt heads on projects
☆ ex's and oh's (ex! charles)
in which you and your ex-boyfriend are in complicated territory OR your ex fucks you in the drivers seat of his car
☆ do i wanna know? (brother's bff!charles)
in which you consider vacation with your family and brothers friends torture OR you fuck your brother's bff on his yacht
do I wanna know? pt. 2
☆ wait for your love (arranged marriage!charles)
in which you're in a fake marriage OR you and your fake husband might be in love with one another
☆it's cool, we're just friends? (fwb!charles)
in which you and a guy in your class are friends with benefits OR you and your friends with benefits might be more?
☆can't get you outta my head (friends to lovers)
in which you and charles are in the same friend group and find solace in one another OR you and charles fuck and can’t forget about it
☆ 73 questions with Mrs. Leclerc
in which you do a 73 questions interview with Vogue OR charles can't help but third wheel your interview
☆ somebody else
in which you find yourself at cross ties with an ex! OR charles just really wants you back.
☆ save a bull! (bull rider!charles)
in which a city girl meets a cowboy OR charles finds himself infatuated with the visiting city girl
☆ hard deck (pilot!charles)
in which your best friend's other best friend hates you OR charles is in love with you and he fucking hates that he is.
series
☆tachycardia! (doctor x nurse)
pt. 2
blurbs/drabbles
☆ soft bath tub sex
☆teacher flirts with nanny!reader
☆charles comforts sick!reader
☆ jealous sex
☆ fucked another driver
☆ a man in uniform
Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.
Chapter Summary: Getting ready for a party is always fun when the company is good.
Warnings: 18+ (mentions of sex), fluff, tiny bit of angst (body insecurity if you squint), alcohol consumption
Word Count: 3.5k
series masterlist
previous part
A/N: cherry is still sick, but this needed to get out of my head. feedback is appreciated. love ya.
When Kika puts her bag on the living room table, it clinks suspiciously.
“My goodness, did you bring half the supermarket with you?” you ask her with a grin, which develops into a loud laugh when Pierre puts down a huge bag next to the door. ”And you brought your whole wardrobe too.”
“Of course I did,” she smiles, kissing your left and right cheek. ”After all, I don't know what you're wearing, and I thought we could coordinate our outfits a little.”
Pierre puts an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders. “I'm glad you only packed one bag,” he says, kissing her temple. “Please pick up the other stuff off the floor tomorrow. The bedroom looks like a battlefield.”
Kika rolls her eyes but snuggles up against him. “You love me.” She looks up at him with her huge brown eyes as he leans down to her.
“I do,” he smiles against her lips, and the moment is so intimate that you leave them alone in the living room.
Charles is standing at the coffee machine in the kitchen and smiles at you as you enter the room. “Everything okay?”
You nod and sit down on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. "How long have they been together, by the way?”
“I think about two years," he replies, leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter behind him with his palms. ”They're cute, aren't they?”
“Absolutely,” you smile. "Almost a little too sweet. I fled the living room when I saw the way they looked at each other, like he was about to propose.”
Your roommate has to laugh. "You should see them together at a Grand Prix. A few drivers – myself included – have a bet on when he'll ask her to marry him.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Did you bet for money?”
The Monegasque raises his coffee cup to his mouth and takes a sip. "Yup.”
“And what was the stake?”
Charles hesitates and avoids your gaze. "100€.”
A grin spreads across your face. ”Can I still join?”
Your friend raises his eyes and looks at you in wonder, but before he can say anything, Kika and Pierre enter the kitchen. Pierre now places the heavy bag, which had just clinked suspiciously, on the kitchen island. Not a second later, the Portuguese woman reaches into the opening and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Sweet,” she says and holds out the bottle for you to see. The brand doesn't look familiar, but the label is pink and the glass is a mint green, and the way your friend looks at you, you know exactly that you'll like the wine.
You take two wine glasses out of the kitchen cupboard and place them in front of her. “And what are the boys drinking?”
Charles puts his hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Boys? Boys?" He shakes his head. "We're men.”
You wrinkle your nose and grin at him. "Since when?”
Your roommate walks around the kitchen island and wraps his arm around your neck to put you in a light headlock. He presses you against the counter in front of you with his big body and whispers in your ear. “Do you want me to show you again?”
“Please get a room.” Kika grins and pours the wine into your two glasses.
Charles lets his arm slide from your neck to your collarbones, where it then remains. “You're in our apartment. You can just leave,” he replies annoyed, as if your friends' presence were preventing him from dragging you to the bedroom right now. Which maybe it is. But you don't want to think about that.
“Then I'll take this one back with me.” Kika reaches into her handbag again and pulls out another bottle, before placing it in front of you both. "For your beloved Moscow Mule.”
You don't need to look at the man behind you to know that he's grinning. "If you two ever break up, I'll keep Kika.”"
“Ouch,” Pierre says, pouting. "And I thought our friendship was more important to you than ginger beer.”
With his free hand, Charles grabs the bottle and lifts it up before smiling at the Frenchman. "I thought so too.”
“Okay, okay.“ Kika grabs her glass and the bottle of wine before looking at you. ‘You and I are going to get dressed up. You can play video games or something in the meantime." She kisses Pierre on the cheek before heading for the kitchen door. ”You coming?”
You nod, but turn around in Charles' arms to look at him again. “What are you going to wear?”
Your friend shrugs. “I was thinking of a simple black button-down," he replies, raising his hand to tuck a loose strand behind your ear. "Do you already have something in mind?”
You shake your head. ”Not really, no.”
Charles smiles gently at you before weaving his fingers through your hair before they come to rest at the nape of your neck. “You're sure to find something nice. You look perfect in anything, anyway.” He leans forward a bit and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
“You're disgusting!” Kika's voice sounds from the hallway.
Charles flips her the bird before letting go of you. “Go. Before you get into trouble. And let me know if you need anything.”
You smile at him briefly before taking your wine glass and following your best friend towards the bedroom. Once there, you watch as Kika empties her bag, which was just standing in the living room, onto the bed. “I don't want to imagine what your bedroom looks like at your place.”
“Believe me, it's actually better if you don't.” She grabs the clothes and starts sorting them on the bed. "How was your Christmas?”
You take a big gulp of wine. "Good.”
The Portuguese woman looks at you with raised eyebrows. “Wow, you tell it like I was already there.” She matches a white top to a dark red satin skirt. “Tell me. Did you visit Charles Mom?”
“We did,” you reply and sit down on the last free spot on the bed. “I haven't had such a nice Christmas in a long time.”
Kika smiles at you. “Did you two fuck?”
You almost drop your glass. "Kika!" you whisper indignantly and quickly close the door so that the men can't hear you. You lean back against the wood.
“So you fucked,” she grins and raises her wine glass to toast you. When you stare at her, she lowers her glass again. ”Y'all didn't fuck?”
“We didn't.”
“But you did something.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Like a curious little child, she draws up her legs and sits cross-legged, chin resting on her fist. “Tell me everything.”
You have to laugh. ”I thought we had to get ready for the party.”
“Tell. Me. Everything.”
And you do. You tell her everything that has happened in the last few days. About the night you gave Charles a massage and about the night on the boat. That he gave you an employment contract as a Christmas present so that you can be together permanently. About Christmas and last night, when you got closer than ever before. The way he called you “his girl”.
Kika listens intently and asks questions in between, but first and foremost she lets you say everything that is on your mind – and that seems to be quite a lot.
You tell her how confused you are because you don't know exactly where you stand with Charles. But also that it's okay for you, because as long as you can somehow participate in Charles's life, that's enough for you. It's like you're addicted to him – and every little dose you get of him draws you further under his spell.
When the men knock on the door an hour later, you've just finished and are catching your breath for the first time.
“Is everything okay?“ Charles asks, his eyes fixed on you. He seems to ignore the bed's mess – or he doesn't even notice it.
“Everything's fine,” you smile.
He nods and points at Pierre, who is standing behind him. “We just wanted to get pizza so that we can eat something decent before the party. What do you want on it?”
“Just a simple Margarita, please,” you reply, Kika gives the same answer.
Charles smiles at you. “Have you found an outfit yet?” When he sees the empty wine bottle on the dresser, he presses his tongue into his cheek. “Or did you have so much to talk about that you haven't had time yet?” He raises an eyebrow. He knows exactly what you've been talking about for the last hour.
Warmth rises to your cheeks. “The latter.”
Your roommate nods again. "Okay. You still have a little time. We're on our way. See you in a bit," he says goodbye and closes the door behind him.
Kika looks at you. ”He's right. We really should start thinking about what we want to wear.”
As if you were at a fashion show, you try on everything that could possibly go with the club. Dark red dresses, the little black dress, satin trousers and corsets that accentuate the décolleté. But somehow there is nothing that convinces you.
Annoyed, you lie down on the bed with your back on it, the clothes are spread out on the floor of the room. Kika lies down next to you.
“Is it always like this?” you ask her, crossing your arms over your face.
“What do you mean?”
You breathe out loudly. “It's the first time I'm consciously out and about with people who are famous. Is it always so exhausting to find something appropriate so you don't embarrass yourself?”
“I think you get used to it,” the Portuguese woman replies. ”I had to learn that too at the beginning. That there are some items of clothing that suit your figure and some that don't. And just because something looks good on you doesn't mean you feel comfortable in it.”
“And how do you do it?” you ask her, looking at her. "I mean, you're a model. You obviously look good in anything. But – I don't know.”
Kika shrugs. "It took me a long time to feel comfortable in certain things. But most of the time I actually wear things that I didn't have to be convinced of at all. And then I don't care what others say about me. I feel comfortable – and I want to keep it that way.” When you don't answer, she grabs your hand. "It'll get easier. And until it does, you've got me by your side." She nudges you in the side. ”And your roommate, who practically undresses you with his eyes.”
You roll your eyes mock-annoyed. “He doesn't.”
“He does,” she grins. “But that's okay. After all, you're absolutely perfect. You could go to the club in a potato sack and you'd look bombastic.”
“Well,” you say. “Unfortunately, I don't have a potato sack here that I could put on.”
When the door suddenly opens, you both jump. The boys are standing in the doorway, Pierre has two pizza boxes in his hand and Charles a smaller black box.
“Where have you been? It's been almost an hour since you left” Kika asks, getting up from the bed.
“We had to get something,“ says Pierre, motioning for her to follow him. As Kika takes your wine glasses and the two of them leave the bedroom, Charles sits down on the bed next to you.
“I brought you something,” he smiles, placing the box on the mattress between you.
You sit up and examine the box. “What is it?”
Your roommate shrugs. “You asked me what to wear to parties in Monaco, and I still owe you an answer.”
Slowly, you reach for the box and take off the lid. Inside, wrapped in dark red paper, is a dress. Black and long, with thin straps and a low-cut back. As you carefully take it out of the box, you are speechless.
“Do you like it?” He asks and watches you get up from the bed and hold it up properly.
You stare at it, mouth agape. "Where did you get this?" You ask him, holding it up to your body and looking at yourself in the mirror.
“It's not important. Do you like it?“ he asks again, his eyes glued to you.
“It's gorgeous,” you breathe, turning a little to get a better idea of how it would look on you. “I—how much did it cost? I'll definitely pay you back the money.”
“Absolutely not,” he replies immediately and with a tone that allows no argument. "It didn't even leave a small dent in my bank account." He gets up and stands behind you. He's so close that you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. "You'll look stunning in it.”
You look at him through the mirror. “And if you put on your black shirt, we'll even match,” you smile, before carefully hanging the dress over the sideboard.
Charles wraps his arm around you to press you against him. You feel his hardness against your lower back as he leans down to you and places feather-light kisses on your neck. “That was the plan,” he whispers, and goosebumps spread across your body where his hot breath caresses your skin.
His hand moves under your sweater and his fingertips slowly glide over your ribs before his thumb hesitantly slides under the fabric of your bra. Breathing heavily, you lean your head against his shoulder and give him more room on your neck as his thumb slowly circles around your nipple.
“Charles,” you breathe softly and arch towards him. You want more. So much more.
When Kika's voice echoes through the apartment, you break away from each other. ”Come on! The pizza will get cold!”
With hot cheeks and wet panties, you let Charles lead you into the living room, where the other couple is already sitting on the couch eating pizza. Another bottle of wine is on the table in front of Kika, who is refilling your glasses.
Although the couch is big enough, Charles pulls you right next to him on the cushion and puts your legs over his lap. For a moment, you wonder if he's doing this just so the others can't see his boner.
“Here,” Kika smiles, handing you a slice of pizza, which you accept gratefully.
The four of you eat dinner together and chat about Christmas, Charles‘ upcoming training camp and New Year's Eve, while the boys’ pizza boxes, wine bottles and drinks get emptier and emptier.
“I was thinking of throwing a New Year's Eve party,” Kika says, putting her wine glass back on the table. ‘You're obviously invited. I wanted to invite a few other friends, but your attendance is most important to me.”
“Well, I'd love to come,’ you smile, looking at Charles. ”Unless you have something else planned.”
The Monegasque shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I won't be back from camp until the afternoon, so we'll probably see each other again at the party first. But until then, you'll be in good company for sure.”
“Excuse me?” Kika says indignantly. “I'm the best company!”
Pierre puts his arm around his girlfriend and kisses her on the cheek. ”For me, definitely.”
Kika leans against her boyfriend before gently kissing him. “I know.”
Charles quickly grabs a pillow and throws it at them. “Please get a room!” He jokes, repeating Kika's words. When she flashes him her middle finger, he can't help but laugh. “Come on, you two. Get ready. We have to leave soon.” He runs his fingers over your shins before smiling at you. “Go put on your new dress.”
You can't stop smiling. “See you in a bit.”
While the men continue to chat, Kika and you get ready. With professional precision, she applies make-up on your face before doing your hair and then taking care of herself. The Portuguese woman decides on a short black dress with pearl embroidery. When she is finished styling herself, she helps you into your new dress.
“Careful with the straps,” she smiles as she pulls it up your body. You put your arms through it carefully so as not to damage it. When you're dressed, Kika looks at you skeptically. "The bra has to go.”
You look at her with a raised eyebrow. "You want me to go out without a bra?”
“Don't you have an invisible bra?” When you shake your head, she purses her lips into a thin line. ”Then you'll have to go out without a bra. Unfortunately, the straps are so thin that you can see the bra underneath either way. But we can tape over the nipples if you like. At least they won't be visible in the cold outside.”
Without further ado, she disappears from the room and while she is looking for something to cover the nipples with in the apartment, you examine yourself in the mirror in your room, but no matter how you turn, it is too small to see you from top to bottom. On bare feet, you walk to Charles' bedroom across the hall, where the new, larger mirror is leaning against the wall.
The satin dress clings to your curves and accentuates your body exactly where it should. There is a slit on the left side that reaches to the middle of your thigh and the back neckline is so low that you couldn't pull your thong all the way up because it would otherwise show.
You examine yourself in the mirror and don't even notice that Charles is leaning against the doorframe until he starts talking.
“Let's stay home,” he suggests, his expression impenetrable. He is wearing his black shirt as promised, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks wickedly handsome.
You smile at him and try to suppress the dirty thoughts that are trying to take over your brain. “We can't cancel now,” you reply. “First of all, the others are already here, and secondly, Lando is definitely waiting for us.”
“I don't care.” With quiet steps, he moves towards you without taking his eyes off you. Like a predator that stares at its prey before it snaps.
You turn to him. ”You have very good taste, Charles. The dress is perfect.”
He answers without hesitation. “Not as perfect as the woman wearing it." The Monegasque stands directly in front of you and looks down at you. "Let's stay home," he suggests again. His large hands find their rightful place on your hips and pull you towards him. His eyes glow seductively.
“It would be rude to cancel now.”
“It wasn't a request,” he whispers, turning you so that you are standing with your back to him. Once again, you can see him through the mirror. He grabs the flesh of your hip with one hand, while the other hand wanders over your upper body until it rests on your neckline. ”That dress was definitely a mistake.”
You look at him, confused. “Why? I thought you liked it?”
“That's not the point,” he whispers, kissing your bare neck. His stubble scratches a little, but you couldn't care less. "I just don't know how to hold back when you look like this." His teeth graze the soft skin below your ear. ”God, you look devine.”
His hand slides gently into the dress from above and encloses your bare chest. At the same time, a soft moan escapes you. “Charles.”
“Merde,” he curses and presses you against him. “How am I supposed to keep my fingers to myself when I know you're not wearing a bra?”
As his fingers gently play with your nipple, you bite your lip. “Who said you had to?” you tease him, whereupon his other hand gently rests on your neck, though not squeezing. Sadly.
“I can't wait to be back here later,” he gasps and presses a final kiss on your shoulder before taking his hands off you. You watch him fix his erection in his pants so that it can't be seen. But it's there, you know that. And just the thought of it gets your blood pumping. ”And then neither of us leaves this bed until I say so.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” you ask, tilting your head so he can see the red marks on your skin where his beard has left its mark
Charles suppresses the urge to pull you close and throw you onto the new bed to fuck you relentlessly until your legs give out and you forget your name. He flexes his hand. “Both, mon amour. Definitely both.”
