Dark fic + - Minors DNI- if you don't like this or the warnings/themes make you uncomfortable. I can't stress this enough, DO NOT READ THIS
Request from @miaaaxzzz - i have a dark request đ Sainz!reader, Carlos and Oscar are beefing, and Oscar decides to hit him where it hurts the most. He goes after her sister, but itâs not just revenge, he plays with her mind, slowly breaking her down until she becomes exactly what he wanted her to be. Sheâs a total brat at first, fighting back and pretending she doesnât care, but he knows exactly how to get to her. in the end, sheâs the obedient one he created. and just to twist the knife, he sends carlos a picture of her sleeping on his chest.
Author's notes: I'm setting this in 2026, as a manifestation of a McLaren/Williams title battle. It's unrealistic but would I die to see a present day battle of two of the greatest teams in the sport (yes not counting Ferrari)? Yes, so we're gonna pretend here.
Themes/warnings: Smut (dub con), manipulation, submission, a lot of degrading, very mean!Oscar, psychological breaking, virginity loss, mildly forced orgasm, mentions of blood
Word count: 2.5k
Oscar and Carlos have had long-standing beef on track, but last year William's lack of competitiveness in comparison to McLaren meant Carlos wasn't such a massive issue though when Oscar lost a bit of confidence after Monza, Carlos was there a lot. It still was too far behind for Carlos to catch him.
However, Carlos' public support of Lando got under Oscar's skin.
Then coming into this season, Williams is back to winning ways and Carlos' shit-talking of Oscar hasn't let up as McLaren and Williams go head to head, maximising the Mercedes engine pack more than the manufactures own team. Lando is the leading McLaren driver with a matter of 10 points dividing all four drivers within those teams.
But Oscar has his eyes elsewhere in his spare time.
"Hi, y/n." Oscar greets earning very suspicious eyes, this is not the first time he's approached and with his recent comments about her brother, Oscar isn't surprised she's not happy to see him.
He has a plan and he can't just give up because y/n is stubborn.
"What do you want?"
"Ooh, someone's in a bad mood." He taunts while her eyes narrow. "Think it's obvious why you've spent your life single."
"As opposed to sleeping around with every man that says hi. Like you." Y/n snorts earning a small shrug.
"Well in that case, at least you'll die with your pride and virginity intact."
Y/n grits her teeth almost having to swallow back a growl with how angry she feels towards him.
"See you later, y/n." Oscar smirks, he know he's planted the seeds.
The idea of her being alone, no man wanting her, the fear instilled into her. It won't strike like a missile, no it will fester. Eat away at her till the insecurities are dominant in her mind.
-
It was taking maybe longer than Oscar hoped to really make y/n bend to his whim and Carlos has not eased on his shit talking after a race win in Jeddah that's set him ahead of Oscar in the standings.
"What the hell is this?" Y/n questions as Oscar answers the incessant banging on his door to find y/n holding a bouquet of orange roses and tiger-lilies. Colours to remind her of McLaren and specifically of Oscar.
"A bouquet for a birthday girl. Did you not get the card?" Oscar questions then tilting his head. "Does your big brother know you're here?"
"He knows you bought me a bouquet and he wants to know why. And so do I." Y/n practically growls but the confidence smirk doesn't waver on Oscar's face as he steps aside and she narrows her eyes on him.
"Come in." Oscar instructs sharply before he huffs while y/n glares but does as he tells her despite looking like she'd happily choke him out.
"You better explain."
"You know for someone who acts like they hate me, you seem to find any excuse to come see me." Oscar comments watching her face tinge pink but it could honestly be out of anger. "Maybe it's time to be honest with yourself."
"H-Honest with myself? Excuse me?" Y/n chokes in disbelief but Oscar only smirks as he clicks the door closed and she dumps the flowers down on a side table.
"You might not like it but you like my attention. For better or worse." Oscar chuckles while y/n shakes her head, but the resolve is weakening. Her stance holds less strength and her frown has softened.
Y/n doesn't realise she's stepping back away from Oscar as he closes in on her till her back hits the chest of drawers and suddenly she's caged between his arms.
She's never thought of Oscar having such a presence but it's like she's suffocating into doing as he says.
"You're so much prettier when you're quiet." Oscar sighs almost sounding disappointed in her and it makes her feel hollow inside. "And when you listen to me."
It's not till Oscar touches y/n that she seems to snap back into her usual self.
"Get off me. Are you insane?" Y/n hisses pushing him back but he hardly shifts only moving his hands back while she moves back towards the door. "Don't touch me and don't send me flowers."
Oscar's eyes practical sparkle with amusement as she looks back one more time then marches herself out of the hotel room. But Oscar knows, he knows that y/n is cracking. She can try to hide it but he saw the submission in her eyes, the lack of fight. It was all going exactly as he planned.
She'd be back and he'd be waiting.
-
Y/n knew she was beginning to be drawn to Oscar, he smirks every time he saw her and she wasn't the only one noticing. Carlos had and he didn't hesitate to tell her that she was not allowed to go anywhere near the Australian.
Y/n knew better. Family first.
And yet when Oscar managed to slyly get her number from Lando, she didn't block him. She didn't ignore him, but she told him to stop. Not that he did. Though in the moments he took longer to reply, she started to feel annoyed with embarrassment.
"You're always waiting for my attention and yet you're always saying you don't want it." Oscar comments as he corners y/n yet again, between the drivers motorhomes out the back of the paddock.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Y/n lies as if she hadn't purposely been wandering around in the darker of the nights. Less likely to be seen. "I'm trying to figure out which one of these is which."
"So you could find me, like the good girl you are." Oscar chuckles before gently grasping her bicep and pulling her into his motorhome.
The drivers usually choose hotels but sometimes it's easier to just stay on track in a motor home. In truth, y/n was probably about to be caught by security thinking she's a rogue fan trying to sneak around and get in with a driver.
Oscar's been fairly bored this weekend, actually dominating the weekend and just looking to finish it off tomorrow. But maybe he needs something to spice up his weekend.
He's got y/n pushes down on the bed with ease, hands moving to remove every piece of clothing and y/n lets him, practically helping him.
"For someone so easy I wouldn't have thought you'd manage to still be a virgin. It took nothing to get you like this." Oscar scoffs knocking her legs apart with a bit more force than necessary while y/n's eyes fill with tears a little over the insult.
She's not easy, but something Oscar has done got in her head. Like she needs the validation of him to function. His attention, his approval, everything he can give her she needs it or it consumes her.
"You're gonna learn, y/n." Oscar states pushing a finger into her experimentally and he feels her clamp down tightly from the intrusion. "You do as I say."
Y/n doesn't have the power or position to say no. Oscar, full dressed and standing over her with that all consuming presence again. Meanwhile, she's naked exposed and he's got a finger slide into her exploring the untouched space.
Usually Oscar would assume that by y/n's age a woman has somewhat taken her own virginity through some self-exploration but there's a very obvious tell that y/n has strayed into that. Instead maintaining the evidence of her innocence and Oscar decides that he has to wreck that.
Finally he's removing his clothes and y/n shifts back up the bed a little feeling the fear of what she's got herself in for. But Oscar pulls her back down.
"What did I say?" Oscar questions while y/n feels him press the tip of his dick against her. "You do as I say. Don't move away, you'll enjoy this."
"Ok." Y/n nods lightly before she feels him push and the resistance stings as it fights his pushing pressure before she feels it give way from the force and the gasp that escapes her lips makes him raise his gaze from where he'd been looking down watching the moment. "O-Oscar."
Oscar only replies in a moan, it's been a long time since he took someone's virginity and there's an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when it comes to y/n. Knowing he's taking Carlos' stubborn little sister's virginity.
Y/n's body is trembling from the feeling, it's definitely not a shared initial pleasure from both sides.
"It hurts." Y/n states as Oscar continues to slide into her, actually feeling like he's restraining himself so he doesn't cause her more pain than necessary. But he holds himself still in her, a couple inches from balls deep but he'll get there.
"You're losing your virginity, y/n. It's going to hurt and you're...tight." Oscar groans adjusting his grip on her thighs to hold her in the right position before gently moving one hand to play with her clit making her body tense at the foreign feeling so much that Oscar can't stop the moan from her pussy that he thought already held no room for budging, clamps down around his length. "The sooner I move, the sooner it will feel good."
Obviously that still applies more to his side more than y/n's but he'll make sure y/n feels good from this. If only to make her guilt keep her coming back.
Y/n doesn't resist or fight him when he starts moving, thrusts steady and controlled despite the internal urge to completely wreck her and leave her shaped perfectly to him through brutality.
Y/n's whimpers morph into confused moans in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Oscar's fully thrusting into her with his length soaked with a combination of how wet she's getting and the slight tear from how rough he's been has led to some inevitable bleeding.
He can feel her getting close, his thumb unrelenting on her clit as he presses down onto it so hard that the bundle of nerves is throbbing even under his touch. Her pussy begins to quiver around his length, the unfamiliar feeling of an orgasm at the hands of someone else.
"Stop fighting it, y/n." Oscar grunts making y/n whimper again, her body entirely at his mercy before he leans down finally kissing her and surprising himself a little from how nice it feels to consume her in another way.
His fingers pinch y/n's clit in an urgency to push her over the edge and thankfully it works, her air tight grip beginning to strangle his cock, muscles contracting and squeeze him into pumping her full of his cum. Moans of pure pleasure escape her lips and Oscar watches something shift even in the haze of his own orgasm triggering while she's still on her high, back arched and her
"Fuck. Ah fuck." Oscar groans rutting into her as he spills, feeling like he's never came this hard or this much in his life.
Y/n shudders at the feeling as he gives one more push into her, relishing in the warmth that he'll be returning to soon enough before he pulls out, smirking at the sight of her slightly gaped up, leaking with his cum that's tinted pink.
"That hurt."
"You enjoyed it." Oscar chuckles then standing up. "Just stay there."
Oscar isn't a completely monster he does perform some aftercare and clean her up a little despite her protest that it hurt more.
"How disappointed would your brother be in you?" Oscar hums as he finally lies down with her and y/n's sniffles at his words. "But we won't think about that. You do as I say."
"Ok." Y/n nods trying not to wince at the feeling of Oscar's hold tightening on her. but she does relax down against him.
Y/n falls asleep and Oscar takes the opportunity to strike while the iron is hot as he sends a picture of himself and y/n to Carlos letting her big brother know that she's safe for the night and in good hands.
Carlos, of course, practically explodes seeing the picture and it's no surprise that the pounding at Oscar's door. He doesn't have to guess who it is, though he's pleased to see that y/n is still asleep as he leaves her in the bed.
"You're going to wake people up." Oscar states calmly. "Including y/n."
"Where is she? Y/n! Get out here."
Oscar rolls his eyes shaking his head, though he can hear movement shifting in the bedroom.
"Y/n is staying here, because I'm here. You might not have noticed but she's been falling." into Oscar's trap. He smirks feeling y/n's hand on his shoulder. "But y/n will tell you she wants to stay herself, if she needs to."
An instruction. Y/n looks at Oscar with fearful eyes and Carlos can see it but she drags them to him, a mask on her expression as she looks at her brother.
"You should go."
"You are not staying with him. He has done something to you." Carlos declares with some of his team with him.
"I want to stay."
"You're lying." Onoro states from behind him knowing his younger cousin well enough that they can't leave her there.
"No. She's not. Now if you all don't mind. I have a race. Call the police or security if you'd like but she's not going anywhere because she doesn't want to." Oscar declares keeping his tone cool and unbothered, though the amusement and satisfaction of seeing the two men so angry is enough for him to shoot them a final smirk before he closes the door. "Good girl. You keep doing as you're told and we might make something useful of you."
Oscar rubs his thumb over y/n's lower lip before gently kissing her.
"You don't need him. You don't need anyone else when you have me, ok?"
Y/n swallows thickly before nodding obediently, signing her soul up Oscar's taking as if he hasn't already snatched it like always belong to him anyway.
"Back to bed." And as he expects, she does as she's told retreating back to the bedroom while Oscar makes sure the door is definitely locked so he doesn't wake up with Carlos holding a knife to his neck.
He might be secure with y/n but he's not stupid enough to think that Carlos isn't a threat. But with y/n in his hand, doing his bidding, he has a feeling Carlos knows to restrain himself. Y/n won't be free of Oscar any time soon, not until he's done with using her as leverage for force Carlos out of his way.
Carlos does something Oscar doesn't like, y/n might just have to pay the price for that.
stepbro fic when? im literally obsessed with it because of the snippets
đ jury is still out on release date but hereâs another crumb
He pulled back first.
Landoâs hair was completely fucked from Oscarâs hands. His mouth was red and wet. He looked wrecked.
âThis canât happen again,â Oscar said.
Lando grinned. Still wrecked. Still cocky. âSure, Osc.â
âI mean it.â
âSo did I.â Lando reached out, dragged his thumb over Oscarâs bottom lip, slow and deliberate. âWhen I said your mumâs fit.â
Oscar shoved him again, but there was no force behind it. Just exhaustion. Just the weight of what theyâd done settling over him.
He left before he could do something stupid.
Like stay.
In his own room three doors down, Oscar stripped off his clothes and stared at the mess in his briefs. Grand Prix winner. Professional racing driver. And heâd just come in his pants grinding against his teammate.
His step-teammate, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
His phone buzzed.
Lando: sleep tight stepbro x
Oscar threw the phone on the bed and went to shower.
He was so fucked.ââââââââââââââââ
Can u please make more of the lando and young reader fics pleaseee
spoiled little girl
pairing: lando norris x younger!reader
word count: 0,5k
summary: lando loves to spoil his younger girlfriend.
warnings: age gap (18 and 25), manipulative lando, naive reader, kind of dark lando.
a/n: thak u for requesting, the requests are open ( read this to request ), hope you like thisss.
( đasterlist ) ( đ art 1 ) ( đ art 3 )
landoâs eyes moved over her body, watching all the details on the dress she was trying on. a fancy and big changing room with a big mirror in front of a comfortable couch, lando sat there, legs open and eyes focused like a hawk.Â
shopping bags were softly left on the floor by lando one hour ago, short dresses and skirts, and fitted tops were hanging perfectly on the hoops, stuff that both of them chose. âi donât know about this one, babyâ her soft voice sounded in the whole room, lando hummed as an answer while shaking his head.
âi like itâ lando stood up and walked towards her, her eyes focused on the mirror in front of her studying the dress, a beautiful shade of blue that made her eyes shine. it was short and thigh, not too revealing, but enough to appreciate her curves. landoâs arms wrapped around her waist and he rested his head over hers.Â
âyou look so beautiful, doll, so beautifulâ his eyes glued to her reflection, âso beautiful for meâ.Â
her cheeks blushed and ashamed she covered her face with her hands, lando let out a chuckle and kissed her hair. when she was about to take it off, she got a glimpse of the price in the tag and instantly regretted the thought of buying it.Â
lando saw how her demeanor changed when she saw it and before he could speak, he heard: âyou know? i donât really like it, there may be better choicesâ. landoâs hands grabbed her hips and turned her around.
âiâm buying itâ his eyes glued to hers, hands caressing softly her covered hips, âi donât care about the price when you look so fucking good, when you look like a dreamâ her hands moved to his jaw and brought him in for a kiss.Â
slow and passionate, lando closed the gap between their bodies, one of his hands moving to her lower back and the other to her waist. âyou really think i look like a dream?â she asked with a big smile on her lips after she broke the kiss.Â
lando stared at her for a second, her lips red a puffy due the kiss, pink cheeks and innocent eyes, âmhmâ he nodded and kissed her again, âyou always look like a dreamâ.
âŠ
lando didnât let her grab any bag, one of his hands full with them, but he left the other empty just to be able to hold her smaller hand. lando loved that, the height difference, her hand so small when he held it, her head only reaching his shoulder, she always looked so fragile.Â
when they arrived at his apartment, lando immediately dropped the bags on the floor and lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist and her arms around his neck. he walked them towards the big couch and he sat there with her on his lap.
lando looked at her, the earrings he bought her, the necklace, the hairclip, the top, the skirt, everything bought by him, not because she asked, but because he felt like it. she was his to spoil and take her, and lando would make sure she never lacks anything in life.
Description: You're an Academy Award-nominated film director living between London and Monaco, co-parenting three-year-old twins with your ex-husband, Lando Norris. Eighteen months after a divorce that left you both shattered, you've both managed to master the art of polite distance, scheduled drop-offs, texts about the kids, and very carefully maintained boundaries.
Until the night you show up at his apartment unannounced and walk in on him trying to move on with someone else. Three months of painful avoidance follow, until your twins' fourth birthday forces you back together in your French countryside home where decisions change the trajectory of forever.
Genre: second chance romance, divorced couple, angst with happy ending, great co-parenting, they fuck at da end bc i dont know how to write a story without it :)
Notes: the twins look exactly like lando, just two people who still love each other, i didnt proof read sorry, um idk how to write toddlers, these are probably the most articulate three year olds youve ever heard
WC: a cheeky 21k
You've learned to compartmentalize. It's a skill that's served you wellâon set when actors are having meltdowns, when studio executives are demanding impossible revisions, and especially now, standing in the elevator of Lando's Monaco apartment building with two energetic three-year-olds who've just consumed their body weight in airplane snacks.
"Mummy, I need to wee," Mila announces, tugging on your sleeve with the urgency only toddlers can muster.
"We're almost there, baby," you say, adjusting your grip on the car seat you're carrying while simultaneously preventing your son from pressing every button on the elevator panel. "Thiago, hands to yourself."
"But Mummy, buttons!" Thiago argues, his green-blue eyesâso much like his father'sâsparkling with mischief.
God, your heart aches.
The elevator dings on the penthouse level, and you usher both children out, their little suitcases rolling behind them. You'd packed them yourself this morning in your London flat before the flight to Niceâfive days' worth of clothes, their favorite stuffed animals, Mila's collection of hair clips that she insists on wearing all at once, and Thiago's toy cars that he lines up in precise rows just like the ones he sees on his father's YouTube videos.
You knock on the apartment door, already hearing the chaos of tiny feet running toward it from inside.
"DADDY!" both children shriek in unison before the door even opens.
When it does, Lando's there in joggers and a Loewe hoodieâlooking off-duty, relaxed, his hair messy in that way that used to make you want to run your fingers through it. Now you just notice it objectively, the way you'd note good cinematography in someone else's film.
"There they are!" He crouches down immediately, and both kids barrel into him with the force of small cannonballs. "I missed you guys so much. Was the flight okay?"
"Thiago kicked the seat in front of him for an hour," you say, stepping inside and setting down the car seat. "And Mila charmed the flight attendant into giving her three cookie packets."
"That's my girl," Lando says, scooping Mila up and blowing a raspberry on her cheek. She squeals with delight.
You're pulling their suitcases inside when you notice a makeup bag on the console table by the door. Not yours, you'd recognize your own things. This one is Louis Vuitton, with a small charm dangling from the zipper. Your eyes track almost involuntarily around the open-plan space. There's a women's cardigan draped over the back of the sofa.
Something in your chest tightens, and you refuse to open that Pandora box right now.
"Mummy, I still need to wee!" Mila insists, and you snap back to attention.
"Right, sorry, baby. Lando, can Iâ"
"Yeah, of course, you know where it is," he says, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's noticed you noticing.
You take Mila to the bathroom, helping her with her leggings while she chatters about the clouds she saw from the plane and how Thiago stole her crisps. You're on autopilot, making the appropriate listening noises while your brain is doing something you really wish it wouldn't.
He's seeing someone. Of course he's fucking seeing someone. You've been divorced for eighteen months, you've both moved on, you're both co-parenting successfully, splitting time between London and Monaco, managing schedules around race weekends and film shoots. You're adults about this.
You're fine.
Mila finishes and insists on washing her hands herself, which means water ends up everywhere, and by the time you emerge back into the living room, Lando has Thiago on his shoulders and they're doing a lap of the apartment while your son shouts, "Faster, Daddy! Like a race car!"
"Careful," you say automatically, because Thiago has already had one trip to A&E this year from climbing where he shouldn't, and you're not keen on a repeat.
"I've got him," Lando says, and he doesâhis hands are secure on Thiago's legs, and he's being cautious despite the running. "So, I'll bring them back Wednesday afternoon? That still works?"
"Wednesday's perfect. I've got a production meeting Thursday morning, so that'sâyeah, that's good." You're pulling out the folder from your bagâthe one where you keep their schedules, dietary requirements, emergency contacts. It's color-coded because you're that kind of person. "Mila's been having nightmares about sharks, so she's been wanting her nightlight on extra bright. And Thiago needs to practice his letters, he keeps writing his 'S' backwards."
"Like his dad," Lando says with a grin, taking the folder. "I still do that sometimes."
"I know," you say, and there's too much familiarity in those two words, too much history. You clear your throat. "Right. So. I shouldâ"
"Mummy, don't go!" Mila appears at your side, attaching herself to your leg like a barnacle.
"Baby, you're going to have so much fun with Daddy," you say, crouching down to her level. She's got your dark hair but his eyes, and the combination is devastating. "And I'll see you in five days. That's not so long."
"But what if I miss you?" Her bottom lip wobbles.
"Then Daddy will video call me, and we can talk," you say, smoothing her hair back. "And you can tell me all about what you've been doing. Okay?"
She nods, but she's not happy about it. Thiago, meanwhile, has discovered his suitcase and is trying to open it, clearly having forgotten something crucial.
"Go on," Lando says softly. "I've got them. You'll miss your meeting."
You don't have a meeting. You finished your current project last month, and you're between films right now, taking a rare break. But he doesn't need to know that, doesn't need to know that you're going back to your London flat to sit in your editing suite and work on your passion project, the script you've been writing for two years that no one's seen yet.
You kiss both children goodbyeâMila clings, Thiago is already distracted by the toys he can see in his bedroomâand you're almost at the door when you glance back.
Lando's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The afternoon light is streaming through the windows, catching in his hair, and for just a second you remember what it felt like to be married to him, to share this space, to be a family.
Then Mila tugs on his hand, demanding his attention, and the moment breaks.
"Text me when they're settled," you say.
"Always do," he replies.
You let yourself out, and you're in the elevator before you let your shoulders drop, before you let yourself feel the weight of that makeup bag, the evidence of someone else in the space that used to be partly yours.
Your phone buzzes. It's a text from your agent about a Netflix show you're set to direct.
Work. You can focus on work. You're good at that. You've built a career on being able to compartmentalize, to separate the professional from the personal, to direct complex narratives while keeping your own feelings locked away behind the camera.
The elevator reaches the ground floor, and you step out into the Monaco sunshine, your sunglasses already in place.
You're fine. You're absolutely fucking fine.
Three hours later, you're supposed to be reviewing notes from your last production, but instead you're staring at your phone, at the text thread with Lando.
You open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
You stare at the photo for longer than you should. At your daughter in your ex-husband's apartment, in a room you helped decorate before everything fell apart. The walls are still the soft blue you'd chosen together, and you can see the corner of the elephant painting you'd bought from a gallery in London when you were seven months pregnant and nesting hard.
You miss the life you hadâthe one where you'd come home from set and he'd come home from the racing, and you'd have dinner together as a family. You miss the mundane intimacy of it, the way he'd do the washing up while you gave the kids their bath, the way you'd collapse on the sofa together after they were asleep and he'd put his head in your lap while you both scrolled through your phones in comfortable silence.
You miss your family being whole.
You set your phone face-down on your desk and press your palms against your eyes. This is what you don't tell anyoneânot your therapist, not your best friend, not your sister who keeps trying to set you up with eligible men in the film industry. You can't bring yourself to date. You've tried, once, a nice producer who took you to dinner at Sketch and was perfectly charming and utterly wrong because his eyes weren't green-blue and he didn't make terrible jokes and your children don't have his features carved into their faces.
Mila asks for Lando constantly. "Where's Daddy?" at least five times a day, even when she knows the answer. Thiago has started making this little sound in the back of his throat when he's playing with his carsâa sound that's unmistakably mimicking an engine, one he learned from watching his father's videos. They look so much like him it physically hurts sometimes.
The divorce nearly destroyed you. Not just emotionally, though that was bad enough, those first few months when the babies were so small and needy and you were trying to navigate separating your life from someone you'd built everything with. But publicly, it was a nightmare.
You're not just successful; you're award-winning, Academy-nominated at twenty-seven, with a career that includes box office hits and critically acclaimed independent films. The press had a field day. You'd left a premiere for your latest film and been swarmed by paparazzi outside your London home, all of them shouting questions about Lando, about the split, about whether you'd cheated (you hadn't), whether he'd cheated (he hadn't), why you were throwing away your perfect family.
Someone had gotten a photo of you crying in your car after dropping the twins at Lando's place, and it had been on the cover of three tabloids with increasingly invasive headlines. You'd had to hire additional security. You'd stopped going out unless absolutely necessary.
The UK doesn't have the same paparazzi laws as France or Monaco, and they'd taken full advantage.
Your phone buzzes again.
You go to the bathroom and fix your faceâwash away the evidence of the tears you didn't realize you'd been crying, put on a bit of concealer, force a smile. When you FaceTime, both kids need to see Mummy being happy, being fine.
The call comes through, and suddenly your screen is filled with Thiago's face, so close to the camera that all you can see is his nose.
"Mummy!" he shrieks.
"Hi, baby! Back up a bit so I can see you properly."
Lando's voice in the background, "Thiago, mate, you have to hold it further away."
The camera pulls back, and then you can see both of themâThiago in Lando's lap, Mila tucked against his side, all three of them squeezed together on what you recognize as the sofa in the living room. Your sofa, the one you'd picked out together.
"Mummy, Daddy made pasta but it was yucky," Mila announces.
"Oi, it was not yucky," Lando protests. "You ate three bowls."
"It was a little yucky," Thiago confirms, and you can't help but laugh.
"Traitors," Lando mutters, but he's smiling. "I'm getting better at cooking, for the record."
"I'm sure you are," you say, and your voice is softer than you intend.
You talk to the kids for fifteen minutesâabout their day, about the books Lando bought, about the cars Thiago wants to show you in elaborate detail. Mila tells you she misses you but she's being a big girl about it. Thiago says he loves you approximately seven times.
And through it all, Lando is there, keeping them in frame, redirecting their attention when they get distracted, and occasionally catching your eye with this look that makes your chest tight.
When you hang up, your flat feels too quiet. Too empty and you want to rip your heart out so the aching stops.
Wednesday arrives faster than you expect and slower than you wantâtime doing that strange thing it does when you're both dreading something and desperate for it. You've been in your Monaco home since Monday, the one you bought six months after the divorce when it became clear that splitting time between London and Monaco wasn't just a temporary arrangement.
It's in Fontvieille, deliberately on the opposite side of Monaco from Lando's place, with a view of the port and enough space for the kids to have their own rooms. You'd decorated it yourself, making sure everything was perfect, soft colors, lots of natural light, a media room where you can work, a garden where the kids can play.
It's beautiful. It's also lonely as hell.
You're in your editing suite reviewing footage when your phone buzzes.
You spend the next hour trying not to spiral about what he might want to discuss. Is he moving? Is he getting serious with whoever owns that makeup bag? Is he going to ask to change the custody arrangement?
At 2:03, you hear the car pull up, and then the sound of the gate opening. You're at the door before they can ring, and suddenly both kids are there, launching themselves at you with the force of tiny missiles.
"Mummy!" Mila shrieks, and you're crouching down, pulling them both into your arms, breathing in the scent of their hair, feeling the weight of them solid and real against you.
"I missed you so much," you murmur into Mila's hair. "Did you have fun with Daddy?"
"We went to the marina and saw big boats," Thiago announces. "And Daddy let me have ice cream twice!"
"Did he now?" You glance up at Lando, who has the decency to look sheepish.
"It was a good week," he says with a shrug, and god, he looks good. He's in jeans and a navy blue polo, and he's got a tan from being outside with the kids, and you hate that you notice, hate that it still affects you.
"Go on inside," you tell the kids. "Your toys are exactly where you left them."
They don't need to be told twice, racing past you into the house, already arguing about who gets to play with what first. You stand, and suddenly it's just you and Lando on your doorstep, and the silence stretches awkward and heavy between you.
"You wanted to talk?" you prompt.
"Yeah, umâ" He runs a hand through his hair. "Can I come in? Or we can talk out here, whatever you're comfortable with."
"Come in," you say, stepping aside.
He follows you through to the living room, and you can't help but notice the way he moves through your space carefully, like he's not sure he's allowed to be here, which is ridiculous because he's been here dozens of times for pickups and drop-offs. You can hear the kids playing in Thiago's room, their voices carrying through the open door.
"Coffee?" you offer, because you need something to do with your hands.
"Yeah, that'd be great."
You move to the kitchen, and he follows, settling onto one of the bar stools while you work the espresso machineâthe nice one you'd splurged on because if you're going to be awake at 4am working, you're going to have good coffee.
"So," you say, your back to him while the machine hums. "What's up?"
"The Monaco Grand Prix is in two weeks," he says, and you can hear him shifting behind you. "And I wanted to ask if you'd bring the kids. To the race."
You freeze, your hand pausing over the cups.
"Thiago's obsessed with cars," Lando continues. "And Mila keeps asking to see Daddy's work. And I justâI think they'd love it. The garage, the cars, all of it. But I wanted to check with you first."
You turn around, leaning against the counter. "Landoâ"
"I know it's a lot," he says quickly. "I know Monaco is crazy during race weekend, and there's media everywhere, and it's not exactly kid-friendly. But I'd make sure they're taken care of. They'd have ear protection, someone with them at all times, access to the motorhome if they need a break. Andâand I'd really like them to see what I do. Properly."
You study him. There's something in his expression, something almost vulnerable. "This is about Thiago, isn't it? You want him to fall in love with it."
"Is that so wrong?" He's defensive now. "He's my son. This is my life. I want to share it with him."
"He's three, Lando."
"I was three when I started karting."
"I know," you say quietly, and you do. You know his whole history, how his dad recognized the talent early, how racing isn't just what Lando does but who he is at his core. "I justâ"
"It's one race," he says. "Justâtry it. If they hate it, if it's too much, we'll leave. But I think they'd love it."
"I'll think about it," you say finally.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You turn back to the espresso machine, pouring the shots. "Let me check my schedule. Make sure I don't have anything that weekend."
You both know you don't have anything that weekend, but he doesn't call you on it, just accepts the cup of coffee you hand him with a quiet "Thanks."
He takes a sip, and his eyebrows rise. "This is really good."
"I've had time to practice," you say, and you mean it to sound light, but it comes out sad instead.
The silence that follows is heavy with all the things neither of you are saying. You're both nursing your coffee, not quite looking at each other, and you're acutely aware that this is the longest you've been alone together since the divorce papers were signed.
"You talk to Claire?" You can't keep the surprise out of your voice.
"She calls sometimes," he says with a shrug. "Checks in. Makes sure I'm notâI don't know, falling apart or whatever she says."
Your agent calls your ex-husband to check on him. That's, you don't know what to do with that information.
"It's going well," you say. "It's a limited series for Netflix. Still in early development, but I'm excited about it."
"That's great," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "You're brilliant at what you do. They're lucky to have you."
The compliment sits warm in your chest, and you hate how much you've missed thisâmissed him being proud of you, being in your corner.
"How's the season going?" you ask, because fair is fair.
"Good. Car's quick. We're P1 in the championship, which isâyeah. It's good." He's downplaying it. You've been following the season despite yourself, watching race highlights on YouTube at 2am when you can't sleep, and you know McLaren is having their best season in years. "Lots of pressure, but good pressure."
"You always did work well under pressure," you murmur.
His eyes meet yours, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch. "Yeah. Well. Some kinds of pressure are easier than others."
You don't ask what he means. You're not sure you want to know.
From down the hall, you hear a crash, followed by Mila's voice, "It wasn't me!"
"I shouldâ" You both say it at the same time, both moving toward the sound.
But it's just Thiago's car tower falling over, both kids already rebuilding it, and they barely glance up when you appear in the doorway. You and Lando stand there, watching them play, and the domesticity of it hurts.
This is what you gave up. These moments. This family.
"I should go," Lando says quietly. "Let you get them settled."
"Right. Yeah."
You walk him to the door, and he crouches down to say goodbye to the kids, both of them clinging to him, making him promise to FaceTime tomorrow. When he stands, he's closer than you expected, close enough that you can smell his cologneâthe same one he's always worn, the one you used to steal his hoodies for because they smelled like him.
"Think about the race?" he says.
"I will."
"Okay." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but then thinks better of it. "I'll text you the details. Just in case."
"Okay."
He leaves, and you close the door behind him, leaning against it for a long moment. From Thiago's room, you hear Mila call out, "Mummy! Come play with us!"
"Coming, baby," you call back.
But you stand there for another moment, your hand on the door handle, thinking about makeup bag and the way Lando had looked at you in your kitchen, and wondering when exactly your life became so complicated.
You're standing outside the Circuit de Monaco at 8:47am on race day Sunday, and you're having what might generously be called a crisis.
"We can still leave," your sister Margot says from the driver's seat of your Range Rover. She's flown in from London specifically for thisâmoral support and twin-wranglingâand she's looking at you with that expression that says she thinks this is a terrible idea but she loves you too much to say it out loud.
"Mummy, why aren't we going?" Mila asks from her car seat, already wearing her little papaya dress that matches her brother's McLaren shirt.
"We're going, baby," you say, taking a breath. "Justâjust give Mummy one second."
The problem is this: you've kept the twins out of the public eye since birth. Completely, deliberately, ruthlessly private. No photos, no social media, no confirmation beyond a simple statement when they were born. The press knows you have children with Landoâthe pregnancy had been impossible to hideâbut they've never seen them. You'd both agreed on that, one of the few things you'd managed to agree on toward the end of your marriage.
And now you're about to walk through those gates with two three-year-olds who look exactly like their Formula 1 driver father, and the entire world is going to lose its collective mind.
"You don't have to do this," Margot says quietly. "Lando would understand if you changed your mind."
But you'd promised. You'd promised Thiago, who's been talking about nothing but race cars for a week. You'd promised Mila, who wants to see where Daddy works. You'd promised Lando, who'd looked at you with those eyes and asked if you'd come.
"No, we're doing this," you say, and you sound more certain than you feel. "We're justâwe're going in."
Your phone buzzes and it's Lando.
You look at yourself in the visor mirror one more time. The white linen dress with navy embroidered flowersâelegant, understated, appropriate for Monaco in May. Your hair is down in loose waves, you have your favorite pair of Celine sunnies, and you look like someone who has her life together.
You look like a fucking lie.
"Right," you say, mostly to yourself. "Let's do this."
Margot drives to the VIP entrance, and even that is chaosâsecurity, credentials being checked, people everywhere. You can see cameras already tracking your car, photographers recognizing your license plate. By the time you've parked and gotten the kids out of their car seats, there's a small crowd forming.
"Mummy, why are people taking pictures?" Thiago asks, and there's uncertainty in his voice.
"Because Mummy makes movies, remember?" you say, crouching down to his level. "And some people like to take pictures. But you just hold my hand and stay close, okay?"
"Okay," he says, but he's pressed against your leg now, suddenly shy.
Mila is less concerned, more interested in her dress and whether it's twirling properly. Margot has her hand, and you've got Thiago, and together you start walking toward the entrance.
The photographers notice immediately.
"Is thatâ"
"Oh my god, are those her kids?"
"She brought the children!"
"That's definitely Lando's son, look at himâ"
The cameras explode into action. Clicking, shouting, people calling your name, asking you to look, asking about the kids, asking if you and Lando are back together. It's overwhelming and invasive and exactly what you'd been afraid of.
Thiago makes a small noise and buries his face against your leg. You bend down immediately, scooping him up even though he's getting too big for it, and he wraps his arms around your neck.
"It's okay, baby," you murmur into his hair. "We're almost inside. You're safe."
Margot has Mila, who's less scared and more confused about why everyone's so excited. Security is moving people back, creating a path, and you can see Lando now, he's appeared at the entrance in his race suit, his face shifting from casual to concerned the moment he sees the crowd.
He moves fast, closing the distance between you, and suddenly he's there, his hand on your back, his body between you and the photographers.
"Alright, that's enough," he says, and his voice has that edge it gets when he's not messing around. "Come on, let them through."
He guides you inside, one hand still on your back, and the moment you're past security, the noise dims. You set Thiago down carefully, and Lando immediately crouches in front of him.
"You okay, mate?" he asks gently. "That was a bit mad, wasn't it?"
Thiago nods, his face still pressed against your leg.
"They just wanted to take pictures of your mum because she's brilliant," Lando says. "But we're safe now. No more cameras, I promise."
"No more?" Thiago asks, his voice small.
"Not where we're going," Lando confirms. "The garage is a no-photo zone for them. It's just going to be the team, and they're all really nice, and they've been so excited to meet you."
He looks up at you then, and there's something in his expression, his brow furrows and he opens his mouth briefly before closing it again.
After a brief pause, he says quietly. "I'm sorry, I should have arranged better security."
"It's fine," you say, even though your heart is still racing. "We're fine."
Margot appears with Mila, who's now asking approximately twelve questions about why people wanted pictures and whether she's famous now.
"Margot," Lando says, standing. "Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it."
"Someone has to keep this disaster show running," Margot says, but she's smiling. She'd always liked Lando, even after the divorce. "Now, are you going to show us this fancy garage or what?"
The walk through the paddock is different with Lando beside you. People still look, still take photos, but they keep a respectful distance. Thiago relaxes enough to walk on his own, holding Lando's hand, and Mila is fascinated by everythingâthe colors, the people, the energy of it all.
You pass the Ferrari hospitality, and a woman calls out, "Good luck today, Lando!" You recognize her, one of the other drivers' girlfriends, you think. Then her eyes land on you and the children, and her expression shifts to delighted surprise. "Oh my god, you brought them! They're gorgeous!"
More people notice. More drivers, team personnel, WAGs. Everyone's respectful but curious, and you can feel the attention like a physical weight. The twins are absorbing it all with the adaptability of children, but you're hyperaware of every look, every whispered conversation.
The McLaren garage is a relief, it's climate controlled, organized, and as promised, no media allowed inside. The team is there, and they light up when they see the kids.
Oscar Piastri is the first to approach, crouching down to the twins' level. "Hey there," he says with that easy Australian charm. "I'm Oscar. I drive the other papaya car. You must be Thiago and Mila."
"How do you know our names?" Mila asks suspiciously.
"Your dad talks about you constantly," Oscar says, grinning up at Lando. "Like, all the time. We know everything about you."
"Oscar," Lando says, a warning in his voice, but he's smiling.
The team comes over to introduce themselvesâengineers, mechanics, strategists. Everyone is kind and patient, and Thiago's shyness starts to fade when one of the mechanics shows him the steering wheel, explaining all the buttons in terms a three-year-old can understand.
Mila is more interested in the screens, asking what all the numbers mean. Andrea, Lando's trainer, fields her questions with impressive patience.
You stand back with Margot, watching it all unfold. Watching Lando with the kids, introducing them to his world, the pride evident in every gesture. Watching the team embrace them, understanding how much this means to their driver.
"He's good with them," Margot observes quietly.
"He always was," you say, and there's too much emotion in your voice.
Lando glances over, catching your eye, and something passes between you. Then Zak Brown appears, impeccably dressed as always, and he makes a beeline for you.
"You made it," he says, pulling you into a brief hug. "I have to say, when Lando mentioned you might come, I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't delusional."
"Zak," Lando protests from across the garage.
"But I'm glad you're here," Zak continues, ignoring him. "The kids too. Thisâ" he gestures around, "âthis is important. Family's important."
The word sits heavy between you. Family. Like you still are one, like you haven't spent eighteen months learning how to be separate people.
The morning passes in a blur. The twins are fascinated by everything, asking endless questions that the team fields with patience and enthusiasm. Thiago is obsessed with the car, running his small hands over the carbon fiber with reverent care. Mila has decided she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, a declaration that makes Lando's face do something complicated.
Around 11:30, Lando has to start his pre-race routine. He crouches down to the twins, explaining that he needs to get ready but they'll be able to watch everything.
"Will you be scared in the car?" Mila asks, touching his face with her small hand.
"Maybe a little bit," Lando admits. "But being a little bit scared means you're doing something brave, right? That's what Mummy always says."
He glances up at you when he says it, and you're hit with the memory of telling him that, years ago, when you were still together and he was nervous about a particular race. You'd been lying in bed, his head on your chest, and you'd run your fingers through his hair and told him that fear was just proof that what he was doing mattered.
"You'll be the bravest," Thiago declares with absolute certainty.
"Thanks, bub," Lando says, pulling both kids into a hug. "You two be good for Mummy and Auntie Margot, yeah? And I'll see you after."
He stands, and his eyes meet yours again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing them. For being here. Itâyeah. Thank you."
"Win for them," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended.
Something flashes in his expression, and you realize it's a deep desire, a want to do well for his kids. "Yeah," he says. "I will."
Then he's being pulled away for final preparations, and you're being guided to where you'll watch the race, a prime spot in the garage with a clear view of the monitors and the pit lane. Margot has the kids, keeping them entertained, while you try to calm your racing heart.
The cars line up on the gridâLando's in P4, having had a strong qualifyingâand suddenly it's real. You're about to watch your ex-husband race through the streets of Monaco, one of the most dangerous circuits in the world, while your children watch.
"Mummy, I can't see," Thiago complains, and you lift him up, settling him on your hip despite the fact that he's getting too big for it.
He makes a brilliant move on the first lap, overtaking into P3. The garage erupts, and Thiago is bouncing in your arms, shouting, "Go Daddy go!"
The race unfolds with the particular tension of Monacoâevery corner mattering, no room for error. Lando is driving aggressively but smart, defending his position, looking for opportunities. On lap 23, he makes another move, diving up the inside into Portier, and suddenly he's P2.
"Is Daddy winning?" Mila asks, tugging on your dress.
"Almost, baby," you manage, your voice tight. "He's in second place."
With fifteen laps to go, the leader makes a mistakeâjust a small one, running slightly wide at Rascasseâand Lando is there. He's through, taking the lead, and the garage explodes into celebration. You're not breathing properly. You're watching every corner, every braking zone, willing him to be safe, to be fast, to make it to the end.
Ten laps. Five laps. Three laps.
"Come on," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're praying or pleading. "Come on, Lando."
People are screaming, hugging each other, jumping up and down. Thiago is shrieking, "DADDY WON! DADDY WON!" and Mila is clapping and laughing, and youâ
You're crying. Properly crying, tears streaming down your face, and you don't even care that people can see, that there are cameras in the garage catching this. Lando just won Monaco, and your children are here to see it, and everything you've been holding back for eighteen months is suddenly right there on the surface.
Margot takes Thiago from you, understanding without words that you need a moment. You press your hands to your face, trying to get yourself under control, but it's impossible.
Because you remember. You remember every late night conversation about this race, how it was the one he wanted more than any other, how winning Monaco would mean everything. You remember being his partner through the disappointments, through the near-misses, through every year he didn't quite get there.
And now he has, and you're not his partner anymore, and it hurts in a way you can't articulate.
You can see him nowâclimbing out of the car, standing on top of it, arms raised in victory. The crowd is roaring, and he's taking it all in, this moment he's worked his entire life for.
Then he takes off his helmet, and he's looking around, scanning the crowd, andâ
His eyes find yours.
Everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the celebration. It's just him looking at you, and the expression on his face is so raw, so open, that you can't breathe.
He's off the car, moving through the crowd, and people are trying to stop himâmedia, team members, officialsâbut he's single-minded. He's walking straight toward you, and your heart is hammering, and the twins are shouting for him, andâ
He reaches you. His race suit is soaked with sweat, his hair is matted from his helmet, and he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
He looks at you for one more second, and then he's scooping up both kids, one under each arm, spinning them around while they scream with delight. When he sets them down, he's grinning so wide it must hurt.
"Did you see Daddy's race?" he asks them.
"You were SO FAST," Thiago shouts.
"You won!" Mila adds, like he might have forgotten.
"I did," he says, and his eyes drift back to you. "I really did."
Someone's calling himâhe needs to go to the cooldown room, then the podium, then media. But he hesitates, looking at you like he's afraid if he leaves, you'll disappear.
"Go," you say softly. "We'll be here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He nods, pressing quick kisses to both kids' heads, and then he's being pulled away into the chaos of post-race procedures. You watch him go, your heart doing complicated things, and Margot's hand finds yours.
"You okay?" she asks quietly.
"No," you admit. "Not even a little bit."
Because you just remembered what it felt like to be his, to share his victories, to be the person he looked for in the crowd, and you're not sure you can forget again.
The podium ceremony is a blur of champagne and national anthems and Lando standing on the top step looking like every dream he's ever had just came true. The twins are mesmerized, Mila by the champagne spray ("Mummy, why are they spraying it?"), Thiago by the trophy that's nearly as big as he is.
You're standing with Margot and the McLaren team, and you can't stop watching him. The way he holds the trophy, the way he sprays champagne with Oscar who's finished P3, the way he keeps looking down at where you are with the kids like he needs to confirm you're still there.
When he finally makes it back down, he's drenched and grinning and has to do approximately seventeen million media obligations. You take the twins back to the hospitality suite, where they're given McLaren merchandise and more snacks than they need, and you try very hard not to fall apart.
"That was mental," Margot says, watching as Mila explains the race to her stuffed elephant in elaborate detail. "The cameras, the attention, all of it. You okay?"
"Fine," you lie.
"You're a terrible liar," she says. "You always have been."
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes.
You stare at the message for a long moment. You'd planned to drive back separately, to give him space to celebrate with his team, to maintain that careful distance you've both been keeping.
But he's asking. He's asking for more time.
It's another forty-five minutes before he's finally free, showered, changed into McLaren team wear, looking exhausted and elated in equal measure. The twins have hit that overtired phase where everything is either hilarious or devastating, and you're running on fumes.
"Ready to go home?" Lando asks, and there's something in the way he says 'home' that makes your chest tight.
"Please," you say. "Before they have complete meltdowns."
The car is waiting outside, a massive black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and enough space for all of you plus Margot. Lando's security team has already loaded his things, and there's a car seat situation happening that involves one of the team members and a lot of frustrated muttering about British versus European safety standards.
You're gathering the kids' things when you realize the crowd outside has grown. Significantly.
"There's a lot of people out there," you say to Lando, keeping your voice low so the twins don't hear.
"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. "It's been building all day. They know aboutâ" He gestures vaguely between you. "About you being here. The kids."
"Right." Your stomach drops. "We'll just be quick, then."
"Security's going to create a path," he says. "Just stay close to me, okay? I'll have Mila, you've got Thiago, Margot's got the bags."
It's a military operation, basically. You scoop up Thiago, who's starting to get whiny, and Lando gets Mila, and Margot has approximately seventeen bags of kids' things and McLaren merchandise. Security opens the door, and the wall of sound hits you immediately.
There have to be at least two hundred people outside the barriers. fans with phones out, photographers, people shouting questions and congratulations. The security team creates a corridor, but it's narrow, and the noise is overwhelming.
"LANDO! Lando, over here!"
"Congratulations on the win!"
"Is that your son? Oh my god, he looks just like you!"
"Are you back together? Are you andâ"
Thiago buries his face in your neck, his small body tense against yours. You hold him tighter, one hand on his back, trying to shield him from the cameras while moving as quickly as you can toward the Escalade.
"Lando, can you confirm you're back together?"
"When did you reconcile?"
"How long have you been seeing each other again?"
You can see the car now, just ten more feet. Lando's ahead of you, his body angled to protect Mila from the worst of the crowd. The security team is doing their best, but phones are being thrust over the barriers, cameras flashing, voices overlapping into incomprehensible noise.
"Are those your children? Can we get a photo?"
"Just one picture! Please!"
"Mummy," Thiago whimpers against your neck. "Too loud."
"I know, baby," you murmur. "Almost there."
Lando reaches the car first, carefully depositing Mila inside before turning back. He's at your side immediately, his hand on your lower back, creating a barrier between you and the crowd with his body.
"I've got you," he says quietly, and then you're at the car, and he's helping you get Thiago in while Margot throws bags into the boot.
Someone shouts, "Does this mean you're back together? For the kids?"
Another voice, "Are you giving your marriage another shot?"
You're climbing into the back seat, and Lando's right behind you, pulling the door shut, and suddenly it's quiet. Or quieter, at least, the voices are muffled now, the tinted windows providing a barrier.
"Jesus," Margot says from the front passenger seat. "That was intense."
"Sorry," Lando says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. "I should have arranged for you to leave earlier, before it got that bad."
"It's fine," you say, but your hands are shaking slightly as you buckle Thiago into his car seat. Mila's already strapped in on the other side, looking tired but okay.
The driver pulls away from the circuit, and you can still see camera flashes through the windows, phones tracking the car as you leave. It takes a full five minutes before the crowd thins, before you're out of the immediate chaos and onto the streets of Monaco.
The car is quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the air conditioning. Lando's sitting next to you in the back, there's a row of seats in the middle where Margot is, and then the back row where you and Lando have ended up, the twins in their car seats between you.
Thiago's eyes are already drooping, the combination of excitement and exhaustion catching up with him. Mila's fighting it, but you can see her losing the battle.
"That was a big day," you say softly, stroking Thiago's hair.
"Daddy won," he mumbles, his eyes closing.
"He did," you confirm. "Daddy won."
Within ten minutes, both kids are out cold, their heads lolling in their car seats in that boneless way children sleep. You carefully adjust Thiago's head so he's not at a weird angle, and when you look up, you catch Lando doing the same for Mila.
Your eyes meet for a brief second before you both look away.
The silence stretches. Margot's got her AirPods in up front, deliberately giving you space. The driver has the privacy screen up slightly. It's just you and Lando and two sleeping children and everything you're not saying.
You watch Monaco slide by through the tinted windows, the harbor with its absurd yachts, the narrow streets, the buildings stacked impossibly up the hillside. It's beautiful and familiar and feels nothing like home.
You're thinking about what happens now. Whether you go straight to your place in Fontvieille or to his place in Larvotto. Whether you say goodbye in the car or walk the kids up. Whether this is the end of today or the beginning of something you're not ready to name.
You're thinking about the crowd outside the circuit, the questions they were shouting, the assumption that you're back together. The photos that are probably already onlineâyou and Lando and the twins, looking for all the world like a family.
You're thinking aboutâ
His hand finds your knee.
Not in a deliberate way, not like he's making a move. It's almost unconscious, the way his hand just settles there on your bare knee, his palm warm through the thin linen of your dress. Like his body has forgotten you're not his anymore, like muscle memory has overridden conscious thought.
You freeze. You should move away, should say something, should maintain that boundary you've both been so careful about.
But you don't.
You sit there, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and you don't move.
Lando's looking out the window, his face turned away from you, and you can't tell if he's realized what he's done. His thumb isn't moving, isn't stroking or caressing, it's just there, this point of contact that feels monumental and terrifying and like the most natural thing in the world.
The car turns onto the coast road, the Mediterranean spreading blue and endless to your right. The late afternoon sun is turning everything golden, and you're acutely aware of every point where your body exists, the seat beneath you, the air conditioning on your skin, and especially, overwhelmingly, his hand on your knee.
Your heart is doing something complicated. Your brain is screaming at you to move, to break this moment before it becomes something you can't take back. But your body has other ideas, staying perfectly still, afraid that any movement will make him realize and pull away.
You can see his reflection in the window, the line of his jaw, the way he's frowning slightly at something only he can see. His race suit is unzipped at the top, and you can see the edge of his team shirt, papaya orange against his tan skin. He looks tired, the adrenaline of the race finally wearing off, and there's something vulnerable about seeing him like this, in the liminal space between public victory and private reality.
The car slows for a turn, and his hand shifts slightly on your knee, his fingers spreading fractionally wider, and it feels like every nerve ending in your body has relocated to that one point of contact.
This is dangerous. This is the opposite of the careful distance you've maintained. This isâ
"Which home, Mr. Norris?" the driver asks, and the moment shatters.
Lando's hand disappears from your knee like he's been burned. He sits forward, putting space between you, and you can see the back of his neck has gone slightly red.
"Um," you say, and your voice comes out rough. You clear your throat. "Mine, please. Fontvieille."
"Actually," Lando says, and he's still not looking at you. "Could you drop me first? Larvotto. Then take them on to Fontvieille."
"Of course," the driver says.
The rest of the drive passes in painful silence. Lando's looking out his window, you're looking out yours, and there's about three feet of space between you that might as well be three miles. Margot's still deliberately oblivious in the front, and the twins are still sleeping, unaware of the tension radiating through the car.
When you pull up to Lando's building, he's out of the car almost before it stops moving.
"I'llâI'll text you about next week," he says, leaning back in to grab his bag. "About the schedule."
"Okay," you manage.
He looks at the twins, both still asleep, and something crosses his faceâlonging, regret, something you can't name. "Thanks for today. For bringing them. For being there."
"Yeah," you say. "Of course."
He straightens up, closes the door, and then he's gone, disappearing into his building without looking back.
The car pulls away, and you feel the absence of his hand like a physical thingâthe place on your knee where it had been suddenly cold.
The rest of the drive to your place is quiet. Margot takes out her AirPods as you pull up to your building.
"You okay?" she asks, turning to look at you. "You've been really quiet."
"Just tired," you say, which isn't a lie but isn't the whole truth either.
She gives you a look that says she doesn't quite believe you but isn't going to push. "It was a huge day."
"Yeah," you agree. "It was."
You carry Thiago insideâhe barely stirsâand Margot gets Mila, and you get them both into their beds without fully waking them. You stand in the doorway of Mila's room for a long moment, watching her sleep in her papaya dress with champagne still stuck in her hair, and you think about Lando's hand on your knee, and you think about the way he couldn't look at you when he left, and you think about how you're supposed to go back to normal after today.
You tell yourself a lot of things that you don't believe. Margot finds you an hour later, still sitting on the floor outside Mila's room, your phone in your hand.
"Come on," she says gently, pulling you up. "Let's get you some wine and a terrible reality show. You look like you need it."
"I can't do this," you say quietly as she guides you to the living room. "I can'tâMargot, I can't keep doing this."
"What happened?" she asks, settling you on the sofa and heading to your wine fridge. "In the car, something happened. You both got all weird."
You're quiet for a long moment, accepting the glass of wine she pours. "He put his hand on my knee," you finally say. "For like fifteen minutes. And it just fucking sat there. And we both pretended it wasn't happening."
"Oh, babe," Margot says, sitting next to you.
"And the worst part is, I didn't want him to move it," you continue, and your voice cracks. "I wanted him to keep it there. I wantedâgod, Margot, what's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you," she says firmly. "You're in love with your ex-husband. That's not wrong, it's just complicated."
"We're divorced," you say. "We're divorced for a reason. We couldn't make it work."
"I know," she says. "But that doesn't mean you stopped loving him."
You take a long drink of wine, and you don't say anything, because what is there to say? She's right, and you both know it, and acknowledging it out loud feels like opening a door you've been desperately trying to keep closed.
The apartment is too quiet.
You've been sitting in your living room for the past two hours, working on script revisions for the Netflix series, but you've read the same page seventeen times and haven't absorbed a single word. Your laptop screen has gone dark three times from inactivity.
The twins left this morning. Your parents had picked them up at 6am for their annual trip to Greece, two weeks on Crete in the villa your dad rents every summer. Mila had been vibrating with excitement, chattering about the beach and the boat and whether she'd see dolphins. Thiago had clutched his stuffed car and asked approximately forty times if you were sure Mummy would be okay without them.
"I'll be fine, baby," you'd told him, crouching down to his level in the pre-dawn darkness. "Mummy has lots of work to do. You're going to have so much fun with Grandma and Grandpa."
He'd hugged you so tight your ribs hurt, and you'd breathed in the scent of his hairâstill that little-kid smell of apple shampoo and something indefinably himâand you'd wanted to call the whole thing off, to keep them here, to not spend two weeks alone in this too-big apartment.
But your parents had been planning this for months, and the kids needed time with them, and you neededâ
You don't know what you need.
You abandon the laptop and walk to the window. Your apartment in Fontvieille has a view of the port, and you can see yachts glittering in the late June sun. It's beautiful and expensive and exactly what you'd wanted when you bought it.
It's also profoundly lonely.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You check it reflexively, hoping forâyou're not sure what. A text from your parents saying the kids arrived safely, maybe, even though they won't land for another hour.
Lando's been doing well. Really well. Three wins so far this seasonâMonaco, Barcelona, and Silverstone. The championship battle is tight, and McLaren is genuinely in the fight, and every interview he does, he's glowing with this focused energy that you remember from the early days of your relationship, when everything felt possible.
You've been texting about the kids, of course. Quick, functional messages about schedules and dietary requirements and Thiago's newest obsession with dinosaurs. Nothing personal. Nothing that acknowledges what happened in the car after Monaco, his hand on your knee, the way you both pretended it meant nothing.
You haven't seen him in person since then. The twins have been doing their time with him in between his race weekends, but you've arranged for your assistant to do the drop-offs and pick-ups. Clean, professional, maintaining boundaries.
You've been fine.
Except you're not fine. You're the opposite of fine. You're sitting in your apartment on a Friday evening in June with nothing to do and no one to do it with, and you're twenty-seven years old, and you're successful and wealthy and have everything you ever wanted professionally, and you're so fucking lonely you could scream.
You take in a deep breath and take a good look around your apartment. The kids' toys are still scattered in Thiago's room. Mila's hair clips are on the bathroom counter. There's a drawing of a race car stuck to your fridge with a magnet, Thiago's careful three-year-old scrawl spelling out "DADDY" in orange crayon.
You need to get out of here.
You'd bought the Porsche three weeks ago, right after Monaco. A 911 GT3 RS in white with a black interior, absurdly fast and completely impractical for Monaco's narrow streets. Your financial advisor had sent you a very polite email questioning the purchase. Your therapist would probably have questions about the timing and what you were trying to compensate for.
But god, it's beautiful.
It's sitting in your garage, and you grab the keys without thinking, without planning, just needing to move, to drive, to do something other than sit in your apartment thinking about everything you're trying not to think about.
The car roars to life, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. You pull out onto the street, and Monaco spreads out around youâthe evening golden hour making everything look like a postcard. You don't have a destination in mind. You're just driving, following the coast road, letting the car eat up the curves.
You pass the casino, the hotel where you'd stayed when you first started dating Lando, back when everything was new and exciting and uncomplicated. You pass the harbor where you'd had your rehearsal dinner, back when you thought marriage was going to be forever. You pass the turnoff for the hospital where the twins were born, where Lando had cried holding Mila for the first time, his hands shaking with the weight of her.
You're not crying. You're just driving.
Except you're not just driving anymore. You're taking turns you know by heart, following a route you've driven hundreds of times, and you don't realize where you're going until you're pulling into the garage of a building in Larvotto, until you're putting the car in park and staring at the familiar concrete walls.
Lando's building.
Lando's garage.
What the fuck are you doing?
You should leave. You should reverse out of here and drive home and pour yourself a large glass of wine and go to bed and pretend this never happened.
But you're already out of the car. You're already walking to the lift. You're already pressing the button and watching the numbers climb.
You're standing in front of the keypad next to his door, and your hand is hovering over it, and this is insane. This is the opposite of maintaining boundaries. This isâ
You punch in the code. Your birthday. The code he'd set when you moved in together, before the wedding, before the twins, before everything fell apart. The code he's never changed, apparently, because the lock actually clicks open.
The apartment is warmly lit, not dark like you'd expected. You can hear music playing softly from somewhere inside, something you don't recognize. Your heart is hammering as you step inside, and you're about to call out, to announce yourself, when you freeze.
Lando's in the kitchen.
Shirtless.
He's got his back to you, wearing only grey joggers that sit low on his hips, and he's doing something at the counter, chopping vegetables, you think, though your brain has mostly short-circuited. His shoulders move as he works, muscles shifting under tan skin, and you can see the curve of his spine, the lines of his back that you used to trace with your fingers.
You must make a soundâa sharp intake of breath, or maybe your keys jingle, or maybe he just senses someone's thereâbecause he turns around.
His eyes go wide when he sees you. The knife in his hand freezes mid-air.
"Whatâ" he starts, and his face cycles through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. Shock, confusion, something that might be hope, and thenâ
Fear. He looks so utterly fucking scared.
"Iâ" you begin, but your voice dies in your throat.
Because you hear it. The sound of a woman's voice from down the hall, from where the bedrooms are. Light, slightly accented, calling out, "Babe, did you open the wine yet? I can't find theâ"
"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec," Lando calls back, not taking his eyes off you.
But his voice has changed. It's gone tight, careful, and the fear in his expression intensifies when he sees your face, when he watches you process what you've just heard.
Babe.
You take a step backward. Your hand fumbles behind you for the doorframe, for something solid to hold onto.
"Wait," Lando says, and he's moving toward you now, the knife forgotten on the counter. "Justâwait, pleaseâ"
But you're already taking another step back. And another. Your vision is doing something strange, tunneling, and you can't seem to get enough air into your lungs.
"I'm sorry," he's saying, and he's still approaching, hands slightly raised like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. "I'm so sorry, I didn'tâI didn't know you were coming, I would haveâ"
Another step back and your spine hits the wall of the entryway.
"Please," he says, and his voice cracks. "Please just let me explain. It's notâit's not what you think. It's not serious, we've only beenâ"
"Stop," you manage, and the word comes out strangled. "Just stop."
He freezes a few feet away from you, and you can see it all on his face, the panic, the guilt, the desperate need to fix this. He looks like he's watching something precious shatter in slow motion and he's powerless to stop it.
"How did you get in?" he asks, and it's such a stupid question that you almost laugh.
"The code," you say and your voice sounds almost robotic. "It's still my birthday."
Something crosses his fac, "Yeah, I never changed it."
"I noticed."
The silence stretches and you can still hear the music still playing from the kitchen, soft and jazzy and it feels so fucking obscene given the circumstances. You can also hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
"I'm sorry," Lando says again, and this time his voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't want, I never wanted you to find out like this."
"Find out what?" you ask, even though you know, even though it's obvious. "That you're seeing someone? That you've moved on?"
"It's notâ" He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "It's nothing. It doesn't mean anything."
"Then why is she here?" The question comes out sharper than you intended. "Why is she in your apartment calling you babe and â" You can't finish the sentence. Can't say out loud because it'll make it true, it'll make it real.
"Because I'm trying," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I'm trying to move on, to be, to be bloody normal. To date people and notâ"
He stops abruptly, like he's said too much.
"Not what?" you press, even though you're not sure you want to hear the answer.
"Not spend every fucking day missing you," he says, and the words come out rough, almost angry. "Not look for you in every room I walk into. Not check my phone hoping you've texted about something other than the kids' schedules. Notâ" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I'm trying not to be in love with my ex-wife, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"
The air leaves your lungs.
"Landoâ"
"No, you know what? No." He's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, like he can't contain the energy suddenly coursing through him. "You don't get to show up here unannounced and look at me like that. You don't get toâ" He stops, turning to face you. "We're divorced. You divorced me."
"We divorced each other," you correct, but your voice is weak.
"And I respected that," he continues, like he hasn't heard you. "I gave you space. I kept my distance. I did the whole fucking co-parenting thing exactly how you wanted. I didn't push, didn't ask for more and yeah, I started seeing someone, because I'm trying toâto figure out how to be a person who isn't completely fucking in love with someone I can't have."
Your back is still pressed against the wall, and you're staring at him, and every word he's saying is landing like a physical blow.
"I'm sorry I came," you say quietly. "I shouldn't have. I didn'tâI wasn't thinking."
"Why did you?" he asks, and he's closer now, just a few feet away. "Why did you come here?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"I don't have a better one," you say, and your voice cracks. "The kids are gone and my apartment was too quiet and I was driving and I just, I ended up here. I'm sorry."
He's looking at you like he's trying to read something in your face, like he's searching for an answer you're not giving him.
"You can't do this," he says finally, and his voice has gone quiet again. "You can't just show up here and look at me like, like you're hurt that I'm trying to move on. That's not fair."
"I know," you whisper. "I know it's not fair. You're allowed to see people. You're allowed to have someone here. I have no right to be upset about it."
"But you are," he says. "You are upset."
You don't answer, because what's the point? He can see it written all over your face.
"She's nice," he says after a moment, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. "She's really sweet. She doesn't have, there's no history, no baggage. It's just easy."
"That's good," you manage. "You deserve easy."
From down the hall, you hear movement. A door opening. You have a feeling she's going to come looking for him, and you cannot be here when she does. You push off from the wall, moving toward the door.
"I have to go," you say.
"Don't," he says immediately. "Please, just, can we talk about this? Properly?"
"There's nothing to talk about," you say, and you're fumbling with the door handle now, desperate to leave before she appears, before this gets any worse. "You're seeing someone. That's, that's really fucking good. That's what we're supposed to be doing. Moving on, being normal."
"Are you?" he asks. "Moving on?"
You finally get the door open.
"I'm trying," you say, which is the truth and also a complete lie.
"That's not what I asked."
You can't look at him anymore. If you look at him, you're going to fall apart completely, and you can't do that here, not now, not with someone waiting for him in the other room.
"I'm sorry I came," you say again. "I won't, it won't happen again. I'll change my number from the emergency contacts, use my assistant for drop-offs. I'll stay out of your way."
"That's not what I want," he says, and his voice is strained.
"What do you want, Lando?" you ask, finally meeting his eyes. "Because I can't figure out what you want from me."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. For a long moment, he just stares at you, and you can see him wrestling with something, trying to decide what to say.
"I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't fucking know anymore."
The honesty of it hurts more than any lie could.
"Okay," you say softly. "Okay."
You step into the hallway, and this time he doesn't try to stop you. You can feel him watching as you walk to the lift, as you press the button with shaking hands. The doors open immediatelyâa small mercyâand you step inside.
Just before the doors close, you glance back.
He's still standing in his doorway, shirtless and barefoot and looking completely devastated. And you realize that thisâthis moment right hereâthis is the actual end. Not the divorce papers, not the separation of your belongings, not the carefully negotiated custody schedule.
This. The moment when you both finally accept that you're not going to find your way back to each other.
The lift doors close, and you slide down to the floor, your legs giving out.
You sit there as the lift descends, hugging your knees to your chest, and you let yourself cry in a way you haven't let yourself cry since the divorce was finalized. Raw, gasping sobs that echo in the small metal box.
The wall is mocking you. It absolutely, 100, gazillion percent is.
You're standing in what will eventually be a playroom in your house in France, staring at the half-painted pale blue surface like it's personally offended you. Which, at this point, it basically fucking has. You've been at this for two hours, and somehow there are still patches you've missed, drip marks you need to fix, and that one corner near the ceiling that you can't quite reach even with the ladder.
The house is chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Your parents arrived yesterday with the twins, who've spent the morning "helping" by getting into everything they possibly could. There are birthday decorations scattered across the dining room tableâpapaya orange and white, because Thiago had very specific opinions about the color scheme. Mila had insisted on butterflies, so there are approximately seven hundred butterfly stickers that will need to be strategically placed tomorrow.
Tomorrow. The twins' fourth birthday party.
Which means Lando will be here. Today.
Your stomach flips in the way it's been doing for three months now, ever since that night in his apartment. Ever since you walked in on him with someone else and realized that the divorce might be final on paper, but emotionally you're still completely wrecked.
You haven't seen him since. Not in person. Your assistant Claudia has been handling all the drop-offs and pick-ups, and you've perfected the art of being "unavoidably detained" on set whenever he texts about wanting to talk. The twins FaceTime him regularly, and you make yourself scarce during those calls, letting your parents or Claudia supervise.
Your phone buzzes on the drop cloth. You already know what it is before you look.
You stare at the message, then glance at your watch. 2:37pm. You have less than half an hour to finish this wall, shower off the paint you've somehow gotten in your hair, and transform into a version of yourself that can handle being in the same room as your ex-husband without falling apart.
It's not a no, but it's not a yes. It's the same answer you've been giving for three months.
You set the phone down and attack the wall with renewed vigor, like if you just paint fast enough, hard enough, you can somehow paint over the image that's been burned into your brain, Lando shirtless in his kitchen, a woman's voice calling him 'babe,' the look on his face when he said he was trying his hardest to not fuckingbe in love with you.
You're so focused on the wall that you don't hear the commotion downstairs at first. Then Thiago's voice cuts through, shrieking at a pitch that could shatter glass: "DADDY!"
Your hand slips. You leave a long paint streak across the wall that you'll have to fix.
You can hear the thunder of small feet on stairs, excited voices overlapping, and then Lando's voice, warm and bright and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache.
"There they are! Did you get taller? You definitely got taller."
"We're four !" Mila announces, like this is breaking news.
"Almost four," Lando corrects. "Still got one more day of being three. Are you ready for your party?"
"Mummy's painting the playroom!" Thiago says. "It's blue like the sky!"
"Is she? Can I see?"
"NO!" Both twins say it simultaneously, and you can hear the grin in Lando's voice when he responds.
"No? Why not?"
"Because," Mila says with four-year-old logic, "it not finished. You have to wait."
"Okay. Very professional gig you have going on here."
You hear your mother's voice then, greeting Lando warmly. Your parents never stopped liking him after the divorce, which is both comforting and terrible. Your dad appears in the doorway of the playroom a moment later.
"Lando's here," he says, like you couldn't hear the commotion. "Kids are giving him the full tour. We've got maybe five minutes before they drag him up here despite their promise about the reveal."
"Great," you mutter, trying to fix the paint streak you made.
"You know," your dad says carefully, "you can't avoid him all weekend. It's a small house."
"I'm not avoiding him. I'm painting."
"Right and you just happened to schedule painting for the exact time he was arriving."
You don't dignify that with a response.
Your dad sighs. "Sweetheart, I don't know what happened between you two, butâ"
"Dad. Please. Not now."
He holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay. But you should know, the kids have been talking about how Daddy needs to stay here, not at a hotel. They've got a whole campaign planned."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"Apparently Thiago has decided that families should be together for birthdays, and Mila has prepared arguments. I'm just warning you."
He disappears back downstairs, and you're left standing there with a paint roller in your hand, trying to process this new information.
The kids want Lando to stay here. In your house. For three days.
You can't. You absolutely cannot have him staying under the same roof, sleeping down the hall, being domestic and present andâ
"Mummy!" Thiago bursts into the room, Lando right behind him. "Daddy's here and he brought presents but we can't open them until tomorrow but he said they're really good andâ"
You turn around on your ladder, paint roller still in hand, and there he is. Lando. In your house in France. Wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that fits him unfairly well, his hair slightly longer than the last time you saw him, and he's looking up at you with an expression you can't quite read, refuse to read.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you manage, acutely aware that you're covered in paint, wearing your oldest clothes, and probably have blue streaks in your hair.
"The wall looks good," he offers.
"It's not finished."
"Right. Yeah. I can see that."
The silence stretches awkward and terrible between you. Thiago is oblivious, chattering about something, but Mila is watching both of you with those too-perceptive three-year old eyes that somehow miss nothing.
"We'll let you finish," Lando says finally. "I just wanted to, yeah. I'm here. If you need anything."
"I'm fine," you say, turning back to the wall.
You hear them leave, Thiago's voice fading as they go back downstairs, and you attack the wall with renewed intensity.
Dinner is a special kind of torture.
Your mother has made her famous coq au vin, and everyone's gathered around the long table in your dining room, your parents, Lando's parents, Cisca and Flo who flew in this morning, the twins, Lando, and you at the opposite end of the table because you're apparently twelve years old and can't handle sitting next to your ex-husband.
The twins are in high spirits, positioned between their Norris grandparents, talking over each other about their party tomorrow, about the games you've planned, about the cake that's being delivered in the morning.
You're pushing food around your plate, hyperaware of Lando's presence three seats down, of the way he laughs at something your dad says, of how natural he looks here, surrounded by both families like this is normal, like you all do this regularly instead of it being the first time since the divorce that everyone's been in the same room.
Cisca keeps catching your eye with this look that's too knowing, too hopeful. You focus very intently on your wine.
"This is delicious," Adam says to your mother, and she beams at him. Lando's dad has always been easy with compliments, warm in a way that made you feel immediately welcomed into their family all those years ago.
"I'm so glad we could all be here," Cisca says, looking around the table. "Together, and as a family."
The emphasis on 'family' is not subtle. You resist the urge to drain your wine glass.
"It's important," your mother agrees. "The children need to see everyone together, especially for important occasions."
"Exactly," Cisca says, and she's definitely looking at you and Lando now. "Family is everything."
Flo catches your eye and mouths 'sorry' with an eyeroll. At least someone at this table understands that this is excruciating.
"Daddy," Mila says suddenly, in that tone that means she's been planning this. "Where are you sleeping?"
Here it comes.
The entire table goes quiet. Even your mother stops mid-bite.
"At a hotel, baby girl," Lando says carefully. "Not far from here. Maybe fifteen minutes."
"But why?" Thiago asks, his face crumpling. "Why can't you stay here?"
"Becauseâ" Lando glances at you, and you keep your eyes on your plate. "Because Mummy's house is for you and Mummy, and Daddy has his own place."
"But it's our birthday," Mila says, and her bottom lip is starting to wobble in that way that means tears are imminent. "And families should be together for birthdays."
You can feel multiple sets of eyes on you. Cisca's particularly intense.
"Bug, we'll be together," Lando says gently. "I'll be here all day tomorrow. The whole party, and I'm not going anywhere."
"But you'll leave at night," Thiago says, and now he's tearing up too. "You always leave at night."
Your dad was right, they've prepared arguments. Probably with help from their Norris grandmother, judging by the expression on Cisca's face.
"This house has so many rooms," Mila continues, gaining confidence. "Grandma and Grandad are in the blue room, and Nana and Papa are in the yellow room, and Aunt Flo is in the pink room, and we're in our room, and there's still the guest room that nobody's using, andâ"
"Mila," you say quietly. "Daddy's already booked a hotel."
"But he could unbwook it!" she insists, turning those devastating eyes on you. The eyes she got from Lando, which is really unfair because you can't say no to those eyes. "Please, Mummy? Please can Daddy stay here? Just for our birthday?"
Thiago is fully crying now, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. "I want Daddy to stay," he says, his voice small and breaking. "I want us to be together."
You feel like you're being ambushed. By your four-year-olds. In front of both sets of parents and Lando's sister.
Lando looks physically pained. "Mate, don't cry. It's okayâ"
"It's not okay!" Thiago says, louder now, working himself up into a proper tantrum. "You always leave! You always go away! And I wantâI wantâ"
He can't finish because he's sobbing now, and Mila is crying too, and you feel like the worst person in the world. Across the table, Cisca is watching you with an expression that's part sympathy, part gentle pressure.
Your eyes meet Lando's. He looks as wrecked as you feel, and there's a question in his expression, it's your house, your call, but if you say no, he'll be the one who has to comfort two heartbroken children.
You can feel everyone waiting. Your parents, his parents, Flo. All of them carefully not saying anything, but the silence is loaded.
"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Okay. He can stay."
Both twins stop crying immediately, their tears shutting off like taps.
"Really?" Mila asks, her face transforming.
"Really," you confirm, even though every self-preservation instinct you have is screaming at you. "But Daddy has to be okay with it too."
Six pairs of adult eyes and two pairs of children's eyes turn to Lando. He's very carefully not looking at anyone except you.
"Yeah," he says finally, his voice quiet. "Yeah, if Mummy says it's okay, then I'll stay."
The twins erupt into cheers, and just like that, the crisis is averted. They're back to being excited, chattering about how Daddy can read bedtime stories and be there when they wake up on their birthday.
Under the table, you feel your mother squeeze your hand. When you glance at her, she gives you a soft smile that says 'you're doing the right thing,' but you're not sure she's right.
Cisca looks like Christmas came early. Adam is wisely staying out of it, focused on his food. Flo mouths 'you okay?' and you give her the smallest shake of your head.
Three days. Lando is going to be staying in your house for three days.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Fucking splendid actually.
"Can we play a game after dinner?" Thiago asks, tears completely forgotten. "All of us? Together?"
"That sounds lovely," Cisca says, before you can come up with an excuse. "What game were you thinking?"
And somehow you end up agreeing to a family game night, because apparently you've completely lost control of your life.
After dinner, you escape back to the playroom while the grandparents settle the twins in for the game they insisted on. You need to finish this wall, need something to focus on that isn't the fact that Lando is going to be sleeping down the hall for the next three nights, that you can hear his laughter drifting up from downstairs mixed with the children's giggles.
You're up on the ladder, trying to reach that impossible corner, when you hear footsteps behind you.
"Need help?"
You don't turn around. "I've got it."
"That corner's been driving you crazy for hours," Lando says, and you can hear him moving closer. "I've been watching you try to reach it."
"You've been watching me?"
"The twins pointed it out earlier," he says. "Said you kept saying bad words under your breath."
Despite yourself, you almost smile. "I didn't say bad words."
"Thiago said you said 'bloody hell' seventeen times."
"That's not a bad word."
"It is when you're three and you repeat it at dinner," he says, and now he's right below your ladder. "Come on. Let me help."
For a few minutes, you ignore him, continuing to stretch for that corner, your arm aching from the angle. You can feel him standing there, waiting, and the silence stretches heavy between you.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About earlier. The whole hotel thing. I tried to tell Mum not toâ"
"It's fine," you cut him off, still not looking at him.
"It's not fine. You shouldn't have been put in that position."
"Landoâ"
"And I know this is weird, me staying here, but I promise I'll stay out of your way. You won't even know I'mâ"
"Can you just hold the paint bucket?" you ask, your voice sharp with agitation. "Please. So I can reach this goddamn spot."
He's quiet for a second, then you hear him move. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."
He climbs up a few rungs on the other side of the ladder, taking the paint bucket from your hand, holding it steady so you can dip the roller properly. You stretch again, and finallyâfinallyâyou can reach the corner.
"Little to the left," you mutter, leaning further.
"You've got it," he says, and his voice is encouraging in that way that makes your chest ache with familiarity.
You're stretching, focusing on getting the paint smooth, when your foot shifts slightly on the rung. Just a little. Just enough.
"Carefulâ" Lando starts.
But it's too late. Your foot slips, your weight shifts wrong, and suddenly you're falling, paint roller in hand, andâ
Lando tries to catch you while also holding the paint bucket, which is a disaster waiting to happen. What actually occurs is you crash into him with the full force of gravity, the paint bucket goes flying, and you both go down hard, hitting the drop cloth with a thud that knocks the air from your lungs.
Paint goes everywhere. All over you, all over him, all over the drop cloth. The bucket rolls away, leaving a trail of pale blue across the floor.
For a second, you just lie there on top of him, winded and disoriented. Then you register the position you're inâstraddling his hips, your hands pressed against his chest, his hands on your waist where they'd tried to catch you.
You're both covered in paint. It's in your hair, on your face, soaking through your clothes. Lando's black t-shirt is now streaked with blue, and there's a paint smear across his jaw, andâ
You look down at him, and he's looking up at you, and those fucking eyes, green and blue and so familiar it hurts, are wide and startled and too close.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Are you?"
"Yeah."
Neither of you move. His hands are still on your waist, your hands are still on his chest, and you can feel his heart hammering under your palm, matching the frantic pace of your own.
The playroom door is open. You can hear voices downstairsâthe twins laughing, someone's phone ringing, the normal sounds of family. Anyone could walk up here and see you like this.
You should move. You should get up, put distance between you, go back to the careful boundaries you've been maintaining.
But you don't.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For, for everything. For that night, for not telling you I was seeing someone, forâ"
"Don't," you say, and your voice comes out shakey. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"I hurt you."
"You're allowed to move on, Lando. We're divorced. You're allowed toâ"
"I'm not with her anymore," he interrupts. "I ended it. That same night, after you left."
The breath leaves your lungs. "What?"
"I couldn't do it," he says, and there's something raw in his voice. "I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't be with someone when all I could think about was you showing up at my apartment, the look on your face when you heard her voice. Couldn'tâ" He stops, his jaw clenching. "I tried. I really tried to move on. But I can't. I don't know how."
You're staring at him, paint-covered and beautiful and saying things that are rearranging your entire understanding of the last three months.
"Landoâ"
"I'm still in love with you," he says, and it comes out almost desperate. "I know I shouldn't be. I know we're divorced for a reason, that we couldn't make it work, that wanting it isn't enough. But I can't stop. I've tried, and I can't."
Your hands are shaking against his chest. Downstairs, you hear Flo call out something about finding the twins' favorite game.
"You can't say things like that," you whisper.
"Why not? It's true."
"Becauseâ" Your voice breaks. "Because we already failed once. Because we have kids to think about. Because if we try again and it doesn't workâ"
"What if it does work?" he asks, and one of his hands comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a streak of paint on your cheek. "What if we're different now? What if we learned from our mistakes?"
"What if we make new ones?"
"Then we make new ones," he says. "Together."
You can hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone's coming. You're looking at those eyes, at the paint in his hair, at the way he's looking at you like you're everything, and something in you just, breaks.
So, fuck it, you think.
You kiss him.
The kiss detonates between you like something long-buried finally clawing its way out. Paint smears wet against your skin as his mouth opens under yours, a low sound rumbling in his chest, hands sliding up your waist like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he doesnât hold tight enough.
You feel his breath hitch when your hips sink down against him, nothing explicit yet, nothing obscene, just the kind of contact that sets every nerve in your body humming like an electrical wire about to snap.
He murmurs your name into your mouth, almost a plea, almost a warning, fingers threading into your hair, paint-slick and trembling. The footsteps on the stairs fade againâwhoever it was turned backâand the silence that follows feels thick, charged, obscene in its own way.
âYou have no idea what youâre doing to me,â he breathes, voice uneven, forehead pressed to yours.
Your heartbeat hammers against him. âLandoâŠâ
His hands slide down your back, slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of white paint across your shirt. He studies you like youâre a storm he wants to step directly into, one palm flattening against the small of your back and pulling you flush to him, bodies fitting together with a familiarity that shouldnât still exist but does, violently.
âIâm not letting you run from me this time,â he whispers, low enough that only your pulse can hear it. âNot after this.â
Your fingers curl into the front of his ruined shirt, dragging him up into another kiss thatâs messy, needy, paint-tasting and breath-stealing. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, not touching anything he shouldnât, but close, close enough that your breath stutters in your throat and your whole body leans into him like gravityâs been rewritten.
The air between you vibrates with what you want to do. What heâs clearly seconds from doing. What youâve both been starving for.
His lips trail down your jaw, slow like heâs relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.
âTell me to stop,â he whispers against your pulse.
You donât. You canât.
Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like heâs anchoring himself. Like youâre the thing that keeps him steady.
âThen donât say it,â he murmurs. âDonât stop me.â
A door downstairs clicks, someone moving through the hallway, and you both freeze, not pulling apart, just breathing each other in, pressed tight, hearts slamming in sync.
The kiss churns through you like molten metal, blistering, clinging, reshaping the very structure of your bones as Lando drags your mouth open beneath his with the kind of hunger only a man whoâs spent eighteen months pretending he didnât need you could ever possess. His hands grip your waist hard enough that your breath shatters against his tongue, paint slick beneath your fingers as you clutch at his shoulders, bodies sliding together in a mess of color, need, and three months of biting back everything thatâs burning through you now.
The floor is cold beneath him but his body is fire, every inch of him tense, straining up into you like heâs seconds from snapping. Your thighs bracket his hips, paint dripping from your knees onto the wood floor in slow pale rivers while his fingers dig into you like he can feel your heartbeat in the tips of them.
âLandoââ It comes out wrecked, scraped raw, not a protest in sight.
He kisses you harder, a low desperate growl vibrating up through his chest, rumbling against your ribs as his thumb strokes the underside of your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts everything else about the way heâs holding you. You feel the faintest tremor in his grip, and it does something catastrophic to your breath, because Lando Norris never shakes, never falters, never cracks.
Except under you.
âYou have no idea,â he mutters against your lips, every word a ragged exhale, âhow many nights Iâve wanted you like this how fucking impossible itâs been.â
Your hips move without thought, a slow involuntary grind down against him, your bodies aligning with obscene, devastating precision. The noise he makes is guttural, punched out of him as his head falls back against the floor with a muted thud, throat exposed, pulse hammering visibly.
A soft choked sound slips from his throat, and his grip on your hips tightens, fingers sliding under your shirt to the bare skin of your waist, paint smearing across you in pale streaks as his thumbs glide upward. Your breath seizes, spine arching instinctively when he skims just beneath your ribs, his fingertips tracing reverent slow lines that make your body bow toward him like heâs a magnet and youâre made of iron filings desperate to cling.
He breathes, your name unraveling in his mouth. Your nails rake through the paint in his hair, streaking more white into the messy curls as his hands finallyâfinallyâslide fully beneath your shirt, palms scorching against your waist, your stomach, your ribs. His touch is almost worshipful, slow enough to be sensual, hungry enough to be maddening.
âTell me to stop,â he whispers again, but this time his voice betrays himâhe doesnât want you to. Not even a little.
You lean down, lips brushing his ear, your breath hot against his skin.
âNo.â
His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he's relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers against your pulse.
You don't. You can't.
Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he's anchoring himself. Like you're the thing that keeps him steady.
"Then don't say it," he murmurs. "Don't stop me."
Your fingers find the hem of his paint-soaked shirt, tugging upward. He helps, sitting up just enough to pull it over his head before his mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, less careful. His hands slide under your shirt, your painting clothes, ratty and old and now ruined with blue streaksâand his palms are warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You arch into the touch, a broken sound catching in your throat, and he swallows it with another kiss.
"We can'tâ" you try, even as your hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under your touch. "Lando, everyone's downstairsâ"
"I know," he says against your mouth, and his hand slides higher, cupping you through your bra. "I know, but Iâ"
He doesn't finish. He just kisses you again, rolling you both so you're beneath him on the paint-splattered drop cloth, his weight pressing you down in a way that makes you feel safe and desperate and like you might fly apart if he stops touching you.
Your shirt comes off. Then your bra, his fingers surprisingly steady on the clasp despite the urgency in every other movement. He pulls back just enough to look at you, sprawled beneath him, paint-streaked and breathing hard, and something in his expression shifts.
"You're so beautiful," he says, quiet and wrecked. "You're soâ"
You pull him back down, unable to hear it, unable to let him say things that will make this more than what it isâphysical, necessary, the release of three months of tension. But he's kissing you softer now, more intentional, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the hollow of your throat, and lower.
His tongue traces your collarbone, teeth grazing gently, and your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly when he finds that spot that makes your back arch off the floor.
"Still sensitive here," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
"Shut up," you manage, but it comes out breathy, unconvincing.
He's taking his time now, despite the awareness that you're both on borrowed minutes, that someone could come looking for you. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to the button of your paint-covered jeans.
"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing.
"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."
The jeans come off, awkward on the drop cloth, and you'd laugh at the ridiculousness of itâstripping on the floor of an unfinished playroom, covered in paint, your entire family downstairsâbut then his hand is between your thighs, and laughter is the furthest thing from your mind.
"Oh," you gasp, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.
"Still so responsive," he murmurs, and his fingers move in a way that suggests muscle memory, that suggests he knows exactly what you need. "Still so perfect."
You want to tell him to stop talking, stop saying things that make this complicated, but then he's shifting lower, pressing kisses down your stomach, and your brain empties of everything except the sensation of his mouth, his hands, the way he's touching you like you're something precious even as the urgency builds between you.
When he finallyâfinallyâpresses his mouth where you need him most, you have to bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. Your hand flies to your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair, and he's working you with the kind of focused attention that makes your thighs shake, makes heat coil tight and tighter in your core.
"Landoâ" you gasp against your palm. "I'm going toâ"
"I know," he says against you. "Let go. I've got you, baby."
And you do, falling apart with his name caught behind your teeth, your whole body tensing and releasing as he works you through it, gentle now, almost tender.
When you can breathe again, think again, he's kissing his way back up your body, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you.
"Your turn," you manage, your hand already moving to the button of his jeans.
"You don't have toâ"
"I want to," you interrupt, and you push at his shoulder until he's on his back, until you're straddling him again, working his jeans and boxer briefs down his hips.
He's hard and perfect and familiar, and when you wrap your hand around him, his head falls back against the drop cloth with a muttered curse.
"Missed this," he groans as you stroke him slowly. "Missed you. Missedâfuckâ"
You kiss him to stop the words, to keep this physical, uncomplicated. Your hand moves faster, and his hips are rocking up into your grip, and you can feel how close he is in the tension of his muscles, the raggedness of his breathing.
"Wait," he gasps, his hand catching your wrist. "Wait, I wantâcan weâ"
He doesn't have to finish. You know what he's asking.
"Do you haveâ"
"Wallet," he manages. "Back pocket."
You find it, find the condom tucked inside, and he takes it from you with shaking hands, rolling it on while you watch, and then you're guiding him to your entrance, sinking down slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation.
"Oh god," you breathe, your hands braced on his chest. "Ohâ"
"I know," he says, and his hands grip your hips, helping you move. "I know."
It's familiar and new all at once. The rhythm you find is instinctive, your bodies remembering even as everything else has changed. His hands guide you, pulling you down as he thrusts up, and the angle makes you see stars.
"Look at me," he says, and you do. Those eyesâgreen and blue and devastatedâare fixed on your face, watching every reaction, every small change in expression. "Don't look away."
You couldn't if you tried. You're riding him on the floor of your playroom, both still streaked with paint, and you're looking into the eyes of the man you've loved for years, the man you've tried and failed to stop loving, and it's too much and not enough all at once.
"I love you," he says, and you should stop him, should tell him not to say it, but you're too close, too far gone. "I never stopped loving you."
"Landoâ" It comes out broken.
"You don't have to say it back," he says, and one hand comes up to cup your face. "Justâlet me say it. Let meâ"
You kiss him, hard and desperate, and you're moving faster now, chasing that release, feeling it build at the base of your spine. His hand slides between you, finding where you need him, and that's all it takes.
You come apart again, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound, and he follows seconds later, your name a whispered prayer against your hair.
For a long moment, neither of you move. You're collapsed on his chest, both breathing hard, sticky with paint and sweat. His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.
"We shouldâ" you start.
"I know," he says quietly.
But neither of you move. Not yet. You just lie there in the wreckage of your self-control, in the paint and the late afternoon light, and you let yourself have this moment before reality comes crashing back.
Before you have to face your family downstairs, before you have to explain why you took so long, before you have to figure out what the hell this means.
For now, you just breathe, and you try not to think about how right it feels to be in his arms again.
You separate slowly, reluctantly, the cool air of the playroom a shock after the heat of his body. Neither of you speak as you pull on your paint-ruined clothes, there's no saving them, but you need something to wear to get to the bathroom.
Lando stands, running a hand through his hair and leaving new blue streaks. "I'll use the guest bathroom," he says quietly. "You take the main one."
"Okay," you manage, your voice still rough.
He looks like he wants to say something elseâsomething about what just happened, about what it means, but footsteps sound on the stairs. You both freeze.
"Just me!" Flo calls out before appearing in the doorway. She takes one look at you bothâdisheveled, paint-covered, definitely not looking like two people who just cleaned up a painting accidentâand her eyebrows raise. "Right. So. Everyone's wondering what's taking so long."
"We spilled paint everywhere," you say, too quickly. "It was, there was a lot of paint."
"I can see that," Flo says, fighting a smile. "Mum's getting impatient about the game. You might want to shower quickly."
"We're going," Lando says, and you can hear the embarrassment in his voice.
Flo steps aside to let you both pass, and as you walk by, she whispers, "Your lips are swollen."
Your hand flies to your mouth, and she just grins.
The shower is both too long and not long enough. You stand under the hot water, washing blue paint from your hair, your skin, and you try not to think about what just happened. Try not to think about the way he said 'I love you' or the way your body responded to him like no time had passed at all.
Try not to think about the fact that you just had sex with your ex-husband on the floor of your playroom while both your families were downstairs.
When you finally emerge, dressed in clean clothes, soft lounge pants and an oversized jumper, you can hear the game in full swing downstairs. Laughter, the twins' excited voices, someone groaning about losing.
You take a breath and head down.
Everyone's gathered in the living room, your parents, Lando's parents, Flo, and the twins who are bouncing with energy despite it being nearly bedtime. Lando's there too, showered and changed into fresh clothes, his hair still damp. He glances up when you enter, and something passes between you before you both look away.
"Finally!" Mila shouts. "Mummy, you took forever!"
"Sorry, baby," you say, settling onto the floor next to where she's set up what appears to be a very complicated game involving cards and toy cars. "There was a lot of paint to wash off."
"You should be more careful," Thiago says seriously, and Adam laughs.
"Yes, you should," Cisca agrees, but she's looking between you and Lando with that expression again, the one that says she knows something's different and she's pleased about it.
The game is chaotic and makes absolutely no sense, but the twins are delighted, and you try to focus on that instead of the fact that you're hyperaware of Lando across the room, of every time his eyes drift to you, of the way Flo keeps smirking.
By the time bedtime rolls around, both twins are overtired and fighting it. They want a story, then another story, then water, then Mila can't find her specific stuffed elephant, and Thiago needs to line up his cars just right next to his bed.
"I'll do it," Lando offers when you're on the third story request. "You look exhausted."
"I'm fine," you start, but he's already settling between both beds, and the twins are delighted to have Daddy reading to them in Mummy's house.
You retreat to the hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to his voice drift outâdoing different character voices, making the twins giggle even as their responses get slower, drowsier. Your mother passes by, pausing to kiss your cheek.
"It's good to see you both here," she says quietly. "Together, finally. Even if it's complicated."
You don't know what to say to that, so you just nod.
By the time Lando emerges, closing the door softly behind him, both twins are finally asleep. He looks tired, softer around the edges, and when his eyes meet yours in the dim hallway, you see the question there.
"We should talk," you say quietly.
"Yeah," he agrees. "We should."
You lead him downstairs to the kitchen, away from where your parents and his are still chatting in the living room. The room is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of conversation.
"So," you start, then stop. What are you supposed to say? 'Thanks for the orgasm, let's pretend it didn't happen and go back to co-parenting'?
"I meant what I said," Lando says, leaning against the counter. "Earlier. I'm still in love with you. That wasn't, it wasn't just something I said in the moment."
Your heart does something complicated. "Landoâ"
"I know you're scared," he continues. "I'm scared too. We fucked it up once already, and doing it again with the kids involvedâI know the stakes are higher. But I can'tâ" He runs a hand through his hair. "I can't keep pretending I'm okay with how things are. I can't keep dropping the kids off and leaving. I can't keep seeing you and not being able to touch you, talk to you properly. It's killing me."
You're gripping the counter behind you. "What are you asking?"
"I don't know," he admits. "I just know I want more than this. More than scheduled drop-offs and texts about the kids. I wantâ" He stops, looking at you with those devastating eyes. "I want to try again. If you do."
The words hang in the air between you. This is the moment. You could say no, could protect yourself, could keep the boundaries you've so carefully maintained.
Or you could jump.
"I'm terrified," you whisper.
"Me too."
"What if we fail again?"
"What if we don't?"
It's the same question from earlier, but this time you're not covered in paint, not lost in the heat of the moment. This time you have to decide with a clear head.
"I don't know how to do this," you admit. "How to be with you again. How to trust that it won't fall apart."
"We figure it out," he says, and he takes a step closer. "Together. We take it slow. We talk about the shit we didn't talk about last time. We do therapy if we need to. Weâwe try, actually fucking try."
You look at himâat this man you've loved for so long, the father of your children, the person who still knows you better than anyoneâand you think about the alternative. More years of this ache, of pretending you're fine, of being alone.
"Okay," you hear yourself say.
His eyes widen. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you confirm, and your voice is steadier now. "But slow. Really slow. And we don't tell the kids until we're sure. I won't, I can't have them hoping for something that might not work out."
"Agreed," he says immediately. "Whatever you need. Whatever makes you feel safe."
The relief on his face is palpable, and before you can second-guess yourself, he's crossing the space between you, pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. You wrap your arms around his waist and let yourself have thisâhis warmth, his solidity, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
"We should probably go to bed," you murmur against his chest. "Long day tomorrow."
"Yeah," he agrees, but neither of you move for a long moment.
When you finally separate and head upstairs, you pause outside the guest room where he'll be sleeping.
"Goodnight," he says softly.
"Goodnight."
You're in your own room for approximately twenty minutes before you accept that you're not going to sleep. You're just lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him down the hall. Thinking about how your bed feels too big, too empty.
Thinking about how you don't want to be alone tonight.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're padding down the hallway in bare feet, your heart hammering. You knock softly on his door.
It opens almost immediately, like he wasn't sleeping either. He's in joggers and a t-shirt, his hair messy, and when he sees you, confusion and hope war on his face.
"Can Iâ" you start, then stop. This is ridiculous. You're twenty-seven years old. "Can I sleep here? With you? I just, I don't want to be alone."
His expression softens into something that makes your chest ache. "Yeah," he says, stepping aside. "Yeah, of course."
The guest room is smaller than yours, the bed a double instead of a queen, but when you slip under the covers and he slides in beside you, it doesn't feel cramped. It feels right.
He doesn't try anything, just opens his arms in invitation, and you curl into his side like you've done a thousand times before. His arm comes around you, holding you close, and you can feel the tension drain from your body.
"This okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah," you whisper. "This is perfect."
His lips press against your hair, not a kiss, exactly, just a gesture of affection, and his thumb traces slow circles on your shoulder.
"I missed this," he murmurs. "Just sleeping next to you. Waking up and you're there."
"Me too," you admit.
You lie there in the dark, listening to his breathing even out, feeling more settled than you have in eighteen months. Tomorrow you'll have to navigate the twins' birthday, both families watching you with knowing eyes, the complexity of whatever this new thing between you is.
But tonight, you just let yourself be held and for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep feeling like maybeâjust maybeâeverything might actually be okay.
back, an arm draped over your waist, breath soft against your neck. For a disoriented moment, you forget where you are, when you areâand then it all comes rushing back.
Lando's guest room. His bed. You asking to sleep here.
The early morning light is filtering through the curtains, pale and gentle, and you can tell by the quality of it that it's early, probably not even seven yet. The house is silent. No sounds of the twins stirring, no footsteps from your parents' room.
Just you and Lando, tangled together like you used to be.
His arm tightens slightly around your waist, and you realize he's awake. You can feel it in the way his breathing has changed, no longer the deep rhythm of sleep.
"Hi," he murmurs against your neck, his voice rough and low.
"Hi," you whisper back.
Neither of you move for a long moment. You're acutely aware of every point of contactâhis chest against your back, his legs tucked behind yours, his hand splayed across your stomach. It's intimate and familiar and terrifying all at once.
"What time is it?" you ask quietly.
"Early," he says. "Sun's barely up."
You shift slightly, turning in his arms so you're facing him. His hair is messy from sleep, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and his eyes are soft and unguarded in the early morning light. He looks younger like this, vulnerable, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.
"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, his hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Better than I have in months," you admit.
Something in his expression shifts, relief and tenderness and something deeper. "Me too."
The silence stretches between you, but it's not awkward. It's heavy with all the things you're both feeling, all the things you said last night and all the things you didn't say. His thumb traces your cheekbone, a feather-light touch that makes you shiver.
"We should probably talk more," you say. "About what this means. About how we do this."
"We should," he agrees, but his eyes are on your lips now, and you can feel the energy between you shifting, warming.
"Landoâ"
"I know," he says softly. "We should talk. We should make a plan. We should be sensible and careful andâ"
You kiss him.
It's different from yesterday in the playroom. Less desperate, less urgent. This is slow and deliberate, a choice you're making with a clear head in the soft morning light. His hand cups your face as he kisses you back, gentle and reverent, like he's savoring it.
"We really should talk," you murmur against his lips, even as you press closer.
"Later," he says, and his hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. "We can talk later."
"Someone could come looking for usâ"
"The twins won't be up for at least another hour," he says, and now he's kissing down your jaw, your neck, finding that spot that makes your breath catch. "Your parents sleep late. Mine too."
"Very optimistic of you," you manage, but your fingers are already threading through his hair, your leg hooking over his hip.
"I'm an optimist," he says against your collarbone, and you can feel him smiling.
His hand slides under your sleep shirt and his palm is warm against your ribs. You arch into the touch, a quiet sound escaping you, and he swallows it with another kiss.
"We have to be quiet," you whisper.
"I know."
"Really quiet."
"I know," he repeats, and his hand moves higher, cupping your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks. "I'll be good. Promise."
Your shirt comes off slowly, carefully, and then his follows. The covers pool around your waist as he rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is familiar and perfect and everything you didn't know you needed.
"Hi," he says again, looking down at you with eyes that are dark and soft and full of love.
"Hi," you breathe, and you pull him down for another kiss.
He's taking his time, relearning you in the gentle morning light, pressing kisses to places he used to know by heart. Your shoulder, the curve of your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and making you gasp. The soft skin of your stomach, your hip bone. Every touch is deliberate, worshipful, like he's trying to memorize you all over again.
When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep pants, he pauses, looking up at you in question.
"Yes," you whisper.
They slide down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then he's kissing his way back up, your ankle, your calf, the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep from making noise.
His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, and he groans softly. "Missed this," he murmurs. "Missed tasting you."
His tongue parts you slowly, a long, deliberate stroke that makes your hips jerk off the bed. His hands hold you steady as he works you with his mouthâslow circles around your clit, then lower, his tongue pressing inside you while his nose brushes that sensitive bundle of nerves.
"Lando," you gasp against your palm, and he hums against you, the vibration making you shake.
He's in no rush, alternating between his tongue and his fingers, sliding two inside you while his mouth focuses on your clit. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and you have to bite down on your knuckle to stay quiet.
"So perfect," he whispers against you. "So fucking perfect for me."
The praise combined with the pressure of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, it's too much. You're climbing higher, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and when he adds a third finger, stretching you, you come apart with his name caught silently behind your teeth.
He works you through it gently, then kisses his way back up your body, giving you time to catch your breath. When he reaches your mouth, you kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips, on his tongue.
"Your turn," you say, but when you reach for his joggers, he catches your hand.
"I needâ" his voice is rough, strained. "I need to be inside you. Please."
"Yeah," you breathe, and you help him push his joggers and boxer briefs down.
He's hard and flushed, a bead of moisture at the tip, and when he settles between your thighs, you can feel him hot and heavy against you.
"Wait," you say, and he freezes immediately, pulling back to look at you with concern.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, justâ" You meet his eyes. "We don't have anything. A condom."
Understanding dawns on his face.
"I'm still on the pill," you say quietly. "And I haven'tâthere hasn't been anyone sinceâ"
"Me neither," he says quickly. "No one. Just, just that one time, and we used protection, and I got tested after, andâ" He's rambling, nervous. "But only if you want to. We can stop, we canâ"
"I want to," you interrupt. "I want to feel you. All of you."
His eyes darken, and he dips his head to kiss you again, deep and consuming. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," you whisper against his mouth. "Please."
He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance, and you both inhale sharply at the first contact, skin on skin, nothing between you. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch is perfect, the fullness overwhelming.
"Oh god," you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Ohâ"
"I know," he gasps, and he's trembling with the effort of going slow. "I know, baby. You feel, fuck, you feel incredible."
When he's fully seated inside you, he stops, both of you adjusting to the sensation. His forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard.
"Okay?" he asks.
"So okay," you manage. "Move. Please move."
He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and the drag of him against your walls makes you both moan quietly. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, just as deliberate, and it's perfect and devastating and too much and not enough all at once.
"Look at me," he says softly, and you do.
Those eyesâgreen and blue and devastatingâare locked on yours, and there's so much emotion in them that it makes your chest tight. Love and want and hope and fear all mixed together.
"I love you," he says, his hips rolling in a steady, deep rhythm. "I never stopped. Even when I tried, even when I thought I should, I couldn't."
Your eyes are burning, tears threatening at the corners. He's moving inside you, steady and deep, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch with every thrust, and it's too muchâthe intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way he's looking at you like you're everything.
"I love you too," you whisper, and saying it out loud feels like jumping off a cliff. "I'm terrified, but I love you."
His hands tighten on your face, pulling you into a kiss that's somehow both tender and desperate. He's moving faster now, deeper, and you wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him impossibly deeper.
"God, you're so tight," he groans against your mouth. "So perfect. Made for me."
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building at the base of your spine, spreading through your limbs.
"I'm close," you gasp. "Lando, I'mâ"
"I know, I can feel you," he says, and his rhythm is getting erratic, losing the steady pace. "Come for me. Want to feel you come on my cock."
The words combined with the pressure on your clit, the stretch and fullness of him inside you, it pushes you over the edge. You come with your hand pressed over your mouth, your whole body tensing and releasing, clenching around him in waves.
"Fuck," he gasps, and his hips stutter. "Whereâwhere do you wantâ"
"Inside," you manage through the aftershocks. "Come inside me."
He makes a broken sound and buries himself deep, his whole body going rigid as he comes. You can feel him pulsing inside you, the warmth of him, and something about it feels monumentalâthis intimacy you haven't shared in so long, this vulnerability, this trust.
He collapses onto you carefully, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. His face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his lips pressing soft kisses to your pulse point.
"That wasâ" he starts, then just laughs softly. "Yeah."
"Yeah," you agree, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.
He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is so tender it makes your heart ache. "I meant it," he says quietly. "About trying again. About doing this right."
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
"I'm scared," he admits.
"Me too."
His hand cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear you didn't realize had fallen. "But we're going to try anyway?"
"Yeah," you say, tilting your head up to kiss him softly. "We're going to try anyway."
He kisses you back, sweet and gentle, and you can feel him softening inside you. He pulls out slowly, and you both wince slightly at the sensitivity. He reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning you up with tender care before dealing with himself.
Then he's pulling you back into his arms, tucking you against his chest, and you settle there with your ear over his heart, listening to it beat steady and strong.
"We should probably get up soon," you murmur. "Before the twins wake up."
"Five more minutes," he says, his arms tightening around you.
"Landoâ"
"Please. Just five more minutes."
You smile against his skin. "Okay. Five more minutes."
You both know you'll stay longer than that. You'll stay here wrapped up in each other until you hear the first sounds of the house waking, until reality creeps back in and you have to face what comes next.
But right now, in this quiet moment, it's just the two of you. And for the first time in eighteen months, you let yourself believe that maybe this time will be different.
Dark fic + - Minors DNI- if you don't like this or the warnings/themes make you uncomfortable. I can't stress this enough, DO NOT READ THIS
Summary: Oscar is beating himself up after his Baku weekend of failure after failure and there's something changed in him and y/n finds her boyfriend isn't who he was before this weekend.
Themes/warnings: Smut 18+, humiliation kink, public sex-ish(/mile high club?), sudden change in personality, toxic relationship, paranoia/jealousy, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, mean!Oscar
Author's note - A lot more of you voted for the dark fic vote than I expected and ik Max is leading with Lando second and then Oscar but this opportunity felt too perfect...
Word count: 2.4k
Despite the popular belief that Oscar is a man of steel, y/n know that Oscar would take a hit with this weekend. But she didn't expect the flat out anger and aggression immediately after.
Obviously there was none of the usual celebrations, the whole team seemed to be eager to get out of there and with another weekend off before Singapore, they're all happy to avoid their drivers. They're definitely trying to avoid Oscar more than Lando.
"Are you ok?" Y/n asks as she stands leaning against the wall caged between Oscar's arms but before he can answer a group laugh loudly making her peek over his shoulder to spy on Lando with some of the mechanics, always trying to break the tension. But she's shocked when Oscar's fingers force her chin so she's looking at him again.
"Hey." Oscar grumbles making her look at him still slightly shocked.
"Sorry."
"We're getting out of here. Come on." Oscar mutters moving back from leaning over her and instead taking her hand as his other grabs his stuff and he begins to lead them out at a speed that probably challenges how fast Max was going today.
They pass Andrea and the team principal seems to want to say something but finds his voice failing him seeing Oscar's expression and lack of interaction with any others.
With how fast he gets them out of there, y/n feels like she's almost just blinked and finds herself on the private jet.
"Sit with me." Oscar instructs knowing they're the first on the jet and waiting on a couple other drivers to fly back before they can leave too.
Y/n frowns a little but does as she's told and sits on his lap feeling him sigh and relax back under her, pulling her with him as he does so.
He doesn't say a word or do anything else till everyone is on the plane and they're in the air. Usually the drivers interact but with it being Alex, Fernando and Lando. They all seem to want to rest and keep to themselves so headphones are put on for Alex and Lando while Fernando lies down and falls asleep with ear plugs in knowing that even when it seems calm, the younger drivers can sometimes appear calm and then be very loud without warning.
It's about 6 hours for them to fly back to Nice so it's not one of the longest flights but compared to the European flight times they'd got used to in that leg of the season, it feels much longer.
Y/n is zoned out just scrolling through some photos from the weekend on her phone, likely picking which ones she wants to post. Then she feels Oscar's hand slide under her skirt and straight to her underwear making her hand snap to his wrist in a moment of panic.
"What are you doing?"
"You need to be quiet." Oscar states making her frown deepen but his hand doesn't stop from shifting her underwear to the side and despite her hesitance, his fingers are met with a growing wetness.
To her relief they're both facing away from the others on the jet and Fernando is at the other end of the plane.
Y/n lets out a very shaky but controlled breath as his fingers slide into her, immediately brushing her g-spot with expert precision. She's completely at his mercy and within a minute she feels like she's so wet there has to be some noise that the others can hear. Maybe they're just being too polite to call the two out.
"O-Oscar, please." Y/n whispers making him lean in, the head of his breath on her ear only adding to how close she is.
"I'm not stopping till you've came on my hand and then I might keep going and just see how many times you can cum before we land." Oscar states while y/n swallows thickly letting a whimper ever so slightly slip past her lips.
Her stomach tenses as she clenches around his fingers, her teeth pressed together so hard she feels her jaw ache as spasms around him. Muscles contracting as a muffled whine fights its way up her throat making her own hand come up over her mouth to prevent its escape.
"That's it baby." Oscar hums as she blinks tears away, his fingers continue to move.
He follows through on his idea, pulling out another orgasm after orgasm making her stomach start to ache and her vision dot with darkness. All until he sees Fernando shift awake and before he's probably up and walking about the cabin. Oscar's fingers slip from her and he slides them into her mouth forcing her to taste her own wetness that's pruned his skin.
"Good girl."
And despite the humiliation and the exhaustion coursing through as more tears escape this time of emotion from how her boyfriend has changed to someone she doesn't recognise.
She isn't necessarily mad or upset that he did pushed the boundaries but more why he pushed them.
-
Y/n had gone out just for a walk and to run by the store, something that has never been a problem before but when she comes home she finds that Oscar's text which she replied to not thinking anything of it were actually more serious than she'd realised.
"Hey." Y/n greets as she comes home only to be met with a frowning boyfriend who seems less than impressed with her. "What? What's wrong?"
"Where were you?"
"I just went for a walk and then the store for food." Y/n states trying to maintain her smile but it wavers at the man's demeanour. "Oscar, what's going on?"
"I know you were seeing someone." Oscar shrugs, his angry and accusing words not matching his calm and cool tone.
"Baby, what's going on? I don't understand what's happening with you." Y/n frowns placing the bag down and moving towards him. "I'm not hating on you and I would never cheat on you."
"Well you snuck out." Oscar sighs as if his mind won't be changed and it's that simple.
Y/n feels like one of them must've fallen and hit their head because there's no way this is her boyfriend. Oscar wouldn't act like that.
"Can you just-Tell me. Tell me when you're doing something. I want to know." Oscar states with a sharp but still calm tone. "Ok?"
Y/n takes a breath going to argue that he's acting erratic and so unlike himself. But instead she finds herself just agreeing to his demand.
-
Y/n sighs smiling to herself as she feels Oscar cuddling into her, climbing into their bed after his shower. His lips pressing to her lips neck, his touch making her melt back against him.
"I love you. I love you so much." Oscar whispers softly making her roll to face him and before she can say a word and try to explain to him why he needs to stop concerning himself, he's silenced her with a hot and heavy kiss that dominates her and the air around them.
Y/n's chest thuds as Oscar climbs over her, his body pressed to her in an addictive way that almost makes her forget his changed persona.
It's not till he's torn her underwear off and balled it up to gag her, which is something Oscar has never done before or even hinted at wanting to do before, that she's given a slightly rougher treatment than the soft touches he started with.
Despite rationale and good logic telling her that she needs to stop him and question what the hell has got into him because they need to discuss what's happened. The other part of her just wants to see what this could lead to and how good it could feel for.
The underwear in her mouth is being soaked with her saliva as he moves her around pulling her hips up so she's on her knees before moving his hand to hold her upper body down against the bed, his hand on the back of her neck as she whimpers from the feel of his grip.
Despite rationale and good logic telling her that she needs to stop him and question what the hell has got into him because they need to discuss what's happened. The other part of her just wants to see what this could lead to and how good it could feel for.
The underwear in her mouth is being soaked with her saliva as he moves her around pulling her hips up so she's on her knees before moving his hand to hold her upper body down against the bed, his hand on the back of her neck as she whimpers from the feel of his grip.
Y/n's hands grip the sheets as she feels him thrust into her and through her gag, she moans at the filling of being filled from such an angle. He doesn't go easy on her from that initial thrust and y/n is practically a puddle for him, nearly splashing him from how wet she's got.
It almost felt like he was poking up into her stomach and y/n could feel her pussy start to squeeze around Oscar's constantly moving length.
"Fuck, you feel so good." Oscar groans as y/n moans, back arching down pushing her chest further into the bed as Oscar's hand's grip her with a bruising pressure and he gives some sloppy thrusts then stills himself in her spasming pussy still orgasming around him as he cums in the young woman.
His body shudders as he slowly pulls out of her, not wanting to leave the warmth of her body but he sighs as one part of the old him does resurface a little knowing that he can't leave her there like that, as much as he'd love to just wait till he's hard again and go again.
There's something primal in him that wants to claim her in a way he's never felt before.
"Let's just stay like this baby." Oscar sighs lying down beside her with as she lifts her head and he smirks hooking the underwear from her mouth. "Are you ok?"
"I'm good." Y/n nods lightly before moving up to cuddle into her boyfriend, ignoring the feeling of his cum slowly leaking out of her. "Are you ok?"
"I'm good. I'm really good." Oscar states pulling her closer. "I just have to make sure I remind you who you belong to sometimes."
Y/n bites her lip a little at his words before she decides to just cuddle into him more despite their clammy skin and settle against him. She loves him and she knows the man he has always been is still in there. Or she hopes he is.
-
By the time y/n and Oscar are in Singapore she realises he's really not just changed in the bedroom, which isn't such a bad thing. But he's changed with how controlling he is. The small chin grab before they left Baku was just the beginning.
She'd practically been confined to the hotel suite in the run up to the weekend since they got there a few days ahead of time with the time difference and sheer distance they all had to travel to get there.
No interacting with Lando or mechanics or anyone, especially not any other drivers on other teams.
"Oscar, this isn't fair on me." Y/n mumbles as he tells her to just stick around the hotel for Friday practices.
"I want you to stay here, baby. I feel better knowing you're here." Oscar states making her look at him with the biggest saddest eyes that can muster but they don't earn anything but a peck on the lips. "Go wild, order all the room service you like. Buy whatever on the tv, have a shopping spree on my card. Just please stay here though."
Previously Oscar would desperately want her at the track. But a truth he'll deny himself is that he just doesn't want to see her there if he fucks up again and really there's new insecurities over the idea he could lose her faith and suddenly drop him in interest of another driver who isn't fucking the car into the wall.
He feels like he's losing momentum this season rather than gaining it and if he can only take a marginal lead over Lando when his teammate DNFs then what reason does he have to say she wouldn't leave Oscar for Lando instead.
After all everyone loves Lando and the people who hate him are still weirdly obsessed with him. Even when Oscar does well, it somehow becomes a discussion about Lando. Why would y/n not also just redirect her love and affection away from him?"
"I love you, Osc." Y/n mumbles making Oscar snap out of the quick spiral he was tumbling down.
"I love you too. I'll see you later, don't stay up if I'm back late and keep your phone on you." Oscar instructs earning a nod and part of him knows he doesn't deserve how y/n has just accepted the change of him and their relationship how she has. But the other part of him knows that he'll not let her go even if she didn't accept it.
His hand comes up brushing over her swollen lips, chapped from the abuse they'd taken since sex has become such an outlet for him that it shows on y/n's body. He's not hurting her, but there's small marks from how tightly he holds her or from hard kisses and grazing teeth. He shouldn't feel so comforted by the sight of his marks on her skin but he feels like she's meant to be marked by him, owned by him, belonging to him and that's just evidence of it all.
He'd given her throat some pretty brutal treatment on the way over by pushing further into her mouth than he'd ever gone before but she didn't fight him, she just tried to stay calm and relaxed, steadying her breaths and gripping his calves to keep herself steady. He can still hear it a slightly roughness in her voice from the hits to her throat.
There's part of him now obsessed with it, with keeping her away from everyone and everything. Just having her there for himself, for only selfish reasons and never letting anyone else have the privilege of knowing her or spending time with her again.
"Alright, baby. You just chill here. I'll come straight back whenever I'm done."
"Ok." Y/n nods before they exchange one last kiss and he picks up his stuff ready to leave for the night since all the Singapore sessions are later in the day and into the night time.
pairing: Dark!Spiderman!Oscar Piastri x GN!Reader
wc: 4.4k
cw: heavily implied vouyerisim, implied masturbation, implied stalking, graphic descriptions of sexual thoughts, pwp: fingering, oral (f reciving), minor destruction of clothing, grinding, biting, unprotected sex (don't do this btw), riding, dub-con (no explicit consent is given for half the shit they do), mild degradation/dumbification (blink and you'll miss it), praise, overstim, usage of good girl, dom/sub dynamics, power play, the whole 9 yards i guess
an: spider oscar save me... also wow this is terrible i did not think there would be a day where i actually wrote smut,,,, moots, please ignore this especially if you know me irl. inspired by: tempo by kyu and the machine by reed wonder/aurora olivas.
[MINORS DNI, you will be blocked if i catch you]
Oscar's skin was burning hot with shame.
He couldnât help watching you from across your room, still beat up and damp in his spiderman suit, letting him in oh so casually as if it were just another visit from a friend you hadnât seen in a while.Â
You didnât know it was him.
He was so incredibly in love with you.Â
And so incredibly hard right now.
It wasnât like he hadnât done this before. Like he hadnât trailed behind you, an invisible guard dog protecting you from the unknown dangers of the city. Like he hadnât sat on the fire escape in the early morning hours, watching you toss and turn with a look on your face he could only dream of. Heâd found every occasion there was to let himself into your life, learning every little thing about you. you, knowing or not.
He hated himself for how much more he wanted to consume your being.
You only truly knew him as Oscar though.Â
Quiet, reserved Oscar, your neighbor who occasionally carried your groceries up the stairs, who sat with you every time you cried about something stupid, who held a soft spot for you almost everyone could see.
The one who dreamed about you writhing under him, hand around his cock while your name fell off his filthy lips.
The guilt was eating him alive. He didnât know if it was from how close he was, or from how far heâd let it go on.
Probably both, he reasoned, ears burning as he tried to dry off faster.
You were now quietly settled in the corner of your bed, leaning against the walls of your room, book in hand. His eyes only wandered further down. There wasnât much left to imagination there anyways in the skimpy outfit you had on.
A sick, sticky feeling only stirred in his chest as the thought reignited a thought from two nights ago, when he was safely locked behind his door after another impromptu visit to your window: him crouched between your legs, a soft whimper escaping your mouth as you tugged his head like he was some sort of toy, guiding him to do what you wanted.Â
Heâd fed that ugly beast, letting it rear its head at even a thought of you. Now it was starving, begging for more than it deserved. More than he deserved.
It was only a couple moments before he broke the silence again. Finding his way to the foot of the bed, hoovering. His heart was hammering in his chest as he opened his mouth, afraid of the filth replaying in his mind spilling out in the place of words.
âAh- thank you.â He paused for a moment. âFor the towel. And the first aid.â
You hummed. âYouâre lucky. I almost went out with my friends today, but I decided to stay back. I guess I knew It was gonna be a long night opening my window for strange men to come in.â
His heart leapt out of his chest. He didnât know if it was jealousy, fear or something bigger than that. âNot just any stranger though. Is that really all I am to you?â
âTotally.â You giggled, unaware of the jealousy that found its way onto his face.
âI may be Spiderman, but Iâm just a normal person deep down. Not much different from you.â
âRight.â You smiled that sweet, deadly smile at him, and he felt chest squeeze. âYouâre not Spiderman. I guess youâre just Spidey. My Spidey.â
That was all it took for the thin rope of his restraint to snap.
He didnât think anymore, he just moved, consequences be damned.Â
Adrenaline pumped through his veins, blood rushing in his ears as he crawled, filling the space between you two in less than a second.
You raised your hands, startled by the suddenness of his movement, unsure what you were even defending yourself from. You barely registered the sounds of questioning leaving your own throat before he kissed you.
It wasnât soft like youâd imagined it to be.
No, it was hard and messy, reeking of desperation.
He was clashing with you, pushing himself further onto you. He was trying to pull you closer to himself, hands digging into your sides as you collided into him.
He broke away soon enough, chest rising and falling as if heâd just ran a mile.Â
âI- Iâve watched you before.â He panted, words falling out of his mouth. âWatched you live, outside of the protection or the heroics. Itâs not fair.â
You froze, brows furrowed as you tried to process the information. âWh- What do you mean by that?â
You almost swore you couldâve heard him groaning under his breath, pressing his forehead to yours.Â
You couldnât read his eyes, obscured by the mask he wore, but you could still feel the heat radiating off him.
âIâve been good,â he said feverently, voice wavering as he closed in on your lips again, eyes flitting up at you for a moment. âSo fucking good. Sitting outside, listening, waiting, never taking anything you havenât gave me. Iâve been protecting you.â
Your heart almost stopped. You couldnât breath, your own eyes wandering down to his exposed lips, raw and glossy as if heâd been biting them in deep frustration. It made you painfully horny and painfully uncomfortable.
âBut this isnât you. You arenâtâŠâ You trailed off. If anything, this was proof, he wasnât who you thought he was. Your chest ached but his words lit a fire in your cunt, hot and bothered.
It was like walking a taunt tightrope, trembling, heart bursting at the slightest provocation.
He smiled, though it wasnât one of his usual sweet smiles. It was predatory.
âYou donât know who I am.â He murmured, brittle. âYou donât know me like I want you to know me, baby.â
He kissed you again. Harder, this time.
His hand moved from your waist, greedy as they found their way into your shorts. You were basically unraveling by the time he got to the wet patch on your underwear, failing to stifle a dark laugh at your condition.
Teeth clashed, and his tongue swiped over your lips as if trying to taste your flavor. Another hand ran up your shirt as he played with you through the thin fabric of your panties, pressing down and cupping the area.
You couldnât hold back the broken whine that slipped, book abandoned somewhere on the floor as you tried to buck up subtly, trying to get friction through the thin fabric.
The concentration in his smile turned mocking, vicious. There was no doubt heâd heard the way your heart was thundering in your chest.
âYou like youâre getting off this more than me.â He pulled the waistband, earning a yelp from you when it snapped against your skin. âYouâre such a whore even when you try acting shy, baby.â
You grabbed his wrist, trying to pull his hand away from you, but his other hand came back down to stop you.Â
He pried your thighs apart, giving you a pointed look as he leaned into you again, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.Â
âBehave. I would hate to end things here and Iâm sure you want more than this.â
You snapped still.
You couldnât say you hated it when he said that. No. You loved it, and it felt filthy.
âGood girl. Now take it off, donât make me ask you again.â
You couldâve sworn you couldâve imagined what his eyes looked like as he watched you gingerly pull your shorts down, hesitating as you reached your underwear. He was peeling off his own skin tight suit, abs toned from nights of swinging and fighting crime.
It was silent for a couple moments as you debated saying something to break the silence, his mouth forming a thin line at your obvious reluctance.
âHurry up please.â He groaned, shifting uncomfortably. You didnât dare look down.
You opened your mouth to say something but he beat you to it, hooking a finger through and tearing them straight off.
You couldnât help the whine that came out, fingers digging into the sheets as the cold air hit the wetness. He was stronger than you thought he'd be but it wasnât a surprise, he was Spiderman after all.
âYou were taking too long.â He snapped, breathing hard as he got closer again.Â
You were dazed by your own lack of opposition, somehow entirely comfortable letting him manhandle you as he pleased.
He noticed, eyes flickering underneath the mask back to you.
âDid you know Iâve thought about this all the damn time?â He muttered, reaching ro brush the damp hair sticking to your forehead back. âWondered all about your sensitivity, wondered what kinds of sounds you make when you cum, âbout how nice it would be holding you down and keeping you here.â
You moaned, writhing as he tapped on your clit again, reaching up to loop your hands around his neck.
âAh- please.â
The tension was a tightrope, trembling with the anticipation of it snapping.
âYeah?â He exhaled sharply, lips moving down the column of your neck, biting down hard when you gave him access. You could feel his canines sinking into the crook of your neck, unusually sharp.
âYou want this, donât you?â Pain jolted across your body, but It felt good.
âYou want me to fuck you with my hand or my tongue? Either way Iâll loosen you up a little, hmm? âS that sound good to you baby?â It took everything in you not to squirm at his words and you still failed, letting him push you down as his attention moved to your soaked cunt.
His hand played up your leg while he kissed your neck again and again, fingers brushing against your trembling thighs purposefully until they found their way into your fluttering hole.Â
His fingers were coated with your slick as he thrust one in cautiously as a test, causing you to jerk. That was his sign to go, pushing them in and out, sliding with surprising ease.
âYouâre so desperate.â He said smugly, kissing your jaw as his thumb started to rub circles into your clit. âRutting into my hand like you havenât done this night and night again. Iâve seen it all, pretty girl, canât keep your hands to yourself when youâre all alone.â
Your heart stuttered and he picked up the pace, free hand keeping your thighs spread. You couldnât keep your eyes on him, looping your arms around his neck, keeping him locked where he was. He teased another one into you quickly, going deeper until his palm was flush with your cunt. The constant stimulation made you whine, chest tightening with pleasure.
You were heaving with effort, trying to bury your face in the crook of his neck as a hand returned to soothe your sides. âYouâre so greedy, letting a person whose face you donât even know do this kind of thing to you, youâll just take any stimulation you get, yeah? Your fingers werenât enough, were they?â He cooed, curling his fingers inside you to get another reaction.
He could be so cruel.
His free hand made its way up your shirt at the same time, this time successfully finding your chest. He tweaked with the nipple, rubbing and pinching at it as you let out a muffled gasp at the sensation.
âDo- hng, do you want me to take my shirt off?â You stuttered, lifting your face from his crook.
He paused, getting slower momentarily.Â
âNah, keep it on, itâs fine.â The loss of stimulation made you feel impatient and needy, but he picked right back up where he had left off.
It was torturous, the coil curling in your belly as he pressed harder and harder. Without warning, it snapped, and you seized up. It was almost shameful, the moan of relief you let out.
âCâmon, câmon, câmonnnâŠâ He muttered, kissing you again. It was just as messy, only slightly softer though, as if coaxing you into willingly letting him in. He shuddered as you let him have his way, moaning softly into the kiss before letting you go with a quick peck to the corner of your mouth.Â
His lips were swollen and pink, hot against your skin as he kissed down your body, pressing one final kiss to your stomach before disappearing from where you could see him. He hooked his arms under your legs, pressing kisses up your inner thigh all the way up.
His breath was hot against your cunt, earning a whine from you as you tried to buck up, only held down by him. You couldâve come from the sensation alone, head clouded with the pleasure of the previous orgasm.
âMmh, there she is.â He unfurled an arm, prodding at your entrance once again, tracing circles around your lips. âYou want something, youâre gonna have to ask for it or are you too dumb from one orgasm to even speak?â
You gaped, trying to squeeze your thighs shut in response, but he pried them apart again with unpracticed ease.
âAh ah, I didnât say you could do that, did I?â He sighed, voice rough. âI have to spell it out for you, donât I baby?â
You swallowed, trying to still yourself as he gripped your legs firmly- reminding you of who was in control.
âKeep still, and let me play with you a little more.â He admitted to you. âWanted to do this to you for a long time, you can have your fun with me later.â
He perked up a little bit, just enough to catch your eyes and receive confirmation before he went back down on you, kissing all over your cunt.
âGood girl,â He murmured, pressing a small kiss to your clit. âSee? Things are good if you keep being a good girl fâme.â
You didnât argue with him as you mightâve, legs shaking as he dove back in.
His kitten licks were light, but slowly they devolved into bolder licks, running up and down your cunt with utter disregard.Â
It was like he was out to personally destroy you, targeting your weak points. He was reading hou, front to back, and for a moment you didnât doubt his words about knowing you.
He inserted his fingers back into your hole as well, pumping as he sucked and licked at your clit, groaning against your trembling core. He was shaking the bed as well, grinding against the sheets as wet sounds filled the air. You arched your back, gripping the sheets as his nose bumped the bottom of your clit.
His mouth was just as relentless, eager to get you to come again and again. He was greedy, frantic, trying to pull everything he could out of you.
You were shaking, unstable hands slipping again and again from the slick fabric, failing to drag him closer like you desperately wanted to.
Your frustration twisted through your haze. You needed more. Deeper, closer, burning hot-
You didnât think when you moved, hands moving under the mask at the back of his neck before you pulled.Â
His groan of questioning went unnoticed by you yet his mouth didnât stop even as you pulled the mask up, exposing more of him.Â
You just want a better grip on his hair, just enough to-
Your body jolted, freezing in shock as you registered it.Â
Oscar.
He froze, looking up at you as if it was his first time ever seeing you. His pupils were blown wide, lips shining and wet.
His breath ghosted your skin and made you even more horny, shamelessly letting more thoughts swarm your head.
His eyes were stirring with some kind of innate obsession, but it flickered as you looked at him.Â
It melted.Â
Something softer, more distraught took its place: fear. He looked just as desperate as you, if not more, staring at your chest from between your legs like a frightened cat unable to meet your eyes.
You sat up properly, grabbing a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look up at you again.
âI- ah- ah, please.â His Adam's Apple bobbed, a gasp escaping his lips as he looked at you through lovesick eyes. Something came out of his mouth, groaning as you let go, running your fingers through his hair again to fix the mess youâd caused.
You stopped for a moment though, leaning in conspiratorily. âOscar.â
He shuddered at the sound of his name. It made him look submissive, pliable, like youâd exposed him. It made sense now, why Oscar always looked injured or tired, or why he couldnât ever seem to meet your eyes when you sat together. The man was in love with you.
You wondered how long heâd been playing you like that, why you hadnât invited him in sooner.
âYouâre not gonna stop me Osc?â You asked softly, watching as he squirmed under your gaze, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes glazed over slightly and face stained with spit and slick. The tension in his jaw was visible, even despite his outwards submission; You hated to say, but it made you wet with excitement.
âYouâd do something if i asked you to?â He tried to look away, but you kept his face there, scanning his eyes for something more. He hesitated, face burning pink but you already knew his answer was.
âTake off your suit and lay down⊠please?âÂ
He scrambled, pulling the suit down from his his torso, revealing only grey boxers underneath. He had a raging boner, sporting a wet spot so dark you knew exactly what it was. Oscar swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously. He looked like he was gonna cry from the tension alone.
Your eyes were immediately on him, scanning him from head until your eyes stopped at his thighs, thick and built. âTo think you protect the city, huh?â You shivered, pushing him down. âI think youâre just as desperate as me.â
A loud groan escaped from his lips as you pushed him down, stilling for a moment as you mounted his thigh.
His breath hitched, chest rising and falling quickly as you put your hands on his chest, pushing yourself back and forth on his leg. His muscle flexed under you, causing you to whine, grinding down hard.Â
He whimpered under you, hands finally finding their way to your hips after seconds of indecision. He pushed you down with more force than necessary, trembling as the friction increased, jolting through your body and putting more pressure on you. Your rhythm started setting itself, tracing the same path along his thigh with increasing intensity.
You werenât looking, but you were sure thereâd been some evidence of your struggle left on his thigh, allowing you to glide back and forth easier.
Oscar had zoned out from the sensation. His eyes were glassy, lips parted like he was trying to get something out but couldnât. You hadnât heard it, still chasing your own high with his assistance, allowing him to help you grind down on the taut muscle.
You hit your high moments later, and Oscar let out a low, guttral moan as you squeezed down his thigh, cum trickling down the sides. You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his chest as you waited to ride it out, twitching as his grip on your hips tightened.
âYou got everything out of your system now?â You heard him say, voice cracking slightly as his fingers tapped on your skin. You let out a noncommittal noise, eyes shutting slightly as you rested against his chest.
He tutted, tapping stopping as his fingers dug into your skin, heavy and likely to bruise. Youâd barely opened your eyes before heâd flipped you over on the mattress, jolting you awake and knocking the air out of you.
His thigh slipped free from your, moving faster than youâd anticipated seeing his dazed state. He manhandled you, grabbing your wrist with one hand and pinning them above your hand.Â
You were startled. He managed to hold you down though, preventing you from landing any sort of hit on him.
He was a superhero for a reason, but it was still too-
The glassy look at completely disappeared, replaced with a look of anger and lust.
âYou done using me already?â He spit, voice ragged and feral. âMaking a mess of me like iâm nothing to you.â
Your chest was heaving as he stared your down, controlled and deliberate. He was still a message, with pink lips and flushed cheeks, but the look in his eyes was unmistakably him. You couldnât handle it, looking to the side, avoiding his gaze further.
âNow why are you so embarrassed, huh?â He slotted a leg between yours, making you arch as it put pressure on your cunt again. His free hand moved, gripping your jaw with force, making you look at him through bleary eyes.
âI let you because I wanted it,â He continued, watching you through thick lashes, âBecause youâre so pretty when youâre chasing your own pleasure.â
You whined as his leg pulled way from yours, wriggling at the loss of movement.Â
âSee how that feels baby?â He snarled, grinding against you, slow and forcefully. âDonât even dream about using me like some kind of toy, ân just curling up on me like some kind of lazy cat. Not unless i get what i want, okay?â
You moaned in response, gasping as he pressed his bulge against you, whispering against your neck. âYou feel that? Thatâs what you did to me, and you gotta make up to me for that, no? Youâve been acting like a common whore, baby, i really thought you were better than that.â
You couldnât speak, paralyzed by how he touched you. The way his body pressed against yours, his hands up under your shirt again, playing with you like youâd imagined doing to yourself. He was the real deal.
When you didnât answer, his hand left your body, trying to move the hair out of your eyes just to see your expression. âSo quiet once you finally get what you want,â He muttered, laughing a hollow laugh, âBut you always want more, donât you? Is that what this is? Letting me use you so pilantly, just so i put my dick in you for being a good girl, yeah?â
You clenched, squeezing your thighs, unsuccessfully getting any more stimulation.Â
âSay what you want baby. We all know youâre dying to ask for it.â He hummed, affectionate kisses to your jaw contrasting the violent way your stomach flipped at his statement. âUnless youâre too dumb to ask me to put my dick in you.â
You whimpered as the warmth of his hand disappeared from your body, slapping your clit lightly. The sensation made you spaz and squirm, trying to free yourself from his grip.
âLooks like your body really wants it, yeah? Should i put my dick in you, give you a reward for being so quiet?â You nodded, words in and out of your brain, unable to register anything beyond the roar of blood in your ears.
He let go of your hands, allowing you to grab at him as he pulled down his boxers.
You blanched.
He was definitely pretty, the head of his cock pink, wet from all his previous orgasms. It looked like he hadnât been touched at all, and the guilt from your realization suddenly washed over you.
He mightâve noticed, but he didnât say anything, giving himself a couple of quick pumps before lining himself up with the entrance to your cunt.Â
You didnât have anything to say at that point, watching as he pushed it in at first, slowly as if afraid of damaging something. You couldnât hold back the moan you let out as he fucked it in, sinking deeper into your heat with every stroke. You took him in willingly though, clenching tightly around him as he pushed into you. He bottomed out for a moment, letting it sit as heat built up behind your eyes, watching you with a predatory smirk.
It wasnât much longer before he could finally slip in and out of you again, rocking with a deliberate rhythm that made your toes curl and you cry out. You were struggling to catch your breath again, reaching up to put your arms around his neck.
He pried you off him just as quick, looking at your face, half delirious from the burn of the stretch. âLook at you, so damn greedy arenât you baby? All you can think about is my dick up in you from the way your cunt is just swallow it up, canât you? Not a single thought about how I hard I am from seeing you act like this.â
He growled, reaching down to rub your clit, slapping it and watching how you fall apart on top of him. âYou sure love being fucked stupid for someone who acts so innocent.â
You clenched around him and he immediately noticed, grinning.
âOh, so you do like it.â he cooed. âLooks like your cunt really loves it when I treat you like this, doesnât she? Mine to do whatever I want with.â
You clenched tighter, feeling your stomach turn as he pressed down on it. He knew you were close. âOsc- ah, ah, Oscar, pleasepleaseplease-â You begged, reaching out to him again and burying your face in his neck. This time, he didnât pry you off, instead putting a hand on your back.
The impact was instantaneous, cumming all ove him and the sheets as he thrust in, clearly starting to chase his own high once yours was over. He came within minutes after you did, overstimulating you as he filled you up.
âGood girl,â He panted, pressing kisses to your shoulder as you clung to him, exhausted. Your cum mixed, leaking out of you until he scooped it up, gently pushing it back into you as best as he could.
You groaned as he let you down, watching as you slumped down, breathing labored. His jaw was tight as he leaned over to grab his mask, startled when your hand stopped him. Neither of you spoke, your body stilled as you watched him with tired eyes.Â
âI wasnât⊠planning on leaving.â He muttered, voiced hoarse.
âOkay.â You nodded, allowing him to pull the blanket up your legs. âIâm sure you know where everything is.â
He breathed through his nose, a little embarrassed at the reminder.
âI know it, yeah. Iâll get you some water, âs that okay?â
You hummed in acknowledgement, letting him wander away.
You know heâd come back to you. You had no doubt.
Summary: Y/nâs new song exposes a side of Oscar no one knew about.
Warnings: the whole thing is basically just about sex, language
y/nnn Surprise! 34+35 out tonight đ
Comments:
oscarpiastri i think its pretty good
- y/nnn you only think that for one reason and we both know it
Liked by oscarpiastri
oscpastry guys⊠34+35= 69âŠâŠ..
- mclarensgirly i fear we are getting the WHOLE story
- pieasstree YOU FEAR??? I WANNA KNOW
- mclarensgirly I MEAN ME TOO BUT HOW WILL WE LOOK BABY OSCAR IN THE EYE AFTER???
landonorris im scared oscar hasnt stopped smiling all day
- oscarpiastri what can i say? Its not everyday your girlfriend writes a song about you
- y/nnn babe youve heard the song im not sure you want to go broadcasting it that its abt you
- oscarpiastri are you kidding????? Of course i do
â
y/nnn 34+35 out now (oscar wanted me to make it known the song is about him đ€ŠđŒââïž)
Comments:
oscpastry THIS SONG??????? IS ABOUT?????? OSCAR PIASTRI?????? THE RACING DRIVER??????? FOR MCLAREN???
- mclarensgirly YEAH WTF ARE WE MISSING SOMETHING
- pieasstree âyou drink it just like water, you say it taste like candyâ WHO IS THIS MAN
oscarpiastri this is the best day of my life
- pastry81 i dont know who you even are anymore
- f1butmore-mclaren how did mclaren even sign off on this
- y/nnn its my music i choose what i release all that mattered was if oscar was comfortable (he was comfortable to a degree that was concerning)
- oscarpiastri real
landonorris most recent google search: âhow to erase your memory and ability to hear and seeâ i can never look either of you in the eye anymore
- y/nnn I TOLD YOU NOT TO LISTEN TO IT
- landonorris I DIDNT THINK YOU WERE GOING TO TALK ABOUT MY TEAMMATE THAT GRAPHICALLY
- y/nnn thats your own fault then
â
Twitter Thread
pieasstree youre gonna tell me 34 35 is abt this man.
- oscpastry âeven though im wifey you can hit it like a side chickâ is dick whipped the correct term for this???
- mclarensgirly plz never say dick whipped again but yeah i believe so
- pieasstree WE ARE MOVING AWAY FROM THE MAIN TOPIC OF CONVO. HOW IS THIS ABOUT HIM. IT JUST DOESNT MAKE SENSE.
- oscarsmyfav i dont know what i was expecting from that song but âi know all your favorite spots, we can take it from the top, youre such a dream come true, make a bitch wanna hit snoozeâ WAS NOT IT.
- hisrookieseason âi dont wanna keep you up, but show me can you keep it up cause then ill have to keep it upâ I HEARD THAT AND IT ALL MADE SENSE
- oscpastry YEAH LIKE NOW I UNDERSTAND WHY HES SO MELLOW ALL THE TIME ITS BC HES TIRED
- oscarpiastri never too tired tho
- pieasstree WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON
- oscpastry AM I IN A DREAM THIS IS NOT THE OSCAR I KNOW???????
- y/nnn its the oscar i knowâŠ
- mclarensgirly WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON HERE
- oscpastry im so scared rn but also SO intrigued
- pieasstree its the way theyre probably sitting next to each other and laughing at all of us distraught fans
- y/nnn hes very pleased with himself (đđ»)
- pieasstree i rlly just dont understand how that man THAT BOY could cause an earthquake in bed as y/n said
Could you please write something with Lando when youâre Bradley Coopers daughter and you met Lando during an Grand Prix and have been dating for a few months and now itâs time for him too meet youâre dad for the first time and as you get ready you sense that heâs nervous you saw it on his face when you told him that you have a dinner at youre fathers house with him and his girlfriend Gigi. Youâre dad wanted to meet him as soon as he found out that you dated someone but Lando had some grace period with the season but no that the season came to an end he has no other chance youâre not particularly concerned about youâre dad you told Lando as long as he doesnât say anything against the Eagles he will be fine. Lando and you got caught up in a little make out session which almost ended in you being late. As it turns out Landos concerns where groundless after some introducings youâre dad gets dinner ready and god bless Gigi for being such an sweetheart for asking him questions about his family and F1 too get him comfortable. Later the evening when you talk with Gigi she tells you that if Lea and Khai get too meet him they will undoubtedly love him and you canât help but smile you saw him with his nieces and itâs just too easy too imagine him with youâre sister and Gigiâs daughter it would be so much fun you tell her if they ever need an babysitter they know who to call and as you look at her bright grin you know that you probably got yourself in trouble there.Much loveâ€ïž
omg anon aaaaahhhhh this request is too good!!!!! omg i haven't had a request in so long also gurl the vision?? omg adorbs i hope this is what you were looking for. even took the day off from uni for ya (prioritiesđ). anyways hope you like it. i had so much fun writing it. enjoy!!â„â„
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (y/n cooper, daughter of that bradley cooper)
word count: 3.7k
The First Time She Met HimâŠ
The sun was way too bright for someone who'd been up since 7 a.m. on a media tour. Y/N Cooper tugged her cap lower over her sunglasses as she slipped into the chaos of the paddock. Her dad was in Monaco for some actor-y event, and sheâd somehow gotten talked into attending a Grand Prix. Alone. With zero idea what Formula One actually was besides âhot guys in fast cars.â
She wasnât expecting the loud engines, the way the air buzzed with electricity, the sea of orange-clad fans holding up weird signs like âMCLANDO 4EVERâ and âMARRY ME, NORRIS đ.â
She definitely wasnât expecting him.
Lando Norris â sweaty, grinning, race suit tied around his waist, curls an actual crime against humanity â nearly crashed into her while jogging toward the garage.
âOh, sorryâ! Didnât see you there.â
She looked up, caught the breathless smile, blinked like a confused deer, and blurted, âYou look like youâve just finished running from the law.â
He laughed. Actually I laughed. âI mean⊠kinda. These engineers are scarier than Interpol.â
She had no clue what that meant, but his voice was warm and his eyes sparkled andâokay, damn it, she was interested.
âYouâre American, huh?â he asked, tugging at the towel slung over his shoulder.
âYouâre British, right?â she shot back. âWe can both identify accents. Yay us.â
âFeisty. I like it.â
She tilted her head, clearly amused. âIâm not flirting with you. Just so weâre clear.â
âShame,â he replied with a grin, âbecause I totally am.â
Weeks LaterâŠ
He DMâd her that same night.Â
| didnât get your name. not very gentlemanly of me.
She couldnât believe the text he just sent.
| youâre literally dming me and you didnât catch my name?real smooth dude.đÂ
Even with Landoâs rocky start, they started texting. Just casually. Memes turned into late-night calls. Her face lit up on his screen more often than not. It didnât take long before she was sneaking into races just to see him. No paddock passes. No press. Just her in the background, always in a hoodie two sizes too big and a smirk that drove him insane.
It happened in Silverstone.
Not on the podium. Not in front of the fans. But in a back hallway behind the garage, just after heâd come P3. His race suit was zipped up to his waist, curls damp, energy buzzing through him like a live wire. She was waiting, leaned against a wall, arms crossed like she hadnât been holding her breath the entire final lap.
He reached her in three strides and pulled her into a hug before she could even say hi.
âYou were amazing,â she murmured into his shoulder.
âYou came.â
âWouldnât miss it. Even if Iâm still figuring out what different color flags mean.â
He chuckled, pulled back, looked at her like he was thinking too hard. She raised a brow. âWhat?â
âIâve been thinking,â he started.
âDangerous.â
âI want to call you my girlfriend.â
She blinked.
He panicked.
âI meanânot just call you that. I want you to be that. Likeâwould you be okay with that? With me? And the whole circus that comes with it? Because I donât want this to be some casual, stupid thing. Not with you.â
Y/N stared at him. Long enough for him to shift uncomfortably and almost take it back.
But then she smiled. Soft, real, Hollywood-girl-in-love kind of smile.
âLando Norris, are you asking me to go official behind the McLaren garage in a sweaty race suit?â
He flushed. âYes?â
She pulled him in by the collar and kissed him.
âGood. Because I was getting very tired of calling you my âfriendâ when my dad asks who Iâm texting at 3 a.m.â
Cut to the present dayâŠ
Lando had known this day was coming â like a slow-approaching DRS zone you couldnât avoid even if you slammed the brakes. Ever since Bradley Cooper had found out his daughter was dating someone, the clock had been ticking. Not loudly, not in an aggressive "Iâm gonna kill him" kind of way â no, Bradley was too smooth for that. It was subtler. An arched brow when Y/N laughed at her phone. A pointed, âIs that him?â whenever Landoâs name popped up on the screen. The kind of tone that said Iâm not mad. I just have questions. And maybe a shotgun.
Lando had been given a temporary grace period, courtesy of the relentless F1 calendar. Races, press, simulator work â all valid, all real, all conveniently spread out across continents that made meeting your girlfriendâs Oscar-nominated father logistically... complicated. But now, with the season over and the last trophy handed out, Lando had run out of places to hide.
âYouâll be fine,â Y/N had said, curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled with his like it was the most natural thing in the world. âHeâs chill. I swear. Just donât say anything bad about the Eagles, and youâll survive.â
Lando had blinked at her. âThe band?â
She laughed so hard she almost fell off the couch. âThe football team, Norris. Philadelphia Eagles. You slander them, you die.â
So, here they were, getting ready for potentially the most important dinner of Landoâs life.
The bathroom mirror reflected Y/Nâs focus as she adjusted her dress for the fifth time, a leopard print that hugged her figure in all the right ways, falling just below the knee. She was so casually stunning that it was borderline unfair. Her hair was in soft waves, effortless like she didnât care that every strand seemed to fall exactly how it should. It wasnât even the dress that had Landoâs blood rushing; it was the way she moved â the little twirl of her fingers as she checked her lipstick in the mirror, the way her eyes fluttered as she brushed a stray hair behind her ear.
Lando, who was just in the other room pulling on his jacket, couldnât help but watch. He knew he was being a little obvious, but honestly, at this point, he was beyond trying to hide it. He was looking at her like she was some kind of magic. Like the universe decided to throw all its best creations into one person, and she was standing there in front of him.
She turned, catching him staring, and gave him a playful raise of her eyebrow.
"What?" she asked, her voice low, teasing.
He blinked rapidly like heâd been caught in some forbidden act. "Nothing, just... you look..." He paused. Couldnât quite get the words out. "Incredible."
Her lips curled into a smile. âYou think so?â
His eyes darted down to her lips before snapping back up to her eyes. âI think... I think Iâm gonna have a hard time leaving this room.â
Her smile faltered for a second, a flash of mischief dancing behind her gaze. âOh? How come?â
He stepped closer, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile himself. âBecause this,â he gestured to her, his hand hovering like it wanted to reach out but was fighting the urge, âis pretty much everything Iâve ever wanted in front of me.â
Y/Nâs breath hitched just a little. Lando, the world-famous race car driver, was standing in front of her, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered, and... God, did it make her heart skip.
Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them, his hand brushing against her waist, and suddenly the air felt thick, like a storm was brewing but neither of them was willing to acknowledge it.
âBaby... weâre gonna be late,â she murmured, her voice thick with something else.
But it was too late.
He kissed her. Just one simple, gentle kiss that felt like an electric jolt to the chest. No more words, no more hesitation â just a soft brush of lips that made everything else feel unimportant. But it didnât stop there. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, his lips pressing a little harder against hers, and God, he couldnât stop himself. The tension, that irresistible, magnetic pull between them was too much.
Y/N didnât try to pull away either. In fact, she melted into him, her fingers trailing up his chest as she deepened the kiss, a slight hum of pleasure escaping her throat. It was just a kiss, just one... but it felt like so much more.
Her hand slid up to his neck, her nails lightly grazing the skin beneath his shirt, sending a shiver down his spine. He gripped her tighter, his lips moving against hers with urgency, the sound of their kissing soft in the otherwise quiet room. They werenât thinking about the dinner, or Gigi Hadid waiting, or Bradley Cooper being possibly the most intimidating man to meet â all they cared about was the magnetic connection they couldnât pull away from.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavy, faces flushed, eyes wide.
"Okay," she said between breaths, âI guess we really canât be late now, can we?â
Lando let out a breathy laugh. âThat was your fault,â he said, his voice low and teasing.
âMe? Youâre the one who couldnât keep his hands off me!â she shot back with a grin.
Y/N stood at the bathroom mirror again, now less goddess and more hot mess â her lipstick was thoroughly smudged, her gloss gone rogue, and her once-perfect curls? One side was doing some tragic post-make-out limp thing. She gasped when she caught sight of herself.
âLando Norris, look what you did to me!â
From behind her, he leaned in, arms circling her waist, chin resting on her shoulder like he hadnât just spent the last five minutes being an absolute menace to society. His smile was shameless.
âYouâre welcome,â he murmured, lips brushing her neck.
She slapped his hand away with a huff, trying to stay focused as she reached for her makeup bag. âNo. No. Iâm not showing up to dinner with Gigi Hadid looking like I just rolled out of your bed.â
âI mean... we could just go back to bed,â he offered, nuzzling into her neck again, the audacity of this man. âReschedule. Rain check. Iâll email Gigi. Or DM. Something professional.â
Y/N groaned, dabbing at her mouth with a makeup wipe. âYouâre lucky youâre hot.â
He grinned. âSo are you. Devastatingly.â
She tried to reapply her lipstick with trembling fingers, his hands now casually wandering â purely innocent, totally coincidental contact, obviously. She looked at him through the mirror.
âYou touch my hips one more time and I swear weâre going to be fashionably late in a way that involves me fake texting my dad âSorry, food poisoning.ââ
He looked unbothered. âHeâd probably understand. We can tell him it was shellfish. Or my fault.â
âIt is your fault!â
âExactly. And wouldnât it be tragic,â he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, âif you ruined that beautiful dress... in bed?â
She froze mid-mascara.
âLando Norris, weâre meeting my father in twenty minutes!â
He leaned in, smirking, voice low and cocky, âI can work fast.â
She groaned again, turning around and pushing him back toward the bedroom door, palm on his chest. âOut. Out. Out. I need ten uninterrupted minutes to de-sexify myself.â
âImpossible,â he said with a wink, holding his hands up in surrender but walking backward out of the bathroom like he was being dragged away by security. âYou canât turn off that kind of hot.â
She shut the door in his face. âGo iron your shirt, menace.â
They were a little late, but they didnât care. Lando kissed her one more time, just a quick peck, before taking her hand, leading her to the door. Because no matter how much time they lost to their tension, they knew theyâd never regret that stolen moment.
Lando was driving, hands suspiciously steady on the wheel considering the absolute chaos theyâd just escaped from. Y/N sat beside him, legs crossed tightly, trying not to spiral. Her lipstick had been fixed, her hair re-curled in record time, and sheâd even managed to touch up her highlighter like a pro. But her neck still had that faint heat to it, and every time she glanced in the mirror, she swore she could see kiss aftermath energy radiating off her.
And Lando? This man was way too smug for someone about to meet Bradley freaking Cooper.
âYou good?â he asked, not looking at her, but with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âYou nearly made us an hour late,â she hissed, smoothing down her dress for the third time. âI have setting powder in my cleavage right now, Lando.â
He chuckled, soft and low. âWorth it.â
âYouâre impossible,â she muttered, cheeks still warm.
As they turned into the long, absurdly elegant driveway of the Cooper residence â and yes, it had an actual gate code, she entered it like sheâd done it a thousand times before â the nerves really hit her. Gigiâs car was already parked outside. There were lights on inside. People were home.
Lando, suddenly a little less cocky, sat up straighter. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at her.
âOkay. Just to confirm â no trash talk about the Eagles. Anything else I should avoid?â
Y/N turned to him, deadpan. âNo, just keep talking good about them. And for the love of God, donât flirt with Gigi accidentally, because sheâs genetically engineered to be ethereal and you have no self-control.â
He looked mildly offended. âI have some self-control.â
She arched a brow. âYou tried to seduce me with my own lipstick fifteen minutes ago.â
He grinned again, looking out the window. âOkay, fair.â
The car stopped.
Silence.
They sat there for a beat too long. Y/N let out a breath. âReady?â
Lando nodded, but his voice was soft. âI just really want him to like me.â
And suddenly she wasnât teasing anymore. She reached over, squeezing his hand.
âHeâll like you,â she said, voice gentler. âBecause I love you.â
Their eyes met. He gave a tiny smile â the real kind, the one that didnât try to be cool or cocky. âOkay. Letâs go meet the legend.â
They stepped out of the car, the night air cool against their skin. Y/N fixed the collar of his shirt like a mom at a school recital and whispered one last thing as they reached the door.
âIf he asks why we were lateâŠâ
âTraffic,â Lando nodded seriously.
âHeavy traffic.â
âLike, six-car-pileup levels.â
The door swung open to reveal Bradley Cooper in the most Bradley Cooper fit possible â soft grey henley, navy joggers, barefoot, holding a wine glass like he was both the host and the afterparty. Behind him, Gigi Hadid padded into view in what could only be described as a cloud disguised as a cashmere matching set. Her hair was in a bun, she looked like a Pinterest board, and somehow she glowed. Disrespectful.
âYou two are late,â Bradley said, raising an eyebrow and a glass in greeting. âTraffic?â
Lando, trying to be on his best behavior, nodded with all the sincerity of a man absolutely not thinking about making out in the hallway mirror ten minutes ago. âYes, sir. Bad traffic. All the way through Beverly Hills.â
âBrutal,â Bradley said, already turning and walking back into the house like he was just commenting on the weather. âWe started without you. Hope you donât mind.â
Gigi waved. âHey Y/N. Hey Lando. I opened the merlot. Your dadâs on glass number two, so youâre probably safe for the next hour.â
Y/N laughed, shooting Lando a see? told you so look as they stepped into the house. Lando was taking it all in â the modern decor, the subtle Oscar shelf in the corner (casual), the vintage guitars on the wall. It was the kind of house that said âIâve made it,â but also âI surf sometimes.â
Bradley gestured to the living room. âMake yourselves at home. Foodâs on the way. I ordered from that Chinese place you like, Y/N. I figured Iâd play nice.â
Y/N grinned, flopping onto the couch like she owned the place. Lando sat next to her, just a little too upright.
âSo, Lando,â Bradley said, sitting opposite them and crossing one ankle over his knee. âYou any good at darts?â
Lando blinked. âUh, yeah? I mean, Iâm decentâ"
âGreat. Loser does the dishes.â
Y/N cackled as Gigi passed Lando a glass of wine and patted his shoulder.
âDonât worry. Heâs just messing with you. Also, heâs really bad at darts.â
Lando finally exhaled a breath he didnât know heâd been holding and leaned back into the couch, letting his fingers brush against Y/Nâs. Okay. He could do this. It wasnât a formal dinner. No speeches, no glares. Just darts, good Chinese food, and the coolest dad in America casually evaluating if his daughterâs boyfriend was worthy.
âSo,â Bradley said, sipping his wine with a smirk, âtell me, Lando. Do you follow the Eagles?â
The conversation flows smoothly. But, turns out Landoâs really bad at hand eye coordination.
Dinner had arrived in sleek, eco-friendly takeout containers, all artfully arranged like a lifestyle blog photo.Â
As it turns out, Landoâs nerves were wildly overestimated. His deep-rooted, soul-consuming panic about disappointing Bradley Cooper evaporated somewhere between his even worse skills than himself and the dad jokes that he was cracking.
Y/N was already stealing bites from Landoâs plate like it was her birthright, and Bradley was elbow-deep in Kung Pao chicken, cracking one-liners like he was hosting Hot Ones.
But it was Gigi â ethereal, barefoot, sipping her wine like a goddess â who really set the tone.
âSo, Lando,â she began, propping her chin on her hand, âY/N tells me, you have a brother and two sisters, right? Does your family still live in the UK?â
Lando blinked, slightly stunned by the fact that Gigi Hadid knew about him. âYeah! Yeah, theyâre back in the UK. We moved around a bit when I was a kid, butâuh, yeah.â
Gigi smiled. âI watched Drive to Survive. Youâre quite funny.â
Lando flushed slightly, a small grin spreading across his face. âThank you.â
Bradley glanced at Gigi with a smirk. âShe did her homework. Sheâs been prepping for this dinner like itâs a Vogue cover story.â
âI just donât want him to feel like heâs being grilled,â Gigi shrugged, passing Lando the bottle of wine like they were old friends. âF1âs intense enough.â
Y/N beamed. She squeezed Landoâs knee under the table, and his hand instinctively found hers, giving it a gentle squeeze back. His shoulders had dropped a full inch since they walked through the door. The tension in his jaw? Gone. The panicked thoughts of âwhat if he hates meâ and âwhat if I accidentally say Verstappen instead of Eaglesâ were now replaced with âI think Bradley Cooper just laughed at my jokeâ and âGigi Hadid thinks Iâm cool.â
By the time dessert â a chocolate cake that had zero business being that good â rolled around, Lando was chatting away about life on the paddock, what team meetings were like, and the chaotic energy of being on the road nine months out of the year.
Bradley was listening. Gigi was sipping. Y/N was glowing.
âYou know,â Bradley said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. âI get it now.â
Lando raised a brow, fork still mid-air. âGet what?â
âWhy she likes you,â Bradley said, totally casual, like he was commenting on the weather. âTakes someone pretty grounded to survive that world and still be this⊠decent.â
And just like that, Landoâs brain short-circuited.
Y/N smiled into her water glass, pretending she wasnât melting from how soft Lando looked at that moment.
âAlso helps that you didnât talk crap about the Eagles,â Bradley added with a wink.
The dinner plates were stacked, the wine glasses gathered, and soft jazz floated through the living room as Y/N and Gigi slipped into the kitchen with practiced ease. It was a quiet sort of comfort â the kind that came from shared girlhood and a few glasses of very good red.
Gigi hummed as she rinsed a plate, tossing a grin Y/Nâs way.
âSo⊠heâs kind of perfect.â
Y/N snorted, leaning against the counter with a sponge in one hand and a dopey smile on her face. âHeâs really not. He leaves socks everywhere and eats spring rolls at 1 a.m. like itâs a religion.â
âOkay, but still,â Gigi said, nudging her hip. âYou hit the jackpot. Heâs sweet, respectful, clearly obsessed with you â and did you see the way he handled your dad?â
Y/N let out a laugh. âHandled is a strong word. He nearly combusted when Dad brought up the Eagles.â
Gigi smiled, more fond than amused. âHeâs a good one, Y/N. If Lea and Khai ever get to meet him⊠oh, those girls would adore him.â
That stopped Y/N in her tracks â not in a dramatic way, just enough to let it sink in. She had seen it before: Lando crouching down to sign little race flags, letting tiny fans try on his cap, giving his niece piggyback rides around the garden. And now she was picturing it again â this time with her baby sister giggling on his shoulders, and Khai braiding daisies into his curls while he pretended he was being held hostage.
She blinked back the soft rush of warmth.
âTheyâd love him,â she said, quieter this time. âAnd honestly⊠if you ever need a babysitter, you know who to call. Landoâs a total natural.â
Gigi raised a brow. âNot you?â
Y/N laughed, handing her the last plate. âMe too. But youâve seen that manâs face â if he asked a toddler to do a backflip, theyâd try.â
Gigi giggled, flicking water at her. âSo true. Heâs got the Disney prince effect.â
Out in the living room, Bradleyâs voice rang out.
âNorris! You canât leave until I win one round, man. I donât care if it takes all night!â
Landoâs laugh followed, warm and boyish and entirely at home.
Y/N and Gigi shared a look. No words. Just one of those girl-to-girl, I-see-you kind of glances.And in that moment, with the sink full of bubbles and their hearts full of something even warmer, Y/N realized⊠maybe she had hit the jackpot after all.
guys reqs are always open!! please feel free to drop one for your favorite driver. always happy to writeâ„â„
Friday mornings on race weekends were always a little less chaotic than usual. Free Practice meant Lando wasnât in full send mode just yet âjust warm-up vibes, some light teasing from his engineers, and time to breathe.
And this Friday morning? He was floating. Because today⊠he had Pearl, his two year old menace of a daughter.
Y/N had dressed her while Lando was in the shower. When he stepped out, toweling his curls, he found his daughter toddling around the hotel room, swaddled in a hoodie that made her look like a tiny marshmallow.
The tiny girl stood in front of the mirror, wobbling slightly in her socks, swaddled in a hoodie so oversized it practically doubled as a sleeping bag. The hoodie was sky blue, bright and cheerful and unmistakably part of Landoâs Quadrant collection for kids. His own name in bold white letters across the back. And his logo, loud and proud, right beneath it.
âPearl,â he said, squinting. âWhatâre youâwait. WAIT A MINUTE.â
âNOOOO. NO STOP. IâM ACTUALLY GONNA CRY,â he said, dropping the towel like a dramatic soap opera lead. âWHAT. IS THIS. FIT.â
Pearl blinked up at him and said, âI Dadda,â very seriously.
Lando dropped to his knees like heâd just seen a religious vision. âNo. No. NO WAY. Who did this? WHO LET THIS HAPPEN?â he shouted dramatically.
Y/N walked in with a coffee in hand, looking far too calm for the chaos unfolding. âI dressed her,â she said, sipping. âWeâre going out in a bit, and she wanted to wear it. Said itâs her âspecial Dadda shirt.ââ
Lando made a noise that was somewhere between a squeal and a sob. He picked up Pearl instantly, holding her under the arms with the reverence of someone handling ancient treasure. âYouâre a genius,â he whispered to Y/N. âAnd this hoodie is the best thing Iâve ever made. Pearl, baby, you look ICONIC.â
Pearl giggled and clapped her hands, hoodie sleeves flopping like noodles.
You could physically hear Landoâs heart combust. âYouâre not just my daughter,â he whispered, scooping her up. âYouâre my brand ambassador.â
âBabe, youâve got likeââ she checked her phone ââforty-five minutes before you have to be at the garage.â
âIâm taking her,â Lando said instantly. âI donât care,it's just Free Practice. Iâm walking in with her like she owns the grid.â
âYouâre not bringing her out like a championship trophy, Landoââ
âOh but I am.â
Cue McLaren garage. Late morning. Coffee cups in mechanicsâ hands, soft background chatter, engineers going over setupsâbusiness as usual.
Until Lando walked in.
Wearing his race suit (unzipped and tied around his waist), carrying Pearl in his arms like a prize-winning squash.
âGentlemen,â he announced, standing in the middle of the garage, âmay I present: THE FUTURE OF THIS TEAM.â
And thatâs when it happened.
Without a second thoughtâwithout warningâbefore anyone could question his sanity, Lando lifted her high above his head, straight-up Simba style.
âLOOK AT HER,â he declared. âMY CHILD. WEARING. MY. MERCH!â
The entire garage froze. Then someone snorted. And then another mechanic just straight up lost it. A few people clapped. One guy mightâve saluted.
Zak Brown popped his head out from behind a screen like âwhat the hell is going onâOH.â
Y/N, trailing behind, was instantly 400 levels of stress. âLando!â she yelped, half-laughing, half-panicking. âCan you please not Simba our child?! What if you drop her?â
Lando lowered Pearl just enough to flash his wife a grin. âDonât worry. Sheâs got that Norris grip strength.â
Pearl, still suspended mid-air, flailed her little legs. âUpsies! Again!â
âSheâs repping the brand, babe!â he said proudly. âLook at the hoodie. LOOK AT IT. Itâs iconic.â
âSheâs two.â
âSheâs a model.â
Pearl giggled and patted his cheeks with her sleeve-covered hands. âAgain, Dadda. Up again.â
âOh no,â Y/N groaned. âYouâve created a monster.â
âCorrection,â Lando said, kissing his daughterâs forehead. âIâve created a mascot.â
Later that afternoon, after Lando had done his laps, changed out of his race suit, and inhaled a concerning number of snacks from the hospitality tent, he was back in the garageâwith Pearl right where she belonged.
On his hip. Like the clingiest, cutest sloth youâve ever seen.
Y/N sat off to the side, watching with mild horror as her husband gave their 2-year-old a full tour of a literal Formula 1 garage like it was Disneyland. âAnd this,â he said, crouching beside his car, âis where Dadda sits when he goes super fast.â
Pearl gasped like sheâd just seen a unicorn. âSo shinyyy!â she said, touching the halo with her mitten-sized hand.
âYeah,â Lando grinned. âShiny and speedy. Like you when you steal Mumâs phone.â
Just then, Oscar Piastri walked in, paused mid-step, and blinked at the sight before him. âUh. Why is there a child next to the car. Is that legal?â
âSheâs MY child,â Lando huffed. âAnd she's clearly part of the engineering department. Sheâs giving feedback.â
Pearl pointed to the wheel. âCar go vroom!â she declared.
Oscar raised an eyebrow. âWell, sheâs not wrong.â
âSee? Genius,â Lando smirked. âWeâre hiring her full-time. She starts next Tuesday. Gotta lock her down before Red Bull gets to her.â
Y/N called from the side, âPlease donât give Helmut Marko any ideas!â
Lando lifted Pearl into the air againâless Simba, more airplane mode this timeâand zoomed her over to the cockpit like weeeeeeeeee.
âBaby,â Y/N warned, standing up, âdonât even think aboutââ
Too late.
Pearl was now in the car.
Sitting in the cockpit. Hoodie bunched up, legs too short to reach anything, arms spread wide like she was about to take flight.
Lando crouched in front of her, wide-eyed with pride. â...She looks so natural in there. Iâm gonna cry.â
Oscar leaned against a wall, shaking his head. âSheâs already got a better seat fit than half the grid.â
Pearl grabbed the steering wheel, made a vroom sound, pressing all the buttons, then loudly went: âBEEEEEP!â
The mechanicsâwho were supposed to be workingâabsolutely lost it.
Y/N buried her face in her hands. âSheâs gonna think she actually drove that car, isnât she?â
âSheâs gonna think she won a Grand Prix,â Lando said proudly. âAs she should.â
Eventually, Pearl got tuckered out from all the imaginary racing and was scooped up into Y/Nâs arms, hoodie sleeves now stained with garage dust and snacks.
Lando kissed her cheek and whispered, âYou did great today, little driver.â
Pearl blinked sleepily. âCar go vroom.â
He smiled. âYeah, baby. Car definitely go vroom.â
The garage was still buzzing from the morning practice session, but the real work was starting now. Lando was seated in the McLaren briefing room, headset on, discussing track strategy with his engineers. His race engineer was in full-on âgame planâ mode, listing off tire choices and adjustments to the car's balance.
Lando was nodding, but his eyes kept drifting to the doorâmore specifically, to the tiny figure standing in the doorway, peeking around it with wide eyes.
âOkay, Lando, weâve got a lot to focus on here. Tire management, turn 12 braking points, strategy forââ
âWait.â Lando held up a finger, eyes still locked on the door. âOne sec, guys.â
The engineers exchanged confused glances. âUh⊠Lando?â
And then, as if she were on a mission, Pearl made her move.
Tiny feet padded into the room, a little determined waddle in her sky blue hoodie, the LN logo bouncing with each step.
âPEARL,â Lando groaned, already starting to chuckle. âNot now, baby girl.â
Pearl, on a mission, continued her march forward with the seriousness of someone heading to war. The team looked back at Lando, raising an eyebrow.
âSheâs⊠going to the briefing room?â one engineer whispered.
âI donât know whatâs happening right now,â Lando said, still half-laughing, half-panicking, but in a good way.
Pearlâs eyes found her target: Landoâs legs. And with the speed of a Formula 1 car, she launched herself toward him.
âDadda! UP!â she announced, arms outstretched, determined to climb onto his lap.
Lando, who was supposed to be in focus mode, immediately dropped the headset and scooped her up. âOh, youâre really doing this, huh?â
âCar go vroom,â Pearl said, smacking her hands on the table in front of him like she was trying to take over the strategy meeting.
Y/N appeared in the doorway just then, her hand over her mouth to hide a smile. âLando, sheâsââ
âShh!â Lando whispered, holding Pearl against him. âThis is important business.â
âImportant business?â one engineer asked, blinking at the tiny human in his lap. âThatâs the boss right there.â
Pearl, having zero concept of actual strategy, proceeded to press every single button on Landoâs tablet in front of him. The tire strategy? Gone. The fuel calculations? Gone.
âUh, LandoâŠâ one of the engineers started nervously. âWe need that back.â
But it was no use. Pearl had claimed her space. She was making important decisions by tapping away at the screen like a mini tech mogul.
âNo oneâs getting through this meeting unless we address this first,â Lando grinned, motioning to Pearlâs impromptu takeover of his lap. âIâm telling you, sheâs gonna be running the team by next season.â
âLando, please,â Y/N groaned, walking over to them. âSheâs two.â
âSheâs a future team principal,â he argued back, completely lost in his daughterâs antics. âCanât you see the vision, babe?â
As the strategy meeting continued, Lando spent the next several minutes trying to listen while also comforting Pearl, who had climbed halfway onto the table and was now trying to rip the screen protector off his tablet. Meanwhile, Y/N gave him the lookâa mix of âI love you but what are you doingâ and âI am going to deal with this later.â
But then, without warning, Pearl turned to the engineers and said with all the seriousness in the world:
âGo fast!â
And the whole room erupted in laughter.
âAlright,â Lando said, chuckling as he glanced at the engineers. âPearl says we go fast. Thatâs the strategy.â
The engineers all nodded, visibly trying to suppress their grins. âGot it, boss,â one of them said, completely deadpan. âGo fast. Weâll make that happen.â
Lando leaned back in his chair, looking down at Pearl, who was now happily playing with a race radio. âSee? They get it.â
Y/N just shook her head, but she couldnât help but smile at the sight of the two of themâfather and daughter, utterly unbothered by the seriousness of the situation.
And as the antics of the day sporaled down, Lando stayed in the garage a little longer than usualâPearl still in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, the soft blue of her hoodie a tiny pop of calm in the buzz of race prep.
She didnât know what DRS was. She couldnât tell a slick from an intermediate. But she knew one thing for sure: she was safe, warm, and with her daddyâwho just so happened to be the biggest goofball on the grid.
And as they packed up and headed back to the hotel, Pearl snoozing in Y/Nâs arms, Lando looked over at them and thought, Yep. This is the podium that actually matters.
@oscinhaslandito prompt request #7 - "I'm going to be productive today." "You know that means you have to get out of bed?"
Summary: Sometimes days start with a plan and sometimes boyfriend's can convince us to deviate from that plan.
Word count: 703
The day after getting back from Jeddah was used as a good excuse to just relax and chill out. But usually y/n likes to be productive the day following, catch up on house chores, do laundry, appreciate living in Monaco by going out and enjoying the surroundings.
"I love being home and being active and productive all the time. But I really don't want to get out of bed with you." Y/n groans as Oscar lies on top of her keeping her pinned down under his weight.
And with Oscar not saying anything they both just remain there and y/n even drifts off asleep again making him smirk while he lies with his head on her chest as he scrolls through his phone just enjoying the peace and quiet while y/n's heart thuds in his ear.
Eventually she jumps awake clearly unaware that she'd even fallen asleep again.
"You ok?" Oscar asks in amusement while y/n groans shifting as if she's trying to escape being underneath him.
"I'm going to be productive today." Y/n states as she yawns and stretches her arms out with a groan.
"You know that means you have to get out of bed?" Oscar chuckles while y/n laughs a little since they both seem to have decided y/n just isn't getting out of bed for the day to do everything she wanted to do for the day.
"Getting out of bed just doesn't feel possibly right now. Not when I have the equivalent of a dead body refusing to move from on top of me."
"I'm not apologise or moving if that's what you're hinting for. You have no idea how comfortable you are to lie on, but nothing competes." Oscar states making it clear that he doesn't intend to move even an inch until he's ready.
Y/n sort of just accepts her fate and wiggles an arm free to hug around him a little and rub his back between his shoulders.
"I love you and how you enable me to be lazy and just allow it." Y/n smiles as her hand moves up to play with his hair which is definitely in it's freshly awoken fluffy state which is always the nicest state for it to be in for her to play with. Nothing better than playing with your boyfriend's hair during a lazy day.
"I love you and the fact you're not really making the effort to move me at all to get on with what you said you wanted to do today." Oscar smirks, though his expression is out of her view she can just hear it in his voice.
And that's how they spend the day, just lying together. Though eventually they do run out of their bedside table water supply and both of them have to go to the toilet with their bladders about to give out. Especially y/n's with the weight of Oscar on top of her.
"Tomorrow I will be productive. No pinning me down."
"I'll be productive with you so you're not doing any of it on your own." Oscar promises as they both move to actually brush their teeth since not even that basic task had been done and they both realised once they were up that it was kind of gross.
"But today what just one of those days that was kind of perfect. I can't lie." Y/n smiles while Oscar smiles leaning over to spit into the sink quickly rinsing off any residue toothpaste before he pulls her closer and kisses her cheek with wet lips.
"It's always perfect with you." Oscar states reassuringly. "So it's just gone...5pm. What are having for our first meal of the day?"
"I think...something healthy so we can have the same thing and you are sticking with the driver diet." Y/n sighs as she returns the gesture of a kiss to the side of his face. "Thank you. I think I really needed a day of proper rest."
"Completely unintentional but I'm glad you got what you needed from it." Oscar smiles then patting her ass gently to get her moving. "Let's go get something healthy to eat then."
Hi I don't know if ur taking requests rn but I have an idea for a teacher au with Lando x reader where they're both teaching at the same secondary/high schl and they're together and try to keep it secret but like all the students know cuz they're so blatantly obviously in love with each other and they're like the most shipped couple by all their students. U can choose what subject lando teaches to match reader being a bio teacher but personally I get PE teacher vibes from Lando and I fee like that works rlly well. Hope u have a grt day sorry about the long request love ur work sm especially the Berlin Wall one recently it was so so good hoping to see something historical like that again if u feel like it đ«¶
Miss and Mister Norris?
Summary: You teach biology. He teaches PE. Youâre secretly dating. The students? Not fooled for a second.
PE!Teacher!Lando x Biology!Teacher!Reader
Genre: fluff, humorous
TW: None!
A/N: thatâs such a cool idea! Thank you for the request! Also glad to see that my stories have such an impact on you guys đ„č love ya!
Navigation
To be fair, you tried to keep it secret.
When you and Lando started datingâaccidentally, clumsily, falling into it after weeks of lingering glances in the staffroom and hallway flirting that made the other teachers groanâyou made a pact.
No touching at school.
No glances that lasted longer than five seconds.
Absolutely no kissing on school grounds.
And for the love of all things professional: no calling each other âbabe.â
It lasted⊠about three days.
Because you forgot that teenagers have one major hobby: spying on adults and making up elaborate love stories.
So it started small.
One of your Year 9 students raised her hand during class and went, âMiss⊠is it true you and Mr. Norris had coffee together in the staffroom this morning and he gave you the last custard cream?â
You blinked. âWhat? Thatâs not aâthis is a biology lesson. Focus, Amira.â
The class erupted in giggles.
It only got worse from there.
Lando, bless him, was not built for secrecy.
He was the kind of PE teacher who roller-skated through the halls to get to class on time. Who high-fived every student whether they liked it or not. Who wore sunglasses indoors and called Year 11 boys âmateâ while casually ruining their pride in dodgeball.
He was sunshine in human form.
You were⊠you. Slightly more serious, slightly more cautious, and head of the biology department.
The only thing you two had in common?
The fact that every student knew you were head over heels for each other.
âI swear to God,â Lando whispered one Thursday morning as you passed each other in the hall, âa Year 10 just fake-fainted in front of me and asked if Iâd carry her to you like a princess so youâd finally kiss me.â
You burst out laughing. âDid you?â
âI almost did.â
âLando!â
âWhat?â he smirked. âWeâve already lost control of the narrative. At this point Iâm just giving the people what they want.â
You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered.
Your students had theories.
âSheâs secretly married to him.â
âThey had their first kiss in the science cupboard.â
âI bet he carries her homework to the staffroom.â
âMiss is totally wearing his hoodie under her blazer, watch.â
Every time you walked past a group of students, theyâd not-so-subtly hum romantic music.
One day, Lando walked into the biology wing and a group of Year 10 girls literally applauded.
âWhy?â he asked, laughing.
âBecause youâve set the bar for love,â one said dramatically, clutching her heart.
You facepalmed.
The real chaos happened during Parent-Teacher Night.
Youâd both been assigned different classrooms, but somehow, the news had spread. Parents were curious. Students had told them.
You and Lando, the schoolâs ultimate ship.
So when a parent sat across from you and asked, with a perfectly straight face, âDo you and Mr. Norris have any, uh⊠joint lesson plans?ââyou blinked. She winked. You choked on your tea.
Lando later told you a dad asked if he was planning to propose on Sports Day.
âI mean,â Lando shrugged, âif I had a ring, that wouldâve been iconic.â
You stared. âLando.â
âWhat?â
âDonât even joke about proposing at Sports Day.â
âYou say that, butââ
âLando.â
The students started a petition to get you both to chaperone prom.
It wasnât subtle.
The heading read:
âLet the Power Couple Supervise Loveâ
It had 273 signatures.
Lando framed it.
âI want this at our wedding,â he grinned.
You threw a textbook at him. Gently.
Still, despite the teasing, the matchmaking, and the relentless obsession from your students, no one really saw the quiet moments.
The hand on your lower back when he walked past.
The soft murmurs exchanged behind the gym.
The way he waited outside your classroom with a smoothie when you were too stressed to eat lunch.
The way you straightened his tie when no one was watching.
And at the end of every long, exhausting, love-soaked dayâŠ
Youâd curl up on the couch at home, tangled in his hoodie, grading papers while he threw Skittles into your mug and made up songs about mitochondria just to make you laugh.
One afternoon, just before the Easter holidays, you were walking past the art block when you overheard it.
Two Year 12 girls were painting a mural, gossiping about teacher crushes.
One said, âHonestly, if Mr. Norris doesnât marry Miss Y/L/N, Iâm never believing in love again.â
The other nodded. âHe looks at her like she invented oxygen.â
You paused.
Smiled.
And for the first time, didnât correct them.
One Week Later
You and Lando were walking hand-in-hand through a garden centre over the break, hot drinks in one hand, plans for summer in the other, when Lando stopped suddenly.
He turned to you.
âI know we said weâd wait,â he said.
You frowned. âWait for what?â
He reached into his jacket.
He kneeled down.
Pulled out a ring.
Your heart stopped.
âLandoââ
âItâs not for Sports Day,â he grinned. âI promise.â
You laughed. Then cried.
And when you whispered yes, the girl from the cashier counter whispered to her colleague, âOh my God, thatâs Mr. and Miss Norris! They finally did it!â
You walked into class Monday morning.
Sat on your desk.
Smiled at your students.
âAlright,â you said. âLetâs talk genetics. Specifically⊠why your favorite PE teacher might become your favorite biology teacherâs husband.â
Oscar :Â This food is too hot... I cant eat it.
Lando :Â Youâre very hot, and I still eat you.
Everyone at the table:Â *silence*
Charles :Â YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING!
George:Â One dinner... I just want ONE DINNER!
