i decided to proofread Recalibration again after it got posted because i still have no idea how it even made it through my queue 😭 i swear i had paused my queued posts because i remembered i wasn’t done proofreading it yet…
…and i was right to be worried.
there are so many mistakes 😭 i even found a whole paragraph that randomly became 1st person pov even though the fic is in 2nd person.
it’s already at around 260 likes, and i just wanted to say thank you for being so kind. i always worry about things like this, so the fact that no one has made me feel bad about it honestly means a lot. 🫶🏻
this is exactly why i usually proofread my fics over and over before posting. apparently, when i don’t, this is what happens.
girl, you spent THAT much effort in writing recalibration? i mean i know it takes time to write a fic but research and watching medical dramas for it? i cant imagine omg. thats so much time and effort. i hope it reaches more people bc i also honestly loved it so much!
when you put it like that, it does sound a little insane....
but i genuinely had so much fun doing it. ♡ i really loved this one medical series, so rewatching it wasn't exactly a chore. i also wanted oscar to actually feel like a neurosurgeon instead of just calling him one, so i ended up falling down a rabbit hole of research. 😅
though, honestly, i don't think the fic even focused that much on the medical side... i only used a few medical terms here and there, so i don't think it was anything too crazy. i just wanted the little details to feel right whenever they did come up.
thank you so much for loving recalibration 🥹 i really hope more people find it, too, but knowing even one person noticed the effort i put into it already means a lot. 🤍
omg hello!! i was the one who requested the landoscar x reader love triangle fic!
first of all, please don't apologise for taking months to get to my request!! you're absolutely not obligated to write it in the first place 😭 you're literally doing this for free, so i was just happy you even decided to write it at allllll
AND I ALREADY READ IT AHHHH IT WAS SO GOOD 😭😭 i could literally picture lando acting exactly like that. i was kicking my feet so hard when reader told lando she rejected oscar because OH MY GOD LANDO YOU IDIOT 😭😭 if you had just listened to her instead of ignoring her...
CJSJFNJSDJ I LOVED IT SO MUCH. thank you for writing my request!! it was absolutely worth the wait 🥹🫶
THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!
i'm so relieved you enjoyed it because i was actually a little nervous posting that one 😵💫
and "LANDO YOU IDIOT" 😭 that's exactly the reaction i was hoping for. if only the man would've listened for five minutes...
thank you for requesting such a fun idea, and for being so kind about the wait 🥹 i'm really happy it ended up being worth it for you, and thank you for taking the time to come back and send me this 🤍
Hi! I read Recalibration last night, and I'm honestly speechless. I genuinely think it might be the best piece I've ever read here. It somehow manages to be absolutely heartbreaking and incredibly heartwarming at the same time. As a reader, I'm completely in awe. As a writer... I'm even more in awe. It honestly feels like another nail in my coffin. How do you even write something like that? I'd genuinely love to know what your writing process looks like. Thank you. Sending you lots of love and appreciation❤️
Thank you so much for taking the time to send such a thoughtful, lovely ask! 🥹❤️ Hearing that Recalibration resonated with you on that level truly means the absolute world to me, and coming from a fellow writer, it’s honestly one of the highest compliments I could receive!
I often feel like my writing process is pretty straightforward and chaotic behind the scenes, but since you asked, here is a deeper look into how Recalibration came together:
Research and Setting the Scene:
Since this was a medical AU with Oscar as a neurosurgeon, the very first step was building a believable foundation. I spent a lot of time researching medical jargon and watching medical dramas just to soak in the cadence, tone, and atmosphere.
When actually writing the surgery or hospital scenes, I kept open tabs with precise medical terms and reference videos in the background so I could capture both the technical accuracy and the visceral, emotional weight of the room.
Conceptualizing & Scene-by-Scene Outlining
I usually start by mapping out the overarching story arc—establishing the baseline, rising action, climax, and resolution. Once the big picture is clear, I break it down into very granular scene notes before writing prose:
Example Breakdown:
Scene 1–2: She gets into a severe accident —> Oscar operates for hours —> She wakes up post-op —> First thing she sees is Oscar and immediately assumes he’s her boyfriend.
Having this roadmap helps me stay grounded so I don't lose the plot when diving into heavy emotional beats.
Character Immersion
The heavy lifting happens during the major revision stage. This is where I go back over those bare-bones scenes and completely submerge myself into each character's headspace to flesh out their dynamics and dialogue:
I constantly question the character choices: Would the reader actually phrase it this way? How would Oscar react to this specific vulnerability? What are George and Lando doing in the background to make the scene feel alive?
If a scene feels stiff or awkward, I will literally act it out loud in my room. It sounds totally weird, but physicalizing the scene and saying the lines out loud instantly reveals if the natural flow, pacing, or dialogue feels off.
(Sometimes, I don't even begin with a concrete plot. I begin with a feeling. A specific visual or emotional beat will start replaying in my head, and I’ll realize that’s the emotional destination I want to reach.
Once I identify the exact feeling I want the reader to experience by the end of the story, I work entirely in reverse, connecting all the plot pieces like a puzzle to ensure every scene builds toward that specific payoff.)
Line-by-Line Polishing & Micro-Editing
I rewrite relentlessly. A huge chunk of my time goes into fine-tuning sentence structure, word choice, and rhythm. If a paragraph doesn't evoke the exact mood or emotional nuance I’m aiming for, I will tweak, rephrase, and rewrite it over and over until it lands just right.
A little confession... 😅
Recalibration actually was never supposed to be published when it was! I had put it in my queue and paused it because I began feeling super self-conscious about it and felt like it needed way more proofreading and polishing.
But somehow, a queue glitch happened and it went live anyway. I went through a brief moment of panic, but seeing readers like you respond so warmly and generously has made me so relieved and happy that it managed to escape into the world.
Thank you again for all the love, appreciation, and support. It truly keeps my creative engine running. I hope this helps! Sending you so much love back, and happy writing! ❤️✨
respectfully... why is the corner nook your ONLY george fic 😭😭😭
you wrote george so perfectly that i genuinely thought i'd have a whole collection of your george fics to binge afterwards. imagine my heartbreak when i realized there was only one. 💔 it's easily one of my favorite george fics i've read, and i'm forever hoping you decide to bless us with another one someday.
also... this is me shamelessly requesting for a doctor!george fic because reading him in Recalibration as a side character had me LOSING MY MIND 😭😭😭 i don't know what you put into that man, but every scene he was in had me wishing he was the main character for a second.
i would sell my soul for a doctor!george x reader fic set in the same universe as Recalibration. 😭 maybe george's reader is one of the new residents he keeps insisting he "doesn't have favorites" with (he absolutely does), and it's all unresolved tension and everyone at the hospital knowing they're hopelessly in love except them. OR make him the annoyingly competent attending who's all strict and professional until reader gets hurt or overworks herself and suddenly the composed doctor facade completely falls apart. PLEASE I'M BEGGING. 🧎♀️
stop, this is making me emotional 😭🤍
The Corner Nook has a really special place in my heart, too, so hearing you say it's one of your favourite George fics genuinely means a lot!!
I wish I had a better answer for why I don't write him more often 😭 but George is honestly one of the hardest drivers for me to write. I overthink every single line he says 🥲 I do have two George fics tucked away somewhere. I'm just not confident enough to let them out into the world yet.
also... I LOVE the doctor!George idea in the Recalibration universe. i'm definitely keeping this idea in the back of my mind because now i'm thinking about it too 👀 thank you for putting this into my brain. i can't promise it'll happen anytime soon (my WIPs are already glaring at me 😭), but i really do love the concept. 🤍
and now that you've said it, I now have a few inspirations in mind for what I'd want doctor!George to be like!
omg I've been following you since the 1st post of crossing the line got posted and i was the anon who asked the threesome fic😭 I'm happy you have anon emojis now can i be 🧸 thank you!:D
EXCUSE ME??? SINCE MARCH??? 😭😭😭
the first part of Cross the Line got posted back then and I didn't even finish the fic until this july... you've survived the updates, the DELAYS, and my yapping 😭
thank you so much for sticking around, 🧸!! the teddy bear emoji is all yours 🫡
now you have to stay until I finally post the threesome fic... you've waited this long already 🫣🤍
✦ a/n: requested! ✨ (requested back in march… so to the anon who asked for this: i’m so sorry it took literal months hshshs 😭 i hope you’re still here because it’s finally done!)
The deal was simple: use Lando to break through Oscar’s unreadable calm. But Lando doesn't do anything half-measured. Between a furious older brother, a suddenly jealous teammate, and fake touches that feel far too real, the lines start blurring fast.
"He’s just... quiet, but not in a boring way," you say, leaning against the kitchen island as you stir your coffee, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the window. "It’s like he’s observing everything. And when he actually does say something, it’s either brilliant or the driest joke you’ve ever heard. I don’t think he even realizes I’m alive half the time."
Your older brother, Max, snorts from the sofa, not looking up from his phone. "Trust me, he knows you're alive. He's just focused. That's Oscar. If it’s not a data telemetry sheet or a sim-run, it doesn't exist to him."
"That’s not true," you defend weakly, feeling that familiar, annoying flutter in your chest just at the mention of his name.
Beside Max, Lando is uncharacteristically still. Usually, he’s the one bouncing off the walls, cracking jokes, or throwing cushions at your brother’s head, but right now he’s nursing a bottle of water, his knuckles white against the plastic. He watches you over the rim of the bottle, his gaze heavy and unreadable.
"So, what?" Lando finally speaks up, his voice a little tighter than usual. "You’re just going to pine over the him until he notices you in 2028?"
"I’m not pining," you lie.
"You’re definitely pining," Max chimes in, finally looking up. "It’s pathetic, really. You’ve got that look in your eyes. The 'Oscar Piastri just looked in my general direction' sparkle."
You roll your eyes, tossing a dish towel at your brother, which he catches with a laugh. "Shut up. It’s not a big deal. It’s just... a crush."
"A crush is what you have on a boy in year ten," Lando mutters, standing up and heading toward the kitchen to toss his empty bottle in the bin. He stops just a foot away from you, his presence suddenly very loud in the small space. He doesn't look at Max, he looks directly at you, his curls messy and his expression masked by a forced, casual smirk. "You're wasting your time waiting for him to wake up. Some people actually know what’s right in front of them without needing a map."
Max laughs from the living room, oblivious to the sudden tension. "Don't encourage her, Lan. She'll be writing his name in her notebook next."
Lando doesn't laugh. He just keeps his eyes on yours, a flash of something sharp and frustrated flickering in the green of his irises before he masks it with a wink.
Max wanders off toward the balcony to take a call, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in the kitchen. You take a breath and step closer to Lando, wrapping your arms around his middle in a familiar, comfortable hug. You’ve known him for years, he’s practically a second brother, the one who always had a spare controller for you or a seat on the private jet when you wanted to surprise Max at a race.
You bury your face in his chest for a second, missing the way he momentarily freezes, his breath catching before he slowly, tentatively, rests his hands on your shoulders.
"Lando," you mumble against his hoodie, "you have to help me. Please."
"Help you with what?" he asks, his voice low and a bit raspy.
"Oscar," you say, pulling back just enough to look up at him with pleading eyes. "You’re his teammate. You spend more time with him than anyone. You know what he likes, what makes him tick... what he thinks of me. Does he ever even mention me when I’m not around?"
Lando’s jaw tightens. He looks like he’s swallowed something bitter, but he forces a small, strained smile. "He's not exactly the 'chatting about girls over brunch' type, you know that. He’s all business."
"I know, but you’re Lando," you nudge him, trying to coax that usual mischievous energy out of him. "You can get anyone to talk. Just... find out if I have a chance? Or give me a hint on how to get his attention? I feel like I'm invisible when I'm standing right in front of him."
Lando’s hands slide from your shoulders down to your upper arms, his grip firming. He looks at you for a long beat, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you feel a sudden, strange flicker of unease. The "brotherly" vibe you were leaning into feels suddenly, sharply off-balance.
"You want his attention that badly?" he asks quietly.
"I do," you whisper.
Lando exhales a sharp, dry laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "Fine. I’ll help you. I’ll... see what I can do to make him notice what he's missing."
He lets go of you then, stepping back just as Max slides the balcony door open and steps back inside. Lando brushes his hair out of his face, his expression shifting back into a casual mask so quickly it’s almost dizzying.
"But don't blame me," Lando adds, looking back at you with a look that’s suddenly much more predatory than helpful, "if things don't go exactly how you planned."
— ✦
You’re leaning against the high-top table in the McLaren hospitality suite, your eyes locked on Oscar. He’s leaning back in his chair, a water bottle in hand, looking as calm as if he were sitting in his own living room rather than minutes away from a debrief.
"So," you say, pitching your voice just loud enough to cut through the ambient noise, "I heard your sector three times were the best on the grid today. Is that the car, or are you just trying to show off because I’m here?"
It’s a blatant line, shameless, really, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. Oscar’s head tilts slightly. His gaze lingers on yours, a small, almost imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth.
"The car is good," Oscar says, his voice steady and low. "But I suppose a little extra motivation doesn't hurt."
Your heart dovers a beat. Was that a hint? Before you can press him, Lando slides into the space between you, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulders. The sudden contact is jarring, his heat radiating through your shirt.
"Alright, give the man some space," Lando jokes, though his grip on your shoulder is firm, pulling you an inch away from Oscar’s personal bubble. "He’s got data to look at. Besides, Oscar doesn't do flattery, do you, mate?"
Oscar looks up at Lando, then back at you. For a fleeting second, his expression shifts, his brows knit together, a shadow of something that looks suspiciously like doubt crossing his face. He clears his throat and stands up. "I should get to the engineering room. See you later?"
He directs the question to you, but his eyes flicker to Lando’s arm around you before he turns and walks away.
"See?" you whisper harshly, turning to Lando the moment Oscar is out of earshot. "He’s so hard to read! I flirt, and he talks about 'motivation,' then he just leaves. He probably thinks I’m annoying."
Lando doesn't answer immediately. He’s watching Oscar’s retreating back, his jaw working as if he’s chewing on a thought he doesn't want to swallow. He saw it. The way Oscar’s hand tightened on his water bottle when Lando touched you. He saw the way Oscar’s eyes darkened for a split second.
Lando knows that look. It’s the look of a man who’s interested but suddenly feels like he’s playing a game he hasn't been given the rules to.
"Yeah," Lando says, his voice dropping an octave as he turns back to you. He looks down at you, his thumb tracing a small, distracting circle on the fabric of your sleeve. "He’s a closed book. If I were you, I’d stop trying so hard. It’s clearly not working the way you want it to."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" you ask, frustrated.
Lando’s smirk returns, but it’s sharper now, more calculated. "Maybe you need to change your strategy. Stop chasing him and see if he comes to you."
The hospitality suite has emptied out as the teams head to the garages. Lando still hasn't let go of your arm. In fact, he pulls you toward a quieter corner behind the driver rooms, his expression shifting from teasing to something uncomfortably heavy.
"Look," he starts, his voice dropping into a register you rarely hear, serious, devoid of his usual energy. "Oscar is competitive. If he thinks he’s already won your attention, he’s just going to sit back and analyze. That’s how he operates."
"So what? I should just ignore him?" you ask, leaning back against the wall.
Lando steps into your space, forcing you to look up at him. "No. You make him realize he’s losing. But you can't do that alone." He pauses, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. "And honestly? It’s killing me watching you throw yourself at him when I’m... I'm right here."
The air in the small hallway feels suddenly thin. "Lando, what are you saying?"
"I’m saying I’ve liked you for a long time," he says, the confession tumbling out with a raw honesty that makes your stomach flip, not with butterflies, but with a sharp, jarring awkwardness. "I’ve stayed quiet because of Max. Because he’s my best friend and I didn't want to make things weird, but seeing you pine for Oscar? It’s worse."
You stare at him, your mind racing. Max. Your brother would absolutely lose his mind if he knew his best friend was looking at you this way. It feels like a line is being crossed that you aren't ready to step over. "Lando, I... I don't know what to say. Max would—"
"I’ll handle Max," Lando interrupts, his eyes searching yours. He sees the hesitation and quickly pivots, his competitive streak kicking in. "Look, let’s make a deal. A win-win."
He leans one hand on the wall beside your head. "Date me. For real. Give us a chance to see if we actually work. At the same time, we make sure Oscar sees it. Every bit of it. We go to dinner, we walk through the paddock together, I put my arm around you... we see if he finally cracks when he realizes someone else is taking his spot."
You bite your lip, torn between the guilt of using Lando and the desperate hope of finally seeing a spark of jealousy in Oscar’s calm eyes.
"Two birds, one stone," Lando whispers, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Either Oscar gets jealous and finally moves, or... you realize you’ve been looking at the wrong teammate this whole time. If I can't make him jealous, or if I can't make you fall for me, the deal is off. No strings. What do you say?"
You stare at Lando, the silence in the narrow hallway suddenly feeling loud. Your brain is a chaotic mess of Max’s protective face, Oscar’s calm, unreadable eyes, and the sheer, unexpected weight of Lando’s confession.
It’s risky. It’s messy. If Max finds out Lando is using his sister as a pawn, or worse, that Lando actually has feelings for you, the fallout could be nuclear. But then you think of Oscar. You think of the way he looked at Lando’s arm around you just minutes ago, that tiny, flickering shadow of doubt in his expression. For the first time, you saw a crack in his armor, and the thought of breaking it wide open is too tempting to ignore.
"You really think it'll work?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "You think he’ll actually care?"
Lando’s gaze softens, but there’s a competitive glint there that reminds you he’s a driver who doesn't like to lose. "I know how he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. He cares. He just needs a reason to stop being so damn polite about it."
You take a shaky breath, looking down at his chest before meeting his eyes again. "And what about us? If this... if I don't feel the same way? You're my brother’s best friend, Lando. I don't want to lose you."
"Then we shake hands and walk away," he says, though his voice lacks its usual playfulness. He reaches out, his hand hovering near your face before he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is warm, lingering just a second too long to be platonic. "But give me the chance to try. Worst case? Oscar finally snaps and claims what’s his. Best case? You realize I’m a much better catch than a guy who talks to his tires more than his girlfriend."
He offers his hand, palm up, waiting. It’s a literal deal with the devil, or at least, the grid’s biggest prankster.
You hesitate for only a second more before sliding your hand into his. His fingers immediately close around yours, firm and possessive.
"Deal," you say, the word feeling like a spark hitting gasoline.
Lando’s smirk returns, but this time it’s triumphant. He doesn't let go of your hand instead, he brings it up to his lips, grazing your knuckles with a kiss that feels far too real to be part of a "strategy."
"Good," he murmurs against your skin, his eyes locked on yours. "Now, let's go find my teammate. I think it’s time he saw us leaving together."
— ✦
Amidst the blur of the victory party, all thrumming music and the crisp scent of champagne, the world narrows down to Lando. Your breath hitches when his hand slides into yours, fingers weaving together with an intensity. He holds you fast before you've even stepped out onto the crowded rooftop.
"Stay close," he murmurs near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "And try to look like you're actually enjoying my company."
The first person you see is Max. He’s standing by the bar with a group of engineers, but the moment he spots you, and specifically, your joined hands, his drink stops halfway to his mouth. His forehead creases in a look of pure, unadulterated confusion.
"What's this?" Max asks, his voice cutting through the music as you approach. He looks at Lando, then at you, then back at Lando’s hand gripped tightly around yours. "Since when do you two walk into rooms like you're in a rom-com?"
Lando doesn't flinch. He just pulls you a fraction closer, his thumb grazing the back of your hand in a way that feels dangerously natural. "I’m just tired of being in the friend zone, Max. Figured it was time I actually put some effort in."
Max blinks, his protective instincts warring with his long-standing friendship with Lando. "You’re... dating?"
"I'm pursuing," Lando corrects with a sharp, charming grin. He’s careful with the wording, just like he promised. If he claims you're officially his, a guy like Oscar might respect the boundary and retreat entirely. But "pursuing"? That’s an open invitation for a challenge. "She hasn't said yes to being the girlfriend yet, but I'm working on it. Right?"
He looks down at you, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and that hidden, heavy sincerity you're still trying to process.
"He's certainly persistent," you manage to say, offering Max a small, sheepish shrug.
"I don't like this," Max mutters, though he looks more baffled than angry. "This is weird. My best friend and my sister? I need another drink."
As Max turns back to the bar, shaking his head, you feel a prickle of sensation on the back of your neck. You turn your head slightly and find him.
Oscar is standing a few feet away, leaning against a railing with a glass of sparkling water. He isn't talking to anyone. He’s just watching. His face is a mask of calm, but his eyes are fixed intently on the spot where Lando’s hand is resting on the small of your back.
Oscar catches your eyes and his grip on his glass tightens, the muscles in his forearm flexing. There’s a quiet, simmering tension in his posture that wasn't there this morning, a subtle shift from observer to competitor.
Lando notices it too. He leans down, whispering loud enough for only you to hear, "Don't look at him too long. Let him wonder why you're looking at me instead."
Lando feels you stiffen slightly as your gaze lingers on Oscar across the room. He doesn't like it. With a subtle, proprietary tug, he pulls you closer until your side is flush against his chest, effectively blocking your line of sight to his teammate.
"Hey," he whispers, his voice dropping into that low, private tone that makes the rest of the party’s noise fade into the background. "Look at me. Not him."
You look up, blinking, to find Lando staring down at you that feels far too heavy and intense for a 'fake' arrangement. The neon lights of the lounge catch the gold in his eyes, making them look predatory and soft all at once.
"The deal was to make him jealous, right?" you murmur, trying to regain your footing. "It's working. I think he's actually staring."
"Forget Oscar for a second," Lando says, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, his fingers splaying out firmly. "If this is going to look real, you have to be with me. Completely. No scanning the room, no checking for his reaction. Just... focus on me tonight. Can you do that?"
Before you can answer, he leans in, his face inches from yours. He lingers in that charged, breathless space where he easily could. He reaches up with his free hand, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your head back just a fraction more. It’s a move he’s never made before, a bold departure from the brotherly shoves and platonic hair-ruffling you’re used to.
"Lando," you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"I'm pursuing you as well, remember?" he murmurs, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "And I don't do anything half-measured. If I’m going to win you over, I’m going to do it properly."
He leans down and presses a lingering, warm kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear. You feel a shiver race down your spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. It’s a calculated move, timed perfectly for when Oscar decides to start walking in your direction.
Lando pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb still stroking your cheek. "There. Now he knows exactly what he’s up against. And honestly? I’m starting to hope he stays exactly where he is so I don't have to stop."
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Oscar stop dead in his tracks a few feet away. His jaw is set so tight it looks painful, and for the first time, the calm persona is nowhere to be found.
Tension anchors you to Lando, turning the music and the crowd into a meaningless smear of color. You’re still reeling, your heart hammering from the feel of him leaning in, when a silhouette suddenly blocks the light, snapping the cord between you.
Oscar is standing there. He’s managed to flatten his expression back into that signature stoic mask, but his eyes are turbulent, darker and sharper than you’ve ever seen them. He looks at Lando’s hand, which hasn't moved from your waist, then finally meets your gaze.
"I hope I’m not interrupting something," Oscar says, his voice clipped and unnervingly even.
Lando’s grip tightens, pulling you back against his chest so your head rests just below his chin. "You’re not interrupting, mate. Just joining the party."
Oscar clears his throat, his gaze flickering to where Lando’s thumb is still tracing a slow, rhythmic circle on your hip. "Right. Well. Max mentioned something at the bar. I just wanted to come over and... congratulate you both. I didn't know you two were... like that."
The word congratulate tastes like ash in the air. You can see the way Oscar’s knuckles are white as he grips his glass, his entire body wound tight like a spring. He looks like he’s waiting for you to deny it, for you to laugh and say it’s a joke.
But Lando beats you to it. He lets out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head.
"Don’t congratulate us yet, Osc," Lando says, his tone conversational but his eyes flashing with a challenge. "There’s no ‘us’ to congratulate... yet."
Oscar’s brow furrows, his confusion momentarily breaking through his composure. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Lando says, leaning down to press his temple against yours, looking directly at Oscar, "I’m still working for it. I’m earning my spot. You don’t congratulate a man while he’s still in the middle of the race, do you? You wait until he crosses the finish line."
The metaphor isn't lost on anyone. Oscar’s eyes narrow, his gaze shifting from Lando to you, searching for any sign that you’re being forced into this. You try to keep your expression neutral, but the heat from Lando’s body and the sheer intensity of Oscar’s stare make your heart race.
"I see," Oscar says quietly. He takes a slow sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "I didn't realize there was a race going on. I thought everyone was just... standing still."
"Well," Lando smirks, his voice dropping into that predatory, confident register again. "Some of us decided to stop standing still. It’s a fast-moving grid, Oscar. If you don't move, you get left behind."
Oscar’s jaw shifts. He looks like he’s about to say something, something real, something that might break the deal entirely, but he stops himself, his gaze dropping to the floor for a split second before he looks back up with a cold, renewed focus.
"Right," Oscar says, his voice dropping an octave. "I’ll keep that in mind."
Oscar watches you for one last, agonizing second, his gaze searching yours as if looking for a hidden signal, before he gives a sharp, tight nod. He doesn't say another word. He just turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, his shoulders rigid and his pace faster than his usual composed stroll.
The moment he’s out of sight, the air seems to rush back into your lungs. You realize you’ve been holding your breath, and your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it’s dizzying.
"Did you see that?" you whisper, leaning back against Lando’s chest, your eyes still fixed on the spot where Oscar vanished. "The way he looked at your hand? Lando, he was fuming. I’ve never seen him look like that. It’s working. It’s actually working."
You turn in his arms, grinning up at him, expecting to see his usual triumphant, "I told you so" smirk.
But Lando isn't smirking. He’s looking down at you with an expression that makes your smile falter. His hands are still resting on your waist, and he hasn't moved an inch to create the distance that usually exists between friends.
"Yeah," Lando says, his voice low and a bit rough. "It worked."
His fingers dig slightly into the fabric of your dress, anchoring you to him. The warmth of his body is overwhelming, and for a moment, you forget about Oscar entirely. You're hyper-aware of the way Lando’s chest rises and falls with a shaky breath, and the way his eyes are scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it.
"Lando?" you murmur, your voice trembling. "The... the deal. We should probably go find Max now, right? Keep up the act?"
"The act," Lando repeats, his thumb grazing your hip again. He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Is that really just what this is to you? Just a script we're following?"
He steps even closer, closing the tiny gap between you until your belt buckles clink together. He’s looking at you the way he looked at the finish line today. With a singular, desperate focus.
"Because I've got to tell you," he whispers, leaning down until his forehead brushes yours, "acting like I'm crazy about you is the easiest job I've ever had. I’m starting to forget where the 'deal' ends and the truth starts."
You swallow hard, the realization hitting you. Lando isn't just playing a part to help you, he's playing for keeps. And the scariest part? For a split second, as you look into his eyes, you aren't sure if you're still looking for Oscar in the crowd, or if you're perfectly happy exactly where you are.
— ✦
The door of the hotel suite had barely clicked shut before the atmosphere turned radioactive. The glitz of the party was gone. Max didn’t even wait for you to take off your shoes.
"What are you doing, Lando?" Max’s voice wasn't loud, but it had that terrifying, low edge he only used when he was truly livid. He stood in the center of the living area, arms crossed, blocking the path to the bedrooms.
Lando lets go of your hand, but he didn't move away from you. "I told you at the party, Max. I’m pursuing her."
"The hell you are!" Max snapped, stepping forward. "You know she’s been hung up on Oscar for months. You’ve sat right there on that sofa and listened to her talk about him. And now suddenly, you’re all over her? She’s my sister, Lan. My baby sister. You’re my best friend. There’s a line, and you didn't just cross it, you jumped over it."
You stood frozen by the door, your heart sinking. This was exactly what you feared. The "deal" was supposed to be a clever shortcut to Oscar’s heart, but seeing the two most important men in your life squaring off made it feel like a catastrophic mistake.
"I know I should have talked to you first," Lando said, his voice remarkably steady despite Max’s looming presence. He didn't mention the deal. He didn't say a word about Oscar's jealousy. "And for that, I’m sorry. Truly. I stayed quiet because of our friendship, because I didn't want to make things weird. But I’m not playing games, Max. I’ve felt this way for a long time, and I’m serious about her."
"Serious?" Max let out a harsh, dry laugh. "You’re a distraction! You’re taking advantage of the fact that she’s confused about Oscar and—"
"I’m not a distraction!" Lando’s voice finally rose, his own frustration boiling over. "I’m the one who’s actually here. I’m the one looking at her while Oscar looks at a telemetry screen. If I have a chance to make her happy, I’m taking it. I don't care if you're my best friend or the King of England, I’m not stepping back."
"You’re going to ruin everything," Max growled, his face reddening. "If this goes south, I lose a friend and she gets her heart broken by the one person she’s supposed to trust. Is that what you want?"
The sight of them, Max, protective and furious, and Lando, defiant and desperate, hit you. The guilt of the lie, the weight of Lando’s actual feelings, and the fear of losing this family dynamic crashed down on you all at once.
A sob escaped your throat before you could choke it back.
Both men froze. Their heads snapped toward you at the same time. You were standing there, hot tears streaming down your cheeks, your shoulders shaking. You felt small, exhausted, and incredibly selfish for starting a fire you couldn't put out.
"Stop it," you choked out through a fresh wave of tears. "Please, just stop. I can't... I can't listen to you fight over me like I'm not even here."
The anger vanished from Lando’s face instantly. He didn't even look at Max for permission, he moved toward you in two long strides. "Hey, hey... no. Don’t cry."
He reached out, and before you could pull away, he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you with a protective, grounding strength. He buried his face in your hair, his hands stroking your back in a way that was meant to soothe, but only made you cry harder because it felt so real.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry, okay? We're okay."
Over Lando’s shoulder, you saw Max. He was still standing there, his hands clenched into fists, but his expression had shifted from rage to a pained, heartbreaking confusion. He looked at his best friend holding his sister, and for the first time, he didn't look like he wanted to fight. He just looked like he was losing something he didn't know how to save.
The room was silent now, the only sound was the ragged hitch of your breath against Lando’s chest. He tucked you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head as he glared, not with anger, but with a fierce, defensive warning at Max.
Max didn't move for a long time. He just watched the way Lando’s hands were shaking slightly as they smoothed over your hair. The protective brother in him wanted to rip you away, but the best friend in him saw something he hadn't expected. Lando wasn't just "pursuing" you. He was terrified of seeing you cry.
Slowly, Max took a step forward. Lando’s body tensed, a low, instinctive warning, but Max ignored it. He reached out, his large hand resting on your shoulder, squeezing gently until you finally looked up at him through tear-blurred lashes.
"Hey," Max said, his voice dropping the harshness, replaced by a raw, quiet concern. "Look at me."
You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, still anchored firmly in Lando’s embrace. Max’s gaze drifted from your face to Lando’s, then back to yours.
"Is this what you want?" Max asked seriously. "I know how you feel about the other guy. I know what you’ve told me. But if Lando... if he’s really doing this, I need to know you’re okay with it. If you’re not, I’ll end this right now and he can sleep on the floor of the garage for all I care."
You felt Lando’s heart thudding against your ear, a frantic, uneven rhythm. You knew the "deal" was the reason you were here, but the way Lando was holding you felt like a safety net you weren't ready to let go of. You looked at Max, then leaned back just enough to see the vulnerability in Lando’s eyes.
"I'm okay with it, Max," you whispered, the lie and the truth tangling together in your throat. "He... he makes me feel seen. I want to see where this goes."
Max let out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that sounded like a man surrendering a territory he’d defended for twenty years. He looked at Lando, his expression hardening into something final and terrifying.
"Alright," Max muttered. He jabbed a finger toward Lando’s chest, making sure his best friend saw the lack of humor in his eyes. "But listen to me, and listen well. You’re my brother, Lando. But she’s my blood. If you’re serious, then be serious. If you mess this up, if you hurt her, or if this is just some game to pass the time between races, our friendship is dead. I won't just be mad. I’ll be gone. You understand me?"
Lando didn't blink. He met Max’s gaze with a level of maturity that seemed to age him ten years in a second. "I understand. I’m not going to hurt her, Max. I promise you."
Max nodded once, sharply. "Good. Now get her some water. She looks like she’s about to faint."
As Max turned to walk toward his own room, the weight of the moment settled over you. You were officially "with" Lando in your brother's eyes. The stakes had just tripled. Lando pulled back just an inch, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away the last of your tears.
"We're in deep now," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "No turning back."
— ✦
The walk to your bedroom felt like navigating a minefield that had already detonated. You closed the door behind you, leaning your back against the wood and sliding down until you hit the carpet. The room was silent but the echoes of Max’s threats and Lando’s desperate promises were ringing in your ears.
You stared at the ceiling, your thoughts spiraling. This was supposed to be a tactical maneuver, a clever bit of psychological warfare to make Oscar finally see you. But now, Max was involved. Your brother, who had always been your protector, had just handed his blessing to his best friend. He had trusted Lando with the most precious thing in his life because Lando had looked him in the eye and swore he was serious.
But it’s a deal, you told yourself, your chest tightening. It’s just a deal. And you want to make yourself believe Lando isn’t serious about it.
Yet, the way Lando had held you wasn't in the script. The way his heart had been drumming against your ear, the way he had apologized for making you cry, that didn't feel like "strategy." It felt like a man who had been waiting a lifetime for an excuse to pull you close.
And Oscar. The image of his white-knuckled grip on that glass at the party flashed in your mind. It was working, but at what cost? You were weaving a web of lies that was starting to choke the people you loved most.
The guilt pressed down on your lungs until you couldn't sit still anymore. You needed to know. You needed to hear him say it was still just a game, or you needed him to admit it wasn't, before the lie swallowed you whole.
You stood up, your legs feeling like lead, and cracked your door open. The hallway was dim. Max’s door was shut tight, a sliver of light beneath it suggesting he was still awake, probably brooding.
You padded down the hall to Lando’s door. You hesitated, your hand hovering over the wood. If you knocked, there was no going back to the way things were yesterday.
Knock. Knock.
It was a soft sound, barely audible over the hum of the hotel's climate control. But almost instantly, you heard movement. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
Lando was still in his clothes from the party, though his tie was gone and his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it for an hour. When he saw you standing there, his expression softened into something so tender it made your throat ache all over again.
"Can't sleep?" he asked softly, stepping back to let you in.
The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the two of you into the quiet, dim warmth of his room. Lando just stood there, watching you that made the small space feel even smaller.
"Lando," you started, your voice barely a whisper as you twisted your fingers together. "What we said to Max... what you said to him. You didn't have to go that far. The deal was just to make Oscar jealous. You didn't have to promise him... you didn't have to make it sound so real."
Lando let out a long, weary breath. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest, his unbuttoned collar flaring open. "You still don’t get it, do you? You think I was just putting on a show for Max?"
"I don't know what to think!" you admitted, the frustration finally bubbling over. "I know you, Lando. You’re the joker. You’re the one who laughs everything off. I thought we were just... playing a part. But the way you looked at him, the way you held me when I was crying... it didn't feel like the Lando I've known since I was ten."
You looked up at him, searching for a trace of the familiar mischief, but his face remained uncharacteristically grave. "You're scaring me a little. If this is part of the 'strategy' to make it look authentic, it’s working too well. Max actually believes you. He’s going to kill you if he finds out it’s a lie."
Lando took a step toward you, then another, until he was close enough that you had to tilt your head back. He reached out, his hands sliding slowly into your hair, his palms cupping the sides of your head. His touch was steady, grounding, and terrifyingly intimate.
"It's not a lie," he said, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that vibrated in your chest. "The deal? That was just my way of finally getting you to look at me. It was the only way I knew how to get close to you without you laughing it off as 'just Lando being Lando.'"
Your breath hitched. "What?"
"I’m serious about you," he murmured, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. "I’ve been serious about you for a long time. I hate that it took a scheme involving Oscar for me to finally get to hold you like I did tonight. But I meant every word I said to Max. I’m not playing a game with your heart, even if you think you’re playing one with mine."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closing for a second as if he were bracing himself. "I want Oscar to be jealous. I want him to see what he’s losing. But more than that? I want to be the one who actually wins. I'm not just the teammate or the 'second brother' anymore. I'm the guy who’s in love with you. And I'm not apologizing for it."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The plan, the jealousy, Oscar, it all felt like a distant memory compared to the heat of Lando’s skin and the raw honesty in his confession.
— ✦
The sun had barely risen the next morning when the clinking of coffee cups signaled that Max was already awake. The tension from the night before hadn't vanished, it had just settled into a heavy, watchful silence.
You emerged from your room, eyes slightly puffy, to find Max sitting at the small dining table with a tablet and a double espresso. Lando was already there, leaning against the kitchen counter. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink, but the moment his eyes met yours, that intense, protective warmth from the night before flooded back into his expression.
Max looked up, his gaze darting between the two of you, wary and sharp. "Morning," he grunted, though it sounded more like a question.
Lando didn't look at Max. He didn't look at his phone. He walked straight over to you, stopping just inches away, reclaiming that space he had staked out in his room hours earlier.
"Morning," Lando said softly. He reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist before he took your hand, squeezing it firmly right there in front of your brother.
Max’s eyebrows shot up, his grip tightening on his espresso cup. "Lando—"
"I'm taking her out tonight, Max," Lando interrupted, his voice clear and devoid of his usual playful deflection. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge your brother, but his body stayed oriented toward you. "A real date. Not just 'hanging out' at a post-race party or tagging along to a dinner with the team. Just us."
The room went still. This wasn't a whispered plan or a secret deal anymore. By announcing it to Max, the man who would hold him accountable for every second of your time, Lando was burning the boats. He was making it official in the most permanent way possible.
Max set his cup down with a deliberate clack. He looked at your joined hands, then at Lando’s determined face. "Tonight is the team dinner, Lando. Zak is going to expect—"
"Zak can wait," Lando countered, his gaze dropping back to yours, searching for your reaction. "I already booked a place. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere where there aren't any cameras or telemetry data or... distractions."
He stepped closer, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle on the back of your hand. "I want to do this right. No more games, no more 'pursuing' from a distance. Just a date. What do you say?"
Max let out a long, slow exhale, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He looked at you, waiting for you to bolt, but when you didn't, he just shook his head. "I'm staying out of it. Just... 11:00 PM. She's back by eleven, Norris."
Lando didn't even look back at him. He just leaned in, his eyes locked on yours, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his serious mask. "I'll have her back when she wants to be back, Max."
— ✦
The restaurant Lando chose was a quiet, candlelit terrace overlooking the water. There were no cameras, no fans.
Lando was leaning, his chin resting on his hand, watching you with an intensity that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. He hadn't stopped smiling since he pulled out your chair.
"You’re doing it," he murmured, his voice velvety and low.
"Doing what?" you asked, trying to focus on your drink, though your cheeks were already heating up.
"Looking at me like you’re surprised I can actually hold a fork and talk at the same time," he teased, his eyes dancing. "I told you, I’m doing this properly. No McLaren hoodies tonight. Just me trying to convince the most beautiful girl in the room that I’m worth a second look."
"Lando," you breathed, a genuine laugh escaping you. "You’re being... a lot."
"I'm being honest," he countered, his hand sliding the linen tablecloth to cover yours. His skin was warm, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin of your wrist in a slow, rhythmic motion. "Usually, I’m the one making the jokes to hide how nervous I am. But tonight? I don’t want to hide. I want you to see exactly who I am when the cameras are off."
He leaned in closer, the candlelight flickering in his curls. "You look incredible tonight. I can’t decide if I want to keep talking to you or just stare at you until they kick us out."
You blushed furiously, looking down at your plate. It was so easy with him. The conversation flowed without the awkward silences you always feared with Oscar. Lando knew your favorite stories, he knew how to make you laugh until your sides ached, and now, he was showing you a side of him that was protective, romantic, and deeply sincere.
But as he leaned over to whisper a compliment into your ear, his breath warm against your skin, a stray thought of Oscar flashed through your mind. You imagined Oscar sitting at the team dinner, the way he looked when he was deep in thought. A sharp pang of confusion hit your chest. You had wanted Oscar for so long, but Lando was here, making you feel like the center of the universe.
The lines were blurring. You weren't just "acting" anymore, you were genuinely enjoying the way Lando’s hand felt in yours.
Meanwhile, across town at the formal McLaren team dinner, the atmosphere was far more rigid. Zak Brown stood at the head of the long table, glancing at the empty chair beside Oscar.
"Where’s Lando?" Zak asked, frowning at his watch. "He knew the sponsors were going to be here tonight."
Max, sitting across from Oscar, took a slow sip of his wine, his expression unreadable. He glanced at Oscar, who was staring intently at his untouched salad, his jaw tight.
"He’s not coming," Max said clearly, his voice carrying across the table.
Zak raised an eyebrow. "Is he sick? An emergency?"
"No," Max replied, his gaze flickering briefly to Oscar’s darkening expression. "He’s out on a date. With my sister."
The table went silent for a heartbeat. Oscar’s fork hit the edge of his plate with a sharp clink. He didn't look up, but his shoulders squared, his entire posture turning rigid and cold.
"A date?" Zak repeated, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Well. I suppose that’s a valid excuse for missing a steak dinner."
Oscar finally looked up, his eyes meeting Max’s. There was no calm left in them, only a raw, simmering fire that suggested he was finally realizing the race had started without him.
Lando leaned back, his wine glass dangling loosely from his fingers as he watched the candlelight play across your face. The "deal" felt like a lifetime ago. Out here, with the sound of the water lapping against the stone and the soft hum of Italian jazz in the background, he wasn't just your brother's best friend or a teammate in a scheme. He was just... Lando.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that always made your heart skip, "I used to hate these post-race Sundays. Everyone’s exhausted, the adrenaline’s gone, and you’re just waiting for the next flight. But tonight? I’d happily sit here until the sun comes up if it meant I didn’t have to share you with the paddock tomorrow."
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks again. "Lando, stop. You’re being too smooth. It’s suspicious."
He laughed, a genuine, boyish sound that reached his eyes. "I’m not being smooth! I’m being desperate. There’s a difference. I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to get you to look at me without Max standing between us like a human firewall. Now that I’ve actually got you here, I’m not wasting a single second."
He reached for you, his fingers tracing the silver bracelet on your wrist, his touch light as a feather but sending jolts of electricity up your arm.
"Tell me something I don't know," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours. "Not about the races, or Max, or... anyone else. Tell me what you're thinking about when you can't sleep. Or what the first thing you want to do is when we get a week off."
You found yourself talking, really talking. You told him about the photography hobby you’d tucked away, the books you were reading, and the places you wanted to travel where nobody knew your last name. Lando listened with an intensity that was almost unnerving. He didn't interrupt, he just watched you, his thumb occasionally grazing your palm, nodding as if every word you spoke was a piece of a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years.
"See?" he said softly when you finally paused to take a sip of your wine. "That’s what I mean. You have this whole world inside your head that most people don't even bother to ask about. They see the 'sister of Max,' but I see... well, I see everything."
He leaned in then, his face inches from yours, the scent of his cologne filling your senses. "And I think everything is pretty incredible."
He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering to cup your jaw. "I'm ruining the plan, aren't I? I’m supposed to be making him jealous, but all I’m doing is making sure I never want to let you go."
You bit your lip, the confusion in your chest tightening. You looked at him, the way his curls were messy, the way his eyes held a sincerity that felt almost painful, and for a moment, the memory of Oscar felt miles away. You were starting to wonder if you hadn't been chasing a ghost while a living, breathing fire was standing right in front of you.
"Lando," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.
"Don't say it," he smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "Just stay here with me for a little longer. Let’s talk about that house in the South of France you mentioned. The one with the overgrown garden. Tell me more about that."
He was making it so easy to forget why you’d agreed to this in the first place. By the time he called for the check, you weren't thinking about Oscar’s reaction anymore, you were thinking about the way Lando’s hand felt perfectly molded to yours.
— ✦
The silence between you and Lando is no longer awkward, but filled with the residual heat of the night. As you stepped into the plushly carpeted hallway of the hotel, you realized your fingers were still interlaced with his, your palm damp against his. The realization sent a jolt through you, a reminder that the "act" had long since bled into something dangerously authentic.
As you approached the door to the suite, you instinctively tried to pull your hand away, your mind flashing to Max or the possibility of a stray team member spotting you. But Lando’s grip didn't falter. Instead, he tightened his hold, his thumb grazing your knuckles in a possessive, silent command. He swiped his key card, the light blinking green with a soft click, and led you inside.
As you entered the suite, Lando’s eyes swept the darkened living area. Max’s jacket wasn't on the chair, his shoes weren't by the door.
"Max isn't back yet," Lando murmured, his voice sounding deeper in the quiet of the room.
He didn't let go of your hand. Instead, he used it to guide you backward, his pace slow and deliberate. You found yourself retreating until the small of your back hit the cool, firm surface of the wall near the foyer. Lando stepped into your space, his large frame effectively casting you in shadow, cutting off the rest of the world.
He stayed there, hovering just inches away, staring down at you that made your breath hitch. Slowly, he raised his free hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. His touch was electric, his palm warm against your skin as he tilted your head back just a fraction.
"I’ve spent the last four hours trying to be a gentleman," he whispered, his face descending until his lips were brushing against your ear. "Trying to play the part of the 'best friend' who’s just taking you to dinner. But I'm losing my mind, being this close to you and not being able to tell you."
His breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze darting hungrily from your eyes down to your lips and back again. "I want you so much it hurts. I want to be the only person you're thinking about. I want you to forget his name, forget the deal, and just feel how much I've wanted this."
Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the sound loud in your ears. Every whispered word felt like caress. You found your gaze dropping, tracing the curve of his mouth, his lips looked soft, slightly parted, and moist in the dim light. The confusion that had plagued you all evening suddenly sharpened into a singular, desperate craving.
Lando saw it. He saw the way your eyes lingered on his mouth, the way your breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
"I don't want to break the deal if you're not ready," he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of restraint and desire. "But I need to know. Can I kiss you? Properly?"
You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. So, you slid your hand up his chest, feeling the hard, rapid thud of his own heart beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. Your fingers curled into his collar, pulling him down as you wrapped your arms around his neck, dragging him into your space.
When your lips finally met, the first kiss was tentative, a slow, steady exploration of heat and velvet. It was a question asked and answered in the same breath. You pulled back just an inch, your foreheads resting together, your eyes searching his in the shadows. The raw vulnerability in his expression shattered the last of your defenses.
Lando didn't wait for a second invitation. He groaned low in his throat and leaned in again, this time with a ferocity that stole the air from your lungs. It was a heated, intimate claim. His hand slid from your neck down to your lower back, his fingers splaying wide as he pulled your body flush against his, leaving no space between you.
As the kiss deepened, you let out a soft, broken moan, your mouth parting instinctively to find air. Lando took the opportunity to sweep inside, his tongue exploring yours with a desperate, rhythmic hunger that made your knees go weak. In that moment, the rest of the world, the paddock, the cameras, and even the memory of Oscar, faded into nothingness, replaced entirely by the overwhelming reality of Lando.
The kiss was consuming, a tidal wave of heat that made the room spin. Lando’s hands were firm against your lower back, pulling you so close you could feel the frantic thrum of his heart against your own. Your head was light, your lungs burning as the air between you vanished into a blur of salt and sweetness.
Finally, you had to press your palms against his chest, gently creating an inch of space just so you could gulp in a breath. Your lips were tingly, swollen from the friction, and your head was a chaotic mess of Lando, Lando, Lando and more Lando.
"Wait," you panted, a shaky, breathless laugh bubbling up as you looked at his flushed face. "Lando... if you don't stop, you’re actually going to kill me. I’d like to survive our first date, please."
Lando froze for a split second, his chest heaving, before a wide, genuine grin broke across his face. He let out a low, relieved laugh, the kind that finally chased away the lingering shadows of doubt and fear he’d been carrying all night. He leaned his forehead against yours, his shoulders finally losing their defensive tension.
"Sorry," he chuckled, his voice still a little raspy. "Note to self: let the girl breathe. I just... I’ve been waiting a long time to do that. My apologies for being a health hazard."
"Apology accepted," you whispered, smiling back, your hands still resting on his shoulders.
Then, the heavy thud-thud of familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
"Max," you both whispered in unison.
The transition was instantaneous. You scrambled back from the wall, smoothing down your dress and frantically patting your hair into place. Lando jumped toward the kitchen island, grabbing a stray bottle of water and unscrewing the cap with shaking hands, his back turned to the door as he took a long, performative gulp.
The key card swiped, and the door swung open. Max walked in, his expression unreadable, his eyes immediately scanning the room like a hawk. He looked at you, then at Lando, who was now leaning casually, perhaps too casually, against the counter.
"You’re back," Max noted, his voice flat. He walked further into the room, his gaze lingering on your slightly messy hair and then on Lando’s suspiciously red-rimmed ears. "And it’s only 10:55. I’m impressed, Norris. You actually followed the rules."
"You knew I was a gentleman, right?" Lando said, offering a quick, practiced smirk. He didn't look at you, but you could see the way his knuckles were white as he held the water bottle.
"Yeah, well," Max grunted, tossing his keys on the table. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and she looks like she’s just run a marathon. Good date?"
"The best," Lando replied, and this time, he did catch your eye for a fraction of a second, a secret, heated look that told you the "deal" was officially a thing of the past.
Max’s eyes narrowed, flickering between the two of you with that signature "big brother" radar. For a second, the air felt thin, like any wrong move would bring the walls crashing down again.
Then, Lando did the one thing that always broke Max’s defenses. He let out a sharp, exaggerated snort and tossed the empty plastic water bottle at Max’s head. "You’re mad because the team dinner was boring and my date was actually fun."
Max caught the bottle mid-air with a practiced reflex, a slow, relenting grin finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Boring? Please. Zak spent twenty minutes talking about his new vintage car collection. I almost fell into my soup."
"See?" Lando barked a laugh, stepping away from the counter and lounging back into his usual, messy posture. "You need me to keep your life interesting. Admit it."
"I admit nothing," Max grumbled, but he sat down on the edge of the sofa, gesturing for Lando to pass him the TV remote.
Just like that, the heavy, suffocating cloud that had hung over the suite since the previous night evaporated. The sharp, jagged edges of their confrontation had smoothed out back into the easy, chaotic rhythm of two best friends who spoke in insults and inside jokes. It was the dynamic you had grown up around, the one that felt like home.
Watching them, you felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of relief. The guilt that had been gnawing at you, the fear that you were the wedge driving them apart, finally let go.
A stray tear escaped, hot and silent, tracking down your cheek even as a wide, shaky smile pulled at your lips. You didn't even realize you were crying until Lando’s laughter cut short.
"Whoa, hey," Lando said softly, his voice instantly losing its bravado. He started to move toward you, but stopped, glancing at Max.
Max looked up, his expression softening into something unusually tender. He didn't mock you. He didn't ask what was wrong. He just reached out and gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. "It’s okay, kid. We’re good. I promise."
"I know," you whispered, wiping the moisture from your eyes with the heel of your hand. "I’m just... I’m really happy. That’s all."
Lando’s eyes met yours over Max’s shoulder. There was no "act" in his gaze now, only a deep, quiet promise that he was going to protect this peace as much as he was going to protect you.
"Group hug?" Lando suggested, trying to lighten the mood with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Get away from me, Norris," Max groaned, though there was no heat in it.
You laughed, a real, clear sound this time. For the first time since this whole "deal" started, you felt like you could finally breathe. But even as you enjoyed the moment, a small part of your mind wondered. If everything is this perfect with Lando, why is the thought of seeing Oscar tomorrow still making your heart race?
— ✦
The paddock at Silverstone is a different beast entirely, home turf for the team, buzzing with a frantic, electric energy that matches the pounding in your chest. You’re walking toward the McLaren motorhome, and for the first time, you aren't lagging three steps behind Max.
Lando has his arm draped heavily and comfortably over your shoulders, his fingers occasionally dipping down to toy with the hem of your shirt. He’s leaning in, whispering a joke about a fan’s sign you just passed, his lips hovering dangerously close to your temple. The "newly official" energy radiating off him is palpable, he isn't just "pursuing" anymore. He’s acting like a man who has already won.
And then, you see him.
Oscar is leaning against the entrance of the engineering trailer, suit tied around his waist, a thermal bottle in one hand. Usually, Oscar is a statue of composure, eyes on his phone, or staring off into the middle distance, lost in thought.
But today, his phone is nowhere to be seen. His gaze is locked on the way Lando’s hand is resting on your shoulder. As you get closer, you see the muscle in his jaw jump. There is no polite nod this time. There is no "congratulations."
"Morning, mate," Lando says, his voice breezy, though his grip on you tightens just a fraction, a subtle, primal territorial shift. "Ready for FP1? Or are you still staring at the clouds?"
Oscar doesn't look at Lando. His eyes slide directly to yours, and he looks like he’s burning up. It’s the look he gets when he’s about to dive down the inside of a corner he has no business taking.
"I'm ready," Oscar says, his voice deeper and more resonant than usual. He steps away from the trailer, cutting off your path toward the hospitality suite. He doesn't move out of the way. He stands his ground, forcing the three of you into a tense, triangular standoff.
"Actually," Oscar continues, his gaze still fixed on you, ignoring Lando entirely, "I was hoping I could borrow you for a second. I had a question about that... photography project you mentioned."
Your heart stops. He remembered. A stray comment from weeks ago, something you thought he’d tuned out, and he’s throwing it out now like a lifeline.
Lando’s expression shifts, the playful mask slipping to reveal a flash of genuine irritation. "She’s a bit busy right now, Osc. We were just going to grab some breakfast."
Oscar finally shifts his gaze to Lando, and the air between the teammates turns frigid. "It’ll only take a minute, Lando. Unless you’re worried she’ll get lost on the way to the omelet station?"
The challenge is so blatant it’s jarring. Oscar isn't observing anymore. He’s hunting. He’s stepped into the ring, and he’s looking at you as if he’s finally realized that if he doesn't move now, he’ll lose you to his teammate orever.
"Go ahead," Lando says, his voice tight, his hand sliding off your shoulder with obvious reluctance. He leans down and whispers in your ear, loud enough for Oscar to hear. "I'll be waiting at our table. Don't be late."
Lando walks away, leaving you alone with Oscar in the narrow gap between the trailers. Oscar waits until Lando is out of earshot before he steps even closer, his shadow falling over you.
"A date, then?" Oscar asks, his voice low and vibrating with a suppressed emotion you can't quite name. "Max said it was official. Is it?"
Oscar stands so close that you can smell the faint, clean scent of his fire suit and the kind of smoothie he must have had minutes ago. The usual barrier of his professional detachment has completely evaporated.
"A date," Oscar repeats, the word sounding heavy and bitter as it leaves his lips. "Max was quite vocal about it at the hospitality suite this morning. Said Lando finally 'closed the deal.' Is that true? Are you two official now?"
You look up at him, and for a second, the sight of his usually calm eyes looking so turbulent makes your breath hitch. You think of the kiss in the hotel room, the way Lando held you, and the way Max finally gave his blessing. But then you look at Oscar, the man you’ve pined for in silence for months, and the truth feels more complicated than a simple 'yes.'
"It’s not... official yet," you whisper, the words feeling like a betrayal to the heat you shared with Lando just hours ago. "We’re just seeing where it goes. Lando is... he’s being very sweet."
Oscar lets out a short, sharp breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He steps even closer, forcing you to lean back against the cool metal of the engineering trailer.
"Sweet," Oscar mutters, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. "Lando is many things, but he isn't subtle. He’s marking his territory. He’s making sure everyone in this paddock knows you’re his so that nobody else dares to step in."
"And why do you care, Oscar?" you ask, your voice trembling with a sudden spark of defiance. "You’ve had months. You’ve had a hundred opportunities to say something, to look at me as more than just Max’s sister or a distraction in the garage. You stayed quiet."
Oscar’s jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle straining. He reaches out, his hand hovering near your waist before he presses his palm against the trailer wall beside your head, effectively boxing you in.
"Because I thought I had time," he rasps, his voice dropping into a register so low it sends a shiver straight down your spine. "I thought you were just... there. Part of the landscape. I didn't realize that while I was analyzing data, he was analyzing you. I’ve been watching you for longer than you think. I noticed when you changed your perfume. I noticed when you started wearing that silver bracelet. I noticed every time you looked at me and looked away because you thought I wasn't paying attention."
He leans down, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and desperate. "And I hate it. I hate seeing his arm around you. I hate hearing him joke about your 'dates.' I hate the fact that he got to you first because I was too busy being 'composed' to tell you that I can't think about anything else when you’re in the room."
Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs. This is everything you wanted, the confession, the jealousy, the crack in the armor, but it’s happening while Lando is waiting for you just a few yards away.
"Oscar..."
"Don't make it official," he commands, his voice a low, urgent plea. "Not yet. Give me a chance to show you that he isn't the only one who’s been paying attention. I’ve been the observer for too long. I’m done watching from the sidelines."
— ✦
From the shade of the hospitality entrance, Lando stands perfectly still, a forgotten plastic fork halfway to his mouth. His heart, which had been soaring only minutes ago, now feels like an engine seizing up.
Through the gap between the trailers, he sees the silhouette of the two of you. He sees the way Oscar’s body is angled, his palm flat against the metal wall, pinning you in a space that should only belong to Lando. He sees the tilt of your head, that specific, vulnerable way you look up when you’re truly listening to someone.
It’s working.
The realization hits Lando. The plan, the "deal," the tactical dates, it all did exactly what it was designed to do. He successfully cracked the Oscar. He provoked the most composed driver on the grid into a desperate, cornered animal.
I’m so stupid, Lando thinks, his grip tightening on his water bottle until the plastic crunches.
He had played the game too well. He had used his own genuine feelings as a weapon, thinking he could win you over before Oscar ever woke up. But seeing the way you aren't pushing Oscar away, the way you’re looking at him with that same wide-eyed confusion you had for Lando, makes Lando’s blood run cold.
He feels like a fraud. The kiss, every whispered promise to Max, every "official" look he gave the cameras, it all feels like a house of cards ready to blow over the moment you decide the "deal" has reached its natural conclusion.
She’s going to call it off, the thought screams in his head. She got what she wanted. She got Oscar to notice. And now I’m just the guy who helped her get there.
He watches Oscar lean in closer, his teammate’s head dipping toward yours, and Lando feels a surge of possessive rage war with a crushing sense of defeat. He wants to storm over there and shove Oscar back, to claim you in front of the whole paddock. But he’s paralyzed by the fear that if he interrupts, you’ll look at him with pity and say, "Thanks, Lando. It worked. We can stop now."
His stomach drops as he realizes he didn't just help you win Oscar, he might have just coached the man he’s competing with on exactly how to break his own heart.
— ✦
It felt strangely cold for a July day at Silverstone. The noise of the crowd and the sounds of engines in the distance were just background static compared to the silence coming from Lando’s side of the garage.
Lando hadn't waited. When you finally pulled yourself away from Oscar’s intense, suffocating confession and hurried to the hospitality suite, the table was empty. A single, crumpled napkin and an abandoned, half-empty water bottle were the only signs he’d ever been there.
He didn't text. He didn't "accidentally" walk past you in the motorhome. He didn't even send a meme to the group chat with Max. It was as if the vibrant, clingy, protective Lando from had been replaced by a ghost.
Oscar, sensing the shift, had stayed by your side most of the day. He was attentive, talking to you about the technicalities of the track, his eyes constantly searching yours for a sign that his "interruption" had worked. But as the hours ticked by, your smiles toward Oscar felt forced. Your eyes kept drifting to the monitors, looking for the number 4 car, looking for any glimpse of neon yellow.
Finally, during a break between sessions, you caught Lando coming out of the back of the garage, his helmet bag slung over his shoulder.
"Lando!" you called out, dodging a mechanic with a set of tires.
He stopped, but he didn't turn around immediately. When he finally did, his expression wasn't angry, it was worse. It was hollow. The light that usually danced in his eyes when he saw you was completely extinguished.
"Hey," you said, your breath hitching. "I... I went to the table this morning. You weren't there."
Lando looked at his watch, then up at the ceiling, anywhere but at your face. "Yeah. Caught up with some data. Figured you were occupied."
"I was just talking to Oscar," you explained, stepping closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "He was asking about—"
Lando flinched away subtly, adjusting his bag so your hand fell into empty air. The rejection stung more than any argument could have.
"It’s fine," he said, his voice flat and professional. "The deal worked. You don't have to explain anything to me. You got the result you wanted, right? He’s all over you now."
"Lando, it's not like that," you pleaded, your heart sinking as you realized he’d spent the whole day convinced he’d been discarded. "I wanted to talk to you. I tried to find you—"
"I have a briefing," Lando interrupted, his tone clipping the ends of his words. "And Max is looking for you. You should probably go find him."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked toward the engineers' room, his gait stiff and hurried. He didn't look back. He didn't offer a wink or a secret smile. He treated you like a stranger, or worse, like a friend's sister he was obligated to be polite to.
You stood there in the middle of the busy garage, feeling more alone than you ever had when you were actually single. The "deal" was supposedly a success, but as you watched Lando disappear behind a heavy door, all you wanted to do was run after him and tell him that Oscar’s confession didn't feel nearly as good as Lando’s kiss.
— ✦
The silence from Lando’s side was deafening. It had been three days since Silverstone, and the lively, tactile man who had pinned you against a wall had vanished,m. He was a master of the "near-miss,” slipping out of the hospitality suite just as you entered, or suddenly becoming engrossed in a conversation with his race engineer the moment you stepped into the garage.
You couldn't tell Max. If your brother saw the way Lando was looking through you, as if you were a piece of translucent glass, he would tear the motorhome apart. He’d think Lando had used you, played with your feelings, and then discarded you.
But the irony was suffocating. Lando was acting this way because he thought he'd lost. He didn't know what had actually happened in that narrow gap between the trailers.
— ✦
Oscar’s hand was still against the wall, his gaze heavy and expectant as he waited for you to choose him. He had finally broken his silence, finally become the "hunter" you thought you wanted.
"Oscar," you whispered, your voice steadier than you expected. You looked at him, the man who had been your quiet obsession for months, and realized something jarring. The thrill you expected to feel wasn't there. Instead, all you could feel was the ghost of Lando’s thumb tracing your jawline.
"I’m sorry," you said, stepping back, forcing him to drop his hand. "I... I thought this was what I wanted. I spent so long waiting for you to look at me like this. But you waited too long."
Oscar’s expression flickered, a crack appearing in his calm mask. "You’re actually going to choose him? Lando?"
"It’s not about choosing him, Oscar," you said, your heart aching as you saw Lando watching from a distance, misinterpreting everything. "It’s about who was there when I wasn't even looking. Lando didn't just 'notice' me. He made me feel like I was the only person in the world. I can't... I can't give you a chance when my head is already full of him."
Oscar stood paralyzed, frozen by a rejection he hadn't seen coming. You had turned and run toward the hospitality suite, desperate to find Lando, but he was already gone.
— ✦
You were standing near the back of the garage, watching Lando laugh at something a mechanic said. The laugh didn't reach his eyes. The moment he spotted you in his peripheral vision, the smile vanished, and he immediately turned his back to check a helmet visor he’d already cleaned twice.
He thought he was being noble. He thought he was stepping aside so you could be happy with the man he believed you truly wanted.
Every time you tried to catch his eye, he’d find a reason to walk away. It was driving you insane. The "deal" was dead, Oscar was out of the picture, and the man you actually loved was treating you like a stranger because he was too proud, or too hurt, to ask you what had happened.
You saw him grab his bag and head toward his private driver’s room. It was now or never. Max was busy in a strategy meeting, and the garage was starting to clear out for the evening.
The hallway of the motorhome was cramped and smelled of recycled air and expensive rubber. You watched Lando’s retreating back, the slumped set of his shoulders that he usually kept so squared and confident. As he reached his driver’s room and pushed the door open, you surged forward, determined to close the gap.
Your hand was inches from the handle when a heavy, familiar weight dropped onto your shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
You jumped, spinning around to find Max. He looked from you to the door Lando had just disappeared behind, his protective instincts flaring like a warning light.
"Max," you breathed, trying to keep your voice steady. "I just... I need to talk to Lando."
"Talk to him?" Max’s voice was low, laced with the suspicion that had been brewing for days. "He’s been acting like a prick to you since Silverstone. I’ve seen it. He barely looks at you, and you look like you're about to burst into tears every time he walks into a room. What's going on?"
The urge to spill everything, the deal, the kiss, the rejection of Oscar, was a physical ache in your throat. But the motorhome was glass-walled and full of roaming engineers. If you told Max here, it wouldn't just be a conversation, it would be a scene. And if Max knew Lando was hurting you, even by accident, he’d go through that door with his fists clenched.
"Nothing, Max. We just... had a disagreement," you lied, your voice wavering.
"A disagreement doesn't make a guy ignore my sister for three days," Max countered, his grip on your shoulder tightening slightly. "If he did something—"
"He didn't!" you snapped, perhaps too quickly. You took a step back, shaking your head. "I can't do this here. Not right now. I just... I need to go back to the hotel."
Max watched you, his jaw set in that stubborn, Dutch line. He didn't believe you, but he could see the desperation in your eyes. "Fine. Go. But we’re talking about this tonight. All three of us."
You didn't wait for him to change his mind. You turned and practically ran out of the motorhome, the humid air of the paddock hitting you like a wall.
Your mind was a chaotic loop of Lando’s cold eyes and the way his hand had felt in yours just days ago. You reached the suite and paced the living room, the silence of the empty rooms mocking you.
You didn't go to your own room. You went to the small hallway between Max and Lando’s doors. You sat on the floor, leaning your back against the wall directly opposite Lando’s door, pulling your knees to your chest.
You weren't going to let him give up on you. Not because of a misunderstanding. Not because he was too 'noble' to realize he was the one you wanted. You would wait there all night if you had to.
An hour passed. Then two. Finally, the click of the suite’s front door echoed through the foyer. Heavy, exhausted footsteps muffled by the carpet approached the hallway.
Lando rounded the corner, his head down. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes darker than they’d been that morning. He didn't see you at first, not until he was standing right in front of his door.
He froze. His gaze dropped to where you were sitting on the floor, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, stripped of all the coldness from earlier. It just sounded tired.
Lando stared down at you, his hand trembling slightly. The cold, professional mask he’d worn all day was cracking, revealing a raw, exhausted hollow beneath.
"Lando, please," you said, pushing yourself up from the floor. Your legs felt shaky, but you stepped into his space, forcing him to look at you. "We need to talk. This... this 'deal.' It’s gone too far. I can't do it anymore. It's over. The deal is off."
Lando’s face went bone-white. He let out a sharp, jagged breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the ribs. He didn't let you finish. He didn't even give you a chance to take a breath before he let out a bitter, hollow laugh.
"Of course it is," he snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden, desperate anger. "Why wouldn't it be? You got exactly what you wanted, didn't you? You got the him to crack. You got Oscar to chase you. I saw him, I saw how he was looking at you. So what? Now that you’ve got the 'real' thing, you don't need the fake version anymore?"
"Lando, no, that’s not—"
"Save it." he hissed, his eyes swimming with a hurt he couldn't hide anymore. "I knew this was coming. I was just the placeholder. The wingman. I was stupid enough to think that maybe, for a second, I wasn't just a tool for you to use. Go to him. Go be with Oscar. Just... stop standing outside my door."
"Lando, listen to me!" you cried, reaching for his arm, but he wrenched it away as if your touch burned him.
"What deal?"
The voice was like a whip cracking in the small hallway. Both of you froze.
Max was standing there, his face a terrifying mask of cold, hard fury. He hadn't even taken off his jacket. His hands were curled into tight fists at his sides, and the sheer protective rage radiating off him made the air feel heavy.
"I heard you," Max said, his voice dangerously low as he stepped toward the two of you. "I heard 'the deal.' I heard 'fake version.' I heard you telling my sister to go to Oscar."
He stopped inches from Lando, towering over him. Max didn't look like your brother anymore, he looked like someone who showed no mercy on the track.
"Explain it to me," Max commanded, his gaze flicking to you, then burning into Lando. "Right now. What 'deal' did the two of you make with my sister's heart? Because it sounds a lot like my best friend was playing a game with her just to mess with a teammate. Is that what this was, Lando? A game?"
"Max, it’s not what it sounds like—" you tried to interject, stepping between them, but Max didn't move.
"I'm asking him," Max growled, his eyes locked on Lando. "Did you use her? Was this all some pathetic strategy to get under Oscar’s skin?"
Lando looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He was trapped between his guilt, his heartbreak, and the fury of the man he considered a brother. He didn't defend himself. He just looked down, his silence only fueling Max's explosion.
"Answer me!" Max roared, his voice echoing off the hotel walls.
The air in the hallway was vibrating with a violence that felt seconds away from boiling over. Max’s chest was heaving, his face contorted in a way you’d only seen when someone had deliberately crashed into him on track. He stepped into Lando’s personal space, his hand reaching out to grab the front of Lando’s shirt, his knuckles white.
Lando didn't even flinch. He just closed his eyes, leaning his head back against his door as if he was waiting for the blow, as if he felt he deserved it for letting the "deal" break everyone involved.
"Max, stop!" you screamed, your voice cracking as you threw yourself between them, your small frame the only thing separating your brother’s fist from Lando’s face. "Stop it right now! You don't understand!"
"I understand enough!" Max roared, his voice booming in the confined space. "He used you for a game! He made a 'deal' to use my sister to mess with a teammate! I’m going to kill him—"
"I REJECTED OSCAR!"
The silence that followed was sudden and deafening. Max froze, his hand still hovering near Lando’s collar. Lando’s eyes snapped open, wide and bloodshot, staring at you in utter shock.
"What?" Lando whispered, his voice trembling.
"I rejected him!" you cried, tears finally spilling over as you looked at your brother, then turned to Lando. "The deal is off, Lando, but not because I got what I wanted. It’s off because I can’t pretend anymore! I told Oscar no! I told him he waited too long! I told him I couldn't give him a chance because my head and my heart were already full of someone else!"
You stepped closer to Lando, ignoring Max’s stunned silence. You grabbed the front of Lando's hoodie, forcing him to look at you, to really see the desperation in your eyes.
"I fell for you, you idiot!" you sobbed. "I fell for the guy who took me to dinner and made me laugh until I forgot why we were there. I fell for the guy who held me and made me feel like I was the only person that mattered. I don't want Oscar! I don't want a deal! I just want you, and you’ve spent three days treating me like a stranger because you were too scared to believe I could actually love you back!"
Lando’s mouth fell open, his breath hitching in his throat. The hollow, dead look in his eyes shattered, replaced by a raw, overwhelming realization.
Max’s hand dropped to his side. He looked from you to Lando, his anger slowly being replaced by a confused, lingering protective instinct. "Wait... you actually... you love him?"
You didn't look at Max. You couldn't take your eyes off Lando, who was now reaching out with shaking hands to cup your face, his thumbs catching your tears.
"You told him no?" Lando rasped, his voice thick with emotion, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You chose me? Even after he told you he wanted you?"
"Always you, Lando," you whispered, your hands tangling in his hair. "It was always going to be you."
The air suddenly felt like it had been sucked out of the room. Lando didn’t wait for another word. He didn’t care that Max was standing two feet away, or that Oscar was somewhere else in the hotel, or that his career was practically built on the friendship he’d just nearly dismantled.
He lunged forward, his hands sliding from your cheeks to the back of your head, pulling you into him with a desperation that was almost painful. When his lips met yours, it wasn't the tentative, questioning kiss from the hotel room, nor was it the performative "official" display for the cameras. It was a collision, a raw, grounding claim that said I thought I lost you, and I’m never letting go again.
You melted into him, your fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had been spinning out of control for days. The "deal," the jealousy, the tactical maneuvers, they all burned away in the heat of his mouth against yours. There was no strategy here. Just the terrifying, beautiful reality of Lando Norris finally knowing he was wanted.
Behind you, there was a heavy, rhythmic thud. Max had let his back hit the opposite wall, sliding down an inch as he stared at the two of you. His hands were still curled into loose fists, but the murderous intent had vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, bug-eyed bewilderment.
"Unbelievable," Max muttered, though neither of you pulled apart. "I'm standing right here. My best friend is making out with my sister, and I just almost caught a felony charge for him."
Lando finally broke the kiss, though he didn't pull away. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged, happy hitches. "Sorry, Max," he murmured, his voice thick with a relief so profound it was almost a sob. "But I'm not stopping. Not for a long time."
Max let out a long, suffering groan, rubbing his face with both hands. "I need a drink. A very strong one. And if I see a tongue, Lando, I’m putting you through the drywall. I don't care how much she loves you."
Lando chuckled, a shaky but genuine sound that vibrated against your lips. He finally opened his eyes, looking at you with a gaze so bright and adoring it made your knees weak. No more "placeholder." No more "wingman."
"You heard her, Max," Lando said, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side, turning to face your brother with a newfound, terrifyingly official confidence. "She chose me. The deal is dead. We're real."
Max looked at Lando, then at your tear-streaked, glowing face. He sighed, the last of his protective armor crumbling. "Fine. You’re real. But Lando? If you make her cry again, even if it’s 'happy' crying, I’m letting Oscar start in your grid slot next Sunday."
Lando grinned, pulling you closer. "Fair enough."
Max hovered in the hallway for a second longer, looking like a man who had just survived a multi-car pileup and wasn't quite sure if his legs still worked. He pointed a warning finger at Lando, a silent “I’m watching you,” before turning toward his own door with a heavy, muttered, "I'm going to sleep. Don't make me regret not hitting you."
The moment Max’s door clicked shut, the hallway felt infinitely larger. Lando reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he opened his door. He ushered you inside his room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that signaled the end of the games.
Before you could even turn on the light, Lando’s arms were around you.
He pulled you into him with a crushing strength, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He held you so tight it was hard to breathe, but you didn't care. You could feel the frantic, uneven thud of his heart against your chest, and the slight shudder of his shoulders.
"I’m so sorry," he whispered into your skin, his voice cracked and raw. "God, I’m such an idiot. I’m so, so sorry for how I treated you. I was just... I was so sure I’d lost. I saw him with you and I felt like my chest was being ripped open, and I thought if I didn't push you away first, the rejection would kill me."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy and filled with a deep, aching regret. "I didn't listen. You tried to talk to me all day, and I was so wrapped up in my own fear that I acted like a total prick. I’m sorry for the coldness. I’m sorry I didn't trust what we had."
You reached up, your fingers smoothing the messy curls away from his forehead. "Lando, listen to me. That morning at Silverstone? After he pulled me away?"
Lando nodded, his gaze fixed on yours, hanging on every word.
"I told him everything," you said softly. "I told him that I had waited for him for a long time, but that he was too late. I told him that while he was busy just standing still,' you were busy being... you. I rejected him, Lando. Completely."
A small, pained sound escaped Lando’s throat.
"And the only reason I was with him for the rest of the day," you continued, your voice steadying, "was because you weren't there. You didn't wait for me at breakfast. You didn't answer my texts. He was the only person who would talk to me while my 'boyfriend' was busy ignoring me. He accepted it, Lando. He knew he lost the moment I said your name."
Lando closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and tracing a path through the faint stubble on his cheek. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the last of his insecurities finally crumbling.
"I spent the whole day thinking you were falling for his perfect lines," Lando murmured, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "And all the while, you were defending me. I don't deserve you. I really don't."
"You don't get to decide that," you teased gently, a small smile finally breaking through. "I chose the guy who makes me laugh, remember? Even if he is a bit of a dramatic idiot sometimes."
Lando laughed then, a real, bright sound that finally filled the room. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours. "A dramatic idiot who is officially, non-fake, no-more-deals in love with you."
hello, i really loved fragments of us! i was wondering if you could do another love triangle where she likes oscar and lando likes her and lando will make a deal with her to make oscar jealous? but as they date, she'll fall for lando? something like that? thank you!
to the anon who sent this back in march… 🥹
i’m crossing my fingers you’re still here because your request is finally getting posted!! i’m genuinely so sorry it took me months to get to it. life happened, my writing schedule became a mess, but i never forgot about this request.
thank you for being soooo patient, and i hope you enjoy what i ended up writing. ♡
Hello! I can't stop thinking about angry Osc 😭 Why is that kinda so fucking hot 😫 which brings me to my request... if only you're comfortable to write it though! No pressure!
Oscar releases his anger to reader by fucking her hard in his drivers room because he's still so mad that he couldn't wait until they get home or get back to their hotel or something while quietly ranting about what happened during the race 🫣🔥 Maybe with a little bit of spanking and choking and Oscar telling her to be quiet. Oscar curses a lot too because he's just so mad and he wasn't able to let all his emotions out because of the stupid fia rules that drivers can't curse (I know they can technically especially during the race but let's pretend they can't which adds up to his frustrations) 😭🫣😫🔥
oscar wasn’t even mad enough for me and i don’t know if i made him mad enough in this 😭🤧
When a disastrous DNF robs him of a milestone race, Oscar storms straight into his driver’s room and takes every ounce of his white-hot, furious adrenaline out on you. Heavy friction, rough edges, and a whole lot of post-race frustration that eventually melts into quiet, desperate comfort.
You’re pacing the small perimeter of Oscar’s driver's room, your phone clutched tightly in your hand as you try to shake off the lingering fury from the garage. On the small counter beside you, you've already laid out his fresh casual clothes: a simple black hoodie, comfortable sweatpants, and his sneakers, making sure everything is ready for the moment he finally walks through that door.
You replay the whole afternoon in your head. The lights went out, and his start was absolute perfection. He carved his way through the first few corners with total precision, taking the lead and holding it lap after lap. You were mentally planning the celebration already, cheering yourself hoarse as he cycled through his pit stops and cleanly took his position back every single time. It was all right there within his grasp.
Until that backmarker completely ruined it. Oscar had worked his way back into contention after the pit stops, only to find a backmarker still battling the cars around him despite the blue flags. As Oscar moved to lap him, the two made contact. The collision damaged the rear of his car, leaving it wounded for the remainder of the lap before the damage spiralled into a gearbox failure that forced him to pull off and retire.
To make it hurt even more, today was his 81st race. It was supposed to be a milestone, a historic weekend where everything lined up, and it was ripped away in a single, needless moment. You had heard his furious screams over the team radio, every sharp, clipped word dripping with white-hot anger that matched the absolute tension swallowing the entire garage.
The heavy click of the door handle interrupts your spiralling thoughts.
You snap your head up as Oscar pushes the door open, still zipped up in his full team kit, his racing boots heavy against the floor. He slams the door shut behind him, turning the deadlock with a sharp, resounding click that echoes loudly in the quiet room.
Before you can even take a step forward, he's crossing the room in long, heavy, furious strides.
"Oscar—" you start, but you don't even get the rest of his name out.
He grabs you by the throat, his fingers wrapping firmly and possessively around your neck, while his other hand snakes straight around your waist. He hauls you forward with so much raw force that you collide hard against his chest, completely knocking the air out of your lungs. He crashes his lips onto yours, kissing you with a bruising, desperate intensity that leaves zero room to breathe. It’s rough, angry, and entirely consumed by the bitter frustration of the afternoon. You don't hesitate for a second; you wrap both arms tightly around the back of his neck, kissing him back just as hard, letting him pour every ounce of his post-race rage right into you.
Without ever breaking the deep, punishing kiss, he shoves you backward until you stumble right against the edge of his dressing table. He breaks the kiss just long enough to spin you around, pressing the front of your thighs directly against the cold wooden edge while your fingers immediately fly out to grip the sides of the table for balance.
He steps flush against your back, pressing his heavy hips completely against yours. One of his hands grips your hipbone hard enough to bruise, while the other snakes around the front of your dress, reaching up to cup and squeeze your breast with rough, demanding pressure.
A loud moan rips straight out of your throat, echoing clearly in the small room—loud enough that anyone walking past the hallway outside could easily hear.
Oscar instantly leans down, pressing his mouth to the shell of your ear. "Keep it down," he growls, his voice thick, ragged, and vibrating with pure venom as his hips start rhythmically, harshly grinding against you.
"Fucking unbelievable," he rants into your ear, his hand kneading your breast mercilessly as his hips snap forward again, pressing his hard weight into you. "Fourteen laps. We had only fourteen fucking laps left, and some backmarker who doesn't even know how to use his mirrors ruins the whole goddamn race!"
His hand lets go of your breast and drops down, hooking into the waistband of his team shorts. With a sharp, aggressive jerk, he pulls them down, freeing his already hard, throbbing length against you. He grinds his hips forward again in a hard, punishing thrust, while his free hand slides down your thigh, grabbing the hem of your dress and violently shoving it all the way up your waist, completely exposing your bare ass and your lace underwear to the cool air of the room.
You gasp, your knuckles turning completely white as you grip the edges of the table for dear life. Oscar's hand immediately leaves your thigh, moving up to firmly massage your bare buttcheeks before his palm comes down with a sharp, stinging crack across your skin, leaving a hot, sudden burn that has you crying out beneath him all over again.
Oscar’s heavy hand swings down again, delivering another sharp, stinging slap right across your bare buttcheek. The loud smack echoes in the small room, and your whole body jerks violently forward against the edge of the table, a breathy gasp tearing from your throat. He doesn't stop there. He delivers two more rapid, punishing swats, your skin instantly flushing hot and bright red under his palm as your hips instinctively push back against him with every single impact.
"Fucking pathetic," Oscar pants roughly into your ear, his chest heaving heavily against your back. "All that fucking work in the simulator, all weekend perfecting the setup, and some fucking idiot ruins it because he can't hold his line."
When he's finally had enough of punishing your skin that way, his hand leaves your ass and moves straight up to the back of your head. He twists his fingers tightly into your hair, gripping your roots and yanking your head back hard so your neck arches fully against his chest, exposing you completely.
With his other hand already sliding down between your bodies, he positions his thick, heavy length directly against your entrance. He uses the blunt, hot tip of his shaft to shove your delicate underwear roughly to the side, parting you open with zero hesitation.
Without giving you a single second to adjust, he buries himself inside you in one single, brutal, deep thrust.
You let out a loud, breathless cry, your back arching even further as he fills you completely and stretches you to your absolute limit.
"Fuck," Oscar groans, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of raw pleasure and boiling fury. He doesn't waste any time easing into it. He immediately starts driving into you, his hips hammering forward in a relentless, punishing rhythm that rattles the wooden table beneath your hands.
"Did you see the telemetry?" he spits out between ragged breaths, his hand tightening painfully in your hair as he drives himself deeper, pounding into you without mercy. "We had the fucking pace!"
Every harsh thrust he takes knocks the wind straight out of your lungs, your thighs trembling violently as you grip the edges of the table so hard your fingers ache. The friction is intense, the wet, heavy sounds of your bodies colliding filling the room as Oscar uses you to vent every single ounce of his competitive rage.
"And then the gearbox," he rants, his voice rising in pitch as he thrusts harder, his hips slapping against your ass with a deafening rhythm. "Just locks up out of nowhere! All because the rear-end took that stupid hit. I could feel it slipping, I knew it was gone, and I had to just sit there and steer the fucking thing into the barrier while everyone else drove past me!"
He pulls halfway out of you just to slam back in with twice the force, eliciting a loud, breathless sob from your lips. His hand in your hair yanks downward, forcing your upper body to press flat against the table while he pins your hips completely in place beneath his heavy, relentless weight.
"Eighty-one races," Oscar growls, his breathing coming in ragged, broken gasps right against your ear as he hammers into you faster and harder, his internal frustration driving every single movement. "Eighty-one, and it fucking ends like that. But I swear to fucking god, next race, I'm taking that pole back. I'm not letting any of them touch me."
He grips your hips with both hands now, letting go of your hair just to haul you back against his pelvis for a series of punishing, deep thrusts that push you right to the edge, matching the furious, unstoppable storm raging inside his head.
Oscar keeps pounding into you with a wild, frantic rhythm, his hips driving forward faster, harder, and deeper with every single second that ticks by. The overwhelming friction and the sheer intensity of his weight have your entire body shaking uncontrollably against the table. You can't even hold back the loud, pathetic whimpers and broken moans spilling continuously from your lips, your voice cracking with every brutal thrust.
Hearing your desperate sounds, Oscar leans his upper body heavily over your back. His hand reaches up, grabbing a thick fistful of your hair at the nape of your neck and yanking your head firmly to the side. He crushes his lips onto yours in a rough, demanding kiss, swallowing every loud gasp, moan, and sob right as they leave your mouth.
Even while kissing you deep and hard, his lower half doesn't slow down for a single millisecond; his hips keep snapping forward in that relentless, punishing cadence.
He pulls his lips away from yours just enough to sink his teeth sharply into your bottom lip, biting down hard before soothing the sting with a slow, wet sweep of his tongue. He trails his mouth away from your lips, pressing hot, bruising kisses across your flushed cheek, sliding up to the shell of your ear. He flicks his tongue against your sensitive skin, aggressively nibbling on your earlobe before dragging a wet trail of licks down the back of your ear, moving steadily down the side of your neck, and pressing open-mouthed kisses all the way to your shoulder.
He sinks his teeth right into the soft skin of your shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark while his hips shift angles, changing the trajectory of his thrusts so that he hits your sweet spot with pinpoint, agonizing accuracy over and over again.
The intense, localized pressure sends a massive shockwave of pure pleasure straight up your spine.
"Oh, fuck, Oscar, right there—please, don't stop," you sob out against his skin, your fingers digging so deep into the wooden table that you're sure you'll leave splinters.
You tilt your hips back harder to meet every single one of his savage lunges, completely encouraging him. A massive part of you desperately wants him to tear into you, to take every single ounce of his bitter, white-hot racing anger out on your body until there's nothing left of his frustration. But the other part of you feels so impossibly good, so overwhelmingly full and sensitive, that you just want him to keep driving into you like this forever, losing control right along with you.
"You fucking like that, don't you, baby?" Oscar growls darkly against your neck, his voice thick with sweat and raw adrenaline. He speeds up even more, his breathing coming in jagged, ragged gasps right against your skin. "You like taking it while I'm completely fucked over? Taking it out on you because I can't take it out on the fucking stewards?"
He thrusts into you deeper, hitting that exact spot again with a punishing force that strips away every coherent thought in your head, leaving you completely at the mercy of his furious rhythm.
Oscar’s breathing turns ragged and heavy right against your ear, his chest vibrating against your back as the frantic, punishing pace of his thrusts starts to peak. He lets out a harsh, frustrated curse, his internal tension snapping tight as he feels the heavy, undeniable pull of his own climax rushing up fast.
"Annoyed doesn't even begin to fucking cover it," Oscar pants angrily, his voice shaking with a potent mixture of raw fury and overwhelming physical sensation. "That word doesn't mean a fucking thing for the kind of rage I’m holding right inside my chest right now. It's bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit."
Hearing the crack of sheer frustration in his voice, you manage to unhook one hand from the edge of the table. You twist your upper body around as best as you can, your fingers reaching up to cup his sweat-slicked jaw, tilting his face toward you.
"I know, Oscar," you murmur softly, your voice thick with absolute devotion and breathless encouragement. "I know. Take it out on me. Use me, let it all out."
Oscar’s eyes lock onto yours, dark and wild with adrenaline. Without missing a beat, he grips your hips tightly and pulls completely out of you. Before you can even catch your breath, his hands slide around your waist and thighs, lifting you effortlessly off your feet. He spins you around in one swift motion and sits you directly on top of the wooden table, parting your legs wide as he steps right between them.
He lunges forward, burying his thick, heavy length back inside you in one deep, seamless stroke. He pauses right there, completely still inside you, holding you anchored against his pelvis while the friction sends a sharp, delicious shiver straight up your spine.
Your hands immediately fly back to grip the cold edges of the table behind you for balance, your fingers curling white against the wood.
Before you can even adjust to the angle, Oscar’s hand shoots out and wraps firmly around your throat. He squeezes just enough to restrict your airflow, using the leverage to yank you forward into a sloppy, desperate, open-mouthed kiss. He devours your mouth greedily, his tongue tangling aggressively with yours before he breaks the kiss to trail wet, frantic heat down your jawline, biting softly at your skin as he moves to your ear, nibbling the lobe before dragging his mouth down your neck and throat again.
You let out a low, ragged curse under your breath, your hips instinctively rolling forward and grinding down hard against his pelvis in a desperate bid for friction.
Feeling you take the initiative, Oscar pulls his head back just an inch. He lets you take control for a moment, his hands dropping to your hips to steady you as he stands completely still, just watching you move. His dark, intense eyes track your every micro-expression—watching your chest heave, watching your eyelids flutter completely shut, and watching your head thrash backward in pure, unadulterated pleasure.
As you grind down on him, rocking your hips in slow, deliberate circles, Oscar’s grip on your throat instinctively tightens, his thumb pressing firmly into your pulse point.
"Look at me," he demands roughly, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly growl as he watches your face twist in ecstasy. "I fucking did everything. Every single fucking thing humanly possible to put myself in that position. I nailed the fucking start, fought my way back after the pit stop, managed the tires, gave the team every bit of feedback they needed. I did every fucking thing right... and then I get taken out by a fucking lapped car. A fucking lapped car. I bled for that pace all weekend."
You nod frantically, your eyes remaining squeezed shut and your neck arched back to give him full access, while your hips continue to rotate and grind heavily against his rigid length.
"And for fucking what?" Oscar rants, his breathing hitching as your internal muscles contract tightly around him with every movement you make. "For some clumsy backmarker hit me? I gave them a masterclass in racecraft today, and they just threw it in the trash. I fucking led, every ounce of focus I put into holding that gap... gone because someone else didn't know how to drive like he was fucking blind!"
He watches you writhe against him, his chest rising and falling violently as your friction pushes him closer and closer to the edge right alongside you.
Oscar can't handle letting you stay in control for another second. The sight of you riding him, combined with the boiling rage still burning hot in his chest, snaps whatever restraint he has left.
His hands slide down from your throat and grip your hips hard, his fingers digging deep into your flesh as he starts thrusting into you again. The slow, circular rhythm shatters instantly, replaced by a fast, pounding tempo that makes the wooden table shake beneath you.
You instantly straighten up from your arched position, your arms immediately flying up to wrap securely around the back of his neck to anchor yourself against the frantic onslaught. Every single thrust hits you with a blinding, overwhelming intensity, sending massive shockwaves of white-hot pleasure straight through your core. You can feel the sharp, undeniable pull of your climax gathering at the base of your spine, building rapidly as the friction pushes you closer and closer to the absolute edge.
"You did your best, Oscar," you gasp out breathlessly, your voice trembling as your fingers tangle tightly in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "You drove a brilliant race, you did everything right."
Oscar lets out a harsh, broken curse right against your mouth, his chest heaving as he drives into you harder and faster.
"I did!" he roars, his voice cracking with a fierce, vindicated desperation as his hips hammer forward against yours with relentless force. "I fucking did! I gave them a masterpiece out there, and it wasn't even my fault!"
His thrusts become completely wild, completely unhinged, mirroring the absolute chaos of his mind as the two of you race headfirst toward the finish line together.
Oscar doesn't hold back a single ounce of his remaining strength, his body taking over completely as he turns every bit of that crushing post-race heartbreak, every shred of team radio anger, and every ounce of bitter disappointment into pure, raw energy. He grips your hips with vice-like intensity, his fingers bruising against your skin as he hammers into you with a brutal, relentless rhythm that feels less like a measured pace and more like a wild, untamed animal trying to break free from a cage.
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the small room in a frantic, deafening cadence, mixing with your high, shattered cries and his own deep, ragged grunts. Every single lunge he takes is deeper, harder, and more punishing than the last, stretching you completely and keeping your nervous system firing on absolute overload. Your arms stay locked tightly around his neck, your fingers gripping his hair and pulling him closer as your body violently convulses, the overwhelming friction dragging you screaming and kicking over the precipice into a blinding, full-body climax.
Your vision goes completely white as your inner muscles contract around him in spasming waves of intense, dizzying heat. You sob out his name, your voice completely wrecked as you shake uncontrollably against him, completely undone by the sheer force of the release.
Hearing your frantic cries and feeling the tight, pulsing contractions of your climax wrapping around his length acts as the ultimate trigger for Oscar. He lets out a raw, guttural roar that rips straight from the bottom of his lungs, his entire body going rigid as his own control completely snaps into a million pieces.
"Fuck—I'm coming," he groans viciously, his voice cracking with exhaustion and ecstasy.
He buries himself as deep as humanly possible inside you, holding you anchored against his pelvis with crushing force as he delivers three final, punishing, jackhammer thrusts. With a heavy, shuddering gasp, he pours himself into you, his hot, heavy release flooding you completely as he shudders violently with every single pulse of his climax.
For several long, suspended moments, neither of you moves a single muscle. You both just hang there, breathing heavily in unison, your chests rising and falling against each other while the lingering tremors of the orgasm slowly fade from your limbs. Oscar lets his forehead drop heavily against your shoulder, his face damp with sweat, his ragged breaths hot against your skin as he slowly winds down from the absolute storm that just tore through the room.
Oscar slowly pulls his heavy frame back just a fraction, his breathing finally starting to slow down from a ragged pant into something a bit steadier. He rests his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching your face with a sudden, tender shift in his expression as the frantic adrenaline completely bleeds out of his system.
He presses a series of small, soft, lingering kisses across your flushed cheeks, down the bridge of your nose, and softly against your lips.
"You okay?" Oscar murmurs softly, his voice a low, raspy hum right against your mouth. He gently runs a thumb over your lower lip, his gaze dropping to check your skin. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry... I shouldn't have taken all that out on you like that."
You let out a soft, breathy chuckle, leaning your weight back against the table as you catch your breath.
"I'm fine, Oscar. Honestly," you tease, a cheeky little smile playing at the corners of your lips as you reach up to trace the line of his sweat-damp jaw. "Though, you have to admit... you look dangerously hot when you're completely furious. Just as long as that anger isn't actually directed at me, I think I can handle it."
A faint, tired huff of a laugh escapes Oscar’s lips, a tiny, genuine smile finally breaking through the heavy exhaustion etched across his face. He shakes his head, resting his forehead back against yours with a soft sigh.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he mutters affectionately, though his eyes soften completely.
Seeing the lingering shadow of the race still weighing heavily in the back of his mind, you drop the teasing tone entirely. You bring both hands up, gently cupping his face between your palms, your thumbs softly stroking over his cheekbones to bring his complete attention back to you.
"Hey," you whisper, your voice thick with absolute warmth and reassurance. "Forget about the backmarker, forget about the gearbox, and forget about the points we lost today. You drove an incredible race. Everyone in that paddock knows it, even if the scoreboard doesn't show it right now. You gave it everything, and I am so, so proud of you."
Oscar’s eyes slip shut for a second at your touch, leaning heavily into your hands as he lets your words finally sink in.
"And don't ever apologize for leaning on me," you add softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "That's what I'm here for. You carry the whole team on your shoulders all weekend—you're allowed to let it break you down a little bit with me."
Oscar stays completely still in your hold, his warm, dark eyes slowly opening to search your face with a depth of raw, unfiltered emotion that hits you right in the chest. The hard lines of frustration and anger that had defined his features all afternoon finally melt away completely, leaving behind just the quiet, exhausted vulnerability of the man you love.
He leans further into the palms of your hands, pressing his cheek firmly against your right palm as if he's trying to anchor himself to you.
"I love you so much," Oscar murmurs, his voice thick, quiet, and completely genuine, carrying all the weight of the rough day he's just had.
A soft, fond smile spreads across your face, and you stroke your thumbs gently over his cheekbones.
"I love you too, Oscar," you reply softly, pressing another gentle kiss right to the tip of his nose.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders finally dropping as the last remaining tension drains out of his body. He reaches up, wrapping his large hands over yours where they still cup his face, holding your palms tightly against his skin for a moment before pressing a warm, lingering kiss into the center of your left palm.
"Thank you," Oscar whispers against your skin, looking up at you with complete devotion shining in his eyes. "Seriously... I don't know what I'd do without you keeping me sane after days like today."
if you think you're gonna be hanging around my inbox for a while, feel free to claim an anon emoji! ♡
just send me an anonymous ask with the emoji you'd like to use (ex. "can i be 🌷 anon?") and i'll add you to the list! that way, whenever you stop by again, i'll know it's you without you having to reveal who you are. i think it's a cute little way to recognize familiar faces in my inbox. 🫶
i'm happy to chat about literally anything—fic requests, screaming over f1, random thoughts at 2am, questions, rambling, updates about your day, or just dropping by to say hi. i genuinely love reading everyone's asks. 🥹
friendly reminders!
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idiots to lovers, mutual pining that goes on for FAR too long, "there was only one bed" (i'm weak...), fake dating, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning so bad they make themselves miserable instead of just TALKING, acts of service as a love language, "i'll take care of you.", everyone else knows they're in love except them
i also have an embarrassing weakness for domestic fluff. grocery shopping together? making coffee for each other? falling asleep on the couch? inject that shit directly into my bloodstream.
and of course... angst. i need them to suffer a little before i let them be happy 😭
hi!! I just wanted to say I found your page the other day and I’ve been LOVING every single fic omg I can’t believe I didn’t find you sooner!! also do you do anon emojis? if so can I be ☀️… (shhh this doesn’t reveal my identity to u at all)
I’m very excited to see what else you put out :) I’m planning on reading cross the line next- I wanted to save it for when I had time to read something all at once because your work is so good I can’t put it down hehehe
omg hi!! 🥹 welcome!! i'm so glad you found my blog, and i'm even happier that you've been enjoying my stories.
and yes!! ☀️ is officially yours! and even if ☀️ was somehow the biggest clue ever, i would still be blissfully clueless. 😭
and you're saving cross the line??? 😭 i'm both honored and terrified. i really hope it's worth it and everything you're hoping it'll be whenever you get around to reading it!!
i can't wait to hear your thoughts if you ever decide to scream about it in my inbox 🥹🫶
(i think this is my sign to finally make an anon emoji list because there are at least two of you with claimed emojis now 😭 before i accidentally hand the same emoji to someone else)
NOT YOU ACTING LIKE YOUR SMUT FICS DON'T EXIST???? your personal favs are all fluff and angst meanwhile i'm over here screaming, throwing my phone across the room, wondering why the smut isn't getting the same appreciation FROM ITS OWN AUTHOR 😭 STAND UP!!! THEY'RE SO GOOD!!!
okay fine, i'll admit it!!! i don't gas up my smut because i'm never fully convinced it's... good??
i'm always comparing it to my fluff and angst, which i feel way more confident writing. with smut, i constantly worry that i'm repeating myself—like the way they move, the progression, the dirty talk, the little habits the characters have during sex....
what do you think about helmet kink 🫣 i can't stop thinking about riding oscar while he's still wearing his helmet 🔥🥵
i'm gonna be so real... i don't personally fuck with helmet kink. every time i picture it, they just look like giant bobbleheads to me 😭 especially when they're not in their race suits and it's just the helmet. i immediately start laughing instead of taking it seriously 😭😭
BUT!!! i'm also not here to yuck anyone's yum. if that's your thing, i respect it. and honestly... i'd still be down to write it if someone or you requested it because i know i'm not the target audience in that scenario 😭🫶
who knows... maybe writing it will finally make me understand the vision. until then, all i can think is "why is your head so BIG" 😭💀
