muds

19

[qiankunslove]

masterlist of help me find:

churchguy josh

found : ❌

churchgirl x Joshua

found: ✔️

roommate

found : ✔️

jake in the office

found: ✔️ (account is deactivated :()

soobin and yeonjun

found: ✔️

[badasmuse]

“Old Ass”

Simon Dominic x Reader

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI) language, lowercase intended, penetration, oral m!receiving, protected sex, reader is impulsive

Summary: you’re a new artist at aomg and you become besties with simon. yet you end up making fun of his age and that gets you in a tough spot. not like you don’t like it tho

a/n: look yall, there is not enough simon dominic content on this app. it’s time for me to make it. for the smdc girlies🤞🏼

“everyone please welcome AOMG’s new artist, choi y/n. she- where is simon?” the ceo asked.

“i’m here i’m here.” he ran up bending over slightly, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. “i was in the bathroom you were taking all day.”

“old ass.” devita mumbles, ducking when simon swatted at her.

“this is choi y/n. since you were late, you get to look after her.” he moves you in front of simon gently. “show her around, give her what she needs, make sure she’s comfortable. okay bye.” he walks away.

the other artists disperse and simon sighs, “hey i’m simon. sorry about that.”

you nod, bowing slightly, “no problem. i’m y/n. can i just.. not to fangirl, but you are my favorite aomg rapper.”

simon smiles, “well see now i like you. let’s go i’ll give you a tour of the building.”

he guided you gently with a hand behind your back. not quite touching you, but if you were to stop abruptly his hand would hit your back.

“this is where the dancers practice. i don’t dance so i don’t go in there. you dance?” he asks.

“mhm. i love dancing.” you stick your head into the room looking around. “ooh this is pretty.” you pull back and continue walking.

“this is a vending machine. it sounds uninteresting, however, there’s like three more on the other side of this corner.” he walks you around the corner. “that one is my favorite it has ice cream in it.”

you smile, “can i buy one?”

“i’ll get you one. as a welcome gift.” he puts his card in and let’s you hit whatever option you want. “thank you!” you exclaim grabbing it from the machine as it fell. “this is why you’re my favorite.” you giggle, following him to the studios.

“this is the one i record in. feel free to use it until they get you a permanent spot.” he looks at his watch, “i have to run but here’s my number, call me if you have questions.”

from that day forward, you and simon became two peas in a pod. you both spent a lot of time together. you were always in his studio either watching him or recording your own shit. he always helps you out, giving input on the flow and the lyrics.

then he started inviting you to his condo. obviously for group get togethers but then it was just you. you’d drink jack daniels together and you’d end up staying the night. this was a weekly thing. now you have a drawer in his dresser.

you’re used to coming to his house for the night but… tonight was weird. you got a different vibe when you walked in using the key he gave you. you took off your heels and hung up your jacket like always but you didn’t see simon. “si?” you said looking around. where is he?

you walk towards his room, you might’ve beat him here so you’re just gonna change into something comfortable. however, when you approach his door, you hear soft groans. your ears go red and you’re about to leave until you hear your name.

“fuck y/n why can’t this be your hand..” he grunts.

you peek your head through the door and see him thrusting his dick into his hand almost desperately. you watch for a good minute undetected, but your stupid watch just had to ding letting you know you got a notification. damn snitch.

he stops and looks up at the door, “how.. long have you been standing there?” he says tucking himself back into his shorts.

“long enough to hear you wish for my hand.” you respond, walking in and sitting on the bed. “move, let me do it.”

“what- WOAH!” he exclaims when your hand disappears down his shorts.

you smack his hands away when he tries to grab you. “sit still.” your hand moves faster on his dick and he moans louder. “fuck that feels better than i imagined.” he says.

you’re bored now, so you decide to kick it up a notch. you grab a hair tie from your wrist, pulling your hair back so it doesn’t get in your way. he’s confused but when your tongue licks his tip- well he’s not confused but he can’t think. you slowly take him into your mouth, giggling when he grabs your hair. your tongue swirls around his tip when you come back up and he groans louder.

“fuck y/n you’re gonna give me a heart attack with that mouth of yours.” he says when you take him all the way down your throat.

“no you’ll have a heart attack cause you’re old. don’t blame me.” you say taking him back in before he could respond.

“shit i’m gonna cum.” he groans, now fucking into your mouth, and you take it cause momma didn’t raise no bitch. he cums down your throat and you swallow it all.

he’s not too sure what to say or do. he just lays there awkwardly.

“all that talk you do in your songs and now you’re gonna act awkward?” you say pushing him.

“um.. thank you?” he says uncertainly.

you sigh and stand up walking to his bedside table. “do you have any condoms? honestly i wanna fuck and i’m not on the pill.” you looked through his drawers and pull one out. “can we? or can your old ass not take it?”

he grabs you by your shirt, yanking you on the bed before turning you over on your stomach and pulling your ass in the air.

“there’s the simon i know from his music.” you giggle as he pulls your skirt up over your ass. he then reached into the drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. “what the fuck are you doing?”

“don’t feel like ripping them.” is all he says before he slides the scissors under and cuts your underwear.

“simon! tf what if you cut me?”

he doesn’t say anything, he puts on the condom and just pushes into you without a thought causing you to let out a squeal.

“talk too damn much.” he starts pounding into you relentlessly. you hold onto the pillow letting out whines as he hits your gspot over and over.

“god simon just like that.” you whine out, a few tears slipping out.

“damn it’s like.. you were made for me.” simon says as he pushes your upper back down some more thrusting deeper.

“fuck… fuck made for you yeah, i’m gonna cum!” the headboard hits the wall as he speeds up. your vision goes white and you forget how to breathe as you clench tightly around him, cumming when his fingers come in contact with your clit.

he releases in the condom and pulls out. he cleans himself up before grabbing a cloth to clean you up as well. you let out a whimper when the cloth comes in contact with your sensitive clit.

“i’m sorry but you’re gonna be sticky so i have to clean you up.” he mumbles. after he’s finished, he pulls you into his hold patting your head. “there there. you’ll live.”

you don’t have any strength to hit him so instead, “fuck you simon.”

“we did. want to go another round? i can do more with my mouth than just rap.” he lets you go and shimmies down so his face is between your legs.

this is gonna be a long night.

[pr0dbeomgyu]

BUSTED!

FINAL CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

A/N: and... that's a wrap!!!! guys im sorry it took me more than 3 years to update the last chapter omfg.. anyways last night i saw yeonjun in my home country and thought maybe i should update this fic.

SYNOPSIS :

bumping into her shitty ex out of nowhere while hanging out with her friends, y/n was determined to show that she was way better off without him. desperate enough, she paid choi yeonjun, a cheapskate stranger she met 5 seconds ago, to act as her rich, classy boyfriend. y/n thought it was fine to change some things about her life to yeonjun (read: everything), cause heck, they don’t even know each other! but why is it that after the incident, yeonjun kept on appearing in her life, finding out the truth about her one by one, in the worst possible way?

TAGLIST :

@robin-obsessed @sjyuniverse @nyangjjunie @todorokiskitten @lunaflvms @iyeonjuni @clarakyunisageek @rinhyun @ladyiove @dear20cm @yeonyeonyeonjun @softylilies @pinkheadflowers @rencarnationofangel @petunialix @woo-minhee02 @navsnct @carolnina55 @bigtittietoji @letmeal0ne @beomslonghair @secretmilkshakefury @gorechoi @mochisnlix @day6andetcetera @soobpricity @fairybinie @butterfly-skinnylegend @yuakagi @soobin-chois @enhacolor @starlitskies0 @linovrl @multi4lifer @tonightletspretend @sebongajju @softpia @summery-bat @youreverydayzebra @blessed-sky @hae06 @en-boyz @rolexjung @bobrouxsky @a1exandra-ray @lilacarat @mybabywearschanel @acciomylove @marsophilia @qiankunslove @taeyongslilkitty @solarswonderland @rubberduckieyourtheone @taehyunsfel

[landoslog]

On Call | One of Two

Pairing: Lando Norris x Personal Assistant!Reader

Description: You're Lando Norris's personal assistant, which means your job description includes three things: fixing his disasters, answering his calls at ungodly hours, and definitely not thinking about kissing your boss. The first two you're great at. The third one? That's becoming a problem.

Genre: lando being a little shit, he does not hide that he wants ur kitty, angst, fingering during meetings, fucking in hotel rooms, why are we fighting every 2 minutes

WC: 24k

IMPORTANT NOTE: hi friends, you might be wondering bella why is this not being posted on @landologged, i have been shadowbanned indefinetly (tumblr pls go fuck urself), all of my fics are going to STAY on there, but the new ones/updates will be posted on here, until i am unbanned (if, that even happens) Part two, click here.

Your phone rings at 3 AM, which can only mean one thing. Lando Norris calling, which means this is going to be so much worse than any text could ever convey. You stare at the ceiling of your Monaco apartment, counting to ten in three different languages before you answer. It's a technique you've perfected over the past several years of working for Lando, which requires a special kind of patience-building exercise that keeps you from committing what would definitely be classified as justifiable homicide.

Not that you'd get away with it. You probably would, actually, but that's beside the point.

"Lando," you answer, voice flat as the fucking pavement. "Unless you're currently on fire or have been kidnapped, this can wait until morning."

"Wow, so you'd just let me burn?" His voice comes through warm and sleep-rough and far too chipper for 3 in the fucking morning. There's an echo to it, the telltale acoustics of an airport terminal, and you curse under your breath. He's supposed to be on a flight right now. He's supposed to be thirty thousand feet in the air, unconscious, not bothering you.

"That's cold," he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice, "noted for future reference."

You close your eyes. "Where are you?"

"So , uhm, I'm in Bahrain—"

"You're supposed to be in Monaco."

"—yeah, about that," he continues as if you haven't spoken at all, and you can hear the grin in his voice. The bastard thinks this is funny. He thinks this is hilarious. "I might've gotten on the wrong plane."

You sit up. God, you hate your life. You hate your job. You hate that you're awake right now. Most of all, you hate that you aren't even surprised. "You might have what?"

"Okay, I definitely got on the wrong plane," he amends, and there's a rustling sound like he's shifting his phone to his other ear. "But in my defense, the vodka Red Bulls at the airport were really strong, and Oscar dared me to see if I could get through security in under thirty seconds, and then there was this really fit flight attendant who asked if I needed help finding my gate, so ya'know, being the gentleman I am—"

You cut him off before he can finish that sentence. "Lando."

"—and I said yes obviously, because I'm not rude, and she was smiling at me with that smile, you know the one the ladies use—"

"Lando."

"—where it's like, super flirty but also professional? And she had these eyes that were doing this thing—"

"Lando."

He stops. You can practically hear him smirking through the phone, can picture the exact expression on his face, the one that makes you want to strangle him with your bare hands. "Yes?" He says it so innocently, so fucking sweetly, like he hasn't just woken you up at 3 AM to tell you he's on the wrong continent. "That's my name, by the way. Love it when you say it like that. Especially when you're all angry and you do that thing where your voice gets all—"

"What," you interrupt, jaw clenched, "do you need."

"See? That. That right there." He's definitely smirking now. You want to throw your phone into the Mediterranean Sea. You want to throw him into the Mediterranean Sea. "Makes me feel things."

You don't dignify that with a response.

"Anyway," he continues, undeterred as always, "I need you to book me a flight back and maybe fix things with my sponsor who I was supposed to meet with—"

There's a pause. You hear him ask someone in the background, "Mate, what time is it? Cheers."

Then, back to you, far too casually, "Yeah, so about four hours ago."

"Stay where you are," you cut him off, already climbing out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you're already mentally running through which contacts you'll need to grovel to at this hour. "I'll handle it."

"Ooh, so commanding." His voice drops lower, teasing in that way that makes you want to reach through the phone and— "Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I special?"

"You're something."

"I'll take it." You can hear the smile in his voice, warm and infuriating and so fucking pleased with himself. "Knew you loved me."

"That's not what I said."

"Didn't have to," he replies, like it's obvious, like you've just confirmed something he's always known. "I can read between the lines. It's one of my many talents, actually, along with being really good at driving and also being really good at—"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Wait wait wait," he says quickly, and there's something slightly different in his voice now, less performative. "Will you actually fix it? With the sponsor? I know I fucked up."

You pause at your bedroom door. This is the thing about Lando that makes it impossible to actually hate him, just when you think he's completely oblivious, completely wrapped up in his own chaos, he does this, acknowledges the mess, trusts you to fix it. Doesn't apologize—he never apologizes—but asks anyway.

"I'll handle it," you repeat, softer this time. You shouldn't be softer. "Just stay at the airport, Lando. And please, for the love of god, do not get on any more planes."

"Yes, ma'am." He's back to teasing, just like that, the moment already gone. "Love it when you boss me around, by the way. Should I call you boss? Or do you prefer something else? I'm pretty flexible."

"Goodbye, Lando."

"Wait," But you're already pulling the phone away from your ear when you hear him say, "You're incredible, you know that?"

You pause and your thumb hovers over the end call button.

"I'm serious," he adds, but his voice hasn't gone soft. He sounds exactly the same—amused, chaotic, like he's grinning on the other end. Like he's always grinning. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm including my first win in that statement. Don't let it go to your head, though."

You exhale through your nose.

"Without me, you'd probably still be in Bahrain," you say finally. "Go drink some water. I'll text you the flight details."

"Aw, you care about my hydration levels." He sounds delighted. "That's basically a love language, ya' know."

You hang up and your apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and your own heartbeat, which is doing something annoying in your chest. You pad into your kitchen with its view of the Mediterranean that you never get to enjoy because you're always putting out fires that Lando starts.

Metaphorical fires, mostly. Though there was that one incident in Singapore that the team agreed to never speak of again. Your laptop boots up as you make coffee, strong, black. The blue light illuminates your face as you pull up his schedule, his flight options, draft what will be a very apologetic email to the sponsor he's just stood up.

You've written variations of this email so many times you could probably do it in your sleep. Maybe you are doing it in your sleep. Is this a nightmare? It would make sense if this was a nightmare.

This is your life now.  Has been your life for years, actually, and you still haven't figured out how you ended up here—awake at 3 AM, fixing problems for a man who gets on the wrong plane because a flight attendant smiled at him.

At least the pay is good.

Lando's apartment looks like someone gave a golden retriever a Black Amex and thirty minutes in an interior design showroom. You let yourself in with the key he gave you three months ago. The fifth time he'd locked himself out, he'd just shrugged and said "might as well" and handed you a spare.

The hallway opens into the main living space, there’s framed F1 car prints lining the walls in that papaya orange that's burned into your retinas at this point, there's a gym bag spilling protein powder across the hallway floor. His helmet collection sits in a backlit display case like he's running a museum dedicated just to himself. There's a DJ setup gathering dust by the windows, you've seen him use it exactly twice, both times drunk off his ass at 2 AM, and both times his neighbors complained.

"Lando?" You call out, toeing off your shoes by the door. "Meeting's in two hours. We need to go over your schedule."

There's a crash from deeper in the apartment, followed by a string of curses. "Fuck—shit—"

"Are you dying?"

"Kitchen! And don't come in, I'm basically naked!"

You head straight for the kitchen. When Lando Norris tells you not to do something, it's usually because he's already done that exact thing and it's gone horribly wrong.

The kitchen is all white cabinets and black marble countertops, which are pristine nine out of ten times because Lando doesn't cook. Can't cook, more accurately. He once tried to make toast and somehow set off the fire alarm. Yes, he texted you for help. No, you don't want to talk about it.

A single trainer sits in the sink for some reason, and you don't ask.

When you round the corner into the kitchen, you stop dead. He's at the island, fresh out of the shower. Water drips from his hair onto his bare shoulders, trailing down his chest, then his stomach, catching the morning light filtering through the windows. The towel around his hips is slung so low you can see the sharp V of his hipbones—that line of muscle that disappears beneath white cotton.

He's holding a yogurt container in one hand, spoon in the other, staring at both like he's forgotten how they work together.

"Ha! Told you not to come in," he says, grinning like he just won pole position, "but you did anyway, so this is on you."

You're staring. You know you're staring. His hair's dripping water onto the counter. There's a droplet sliding down his collarbone, another one trailing down his abs, and your brain has just completely fucking blue-screened.

"Put a shirt on."

"That's not an answer about the yogurt."

"Lando."

"What? I just got out of the shower, it's my apartment." He takes a step closer and you can smell his body wash. "You're the one who walked in on me. Why, is this distracting or something? Am I being unprofessional?"

Yes. Extremely fucking yes. Your brain has completely shorted out and you're having thoughts that would get you fired, probably sued, definitely escorted out of the building by security.

"The sponsor meeting is in two hours and we need to prep." You force yourself to look at his face. Just his face. Nowhere else. His face is safe, except his mouth is doing that thing where he bites his bottom lip and that's not safe at all.

"I'm listening. Go ahead, prep me." He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps flex and you watch the muscle move under his skin and forget how to breathe.

"Can you put on clothes first?"

"Can't, actually. All my clothes are in the bedroom, and if I walk away now you'll just follow me there, won't you? And then we'll really be in trouble." His grin widens and you can see the exact moment the idea takes root in his head. "Unless that's what you want? I'm not opposed to it, for the record. Bedroom's got a better view anyway."

Your face goes hot. The back of your neck prickles with heat and you know he can see it, the flush creeping up from your collar. He looks fucking delighted with himself. 

"You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what, exactly? Standing in my own kitchen in my own apartment after taking a shower? I mean, that's not a crime last time I checked." He picks up the yogurt container, squinting at the label. "Pretty sure it's fine, honestly. Smell test?"

He holds it out. You don't move.

"I'm not smelling your expired yogurt, Lando."

"See, this is the problem with our working relationship, there’s no trust whatsoever." He digs the spoon in and takes a bite, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. Then proceeds to maintain eye contact while he swallows. "Tastes fine to me. Bit tangy, yeah, but could be the expiration date, could be the flavor. Who's to say, really."

"You're going to give yourself food poisoning and then I'm going to have to explain to Zak why you can't make it to testing."

"Probably, but you'll take care of me though, won't you?" He sets the yogurt down and takes another step closer. Your feet stay planted to the floor. "I mean, that's literally your job, isn't it? Taking care of me."

"My job is managing your schedule, not nursing you through a bout of salmonella because you can't be bothered to check expiration dates."

"That's the same thing, basically." Another step and he's suddenly close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off his skin, see the little scar above his eyebrow from that karting crash when he was twelve that he always brings up. Smell that fucking body wash. "You're really good at taking care of me, you know that? Like, really fucking good."

"You've mentioned it before."

"Yeah, but I don't think you get it, like, properly understand what I mean." His voice drops lower and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Like, really good. Better than anyone else I've ever worked with, honestly. Sometimes I do stupid shit just to see what you'll do, how you'll fix it. It's become kind of a thing for me."

"That's actually psychotic."

"Nah, that's half the fun of having you around." He tilts his head and his hair drips water onto your shoe. "You're blushing, by the way."

"I'm not blushing."

"You absolutely are, it's very cute actually. Goes all the way down your neck and," His eyes track down, following the flush of heat spreading across your skin, they linger at your collarbone and you feel on fire, everywhere. "Makes me wonder how far down it actually goes."

Jesus fucking christ. "Lando."

"That's my name, yeah. You know, you say it a lot when you're flustered, I've noticed. It's sort of hot, actually, the way your voice gets all tight and annoyed, like you're trying really hard not to tell me to fuck off."

"I am trying really hard not to tell you to fuck off."

"See? Exactly like that, perfect example." Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder. "Want to know a secret?"

"Not particularly, no."

"I think about you a lot." His voice shifts, goes softer. "Like, more than is probably normal for a boss-employee situation, if I'm being honest. Definitely more than my PR team would be comfortable with if they knew."

Your heart's slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. "You're jetlagged from the flight."

"I'm not jetlagged."

"You're delirious from expired yogurt, clearly."

"I'm completely lucid, I promise you." He reaches out and catches the hem of your shirt between his fingers. Doesn't pull you closer, just holds the fabric. His thumb brushes against your hip through the cotton. "You're avoiding the question."

"You didn't ask a question."

You've spent two years trying to resist this. This pull. This gravity. Lando Norris is a black hole and you've been orbiting him, getting closer and closer, knowing eventually you'll cross the event horizon and there will be no coming back.

"Do you think about me?" The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. "When you're not working, when you're doing normal people shit, do you ever just think, 'Wonder what that dickhead Lando is doing right now?'"

"Jesus, Lando." You take a breath, trying to find some semblance of professionalism. "This is so unprofessional. You know that, right?"

"Maybe." He tips his head back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes, and there's something mischievous in his expression, a little pout, a lot of trouble. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and doesn't give a single shit about it. And, you hate to admit that you do think about him. Constantly. When you're at the grocery store and his favorite energy drink is on sale. When you're watching Netflix at 11 PM and some comedian makes a joke he'd absolutely lose his shit over. When you're lying in bed at 3 AM and your phone lights up and before you even look you know it's him.

But you're not giving him that, not a chance. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, wetting it, and your eyes track the movement before you can stop yourself.

"See?" His grin turns absolutely wicked. "You can't even resist me right now."

"Oh my god." You roll your eyes so hard it hurts and step back, pulling your shirt free from his fingers. "Clean up your yogurt. I'm getting you a shirt."

"Wait, no—"

"Lando."

"But I like being shirtless around you," he whines, actually whines like a child. "You're so fun to tease when I'm shirtless."

"Shirt. Now. Where are they?"

He sighs dramatically, slumping against the counter. "Second drawer. The tall one. But for the record, this is cruel and unusual punishment and I'm going to file a complaint with HR."

"You don't have an HR department."

"Then I'll make one just to file a complaint." He's grinning again as you head toward his bedroom. "Make sure you grab the tight one! The black one! You know which one I mean!"

You absolutely know which one he means and you're absolutely not grabbing that one. His bedroom is somehow even more ridiculous than the rest of the apartment. The bed's massive, unmade, sheets tangled like he's been fighting them. There's a sim racing rig in the corner, and trophies line the floating shelves on the wall. A Quadrant hoodie draped over his gaming chair.

You find the dresser and pull open the second drawer. It's full of McLaren team shirts and regular t-shirts. You deliberately avoid the tight black one you know he's talking about and grab a loose grey one instead. When you walk back into the kitchen, he's still leaning against the counter, yogurt untouched, grinning at you.

"That's not the shirt I asked for."

"Clean. Up. Your. Yogurt."

"So bossy." But he's already moving, grabbing paper towels, wiping up the mess. You toss the shirt at his head and it hits him square in the face.

"Ow. Violent."

"Put it on."

"What if I don't want to?" He's holding the shirt but not putting it on, just watching you with that infuriating smirk.

"Then I'm leaving and you can explain to Zak why you missed another sponsor meeting."

"Fine, fine." He pulls the shirt on and yeah, even the loose one looks good on him. His hair's now sticking up from where the fabric messed it up. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. Do you want coffee?"

"You're really gonna make me coffee after I've been such a terrible boss?" He's following you to the coffee maker like a puppy.

"I'm going to make myself coffee and you can have some if you shut up for five minutes."

"I don't think I can shut up for five minutes. That's asking a lot." He watches you work, and you can feel his eyes on you. "You know how I like it though, right?"

"Two sugars, oat milk, unfortunately yes, I've memorized your terrible taste in coffee."

"It's not terrible, it's refined."

"It' tastes like ass."

"But you make it anyway." His voice has gone softer and you don't look at him. "Because you're sooooo good at taking care of me."

"Because I'm paid to take care of you."

"Yeah, yeah, same thing."

You hand him his mug and make your own. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied sound that you absolutely do not think about.

"So." You pull out your tablet, pull up your notes, try to look professional despite the fact that ten minutes ago he was basically naked and asking if you thought about him. "The meeting, let's go through the main talking points."

"Are you still thinking about it?"

"About the meeting, yeah obviously—"

"About kissing me."

Your face goes hot again. "Lando, I swear to god—"

"You've got all three tells going right now." He's grinning at you over his mug. "It's actually impressive. Didn't know you could do all three at once."

"Can we please focus?"

"I am focused. Very focused. Laser focused, actually." He sets his mug down. "Okay, tell you what. Let's make a bet."

"Absolutely not."

"If I'm perfect at this meeting and I mean perfect, no jokes, just straight on full professional Lando mode, you'll have to answer one question for me, and honestly."

You narrow your eyes. "What question?"

"That's the fun part. I'm not telling you until I win."

"You won't win. You're actually incapable of being professional for more than ten minutes."

"Bet." He holds out his hand, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Come on, unless you're scared."

You take his hand. His palm's warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel. He holds on just a second too long, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"You're gonna regret this."

"Maybe." His grin is absolutely feral. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"

The sponsor meeting is in a conference room at the McLaren Technology Centre, and you arrive fifteen minutes early because Lando's never early to anything, which means you need to be early enough for both of you. Except for the fact that when you walk through the door, he's already there.

Sitting at the table. In a button-down shirt. Looking through the presentation materials like he actually cares about the quarterly projections.

"You're early," you say, and trying your best to not sound surprised.

"Yeah, well." He glances up and grins, but it's not his usual grin. "Got a bet to win, don't I?"

The sponsors arrive, there's two executives from Monster, all business suits and firm handshakes. Lando stands, smiles, does the whole being offensively charming thing. But it's different, he's actually fucking trying. You can't believe your goddamn eyes.

You sit in the corner with your tablet, taking notes, watching him work and it's fucking unsettling. He answers their questions perfectly. He's articulate, focused on them, doesn't make a single inappropriate joke. Doesn't even bother to check his phone. You've genuinely never seen this version of him before. You've seen him hungover at sponsor brunches, making jokes about his own driving. You've seen him show up twenty minutes late with his shirt on backwards. You've seen him accidentally insult a CEO's tie and then somehow charm his way out of it.

But this? This is someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who's prepared. Someone who knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it. It's terrifying because if he can be this professional, this focused, this put-together, then every other time he's been a disaster, he's been choosing to be a disaster. Which means his chaos is intentional. Which means when he shows up at your apartment at midnight because he locked himself out, when he calls you at 3 AM from the wrong country, when he stands in his kitchen in a towel asking if you think about him.

Jesus, when did it get so hot in here? You take a deep breath, grabbing your notepad and begin to fan the paper in front of your face. It certainly does not help. When you come back to the conference room, Lando's leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table, grinning at you. The real grin, the "I totally won this bet" grin, and you feel a sinking in the pit of your stomach.

"So," he says. "I win."

You take a deep breath, realizing you have to talk your way out of this. Lando Norris always wins, always gets what he wants, and you just handed him ammunition like the fucking idiot you are.

This is how it happens—not with you quitting, not with some dramatic resignation, but with you trapped in a conference room while he cashes in a bet you never should have made. You're going to lose your job. You're going to lose everything. You can already see it, the HR meeting, the severance package, the LinkedIn post about "pursuing new opportunities" that everyone will know means you fucked your boss and it ended badly.

"You didn't even last the full hour, there's still—"

"Nope. Meeting's over. come on, I mean I was perfect." He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up and you can see a strip of his stomach, the waistband of his boxers. "Which means you owe me an answer to one question. Honestly."

You open your mouth to protest, but he stops you. "Those were the terms." He's walking toward you now, and there's something predatory about it, like you're a corner he's about to take at full speed. "You shook on it."

"What's the question."

He stops right in front of you. Your throat tightens and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the tan of his skin. His goatee is slightly uneven, like he trimmed it himself this morning without really looking.

Your heart stops. Restarts. Stops again. "No."

"Liar." He takes a step closer. The movement is slow, deliberate, and you can feel the heat coming off his body. Your back hits the glass wall and it's cold, so cold compared to the warmth radiating from him. "Try again."

"Lando—"

"You promised to answer honestly." Another step and he's close enough now that you can smell his cologne properly—cedar and bergamot, but underneath there's something else. Something warm and slightly spicy. Amber, maybe, nonetheless, it makes your head swim, your chest ache. Water? You need water, holy water. "That was the deal."

"The deal was one question."

"And you didn't answer it." His hand comes up, bracing against the glass next to your head. Not touching you, but close enough that you can see the calluses on his palm, the white lines of old scars across his knuckles. "Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no."

Your mouth is dry. There's something throbbing low in your stomach, a pulse that matches your heartbeat. "This is so unprofessional."

"Uh-uh, not the right answer." His other hand comes up, caging you in. You can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, the way his chest rises and falls. He's breathing faster than normal. "Come on. You're always so honest with me. So direct, let's not start lying now."

"I'm not."

"You are." He leans in and his nose brushes against your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and mint-fresh. "You're thinking about it right now. I can tell."

You realize you've stopped breathing. You inhale sharply and it's a mistake because all you can smell is him, that cologne, his own scent, it's consuming. Your head swirls, and you feel like at any moment now you might pass out. Bastard, what a fucking little shit.

"Lando, we can't."

"Why not?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. "Give me one good reason."

"You're my boss."

"Terrible reason. Next."

"This is the MTC, anyone could see us."

"Door's closed. Glass is tinted from the outside." His lips brush against your temple and you can feel your knees go weak. "Next."

"I—" Your voice cracks. There's heat everywhere he's close to you, like standing too near a fire. Your skin feels too tight and there's something pulsing between your legs and you press your thighs together. "This is a bad idea, very, very, bad idea."

"Probably." His hand moves from the glass to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. His skin is rough and warm and you can feel the drag of his calluses. "But you still haven't answered my question."

You can see the green in his eyes, flecks of blue catching the fluorescent light. His pupils are dilated, dark and wide. His lips are slightly parted and you can see the white of his teeth, the pink of his tongue when he wets his bottom lip.

"Yes." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper, and it feels like signing your own death warrant. You've just ended your career. You've just destroyed every carefully maintained professional boundary. You've just proven that you're exactly what people will call you when this inevitably falls apart—a personal assistant who couldn't keep her hands to herself, who thought she was special, who believed Lando Norris when he looked at her like she mattered.

"Yes what?" He's smiling now, that wicked grin that makes your stomach flip.

"Yes, I want to kiss you." Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. "Happy now?"

"Getting there." His thumb moves to your bottom lip, dragging across it slowly. You can feel every ridge of his fingerprint. "How long?"

"That wasn't the question."

A knock at the door shatters the moment like glass, and you both freeze. His thumb is still on your lip. His other hand is still pressed against the small of your back. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Reality crashes back in like ice water. You're going to be sick. You're actually going to be sick.

"Lando?" It's Jon, his trainer. Another knock. "You in there? Got that debrief in five."

Lando closes his eyes and drops his forehead to yours. You feel him exhale, warm breath skating across your mouth.

"Yeah," he calls out, voice rough. "Be right there."

"Alright, mate. I'll head down, meet you there."

Footsteps retreat down the hallway and the silence that follows is deafening. Lando doesn't move. His thumb drags across your lip one more time, slower, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to bite back a sound. You're going to let him do this. You're going to let him ruin you in this conference room and you won't even fight it.

This is who you are now. This is what you've become. The personal assistant who spreads her legs when her boss decides he wants her. The woman who throws away everything she's worked for because Lando Norris smells good and knows exactly where to put his hands.

"We should," you start, but even you can hear how weak it sounds. How unconvincing.

"Yeah." But he still doesn't move. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown completely wide, and you can see yourself reflected in them, small and desperate and already lost. "We should."

Neither of you move. The moment stretches. You're waiting for him to step back, to release you, to let you salvage some microscopic shred of dignity. His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. You watch his throat work when he swallows, the muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers flex against your back, pressing in hard like he's restraining himself.

"Lando."

"I know." Finally, fucking finally, he steps back. Cold air rushes in where his body was and you almost whimper at the loss. "Debrief, yeah, it's fine, professional. We're professional." He runs a hand through his hair and it sticks up at odd angles. His shirt is wrinkled where your fists were twisted in the fabric. There's color high on his cheekbones, his neck.

You definitely look worse.

"You've got—" He reaches out and his thumb brushes your cheekbone. "Your makeup's smudged."

His touch is gentle but your skin feels like it's burning. You step sideways along the glass wall, putting distance between you, and your legs are shaking so badly you're amazed you're still standing.

"I'll fix it in the bathroom."`

"Yeah. Good. That's—yeah." He's staring at you like he's forgotten how to form sentences. "A good idea."

You smooth down your skirt with trembling hands. Your underwear is definitely ruined, you can feel how wet you are, slick and uncomfortable and god, you need to get out of this room before you do something stupid like beg him to finish what he started.

"I'll see you at the debrief," you manage.

"Yeah."

You make it to the door on shaking legs. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks again. "Hey."

You don't turn around. You can't turn around because if you look at him right now, you'll do something irreversible.

"This isn't over," he says quietly. "Just so you know."

Your fingers tighten on the door handle. "Lando."

"It's not." His voice is closer now. You feel him behind you, not touching but close enough that heat radiates between you. "I'm not going to push, but I'm not going to pretend that didn't just happen either."

You open the door and walk out without looking back, even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stay. The bathroom mirror shows exactly how fucked you are. Your makeup is smudged under one eye. Your lips are swollen like you've been biting them—you have been biting them. There are marks on your jaw, faint red patches where his stubble scraped against your skin. Your hair is messed up on one side. You look like you've been thoroughly compromised in a conference room.

You wet a paper towel and try to fix the damage, but your hands won't stop shaking. The cold water helps and you press wet palms to your cheeks, your neck, trying to calm the heat still racing through your body.

"Fuck," you whisper to no one.

Your reflection, however, doesn't provide any answers.

The debrief room is smaller than the conference room, it houses a table that seats maybe eight people, and when you walk in, Jon's already there, scrolling through his tablet. Zak's on a call in the corner. A few engineers you recognize but can't name, and Lando, sitting in the middle, looking completely normal, completely unphased.

He glances up when you enter and his face gives nothing away, like twenty minutes ago he didn't have you pinned against glass, asking you questions that made your brain melt.

"Hey," he says, easy and casual. "Saved you a seat." He taps the seat next to him and you want to barf. Instead, you sit your ass down and pull out your tablet. Your hands have stopped shaking. Your heartbeat has returned to normal. You've got this. You're totally, completely, fine.

Jon starts the debrief, pulling up performance data on the screen at the front of the room. Lando leans back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding along to whatever Jon's saying. He asks a question about the downforce. Proceeds to make a joke about Oscar's setup from the previous season and everyone laughs. He's completely normal, and a part of you is starting to think maybe you imagined the whole thing in the conference room when his hand lands on your thigh.

Not high up. Just above your knee, right over your skirt. Completely innocent if anyone looked. Except, his thumb has started moving in small circles. They're slow and deliberate, and the fabric of your skirt is thin enough that you can feel the heat of his palm, the exact pressure of each finger.

Your pen immediately stops moving, and while Jon is still talking, Lando continues to nod, asking more questions, all while his thumb keeps drawing circles.

Then his hand slides up, it's just an inch. Then another. Still over your skirt, still looks completely innocent, but it's higher now. Mid-thigh and the circles get wider, his thumb dragging across the fabric, and you can feel the heat spreading up through your body. You try to focus on Jon's words. Something about corner entry, but Lando's pinky finger stretches out, brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath stops completely.

His hand slides higher again and you reach down under the table and grab his wrist. Hard, and dig your nails into the flesh as a warning. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at you, just keeps nodding along to Jon's analysis, and his hand—his hand keeps fucking moving up, dragging yours with it now, until his fingers are high enough on your thigh that the edge of his pinky brushes against the hem of your skirt where it's ridden up.

"Thoughts on that setup change, Lando?" Jon asks.

"Yeah, makes sense. Should help with the understeer ." His voice is completely steady. His fingers flex against your thigh. "We can test it in the sim tomorrow, see how it feels." His thumb finds bare skin just above where your skirt has shifted, and the touch is like electricity straight up your spine.

You dig your nails harder into his wrist. He just turns his hand in your grip, twisting until his palm is up, and then his fingers thread through yours. Now you're holding hands on your thigh like this is something sweet, something innocent, except his thumb is stroking your bare skin in slow, deliberate circles and you know the fucker wants to go further.

Jon pulls up another slide. Lando shifts in his seat, angling toward you slightly like he's trying to see your tablet better. His knee presses against yours under the table. His fingers are on bare skin, halfway up your thigh, and if anyone looked under this table they'd see exactly what this is.

"What do you think about the tire strategy?" Zak's voice cuts through the haze in your brain.

You force yourself to look at your tablet. Force words to form. "The—uh—the medium-to-hard strategy should work for—"

Lando's thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner thigh and your voice cuts off.

"For the two-stop," you finish, and it comes out breathless.

Zak nods, and Jon begins talking about quali sims. Lando answers something about tire warm-up and his hand shifts higher, taking yours with it, and his pinky finger brushes against the edge of your panties. Your whole body goes rigid and as the fucker continues to talk, his pinky finger traces along the elastic edge of your panties. Then, just then, he hooks his finger under the elastic and pulls it aside.

Just barely. Just enough so that the cool air hits the wetness there, and oh god, you're so wet you can feel it, and his finger is right there, right at the edge, not touching where you need him but so fucking close. You're going to fucking kill him, actually kill him after this meeting.

"That sound good to you?" Jon's looking at you.

You have no fucking idea what he's asking about. "Yes. Sounds—sounds good."

Lando's finger slides through the wetness and you have to turn it into a cough, your hand flying to your mouth.

"You alright?" Zak asks.

"Fine. Sorry. Just," Lando's finger finds your clit and presses, and you actually make a sound, have to disguise it as clearing your throat. "Dry throat."

His finger starts moving in circles. "Someone get her some water," Zak says, and one of the engineers slides a bottle across the table.

You reach for it with your free hand, the one that's not trapped under the table tangled with Lando's while his other hand is between your legs. Your hand is shaking so badly water sloshes out when you try to drink. Lando's finger slides lower, dipping just barely inside you, and your thighs clench around his hand. He pulls back immediately and his thumb goes back to those slow circles on your inner thigh, over your underwear now, completely innocent again.

The message is crystal clear now: Stay still and behave, or I'll stop.

You force your legs to relax. Force yourself to breathe normally and his finger slides back, immediately pushing your underwear aside again, and this time when he touches your clit you manage to stay quiet, stay still, even though everything in your body is screaming.

Jon pulls up sector times. Lando adds commentary about his racing line through turn seven. His finger keeps moving in slow, devastating circles, and you're trying so hard to stay still, to stay quiet, but you're so wet you can hear it, and you're terrified everyone else can hear it too.

"I think we're good for now," Jon finally says. "Same time tomorrow for the sim session?"

"Sounds good." Lando's finger presses harder and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. "Looking forward to it."

People start standing up, gathering their tablets and personal belongings. Lando's hand disappears from between your legs so fast you almost whimper at the loss, but he's already standing, stretching casually like nothing happened.

Like he didn't just have his fingers on you in a room full of people. Like you're not sitting there soaked and shaking and desperate.

"Right, I'm starving," he announces. "Gonna grab lunch. You coming?" He's looking at you, and his eyes are dark and amused and absolutely wicked. "You look like you could use a break."

You can't speak. Your voice is gone, dissolved somewhere between his finger on your clit and the desperate need still pulsing between your legs.

"I'll take that as a yes." He grabs his phone off the table, slides it into his pocket. "Come on then."

You stand on shaking legs. Your skirt is wrinkled, riding up higher than it should be. You smooth it down with trembling hands and pray no one notices. Jon claps Lando on the shoulder as you both head for the door. "Good session today. See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yep, bright and early." Lando's voice is easy, normal. He holds the door open for you and you have to walk past him, close enough to smell his cologne again, and your head swirls.

The hallway is empty, when Lando begins to speak. "You're very quiet," he says, falling into step beside you.

"Still thinking about the meeting?" His voice drops lower. "Or thinking about something else?"

"Fuck you."

"That's more like it." He sounds delighted. "There she is."

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary. The doors slide open immediately and you step inside, pressing yourself against the far wall. He follows, hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease. The doors close. you're finally alone, and you almost expect him to move. To touch you, to try and finish what he started.

He doesn't, instead he just stands there, leaning against the opposite wall, watching you with that infuriating smirk.

"You know what I realized?" he says conversationally.

You don't answer, so he continues. "You never actually answered my question. From before." The elevator descends. "About how long you've wanted to kiss me."

"I'm not doing this right now."

"Not doing what? Having a conversation?" He tilts his head. "I'm just curious. Was it really Barcelona? Or was it before that?"

The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open onto the lobby and you practically run out, but he's right behind you, matching your pace easily.

"I'll give you a ride home," he says and it's not a question.

"I have my car."

"Your car's in the shop, remember? That's why you got a ride in with Sarah this morning." He's already walking toward the parking garage. "Come on."

Fuck. He's right. You completely forgot.

"I can get an Uber."

"Don't be ridiculous." He glances back over his shoulder. "Unless you're scared to be alone in a car with me?"

You're not scared, you're fucking terrified. But not for the reasons he's implying. So, you do the totally sane thing, and follow him into the parking garage. When you get to his Lamborghini Urus, he opens the passenger door for you and the leather seat is cold against the back of your thighs where your skirt has ridden up.

Where his hand was ten minutes ago. He slides into the driver's seat and the engine roars to life, all that power barely contained. The sound vibrates through your chest, through your bones.

"Seatbelt," he says, glancing over. You fumble with it while he pulls out of the parking garage and the silence is suffocating. You can hear every breath, every small shift of fabric. The gear shift is right there, his hand wrapped around it, and you're staring at his fingers, remembering exactly how they felt. He reaches forward and turns on the music. The volume is just loud enough that conversation would be difficult, and you're grateful for it because you have no idea what you'd even say.

His hand rests on the gear shift. So close to your thigh, yet, he doesn't budge. Doesn't make a single move to touch you.

The city passes by in a blur. Streetlights and pedestrians and other cars, but all you can focus on is him. The way his jaw clenches slightly when he shifts gears. The way his fingers drum against the leather. The way he's so completely calm while you're falling apart in the passenger seat. Your underwear is still wet. You can feel it every time you shift in your seat, a constant reminder of what he did to you, what he didn't finish.

He pulls up in front of your building and puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine. It idles, a low purr that you can feel everywhere. He turns the volume down slowly, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You reach for the door handle.

"Hey."

You stop, not looking at him.

"Look at me."

You do. You shouldn't, but you do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you, like he's starving.

"You did really well in there," he says, voice low. "Staying quiet. Staying still." His tongue flicks across his bottom lip and your eyes track the movement. "It was very impressive."

Heat floods through you, pooling between your already-soaked thighs.

"Lando."

"When you get home," He leans slightly toward you. "When you're alone in your apartment, and you're thinking about what happened in that meeting."

"I won't."

"You will be." He's certain, so fucking sure of himself, it's insufferable. "And when you are, when you're touching yourself because you're so desperate you can't help it," His eyes drop to your thighs, then back to your face. "I want you to think about what would've happened if Jon hadn't knocked. If I'd had more time with you."

Your breath catches.

"Think about where my fingers would've gone. What I would've done to you in that conference room where anyone could've caught us." He reaches out and his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, the same way it did earlier, and your whole body responds. "Think about how quiet you would've had to stay while I made you come."

You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here in his passenger seat.

"Go inside," he says softly, pulling his hand back. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You're—you can't just."

"Can't what?" That infuriating smirk is back. "Drive you home? I actually think I deserve a thank you."

You want to hit him. Want to kiss him. Want to pull him into your apartment and finish what he started. Instead, you get out of the car on shaking legs. He waits until you're at the door of your building before he drives off, engine growling as he disappears down the street.

You make it inside. Into the elevator. Into your apartment. You close the door and lean back against it, breathing hard. You head straight to your bedroom, already knowing exactly what you're about to do.

Hating that he knew it too, hating even more that he's right.

The rest of the week passes in agonizing normalcy. Lando shows up to the sim session on time, professional, focused. He discusses setup changes with the engineers like an actual adult. He doesn't call you at 3 AM. Doesn't text you anything inappropriate. Doesn't even look at you for longer than strictly necessary.

The night before you leave for Japan, you're in your apartment packing. Business casual for the events, comfortable clothes for the paddock, the McLaren team jacket that's mandatory for all personnel. You fold everything, checking items off your list.

Your phone sits on the bed, silent. Lando and Oscar are flying out on the McLaren private jet early tomorrow morning, 5 AM departure from Farnborough. You're on the commercial flight, business class, leaving three hours later from Heathrow. It's always been like this. The drivers get the PJ, the key personnel fly commercial but comfortable. You've made peace with it. It's not like you expected to be on the plane with them.

Except now you can't stop thinking about it. Lando in those grey joggers he always wears on flights. Lando stretched out across the leather seats, probably playing strip pocker with Oscar or watching old race footage. Lando twelve hours ahead of you, already in Tokyo while you're stuck in business class somewhere over Russia.

You zip your suitcase closed harder than necessary. This is stupid. You've done this a hundred times. Flown separately, met them at the hotel, had everything coordinated and ready by the time they arrived. It's your job. It's fine.

Heathrow at 8 AM is its own circle of hell. Security lines, overpriced coffee, flight delays announced in monotone over the intercom. You make it to your gate with twenty minutes to spare and find a seat near the window. Lando posted an Instagram story three hours ago, you saw it while brushing your teeth this morning, him and Oscar on the jet, Oscar sleeping with his mouth open. The caption said something about being ready for Japan.

You pull out your tablet and go through Lando's schedule one more time. Thursday: arrival, settle in, team dinner. Friday: media day, practice sessions, sponsor meet-and-greet. Saturday: quali, another sponsor event. Sunday: race.

You pull out your laptop. Open Lando's schedule again, stare at it without seeing it. Somewhere over the North Sea, you close the laptop. Somewhere over Poland, you lean your head against the window and watch clouds drift past.

This is unattainable. Whatever happened in that conference room, whatever almost happened before Jon knocked—it was a moment. A lapse in judgment. Lando Norris doesn't date his assistant. Doesn't have relationships with employees. He has models and influencers and people who exist in his world, not people who coordinate his calendar and fix his disasters.

Somewhere over Russia, you recline your seat and close your eyes. You don't think about Lando stretched out on the private jet. You don't think about his hand on your thigh in that meeting. You don't think about how his fingers felt or how his voice sounded when he told you to think about him. You don't think about any of it.

You're lying, but at least there's no one here to call you on it.

Japan is humid and overwhelming and beautiful. You arrive at the hotel Thursday afternoon, jet-lagged and exhausted. Lando and Oscar got in hours ago, you saw them in the lobby when you were checking in, surrounded by team personnel and looking refreshed in that way people who fly private always do.

The team dinner that night is at some expensive restaurant in Shibuya. You sit at the far end of the table, taking notes on your phone about schedule changes for tomorrow. Lando's four seats down, laughing at something Oscar said, drinking water because he's being responsible before a race weekend.

He doesn't look at you once, and when Friday rolls around, you're busy from 6 AM. Coordinating with the press officers, making sure Lando hits all his media obligations, adjusting timing when an interview runs long. You see him in passing and catch up to him.

"You've got Sky Sports in ten," you tell him between sessions.

"Yep, cheers." He doesn't break stride, already walking toward the media pen with his PR officer.

You stand there in the paddock, tablet in hand, and watch him go. This is your job. This is what you do during race weekends. You're not an engineer, not a trainer, not someone who's essential to the actual racing. You coordinate. You schedule. You make sure he's where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. The rest of the time, you're just there.

You're updating his schedule for next week. This is fine. This is normal. This is every race weekend. Except you keep catching yourself watching the timing screens. Watching his sector times. Watching the little dot that represents his car going round and round the circuit. FP1 goes smoothly. FP2 has a small lock-up in turn one but nothing serious. You see him briefly when he comes back to the garage, he's talking to his engineer, analyzing data, completely in the zone.

Friday night you have dinner alone in your hotel room. Room service, ESPN playing race coverage on the TV, your laptop open with his schedule for tomorrow. Saturday is qualifying and the energy in the paddock is different. Higher stakes with more tension. You do your job, make sure he's at the pre-quali briefing, coordinate with media for post-quali interviews, confirm timing for the sponsor appearance later.

You watch qualifying from the garage. He puts it P4. Good, but not great. He's frustrated when he comes back, you can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls off his helmet.

"P4's solid," his engineer says.

"Should've been P2." Lando's already reviewing the data, pointing at the screen. "Lost time in sector two, if I'd just—"

On Sunday, the paddock is chaos, there's camera crews everywhere, fans pressed against the barriers, the energy electric and overwhelming. You've been awake since 5 AM coordinating last-minute changes, confirming grid walk timing, making sure everything runs smoothly. You see Lando in the garage during the pre-race prep. He's in his race suit, going through his routine with Jon. Stretching, visualization, the same ritual he does before every race.

The race starts and you watch from the garage, headset on so you can hear the team radio. Lando gets a good start, gains a position into turn one. P3.

"Good job, Lando, P3, keep it clean," his engineer says over the radio.

You watch the monitors. Watch his lap times. Watch the gap to the car ahead.

"DRS enabled," the engineer says. "Let's get him this lap."

You hold your breath. He's through turn one clean, right behind Leclerc. Turn two he's on the inside, they're side by side through the corner and then the radio crackles.

"Fuck—I'm okay, I'm okay—fuck—"

Your heart stops. The screen shows it in slow motion. Lando and Leclerc side by side, Lando on the inside, not enough space, the Ferrari comes across and Lando's got nowhere to go. He clips the Ferrari's rear tire and suddenly he's spinning, out of control, and then the sickening crunch of carbon fiber hitting the barrier. Hard.

The car bounces off the wall and slides back onto the track, rear end destroyed, front wing gone, debris everywhere. Red flag. The screen shows the wreckage and your stomach drops.

"Are you okay?" his engineer asks urgently. "Lando, are you okay?"

Static.

Then, "Yeah. Fuuuuuuck. Yeah, I'm fine. Car's fucked."

The relief hits you so hard your knees almost give out. He's fine. He's talking. He's fine. The medical car is already there. You watch on the monitor as Lando climbs out, waving to show he's okay. But the way he rips off his helmet, the way he stalks away from the car tells a different story.

"He's going to medical, can you ask if he still wants to do the interviews?" Zak calls out to you, and you nod. It's standard procedure for crashes that hard.

You're moving toward the medical center. The paddock is chaos, there's people rushing past, radios crackling, camera crews trying to get footage. You push through it all, heart still pounding, the image of that crash replaying in your head. The medical center is quiet compared to outside. Lando's sitting on an examination table, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. There's a medical officer checking his shoulder, asking him questions about pain levels and range of motion.

"I'm fine," Lando says, and his voice is sharp. "It's fine, I'm fine."

You hover in the doorway. His hair is a mess from the helmet, sweat-damp and sticking up. There's a red mark on his cheekbone from where the helmet pressed during impact.

"They want to know if you're up for interviews," you say, keeping your voice professional. Steady. "Zak is asking, and there's the post-race media obligation but I can push it if you need."

"If I need?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "If I need time because I just binned it into a wall?"

"That's not what I said."

"I'm fine. I'll do the fucking interviews." He shrugs off the medical officer's hand. "I'm cleared, yeah?"

"You should really—" the medical officer starts.

"I'm cleared." It's not a question.

The officer sighs. "You're cleared. But you need to take care of that shoulder."

Lando's already sliding off the table, pulling his race suit back up, zipping it roughly. His hands are shaking. You can see it even though he's trying to hide it.

"Lando."

"What?" He rounds on you and his eyes are too bright, too intense. He's angry. You freeze and the words die in your throat because you don't actually know what you were going to say. That you're worried? That he doesn't have to do this? That seeing him crash made your heart stop?

"Nothing, I just—"

"Good." He's already moving past you, yanking the door open. "Let's go." He storms out into the paddock and you're left standing there in the too-bright medical room, watching him disappear into the chaos. You follow at a distance. Watch him walk through the paddock with his shoulders tight, his jaw set. People try to stop him, but he keeps moving, heading straight for the media pen.

Sky Sports is first. You stand just out of frame, watching him put on the professional face. The interviewer asks the standard questions, what happened, are you okay, thoughts on the incident. "Yeah, just racing," Lando says, and his voice is perfectly controlled. Perfectly fine. "Leclerc and I both going for the position, unfortunately we came together. That's racing sometimes. Just gutted for the team, they've worked so hard and we've thrown away good points today."

He says all the right things. Smiles at the right moments. Thanks the team, thanks the fans, talks about bouncing back next week. When he finally finishes the last interview, he walks straight past you without a word. Doesn't even look at you, just heads toward the McLaren garage, and you know he's going to debrief with the engineers, review the data, analyze what went wrong.

You stand there in the media pen, holding your tablet, and realize that the distance he's been keeping all week—the politeness, the normalcy, the acting like nothing happened, wasn't him moving on.

It was him holding on by a thread and that thread just snapped.

You give him two hours. Two hours to debrief with the team, to shower, to decompress. Two hours before you show up at his hotel room with the schedule changes for next week that absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow because there are flights to coordinate and sponsor obligations to reschedule.

Upon entering the hotel, you head to the front desk.

"Good evening, I need access to Lando Norris's suite," you tell the receptionist. "I'm his assistant." She checks her computer, verifies your credentials in the system. As his PA, you're listed as authorized personnel, can access his room for deliveries, coordination, emergencies. It's standard practice and makes the logistics easier during race weekends.

She hands you a key card. "Fortieth floor. Suite 4012."

The elevator ride up feels endless. Your tablet is clutched against your chest, the schedule changes pulled up on the screen. This is fine. This is professional. You coordinate with him in hotel rooms all the time during race weekends, it's easier than trying to find quiet spaces in the paddock. The fortieth floor hallway is quiet, the plush carpet muffles your footsteps and you find Suite 4012 at the very end.

You knock, and no answer. So, you knock again, and again. "Lando? I need to go over the schedule changes."

Still nothing. Here goes nothing. You swipe the key card and the lock clicks open, you push the door open and step inside. The suite is massive, there's a living area with large windows that overlook Tokyo, a separate bedroom through an open doorway, a bathroom, and a McLaren team jacket thrown over the back of the couch, his shoes kicked off by the door.

"Lando?" you call out. "I texted you, I need to—"

That's when you hear the sound from the bedroom. Low and rough and—oh god. Your brain catches up to what you're hearing a second too late. The kind of breathing that's unmistakable. The kind of sound that makes heat flood through your entire body. He's jerking off, oh my fucking god.

Another sound, a groan, muffled like he's trying to stay quiet, and your mouth goes dry.

You should leave. You need to leave right now. "Fuck—" His voice carries through the open bedroom door, rough and desperate, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to grab the back of the couch.

Leave. Leave now. But you can hear him so clearly. Can hear the rhythm of his breathing, getting faster. Can hear the slick sound of his cock, and your feet are suddenly planted, unwilling to move.

Jesus Christ. Your face is on fire. Your whole body is on fire. You're frozen in his living room listening to your boss getting himself off and you need to leave, you need to fucking leave.

"Fuck," he groans again, and then your name. Your name, breathless and desperate on his tongue and so fucking clear there's no mistaking it. He's saying your name, repeating it like it's the only thing getting him through this. "Please," His voice breaks on the word. "Fuck, please."

You're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel suite listening to him fall apart while thinking about you. The sounds get more desperate. His breathing harsher, you can hear the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, and your imagination is filling in all the details, his hand wrapped around his cock, his head thrown back, his abs flexing with each movement.

"God—fuck—" Another groan, louder this time, and you realize he's close. God, he's about to fucking come and he's saying your name. You hear him gasp your name one more time, broken and raw, and then a string of curses as he comes.

The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there trying to steady yourself as your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears. Your underwear is soaked, your whole body is shaking. You turn toward the door, moving too fast, and your hip catches the edge of the side table. The decorative vase on top wobbles, you reach for it but your hands are shaking too badly, and it tips over the edge. The crash is deafening in the quiet suite. Glass shattering against the floor, water spreading across the floor, flowers scattering everywhere.

"Fuck," you breathe.

Complete silence from the bedroom. Then—"Who's there?" Accompanied by footsteps, rapidly increasing. You freeze, staring at the broken vase, at the mess spreading across the floor. There's nowhere to go. The door is ten feet away but he's already on the way. Then, in a matter of seconds, Lando appears in the bedroom doorway. He's in grey joggers, no shirt, hair an absolute mess. His face is flushed, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are wide, startled and then he sees you.

You watch the realization hit him. Watch his expression shift from confusion to shock to something that might be horror. "How long—" His voice is rough, wrecked. "How long have you been here?"

You can't speak. Can't move, you can only stand there surrounded by broken glass and spilled water while your face burns and your heart tries to break out of your chest. His eyes drop to the mess on the floor, then back to your face. You watch him put it together, the broken vase, your expression, the way you can't look at him. "Oh fuck." He runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You—how much did you hear?"

"I'm sorry." Your voice comes out strangled. "I knocked, you didn't answer, I needed to—the schedule changes, I just—I'm sorry, I'll go."

"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, making sure to avoid the glass splattered across the floor. "Don't move, you'll, there's glass everywhere."

He's right in front of you now and you can smell him, sweat and something else, and you know what that something else is and you're going to die. "How much did you hear?" He asks again, and his voice is quiet now, serious.

"Nothing, it's fine, I just got here."

"Oh my god." He starts laughing and it's that Lando laugh, the one that makes his whole face light up even though this is absolutely not funny. "Oh my god, you totally heard it. Look at your face, you're so red right now."

"I'm not."

"You are, you're like, properly red. That's amazing." He's still laughing, running a hand through his hair. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, by the way. Worse than the crash, significantly worse than the crash."

Despite everything, you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. "It's fine, I'll just, I'll help you clean this up and we can forget it ever happened."

"Yeah?" He's grinning now, and there's something dangerous in it. Something that makes your stomach flip. "Just forget about it?"

"Completely."

"Right, because you're so good at forgetting things." He moves toward the bedroom to grab something to clean with. "Very convincing." You crouch down and start picking up the larger pieces of glass, trying to focus on anything other than what just happened. The flowers are scattered everywhere, water soaking into the expensive carpet.

He comes back with a towel and crouches down across from you. That's when you see the dark spot on the grey fabric of his joggers. A wet patch near the hem, and your brain immediately supplies exactly what that is, and heat floods through your entire body. He follows your gaze. Looks down. Looks back up at you with that fucking grin.

"See something interesting?"

Your face is on fire. "No."

"No?" He shifts slightly and the fabric pulls tighter. "You sure about that?"

"I'm just cleaning up the glass."

"While staring at my crotch, yeah, very subtle." He's laughing again as he picks up a piece of glass. "You're terrible at this."

"At cleaning?"

"At pretending." He wraps the glass in the towel. "At acting like you're not affected."

"I'm not affected."

"Yeah? Then why are you shaking?"

You look down. Your hands are trembling. "I'm not—"

"You are." He reaches across the mess and catches your wrist, stilling your hand. His fingers are warm and sure and you can feel your pulse hammering against his touch. "You're shaking. Your face is red, and you can't stop looking at me."

"That's not true."

"And you heard me say your name." His thumb presses against your pulse point. "Didn't you?"

The air feels too thick. Too hot, and suddenly you can't breathe properly. "Lando."

"Tell me you didn't hear that and I'll drop it right now." His eyes are locked on yours. "Tell me you don't know exactly what I was thinking about." You can't, can't lie, can't say it because you did hear it, and you do know, and your entire body is screaming at you to close the distance between you.

"That's what I thought." He lets go of your wrist and sits back on his heels. "So no, I don't think we're going to forget about this.

"We have to."

"Why?" He tilts his head, watching you. "Give me one good reason why we have to pretend this didn't happen."

"Because you're—" You stop yourself.

"I'm what? Your boss?" He laughs. "Yeah, we've established that's not stopping anything in the conference room. Try again."

You can't think of anything. Your brain has completely shut down, and he stands up, glass crunching under his trainers, and that's when you see it properly. The grey joggers are doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. The outline is obscene, obvious, and he catches you looking.

"Yeah." His voice is rough. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've been doing to me for months."

"So here's what's going to happen." He takes a step toward you, and there's something predatory in the movement. "I'm going to be very clear with you because apparently subtle isn't working."

Another step and suddenly you're backed up against the wall. "I want to fuck you. Right now. Here." His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense and completely serious. "Not date you, not take you to dinner, not have some long conversation about feelings and what this means."

He braces a hand against the wall next to your head. "I want you right fucking now. Tonight, and then we'll go back to normal tomorrow and pretend this never happened if that's what you want." His other hand comes up, fingers brushing against your jaw. "You can take it or leave it. But I need an answer right now because I'm losing my mind here."

Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your whole body is screaming yes, take it, stop thinking.

"Lando."

"Yes or no." His thumb brushes across your bottom lip. "That's all I need. One word, just tell me one word."

"Yes."

The word barely leaves your mouth before he's on you. His lips crash against yours, hard and desperate, and there's absolutely nothing gentle about it. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grabs your hip and pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is, pressed against your stomach, and the sound he makes when you gasp is absolutely obscene.

"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. His mouth is back on yours, tongue sliding past your lips, and your hands find his bare shoulders, nails digging in. He tastes like mint and desperation and something that's just him, then, he presses you harder against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you can feel his cock through the thin fabric of his joggers. The heat of him, the hard length of his cock, and when he rolls his hips again you actually moan into his mouth.

"That's it," he breathes against your lips. "Wanna hear you."

His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your skirt up. His palm is rough and hot against your bare skin, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hooks your leg over his hip and grinds against you properly now, right where you need him, and the friction is perfect and not nearly enough.

"You're so fucking—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape against your pulse point and you arch into him. "So fucking perfect."

His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear, and you actually whimper.

"These need to come off," he mutters against your skin. "Everything needs to come off. Right fucking now." He pulls back just enough to look at you and his eyes are absolutely feral. His hair is a mess from your hands, his lips red and swollen, his chest heaving.

"Bedroom," he says. "Now. Unless you want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could hear."

Your brain has completely short-circuited. You can only nod, and his grin is wicked. "Good." He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom. The bedroom is dark except for the city lights, Tokyo glitters forty floors below, completely oblivious. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, and you can see exactly where he was lying when you walked in. He spins you around and his mouth is on yours again, walking you backwards toward the bed. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your jaw. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he pushes you down.

You land on the sheets and they smell like him, and your brain supplies the image of what he was doing here twenty minutes ago and heat floods through you. He's standing over you, chest heaving, and his eyes drag down your body slowly. Your skirt is rucked up around your thighs. Your shirt is wrinkled from his hands. You're a mess and he's looking at you like you're something he wants to destroy.

"Take off your shirt," he says. Your hands are shaking but you reach for the buttons. He watches every single one come undone, and when you shrug it off his jaw clenches. "Skirt too." You shimmy it down your hips and kick it off, and now you're in just your bra and underwear and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.

"Fuck." He runs a hand over his mouth. "You're so," he stops himself, shakes his head. "Lie back."

You do and the sheets are cool against your overheated skin. He hooks his fingers in his joggers and pulls them down, and oh god. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and already leaking, and you can't stop staring.

You let out a soft whimper, and Lando knows he’s gotten you right where he wants you. His cock aches, he’s so hard for you.

"See something you like?" There's that cocky grin, but his voice is strained. He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs, and the weight of him is perfect. His hands bracket your head and he leans down, nose brushing against yours.

"Last chance," he murmurs. "Say no and we stop."

"Hell no." He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. His hips roll against yours and you can feel him, hot and hard against your soaked underwear, the friction makes you gasp into his mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your ribs, your waist, your hip. His fingers hook in the elastic of your panties.

"These are ruined," he says against your mouth. "Absolutely soaked. Were you this wet when you were listening to me?" Your face burns but you can't deny it.

"Thought so." He drags your underwear down slowly, tossing them somewhere off the bed. His hand comes back up, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, you both groan. "Fuck, you're so wet." He circles your clit once, twice, and your hips buck up. "This all for me?"

"Lando," you moan out.

"Answer the question." His fingers slide lower, teasing. "Is this from listening to me? Or from thinking about what I was saying?"

"Both," you gasp.

"Good answer." He pushes one finger inside you and your back arches off the bed. "So tight baby. Fuck, you're going to feel so good on my cock." He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and his thumb finds your clit. The combination makes you see stars.

"That's it," he breathes, watching your face. "Want to see you come before I fuck you. Want to watch you fall apart." His fingers move faster, harder, and you're already so worked up from earlier that you're embarrassingly close.

"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to bite at your neck. "Let me hear you. No one's going to interrupt us this time." That does it and you come hard around his fingers, gasping his name, and he works you through it until you're shaking. You're seeing stars, and he continues to rub on your clit.

"Fuck, that was beautiful." He pulls his fingers out and you watch him bring them to his mouth, licking them clean. "Taste even better than I imagined." He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. His hands are shaking as he rolls it on.

"You ready?" His voice is rough, barely controlled.

You nod and he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect, everything. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. "Fuck—so tight," he's barely halfway in. "You okay?"

"Yes—don't stop, fuck, fuck," you moan. He pushes in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. You both freeze, breathing hard.

"Need a second," he grits out. "Or this is going to be over waaay too fast." You can feel him shaking, the tension in every muscle as he holds himself still. You open your mouth to speak, but Lando stops you, "Give me a second—" He laughs, breathless. "This is embarrassing. I'm not usually, fuck, you just feel so good."

You roll your hips experimentally and he actually gasps. "Don't—if you do that I'm going to actualy cum."

You do it again, and he takes a deep breath before smiling. "Fuck it." He starts moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pace is brutal and perfect and exactly what you need.

He drives into you harder and you actually cry out. "That's it. Want everyone in this hotel to hear you." His hand grabs your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can go deeper. "Want them to know exactly what I'm doing to you." Each thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur. Your nails drag down his back, definitely leaving marks, and he groans.

"Mark me up," he breathes against your neck. "Want to see it tomorrow. Want to remember this." His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate. All teeth and tongue and gasping breaths between kisses. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the dual sensation makes you clench around him.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "Do that again." You clench deliberately and he actually growls, hips snapping harder. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that." His thumb circles your clit faster. "But you're coming first. Want to feel you come on my cock."

The praise combined with his fingers on your clit and the relentless pace of his hips pushes you right to the edge. "Come for me," he demands. "Want to feel it. Come on, baby."

You shatter, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a moan. Your whole body goes rigid, pleasure crashing through you in waves, and you can hear yourself crying out his name but you can't stop. "Fuck—fuck," He slams into you twice more, rhythm gone completely, and then he's coming too, face buried in your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and shaking. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse. After a moment he lifts his head, looking down at you. His hair is completely destroyed, his face flushed, lips swollen from kissing. He looks absolutely wrecked.

"That was—" He stops, laughs breathlessly. "Yeah. That was nuts."

"Yeah," you agree, because you can't form actual words yet.

He pulls out carefully and you both wince. He ties off the condom and tosses it, then collapses back onto the bed next to you, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Give me like, ten minutes," he says. "And then we're doing that again."

"Ten minutes?"

You laugh despite yourself, and he rolls toward you, hand finding your hip. "Stay," he says, and there's something vulnerable in it. "Tonight. Please, stay."

You should say no. Should get dressed, have that conversation about the schedule, go back to your own hotel room and pretend this was just a one-time thing. But his hand is warm on your hip and Tokyo is glittering outside the windows and you're not ready for this to be over yet.

The following morning, you wake up to sunlight streaming through windows and the immediate, horrifying realization that you're naked in Lando Norris's bed. Your body aches. That's the first thing you notice, a deep, satisfying soreness in your thighs, your hips, between your legs. The second thing you notice is the evidence scattered across your skin like a crime scene. Bruises on your hips, dark purple fingerprints that you can count. Marks on your thighs. Your neck.

There are scratches down your own arms from where you clawed at yourself, at him, at the sheets. You don't remember doing that but the evidence doesn't lie. The third thing you notice is Lando, still asleep beside you. Face-down in the pillow, one arm stretched across where you were lying moments ago. His back is a mess of red lines from your nails, and there's a bite mark on his shoulder that looks almost violent in the morning light.

7:43 AM

Shit. His flight to the next race is at noon. You have meetings scheduled, his entire day planned down to the minute. You slip out of bed as quietly as possible, gathering your clothes from where they're scattered across the floor. Your shirt is wrinkled beyond repair. Your underwear is, well it's somewhere. After looking for about three minutes, you find your skirt under the bed.

"Where are you going?"

His voice is rough with sleep, and it does something to you. Makes heat pool low in your belly even though you're sore, even though you should not be thinking about this right now. You turn and he's propped up on one elbow, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction.

"I have to, Lando, we have an entire schedule to go over. Your flight's at noon."

"So we have time." He pats the bed next to him. "Come back."

"Lando."

"Five more minutes," he murmurs, and suddenly you're against him, his body solid and warm against your back. His arm drapes over your waist, hand splaying across your stomach possessively.

You know this is a bad idea, horrible, idea. But goddamn it, you just can't bring yourself to say no to him. So, you drop your clothes and climb back into bed. He immediately pulls you against him, warm and solid, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

This feels different than last night. Last night was frantic, desperate, angry almost. This feels completely dangerous in a different way. "We can't," you begin.

"We already did," he points out, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Multiple times, if I remember correctly."

Your face burns. You do remember. You remember all of it, every touch, every word, every time he made you come until you couldn't think straight. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" His hand slides down, fingers tracing the marks he left on your hip. "Because it seems pretty clear what happened here."

You should move, you need to move, get dressed, re-establish the professional boundary that you obliterated last night. But his hand is moving lower, thumb brushing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and your body is already responding. Traitor.

"We said one night," you manage, but your voice is weak.

"Did we?" His lips brush against your shoulder, exactly where he bit you last night. The mark is still there. "I don't remember saying that."

"You said," What did he say? You can't remember. Can't think when his hand is moving like that, when you can feel him hardening against your ass.

"I said a lot of things last night," he murmurs against your skin. "You want me to repeat them? Because I remember you really liked it when I said—"

"Don't," you interrupt, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't need him to repeat it. You remember. God, you remember the filthy things he said, the way his voice got rough and demanding. His hand slides between your thighs and you're already wet. Already ready for him even though you're sore, even though this is a terrible idea.

"You're thinking too much," he says, and there's that insufferable knowing tone. Like he can read your mind, like he knows exactly what you're spiraling about. Maybe he does. Maybe you're that obvious. His fingers find your clit and you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. He makes a satisfied sound, like he's proven something.

"See? Your body knows what it wants even if your brain won't shut up about it." You want to argue but he's circling your clit now, slow and deliberate, and all the arguments die in your throat.

"We have—" you try, "—there's the schedule—"

"Tell me my schedule then," he says, and you can hear the challenge in it, the fuckning amusement. This is a game to him. This is always a game.

"Checkout is at eleven," His finger slides lower, teasing. "Car to the airport at eleven-thirty." He slides two fingers inside you and your words dissolve into a moan. You're so wet, so ready, and it should be embarrassing how easily your body opens for him.

"Keep going," he encourages, and his free hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "What else?" You're not going to be able to do this. Can't focus when he's touching you like this, when pleasure is already building low in your belly.

"You have—fuck—you have a call with sponsors at two."

"Uh-huh." He curls his fingers and finds that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "What time are we landing?"

"I can't," you gasp, grinding back against his hand. You need more, need him to move faster, but he's taking his time. Torturing you.

"You can," he says firmly. "You're good at this, remember? You know my schedule better than I do." His fingers pump slowly, deliberately, never quite enough to get you there. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in rhythm with his fingers, and you're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel bed because Lando Norris won't stop touching you.

"Media obligations, Thursday morning," you're grinding against his hand now, chasing the orgasm that's just out of reach. "Prep for, oh god, oh my fuuuucking god."

"Keep going," he murmurs against your neck. You can feel him smiling.

"Practice Friday, quali Saturday," Your voice is barely recognizable, high and desperate. "Lando."

"Good girl," he praises, and those two words combined with his fingers curling inside you push you right to the edge. "What else?" You can't think. Can't remember. Can't do anything but feel, his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his body solid and hot behind you, his voice in your ear telling you how good you are, how well you take it.

Your phone buzzes again. Multiple times. Insistent and reality tries to crash back in but Lando doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.

"That's," you gasp, "that's probably Zak."

"Probably," he agrees, and his fingers move faster. "But you're not done yet."

"I need to, fuck, I need to answer."

"After," he says firmly, and adds a third finger. The stretch is perfect and terrible and you're so close, grinding back against his hand shamelessly now. You should be embarrassed by the wet sounds, by how desperate you are, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"Come for me," he says, voice dropping into that commanding tone that makes everything in you tighten. "Come on my fingers and then you can go be responsible." His thumb presses hard against your clit and that's it, you're coming, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name into the pillow while he works you through it. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, pushing his hand away because it's too much.

When you can breathe again, when your heart stops trying to break out of your chest, you become aware of several things at once: Your phone is still buzzing, Lando's still hard against your ass. You just let him finger you while quizzing you about his schedule. You are so unbearably fucked.

"Better?" he asks, and you can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.

Your phone is still buzzing and you grab it with shaking hands. There's three texts from Zak. Two from the PR team. One from logistics asking about Lando's luggage. Fuck, fuck, you're going to get fucking fired.

"Shit. I need to—I have to go." You're scrambling for your clothes again.

"Hey." He's out of bed, standing in front of you completely naked and completely unselfconscious about it. About the scratches down his chest, the bite mark on his shoulder, the fact that he's still obviously hard. Before you can move, before you can think, his hand catches your wrist. "Look at me."

You do, even though you know you shouldn't. Even though looking at him makes everything more complicated. He's gorgeous, his hair is sticking up where you pulled it. There's a hickey on his collarbone that you definitely put there. And he's looking at you like you're the entire world. And for just a second—one brief, stupid second—you let yourself think that maybe this means something.

Then his expression shifts. "You're spiraling," he says, and the warmth from moments ago is gone.

"I'm not."

"You are." His hand tightens on your wrist. Not painful, but firm enough that you can't pull away even if you wanted to. "You're doing that thing where you overthink until you talk yourself out of what you actually want.

"You don't know what I want."

"Don't I?" He's smiling now, and it's not nice. "You want me to tell you this means something. You want me to make this easy for you so you don't have to feel guilty about fucking your boss." He leans closer, still holding your wrist. "But I'm not going to do that."

Your stomach drops. "Then what are we doing?"

"Having fun," he says easily, like it's obvious. Like you're stupid for asking. "Isn't that enough?" It should be. You should say yes, should take what he's offering and not ask for more. But something twists in your chest, sharp and ugly.

"Let go of me."

"No." His thumb finds your pulse point, presses in. "Not until you stop lying to yourself."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're already thinking about how this was a mistake, how you need to put distance between us, how you're going to be professional again starting now." His eyes are too knowing, too green, too blue. "But you won't. Because you're going to show up at my room tonight anyway."

"You're being an asshole, Norris."

"Yeah," he agrees, finally releasing your wrist. "But you knew that already." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and for a split second something flickers across his face, something that looks almost uncertain. But it's gone before you can identify it, replaced by that insufferable smirk.

"Go do your job," he says, already turning away. "I'll see you at eleven."

You're in the lobby at 10:58, tablet in hand, going over the Singapore schedule one more time even though you've already memorized it. The SUV is idling outside, a black Mercedes, luggage already loaded. Driver awaiting the cataclysmic clusterfuck he doesn't even know he's going to be a part of.

At 11:00 exactly, the elevator doors open and Lando steps out, sunglasses on even though it's overcast outside. There's headphones around his neck and when he sees you, he doesn't break stride, just continues to walk past you toward the exit.

"Morning," you say, falling into step beside him. "Car's out front. I confirmed with the airport that—"

"Yep."

That's it. Just "yep." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't slow down. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's decided something, and you know from experience that whatever he's decided, it won't be good for you.

Outside, the humid Tokyo air hits you both. The driver opens the door and Lando slides into the back seat without a word, without a glance, and you stand there for half a second too long.

The driver looks at you expectantly and you get in the other side. The door closes. The driver pulls away from the hotel, and Tokyo streams past the windows—grey sky, crowded streets, people living their lives. Normal lives. Lives where their boss doesn't fuck them and then ice them out twelve hours later.

You open your tablet, the screen glowing blue in the dim interior of the car. "So, Singapore. You've got the sponsor appearance Thursday night, and I wanted to confirm timing because—"

"I read the email."

His voice is flat. Bored, almost. Like you're a telemarketer who's caught him at a bad time.

"Right," you say carefully, "but I wanted to go over the specifics in person because the venue changed last minute."

"It's fine." He's scrolling through his phone now. Instagram, from the looks of it. Double-tapping photos. Liking photos of women in bikinis almost to anger you more.

The silence in the car is deafening, with both of you just breathing wordlessly. The air between you doesn't simmer, it's gone cold, crystallized into something sharp.

"Lando," you try one more time.

"What." Still not looking up.

It's unfair that it always has to be you that reaches out first, but this isn't your first fight with him, and it surely won't be your last. You're stubborn, but he's worse than you are. He'll let it fester, let you both suffer, until you break and try to fix it. Always you, never him.

Which is why, after two years, you're still at a stalemate about Barcelona. About the first time he'd looked at you like you were something other than staff. It's the one argument you've never conceded on, and you never will. Remembering that day does something to your chest that you were desperately trying to avoid, but that's an issue for another time.

It's the reason he pestered you about how long you wanted to kiss him. It's the reason you refused to give him the proper answer.

"Can you at least look at me while I'm talking to you?" You ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds.

He does look at you then. Finally. Turns his head, lowers his sunglasses just enough that you can see his eyes over the rim.

They're empty.

"I'm looking," he says. "What do you need?"

What do you need. Like you're a stranger asking for directions.

"I need to go over your schedule," you manage.

"So go over it."

"The Thursday appearance, do you want to do the full hour or should I tell them forty-five minutes?"

"Whatever you think is best." He pushes his sunglasses back up. Returns to his phone. "That's literally your job, isn't it? Deciding things for me."

The words land like a slap and you close your tablet. Turn to look out the window instead. Watch Tokyo blur into highway, highway blur into airport approach, and try very hard not to think about how his hands felt on you last night, how he'd looked at you this morning like you were the only person in the world.

That was twelve hours ago, this is now. Lando puts his headphones on and the rest of the ride is silent.

At the airport, he's out of the car before it fully stops. Long legs carrying him toward the private terminal like he's got somewhere important to be, someone important to see.

Not you, clearly.

You handle check-in with the McLaren rep, confirm the luggage, go through the motions of your job. By the time you make it through security, Lando's already in the lounge. He's in the far corner with his laptop open. Oscar's there too, and they're talking about something that doesn't involve you. Lando's gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's explaining a corner, and Oscar's nodding, engaged.

You approach slowly and when Oscar sees you first, he brightens. "Hey! Ready for Singapore?"

Lando doesn't look up from his screen.

"Lando," Oscar says, glancing between you both with growing confusion, "she's here."

"I can see that," Lando replies, still typing.

The air shifts. Oscar's smile falters, and he suddenly looks very interested in his phone. You stand there for a beat. Two. Waiting for, what? Acknowledgment? An apology? Some sign that the man who had you pinned against his bed yesterday still exists somewhere under this cold, indifferent exterior?

"Can you grab me a coffee?" Lando asks his laptop screen. "Black with two sugars."

The request hits you wrong. He's never asked you to get him coffee. Not once in all of the years you worked for him. He always gets his own, or he offers to get you one, or you go together while discussing the schedule.

Oscar's looking at you now with something that might be pity, and that somehow makes it worse.

"Sure," you say.

You walk to the coffee station on legs that feel disconnected from your body. Make his coffee exactly how he actually likes it, two sugars, oat milk, not black like he just said because he's testing whether you'll follow orders or whether you still think you know him.

You bring it back. Set it on the table beside his laptop, careful not to let your hand shake.

He glances at it. Then at you. Then back to it. "I said black."

"You always take oat milk," you reply quietly.

"Not today." He pushes the cup away, just slightly. Just enough to infuriate you. "But thanks anyway."

Oscar has fully retreated into his phone now, shoulders hunched like he wishes he could disappear. You stand there for one more second. Feeling battered and overwhelmed. You feel your throat close, and you swallow the ache away. Your eyes blur momentarily, and it feels unacceptable.

So you pick up the coffee. Walk back to the station. Pour it out, watching the pale liquid swirl down the drain. Make a new one. Black. Two sugars like he said, like he's never drunk it in his life.

When you bring it back, Lando takes it without looking at you.

"Thanks," he says to his screen.

You walk away. Find a seat on the other side of the lounge, as far from him as the space allows. Pull out your tablet and stare at the Singapore schedule until the words stop meaning anything at all.

You're in Singapore at 9 PM, sitting alone at a hawker center that's too loud and too bright and exactly what you need right now. It's the kind of place Lando would never come to. There's no reservations, no private rooms, just plastic stools and flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of chili crab and char kway teow thick in the humid air. You're surrounded by families and tourists and locals who don't know who Lando Norris is and wouldn't care if they did.

It's perfect. You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table.

It's perfect.

You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table. You've turned off notifications. For the next hour, Lando Norris can handle his own life.

The satay arrives, chicken and beef skewers with peanut sauce and cucumber. You eat slowly, deliberately, tasting things for the first time in what feels like days. The sauce is sweet and spicy. The meat is charred just right. It's good. Simple and good. You can't remember the last time you ate something without checking your phone, without one eye on the schedule, without being ready to jump up if Lando needed something.

A family sits down at the table next to you, parents, two kids, a grandmother. They're arguing about something in Mandarin, laughing, the kind of easiness that comes from people who know each other completely. The father reaches over and steals food from his wife's plate. She swats his hand and their kids giggle.

You look away and your phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the noise of the hawker center, his ringtone, the one you set specifically for him so you'd always know when it was him calling. Some obnoxious song he'd picked out himself, thought it was hilarious.

You let it ring. Watch the screen light up with his name, his contact photo, him on the podium in Austria last year, champagne bottle raised, that stupid beautiful grin on his face. Figure it out yourself, asshole.

It rings out. Goes to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it starts again.

You decline the call. Take another bite of satay, even though you can't taste it anymore. Immediately, it starts ringing again.

Fourth call. You decline it. Fifth call. Sixth. Seventh, until the tenth call. Your jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. Your hand is wrapped around your beer glass hard enough that your knuckles are white. He's not going to stop.

You know him well enough to know that. Lando Norris doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't accept being ignored. He'll call a hundred times if he has to. He'll call until your phone dies or you answer, whichever comes first.

You snatch the phone off the table and answer it.

"What." Your voice comes out sharp, venomous.

"Oh, so you are alive," Lando says, and he sounds almost cheerful. "Been trying to reach you."

"I know. I can see my phone."

"Then why didn't you answer?"

You close your eyes. Take a breath that does nothing to calm you down. "What do you need, Lando."

"Where are you?"

"Out."

"Yeah, I got that part. Out where?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't," he says easily, and you can hear him moving around, the sound of a hotel room, a door closing. "Just curious. You're usually answering by now."

"Maybe I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

Your grip tightens on the phone. "Is there a reason you called me ten times?"

"Ten? Was it ten?" He sounds amused. Like this is funny. Like your phone vibrating itself off a table in the middle of a restaurant is entertainment. "Didn't count."

"Lando."

"I was just thinking," he interrupts, and his voice shifts into something casual, conversational, like you're just some friends catching up. "You know that thing tomorrow morning? What time was that again?"

Your whole body goes rigid. "Are you serious right now."

"What? I'm asking about my schedule."

"The sponsor breakfast that's been on your calendar for two weeks?" Your voice is rising. The family next to you has stopped eating. "That thing?"

"See, you do know what I'm talking about." You can hear the smile in his voice. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem is you're calling me ten times to ask me something you already know."

"I wanted to hear you say it." He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. "Wanted to see if you'd answer."

"And what was the name of that guy again? The one from Tag Heuer?"

"Lando."

"Starts with an M, right? Michael? Martin?"

"It's Marcus and you know it's Marcus."

"Right, Marcus. See? This is helpful. You're so good at this." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Always know exactly what I need."

"Stop."

"What's he there to talk about again? Contract renewal?"

"Read. The. Fucking. Briefing." You're gripping the phone so hard your hand is shaking.

"But you're already on the phone," he says reasonably, like he's being perfectly logical. "Might as well just tell me. That's what you do, right? Tell me things. Keep me organized. Make sure I don't fuck up."

"I'm hanging up now."

"No, you're not." And he sounds so certain, so fucking sure of himself. "You're going to tell me about Marcus and the breakfast and whatever else I need to know, because that's your job. Because that's what you do. Because—"

"Because what?" You cut him off, your voice shaking now with rage. "Because you fucked me? Because you think that means you own me?"

Silence.

Then, "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Your voice cracks. "You ignored me all day. All fucking day, Lando. Didn't speak to me in the car, didn't look at me at the airport, made me get you coffee like I'm—like I'm nothing."

"You're not nothing." His voice has changed now, gone sharp and defensive. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"And now you're calling me ten times because what? You want to make sure I'm still here? Make sure I still answer when you call?"

"I called because you weren't answering," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Because you always answer. Because that's what we, because that's how this works."

"How what works? Me being available 24/7? Me dropping everything when you need something?"

"That's literally your job."

"Fuck my job! And fuck you for calling me ten times to ask me shit you already know just to prove that you still can!"

"Are you done?" he asks finally, and his voice is cold now.

"Is there anything else you actually need?" You ask. "Anything work-related?"

"No."

"Then yes. I'm done."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at seven-thirty."

He hangs up first and you resist the urge to light your phone on fire.

You wake up at 5:47 AM to your alarm, which means you got maybe four hours of sleep, maybe less if you count the hour you spent staring at the ceiling thinking about how Lando hung up on you, or wait—you hung up on him, didn't you? You did. You definitely did (you didn't). And then you ordered another beer and sat there until the hawker center started closing down around you, and the grandmother from the table next to you had given you this look that said oh, honey in a language you don't speak but somehow understood perfectly.

You shower. The water pressure in Singapore hotels is always too strong or too weak, never just right, and this one is too strong, pelting against your skin. You stand there longer than you should, letting it run cold, because you read somewhere once that cold showers are good for anxiety or depression or something, though you can't remember which and you're not sure it matters because you're pretty sure you have both at this point.

Your suitcase is still mostly packed because you've been doing this for years and you've gotten very efficient at living out of luggage. Black pants—the ones that don't wrinkle, because you learned that lesson the hard way in Bahrain when you showed up to a meeting looking like you'd slept in your clothes, which you had. White blouse—the silk one, not the cotton one, because the sponsors notice these things even if Lando doesn't. Blazer. The McLaren team jacket is folded on the chair, and you stare at it for a long moment before deciding you don't want to wear it today, don't want the papaya orange plastered across your back like a brand.

You're his assistant, not his property.

Except you let him fuck you in a hotel room in Japan, so maybe the line there is blurrier than you'd like to admit, but that's an issue for another time. For a time when you haven't slept and your hands aren't shaking while you try to apply mascara in a bathroom mirror that's slightly too high for you to see properly without standing on your toes.

It's 6:58 AM when you leave your room.

The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, and you're alone in it, watching the numbers descend—12, 11, 10—and thinking about how you used to feel nervous before seeing Lando but in a good way, in an excited way, like maybe today would be the day he'd look at you like you were something other than his assistant. And then he did look at you like that, in a conference room with glass walls where anyone could see, and then in a hotel room in Japan, and now you're back to being nervous but in a bad way, in a what the fuck happens now way.

Your car is already outside. Different driver than yesterday, thankfully, because you're not sure you could handle the same driver who witnessed yesterday's silent treatment. This one is older, and he smiles at you when you get in and asks if you'd like the air conditioning higher or lower, and you say lower even though you're not actually sure what temperature you want, you just know you need to say something.

You check your phone. 7:11 AM. Lando is meeting you at 7:30, which means you're going to be early, which means you're going to be sitting in the restaurant waiting for him like some kind of desperate whore.

Your phone buzzes with three texts from Lando, telling you he's running a bit late. Lando Norris is never on time to anything that isn't racing, and you're the one who's always early, always prepared, always waiting.

The restaurant is in a hotel different from yours, the Fullerton, which is the kind of place that has doormen in white gloves and floors that echo when you walk across them. The breakfast is in a private room on the second floor, and you're the first one there, which you knew you would be, standing in a room that's set for twenty people with tables arranged in a U-shape and place cards that you helped coordinate two weeks ago.

Your card is at the corner. Lando's is at the head of the table, obviously, because he's Lando Norris and he's always at the head of the table.

You sit down. Pull out your tablet. The briefing document is already open, you've read it four times but you read it again anyway because you need something to do with your hands, something to look at that isn't the door, that isn't waiting for him to walk through it.

7:38 AM. The sponsors start arriving. Marcus from Tag Heuer, who you've met three times before and who always shakes your hand too firmly like he's trying to prove something. Two executives from Singapore Airlines whose names you know but always mix up, one is David and one is Daniel, and you make a mental note for the fourteenth time to come up with a mnemonic device for them. A woman from DBS Bank who you've never met but who looks exactly like every other corporate executive you've ever met, black suit, pearl earrings, the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

They're all making small talk, getting coffee from the station at the back, and you're nodding and smiling and saying yes, Lando will be here shortly, yes, very excited for the weekend, yes, the car is looking strong this year.

Fifteen minutes later, Lando walks in, and the first thing you notice is that he looks tired. Not tired in the way that normal people look tired, Lando Norris doesn't get dark circles under his eyes or pillow creases on his face. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he's moving just slightly slower than usual, that tells you he didn't sleep well either.

Good. You hope he didn't sleep at all.

He's wearing the papaya team polo, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly green, and his hair is styled in that way that's supposed to look effortless but you know takes him at least fifteen minutes. He sees you immediately and for a fraction of a second, something crosses his face.

Then it's gone, and he's smiling, and he's Lando Norris again, and he's shaking hands with Marcus and making some joke that you can't hear from where you're sitting but that makes everyone laugh.

The breakfast starts, and you're taking notes on your tablet even though you don't really need to, even though you've done this exact breakfast seventeen times in different cities with different sponsors who all ask the same questions. How's the car feeling? What are your goals for the season? Can you tell us about your preparation routine?

You write down notes that you'll never read again.

Lando is in the middle of a story about Oscar, something about a prank involving someone's helmet, and everyone is laughing, and you can see the exact moment when his eyes start to drift toward you and then catch himself and look away.

It happens three more times during breakfast. Him starting to look at you, stopping himself, redirecting his attention to whoever's speaking or to his plate or to literally anywhere else.

The breakfast ends at 9:15 AM. People start standing, exchanging business cards, making promises to follow up. Lando is still shaking hands, still smiling, and you start gathering your things because that's what you do, you gather your things and you follow him to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that.

You're almost to the door when you hear him say your name. You turn and he's standing by his chair, hands in his pockets, and everyone else has filtered out into the hallway. It's just the two of you in this room with its white tablecloths and half-eaten fruit plates and the ghost of conversations that don't matter.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

And you have a choice. You could say yes. You could stay. You could let him explain or apologize or do whatever it is he's planning to do. Or, you could simply leave.

"I have to coordinate your transport to the track," you say. "You have media at eleven."

"I know what I have." His voice is quiet. "I'm asking if we can talk."

"About what?"

"About—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing up the styling he definitely spent fifteen minutes on. "About last night. About everything. I don't know, fuck—just talk."

This is the part where you're supposed to be the bigger person, supposed to hear him out, supposed to help him process his feelings or whatever it is that assistants-turned-something-else are supposed to do. But, you're tired, and quite frankly, irrigated with his phone call from last night, the past week.

And the only thing running through your head is that Lando Norris can go fuck himself.

"You've got thirty minutes before our car leaves," you say. "Don't be late."

You walk out before he can respond. In the hallway, your hands are shaking because no one tells Lando Norris no.

But you just did and somehow you make it to the elevator, make it down to the lobby, make it into the car that's waiting to take you both to the track—except Lando takes a different car, which the logistics coordinator apologizes for, says there was a mix-up with timing, and you know there wasn't a mix-up at all.

Lando Norris doesn't want to be in a car with you. Fine, so fucking be it.

The thing about working with Lando after Singapore is that it's exactly what you said you wanted. It's professional. There are boundaries now that are so clearly defined you could draw them on a map and submit them to the fucking FIA for track limits.

He starts to shows up on time, early, even, which is so unlike him that the first time it happens in Azerbaijan you actually check your watch twice to make sure you haven't gotten the schedule wrong. He reads every briefing you send him, responds to emails within ten minutes with perfect punctuation and "Thanks, appreciate it" sign-offs that make you want to throw your phone into the Caspian Sea. He says please and thank you to your face, confirms schedules without complaint, attends every meeting and every appearance and every obligation without a single emergency phone call at 3 AM or text thread about how he's lost his passport again.

It's perfect and it's absolutely killing you.

Because Lando Norris being professional and competent and respectful is somehow infinitely worse than Lando Norris being a disaster. At least when he was a disaster, he needed you. At least when he called you from the wrong country, when he missed flights, when he showed up to sponsor meetings with his shirt on backwards and that stupid grin that said I know I fucked up and you'll fix it anyway—at least then you mattered to him.

At least then you were something other than the person who books his hotels and coordinates his calendar and exists nowhere in his mind.

Now you're just another one of the staff. Azerbaijan comes and goes. He qualifies P3, finishes P4, solid points for the team. Does every single media obligation without you having to remind him once. Thanks the sponsors in his post-race interview, remembers all their names, makes that self-deprecating joke about the Safety Car that has everyone laughing. The Instagram content team gets usable footage of him and Oscar doing some challenge in the garage. He's perfect. Everyone loves Lando Norris.

You stand there with your tablet and watch him be perfect and your chest feels like someone's hollowed it out with a spoon.

Austin is somehow worse. Not because anything happens, that's the problem. Nothing fucking happens. Lando qualifies P2, finishes P3 after a brilliant drive where he overtakes Russel on the outside of Turn 1 and the entire garage loses their minds. You're standing there watching the screens, watching him celebrate, watching him spray champagne on the podium with that massive grin, and Jon claps you on the shoulder and says "Great weekend, yeah?" and you say "Yeah, great" even though you feel nothing at all.

Lando does his media rounds. You coordinate them all flawlessly because that's what you do, that's what you've always done. He thanks you once, in passing, on his way out of the paddock. Says "Cheers for everything today" like you're a volunteer marshal, like you're someone he's being polite to because that's what good people do.

That night you sit in your hotel room and eat room service that tastes like shit and watch some Netflix show you've already forgotten by the time you turn it off. Your phone sits next to you on the bed, silent. The episode ends. Another one starts. Your phone stays silent, and when you close your eyes, you dream of nothing at all.

Mexico. Brazil. Monaco.

The races blur together like watercolors left out in rain. Lando is perfect at all of them. Perfect driver, perfect ambassador, perfect professional who waves at fans and signs autographs and does Instagram stories with Oscar where they're both laughing and being the perfect team. He never once acts like anything is wrong, because maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe you were just a blip, a moment of extremely poor judgment that he's moved past completely.

Maybe fucking his assistant was something he did and forgot about, the same way he tried going vegan for a week last year or got really into padel tennis for three months. Just another phase. Just another thing Lando Norris tried and decided wasn't worth continuing.

In Brazil you have to ride in the same car to the track because logistics fucked up, only one car available, driver shortage, something about the local contractor. The coordinator apologizes profusely. You say it's fine. Lando says nothing at all.

So you sit in the back seat together in silence. He's on his phone, scrolling through something with his thumb, and you're on your tablet pretending to review the media schedule. The driver tries to make conversation about the weather, about the race, about literally anything, and gives up after both of you give one-word answers that kill the attempt dead.

Lando's knee is eleven centimeters from yours. You measured with your eyes, which is insane, which means you're absolutely fucking losing your mind. You can smell his cologne—the same one as always, the one that was on your skin for three days after Tokyo, the one you can still smell sometimes when you're falling asleep even though that's impossible.

He doesn't look at you once during the entire twenty-three-minute drive. You count that too. The minutes. Because apparently you're a person who counts things now, who measures distances and time and all the space between you and Lando Norris that keeps expanding like the universe, infinite and cold and just all to fucking far away.

Las Vegas is when you realize you can't do this anymore.

Not the job—you can do the job. You've been doing the job perfectly for years, and you could probably do it for two more, or ten more, or however long it takes for Lando Norris to retire or get bored of racing or spontaneously combust from holding in whatever it is he's holding in.

But you can't do this. This thing where you exist in the same space and pretend you don't. This thing where he's polite and professional and you're polite and professional and underneath it all you're both screaming. At least you are. You're not sure about him anymore.

You're not sure he thinks about Tokyo at all. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it really was just that easy for him to flip the switch, to go from having his hand over your mouth while he fucked you to saying "Thanks, appreciate it" in response to your calendar updates.

Maybe you're the only one who's drowning here.

The race is at night, which makes everything feel more surreal, more like you're living in some alternate dimension where Las Vegas has an actual Formula 1 circuit running through it. Lando qualifies P1, races well, finishes first after a late-race battle with Piastri that has everyone on the edge of their seats.

You watch from the garage. Feel nothing. He does his interviews, thanks the team, heads back to the motorhome to debrief. You coordinate his transport back to the hotel, confirm his Monday morning flight, send him the updated schedule for Qatar.

He responds: Got it, thanks.

That's it. Two words and a punctuation mark. You stare at the message for five full minutes, and that's when you decide, Qatar. You're going to make something happen in Qatar, because if you have to spend one more race weekend in this professional purgatory, you're going to lose your fucking mind.

It's been thirty-seven days since Singapore.

Thirty-seven days since he asked if you could talk and you walked away from him. Thirty-seven days of Lando Norris being exactly what you told him to be, professional, respectful, boundaried. Never calls after hours. Never texts about anything that isn't work. Treats you like a colleague, like staff, like someone whose opinion matters only in the context of his schedule and his obligations and nothing else.

You should be happy. You won. You set the pace, you told him no, you hung up on him, you walked out of that breakfast, and he listened. He learned. He gave you exactly what you asked for.

So why does it feel like you're suffocating?

Why do you lie awake at night in hotel rooms that all look identical and think about the way he looked at you in Tokyo? Why do you check your phone forty times a day even though you know he won't call? Why did you save that Appreciate it text like some kind of pathetic digital shrine to whatever this was?

Qatar arrives and you're done with this. Done with him, done with yourself, done with the performance you're both putting on. Done with being professional. Done with boundaries. Done with doing the right thing when the right thing feels like dying slowly.

You book your hotel room on the same floor as Lando's.

It costs an extra €900 that you pay out of pocket, which is insane because you're supposed to be saving money, supposed to be preparing for whatever comes after you finally submit that resignation letter you've rewritten forty-seven times. But you pay it anyway. Request room 4007 specifically because you know—you've always known, you coordinate his bookings—that Lando is in 4012.

Five doors down. Close enough.

The hotel bar on Thursday night is full of people from the paddock. You can spot them easily, their team polos, the branded jackets, the mechanics and engineers clustering in corners talking about setup changes and when their next vacation is. It's the kind of place Formula 1 always stays, all identical rooms and bars that serve €35 cocktails to people on expense accounts.

You order a gin and tonic you don't want and sit at the bar, scanning the room for something. A distraction. A catalyst. A way to make something happen because you can't stand another day of nothing.

That's when you see him.

He's tall with dark hair that's slightly too long. Wearing a Racing Bulls polo, so he's an engineer, probably, or data analyst, someone who works in the circus but isn't the show. Late twenties. Attractive in a conventional way that Lando isn't, none of the madness, none of the sharp edges, none of that gravitational pull that makes Lando the center of every room.

He's perfect, and he catches you looking. Smiles and you smile back. His name is James. Works in aerodynamics for Racing Bulls. British but lives in Milan now. In Qatar for the weekend. Thinks this bar is overpriced but at least the drinks are strong.

You laugh at his jokes even when they're not funny. Let him buy you a second drink. A third. Touch his arm when he makes some comment about your hair. You're performing—you know you're performing. The years with Lando Norris have made you exceptional at performing, at being charming, at making people feel like they matter.

"Want to get out of here?" James asks around 11 PM, hand on your lower back.

"Yeah," you say. "Let's go."

James walks you to the elevator. You press 4. His hand stays on your lower back, warm through your shirt, and it should feel good but it just feels wrong, like a placeholder for someone else's touch.

The elevator rises. 1, 2, 3, 4.

The doors open and there's Lando fucking Norris standing right in the hallway.

Grey joggers. Black t-shirt. Hair a mess like he's been pulling at it. He has a phone in one hand. He looks up when the doors open.

Sees you. Then sees James. Sees James's hand on your back.

His face does something complicated and then something much darker. His jaw clenches. His eyes, which haven't really looked at you in thirty-seven days, are suddenly locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Oh," you say, voice deliberately light. "Hey, Lando."

"Hey," he says.

James on the other hand, doesn't care. "Which room?" he asks, breath warm against your ear.

"4007," you say.

Still looking at Lando. Still watching him. Watching his hands curl into fists at his sides. Watching his knuckles go white. Watching thirty-seven days of professional boundaries suddenly evaporate.

That's right, Norris. Two can play at this game.

"Have a good night," you say.

You walk past him. Feel his eyes on you like a physical weight. Feel him watching as you pull out your room key, as James says something you don't hear, as you laugh even though nothing's funny.

You open the door to 4007. James follows you inside, and the lights of Doha filter through the window, and James is already close behind you, hands finding your waist.

"Nice room," he says, which is a lie because it's aggressively mediocre, but you don't call him on it.

"Yeah," you say. He kisses you and it's fine. His mouth tastes like beer and spearmint gum, and his hands are moving up your sides, and you kiss him back because that's what you came here to do, isn't it? That's the whole point of this. You let him walk you backwards toward the bed, let him pull your shirt up slightly, let his hands find skin.

Your brain is somewhere else entirely. Counting seconds. Waiting for this to be over. You hope Lando is physically ill, you hope he's thinking about you getting fucked by another man as he's only a few doors down.

James is saying something against your neck—something about how he's wanted to talk to you all night, how he noticed you at the bar immediately—and you make a noise that sounds like agreement. His hand finds the button of your jeans.

That's when the banging starts. Not knocking.

Banging.

Fist against door, hard enough that it echoes through the room, hard enough that James jerks back and says "What the fuck?" Three hits. Four. Five. The sound is aggressive, violent almost, and your heart is suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with James.

"Ignore it," James says, leaning back in, but the banging continues.

Six. Seven. Eight.

"Jesus Christ," James mutters, pulling away completely now. "Should you—"

"Yeah," you say, already moving toward the door, and your hands are shaking when you reach for the handle.

You know who it is. Of course you know who it is.

You open the door. Lando is standing there, and he looks—fuck, he looks fucking furious. His chest is heaving and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, and his eyes are wild. Darker than you've ever seen them. There's nothing professional about him right now, nothing controlled. He looks like he's about to either punch something or break something, and you're not sure which.

"Get out," he says, but he's not looking at you. He's looking past you at James, who's appeared behind you, confused and irritated.

"Excuse me?" James says.

"Get. Your shit. And get the fuck out." Lando's voice is low, dangerous, each word clipped and precise. "Now."

"Who the fuck do you think—" James starts, but Lando takes a step forward into the doorway, and there's something about the way he moves, the energy coming off him, that makes James stop talking.

"I'm not asking again," Lando says.

James looks at you, clearly expecting you to say something, to tell this psycho to leave, but you don't. You just stand there between them, heart pounding, because this is what you wanted, isn't it? This is exactly what you wanted.

"This is insane," James mutters, but he's already moving, grabbing his phone from where he set it on the desk. "Fucking McLaren people are all crazy."

He pushes past both of you into the hallway, and Lando doesn't move, doesn't step aside, makes James squeeze past him. The second James is gone, Lando steps inside your room and slams the door shut behind him.

The sound echoes. And suddenly you're both just standing there, staring at each other, and the air in the room feels electric, dangerous, like something's about to combust.

"What the fuck was that?" you say, finding your voice.

"What the fuck was that?" Lando repeats, his voice rising. "Are you serious right now? You bring some random fucking guy to your room."

"So what if I did?" You step closer to him, anger flooding through you. "What the fuck do you care? You've ignored me for over a month!"

"Because you basically told me to fuck off!" His hands are in his hair, pulling at it. "You're the one that walked away, you made it very fucking clear you wanted nothing to do with me, like you—" He stops himself, chest heaving.

"Like you didn't what?"

"Like you didn't fucking need me, okay?" The words explode out of him. "Then I have to act like I don't think about it every single day, like I don't want to," He stops again, jaw clenching. "And then I see you with him, with his hands on you."

"You don't get to be jealous," you say, but your voice is shaking now. "You don't get to ice me out for thirty-seven days and then show up here acting like—"

"Thirty-seven?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You've been counting?"

"Fuck you."

And in the midst of it all, you kiss him. Or he kisses you. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly his mouth is on yours and his hands are in your hair and you're grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel something other than the past thirty-seven days of nothing. It's not gentle. It's desperate and angry and messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands rough as they yank at your clothes.

He walks you backwards until your legs hit the bed and you fall onto it, and he's on top of you immediately, pressing you down into the mattress with his full weight. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that's your heart, or maybe it's both of you about to explode from the pressure of everything you haven't said.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, and his hands are shaking as they pull at your jeans. "Fuck, I've been going insane."

"Shut up," you gasp, yanking his shirt over his head, needing to touch him, needing to confirm he's real and here and not the ghost you've been living with for over a month. "Just shut the fuck up."

Your jeans are stuck on one ankle and he doesn't bother getting them all the way off, just pulls them down far enough and hooks your leg over his hip. His joggers are shoved down hastily, and then he's against you, hard and desperate, and you're so wet it's embarrassing but you don't care.

"Tell me you thought about me," he demands, one hand fisting in your hair, the other between your legs. "Tell me I wasn't the only one losing my fucking mind."

"Every day," you choke out as his fingers push inside you roughly, no patience, no buildup. "Every single day, Lando, I couldn't."

"Good." He sounds wrecked, fingers working you open, hooking into your cunt until you're squirming under him. "Good, because I haven't been able to think about anything else, haven't been able to focus, couldn't even look at you without wanting to fuck you."

His thumb finds your clit and the combination makes you gasp, hips bucking up into his hand. You're already so wet, so ready, and he knows it. Can feel it.

He lines his cock against your entrance and pushes inside you in one hard thrust that makes you both gasp. There's no finesse to it, no technique. Just need. Just two people who've been starving finally getting fed.

God, he's so fucking big. You've been thinking about his cock fucking you since Tokyo.

"Fuck," he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, and he's not moving yet, just breathing hard, like he needs a second to process that this is real. "Fuck, you feel so good."

"Move," you demand, nails digging into his shoulders. "Lando, fucking move."

He does. Hard and fast and completely graceless, hips snapping against yours with a desperation that borders on violent. This isn't romantic. This isn't making love. This is two people destroying each other because it's the only way they know how to communicate anymore.

"I couldn't do it," he gasps against your throat, and his rhythm is erratic, uncontrolled. "Couldn't keep pretending you didn't exist, couldn't watch you with someone else, couldn't fucking breathe without you."

"I know," you sob, because you do know, you've been drowning in the same thing. "I know, I know."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb, and the combination of him inside you and his fingers on you makes your back arch off the bed. You're close already, wound too tight from thirty-seven days of nothing, and he can feel it.

"That's it," he breathes, and there's something broken in his voice. "Come on, let me feel it it baby."

"Lando—" Your voice cracks on his name.

“I fucking love you,” he hisses against the side of your throat, thrusting into you with reckless abandon.

Your heart stops.

"Don't," you gasp, but you don't know if you're telling him not to say it or not to stop saying it.

"I do." He's fucking into you harder now, faster, like he can make you believe him through sheer force. "I love you and I hate that I do, hate that you have this much power over me, I fucking hate it."

"I love you too," the words tear out of you, and you didn't mean to say them, weren't planning to, but they're true and you can't hold them back anymore. "God, Lando, I love you."

He makes a sound that's half groan, half something else, something that might be relief or might be agony. His thumb presses harder against your clit and you shatter, clenching around him as you come, gasping his name into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

"Fuck, yes," he growls against your lips. "Love feeling you come on my cock, love you, fuck."

His rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically, and then he's coming too, spilling inside you with your name on his lips and his hand in your hair and his weight pressing you into the mattress like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.

For a few seconds, neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his breath hot against your skin, can feel the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks.

This is honest. This is the most honest either of you has been in thirty-seven days, maybe longer. No performance, no professionalism, just truth wrapped in sweat and desperation and words you can't take back.

He lifts his head slowly, and when he looks at you his eyes are soft, vulnerable, like he's just handed you something fragile and he's waiting to see if you'll crush it.

Your chest aches. Your whole body aches. You reach up and touch his face, and he leans into it, and for one perfect moment you think maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed.

Then his expression changes and the moment shutters closed like a door slamming, and he's pulling away before you can stop him. He gets up from the bed, shoving his clothes on with jerky, agitated movements.

He takes another look at you—really looks at you this time—like he's reasserting to himself that you're fine. That you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're real. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step forward.

"You're fired," he says.

Part two, click here.

[maxillness]

🇩🇪 || Sports Car || NR6 x Hamilton!Reader

Warnings: Unprotected sex, semi-public, car sex, set in Monaco 2016, mention of Spain 2016, sub!Nico, blowjob, fingering, tiny bit of angst, orgasm delay

Wordcount: 1.1k

It's not like she hated her brother, but only idiots thought Spain was Nico's fault.

She wanted to cheer up Nico before the race tomorrow, she knew exactly how to, but it was hard to get an excuse out to Lewis, with whom she was staying that weekend with.

"Where are you going?" Lewis asked when he saw her putting on her shoes.

"Hm? Just a walk," She hummed "Don't know when I'll be back"

"It's like 7 o'clock," He stated, confused.

"Don't wait up for me," She teased, taking her keys off the hallway table.

Nico only lived a few floors away from Lewis, but it still felt like an eternity to walk those floors.

"What are you doing here?" Nico asked, confused as he opened the door shortly after she had knocked on it.

She pushed past Nico and walked into his apartment "I just want to wish you some luck tomorrow, not that you need it since you qualified p2," She said, walking into the living room.

"Okay, but why? I mean, you're Lewis' sister. Shouldn't you wish him luck instead?" He asked, confused, following her.

"Please, he already got three championships, I think you need it more than he does." She chuckled softly, patting the couch beside her.

Nico sighed as he walked over to the couch, sitting down beside her as she kicked off her shoes, placing them neatly beside the couch.

"You took your shoes on just to walk up a few floors in the same building?" Nico chuckled.

"Lewis thinks I'm out walking," She smiled softly.

"At 7 o'clock?" He laughed slightly.

"He bought it," She chuckled with a shrug.

"So, how'd you want to wish me luck?" He asked softly, but was also slightly confused.

She thought about it for a second, she knew what she wanted to do, she just didn't know how to proceed with it "Let's go for a ride," She said as she stood up from the couch.

"A ride?" Nico asked, even more confused now than before.

"Yes. Come on," She chuckled softly, taking her shoes from where she had put them, and slowly putting them on.

"Yes, ma'am," He chuckled softly.

She had always kind of had a crush on Nico. Okay, scratch that, she had always had a major crush on Nico, and his calling her 'ma'am' did not help at all.

—

It was always hard to find a secluded spot in Monaco, even at 7.30 at night, but if you looked hard enough, you'd find a spot at some point.

"Where exactly are we going?" Nico asked with a soft chuckle.

"Well, right now, we're just driving in circles really," She chuckled softly.

"Only because you won't give me directions," He laughed softly.

She chuckled softly, "Just turn up here," She said, pointing at an alleyway, which seemed way too dark, even at this late hour.

"What exactly are we doing here?" He barely got to finish his sentence before she turned his head, kissing him, not hard and passionately. It was a kiss where he could easily pull away if he didn't want it.

Last year, or the years before that, Nico wouldn't have kissed back, seeing that she was his best friend's sister. However, since Nico wasn't sure if he could still call Lewis that, he did kiss her back.

His hand on her jaw, pulling her closer, kissing her deeper and more passionately, the other one unbuckling his seatbelt, getting it off.

She turned her lower body slightly to face Nico better, her hand on his chin still there, her other hand gradually going further up the inside of his thigh before settling on his crotch, slowly starting to move her hand on him.

As her hand went to Nico's belt, unbuckling it with one hand, her lips trailing down his neck, Nico unbuckled his seatbelt, giving him space to move.

She pulled away from Nico's neck as he lifted his hips slightly, helping her get his pants and boxers down enough to get his dick out.

Nico slid his hand into her hair, making a make believe ponytail as she leaned down, taking him into her mouth with no hesitation.

His free hand went down her back, lifting her skirt up and pushed her panties to the side, slowly starting to finger her.

Nico rolled his head back against the head rest, biting his lip to try and be somewhat quiet as she hummed and moaned around him.

He whined softly when she lifted her head, Nico's dick leaving her mouth.

His fingers left her as she moved to straddle his hips instead, keeping her panties to the side as she slowly slid down on him.

Nico held his hands on her hips, keeping her skirt lifted up, his breathing heavy as she just sat there, getting herself adjusted.

She slowly started moving, Nico's eyes closed and his back arched slightly, soft moans leaving his lips.

She gradually picked up her speed, her own soft moans coming from her lips, while Nico's just grew louder along with his grip getting tighter.

Nico whimpered against her lips as she kissed him "You're being too loud, love," She mumbled against him, continuing kissing him as she sped up again.

It didn't take long before Nico started babbling about how he was close and needed to come.

She merely chuckled at him, telling him he needed to wait for her.

His babbling became begging. Pleas to let him come. She'd be lying if she said it didn't turn her on to hear him beg like that.

He should've been embarrassed about how he sounded, but he was too out of it, he was too focused on holding back his orgasm to care about anything else.

"You can come, baby," She said as she felt herself on the edge.

Nico didn't hesitate. He held her down by her hips, coming inside of her.

He barely got to gather himself before she moved again- slower this time to not overstimulate him, her fingers circling her clit.

She came quickly after that, kissing Nico deeply as she did, her body shaking slightly.

"Why couldn't we just have sex at my place, hm?" Nico chuckled softly, but still breathless.

"Never know about Lewis. Might want to argue with you some more, and that would've ruined the mood, no?" She chuckled, lifting herself off of him.

Nico sighed softly "Doubt he's going to talk to me again," He said as they both got proper into their clothes again.

"Don't worry. You'll become friends again. If your friendship means so much to him, which it does, he'll start talking again"

[thyme4ln]

just friends? //LN 4 + OP81

AN: two bad bitches at the same damn time.

pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader x Oscar Piastri

WC: 1.4k

CW: this is literally pwp, mean!Lando, mean!oscar, threesome, degradation (use of whore, slut, cocksleeve) , pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby) DVP (i won't apologize), some things that could be read as dubious content (there is consent fully written, and a safe word set up never fear), rough boys (a couple pinchings) cum as lube, filth, more filth and filth

my blog is 18+ MDNI🔞

I don't know how this happened. I don't know how I ended up in Lando’s bed. I don't know how I ended naked, in front of 2 sets of hungry eyes, but here I am.

"You sure you're okay with this honey?" Oscar’s voice was soft, laced with concern. "We can stop at any time, promise. Traffic light system okay? Green is good, yellow is reel it back and red is full stop. Won't be mad at all, no matter what. This is for you."

"I want this. I want both of you. Whatever you wanna give me, please." I spoke. Confident in my decision. Trusting my two friends in front of me.

"You heard her Oscar, go on then." Oscar leaned forward, “head up baby.” he commanded. He slipped the blindfold over my eyes, rubbing his thumb against my cheek.

My eyes covered, my hands trapped above my head. Two hands resting on each thigh. My senses were deprived and overwhelmed all at the same time.

"You think she can figure out who's tongue is abusing her cunt, Oscar?" His voice was evil. "Or you think she's just a whore who can't make up her mind on who she wants to fuck?"

"Now Lando, I think we both know she doesn't want to choose. I think she wants both of us, and I think we'd be dumb to not give it to her." Oscar’s voice was softer, more understanding as his hand ran up the inside of my thigh. Stopping right where I needed him. "I mean, I can already feel the mess she's making. Just imagine the mess she'll make when we're both inside her."

They talked about me almost as if I wasn't there. Like I was just some doll laying before them, ready for the taking.

Oscar’s finger went up and up and up, so slowly until he settled it right against my clit. "She's real fucking swollen, dude. I think she needs some sort of relief, don't you? Just needs a little—" voice cut off as his thumb and forefinger pinched.

"Ow- Fuck!" I yelped, trying to pull my hips away.

"Hey, you're alright. Breathe. Just getting you warmed up, still green?"

"Yes, Oscar."

I felt a pair of hands press my hips back down to the bed. Holding them in place, while the warmth of a tongue dragged a wet strip from my thigh directly to my clit.

Suddenly all the warmth from the two was gone, no hands or tongues were on my body.

"We're gonna play a little game, we're gonna see if you really can figure out who's who. If you get it right, you can have both of us together. Right," two hands made their way to settle against my core. "Here. Only wanna hear your sweet noises unless we ask you a question or if you need to stop, speak up. Don't be afraid to do so." Lando’s voice echoed in the small room.

As soon as his voice stopped, I felt one of them press against my entrance. Hearing a groan as their fingers slowly sank inside of me and his mouth settled around my bud. A small gasp came out of me, instinctively moving my hips up. Wanting more.

A second finger worked its way from my hip and down towards my hole. Stopping just before it pushes its way in. "Fuck this, I'm not staying quiet." Lando grumbled. "You're so fucking tight, baby. How do you think you're gonna fit both of us in here today huh? I think we're gonna have to work you up to that." His fingers kept moving, "really I think we're just gonna have to turn you into our proper slut. Don't you Osc? Think we can train her to be exactly what we want her to be? Do exactly what we want?"

There was a chuckle directly next to the bed where I heard Oscar. "I think she's got some real potential, Lando. I think she just needs some time, and then she'll be our perfect little cock sleeve. Whenever we want her to be. Gonna make sure everyone knows she's ours, ain't that right?

“Oscar, go on and take her blind fold off. I want her to see us taking turns with her." Lando spoke against my cunt.

Oscar was right by my head, "Hi honey, lean forward for me." I lifted my head as I felt Lando spit onto my cunt. A loud gasp was all I could mutter. Just as he used his cock to spread his own saliva and push just the tip.

"Fuck, fuck, — Lan!" My voice was shaky and uneven.

"Oh there you go, there she is. Come on baby, relax for me. You're never gonna be able to fit us both in here if you don't relax."

Oscar worked his way to sit against the bed frame, and rest my head in his lap. "Right here sweetheart, I got you. Relax for him, yeah? Want my thumb? Will that keep you relaxed?" I nodded up at the man. His thumb resting gently on my lips.

My mouth fell open as Lando pushed himself further in. "See? Let me in just fine when you're not thinking. Just needed to get that dumb brain out of the equation. Good thing you have Oscar up there. Say thank you, baby. Use your manners."

"Th-thank you."

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my head. "We got you."

Lando’s hands had a vice grip on my waist, pulling himself out and back in over, and over. The only sounds in the room were my moans, and the slick of each thrust from him.

"I'm- fuck. Close baby. Gotta stop." Lando groaned as he started to pull himself out.

"No!! Don't want you to. Please. It's okay, got the pill. Please Lan, fuck. Please don’t. Need it." Tears were starting to swell in my eyes. I never needed something so bad.

It seems like that was all he needed, he thrusted back in and lifted my hips just enough that he hit a spot I didn't know I had. No noises could come out, mouth just hanging open while Lando grumbled as he held your hips as close to him as he could.

"Oscar, fuck mate. Get over here." Lando spoke in between his breaths. Holding himself completely still inside of me.

As soon as Oscar was next to Lando, all I could hear was mumbling. Not fully able to make out what they were saying.

"Alright baby, we're gonna try something okay? Oscar is gonna try to fit in. Just gotta see how much practice you need. Breathe, just breathe. It's gonna sting a little, but you call the shots. If it hurts you call red and we'll be all done."

I felt Lando pull himself back just enough that Oscar had some room to push himself forward. Trying to remind yourself to breathe. The stretch of both of them hurt so good. The stretch felt right. Like they were meant to be there.

"Shit, look at her. She's just sucking us in. Almost like her cunt was made for this. Christ, honey. You feel so good. So fucking good. Don't think I can live without doing this again. Hope you know that. Hope you know this cunt? No one's touching it besides us. You're ours. No one else's." Oscar was rambling.

He couldn't help it, his eyes were locked at where he and Lando were connected inside of me.

Lando's hand lifted to rub soft circles on my clit. Moving his hips so slowly. "Wanna feel you cum around us, you can do it. Can’t you baby? Soon as you cum we'll get you in the bath and clean you up. Get you right into bed."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." My eyes screwed shut. My body is starting to shake.

"There she is. There she fucking is." Lando’s hands picked up the pace, Oscar hand rubbing soft circles on my thigh.

"You did so good, baby. So good. Okay, I'm gonna pull out first. Then I'll get a towel, okay?" Oscar spoke as he slowly pulled himself out.

Lando’s eyes never left my face, "thank you. For trusting us, letting us make your fantasy come true."

"Lan,"

"Yeah?"

"Osc?"

"Yes love?"

"Wanna do this again. And again."

There was laughter at the end of the bed.

"Happily honey. But first, let's get you cleaned up. We can talk about logistics tomorrow." Oscar spoke.

©thyme4ln please do not copy, translate, or post my content elsewhere

[liafics]

twt/x links, be logged in <3

op81

osc bending you over and playing with you

osc being a needy boy and humping his bed

taking care of osc after a bad race

sleepy naughty time with osc

osc gently over stimming you

osc exploring your adorable body

osc losing control with you and railing you from under

sitting on osc’s face as he plays with your tits

ln4

rough play with lando

lando helping you feel good

sleepy naughty time with lando

lando making you a wet mess by teasing you with his cock

lando filming you

lando railing you in a bunny outfit

lando being a huge tease before filling you up

more?

[tsunodaradio]

fast learner ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 8.5k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, dry humping. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, he is a teensy 🤏 bit manipulative, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. title only kind of from niki’s backburner (which could mean nothing,,). ꔮ commentary box: hi, oh my gosh, i don’t think i’ve ever written pwp this long in my life. i’m kind of mortified (especially with the fact this has some >2k more words i shaved off). anyway, this was commissioned, tysm!!! 📑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Oscar Piastri is a patient man.

He has to be. With the way you barrel into his life and make yourself at home—your duffle bag always one laundry cycle away from living in his flat full-time, your half-drunk coffees trailing behind you like breadcrumbs, your laugh breaking over his ribs every time you tease him about being the most boring twenty-something alive—patience is the only option.

He thinks of himself as quiet. You call him steady. Reliable. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with,” you said once, tucked under the same throw blanket, both of you half-asleep while a movie played on loop. The confession buzzed in his ears for days.

So, yes. Oscar Piastri is a patient man. But we never said he was a good one. 

Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.

You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.

“Lando asked me out,” you breathe. 

Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”

You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”

“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”

You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.

Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.

“Done?”

You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”

He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”

Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.

“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”

You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”

He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.

Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.

Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.

He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself. 

You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.

“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”

He waitswaitswaits. 

You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then. 

You nod. 

It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.

You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.

He doesn’t.

He only steps closer.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”

You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”

You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier. 

You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other.  Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”

You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”

Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”

There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.

“That’s good to know,” he says plainly. 

You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”

You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”

Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”

It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.

You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.

“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”

You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused. 

“A little. But in a good way.”

Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.

Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”

You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”

You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient. 

You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.

Still, he waits.

“You okay?” he checks in.

You nod.

“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.

“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you. 

“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”

Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”

He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”

He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been. 

He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”

Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.

Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.

“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”

Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.

You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”

He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”

You look up at him, startled.

Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”

You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move. 

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.

Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.

You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this. 

Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”

You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.

“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”

You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.

“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”

Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction. 

Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”

You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”

“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly. 

You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.

After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.

Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.

But then you pause.

Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”

Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.

“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.

You go very, very still.

Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”

He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.

You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference. 

“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.

Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”

“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”

You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.

“Still okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”

You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”

You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”

You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”

“Coaxing?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”

You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.

Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan. 

Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”

He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.

And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be: 

Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.

Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.

Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.

You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.

He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?” 

“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”

Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.

He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."

You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.

“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."

You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.

“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.

You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."

Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.

“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."

You try again.

This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.

Because it’s you.

You, trying for him.

You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.

He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”

Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.

Lando won’t get this version of you.

Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”

You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.

Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.

“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”

Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”

He hates himself for saying it like that. 

Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.

You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”

Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”

You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.

The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”

He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.

You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”

You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.

“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”

He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.

“Mouth so fucking perfect.” 

“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”

“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”

The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.

His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.

“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”

Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.

He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”

And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.

He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.

Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.

“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”

He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.

“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”

You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.

The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”

You do.

You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down. 

When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”

Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.

“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.

“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.

Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”

You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”

Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”

You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.

He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”

Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.

Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.

You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”

Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”

Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”

You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”

You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”

Oh.

It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.

“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.

He hesitates.

“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”

You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.

“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”

It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.

You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.

Not triumph. Not desire.

Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.

Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.

“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”

You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”

It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees. 

He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.

“That one?”

You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.

He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.

“Oh.”

Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.

You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”

He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”

“No, like. A lot a lot.”

He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.

Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”

He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.

You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”

He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.

Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.

The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”

You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”

Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”

“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.

Wet.

When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”

He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”

He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”

Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.

Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.

“You good?” he checks in again.

You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”

The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”

“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”

You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.

“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”

You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”

He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.

He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”

You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.

“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”

You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”

Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”

Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.

“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.

You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”

He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.

It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.

Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.

“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”

He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”

His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.

“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”

But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”

Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”

You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.

Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.

The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.

He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.

You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.

He should stop.

Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.

He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.

You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup. 

He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.

“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”

You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.

“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”

He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”

Your face burns.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.

The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.

Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.

“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”

When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.

Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.

Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core. 

He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.

Your cry breaks sharp in the air.

“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”

You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”

Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.

His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”

Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.

Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.

You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.

“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”

He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.

You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this. 

You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else. 

How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?

This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.

He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.

But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—

Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.

And he still won’t kiss you.

Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil. 

The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.

You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.

Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”

You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out. 

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”

You glance at him, waiting.

“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”

Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.

“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”

You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh. 

Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”

You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.” 

Does it sting to hear? Of course.

But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man. 

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat: 

Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐

box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.

[formulafanfics13]

Choke On It, Pretty - OP81 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: Oscar Piastri looks quiet. Polite. Sweet. And he is... most of the time. But tonight, you push him past that boyish charm, and it turns out your sweet Aussie boyfriend has a serious fucking problem, he loves using your mouth. Loves watching you gag. Loves holding your head still and whispering filth as you choke on his cock like it’s the only thing that matters. Warnings: smut, established relationship, dom!Oscar, facefucking kink, rough oral (m receiving), spit, gagging, light hair pulling, filthy talk, praise/degradation mix, deepthroating, choking, tears, powerplay

Oscar always asked before. Even the first time he pushed your head down with his hand, so gently it barely registered, he’d paused, pulled back, checked your eyes, kissed your forehead, and murmured, “Only if you want, baby.”

But that was before. Before tonight. Before you climbed onto his lap in the McLaren suite with a pout and a whine and those soft, teasing eyes, grinding your hips down like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. Before you dared to murmur, low in his ear, “You’re too nice to fuck me how I want, Osc.”

That’s what snapped it. That’s what ruined him.

Now you were kneeling on the carpet, hands cuffed behind your back with his belt, your mascara running, mouth wide open while Oscar stood over you shirtless and flushed, running his thumb across your bottom lip like it was a weapon.

“Too nice?” he said, voice low and not sweet. “You think I’m too nice?”

You nodded, giggling even with spit dripping from your chin. “Kinda, yeah.”

He didn’t smile. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of your hair, tilted your face up, and said, very softly, “Open.”

You obeyed. And that’s when he started using you. There was no hesitation. No slow build-up. No prep. Just his cock shoved into your mouth in one smooth, deep-throated thrust that made your eyes fly wide and your whole body jerk.

“Yeah,” Oscar groaned, hips twitching as your throat tightened around him. “That’s it. Let me hear it.”

You gagged. He didn’t stop. Just held your head still, both hands buried in your hair now, fucking your mouth like it belonged to him. Like you did.

“Wanted this, didn’t you?” he hissed. “You wanted to see what too nice turns into.”

Your answer was a wet, choked sob around his length, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as he rocked deeper, rougher, harder. Your eyes were streaming. Your thighs clenched together. Your whole body felt like it was buzzing.

“God, look at you,” Oscar breathed. “Tears, drool, fuck, you’re so messy for me.”

He pulled out just long enough for you to gasp for air, a line of spit connecting your mouth to the flushed tip of his cock. But before you could say a word, before you could even think, he was back in your mouth, hips snapping forward with a growl. “Choke on it,” he muttered. “Choke on me like a good girl.”

You did. Again and again. Gagging, sobbing, taking it because he wanted it, because Oscar, your usually quiet, sweet boy, had snapped a wire and gone feral.

He tilted your chin again. Slowed for a second. Pressed so deep you couldn’t breathe. Just held you there. “Look at me,” he ordered.

You looked. Eyes glassy. Drool running down your chest. His mouth twitched. “Prettiest little cockslut I’ve ever seen.”

You moaned around him. He pulled back with a groan, stroking his spit-slick cock with one hand, staring down at you like you were art. “You want me to come in your mouth?”

You nodded fast, desperate. He grinned. “Too fucking bad.”

He reached down, unhooked his belt from your wrists, yanked you up into his arms and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck that soaked little cunt instead. And when I come, you’re gonna taste it anyway.”

[saudisack]

Oscar smut where everyone thinks him and his girlfriend are sweet and vanilla but they’re absolutely filthy and either someone walks in on them or Oscar accidentally sends a sex tape to a grid group 🙂‍↕️

exposed

p in v | smut | mirror sex | filming kink | sex tape | bent over | ass eating (fem) | oral (fem) | fingering (fem) | ass fingering?? (also fem..) | super cutie aftercare | slight exhibition kink?? | hair pulling

the hotel room is dimly lit. he’s showered, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips— v-line visible and his slutty waist sweaty. his post race winning smirk plastered on his face.

you’re curled up on the bed, short lacy slip on, legs bare, your hearts already pounding because you know that look. you’re about to get fucked silly.

he’s walking up to you, hands in pockets, eyes raking over your bare thighs and smirking.

“wore my team shirt today huh?” he says quietly.

you nod.

“looked so good baby.”

“put it back on.” he carries on.

you blink, confused. “now?”

“yeah,”

he murmurs, slowly sitting on the bed and sliding his hands up and down you with such gentleness it almost made you feel a false sense of security, like he wasn’t going to be pressing your face into the sheets later on.

“take everything off and put on that shirt again.”

he mumbles sternly, smiling and looking you up and down.

there it was.

the video starts blurry— oscar adjusting the phone camera propped on the dresser, switching it to front view.

smiling sharply and pressing you into the very uncomfortable dresser. grinning at the camera, maintaining eye contact and kissing down your spine, holding your hips.

he’s eventually trailing down to your ass, kissing your hole and barely managing to slide his tongue through the tight entrance.

eating out your ass, god it was so hot you thought, filming yourselves— your arms clinging on the dressed, grabbing anything to get some sensibility.

“shhh baby, just let it happen yeah? doing so good f’me.”

you’re whining at his words, his own merch perched up your chest and tits spilling out from under where it’s bunched up, hips being held up by his heavy hands and ass basically eaten into oblivion.

“o-oh god oscar- please fuckk-“

you moaned out, completely blissed out from the relentless swirling from his wet muscle breaching your rim.

“be quiet f’me baby. gotta make you cum so I can actually fuckin fit.”

you gasp out at his fingers prodding your hole— mouth moving down to your dripping cunt, lapping up your juices and licking through your folds, his fingers from one hand in your ass, other hands digits in your cunt.

“yeah? you gonna cum for me darling?”

you nod, caught off guard by his relentless finger-fucking, mewling out at the sensations he was providing you.

you squirt so hard it makes him weak, his mouth covered with your juices, chest covered aswell. he’s lapping it up and rising to pull your hips closer to him. pulling your hair to look at yourself in the mirror, hair messy, eyes watering and his chin covered with your cum.

“look how pretty you look baby, my little slut.”

he’s spitting on your pussy one final time before dragging his sweatpants down to release his pulsating cock, red and leaking at the tip. he’s smacking it against your clit and watching you absolutely shriek at the one on one taps he’s consulting you with. finally pushing in through your folds, breaching your warm entrance and groaning at the tightness, while you on the other hand are practically screaming at the stretch, being soo thick that he has to spit on it more. landing a direct hit to where your walls were gripping him so hard it was like his soul was being sucked out via his dick.

dragging your hair back even more, pushing in harshly, reaching your cervix with every thrust. grabbing your neck with one hand pulling you back to see the mirror.

“there you go baby, watch yourself break for me.”

he’s smiling at the camera, teeth on display and eyes flicking back to your stretched out cunt, wet heat wrapped around him. he’s grunting as he’s pounding into you from behind, watching yourselves in the mirror in front of you.

“yeah you like that huh? like seeing yourself fall apart f’me?”

he’s hitting all the good spots, so deep inside you you think he’s gonna bruise your fucking cervix. your legs shaking and body quivering, eyes rolls back so hard from his dead-on thrusts and absolutely filthy dirty talk he’s whispering in your ear.

“gonna fucking cum? gonna cum on my cock darling?”

“go on then, fucking do it, cum for me.”

“cum on my fucking cock.”

and you do, eyes rolls back so far he thinks you’ve died, legs spasming and you’re mewling his name, squirting all over his thighs and chest even more, he’s tugging your shirt down so he can see his name plastering along your back, finally hitting your cervix one more time and cumming deep, deep inside you.

after a few minutes of silence and his head rested on your spine, he pulls out, picking you up and puts you on the bed, grabbing the phone and spreading your legs to show the camera how much cum was leaking out from your absolutely spent pussy.

“god.. so good for me baby.”

he’s saying as he spread your folds with two fingers, your hips bucking in overstimulation and he groans sooo loudly.

“fuck… just look at that.”

he’s giving you the camera, your shaky hands taking it, confused.

until he started lapping at your pussy again.

“just cleaning you up like I should baby.. relax..”

he’s lapping up your and his juices mixed together with subtle growls and whines, looking up at you, one hand tightly wrapped around the camera, other rotating between tugging his hair, grinding his face into you and rubbing your clit as he pushes your thighs further apart. smiling up at you as you cum one more time, thighs squeezing around his head but he spreads them open once again to finish his job.

“there you go darling. all cleaned up yeah?”

you’re smiling as you cut off the video, he’s grabbing you and pushing you on the bed as he wraps his arms around your sore body, kissing you all over playfully as he takes off your his shirt.

“I’ll airdrop it to you.”

and so he does— right? or did he somehow accidentally click the wrong contact?

you guys wake up the next morning, spent and used.

“osc I don’t think my legs work anymore..”

he chuckles and pulls you on top of him.

“it’s okay baby, just relax. we can just cuddle and binge watch movies all day yeah?”

you nod and he grabs his phone, checking the time to see like… 40 notifications all from the f1 grid group chat, weird, he thought.

so he checks them and immediately gasps, face pale and shaking his head with dread..

“what? what’s wrong baby? are you okay?”

“um.. I accidentally sent the video from last night to the group chat.”

you’re both sitting at the edge of the hotel bed, silent, staring at oscar’s phone like it just announced your funeral.

he’s slack-jawed. borderline catatonic.

you’re clutching a pillow to your chest, blinking at the screen while the notifications still roll in.

“why is max just sending please over and over again?” you whisper.

“i don’t know,” oscar groans, burying his face in his hands. “i don’t fucking know.”

you laugh super loud, winkng at him, “maybe they all want a piece of me yeah?”

“oh my god…”

you pat his shoulder, trying not to laugh. “i think lewis complimented your stroke game.”

“i’m going to die.”

you peek at the screen again.

“lando saved the video to favorites.”

“OH MY GOD—”

he flops backwards onto the bed, mortified, arms over his face.

“they’re never gonna let this go. i’m gonna show up to the paddock and they’re all gonna wink at me.”

“probably,” you say, deadpan. “george is literally live-posting his emotional downfall in the chat. he said you’ve ruined sex for him.”

oscar groans louder.

“alex said he opened it in the garage osc..”

“WE WERE SO LOUD.”

“you were. i was performing.”

“you called me your ‘little slut’ in 4K.”

he groans so hard it vibrates the mattress.

“this is how my career ends,” he mutters. “not with a crash, not with a scandal, but with my dick on display in front of half the grid.”

you bite your lip, failing to hold back a giggle. “at least your form was great. i mean— solid rhythm. angles. deep thrusts. i’d rate it 10/10.”

he glares at you from beneath the pillow.

“you’re not helping.”

you grin. “you were so cocky in that video. ‘look how pretty you are, baby’—like be serious.”

he yanks the pillow off his face and tosses it at you. “i meant it!”

“well thank you baby, you’re pretty too y’know.” you smiled and put your hand on his thigh.

“yeah yeah. now I gotta make it up to you right?” he smirks and you straddle him..

“yeah.. I think you do..” he smiles and pins you down on the bed—

“well.. we can make some arrangements.”

[the-flaneur]

leaked! | pt2

pairing: f1 grid x reader [smau]

ft. lando norris, oscar piastri, george russell, daniel ricciardo

summary: nothing on the internet ever truly disappears. including some leaked images of some certain risque behaviour...

warnings: very suggestive and N*FW images

a/n: for all of you who wanted more of the grid....should i continue it with some more drivers?

[prev] [masterlist] [requests]

lando

-> instagram + twitter

landonorris

-> messages

oscar

-> instagram + twitter

oscarpiastri

-> messages

george

-> instagram + twitter

georgerussell63

-> messages

daniel

-> instagram + twitter

-> messages

permanent f1 taglist (comment or msg me to join)

@charlesgirl16 @tallrock35 @sweate-r-weathe-r @unlikelystay @alex-wotton

@daisyfreecs @euphorihan @louloucs @oikarma

© the-flanuer || do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platform.

[mywritersmind]

COOLDOWN - LN4&OP81

summary : Locked in a cooldown room with two teammates in orange is not how you expected to be celebrating your win. Definitely not expected, but welcomed.

listen up : smut!! taking abt threats. under lockdown, p in v. oral (m receiving), threesome, not proofread!!!!! i hope this is hot idk

words : 2547

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The three of you have been stuck for almost an hour. When the cameras cut out, so did the lights, then the doors locked and each of you got a million alerts to stay put.

Some threat was made, apparently a big one because the whole paddock is in lockdown just after the race ended. As scary as it sounds, you’re not worried.

The cooldown room is arguably the best place to be stuck. A backup light that drapes the room in a hazy yellow glow, No media, No fans, and two drivers in bright orange slumped in their chairs.

You can tell Lando is the most bored, stretching every five seconds and saying random things to try and start conversation.

Oscar is on the other side of you, his race suit matching Lando’s down the way they have it undone. His hair is a mess still, his hands behind his head and making you peak at his accentuated back.

The two men have been in your life for a year now, both too intrigued for their own good. “Have you guys ever had sex in a car?” Lando turns his head to both of you, getting to a certain point of insanity especially because how good you both look in his eyes.

“Us…?” Oscar says questionably.

Lando rolls his eyes, pulling off his cap and throwing it at his teammate, “No you muppet. Separately.” he smirks just as a rogue curl falls onto his forehead, “Unless…”

“Yeah.” Oscar answers quickly, hoping to shut him up, “Not with her.”

“Have you?” You can’t help but ask, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at the dark haired driver.

“I asked first.” he shoots back, something dancing in his eyes that tell you keep going, while everything inside you screams to stop.

“I crossed the finish line first.” You tilt your head, a slick reminder of why you’re sitting between the two.

They’d been in your rear view the whole race, swapping positions and fighting for that top step. They’d had a bad feeling just after lap one, as if they were in sync in realizing that you were not going to give either the chance to even try to fight you.

“Then cut me some slack, winner.”

Your eyes narrow, “I don’t like the idea of you knowing anything about my sex life.”

He just smirks, shrugging as if you’re the best of friends. “Seems great to me.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, giving in, more interested in his answer than yours. “Yes.”

“Damn.” He mumbles, “I feel left out.”

Oscar looks genuinely surprised at this, his brows furrowing as he leans forward in his chair, “You’ve never had sex in a car?”

You laugh, “That’s surprising.”

Lando’s jaw drops, letting out a scoff, “Why?”

You bite back a smile, eyeing Oscar who’s already looking at you. “You seem like the guy to christen a new car with an orgasm.” Oscar laughs at this, leaning back in his chair while Lando grins.

“Maybe I'll start.” He shrugs, moving his arms to drape over the back of the chair.

The younger of team Mclaren runs a hand over his face, “If we ever get out of here.”

“You offering, Piastri?” You can’t help but joke, the man eyeing you with no change in his expression except a quirk of his brow.

You stare at each other for one, weighted second, the silence being broken by Lando who’s seemingly taken the role of entertainer, “Where’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?”

“Are these all going to be related to sex?” Oscar pauses to ask his friend.

“Answer it, Osc.” Lando finds himself grinning now, looking at Oscar’s sudden shift in manner.

“It can’t be that crazy.” You say, shifting to the side and starting to get uncomfortable in the race suit.

“I don’t know… Oscar’s pretty freaky.” Lando says, looking directly at Oscar with a sneaky look in his eye.

You turn to him, raising a brow and not missing the way he smirks, “Speaking from experience?”

They both go quiet. Now this… you didn’t expect.

“Holy shit, have you guys fucked?” You laugh out loud. Wow, and you thought this day couldn’t get any better.

“No.” Oscar replies just as Lando shakes his head, “No way.”

You narrow your eyes at both of them, “But something has happened… right?” Lando shifts in his seat while Oscar just looks at the floor, “Don’t be shy. From what i’ve heard- it’s a common occurrence in teammates. Late nights… long meetings… hotel rooms…” They glance at each other. Oscar blushes. “I’m totally right, aren’t I?”

“So what, you’re fucking Verstappen then?”

You scoff, “I don’t do guys with children under twenty.” Lando is about to go back to your comment but you speak first, “Let me guess. Jacking eachother off? Or in the same room? Celebratory blow jobs? Don’t tell me you’ve shared a girl-”

“If we say yes will you stop?” Oscar has his head in his hands, his voice muffled and your smile growing.

“Which one?” You're pushing their limits but you don’t care.

Lando eyes you, “We’ve never shared a girl.” Oscar is shaking his head which still resides in his hands, the tips of his ears pink.

“You’ve done everything else?” Suddenly the room gets very hot- or maybe that’s just you. The thought of the two of them, desperate and needing each other, makes you squeeze your thighs together.

You hadn't realized that Oscar took his head out of his hands, his eyes blaring into you now and reading you like a fucking book.

“I had sex on a ferris wheel.” You say, desperate to change the subject suddenly.

“Jet ski. We flipped.” Lando says, looking at Oscar and tapping his foot.

“Principal's office.” He bites out, “Lost my virginity there.”

“I always knew I liked you.” You grin, tapping your nail on the armrest.

Lando cuts in, “How about another game? Truth or dare?”

You cross your legs and nod, “Truth.”

“Hottest guy on the grid.”

“It isn’t between you two… if that’s what you’re hoping.”

He shrugs, “Just hoping for truth.”

“Sainz.”

Lando scoffs, “He’s not even-”

“Hey! You asked for the truth.” Oscar laughs, making you look at him, “Something funny?”

“No, I agree.”

“What!?” Lando says soundly, “Hold on a second-”

“It’s the hair right!?”

He nods, “Body too.”

“I hate you both.”

“You’re a horrible liar, Lan.” Oscar says and it’s one of those moments when you remember how close the actually are.

Your mind goes straight back to them hooking up.

“So are you!” He argues, “Rivalry’s aren’t as hot as you think.”

“Truth or dare, Lando.” You say, an idea already in your head which is completely dependent on how reckless Lando is feeling today.

“…Dare.”

Oscar shakes his head, as if he knows what’s coming.

You just smirk. “Kiss Oscar.”

He doesn’t look worried, if anything, he looks pleased. Lando stands and as you motion Oscar to get up, he sends you an annoyed look. He’s not fooling either of you because as soon as Lando pulls him in for the kiss, Oscar definitely isn’t complaining.

You’re staring up at them. It’s probably the most insane thing you’ve ever seen, but then again, it seems so fitting. Lando holds the back of Oscar’s neck as if he’s done this a million times, he probably has.

Your mouth is slightly open, watching Oscar’s tongue meet Lando’s in a sensual and slow type of need.

Lando pulls away first, plopping down onto the floor and using his chair as a headrest, “Happy?”

“Horny?” Oscar coughs, looking directly at you when he does it. “Truth or dare, Y/n?”

The air is thick with tension, the faded light making both of them glow as they watch you. You say it confidently, “Dare.” but as soon as you see Lando’s smirk, your heart rate rises.

“Kiss one of us.”

It’s simple- it’s payback. It’s something that you can’t do. “No.”

“You’re chickening out?” Lando says.

“No, as in, I'm not choosing.” You shrug, unzipping your suit a bit more, “You pick.” They look at eachother, then you.

“Unfair.”

“Why? You both want me that bad?” You say it as a joke, carrying out the words with a laugh. They’re not laughing.

It’s Oscar who’s brave enough to say it, “Yeah,” he glances at Lando, “we do.”

“I-” none of the drivers have shown interest. Maybe it’s because of professionalism, maybe it’s because you’re too new and too female. This… is dangerous territory. “Arm wrestle.”

It seemed ridiculous at first, to them at least. But one end goal was always in your mind, and that is not having to choose one.

They’re up in a second, standing on either side of the table mounted to the wall’s corner. You stand, watching them lean over and join hands.

“We’re really doing this?” Oscar tilts his head at his teammate who purses his lips and nods towards you, theirs eyes still on eachother.

“Look at her.” When he does, every part of you feels it. Oscar Piastri never gives a meaningless look, that’s what worries you.

Lando’s hand is bigger than Oscar’s. Even though the three of you haven’t been close, it's something you’ve seen repeatedly either in real life or on social media. Maybe you’ve thought about it repeatedly too.

Both of their arms flex, fighting for dominance when you’re a bit distracted by their hands.

You roll your eyes when they take too long, sitting in Lando’s place on the floor and appraising the rest of them. Oscar’s taller, bigger… but Lando’s got the energy to overpower him even if he’s a brat.

Lando wins, locking his wrist and pinning his teammate's hand to the table, “Shit.” Oscar mumbles, stretching out his arm afterwards.

Lando scrambles to get next to you, waiting with puppy dog eyes and his face close to yours. You laugh, looking at Oscar who shrugs, sitting across from you both and nodding at you to kiss him.

God. That race now feels like fucking foreplay.

You kiss him soft, sweet. You kiss him like he’s the only thing in the world and the second his hand meets your waist, you stop. Lando pouts, a look that gets turned into confusion as you sit up and turn your attention to Oscar.

“I hate choosing.” Is all you say before crawling to the second man in orange and pulling him in. You can tell he’s trying to be soft, but you don’t want that for him. You grab his face and kiss him harder, feeling his hand on your ass and letting it stay there.

You hear Lando whine behind you as you straddle Oscar, hear Oscar groan as you grind into him.

Oscar’s lips meet your neck, allowing you the flexibility to look back at Lando. His hand is palming his underwear, his suit to his knees and his mouth slightly opened.

It’s so hot and so fucking dirty that you kiss Oscar again. “C’mon…” Lando whines, “I won the arm wrestling. I beat him in the race. I deserve it more.” he cuts right to the chase.

You pull away from Oscar who immediately works on pulling down your suit. “You’re a brat.”

Oscar pulls it off, only fireproofs and your pink lace thong left. They both groan.

You’re still on Oscars lap, his lips on your neck as you beckon Lando over. He comes right up to your face, trying to kiss you and getting rejected by a whispered, “You jealous?”

He nods, just nods.

Oscar cuts in now, “Of which one of us.”

Lando looks at you. Then Oscar. His eyes flicking between the two people who are responsible for his hard on. “Both.”

You kiss him then, hand going straight for his dick while simultaneously grinding on Oscars. “I think I dreamt about this once.” Lando mumbles into the kiss, making you and Oscar both laugh.

“Wanna check off that last thing on the list?” You ask, your mind consumed with the two men in front of you and how they would feel in you.

They both nod, Lando pulling off his fireproof as if it’s betraying him. Their lips meet in a strangled messy way, unconsciously moving your hips over Oscar again while Lando, fully distracted, tries to pull your top off.

“Want some help with that?” you say in a breathy voice, watching Lando twitch under his underwear.

“Thought that was my job.” Oscar says, smirking as Lando pulls out his dick, clearly not caring who helps. He’s standing in between you and with one wink, you and Oscar lick the sides of his cock.

He grabs your hair, Oscar’s shoulder, practically begging already. You take him fully in your mouth before Oscar can say anything about it. The feeling of rocking against a clothed, hard dick while having another one in your mouth is something you will never forget.

You feel your panties getting pushed aside, Oscar’s fingers, slim but mighty, slide into you with a choked groan. It’s a mess of wet and needy people wanting each other, Oscar taking over for Lando while still fingering you.

You pull Oscar’s dick out, too needy when his fingers leave you to meet Lando’s mouth. He’s hard as a rock, bigger than Lando but slimmer, making you practically scream when you sink down on him.

He moans on Lando’s dick, a sound so erotic that you could come right then and there. “Holy fuck.” Lando’s legs are shaking, his eyes meeting yours as he cums in Oscar's mouth.

Lando kneels again, kissing you hard and fast while Oscar, his mouth a bit sticky, throws his head back. Lando pulls your shirt up, kissing on your tits while you bounce up and down. You reach for his dick, it twitching and partially hard already.

“Take me so well…” Oscar groans, kissing you sloppily.

“So hot.” Lando groans, “I call next.” You don’t wait for you or Oscar to finish, rising up so the sudden feeling of him makes you feel empty.

You’ve got your sights set on Lando, ready to really see who can beat you in something, when someone bangs on the door.

You freeze. The lights are on. When did the lights come on?

“How are you three doing in there? Unlock the door. Situations over. Podiums still on.”

You all three swear. You get your clothes back on first, Lando and Oscar far slower and more obviously turned on.

“We can’t go out like this-” Oscar tries to readjust his hard and dripping dick.

“That’s what you’re worried about? You were inside of her and I was so close-” Oscar slaps the back of Lando’s head as he zips up his suit.

“That’s one way of letting the time pass.” You breathe out, brushing down your hair and smiling.

Lando groans, “Unfair- you look perfect. You’re fucking glowing! We’re fucking blue balled and a mess.”

“Have fun out there.” You drift your hand over Lando’s chin, fixing Oscar’s hair, “Drown me in champagne and pretend it’s cum.”

You unlock the door, practically skipping out and leaving them with their dicks hard, lips read, and jaws on the floor.

[yourlittlebunnyy]

NOT PR SAFE PART 2

all the times lando and yn have been unhinged on each other’s socials

FR43’s version - LN4’s (part 1) version

formulaone just posted

liked by mclaren, landonorris, ynusername and 629.901 others

formulaone lando norris has arrived🧡

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user1 omggg the leather jacket 😻

ynusername raw next question

formulaone you will not thirst under our posts

ynusername i can and i will

ynusername put a child inside of me sir

user2 that escalated quickly

user3 he looks too good🙏

landonorris just posted.

liked by ynusername, mclaren and 389.124 others

landonorris my monster is now available, enjoy🧡

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user4 i cant wait to try it

user5 available where?????? i want to try it so bad

ynusername both lips smiled

ynusername oh… w-whats… what is h-happening to m-me… 🧍‍♀️….🥤

oscarpiastri i cant fucking believe this

ynusername handle me like that monster

landonorris you dont have to ask twice baby

FIA you are both fined.

charlesleclerc honestly it was about time.

maxverstappen1 the only time the stewards to something good🙏

user6 real

ynusername just posted.

liked by landonorris, mclaren and 103.390 others

ynusername im so back🧡🏎️

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user7 our diva is back in the paddock YEAHHH

landonorris flash us

oscarpiastri PLEASE DONT

landonorris come to the motorhome PLEASE

landonorris bedsheets are soaked

ynusername in what???😏😏😏

landonorris your fav juice😏

charlesleclerc 😟😟😟

McLaren it was good to have you back🧡 (zak wants to talk to you both. AGAIN.)

landonorris you guys just dont want me to love my gf😒

georgerussell mate… you just commented that your sheets are soaked in cum

landonorris yeah that’s real love right there

ynusername none understands but i do dw babe

user8 looks like she’s also back to traumatize the drivers

user9 hi diva we missed you

bonus: lando’s interview😛

taglist: @allywthsr @charlesgirl16 @notmiaspam @raynetargaryan2

[mywritersmind]

COOLDOWN - LN4&OP81

summary : Locked in a cooldown room with two teammates in orange is not how you expected to be celebrating your win. Definitely not expected, but welcomed.

listen up : smut!! taking abt threats. under lockdown, p in v. oral (m receiving), threesome, not proofread!!!!! i hope this is hot idk

words : 2547

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The three of you have been stuck for almost an hour. When the cameras cut out, so did the lights, then the doors locked and each of you got a million alerts to stay put.

Some threat was made, apparently a big one because the whole paddock is in lockdown just after the race ended. As scary as it sounds, you’re not worried.

The cooldown room is arguably the best place to be stuck. A backup light that drapes the room in a hazy yellow glow, No media, No fans, and two drivers in bright orange slumped in their chairs.

You can tell Lando is the most bored, stretching every five seconds and saying random things to try and start conversation.

Oscar is on the other side of you, his race suit matching Lando’s down the way they have it undone. His hair is a mess still, his hands behind his head and making you peak at his accentuated back.

The two men have been in your life for a year now, both too intrigued for their own good. “Have you guys ever had sex in a car?” Lando turns his head to both of you, getting to a certain point of insanity especially because how good you both look in his eyes.

“Us…?” Oscar says questionably.

Lando rolls his eyes, pulling off his cap and throwing it at his teammate, “No you muppet. Separately.” he smirks just as a rogue curl falls onto his forehead, “Unless…”

“Yeah.” Oscar answers quickly, hoping to shut him up, “Not with her.”

“Have you?” You can’t help but ask, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at the dark haired driver.

“I asked first.” he shoots back, something dancing in his eyes that tell you keep going, while everything inside you screams to stop.

“I crossed the finish line first.” You tilt your head, a slick reminder of why you’re sitting between the two.

They’d been in your rear view the whole race, swapping positions and fighting for that top step. They’d had a bad feeling just after lap one, as if they were in sync in realizing that you were not going to give either the chance to even try to fight you.

“Then cut me some slack, winner.”

Your eyes narrow, “I don’t like the idea of you knowing anything about my sex life.”

He just smirks, shrugging as if you’re the best of friends. “Seems great to me.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, giving in, more interested in his answer than yours. “Yes.”

“Damn.” He mumbles, “I feel left out.”

Oscar looks genuinely surprised at this, his brows furrowing as he leans forward in his chair, “You’ve never had sex in a car?”

You laugh, “That’s surprising.”

Lando’s jaw drops, letting out a scoff, “Why?”

You bite back a smile, eyeing Oscar who’s already looking at you. “You seem like the guy to christen a new car with an orgasm.” Oscar laughs at this, leaning back in his chair while Lando grins.

“Maybe I'll start.” He shrugs, moving his arms to drape over the back of the chair.

The younger of team Mclaren runs a hand over his face, “If we ever get out of here.”

“You offering, Piastri?” You can’t help but joke, the man eyeing you with no change in his expression except a quirk of his brow.

You stare at each other for one, weighted second, the silence being broken by Lando who’s seemingly taken the role of entertainer, “Where’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?”

“Are these all going to be related to sex?” Oscar pauses to ask his friend.

“Answer it, Osc.” Lando finds himself grinning now, looking at Oscar’s sudden shift in manner.

“It can’t be that crazy.” You say, shifting to the side and starting to get uncomfortable in the race suit.

“I don’t know… Oscar’s pretty freaky.” Lando says, looking directly at Oscar with a sneaky look in his eye.

You turn to him, raising a brow and not missing the way he smirks, “Speaking from experience?”

They both go quiet. Now this… you didn’t expect.

“Holy shit, have you guys fucked?” You laugh out loud. Wow, and you thought this day couldn’t get any better.

“No.” Oscar replies just as Lando shakes his head, “No way.”

You narrow your eyes at both of them, “But something has happened… right?” Lando shifts in his seat while Oscar just looks at the floor, “Don’t be shy. From what i’ve heard- it’s a common occurrence in teammates. Late nights… long meetings… hotel rooms…” They glance at each other. Oscar blushes. “I’m totally right, aren’t I?”

“So what, you’re fucking Verstappen then?”

You scoff, “I don’t do guys with children under twenty.” Lando is about to go back to your comment but you speak first, “Let me guess. Jacking eachother off? Or in the same room? Celebratory blow jobs? Don’t tell me you’ve shared a girl-”

“If we say yes will you stop?” Oscar has his head in his hands, his voice muffled and your smile growing.

“Which one?” You're pushing their limits but you don’t care.

Lando eyes you, “We’ve never shared a girl.” Oscar is shaking his head which still resides in his hands, the tips of his ears pink.

“You’ve done everything else?” Suddenly the room gets very hot- or maybe that’s just you. The thought of the two of them, desperate and needing each other, makes you squeeze your thighs together.

You hadn't realized that Oscar took his head out of his hands, his eyes blaring into you now and reading you like a fucking book.

“I had sex on a ferris wheel.” You say, desperate to change the subject suddenly.

“Jet ski. We flipped.” Lando says, looking at Oscar and tapping his foot.

“Principal's office.” He bites out, “Lost my virginity there.”

“I always knew I liked you.” You grin, tapping your nail on the armrest.

Lando cuts in, “How about another game? Truth or dare?”

You cross your legs and nod, “Truth.”

“Hottest guy on the grid.”

“It isn’t between you two… if that’s what you’re hoping.”

He shrugs, “Just hoping for truth.”

“Sainz.”

Lando scoffs, “He’s not even-”

“Hey! You asked for the truth.” Oscar laughs, making you look at him, “Something funny?”

“No, I agree.”

“What!?” Lando says soundly, “Hold on a second-”

“It’s the hair right!?”

He nods, “Body too.”

“I hate you both.”

“You’re a horrible liar, Lan.” Oscar says and it’s one of those moments when you remember how close the actually are.

Your mind goes straight back to them hooking up.

“So are you!” He argues, “Rivalry’s aren’t as hot as you think.”

“Truth or dare, Lando.” You say, an idea already in your head which is completely dependent on how reckless Lando is feeling today.

“…Dare.”

Oscar shakes his head, as if he knows what’s coming.

You just smirk. “Kiss Oscar.”

He doesn’t look worried, if anything, he looks pleased. Lando stands and as you motion Oscar to get up, he sends you an annoyed look. He’s not fooling either of you because as soon as Lando pulls him in for the kiss, Oscar definitely isn’t complaining.

You’re staring up at them. It’s probably the most insane thing you’ve ever seen, but then again, it seems so fitting. Lando holds the back of Oscar’s neck as if he’s done this a million times, he probably has.

Your mouth is slightly open, watching Oscar’s tongue meet Lando’s in a sensual and slow type of need.

Lando pulls away first, plopping down onto the floor and using his chair as a headrest, “Happy?”

“Horny?” Oscar coughs, looking directly at you when he does it. “Truth or dare, Y/n?”

The air is thick with tension, the faded light making both of them glow as they watch you. You say it confidently, “Dare.” but as soon as you see Lando’s smirk, your heart rate rises.

“Kiss one of us.”

It’s simple- it’s payback. It’s something that you can’t do. “No.”

“You’re chickening out?” Lando says.

“No, as in, I'm not choosing.” You shrug, unzipping your suit a bit more, “You pick.” They look at eachother, then you.

“Unfair.”

“Why? You both want me that bad?” You say it as a joke, carrying out the words with a laugh. They’re not laughing.

It’s Oscar who’s brave enough to say it, “Yeah,” he glances at Lando, “we do.”

“I-” none of the drivers have shown interest. Maybe it’s because of professionalism, maybe it’s because you’re too new and too female. This… is dangerous territory. “Arm wrestle.”

It seemed ridiculous at first, to them at least. But one end goal was always in your mind, and that is not having to choose one.

They’re up in a second, standing on either side of the table mounted to the wall’s corner. You stand, watching them lean over and join hands.

“We’re really doing this?” Oscar tilts his head at his teammate who purses his lips and nods towards you, theirs eyes still on eachother.

“Look at her.” When he does, every part of you feels it. Oscar Piastri never gives a meaningless look, that’s what worries you.

Lando’s hand is bigger than Oscar’s. Even though the three of you haven’t been close, it's something you’ve seen repeatedly either in real life or on social media. Maybe you’ve thought about it repeatedly too.

Both of their arms flex, fighting for dominance when you’re a bit distracted by their hands.

You roll your eyes when they take too long, sitting in Lando’s place on the floor and appraising the rest of them. Oscar’s taller, bigger… but Lando’s got the energy to overpower him even if he’s a brat.

Lando wins, locking his wrist and pinning his teammate's hand to the table, “Shit.” Oscar mumbles, stretching out his arm afterwards.

Lando scrambles to get next to you, waiting with puppy dog eyes and his face close to yours. You laugh, looking at Oscar who shrugs, sitting across from you both and nodding at you to kiss him.

God. That race now feels like fucking foreplay.

You kiss him soft, sweet. You kiss him like he’s the only thing in the world and the second his hand meets your waist, you stop. Lando pouts, a look that gets turned into confusion as you sit up and turn your attention to Oscar.

“I hate choosing.” Is all you say before crawling to the second man in orange and pulling him in. You can tell he’s trying to be soft, but you don’t want that for him. You grab his face and kiss him harder, feeling his hand on your ass and letting it stay there.

You hear Lando whine behind you as you straddle Oscar, hear Oscar groan as you grind into him.

Oscar’s lips meet your neck, allowing you the flexibility to look back at Lando. His hand is palming his underwear, his suit to his knees and his mouth slightly opened.

It’s so hot and so fucking dirty that you kiss Oscar again. “C’mon…” Lando whines, “I won the arm wrestling. I beat him in the race. I deserve it more.” he cuts right to the chase.

You pull away from Oscar who immediately works on pulling down your suit. “You’re a brat.”

Oscar pulls it off, only fireproofs and your pink lace thong left. They both groan.

You’re still on Oscars lap, his lips on your neck as you beckon Lando over. He comes right up to your face, trying to kiss you and getting rejected by a whispered, “You jealous?”

He nods, just nods.

Oscar cuts in now, “Of which one of us.”

Lando looks at you. Then Oscar. His eyes flicking between the two people who are responsible for his hard on. “Both.”

You kiss him then, hand going straight for his dick while simultaneously grinding on Oscars. “I think I dreamt about this once.” Lando mumbles into the kiss, making you and Oscar both laugh.

“Wanna check off that last thing on the list?” You ask, your mind consumed with the two men in front of you and how they would feel in you.

They both nod, Lando pulling off his fireproof as if it’s betraying him. Their lips meet in a strangled messy way, unconsciously moving your hips over Oscar again while Lando, fully distracted, tries to pull your top off.

“Want some help with that?” you say in a breathy voice, watching Lando twitch under his underwear.

“Thought that was my job.” Oscar says, smirking as Lando pulls out his dick, clearly not caring who helps. He’s standing in between you and with one wink, you and Oscar lick the sides of his cock.

He grabs your hair, Oscar’s shoulder, practically begging already. You take him fully in your mouth before Oscar can say anything about it. The feeling of rocking against a clothed, hard dick while having another one in your mouth is something you will never forget.

You feel your panties getting pushed aside, Oscar’s fingers, slim but mighty, slide into you with a choked groan. It’s a mess of wet and needy people wanting each other, Oscar taking over for Lando while still fingering you.

You pull Oscar’s dick out, too needy when his fingers leave you to meet Lando’s mouth. He’s hard as a rock, bigger than Lando but slimmer, making you practically scream when you sink down on him.

He moans on Lando’s dick, a sound so erotic that you could come right then and there. “Holy fuck.” Lando’s legs are shaking, his eyes meeting yours as he cums in Oscar's mouth.

Lando kneels again, kissing you hard and fast while Oscar, his mouth a bit sticky, throws his head back. Lando pulls your shirt up, kissing on your tits while you bounce up and down. You reach for his dick, it twitching and partially hard already.

“Take me so well…” Oscar groans, kissing you sloppily.

“So hot.” Lando groans, “I call next.” You don’t wait for you or Oscar to finish, rising up so the sudden feeling of him makes you feel empty.

You’ve got your sights set on Lando, ready to really see who can beat you in something, when someone bangs on the door.

You freeze. The lights are on. When did the lights come on?

“How are you three doing in there? Unlock the door. Situations over. Podiums still on.”

You all three swear. You get your clothes back on first, Lando and Oscar far slower and more obviously turned on.

“We can’t go out like this-” Oscar tries to readjust his hard and dripping dick.

“That’s what you’re worried about? You were inside of her and I was so close-” Oscar slaps the back of Lando’s head as he zips up his suit.

“That’s one way of letting the time pass.” You breathe out, brushing down your hair and smiling.

Lando groans, “Unfair- you look perfect. You’re fucking glowing! We’re fucking blue balled and a mess.”

“Have fun out there.” You drift your hand over Lando’s chin, fixing Oscar’s hair, “Drown me in champagne and pretend it’s cum.”

You unlock the door, practically skipping out and leaving them with their dicks hard, lips read, and jaws on the floor.

[yourlittlebunnyy]

NOT PR SAFE

all the times Lando and Yn have been unhinged on each other’s socials

FC43’s version

landonorris just posted

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landonorris summer 25’☀️🕶️

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user1 look at that tannnn

user2 oh he looks good

user3 where is yn?

ynusername my fingers are tired

landonorris guess i’ll have to do the work then

ynusername fuck yes

georgerussell fuck, no. what am i even reading here.

user1 yn and lando traumatizing the paddock here we go again ladies! 😭😭

ynusername the last pic just gave me an idea

landonorris yeah?

ynusername the next time the helmet stays on.

oscarpiastri honestly, yn, seek god

LN4_NATION just posted

liked by ynusername and 12.783 others

LN4_NATION lando’s jaw. that’s it. that’s the post.

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user4 yn in the likes lmaoo

ynusername i’m wet

landonorris should we take care of that now shouldn’t we?

user5 must have been the wind…

ynusername all 10 fingers

landonorris make it 20 xx

user5 why is no one saying anything this is insane

user6 you’re new here aren’t you? this is pretty normal, you’ll get used to it💜

mclaren zak just required a talk with you🥰

ynusername that ain’t stopping me babe

user6 he looks toooo good

Ynswife just posted.

liked by landonorris and 42.893 others

Ynswife yn facecard is just insane

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landonorris my wife

landonorris oh my god she’s perfect

landonorris and suddenly my phone is… on my left hand?

user7 what the hell

Ynswife oh!

landonorris facecard so lethal that backshots turn into frontshots💔

oscarpiastri lando you seriously need to get a grip

carlossainz what have you become…

danielricciardo well i guess little lando norris isn’t so little anymore

user8 her facecard shoul be studied frfr

user9 she’s so hot

landonorris and all mine, actually. but yeah, she’s hot asf

ynusername just posted.

liked by landonorris, ynbff and 528.892 others

ynusername my new album “manchild” out NOW!!! enjoy babes🤍🤍

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user10 lando already in the likes lol

landonorris gender is NOT the same as sex. gender is what you identify as, while sex is what i'll be having with YN YLN tonight. stay informed.

user11 LMAOOO LANDO WHAT IS THIS ☠️

oscarpiastri hey haha pls die i hate you haha

McLaren wow.

danielricciardo why the fuck you just keep getting even more creative with this shit

landonorris im on my knees for you

ynusername good😊 show me what that pretty tongue can do now

carlossainz i give up atp

user12 may this type of love FUCK ME

just some random tweets🎀

gonna make a part 2 SOON bc these are so fun to makeee

[charles-leclerizz]

KEEP IT QUIET - OP 81

on the runway : Oscar Piastri x younger!fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : smuttt!! (fem receiving! oral, dirty talk, praise, p in v, overstimulation, semi public (house setting)), older Oscar (early 20s, unspecified) x younger reader ( 19, its legal, ok?), brothers best friend trope

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : You've been integrated into the piastri family since your brother pushed Oscar into the sandbox and proceeded to roll toy trucks over the short, mousey child's back. fast forward many, many years- they were still thick as thieves, with your brother being a mechanic in the McLaren garage and his co-parter in crime being one of the drivers; and you, were the lame "younger sister" tag-along who was co-existing with your brother and Oscar in his home for the summer, working your first corporate job, whilst they enjoyed their down-time from the season. But what happens when you notice Oscar has been staring at you like he’s seconds from ruining both of your lives. and when he finally snaps, he does it with a hand over your mouth, and a whispered promise that you’re not gonna make a single sound.

designer notes : Well its a cliché but its MY cliche and you all are gonna like it, wether you want to or not, cause in this household we go out like soldiers. anyway, kisses xx

The hallway creaks under your socked feet as you pad toward the bathroom. It’s early - not quite sunrise, not quite night. You’re still half-asleep, and you’re not expecting anyone else to be up, just needing to quickly use the restroom.  

The door’s ajar. The light’s on. But your exhausted brain chalks it up that someone forgot to switch it off. 

So, you push it open, carelessly, clumsily.  

And there he is. 

Oscar. 

Steam clings to his back like the ghost of a shower - hot and recent, droplets slinking down the ripples of his muscles. A towel sits low on his hips, back dimpled arched into his skin, his hair dripping as he pats it dry with one hand. He’s facing the mirror but turns slightly at the sound of the door.  

The moment stills.  

His eyes drag up, then down. Not fast enough to play it off as polite. And not quick enough to play it off as surprise. 

You freeze, fingers still on the doorknob, oversized sleep shirt clinging to the tops of your thighs. No bra. Nothing but your skin beneath it. You blink once. Twice. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks. 

And that look says everything you’ve been ignoring for weeks. 

Because this summer has been long. And weird.  

You were only supposed to be here for a few weeks. 

A favour, really. Your summer internship at a soulless corporate firm happened to be fifteen minutes from the Piastri house. Your parents were away. Hotel rates in Melbourne were offensive. Oscar’s mum offered the spare rooms to your brother and you. It made sense. 

What didn’t make sense was how often Oscar looked at you like that. 

He’d been your brother’s best friend for years - a little awkward, a little polite. He’d always been more of a fixture than a real presence in your life, just some scruffy-haired boy who showed up in holiday photos and ate too many Weet-Bix. 

But he’s not a boy now. You barely noticed at first, how every summer he would rotate back into your life, slightly more tan, more muscular, more experienced.  

You weren’t entirely sure if he noticed how you changed, that was until now. You couldn’t deny his attention. Not when he would stand in the doorway, every time you would come back from work, leaning against the archway of the foyer, silently watching in a hoodie as you would bend down to peel off your heels, eyes dragging down your legs. Not when his gaze would catch on the sliver of cleavage that you would reveal when you would sigh and unbutton your shirt two buttons too far, talking with his mum about the “terrible Australian heat” and how the “paper thin walls” did nothing to help. 

He tries to hide it. He really does. 

But his jaw clenches. His ears go red. His eyes flick down when you speak and don’t come back up for a while. 

And you? You don’t help. 

You ask him what he's doing for the rest of summer, act surprised when he tells you he's just training and laying low. You sit too close on the couch during race replays. You walk barefoot into the kitchen in those tiny sleep shorts like you don’t notice him staring at your ass. 

He does stare. And you barely noticed the way his gaze would follow you. You thought it was fleeting curiosity.  

But now you’re seeing it clearly. 

Now you know. 

His mouth parts slightly, but he still hasn’t said a word. 

“I thought the bathroom was empty,” you say softly. You don’t step back. 

He nods, turning back to the mirror, eyes flicking to the curve of your legs in the reflection. “I’ll be out in a sec.” 

You hum. “No rush.” 

You let the door close behind you, slow and deliberate, like you didn’t just catch your brother’s best friend halfway to being naked. 

You don’t breathe until you’re back in your room. And when you crawl back under the sheets, you can’t help but wonder how long he’s been looking at you like that. 

And how long it’ll take before he snaps. 

The house is quiet. Midnight quiet. 

You’re in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboard in one of your oversized t-shirts - except it isn’t oversized on you. It’s short. Thin. And Oscar, who walks in half-asleep and shirtless, seems to notice exactly how short it is. 

He pauses in the doorway, blinking. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice still hoarse from dreaming. 

“Needed something sweet.” you shrug, biting into a cupcake you found. 

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dragging down your legs like gravity pulled them there. 

“You always walk around like that?” he asks. It’s not teasing - it’s careful. Too careful. 

You shrug, nonchalant. “Only when I’m not expecting company.” 

A pause. 

The fridge hums. You both pretend not to look at each other. 

Then his voice drops, quiet. “Your internship going, okay?” 

You nod and lick the icing off your fingers. You ignore the way his eyes follow your thumb, “Fine. Boring. Too much Excel. I’m not built for cubicles.” 

Oscar smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“You still wear those skirts?” he asks, and then immediately regrets it. You watch his face with an astonished grin, full flush before he adds, “The… business ones. With the-uh…” 

“The pencil skirt?” you supply, sweet and smug. 

He clears his throat. “Yeah. That one.” 

You lean against the counter, inches away from him now, toe nudging his barefoot under the table. “You’ve been watching me leave for work every morning, haven’t you?” 

Another pause. You can hear his swallow. 

“I’m not blind,” he mutters. 

You grin and tilt your head at him. “Didn’t say you were.” 

The silence that follows is thick. You don’t say it. He doesn’t say it. But the air is heavy with everything that’s building - the looks, the casual touches, the stares you both pretend not to notice. 

And then he shifts. 

Moves just a bit too close. His hand grazes yours on the edge of the counter. Not enough to touch - just enough to feel the static. 

You don’t move away. 

You let it sit there - unspoken and burning. 

“Night,” he finally says, pulling his hand back. 

You nod. “Night, Oscar.” 

He leaves, but you feel the heat of that moment long after the door clicks shut. 

It’s barely been an hour since the kitchen, when you hear him. 

Your bedroom’s dark. The blanket's kicked to your ankles, sleep long gone. You’ve been tossing for over an hour - wired, restless, rewinding every moment with him like it’s stuck in your teeth. 

Then, footsteps. One pair. Slow. Hesitant. 

They stop outside your door. 

You hold your breath. 

Seconds stretch out, long and heavy. You picture him just on the other side - maybe running a hand through his hair, maybe trying to talk himself down. Maybe thinking about how your legs looked when you leaned over the kitchen counter earlier. Maybe remembering every time, you would intentionally unbutton your shirt further when you could feel his eyes. 

You wonder if he wants you to open the door. 

You almost do, pushing off the duvet from your knees. 

But then, a shift. A sigh. The footsteps fade. 

Your heart thuds against your ribs. Not disappointment, exactly. But something just as sharp. 

He walked away. 

You smile in the dark. You don’t sleep. Not for a while. 

It’s stupid how early you wake up. The sky’s still grey. Cold light spills across the hallway carpet as you pad into the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around your chest. You were going to sneak a mug of tea and go back to bed. Nurse the nerves that wouldn’t die down since last night. 

You stop short when you see him. 

Oscar’s already there, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one hand cradling a mug, the other braced against the counter like he needs the support. 

He doesn’t flinch when you enter. Doesn’t speak either. 

“Sleep?” you ask softly. 

A dry laugh, low in his throat. “Not a fucking second.” 

You drift to the counter, standing beside him. There’re only a few inches between you - and too much unsaid. 

You glance up. “You were outside my room last night.” 

He stares down into his mug like it’ll answer for him. Swirling the steaming early grey in the cup contemplatively before he silently takes a sip and nods, gulping.  

“Yeah.” 

You lean against the fridge. “You were gonna knock.” 

His jaw tenses. He barely looks, merely shifting his pupils to you, “I wanted to.” 

Silence swells. 

“I’m trying not to be the asshole here,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “You’re-nineteen. Your brother’s best friend. It’s just ...fucked.” 

“But you keep looking at me like that,” you murmur. 

Oscar finally turns. And that look - wide eyes, flushed cheeks, breath caught somewhere between restraint and regret - says everything he won’t say out loud. 

You step in. He doesn’t move, but his eyes widen a fraction. 

“You’re allowed to want things,” you say, palm flattening lightly over his chest. His heartbeat stutters under your touch. 

“I shouldn’t,” he says, an internal struggle between wanting to look away and not being able to, his voice is shaky. Weak. “I really, really shouldn’t.” 

You stretch up on your toes. “Then tell me to stop.” 

You press your mouth to his. 

He doesn’t stop you. 

Instead, he groans appreciatively, thanking you for putting him out of his misery. Hands flying to your hips, dragging you in, clumsy and frantic like he’s been holding this back for weeks - months, since the minute you stepped into his house after a year. His mouth is hot, desperate, all tongue and teeth and finally. It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s all tension snapping at once. 

His back hits the fridge. 

You’re already pulling his hoodie off. 

Oscar gasps, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper, “Your brother’s gonna kill me.” 

“Then make it worth it,” you breathe. 

The kitchen feels impossibly small for how close you and Oscar suddenly are. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the fridge - and the thundering of your heart pounding loud enough it feels like the whole house could hear. 

His hands find your hips, steadying you as his mouth drops to your neck, lips warm and teeth grazing, leaving burning trails that make you shiver despite the cold tile beneath your feet. 

“Quiet,” he hisses, breath hot and desperate. “Your brother’s like, three rooms away.” 

You press a finger to his lips, smirking against the heat of his skin. “I’m not exactly known for my silence.” 

He chuckles at that, shaking head, “Jesus you’re dangerous” 

His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the bare skin of your ribs, sending sparks of fire shooting through you. You clutch the edge of the counter, bracing yourself as his mouth finds the curve of your collarbone, teasing, sucking, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. 

You try to keep quiet, pressing a hand to your mouth when the breathy noises escape, but it’s useless. His hand shoots up to cover it, a fierce look in his eyes. 

"Shh. Don’t wake the house."   

You nod, biting down hard on your lip as his mouth moves lower, tracing a slow, scorching path down your torso. 

His hands slide under your shirt, palms skimming your thighs with reverent care. He pushes the hem up, up - and groans quietly when he sees you’re not wearing anything underneath. 

You gasp softly, one hand flying to the counter to steady yourself. 

"Oscar-" 

"Quiet." He kisses your inner thigh, warm breath trailing behind. "You want me to stop?" 

You shake your head, lips parted, heart in your throat. 

His grip on your hips firms as he noses in, tongue flicking out in a soft, almost reverent lick up your centre. Your legs nearly buckle. 

He doesn’t give you a chance to process. His mouth latches on properly - slow, controlled, like he has all the time in the world to ruin you. 

His tongue moves with a precision that makes your toes curl, circling your clit in maddening spirals before dipping lower, teasing your entrance, groaning softly when you grind down into his face. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the noises that threaten to spill, eyes squeezing shut. Every wet sound, every shaky breath, echoes in the kitchen. 

"I said quiet," he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. " You want your brother to walk in and see what a mess you are for me?" 

You whimper behind your palm and shake your head, your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging, and he moans into your cunt - the vibration shooting sparks straight through your core. 

He’s relentless. Eating you out like a man obsessed, like he’s been imagining this all summer. Which, judging by the way he’s groaning into you, he has. 

"Taste so fucking sweet," he mumbles. "Could live here." 

You try to pull away, too sensitive, too close, but he holds you there, nails biting into the flesh of your thighs. When you come, it’s sudden and overwhelming, your legs shaking, a soft, muffled cry escaping behind your palm. 

He doesn’t stop. 

Not until you’re gasping, thighs twitching, and trying to push his head away with shaky fingers. 

When he finally rises, lips and chin slick with you, he looks pleased. Ruined. Starving for more. 

"So delicious," he whispers, biting his lip when you shudder at the feeling of his hands brushing against your stomach. 

You yank him down by the collar of his hoodie, crashing your mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like want - salty and sweet, messy and mindless. You can’t get enough. Neither can he. 

"Bedroom," you whisper against his mouth. 

He lifts you with surprising ease, hands under your thighs, and your legs wrap around him instinctively as he carries you out of the kitchen like you weigh nothing. 

The guest room door clicks shut behind you. The world is smaller now. Hotter. He presses you against the wood, hands roaming everywhere, not leaving an inch of you untouched,  

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Walking around this house in those tiny little skirts, making me stare like some fucking perv.” 

He drops you onto the bed, hands already dragging your shirt off completely, tossing it somewhere into the shadows. 

You do the same to him - hoodie, shirt, boxers - until he’s bared, flushed, breathing hard. 

He presses you into the mattress, kisses trailing down your neck as he settles between your legs. 

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Tell me this isn’t just some game to you.” 

You cup his jaw, breath shaking. “I want this. I want you.” 

His hand slides down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushes in slow - inch by agonizing inch - and your head falls back.  

“Breathe through it. Just like that.” His mouth trails down your neck. “You're doing so good for me.” 

You wrap your legs around him; knees hooked at his hips; he presses into you harder. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel-so fucking tight.” 

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in harder, deeper. You cry out before slapping a hand to your mouth, “You feel that?” he asks, hips buried deep. “That’s what you’ve been teasing me for all summer.” 

He coos as he barely shifts inside you and you dig your fingers into your cheek, saliva collecting behind your hand as tears prick at your eyes.  

“Hold the pillow,” he growls. “Over your mouth. Now.” 

You fumble blindly for it, pressing it to your face, muffling the sounds he’s tearing from you with each deep thrust. 

His rhythm is slow, but brutal. He grinds into you at just the right angle every time, making your legs shake, your stomach twist. 

“You like this,” he pants. “You like knowing your brother’s just down the hall while I’m fucking you full.” 

You clench around him, and he curses, loud and ragged. 

“Jesus. You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

He drops his forehead to yours, sweat dripping onto your chest. You’re both trembling, flushed, soaked in each other.  

You feel yourself getting close again, body tightening, walls fluttering. He pauses briefly, flipping you over, “Hold onto the headboard,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “You’re shaking too much.” 

You swallow, and arch out to his hold, shuddering as his eyes devour you from behind. When he enters you again, barely just the tip, he has to bend over and plaster his chest to your back to muffle his sounds, you bite your lip fruitlessly, already moaning too loud for the quiet of the house outside these four walls. 

He pushes fully inside you slow and deep, filling every inch with unquenchable hunger. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he sets a slow, deliberate rhythm. 

His hand finds your jaw as he tilts your face upwards and his mouth finds yours again, tongue tangling, breath mingling. 

“Not a sound,” he reminds, voice hoarse. 

You nod, biting back moans as his pace deepens - slow, hard, relentless. 

“Come for me,” he whispers. “Be good and let me feel it.” 

You do - hard, fast, a white-hot flood that rips through you like a scream you can’t let out. 

He follows with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, holding you tight against him like he never wants to let go. 

You wiggle out from beneath him, laying your head on his shoulder, chests rising and falling together. 

Oscar finally lifts his head, face wrecked, lips kiss-swollen. 

"Your brother’s gonna fucking kill me." 

You smile through the haze. “Then he’d better make it quick.” 

The first thing you register is warmth - skin-on-skin heat beneath the sheets, the weight of an arm draped lazily across your waist, and the dull ache pulsing through your thighs like a secret only the two of you know. 

Oscar shifts behind you, half-asleep but already pulling you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is slow and even, a little raspy, and it ghosts over your skin in lazy waves. 

You smile into the pillow, muscles deliciously sore. 

There’s a mark on your hip - his doing. A bruise on your collarbone - also his. You glance down at your thighs and feel yourself grin, smug and a little horrified, because there’s no way you’re walking to breakfast like you haven’t just been absolutely wrecked by your brother’s best friend. 

Oscar groans softly behind you, nuzzling in. “Too early.” 

“It’s ten,” you whisper, trying not to laugh. 

He doesn’t open his eyes. “Feels earlier.” 

“Feels like a crime scene,” you mumble, sitting up slowly, letting the duvet slide down. His eyes flick open at that, catching the sight of your bare back and shoulders before dragging up to your face - smug and sleepy all at once. 

“Morning,” he says, voice scratchy, ruined. 

You raise a brow. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?” 

He grins, unrepentant. “You should be proud of me too. You didn’t exactly keep quiet.” 

You roll your eyes. “You were literally covering my mouth for half of it.” 

“Because you kept saying my name,” he replies, far too pleased. “Like-” he mimics your voice, low and whiny, “‘Oscar, oh my God, right there-’” 

You shove him with a pillow before he can finish. “Shut up.” 

He laughs, eyes bright and fond now as he rolls onto his back. The duvet slips low on his hips. You try not to look. Fail. 

You sigh dramatically. “Well. If my brother didn’t hear us, I’m putting it down to divine intervention.” 

Oscar stretches, arms over his head, muscles flexing just to show off. “Or he knows and is choosing to spare me.” 

You look over your shoulder. “Unlikely. He finds out, you’re a dead man.” 

Oscar doesn’t flinch. Just smirks. 

“He finds out,” he says, voice low again, all smug confidence and affection wrapped in a morning haze, “it’ll still be worth it.” 

You freeze. Look at him. 

His smile fades to something softer. Realer. 

“Wouldn’t take it back,” he adds quietly. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, heart a little traitor in your chest. 

“…Me neither.” 

There’s a pause. You both know you should probably get dressed. You both don’t. 

Then- 

A voice, faint, from the hallway. Your brother. 

“Oi! You up?” 

Oscar’s eyes go wide. Your heart lurches. 

You bolt upright. He grabs the sheet to cover himself, like that’ll help. 

You scramble to the edge of the bed, whisper-yelling, “You need to leave. You need to leave now.” 

Oscar’s laughing quietly as he fumbles for his hoodie. “Can I at least put on pants?” 

“Only if you put them on fast.” 

You toss his shirt at his head, giggling now, the two of you a mess of limbs and panic and tangled sheets. But even under all that chaos, there's something stupidly happy in your chest. 

You don’t know what this is, not yet. But it’s not going away. 

And if your brother’s about to kill him? 

Well. 

He’ll have to beat you to it. 

[tsunodaradio]

watch this be the wrong thing ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “say thank you, oscar.” (or: unbeknownst to you, the person you’ve been sexting might just be somebody you know.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 5.7k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp-ish, soft dom!oscar, sexting, guided masturbation [f], oral [m], praise & degradation, p in v. title from (and fic inspired by) gracie abrams’ risk. commissioned!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

To cut him some slack, he had been honest from the very beginning.

You joined the app on a Friday. Not a rock-bottom Friday. Not a tipsy one, either. Just—a Friday. Grey sky, lukewarm coffee, inbox full of half-asks and ghostings. The app was called Velour. Marketed as ‘the thinking person’s thirst trap.’ A place for people who allegedly read books before they fucked. Where bios quoted Rilke and still managed to ask what color your panties were.

He had no face, no name. Just ‘O.’

A location that blinked Melbourne like a dare, and five black-and-white photos that managed to say everything and nothing at once. Cropped close. A mouth, a hand, the outline of a shoulder. A pair of thighs in compression shorts that frankly should have been illegal. You’d stared too long at that one. There was no context or caption, only the unspoken promise of ruin.

You told yourself you were there for amusement. For attention you could throw away. You uploaded one photo. Jaw turned, mouth parted, collarbone exposed. Let them wonder. Your bio read: said i wouldn’t do it. look at me now. 

Then you swiped. And swiped. And swiped. Until you found him. 

You hovered on the profile longer than you meant to. He had athlete written all over him—but in the subtle way. The kind that didn’t need to shout. The kind that let the shape of a thigh do the heavy lifting.

You matched in under an hour.

He messaged first. 

O: You look like you'd break hearts for sport.

You: only on weekends.

O: Lucky it’s Friday, then.

The rhythm established itself fast. Snark edged with suggestion. A kind of conversational sparring that hummed beneath your skin. He was quick. Dry. Almost too confident, but not in the overcompensating way. In the way of someone who knew what they looked like when they made you come.

O: What are you wearing?

You: what makes you think I’m wearing anything?

O: God, you’re going to be a problem.

You: that’s the hope.

You asked once, joking, if he was some kind of model. He wrote:

O: Not professionally. But people look.

So, yes. He never lied.

It’s partly on you. You never asked for a face. The not-knowing made it worse. Better. More dangerous. Your imagination filled in the blanks with reckless confidence. His voice, when he finally sent a voice note, was low. Smooth. A little amused, a little deliberate.

“Say please,” he’d said in jest, and you replayed it a couple of times in the dead of the night.

You hadn’t swiped on anyone since. Not once. Not when you were bored. Not even when he took twelve hours to reply and you told yourself you didn’t care. The messages became a fixture. A heartbeat.

You’d catch yourself reading and rereading his replies like they were scripture. One hand between your legs. One word in your mouth. You never told him how far he’d gotten under your skin. He never asked.

You should have known.

Maybe not at first. Not in the beginning, when it was all thigh pictures and veiled threats and that smirking voice note that made your knees go warm. But later. Somewhere between the third and fourth night he sent you a recording at two in the morning, voice dipped low and rough with sleep—or maybe just want.

“Touch yourself,” he had murmured. A rasp. Something peeled open. “Slowly. I want you aching first.”

And you did it. God, you did it. Hand slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts like muscle memory, breath catching as you recorded something back—a whispered thank you, half a whimper. A photo, too. Of the aftermath. Of what he could reduce you to. 

You’d never been this person before. Not with strangers. Not even with the ones who weren’t strangers. But something about O made it feel less transactional. 

It wasn’t just about the sex. He told you little things in the witching hours, when neither of you could sleep and your phones became lifelines.

O: Had a girl once. Didn’t work out.

You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have to. The way he wrote it told you enough. And more: 

O: Got a place in Melbourne. Not there much.

You: why not?

O: Work. Travel. Same old.

He never said what he did. You didn’t ask. 

There were nights he’d vanish. You’d tell yourself not to care. You’d go to the gym, go to sleep, try to fuck someone else and never follow through. And then he’d reappear with a two-minute audio clip that would leave you soaked and shaking.

You remember one in particular. The voice, deeper than usual. Accent thicker. Like he’d stopped pretending to be anonymous.

“Good girl,” he said after you sent him a recording of your own. Barely a whisper, just the sound of your breathing, your fingers, his name almost slipping out. “That’s it. Bet you’re so fucking wet right now. You always are for me.”

You should have known.

But you were sleep-deprived. Starved. Touch-drunk on someone you’d never seen, never held, and yet felt like you already knew.

Three days later, he asked if you wanted to meet.

O: You still up?

You: always for you.

O: Meet me. Tomorrow night. Your side of the city.

You: you sure you want to break the spell?

O: I want to see you fall apart in person.

You stared at the screen for a long time. Your mouth dry. Your legs already aching. You typed and deleted three different versions of yes before you landed on a simple thumbs up.

He sent a location pin as a reply. 

A restaurant. Not far. Not loud. Expensive enough to say this wasn’t just about sex, but discreet enough for you to wonder what you were getting into. 

You charged your phone. Shaved everything. Told yourself this was just another night. That you wouldn’t be disappointed, wouldn’t be shocked. That he could be some balding tech bro or a failed actor or worse, and you’d still survive it.

But deep down, you knew.

Maybe not the whole truth. You knew, instead, that this would ruin you one way or another. 

On the day of, you see him before he sees you. Or maybe he sees you first and just pretends he doesn’t. Either way, there’s a lag. A beat suspended between knowing and not-knowing. Then he walks over.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Sunglasses, even though it’s dark inside and no one here gives a shit. Dressed like a man trying very hard not to be looked at, which, of course, makes everyone look twice.

He takes the seat across from you.

You stare.

Not at the mouth, which you’ve imagined. Not at the hands, which you’ve dreamt of. Not even at the jaw, sharp and familiar. No.

The eyes.

That’s what does it.

You exhale. Slow. Controlled. “You’re joking.”

He lifts the menu. “Hi to you too.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m really not.”

“Oscar Piastri?” you say it low, like a curse. He flinches anyway.

“Technically,” he says, adjusting his cap, “I never told you I wasn’t.”

You scoff. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Oh, fuck off with that.”

“Did I ever give you a fake name?”

“No,” you admit. “Just a letter. Like a Bond villain.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Did I lie about where I live?”

“No.”

“Did I say I wasn’t Australian?”

You fold your arms. “So that’s the bar, then? You didn’t technically lie, so everything’s fair game?”

He sets the menu down. His hands are steady. “I didn’t lie,” he repeats, quieter now. More serious. “I just didn’t say everything.”

Your gaze narrows. “And what, exactly, were you omitting?”

He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like it's obvious. “That I’m me.”

“You are,” you agree flatly. “Which is exactly the problem.”

He tilts his head, a mockery of innocence. “How do you know who I am?”

“Don’t bullshit me like that,” you huff. 

“I’m not bullshitting anyone.”

“You drive for McLaren. You’re on billboards. You’re on TikTok. You're on the back of some guy's hoodie literally right now,” you say, jerking your chin toward a fan near the bar. “I live in this country. Everyone either wants to marry you or throw eggs at your car."

He smiles, crooked. “And you?”

You pick up your water glass. Raise it halfway to your mouth.

He watches. Waiting.

“Do you love me or hate me?” he rephrases. 

You sip. Let the silence stretch. Let it smolder.

He doesn’t know, you think. He doesn’t realize he’s already made you come four times with just his voice. Doesn’t realize you still keep one of the recordings saved under a boring filename, like MeetingNotes.mp3, so no one ever asks.

You swallow. Set the glass down gently. “Ask me again after dessert.”

His grin sharpens. He leans forward, arms braced on the table, voice low and amused. “If dessert’s anything like your last voice note,” he stage-whispers, “we’re both fucked."

You just smile in response. A little cruel. A little inviting.

Dinner is—annoyingly perfect.

The food is forgettable. The conversation, less so.

Oscar is better in person than you want him to be. Wry. Self-contained. Polite, but not boring. He orders sparkling water and something seared. You get pasta you won’t finish. He doesn’t talk about the car, or the team, or what it’s like to be twenty-something and publicly dissected. 

Instead, he tells you about the time he forgot his passport before a flight to Singapore, about a hotel in Japan where the toilet kept playing jazz, about how he once learned to cook for his ex and now only knows how to make three elaborate dishes he no longer eats.

Sometimes, when he hits the punchline, his voice dips. A cadence that slides lower, smooths out. The accent thickens. Familiar. Unmistakable.

It hits you like a bruise. He’s used that voice on you. You grip the stem of your glass a little tighter, and he notices. 

“You’re staring,” he says lightly, not looking up from his plate.

You arch a brow. “So are you.”

He shrugs, barely containing a smile. “Only fair.”

The rest of the meal passes in rhythm. You say something cutting. He volleys it back. There’s a pulse beneath every word. You can feel it in your knee bouncing under the table. In the way he keeps adjusting his sleeves, his watch, the angle of his posture.

Then, without ceremony, he calls for the bill.

It arrives like a closing chapter. No questions asked. No pretense. The decision already made.

He walks you to the curb with one hand in his pocket and the other brushing yours just enough to make your pulse trip. He doesn’t ask where you’re both heading. 

Neither of you speak on the cab ride. Tension coils in the silence, warm and anticipatory. Your thighs press together. His knee bumps yours once and neither of you moves away. He watches the city roll by. You watch the reflection of his jaw in the window.

By the time you get to your building, you’re drowning in it. Want. Nerves. That stupid, low ache he used to pull from you with nothing but a breath in your ear.

He follows you up without asking. You unlock your door with hands that only barely shake. Step aside.

He enters like he’s been here before, like he owns it. Maybe he does. A little.

You close the door behind you. Lean your back against it. Heart banging like it wants out. Oscar turns. Looks at you. Doesn’t move.

“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, voice too steady, “or just stand there like a fucking statue?”

His mouth curves. Slow. Measured. “Was waiting for the invitation.”

You walk toward him with something sharper than grace. Hunger dressed in confidence. He doesn't step back, but doesn't reach first.

You kiss him like it costs you.

Because it does.

Oscar kisses you like he’s starving.

Because he is.

Your hands find his jaw. His neck. The hair at the back of his head. His grip lands on your waist, then your hips, then your ass. He pulls you closer, and it’s like gravity itself rearranges.

You already know he’s going to be your favorite mistake.

The bedroom is darker than you left it.

Oscar doesn’t ask to be led. He walks in like he knows the way—flicks the light on low, toes off his shoes, rolls up his sleeves. You pause in the doorway. He glances back.

“Are you going to hover there all night, or…”

You arch a brow. “Or?”

Oscar grins. It’s lazy and confident, the way you’ve seen in those Instagram reels where he’s being sprayed with champagne. “Or you can come show me how grateful you are I didn’t bail.”

You scoff, but your feet move anyway.

He reaches for you halfway across the room, tugging you close by the waist. Hands hot and steady. When his mouth brushes yours again, it’s rougher. His tongue dips in like he owns the space. Like he’s checking if it’s still his.

You pull back just enough to speak. “You think you’re cocky enough for both of us?” you breathe. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” That damned accent. Uncut. All bite and heat now, slinking down your spine. “You haven’t seen cocky yet.”

He kisses you again. Deeper this time. His teeth scrape your bottom lip, and your knees nearly buckle. His hand slides between your legs, cupping through your clothes. You have to bite back a groan. 

He freezes. Pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth. “Christ. You’re soaked.”

Your face heats. You go to swat his hand away, but he catches your wrist, fingers curling around it tight. Not painful. Commanding. “Don’t.”

The word lands like a struck match.

You glare up at him. “Don’t what?”

He steps back, dragging you with him until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then he lets go. “Lie back,” he commands. 

You don’t move.

He tilts his head. Patient. Dangerous. “C’mon. You know how this goes,” he says. “I’ve heard you. Watched you.”

Your throat tightens. Heat curls, low and shaming. “You want me to—”

“Touch yourself, yeah.”

He says it like a challenge. Like a dare. Like he already knows you’re going to.

You hesitate. Try to find some footing in wit. Pride. Something. “Bit arrogant, aren’t you?”

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug, then steps back and lowers himself into your desk chair, spreading his thighs like he’s settling in for a show. That stupid fucking hoodie still on. That face calm, unreadable, but eyes already locked to your hands.

“Not arrogance if I’m right.”

You sit. Slowly. Let the silence drag.

His tone softens. Just a notch. “You want to stop, say it. I’ll go.”

You don’t.

You stretch out against the mattress, spine arching, one hand brushing up under your dress. Slowly. Testing.

His breath catches. Just barely. But it counts.

You pull your dress up. The air bites at the wet heat between your thighs. He sees it. Sees all of you now, bare and hesitant and trembling despite the attitude.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Attagirl.”

You flush hard.

His voice, when it comes again, is the same one from the recordings.

Low. Measured. Laced with that accent that makes you ache in places you didn’t know could ache. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask. It tells. Demands. Wraps around your spine and pulls.

“Start slow,” he says. “Middle finger first. You know where.”

You hesitate. Maybe on principle. Maybe out of spite. His gaze doesn’t waver.

You part your thighs, breath trembling, and slip your hand between them. Skin already flushed, hypersensitive. One touch and you’re jolting like you’ve been struck. There’s too much heat. Too much memory. Too much of him already lodged inside your head.

The way he looks at you like you’re art and ammunition at once. Something precious. Something dangerous. His to admire. His to detonate.

He leans back in your chair—your chair—and makes it his. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Casual dominance wrapped in a stupid McLaren jacket. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, just above a whisper, just enough to sting. “Now pull those pretty little panties to the side, yeah?” 

You slide your finger through the slick heat pooling between your thighs, pressing in just enough to tease. Not enough to satisfy. Not yet. You arch, a quiet curse slipping through clenched teeth. You can feel your heartbeat everywhere.

“God,” you hiss. “Please—”

He cuts you off with a look that’s amused, stern, and fucking devastating. “Don’t beg. Not yet,” he says. “You’re the one who got yourself off without me all this time. Show me how.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You glare instead, but your hand doesn’t stop moving. Faster now, the slick sound of it filling the room.

Shame and arousal knot together. Coiling.

Oscar’s next command slices through the air like a whip. “Two fingers.”

You obey. You hate that you do. You love that he knows you will. You slide in a second finger, walls clenching around the stretch, breath catching in your throat. You’re wetter than you thought possible—your body a traitor, your pride fraying at the seams.

The sounds you’re making now are shameless. Gasps. Moans. Pleas that you swallow back before they fall.

Oscar watches like a critic. Like he’s appraising a performance he commissioned.

“Fuck, look at you,” he drawls. “Dripping all over your sheets like a filthy little thing.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, shivering from the inside out.

“Open your eyes,” he snaps. “I want you watching me while you fall apart.”

You listen. And you’re close now—so close your legs twitch from the tension, the ache curling under your skin like fire. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and Oscar takes it as a sign to dole out his next order. 

“Faster. Come on,” he prompts. “Fuck yourself like you mean it.”

You don’t think. You just do. Obeying the voice that’s ruined you so many times before. Your wrist strains and your body trembles; everything else disappears.

He tilts his head, that cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Need my cock already?”

You whimper. It escapes you before you can bite it back. Your wrist stutters. You wince.

His eyes flash, sharp. “Keep going. I didn’t say stop.”

“Oscar—”

“You’re so greedy, aren't you? Want me to do all the work,” he taunts. “Want to lie there, all needy and wet, and be ruined. But you can do this. You’ve done it before.”

You’re a breath away now. A single exhale from breaking. Everything inside you is wound tight and aching for release. A sob crawls out from the back of your throat as you go back to pumping your fingers into your sopping cunt, trying to chase pleasure for the man coaxing you towards it. 

Oscar softens, just slightly. Just enough to make it worse. 

“Good girl. Come for me,” he says. “Come just like you did the night I told you to come on your fingers and thank me after."

And you do.

It hits like a wave—sudden and brutal. Your whole body locks, jerks, shatters around your own hand. You sob his name. Mouth open, eyes wide. Locked on his.

You’re still twitching when he lunges.

Oscar’s mouth catches yours mid-breath, swallowing your shudder. It’s not gentle. It’s selfish. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tastes like claiming and salt and the bruised edge of your own name.

You gasp into it, and he’s already over you, under you, everywhere. All teeth and hands and heat. Fingers slick from your own body. Tongue pressing past your lips as if he owns the next breath you’ll take.

Clothes disappear in pieces. Dress shoved up, then off. His shirt peeled from his skin. Fingers catching in your straps, tugging them down your arms. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then bites the underside of your. Your hips squirm as he presses a thigh between them, pinning you down, rolling against you. It’s clumsy, chaotic, intimate in a way that feels dangerous.

“Fuck,” he hisses into your mouth. “I’ve thought about this. So many times. You like this part, don’t you? Being spread out. Slick. Shaking. Waiting for someone to make you come again.”

You try to speak, but he steals your answer with another kiss. Deep, consuming. He doesn’t let you come down. He only keeps pushing, talking, layering heat over heat until your mind goes foggy with it.

“You know what got me off the hardest? The idea of your fingers deep inside, while I talked you through it. And you were doing it. Weren’t you? Playing along like a good little whore. Sending me photos. Moaning my name like you knew it already.”

His hand slides down your side, grazing your breast, your ribs, the trembling dip of your waist. He palms your thigh, pushes it open wider.

“Oh my God,” you manage to choke out, just as he moves back to strip away his clothes. 

Shirt, pants, briefs. It’s almost clinical, the way he undresses. Efficient. No hesitation. No shame.

And then he’s there. Gloriously there. Pale cock standing at attention, with an angry red tip leaking like a faucet. 

You blink. You stammer.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. Hard and flushed and heavy, thick veins along the shaft. And it’s—bigger than expected. Realer than you let yourself imagine.

Your breath catches. Your thighs tense.

He notices. Oscar’s voice drops, losing some of its edge. It’s not gone, but it’s muted. Softer. Measured.

“You alright?” he asks, cocking his head. There’s a gentleness to his eyes that makes your heart ache and your clit throb. “You can tap out. I mean it. I won’t be mad.”

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs are wet. You nod, then, realizing you need to say something out loud, you whisper, “I want this. Want you.” 

The moment stretches. A beat. A breath. His hand brushes your knee, the gesture grounding. Patient.

His smile returns. Slow. Wolfish. “Good,” he hums, “because I’m going to ruin you.”

He crawls back over you, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not pushing in. Yet.

“Gonna fuck you slow first,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Make you feel every inch. Then I’ll fuck you the way I’ve been thinking about since the first time you sent me that little audio message. You remember? All breathless, whispering thank you like you were praying.”

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts forward.

“Thought about you with your legs spread, touching yourself just like I told you to. Thought about bending you over this bed, and making you say please until you cried.”

You do. You remember too well.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “Say thank you, Oscar.”

Somehow, you manage to choke it out. “Thank you, Oscar,” you whimper. 

Finally, finally, he begins to press his tip in. It’s a stretch that borders on unbearable. His jaw clenches. Your mouth falls open. Nails scrape along his shoulder blades, searching for purchase.

He groans into your neck. “That’s it. Let me in. Let me fuck you open.”

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Only feel the drag of him, the weight of it, the way he fills you up.

Oscar braces a hand beside your head, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunts. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

You arch. He presses deeper, and deeper, until there’s nothing left between you but the slow, obscene drag of his cock inside your cunt. There’s the sound of your own breathing, ragged and real.

There’s the knowledge—shared and silent—that there’s no going back from this.

He finds a rhythm quickly. Like he’s been mapping it in his head for months. Maybe longer.

Each thrust is deliberate, brutal in its consistency. It’s as if he’s trying to etch himself into the softest part of you, and he is. You know he is. You feel it. Over and over. A litany in motion. Sharp hips, sharp tongue, sharp wit. The shape of him inside you becoming a kind of prayer.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps, breath hot against your throat. “Fucked open. Finally where you belong.”

It’s filthy. Cruel. Exactly what you thought you wanted. Your body flinches. Tighter around him. Unintended. A tell. The smallest betrayal.

His hips stutter mid-thrust. He watches you, eyes narrowing, brain ticking. Calculating. When he smiles knowingly, it’s the kind that feels like danger wearing a soft edge. Something mean with manners.

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Is that what does it for you? Not when I call you my little whore, but when I say you look good?”

You glare, trying to keep your dignity intact, your breath steady. “Fuck you.” 

“I am fucking you, pretty girl.” 

You clench down again. Oscar chuckles breathlessly, the sound low and mean.  “There it is again,” he murmurs, rolling his hips slowly, the grind unbearably deep. “Tight little squeeze. Your pussy’s telling on you, darling.” 

You hate him. You don’t. You want him. You want more. Want it mean, want it sweet, want it all at once. Contradictions melting in your gut.

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. Tender. Too tender. A cruel kind of affection. It makes your stomach turn in the best way. “You’re perfect, you know that?” he whispers in a tone that borders affection. 

Your body sings. It sings around him. Like a lock clicking open. Like truth breaking skin.

Oscar makes a low sound in his throat, equal parts reverence and smugness. The sound of discovery. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, suddenly gentle in voice but not in pace. His hips are snapping hard. “You want to be worshipped? Want me to treat you like a princess?” 

You want to scoff. You can’t. Your pride’s still here, somewhere, buried under want. But your thighs are trembling.

You’re panting. Clutching. Tethering yourself to whatever's left. Oscar’s right there, relentless. Praising you like a prayer whispered between thrusts. As if every compliment earns him another inch.

“So tight. So fucking perfect.”

“You’re taking me so well. Never felt anything like this.” 

“You were made for me, baby. You’re—hng—sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.” 

Your orgasm builds again. Tangled. Tense. Threatening to snap.

He sees it. Feels it. The way your body contracts. The small, high-pitched sounds spilling from you. The way your hand grips his bicep like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

“Not yet,” he says, a command. “Stay right there. Want to feel you fall apart. Want to watch it happen.” 

He slows, the bastard. His pace turns into deep, dragging thrusts that leave you gasping. He draws it out until it hurts—the pleasure of it all. Until you’re clawing at him, not to escape, but to survive.

“That’s it,” he breathes, brushing his mouth against your jaw. “My good girl. Always so good for me.”

You’re on the edge. Hanging by a thread. Every nerve ending tuned to him, to this.

You just look up at him—eyes wide, mouth parted, vulnerable in the worst way. The best way. “Can’t hold it back,” you whine. “Oscar, ‘m gonna come.” 

“Do it,” he relents, voice going impossibly soft as he hits that spot inside you. The one that has you seeing stars. “Good girls deserve to milk me dry.” 

He doesn’t stop when you start to fall apart.

If anything, he leans into it. Presses harder, deeper. Riding the tension as it breaks, then crests again, then splinters entirely. Your body spasms beneath him, dragged mercilessly through the folds of pleasure, like he’s determined to wring you out. Thorough, precise, and just a little cruel.

You’re gasping. Boneless. Trying to anchor yourself to anything real, anything solid, and finding only him. His hand on your hip, his chest against yours, his mouth, half-sharp, half-sweet, pressing whatever it wants into your skin.

“That’s it. That’s it,” he says, breath unsteady but voice still maddeningly in control. “Look at you. Look what I do to you.”

He slows, but not because he needs to. Because he likes watching you twitch. He lets you linger in that overstimulated afterglow, lets the echoes settle before pulling them forward again.

You think that’s it. That he’ll fold you against his chest, that his mouth will find the shell of your ear and whisper something soft, foolish, post-coital.

But no. Oscar lifts his head. Reaches to brush your hair from your eyes with the back of his fingers as if it’s some gentle courtesy, not a prelude.

“Still good for me to get what I want?”

His voice is not tentative. Instead, it lies in wait. The kind of question that’s already half-answered.

You nod.

“Use your words.”

You swallow. Find breath.

“Yes.”

A corner of his lip tugs upward. Something hungry flashes in it. Then he moves—rising off you with that lithe, economical grace, hands guiding your hips as he shifts the angle, presses your thighs apart again.

Rougher, now. Faster. His control returns in the shape of momentum. Your body, pliant and bruised with bliss, meets each thrust like instinct, like muscle memory. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t want him to stop. You want to be unmade properly. To see what he looks like when he breaks, too.

When he pulls out, you chase the loss. He catches your chin between his fingers, leans in with eyes that are just a little darker than earlier. “Mouth.” 

You blink, then nod, repositioning with something close to desperation. Knees beneath you. Lips parting.

He slides in with a groan that cracks somewhere at the edges, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other tightening in your hair. “Fuuuck. Just like that.” 

You hum, or try to. He shudders, thrusts just hard enough to hit his tip in the back of your throat a couple of times. Your eyes water at the feel of it, but he’s already gracefully at the end of his rope. 

When he finishes—hard and fast, hips twitching, voice fractured into a curse and your name—it feels less like an ending and more like something earned. Like gravity finally catching up to the fall.

He stays there a moment longer. Fingers softening. Breathing out your name like it tastes good in his mouth.

He pulls out after a moment too long. He’s still catching his breath when he sees it: his release, smeared at the corner of your mouth. Glossing your bottom lip. A thin, obscene line trailing down your chin like spilled sin. 

You’re blinking up at him, fucked-out and glassy-eyed, still breathing through parted lips. And it ruins him. Just absolutely levels him.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans hoarsely, reverently. “You look—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way his hand runs over his face, like he’s trying to scrub the image from his mind and failing gloriously.

He kisses you, then, but not with hunger. It’s something slower instead. Grounded. His thumb catches the mess at your lip, and he hums when you let him wipe it away. He’s tasting himself, tasting you. Taking it all in.

There’s something almost delicate about it, which would be surprising if you didn’t already feel like the floor had dropped out from under you somewhere between his praise and the way he came undone in your mouth.

He pulls back with an exhale. Presses his forehead against yours. Murmurs, “Where do you keep your towels?”

You’re brain is still just a little too foggy to process. “What?” 

“Towels,” Oscar repeats, nudging your nose with his. “Or wet wipes. Or a cloth. Just—anything that won’t make me feel like I’m letting you marinate in me.”

You bark out a laugh. “Didn’t realize you were the aftercare type.”

“I’m not a monster,” he deadpans, dragging a hand through his hair as he sits up. The movement pulls every line of his body into view. Long, clean limbs. Defined stomach. The faint blush of exertion still clinging to his skin. You stare. You don’t mean to.

Your eyes follow the flex of his back as he stands. The easy confidence in the way he moves across your space like he’s lived in it. Like he belongs. He doesn’t. That’s the problem.

You rattle off a drawer, a shelf, the hallway linen closet. He listens, nods, and disappears from view.

And that’s when your mind begins to spiral.

Because you just fucked Oscar Piastri. 

Let him talk you through your orgasm. Let him ruin you, mouth and body and everything soft in between. Let him see you like this—open, loud, desperate.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He’s a goddamn risk. You know that. You’ve heard the warning signs. The drowning metaphors. The stories that end in fire. But you did it anyway. Jumped, swam, sank. Let him into your bed, your life. 

It doesn’t have to mean anything, you reason. It could be a one-off. 

But then—

Oscar comes back. Warm cloth in one hand, clean towel in the other. He settles beside you, nudging your legs open gently so he can clean you up without asking. It’s matter-of-fact. Unflinching. Weirdly intimate.

He says nothing at first; he only takes care of you like he means it. Then, as he pulls the blanket up around you both, he kisses your shoulder and murmurs, low and cocky: “Give me twenty minutes, and then we can go again.” 

You laugh. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it, warmth spreading across your chest like sunlight you weren’t expecting. Dangerous. Disarming.

You press your face into the pillow and mutter, “Asshole.”

He grins against your skin. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t promise anything else. But he wraps an arm around your waist like maybe he’s not done with you. Not even close.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself hoping he’s telling the truth.

Maybe it’s too soon to say it.

But God, you might just love—the risk. Not him. Surely not him.

Right? ⛐

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[qiankunslove]

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